What he had found was a small town filled with golden lights, and men and women walking down narrow streets, together and apart. He had heard laughter and listened to jingles on the radios playing through open windows, and after Frederick ran into an ice cream shop for cones, the two of them sat together eating chocolate and vanilla, dreaming of the places they would go when they were older.

Only, Frederick had gotten older faster than Lannes, and had gone away to college. Lannes had remained behind, learning from books special-ordered and delivered to the island, devouring pictures and words, dreaming big. Working hard to cast his illusions so that he could hide and pretend to be one of the many.

Which he did, eventually. But by then things had changed again. Frederick had a life-a new girlfriend, a career as a writer, human friends he enjoyed spending time with. A hard realization for Lannes, but not a bitter one. Wistful, maybe.

And though he knew his brothers would go with him, Lannes had decided to travel alone. On the island he had never been alone, except with his kind. He had wanted something different.

Something different. That seemed so innocent now. Seventy years of his life, always dreaming big, and the witch had stolen that desire to do more, be more. Had bent it, almost broken it. Had made him afraid to venture beyond rock and ocean and old trees.

Only Frederick had been able to pull him away.

And now this woman.

He could hardly believe himself. Throwing his heart, his life, to the wolves-lost in a journey not his own. Nor could he be certain of his own motives, though he knew one thing for certain: even if the woman had no clue what he was, even if she had not shown one iota of care for him, he would still be helping her.

That she did have some inkling and had not run-indeed, she had suggested the almost inconceivable possibility that she liked him as something more than a resource-was more than he dared contemplate.

Lannes thought, perhaps, he would rather face the witch again than the risk that he might be wrong.

You are a pathetic b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But he glanced sideways at the woman and felt her resting in his mind, a warm presence, and he considered that there were worse things than being desperately and distractedly wretched.

He drove for more than two hours. The urge to keep moving was overwhelming, as was his need to go south. He had felt that way since leaving Orwell Price's home- as though there were lines hooked into his spirit, drawing him in. His kind was sensitive to energy in all its forms. But the ability to sense it was not usually accompanied by compulsion.

The fact that this was a compulsion complemented by the words of a dying old woman was of great concern to him.

More than twenty minutes south of Indianapolis, in a town called Martinsville, he found a Wal-Mart. The parking lot was huge, and he pulled into a distant corner, tucked away from the bright lights. It was very dark out. His companion was asleep, but as soon as the radio turned off-Eric Clapton was interrupted in the middle of a slow riff-she opened her eyes and sucked in a long breath that was mostly a yawn. She squinted at him, rubbing her eyes, and looked so young and fragile that it was hard for him to believe the danger she posed, both to herself and others.

Lethe, he thought.

"Why are we stopped?" she asked blearily.

Lannes swallowed hard, his hands still tight on the wheel. "I thought this would be a good place to... do what we discussed. Checking your mind."

"Oh," she said. "Of course."

"I don't think we should wait," he said. "Just in case."

"I know." Her mouth tightened into a faint frown. "I don't like this. I don't have much left that's private."

"And the mind is the last sanctuary," Lannes murmured, thinking of his father's stern lessons in ethics and propriety. "I'm so sorry you've had to endure such violations."

She frowned. "You're not including yourself as one of the perpetrators, are you?"

"Is that how you feel about me?"

"No," she said. "I just don't like you reading my mind."

I can't help what I hear, he wanted to tell her. But even if I could, I wouldn't change a thing.

Not now. Not after what he had felt from her in that bathroom: her hunger for him, her desire. It was staggering, arousing, and the most shocking reaction to him that he had never imagined. Only a lifetime of ingrained habits- his own d.a.m.ned fear-had kept him from doing more, filling his palms with her curves, tasting her mouth and her hot, wet, scent.

Remembering was nothing but misery. Lannes was still hard. He had no idea what it was like for human men-that was one topic he and Frederick had managed to avoid-but once aroused, it was incredibly difficult for a gargoyle to defuse the situation. Touching himself was an option, but he hadn't exactly been swimming in time or opportunities to be alone. Not to mention, there was a chemical imbalance that would ensue.

"I'm sorry," he said again, lamely. "If it makes you feel better, I can't sit here and listen to your thoughts. Only touch allows me to go deeper."

"So all those other times you touched me-"

"No," Lannes cut her off. "I didn't touch you because of that."

I touched you because I care about you. Because I want to protect you. Because I want to rip off your clothes and see you naked.

