by Jade Kerrion
“No,” Xin said. “I’ve got a better plan…”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Danyael watched, silent and hollow-eyed, as medics lowered a sheet over Galahad’s body, covering the vicious and fatal throat injury, and then loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. Zara stood beside Danyael, deterring the curious with her flinty stare at least as effectively as he could have managed with his empathic powers.
Chloe, wrapped in a heavy blanket and surrounded by colleagues, looked at him with equal measures of gratitude and confusion. She took a single step toward him, but he shook his head, and she collapsed back into the protective fold of her friends.
“How are you holding up?” Zara asked quietly.
Danyael nodded. “I’ll be all right.”
Together, they watched the media, emergency personnel, and the feds depart in a line of headlights that snaked away from Pioneer Labs. Danyael reached over his shoulder and massaged a tender spot on the back of his neck. He then tugged his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. Damn it, he had to be at work in three hours, on absolutely no sleep.
The front door of Pioneer Labs slid open and Galahad stepped out, his warm breath fogging against the chilly predawn air. “Did they buy the story that I was killed by the abomination when I tried to attack Danyael?” he asked.
“Hard not to when the evidence is in front of them,” Zara replied. “You’re lucky you had a clone to stand in for you.” She glanced at Danyael. “Did they need much empathic persuasion?”
“Just a little,” Danyael said, his voice pitched low to conceal his exhaustion. “Is the abomination all right?”
Galahad nodded. “Not a scratch. He’s back in the eastern wing and seems reasonably settled, even calm.”
“We have to get back to D.C.,” Danyael said.
“Yes.” Zara jingled a set of car keys and shot Galahad a smile. “The facial prosthetic should be ready. I’ll call Xin to confirm before I take you in to get a new look.”
“Can you drop me off at the clinic?” Danyael asked.
“You’re going to work?” Displeasure laced her tone.
“I’ll sleep in the car on the way back.”
“Danyael—”
He shook his head. “Not now, please. I’m too tired to argue.”
Zara shot him a narrow-eyed glance, but did not object further. He eased himself into the backseat of the car, biting back a scream of pain as an agonizing cramp clawed through his left leg. When the red haze of pain cleared from his vision, he found Zara staring at him, disapproval written all over her face.
She said nothing, merely slammed the door shut on him. Zara climbed into the driver’s seat, and Galahad got in beside her. She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine purred to life. Teeth gritted, Danyael leaned against a corner of the backseat and extended his leg in front of him. If he could take enough pressure off the overworked muscles, he might be able to relax enough to fall asleep.
Danyael had not counted on the irresistible tide of exhaustion, though. His leg was still throbbing like a bitch in heat when he fell asleep, scarcely a mile from Pioneer Labs.
~*~
Danyael awoke with a start when he realized the jostling of his shoulder was not connected to his nightmare of the abomination gnawing at his arm. He blinked as he focused on a pair of violet eyes in front of him. “Zara?”
Her apparent concern conceded to annoyance. “You’re home.”
He dragged a hand over his eyes. If only it was as easy to erase fatigue. A quick glance confirmed that Galahad was no longer in the car; Zara must have dropped Galahad off at Xin’s apartment prior to driving Danyael home.
Stifling a sigh, Danyael dragged himself out of the car and accepted the crutch Zara held out with a nod of thanks.
He turned in the direction of the clinic, but Zara stopped him. “I called in a locum to cover for you at the clinic today.”
His startled gaze darted to her face. “What?”
She closed the distance to him. Her hand was gentle against his cheek. “You can’t work today. You can barely stand.”
“But—”
“I’ve taken care of the cost of the locum. Don’t fight me, please. I need to know that there’s something I can do for you, even if it’s making sure you get enough rest.”
The tenderness in her voice tempted him into breaking down the psychic barriers between them. If he did, would he find love? Did he dare take a risk on the woman who had betrayed him so many times before, or was it safer not to know, not to hope?
