Resonance: An Echo Trilogy Novella (Echo Trilogy, #1.5)

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  Resonance

  ECHO TRILOGY, NOVELLA 1.5

  By LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  Copyright © 2014 by Lindsey Fairleigh

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.

  Editing by Sarah KolbWilliams

  www.kolbwilliams.com

  L2 Books

  101 W American Canyon Rd. Ste. 508 – 262

  American Canyon, CA 94503

  MORE BOOKS BY LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  ECHO TRILOGY

  1: Echo in Time

  1.5: Resonance

  2: Time Anomaly

  2.5: Dissonance

  3: Ricochet Through Time

  THE ENDING SERIES

  After The Ending

  Into The Fire

  Out Of The Ashes

  Before The Dawn

  THE ENDING BEGINNINGS

  Omnibus

  I: Carlos

  II: Mandy

  III: Vanessa

  IV: Jake

  V: Clara

  VI: Jake & Clara

  FOR MORE INFORMATION ON LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH & THE ECHO TRILOGY:

  www.lindseyfairleigh.com

  DEDICATION

  For B, who gave me the opportunity to turn my dreams into reality.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: Push & Pull

  CHAPTER 2: Among & Apart

  CHAPTER 3: Within & Without

  CHAPTER 4: Try & Fail

  CHAPTER 5: Flesh & Stone

  CHAPTER 6: Her & Me

  CHAPTER 7: Thought & Reason

  CHAPTER 8: Two & One

  CHAPTER 9: Future & Past

  MORE FROM LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH

  CHAPTER ONE

  Push & Pull

  “I’m almost ready!” I called to Marcus from the tiny bathroom attached to our bedroom. The building the Council of Seven used as their headquarters in Florence was a stunning Renaissance palazzo, filled with all the high-ceilinged chambers, arches, gilding, and frescoes one could ask for, but the living quarters on its top two floors were definitely on the small side. And small living quarters, though exquisitely furnished, meant itty-bitty bathrooms.

  “Take your time, Little Ivanov. The meeting with Sotheby’s isn’t for another two hours.”

  Since Florence was one of the few Nejeret-heavy cities where Marcus didn’t own a house, he’d decided it was the perfect time to meet with an agent to start shopping for our very first Lex-and-Marcus Firenze home. I caught myself grinning like a fool in the mirror hanging over the pedestal sink. Excitement shone in my eyes, making my carmine irises appear even more crimson than usual.

  And only adding to my giddiness was the fact that this would be my first time actually leaving the palazzo’s heavily guarded grounds. The gardens might’ve been just as wondrous as the palace itself, but they were surrounded by walls, and even though I was permitted to wander through them without any of my guards, I was still separated from the outside world. I’d never been to Florence before, and today’s outing would finally give me a chance to see some of the sights I’d only heard about since waking from my regenerative slumber: the Ponte Vecchio bridge, the Duomo and the other basilicas, the Fountain of Neptune …

  I was ridiculously eager—and, as such, spending way too much time on my appearance. For whatever reason, primping tended to steady my nerves.

  Staring into the mirror once more, I finished my makeup with a dab of my favorite vanilla-plum lip balm, then held my eyes wide and tried not to blink as I put in my plain-old-brown-colored contacts. I plucked the necklace hanging from one of the mirror’s many flourishes and headed out to the bedroom.

  “Help, please.” I held the necklace out to Marcus, who was sitting on the foot of the bed in nothing but charcoal-gray slacks and an unbuttoned white dress shirt. His eyes were closed, and his body was completely still; he didn’t even appear to be breathing.

  For nearly a minute, I watched him, studied the strong, clean lines of his face, the bronzed skin and contours of muscle visible through the opening in his shirt, thinking it was unfair for any living being to be so inhumanly beautiful. Especially when, underneath all of that enticing flesh, there was enough charisma, sharp intellect, and passion for a dozen men. But he wasn’t a dozen men; he was Marcus, ancient and world-weary Marcus, and he was all mine.

  Finally, he took a slow, deep breath. I sighed. He was in At-qed, the hypometabolic state a Nejeret went into when his ba left his body to wander through the At, the very fabric of space and time, to view events of the past, present, and possible futures. And Marcus’s ba—his soul—was in the At … again.

  In the week since the encounter with Set in Hatchepsut’s mortuary temple, his need to check the At, to test its stability and measure the intensity of the Nothingness that threatened to overtake it, had increased to the point of obsession. It wasn’t that he needed to do it. Dozens of other Nejerets had been assigned that task specifically, but he didn’t seem to trust their observations. At every possible moment, he plunged into the At, and it was getting a tad irritating. Especially considering that I was avoiding the At; after the months I’d spent in there as Set’s prisoner, I wanted to keep my ba safe and sound in my body as much as possible.

