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Impossible Gifts- Prologue

"I want to go home." The voice may have been young, but there was nothing childish about it. The girl looked up through an unruly tangle of coppery curls at the forbidding woman, who stared right back. She was dark: hair, eyes, soul. The child's dark blue eyes weighed her, measured her and found her wanting. The child's face turned towards the wall.

"This is your home now. You might as well get the tears over with, Jane."

"My name is Mary Celeste St. Patrick."

"Not anymore, Jane." The door closed behind the woman with a sharp, final click, leaving the child sitting on the narrow bed, staring at the muted grey walls. The battered cardboard box clutched to her chest trembled with every breath she took. Carefully, she untied the frayed string holding the lid onto the base and set it aside. Tiny treasures, useless junk. A faded pink rose, pilfered from someones garden, a handful of brightly colored glass marbles. The well-worn New Testament in the cheap leatherette binding, a child's thin book of prayers. Her fingers traced over the neatly printed letters of her name on the flyleaf. Mary Celeste St. Patrick, on her christening.

This was her whole world. The church and a child's view of the world around her, wide and sparkling with beauty. She didn't understand all of the whys and hows of where she was now, all she knew was that her world had changed. She replaced the lid and tied the string tightly, knotting it with a child's feverish, clumsy intensity.

Someplace safe. Someplace that they'll never find it. She closed her eyes and made a wish, a prayer against the coming dark. Something inside her broke loose, something that burned and choked, and her little fingers closed on empty air. Her eyes opened, wide and clear, brimming with tears of gratitude.

"Hail Mary, full of grace." She whispered the words as the darkness opened wide, grinning jaws and swallowed her down.

A child's sense of time is fluid. Days melt into months, into years, without an impression on the soul. The body grew and changed, the mind unfolded in frightening, fractured facets of terrible beauty. A child's games became complex puzzles, puzzles into responsibilities, responsibility into tedium. All things have their limit, even the most exotic and unpredictable of rare flowers.

"Nothing touches her," the dark woman said, watching teacups twirl through a complicated dance in midair, even as the girl- almost on the brink of adolescence, now- bent studiously over a notebook, pencil moving easily across the page. "Nothing we say, or do, makes the slightest bit of difference to her. She completes her tasks because she wants to be left alone. She doesn't cry, she doesn't laugh, she doesn't smile. It's like she's empty, waiting for something to come and fill her up."

"Is she progressing?" The man next to her, dapper in stripes and gold braid, watched their prodigy with dispassionate eyes, the way he would inspect a tank prototype.

"Yes, in some areas. Her psychokinetic control over physical objects is impressive, regardless of the weight, but as to the other areas of interest. well, we'll see."

"I certainly hope so," he replied, and turned on his heel. She stood watching through the mirrored glass for a long while. The teacups never faltered.

The girl's mind was a deep pool, still and reflecting. Underneath that blank surface everything she was moved, shifting in quick, silver flashes and slow black rolls. The daily demands, ever more taxing, ever more impossible, were mere ripples across the hidden depths of her personality. She moved a kitten from one room to another, brought it back to her hands. She fell asleep with the confused bundle of warm, frizzy feline in her lap, her fingers gently coaxing the fear away from the flattened ears. It was the first cat she had seen in ten years. When she searched for it, after she woke up from the coma-like sleep that lasted for four hours, she found the dissected corpse in the lab, still warm.

She didn't cry. There was no room for tears left in her. She sent the next kitten away, and refused to bring it back. The puppies followed, and the mice. She ignored the promise of being allowed to keep them, allowed to have a pet of her own. She prayed for them all, silently, as she stared up at the ceiling, or at the grey walls that never changed.

My name is Mary Celeste St. Patrick. And I do not cry.

"I think we need to accept that she's progressed as far as she can, Lennox." The uniformed man watched the girl reflected on the monitor. She was sitting on the narrow bunk, arms wrapped around her knees as she stared into space. "Jane 13 just isn't going to make the grade."

"I disagree, sir. She has such enormous potential, if we could just find something to reach her through, encourage her to work with us." The woman was older, stockier, gray threaded through her dark hair.

