by Jade Kerrion
“God, it’s early.” Lucien stifled a yawn. “Where are you?”
“About a hundred and ninety miles from Detroit.”
“Why Detroit?”
“You’ll need to ask Zara that. She picked the direction.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s resting. We had a close call with some local cops.”
Alertness and alarm shot through Lucien’s voice. “Define ‘close call.’”
Briefly he described the attack at the motel. “You do know that there’s an arrest warrant out there for me, don’t you?”
Lucien was silent for a while before he acknowledged, “Yes, I know about the warrant.”
He inhaled softly and braced himself to ask, “What did I do? Is it justified? Should I turn myself in?” He heard the self-doubt in his voice and wondered if Lucien heard it as clearly.
“No!” Lucien’s response was immediate, explosive. “No,” he repeated in a quiet and controlled tone. “You have done nothing wrong.”
“Then why am I being hunted?”
After another long silence, Lucien said quietly, “You’re not the one being hunted. They’re looking for someone who looks like you.”
Danyael’s mind raced, yanked the thin threads of information together, grasped glimmers of the impossible truth, and shied away from it. “Galahad?” He twisted the steering wheel sharply, pulling the car to a stop at the edge of the highway. He could not think past the roaring noise in his mind that blanketed any semblance of clear thought. His right hand clenched around the cell phone held to his ear as he opened the door and stepped out of the car to pace along a short length of the road. “Galahad looks like me?”
“Danyael, it—”
“Is it a passing resemblance or are we—”
“Completely identical,” Lucien finished his sentence. “You share the same genes that code for physical appearance. It’s not anything we could tell you without—”
“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, aghast. “How did you expect to keep this from me when it’s all over the news?”
“His picture hasn’t been publicly released, and it may never be, for a variety of reasons that have nothing to do with you. Besides, that’s not why your memory was wiped,” Lucien insisted. “But if you follow that line of inquiry any further, you’ll run smack up against the reason it was. Don’t go there.”
“Where should I go, then?” he challenged. “Galahad and I look alike, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know, or care?” He racked his memory for the little he knew about Galahad. It was no more than Danyael could recall from news broadcasts many years old. The pro-humanists had always been outraged by the creation of the perfect human being from a swirling mixture of nucleotides, but Danyael had personally never taken any interest in Galahad. He had taken it in stride as the inevitable outcome of the genetic revolution, ignoring it the way one does an irrelevant fact of life.
The facts were no longer irrelevant. Galahad had existed for twenty-five years. Danyael was twenty-eight, twenty-nine perhaps. That three- or four-year gap constituted the same period for which there were no records and few memories of his life. He dragged his left hand over his face as if the motion would brush the cobwebs of shock from his mind. “What am I? Some kind of template for Galahad? A precursor to Galahad—a flawed prototype that was discarded but that somehow survived?”
“Danyael, listen to me,” Lucien said, his tone deliberate, his voice calm. “Your genotype was used as one of many templates for Galahad, but you’re not a lab experiment gone wrong. It’s not as bad as you think it is.”
How much worse could it be, he wondered, but he held back the retort. Lucien was attempting to calm him. The least he could do was allow his friend a halfway decent shot at it. Changing the topic was impossible, but he tried for something peripheral. “Did I meet him?”
“Yes, you did.”
Danyael inhaled deeply. “What was he like?”
“Galahad’s a good guy,” Lucien said simply. “You liked him.”
“Is he safe?”
“Yes, he’s out of the country—in Rio de Janeiro—under Miriya’s protection.”
“Miriya?” Danyael squeezed his eyes shut. A tension headache pounded through his skull. “Is this someone else I had the pleasure of meeting and then forgetting?”
“Right,” Lucien said. “Miriya Templeton, an alpha telepath and enforcer with the council.”
“At least the council’s doing something right there,” Danyael said, the deliberate casualness of his tone belying the bitterness he felt. The council had chosen to protect Galahad, but not him. His teeth clenched. Damn it. Damn the council.
“I’m sorry,” Lucien said.
“Not your fault,” he responded instinctively. God, what a mess. He raked the fingers of his left hand through his hair. The poorly set bones ached as they occasionally did in cold weather. He recalled distractedly that he left his gloves in New York City. Inhaling deeply, he released his breath in a quiet sigh. If only forbidden knowledge could be as easily dispelled.
Lucien spoke again. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come out and get you. I figure we could both use an off-shore vacation right about now.”
Danyael checked the obvious, and likely the only right response. Instead he asked, “Can I trust Zara?”
There was a long silence from the other end. He knew from their long friendship that Lucien was turning the question over in his mind to identify all possible angles and reasons. “Why do you ask?” Lucien asked finally.
“I can’t get a good read on her.”
“Ah.” The tense edge in Lucien’s tone softened slightly. “Zara and I dated for several months a couple of years ago while you were at medical school. I’d told you about her, but the first time you met her was several days ago in D.C. after she’d kick-started this chain of events by freeing Galahad from Pioneer Labs. She owns an agency of mercenaries called The Three Fates, and she’s pretty damned incredible in a fight—as you’ve already found out.”
