Forbidden

by Jacquelyn Frank

  If she survived that long.

  Her cheeks were yellow with the full glory of aging bruises. Black, purple, and myriad other sickly colors also came to play across the bridge of her small nose and the flare of her forehead and jawbone. She must have hit nearly every exposed piece of her head that was possible. It was amazing, really, that she had been at all reclaimable. It was no wonder the hospital had been abuzz with tales about her.

  But he and Asikri had not been able to get close to her at the hospital. Between her brother’s watchful attendance and the guards outside the door and at the end of each hall, no one was going to get close to her. Ram was actually quite surprised Jackson Waverly had left her for an extended period once he’d brought her home. How could he be so careful for so long and then suddenly turn his back on her? Then again, the actions of the young originals were always a bit careless. He remembered what it had been like when he’d had only one life to live, before he’d touched the Ether the first time, before he’d learned what it meant to be an enduring copy. He too had squandered the gift of his life, had taken very little care of it.

  It was the curse of mortality, he supposed. Or perhaps it was the blessing of it. If you knew you were going to live forever, would you take life much more slowly? Would you savor it? Or would you ignore the preciousness of each moment all the more?

  He knew the answer to more speculations on the matter than he cared to. And even this lost little bird, would she one day come to know the true potential of one of the greatest queens ever to have lived, or would she devolve into the corruption and moral abyss that was equally available to her free will? That was the trouble with a copy, was it not? Each carbon layer became a little fuzzier than the original before it. A little bit more off center, a little bit harder to see and read. And sometimes, sometimes it was completely unreadable. Completely lost.

  “Why do you keep staring at me?”

  She asked him the question in a meek little voice as she sat hunched forward toward the blasting heat of the car vents. He had stripped her of all protection from the cold, but something inside him had balked at seeing her one moment longer in that ridiculous too-small thing she was using as an excuse for a jacket. Down had been leaking out of it in two places, bloodstains streaked it, and he suspected those had been coffee stains spattered across the chest of it. She was torn and tattered enough in her own skin; the jacket had only made her look twice as pathetic.

  And there was nothing pathetic about her. Even that meek-voiced little question had the backbone of a tiger behind it. She could have sat there shivering, accepting her fate, but instead she challenged him. The question he had was … was that his queen he saw leaking outside of her edges, or was that something she had always been?

  “I am concerned. You are taking a long time to regain your warmth.”

  “Of course I am! You took my coat off in twenty-degree weather, stole me out of the warmth and safety of my home, away from the protection of my brother … oh, and let’s not forget the part where I just got out of the hospital after a seriously violent brush with death!”

  There was a snort from the backseat. Presumably Asikri’s amusement at the idea of Ram having his turn at an upbraiding by their queen.

  No. This was definitely not a leak. This had already been there. The way she had taken Asikri in hand earlier, that had been a leak. A definitive one. And a good lesson for the other man. He had far too much contempt for the originals of the world. Although, to be fair, he had a great deal of contempt for Bodywalkers as well. It was a wonder Asikri tolerated his company at all. But antisocial tendencies aside, Asikri was a devoted warrior. He knew his place in the order of things, and he would rather die than fail. The Politic had been in a dark time these past decades, the ravages of civil war taking their toll. The struggle against the Templars was going badly. But there was light ready to shine on this dark night of theirs, and it was hopeful that it was going to start with her.

  “I’m sorry for all of that. You will be warm and safe soon. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? Oh, sure. Because we go way back, you and I. A whole, what, fifteen minutes?”

  “The value of a relationship can never be measured in time, but instead in the worth of what each member involved brings to the connection. I bring you trust, protection, and strength that you may use in any way you deem necessary. What have you brought to these fifteen minutes?”

  She opened her mouth to retort but didn’t say anything. She thought on his remarks instead, her teeth chattering as her hands fisted and flexed in turns over the heater. Ram reached over to increase the heat, then turned his hand briefly back and forth to inspect the knife wound through the center of it. It had closed and was already healing under the mess of blood that had dried over it. It was probably better that it was so obscured. If the precipitous healing had been more obvious to her inexperienced eyes, she might have flown into a full-blown panic. To be honest, he was rather amazed she hadn’t done so already. For all intents and purposes, two total strangers had just kidnapped her.

  “If you two don’t kill me, I’m fairly certain Jackson will,” she muttered at last.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. Can’t I knock her out or something?” Asikri spat from the backseat.

  “Asikri!” Ram barked the man’s name like a whip, and Asikri immediately sat back and sulked in the dark rear of the truck.

  “Well, she whines a lot,” he whined in defense of himself. “It’s highly annoying.”

  “Well, why don’t you get kidnapped by a bunch of thugs twice your size without explanation and see if you can win Miss Congeniality!” Docia bit back at him, those threads of strength glowing across her entire body as she faced off against the man who could snap her like a dried twig.

  It made her amazingly beautiful. For that instant, as her inner determination fired into her aura and her features, she looked like a gorgeous virago risen from defeat to do battle once more. That she found the strength for it was remarkable, Blending or no. She couldn’t be far enough into the process to reap the true power of it.

