by Jade Kerrion
Following Zara’s lead, he sat on one of the chairs in the living room. He suppressed the instinctive need to take the painful edge off the emotions flowing through the home. He knew, perhaps better than most, that some emotions needed to be worked through instead of unnaturally altered. Furthermore, a policy of noninterference worked best when he had no inkling of the context. Instead, he listened and watched with ears and eyes, mind and heart, tapping into the undercurrents of emotions that confirmed the truth or made lies of human interactions.
“How is Maria?” Zara asked, accepting one of the mugs of hot apple cider the woman offered.
Lucinda shook her head, the gesture slow and defeated. “She’s in shock. I’ve tried to explain to her, but she refuses to believe. Maybe she’s too weak; maybe she doesn’t understand.”
“And Jose?” Zara’s gaze drifted toward the child.
“I think he’s too young to understand that his daddy is not coming home. He’s more attached to Maria, anyway. I do not know what will happen to him when she’s gone.”
Zara’s hatred flared into focus as Lucinda spoke, but she did not look at him. She did not acknowledge her emotions in any way as she continued speaking to Lucinda. “He has you.”
“Yes, but I’m old.” Lucinda tried to smile, but it was bitter. “It is a sad thing to outlive one’s children. It’s not the way life was intended to be.”
“May I see Maria?”
“Yes, of course. She’s resting in the bedroom.”
“I know the way.” Zara stood. She did not seem surprised when Danyael rose to follow her down the narrow corridor and into the room. The bedroom was small, and the woman in the bed, swamped with pillows and blankets, appeared shockingly frail. Maria was not much older than either of them, but prolonged sickness had obviously ravaged her body. She wasted away, each breath labored. Zara sat beside the bed and placed her hand over Maria’s. “Maria, it’s me, Zara Itani.”
“Zara?” Her whisper was choked with pain. “Carlos…mi Carlos…” A single tear trickled down her wizened cheek.
Zara swallowed hard, struggling against her own tears. “I’m so sorry, Maria.”
“But Jose…he will be alone. Who will take care of our Jose?”
“He will be provided for, Maria, I promise.” Zara’s hand tightened over Maria’s. “You needn’t fear for Jose. I will make sure he’s cared for, that he has everything he needs and wants.”
Danyael stood back, silently observing. Heartache and mutual loss connected the two women. No other words were exchanged, though Zara stayed by the bedside until Maria slipped into fitful sleep. Zara pushed to her feet; the look she shot him was cold and disdainful. “I’ll need five minutes to talk to Lucinda, and then we can leave.”
Danyael nodded. He stepped aside to let Zara out of the room. The quiet murmur of conversation started in the sitting room, but he tuned it out as he sat by Maria’s bedside. He inhaled deeply. There were many reasons why not to heal her, but instinctive compassion set the compass of his heart. He placed a hand over Maria’s and another hand on her stomach. His eyes closed as he reached out with his senses, his empathic powers seeking and probing. The answer was easy: a stage IV stomach cancer had rapidly metastasized to her liver and colon. It was consuming her from the inside.
The solution was not as simple. Experience told him that the only way to heal her was gradually, over several sessions, partly to disguise the healing as gradual improvement, but primarily to spread out the burden of absorbing the cancer.
Instinct told him that the only way she would live was if he did it all at once.
Did he dare? His mouth twisted into a grimace as he wavered between self-preservation and self-sacrifice.
He thought of the child, bright-eyed, curly haired Jose, with matching dimples in his cheeks, a child deeply loved by a dying mother.
Because he could, more importantly, because he wanted to, his healing powers surged, flowing ungrudgingly out of him, subtle yet irresistible. They penetrated her body, a golden warmth and radiance that flowed through her blood vessels and filled every cell, undoing the damage and coaxing the cancer into remission. He felt her stir as the pain left her body and entered his. Maria called out, strength infusing her voice. “Mama—”
He heard the sound of racing feet. His eyes flashed open, and he pushed to his feet, staggering against the wall for support as Lucinda burst into the room, ready for battle. “What are you doing to my baby?” she demanded, throwing herself between Danyael and her daughter.
His vision blurred. The world faded into indistinct shades of gray. He pressed his face into his hands to support his painfully aching head.
His action was a mistake. Lucinda interpreted it as guilt and struck him. “You stay away from her. Get out!”
Zara pulled him from the apartment. “What did you do?” she asked, seizing his wrist. “You’re burning up. When did your fever start?”
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “I need a moment…”
“You healed her? But Seth told you not to. He told me…he said you could die. You’re not strong enough to handle it right now. Couldn’t you wait a week?”
“She had hours, not days,” he murmured quietly in defense. He wrapped his hands around his stomach, gritting his teeth against the taste of bile in his throat. “I’ll be all right. I just need some time.”
“What are you going to do? Wait out here in the corridor until you’re strong enough to walk?” she demanded. “How long will it take? Damn you. Do you even think about all the trouble you’re creating for others? I’m not going to waste my time on you if you’re going out of your way to set back your progress.”
He looked at her, dark eyes glazing as his head spun from the motion. “I told you to leave. I don’t need your help.”
