The Watcher (Crossing Realms Book 2)

by Rebecca E. Neely

  But would it for her?

  Her hands stopped tingling. The dots cleared. Forcing air into her lungs, she opened her eyes.

  Horns, traffic, sirens, the rush of rubber on asphalt reached her in earnest as New Yorkers picked up where they’d left off the day before. A furry head nudged her arm. Turning, she peered into her German Shepherd’s eyes. He licked her hand and she coursed her fingers through his thick fur.

  The man in the doorway stirred. “Is everything okay?”

  Even though they were alone, he didn’t address her by name. They’d agreed it would be easier that way, lest he trip up and forget.

  She rose and turned to the man she called family. Musko. Dragging her hair away from her neck, Meda didn’t even consider lying. He’d known her all of her twenty-three years. And he’d worry, no matter what she told him. Offering him a weak smile, she decided to go middle of the road. “I’m not sure.”

  He kept silent about her rigid posture, or what she surely knew was the pallor in her face. He wouldn’t ask her. Only if she offered information. And she wouldn’t. He’d seen it often enough, knew she didn’t want sympathy.

  “Chér, have you eaten? I was fixing to make some egg white omelets.” He rubbed a hand over his moustache and beard. Jammed his other in the back pocket of his faded Levis. His brawn filled the doorway, but these days more silver streaked his shaggy brown mane.

  He took such good care of her. She forced a smile, same as she’d force down some food to make him happy. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Crossing the studio, she leaned out the open window overlooking the street, her gaze sweeping over the flower box beneath it that contained no flowers. At the rusty zigzag of fire escapes, clinging to the building as if for dear life. At the scores of people hurrying about on foot, in taxis, in cars, on bikes. At the dawn shedding light on a new day and on the dwellers of the city.

  But mercifully, not on their secrets. Secrets that could, all too easily, slip past her defenses. Take on a life of their own.

  Haunt her.

  Here, a comfortable distance from midtown, tucked in among the age-old buildings and this melting pot of people, she could hide in plain sight. The work, the customers, busied her.

  Kept her sane.

  She dressed hurriedly in jeans, a tank top and work boots, made the short trip to the bar below, snapped the chain on Tan, and let him out on the postage stamp lawn behind their building. MJ’s, a neighborhood joint that’d been sold and resold, and became hers through a twist of fate and her father’s many connections. Twelve hours from now, she would have once again grown weary of the same work, the same customers that filled her days and most of her nights, and the cycle would repeat itself the next day, as it had for nearly two years.

  Meda settled herself at a barstool. The scents of the profession she’d hadn’t necessarily chosen, but that’d become hers by default, wrapped around her. The beer, the whiskey, the aroma of food frying on a flat top. How quiet it was with just the two of them, and for now, she would revel in it.

  Musko flipped omelets, metal clinking against metal, his back to her.

  Lifting her hands, she studied them, hating that they still shook. And decided she’d lied to Musko after all.

  She was sure everything was not okay.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dev sped through the Holland Tunnel, Nickelback blasting from his speakers, headlights reflecting in his Heritage Softail’s side view mirrors. My Harley. Both Nick and Sean had taken turns riding it to keep it in good working order. He weaved in and around trucks and cars, determined to reach the outskirts of New York’s Little Italy by noon.

  Thanks to Curtis, that’s where he was almost sure he’d find one Meda Gabriel—alias ‘Mia Gray.’

  He downshifted, slowing to a crawl as a carnival of brake lights surrounded him in the random and never-ending pattern of stop and go traffic.

  The only thing Mataeus had told him about Meda before he crossed realms was that her father was an eccentric scientist who had, interestingly enough, pursued unconventional research in the field of energy. Go figure. Before he’d left Pittsburgh, Curtis had filled in some of the blanks and was currently on the prowl for more information.

