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Twenty years ago to the day they’d exchanged promises in the Grotto of Cell Two. A day he knew Consult Cairl had noted in Guild records as the first joining in wedlock of psys of different colors in nearly thirty years. A day that friends and enemies alike had gathered to cheer the couple’s daring, their defiance of despotic restrictions. Many probably had speculated about the tricky and creative honeymoon to follow, gossiped about the dangerously different power levels between bride and groom.

But none of that had mattered to Marshal St. Lucas. For him it was the day he had never loved her more. He could see it all as clearly as if it were spooling out again right before his eyes. Not much of a trick for a Red, of course. Total recall was his gift. But even if he’d been a no-color with talents so weak as to be nonexistent? The image of Treece Bischof in a wispy blue gown, caramel face giddy with joy, reaching out with both hands to join her life with his would have stayed just as crystal, just as cherished. The glimmer of simulated sunlight in her pearl grey eyes. The hint of roses perfuming the air, stirred by petals that had been brought in from Above to carpet her tread. The gleam and sparkle of gold rings exchanged with hope and trust.

The Firsts had abandoned the tradition of marriage when they’d moved to this subterranean world in the 1940s. Old fashioned, they’d declared. Unnecessary. Our word is our bond. And since many had left scoffing spouses behind, rings were a hurtful reminder of vows broken and love lost. Of husbands and wives who had not believed in them enough to follow.

But Treece and he had agreed on this exchange of tokens without murmur, had positively beamed at the idea. It was neither defiance, nor nostalgia. For them, the gold circlets were a sign of their commitment. Symbols of the love they would keep wound around their hearts like silken threads for as long as they both should live.

Twenty years to the day.

He was thinking about divorcing her.

Marshal St. Lucas, Clerk to Consult Scott Cairl, shot a glance at his boss’s private office. The door was still closed. Had been closed most of their working hours together for two days. He gave up pretending he was going to finish memorizing field reports. He’d read the one in his hand twice already and not retained a single word, period or comma. He replaced it on the stack to his left, a pile that was going to stay taller than the one on his right.

He crossed his arms on the cleared space between the IN and GOT IT boxes, and rested his chin on his folded wrists. If Cairl caught him staring blankly into space, he’d tough it out. Tell him he had eye strain or something.

It was more like heart strain.

Why did she tell me? She hadn’t needed to. She was the empath, the super Blue. He could never have kept a secret of this size from her sensitive touch—any secret of any size. But him? He was a walking file drawer. He could have stayed clueless indefinitely. Blissfully clueless and happy in his ignorance.

Which was precisely why she’d confessed, he knew. His wife had been determined from the start not to let their differences define them. If it meant telling a painful truth to keep them equal, the truth would be told.

Damn her.

Twenty years, two children, one life full of laughter and tears, arguments and agreements, companionship and passion. One history-making love affair he’d believed would never end. And she’d snipped it off, tossed it all away. On—what?

A night in the arms of another man. A night being another woman.

He shot a second look at that closed door, feared his head was so filled with anger it might find a new gear. Marshal silently dared Cairl to walk out. He was sure he could melt the man’s face—if not with a psychic blowtorch, he’d hunt up a real one.

Damn her and him. Damn the empath hocus-pocus that had put them together in the same city in the same emotional whirlpool at the same time. In the same fucking bed!

Marshal slammed away from his desk. He had to get out of here or the next time he shot a glare at that closed door, it was going to be from a rocket launcher. He stalked to Cairl’s office, didn’t bother to knock. Took a deep breath to gather the ragged edges of his temper. Called out as cooly as he could manage, sure the man on the other side would still hear the fury burning behind the words.

“Sorry. Got to go.”

Was that enough? Was it what he would normally say if his world hadn’t imploded? What script did you use when pretending you don’t know the person you are speaking to slept with your wife? “Um. Mr. Cairl—Scott? Headache. Got to go.” He could do no better; best to surrender the field. He was in the hall before an answer could stop him.

Marshal looked to his left, saw a couple of Browns milling near the conference room. Swung right. At the end of the hall, he surveyed both directions before choosing the one with the fewest people. Took it. Kept making turns and choosing directions based on how empty the hall, how silent the passage. He ended up in the dead-end el at the far end of the Utilities Corridor, deserted most times of the day unless someone needed to fiddle with the electrical or plumbing. A ceiling fixture flickered and blew as he passed beneath it. Good. It suited his mood. It would have surprised him to know he’d blown it himself.

Without warning, his anger ran out of steam. He staggered to a stop, leaned a shoulder against the wall, pivoted, traded his shoulder for his back. His ass slid down until it hit the floor.

He would give almost anything to erase her words from his head, but he could still hear every breath she’d taken, every tremor in her voice. Even if he split from her, tossed out twenty years of marriage, yanked off the ring that had never left his hand in two decades, scraping skin and love away with it…? That hour with her? Two nights ago? When she’d tried to explain? That would never be shed.

Marshal pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, cradled his head on top, and let the memory weep.

* * *

“It wasn’t love,” she said in the pause that separated Marshal’s old life from something he didn’t recognize. The story was told, the bomb had been dropped. When he didn’t respond right away, she kept talking; the silence too much for her, it would seem. “There’s no relationship there.” She bit her lip. “Not like you and I have.” A shrug and a bitter smile: “It was just sex. I thought of you the whole time…” She trailed off sadly, her voice a smudge of soot in the air. “Any cliches I’ve missed?”

He could only stare.

She slumped back into the cushions of the couch. “It didn’t mean a thing? I don’t know what got into me?” She rubbed her palms hard over her face. Let them drop into her lap. “Maybe not that one.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” His head was spinning. An ache in his throat was forcing its way down into his chest. “Treece? Take it back.”

“Oh, Marsh, I wish I could. I dearly wish I could fly counterclockwise around the sun and whip time back four days so I could change every damn thing.”

“You slept with him? Cairl? My boss? Our friend. Dina’s Scott.”

She didn’t nod or shake her head. She huddled deeper into the cushions, smaller and more fragile than the woman who had left for Savannah the week before. Over the years, he’d come to know her every expression: happy, horrified, silly, serious, flippant, furious. From A to Z.

