Revelations: Book One of the Lalassu

by Lewis, Jennifer Carole

  “Michael!” Bernie wailed from inside.

  Michael froze in place, Eric awkwardly balanced only halfway into the van. Nada glared fury around heavy silver duct tape fastened around her mouth, wrists, and legs. McBride sat on one of the benches, his shoulders slumped and his head cradled in his hands. Bernie sobbed, rocking back and forth and clutching her doll.

  “Persuasion is a powerful force,” Dalhard taunted, appearing with Dani on the other side of the van. “Don’t be too hard on the corporal. I didn’t leave him much choice.”

  Eric started to slip and Joe hefted him into the van before he could hit the ground. Michael struggled to breathe around his anger.

  “I know you wanted to help, but Dalhard is the only one who can take care of her,” McBride recited dully. “I can’t let you take her away from him.”

  “You… you…” Michael wished he had Dani’s ready supply of curse words. He’d trusted McBride. Some hero he turned out to be. Despair started to drown him. Dani stared at him with vacant doll’s eyes, not even a flicker of emotion or reaction to show she lived. Just empty glass.

  Dalhard using his gifts to violate her mind, painting over the brilliant colors to suit himself, repulsed Michael like the image of a toddler finger-painting over the Mona Lisa. It was a crime against more than just her. Dalhard’s greed stole an irreplaceable and unique beauty and overwrote it with his own interpretation. If Michael could have shot the man, he would have.

  Bernie’s whimper reminded him there were other lives at stake. Karan held out a roll of duct tape. “If you resist, Vincent will shoot you.”

  When Karan hauled Michael’s hands back to secure him, the information pouring into him only deepened his depression. They’d only glimpsed the edges of Dalhard’s shadowy empire. Karan managed it all for him: drugs, human trafficking, gun running—all the horrible ways people could make a profit out of misery. As Karan patted Michael down, he sensed something dark and ugly lurking under the crisp and practical surface. He tried to home in, but the other man pulled away.

  “Next time, leave me out of your rescue plan,” Joe muttered as Karan wrapped the silvery tape around his wrists before patting him down.

  Karan pulled Joe’s identification and badge out of his pocket, holding it up for Dalhard to see.

  “An investigation?” Dalhard growled.

  “We can’t take him with us.” Karan raised his gun.

  “Leave him.” Dalhard’s gaze flicked to Michael. “And the other one. He has nothing of use to us.”

  Bernie started screaming. Karan shut the van doors and the sound cut off abruptly. Michael staggered forward, working on a vague plan of charging his opponents, but having his arms secured behind his back left him off-balance. Still, he wasn’t going to let Dani and Bernie go.

  Karan hit him across the back of the head with the pistol and blackness swallowed him whole.

  “Secure them in the lobby. I don’t want them getting away when they wake up,” Dalhard ordered Karan before tugging gently on Dani’s arm. “Come away, my dear.”

  She wanted to ignore Dalhard’s instructions, but her traitorous body refused to listen. She lost sight of Michael’s body sprawling in the dirt, but the image continued to burn into her memory.

  They’re not dead. They have a chance. Dalhard didn’t know about Vapor. He knew where they were. Someone would rescue Joe and Michael before they died of starvation, trapped in the building.

  “Vincent, drive us to the airport,” Dalhard ordered as he opened the limo door.

  “Sure thing, boss. Don’t worry so much, sis. Dalhard will take care of everything.” Vincent must have thought he was reassuring her. “He’s got it all worked out. He’ll take care of Eric, too. Make it all better.”

  Is my brother still trapped inside there? Does he even care about Eric lying unconscious in the other van? Dani bit her lip, wondering… and then realized the significance of the tiny motion: she’d moved independently of the outer doll. A tiny expression but still something. Dalhard didn’t have complete control.

  Dalhard tucked her inside the car, following close behind. A few moments after they pulled away, she heard the van engine start behind them. No gun shot. It was a minor relief.

  Just you wait, you son of a bitch. One crack was all she needed to make him pay.