He lowered his head so that their foreheads touched. For a moment, peace—rare and whole—filled the distance between them.
She nuzzled his cheek—not quite a kiss, but far more intimacy than they had permitted themselves—and smiled. “I’ll come by with Laura later in the afternoon to help you pack. Meanwhile, go get some sleep.”
His hand trembling on his crutch, Danyael dragged his crippled leg up five flights of stairs. His apartment welcomed him with a blaze of sunlight pouring in through the large windows. The tension eased out of his shoulders as he shrugged his backpack off his shoulders. However simple, however shabby, his home was still his sanctuary.
After a quick shower beneath a stingy spray of water, Danyael wrapped layers of bandages and athletic tape around his leg. He cast a longing glance at his bed, but no, he had work to do. With a rueful half-smile, he limped into the kitchenette and picked his backpack off the tiled floor. He dug into his bag and pulled out the two pill bottles that Abd-al had given him, both filled with strong prescription medication, one for pain and the other for nausea.
For a long moment, he stared at the bottles. He habitually avoided medication. He healed through absorption of pain, and anything that dulled his ability to recognize the extremity of his own pain was dangerous.
But Zara had purchased him twenty-four hours of rest, and the concept of a day free from pain was irresistible. He swallowed the pills, washing them down with tap water, and then settled at his small kitchen table with a ham and cheese sandwich and his computer tablet to continue his research on his cancer.
Hours later, he arrived at the same conclusion that Abd-al had recommended. His best shot at survival lay in gene therapy. Danyael, though, had little expectation that his father or Lucien would come through for him. His only hope lay in his brother, Jason Rakehell. He prayed he was not wrong about their strengthening relationship.
“Danyael!” an impatient voice called through the door moments before a heavy fist pounded against the fragile wood.
And speak of the devil.
“I’m coming,” he shouted. He hauled himself out of his chair, grabbed his crutch, and limped to the door. He opened it, meeting Jason’s scowl with a faint smile.
Jason was about Danyael’s height, though broader and built like a football player instead of a triathlete. He strode into Danyael’s apartment and shrugged off his heavy wool coat. Beneath, he wore a custom-tailored business suit. Gold cufflinks stamped with the logo of Purest Humanity caught the light, shining at his wrists. “Is it true?” Jason demanded without preamble.
“Is what true?”
Jason seized the bottles of prescription medication on the countertop and studied the labels. The look he shot Danyael was accusing. He then picked up Danyael’s tablet and scrolled down the screen. His eyes narrowed and then widened. Jason’s face paled. “So, it is true,” he said again, the animosity draining from his voice.
“Who told you?”
“Zara.”
Danyael shook his head. He should have known better than to expect Zara to respect his privacy.
“She said you had six to eight weeks.”
“She had no right telling you.”
Jason chuckled. “I don’t think Zara cares about rights. Or perhaps she does care, if only to know what and when to celebrate when she tramples over them.” He folded his arms across his chest. “When were you planning to tell me?”
“After I researc
hed my options.”
“You’re sick. You’re dying, and your first instinct is not to tell anybody?”
Damn, now he had offended his brother. “I needed time to come to terms with it on my own, and figure out what to do.”
Jason’s voice was gruff. “I’ve already sent a blood sample in to the council so that they can run tests for genetic compatibility.”
Danyael’s eyes widened. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice catching on the words.
Jason seized Danyael’s shoulders. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know. Zara keeps reminding me.”
“Are you ready to talk to our father?” Jason reached into his pocket for his car keys.
No. “Yes, why not?”
~*~
Danyael had never expected the conversation with his father to be easy, but he had never imagined it would be so difficult. The living room in his father’s Rockville, Maryland, home was expansive. Instead of carpet, rough-hewn stone tiles covered the floor, and the furniture was more appropriate for a hunter’s lodge, albeit an expensive one. The decor seemed an unusual choice for a scientist, a man who shunned the outdoors the way most students shunned mathematics. It was a beautiful room, though Danyael had no memory of it, or of any other room in the house. He had been separated from his family too early to have any recollection of his first home, or of his family.
