Double Helix Collection: A Genetic Revolution Thriller

by Jade Kerrion

  But until they did...if they ever did…

  Danyael held his empathic powers firmly in check, and when he and Zara came together it was as a man to a woman. Their mating was frantic and heated, underscored by need and anchored by love. Through it all, the emotion-altering powers of an alpha empath lay quiescent.

  Moonlight poured in through the open window and trailed a path across the wooden floor. When the soft gasps of pleasure finally faded into silence, Danyael drifted asleep, the length of Zara’s slender body pressed against his.

  He did not know how long he slept, but the cramp in his leg rudely yanked him awake. His first sharp groan of pain had Zara leaning over him, bracing him as he dug his fingers into the clenching muscles. He heaved choking breaths through the agony until the spasm passed, and then sagged back against the pillows.

  “Should I get your pills for you?” she asked.

  Danyael shook his head. “No, I’ll get them. I’m sorry I woke you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll check on the SOF team while I’m up. Go back to sleep.”

  Moving with care, Danyael tugged on a pair of jeans before reaching for his crutch. He washed down two pills with water from the bathroom tap, and then hobbled from the bedroom, crossed the landing, and made his way down the stairs.

  A female SOF officer standing at the foot of the wide staircase visibly relaxed when she saw him. A smile cracked her solemn face, and she removed her hand from the pistol in her holster. “Are you nocturnal too?”

  “I try not to be. Is Joyce up too?”

  The officer nodded. “She’s puttering around in the kitchen, fixing a bowl of noodles.”

  Danyael crossed the length of the dining room and limped into the kitchen, his single crutch tapping against the floor.

  Joyce looked up as he entered, and she beamed at him as cheerfully as if it were midday instead of three in the morning. “My dear, how splendid to see you. Would you like some noodles?”

  “Not right now.” He did not think the lingering nausea that swirled in the pit of his stomach would permit it. He did however sit across from her at the small table tucked into a corner of the kitchen.

  “This is cozy, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed a meal in my kitchen with a handsome young man.” Her wrinkled hands shook slightly as she manipulated a pair of chopsticks draped with noodles up to her mouth. “Why are you up at this time?”

  Danyael chuckled. “Why are you?”

  “Old people don’t need much sleep. What’s your excuse?”

  Danyael shrugged, a smile and a lie forming on his lips, but Joyce beat him to it. “Does the pain keep you up at night?” She laughed at the surprise that must have flashed across his face. “I can see it in your eyes; they give you away. Your jaw is tense all the time.”

  “You’re remarkable, Joyce.”

  She giggled like a young girl who had been paid a compliment. “A pair of sharp eyes can be as magical as telepathy or empathy.”

  A flutter of alarm flickered across Danyael’s empathic senses, but it vanished almost immediately. He looked up, his dark-eyed gaze traveling around the kitchen, as he tried to identify its source.

  “Is something wrong?” Joyce asked.

  “I’m not sure.” He pushed to his feet and limped out of the kitchen. Joyce slipped off her chair and followed behind Danyael. The female SOF officer was still in the dining room. Her back to Danyael, she leaned against a window frame, gazing out into the garden. “Do you see something out there?” Danyael asked.

  The officer did not reply.

  Danyael’s brow furrowed as he reached out with his mutant powers. His empathic senses slipped through the woman—an empty shell. She was dead. He knew it with absolute certainty.

  Emotions emanated from the darkened gardens, wavering, subtly out of focus like pools of light beneath imperfectly aligned spotlights. The emotions sharpened and then flashed toward him—hate pockmarked by bitterness and glazed with fear. Danyael spun, seized Joyce, and pulled her to the floor, shielding her with his body. A bullet smashed into the dining table, splintering the polished rosewood.

  Joyce shrieked.

  Booted feet pounded through the house. Three SOF officers converged on the dining room, weapons drawn. One immediately collapsed with a cry, a crimson stain spreading across his white T-shirt. The remaining officers took cover beside the window.

  Danyael threw a glance over his shoulder. Damn it, they were pinned down, hunted by an assassin with a silenced rifle or handgun.

