Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Power Play
Kimberly Keane
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Peter Bradley was less than a pawn. Had things not played out as they had, he wouldn’t have even been the footnote to collateral damage. I was still not sure how I felt about the powers that be using a child to get my attention. One thing I had to give them; it worked.
He lay upon a bed at Sunrise Children’s Hospital, the dark circles under his eyes made darker by the paleness of his skin. He seemed small against the bright colors of the walls and the characters that cavorted across them. He was much thinner than his picture and looked to be eight years old, even though he was nearing ten. His mother, Carol, stooped to wake him, her aura shot through with the blue-black of despair and her tension evident in the set of her shoulders and the look in her eyes.
“Don’t,” I whispered. I didn’t need him awake, and he needed as much sleep as he could get.
She smoothed his hair from his forehead and kissed him gently. I turned away and wiped tears from my eyes. I wanted to run from the room and phone my children. I wanted to hear their voices, or even better, brush their hair back and kiss them. At eighteen and twenty-one, they wouldn’t appreciate the motherly affection, but it was still the first thing I planned to do the next time I saw them.
Carol took a chair and pulled it up closer to the bed. I chose one opposite her. Her hands kept reaching out, and she trailed her fingers over his arms, hands, and fingers, as if to convince herself he was still there.
She spoke quietly. “It wasn’t anything at first,” she said. “Just colds. But it was one after the other. Then he got whooping cough even though he’d been vaccinated. After that, various viruses. As soon as he got over those, he was diagnosed with Reye’s syndrome.” She wiped tears from her eyes, shook her head from side to side, and continued. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said and nodded at her to continue.
She fished tissues from her purse, wiped at her tears and nose, and continued, “When he recovered and, miracle of miracles, all his organs were functioning, I had hoped—” Her voice cracked, and her tissue couldn’t keep up with the tears. “Now it’s leukemia, and he’s losing the battle.”
“Have you contacted any healers?”
“Ha!” The word erupted, harsh and loud. She turned quickly to Peter, tucking him in as if he had stirred at her outburst. She lowered her voice again. “I can’t even get through to anyone.”
I nodded my head even though her back was to me. It wasn’t surprising. The healers, ones with real abilities, exploded onto the scene about five years ago. The same time my gifts started making themselves known. None of the mainstream newspapers or shows had picked up on them, but the rag mags that graced every checkout line in the States ran stories every few months. And most folks who heard the stories chalked them up to fantasy. You could find fake psychics of any talent everywhere. That hadn’t changed. It was only reasonable that most would assume all of us were frauds.
She touched Peter’s cheek lightly, turned toward me, and retook her chair. “Can you help?”
“Possibly. I work with a healing goddess, and she’s been able to help quite a few people. In return for her help, she’ll require that you honor and celebrate her every April seventh and that you honor and celebrate Lugh every August first.”
“Anything. Please. I can’t lose him.”
This situation was uncomfortably close to breaking one of my rules: don’t bargain with desperate people. I almost barked a laugh at the thought. Damn near everyone was desperate when it came to healing a loved one. Still, this was too close. Lugh had exacted some unfortunate retribution in the past when folks slacked off, and even Airmid had stepped in once or twice. Granted, since the gods’ return, they didn’t wield the power they had in days of old, but they could still make someone’s life hellacious. Gods, I still had no way to say it gently. I took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “If you agree to it, you can never stop. If you do, the gods will get ugly.”
She nodded. “I understand
.”
I met her eyes and didn’t say anything for half a minute, then nodded. “Okay.” I ran my hands through my hair. “There are some things she can’t heal, even though she’s a goddess.”
Carol twisted her hands. “Like what?”
“She can’t create what isn’t there. If someone loses an eye, she can’t make a new one unless there’s some of the part remaining. I don’t know the other specifics. She hasn’t seen everything in today’s world yet.”
“What about leukemia?”
“She’s cured other cancers, but hasn’t worked on leukemia.”
“When will you know if she can help him?”
“To be absolutely sure, she’ll have to look at him. But I’ll take a psychic look first so I can give her some information.” I sat back in my chair. “It’ll look like I’m sleeping or catatonic.”