“Which doesn’t answer the question of whether I can trust her.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m not entirely sure of the answer myself,” Lucien confessed. “She’s always been a bit of a mystery to me too. I asked her to stay with you until you’re back on your feet. That much I’m sure she’ll do. She owes both of us big time for hauling her ass out of the fire. The entire debacle with Galahad would have gone completely down the drain had we not helped her out.”
“From where I’m standing, it still looks like I’m in the sewer.”
Lucien sighed, the sound quietly sympathetic. “Does it help at all to know that you gave up your chance for a clean escape when you chose instead to allow Galahad to get safely away?”
Danyael abruptly stilled as another random fact slid neatly into place. He laughed. “Does he have my wallet?”
“Yes, he does.” Lucien’s voice reflected both amusement and affection. “He used your ID to get out of the country.”
“Good for him,” Danyael said quietly. The amount of relief he felt surprised him. Did some part of him subconsciously remember Galahad? Did he value the friendship that had once existed?
“Tell me where in Detroit I should meet you.”
“I’ll be all right. I think I’ll stay with Zara for a while.”
“I see.” Lucien’s tone was deliberately light. Danyael knew that tone well enough to take it for the warning it was. “Any particular reason?”
What could he say? That she intrigued him? That the oddly harmonious blend of fire and ice in her personality fascinated him? Or that something about her—her touch—comforted and calmed him? “We’re not in any particular danger,” he pointed out. “Let’s see where this goes.”
They had been friends too long. He knew Lucien did not believe him, but at least his friend permitted the lie to take hold between them. “All right, but call me if you need anything at all. I’ll be keeping an eye on things.”
Danyael smiled. T
he despair he felt eased slightly. “I wouldn’t have expected any less of you.”
“Take care, Danyael. And don’t fall in love with her.”
He wondered bemusedly what to make of Lucien’s farewell comment as he hung up the phone. He did not need to be reminded of the dangers involved in falling in love. He had no intention of making that same mistake again.
~*~
Lucien’s head fell back onto his pillow. He closed his eyes and used forefinger and thumb to lightly squeeze the bridge of his nose. Damn it. Asking Zara to stay with Danyael had been a mistake. The potential for disaster was enormous with Zara’s impetuousness, her irresistible attraction to trouble in any shape or form, combined with Danyael’s alpha-level empathic capabilities. A category-five hurricane would look like a passing summer storm in comparison.
The warrant specifically demanded that Galahad be taken alive. That stipulation alone meant Danyael would have a solid chance of winning any fight, as long as mutants were not deployed. He would be able to keep Zara safe, his powers buying Zara the time she would need to physically disable the people attacking them.
As long as Danyael did not panic. And as long as he did not make any mistakes.
Lucien trusted Danyael with his life, but he knew that exhaustion could wreak havoc on the fine edge of Danyael’s control. Thanks to Xin and her unrestricted access to government channels, he had kept abreast of all reported sightings of Galahad. That incident at Utica Avenue in Brooklyn clearly suggested that Danyael had not been in perfect control.
How many close calls could they afford before Danyael made a bad mistake? Not too many before Danyael himself became a target. The tenuous societal status of mutants would not cut him any slack.
What were his options? Lucien inhaled deeply, his mind churning through the possibilities. Surely there was something he could do to protect Danyael and Galahad without sacrificing one for the other.
At six in the morning, Lucien finally rose from the bed, ready to start his day. The tension had eased out of him. He had the easy, confident gait of a man who had made up his mind. He had lots to do; it was not too early to get the balls rolling.
He only hoped it was not too late.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zara enjoyed the best sleep she had experienced in days. She awoke refreshed, her slender body relaxed and comfortable.
The feeling did not last.
The memory of Danyael’s hand against her cheek had followed her into her dreams and turned into a caress—gentle, quietly intimate. It made her ache with longing for him. The yearning lingered in the pit of her stomach—inexplicable.
She sat upright, her long dark hair cascading across her face as she twisted around in the seat to glare at Danyael. “Don’t you ever dare screw with my head again.”
“Good morning to you too,” Danyael said quietly.
She gritted her teeth so tightly that the muscles in her temple twitched reflexively. “This isn’t a joke.”
Prudently Danyael pulled over to the side of the road, cut the engine, and turned to look at her. The expression in his eyes was surprisingly mild. “Is this standard for you? To come up swinging even before you say good morning?”
“You fucked with my head.”
“You were distressed. I calmed your emotions and helped you sleep. Think of it as an empathic lullaby combined with Tylenol PM.”
“I want you to stay out of my head.” There was no other way to explain her dreams, no other way to explain why the face she saw when she slept was flawed, marked by a faint white scar that cut across the right cheek. No other way to explain why she saw Danyael instead of Galahad.
He shook his head. “I’m not a telepath. I can’t do anything to your head.”
What had Galahad said to her several days earlier about empaths being more powerful than telepaths? Change the emotion, and the thought processes and actions will align accordingly. “Whatever it is you’re doing to me, stop.”
“What exactly do you think I’m doing to you?”