“How are you going to get home?” she asked scornfully. “You can’t even afford the subway fare.”
He had not thought about the fact that he had not yet replaced the contents of his lost wallet. “Guess I’ll walk.”
“It’ll take hours.”
“I’ve nowhere else to be.” Damn, did he really sound that bitter?
“You can’t make it.”
He wanted to ask her why and how he had managed to escalate her anger and hatred by healing Maria, but he did not have energy to spare. He had not fully anticipated the physical cost of a significant heal on top of the emotional chaos he was working through. He needed rest. He desperately needed rest. Danyael closed his eyes against the vertigo that threatened to knock him off his feet. “I’ll be all right,” he said softly, voice trembling.
He felt her leave and take with her the punishing assault of her emotions. He inhaled shakily and shivered beneath the warmth of his leather jacket. Nausea roiled through him. He was grateful he had eaten nothing; there was nothing to throw up.
Danyael pushed away from the wall and managed two steps before sinking to his knees. He dragged air into his laboring lungs. Struggling to his feet, he leaned heavily against the wall for support. His vision blurred as his heart struggled to pump enough blood to reach his brain. He knew he was minutes, maybe even moments from blackout, and he had nowhere to go.
~*~
Where was he? He could not have gone far, not in his condition.
Bewildered and annoyed, Zara retraced her steps. Out of options, she decided to knock on Lucinda’s door again. When Lucinda came to the door, Zara was startled by the radiant joy on her face. “Miss Itani, you came back. Where is he?”
“He, uh…” She had hoped he would return to the apartment, seeking a safe place to rest and recover, but apparently that move was too obvious and logical for him.
“You must see this.” Lucinda led her to the bedroom where Jose snuggled against his mother. Maria seemed shriveled in her white nightgown, but she was awake and alert. She sat upright in bed, a large portion of beans and rice on the tray in front of her. Her pallor was replaced by a healthy flush, and her brown eyes beamed as she looked u
p at Zara. “Where is he?”
“Danyael?”
“The angel sent by the Virgin. He touched me and took the pain away.” Awe shone in her eyes, and she nuzzled her son’s curly head of hair. Jose leaned into her and picked out the beans from her rice to shove into his own mouth.
The innocence of a child. He did not know that he had nearly lost both parents.
“Get some rest, Maria. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Zara said, though the words “feeling better” were completely inadequate to the task of describing Maria’s miraculous healing.
“Where is he?” Lucinda asked again as she accompanied Zara to the front door. She wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip. “I told him to get out. I thought he was hurting her. I didn’t know.” Distress filled her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Zara reassured her. “So, he didn’t come back here?”
“You don’t know where he is?”
How could she explain that she had left him pale and trembling, alone in the corridor, too sick to stand? “I’ll find him.” Damn.
She headed down the corridor toward the front door of the apartment complex, but paused as she heard a muffled cough, quickly stifled. Retracing her steps, she stopped in front of a custodial closet. She opened the door and saw a violent coughing fit wrack Danyael’s body, the sound muffled by the leather jacket he held against his mouth.
He looked at her with weary disbelief as he wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you still doing here?”
“Came back to check on the progress you’ve made. Congratulations. You’re about ten feet closer to home.” She squatted and reached out to him, but he pulled away from her. “Don’t be stubborn. Lucien will kill us if I leave you here. I’ve got a cab waiting out front.”
She suspected he would have willingly spent the night in the closet to avoid being around her, but he was too exhausted, too sick to argue. She dragged him to his feet. It was not easy, though he did his best to support his own weight. Fortunately the cab still waited by the front door of the apartment complex. The two entered the vehicle, and she directed the cab driver to Danyael’s address in Brooklyn.
She glanced at Danyael as the cab lurched to a start. He leaned against the headrest and turned away from her. His eyes were closed, but she saw the subtle twitching of facial muscles. He was still struggling to get out from under the pain. She ground her teeth. There was no point in asking if he was fine. He never changed his answer, irrespective of his actual physical state.
“Don’t, please,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think about me.”
“And you’re a telepath now?”
“It pisses you off, and I can feel it.”
Was she supposed to be responsible for her feelings too? Her anger coiled, lashed out, and she saw him flinch in response to her emotions. Unfortunately her perverse sense of satisfaction was significantly ruined by the concurrent flicker of guilt.
Danyael struggled up the five flights of stairs to his apartment. She did not offer help, and he did not ask for it. Breathing hard, he unlocked the door. The door was barely ajar, when his head snapped up, his eyes unexpectedly alert. She glanced at him and picked up on the subtle fissure of alarm. “Four,” he murmured quietly. “Hostile.”
“Mutants?”
Impossibly, his eyes appeared to darken further. She caught a glimpse of the power lancing through him. “Unlikely. They’re not shielded.”
Easy enough. She pulled the dagger from the leather sheath tucked into her right boot.
He glanced at her, dismay in his eyes. What had he expected? She was a mercenary. Fighting and killing were prerequisites for success in her chosen profession. “Stay here.” She mouthed the words at him.