He was suddenly grateful for the illusion. Heat suffused his face, partially due to shame. Feeling awkward, he said, "I wasn't listening to you all that time. I promise you that much."

"Okay," she said softly, her gaze far too perceptive. "What do I do?"

He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. "Just relax. Take my hands."

She started to, then stopped and scooted closer across the seat. Her scent was clean, faint with soap, and with her hair pushed back, it was easier to see more of her face. His heart started thudding faster. He could not believe he was doing this. She had already seen too much of him.

And what would I do? Strip those memories from her?

He held out his hands, and she placed her palms against his. His hands resembled baseball mitts in comparison- huge, brown and leathery. And that was just the illusion. Everything about her was incredibly delicate. Her wrists felt as fragile as silk. He was afraid of hurting her.

"Just relax," he whispered.

She smiled. "You first."

His wings twitched. Lannes tossed himself down the link.

It was different this time, now that she was aware of what he was doing. Her focus surrounded him, bearing down with startling awareness, as though he had the mental equivalent of an eyeball skimming every part of his presence inside her brain. The intensity of her perception surprised him.

You are naive to a.s.sume anything about this woman, he thought to himself, and imagined a ripple as though she had heard him. Was that possible?

"Humor me," Lannes murmured. "Have you been manifesting any odd abilities, besides the...telekinesis?"

Her thoughts became tinged with incredulity. "Telekinesis?"

Yes, he spoke into her mind, testing her. She flinched, physically and mentally, and began to pull away from him. He tightened his hold on her hands, just slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said, opening his eyes. "I wanted to see if you could hear me."

Lethe said nothing, nor did she look at him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, lips compressed into a hard line.

I can hear you, she suddenly said, inside his mind. Faint, delicate, less than a whisper.

Lannes exhaled slowly. Good. Now relax.

She did not relax, but she did not fight him, either, as he slid deeper into her mind, skirting the edge of the chasm where her memories had lived. The edges of the injury were not as raw as they had been, but the cut was clean and final. There was nothing left.

"Oh," she whispered, and then, I had no idea that was what it looked like.

You were hurt deliberately, he told her grimly. I need to go in. Stay here.

"Lannes," she said out loud, but he did not listen. He jumped into the chasm.

It was more like floating in free fall than flying, a slow descent that reminded him of an old Alice in Wonderland cartoon, drifting down the rabbit hole past bits and pieces of an odd material world; except in the darkness, he found sc.r.a.ps of thought instead of alarm clocks and teacups. Recent memories. Of himself. Frederick. Etta and Orwell. As though coating the walls with ivy, new roots that would grow and flower. But they faded the deeper he fell, until the shadows swallowed him in a coc.o.o.n that was endless, suffocating.

It was too much like living in stone, frozen and dying in place. He and his brothers had been imprisoned, trapped as statues in the home of the witch, while Charlie-who had come to rescue them-had suffered in another cage, a sandy circle just within sight. Lannes would never forget. The witch had forced them to watch as she tortured his brother, cut him up for her stews. She killed him slowly, again and again, knowing he would resurrect.

It was something Charlie had encouraged, after a time- because it allowed his spirit to escape. He was the only one of them granted freedom, of a kind. Lannes had been almost crazed with envy. Occasionally, he still was. His memories were almost as bad as the reality had been. So much that Lannes sometimes thought he would never have true freedom.

He felt a moment of envy that this woman-Lethe- had no memory. He wanted to forget. Not everything, but enough. Enough.

He went deeper. He sank into the abyss. His fear faded. And Lannes felt instead the woman's emotions. Her own terror was buried deep: a primal, sickening horror that coiled around him like a leech, latching onto his mind. And for one reason only. She was afraid of being found. He could feel it-a profound terror at the possibility of being discovered. By whom, he had no idea.

I don't know why, he heard her whisper, surprising him. He had not felt her follow him into the abyss.

Feels like the boogeyman, she added. Whatever it is...it's something terrible.

Something you were running from when you lost your memories? Lannes inquired gently. Is it possible you did this to yourself, that you cut your own recollections away?

It was a horrible thing to ask, and he would never have considered it before now, but the potential ability was there. Telepaths could inflict wounds on themselves, though it was rare and extremely difficult. Minds, human or otherwise, were embedded in layers of protection. Attacking them was like peeling back the skin of an onion. Which was why this hole, drilled straight through her memories, was so remarkable. And so gruesome.

Lethe denied nothing outright. Until finally, she said, I don't know. But if I did, then I don't want to remember.

