“You heading to the Devil’s Armpit?” he asked in a lilting Irish brogue that seemed much more cheerful than his tone. Of course, he had a beautiful—if slightly flat—voice to go with the face. The accent just wasn’t fair to her poor celibate soul.
She nodded slightly as she recognized the code her driver was supposed to give to confirm his involvement with the League. “Just a bit further off the map, actually. Here there be dragons.”
He rolled those blue eyes, just slightly, and she realized it wasn’t for her. The League’s archaic spy games could be trying even when you weren’t driving a bright orange rental van of dubious origins. “All right then, in you get.”
Without asking, he took her two large suitcases and loaded them into the van. She noticed that he was careful not to touch her with those pale, long-fingered hands, which she appreciated. She wondered if Dr. Ramsay had informed the driver of her “condition.” From what she’d heard of Jillian Ramsay, that was just the sort of thoughtful detail that had made her such a good fit for the community liaison position in Mystic Bayou.
Cordelia’s lips curved at the corners. It was nice, to find someone who was considerate of her skills. As much as they were a gift, psychic talents could be a curse. Having her head flooded with images, the emotional echoes from other people, other times—loving and hurting one another, and sometimes, dying. People had no idea the chain of others that held and touched the objects around them and left them teeming with memory traces. She avoided antique stores like they were radioactive. Everything she owned was new, from her clothes to her furniture to her utensils. It was just easier that way. Sure, she had enough control to avoid the worst of the pain, but it was exhausting to keep up that constant shield.
Hell, she’d had to spend most of the plane ride to New Orleans meditating, just so she could avoid the tide of anxiety, fear, and bladder fullness crashing down on her from previous passengers.
Cordelia climbed into the passenger seat. While the driver had gallantly wrestled her luggage into the van, he hadn’t actually introduced himself, which created a certain amount of social awkwardness when he took the driver’s seat. He cranked up the air-conditioner and pointed it in her direction, without comment. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all besides grumbling various colorful curses in what she thought maybe was Gaelic while he pulled smoothly into the melee of traffic.
While the hair on her arms stood up, she felt the familiar sensation of being in the presence of a creature who was “other” like herself. She couldn’t quite place what he was or what his gift could be. In fact, she wasn’t getting any sort of reading from him at all. Usually, when she was tired and distressed like this, she was practically bombarded with images, but all she felt now was blessed silence and air-conditioning.
Of course, the goose pimples could also be related to the air-conditioning. The blissful, blissful air-conditioning.
Cordelia expected that he might make some sort of small talk once they’d traveled out of the worst of New Orleans’ snarled freeways, but he kept his hands at ten-and-two and his tongue in check. No comments on the traffic or even the heat, just silence. She supposed it was a bit like taking a taxi—not that she’d ever tried that, since it would be the psychic equivalent of a rolling iron maiden. Maybe he was waiting for her to establish whether this was to be a non-verbal ride or a conversational ride?
It would be easier to sit there and enjoy the quiet, she supposed, not to mention the strong cell phone signal. Mystic Bayou was in the middle of nowhere. The assignment briefing mentioned the availability of satellite smartphones to keep in touch with loved ones in the “outside world.” Not that she had loved ones to contact, but context was always helpful—there may have been dragons at the edge of the map, but there certainly wouldn’t be more than two signal bars.
Still, Cordelia was going to have to work with this man and many other League employees over the next few months as they all tried to sort out the mess in Mystic Bayou. She didn’t know a single one of them besides the director of operations, Sonja Fong, and no one really knew Sonja Fong.
Ms. Fong was a League legend, only spoken of in hushed, reverent tones in the hallways and breakrooms. Cordelia never participated in those conversations, but still, she overheard things.
It wouldn’t hurt to have at least one acquaintance when she arrived in town. She’d developed a habit of keeping to herself since moving to DC, not just at home but at the office, too. She’d burrowed into her lovely private workroom with its light table and enclosed HVAC system, where she didn’t have to deal with other people or have their messy memories and emotions splashing all over her. Cordelia spent years methodically deprogramming her mother’s lessons from her brain, teaching herself to see the people around her as more than marks for the fleecing. And when she wasn’t sure that had worked, she kept her distance. The most social interaction she got was at the office, and that consisted of riding the elevator and making a concerted effort not to touch anyone or anything.
She lived in a nondescript building in an unexciting corner of Crystal City. She liked ordinary. She liked mundane. She’d had enough adventure and wandering. Through the miracles of the internet and home delivery, Cordelia could get groceries, clothes, movies, anything she needed without leaving her cozy apartment. And after the tumult of her childhood…yes, burrowing was definitely the right word. She’d built a den, dug in, and protected herself from the outside world.
The painful silence clouding the van was evidence enough of her rusted social skills, and of her tendency of burrowing inside her own head as well. And she still wasn’t talking. Was there a limit for how long they could sit there in silence before it was no longer acceptable for her to try to start a conversation? Had that window closed?
“So, Mystic Bayou,” she blurted out, surprising even herself.
The man’s shoulder’s jerked suddenly, as if he’d forgotten she was in the van at all. Cordelia tried to find it in herself to be offended, but she found she didn’t mind. It was funny, after spending so much of her time in front of an audience, blinded by a spotlight.
She cleared her throat, smiling hesitantly while she bolstered her mental shield. “What’s it like?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” he admitted in that dry, musical voice. “I’ve never set foot in the place.”
She glanced back into the open cargo space of the van, across a landscape of carefully labeled boxes. While her bags had been secured by freight belts near the back door, a huge faded green duffel bag was wedged against the back of their seats. The airline luggage tag attached to the handle read “Brendan O’Connor,” with a departure from Dublin, Ireland.
“I thought they were sending someone from town to pick me up,” Cordelia said.
Brendan, if that was his name, shook his head. “I’m just starting there, myself. This is what you might call a strategic carpool. They needed someone to pick up supplies this morning and…well, you. Three birds with one stone.”
“Why the culturally offensive rental van? I thought the League had a whole fleet stationed in the bayou?” Cordelia asked.
“They do. Stretched to the limit, apparently, by some local to-do. No one had time or the wheels to come fetch either of us. So, the van was booked, loaded, and ready for me to take from the overnight lot when I landed,” Brendan said.