The Seer's Choice: A Novella of the Golden City (4 page)

“Then why are you worried you might kill him with your gift?”

Genoveva shot a glance at his face. “What if I can’t help myself?”

His dark brows drew together. “We can discuss that with Mrs. Anjos. She’ll know.”

Genoveva worked with the woman, but hadn’t dared ask such a thing. Mrs. Anjos
had
killed before. She’d feared the other woman wouldn’t understand her qualms.

“Mrs. Anjos is more worried about killing than you,” Captain Pinheiro said. “Trust me on that point.”

She didn’t argue. He pointed to a house on Bom Sucesso Street, directing her that way. He opened the door and let her inside, then drew her along to a faded sitting room. An older woman sat there with a pair of younger women, clearly sharing gossip over cups of coffee.

“Mrs. Crespo, may I leave Miss Jardim with you while I go upstairs and change?”

The older woman turned avid eyes on her, making Genoveva want to wait in the hallway instead. She inclined her head toward the captain, though, and he slipped out of the sitting room. Fortunately, she had plenty of experience handling awkward social situations.

“So Miss Jardim,” Mrs. Crespo began, her dark eyes sharp as she gestured for Genoveva to take one of the chairs. “Are you Captain Pinheiro’s sweetheart?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said smoothly as she sat. “I work with him, for the police. I was at the football match. We’re going from here up to the station.”

“But it’s Sunday,” the woman protested.

“Unfortunately, sometimes Sundays are sacrificed for our work.” Genoveva accepted a cup of coffee with milk when the older woman offered. Captain Pinheiro had known she would be interrogated like this when he left her here, but she couldn’t go up to his rooms with him, could she? Neither did she want to wait on the street, so this was the best solution. “The captain was kind enough to offer to help me with a problem I’m working on.”

Mrs. Crespo nodded sagely, but the woman’s expression said clearly that she didn’t believe Genoveva’s claim. It didn’t matter that it was the truth.



Mrs. Anjos was a petite woman of Russian birth. Most of the time she seemed young and fragile, but every once in a while Genoveva could see the woman hidden inside her, the woman who’d taken the life of Pedro Salazar . . . Genoveva’s true father. He’d more than earned his death; Genoveva had never questioned that. But she’d always feared the woman, despite working with her day after day. Mrs. Anjos had managed to stop her own life somehow, never aging as if frozen in ice for more than three decades. Although she looked younger than Genoveva, she’d been born over fifty years ago.

Mrs. Anjos eyed Captain Pinheiro warily, her blue eyes doubtful. “You want her to weaken a man but not kill him. Do I understand correctly?”

They had actually gone to his office to do this, a simple matter since Mrs. Anjos and her husband actually lived in an apartment in the same house that the station occupied. “Yes,” the captain said, “She doesn’t want to kill an attacker. She wants to be able to
escape
him.”

“I can explain it a thousand times, Captain, but she will not learn until she tries. It is a matter of control.”

Genoveva had expected something like that. She had learned endless theory from this woman, but she hadn’t had much
practice
at anything. The doctors at the military hospital were loath to allow a healer—a witch—to treat one of their patients save in the most hopeless cases.

“I thought she could practice on me,” the captain offered unexpectedly. “If she’s just knocking me unconscious, she isn’t doing permanent damage, is she?”

Genoveva shot a horrified glance at him. “I could hurt you.”

“I don’t think you will,” he said without hesitation. “I trust that you can control your impulses, Miss Jardim.”

“It wouldn’t leave . . . damage,” Mrs. Anjos verified. “She need not render you unconscious, Captain. Merely weaken you.”

“Of course,” he said.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Genoveva protested.

“You want to be able to do this,” he said. “I’m willing, and I’m aware of the consequences.”

Mrs. Anjos regarded him steadily, as if she doubted that claim, but she didn’t argue.

Genoveva turned back to Captain Pinheiro. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “So what do I need to do?”

Mrs. Anjos surveyed him critically. “Perhaps you should remove your coat.”

Captain Pinheiro took off his coat and laid it over the back of one of the chairs, leaving him in a well-tailored blue waistcoat and his shirtsleeves. Removing his coat reminded Genoveva that he wasn’t stocky as she’d previously thought. In fact, she suspected the less he wore, the better he would look. Her cheeks warmed when she thought that. Fortunately, Mrs. Anjos was talking to the captain, so neither noticed her blush.

Mrs. Anjos pointed toward the couch on one side of the room. “You should stand there, captain. If you fall, it will be better to fall on that.”

Captain Pinheiro obeyed her suggestion. Genoveva squared her shoulders and walked to his side, praying she didn’t hurt the man. He’d been nothing but kind to her. “Very well. Now what?”