  “You’ll love the new compound. It’s an old citadel in the Ukrainian mountains. Blue skies, a mountainside covered in pines. It cost me a fortune, but the view is worth it. And, of course, a limo to take you into town whenever you wish.” Dalhard’s preening grated against her like sandpaper on a sunburn. “I’ve arranged for suitable attire to be waiting for us at the airport. In less than half an hour, we’ll be on our way overseas.”

  A heavy rumbling pounded through the air, like the dying roar of an enormous monster. Dalhard smirked. “Good thing we got away from the old building when we did. It’s been scheduled for demolition for months. Nothing to do with me or my operation. Electronic records are so satisfyingly malleable, don’t you think? And explosions have a rather admirable habit of shredding bodies beyond identification.”

  Demolition. Bodies. No. Dani’s head whipped around to stare at the blacked-out back window as if she could somehow penetrate the opaque screen. Disbelief emptied her heart and body, hollowing her out.

  “Still thinking independently, I see. I can fix that.” Dalhard took her hand in his, and the mental tentacles wrapping around her brain grew firmer. Even her lungs and heart started to falter in the absence of direct instruction to continue. Her vision dimmed, and she welcomed the darkness, trying to dive into it. If Michael were dead… she couldn’t finish the thought.

  Unfortunately, Dalhard let her go before she could find oblivion. Her sight cleared to show him leaning back against the seat, a sheen of sweat marring his skin. His gift was taking a toll on him.

  She hated him more than she’d ever hated anyone. He’d taken everything from her family, starting with his father abducting her father and ending with Michael. A familiar answering hiss of rage echoed from deep inside her psyche. If Michael was dead, she didn’t care if the corrupted Huntress devoured the whole world as long as she got her chance to take down Dalhard. She would make sure he spent the rest of his existence drooling into a bib if it was the last thing she did.

  Reaching deep down, she tried to pull up the predator. It eluded her grasp like a snake slithering through swampy water. Grief threatened to choke off the anger she so desperately needed. Anger was strength. Anger would help her to fight. Michael wouldn’t have wanted her to turn back to the Huntress. He’d wanted her to be a hero. She’d failed him so badly, and now he was gone forever because of her.

  Hot tears began to drip from her open eyes, leaving a damp splash on her jeans. One night together. A little taste before the plate was snatched away from her. If she’d ever wanted proof the gods couldn’t interfere, this was it. Not even for their Chosen Priestesses.

  Dani turned her mental energy back to summoning up the Huntress. Dalhard’s intent was clear. Whether he proceeded with a farce of a marriage or rape, she would have her chance at him. She would join the Huntress to rip out his soul and shred his mind to pieces. And then she would end this horrible cycle, finding a way to take both herself and the Huntress down once and for all.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  TIME TO WAKE UP, MICHAEL! The scream echoed through his head, jolting him to alertness. Michael’s head and arms were sore and the pain pulled him past the foggy confusion of waking. He instantly remembered: Dalhard, Dani, Bernie, and a building full of explosives. The building he was in now, he realized with a rapidly drying mouth as he looked around the familiar lobby. Joe lay beside him, completely out. Dull roars and rattling announced car engines starting outside.

  There was no time to waste. He needed his hands to get Joe and himself out of here and rescue the others. Without pausing to think about how much it would hurt, Michael curved his back to lower his wrists as much as possible, pulling
his legs together and forward at the same time. It still wasn’t enough.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced his arms even lower, shoving the tape beneath his butt. It scraped and clung to his wrists, burning like fire. His joints screamed as if they were being pulled apart. But despite a sickening pop from one of his wrists as it gave out, he managed to maneuver his legs through the circle of his arms.

  He immediately grabbed Joe, despite the fresh agony awakening in his arms. He dragged his friend’s limp body the excruciating twenty feet to the door.

  The locked door. Michael’s brain started to go into shock from pain. Adrenaline made his hands shake as he fumbled with the bolt, praying for time.

  The door opened without warning, spilling him and Joe onto the dirt path outside. Michael stumbled, dragging Joe along with him. Bright-red taillights vanished around the corner.

  No time. No time! Summoning every last reserve of strength, Michael began to haul Joe toward the treeline. Thirty feet away. Twenty-five. Twenty—

  A wave of concussive debris slammed into them from behind, swallowing them in dust and powdered concrete. It blew both of them off their feet, knocked the wind out of them, and coated them in a fine film of pulverized rock.

