by Jade Kerrion
“I’m still standing, am I not?”
“Yes,” Alex murmured.
Danyael shook his head. It could not have been pride he heard in Alex’s voice.
“You let us help you once before. Give us another chance.”
Danyael steeled himself to look up and meet Alex’s gaze squarely. “When should I start looking out for the next betrayal?”
Alex’s face tightened. He jerked his chin up, and his enforcers released Danyael.
Without their physical support, his ruined leg collapsed beneath him. He crumpled to the ground. Danyael closed his eyes. His trembling hands curled into fists. Score one for you, Alex. That’s a hell of a way to prove that I can’t stand on my own.
Alex turned his back on Danyael. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.” He placed a hand on the doorknob. As an afterthought, he looked over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, you are still a class-five threat, and you are under the jurisdiction of the Mutant Affairs Council. Before you’re discharged from the hospital, you will be fitted with a bio-monitor. If you travel beyond twenty miles of the council headquarters in D.C. without authorization, you will find yourself back in prison.”
“The cell is larger, but I’m still in prison.”
Alex shrugged and turned to face Danyael. “If that’s the way you want to see it. You have a short leash; don’t force me to make it any shorter. If you decide to kill yourself, I expect you to have the courtesy to let us know in advance, so we can take the appropriate measures to protect others from you.”
Danyael pressed his hand against his chest. Willpower kept him upright until Alex and the enforcers left the hospital room. Only then did he double over from the pain clawing savagely through him.
~*~
Alex Saunders walked out of Danyael’s hospital room and into a corridor filled with people gathered around a video monitor. Zara and Xin were there, as well as, surprisingly, Lucien Winter and Jason Rakehell. Alex smiled thinly. Danyael had more friends than he knew.
Zara spun around, jostling awake the child drowsing on her shoulder. The assassin shook waves of long, dark hair back from her face and glared at Alex. “Was that really necessary?”
“He’s in a great deal of pain. He’s suicidal, and he won’t accept our help.”
“So you threaten him with prison and tell him to check in before he kills himself?” She shook her head, “God, I thought I was cold, but compared to you—”
“Danyael doesn’t crack under pressure. He’s contrary that way.”
“So you put him under pressure and hope that theory holds?”
“Exactly.”
Zara’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re right, Alex, because you can’t afford to be wrong again, not with Danyael.”
“I know.” He had barely held on to his façade of uncaring strength when confronted with the anguish of the man he had loved like a son. He had always known, conceptually, the damage he had inflicted on Danyael’s life, but it was something else altogether to see its ruins. The depth of Danyael’s distrust crushed him, but he deserved no different. Alex sighed. “He mentioned Miriya only once.”
Lucien leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “Danyael never talks about the things that matter most to him, but I’m sure he feels her loss.” He glanced away, his expression bleak.
Any hope for Lucien and Danyael’s restored friendship had died with Miriya, and with it, Danyael’s biggest chance for recovery. “Will you talk to him?” Alex asked, unwilling to relinquish all hope.
Lucien shook his head. “No, we have nothing to say to each other.”
“Erin was right, wasn’t she?” Zara asked quietly. “Danyael never did see Miriya alive.”
“Erin is usually right, though cryptic,” Alex said. “I had hoped…” But no, it was too late for hope; all that was left to them was to pick up the pieces.
“What did the general say?” Zara asked.
“Nothing. He didn’t explain himself, other than to say that if I had to ask, then it was obvious that I didn’t know Danyael as well as I thought.”
Zara’s expression turned scornful. “Does he really expect us to believe that he tried to kill Danyael for Danyael’s sake?”
Xin snorted. “Danyael was the only person who might have taken the stand to testify to the general’s collaboration with Sakti. The general wouldn’t have known that Zara’s video feed provided sufficient evidence of his collusion with Sakti.”
“Howard will get his day in court,” Alex said, “and I suspect many years in jail thereafter.”
