by Jade Kerrion
“That’s almost certainly taking Erin’s vision too far,” Alex said. He held out a hand, a warning to Zara to step back.
Zara, being Zara, ignored the warning. “I’m trying to find my daughter’s father. You’re leaving him wherever the hell he is, likely in the hands of terrorists, because you’re afraid of something someone said. Which are you, a selfish bitch or a spineless coward? Danyael said it once: dying is easy, it’s living that’s difficult. Suck it up, Miriya. Are you going to cower forever in a tiny apartment, mortally petrified of a chance encounter with Danyael, or are you going to face up to what we…what you did to him?”
Miriya’s lips trembled, and her emerald green eyes filled with tears. She looked away. “He’s still in Colorado,” she said, her voice scarcely a whisper.
“Will you lead us to him?” Alex asked.
Miriya nodded. She sagged back against the pillows. A single tear trickled down her cheek.
Alex tapped Zara lightly on her shoulder and jerked his head toward the door.
Xin followed Zara, Galahad, and Alex out of the room. She pressed back against the door of Miriya’s suite, closing it. Across from her, Zara tilted her chin up defiantly in reaction to the cool amusement in Alex’s gaze.
“You’ve just proven that you don’t have to be an alpha telepath to seriously screw with someone’s head,” Alex said.
Zara’s violet gaze turned flinty. “I challenge you to find a single thing I said that wasn’t true.”
“Let’s just say then that you package the truth in very interesting and effective ways.”
“This discussion of my questionable skills isn’t relevant. Will you send in a team after Danyael?” Zara asked. She leaned against the wall, her expression deceptively relaxed. Her muscles, however, were taut, coiled for a fight.
“Yes,” Alex said. “Miriya’s in no condition to enter what may become a pitched battle with Sakti, but she’ll lead our enforcers to wherever Danyael is held. They’ll take it from there.”
“And what if Danyael decides to fight back too? A pissed-off alpha empath is probably more than your teams can handle.”
“We’re saving him, Zara.”
She snorted. “God, you’re naive. We didn’t save him. Sakti saved him from a year of hell at ADX. Do you think he’ll return to the fold just because you asked nicely?”
“The council protected and guided him for sixteen years.”
“Sixteen years of the rarest, truest friendship can be undone in a single act. Just ask Lucien and Danyael,” Zara said quietly. “We’re going to have to earn Danyael’s trust all over again, and it’s going to take a bloody long time, because Danyael is incapable of making emotional commitments.”
Alex’s eyebrows shot up. “Danyael’s problem, I believe, is quite the opposite. As an alpha empath, he has an innate need for emotional closeness. Every time he reaches out to heal, or makes a decision not to strike out in self-defense, he is making an emotional commitment, usually to people who have done nothing to deserve it.”
Zara retorted, “From where I stand, a lot more goes into emotional commitment than merely ‘do good’ or ‘don’t be evil.’”
“That’s because you’re not an alpha empath with an emotional price attached to most decisions,” Alex murmured. “Trust me, things are quite different from Danyael’s perspective.”
“I want to be a part of the task force that recovers Danyael,” Zara said.
Alex shook his head. “Sakti is composed primarily of mutants. You’ll be outclassed.”
Her eyes narrowed at the insult. “Sakti is composed of terrorists. I hire former terrorists for the Three Fates. Those I don’t hire, I eat for breakfast. This is familiar ground for me.”
“Should you really be taking these kinds of risks? You have Laura to think of now.”
“That’s my decision, Alex. I know what I’m doing, and why.”
Alex acceded. “If you insist. I’ll talk to Miriya’s doctors and have them release her into my custody. Meet me back here in two hours, and we’ll fly out together to Colorado. It’s a big place, so I expect we’ll spend some time in the air, scouring the area by helicopter. I want Miriya to pinpoint Danyael’s location before she changes her mind. Once we get a lock on his location, I can get teams of enforcers out there within twenty-four hours.”
“You move fast.”