"We're not in the business of therapy, Lennox. If she were a telepath, or even a stronger pyrokinetic, we could find a place for her, but she's not made any progress in months. How they hell can we use an operative who passes out every time she teleports from one room to another?'" The man turned decisively away from the viewing screen. He was starting to round at the shoulders, and his hair had gone a stately silver. "She's nothing but a liability to us now. I want her decommissioned."

"Sir, we're only just starting to learn how to chart the genetic features that create this kind of talent-"

"Then give her to the scientists. On a slab, Lennox. Bodies are less expensive to maintain than people."

Time, although a thief, is also an excellent teacher. Jane 13, (Mary Celeste, her inner voice whispered sharply) at a tender age, has learned how to hide in her own mind. The people around her where shadows, dirty minds brushing against hers, leaving stains as stubborn as soot or blood. She listens to them, learns what they have to offer, and sometimes she dreams of people she's never seen, doing things she's never done. Some of their minds are bitter to the touch, full of horrible things. Sometimes, those horrible things have to do with her.

The woman, Lennox, is the worst. Her mind was all sharp edges and angles. She was certain of her own power over the girl, waving away the guards who would have followed them down the long hallway that leads toward the lab. Her thoughts are focused on the practical, the disassembly of the unusable whole into productive parts. Perhaps, if she had known beforehand that her Jane could sift through her thoughts at will, she wouldn't have been so confident.

The girl falls back so gradually that Lennox never notices, and by the time she does there's just a tiny ripple of displaced air and a hiss, and her pet project is gone like mist. Like she never existed. She swears, loudly and creatively, until the shrieking whine of the lock-down warnings start.

The girl couldn't have gone far, and she won't be in any condition to fight being brought back. The delay, however, will set her schedule back. She's going to be late for her dinner meeting.

Ch. 1

He wasn't a hero.

His first thought, when the girl came tumbling out between cars into the path of the 6:15 bus he took home from the studio every day, had nothing to do with heroic acts and rescue. It had to do with annoyance at the mess and inevitable delay standing between him and his apartment. All of that evaporated as she hit her knees, catching herself on her palms. Her face was a pale flash in the bright wash of the bus' headlights, and he found himself moving, before thought could take over, driven by a sudden surge of panic. Between the strident squeal of air brakes and the blast of a horn, his fingers closed on her upper arm and pulled.

With strength he didn't know he still had in his tired old body, he dragged her to her feet and against his body, throwing them both into an untidy sprawl of arms and legs between a Kia and a lamppost. Her slight weight drove the air from his lungs, pain radiating up his spine and through his body as his back made contact with the curb. He groaned, his body trying to curl into fetal position and avoid the agony that was making his vision swim and blur. Hands surrounded them, pulling them to their feet, away from each other. He found Charles at his shoulder, easing him out of the icy slush in the gutters, while someone else clucked over the girl.

"You okay, buddy?" Charles' friendly, blunt-featured face was creased in lines of worry. "Jamie, can you hear me? You need an ambulance or something?"

"I'm okay," he managed to croak out. "I'm okay. The girl? She okay?"

Charles turned towards the cause of the whole fiasco, frowning. "Looks that way. Miss? Miss? Are you all right?"

Blank eyes turned towards his voice, and Jamie's breath hitched again. The same strange combination of panic and overwhelming protective instinct that had catapulted him into the path of the bus to drag her from danger swept through him again. The girl's hair, an indeterminate shade in the deceitful light of the street, was a tangled mass of curls around a delicate, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were wide and empty, her full lips pressed into a tight frown.

"Are you okay?" Jamie asked, straightening despite the throbbing ache in his lower back and reaching for her arm. Her gaze moved to his face, and a sudden flicker of fear flashed across her face. Her hands, gloveless and tiny, came up to her face, hiding her expression momentarily before pushing slowly through her curls. Impulsively, Jamie took one of them in his own gloved hand, feeling the chill of her skin even through the leather.