“And what of this professor who’s supposedly responsible for the super soldier program?” Zara asked.
“Ehimaya Sadgati’s too well-connected and highly respected in India,” Xin said. “We can’t bring any charges against her, none that will stick, anyway.”
Zara scowled. “So she gets away with it?”
“For now,” Xin conceded. “The game’s hardly begun, though.”
Zara glanced at the video monitor. “Danyael’s done his part. You’ll have to find someone else to finish the game for you. Galahad, perhaps.”
“Speaking of Galahad, where is he?” Alex asked.
“He’s still at Miriya’s wake,” Zara said. “Is he going to be charged with manslaughter?”
Xin chuckled, the sound without humor. “Galahad killed Reyes, the intermediary between the Mutant Assault Group and Sakti. The government might give Galahad a medal for his actions. Danyael could bring charges against Galahad for attempted murder, though.”
Zara shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll do it. It’s not that simple for either of them. Danyael could have killed Galahad too, but he didn’t. He held back for a reason.”
Alex sighed. “Danyael has exceptionally clear perception into people’s hearts. If I were you, Xin, I’d give some weight to his opinion before charging Galahad with the murder of his templates.” Not that there was sufficient evidence to convict Galahad. All they had, thus far, was Xin’s hunch, though Xin could unleash more havoc on a fragile hunch than most people could on unshakeable evidence. Embedded in Alex’s observation was a warning. No more conspiracy theories, even if you’re right. Alex looked at Zara. “Are you going in to him?”
Zara glanced back at the video monitor. She contemplated Alex’s question for a few moments and then shook her head. “Not tonight. He won’t want me to see him like this.” She released her breath in a soft sigh. “He’ll have to find his own way back to me, or I’ll never know if I’m the woman he loves or just an emotional crutch, a poor substitute for Lucien’s friendship.”
Alex had no doubt Danyael and Zara’s tenuous relationship was paved with obstacles, all massive and largely of their own making, but Zara’s insight into Danyael gave Alex a measure of hope for their future.
Alex looked at Jason Rakehell. Alex searched the thirty-six-year-old president of Purest Humanity for any resemblance to Danyael but found none, save for the long-lashed dark eyes they had in common. “Are you still planning to talk to him?”
“Not today. I don’t think he’s ready for any more revelations of his past, but someday. Soon.”
Alex hesitated, uncertain if he intended to test Jason’s resolve or deter him from a path that would mean additional heartache for Danyael. “Your father still doesn’t want him back.”
Jason’s dark eyes fixed on the screen. “But I do. I want my brother back. We have…a lot to talk about.”
Alex briefly wondered if Zara and Jason were sufficient to make up for the loss of Lucien and Miriya’s friendships. In the final count, it did not matter, he supposed. The alpha empath would find a way to cope, regardless.
Danyael dragged himself across the floor and used the bed rails to pull himself back to his feet.
Alex allowed himself a faint smile. “Danyael’s a survivor.”
Xin nodded. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters now.”
Zara disagreed. “It’s not good enough.
There’s more to being alive than merely breathing.”
“He’ll make it,” Alex said, but he heard the doubt in his own voice.
They watched in silence as Danyael reached for the plastic photo frame on the side table. The edges of the photograph it contained were stained rust red with his blood. For a long moment, he stared at the picture of a toddler with pale blond curls and violet eyes. He ran a finger gently across its surface, as if caressing her face through the plastic. He smiled, a ghost of a smile, wistful yet beautiful.
Hope soared, a living thing, through the group of five who kept vigil outside Danyael’s door.
Zara hugged her daughter tightly and smiled, her voice catching. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be all right.”
