by Jade Kerrion
Despite several hours of driving, Zara looked comfortable and alert, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Another hour or so. I’d like to put some distance between us and Chicago, then we’ll stop for dinner.”
Brakes screeched. Metal ripped in a spine-tingling scream. Startled, she swung the steering wheel to avoid the red Honda Civic in front of her. “Damn it,” she cursed, guiding their SUV to the side of the road and slamming on the brakes.
Danyael jumped out of the SUV and was racing to the Civic even before Zara turned off the engine. The front end of the small car was crumpled, as fragile as tissue. The rear of the eighteen-wheeler truck was not even dented. He pulled open the car door, his empathic senses reaching out, his psychic shields braced against the shock and pain that pulsated through the vehicle. The airbag had deployed, and he struggled with it for a few moments, trying to push it aside to free the woman from the driver’s seat.
Zara appeared beside him. Dagger in hand, she sliced the airbag and cut through the seatbelt. With Zara’s help, he maneuvered the woman from the car and carried her to the shoulder of the road.
“How is she?” Zara demanded, her voice low, terse with urgency.
Other cars pulled up. People clustered, their cell phones held to their ears. Danyael was only peripherally aware of them as his empathic powers surged, assessing the extent of the woman’s injuries. Miraculously, she had no broken bones, but she had multiple lacerations and severe internal bleeding. And there was something else—
He did not hesitate. Dark eyes closed. His hands were steady, his left hand against her blood-streaked forehead, his right on her lower abdomen, above her pelvic bone. He was aware that he could not afford the attention—she would likely have survived even if he did nothing—but only a miracle would save the three-month-old fetus she carried.
His empathic powers surged. An eternity passed in a single heartbeat.
The tiny heart fluttered, began beating again. Relieved, Danyael calmed the child and soothed her to sleep. Beneath his touch, the woman stirred. Her eyes opened, locked on his face. Confusion and panic lanced through her.
A sharp cry came from behind him: “There’s a little boy here!”
The crowd parted in a flurry of motion. A man, carrying a toddler, walked through the press of people. He placed the child with infinite gentleness in the woman’s arms. Danyael’s heart sank when he saw the angle of the child’s neck.
“Toby!” the woman shrieked, anguish piercing her voice. “He’s not moving.” Sobs tore through her as she pulled her dead child close. “Toby, Toby, Toby…” she keened.
Could he? Did he dare? Fatigue and pain rushed over him, competing to drag him down, but he sensed Zara’s eyes on him. Glancing over his shoulder, he met her gaze. Her eyes glistened, shimmering with tears, but there was the hard edge of challenge in them. To his surprise, she nodded, urging him on.
The boy’s mother shook so hard it seemed she would fall apart. He leaned in to hug her, the movement a natural act of compassion that brought him into contact with the toddler. He slipped his left hand under the boy’s broken neck, and it began.
Blocking out the world around him was easy. Focusing beyond his pain was harder. Letting go was hardest of all. Allowing his exhausted powers to flow weakened his grasp on life. It stole his breath and chilled the air in his lungs. Each moment tormented him.
In his hand, bones shifted, subtly moving, aligning.
He inhaled unsteadily, the sound broken by sharp gasps as his body labored against the towering pain. There was no hiding it now, no miraculous healing subtly disguised beneath a careless touch. Behind him, bystanders fell silent when they realized that he was not merely consoling the woman. Their confusion and puzzlement barely intruded on his awareness. He had no energy for anything other than the dead child in his arms.
He convulsed against the boy, his teeth clenched against the silent sobs. Darkness encroached on his vision. In his arms, the body of the child cooled.
Zara’s hands clasped hard on his shoulders, bracing him. The contact stunned him. He tensed instinctively, and then his taut muscles relaxed as he rested against her, drawing strength from her. Her indomitable will, her fierce desire for life on her own terms, and most precious of all, the knowledge that she understood why he needed to do that, all gave him the final surge of strength he needed to break through the barrier separating life from death.