Carol nodded again and sat back, much like I had, but her hands still worked themselves against each other.
The colors that signify emotions are the only thing I can see while I’m in the mundane realm, so I closed my eyes to the physical world, focused my thoughts and emotions, and opened them to the alternate realm. I’ve been told that during this process my physical eyes remain closed and my body remains still, but it feels no different to me. I used to worry that I really would get up and walk around, maybe run into a wall or off a bridge, but I’d done it long enough that I didn’t worry anymore.
A riot of colors assaulted me, vivid and flowing. Forms didn’t appear completely solid, as if to let me know there was more to everything than their simple shapes.
Carol, despite her fear and worry, was radiant. The soft quality of her form reminded me of a streetlamp in mist. A swirling movement within her aura indicated she had some preternatural talent, probably precognition or the ability to ascertain patterns. Surrounding her was a smooth silver protection spell. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing. I ran my hand over it to see if it was indeed like polished stone. It took some effort to touch the spell, and it proved to be cool, but not as smooth as I’d expected. The roughness sharpened the longer I touched it. I snatched my hand away and looked at it. I couldn’t see anything, but wiped it on my leg to dull the tingling sensation that remained.
A hissing sound brought my attention to Peter. An eel-like creature curled about and within him. For me to have heard it at all was not a good sign, since I wouldn’t have been able to hear Sid Vicious at ten decibels. Okay, I wasn’t that deaf in the alternate realm, but the thing was loud. It was a beautiful opalescent black and, unfortunately, opaque. Despite its beauty, it gave off an air of malevolence, as if the hissing and the eel form weren’t enough to let me know I didn’t want to play with the thing. Emotions clouded around it, and it was too difficult to distinguish one from another. What the helheim was it?
Enter the Fates.
“The Fates,” as I not so affectionately refer to them, are not the Greek Fates—Klotho, Lakhesis, and Atropos—nor are they the Norse Fates—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. They feel like a force of will made up of many minds and several voices. Our conversations take place inside my head, and I wish they would use voices that didn’t sound so much like my own. It would make me feel less crazy.
A curse.
What?
The child is cursed.
How in helheim do I remove a curse?
No answer.
I huffed out a breath and stewed for a long moment. They didn’t visit me frequently, and when they did—let’s just say I wasn’t pleased at their arrival.
How quickly does the curse need to be removed?
Silence again.
How important is it that I remove the curse?
There are other courses of action.
I refrained from cursing in frustration. The Fates always spoke as if they were lawyers covering their collective backsides. I couldn’t wrap my head around how I could negotiate so well with the gods and still fail so miserably with the Fates. So, I fell back on the one question that always seemed to elicit some response.
What would happen if I walk away and let this play out?
Contraction, nonexistence, death.
For the boy?
. . .
Okay, fine, the question was too narrow.
Who would die?
Yes.
Yes? What in helheim did yes mean? Oh gods, no. No, no, no, no, no. They couldn’t mean . . .
Everyone?
Possibly.
The entire planet?
. . .
Less?
. . .
It couldn’t be. I closed my eyes. Please don’t let it be. I let out a shaky breath and continued.
More?
It is probable.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m no superhero. I can’t wave a magic wand and make this all better.
Then save the boy.
I cursed under my breath. Damn them, tossing the fate of the universe at my feet and then telling me to ignore it. Of course, they also knew I wouldn’t let the boy die if I could stop it. But I knew so damned little about curses. Something about a woman who could see the future, but no one would believe her. My mind went blank. That was it. I had nothing. And I had the whole fate of more than the planet thing over my head. Fine. The boy. I would start there. I had friends and colleagues I could ask for help. Helheim, I could even ask the Fates. They had to give me some information, didn’t they?
How do I save the boy?
. . .
Oh, come on! Give me something.
. . .
Damn them. I let go of the connection in my head and felt them recede.
I looked at the thing nested inside Peter. A curse. On a child.