  A flicker of motion drew his attention to the staircase. Zara crept down the stairs, clad in a black shirt and pants, her Glock in her hand. She made a series of obscure gestures to the two officers. They must have understood her; they responded with brisk nods as she slipped out of a window on the far side of the dining room.

  She vanished into the night.

  Joyce trembled beneath him as Danyael counted down the seconds, each one an eternity. Finally, from the garden, her voice spiked with irritation, Zara called out. “Clear.” Moments later, she appeared at the window. “I found crushed undergrowth and shells. Nothing else.” She glanced over her shoulder at the assassin’s hiding place, and then at the two deceased SOF officers. “Those weren’t easy kills. There aren’t many people who could have pulled that off.”

  Danyael pushed to his feet and helped Joyce stand. The old woman sagged against him. “Wake Lena.” Her voice shook. “I need my clozapine.”

  “Clozapine?” Danyael echoed. He reached out with his mind. Amanda!

  Huh? She sounded equal parts sleepy and alarmed; he must have startled her awake.

  Is Galahad at the hotel?

  I’ll check.

  “What’s wrong, Danyael?” Zara asked.

  “Clozapine is an anti-psychosis drug, frequently used to treat schizophrenia.”

  The SOF officer nodded. “Joyce was diagnosed as mildly schizophrenic five years ago; she’s been on medication since, but as far as we know, her condition is stable.”

  Danyael shook his head as disparate facts slid into place. “I didn’t realize it before, but I picked up on her condition…her split emotional state, like two images that don’t quite align. I sensed it too from whoever shot at us.”

  Zara tensed visibly. “Are you saying that the shooter is schizophrenic?”

  Danyael stared down at his clenched fist. “I thought Galahad was innocent. I never sensed hostile intent, at least not directed to anyone other than me. But he has Joyce’s genes…”

  Zara’s eyes widened. “And if they included the genes for schizophrenia—If Galahad is schizophrenic, he might not be fully aware of everything he’s doing.”

  “Exactly, and it would explain why I never sensed a lie. Damn it!”

  Danyael? Amanda’s voice cut in. He’s not there. Galahad’s not in his room.

  Can you track him?

  Not well. I don’t have the range for it, but as far as I can tell, he’s likely somewhere in central Singapore.

  Central Singapore. Danyael braced against the chill clawing against his spine. Perhaps somewhere near Mount Pleasant.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The narrow streets through Mount Pleasant curved with the edge and slope of the hill. The streetlamps were too few and too scattered to be of any use, and the darkness of the night was broken only by the headlamps of the occasional vehicle.

  The darkness suited the lone man who stood by the side of the road.

  Galahad dragged his hands through his hair. Unable to sleep, he had wandered the streets of Singapore and eventually found himself in Mount Pleasant. What was he doing here? Had he come seeking answers?

  Galahad raised his face to the night breeze. The wind mixed the subtle taste of the sea with the fragrance of tropical flowers and eased away the humidity of the day. His hands twitched, reflexively clenching into fists. His fingers itched to tear away the mask he wore. He wanted to feel the breeze against his real skin.

  H
e wanted something to be real.

  He needed to know that the chill that lodged like a splinter in his heart wasn’t real.

  Galahad’s gaze darted over his shoulder. The shadow that danced at the edge of his vision flickered out of sight, but returned as soon as he looked away. He gritted his teeth. This isn’t real. None of this is real.

  But it was. The splinter of fear was real. The flicker of terror was real. The emotions marked him, scarred him.

  Damn you, Danyael. What have you done to me?

  Quiet laughter welled up, the sound bitter and self-mocking. How could he have driven Danyael beyond his flawless self-control?

  The alpha empath, who with his dying breath had absorbed the hatred between his father and his brother, and who had given Galahad chance after chance when no one else did, had apparently reached his limit.

  The healer had attacked to defend an assassin.

  An assassin who had borne Galahad a child, a daughter to whom he had been denied.

  Danyael had fought to keep his own daughter from him.