The boy’s chest heaved. The child shuddered and cried, a soft mewling.
Danyael eased away from mother and child, his energy exhausted. His vision swam. Through the blur, he saw the woman lean back in disbelief before surging forward, gathering the child up in her arms to press kisses to the boy’s face. Typically the pleasure and relief he received from saving lives would have offset the cost, but there was too much pain that time. Hovering dangerously on the edge of blackout, he pushed unsteadily to his feet.
The crowd pulled away from him. The inevitable whispers began. “Mutant…”
Danyael swallowed hard against the bile flooding his throat. He felt cold. Sickly ochre hues stained his world, the details hazy. The car seemed too far away. Dimly he heard the sounds of approaching sirens.
An arm snaked around his waist, slim yet strong. “This way. Walking straight isn’t part of your skillset right now.”
Zara eased him into the car, turned her back on the silent crowd, and slid into the driver’s seat. Their SUV rolled down the shoulder and roared onto the highway seconds before the first emergency responders arrived.
She glanced over at him. “Danyael?”
A long time passed before he could respond. “I’ll be all right,” he said faintly.
He heard her curse softly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had not intended to be a burden to her. With the remnants of his fading strength, he reinforced his shields to protect her. Only then did he allow the pain to pull him under, his world fading to black.
CHAPTER TEN
The staff at Lucien’s McLean mansion recognized Xin. She was a daily fixture, having spent significant amounts of time at Lucien’s home each day for the entire week. The young maid held the door open for her. “He’s in the solarium, ma’am. May I take your bag?”
“Thank you, Cheryl,” Xin replied, “I’ve got it.” The constant presence of attendants drove her crazy. Lucien, on the other hand, did not notice them until he needed something, which was rare, because all of his needs and wants were anticipated and met before he realized they existed.
She did not hurry. The Winter family mansion was an experience to be savored. Too large to be cozy, too lavish to be homey, it was nevertheless exquisitely tasteful. Stark elegance was the theme of the season; wine-red velvet curtains set against black marble tiles and pristine white columns. The twenty-foot Christmas tree still dominated the central foyer, but the cascades of wrapped gifts beneath the tree were gone. “Tripping hazard,” Lucien had told her with a shrug when she inquired about their absence two days earlier.
She missed their brightly colored charm, but had to admit that he was right. Lucien’s inherent preference for the practical did not allow him to tolerate the inconvenient for too long.
Lucien’s apparent lack of interest in luxury was offset by an appreciation for beauty, however. He was perfectly at home in the solarium, which was one of the most beautiful rooms in the mansion—nature flourishing in spite of the seasons. The air was alive with heady, exotic aromas. In contrast, Lucien was a breath of fresh air, dressed simply in a light sweater and faded blue denim jeans. His feet were bare.
“Hey,” Lucien greeted her with a smile. “Night-blooming flowers,” he explained as she sniffed the air appreciatively. “Join me.” He led her to an ornately carved stone bench in front of a cascade of rare tropical ferns. A young maid appeared with two crystal long-stemmed wine glasses and a bottle of Xin’s favorite Chateau Lafitte. Lucien nodded his thanks absent-mindedly as t
he maid uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses. He lifted the glasses from the tray, offering one to Xin as she sat beside him.
With as much appreciation as she had sniffed the air, she sniffed the white wine and sipped. The delicate aroma of almonds and violets lingered on the edge of her palate.
Lucien chuckled, the sound soft in the night air. “I’ve ordered several more bottles of the Chateau Lafitte, since you like it so much.”
If he had been anyone else, she would have accused him of extravagant showing off, but because it was Lucien Winter, she knew it was only because he knew she loved it and wanted to have it available when she came to visit. “It’s magnificent.”
“It’s okay,” he conceded. “I prefer whiskey, but I’ll admit, white wine early in the evening is very nice.” He glanced over at her. “I was wondering if you’d show up earlier.”