  Michael spat the clinging grit out of his mouth. A thundering, buzz-like ringing drowned out all sound around him. He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. His point of focus swam in and out without any attempt to correspond with anything he wanted to look at. Objects blurred and then came into painfully sharp focus as he struggled to orient himself. The shrill buzzing blared a continuous barrage, drowning out any sounds around him.

  Exhaustion sapped at his urgency and concern. A few minutes to rest sounded like a good idea, and his eyes started to slide closed.

  A painful, twisting pinch on his scraped and bruised wrist snatched him back to alertness. He jerked away, certain it was an attack, but his abused body couldn’t do more than twitch along the ground.

  Joe’s face fuzzed in and out of his vision, and Michael offered a silent prayer of thanks. His friend’s lips were moving but he couldn’t make out any words over the clanging in his brain. The meaning became obvious when Joe swiveled to present his taped hands to Michael.

  He managed to unwind the tape from Joe’s wrists. His own was twisted and mangled enough to need cutting, the silver darkened with oozing blood. He dazedly tried to find something sharp. If he could get his hands free then he could go after Dani—

  Another pinch awakened fresh agony, bringing him back. Brilliant light sliced into his eyes without warning as Joe waved a tiny flashlight back and forth across his face. Michael felt his own cry of protest more than he heard it as he tried to look away.

  Joe hauled him to his feet as Michael tried to blink away purple and yellow afterimages. As they walked, his brain sluggishly engaged again. A concussion, that’s what Joe was checking for. Basic first aid: don’t let someone with a head injury fall asleep.

  He looked back at the heaping pile of crushed concrete gravel and chunks that had been the building. He tried to make his eyes focus, but they kept slipping in and out. It seemed impossible that they’d survived.

  Unless they’d had divine assistance. He remembered the shout that woke him: hollow and surreal, like the Goddess. He lifted his gaze to the star-speckled sky and offered thanks. Without her, he wouldn’t have a chance to rescue Dani and Bernie, or Joe.

  His mind felt a little clearer. He winced at the sight of his friend covered in dust mixed with thin patches of gleaming red blood from superficial scratches. Joe caught Michael staring at him and gave him a stiff thumbs-up with his free hand along with a sarcastic eye roll. Michael smiled, relieved Joe had the energy for sarcasm.

  They reached Joe’s car and leaned heavily against it. Joe opened the door and pulled out a utility knife. It sawed quickly through the blood-spattered tape on Michael’s wrists, letting circulation return to his numb fingers. Tossing the knife aside, Joe grabbed his notebook and held it up. What do we do now?

  Michael closed his eyes, sorting rapidly through the psychic information bundle he’d lifted from Karan. The aide expected to be leaving with hostages and had a destination picked out, somewhere with loose extradition and looser legal supervision.

  They’re flying out of the country to eastern europe, he scribbled, not trusting his voice.

  JFK? Joe asked.

  Private airfield. Michael crawled into the car and started working on the GPS. He found the site quickly and pointed it out to Joe. Then he awkwardly pulled back out of the driver’s seat and ran to the passenger side.

  Joe took off as soon as Michael’s feet cleared the dirt, causing him to fumble the car door closed in the wind. He gratefully clicked the seat belt in place as Joe took off at a speed that made Dani’s driving look like a senior citizen’s. As they drove, the buzzing in his ears started to subside, letting him tune in to Joe’s ongoing diatribe.

  “…told her you were going to get hurt. And what the hell was she doing walking away with him!”

  “She couldn’t help it,” Michael replied, hoping his vision would heal as quickly as his hearing.

  “She looked drugged but what kind of drug—”

  “He’s psychic. He can make you do whatever he wants if he touches you,” Michael explained, too weary to be diplomatic about Joe’s beliefs.

  “But that’s not real,” Joe protested, his voice becoming fainter at the end, making it more of a question than a statement.

  “It’s real. It’s all real.” Michael closed his eyes to stave off dizziness.

  Joe didn’t speak for a long time. “You really mean that?”

