by Jade Kerrion
The others bid Danyael good night and left his suite, but not Zara. Unwilling to fight with her in front of others, Danyael shut the door before turning to her. “Aren’t you going back to your room?”
“They think we’re lovers.”
He shrugged. “So?”
Zara strolled over to him, her posture predatory rather than lover-like. “Don’t you think it’s time for reality to catch up with the gossip?”
“I’ve never had much use for reality.”
Hobbling away from her, he retrieved his medication from his backpack and washed down two pills with water from the faucet at his bathroom sink. He splashed water over his face; he’d need a clear head to deal with Zara—a clear head and the devil’s luck.
Danyael raised his head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Zara stood over his shoulder, her arms folded across her chest. She looked about ready to rip his head off. He smiled involuntarily. God, she’s gorgeous. The assassin was always beautiful, most especially when her narrowed violet eyes were intent and her lips were set in the hint of a scowl. I love a woman who is more beautiful scowling than smiling. What does that say about her, and what does that say about me?
A small voice in his head mocked him. Masochist.
Tension clawed at his shoulders. He shook his head, a sharp and dismissive gesture, and turned away.
She caught his wrist. “I hate the way you walk away instead of staying to fight it out.”
He met her gaze. “What are we fighting about?”
“Us.”
“Is there an ‘us’?”
“‘Us’ happened when you seduced me—”
“I didn’t—”
She flung her hand out. “I don’t give a damn about the fact that you never touched me physically. You seduced me. You couldn’t control your goddamned empathic powers, and you made me fall in love with you.”
“You came close when you shouldn’t have.” How had their argument degenerated so quickly into finger pointing? “We had this discussion three years ago after we rescued Lucien. You don’t want to love me, fine. That’s your right, your choice, so I took your love away.” The same way I took Chloe’s love away, though that second time, it damn near killed me to let go of the happiness I could have had with you.
“It didn’t work. It came back. The love came back.”
Danyael’s eyes widened. “No, that’s impossible.”
“Is it? Or did you do a half-assed job?”
“It shouldn’t have come back.”
She tilted her head. “You have the power to change emotions, Danyael, but what’s more powerful—the alpha empath or the emotions?”
The answer had always been perfectly obvious to him. “The emotions,” he whispered.
“Back then, on Lucien’s yacht, did you want me to stop loving you?”
He looked away.
“Danyael?”
The truth tore reluctantly from him. “No.”
“So you did a half-assed job.”
“I must have.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I can fix it.”
The hard gleam in her eyes softened. She stepped forward, placing herself within arm’s reach. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me?”
“Ah.” He offered her a rueful smile. “That’s what I’m not sure of.”
She chuckled, the sound low and sad, as if she had expected his answer. “When will you make up your mind?”
Probably in a moment of great weakness. “I’m not good for you, Zara.”
Zara arched an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’re going to make up my mind for me?”
He brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m an alpha empath, and your psychic shields are so weak, they’re practically nonexistent. I screw up, you die. It’s not a good basis for a relationship.”
“We’re already spending time together.”
“I can focus on not screwing up during the two or three hours I see you once a week. If I let myself want you, I’ll want more, but accidents can happen when I’m tired.”
“Have they ever?”
She was so bloody persistent, but that was Zara, stubborn to the point of believing that she could change reality by wanting it enough. “Just because accidents have never happened, it doesn’t mean they won’t.” Deliberately cruel, he asked, “Do you and Laura want to be the first victims of an accident?”
Zara paled.
Danyael released his breath in a sigh as he reached out to stroke her cheek and was surprised when she did not pull away. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I’m content with what I have. I’ve learned to be.”
“But I’m not,” she murmured.
He was afraid of that. “What do you want?”
Zara did not answer for a long time. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I was hoping you knew. Perhaps we could find out together.” She took a single step forward into his open arms. “Can I stay the night?”
The only right answer was “no,” but he could not bring himself to give it. Damning his weakness, Danyael closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her hair. The fragrance of her hair, touched with notes of lavender, citrus, and mint, filled his senses. Against his will, Danyael whispered softly, “Yes.”
CHAPTER TEN
The sun rose on a city that had not actually gone to sleep. The day warmed quickly, as it did in the tropics. The humidity blunted the heat and escalated the sweaty discomfort of Singapore’s inhabitants as they scurried between air-conditioned environments, like vampires seeking shelter from the sun.
From within the cool and cushioned comfort of the car, Galahad sensed the flurry of a city in perpetual motion. Since escaping from Pioneer Labs, he had traveled widely, but it was his first visit to Singapore. The city was, simply, a marvel—as intense as New York, minus the teetering chaos and the perpetual dirt. Although the city seemed dominated by Asian races, including the Chinese, Malays, and Indians, there was a fair representation of other races—Caucasian, African, South American, and Middle Eastern—blending into the tightly packed crowd as they bustled in and out of subway entrances, from buses and taxis, and across pedestrian crossings.
“Is this normal?” Galahad turned to Amanda, who was driving the car. “It’s busier than New York.”
“Singapore has a higher population density than New York, and we’ve hit rush-hour traffic. Fortunately, we’re not far now.”