“I would have, if I hadn’t gotten stuck at work, trying to process all the information that poured in starting at noon today.”
“Oh?” He did not manage to sound quite as innocent as he had hoped.
She kicked off her sneakers and stretched her legs out in front of her. Lucien’s lean, powerful frame radiated warmth, and it was hard not to snuggle up against him. Still, she tried not to. She had been his date at the Christmas Eve party, but their relationship was strictly professional, as far as she knew.
“There have been a host of sightings of Galahad,” she said.
The fact that he did not react confirmed that he was behind it.
She sighed heavily. “Not cool, Lucien. You could be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“Galahad’s not a criminal they’re trying to recapture. He’s at best a lost experiment they’re trying to retrieve. Pray tell, where’s the element of justice in that?”
“Semantics.”
“Semantics and technicalities are important. It’s the reason lawyers have jobs.”
She would do well to remember that Lucien had some of the most expensive and talented lawyers on retainer and was not afraid to deploy them with little or no provocation. She switched tactics. “You’re getting in the way of a federal operation.”
“I’ve provided young men an easy way of making money with little risk. That’s entrepreneurship, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe even charity.”
“Giving them skin masks and having them impersonate Galahad isn’t the same as dropping a few pennies into a Salvation Army kettle.”
“You’re right.” Lucien’s grin flashed, stunning and irresistible. “It’s way more fun.”
She fought to suppress a giggle. The discussion was serious stuff, after all. “Lucien, they could have gotten hurt.”
“Not when the warrant explicitly says that Galahad is not to be hurt. Besides, how is what I’m doing any different from what you’re doing?”
“What I’m doing?”
“You’re working for the government, yet you haven’t told them that you know where both Danyael and Galahad are.” Lucien’s tone was light and smooth. He could have been talking about the weather instead of accusing her of diverging loyalties.
She dropped her gaze as a flush stained her cheeks. “It’s…uh…”
He chuckled again. “I rest my case. We’re co-conspirators, Xin.” With careless grace and ease, he refilled her glass of wine.
No point denying it. She sighed and decided to relax. “How did you manage to do what you did so fast?”
“The organic duplication technology’s mature, and I have lots of photographs of Danyael. The rest was a matter of how much money I could throw at it.”
“How many of them are out there?”
“It wouldn’t do to flood the market. How many did they find today?”
“Six sightings, three arrests. Boston, Santa Fe, and Miami. They’re still looking for the ones they spotted in New Orleans, Chicago, and Atlanta.”
“There are at least six more out there. I’ll release a few more each day to keep the numbers up and the Feds on their toes.”
“I hope they’re not traceable back to you.”
“Everything’s traceable, eventually, but the connection’s pretty well buried for now.”
She would have to check on that issue and make sure she buried it even deeper. “The Santa Fe one led them on a merry chase through the downtown arts district. It’s going to make the local news tomorrow, though no one will know why. Sooner or later, Danyael’s photo is going to get out there.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re going to have to explain your logic. I thought the point was to keep Danyael safely anonymous.”
“That’s Danyael’s life goal, but it’s not mine. I know America seems uniformly pro-humanist, but that’s really only because we’ve been overexposed to Jason Rakehell and Purest Humanity. Most Americans are moderate. They believe in basic human rights and get queasy at the thought of major persecution. They may not want genetically enhanced clones and in vitros getting into Harvard and Yale, but they don’t want to see us snatched off the streets and locked away without a fair trial either. How do you think they’ll react to seeing innocent men chased down by police because they happen to have blond hair and black eyes?”
“Did you forget to mention that they happen to look like Galahad—the pinnacle of genetic perfection—and Danyael Sabre—an alpha empath?”
“Who they look like is irrelevant. Neither Galahad nor Danyael has done anything wrong. Danyael believes that it’s safer in the shadows, but only because his unchecked empathic powers combined with his looks draw the wrong kind of attention. In general, I’ve found that it’s safer out in the open. When all eyes are on you, it’s harder for injustice to happen without resulting in a general outcry.”