He had never seen this one. She was hurting in a way that simply could not be conveyed with a twitch of the mouth, a dip of a brow. He wanted to put his arms around her.

He wanted to put his hands around her neck.

He was afraid she was going to spin out the whole sordid tale again, and he just couldn’t take a rerun.

It had not been intentional, on either Scott’s part or hers. She had made that clear. And Marshal knew all too well what a powerful empath like his wife could do. Hadn’t she merged with the memories of a dying man once, trying to salvage his mission, share his story and his pain? No, the indiscretion—and what kind of wimpy-assed word was that?—had not been a conscious act by either party. Compelled to help, Treece had simply been swept up in the memory of an intimacy between her best friend and the man her best friend loved.

Apparently, lust and love could fuel one powerful flashback.

Cairl had recalled it with absolute clarity. Had relived it—reenacted it, for old time’s sake, you could say—with Marshal’s wife cast in the starring role.

So, okay, if Marshal thought about it rationally, it was Dina and Scott who had—what?—shared love in that bed in Savannah’s DeSoto Hotel? Not Treece? No, not my Treece. Not really. Cairl had been drunk and suffering. The empath had simply tapped into his pain, his memories, and responded. Had tried to take away his torment. And had ended up… sharing… screwing… fu… Yeah, okay. He could stop there. Had to stop there.

All in all, Marshal thought he was being pretty reasonable, considering.

He was shocked when he opened his mouth and pus spurted out. “Let me get this straight. You were—what?—inside Dina. And… and… and Scott… he…” Marshal gulped down air. “He was inside you? Treece? That’s what you’re saying? Because. I mean. I need this clear, alright? Tell me he hasn’t done… Hasn’t touched… Has not had you the way I have. My wife. The woman I love. I trusted. Treece? Take. It. Back!”

He was nearly roaring by the time the last ounce of poison was spewed. Her head jerked as though struck, her eyes knotted shut. She looked like he’d punched her in the face. So? She’d done the same number on him. Fair was fair.

But.

He’d never struck her before. With fists or words. So okay. He could tell himself she’d made him do it. He could hate her for that, too.

But.

“Treece? Sprite…” He choked on the endearment. “Please.” It hurt so fucking much. “Please take it back.”

Eyes still locked shut, she bent forward, as if she would empty her stomach along with her conscience. Rocked forward, back, head pressed to her knees, arms bent alongside her thighs, hands fisted. She didn’t make a sound and the silence blasted at him.

“Treece?” He reached for her, wanting to lay a comforting hand on her back, but he stopped himself just in time. He was far from ready to comfort or forgive. It would be a gesture only—a habit learned—and she would pick that up. Psychometrist. Right.

He barely heard her speak. “Thank you.”

They sat inches apart, but it felt like they were in separate rooms, the gentle tethers that once joined them severed.

His wife was a strong woman who managed emotions with cool control, hers as well as others’ that assaulted her unexpectedly from time to time. When their children had cried as infants, Treece had bolted up from any place, any task, before the first wail—as attuned to their distress as if it were her own. But this? This grief and guilt? It took her ten minutes, each minute ten years long, before she finally stilled. Straightened. Turned with open eyes to meet his betrayed gaze.

“I can sleep on the couch,” she offered.

When he didn’t answer right away, she broke the connection, knitted her fingers in her lap. “Or I can find somewhere else to bunk. Girl’s Wing, maybe. Give you some space until…”

She couldn’t finish it. He knew it would go a long way in mending their broken ties if he could fill in the blank for her. For them. But his silence spooled out longer than he wanted.

Finally: “I wish I knew, Treece. But I can’t see an end. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, kept her head bent. “It’s not your place to be sorry.” Then she rose and walked to their bedroom, a room that might never be called theirs again.

And that he could not handle. On top of everything else, in spite of it, he wasn’t ready for that. He leaped to his feet, followed her, steps quick and desperate. He caught her just inside the door, laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t turn. He could do no more to hold onto her. Not yet.

“Treece. No.”

“Marshal…”

“No. Stay.”

“You’re not…”

“No. You’re right. I’m not. But stay anyway.”

She nodded. Accepted. Moved toward the bath. “I need a shower.”

Christ, so do I. But water and soap weren’t going to wash this off. “Sure,” he answered. “Okay.”

He was already in bed when she came out, his body turned away. She padded to the bedside table, turned out the light. He could feel the rustle of linen as she slipped beneath the sheet, started to turn to him, to spoon as they always did. He could feel the heat pulsing from her body. She must have scalded herself to death. Then… nothing. Not a whisper of a touch from hand, thigh, belly or breast. He did feel her turn, putting her back to his. Still not touching.

Thank Fellows. Maybe after a night’s sleep?

So why did it seem like they’d carved a line down the middle of the bed with a dull knife?

They lay back-to-back, muscles tensed from the effort of staying apart, and stared into the dark. Together, but not.

* * *

“Marsh?”

She found him in the Utilities Corridor, slumped on the floor, back curled against the wall like an embryo, head buried on his crossed arms. The guilt of seeing him like this tore into her chest like a barbed arrow.

It had taken longer than it might have to track him down because she’d refused to use her special gifts. They’d gotten her into enough trouble already. When he had not been in the Consult’s office, she’d let her heart lead her instead of her fingertips. Where would the man she knew and loved above all others go to mourn?

Where it was quiet. Where he could think—thinking was vital to her husband. Where he could be alone, no risk of bumping into people who would disturb his contemplation.

And here she was, doing just that. Too bad, she decided, but without heat. She was trying to save their marriage.

“Marshal?”

His shoulders rose and fell, a deep breath taken and expelled. He lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“It’s been two days.” She stepped closer, daring to cross the barrier that kept his face averted from hers. “I can’t do this another night.”

He nodded. “On that we agree.”

“Can I sit?”

He fired his eyes right, then left. “Lots of room. No one clamoring for front row seating.”

She didn’t give him time to reconsider. Crossed to his side and scooted down to the floor, twined her legs, desperate to keep things casual. The topic was explosive enough as it was. “You left work.”

A single head bob. “Cairl tell you?”

“He wasn’t there. Or so I assume. Outer door was locked.”

“You could have checked.” It was said as a statement, but she knew this man well. It was a question that asked far more than it appeared.