"I'm." The girl stopped, shook her head. She must have been stunned, or on some sort of drug, Jamie thought. She frowned in frustration, lifting her head to look at him again. She reached up suddenly and touched his cheek with her free hand. "You saved me."

Electricity crackled between her fingers and his skin. Unable to move, he stared at her, speechless. She seemed equally stunned, her lips parted, a look of sudden wonder on her face. Time froze impossibly, and her face sharpened into view, painfully clear. The dark curls held a deep auburn glow, the shadow-smudged dark eyes crystallized into a deep, clear blue. Her finely-molded features etched themselves into his memory with burning intensity, so strong that he knew he wouldn't be able to forget them. Her fingers were so cold they burned against his face.

A shout from the opposite side of the street snatched her attention away, her hand falling to his shoulder. A woman and two men, in the corporate uniform of dark suits and well-tailored coats, were calling out to her. Her hand convulsed in his. Terror- there was no other word for the look- filled her face. She whirled back to face him.

"You know the church on Mulberry? The St. Patrick's Cathedral?" The urgency in her voice demanded an answer. He nodded, still trying to form words.

"If you need, or want, anything from me, anything at all, just come there any night after midnight and whistle Für Elise. I'll come to you." Before he could reply, she cast another glance behind her. Her fingers tightened around his. "Thank you, Jamie. I have to go." Her hand slid from his, and she was gone, slipping away like some half-born fantasy.

"What the hell was all that about?" Charles asked, looking after her. "You look like hell, Jamie. Are you sure that you didn't pull something? Hey, these must be her people." The business-like trio came hurrying across the street between traffic, the woman scowling, the men expressionless.

"Where did she go?" The woman demanded. "That girl, which way did she go?" A few bystanders shrugged and pointed vaguely, most in different directions. The woman swore colorfully and turned to Charles and Jamie.

"Did you see where she went?" she demanded. "Did she ask for directions, or say where she was going?" Charles started to answer and Jamie gave him a discreet kick to the shin.

"She said thank you, and just took off," he replied, trying to sound mystified. Much the same way the girl had filled him with a sense of protectiveness, this woman made him defensive and slightly fearful. He didn't like her brusque demands, or her single-minded focus.

"Damn it." The woman scowled. "She can't get far. She isn't dressed for this weather and doesn't know her way around. Jacob, go that way, Daniel, you go uptown. I'll start checking the lobbies of the buildings on this block."

"Is something wrong?" Charles asked. "Is she some sort of fugitive or something?"

"Something like that," the woman snapped. "She's a resident at a home for the mentally disabled. Somehow she managed to slip out in all of the holiday madness." The woman suddenly gave them a small smile, her face arranging itself into concerned lines. "She's not capable of taking care of herself, as you saw. We're terribly worried. Here." The woman produced business cards and handed them to Charles. "If you or your friend see her, will you please call me? I don't want anything to happen to her."

"Does she have a name?" Jamie asked dryly, putting the card in his pocket. "Something we can call her if we do see her?" A brief flash of annoyance convinced him that he didn't trust this sharp-tongued woman as far as he could throw her.

"Jane. Her name is Jane."

"If we see her, we'll let you know," Jamie said with a faint echo of sarcasm in his voice. "Hope you find her. Come on Charles, let's go get a drink." He touched his friend's arm and turned deliberately away. The pain in his back had vanished, and he felt remarkably light-hearted and energetic.

"All right then," Charles said, frowning. "Happy holidays, ma'am." They left the woman to her search and started down the block. Idly, Jamie started whistling Für Elise. Charles gave him a disgusted look and shook his head.

"Please tell me you aren't considering what I think you're considering, Jamie."

"That depends. What am I supposedly considering?" Jamie laughed and enjoyed the smoky plume of his breath in the air. Charles looked at his friend in concern.

"Please tell me you aren't going to try to rendezvous with some crazy chick half your age, man."

"Would I do that?" Jamie's eyebrows, still dark despite the pure silver of his hair, rose mockingly. "Charles, do you think I'm crazy?"

