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  Reyes nodded. He did not seem surprised.

  Danyael filtered through his remaining memories, a week of blind faith and eventually shattered trust as he allowed himself, bereft of critical memories, to be guided and protected by a woman: Zara Itani, mercenary and assassin. Her emotional spectrum was a study in vivid contrasts as dazzling and captivating as her dark-haired, violet-eyed beauty. She had proved that he could still, stupidly, fall in love.

  Other images of friends-turned-enemies followed in quick succession: Miriya Templeton, petite and blond, supremely confident in her abilities as an alpha telepath; Galahad, Danyael's physical mirror image yet completely different, perfect; and Lucien, Danyael's first, and only, friend. With effort, Danyael steadied his voice. "Is Lucien all right?"

  "Lucien Winter?" Reyes's lips thinned into a straight line. "Let's leave that for another day."

  Danyael reached out and grabbed Reyes by the wrist. "I need to know if he's all right."

  Reyes hesitated briefly before nodding. "Lucien is fine."

  Danyael squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears. Even so, his tears fell, hot against his cold hands.

  Reyes's hand, placed over his, caught him off guard. Danyael pulled away and pressed his hand over his eyes. His voice trembled. "I just need some time. I'll be all right."

  The older man's voice, still gentle, took on a stern edge. "Danyael, the only demand I'll make from you is honesty. If you're in any pain at all---physical, emotional---I need to know. We can take precautions; we can protect the commune and you, but not if you don't tell me what's going on."

  Danyael swallowed hard, the sensation burning down his throat.

  "Look at me." Reyes grasped Danyael by the chin and tilted his face up. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Danyael averted his gaze. Reyes shook his head. "You don't have the option of withdrawing from the world; you need emotional connections with others as much as you need air."

  Danyael jerked away, tearing out of Reyes's touch. "I need to be alone." He had to bring his hurt and his pain down to manageable levels, levels that would not drive others to their knees in agony if his external psychic shields slipped. He could do it; he had done it, many times before.

  The emotional connection---Lucien. Danyael shuddered involuntary. The emotional connection he would learn to do without.

  ~*~

  Danyael rested. In spite of the constant ache in his injured leg, his mind was too weary, his body too worn, to resist sleep. Occasionally the intrusive brush of emotions in the outside world dragged him awake, and he would open his eyes to see Eric Burton standing in the room, scribbling notes into an electronic tablet. Eric rarely spoke to him during those intermittent moments of awareness. Danyael would close his eyes and drift back to sleep.

  Hours later, he finally surfaced again. He pressed his hands against his stomach when it pitched with nausea and then grumbled with hunger. Damn it. A smile curved his lips. Nauseated and hungry. How much more terrible could his timing be?

  Teeth gritted, he clenched fingers into his left thigh when it cramped. He massaged his leg, easing tension out of his torn muscles. The light pressure helped. He dragged himself to a sitting position and was trying to get comfortable when the door opened to admit Eric Burton.

  "Sleep well?" the doctor asked by way of greeting.

  Danyael nodded.

  "You were down for almost sixteen hours, without sleeping aids, painkillers, or liquid nutrition. You must be ready for something to eat. A meal is on its way. Nothing fancy, just clear vegetable broth and herbal tea. I asked the kitchen to toss in a few soft rolls of bread as well, in case you're feeling adventurous."

  Danyael submitted without protest to the physical examination, which Eric Burton conducted quickly and professionally.

  Eric must have felt him cringing, nonetheless. When the examination was complete, the doctor tugged the sheets back over Danyael's body and smiled faintly. "It's okay. We're done now." He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened and a medical assistant entered with a tray of food balanced on one hand. Eric took the tray from his assistant and set it in front of Danyael. "Slowly, all right?" he cautioned. "This isn't a race to the finish line. I can always put the IV back in, if you're not ready for oral intake."

  Danyael closed his eyes and focused on swallowing a small sip of soup. His throat muscles were weak, and the mental effort was excruciating. His hand trembled on the plastic spoon. He gritted his teeth against the stab of pain that pierced his throat, but the soup went down and stayed down.

