“That was more empathic than telepathic,” Bishop said.

“Okay. But as far as I can tell with a new ability, it’s not as strong here as it was before. I’m picking up emotions from people near me, but that’s all.”

“So probably affected at least somewhat by the energy here, as all our abilities and spider senses seem to be. We have to find a way of dealing with that energy,” Bishop said. His gaze was on Hollis steadily.

She frowned at him. “Well, I don’t know how. It isn’t something I can see, like I’ve been able to during other cases. I’m not even aware of it in any real sense, not the way I have been before. Except when I try to use my abilities. It’s . . . diffused. It’s not a doorway or—or a dome, not a force.”

Miranda said suddenly, “Does it have a consciousness? A mind behind it?”

“No.” Hollis turned her frown to the other woman and added slowly, “No, it doesn’t. Not a single mind, a personality. I don’t feel any sense of identity. Just . . . energy.”

—

SIMON CAVENDISH HAD no idea how much time had passed. He was in total darkness, cramped, his limbs senseless. It was icy cold. His throat was raw from earlier screams, his mouth dry as dust. His head pounded. He was vaguely sure the fluttery throbbing he felt in his ears was his own heartbeat. Astonishingly, he thought he might have slept, but he wasn’t sure. The panic had not so much gone away as become something dark and crawly beneath the level of his conscious awareness.

That was because his conscious awareness was taken up by something else.

It was getting harder to breathe.

He focused on that, and at first told himself it was only because his throat was sore and dry, his nose clogged by tears he didn’t remember shedding. And for a while that occupied him as he thought methodically about forcing his throat to relax, forcing himself to breathe shallowly, slowly.

Simon focused. Just breathe. Shallow. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t think. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

He kept his eyes closed because the darkness was so absolute it had weight, heavy weight, and he was afraid it would crush him. He refused to think about how numb his arms were, his legs. About how his head pounded worse than any migraine he’d ever had in his life.

He refused to think about people and the things he’d taken for granted. Like just being able to move, to breathe easily. To have a hot shower and feel clean. To sleep in a warm, soft bed between smooth sheets. To drink water or whatever else he wanted, when he wanted. To eat good food when he was hungry. To talk to friends and family, listen to them. Enjoy them. To enjoy their companionship.

He refused to think about dying.

Time passed, he thought, but nothing changed. Except he was certain, way down deep where those dark and crawly things were, that it was getting even harder to breathe.