by Jade Kerrion
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T minus twenty-one
Danyael awoke; sleep peeling back in layers. The dull pain that oozed through him resolved into two distinct areas—his left leg and the back of his head. He shifted onto his side. His vision spun as he parted his blood-matted hair and probed the wound on the back of his skull where a heavy fist, wrapped around the hilt of a hunting knife, had met vulnerable flesh. The cut was shallow; Galahad had not intended to damage him permanently.
His teeth gritted against the low groan of pain, Danyael tried to push upright, but a gentle, heavily wrinkled hand pressed against his shoulder. “No, you must rest.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder, squeezing his eyes closed as the world seemed to topple sideways. “Joyce…” He waited until his insides stopped churning before he opened his eyes once more and met Joyce’s concerned gaze. “Where are we?”
“One of the islands around Singapore. I’m not sure which. They took us away in a car and then loaded us on a boat for a short ride.”
Danyael scanned the room as she spoke. It was small, furnished only with the narrow cot on which he lay and a chair that Joyce occupied. The walls were gray concrete as was the floor. No windows, just a steel door. An open threshold led to another room.
Joyce followed his gaze. “The bathroom.”
“How many clones did you see?” Danyael asked.
“Alive? Six, including the one who knocked you out.” Joyce’s eyes were vacuous, deliberately so, Danyael realized. Only then did he see the remote camera tucked in a corner of the ceiling. Unless he missed his guess, the room was also bugged.
“How long have we been here?”
“About three hours. Not long. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be all right.” Danyael reached out with his thoughts. Amanda.
Danyael! The alpha telepath’s immediate and panic-frayed response told him that she had likely spent the past three hours screaming into his mind, trying to make contact. What happened? Where the hell are you?
Joyce thinks we’re on one of the islands around Singapore, a short boat ride away.
Is Joyce all right?
We’re both fine.
Galahad is— Her mental voice caught.
He’s all right. The mask is on a clone. There are at least five more living clones, maybe more.
A stunned silence followed. Next you’ll be telling me that getting captured was your fool idea to find the source.
Danyael said nothing. He dragged himself to a sitting position and leaned back against the uncomfortable metal rails of the cot.
She sighed. Now I understand why Zara feels this compulsive need to supervise you and veto your decisions.
Is she back?
Oh yes, indeed; unscathed and with a hell of a story to tell. Four of Galahad’s clones attacked Sharma’s lab. Sharma is dead, and the rest of the Zara clones with him. They never quite made it out of their growth chambers.
Growth chambers? The clones weren’t released at birth?
No. According to Zara, they were in growth chambers, even full-sized clones. You were right about the clone not having a long life span. It had been alive for a year, but only conscious for days, or hours. Sharma prepared the clones by uploading memories before he revived them.
That’s screwed up. It’s no wonder Galahad’s clones are schizophrenic.
Sharma and Ehimaya Sadgati used to work together on age-accelerated super soldiers, and they decided to experiment with Galahad’s genes. Sharma believed that the first clone, Galahad-One, is now running the show.
And Sadgati?
No clue. Sharma didn’t mention her again, and in the chaos of killing people, Zara forgot to ask. Amanda paused. How will we find you, Danyael? I don’t have a hook in your mind, and I can’t locate you—not that I ever had the talent for tracking over large distances anyway.
Someone’s got to come into my cell at some point. As soon as I know—
The lock slid back and the door opened.
Danyael stared wordlessly at the old man who walked in. “Good afternoon. I’m Gage.” The man’s face was subtly lined with wrinkles—Danyael estimated that the man was likely in his early seventies, though he carried himself with the vigor of a younger man. Casually dressed in slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a sports jacket, the man nevertheless managed to appear polished. His neatly trimmed brown goatee redirected the attention from his piercing dark eyes and sculptured features. His hair, too, was brown, obviously dyed.
Galahad-One. Danyael released his breath slowly. “So that’s what I’ll look like when I grow older.”