“I don’t want to like you, and it’s easier to despise you when you’re weak.”
His dark eyes widened, and then he looked away. His reply was crisp. “Understood. But get one thing straight,” he told her before he turned the key in the ignition. “You’re safer around me when I’m strong.”
“I don’t you need you to protect me.”
He smiled humorlessly. “I know you’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself. All I meant is that when I’m strong, my subconscious needs and emotions are less likely to slip through my psychic shields. Considering how adamant you are of protecting your thoughts and emotions, I thought you’d appreciate knowing that.”
That small fact would have tipped her over the edge if she had not already careened recklessly over it several minutes earlier. Violet eyes flashed fire. “Is this your way of telling me the damage is done?”
His patience, seemingly infinite, finally slipped. “What are you talking about, Zara?”
“I see you when I sleep, when I dream. I want you to get out of my head.”
A sudden surprised pleasure flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by a sad smile. “Are you sure it’s not Galahad you’re seeing?”
Her jaw dropped. She groped for the right words; they eluded her. “You know,” she managed finally.
His sigh was quiet, more motion than sound. “I called Lucien, asking him what I’d done, and whether I needed to turn myself in. He told me that the warrant was for Galahad.”
Damn it, Lucien had added a world of complexity to her job. “What exactly do you know?”
“That we look alike, and that I shouldn’t probe any further,” Danyael finished. He hesitated briefly, and then asked slowly as if the question were pulled out of him against his will, “What was he like?”
“Nothing like you,” she retorted. No, that was not true. There were some fundamental differences, but Danyael and Galahad shared more than stunning good looks. They both possessed cores of tempered steel without which neither of them could have survived and thrived in the face of the odds stacked against their happiness, their sanity, and even their lives.
If he sensed the lie, he chose to respond only to her words. “Is that why you hate me, or are there other reasons?”
The hatred that had been momentarily blanketed beneath her anger erupted into life. “You killed him.”
Danyael froze, his face paling. She stared at him in surprise as the accusation struck him with as much physical force as a dagger finding its mark. Despite his insistence that as a doctor and a mutant healer he was trained in every way to sustain life, she had dismissed his words as mere lip service. Apparently she had misjudged him.
His mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His eyes closed slowly, the motion deliberate, pained. “I…” he began, but could not finish the sentence. Inhaling deeply, he tried again. “Galahad?” he asked, his whisper stricken.
“No. Carlos.” The words were terse, the sound clipped, even angry, but her anger was fading, oddly assuaged by Danyael’s response.
“Carlos?”
“Maria Sanchez’s husband.”
Danyael inhaled sharply and tore his gaze away from her to stare unseeingly out the window. His breath came hard and fast, punctuated by shudders. A long silent moment passed before he finally spoke. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “She must hate me.”
Guilt flashed through her. Maria mourned the husband who had been eviscerated by an abomination in a single sweep of a clawed arm. She was grateful to the man who had healed her of her cancer. Maria did not hate Danyael, but only because she was not privy to the knowledge Zara had, that Danyael could have saved Carlos, but did not.
For someone trained to save lives as Danyael professed to be, the choice of letting someone die was akin to pulling the trigger himself. As far as she was concerned, there was no question that Danyael had killed Carlos.
If the logic worked perfectly, why did guilt tug uncomfortably at her?
Was it the memory of Danyael, convulsing as he coughed blood into his hand and then reaching out with that same hand, trembling from the effort to hold it steady as he touched Carlos? Or the memory of seeing Danyael’s deathly pale face blanch further, his dark eyes glazing over with brutal pain, just before he collapsed from his failed attempt to heal Carlos’s fatal wounds?
Did it matter that Danyael tried? Or only that he failed? Would it matter what Danyael believed?
Zara heard Danyael ask the inevitable question: What happened? For the first time, she felt the awful responsibility of backfilling an amnesiac’s memories. She shook her head sharply. It was the coward’s path, but she could not reconcile her immediate hate with her traitorous memories of Danyael that evoked pity and compassion she did not want to feel for him. Are his psychic shields doing this to me? Evoking hatred where none should exist? “It doesn’t matter.”
She pushed him away again, more harshly when he insisted, and then turned her back on him to stare out the window. He reached out to her, trying to understand what he could not comprehend, but she left him lost. Alone.
She could feel his pained bewilderment, his remorse and guilt. His feelings seeped slowly through his psychic shields, too vast to be fully contained. Without another word, he pulled the car onto the road and drove on in silence.
CHAPTER NINE
They covered about five hundred miles that day, stopping only for gas and to switch places. Danyael managed to choke down a ham and cheese sandwich a little past noon while Zara was driving. All in all, he preferred driving to sitting in the passenger seat. Even that little bit of activity helped distract him, taking his mind off the swirl of raw emotions that still clawed at his sanity.
It was closing in on four in the afternoon when Zara finally spoke. “I think we’ve broken another record. Nine hours in the car without exchanging a single word to each other.”
An unwilling smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth. With some effort, he eased out of his introspective mood. “I don’t know of any two people who have less to say to each other. How much farther are you planning on going today?”