“You need to get a feel for his consciousness,” Mrs. Anjos said. “So you do not go too far. Lay your hand against his throat.”

Genoveva stretched out her hand, but paused a few inches from his skin. “Are you certain?”

His eyes met hers. “Stop worrying.”

She laid her hand against his throat. Her palm rested over his collar, but her fingers touched bare skin. His pulse beat under her thumb, and she moved her fingers so that she could feel it on the other side. He breathed steadily through his nose, quiet and unafraid. He closed his eyes, trusting her.

“Now feel his energies,” Mrs. Anjos said. “Trace through them in your mind. You need to know him
well
before we try this.”

So she could recognize when she was going too far. To protect him. She would skip this part with someone she was trying to
hurt
.

Genoveva closed her eyes and matched her breathing to his. She felt the center of power in his throat. He was strong, in the prime of his life, with a desire to serve. She moved her focus to between his eyes, feeling his intellect. He was a smart man, clever. The center of power in his chest told her he was compassionate. Again, not a surprise. She could feel his lungs moving. Steady. He was calm. The center of power in his belly spoke mildly of hunger . . . he hadn’t eaten since just after Mass. But it also told her he was driven. He’d made captain at an early age without any family ties or money, she’d heard. She forced herself to move her focus, sensing the center of power in his groin. He was a passionate man, although he’d not indulged that passion for some time now, something she surely did
not
need to know about him. Aware that her cheeks must be flaming, she felt both the centers of powers at his base and the crown of his head.

“Now what?” she asked uneasily. She was far more familiar with him now than she was with any man she’d known before.

“Now draw his energies toward you,” Mrs. Anjos said. “Through your hand if you must. You need to pull it into your chest and hold it there.”

Genoveva looked up at his face again. He was waiting, calmly.

She imagined his energies like strands of light, threads on which she could pull. She stepped back, appalled, her eyes going to Mrs. Anjos’ pale face. “I can do more than just heal him, can’t I?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “A great deal more.”

Captain Pinheiro’s eyes opened. He didn’t say anything. Just watched the two of them.

Genoveva looked at Mrs. Anjos, finally understanding. She could affect his drive, his passions, his heart and his mind. She could twist his senses and cloud his thoughts. This was how Mrs. Anjos made prisoners talk; she used her healer’s powers much like a sereia’s
call
, coaxing, convincing. But if needed, she could
force
their capitulation.

“If you’re rushing,” Mrs. Anjos added, “you can’t have finesse. Go straight for his navel. That will rob him of his drive.”

Genoveva looked up at the captain and reached out again, her fingers at his throat. Before she could lose her nerve, she tugged on those threads of energy running through him.

Genoveva gasped, suddenly warm all over. The heat of his energies burned through her, trapped inside her body now, surely too much for her to contain. Sweat trickled down her back.

Captain Pinheiro fell back onto the sofa, rolled to the floor, and lay there unmoving.

She gazed down at him, stunned.
What have I done
?

Mrs. Anjos grasped her arm, yanking her toward Pinheiro’s slumped body. “Give it back!”

She understood what the woman wanted. Genoveva knelt and laid a hand to Pinheiro’s throat again. Then she forced his energy back through that link into his body, trying to put everything back the way it was before, to balance his energies again. The heat blazing through her slowly faded, and she let her hand drop away from his throat.

His eyes fluttered open. He looked dazed, but he was breathing normally. “I told you that you would stop,” he said in a rasping voice.

“I could have killed you,” she protested, heart beating hard and mouth dry. “Don’t you understand? I could have
killed
you.”

He shook his head.

“I would not have let you do so,” Mrs. Anjos said sternly. “You took too much, but now you know how that
feels
. The next time, be more delicate.”

Pinheiro pushed himself up until he sat on the sofa. He took a deep breath. “No, Miss Jardim. Do
not
be more delicate. If someone attacks you, that’s exactly . . .
exactly . . .
what I want you to do to them. Leave them lying on the floor and run.”

She gazed down at him. His shoulders were slumped. He looked exhausted now, far more so than when he’d run off the football field earlier that day.
I did that to him
. Even though she’d put back whatever energy she’d stolen, she must not have done it right.

She turned to Mrs. Anjos. “Is he going to recover?”

“Give him time,” Mrs. Anjos said. “He’s disordered now, but he will come back to rights.”



Rafael was glad of that verdict, although he suspected Mrs. Anjos was stretching the truth. It was more like Miss Jardim had removed the contents of his armoire and then stuffed them all back in without order. He was all there . . . but definitely not at his best.