“We can when it matters, and Danyael matters a great deal.”
“I suppose that’s a nice change,” Zara said, pushing away from the wall. The curve of her lips was more sneer than smile.
“Nothing has changed,” Alex said quietly. “Danyael always mattered a great deal. The only difference is that his wellbeing comes first now. It’s time to make that change before we’re called to account for the sins of our past.”
Galahad spoke up. “I’m coming too.”
Alex frowned. “Galahad, I don’t think I can put you at risk—”
Galahad met Alex’s stare steadily. “It’s just as well then that the decision isn’t yours to make.”
Alex scowled. “I’ll see you in two hours.” He turned away to stride down the corridor.
“Round one to us,” Zara murmured. She placed her hand on the door handle, ready to reenter Miriya’s room, but Xin stopped her.
“No. You’ve made your point; you’ve won.” Xin kept her voice low. “Don’t weaken your position by going back to her.”
Besides, Miriya was exactly where Xin wanted her, guilt-ridden and vulnerable.
CHAPTER THREE
Long eyelashes fluttered. Dazed eyes, black as sin, opened and stared up at long tubes of florescent lights.
One. Two. Three.
Danyael’s heart sank. He was not dead, and something felt wrong.
Several moments passed before he pinned down the unfamiliar feeling. He was clean and warm. Incredibly, he was not in pain. His gaze flashed toward the needle in his right arm and then at the IV bag hanging beside the bed. A narrow strip of white cloth was loosely wrapped around his right wrist, securing it to the bed rails. He sat up, easily pulling his hand free. His aching muscles, unaccustomed to movement, protested. With his left hand, he turned the IV bag toward him. If its label could be trusted, the IV bag was filled with a morphine-laced nutrient solution.
Teeth clenched, Danyael eased the needle out of his arm and then pressed the white cloth against the IV site to stem residual blood flow. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
Where was he? He had hazy memories of a sterile and secured infirmary, but this place was different. He was not bound to the bed with steel cuffs. Armed guards did not hover over him. The walls were pale green instead of stark white. The door was wood instead of reinforced steel. The setting sun glowed red and radiant through the windows that lined the far wall.
Danyael stared, transfixed by the sight. How long had it been since he had seen the sun?
He did not know.
Forty-one. Forty-two.
The sun hung low in the sky, setting the clouds ablaze with color. Streaks of pink and orange raced across the darkening sky. Tall pine trees framed the scene outside the window, and beyond the trees, a snow-covered valley stretched out into the horizon. The vista was stunning, altogether too beautiful for someone who could barely recall anything beyond four steel walls.
Danyael swallowed hard and tore his gaze away from the window. He braced himself. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.
His heart skipped a beat in cruel anticipation. Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Breathe. Wait for it.
Deliberately he unclenched his fists. He kept counting. Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine…
Something was wrong.
His hand unsteady, fingers trembling, he touched his neck. He traced ridges of scar tissue, coarse like a gravel path, beneath his fingertips, but he touched flesh instead of cold steel. His breath caught in his throat. The electric collar was gone.
The door opened. A rotund man, almost as short as he was stout, bustled into the room and quickly shut the door behind
him. He glanced up at the ceiling-mounted camera and then at Danyael before saying, “I’m glad you’re up. I was wondering how long it would take you to wake once I cut off the drugs that kept you in a medically induced coma.”
The man’s deep baritone, smooth as liquid caramel, did not fit the briskly uptight image he projected. He frowned when he saw the disconnected IV drip. “You really should keep that in for a great deal longer. You’re much better, or I would have left you in the coma, but you’re a long way from being well.”
Danyael averted his gaze, swallowing hard against the fear that clogged his throat.
The man held out his hands and kept his distance. “It’s all right. You’re out of prison. You’re safe now, and among friends.”
Safe? “Where am I?” His voice came out in a harsh croak, barely audible.