  “You have not been kidnapped,” Ram assured her. Or lied to her. It depended on whose perspective it was. “We’re just bringing you somewhere far safer than where you were.”

  “My brother is a highly trained SWAT officer. You can’t get much better protection than that,” she argued icily. “So that settles that. Back we go. Go on. I have a comfy pair of jammies awaiting me.”

  “And where was this highly trained SWAT officer when that man was trying to gut you just before?” Ram countered.

  “That’s not fair! I told him I’d be okay. I convinced him to get me some food,” she defended him, her voice becoming small by the end of the statement.

  Ram took his eyes from the road once more and met hers, their ermine brown so defiant and the spirit within them so protective of the brother she loved.

  “I would never let you convince me of such when I know in my soul it would be a mistake. Your brother had three officers other than himself watching you every minute you were in that hospital because his instincts told him there was danger still waiting for you. He allowed himself to waver and turn his back.” He made sure he held her eyes. “I will never so much as blink if I think it will give evil a chance to harm you.”

  Docia stared at her adversary … or was he an ally? She couldn’t seem to decide from one moment to the next. But there were more arguments on the side of ally than there were on the side of enemy, and she was beginning to believe she might not end up dead once they got to wherever they were going. She knew they were driving north, that the car they were in, large and nondescript, was not cheap to come by and was possibly top of the line in its margin. But signs of wealth did not make for instant reasons of comfort. Besides, she was pretty sure it was a rental car. It was far too clean, and she could see the streaking path of the vacuum cleaner that had recently slurped its way across every carpeted surface. The mileage told her it wasn’t a new car, and if she look
ed long enough, she could pick out a scuff here and a ding there on the interior. Still, it wasn’t cheap, renting this type of car.

  For the first time, she began to feel warmer. Thank God, because chattering teeth were not helping the headache she had blossoming between her ears. Her whole body ached, and the cold only made it worse.

  “We would have waited,” the blond explained quietly. “If you hadn’t been in immediate danger just now, we would have waited. Given you a few days to rest, heal, and Blend.”

  “Blend?”

  “At first I thought that man was a reporter. I expected them to show up again.”

  “Again?” she demanded. She was beginning to sound like a parrot.

  “You’re something of a local … miracle. They’re calling you the ‘Bridge Girl.’ The girl who survived the odds. Your brother has kept you isolated so far, but he had to know that wouldn’t last once they released you.”

  “Bridge Girl?” There she was again … Polly want a Docia? “Really?” She rolled her eyes and regretted it for the instant backlash of pain she received in the seat of her skull. “They couldn’t come up with anything more … I dunno … miraculous?”

  “It would have been better if they hadn’t come up with anything at all,” Ram said tightly. “The attention has allowed those who originally tossed you off that bridge to learn you survived. That makes you a witness. I highly doubt they like the idea of you potentially being able to identify them. Attempted murder is not an easy rap to beat.”

  “Especially not the attempted murder of the ‘Bridge Girl,’” she said wryly.

  “And as you saw, they had little interest in letting you run around with your memory— or anything else, for that matter—intact.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, finally deserving the label “whining” and not caring if she did. She was frustrated, tired, and cold, and screw Ass-whatever-his-name-was if he didn’t like it! “I didn’t do anything! I’m not anyone special! I’m a tiny little secretary in a tiny little office for a tiny little company!” She made a tiny little box out of her hands in case they weren’t getting the concept of just how tiny she meant.

  “Your specialness goes without saying,” Ram said, reminding her gently that for some reason he disagreed with the assessment. “And you may not realize why, but you most certainly are special to these people as well. You must have been somewhere at the wrong time. Seen something without realizing it.”

  “Back to your witness theory?” She sniffed. “I walk to work in the morning and walk back home. That’s it. In the morning I stop for coffee and on the way home I either swing by Price Chopper for groceries or Mr. Cheung’s for Chinese.”

  “And that’s it? You never go out? Shop? Anything?”

  “If I shop, it’s on the weekend at my favorite resurrection stores. Oh …” She flushed a little. “And occasionally I stop at Krause’s Candy store for a chocolate-covered pretzel. But it’s sugar-free,” she felt it necessary to point out.

  The detail made him smile softly for some reason, a mysterious sculpting of his lips, drawing her attention to their unusual voluptuousness. Did he know he had girl lips? Well, actually, lips any girl would give her left arm for. On him, there wasn’t anything the least bit feminine about them. No. The way testosterone rolled off him in confident waves, you could stuff him in a frilly polka-dot dress and he still wouldn’t reflect a sense of femininity.

  The thought of him in drag made her giggle a little. Then she took it a step further and thought of Asikri in drag. Now she laughed with energy, her hand going to her head in an attempt to lessen the vibrational pain of the emotion. It was worth it, though. It helped bring her anxiety down to a more manageable level.