The man smiled. “Your looks age well. Thank you.”
Danyael’s empathic probe collided against strong psychic shields, likely the handiwork of an alpha telepath, but he caught glimmers of Gage’s emotions. Like Joyce and the Galahad clones, Gage’s emotional spectrum wavered, subtly out of focus—unprecedented talent and unchecked potential driven by mental instability.
Danyael’s jaw tensed. Whatever Gage wanted, it wasn’t going to be good.
Gage turned to Joyce and inclined his head. “It is a pleasure and honor to meet you, both of you. I owe you a great deal, and unfortunately, it appears I must ask for more, especially from you, Dr. Sabre.” His gaze shifted back to Danyael. “You are an empathic healer without compare.”
“I can’t reverse the effects of aging.”
Gage smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of asking for that.” He took several steps forward and sat at the foot of the bed. “This life, my life, is unnatural. I age a year over two weeks. Every three months, the difference is noticeable. Unless the unnatural aging is halted, even with my extended telomeres, I will be dead in four or five years. I want you to stop it.”
“Why?” Danyael asked. “So that you can use your clone army to continue your killing spree? Who will you target once you’ve gone through all of Galahad’s genetic donors?”
Gage’s fist flashed up. He backhanded Danyael across his face, slamming Danyael sideways into the bedrails.
Joyce gasped, rising from her chair to wrap her arms protectively around Danyael.
“I’m not accustomed to people refusing me,” Gage murmured. His voice was quiet, civilized, and so much more dangerous because of it.
Danyael tasted blood in his mouth. Teeth gritted, he straightened and turned to face Galahad’s clone. He shook his head. “I came here to stop you.”
Gage smiled. “And a fine job you’re doing.” He tilted his head, studying Danyael as if he were a specimen under a microscope. “You see, I’ve studied you, Danyael. I know what you can do with your empathic powers. I also know that you crack under kindness, but I have no time for kindness, not at the rate at which I’m aging.”
Danyael chuckled, the sound without humor. “I’m glad we cleared up that fact.”
Gage gestured and the door opened again. Clearly, someone was monitoring the camera feed from the room. Three Galahad clones walked in—Danyael’s brow furrowed as he reached out with his empathic senses…no, one was Galahad himself. A girl, scarcely older than twelve, accompanied them. She was short and slender, and walked with a swagger common among teenagers. Her blond hair was tugged into a ponytail and a pair of designer sunglasses covered her eyes. Her unwavering emotional spectrum was breathtakingly familiar.
Danyael’s eyes widened. “Miriya?”
Gage laughed softly. “I see you recognize old friends. Cloning and age-accelerating mutants are especially difficult. I euthanized several dozen other clones of Miriya Templeton before finally finding one stable enough to keep alive. She’s only six months old, but teenagers and toddlers have much in common anyway.” He nudged his head toward Danyael.
At his silent command, Galahad and one of the other clones pulled Danyael from the bed. They half-dragged, half-carried him to the bathroom and pushed him, fully dressed, into the shower stall. Cold water gushed from the showerhead, drenching him. Danyael coughed beneath the spray, shuddering from t
he shock of the sudden chill.
The water cut off. Strong arms caught him before his left leg collapsed beneath him, and pulled him back into the room. Gage pulled something out of his sports jacket and tossed it to Galahad, who caught it easily. The dim light glinted off the electric collar. His face expressionless, Galahad unfastened the clasp on the collar.
Danyael recoiled from the electric collar, but there was no place to run. The electric collar locked around his neck, the shafts tightening automatically to ensure contact with his skin. His wet skin. Oh, God. No.
Gage smiled. “Does it bring back memories of the time you spent in prison?” Gage jerked his head toward a corner of the room.
Galahad and his clone shoved Danyael to the floor.
Gage’s dark eyes glittered as he pulled a thin remote control from the pocket of his jacket. “We’re all psychically shielded. You know better than to fight back, but in case you feel so inclined to try—”
The other clone moved to stand behind Joyce and held a gun to her temple.