“It didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for him. Besides…” She exhaled, a quick hesitant puff. “I’m trying to swear off.”

“Cairl?”

She twisted her torso so she was as close to face-to-face as she could make them “No, dummy. Do you really need assurances? Marshal, Marshal, my love… Scott is a friend, our friend, nothing more. You know that. There is nothing there for me to want. Or regret. No, I’m not swearing off him.”

He still wouldn’t meet her gaze. So she leaned in. “I’m swearing off touching. The way an empath can.”

He grumbled under his breath. “A bit late, don’t you think? Besides, it’s not exactly a choice, is it?”

She kept silent, let the quiet draw him out.

Finally, he turned his head. Looked at her, sorrow and love warring in his eyes. She sighed with relief. Maybe they could be saved. “I picked up a bottle of Dilantin this morning.”

“What?”

She tried to look nonchalant, as though she’d told him it was raining. “I’m going to try it without the Valium chaser. But it’s a hefty dose, so I might need the crutch.” She cocked her head in question. “You’ll tell me if I get too cranky, right? No reason for the whole family to suffer.”

“Dilantin?” His tone had pitched up. “You’re damping?”

“Turning off,” she corrected. “Might have to up the dosage, but so be it.”

Marshal shifted around, crawled to his knees, sat back on his heels. Took hold of her shoulders. Gave her a gentle shake. “But you’re a Specialist.”

“Not anymore.” Saying it hurt like having her teeth pulled without Novocain, but she would put herself through twice the hell. For him. Only for him. “I am the wife of Marshal St. Lucas first.” She paused, geared up to utter the most important sentence of her life. “As long as he’s willing to have me.”

She tilted her head, lifted her hands to cover his. “You asked me to stay. Was that just for a couple of nights? For show?”

He turned his hands palm up and laced their fingers, tugged them down to his chest, creating a tentative bridge. “Damn if I know, baby. Maybe? I only know I wasn’t ready to throw it all away. Not without giving it a lot of thought.”

“And now you have.”

“Circles,” he replied, a sad chuckle under the word. “I keep circling and circling and circling.” He looked away, came back. “Which is a good deal better than a drag race into a crater.” The chuckle became a genuine laugh. “You probably get that, don’t you? No translation needed?”

She smiled and felt the muscles in her jaw relax the smallest bit. “Yeah. Totally.”

“Probably the only woman who would. And that may be why I keep circling.” He dropped her hands, scrubbed his nails over his short cropped hair. “Help me, Treece. You’re the only woman I want. And my head knows you didn’t mean to do this—couldn’t stop it. But my heart?” He thumped a fist against his chest. “It’s not listening to logic.” Light glimmered in his brown eyes as the pain welled up. “And I’m afraid that no matter how often I tell myself it’s going to be okay, my deaf and dumb heart’s going to keep slapping it down.”

She could feel his plea coming, like a chill slithering across her skin. “Please,” she whispered.

“Don’t take the pills, Sprite. Fix this. Maybe it wasn’t what I meant the other night, but I mean it now. Take it back. All the way back. Take away my doubts, my anger, my hurt. Fix us.”

Did he realize what he’d done? No. He was a man desperate to prop up his life, to push and shove it back into the shape he’d known before. By any means, fair or foul. Real or artificial. A man reaching out to an empath to help. Perfectly natural. Perfectly awful.

Treece St. Lucas, maybe soon to become Treece Bischof, uncurled her legs and rose to her feet. She was surprised she could stand without swaying. She let her eyes trail down to her dear husband’s face and the stubbled cheek she wanted so damn much to stroke. Perhaps for the last time.

“I love you, Marshal. I always will. And I don’t blame you for not being able to deal with this.” She turned away. Fought down an urge to scream and cry and rant. “I think I’ll start taking the pills tonight,” she decided, her voice soft. “Why wait? With you or without you, I don’t feel particularly ‘special’ anymore.”

Perhaps they should have known this would never work, that at the core they were just too different, that what she was would doom them in the end. She’d helped Scott, but crushed Marshal. The Dilantin would ensure she never did either again.

Besides. The pills would make it impossible for her to give in to temptation and do what he asked.

She kept walking. Kept hoping. But he didn’t try to stop her.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. But something. She was walking too carefully, like her legs were made of glass. Her spine was too steady, too straight. Like puppet strings attached to her neck had snapped it to attention. She only did that when she was struggling to keep her cool. Could be angry. Could be hurt. Either one, it was knocking her hard.

He thought about going after her. Decided not to. Probably he was angry. Likely he was hurt. Positively he was not done thinking. In fact, he now had more crap on the plate to pick at than before. Shit.

She vanished around the corner, her steps fading fading fading gone. He continued to sit, wondering. Doesn’t she want us to stick? If I was her? Could wave a hand and make this right? Damn it, I’d be swinging both arms. Both legs. Wagging my head. Wiggling my fucking ears! Like a crazy man.

Wouldn’t he?

Dilantin.

“Well, that’s one way.” But it was a lot like locking the barn door after beating a dead horse. Sort of a dollar late and a day short. He chuckled in spite of himself. She loved when he mangled metaphors, because—well—he never forgot a quote, did he? If now and then he shuffled the cliche deck and dealt out something looney? She knew he was doing it on purpose to lighten the mood. To raise a smile.

Most people rolled their eyes. Treece giggled. Every time. No matter how lame, no matter how dorky.

Dilantin.

At least now they would be equal, right? Finally? No worries she might need to “help” some other poor bastard some day.

Marshal climbed to his feet, far less steady than Treece had been. He paced to the opposite wall, spun on his heel, paced back. Scoured his forehead with his fist. Dilantin? Seriously? Hindsight being 20/20, maybe they should have taken this step in the beginning. Yeah, had her fixed.

Like a dog.

He retraced his steps to the other side of the hall, never noticing; let his head thud softly against the laminate. Hindsight needed bifocals. “Fix her? No way, you ass. No way.” They hadn’t needed drugs to equalize who they were. They were Marshal and Treece. Red and Blue? The was just the job. She’d married a man, not a file drawer. He’d married a woman—a beautiful, fabulous woman—not an empath.