  Galahad slammed his fist into a tree, splintering its bark. He squeezed his eyes shut. A shadow skittered behind his closed eyelids. Not even the warmth of a tropical night could drive the chill away. The curses he railed against Danyael became a litany running through his mind.

  If he killed Danyael, would the chill melt? Would the shadow evaporate?

  If he killed Danyael, would Zara and Laura be his?

  The bushes rustled, the sound fuller than the breath of the wind through the trees. Galahad looked up, his gaze unfocused as he located the sound. No more than twenty feet away, someone was coming toward him, from the direction of the safe house.

  Instinct tugged him deep into the shadows.

  ~*~

  Zara knelt down and ran her fingers lightly over the dew-covered grass trampled into the ground. She looked up, her violet eyes narrowed with cool determination. She was still on the right track.

  In spite of Danyael’s objections, she had set out after Galahad alone. She would have sooner brought a sugar-hyped up Laura into a five-star French restaurant than taken Danyael on the hunt for Galahad. She saw the pain and exhaustion Danyael struggled to hide. He could no longer keep up with her physically, though, with his empathic powers, he could stop Galahad.

  Could she?

  She had never defeated Galahad in a fair fight before.

  The solution, obviously, was not to fight fair.

  Sound rustled in the bushes in front of her.

  She frowned. Had Galahad learned nothing from her on the importance of moving quietly, whether he was the hunter or hunted?

  Perhaps she should be grateful he hadn’t.

  Crouched low, Zara raced forward at an angle to the sound. She had to get to the main road before Galahad did. Leaves brushed against her face. Headlights flashed through the gaps in the bushes and moments later, a car raced by. Almost there. Her Glock in her hand, she crept closer and pressed herself to the ground.

  Training kept her heartbeat slow and her hand steady. She would have only one shot, but it would be enough.

  A moment passed in silence.

  Galahad stepped out of the shadows. The pale glow of the moon lit his once-again flawless features. Zara frowned and her eyes narrowed. What possessed him to abandon his disguise? Whatever. It didn’t matter. She raised her gun and her finger tightened on the trigger.

  A hand closed over hers.

  She jerked her gaze over her shoulder to see Galahad—the real Galahad, still in disguise—crouched beside her.

  Zara’s eyes widened. What the—?

  Galahad pressed a finger to his lips. His mouth shaped a single soundless word. “Alive.”

  Take him alive.

  For a moment, she contemplated shooting both Galahad and his clone, just to be sure. Danyael, however, was likely to take issue with her decision. It’s damned inconvenient loving a man who has a conscience. Biting back a grunt of frustration, Zara shifted her aim to focus on the clone’s left kneecap.

  Before she pulled the trigger, a single shot rang out.

  Galahad’s clone twisted out of the path of the bullet. He straightened and stared into the darkness. “Zara?”

  Several meters away, a slender and lithe woman stepped out of the shadows. “Galahad.” Her voice was a seductive purr.

  Zara studied her clone dispassionately. The woman wasn’t precisely her age; Zara would have pegged her at a year or two younger, and infinitely less experienced. Zara stifled a sigh when her clone spun to attack Galahad’s clone. An amateur might have found the fight a breathtaking display of skill and speed, but to Zara, it merely reaffirmed the need to take Galahad down through unfair means.

  Galahad’s clone may not have been as capable as Galahad, but Zara’s clone was not as capable as Zara either. Zara winced at each mistake her clone made, mistakes that resulted in bruises, open cuts, and broken bones. Her clone was getting her ass kicked.

  Oh, fuck it.

  Zara shot to her feet and pulled the trigger.

  Galahad’s clone dropped to the ground like a puppet with strings cut. Blood oozed out of the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Her lips curved, more smirk than smile.

  Galahad rose too. “Do you feel better now?” His tone was mildly reproving.

  She nodded. “Yes, it was highly therapeutic and almost as good as putting a bullet through your brain.” Zara holstered her Glock and strode toward her clone.

  The woman stared at her, her violet eyes wide, her expression disbelieving. “Zara?”