  Eric nodded. "It'll get easier each time."

  The secret was not to rush it. If he gave himself time to catch his breath after each sip, he was able to steel himself for the next. The soup was lightly seasoned, enough for flavor, mercifully not enough to turn his stomach. Danyael stared at the small loaf of freshly baked bread, bit his lower lip, and looked away. Perhaps another time.

  Eric watched without comment. He leaned forward in his chair, his short arms resting on his thighs. An occasional frown marked his face, but far more often, he nodded, smiling.

  Several long minutes passed in silence, punctuated by Danyael's choked breaths between each spoonful. Danyael finally pushed the bowl away, his meal half consumed, and relaxed against the pillows.

  Eric jumped to his feet and mimicked applause. "On a scale of one to ten, that's ten points for raw guts and eleven for being stubborn enough not to know when to stop. How bad was it?"

  Danyael returned a faint smile. "On a scale of one to ten, about a three."

  Eric's brows furrowed. "You've known too much pain if that rates only a three. I've known people who were on electric collars for a month who didn't dare swallow anything more than saliva for a year after." He moved to stand at the foot of the bed, his arms folded across his chest. "Dare I say, you're looking better?"

  "How did I land up here?"

  Eric shrugged. "Reyes told me to reserve that particular topic for him. I'm supposed to keep our conversation focused on your health. Are you feeling up to a discussion about your condition?"

  "Yes." Which one, Danyael wondered. His screwed-up physical state or equally messed-up psychological state?

  "I have your medical records here, if you'd like to discuss them," Eric said.

  "You have records from ADX?"

  Eric nodded, a smug smile on his lips. "We're not entirely without friends in the government. A sympathizer obtained the records from the prison system and sent them to us." He handed an electronic tablet to Danyael. "Have at them."

  The records captured a year of hell in precise, bloodless medical prose. Danyael's stomach pitched as his trained physician's mind translated the familiar terms into a far more accurate assessment of the physical and mental trauma associated with an endless cocktail of barbiturates.

  "It took almost two full weeks to pump all the drugs out of your system. The withdrawal was brutal. That's why I kept you in a coma while your body detoxed," Eric said quietly. "If you still feel like you're dragging mentally, well, you were fed a diet of central nervous system depressants for months. It'll take a while for those effects to wear off."

  Danyael nodded but said nothing. He flicked a finger lightly across the screen to turn the electronic page. The words on the next page took his breath away. He looked up at Eric Burton and shook his head slowly. "This isn't possible," he said.

  "What's not possible?" Eric asked. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his short legs out ahead of him and crossed them at the ankles. "The cardiac arrest from the electric shock?"

  "Why didn't they just let me die?"

  "It would be bad publicity if prisoners died on their watch." Eric's lips tightened into a straight line. "Still, everything considered, you're in far better shape than anyone has any right to be. Your heart is still strong, your heartbeat steady. I've been monitoring it for over two weeks now. No fibrillations that I can detect. Everything else is pretty much cosmetic. I've heard bullfrogs sound better, but you'll reg
ain your voice over time as your throat muscles heal. The electrical burns around your neck are already starting to scab over. It should be fine. In the worst-case scenario, the skin may grow back discolored, but that's what make-up is for."

  Eric's matter-of-fact humor won a smile from Danyael.

  "That just leaves your leg. The report said it was a pre-existing injury. What happened?"

  Lucien. Danyael gritted his teeth. He said nothing.

  The moment passed in awkward silence, then Eric shrugged. "Reyes told me not to push you too hard, but as your doctor, I think I have some pushing rights. It looks like a knife wound. Several of them, as a matter of fact."

  Danyael nodded, not trusting his voice to hold steady.

  "Well, when you're feeling better, you can come with me to my office to take a look at the x-rays of your leg. Meanwhile, my professional opinion is that you'll need surgery if you ever want to walk without pain. The muscles are badly torn, but the bigger problem is that the cartilage around your knee and hip is wrecked." Eric rubbed his knuckles together. "Your bones are grinding against each other."