He paused just in time to avoid rapping his head so hard it would have slammed his brain into the back of his skull.

He hadn’t married an empath. But he’d asked the empath to correct a problem in their marriage.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So, maybe Dilantin was the answer. Take the job out of the equation. After all, he’d still love her if she were, say, a butcher. A baker. A candlestick maker burning at both ends. She would still be the woman who got his humor, completed his sentences… completed his life. She would still be Treece. His Treece. The same Treece who had defied The Guild and vowed to stick with him for richer or for poorer, in sickness and health. For better or for worse.

A vow he’d taken as well.

She just wouldn’t be the best and bitchiest Searcher ever.

Marshal straightened, stared at the blank white wall. Saw a white uniform where once there’d been blue.

Well, shit. Admit it. He was proud of what his wife could do—at least, he had been until it had blindsided him. Would he feel just as proud if she gave it up for him? Snipped off a part of herself as vital to who she was as her right hand? Threw it away because he hadn’t been able to take the “worse” side of the promise as seriously as she had?

Marshal shifted uneasily, trying to sidestep the issue. Turned to resume his pacing, hoping to outrun it.

Dilantin? Possibly Valium injections, if the pills are too slow acting for her.

Treece hated taking medicine of any kind—but needles? Pure torture. She’d turned down an epidural, for Nigel’s sake, during Gritty’s delivery. So, taking a shot every day? Maybe several times a day…

Marshal came to a complete stop: body, mind, heart.

Delivery.

Pregnancy.

Baby.

“No freaking way.” He stood stock still in the middle of the hallway, shook his head, trying to knock the idea loose. “Blacks have trouble conceiving.” If anyone knew the statistics, Marshal did. Could quote them down to the decimal point.

But. It did happen. Scott Cairl. Dina Karson. Hell, Zach Karson, John Valhailand, Chris Valhailand… odds were beaten, time and time a again. That’s why people bet against them.

A baby. Another child. A second son. A second daughter. But not his son. Not his daughter.

Marshal spun around, took three long strides to the opposing wall, threw his palms up and braced himself. He inhaled. Exhaled. Did them both again.

Was that the sweet smell of talcum, the earthy scent of a breastfed infant—or a thread of memory reeling him back in time? Were those the soft sighs of a child nodding off in his arms?

The memory continued to weave around him, laced with tender details. He saw Treece, hair damp with sweat, eyes alive with joy, passing MJ into his arms for the first time. Felt the thread of love that linked a husband and wife strengthen, tighten, as they realized they’d become something brand new. Parents. Felt a second bond form with the knowledge they’d created something new. A life.

Marshal sighed, grimaced. It wasn’t all warm and fuzzies, though. Didn’t he know that? It took more than sex to make a child. It took patience, and discipline, and late nights, and homework—he’d hated it as a kid, but had knuckled down to help do it again. It took hugs and laughter and tears held back so you could ease the hurt in someone too young to understand pain was a part of living.

He and Treece had been good at kids. Was fate giving them a chance to do it again? Or at least, giving Treece that chance? And Scott?

Marshal felt his shoulders relax, felt his lungs fill fully for the first time in what seemed like forever. In truth? He felt good. Really good.

A baby—any baby—was the “better” part of being married. Dad or honorary stepdad? Two parents or three? Didn’t matter. It took a whole freaking condominium to raise a child, right?

Marshal smiled, began to chuckle at his own joke.

The life. The love. The possibility of diapers and colic and baby puke on his shoulder.

The chuckle exploded into a laugh. And died just as suddenly.

Dilantin.

Maybe that rap on the head was needed after all. Stepdad, foster dad, or no dad at all, Marshal had a responsibility. To his wife. To the infinitesimal bud of life that might be struggling to take root.

Marshal shoved off from the wall, nearly tripped getting his feet turned and pointed in the right direction. He was running before he’d decided he should. “Wait, Sprite, wait,” he began to pant. “I’m coming. Don’t do it.”

He hadn’t married just any woman. He’d married a woman with an incredible talent. A woman filled with so much compassion she’d used it to help a friend. Filled with so much integrity, she’d told her husband—a man she trusted with her every thought, her every action. Who she trusted with the truth.

And if the truth hurt? In the end, it was just one more thread in the weave that made up a marriage. Made up a life. Besides, Marshal St. Lucas had an amazing talent of his own. When a man was a file drawer, a damn fine file drawer, he could just tuck the truth into its appropriate folder—and leave it there.

Some of the people who saw Marshal St. Lucas careening down the halls that day would remember how strange it had been. How unlike the steady and reliable Red to plow heedlessly into a tyro as she walked out of the library; how uncharacteristically rude of him to bounce off Alveena Maths when she’d moved foolishly into his path.

And no one would forget how he’d been racing full out when he slammed into Scott Cairl as he rounded the corner into the main hall. The boss had looked startled. Had caught his balance, paled, taken a deep breath—to curse and swear, most thought—but had only mumbled.

“Marshal? I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”

Like it had been his fault, for Mun’s sake.

For his part, Marshal had simply nodded, clapped a hand on Cairl’s shoulder, and smiled. As if he hadn’t been the one to nearly knock their Consult on his ass! What the hell was he thinking? they wondered.

Most could have read his mind, Marshal being a lowly Red. If they had, his thoughts would have confused them: It’s a fortunate man who can count my wife as his friend. But Marshal St. Lucas? Well, gee, ladies and gentlemen, she loves that guy. And that makes him one lucky bastard!

No one bothered to pick the man’s brain, however. As noted, he was only a Red. How interesting could his musings be, really?

Besides, it all happened in a blink. Marshal had torqued away from Cairl almost as quickly as he’d rammed into him. His grin—a dazzling flash of sunrise after a dark night—had gone mostly unnoticed.

Leaving only one person likely to remember it.

Twenty years, two children—maybe three. One life full of laughter and tears, arguments and agreements, companionship and passion. One history-making love affair that would never end. Not if he could help it! With a woman who would trust him with her future—their future—whatever it might be.

Marshal St. Lucas was being tugged inexorably toward his home, his wife and his life by a host of memories. Of love. Of joy. Of need.

It wasn’t rings or promises that held a marriage together. It was a hundred tiny threads.