  “Yes. You need to go back to school. You don’t fire at where he is; you fire at where he’s going to be. And what possessed you to go hand-to-hand with Galahad’s clone when you were holding a gun to begin with?”

  The woman’s eyes rolled up in her head. She reeled, but Galahad caught her before she hit the ground.

  Zara turned on Galahad and raised her Glock, pointing its muzzle at the center of his forehead. “And what the hell were you doing here?”

  He averted his gaze, as if unable to meet her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. I had to get out of the hotel.” His voice shook and then faded into silence.

  Danyael worked you over good. “Give me your gun.”

  Galahad frowned, but complied. Zara pulled out the magazine. It was packed to the brim with 0.40 caliber bullets. They did not match the 9 mm shells she had found in the garden of the safe house. She shot him a narrow-eyed glare and then turned to search the dead clone. His gun was tucked in a holster—9 mm, and several shells short of a full magazine.

  Damn. The realization that Galahad was innocent was far more frustrating than the relief of realizing that she had, at least, shot the right guy. Zara sighed. “We’ll take my clone back to Danyael. He can keep her alive long enough for us to get answers out of her. Move it, Galahad, and stay in front of me.”

  “So that you can shoot me if I do something you don’t like?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.” Zara pulled out her cell phone and called Danyael. “I’m on my way back with Galahad and my clone... I’m fine. The situation’s messy—too many people with similar faces. Galahad’s clone tried to kill Joyce. I killed him, after my clone rather spectacularly failed to do so… She’s still alive, and I want answers out of her, starting with where she got my face.”

  ~*~

  Zara and Galahad huddled around the screen in one of Joyce’s guest rooms, watching through the remote camera as Danyael healed Zara’s unconscious clone in the other room. Through common consent, admittedly after fifteen minutes of heated disagreement all around, they had agreed to let Danyael handle Zara’s clone alone.

  Danyael and the clone were in the next room, but they might as well have been a hundred miles away. Zara folded her arms across her chest. Jealousy—irrational jealousy, she reminded herself—pricked at her when Danyael gently brushed the clone’s dark hair away from her face.

  “How are you feeling?” D
anyael asked, his voice quiet, as he leaned back. His face was tight with pain, and he gripped the side of the bed, likely as an anchor against vertigo. He had healed her and paid the price for it.

  The woman’s violet eyes fluttered open. She stared in disbelief at him. “Danyael!” Fingers curved into claws, she lunged at him.

  Danyael caught her wrists before she made contact. “Shhh…” he soothed. “It’s all right.” Instead of keeping his distance, he drew her close to him in an embrace so tender that Zara felt tears sting her eyes.

  The tension that stiffened the clone’s body flowed out of her, and she sagged against him, sobbing. Her lips moved, her whisper too low to be picked up by the microphone.

  “I’m sorry,” Danyael murmured.

  A quiet exchange followed. Zara only caught an occasional word, but the interaction did not need words. The angry hurt was apparent in the woman’s every gesture and facial expression. The regret and quiet sorrow in Danyael’s posture seemed real. It was unmistakably a tableau of forgiveness and reconciliation.

  After several minutes, Danyael eased her down to the pillows. His hand lingered against her cheek, and she responded with a ghost of a smile. Her eyes closed, and she fell asleep. Zara did not doubt that Danyael had helped her along; his ability to attune to another person’s biorhythms allowed him to heal as well as control other bodily functions.

  Danyael reached for his crutch and pushed to his feet. Zara turned away from the screen and inhaled deeply—trying, but failing, to dispel the scene from her mind.

  Danyael rejoined Zara and Galahad moments later, his face pale and his limp more pronounced than ever. His dark-eyed gaze flashed across her face. “Are you all right?”

  Zara ignored his question. “What did she tell you?”

  “She has some of your memories, but they have been altered. She believes I raped her, and then abandoned her and Laura.”

  “Is that why she’s trying to kill you?”

  Danyael looked at Zara. “In the same situation, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably, but I would have succeeded. So why is she trying to kill Galahad?”

  “Apparently, she believes that he’s the reason I left, that I blamed her for freeing Galahad from Pioneer Labs.”