“Where is the safe house?”
“A Mount Pleasant bungalow.”
“A small house, then. It should be easy to defend.”
Amanda chuckled. “Bungalow has a different meaning here than in the U.S. In Singapore, bungalows are colonial-era homes, typically built in the early 19th century through the end of the Second World War. They’re larger than most homes in Singapore, and older, which means that the building will creak in the night, and the sound may have nothing to do with an assassin creeping across ancient floorboards.”
“Or it might.”
“Or it might,” Amanda conceded. She glanced at Galahad, her shoulder-length blond hair partially concealing her fine-featured face and blue eyes, and then turned her attention back to the road. “How are you enjoying your new face?”
Galahad touched his cheek—the sensation muted beneath a thin layer of artificial skin—and smiled. “It’s growing on me.”
Amanda laughed, a musical sound that did not seem to match her no-nonsense style, likely a carryover from her days in the military.
His smile deepened. “Do you enjoy your assignment here? Do you like Singapore?”
“It would depend, I suppose, on whether you enjoy being surrounded by A-type personalities.”
“How so?”
“I thought I was highly ambitious and driven, until I came to Singapore and found out that I was below average, at best. It seems that Singaporeans selectively breed for ambition and drive.”
“They do?”
/> “Not explicitly, of course, but implicitly, it seems to be the standard expectation in all their interactions.”
“Must be fascinating.”
“To watch, sure, as long as you’re not sucked up in the chaos.” She dimpled a smile at him. “I try to stay above it—as a country manager, my job is to liaise with local authorities, not get drawn into the mess, but some messes are too large to avoid.” Amanda threw him another glance, one that was openly curious. “How did you manage to convince Xin that you were innocent?”
“I didn’t. Somehow, she convinced herself that I was innocent. I wasn’t aware that my genetic donors were dying until two weeks ago when she invited herself over for breakfast. Over coffee and quiche, she told me that twenty-four of my donors had died, and their deaths coincided with my travels to their parts of the world.”
“And in spite of the circumstantial evidence, she knew you were innocent?”
“The issue of my guilt never came up, though she didn’t share any evidence she had to the contrary.”
Amanda scowled. “Sometimes, I think Xin keeps secrets just to mess with our minds.”
“I’ve known her for three years. I’m inclined to agree.” Galahad turned his head to study the scenery as highways conceded to narrower roads surrounded by heavy foliage. “Xin won’t be happy that Chloe’s involved.”
“There’s no keeping her out now. She’s doing this as much for her father’s memory as for Danyael. As it is, she’ll have her hands full trying not to fall in love with Danyael.”
The flare of resentment was like a punch to his gut; it wrenched the breath from his throat. “Why Danyael? He drove her away.”
“For her own good. She’s furious with him, of course, but she’s rational enough to realize that he did it out of love. That kind of love is hard to resist.”
“What kind of love?”
“The kind that puts other people first. At any rate, the repulsive effect of Danyael’s psychic shields isn’t as strong as it used to be. All in all, it wouldn’t be too hard for her to fall in love with him again.”
“Zara might have something to say about that.” He heard the bitter edge in his voice.
“Probably.” Amanda shrugged.
He glared at her. “And you, didn’t you love him once too?”
She shrugged again, the motion pained. Her breath puffed out of her. “It was a long time ago.”
“Less than a year and a half ago.”
“Sakti’s attack on Washington, D.C., changed everything. If Sakti hadn’t attacked…who knows? The Mutant Assault Group would still be a respected military unit instead of a pariah, tainted by its supposedly treasonous general—”
“Supposedly?” Galahad glanced sharply at her. “You don’t think what General Howard did was treason? Your general faked death records of assault group team members, and sent them to train Sakti, turning Sakti from a pitiful joke, hosting harmless demonstrations in front of federal buildings, into one of the most dangerous mutant terrorist groups in the world, breaking into federal prisons to free—”
“Mutants, most of whom were in prison on trumped-up charges, including Danyael.” She shook her head. “Danyael was tortured and drugged for fourteen months. The government didn’t go through the pretense of a trial before throwing him into a maximum-security prison for killing twelve men in self-defense.”
“You know it was an excuse. Alex Saunders sent Danyael to prison to keep him away from the general.”
“That’s a seriously fucked up reason to send someone to die in prison. Those fourteen months in prison wrecked Danyael’s health and his psyche; he’s never fully recovered. He probably never will.” She ground her teeth. “All actions have repercussions. General Howard would never have had to turn to Sakti if he didn’t need to spring Danyael from prison,” Amanda retorted, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You trace this disaster back far enough, and you’ll find enough reason, as I do, for holding Alex Saunders personally responsible for Sakti’s rise to power.”
“Your general didn’t free Danyael out of the goodness of his heart. General Howard wanted Danyael to control and train his genetically engineered super soldier army.”
“There is nothing ethically wrong about a super soldier army. Strategically, tactically, we could argue it was the best direction for the U.S., but that was no reason to escalate a discussion of military strategy into a series of disastrous decisions that eventually led to a terrorist attack on D.C.”
