The Betrayer (Crossing Realms Series Book 3)

by Rebecca E. Neely

  Dreadlocks is still alive. How? Why?

  As if in response to his thoughts, she stirred fitfully on the bed of drop cloths he’d fashioned for her. “Sixty-eight. Thirty-four,” she mumbled.

  Sitting on the plywood floor, Curtis scrawled the numbers, adding them to the growing list in his notebook. She’d been mumbling them since he’d received the Compulsion. He’d probably missed a few. What the hell were they? A code? A combination? Was this what the Watchers wanted him to find out? Were they the key to helping his clan?

  For maybe the hundredth time, he scanned the list, then quickly added them to the spreadsheet open on his laptop. He’d tried sorting them, finding a pattern, but there was none he could discern.

  Disgusted, he tossed his empty plastic bottle aside. It clattered against a lone sheet of drywall. The numbers were the only thing she’d said—in her sleep. Awake, she’d barely uttered a word. Ate only a meager amount of soup and stared at him with those clear, naked eyes, damning him with scorn and hopelessness.

  He hadn’t slept for shit since he’d left the network. He’d been regulating his Vitality, thus depriving himself of energy. It was a short-term tactic for a Keeper, but necessary, to protect the Betrayer from a blast of energy, and to stay under his clan’s radar. With a yawn that rattled his bones, he channeled a fraction of the energy from the stone around his neck. And coursed a finger over the Flint, keeping company alongside the Vitality.

  Rising, he stretched and rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiffness. He opened the mini fridge and yanked out a lone container of potato salad. Ate it while staring through a newly installed window, devoid of any treatment, its stickers still intact. Though he’d rationed what food he’d brought, scarcely a day’s worth remained.

  Cars buzzed along side streets. Wind blew litter pell-mell through the city like a child throwing a tantrum. A newspaper tumbled across the parking lot as if frantically seeking shelter from the impending storm.

  He’d never expected to be here this long, cut off from his clan, and no wiser about what Dreadlocks allegedly knew. The last bite of potato salad stuck in his throat and he forced it down. She couldn’t have much time left.

  He had to trust the Watchers, didn’t he? Trust the Compulsion. She knew something that could help his clan. And he had to find out what it was before it was too late.

  I can’t fail.

  Not only because he had to save his clan, and not only because they’d been robbed of the Similitude Dev and Meda had created. Finally, he’d been given what he considered a real mission, beyond the Compulsions he usually handled, and beyond his computer geek smarts. And he’d been entrusted to do it alone.

  But how much longer could he possibly be expected to stay here?

  Frustrated, he kicked a scrap of trim across the room.

  His brain, that thrived on logic, clicked through scenarios. No time. No viable options. He couldn’t leave her here, nor could he take her with him. The network’s energy would kill her.

  If we make it.

  Curtis was certain Zane had made it to the network, because that was the kind of Keeper Zane was. Thanks to him, his clan would be aware of the basics of his Compulsion, but little else.

  He strode around the unfinished space that essentially had become his prison. His clan battled the brood in the Second Rebellion, while he’d been deemed nursemaid. To the enemy! He should be fighting alongside them. He couldn’t contact Nick or reach out to any of them. They’d demand to come, and it would risk their lives.

  Even if they did make it to him, they’d endanger Dreadlocks’ life. He growled low in his throat. His only option? Cling to the waning hope she’d tell him something the next time she roused.

  Fuming, Curtis glared at the woman. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to when she woke and slept. It’d been about three hours ago they’d gone through the soup routine. The direct approach—questioning her, offering assurances, trying to gain her trust—hadn’t worked. Nor had the indirect approach. But he’d try again to read her Vista.

  Resolved, Curtis crouched on the floor next to her prone form. Everything about her was harsh. Her hair. Her skin stretched unbearably tight over her slight form. The rags she wore that could scarcely be called clothing. Grime outlined her fingernails and etched her knuckles. These hands had seen hard labor. A flowery script was tattooed around her left wrist. He recognized the language as Irish, but he didn’t know what the words meant.

  Strange, no one would ever call her beautiful, and yet, she possessed some inscrutable quality bordering on intriguing.

  Immediately, Curtis rejected the thought. Too much time holed up in this reno. His mind was starting to play tricks on him. Clasping the Vitality stone around his neck, he closed his eyes and drew on its warmth and energy, as old as time.

  And passed into her Vista.

  Hazy. Voices. Screeching. Metal? Crying. A woman. Young. Brown hair. A man. Older. Her hand in his. Hiding? And . . .

  By some modicum of will she clearly retained, she shut him out of her Vista as she had before. However, he’d seen more this time. Curtis withdrew from the reverie, analyzing. Who were the man and woman? Her parents? Other brood members? Why couldn’t he shake this feeling of uneasiness? And something else, just beyond his grasp.

  Breathing deeply, he opened his eyes and took measure of her. Unbearably vulnerable. Nothing like the alley cat who’d all but arched her back and hissed when the clan had forced her from the tunnels. Unbidden, she brought images to mind of those he’d guarded for years. The helpless and the weak. The defenseless. What could this woman have possibly done to make her brood forsake her?