She flung the door open and ducked beneath the blow that would have otherwise hit her full in the face. She drove her dagger in an arc toward the right. It sank into flesh. Someone screamed. She twisted her blade, and the scream ended in an anguished howl.
Zara yanked the dagger out and kept moving. The dim light spilling in from the corridor sufficed for her needs, and the tiny studio apartment worked to her advantage. There was little space, and she was trained to fight with none. She did not use wide sweeping attacks, just tight, precise blows to disrupt the body’s natural flow of energy across its meridians.
The second assailant went down, and then the third.
Unexpectedly, the fourth screamed behind her. His shrill cry of panic rang through the apartment. She spun around. A gun, aimed directly at her, trembled in his hand. His eyes were wide, ablaze with terror.
Danyael had saved her life with his empathic powers.
She reached out, covering her assailant’s gun hand in her left hand as she spun with the grace of a dancer into him. The motion was as beautiful as two lovers coming together, with deadlier consequences. Her right hand, loosely gripping her dagger, curved around the front of her waist. The blade sank deep into his side. A sharp twist of the dagger amplified the damage.
Zara pulled out the blade as his weight collapsed on her, his strength vanishing with his final breath. She stepped to the side. Behind her, the bleeding corpse fell to the floor.
Danyael stepped into the studio apartment and closed the door behind him. Only then did he flick on the light switch. If he disapproved, at least he had the sense to say nothing to her.
“Do you think anyone will call the cops?” she asked as she examined the body of the first man she had killed.
“In this place? No. And if they show up, I can turn them back.” He leaned against the door, studying each of the dead men in turn before he averted his gaze.
“No identification,” she said with disgust as she examined the last body.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated as he lowered himself into a chair, the slow and careful motions hinting of the pain and exhaustion that lay beneath the surface. “I didn’t think you would get dragged into this.”
His comment made no sense. She had started everything when she had broken into Pioneer Laboratories several nights before. If anyone had been dragged into it, it was Danyael. “Do me a favor and define ‘this.’ Are you saying that there are people after you?”
He looked away.
“Spill it. I hate surprises.”
“It…doesn’t matter. It was personal.” Barely controlled revulsion curdled his even tone.
She was certain it was not nearly as inconsequential as he made it sound. She watched as fear flickered across his face. She crossed her arms. “Obviously something happened before you lost your memories.”
“It was Friday. That was one of the last few memories I have of that day. Everything after that is gone.” He hesitated before asking softly, “Would that be in any way related to what I don’t remember?”
“If it happened before your lost memories, probably not,” she assured him. She locked her hands to her side to keep from reaching out to him. “Are these the same people?”
He hesitated. His gaze drifted over each of the slain men, observing facial features, clothes, even shoes. “Actually, no,” he said finally. “They’re not.”
“Are you sure? Do you remember their faces?”
“Only vaguely, but they had psychic shields. They knew what I was, and they were prepared to take me down. These weren’t.”
Damn. That opens an entire world of possibilities. “Who else could be after you?”
He turned to her with a faint smile. “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one with the memories.”
She pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial. “Xin,” she acknowledged briefly when the familiar voice said hello. “I need names for these faces.” Moving easily among the dead bodies, she snapped several photographs and sent them off.
“Got them,” Xin confirmed. “I’ll
let you know what I find. Care to share the context for adding to your body count?”
Zara took a few steps away from Danyael, though it was impossible to have a truly private conversation in the small studio apartment. Her voice was pitched low. “We were out for about two hours. They were waiting for us in Danyael’s apartment when we returned.”
“What? That’s crazy! The warrant was issued just ten minutes ago.”
She tensed. “What warrant, Xin?”
“The FBI has taken over the case, and they issued a warrant for Galahad’s recovery. In view of the recent chaos in D.C., including the human-derivative riots, the FBI is not going public—thank God—but anyone even remotely associated with law enforcement will see Galahad’s photograph. I think you can expect all hell to break loose shortly.”
“It did several days ago, and we all survived.”
“Not unscathed,” Xin reminded her quietly. “But if these charming boys were waiting in the apartment, my guess is that they’re not associated with the Feds. The Feds are nowhere near that efficient at getting the word out. Another group is hunting Galahad. Or Danyael.”
“And there’s no real way to tell the difference until we figure out who they are.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
Danyael’s gaze focused on her as she hung up the phone. “Why is there a warrant out for me?” he asked quietly. If he was afraid or alarmed, there was no hint of it in his voice.
She evaded the question. “Galahad said that your psychic shields repel interest in you. Is it true?”
“Galahad?”
She bit down on her lower lip. “No one you know. How effective are your shields?”
“Under normal circumstances, they’re extremely effective, but not if people are looking specifically for me. What’s going on?”
She studied him carefully. The edges of a plan took shape. “Pack your bags. We’re taking a road trip.”
It required all her willpower to refrain from twitching as his eyes lingered on her face, its black depths terrifyingly calm, piercingly perceptive. He was not a telepath. He could not read her mind. He could not possibly know what she was thinking. She had nothing to fear from him.
