Page 44 of Wired Ghost

The Master narrowed his eyes. “No? You should have killed Pi in combat when I asked you to, and these four men who supported him would not now be dead.” He resumed walking. “In any case, Pim Wat needed to wet her blade after her difficult time away. Doing so brought color to her cheeks.”

Pim Wat, Sophie’s assassin mother and the Master’s longtime lover, had been traded by Sophie to the CIA in return for the bodies of the men who’d died on the mission to get Sophie’s child back. Pim Wat had gone into a catatonic state for the two years she’d been held captive, until the Master broke her out and took her to his island retreat to recover. And recover she apparently had; Connor shivered at the thought of the woman’s blood-soaked blade.

That Sophie, with her brave but gentle spirit, had been born of such a psychopath continued to astound.

And what had he gotten himself into when he so impulsively agreed to train under the Master? The man was a law unto himself.

Connor mentally retraced the steps that had led him to this moment in time as the Master’s anointed Number One.

Interpol, the FBI, and the CIA had all wanted to capture Connor to get information about his secret role as an online vigilante known as the Ghost. He’d wanted an escape from the tangled web of deceit, lies, and alternate identities he’d woven, and ultimately, been trapped by. He’d been grieving that Sophie had chosen Jake over him. And in the end, he’d wanted to see if he, too, could harness space, time, and the hearts of followers, the way the Master did. All of that had led to cutting ties with the past and a one hundred percent commitment to the Master and, by extension, the Yam Khûmk?n organization.

The Yam had begun hundreds of years ago as the guardians of the Thai royal family; over the centuries it had evolved into a powerful network of trained ninjas, assassins, and spies whose purpose it was to protect and defend not only the royal family, but the Thai government and the country’s interests, as determined by the Yam leadership—most notably, the Master.

Connor was in too deep to get away, ever—and the world was closed to him now that he was a wanted man.He was where he was.

They continued down through the various levels, along a passageway past the dining hall, down another flight of stairs, and then emerged out into the garden where Connor had challenged Pi to mount the tiger’s eye column.

Tea had been set out for them under the trees. Connor followed the Master across the smooth, soft green grass, past the lotus pond and the banks of flowers, toward the beautiful tea service that awaited them.

The Master seated himself and indicated Connor’s chair. “Tell me about the rescue.”

Connor told him, leaving nothing out, as he poured fragrant green tea into delicate, handle-less porcelain cups. The Master picked up an almond cookie and bit into it with enjoyment as Connor concluded his tale. “I was not able to speed up time to facilitate my own rescue. I ran out of oxygen and ended up passing out from the gas. Nine got me out, then succumbed as well, and had to be rescued by the Security Solutions operative that was assisting us.”

“Not your finest hour,” the Master murmured, his purple-black gaze thoughtful as he helped himself to a sesame crisp. “None of that should have happened.”

“I agree. I don’t understand how I became so weak, how I lost control of my body.”

“Your emotions were engaged in the work. You used your own strength, not the universal constant of energy, to perform the time alterations.”

Connor shut his eyes, downcast. “I thought I understood the principles. But in the pressure and fear of the moment, I failed.”

“You learned your own limits, you mean.” The Master picked up the cookie plate. “Have one.”

Connor took the cookie; his appetite was gone since he’d glimpsed those severed heads, but he knew better than to refuse. He took a bite.

“Now, drink your tea.”

Connor set the cookie aside and picked up the cup and sipped.

“How does it taste?”

“I’m sorry, Master. I’m tired. It tastes—like tea.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The Master lifted his cup to his lips. “Close your eyes and inhale. Allow the scent receptors in your nose to really take it in. Taste it after that.”

Connor shut his eyes. He breathed in the smell.Jasmine, and something smoky.As he concentrated, images rolled into his mind: the terraced hillside where the tea had grown in orderly rows and quilt-like patches. Farm folk carefully tended the plants. Drying sheds where the leaves hung or lay, being preserved, filled his inner eye.

A whole world was contained in his cup.

Connor sipped; his eyes still closed.

The taste was like another expression of the smell, a lingering of exotic flowers and smoke on his tongue, the growth of a thousand days in the sun and hundreds of steps of processing, culminating now in a priceless transfer of energy that flowed into his body. “Ahh,” he breathed.

“Indeed.” The Master set down his cup. “Whenever you are struggling, stop. Open your mind and let a fuller experience come in through your senses. Nothing extra is ever needed for bliss but a moment of perfect awareness.”

Connor’s phone, in the pocket of hisgi, chose that moment to ring.

They both ignored the sound until it stopped, and finished the tea and cookies in companionable silence.

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