  "I know."

  "You're far too young to qualify for hip replacement surgery, but that's probably the best option available to you. There are alternative therapies that are far less invasive, but they're experimental and expensive."

  "There's nothing we can do here, is there?"

  Eric frowned. "Afraid not. I'm not qualified to do it, and while you're a heck of a doctor, you can't operate on yourself. So what are you going to do?"

  Danyael released his breath in soft sigh. "Clean and tape it. I can stabilize the injury, and physical therapy will keep the muscles from deteriorating until we can find a long-term solution."

  "Are you always so optimistic?" Eric asked.

  Danyael chuckled softly. "Others would have said that I don't even know how to spell the word."

  "They're wrong. You've got it down to a science. You went through absolute hell at ADX. After reviewing your medical records, I spent the past two weeks reading everything I could find on posttraumatic stress disorder so that I'd be prepared to handle you, but you're not displaying any symptoms of it. Why?"

  If only Eric realized that all of Danyael's posttraumatic stress was happening inside, locked beneath reinforced psychic shields. "Practice," Danyael said quietly. He gestured at the tablet. "This is bad---worse than it has ever been---but it's not new."

  "I see..." Eric sagged back in his chair and then whistled, soft and low. "I'm sorry. What was it like, growing up as an undiagnosed alpha empath?"

  "Tough."

  "Worse than ADX?"

  "I remember little of ADX and would prefer to keep it that way."

  Eric frowned. "Maybe it's denial that you have down to a science."

  "I've been told so on occasion."

  Eric grinned and hauled himself laboriously to his feet. "Are you ready to get out of there?"

  Danyael looked up sharply. "I can?"

  Eric's laughter boomed through the small room. "Of course. It's hard to credibly call you an invalid when you're making as much progress as you have physically in two weeks. Mentally and emotionally, I know you still have a way to go, but at least it appears you have it under control. Your psychic shields are rock solid. I don't think you're going to flip out on us, and it's important for you to get back to a normal life as soon as possible. It'll speed your recovery. We have a room prepped for you. It's not going to be swanky, but it's private. Reyes pulled a few strings; he said you'd appreciate being alone. I came prepared too. Here's some tape and bandages for your leg and a change of clothes in your size. I'll go hunt down some crutches. I'll be back in a few."

  Danyael's hands trembled slightly as he taped the injuries on his thigh and then wrapped layers of bandages around it. He stood up, gripping the side of the bed for support, and tested his weight. His leg held, barely. With crutches, he would be all right.

  The clothes Eric brought were not new, but they were clean, and they fit. He had no comb, so he raked his fingers through his pale blond hair. By the time Eric returned, Danyael felt moderately presentable.

  "Welcome back to the world of the living." Eric grinned and handed Danyael the crutches.

  He had used crutches many times before in his injury-prone childhood. The rhythm came back as soon as he took several practice steps around the room.

  "Did you want to head straight to your room or get a tour of the compound?" Eric asked.

  Danyael tired easily, but Eric was right. It was important to get back to "normal" as quickly as possible. He could probably manage ten minutes on crutches, perhaps a little more, if he took it a minute at a time. "I'd like a tour."

  "Sure, though I'd hold off on touring the outdoors until the weather warms up. Crutches don't get along well with ice and snow." Eric pushed open the door and braced it with his body, ushering Danyael out before him. "Welcome to Elysium." He waved his hand down the linoleum-tiled corridor. Long tubes of florescent lights were spaced at regular intervals. Eric rapped his knuckles against the mural-covered concrete walls. "This used to be a bomb shelter. It's not rated for a nuclear blast, of course, but it's pretty sturdy anyway. When Elysium took over this place some years back, it built several adjoining buildings to accommodate the hordes of people who were flocking here. We're on a shoestring budget, but we're also self-contained. We're not dependent on the outside world at all, which these days, increasingly appears to be a blessing."

