Edge Read Free

her fingers, a simple neurophysiological trigger to create a resourceful mood. Then she held up her phone, smiling at the beady lens.
        "Hello, Peter. How much better are you doing? I feel confident that now you'll make the changes you want to make, and it doesn't matter whether you ring me this morning or tonight, because you'll feel better when we talk. Go well, Peter."
        Good enough. Through careful tonality, some of her words were covert hypnotic suggestions, combining with the results of the previous sessions to give him a confidence boost as soon as he watched her message, or so she hoped. It was funny because, as a little girl, she had dreamed of being an actress, except when she imagined herself as a scientist or doctor; and now she got to be all three. At least that was the way she saw her life now, so much better – I'm lucky, really lucky – than the old days. As she walked, her fingers touched the inside of her opposite sleeve: always long sleeves, not just for her clients' sake. But it was mostly fine, not a case of "Physician, heal thyself," for in many respects she'd done just that.
        Keeping the phone on, she set off parallel to the stone balustrade. The glass barrier beyond was translucent turquoise, the finest of Dutch engineering to keep the capital dry, to ensure that everyone was safe.
        So enjoy the day, right?
        She made herself smile as she walked.

    Stag Place was a plaza in Victoria, its shape irregular, surrounded by sweeping glass buildings. The wind tugged at Suzanne as she stopped near a tall steel sculpture, a shining tree whose leaves were big, bright plastic panels: tomato red, egg-yolk yellow, apple green. Elliptical House was another five minutes away, but there were coffee shops inside the mall, and where better to relax and prepare her–
        A ripping sound preceded a woman's scream and the shocking twang of steel cable parting; then came momentary silence, as if something had sucked away the air. And then a maelstrom of dust and flying shards – red, yellow, green, all with edges like knives – filled the world, became the world, while all around were people were throwing themselves down, trying to escape, some plucked upward by the air, levitating for a second, then flung aside like old socks.
        Vortex.
        This was a snap whirlwind, and dangerous. Suzanne dropped to the pavement, holding her head in her hands, imagining all that glass in flying pieces, sharp and deadly, and even as she had the thought, windows shattered overhead. Then percussive wind was beating on her, slamming her down – no, please no – and was gone.
        Just gone.
        She was on elbows and knees, head hanging, gasping. Was this the centre, the stillness at the whirlwind's heart, or had the whole thing passed? She dared to look up, then squeezed her eyes shut at the awfulness – no, deal with it – and forced them open. One person was a butchered mess: man or woman, she could not tell, only that the carcass was ripped open and all was soft and slick and glistening, bathed in redness, and none of this was helping. Act professional. As Suzanne hauled herself up, she focused on the ones who needed help: here a blood-soaked face, there a white-haired man, supine and groaning, his arm twisted beneath him. Off to one side, a woman whimpered, trembling, in the throes of seizure. Someone, calm-voiced, spoke into his phone, calling for medics. Others got into motion, crossing to the fallen. One man gave orders: "I'm a nurse. You, press here on his shoulder – yes, there, you've got it, keep pressing – while I help this person over here." All around, like snow in the aftermath of blizzard, shards of glass reflected sunlight, almost pretty if you had not seen the blood. They crunched beneath Suzanne's shoes as she made her way to the shaking woman.
        "Look at me."
        But the woman's attention remained locked on the bloody mess that had been a