“Don’t strain your voice,” the man said. “Your throat muscles are severely damaged. I’m confident they’ll recover now that we’ve removed the electric collar, but healing’s not going to happen overnight. It’ll take a while to undo the damage inflicted over fourteen months.”
Fourteen months? Where had Lucien been all that time? Was Lucien all right? What had happened to his friend?
“I’m Eric Burton,” the man said. “I’m the resident quack. I was the only one in the enclave until they brought you in. I’m glad you’re here. It’ll be good to have another doctor to consult with on the really tough cases.”
Danyael nodded slowly. His mind waded through a drug-induced fog; he struggled to follow the conversation. Startled, he recoiled when Eric mentioned his profession. His work at the free clinic in Brooklyn seemed a lifetime ago. “Where am I?” he asked again.
“Elysium, a derivative sanctuary, home to nearly five hundred clones, in vitros, and humans seeking a fairer form of government. We’re tucked in a Colorado mountainside. The views are great, but damn, it’s cold outside.” Eric kept speaking as he bustled around Danyael, checking Danyael’s vital signs—apparently blind to the fact that Danyael flinched from each touch—and then entering the information into an electronic tablet. “I can arrange for a liquid dinner if you’re determined to do without the IV. It’s been a while since you’ve had solid food, and you’ll want to ease back into it. Do you think you’ll want some pain meds when the morphine wears out?”
Danyael shook his head. He’d had enough drugs pumped into him while at prison.
Eric tapped the side of his forehead with a chubby finger. “You should try to get your psychic shields up too, so you can meet more people than just the alpha telepaths like me.”
Danyael stared down at his hands. The internal shields that kept the worst of his emotions bottled away were built into his psyche. Only a conscious decision on his part, or death, would cause them to fall. His external shields, which controlled the effect and range of his empathic powers, required constant effort to maintain. His jailors had drugged him and inflicted constant pain to prevent him from sustaining them. He was no longer certain if he could summon the will and focus to raise them, yet he couldn’t not try.
His dark eyes closed. His shoulders, taut with tension, straightened and then relaxed as he breathed deep and slow. Deliberately he uncurled his fingers and fought to maintain his even breathing as psychic shields slid grindingly, grudgingly, into place. It was hard; it should not have been. Nausea churned in the pit of his stomach and then pitched sharply into wrenching pain. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.
Slowly, inexorably, like steel bands around heart and mind, his psychic shields locked down. Danyael’s breath caught for a long, silent moment before easing into a more natural rhythm.
Eric grinned and exhaled noisily. “Much better. I can relax a little. It’s hard to think while maintaining my own psychic shields against the assault of your emotions.”
“I’m sorry,” Danyael whispered. The weight of the psychic shield against his mind, though oppressive, was familiar, even comforting. He had forgotten how much he needed the secure embrace of his psychic shields to feel safe.
Eric shrugged. “Don’t be. You went through hell at ADX. You’ve got every right to be upset with the world.”
“ADX?”
“Administrative Maximum.” Eric stared at Danyael for a long, silent moment and then shook his head. “You don’t know where you were? You were at ADX Florence, the super maximum-security prison. A life sentence.”
Danyael’s mind reeled. How had he landed, without trial, in a life sentence at a maximum-security prison? “What…what happened?”
Eric’s brown eyes narrowed. Hesitation wiped the cheerful smile from his round face. “Ah…how about we wait till you’re stronger?”
After fourteen months at a maximum-security prison, tortured and drugged out of his mind, Danyael had waited long enough. “What happened?”
Anxiety wafted through the air. Disoriented though Danyael was, he sensed Eric’s emotions through Eric’s psychic shields.
“Let me go get Reyes. He’ll want to talk to you.” Eric scurried from the room, closing the door behind him.
Danyael’s mind churned. Maximum security. Life sentence. He closed his eyes against the confused flurry of memories and the accompanying tide of helplessness and terror. Sometimes lies were more merciful than the truth. Don’t look back.
No, he had to look back. He had to know what happened.
