ONE

He was still out there, frightened, hurting, furious.

His anger and pain flowed like a red watercolor wash over Kristen's dreams. Giving up on sleep, she dragged out of bed and wrapped a wool robe around her.

There was no escaping him. She'd tried. Music, wine, even the sleeping pills left over from Skipper's death, and still his pain and fury reached her.

At first, she'd thought the insidious feelings were a return of the sympathetic aftershocks that had rocked her after Skipper died. But those echoes had long since faded. So when the fear and pain had reverberated inside her two days before, she'd been plunged back in time to the harrowing weeks after her twin brother's funeral.

Back to nights of black panic when she would jerk awake out of a sound sleep, senses alert, only to remember for the twentieth, or fiftieth, or hundredth time, that it couldn't be Skipper. Skipper was dead.

Finally the ghostly sensations had faded, like the phantom pain of an amputated limb, and Kristen had been left with an aching void where her twin brother—her other self—had been. She'd always lived with him inside her, linked to him in a way other people could never understand.

When he'd died, a part of her self had been ripped away. It had taken her a year to get over the worst of it, a year before Skipper's song had completely faded.

Sometimes now, the silence left by his death overwhelmed her. Oh, she gleaned things from others around her, but they were just feelings, a weak manifestation of the empathy she’d shared with her brother. They’d always been there, as much a part of her as the sound of the wind. She'd learned a long time ago to detach herself from them.

She'd been doing really well, too, until two days ago, when he had showed up in her mind.

Tonight was the worst so far. She pushed her hair away from her damp forehead, wishing she could push him away as easily. Wandering into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and stood for a couple of minutes letting the cool air drift around her.

Tonight his intrusion was almost total. Tonight he was stealing her identity. She squinted in the harsh refrigerator light. He was so weak, so thirsty.

She sniffed carefully at a carton of orange juice before turning it up to swig the contents like water. A dribble of juice ran down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

What was she doing? She stared at her dripping hand, at the juice carton. She had never guzzled juice straight from the carton before—it was almost like she drank to assuage his thirst. She thrust it back into the refrigerator and slammed the door, wiping her mouth again.

As she started to turn away, her gaze caught twin circles of bright gold shining from the top of the refrigerator.

Her heart leaped into her throat.

"Sam, you scared me!" Damn, she was jumpy tonight. It wasn't as if her cat didn't perch on top of the refrigerator every night.

"Get down! You know you're not supposed to climb up there." She wrapped her fingers securely around the cat's supple middle and pulled him down, ignoring his growl of protest. "Now stay off this time."

He pointedly ignored her, waving his tail like a banner as he strutted toward the door. Kristen frowned at him. "I don't want you going out, Sam. Okay?"

An irritating yowl was her only answer, so she sighed and opened the door. "How did I get mixed up with a tomcat like you? Moira would say you're just another stray I picked up."

A deep sadness settled on her as she went into the living room and gazed out over the city. The city was always sad. Sometimes she thought she would rather die than have to feel the anguish of all the mournful souls.

Thankfully, Skipper had helped her learn to detach herself from their pain, or she might have been locked away or killed herself by now.

He'd taught her the careful balance between empathy and detachment that made her such a good doctor. She'd gotten pretty good at it. Pretty good.

But not good enough to block him.

He was still out there.

His pain was getting worse.

She put her palms on either side of her head, wishing she could squeeze him out of her brain.

He knew he was going to die.

Kristen moaned quietly, pushing her fingers through her hair.

"Get out of my head," she muttered. "I don't want you in here! I don't want to know who you are, how much you hurt!" She hated it, these new realizations she was having. "How in the hell did you get inside my head?"

He was going to die. Not from his injuries, not even from starvation, although if she concentrated, she could smell the yeasty odor of a body feeding on itself for lack of any other nourishment.

He knew he was going to die, but he wasn't frightened of dying. No, the knowledge of his dying lay within him like his soul. It nourished him. He embraced it like a lover.

That wasn't the fear that was eating at his guts. He was afraid of something entirely different... he was afraid of her—

Kristen jerked. Had she fallen asleep standing up? As she looked out over the city again, the lights seemed brighter somehow, and harsher.