Gage looked at Miriya’s clone. “Are you ready?”
She nodded.
Danyael fought to breathe over the dread filling his throat. He could not let her smash through his psychic shields. He had to—
Pain—white-hot brutal pain surged through his body. He threw his head back, a soundless scream tearing from his throat. Consciousness pulled away like mists before his grasping fingers.
Danyael! Amanda’s voice shouted.
Another presence intruded on his mind, familiar, yet different. Miriya’s mental touch had always been gentle, but that time, it was not. Cruel talons clawed at his psychic shields, raking through his defenses.
“More,” she ordered.
Gage pushed on the remote control.
Agony plowed through Danyael. It felt as though he were on fire with no way to escape the scalding pain.
Miriya’s voice whispered through his mind. Were you worth dying for?
How much did Miriya’s clone know? How much of Miriya’s memories did her clone possess?
Her voice taunted him. She loved you. She died for you. She was such a fool. I won’t make her mistake, Danyael.
He reached out, his hand trembling. Darkness curtained across his vision. Miriya…
I am not Miriya. Her voice cooed at him. And I hate you. Her telepathic powers slammed down like a sledgehammer on his pain-weakened psychic shield.
It crumbled before her.
Like a lion, Miriya leapt, sinking her claws into his mind and shredding it.
~*~
The relaxed and impassive stance Galahad adopted to match those of his clones required extreme willpower to maintain. He had always understood and been broadly indifferent to the fact that Danyael had been tortured for fourteen months while in prison. Every sixty seconds, the alpha empath had been subjected to electric shocks from the collar around his throat. The good days were the days when he was soaked down, the extreme agony pushing him over the edge into unconsciousness, buying him several hours of oblivion from the pain.
Understanding and accepting Danyael’s anguish, as an intellectual exercise, had been easy.
He had not, until that moment, weighed the concept of Danyael’s pain against the fact that Danyael had extreme pain tolerance. The alpha empath frequently suffered in silence with no more than a wince or sharp inhalation to betray his anguish.
It was something else entirely to stand by, helpless, and watch Danyael scream himself unconscious.
Gage turned to Miriya. “Connect us.”
She nodded, her face expressionless. “Done.”
“Will his empathic healing abilities absorb my accelerated aging?”
She shrugged.
Gage stared at Danyael, who lay crumpled on the cold cement floor. “I’m sure he can be motivated to do so. Connect the others too.”
Galahad kept his thoughts carefully blank as Miriya’s telepathic power brushed against his mind, a quick tugging sensation, and then she moved on.
“They’re connected too, all six of them,” Miriya reported.
“Excellent. We’ll test it when he regains consciousness. When he understands his lack of options, I’m sure he’ll reconsider.”
Gage grasped Miriya’s upper arm, turned, and strode out of the cell. Galahad turned to follow Gage, and the clones tagged along, single file. The door of Danyael’s cell slammed shut behind them. Gage shoved Miriya at the clones. “Take her back to her room.”
Galahad stepped forward. He caught the eye of his two clones and jerked his head, dismissing them. They nodded, deferring to him.
Miriya followed him without complaint as he escorted her back to her room. He paused outside her door.
Her voice whispered, Seven. Nine. Two. One. Eight. Three.
Galahad stifled the chuckle as he entered the code to unlock her door.
Head held high, she stalked into her room. Galahad threw a quick glance around her room. There were no monitoring devices, none that he could see anyway.
Still, I wouldn’t recommend speaking aloud. She threw herself down on her bed and reached for her tablet.
Galahad closed the door and leaned back against it. How…are you?
It’s a stupid question, Galahad. You know I am aging twenty-five times faster than normal. I’ll be dead in two or three years.
But Gage believes Danyael can stop the accelerated aging. Can he?