EPILOGUE
Danyael set the library book down on the bench and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his denim jeans to check the time. He had a half hour to kill before heading over to the free clinic to start his workday. He shivered slightly beneath his old leather jacket as a chill November wind swept through the park. No one else was out and about. The small park at the corner of Good Hope Road and 23rd Street was scarcely deserving of the name. It was a patch of land formerly occupied by a derelict house. The city had torn the building down, installed a few benches, and then abandoned the park to the care of nature. The lawn was more weed than grass, but it was the only park easily accessible to Danyael. He spent every Sunday morning there; the park, insignificant though it was, offered an escape from his bleak apartment.
He sighed and shifted his weight, carefully extending his left leg. Torn muscles pulled and then cramped in protest. He breathed slowly, his chest heaving from the effort, until the spasms of pain settled into a throbbing ache. Each day he wondered whether amputation promised a life less consumed by pain, and each night, he swore to make it through another day before deciding. The endless postponement of that critical decision had kept him going, in spite of the deteriorating condition of his leg. A wry half smile flashed over Danyael’s face. In lieu of hope, procrastinate.
Cars passed by the busy intersection, the roar of their engines fading into a comfortable white noise. Danyael picked up his book and turned to where he had left off. He had barely gotten through a paragraph when he looked up and saw a man striding purposefully up to him. Danyael’s eyes narrowed. From the man, he sensed curiosity seasoned with a dash of anxiety. Those emotions, however, offered no reason to act, let alone overreact. Danyael did not move from his seat when the man sat next to him.
The man seemed familiar, but Danyael could not place him or name him. Danyael scanned the man’s chiseled features and dark eyes, but the memory remained elusive. Was he a media personality, a journalist? It would not be the first time Danyael had been approached by journalists who mistook sensationalism for news. Courtesy compelled him to move his crutch to give the man more room on the bench before he lowered his gaze to his book.
“Cold morning,” the man said by way of greeting.
Danyael smiled. Why did everyone always begin with the weather? “Yes, it is,” he replied.
“I’ve heard good things about that book. I’ve been meaning to read it.” The man looked around the park and its surroundings, probably witnessing the urban decay of Anacostia for the first time. His curiosity flashed into disgust.
Danyael’s chuckle was part sigh. He kept reading.
The man turned his attention back to Danyael. “You must be glad that Thanksgiving is coming up.”
“Yes.” Danyael turned a page.
“What will you be doing?”
“On Thanksgiving?” Danyael looked up at the man. “Working.”
The man looked appalled. “On Thanksgiving? All day? What do you do?”
“I work at the free clinic. Thanksgiving will be a half day though, from eight to two.”
“Ah, so the traditional dinner after that. You must have family in the area, if you’re not traveling out of town for Thanksgiving.”
Once again Danyael was faced with the inevitable questions for which he had no answers. Why did journalists keep probing, as if insistence and persistence would restore the memories ripped from his mind? With effort, he kept his voice even and polite. “I’m not close to my family.”
“Friends, then?”
“They are celebrating Thanksgiving with their families,” Danyael said. Amanda planned to spend Thanksgiving with her parents in Boston. Zara, whom he met for a few hours each Sunday after work, had made no mention of Thanksgiving. He had few illusions that she would. He no longer knew what she felt about him, or about anything else, for that matter; it had seemed easier and far less painful to cut her off emotionally than to fluctuate between hope and despair each time he worked through the confusing flash of her emotions.
The man’s voice refocused Danyael’s attention. “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Eating a microwaveable turkey dinner in front of the TV?”
Danyael laughed, a rare burst of amusement. “Close enough, except that it will be a book instead of the TV.”
The man shook his head. “I’m headed home for Thanksgiving this year. Like you, I was never close to my family, but about two years ago, my father, brother, and I had a major showdown. Things got a lot better after that, at least for my father and me. My brother didn’t fare so well, but this year, I’m hoping he’ll come home for Thanksgiving.”
“Glad to hear it. Family’s important.”
“So why aren’t you with yours? Thanksgiving is a time for reconciliation.”