"Who are you? Why are you so afraid?" She rubbed her temples. Her thoughts were getting crazier and crazier. Why would anyone be afraid of her? Especially someone she'd never met, never even seen.

The garish lights made her head hurt. Savagely she pulled the drapes closed, shutting them out, wishing she could shut out his pain as easily. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she curled up on the couch, dozing fitfully, disturbed by strange dreams of falling through a dark abyss, hurtling toward hell.

When Sam's indignant yowl woke her, she realized she'd overslept. She squinted sleepily at the clock as she jumped up to let him in. "Sam! You're late!"

His meow managed to combine righteous indignation and martyred patience.

"Well, all right. I slept late, but you should have yelled louder. I was up half the night."

She fed him and put on coffee, then rushed to dress. It was already after eight on Friday morning, and she was due at the Street Clinic at nine.

*** "Dr. Skipworth, just what is the problem here? You sick?"

Kristen looked up, startled, to find Moira standing, fists propped on ample hips, glaring at her.

"No, Moira. No. I'm just tired I guess. I haven't slept well the past few nights." Kristen stretched her arms and flexed her neck, toying with the idea of confiding in Moira. But no. She'd given up trying to talk to anyone about her empathy years ago. No one understood—no one but Skipper.

She'd spent all afternoon trying to catch up on her dictation, but he kept intruding, kept wrenching her attention away from her notes.

He was getting weaker. Today, his fury and fear were tempered by a weary resignation that frightened her more than his anger and pain had. As he grew weaker, his emotions became harder to ignore.

Somewhere between this morning and now, she had begun to care what happened to him. She wanted to run to the windows and shout "Don't give up!" But she didn't know who she would be shouting to.

"Kristen?"

She wrenched her attention back to Moira, brushing the nurse's hand away from her forehead. "I'm not sick. I've just got something on my mind."

"I'd say so. You know what time it is?"

"No."

"It's after five, and you didn't eat lunch. You not going to eat supper, either?"

"I ate lunch! Didn't I?"

Moira shook her head, her lips pursed. "No, young lady, you did not. What you did was wolf down a stale doughnut with your third cup of coffee. Now, you going to tell me what's going on?"

Kristen stood up, groaning at the stiffness in her back. She stretched again. "Nothing's going on. I'll leave in a few minutes, okay?" In the middle of her stretch, a searing pain stabbed her. She gasped and doubled over.

Moira reacted instantly, moving to her side. "All right, Miss Doctor Smarty Pants, out with it. You still have your appendix?"

Kristen laughed shakily, trying not to grimace. "Moira, I don’t have appendicitis. My stomach's just cramping from hunger. I'm getting ready to leave. You go ahead. Bill's here, isn't he?"

Moira's black eyes snapped as she assessed her. "Okay, I'll go on. But you be careful. Do you want a ride?"

Kristen shook her head. "It's only a couple of blocks, and I could use the exercise." She rubbed her rib cage. It almost felt like cracked ribs. What was going on here?

"I'll tell you what you could use, young lady. You could use some fun. You could use a social life. You work too much. When was the last time you went out on a date?"

Kristen wrenched her thoughts away from the pain. "A what? A date?" She shrugged. "It's been... a long time."

Kristen shook her head as she stacked the papers on the desk. What would Moira think, what would anyone think, if they knew just how long it had been?

"Well, you might think me cold, but your brother's been dead for two years. You need to get out, have fun, quit moping."

Kristen couldn't concentrate on Moira's words. Another searing pain ripped through her side, and her head began to throb. A frightening thought had just occurred to her. Was her empathy growing? Getting stronger? Her heart drummed in her throat. If that were it, wouldn't she be feeling it with other people, not just him?

And how would she ever stand it without Skipper's help?

"Kristen?"

Kristen looked up. "I'm sorry, Moira. I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"Go home. Call a friend. Go to a movie."

Kristen waved her hand at the nurse, still overwhelmed by the pain and fear she could feel in him. "I'm fine. Really. But you're right about dinner. I am hungry."

