Why was she so different? Why was she able to read thoughts and emotions if she were touching someone and feel them if she was near? Her parents had insisted on a rigorous, almost military training, very physical, for as long as she could remember, yet when her mother held her, she felt fear mixed with love. Did her mother fear her strange abilities? And if so, why had she insisted Briony develop them, yet keep them secret? Secrets kept her apart from her brothers and the other performers around her. Secrets and her extraordinary differences. She detested those differences.

The streets were crowded, people everywhere, still late at night, many already preying on the night population, easy marks with too much drink and drugs. The smell of marijuana hit her hard. She was very sensitive to scents, had always been able to identify people and animals in near proximity to her before anyone else, and now the unwashed mingling with the overperfumed made her queasy.

She made it through the streets without incident and followed the river into the rain forest, where she picked up her pace, jogging easily along a winding path that led to a deep stream feeding the river. She kept going along the stream, seeking a refuge, a place where she could curl up and just breathe in peace.

It was hot and humid in the forest. She stopped to wade into the water and stood there listening to the sounds of insects, the flutter of wings, and the movement of creatures through the trees. For the first time in days, she felt the tension ebbing away.

Briony dipped the scarf in the cold water and pressed it to the nape of her neck. Desperate for relief, she waded deeper into the small stream. Her brothers were going to kill her for disappearing, but she wasn’t going to survive the next few days if she didn’t find somewhere to get away from the suffering. Whatever she’d learned about shields didn’t work in Africa. There were too many people, too close, and far too much suffering.

How many performances had they agreed to? And did it make sense? Why would the festival pay them so much money to come up with an acrobatic performance to African music? The act was spectacular, but the offer came before they’d come up with the idea. Why didn’t that bother anyone in the circus? Where would the festival get that kind of money? And if they had that much money, when the festival was all about music, why would they want a circus act? Briony glanced around her, once again feeling unseen eyes on her. Was she the only one who wondered why her family was in Kinshasa? And why did she always feel as if someone was observing her?

The music festival was a tribute to African artists and their music. It made no sense to invite a circus act. Jebediah, Tyrel, Ruben, and Seth just shrugged their shoulders and said not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Briony felt something was off. Everything felt a little off-kilter to her. Her bizarre education, her abilities, even the fact that she had a special doctor, flying in the moment she got a sniffle-and even that was strange-the fact that she rarely had viruses. Usually she was ill from the constant bombardment of emotions battering at her daily. Her brothers told her she was paranoid, but, as she was now, she was often uneasy, certain someone was watching her. She looked around, seeing with her enhanced vision, looking for heat images, anything that would tell her she was in danger, but there was nothing, not even a change in the constant hum of insects.

Briony rubbed her pounding temples and waded downstream, farther away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Soldiers on every corner with guns, the underbelly teeming with hidden violence, the nightlife seemed a glitzy cover for the desperate and the criminal to do their worst. She wanted to go home.

For a moment she went very still. Home. What did that even mean? She loved her family. She loved the circus, but it was killing her to stay with them. She didn’t know any other way of life and there was nowhere for her to go. At least her brothers knew she was different, and although they didn’t understand, they did their best to hide her peculiarities from others.

Briony smelled unwashed men, heard voices, and immediately shrank closer to the bank, changing her skin color, relying on her darkened clothing to help blend. As three armed soldiers approached, she looked around to ensure she was alone, crouched, and leapt effortlessly into the branches of a tree, some thirty feet up. She remained very still as they passed beneath her, searching for tracks along the forest floor. They were definitely hunting someone, and she realized it was stupid to be so far away from the protection of her brothers. These had to be the rebels everyone was so afraid of. She watched them as they made their way very stealthily through the trees toward the city.

Briony waited until she could no longer hear them before jumping back to the ground. With a little regretful sigh, she waded out into the water again. Even here, on the edge of the wild, she wasn’t really alone. Once more she bent down to soak her scarf in the cooling stream. She didn’t want to go back; her mouth was already dry just thinking of it. As she began to turn, the water around her rippled, her only warning. An arm, much like a band of iron, whipped around her throat and the tip of a knife pressed against her side.

“Don’t scream.” The voice was pitched low, but held such a threat she stiffened. Her captor’s body felt like an oak tree with no give in it, and the way he held her gave her no real chance at escape without sustaining a major injury.

She counted her heartbeats to slow her breathing. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He spoke English with an American accent. “You’re a GhostWalker. What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice was more of a whisper in her mind than in her ear. She knew she was a strong telepath, but this was something more. And she didn’t feel his emotions. The realization stunned her. In her entire life, even with her own family, she’d been burdened with the overwhelming feelings of others. For a moment, she was so shocked her brain refused to process the information. She stayed very still, trying to reason it out, ignoring the persistent whisper in her ear.

The tip of the knife touched her skin and Briony jumped. “You do that again and I’m not going to be so nice,” she hissed. Could she take him? He was stronger than any man she’d ever trained with. She felt the power running through him, felt the difference in him-the same difference she’d always known was in her. Again she forced herself to relax. No one was like her-not even her family. How did she know he was?