  Meda, or Mia, lived by and large off the grid. Twenty-three years old. No credit cards. No bank accounts. No driver’s license. No known relatives. Mother, whereabouts unknown. Her father had died three years ago. They’d never lived in one place more than a year it seemed, as they’d hopscotched around the country in pursuit of his scientific aspirations. Curtis had located numerous articles on Jon Gabriel. Some called him a crackpot. Others hailed him as a pioneer.

  There’d been plenty of pictures of Jon, but Curtis had to dig for one of Meda. From his jacket he pulled the Smartphone Curtis insisted he have, and swiped through to the picture he’d received about an hour ago when he’d stopped for gas. She stood beside her father, her jet-black hair coiled in a bun at the base of her neck, glaring at reporters as she helped him descend from a stage.

  An undeniable shot of heat coursed through him.

  Again.

  ‘Mysterious Meda,’ as he’d come to think of her, clearly had Native American in her genes, and in the photo her black eyes glittered with fury. The male in him was eager to meet her in person. The Keeper in him red-flagged her for what she was. Business. Nothing more. And even if it hadn’t been business, Keepers didn’t hook up with humans—they guarded them. Conveniently, or inconveniently, humans forgot them as soon as they’d completed their Compulsions.

  He scowled. What the hell were the Watchers thinking? It was one thing to guard a human, another to work with one. How was he supposed to do both? He figured Nick and Libby were the exception, not the rule. Besides, unlike Libby, Meda was all human, to the best of his knowledge.

  And they did have to work together. The Watchers wouldn’t have sent a Vitality stone for her otherwise. That alone would present its own set of problems. As far as he knew, no human had ever been given one. But these were unusual circumstances. Nick had told him about Libby’s physical reaction when he’d first given her a stone, but again, he didn’t know if that was a valid comparison. He could only hope the Watchers knew what they were doing and deal with whatever happened, when it happened.

  With an effort, he steered his thoughts back to strategy. Given his time frame, he had to make some assumptions. Namely, that something in her father’s research was indeed credible. Best-case scenario, Meda would be willing to talk to him about said research.

  From there, he could figure out the next step in carrying out this Compulsion. He doubted she or anyone, by rights, would be enthusiastic about sharing with a stranger. So, he’d sweeten the pot. The way he saw it, he could work it from a few different angles.

  First off, he’d read her Vista. He could enable her to relive a memory, or he could merely take a glimpse, and obtain a piece of information without her knowing, so as to gain her trust. That had to be done skillfully, or it could backfire and scare her off. Reading another’s Vista, especially a human’s, went against Keeper code. But Nick, the clan leader himself, had been the one to tell him it was what he’d done to gain Libby’s trust.

  So Dev would follow suit, and if necessary, beg for forgiveness later.

  Reading her Vista was his most powerful tool, but it wasn’t his only. He could artfully persuade and charm with the best of them. And if that didn’t work, he was prepared to make it worth her while. The Keepers had seen to it that he had a healthy supply of cash during his stint here.

  One way or the other, he would discover what he needed to know. He’d prefer it be with her cooperation. Briefly, he wondered about her reasons for going essentially underground. A crazy ex? Her father’s notoriety? Or maybe she merely liked her privacy. Bottom line, he really didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving New York witho
ut her, and he’d hogtie her to the back of his bike if necessary, her reasons for anonymity be damned.

  Dev followed signs to Canal Street. He’d refused Nick’s suggestion he travel with other Keepers, and instead convinced him he wanted—needed—to do this alone. He’d been the first one to remind Nick he’d done the same when he’d set out to find Libby. Plus, he’d routinely handled Compulsions on his own in this realm. He gunned his bike. No Keeper would’ve stood a chance against Haenus and the Similitude. He’d just been the unlucky one. He could damn well take care of himself. During his time in the human realm, the gods knew he’d proven that. And he would again today.