Moira shook her finger at her. "Then get out of here. And Doctor Skipworth," Moira said. "Don’t pick up any strays. You got that? One of these days one of them poor souls you're always dragging in here is going to turn on you."

Kristen shook her head wearily. "No, they won't, Moira. You don't understand."

"I understand you trust people too much."

"It's not trust, exactly." She spread her hands. There was no way to explain. "Besides, this is different."

Moira propped her fists on her hips. "What's different?"

Kristen's head jerked up at Moira's question. Had she said that aloud? She was really letting it get to her tonight. "Never mind. I'm just tired. I don't know what I'm saying." She shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

Moira just shook her head and left, muttering to herself.

Kristen shut her eyes. She couldn't feel him any more. Where was he?

Oh God, had he died? She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed hard. She had wanted him out of her head, but the void was worse.

Where was he? She felt a faint echo of the pain in her side and breathed a sigh of wary relief, unsure if it was because he was still alive, or because she'd been given a respite from his insidious, oppressive sensations. He must have gone to sleep or lost consciousness.

Turning off the dictating machine, she walked out into the receiving area. "I'm going, Bill. This was one of the slowest days we've had in a while."

Dr. Bill Maxey looked up from the book where he was logging the daily count of controlled drugs. He gave her a sharp look, then smiled. "Good, maybe it'll be a quiet night, too. I could use one. Today was a rough day at the hospital."

"When are you going to quit working two jobs?"

"When Anne decides we have enough money to put the baby through college."

"So when are you getting a third job?" Kristen grinned, and Bill laughed appreciatively.

"Oh, by the way," she said, "Walt is in there." She gestured toward the exam room. "He's just about slept it off. You can kick him out if anyone comes in."

Bill grimaced. "I thought I smelled cheap wine. How long you think his liver's got?"

She shrugged. "I'd have thought it would have given up years ago. Bye."

Kristen breathed deeply of the cool air, allowing its clean bite to clear the dregs of pain and fear from her head. The city was growing dark, the haloed streetlights barely making shadows on the mist-damp streets. There were fires burning in drums along the alleyways, their flames bent by the chill breeze wafting in from the bay. Small groups in tattered clothes huddled around the drums, reaching out with claw-like hands toward the flames, begging for warmth.

She shivered and drew up her shoulders, trying to insulate herself from their desperation as much as from the cold, but both still seeped inside her jacket. She only lived a few blocks from the clinic, but on nights like this, when her senses were flayed open like a wound, she wished for a fast car and a house in the mountains—miles from another living soul, where she could hide from their pain. Or maybe she could get on Skipper's boat and take off across the seven seas.

"Lady, got 'ny change?"

Kristen looked toward the voice, squinting in the darkness. It sounded too young, too vibrant, to be another of the pathetic homeless people who crouched in doorways. A small form huddled back against the shadow of a building.

Kristen considered walking past—for about one second. There were so many people who needed help, and so few who were willing or could afford to give it. She remembered Moira's warning, took a few steps onward, then turned back with a sigh.

As she approached, the small figure crouched even lower to the ground.

"Only asked for change," the little voice grumbled, cowering as if Kristen were going to smack it.

"Who are you?" Kristen whispered. "Aren't you awfully young to be out here like this?" She tried to see underneath the hooded jacket, but the figure just huddled deeper. "Why don't you let me take you to the clinic, and you can call someone?"

The voice changed, grew older somehow, and less hesitant. "Ain't you been told not to pick up strays?"

Kristen recoiled in shock at the familiar words Moira had spoken only minutes before. "Who are you?" she asked.

The cowled head raised, and Kristen looked into eyes as black as deep space shining out of a small, pinched face. She was buffeted by a total absence of emotion, as solid as a wall, as if the tiny figure was deliberately holding itself apart from her.

"I'm nobody, and I don't need nothing," the vibrant voice said.

As Kristen stared openmouthed, the figure melted back into the shadows. For an instant, she debated going after the little waif, but a grinding pain caught her in the midsection.

She drew in a deep breath, wishing she'd accepted Moira's offer. She didn't like to walk this way at night, although it was the shortest route home. There were too many weirdos, too many vestiges of despair wafting from the dark corners of the alleys, waiting like the fog to seep into her soul.