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Twenty years ago to the day they’d exchanged promises in the Grotto of Cell Two. A day he knew Consult Cairl had noted in Guild records as the first joining in wedlock of psys of different colors in nearly thirty years. A day that friends and enemies alike had gathered to cheer the couple’s daring, their defiance of despotic restrictions. Many probably had speculated about the tricky and creative honeymoon to follow, gossiped about the dangerously different power levels between bride and groom.

But none of that had mattered to Marshal St. Lucas. For him it was the day he had never loved her more. He could see it all as clearly as if it were spooling out again right before his eyes. Not much of a trick for a Red, of course. Total recall was his gift. But even if he’d been a no-color with talents so weak as to be nonexistent? The image of Treece Bischof in a wispy blue gown, caramel face giddy with joy, reaching out with both hands to join her life with his would have stayed just as crystal, just as cherished. The glimmer of simulated sunlight in her pearl grey eyes. The hint of roses perfuming the air, stirred by petals that had been brought in from Above to carpet her tread. The gleam and sparkle of gold rings exchanged with hope and trust.

The Firsts had abandoned the tradition of marriage when they’d moved to this subterranean world in the 1940s. Old fashioned, they’d declared. Unnecessary. Our word is our bond. And since many had left scoffing spouses behind, rings were a hurtful reminder of vows broken and love lost. Of husbands and wives who had not believed in them enough to follow.

But Treece and he had agreed on this exchange of tokens without murmur, had positively beamed at the idea. It was neither defiance, nor nostalgia. For them, the gold circlets were a sign of their commitment. Symbols of the love they would keep wound around their hearts like silken threads for as long as they both should live.

Twenty years to the day.

He was thinking about divorcing her.

Marshal St. Lucas, Clerk to Consult Scott Cairl, shot a glance at his boss’s private office. The door was still closed. Had been closed most of their working hours together for two days. He gave up pretending he was going to finish memorizing field reports. He’d read the one in his hand twice already and not retained a single word, period or comma. He replaced it on the stack to his left, a pile that was going to stay taller than the one on his right.

He crossed his arms on the cleared space between the IN and GOT IT boxes, and rested his chin on his folded wrists. If Cairl caught him staring blankly into space, he’d tough it out. Tell him he had eye strain or something.

It was more like heart strain.

Why did she tell me? She hadn’t needed to. She was the empath, the super Blue. He could never have kept a secret of this size from her sensitive touch—any secret of any size. But him? He was a walking file drawer. He could have stayed clueless indefinitely. Blissfully clueless and happy in his ignorance.

Which was precisely why she’d confessed, he knew. His wife had been determined from the start not to let their differences define them. If it meant telling a painful truth to keep them equal, the truth would be told.

Damn her.

Twenty years, two children, one life full of laughter and tears, arguments and agreements, companionship and passion. One history-making love affair he’d believed would never end. And she’d snipped it off, tossed it all away. On—what?

A night in the arms of another man. A night being another woman.

He shot a second look at that closed door, feared his head was so filled with anger it might find a new gear. Marshal silently dared Cairl to walk out. He was sure he could melt the man’s face—if not with a psychic blowtorch, he’d hunt up a real one.

Damn her and him. Damn the empath hocus-pocus that had put them together in the same city in the same emotional whirlpool at the same time. In the same fucking bed!

Marshal slammed away from his desk. He had to get out of here or the next time he shot a glare at that closed door, it was going to be from a rocket launcher. He stalked to Cairl’s office, didn’t bother to knock. Took a deep breath to gather the ragged edges of his temper. Called out as cooly as he could manage, sure the man on the other side would still hear the fury burning behind the words.

“Sorry. Got to go.”

Was that enough? Was it what he would normally say if his world hadn’t imploded? What script did you use when pretending you don’t know the person you are speaking to slept with your wife? “Um. Mr. Cairl—Scott? Headache. Got to go.” He could do no better; best to surrender the field. He was in the hall before an answer could stop him.

Marshal looked to his left, saw a couple of Browns milling near the conference room. Swung right. At the end of the hall, he surveyed both directions before choosing the one with the fewest people. Took it. Kept making turns and choosing directions based on how empty the hall, how silent the passage. He ended up in the dead-end el at the far end of the Utilities Corridor, deserted most times of the day unless someone needed to fiddle with the electrical or plumbing. A ceiling fixture flickered and blew as he passed beneath it. Good. It suited his mood. It would have surprised him to know he’d blown it himself.

Without warning, his anger ran out of steam. He staggered to a stop, leaned a shoulder against the wall, pivoted, traded his shoulder for his back. His ass slid down until it hit the floor.

He would give almost anything to erase her words from his head, but he could still hear every breath she’d taken, every tremor in her voice. Even if he split from her, tossed out twenty years of marriage, yanked off the ring that had never left his hand in two decades, scraping skin and love away with it…? That hour with her? Two nights ago? When she’d tried to explain? That would never be shed.

Marshal pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, cradled his head on top, and let the memory weep.

* * *

“It wasn’t love,” she said in the pause that separated Marshal’s old life from something he didn’t recognize. The story was told, the bomb had been dropped. When he didn’t respond right away, she kept talking; the silence too much for her, it would seem. “There’s no relationship there.” She bit her lip. “Not like you and I have.” A shrug and a bitter smile: “It was just sex. I thought of you the whole time…” She trailed off sadly, her voice a smudge of soot in the air. “Any cliches I’ve missed?”

He could only stare.

She slumped back into the cushions of the couch. “It didn’t mean a thing? I don’t know what got into me?” She rubbed her palms hard over her face. Let them drop into her lap. “Maybe not that one.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” His head was spinning. An ache in his throat was forcing its way down into his chest. “Treece? Take it back.”

“Oh, Marsh, I wish I could. I dearly wish I could fly counterclockwise around the sun and whip time back four days so I could change every damn thing.”

“You slept with him? Cairl? My boss? Our friend. Dina’s Scott.”

She didn’t nod or shake her head. She huddled deeper into the cushions, smaller and more fragile than the woman who had left for Savannah the week before. Over the years, he’d come to know her every expression: happy, horrified, silly, serious, flippant, furious. From A to Z.