  Danyael followed Eric and kept his gaze to the floor to avoid the startled reactions. All around him, people either stared impolitely or averted their gaze, shifting uncomfortably. Neither reaction was necessary. He had lost so much fine control over his psychic shields in the past year. Gritting his teeth, he tweaked his psychic shields, adjusting them until the attention faded into indifference. It was easier to breathe without the flittering sensation of lust crawling against his skin.

  Eric continued, "We call this original section the west wing. It's our administrative wing. Our leaders have offices and meeting rooms in here." He frowned at a young child who ran too close, and then he led the way into a large circular room filled with long tables and wooden benches. "Our main gathering area for meals and meetings. The other three doors lead from here into our residential wings. They're mostly identical, with kitchens, living and dining areas, dorms for the singles, rooms for couples, and suites for families. Your room is down this way in the southern wing."

  Eric pointed out key locations in the southern wing, including a large kitchen equipped with industrial-sized equipment and a communal dining room, smaller and cozier than the central dining room. Chairs clustered in groups of four or eight around tables decorated with vases of artificial flowers. Living rooms, bright and welcoming, were interspersed among the residential dorms, bedrooms, communal bathrooms, and laundry rooms. Children's artwork decorated the gaily painted walls. Eric nudged his chin toward the far end of the wing. "The suites are down that way. We thought putting the families and kids together would help minimize the chaos in the rest of the wing."

  "Did it?" Danyael asked.

  Eric scowled. "Not remotely. Your room is right here." With a key, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. He stepped aside and allowed Danyael to enter before him.

  Danyael limped into the room, maneuvering around a double bed that took up most of the small space. The carpet was thin and frayed in several spots, but it was clean. A wooden desk and chair, both worn with age, were set against a window, and a small closet was tucked in a corner. Danyael was not surprised to find it filled with toiletries and clothes in his size. It appeared that his hosts had thought of everything.

  He turned to Eric with a faint smile on his face. "Thank you."

  Eric beamed. "It's okay?"

  "Far more than okay."

  "Good. I was worried that you'd find it too Spartan. I thought you'd expect more."

  Even before ADX, Danyael had lived with very little for most of his life. A cle
an and private room in a safe haven was far more than someone condemned to live out his life without trial at ADX Florence could have expected.

  "I'll leave you to get settled," Eric said. "You know where the bathrooms and laundry rooms are, right?"

  Danyael nodded.

  "Good. Reyes or I will come by and check in on you later." Eric turned away and marched down the corridor.

  Danyael glanced out at the pristine snow that cloaked the ground. The leaders of Elysium were offering him a new life. It was not the life he had wanted, the life he had before ADX, before Galahad, but it was another chance. He had to start somewhere, sometime, somehow.

  Teeth gritted against the grinding pain, Danyael hobbled from his room and into the kitchen, arriving in time for dinner. The evening meal---fried plantains, grilled vegetables, black beans, and rice---was served in large portions on plastic plates. In the spirit of self-service, a seemingly endless stream of people grabbed plates of food from the kitchen counters, and then bustled through the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. The conversations were brisk and lively, until silence rippled out. It started closest to him and spread across the kitchen into the dining room, until both rooms were utterly quiet.

  He sighed and turned to leave.

  "That's a hell of a way to make an entrance," a female voice drawled. "No, don't go. We didn't mean to chase you away. It's just that none of us has ever set eyes on Galahad before, and you're the closest thing we'll ever see of physical perfection."

  "Physical perfection" was a cruel joke when he could not walk without pain. He turned slowly to face the speaker.

  She was young, likely in her late teens. Her brown hair was cropped close to her head, and despite the chill in the air, she wore little clothing. Her tank top was ripped at the waist, and her tight denim shorts barely covered her buttocks. The lace-up military boots she wore reached up to her knees. Her lips, painted a shade of dark purple, curved into a cheeky grin, and her doe-brown eyes gleamed with matching mischief. "I'm Dee. This is my twin brother, Dum."