He didn’t need sermons on why he needed to make up with a family that didn’t want him and had made certain he would never be able to find his way back to them. Danyael closed his book, stuffed it into his backpack, and slowly pushed to his feet. He gritted his teeth until the spasm in his leg passed, and then reached for his crutch, hooking it beneath his left arm. “The clinic opens at noon. I have to get to work.”
“Okay.” The man stood. He was Danyael’s height, but was built like a football player. His slacks were well-tailored, his heavy wool coat looked expensive, and his leather shoes were foreign-made. Compared to him, Danyael felt like a poor college student. His income from the free clinic hardly covered rent and food after he paid his larger obligations of student loans and Laura’s child support. At least I have a job. Lucien had blocked every employment opportunity in the area, except the free clinic. Perhaps Lucien thought Danyael would not accept a job that paid a pittance for eighty hours of work a week in a crime-ridden Anacostia neighborhood, but Danyael was out of options. He was bound to the area; he could not travel beyond twenty miles of the Mutant Affairs Council office.
Despite the constraints, Danyael had survived, even thrived, thanks to the most unlikely of benefactors. Four months earlier, he had limped out of the hospital penniless and contemplating suicide. Lucien’s father, Damien Winter, had pulled up in a limousine and offered a $5,000 loan under exorbitant terms. “You stay away from Lucien,” Damien Winter had told him. “I don’t want you near him, ever again.”
Danyael had agreed, less because he needed the money, more because he acknowledged the inevitable. Without Miriya, without a telepath willing to break the mental blocks in Lucien’s mind, Lucien’s friendship was lost to him. Damien’s loan had helped Danyael get back on his feet again. It paid for temporary accommodations until he found a job and then paid the security deposit and first month’s rent on the apartment. The irony did not escape Danyael. That time, Damien Winter had saved his life.
Danyael turned away, but the man extended his hand. “It was good meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Danyael responded with automatic politeness. “I’m Danyael Sabre.”
“Jason Rakehell.”
Danyael’s incredulous gaze flashed to Jason’s face. Damn it, how could he not have recognized the president of Purest Humanity and the son of Roland Rakehell, Galahad’s creator? He stumbled back, clumsy with shock. He looked around sharply; his empathic senses searched the area as he braced for
an attack from pro-humanists. Damn it. Why couldn’t he sense them? If they were psychically shielded, he could not protect himself, not without hurting them.
Jason held both hands up. “It’s all right, Danyael. I just came to talk.”
“I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”
“It’s about your family.”
Danyael’s stomach churned. The confession came out in a breathless rush. “My family doesn’t want me. They won’t acknowledge me. I don’t even know who they are. Your father has nothing to worry about. They’re not going to sue him for using my genetic code without permission. And I…I just want to be left alone.”
“Danyael—”
Danyael swallowed hard and took two unsteady steps back. “I have to go.” He turned away, his inherent grace hampered by the awkwardness of his injury. He had to get to the clinic. Surely he would be safe there. Surely pro-humanists wouldn’t attack the free clinic. But what if they did? He couldn’t put his patients at risk—
Jason’s clear, firm voice cut through the cacophony of Danyael’s thoughts. “I’m here to ask if you wanted to come home for Thanksgiving.”
Danyael’s mind blanked. Several seconds passed in silence as his heart caught on the single word: home. Hobbling on his right leg, he turned slowly to face Jason Rakehell. “Your home?” His voice sounded hollow, tiny against the roaring in his mind. He could scarcely string together a coherent thought. Home? His heart leapt forward, as his mind recoiled. Jason…my brother? No, it can’t be. Why is he doing this? He shook his head. “I…no. I don’t know anything. I don’t remember, I swear.”
“Danyael, relax. This isn’t a trick question. I just think it’s time for you to come home.”
There was that word again. Home. Danyael searched Jason’s face and emotions for the lie. “You…” The words caught; they could not get past the lump in his throat.
“I’m your brother,” Jason said softly. “Our father thought you were dead, killed in the car accident that killed our mother, when he used your genetic code for Galahad. Maybe it was his way of preserving your memory.”