I don’t know. I don’t think Danyael knows if he can. Her fingers danced over the screen, tapping a lively rhythm in a game that involved exploding gems. She shrugged, an almost imperceptible motion. It doesn’t matter. People all die anyway. Damn him. Her small face scrunched as if with pain. I wasn’t ready to die.
Galahad inhaled deeply. Did Gage implant her memories into you?
No. He didn’t need to. Energy doesn’t disappear. It merely transforms into a different form. The same is true of psychic energy. When she…died, her psychic energy lingered at the place of her death until Gage brought me to Theodore Roosevelt Island.
You were there?
A month ago. I didn’t have a clue what was going on until it hit me.
What hit you?
Miriya’s psychic energy.
Her ghost?
Miriya rolled her eyes at him. There are no such things as ghosts, but psychic energy feels like ghosts to those who don’t know any better. Psychic energy has an affinity for like beings; maybe it latches on to a genetic signature. Whatever the reason, it found me again.
Galahad frowned. So, you remember everything?
No, but I remember dying. I remember the fear, the pain, the hate, the— Her mental voice caught. Miriya rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. Her sharp inhalation of air sounded dangerously close to a sniffle. I didn’t want to die. And now, because of Danyael, I’m going to land up dying twice. It sucks.
For the first time, she sounded like a teenager instead of a twenty-five-year-old, the age Miriya had been when she died.
But why are you still here? Galahad asked. You could leave. You know the access codes. With your telepathic power, no one could stop you.
She shrugged. Where would I go? What would I do? There is no place for me out there, not unless Danyael can find a way to stop the accelerated aging. She looked up from the tablet, meeting his gaze for the first time. Gage has more time than I do because of his extended telomeres, but he is dying too. He wants to live. He desperately wants to live. Be careful of him. He will stop short of killing Danyael to get what he wants. If you get in the way, he will kill you too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T minus thirteen
Still groggy from pain, Danyael dragged his eyes open and stared at the gray blur in front of him until the outlines resolved into the floor and walls of his cell. His clothes were dry. That fact alone confirmed that he had been unconscious for several hours.
Muscles sore and aching from the electric shock, he propped himself up against the wall and clawed his way u
pright. He pressed his hand against his neck. His fingers brushed against the silver collar. He ground his teeth. I survived fourteen months. I can get through eight weeks.
The soft and hurried patter of feet from behind him warned him to brace for Joyce’s gentle hands. When she touched him, he fought the instinctive recoil. He hated being touched after enduring brutal pain. His addled brain couldn’t distinguish between a hand extended in hate or with the desire to help.
“I couldn’t get you off the floor on my own, but you must lie down on the bed,” Joyce insisted. “You have to rest.”
“How long?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, as she guided him to the bed and helped him sit.
“Seven, maybe eight hours. They left us some food.” She nudged her head at the plastic bowls of rice and vegetables.
Danyael forced down two mouthfuls of rice and then pushed the bowl away. The nausea had returned; without medication to alleviate the symptoms, he would not be able to keep more food down.
He reached out with his mind. Amanda.
The psychic call recoiled, bouncing off a telepathic screen that Miriya must have erected around his mind, cutting him off from the rest of the psychic world. Great. Stuck in hell, and I lose my psychic 911 number.
Danyael raised his head as the door opened and Gage walked in.
Galahad’s clone smiled at him. “I expected you to be unconscious through most of the night. Your resilience is remarkable, Danyael.”
Danyael returned the humorless smile. “Practice.”
“Fancy more?” Gage waved his hand and six copies of Galahad entered behind him, one of them Galahad himself.
Danyael’s gaze flashed over the six of them and then cut back to Gage. Danyael did not dare permit his gaze or his thoughts to linger on the real Galahad. He could not blow Galahad’s cover.
A half-smile tugged up at a corner of Gage’s mouth. “Separate them. Hold him down.”
A clone pulled Joyce away while Galahad and another clone moved to the bed, one on either side of Danyael. They grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, restraining him.