“Alex wasn’t the only one making those disastrous decisions.”
A muscle twitched in Amanda’s cheek. “No, you’re right. He wasn’t the only one.”
“Yet you still respect your general.”
“As a mutant, I can respect a human who goes to bat for mutant rights.”
“Even if he has an ulterior motive?”
“We are all motivated by something, Galahad. The motivations don’t have to be altruistic to count as good.”
“Where is your general now?” he asked.
“Waiting for his turn at the stand. The case keeps getting postponed, I suppose because Alex doesn’t want the truth of his own involvement to come out. I’ve also heard that Danyael has refused to testify against the general.”
“Really?”
Amanda nodded. “Apparently the government offered to strike the class-five threat from Danyael’s record, but he still said no.”
“But why? Danyael wants the class-five threat off his record; he struck a deal with Xin to have it removed.”
Amanda arched an eyebrow. “Really? What was the deal he made?”
“That when he died, she’d strike the threat classification so that Laura wouldn’t have to live under the shadow of his criminal record.”
She shook her head and sighed. “A threat record isn’t precisely the same thing as a criminal record, but many people use them interchangeably. Danyael’s trying to protect his daughter when he can no longer do so personally.”
“Laura’s everything to him. Whatever recovery he’s made in the past fifteen months was likely due to her.”
“I’m sure Zara had a role to play too.”
He looked at her. “And you don’t hate her for it? She took your place.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed and her hands tightened on the steering wheel, but she did not reply. Instead, she turned the car down a long driveway shaded by large trees and stopped beneath the carport. “Here we are.”
Galahad swung the car door open and stepped out onto a brick-paved driveway. His hazel eyes swept across the small estate. The large house was charming, painted black and white. The contrast to the gleaming metropolis mere minutes away was stark, but the lush foliage dampened the eternal buzz of the city into white noise.
A smile curved his lips. “It’s beautiful.”
Amanda nodded. “Hard to defend though.”
What would Zara see?
Too many windows, all set close to the ground, impractically framed by gauzy lace curtains instead of shielded by dark blinds. Far too many doors, and worse, made of wood instead of steel. The mature Tembusu and Albasia trees that surrounded the house would give cover to assassins, and the distance from the street as well as the lack of external lights around the property would make intruders too hard to detect until they were practically on top of the house.
He nodded. “Zara would have a coronary if she saw this ‘safe house.’”
Amanda shrugged. “It’s Joyce’s home, and we couldn’t convince her to leave. She insists that a woman has a right to die at home.”
“She’s not afraid?”
“She’s ninety-two. It’s hard for a ninety-two-year-old to work up an irrational fear of dying.” Amanda led the way to the house and knocked on the door.
A Chinese man in his mid-thirties opened the door. “Hello, Amanda.”
“Tseng, this is Galahad.”
Tseng chuckled. “A new look for you?”
Galahad inclined his head as he extended h
is hand.
Tseng’s handshake was firm. He was casually dressed in a T-shirt and denim jeans, but his physique was solid and muscular, no doubt a credit to his special forces training. “Come on in.” He led the way through the house, nodding to three other people as he passed. “Members of my team,” he said. “My team of twelve rotates through eight-hour shifts, give or take two hours. We have four on duty at any one time. I’m the overall team leader, but Lee and Wong head up the other two shifts. Your timing is great. We’re about to change shifts, and you’ll have a chance to meet Wong’s group. They should be here in about a half hour.”
“You said ‘give or take two hours’?” Galahad asked.
“We move the start and ending times around a two-hour range. Keeps any potential hostiles from using our routine against us.” Tseng gestured at a window. “We have motion sensors installed on the grounds. All we’ve picked up so far are birds, monkeys, snakes, and the neighborhood cat.” His dark eyes darted to Galahad’s face. “So far, it’s been a dull assignment, though we can’t complain. Dull is better than the alternative.”
“How long have you been protecting her?”
“Two days now, ever since the last donor died. You realize that by coming here, you’ve actually placed her in danger. The assassins are tracking you; they’re taking advantage of your movements. They don’t strike out at your donors unless you’re within easy range to take the blame for their deaths. Frankly, the best thing you could have done was to stay out of Singapore.”
Galahad ignored the accusatory tone in Tseng’s voice. “Staying out of Singapore might have kept her safe, but we’d be no closer to finding the assassins.”
“And you’re running out of time, aren’t you, with only three donors left alive? Do you think they’ll go after you next?” Tseng asked.
“Perhaps. There’s no way to know until we find out who they are and why they’re killing my genetic donors. Can I meet Joyce?”
Tseng nodded. “This way.”
The house, only one room deep, was designed along a linear plan, with graceful archways separating the entrance hall from the reception room, the living room, dining room, breakfast room, and kitchen. The floors were polished wood, and the twenty-foot-high ceilings and tall windows infused the room with light. The furniture, exquisitely maintained, were antiques and were likely style-appropriate for the house. On the southern end of the house, the arched windows opened onto a large brick terrace where a kidney-shaped swimming pool was fringed by potted bougainvillea and palm trees.