Of course the reunion had come about later, just not in a way he would have chosen.
Roland Rakehell sat in a large chair, his feet crossed and his arms relaxed against the armrest, very much the “lord of the manor.” His hair was streaked with gray, but his face was unlined, his strong features perfectly proportioned. His eyes—his gift to both his sons—were dark and deep set above high cheekbones. His wife had been a beauty, and she had bestowed Danyael with most of his rare good looks, but Roland was clearly no slouch in appearance either.
He seemed relaxed, but the narrowing of his eyes suggested otherwise. He had listened in silence, his expression intent, and finally, he smiled—a thin smile without any hint of humor or affection. “So, you have leukemia and you want me to be tested as a potential donor?”
Danyael nodded, shifting his weight on his crutch, teeth gritted against the wave of emotions emanating from his father. He did not sit, and Jason did not either. His older brother paced the breadth of the room like a restless tiger, only pausing at each turn to cast their father an assessing glance.
Roland’s response was a single word. “No.”
“What?” Jason stepped forward to stand beside Danyael before Danyael could reply. “Why not? You and I are Danyael’s best shot at finding a match.”
“So what?”
Jason’s eyes widened.
Danyael turned. “Let’s go.”
“But, Danyael—”
He could only take so much, and the assault of his father’s hate and disdain taxed his psychic shields to their limits. “Jason, he doesn’t care.”
“But you’re his son.”
Danyael shook his head. “He has only one son: you. As far as he’s concerned, I died twenty-eight years ago.”
Roland’s gaze was flat and cold. “That’s right. You should have died and taken your face to the grave.”
Danyael turned and walked out of the house. He allowed the door to slam shut behind him, and for a moment, reveled in being alone, free from the strain of processing someone else’s emotions. The blast of wind dragged icy fingers across his face, cooling his heated skin as he limped to his brother’s car.
Jason joined him moments later, his face furious. “I can’t believe you walked away.”
“As opposed to what? Use my empathic powers to force him into giving what he will not give?” Danyael shook his head. “He holds me responsible for wrecking his reputation—”
“He chose to use your genes to create Galahad. How is that your fault?”
“If I had died, his dirty little secret would have been buried with me. Galahad’s face would have been unique.”
“You’re not Galahad’s only template.”
“But I am his most obvious one.” Danyael shook his head again, the gesture slow and sad. “The point is your father believes I’ve ruined his career. It doesn’t matter if I’m right and he’s wrong. He’s not going to change his mind, and I’m not going to stand around and argue on principle. I don’t have enough time or energy to do that.”
Jason slammed his hand against his car. “Stubborn fools. Both of you.” He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, tousling it into disarray, and then leaned against the car beside Danyael. “Are you going to talk to Lucien?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’ll agree?”
“No, but I have to ask. And if he says no”—Danyael shrugged—“then we’ll have to hope that you’re a close enough match for gene therapy to work.”
“Do you think I will be?”
Hope mingled with anxiety in Jason’s voice. Its undercurrent was love. Warmed by his brother’s affection, Danyael chuckled. “I need life to cut me a lucky break, and this time, I might have earned it.”
“So, off to McLean now?” Jason asked.
Danyael inhaled deeply. “Why not?” There would never be a good time for the conversation with Lucien but perhaps it was better tackled sooner rather than later.
Lucien Winter’s home in McLean, an elegant Spanish-revival mansion, surrounded by charming cottages, presided over three acres of impeccably manicured, snow-dusted lawns. The terracotta-tiled roof exuded warmth and welcome; the curves and arches instilled elegance. The decorative ledges beneath the tower-like chimneys displayed rustic planters spilling over with frost-resistant Angelicas. The complex was massive, but its uniformity of design made it beautiful.
