Alayna Williams - Rogue Oracle  

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Laura Mailloux

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First Juno Books/Pocket Books paperback edition March 2011

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Cover illustration by Don Sipley

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN: 9781439182819

ISBN 9781439182833 (ebook)

Acknowledgments

T HANKS TO my fabulous editor, Paula, and the wonderful ladies of the Ohio Writers Network: Linda, Michelle, Rachel, Melissa, Emily, and Faith. And thanks to Gloria for the game theory.

Thanks to Jason, who always suffers through muse duty with aplomb.

PROLOGUE

H ED DO anything to hear those voices again.

Galens head was too silent. The other voices in his skull had drained away, leaving him alone. He pressed his cold hands over his ears so that he could hear his own blood and breath thundering, like the ocean in a shell. It was a bit less like being alone. He peered into the darkness, waiting. Waiting for the next voice to fill his thoughts and his dreams.

Through the pulse of his hands, he could hear the whir of an air conditioner and the creak of roof beams cooling overhead as sunlight drained from the day. The orange strip of light shining underneath the closet door thinned and faded. Galen brought his knees up against his chest, and a dress brushed against his cheek. The jasmine scent of his quarrys perfume on his clothes mingled with the smell of shoe leather.

A car crunched in the driveway, followed by footfalls and the rattle of a key in the lock downstairs. Keys and purse jangled as they were cast on a hall table, and he heard the thunk of shoes kicked off on the slate tiles of the entryway. The shuffle of mail sounded like a deck of playing cards.

Galens breath quickened, and he dug his fingertips into his close-cropped hair. Not long. Not long, now.

Stocking feet padded into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open, then close. A microwave whirred, and a bell chimed. Galens nose wrinkled. Reheated rubber chicken from a trendy bistro, with tomato sauce. A television droned, comforting voices rising up through the floor. He leaned his head back against the wall of the closet. The television voices nattered on about Middle East peace talks, of a terrorism suspect captured, of the latest results from a television game show.

A fork clattered in the kitchens stainless steel sink. The television was turned off, plunging the house into false silence. Footsteps climbed the stairs to the second floor. Galen could hear the polyester zing of stockings on the plush carpet as his quarry walked past the closet. Light spilled under the closet door.

He held his breath.

The footsteps swished into the bathroom, opened the bathtub tap. Pipes creaked behind the closet wall. Galen smelled bath salts and citrus soap, heard the squeak of flesh against the bottom of the enameled tub. A plastic bottle belched its last quantity of shampoo before it was tossed away into a trash can.

Elbows resting on his knees, Galen waited.

Like the rest of his prey, hed never met her. This ones name was Lena. Hed been led to her by the memories of others. Those voices burned bright in his mind for a few weeks and faded quickly, like a bruise. They left behind vacant space, space meant for another to occupy. And another. His last victim, Carl, had remembered Lena. Through Carls eyes, Galen had seen Lena in all her fearless beauty: Lena, walking across Red Square with her lustrous dark hair covered by a scarf. Lena, dressed in a gown with a plunging neckline, her throat glittering with jewelspaste jewels that contained smuggled microchips in the settings. Lena, methodically taking apart a gun in a hotel room and wiping it clean of prints.

If hed ever really bothered to admit it to himself, Lena had been the love of Carls life. Carl may not have seen it, but when Galen had taken possession of Carls memories, he could see it. Carls memories were twenty years old. But Galen wanted to see Lena, as Carl had. Though Carls voice had stopped ringing in Galens head, some of that feeling remained. Carl, the old spy, had carried a torch for Lena, right up until the time Galen had killed him. Galen possessed few feelings of his own. Like a voyeur, he savored the emotions of his victims.

The light under the closet door winked out. Galen heard Lena pull back the bedspread and climb into bed. He heard her punch the pillows and rearrange the covers. After a half hour, all Galen could hear was the soft hiss of her breathing, moving in time with his own breath.

Galen nudged the closet door open. His muscles creaked as he unfolded his lanky frame. He caught his breath, certain Lena could hear him. But the form stretched on its side in the bed remained motionless.

Galen approached the bed. Dim light from the street filtered through the curtains, illuminating Lenas features. Age had softened her face, sketching new lines that hadnt existed in Carls memory. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, brushed over a shoulder that was rounder than Carl remembered. Her right hand curled loosely over the pillow, and a ring glittered behind a swollen joint. Galen recognized it: it was one that Carl had given her, many years ago, in a spontaneous fit of affection.