He did not blame her. It was difficult untangling himself from the grasping roots of terror flooding her deep unconscious, but he sensed the presence of the woman bound close to his side like a warm shadow, and it helped center him. Together, as minds alone, they were not so different; he could almost forget the disparity of the flesh.

No more masks, whispered the woman. Not after this.

You don't understand, he told her.

I know you're afraid. We both are. Just of different things.

She was calmer than he. Lannes could not understand that.

Neither can I, she replied. But I must have known what I was before I lost my memories. And down here, wherever "here" is, I feel closer to myself.

Lethe, he said, tasting her new name. Do you remember anything?

No, she murmured, but I feel something strange.

A moment later, so did Lannes. Just out of reach. Hard, like a small pearl. Another mind.

No, he realized, a moment later. It was a doorway to another mind. An anchor.

Fear spiked through the woman, but she stayed with him as they drifted through the spiritual abyss, hovering close to the anchor glistening tiny and round in the shadows. Lannes touched it, tentative, but nothing stirred, and though he sensed a slight hum of energy, it was not anything immediately dangerous.

Feels dormant, he said quietly, surrounding the anchor, searching out its roots. But she can enter you at any time. It's a hook. All barbs beneath. '

Can you get rid of it?

No. Not without the other side letting go. Or dying.

Lethe drifted from him. Let's go, then. Before she wakes.

But Lannes hesitated, still listening to the pulse of the anchor, feeling its energy fill him. Tasting it. Catching the hum against his mind where he sank into its mental footprint. He wanted to know whom, or what, they were dealing with.

But all he felt of the spirit behind the anchor was something wilder than the heart of a raging river, chaotic, unstoppable-and in the next moment as still and flimsy as a rag doll. There were two sides to the creature, so very opposite that they hardly seemed to belong to the same individual.

Lannes wanted to stay longer, but Lethe drifted farther away, floating up the walls of the abyss, the chasm of her lost memories. He watched her, and she was a mote of light, like a fairy surrounded by moonglow and wisps of stars. He followed, aware of every shifting nuance in her heart, hungry for her luminosity.

He started up, pa.s.sed the memories residing close to the mouth of the abyss until he and Lethe were free, perched at the top of her mind. Then, not even that. Lannes returned to his own body, and the divorce between his mind and hers. .h.i.t him so hard that he doubled over fighting for breath. He felt hands slide against his healing chest, small and warm, and he struggled to sit up. Instead, a slender sweet-smelling body followed those hands, the woman slumping against him, also shuddering.

Lannes could not help himself; he touched her waist, loneliness roaring through him with such force that his heart felt as though it would stop dead. He closed his eyes, afraid to move, breathless when her hands slid over his shoulders, grazed his wings. Heat pulsed through him.

Desire. Such longing, such desperate need-he was suddenly afraid of himself.

Her breath stirred warm against his neck, and his jaw tightened so painfully that his teeth ached. Among other things.

"You were in my mind," she whispered, incredulous. "I can still feel you. Like an echo."

He fought for his voice. "I'm sorry if it was intrusive."

Lethe leaned back to peer into his eyes, solemn and unafraid. "It was illuminating," she said, but before he could worry himself sick over what that meant, she added, "How...how would something like that anchor...get into a person's brain?"

"It takes permission," Lannes said, thinking of the witch, "The mind has to accept things. It has to say yes."

"You have to give in, you mean. Even just a little?"

Lannes hesitated, and the woman bowed her head. He touched the back of her neck, holding his breath as he drew her closer. She did not resist, burying her face against his chest.

"So," she said quietly, "I did this to myself."

He held the woman tighter, keenly aware of his strength, his size-feeling like a giant, a monster in comparison. "She could have caught you at a bad moment. Or... forced you. Tortured your mind and body. If that happened, losing yourself might have sounded like the more pleasant alternative."

She went very still. "Is that what happened to you?"

His skin crawled, and though being in the car had never bothered him before, he suddenly needed air. Lannes fumbled for the door. Lethe caught his arm, her hands small against him. He froze, her body pressed close.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," he told her roughly. "It's been years."

Her tension did not ease. "The claustrophobia. It's because of what you went through."

"I couldn't move," he whispered, trapped by her eyes, unable to share anything but the truth. His heart was aching with such furious pain, he had trouble breathing.

Lannes sucked in a deep breath and shoved open the door, tumbling outside onto the pavement. He sat on the concrete for a moment, feeling pathetic but too glad to be out of the car to care. Cold night air swept over him, soothed his flushed skin. His healing wounds protested, but he ignored the pain.