He had never seen this one. She was hurting in a way that simply could not be conveyed with a twitch of the mouth, a dip of a brow. He wanted to put his arms around her.

He wanted to put his hands around her neck.

He was afraid she was going to spin out the whole sordid tale again, and he just couldn’t take a rerun.

It had not been intentional, on either Scott’s part or hers. She had made that clear. And Marshal knew all too well what a powerful empath like his wife could do. Hadn’t she merged with the memories of a dying man once, trying to salvage his mission, share his story and his pain? No, the indiscretion—and what kind of wimpy-assed word was that?—had not been a conscious act by either party. Compelled to help, Treece had simply been swept up in the memory of an intimacy between her best friend and the man her best friend loved.

Apparently, lust and love could fuel one powerful flashback.

Cairl had recalled it with absolute clarity. Had relived it—reenacted it, for old time’s sake, you could say—with Marshal’s wife cast in the starring role.

So, okay, if Marshal thought about it rationally, it was Dina and Scott who had—what?—shared love in that bed in Savannah’s DeSoto Hotel? Not Treece? No, not my Treece. Not really. Cairl had been drunk and suffering. The empath had simply tapped into his pain, his memories, and responded. Had tried to take away his torment. And had ended up… sharing… screwing… fu… Yeah, okay. He could stop there. Had to stop there.

All in all, Marshal thought he was being pretty reasonable, considering.

He was shocked when he opened his mouth and pus spurted out. “Let me get this straight. You were—what?—inside Dina. And… and… and Scott… he…” Marshal gulped down air. “He was inside you? Treece? That’s what you’re saying? Because. I mean. I need this clear, alright? Tell me he hasn’t done… Hasn’t touched… Has not had you the way I have. My wife. The woman I love. I trusted. Treece? Take. It. Back!”

He was nearly roaring by the time the last ounce of poison was spewed. Her head jerked as though struck, her eyes knotted shut. She looked like he’d punched her in the face. So? She’d done the same number on him. Fair was fair.

But.

He’d never struck her before. With fists or words. So okay. He could tell himself she’d made him do it. He could hate her for that, too.

But.

“Treece? Sprite…” He choked on the endearment. “Please.” It hurt so fucking much. “Please take it back.”

Eyes still locked shut, she bent forward, as if she would empty her stomach along with her conscience. Rocked forward, back, head pressed to her knees, arms bent alongside her thighs, hands fisted. She didn’t make a sound and the silence blasted at him.

“Treece?” He reached for her, wanting to lay a comforting hand on her back, but he stopped himself just in time. He was far from ready to comfort or forgive. It would be a gesture only—a habit learned—and she would pick that up. Psychometrist. Right.

He barely heard her speak. “Thank you.”

They sat inches apart, but it felt like they were in separate rooms, the gentle tethers that once joined them severed.

His wife was a strong woman who managed emotions with cool control, hers as well as others’ that assaulted her unexpectedly from time to time. When their children had cried as infants, Treece had bolted up from any place, any task, before the first wail—as attuned to their distress as if it were her own. But this? This grief and guilt? It took her ten minutes, each minute ten years long, before she finally stilled. Straightened. Turned with open eyes to meet his betrayed gaze.

“I can sleep on the couch,” she offered.

When he didn’t answer right away, she broke the connection, knitted her fingers in her lap. “Or I can find somewhere else to bunk. Girl’s Wing, maybe. Give you some space until…”

She couldn’t finish it. He knew it would go a long way in mending their broken ties if he could fill in the blank for her. For them. But his silence spooled out longer than he wanted.

Finally: “I wish I knew, Treece. But I can’t see an end. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, kept her head bent. “It’s not your place to be sorry.” Then she rose and walked to their bedroom, a room that might never be called theirs again.

And that he could not handle. On top of everything else, in spite of it, he wasn’t ready for that. He leaped to his feet, followed her, steps quick and desperate. He caught her just inside the door, laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t turn. He could do no more to hold onto her. Not yet.

“Treece. No.”

“Marshal…”

“No. Stay.”

“You’re not…”

“No. You’re right. I’m not. But stay anyway.”

She nodded. Accepted. Moved toward the bath. “I need a shower.”

Christ, so do I. But water and soap weren’t going to wash this off. “Sure,” he answered. “Okay.”

He was already in bed when she came out, his body turned away. She padded to the bedside table, turned out the light. He could feel the rustle of linen as she slipped beneath the sheet, started to turn to him, to spoon as they always did. He could feel the heat pulsing from her body. She must have scalded herself to death. Then… nothing. Not a whisper of a touch from hand, thigh, belly or breast. He did feel her turn, putting her back to his. Still not touching.

Thank Fellows. Maybe after a night’s sleep?

So why did it seem like they’d carved a line down the middle of the bed with a dull knife?

They lay back-to-back, muscles tensed from the effort of staying apart, and stared into the dark. Together, but not.

* * *

“Marsh?”

She found him in the Utilities Corridor, slumped on the floor, back curled against the wall like an embryo, head buried on his crossed arms. The guilt of seeing him like this tore into her chest like a barbed arrow.

It had taken longer than it might have to track him down because she’d refused to use her special gifts. They’d gotten her into enough trouble already. When he had not been in the Consult’s office, she’d let her heart lead her instead of her fingertips. Where would the man she knew and loved above all others go to mourn?

Where it was quiet. Where he could think—thinking was vital to her husband. Where he could be alone, no risk of bumping into people who would disturb his contemplation.

And here she was, doing just that. Too bad, she decided, but without heat. She was trying to save their marriage.

“Marshal?”

His shoulders rose and fell, a deep breath taken and expelled. He lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“It’s been two days.” She stepped closer, daring to cross the barrier that kept his face averted from hers. “I can’t do this another night.”

He nodded. “On that we agree.”

“Can I sit?”

He fired his eyes right, then left. “Lots of room. No one clamoring for front row seating.”

She didn’t give him time to reconsider. Crossed to his side and scooted down to the floor, twined her legs, desperate to keep things casual. The topic was explosive enough as it was. “You left work.”

A single head bob. “Cairl tell you?”

“He wasn’t there. Or so I assume. Outer door was locked.”

“You could have checked.” It was said as a statement, but she knew this man well. It was a question that asked far more than it appeared.

