The weapon wasn’t redundant. It was practical.

A flicker in the telepathic scan he’d run continuously since his arrival. He couldn’t enter the mind that had appeared in his vicinity, but he knew it was there. Angling his chair to the left, he sucked in a breath as he watched Payal Rao walk along the paved path toward him. She was smaller than his mental image of her—though that made little sense, since he’d looked up her height.

But Payal had a presence that demanded attention, took over a space.

In raw physical terms, she was a bare five feet two inches tall. Her body curved sharply inward at the waist and flared at the hips. She had curves on her upper body, too, her shape not one that was favored among the majority of Psy. He knew damn well why—because it was considered inherently sensual.

That prejudice held even now, but according to his research, Payal had never capitulated to the societal pressure to get cosmetic surgery. Neither did she make any effort to downplay her body. She dressed with perfect businesslike sharpness, without ever blunting her edge; he wondered if she was conscious of the fact that her refusal to back down just added to her reputation as a woman of steel.

Payal Rao, a recent PsyNet Beacon article had stated, is a predator as deadly as any changeling panther. The last rival who forgot that is currently picking up the pieces of his life after a coldly calculating play by Rao saw his company’s valuation dive by seventy-five percent. When asked for comment, Rao said, “He began the skirmish. I ended it.”

Today, the predator wore a top of a lightweight material, the sleeves long and cuffed at the wrists and the neck featuring two long ties that she’d knotted loosely above the generous curves of her breasts.

It was smoky blue, a hue that complemented the honeyed brown of her skin.

According to his research, her father was a Gradient 7.9 Tk of Czech-Indian descent, while the maternal half of her genes came from a Gradient 8.8 F-Psy with a mix of Spanish and Indian ancestry.

The genetic mix had given her a softly rounded face with lush lips and long lashes that belied her reputation. Out of context—and if you ignored the night sky of her eyes—she’d appear a pretty and sensual woman, no threat at all.

As for the rest of her clothing, she’d tucked the blue top into wide-legged pants in a dark gray that flowed over her hips all the way down to just above the ground. Canto caught flashes of spiked black heels as she walked. He knew about those torture devices because Silver insisted on wearing them, too.

“They’re a weapon, Canto,” she’d said once when he’d asked. “Each element of how we dress is a weapon and a warning to the world. Even yours.”

Canto had briefly considered putting on businesslike clothing today, but as Payal was who she was, so was Canto. There was no point pretending to be otherwise if they were going to be working together for any length of time. The new short-sleeved shirt with its aged steel buttons was about as dressed up as he got.

She didn’t stare at his chair when she reached him; no doubt she’d seen and processed the sight when she first teleported in. But she would comment. Most Psy did. It was rare for them to see one of their kind using a device that assisted with motion. The Psy as a race had some very ugly decisions in their past; those decisions included a goal of perfection that had been a de facto program of eugenics.

Now they were all paying the price for those choices.

Right then, Payal did begin to stare. Hard.

Eyes narrowing, he went to snarl at her to take a photo if she was that interested.

Then she said, “7J.”

And his entire world imploded.

Chapter 5

Tests confirm that the child’s unusual ocular structure has no effect on his vision.

—Medical report on Canto Fernandez, age 12 months (17 June 2046)

“YOUR EYES ARE like galaxies,” Payal said. “The white spots aren’t scattered across the black, but grouped in a highly specific and memorable pattern. You’re the only cardinal I’ve ever met with such eyes.”

Canto couldn’t speak, his throat drying up. He’d tried so hard to remember the pattern of 3K’s eyes, but he’d been a traumatized child, his memories too broken up to be of any use. “How can you be sure?” It came out harsh, a challenge.

“Telekinetic memory.”

Telekinetic.

It crystalized then, the unimaginable torture of what had been done to her. The most free of Psy hobbled by chains. He knew this wasn’t a lie or a con—only a strictly limited number of people knew about that school, and about what had taken place there. Yet he had to be certain. “Have you done what you wanted to do when you got free?”

A frozen moment before she said, “There are no blossom trees where I live.”

A tremor shook his psyche, and it was his turn to stare—this time, with the eyes of a man who’d been searching for her for three decades without success.

The knotted and overgrown bangs were gone; Payal’s wavy hair was pulled into a ponytail that gave the impression of being carefree while keeping every single stray strand of hair off her face. Undone, he estimated it would reach just past her shoulder blades. Her face was no longer thin and bony, her features filled out, and just as he wasn’t that scared and angry boy, she wasn’t the waif who’d killed to help him.

A pinch in the region of his heart, a startling sense of loss.

She glanced down at his chair at last. “So, you had successful treatment.”

No Psy outside the family who’d ever commented on his physical state had deemed it a success. But Payal hadn’t minced words as a child and didn’t do so as an adult. She meant what she said. “Yes.”

He angled his chair back around to face the water as she moved to stand at the edge, the two of them side by side. The blue was shocking to his vision now, the entire world in high contrast.

“I can feel everything except for my legs. Medics said if they hadn’t removed the spinal and other tumors when they did, it’d have been too late. I’d have died.” The tumors had been tiny spots of virulence, obscured by the normal machinery of the body until his grandmother ordered a massive battery of tests.

“How long were you in the infirmary?”

“Years, in and out.” He glanced at the line of her profile. “What happened to you?” The question came out raw, unadorned. “I’ve looked for you every day since.”