Charles snorted in derision, answer enough between them. They'd been friends and business partners for nearly thirty years. Jamie remembered when they'd drunk off-brand beer and lived in vans, trying to get their foot in the music industry's door. Now they had ten golden records shining on the wall, awards from every music venue imaginable, millions of fans, and seven marriages and divorces between them.

"Jamie, man. Don't go getting involved with this. You have enough on your plate."

Which was true enough, Jamie reflected much later, walking home after sharing a friendly drink with Charles and allowing his friend to divert the conversation into more pleasant topics. His health had been faltering lately, more than he would have ever let on to his old companion. A recent doctor's visit had revealed an unpleasant truth: he was dying in stages. He drew in a deep breath, and felt the uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It was familiar by now, and inevitable. Inoperable, the doctor had told him wearily, and prescribed a regime of pain pills and further tests. They could start chemo after Christmas, if it hadn't metastasized too drastically.

"So why not be crazy?" he asked himself aloud. He looked up, trying to find the stars against the washed out urban sky. He remembered the surge of energy a simple brush of her fingers had sent rampaging through him. Crazy or not, she was beautiful and strange, like some elusive dream that vanished in the morning light. "Why not do something no one expects? You only live once, after all." Snow swirled down onto his upturned face, a silent shower of confetti, applauding his decision.

Ch. 2

He couldn't keep his mind on anything. After asking three times what Jamie thought of the remixed orchestral background on a certain track, his assistant sighed loudly and went out for coffee with his girlfriend. Jamie stayed in the studio, one leg propped on the other, a notebook balanced on his knee. He was jotting down random snatches of notes and words, his brain whirling with color and sound.

He hadn't imagined that he'd be able to sleep after the bizarre encounter with the girl- Jane, he reminded himself- and the resulting adrenaline rush. Sure the bruises and aches would start back up, he'd taken a couple aspirin and headed for a hot shower. Surprisingly, he'd felt fine, better than fine in fact. He'd fallen to sleep the moment his head had hit the pillow and he'd dreamed.

He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, but he'd woken up smiling, feeling refreshed. He'd felt ten years younger, light and free of all his recent worries. More importantly, he'd started writing as soon as his feet hit the ground, scribbling notes on every available scrap of paper. He'd stopped and bought a new spiral bound notebook on his way to the bus, and the words and notes hadn't stopped flooding the pages ever since.

By the time he looked up from his reverie, the clock on the wall read half-past six. He chuckled thoughtfully to himself and clambered out of his chair, stretching his long muscles from their cramped position. He should have been exhausted- it seemed everything exhausted him these days- but he felt clear-headed and easy. The feeling lasted through a leisurely dinner at a local Italian restaurant and an impromptu walk that left him staring across Mulberry at the Gothic splendor of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

The intermittent snow had left a delicate frosting along the steep pitches of the roof, rimed the windows with a tracery of spun sugar ice that sparkled in the glitter of Christmas lights wrapped around the streetlights. It looked like a fairytale castle, he thought whimsically. Well, where else would a lost little girl seek sanctuary? He crossed the street and made his way up the steps of the church, putting a hand on the doors. They were locked, of course.

The cemetery, however, was not, the gate swinging wide and allowing him to waltz right in. Thin snow crunched under his boots and he shivered. It was a cold night for wandering around the city, but curiosity had driven him this far. He checked his watch and frowned. It was only eleven, and he didn't like the idea of lingering in a graveyard for an hour. Tentatively, he whistled the opening bars of Für Elise. The notes lilted oddly in the clear, cold air, dying abruptly.

"Hi."

He turned too quickly and skidded on the cold ground, landing less than gracefully on his butt in the dirty snow. The girl was sitting on a headstone about twenty feet away, her thin arms wrapped around her waist. Her tangled curls fell forward as she ducked her head, almost hiding her sudden shy grin.

"I thought you said after midnight?" he grumbled, getting to his feet.

"You're early. So am I." She shrugged and sat up, folding her bare hands together. As far as he could tell, she was wearing the same clothes she'd had on when he pulled her out of the bus' path. The shapeless overcoat hung on her small frame like an old sheet, the clothes underneath looked equally ill-fitting.

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