“It didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for him. Besides…” She exhaled, a quick hesitant puff. “I’m trying to swear off.”

“Cairl?”

She twisted her torso so she was as close to face-to-face as she could make them “No, dummy. Do you really need assurances? Marshal, Marshal, my love… Scott is a friend, our friend, nothing more. You know that. There is nothing there for me to want. Or regret. No, I’m not swearing off him.”

He still wouldn’t meet her gaze. So she leaned in. “I’m swearing off touching. The way an empath can.”

He grumbled under his breath. “A bit late, don’t you think? Besides, it’s not exactly a choice, is it?”

She kept silent, let the quiet draw him out.

Finally, he turned his head. Looked at her, sorrow and love warring in his eyes. She sighed with relief. Maybe they could be saved. “I picked up a bottle of Dilantin this morning.”

“What?”

She tried to look nonchalant, as though she’d told him it was raining. “I’m going to try it without the Valium chaser. But it’s a hefty dose, so I might need the crutch.” She cocked her head in question. “You’ll tell me if I get too cranky, right? No reason for the whole family to suffer.”

“Dilantin?” His tone had pitched up. “You’re damping?”

“Turning off,” she corrected. “Might have to up the dosage, but so be it.”

Marshal shifted around, crawled to his knees, sat back on his heels. Took hold of her shoulders. Gave her a gentle shake. “But you’re a Specialist.”

“Not anymore.” Saying it hurt like having her teeth pulled without Novocain, but she would put herself through twice the hell. For him. Only for him. “I am the wife of Marshal St. Lucas first.” She paused, geared up to utter the most important sentence of her life. “As long as he’s willing to have me.”

She tilted her head, lifted her hands to cover his. “You asked me to stay. Was that just for a couple of nights? For show?”

He turned his hands palm up and laced their fingers, tugged them down to his chest, creating a tentative bridge. “Damn if I know, baby. Maybe? I only know I wasn’t ready to throw it all away. Not without giving it a lot of thought.”

“And now you have.”

“Circles,” he replied, a sad chuckle under the word. “I keep circling and circling and circling.” He looked away, came back. “Which is a good deal better than a drag race into a crater.” The chuckle became a genuine laugh. “You probably get that, don’t you? No translation needed?”

She smiled and felt the muscles in her jaw relax the smallest bit. “Yeah. Totally.”

“Probably the only woman who would. And that may be why I keep circling.” He dropped her hands, scrubbed his nails over his short cropped hair. “Help me, Treece. You’re the only woman I want. And my head knows you didn’t mean to do this—couldn’t stop it. But my heart?” He thumped a fist against his chest. “It’s not listening to logic.” Light glimmered in his brown eyes as the pain welled up. “And I’m afraid that no matter how often I tell myself it’s going to be okay, my deaf and dumb heart’s going to keep slapping it down.”

She could feel his plea coming, like a chill slithering across her skin. “Please,” she whispered.

“Don’t take the pills, Sprite. Fix this. Maybe it wasn’t what I meant the other night, but I mean it now. Take it back. All the way back. Take away my doubts, my anger, my hurt. Fix us.”

Did he realize what he’d done? No. He was a man desperate to prop up his life, to push and shove it back into the shape he’d known before. By any means, fair or foul. Real or artificial. A man reaching out to an empath to help. Perfectly natural. Perfectly awful.

Treece St. Lucas, maybe soon to become Treece Bischof, uncurled her legs and rose to her feet. She was surprised she could stand without swaying. She let her eyes trail down to her dear husband’s face and the stubbled cheek she wanted so damn much to stroke. Perhaps for the last time.

“I love you, Marshal. I always will. And I don’t blame you for not being able to deal with this.” She turned away. Fought down an urge to scream and cry and rant. “I think I’ll start taking the pills tonight,” she decided, her voice soft. “Why wait? With you or without you, I don’t feel particularly ‘special’ anymore.”

Perhaps they should have known this would never work, that at the core they were just too different, that what she was would doom them in the end. She’d helped Scott, but crushed Marshal. The Dilantin would ensure she never did either again.

Besides. The pills would make it impossible for her to give in to temptation and do what he asked.

She kept walking. Kept hoping. But he didn’t try to stop her.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. But something. She was walking too carefully, like her legs were made of glass. Her spine was too steady, too straight. Like puppet strings attached to her neck had snapped it to attention. She only did that when she was struggling to keep her cool. Could be angry. Could be hurt. Either one, it was knocking her hard.

He thought about going after her. Decided not to. Probably he was angry. Likely he was hurt. Positively he was not done thinking. In fact, he now had more crap on the plate to pick at than before. Shit.

She vanished around the corner, her steps fading fading fading gone. He continued to sit, wondering. Doesn’t she want us to stick? If I was her? Could wave a hand and make this right? Damn it, I’d be swinging both arms. Both legs. Wagging my head. Wiggling my fucking ears! Like a crazy man.

Wouldn’t he?

Dilantin.

“Well, that’s one way.” But it was a lot like locking the barn door after beating a dead horse. Sort of a dollar late and a day short. He chuckled in spite of himself. She loved when he mangled metaphors, because—well—he never forgot a quote, did he? If now and then he shuffled the cliche deck and dealt out something looney? She knew he was doing it on purpose to lighten the mood. To raise a smile.

Most people rolled their eyes. Treece giggled. Every time. No matter how lame, no matter how dorky.

Dilantin.

At least now they would be equal, right? Finally? No worries she might need to “help” some other poor bastard some day.

Marshal climbed to his feet, far less steady than Treece had been. He paced to the opposite wall, spun on his heel, paced back. Scoured his forehead with his fist. Dilantin? Seriously? Hindsight being 20/20, maybe they should have taken this step in the beginning. Yeah, had her fixed.

Like a dog.

He retraced his steps to the other side of the hall, never noticing; let his head thud softly against the laminate. Hindsight needed bifocals. “Fix her? No way, you ass. No way.” They hadn’t needed drugs to equalize who they were. They were Marshal and Treece. Red and Blue? The was just the job. She’d married a man, not a file drawer. He’d married a woman—a beautiful, fabulous woman—not an empath.

