Waiting for the Moon

"I am aware of that. Is anyone missing in town?"

Jed shook his head. "Nope. But I'll post this for you and keep my eyes and ears open."

"Thank you, Mr. Larkham." He pushed the chair back and got to his feet. Turning, he headed for the door.

"Uh ... Dr. Carrick?"

Ian stopped but didn't bother to turn around. He knew what was coming now. It was what always followed. "Yes, Mr. Larkham?"

"I ... uh, that is, we all heard about your accident."

"It was no accident, Mr. Larkham."

"Yes, well, anyway, we heard that you'd been .. . changed by the ... event."

Ian released a bitter laugh.

"The mayor of Alabaster-that's old Thomas Mar-kette-he lost his twelve-year-old daughter recently. All we found was a bit of lace from her gown. I thought maybe if you could touch it ..."

Ian clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. It was always the same. People were afraid of him and didn't really believe in the rumors of his psychic abilities, but they weren't sure. They wanted him to prove it to them, help them answer the inexplicable and find the utterly lost, and then they would believe-for a second. But they would still be afraid, still shun him the second after he helped them, and God save him from their wrath when he failed.

Jed pulled a dirty, ripped bit of lace from a desk

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drawer. It looked small and frail in the man's gnarled fingers.

Ian stared at the lace, felt the familiar sense of panic, of uselessness, descend. He wanted to turn away, to tell the old man to forget it, that he was no real psychic. But he couldn't. As always, the lure was there, the hope that this time it would be different.

Slowly he reached out, took the scrap of fabric, scratchy, limp, and fragile.

Of course, he got no images, no information. Just the same sickeni

ng thought anyone would have-that a girl, a child, was out there somewhere, alone and lost. And there wasn't a damn thing Ian could do to save her.

He released the piece of lace as if it were suddenly on fire. It drifted to the desk, a blot of white against the burnished wood. "You have obviously been misinformed, Mr. Larkham. My gift-" the word dripped sarcasm "-does not extend to fondling bits of lace. Good day."

Ian strode down the gravel path, his head held high. He knew he was being absurd, but he felt unseen eyes on him, heard the whisper of gossip on the wind, felt it nipping at his heels.

He ought to be used to Larkham's reaction. It was common enough, but it had been so long since he'd been out in the world, he'd almost forgotten. Or the memory had become blurred, faded by too many bottles of scotch and too many nights alone. In some ways, he'd forgotten how frightening and compelling his curse was to everyone. People viewed him as something more than a man, and something less-a terrifying incarnation that was part Gabriel and part Satan. Except for the dreadful few who followed him like lapdogs, begging for the parlor trick of his touch.

He saw Fergus and the rented carriage awaiting him. Without a sideways glance, he climbed into the coach and thumped his fist on the ceiling. The carriage

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lurched forward, the door slammed shut. They were off to the next town.

The next town. The next pair of frightened eyes watching him warily, waiting for the infamous doctor to dissolve into hysteria, the next outstretched hand ...

He sighed. Perhaps he should give up.

What was Selena to him? He could continue to feed and support her for the rest of her life without a thought to the cost. She could remain under his roof for years, a nameless, faceless presence in the darkened hallways, saying nothing, thinking less. What was one more broken soul in the house of insanity?

Even as he had the thought, he knew the answer.

Selena would never be just another lunatic at Lethe House. She would haunt him with her presence, with her very existence, every day, every night, for the remainder of his sorry life. With every movement she took, he'd find himself reaching out to help her; with every stumbling word she uttered, he'd find himself praying for more. He remembered her as she'd been the other morning-sitting on the floor, her hair and face a horrible mess, a dead mouse dangling from her fingertips. Then he remembered Elizabeth, sitting by the window, a silvery trail of drool rolling down her cheek, plopping on her lap. The two images merged in his mind and caused a sickening sense of loss and shame. If only he were a stronger, better man. A man who could care for her as she was-brain-damaged and imperfect. A man who needed less and therefore saw more.

But he wasn't such a man. For him, nothing could be worse than seeing Selena slowly disintegrate into Elizabeth. Nothing. It would kill him, just as it killed Giles. Bit by bit, day by day, Ian would lose what little hold he had on his own sanity. It was that simple. He had to get rid of her to save his own soul.