  “Yeah. I do. I’ve seen it all.”

  “Then we don’t have any time to lose.” The vibrations increased along with their speed.

  They arrived at the airport far too quickly for Dani. Karan unloaded the captives from the van. McBride carried Eric’s limp body. Nada still glared from her bonds but Bernie seemed to have completely forgotten everything that happened. She bounced around, full of smiles and babbling constantly to Chuck. Dani hated her for her childish innocence, whether from ignorance or Dalhard’s mental mind-wipes. Under Dalhard’s direction, they climbed up a narrow flight of stairs into a slim private jet.

  Eight rows of comfortably placed two-by-two seating suggested this plane frequently carried more than a single executive and staff. The cream-and-gold paint and leather didn’t quite suit Dalhard. He must have borrowed it or hired it. He escorted her to a forward-facing window seat and placed her there, like a tidied-up toy. The pilots were speaking quietly to each other, completing checklists as the others filed in. Karan took a seat in the group across the aisle from Dani, watching her suspiciously. Clearly he didn’t put much faith in Dalhard’s persuasive gifts. His gun pointed at her even now, and he kept glancing out the window.

  “Don’t be sad. It’s all going to be okay,” Bernie said happily, sitting down beside Dani, bouncing a little in the plush leather seat. “We’re going home soon.”

  Without Dalhard’s permission, Dani couldn’t bend her head or reply or even smile back. She hoped someone would take care of Bernie after she took out Dalhard.

  “Gwen’s nice. She said we could have a picnic together after the strange bird people are gone,” Bernie piped cheerfully, tucking her little hand into Dani’s. Her heart began to race at Bernie’s words.

  “And who is Gwen, Bernadette?” Dalhard asked dismissively.

  “Dani’s sister. She’s like me,” Bernie answered with a ten-year-old’s pride at being able to answer an adult’s question.

  Dani’s eyes slid shut as if closed lids could rewind time. She couldn’t blame Bernie. The little girl had no idea what she was setting in motion.

  Dalhard released her to kneel in front of Bernie. “Tell me about Gwen.”

  “Oh yeah, Gwen. She’s crazy. Talks to dead people,” Vincent chimed in, leaning up over the seat backs.

  Dalhard chuckled. “I’m sure
she’s quite lovely, Bernadette, but I can’t imagine speaking to the dead would be terribly useful.”

  Yes! She’s useless! Ignore her! Dani silently cheered his misunderstanding.

  “I dunno. I mean, the dead go everywhere, see everything. And they gossip like old women,” Vincent mused. “Gwen’s learned all sorts of stuff. Ambushes, coups… Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew what really happened to Kennedy or what’s in Area 51—”

  “I’m surprised you never mentioned her.” A hint of steel hardened Dalhard’s genteel tones.

  “You know how it is. Never talk about the family. First rule. Like Fight Club,” Vincent shrugged. His eyes flicked back to Eric. “Shouldn’t he be waking up?”

  Dalhard grabbed Vincent’s arm. “Tell me about your family.”

  If Dani could have moved, she would have kicked Vincent right through the fuselage to shut him up.

  “Mom’s like the original High Priestess. She’s clairvoyant or some shit like that, sees bits of the present and sometimes little glimpses of the future. It’s funny, she works for this 1-900 psychic hotline, but she says most people don’t really want to know their futures. They want to hear something comforting and interesting. And sometimes they have the stupidest questions…”

  “We’ll have to meet them. It seems rude otherwise.” Dalhard looked over at Karan, eagerness banishing his former irritation. Dani wondered if the aide had been brainwashed like her and Vincent. Was there a screaming kernel inside him or was it smothered by years of obedience?

  “Sir, I would not recommend diverting now to collect anyone further,” Karan suggested calmly, as if planning a kidnapping was only a matter of logistical maneuvering, like organizing a company dinner. “Although I am confident in our preparations, we don’t want to risk further loss.”

  Dalhard returned his attention back to Dani with acquisitive pride. “Indeed. I’m sure we can persuade your family to join us in the Ukraine.” He patted her as if she were a loyal dog. If she could have bitten his patronizing fleshy digits, she would have.