  Because the Betrayers knew he was back, and probably had a good idea why, they’d be tracking him. As he and Nick had already discussed, Dev felt strongly they wouldn’t risk using the Similitude to drain him or any Keeper, for the simple fact they still didn’t know how Libby had thwarted, and eventually killed, Haenus. They wouldn’t risk it. Yet.

  For now, he would assume the Betrayers were operating status quo, feeding off humans’ negativity and violence, and absorbing Vitality energy from a safe distance. That meant the Keepers had the upper hand. Given his short stay, he felt confident they could keep it.

  Dev made a left, and downshifted. He’d get in, rock this Compulsion; get out. Boom. Done.

  He’d left Pittsburgh around seven AM, making good time. And appreciated every mile of the last six odd hours. He could’ve flown, but by the time he’d pissed around buying a ticket and waiting at the airport, he figured he could be halfway to New York. Besides, he couldn’t deny himself this road trip or the rush of the ride.

  Once again, between the inches.

  He idled through traffic and humidity, stifling in the confines of the city. Through the steady wail of sirens and people and commerce, he edged closer to Little Italy, where the varnish of Times Square began to wear thin, and the price of a beer wouldn’t pick a man’s pocket.

  And found himself in front of MJ’s.

  Dev located a space on a side street about three blocks away. A few quick key turns locked both his ignition and the front wheel. With any luck, it’d be storming before long. He figured that practically guaranteed the safety of his bike.

  MJ’s was typical New York turn of the century architecture, a tall, narrow brick building, shoulder to shoulder with the next tall, narrow brick building. He counted four floors. An unassuming establishment encased in the crush of the city—it was almost like hiding in plain sight. Probably perfect for Meda/Mia.

  He peeled off his leather jacket as he opened the door and ambled inside, the air conditioning a stark contrast to the raging inferno outside. Customers occupied every available table and barstool. Frying onions and burgers scented the air. His stomach rumbled.

  Wood floors. Vintage feel. Dark. Clean. A single waitress tended tables. Not Meda. Standing in the doorway, he kept watch on the bar. After a few minutes, a stool opened up and he angled toward it. Glancing at the clock overhead, he gave himself kudos on his time. 12:20 PM.

  “What’ll you have?” The bartender, a brawny man with a silver streaked ponytail and a beard to match, placed a menu in front of him.

  Dev eyed the festival of taps and rattled off the name of the one closest to him. Moments later, he drank deeply from the frosted glass. Savored the crisp bubbles on his tongue, the tang of the foam. How long had it been? He downed another swallow of the cool amber liquid and prepared to wait.

  A swinging door to the right of the bar flew open. A waitress steamed through balancing a tray laden with what appeared to be baskets of fish and fries.

  Meda/Mia.

  She looked nothing like the woman in the picture and everything like a temptress. A snug, bright red tank atop faded skintight jeans defined her curves. Her hair, dark and shiny as a raven, flowed around her bare shoulders and muscled, toned arms. Cruising past him, she didn’t miss a beat in her Timberlands, tripped out with what had to be three-inch high rubber heels.

  The shot of heat he’d felt before, seeing her picture on his phone, was like a spark compared to this coal furnace blast. And it wasn’t just her looks, or the way her ass rounded in a sweet curve as she set the tray down and delivered the sandwiches. Though the gods knew that move alone could likely do things to a dead man, Keeper or human.

  It was her energy, pure and simple. He’d connected with the energies of humans before, in the heat of Compulsion battle. Never had he felt it so intensely. Perhaps this was the Watchers’ way of assuring him he was on track, for this particular Compulsion. He trusted his instincts, at least when it came to Keeper business.

  He was in the right place at the right time. For once. Perhaps protecting this human and working with her wouldn’t be such a hardship after all.

  That he wanted to tug her onto his lap, get her naked, and explore her luscious curves he’d have to write off to a healthy case of lust. Curse the gods. A fully formed image of his hands on her bare breasts as he thrust inside her nearly brought him to his knees. His erection strained against his jeans.