There was a certain logic to his point. How it played out, however, was still up for debate. She changed the topic. “How’s Galahad doing?”
“He’s well. My people met them at the airport. Galahad and Miriya are safely ensconced at my Leblon penthouse in Rio de Janeiro—mountain views from one balcony, ocean views from the other. I’ve never been able to get that anywhere else.”
“Sounds like they’re having a good time. I hope they’re keeping a low profile.”
“Rio’s busy, and the crowds provide sufficient cover. I’ve got my security team on them twenty-four seven. They’re safe.”
“And Danyael?”
At the mention of Danyael’s name, Lucien inhaled deeply and released his breath in a soft sigh. “I don’t know.” He set his empty wine glass on the stone bench beside him and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I think he’s falling in love with Zara.”
Xin muttered a curse in her native language under her breath.
“Yeah, I know,” Lucien agreed.
“How bad is it going to be?”
“Bad?” Lucien’s laugh was hollow, without humor. “It won’t be bad. Nothing’s going to happen. Danyael would never manipulate her emotions, and on her own, she’ll never see him for who he really is, not with his psychic shields running interference. She’ll walk away, hating him, and he’d let her.” In the moonlight, his expression was wistful. “I’m not convinced Zara would be any good for him, but still, I wish he had a chance. Most people don’t have to try that hard to be happy.”
Xin was not sure Danyael aspired for happiness. He had been taught that it was out of his reach, that the potent combination of his empathic powers and psychic shields made true love an impossibility. Danyael was an alpha empath without dreams or hopes, without any real pleasure in living. She wondered if Lucien truly grasped how tenuous Danyael’s grip on reality was. The alpha empath was dangerous, because beyond Lucien’s friendship, he had little left to lose. “I…” she hesitated briefly. “I think you should ask him to come in. He’ll be safer with you.”
“I did. He said he’d stay with Zara for a while longer.” Lucien’s lips twisted. “Yes, I know. Bad idea, but that’s his decision. I could order him to come in, but what’s the poin
t? I spent years getting Danyael to live his own life and make his own decisions instead of being subjected to the whims of others. Backtracking would be bad policy.”
“Not if that bad policy is going to save his life.”
Lucien shook his head. “Danyael’s life isn’t at risk. Danyael is worth so much more alive than dead that no one is going to harm him physically.”
“Then how would you classify the memory wipe?”
Lucien’s expression hardened. “As something Roland and Jason Rakehell are going to pay dearly for. I know we found the skeletons in the Rakehell family closet when we went digging around for Danyael’s connection to Galahad. I can even understand why Roland never wants the word to get out that he used his own son as Galahad’s physical template, or that his wife routinely abused Danyael and tried to kill him by tossing him over a bridge and into a river, but ripping Danyael’s memories of finding his family is far too extreme a reaction. Roland and Jason could have left Danyael alone. He wouldn’t have crawled back to them if they were the last people alive on earth.”
“He needs family.”
“He has family: me. I saved him from that orphanage when he was twelve. I helped him find his way. He’s not just my best friend; he’s closer than a brother. He doesn’t need anyone else, least of all the Rakehells.”
“Your opinion doesn’t change the fact that they’re his family.”
“The fact that they don’t want him should.” Lucien slammed his glass down. “You weren’t there; I saw it all. Every night I relive it in my nightmares. Jason forced his father to choose between his son and his precious creation. His father chose Galahad, so Jason shot Danyael. What kind of man would choose a damned science experiment over his own son? What kind of man would shoot his own brother? Cold-bloodedly execute his own brother?”
“Look, they’re both obsessed—Roland with his creation, and Jason with the need to destroy his father’s work. I don’t think anyone was thinking straight at that time.”
“Neither of them has been thinking straight for years. Nothing’s changed. Danyael is better off without them.”
