Carolyn Crane - Mind Games (The Disillusionists Trilogy: Book 1)

First and foremost, I would like to thank my teacher, Ian Leask, for giving me so much of his wisdom on how to actually write a novel. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew, Marcia Peck, and Teresa Whitman for their tireless readings and brilliant feedback on this manuscript throughout the long haul.

Special thanks to my agent, Cameron McClure, for jumping on this bookand for her strong vision and refusal to settle for easy fixes. Im grateful also to Juliet Ulman for fighting to buy this novel, and to my wonderful editor, Anne Groell, whose insights and ideas greatly strengthened this text. In fact, I feel lucky to be partnered with all the folks at SpectraI am honored and blown away by the quality and professionalism of your copy edits, cover art, and support.

So many people have been allies on my adventure through the writing wilderness: my Tertulia pals, the folks in the English Literature and Creative Writing programs at the University of Minnesota, Ians group of scribblers, and all my writing groups ever.

Im also eternally grateful to my many blogger pals, whose smart, lively discussions continually deepen my love and understanding of this genre.

Heartfelt thanks to my mom and dad and sisters for all their love and support through the years and a home full of books.

Finally, and most important, I want to thank my husband, Markthe love of my life, and the greatest manuscript critiquer, creative partner, friend, and helpmeet a girl could ever have.

One

F ROM WHERE WE SIT I have the perfect view of Shady Ben Foley, dining on the other side of the lavishly decorated Mongolian restaurant. Hes with an innocent-looking young couplea pretty girl with dark ringlets and a wholesome blond country-boy fellow. Do they not get what he is?

The last time I saw Foley was maybe fifteen years agoI was a teen and he was a middle-aged man in drawstring pants, mowing his lawn and ripping off my family. Hes grown paler and thicker, but I recognized his sharp little nose and peering eyes the instant I saw him out on the street.

My boyfriend, Cubby, pulls a hunk of meat off his skewer. Hes been a good sport, letting me drag him here to basically stalk a man. He smiles, all dimples and short blond curls. Kebabs is a weird food, he says.

Definitely.

Cubby glances over his shoulder. Maybe hes reformed.

A man like Foley doesnt reform. I glare across the room; judging from his victims body language, Shady Ben has maneuvered himself into a power position. Con men are experts at that. I have to warn them.

And this is when I feel itthe sensation of prickles raining over my scalp, followed by a suspicious twinge in my head. No! I think. Please let it not be happening right now!

Justine, is something wrong?

I put down my napkin. I have to say something.

Its not your job to save them, he says.

But I have to try.

A wave of wooziness suggests my blood pressures dropping. It really is happening, I think with some shock. My condition, known as vein star syndrome, is the proverbial ticking time bomb in the head. Once youre past the point of vascular rupture, no medical attention can save you.

This strange clarity comes over me and I decide not to tell Cubby. If these really are my last minutes, I want to spend them warning these two innocent people, like I wished somebody had warned my family.

I stand and stroll deliberately across the expanse of candlelit tables and Oriental rugs. Hopefully its not too late.

Time slows as I round one table and then the next. Details take on a dreamlike aura: the snake charmer music, the scents of curry and cinnamon, the painted horse heads and bejeweled scabbards along the walls.

I come up behind the empty fourth chair at their table, gripping the back for support.

Ben Foley, I say. Remember me? Justine? From Pembroke Pines? I can practically feel the blood cascading through my head.

Foley gives me this blank look, then exchanges bewildered glances with his young friends.

Dont act like its not you. I take a centering breath to slow my heart rate, thereby extending my precious minutes of consciousness. Thats the sort of thing Mom wouldve suggested.

Im sorry, he says. Im not Ben Foley.

I turn to Foleys companions who regard me with suspicion.

Around fifteen years ago, your pal hereI enunciate his name with oomphMr. Ben Foley, swindled my dad. He gained his trust, then robbed him. Whatever you have going with him, stop it. Dont trust him.

Shady Ben has been shaking his head vigorously this whole time. Im sorry. You have the wrong guy.

I dont have the wrong guy. The pinpoint sensation at the crown of my head increases. How much time do I have? Ringlets Girl shifts nearer to Foley, as if to protect him. Can she not see Im trying to help her?

My name is David DelFino, Foley says. You want to see my drivers license?

As if that would prove anything.

They all seem to be focusing on something behind me, and I turn to see a tall, strikingly handsome man approach. Theres a molten quality to his movements, like a leopard walking loose. His hair, the brownish red of an old penny, curls down over his ears, but the oddest thing is the look he gives me.

Im medium-pretty, and this is not a look you give a medium-pretty girl. Its almost like he beholds me, full of aweas if theres something miraculous about my appearance. What does he see? Ive heard of people looking beatific in their last moments of lifeis that it? My pulse elevates; the whooshing in my ears is nearly deafening.

But then again, nobody else seems to think I look beatific. I decide he must have a highcap mutation of some sort. Hes a highcap telepath or maybe a highcap medical intuitionist who sees whats happeningnot like that could help me now. Cubby doesnt believe in highcaps, but I do. I just wouldnt trust one.

Briefly the man tears his attention away from me and addresses the table. Everything okay here? Hes the manager, maybe the owner.