Once, it had been home.
“I’ll wait in the car,” Jason said as he stopped the car in the driveway in front of the entrance. “If I see Lucien, we might land up arguing, and it wouldn’t help your case.”
Danyael chuckled, a rueful sound. How things changed. Three years earlier, Lucien had risked life, limb, and wealth for Danyael, whereas Jason would have cheerfully murdered Danyael, and in fact, had attempted to do so. But now, it was Jason who supported Danyael; Lucien had turned away. In hindsight, it was a trade Danyael would never have wanted, or expected, to make, though he was grateful for what he did have. Fifteen months prior, he had nothing.
Danyael stepped out of Jason’s car, hobbled up the steps, and rang the doorbell. Lucien’s butler, Jacob Smith, recognized Danyael and admitted him without challenge, guiding him through the house, which was a marvel of tasteful elegance—of arched brick entryways, painted tiles, and hand-hewn stone floors. The colors were warm and rich, shades of red and brown that contrasted with the cream-colored, hand-scraped walls. Lucien’s home left no doubt as to the wealth required to create and maintain it.
Danyael, however, had become inured to it.
Jacob ushered Danyael into Lucien’s study and then withdrew, murmuring something about locating Lucien. Left alone in a room loaded with memories, Danyael limped toward Lucien’s desk and picked up a framed photograph of a one-year-old child. The boy’s cherubic face bore the infant promise of Danyael’s heartbreaking masculine beauty, and his cells contained the helical DNA of an alpha empath.
Danyael caressed the photograph with a trembling finger. Luke. My clone, but he’s not me. His life doesn’t have to be mine. I can make sure it isn’t.
His empathic senses flickered a warning; Danyael sensed Lucien’s emotions long before he heard Lucien’s footsteps, and had time to brace himself.
Lucien’s voice was a smooth bass, resonating with exquisite breeding and class. “I told you to contact the lawyer if you had any business with me. You’re not welcome here, Danyael.”
Danyael set the photograph down and turned slowly to face Lucien. Their friendship had once been his salvation, but after three years, Danyael had come to terms
with its loss. The heartache lingered—likely, it always would—but it no longer clawed at him like a maddened animal. He managed a smile as he looked at his former best friend. “Hello, Lucien. You look well.”
Like Danyael, Lucien skimmed over six feet, and like most in vitros, he was good-looking, his chiseled features bearing testament to his mixed racial heritage. His dark hair was slicked back, and his blue eyes narrowed with irritation, as if he were searching for an insult. “What do you want?”
“I would like to see Luke.”
“No.”
“I want to make sure he’s all right.”
“He is fine.”
“He’s my clone. I—”
“And he’s my son. I decide who he sees.”
“Fine.” Danyael pushed away from the window and hobbled toward the door. He paused outside the study and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t let him use his empathic healing powers.”
Lucien’s eyes widened. “What?”
“The physical aftermath of empathic healing disguises symptoms of…other issues.”
“What kind of other issues?”
Danyael kept his back to Lucien. It was cowardly, he supposed, but it made it easier to get the words out. “If he tires easily, take him to the doctor, and get him screened for leukemia.”
“What?”
“T-cell-prolymphocytic leukemia. So far, medical studies believe it isn’t hereditary, but anecdotal reports suggest that leukemia tends to run in families. Keep an eye on him, will you?”
Danyael limped down the corridor, but Lucien caught up with him, seizing him by the wrist and spinning him around. “You have leukemia?”
“I have six to eight weeks.” Danyael pulled his hand free. The man who had once regarded him with kindness and affection now stared at him as if he were a stranger. Danyael thought he had gotten over the loss of Lucien’s friendship, but in that moment, it hurt more than he thought it could. Danyael fought to keep his voice even. “Goodbye, Lucien.”
He covered another five feet before Lucien spoke again. “You didn’t come here just to tell me that. Why are you here?”