  And that was dangerous thinking, when it edged into gaining sympathy. For all he knew, she was a traitor and deserved to be ousted. He dragged his hands over his face and the scruff of beard he normally never permitted to grow.

  Dreadlocks had tried to kill Dev, he reminded himself sternly. And would’ve drained them all, given a chance. Yet at the moment, he had a hard time feeling anything but pity for her. She had no Similitude. Hadn’t had an influx of dark energy in days, probably even before he’d discovered her in the office, and she’d been separated from her brood. Not for the first time, it occurred to him it might be merciful for him to put her out of her misery. Instead, he’d been compelled to care for her, to try to learn what she knew. And all he could do was pray he asked the right questions.

  Gritting his teeth, he stretched out on the floor next to her and prepared to sleep, even if only for a short time. In her condition, she wasn’t taking off. And if she did wake, her movements would alert him.

  Rain pelted the windows. Humidity thickened the air, and the smell of freshly painted drywall intensified. He drifted.

  Metal clanking against metal.

  Curtis jolted from sleep and automatically checked his watch, noting more than two hours had passed. He leapt from the floor.

  And gaped at Dreadlocks.

  Scraping a final spoonful of soup from a can, she shoved it in her mouth. Then flung the can and spoon aside. Fury twisted her features and froze her lake-clear eyes.

  The alley cat was back.

  “What have you done to me?” she demanded.

  “Done to you?” he repeated, incredulous. “Nothing but watch you sleep, and help you eat.” The whites of her eyes were no longer yellow. Only hours ago, she’d been pale. Now a soft pink tinged her cheeks. Though still too skinny, she appeared healthy. Strong.

  The complete opposite of the woman he’d found in the warehouse.

  Bewilderment and the beginnings of hope filled him. Maybe I can still succeed.

  “Who are you? Where are we?” She clenched her hands in grubby fists.

  Wisely, he made no move toward her. “I’m Curtis Geary. We’re in a house my clan is renovating on the North Side of
the city. In Deutschtown.”

  Her eyes darted left. Right. “How long have I been here?”

  “Almost three days.”

  She shook her head, and her voice took on a pleading tone that cut him. “Why aren’t I dead?”

  Curtis lifted a hand in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 9

  Jordan stood, frozen, and gawked at the Keeper.

  Glass shattered. Steam hissed. Flames ravaged.

  The din ripped through her mind, then stopped abruptly. For a moment, only blessed silence touched her senses.

  Has it ever been like this before?

  That gnawing emptiness within no longer consumed her, the way it did when she’d been deprived of dark energy. She felt . . . she’d never felt this way before. Calm. Steady. Vital. As those realizations slammed into her, so did another. Shockingly, she no longer wished to die.

  But she had no idea how she would survive.

  The Keeper before her might be the only means to do so.

  Curtis Geary.

  All her faculties fully intact for the first time in days, she studied him intently. Tall, maybe six-two. Again, she noted his lean, wiry build, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, Vans on his feet. Not a body cultivated at the gym, but one maintained through a healthy lifestyle. Hair unruly around the edges. Inky blue, close-set eyes, which at the moment appeared perplexed and wary. A long, straight nose. Sculpted lips, drawn taut by a scowl. Shifting his weight, he crossed his arms, his stance matching his hard, uncompromising expression.

  She thought quickly. Her only option was to talk to him, answer his questions. By doing so, he might be more inclined to answer hers, such as how it was possible to still be alive.

  I don’t know, he’d said. Surely, he was lying. Only when she learned more could she plan her next move.

  Escape.

  But what would she be escaping to? She had nowhere to go. Even if she sought refuge with another brood, assuming they’d take her in, it wouldn’t be long before Abel learned she was alive. As soon as he did, he’d hunt her down. Only if she was believed dead would she have a chance.

  Magpie. An image of the woman who’d mothered her through the years flashed in Jordan’s mind. Tears tightened her throat. It would crush Magpie to believe she was dead. Surely Kemp had told the brood exactly that, to save his own hide.

  Logic dictated that because no one knew where Magpie was, she hadn’t yet learned of Jordan’s ‘death.’

  Her intent sharpened to steel. She had to find Magpie as soon as possible.

  First, she had to determine how and why she’d managed to stay alive. Her mind raced, desperately scrambling to fit the pieces together. Was it possible she could survive somehow on her own? Did she no longer need the dark energy? Or to hunt humans? She hadn’t absorbed any for days. She’d been in close proximity to Curtis’ Vitality energy, even though it hadn’t been full power. She felt . . .

  Healed.

  As that concept formed more fully, so did an idea that’d occurred to her in the murky recesses of her mind. Impossible. And yet . . .

  I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Brushing a grimy knuckle over the tattoo on her left wrist, she recalled the day Magpie did the ink. Cuimhnigh i gconai. Ironic she’d taken a shine to humans’ Irish, and the phrase for ‘always remember.’