He sank into the bed. He had spent months lying on cold steel floors, and the mattress was too soft and yielding to be comfortable. He shifted and then winced as shards of pain pierced the length of his left leg. A searing heartache caught him off guard. Neither time nor illness had dulled the memory of Lucien Winter’s attack.
Inhaling unsteadily, Danyael peered beneath the sheet. His teeth clenched. He did not consider himself vain, but the wounds were hideous. They were as deep as they were long, covering his left leg from knee to hip. The injuries had healed badly. Skin, red and thin, puckered around black scabs. Judging from how little strength he had in his leg, Danyael suspected that the muscles were irreparably damaged.
With a gentle, deft touch, he probed around the edges of the injuries. Relief flooded him. No, the muscles were not permanently damaged, though healing would require more than bandages and rest. He needed surgery and months of physical therapy before the condition of his leg deteriorated further. With any luck, he would not have to navigate through the rest of his life on crutches.
Something tickled in his chest. After a moment of confusion, he recognized the rare sensation as hope.
The door opened, and he looked up. A lean, white-haired man stepped into the room. “Danyael? No, no. Don’t sit up. You shouldn’t strain any more than you have to.”
Danyael sat up anyway, too wary to concede any vulnerability or weakness. He had to clench his teeth until the room stopped spinning and the nausea settled, but finally he looked up.
The old man grinned, his charm easy and warm. “I’m glad you’re doing better. Eric tells me he’s impressed by your progress.”
Danyael’s assessment put the man in his late eighties, fit and trim in spite of his age. An empathic scan, however, netted little; the man’s psychic shields were strong, though the man was not a mutant. Without emotional confirmation of the man’s intent, Danyael was forced to rely on the man’s words and body language. Both, he knew from experience, were tools of deception. “Who are you?”
“I’m Reyes Maddox.” The man did not offer his hand. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat by Danyael’s bedside. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while, but Eric was insistent on leaving you in a medical coma for at least two weeks. He said it would give your body a chance to heal and stabilize without the added stress of figuring out a new environment.”
“How did I…get in there?”
Reyes studied him, his dark eyes thoughtful. “What do you remember?”
“What do I know, or what do I remember?” Danyael heard the bitter croak in his own voice. He dragged his hand thro
ugh his hair and was surprised by how short it was. He quashed the absurd flicker of resentment. After everything he had endured in the previous year, someone cutting his hair without his consent was the least of his problems.
“I know about Galahad—the genetically-engineered ‘perfect human being’—and that you are his physical template.” Reyes tapped the tablet he held in his hand. “I have a great deal of information on you, Danyael. It was necessary. You’re an alpha empath; we needed to know what we were taking on when we offered you sanctuary here at Elysium. What’s more important, according to Eric, is what you remember. You were drugged while at ADX, and drugs can play havoc with your perception and memories.”
Danyael stared down at his hands. It was easier than looking at Reyes, however kindly his gaze. “How long has it been since Galahad escaped from Pioneer Labs?”
“Just a little over fourteen months now.”
Fourteen months. More than a year. A lifetime. The words came, slowly at first. “Shortly after Galahad escaped, I learned that my genetic code had been used as Galahad’s physical template. I don’t know how or why. Those memories—two days’ worth—were ripped from my mind by the Mutant Assault Group.”
Reyes nodded. He did not seem surprised.
Danyael filtered through his remaining memories, a week of blind faith and eventually shattered trust as he allowed himself, bereft of critical memories, to be guided and protected by a woman: Zara Itani, mercenary and assassin. Her emotional spectrum was a study in vivid contrasts as dazzling and captivating as her dark-haired, violet-eyed beauty. She had proved that he could still, stupidly, fall in love.
Other images of friends-turned-enemies followed in quick succession: Miriya Templeton, petite and blond, supremely confident in her abilities as an alpha telepath; Galahad, Danyael’s physical mirror image yet completely different, perfect; and Lucien, Danyael’s first, and only, friend. With effort, Danyael steadied his voice. “Is Lucien all right?”