And then I took a long look at the boy. He was pale in both dimensions, less substantial than most of the ill people I saw. His aura was dimmed and the colors pastel, not like I would see in a shy person, but washed out and cold. Some of his organs looked large. I couldn’t see anything else. Airmid might be able to help him.
After I cast an enhancement to my own protection spell, which I always kept about me, I pulled Peter to me and offered what comfort I could, brushing his hair back much like his own mother had done. The curse snapped and hissed, but didn’t breach my shield.
“You’ll be okay,” I whispered. “You’ll be okay.”
Peter didn’t stir.
With him still in my arms, I conjured a protection spell for him. I had no idea what might be next for him, if anything. It was the one thing I could do to make him safer. I hoped it was enough.
I moved away from him, and the curse watched me intently, wrapping itself more tightly around the ribcage of the boy, as if expecting me to wrench it from him.
It was a thought.
The thing pushed its head at me, its jaws snapping open and closed.
Nope. I liked all my body parts in their current positions, which left me one last option: emotion.
Psychics all worked with some form of universal energy. We gathered it and formed it, taking care to remember that the universe maintained a balance. Reading it was a different story. Some felt it as vibration, some as visual disturbances, some as scents. Although I could sense those things, I couldn’t distinguish one practitioner’s signature from another that way. But I could read shades of emotion. A practitioner always left their mark—their spells were imbued with the emotions that allowed them to work magic in the first place.
I opened myself to the creature’s emotions. Rage pummeled and then scorched me. Desert heat, the stuff you can’t get away from. The heat entered my lungs with each breath and I felt like I was being consumed. On the heels of that, anguish. Pain so deep that it was almost despair. I wanted to die, to disappear. Gods, it was too much. I hadn’t felt like that since—I cut off the memory. I couldn’t go there, not now. The emotions that had rolled over me were too raw and barbaric. I crumpled to the ground, alternately sobbing and screaming as the agony of insanity crippled my ability to think.
A relative eternity later, I picked myself up. Shivers ran through me and my legs wobbled. I steeled my spine, tightened my muscles against the strain, straightened, and ignored the spasms that ran the length of my body. I shook my head and swallowed convulsively as I wiped my face, damp with sweat and tears. I would know who cast the curse the moment I felt their emotions.
I closed my psychic eyes to return to the world and spent a few minutes reacquainting myself with my body, regaining some strength that always seemed to remain in my corporeal form. I opened my physical eyes to Carol, who studied me from her chair. I reached forward and took her hands in my own. My eyes burned.
“Oh, dear lord,” Carol said, “what’s wrong with him?”
My brain stuttered. There was no way to break this to her softly. My shoulders hunched, and I met her eyes. “He’s been cursed.”
“What?” Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” I winced. That wasn’t what she needed to hear. I straightened and gripped her hands. “I’ll find a way to remove it, but I’m not sure how yet.”
“Will that make him better?” she said.
“I don’t know.” I sounded too much like the Fates for my comfort, but I wouldn’t lie to her. “I hope so. If not, we’ll work with Airmid.”
She was still visibly upset, but the fact that we had some semblance of a plan seemed to calm her. “What can I do?”
“Do you know any psychics?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll reach out to some others for help.”
“Help with what?” said a man in a tailored suit as he stepped into the room.
I studied him, noting almost everything about him was common, from his nondescript, thinning brown hair to the start of a middle-aged gut. His outward appearance was serene, and he had a friendly smile, but cruelty flowed off him in crimson waves. Behind the brutality, arrogance overlay a small, dense base of self-doubt like armor. A wave rode through his aura, cave black, and disappeared. My eyes widened. What the helheim was that? I glanced back at the boy, thinking of the curse. No, the wave was the deepest matte black I’d ever seen, not the pearlescent color of the curse.
I hadn’t noticed Mr. Bradley was tall until he stood behind Carol and placed his hand on her shoulder. The shallow part of me wondered how he’d landed someone as beautiful as his wife. I put on my happy-to-meet-you face and fell immediately into my rule for dealing with people I didn’t like: be socially polite.
Power Play (Amanda Byrne Book 1) Page 1
