Chapter 39

"It's working." It was choked and unsteady, so Wil didn't know if Brayden heard him, but it didn't really matter.

He didn't even need to reach this time, grope around to find the threads--they were right there, right within Wil's grasp, and all he had to do was open himself wide, take hold. The craving was almost all-encompassing, strangling him. Vertigo clenched him in a tight fist, rocked him, and he gasped and tried not to sag.

"Too much," Wil whispered, or thought he did. "Shitshitshit, it's too much and *right there*." It was like he was touching bolts of emotion, streaks of cognizance, colors ripping through him in the shapes of thoughts. He was *too* open, too deep, and it was all winding into the crevices, pushing him out. A strangled little whimper spattered up his throat and he clenched his teeth, shook his head. "Too much." A wheeze this time, breathless and strained.