  Breathing deeply, Jordan summoned her courage. Though she felt more vital than she had in years, she couldn’t be certain she was fully recovered. Therefore, she had to stay with Curtis until she was.

  Studying the room, she noted entrances, exits, distances. Automatically she assessed both potential hiding places as well as escape routes. Dull light shone through new windows, partially framed walls, stacks of plywood, and the heap of drop cloths that’d served as her bed for the past three days. They appeared to be exactly where Curtis said they were, in a house his clan was renovating.

  Allowing his apparent honesty to galvanize her, she forced herself to action, aware he was waiting for her to speak. “You said you were helping me because you needed information,” she tossed out, balling her hands at her sides. “That you weren’t going to hurt me. Why should I believe for one second you won’t kill me once you get what you’re after?”

  He regarded her silently. “Because I received a Compulsion. For you.”

  She blinked rapidly in disbelief. “Why the hell would the Watchers send you a Compulsion for me?” In her fifteen-odd years of stealing energy from Keepers and humans alike, a Compulsion meant the opportunity to thieve Vitality energy, however meager. Only Keepers dealt in good deeds, as mandated by their Compulsions, for humans and one another. Never Betrayers.

  Curtis didn’t appear any happier about it than her. He arched one straw-colored eyebrow. “Because I’m certain you know something that can help my clan. It came through loud and clear.”

  “Oh?” Before, he’d only told her he wanted information. Now, knowing he’d received a Compulsion, a wicked certainty about what he was after blasted her.

  My secret.

  One she would never reveal. Doing so would surely be the end of her. As if to underscore it, a dull hum reverberated in her brain.

  Wiping sweaty palms on what had once passed for jeans, she donned her game face. “How is that possible? I don’t know anything.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “I’m low on the totem pole,” she insisted.

  “The Compulsions never lie.”

  No. They don’t. But she’d stick to her story, through all the tortures of hell. “I’m not privy to the inside secrets of the brood. I’m a worker bee.” Her voice. “And even if I did, telling you would help a clan of Keepers that tried to kill me.”

  The fear and helplessness she’d known in the warehouse besieged her. “You tied me up like an animal,” she spat. “Drained my dark energy to try and create Similitude.”

  “You would’ve drained us all, given the chance,” he shot back. “Not to mention you went after Dev at the motel, when he was with Meda. Spied on us, there, and at the warehouse. Could’ve gotten my entire clan killed because of it. But I’m not proud of what we did to you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “We were able to create Similitude. And your brood stole it. Or did you already know?”

  Abel possessed yet another Similitude stone. Curtis’ urgency made all the more sense. “You mean when I was on the floor of the warehouse, unconscious?” She scowled. “No.”

  Eying each other warily, neither spoke for a few moments. Curtis broke the silence.

  “Both of us did what we did in service to our clan, and brood. To survive.” He paced. “I thought you were going to die. You expected you would. But you’re standing here. Fully restored, or damn near. How is that possible?”

  His eyes, drenched in confusion, perhaps even pity, lit suddenly with anger. “You’ve got some nerve, asking me what I’ve done to you. I’ve taken care of you for the last three days, while gods only know what’s happening to my clan. I think the more appropriate question might be, what have you done? What energy have you stolen? Am I going to die now? Is my clan? Answer me!”

  Jordan clapped her hands over her ears. His accusations, his voice, assaulted her, ripping through her mind like a tank. “Stop. Please.” Why should she care his usually placid tone—one she’d allowed to soothe her, she realized, when she’d been near death—had turned to ice?

  I don’t.

  Instead, she ordered herself to respect him for being suspicious.

  Sighing, his brow furrowed as he spoke in the tone she’d come to know. “Are you in pain?”

  Moments passed as the quiet returned to her mind, and she lowered her hands slowly. “I’m fine. I’m as mystified by my recovery as you are. I’ve done nothing to steal your energy. And you know it.
” She pointed to his Vitality stone. “It’s functioning fine, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a Betrayer. We’re always aware of Vitality energy. Even though yours has been dialed down. This is different. I can’t explain it.”

  “Me either. And I’ve got a helluva lot of questions.”

  “Yeah?” She regarded him balefully. “I wake up from death’s door, able to tolerate your Vitality energy. My whole life just changed, and I have no idea how or why. You don’t have the answers you’re looking for? Join the club.” Sweeping her dreadlocks away from her shoulder, she examined her bicep, the smooth, unmarred skin. The cuts and abrasions she’d received in the warehouse were nearly gone.

  Healed. Again, the concept—still so foreign—jolted her. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she banked down on her earlier resolve. To obtain information, she’d have to offer some. “I’ll try to answer your questions,” she said, her tone clipped. “First, could you at least tell me why you were chosen to help me? What do you do for the clan?”

  “I don’t know why me,” he responded evenly. “I don’t suppose it makes a difference, but I deal in information for the clan. I’m good with computers. Math, science, et cetera. I also lend a hand to my clan. Carpentry’s our ‘human’ profession. Blue collar, Irish Catholics. Born and bred in the ‘Burgh.”

  Magpie contributed to the brood in the same way. Could that help Jordan somehow?