Sometimes, she questioned her decision to become a doctor. She'd thought her empathy would make her a better physician. It had, but the constant assault was too wearing. Sometimes after a busy week at the hospital, she would sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

She'd almost quit after Skipper died, but then Bill had asked her to help out at the Street Clinic, and she'd found a measure of peace there. It was fulfilling work, gave her a paycheck, gave her something to do besides sit at home and feel guilty.

Cold mist gathered in her hair and ran in rivulets down her forehead and cheeks as she turned down the deserted street. She walked as fast as she could, hoping she could outrun the returning sensations of otherness he was evoking in her.

He was still out there. Weak, resigned, hurting.

A shudder not born of the misty cold racked her. There were no words for the hollow fear and desperate agony of someone else's pain. No poems celebrating empathy, no sonnets sung to it.

She considered the questions that had always plagued her. Why didn't everyone feel the misery of the sick? Why weren't others crushed under the hopelessness of streets full of homeless people? She didn't think other people had to steel themselves against the world's pain.

She didn't think she could bear it if this one died. She wiped water out of her eyes. His pain weighed heavier on her than anyone’s ever had, heavier even than losing Skipper.

Suddenly, an ice cold hand wrapped around her ankle, and pain and terror shot through her. The edge of her vision went black, and she hit the pavement with a bone-jarring thud.

When she could focus, she found herself staring into shocking blue eyes glazed with fear and agony and locked on a space somewhere to the left of her head.

"You!" she whispered, her pulse pounding in her throat.

A shard of coherence flashed in the eyes for a brief moment, then they glazed again.

It was him. As soon as his icy hand had closed around her ankle, she had known. Known even as his concentrated pain and fear and brave dregs of anger knocked the wind from her lungs.

She wanted to jump up and run, wanted to scream for help, but she couldn't. His despair and fear held her more tightly than his grip on her ankle.

"Who are you?" she whispered, trying to move, but his relentless fingers didn’t let up, although his eyes were still glazed and witless.

She reached out to peel his fingers away. Her foot was starting to tingle. When she touched his hand, he groaned, and she felt a tightness—a tightness and a searing pain along her midsection. His ribs.

Her fingers froze above his then changed course, stretching to touch his face. It was as cold as his hand, and her fingers came away stained with half-congealed blood. She moaned, her own head throbbing with pain that had to come from him.

Moira's warnings echoed in her brain, but she brushed aside worries about disease or danger. His distress was the only thing that mattered. She had to help him.

"No..." he muttered, his voice cracking like thin ice.

"Can you walk?" Kristen wrapped her fingers around his hand. "Hey, can you walk? We need to get you to a hospital."

"No!" His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in pain.

"Well, can you try? Look, I need to get some help." She maneuvered around until she was sitting up, not easy with his grip still tight on her ankle. "I can't move you by myself, and I think you've got broken ribs. Plus a bad cut on your head."

"No! Hospital!" He spoke shortly, in little bursts, obviously trying to minimize the torment of breathing.

"I can't help you! You've got to let go!" Kristen cried desperately. She couldn't breathe, either. The grinding in her midsection had her doubled over.

She pried at his fingers again. If she could stop him from touching her, it wouldn't hurt so bad, and maybe she could concentrate. She'd never experienced anything like the way his every emotion, his every pain, transferred itself to her through his fingers. She gritted her teeth and worked on steeling herself against him.

Finally he let go. He sat up gingerly, grunting and grimacing with each movement. For a few minutes he rested his head against the wall and took shallow breaths that puffed out in silver clouds of mist. His hair, wet and plastered to his head, looked to be a dirty brown.

With his incredible eyes shut and his hand no longer transferring sensation to her like an electric charge, Kristen gathered enough wits to study him.

A dark splotch discolored the side of his head, and a knot had risen on his temple. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips compressed and grim with pain, the tendons in his neck corded with tension. He was well-muscled but thin like a runner, and she noticed the peculiar odor of starvation about him.

His hands were elegant—a surgeon's hands, or an artist's, with fine tapering fingers, currently white-knuckled against his side. His body was long, too, encased in filthy jeans and a pullover jacket.

