Braced for it as she was, Kaspar’s outburst didn’t gouge too deeply. Not having to actually hear the colorful “endearments” rushing out of him probably helped. Fisher was certainly getting an earful, though, even if he seemed unable to process it entirely.
Interface without complete immersion, noted the little hobgoblin in Sasha’s head. Interesting.
Kaspar’s insight into her mind was a significantly less amusing.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. If Kaspar’s reach extended beyond the medium—damn. It was inexcusably stupid for Sasha to not have taken that possibility into consideration. Automatically, she backpedaled, her mind tossing out a maelstrom of random facts and mental noise. It was an old trick for snowblinding mind readers, using her hefty working memory to overload their reception. The shock of having to summon and focus so much information quickly was dizzying; Sasha had to momentarily drop her gaze to recover from the backlash.
Dreizen began to growl. Sasha laid her palm between his ears until he stopped.
When she finally raised her eyes to Fisher—and Kaspar—they were the color of nightshade. Behind them, Cauda Pavonis, Sasha’s memory palace loomed, casting its opaque shadow over her thoughts. Dead or alive, Kaspar Moreno didn’t have a snowball’s chance of navigating the mental labyrinth.
But now he’d know for sure that Sasha was hiding information. Damn.
“Don’t even think about playing the martyr card, flaco.” Sasha’s pretty “new” eyes were steely. “I never asked you to carry me an inch. In fact, I never asked you for anything. You died because you were too arrogant to step aside for danger and too stupid to hear it lie. Take your damn pride and choke—”
But before she could ladle out further accusations, Fisher was on his knees.
Oh, God, was her unthinking knee-jerk response, please don’t let him be having a seizure. She’d known at least one channeler that suffered them and that was one more guilt trip Sasha didn’t want on her tab. Involuntarily, she closed the distance between them to kneel and—
Maybe it was the strain of refuting the telepathy or of raising Cauda Pavonis unprepared. Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe it was the things coming out of Fisher’s mouth. Hell, maybe it was because she hadn’t had dinner. But whatever the reason…Sasha made a mistake. She—
—touched him.
It was like biting a live wire.
—sliced quick and true through Kaspar's neck, eyes glittering. Pleased. She looked undoubtedly pleased with herself, proud of her craftsmanship. Why? Cotorra, why were you doing this to—
The memories were clear and solid, each detail resurrected with merciless clarity. The night. The smell of the nearby dock and motor oil. The warm, pleasant surprise of seeing a familiar face. Her cool hand on his elbow, her odd laugh. Her neat, little hand, chipped nail polish, fingertips on his collar, fingers on his throat.
Pain tore Sasha’s throat.
—a lovely cut, she thought. But better still was the satisfaction of the yielding flesh under her hand, the warm life pouring over her wrist. It was as easy as ripping cotton, and it smelled so good—
It wasn’t just Kaspar’s memories at play, Sasha realized with faraway horror, chocking on blood that wasn’t hers, wasn’t real, it was—
—Short, dark hair and steady, bright eyes, familiar features arranged to shape a familiar face. That same, familiar face peering down wearing a smile that promised nothing. There was blood smudging the edge of her mouth. There was blood on her teeth. Her sharp, sharp teeth—
Cold lanced Sasha’s navel, the sensation profoundly more nauseating that even a bloody throat. She felt the bit of charmed metal piercing her skin turn soft as snow, its protection momentarily weakening.