  Having delivered her orders, she strode to the bar with the same fervor, her glance coming to rest on him perhaps a moment too long. She set her tray on the bar and gestured to the man who’d waited on him. “Musko, can you see about the beer order? Charlie’s in the back, making noises about those kegs from last week. I’ll manage things here.”

  Dev took another long swallow, then smiled as she moved to the far end of the bar. “Hi.”

  Her eyes passed over his, as frosted as the glass in his hand, without so much as an acknowledgment. Taking her time, she worked her way up the bar, pulling drafts and chit chatting with an easy, familiar grace. Dev finished his beer and slid the empty glass across the counter. Waited.

  Snatching his mug from the bar, she held his gaze with pitch-dark eyes. Her features were as delicate—and bold—as the rest of her. Along the left side of her jaw, a scar sliced its way through the rich honey of her skin, a jagged, discolored testament to . . . what?

  “What’ll it be?” she snapped.

  Dev stared, bewitched with this siren before him. Her voice matched that body of hers, made for sin. She might as well have been asking him if he wanted a lap dance.

  Had a woman ever gotten him this off balance? He couldn’t recall, but he’d never departed the human realm before and then returned. Not in this lifetime. Or was it his second? There were bound to be a few surprises.

  “Another Gold Standard.” He offered her his most charming smile, the one he knew left a dimple near the right corner of his mouth. Women loved it. They’d been telling him so all his life. “It’s Mia, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes flashed. “You and I aren’t going to be on a first name basis,” she retorted. With deft movements, she filled his glass and slid it toward him, foam sloshing over the rim.

  Again, he smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m Dev. Relax. I don’t bite. Bartenders are usually good conversationalists.” He kept his voice easy, light. “I thought you and I could have some conversation. Maybe even a drink later.”

  She scowled. “I don’t want conversation. And I don’t want a drink. Got it?” She raised an eyebrow, but not her voice. “Five dollars.” With fingers devoid of polish and jewelry, she snatched the twenty he’d laid on the bar, ran the transaction, and slammed down his change.

  Ice princess. So he’d try another tack. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to charm you.”

  One corner of her mouth turned up in what might have been a smile, or snarl. He’d bet on snarl. “Of course you are.”

  He spread his hands. “Guilty as charged.”

  Leaning in toward him, she balanced her palms on the bar in silent challenge, like a beautiful bull ready to charge. “You can just put away your million-dollar smile. I’m not interested.”

  H
e’d never had this much trouble charming a woman before. Trying a sheepish grin, Dev fingered the Vitality stone around his neck, focused. And faltered for a moment. What the hell?

  Recovering quickly, he plowed on. “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying, right?” He hated the way he sounded. But he was powerless to stop. She must get hit on twenty times a day. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  If the people within earshot heard them, they either didn’t pay attention or the din of the lunchtime rush mercifully muffled their conversation.

  She flung a hand in the air, jerked her head at the crowded bar. “I’m busy.”

  “I know. You’re leaving me no other choice than to be completely honest.”

  “That must be a novel approach for you.”

  He ignored that. “There’s something very important I need to talk to you about.”

  Again, he eased a finger over the Vitality stone around his neck. Either he was rusty on his charm or reading Vistas, but he was getting nothing from this woman.

  Yet he’d connected with her energy. Of that he had no doubt. Reading her Vista should be a snap. But it was like running into a brick wall, and he found himself perplexed and fascinated by the challenge she didn’t even know she presented.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sure. Look, I don’t know what you think you have to talk to me about that’s so important. I really don’t have the time.” Spinning on one of those crazy high heels, she started toward the swinging door.

  Shooting out his hand, he closed it over the back of one of hers. The tattoo of a hawk, its ornate, colorful wings fanned out over her wrist. She stiffened, swung around, and met his eyes. Hers flickered, not with ice, but confusion, and . . . fear? Paling, she snatched her hand away.