She looked back at his face, where pale thick lashes rested against his gaunt cheeks. Her chest hurt from compassion and the echo of his bruised ribs.

He opened his eyes.

Kristen started. For the first time his eyes were lucid, reflecting a wary curiosity and sharp intelligence. They were the most intense blue she had ever seen in eyes, and they seemed to cut right into her soul. She blinked and wiped mist off her face. "Can you stand?" she asked.

He stared at her for a long time, then with a grimace that showed white, even teeth, he nodded. He braced his shoulders against the brick wall and inched himself upward, groaning, but pushing persistently.

She stood and tried to help him, but when she touched him he growled and jerked his head sharply, sending another rending pain through her side and his, no doubt, so she left him alone. She certainly didn't want him to puncture a lung if his ribs were broken. Walking a few steps toward the street, she pretended not to notice how hard it was for him.

A ragged sigh and an easing of the ache in her side told her he had made it. She turned. He was taller than she'd realized, and he slumped against the wall with both arms wrapped as tightly as possible around his middle. His face rivaled the mist for pallor.

"Can you walk?"

A short, sharp laugh surprised her. "Sure, lady," he grated. "Have—this dance?"

She stared at him, her lips twitching. A sense of humor? Even if it was caustic and barbed. "I don't think we'll see many cabs around here, and I've got to get you to a hospital, now!"

"No!" The pain faded from his eyes, and an unreasoning anger took its place. "Leave!"

"I can't," she whispered, wanting to cry because he was so desperate, wanting to cheer because he had regained the will to be angry.

His eyes darkened to indigo and narrowed to slits. "Can't?"

She shook her head, dislodging droplets of mist from her hair, and wiped her face with both hands. "No. You hurt too badly. I can't leave you." I can't leave you, and I can't stand to be close to you.

"No!"

"Look, we're not getting anywhere," she sighed, spreading her hands helplessly. "The Street Clinic's about two blocks over."

His eyes blazed as fear, anger, suspicion, all flashed across his face in a matter of seconds. "No ID, no credit," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall.

Kristen knew most of the strength that had served to get him upright was failing him. He wouldn't stay conscious much longer. In fact she could feel the warning buzz inside his head that signaled he would soon pass out.

"Okay, okay. I don't know what your problem is, but I'm not standing out here in the cold all night. Come on."

He shook his head, and she wasn't sure if he was trying to clear the buzzing, or if he was still refusing to be helped.

"Look, dammit! I'm not going to hurt you," she shouted.

His head fell back against the wall, and water dripped down his cheeks like tears. He'd given up fighting. Even as triumph lifted her spirits, her breast tightened with pity, because she could feel from within him that he wasn't used to defeat.

She gritted her teeth as she lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulders, steeling herself against the sensations caused by his touch. He growled again, but he didn't protest. Kristen was fairly sure that if he could have found the strength to push her away, he would.

He leaned on her helplessly, his rock hard body heavy against her, his breath shallow, uneven. The taut muscles of his abdomen moved against her side.

He was in superb physical condition. Probably a good thing, too; otherwise he would have been dead by now. His body had obviously started digesting protein because he had no fat reserves. That accounted for the odor of starvation that clung to him. As her doctor's brain clinically analyzed his condition, her woman's body began to react to his physical presence.

The waist she had her arm around was hard, the muscles like long straps of steel. The arm clutching her shoulders was corded with tendons and muscles, their suppleness undulating against her skin as they walked. If she looked down, she could see the hard thighs under the material of his jeans.

A thrill tightened her stomach, and embarrassment flooded her face with heat. Where had that unprofessional reaction come from? She was a doctor, and he was a sick man.

But she couldn't ignore the unfamiliar ripple deep in her belly as his body moved next to hers. She'd never been affected like this by a man before. She'd never felt so aware of another human being in her life.

She concentrated on his feelings rather than hers. From every square centimeter of him, she absorbed his fear and pain. She wished she could wall herself up, away from the feelings, but strangely she craved them too, because they were an echo of everything she'd lost when Skipper died.