  It was another ten minutes of silence before they pulled into a gravel driveway, driving through a heavy pair of spiked gates that crossed each other for stability and withdrew into thick walls of stone that extended pretty far out on either side, walling in what promised to be an expansive property. The idea was reinforced as they continued up the drive a good distance before hitting a second wall and second pair of gates. Docia turned a little in her seat to look back at the heavily wooded region on the left side between the two walls before they passed through the second gate. She could see cameras posted at every square column that peppered the wall. Two of them, facing in each direction, resting on pivots that allowed for a complete scan in all directions. There had been the same thing on the first wall, both on the roadside and on the interior side, and she suspected that as they passed through she would see cameras on the other side of this wall as well.

  This gate had a guardhouse with mirrored glass on every window. The guard who came to the car was of the same ilk as the men who held her: big, healthy, and not suffering from an excessive need to smile. Nor was he dour. Just polite as he glanced into the car from Ram’s side at her.

  Well, Ram hadn’t been kidding when he had promised to bring her somewhere safer. As two other guards popped out of the house, one with a shepherd on a leash and another with a long stick with a mirror stuck to the end that he quickly ran beneath the car, presumably checking for explosives, she decided that she was either really safe or under more threat for heading into a property where the people within felt they needed this much security. The shepherd was well trained, not just teeth and fur to make an impression. She could tell as his handler took him around the car in precise steps and with focused commands. The dog then sat and looked up at the guard with that undeniable devotion she had seen Chico use toward her brother, his big pink tongue lolling out happily as he waited for his next rewarding task. The dog loved his job because he loved his trainer. The trainer was slim and dark, the dark suit he wore was tailored well and very sophisticated, but his shoes were rubber soled and laced up. He was ready to run if needed. They all were.

  All this and the house had yet to come into sight.

  It forced her to wonder just what they were protecting in the house. Or whom.

  For the moment, it appeared it was her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Mmm. There’s no denying Ram’s special touch,” Kamen said dryly as he crouched down to survey the damage that had been done to the original left lying in the snow. Ram, Kamenwati noted, was very particular about whom he chose to kill. All of Menes’s Body-walkers had a special appreciation for life and took particular care in which original lives they chose to end. After all, the art of spiritual preservation was long lost in these modern cultures. Not that this spirit was worthy of any kind of preservation. It was a criminal. A thug. Small-minded and inferior in its thinking and goals. It had wanted to kill the incarnation of what was obviously a precious soul for such petty reasons. Over such petty fears.

  Kamen wanted to kill her for much more complex reasons. Much worthier ones. He had been watching Ram’s and Asikri’s activities very closely, knowing just as they did that the time for the Bodywalker Politic’s so-called king’s resurrection was at hand. He knew they were looking for their queen in anticipation of their king’s arrival. He also knew that his best advantage was during these first weeks of the Blending, when queen and, eventually, king would be at their weakest.

  “Tick tock. Tick tock. What to do, what to do,” he mused.

  “Kill it?” Chatha suggested.

  “If you must,” Kamen replied with a put-upon sigh. “But why waste your energy on these little mortal things? There are more important immortals we must worry about.”

  “Need skills,” Chatha said, his mongoloid features lighting up so brilliantly as his smile took up half his face. It was just like Chatha to find a perverse sort of humor in the incarnation he had chosen this time around. He seemed to be dwelling happily in the juxtaposition of its apparent harmlessness and its immediate innocence in the eyes of all the mortals he came into contact with. All he had to do was lapse into the simpleton behaviors the mortals expected from a Down syndrome adult and he could smile and bounce his way through any door … under any guard. It was a s
troke of genius, actually. Chatha had found the perfect sheep’s wool in which to hide the exquisiteness of the wolf that he was. But Chatha would never rise above his position in the universe because he was pretty much a psychopath. He had been as an original and he continued to be more so with every copy.

  As Kamen turned his back on Chatha’s murderous little frenzy to follow, he made his way to the warmth of the SUV waiting nearby. He climbed behind the wheel, sitting silently for a long moment, watching Chatha pounce over and over again on his dying amusement.

  “Somehow I find his frenzied attacks far more comforting than watching him go about his business in that more methodical way he has.”

  “He’s had dozens of incarnations in which to perfect his mania. I consider it something of an art form,” Kamen remarked in return to the woman sitting beside him. “This frenzy you see, that’s the interference of his host. The host is disorganized, most likely because of its disability, and almost frantic … probably because it’s being forced to take part in something that might usually go against its moral code. Though he has subjugated his host’s soul for the most part, it still bleeds through on occasion.”

  She tilted her head, her clear blue eyes narrowing on the bloody tableau in front of her, the analytical mind within her contemplating so many possibilities. There were many explanations, but only one really mattered at the moment. One truth that made a difference.

  “So I gather we missed her?”

  “So it would appear. But—” He broke off as movement down the street caught his attention. He reached to rap a knuckle on the glass, and Chatha immediately went still. Kamen watched as a man skidded down the drive of a small house, pulling out the service weapon on his belt as he ran shouting down the street.