“Who are you?” she asked, knowing he wasn’t going to answer. Military for certain. Maybe a mercenary.

“What the hell is a GhostWalker doing here? You don’t answer me in five seconds, I’m going to start slicing off body parts.”

“I don’t know what a GhostWalker is. I’m performing at the music festival. I do aerial stunts with my brothers, the Flying Five. I’m one of the five.”

There was a small silence. “Why the hell would a circus performer be at a music festival?”

“You tell me,” Briony said. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but they paid my brothers and me big bucks to come here.” He hadn’t relaxed his guard even for a moment.

Her captor swore, the words viciously ugly. “I saw you go up that tree and change your skin color to blend into your surroundings. Don’t lie again. No one can do that but a GhostWalker. No one.”

Briony wanted to know everything he knew about the GhostWalkers. If they could do the things she could do, was she related in some way? She felt him stiffen, arms tightening. His lips pressed against her ear. “Don’t make a sound.”

She inhaled and at once knew the soldiers were doubling back. Fear shot through her. She knew what happened to women caught out on their own.

“Can you hold your breath? Are you trained?”

She knew what he meant and she nodded.

“How long?” He demanded tersely.

“Twenty minutes if I’m careful.” She didn’t lie, and wanted to see if he was shocked. As a child she’d been forced to stay under longer and longer periods of time. She’d thought everyone did it, until once, at the dinner table, when she was bragging to her brothers and they were making fun of her for lying, she saw her mother’s mouth tighten with disapproval and she’d never mentioned it again-to anyone.

“You’re going under with me.”

It wasn’t a question, and he was already exerting pressure on her, taking her into the water, not making a sound as they slowly submerged, as if he took it for granted that anyone could stay under that long without breathing equipment. The knife never wavered and neither did the arm locked around her neck. He gave her plenty of time to take a breath, and she did so, drawing air into her lungs as they crouched down in a small section of the stream covered with reeds.

Briony dug her fingers into his arm, holding on, trying to conquer fear. She felt sometimes that she’d spent most of her life trying to hide that she was frightened. She had always been afraid, and after a while, it was simply a way of life. She was afraid of everything, and sometimes it disgusted her that she could never quite overcome those shadows dwelling so deep inside of her. She forced herself to be still, not wanting her captor to be aware of how very frightened of him she really was.

Part of her was excited, wondering, in spite of the danger, whether he could do the things she could do. And if he could-what did that mean?

Jack could feel the small tremor continually running through the body of the young woman he held so tight against him. She was small, hardly more than a girl, but she felt like a woman-had smelled like a woman, all soft curves and fresh scent. She was terrified, but hiding it well and that made no sense if she were a GhostWalker. She would be highly skilled in martial arts, in hand-to-hand combat, in weapons of every kind. She should have complete confidence in her abilities. She was without a doubt physically enhanced and, he suspected, psychically as well. She breathed under water the way they’d all been taught, one small release of air at a time.

Jack found himself all too aware of the woman in his arms. He had been from the moment he touched her. Every single detail seemed imprinted in his mind. On his body. The shape and texture of her. The brush of her silky hair against his face when he’d first locked his arm around her throat. The pads of her fingers pressing deep into his arm as they crouched together beneath the water. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. It never mattered whether his opposition was a man or a woman; it was a job. He did whatever it took to complete the job. She was no object; she was a woman. He couldn’t get the feel or scent of her out of his mind, even now, under water, as if somehow her body had melted into his skin and imprinted on his bones.

The soldiers spent time beneath the tree, talking in whispers. Jack knew they were hunting him. A minute. Two. Three turned into five. Five into ten. The soldiers remained, crouching by the stream, drawing a map in the damp earth. Fifteen minutes went by. Jack slowed his breath even more.

The woman’s fingers dug deeper into his arm. The tension went up noticeably, and he felt her rising terror of drowning, but remarkably, she held still. The minutes continued and he expected panic, was prepared for it, but she held her ground, forcing the slow release of air to allow her to stay beneath the water. She’d been trained, all right, but she was losing air and needed to surface. Her terror was in his mind-swamping him-tasting bitter in his mouth.

Jack tried to ignore her fears, but the empathy between them was too strong and gave him no choice. He caught her head in his hand and turned her face to his, leaning forward until his lips feathered over hers. It was a mistake. He felt that feather light touch all the way through his body, a wild slam of his heart, a tightening of his groin, something deeper shifting and moving inside of him. He breathed into her mouth, so that he was literally the air she breathed, so that she took him deep into her body where he belonged.

Where the hell had that thought come from? He swore he not only felt an electric current sizzling through his veins, he felt possessive-and he was a man who never had strong sexual or emotional reactions in a relationship with a woman-he never allowed it. He avoided attachments, yet every cell in his body-in his brain-urged him to pull her closer, to take possession of her. He stared directly into her eyes, enormous with fear but determined not to give them away. How could anyone have so much fear and yet remain so utterly still, so aware of the danger surrounding her? It took courage and discipline to be able to breathe under water when self-preservation urged you to surface.