He paused just in time to avoid rapping his head so hard it would have slammed his brain into the back of his skull.

He hadn’t married an empath. But he’d asked the empath to correct a problem in their marriage.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So, maybe Dilantin was the answer. Take the job out of the equation. After all, he’d still love her if she were, say, a butcher. A baker. A candlestick maker burning at both ends. She would still be the woman who got his humor, completed his sentences… completed his life. She would still be Treece. His Treece. The same Treece who had defied The Guild and vowed to stick with him for richer or for poorer, in sickness and health. For better or for worse.

A vow he’d taken as well.

She just wouldn’t be the best and bitchiest Searcher ever.

Marshal straightened, stared at the blank white wall. Saw a white uniform where once there’d been blue.

Well, shit. Admit it. He was proud of what his wife could do—at least, he had been until it had blindsided him. Would he feel just as proud if she gave it up for him? Snipped off a part of herself as vital to who she was as her right hand? Threw it away because he hadn’t been able to take the “worse” side of the promise as seriously as she had?

Marshal shifted uneasily, trying to sidestep the issue. Turned to resume his pacing, hoping to outrun it.

Dilantin? Possibly Valium injections, if the pills are too slow acting for her.

Treece hated taking medicine of any kind—but needles? Pure torture. She’d turned down an epidural, for Nigel’s sake, during Gritty’s delivery. So, taking a shot every day? Maybe several times a day…

Marshal came to a complete stop: body, mind, heart.

Delivery.

Pregnancy.

Baby.

“No freaking way.” He stood stock still in the middle of the hallway, shook his head, trying to knock the idea loose. “Blacks have trouble conceiving.” If anyone knew the statistics, Marshal did. Could quote them down to the decimal point.

But. It did happen. Scott Cairl. Dina Karson. Hell, Zach Karson, John Valhailand, Chris Valhailand… odds were beaten, time and time a again. That’s why people bet against them.

A baby. Another child. A second son. A second daughter. But not his son. Not his daughter.

Marshal spun around, took three long strides to the opposing wall, threw his palms up and braced himself. He inhaled. Exhaled. Did them both again.

Was that the sweet smell of talcum, the earthy scent of a breastfed infant—or a thread of memory reeling him back in time? Were those the soft sighs of a child nodding off in his arms?

The memory continued to weave around him, laced with tender details. He saw Treece, hair damp with sweat, eyes alive with joy, passing MJ into his arms for the first time. Felt the thread of love that linked a husband and wife strengthen, tighten, as they realized they’d become something brand new. Parents. Felt a second bond form with the knowledge they’d created something new. A life.

Marshal sighed, grimaced. It wasn’t all warm and fuzzies, though. Didn’t he know that? It took more than sex to make a child. It took patience, and discipline, and late nights, and homework—he’d hated it as a kid, but had knuckled down to help do it again. It took hugs and laughter and tears held back so you could ease the hurt in someone too young to understand pain was a part of living.

He and Treece had been good at kids. Was fate giving them a chance to do it again? Or at least, giving Treece that chance? And Scott?

Marshal felt his shoulders relax, felt his lungs fill fully for the first time in what seemed like forever. In truth? He felt good. Really good.

A baby—any baby—was the “better” part of being married. Dad or honorary stepdad? Two parents or three? Didn’t matter. It took a whole freaking condominium to raise a child, right?

Marshal smiled, began to chuckle at his own joke.

The life. The love. The possibility of diapers and colic and baby puke on his shoulder.

The chuckle exploded into a laugh. And died just as suddenly.

Dilantin.

Maybe that rap on the head was needed after all. Stepdad, foster dad, or no dad at all, Marshal had a responsibility. To his wife. To the infinitesimal bud of life that might be struggling to take root.

Marshal shoved off from the wall, nearly tripped getting his feet turned and pointed in the right direction. He was running before he’d decided he should. “Wait, Sprite, wait,” he began to pant. “I’m coming. Don’t do it.”

He hadn’t married just any woman. He’d married a woman with an incredible talent. A woman filled with so much compassion she’d used it to help a friend. Filled with so much integrity, she’d told her husband—a man she trusted with her every thought, her every action. Who she trusted with the truth.

And if the truth hurt? In the end, it was just one more thread in the weave that made up a marriage. Made up a life. Besides, Marshal St. Lucas had an amazing talent of his own. When a man was a file drawer, a damn fine file drawer, he could just tuck the truth into its appropriate folder—and leave it there.

Some of the people who saw Marshal St. Lucas careening down the halls that day would remember how strange it had been. How unlike the steady and reliable Red to plow heedlessly into a tyro as she walked out of the library; how uncharacteristically rude of him to bounce off Alveena Maths when she’d moved foolishly into his path.

And no one would forget how he’d been racing full out when he slammed into Scott Cairl as he rounded the corner into the main hall. The boss had looked startled. Had caught his balance, paled, taken a deep breath—to curse and swear, most thought—but had only mumbled.

“Marshal? I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”

Like it had been his fault, for Mun’s sake.

For his part, Marshal had simply nodded, clapped a hand on Cairl’s shoulder, and smiled. As if he hadn’t been the one to nearly knock their Consult on his ass! What the hell was he thinking? they wondered.

Most could have read his mind, Marshal being a lowly Red. If they had, his thoughts would have confused them: It’s a fortunate man who can count my wife as his friend. But Marshal St. Lucas? Well, gee, ladies and gentlemen, she loves that guy. And that makes him one lucky bastard!

No one bothered to pick the man’s brain, however. As noted, he was only a Red. How interesting could his musings be, really?

Besides, it all happened in a blink. Marshal had torqued away from Cairl almost as quickly as he’d rammed into him. His grin—a dazzling flash of sunrise after a dark night—had gone mostly unnoticed.

Leaving only one person likely to remember it.

Twenty years, two children—maybe three. One life full of laughter and tears, arguments and agreements, companionship and passion. One history-making love affair that would never end. Not if he could help it! With a woman who would trust him with her future—their future—whatever it might be.

Marshal St. Lucas was being tugged inexorably toward his home, his wife and his life by a host of memories. Of love. Of joy. Of need.

It wasn’t rings or promises that held a marriage together. It was a hundred tiny threads.