  There was only one surefire way to draw Marcus back to his body. Back to me.

  “Marcus,” I said in a singsong voice. Hitching up the skirt of my white linen sundress, I crawled onto the bed and straddled his legs. I slipped my hands under his shirt and ran my fingertips over the ridges of muscle on his abdomen and chest, then back down until my fingertips touched his belt buckle. I started to unfasten it. “You know, you should really be more careful about where you leave your body … who knows what someone might do with it.” Touching my lips to the honey-colored skin at the crook of his neck, I smiled. “When Marcus’s ba is away, Lex will play …”

  Marcus inhaled suddenly, exhaling with a rough chuckle. “Ah … Little Ivanov, I see you’re ready.” I didn’t miss his double entendre as his hands slid up my thighs, and he grasped my hips, pressing me against him more firmly.

  “Always …”

  Again, he chuckled. “Have I been neglecting you?”

  I nodded against his neck, whimpering when I tried to move against him but couldn’t. His hold on my hips was relentless.

  “Hmmm … I must think long and hard on how I can remedy my poor treatment of you.”

  An eager grin spread across my face, until someone knocked on the door. My grin withered.

  “Grandfather?” It was Vali, a mountainous man who was one of Marcus’s myriad of Nejeret grandchildren, and also one of my head bodyguards. “I apologize for interrupting, but there is a phone call for you—someone from the Galleria dell’Accademia here in Florence. He says it’s urgent.”

  A growl of frustration rumbled in Marcus’s chest as his fingers unclenched from my hips and he stood, setting me on my feet. He placed his hands on either side of my face and stared into my eyes. His pupils slowly constricted as he restrained his desire, obsidian giving way to his black-rimmed golden irises. “A thousand apologies, Little Ivanov.” He kissed me, the lightest brush of his silken lips against mine. “I will make amends for my recent transgressions … soon.” He kissed me again, the light pressure deepening with promise.

  I exhaled as he pulled away and headed for the door. He opened it with one sharp jerk.

  Vali nodded at me in greeting, and I offered him a small smile as he
handed Marcus a cordless phone.

  Marcus turned away from the doorway and, staring at the gold-embossed scarlet wallpaper behind the mahogany headboard, raised the phone to his ear. “This is Marcus Bahur. To whom am I speaking?” He pulled the phone away when a man on the other end started speaking, his voice far too loud for Marcus’s sensitive hearing. Luckily, since my hearing was almost as heightened as his, I could hear the other man’s accented voice quite clearly.

  “Superintendent Pietro Gaspari, signore. I am calling you about the Michelangelo sculpture you have so generously loaned to dell’Accademia …”

  Marcus brought the receiver closer to his mouth. “La Donna Triste … ?”

  “Yes. I am sorry, signore, but it would appear there was a breakin over the night, and she has been … defaced.”

  Marcus’s left hand clenched into such a tight fist that his knuckles blanched. “In what way was La Donna defaced?”

  “A symbol was etched into her chest, directly over her heart.”

  Marcus closed his eyes for several long seconds, taking slow, even breaths. “I see. Grazie, Signor Gaspari. I’m certain you will not fault me for wishing to reclaim the sculpture for safekeeping. I shall be there to make arrangements for her transportation shortly.”

  “I understand. I will be waiting to attend to you. Again, signore, my sincerest apologies …”

  The call ended, and Marcus handed the phone back to Vali.

  I took a single step toward Marcus. “So, we’ll head over to the Accademia before the meeting?”

  “I will go, Little Ivanov.” He avoided meeting my eyes. “You will stay here, and I will return to fetch you before our meeting with the agent, when more of your guards are available.”

  I stared up at the plaster moldings on the ceiling and took a deep breath, then focused once again on the most obstinate man in the world. “Marcus … you’re doing that thing again.” He had a bad habit of trying to order me around.

  Frustration flashed in those golden eyes. “There is no need for your presence at dell’Accademia. It is merely an administrative issue.”

  “Then send Carlisle … or Dom,” I countered.

  “It is a matter I would greatly prefer to attend to myself.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “Vali and Sandra were planning on accompanying us later anyway, so there should be no problem having them join us now … right, Vali?” I didn’t look away from Marcus.

  Vali cleared his throat. “If that is your wish, Meswett.”

  My smile widened. There were a few perks to being the prophesied savior of an entire species of godlike beings, one being that my “suggestions” carried a whole lot of weight. “It is. Thank you, Vali,” I said, watching Marcus’s jaw clench and unclench and his nostrils flare repeatedly. “Please go inform Sandra.”

  Vali didn’t waste any time in leaving us. He shut the door quietly, and I listened as his footsteps retreated too quickly for a walk.

  Marcus took a deep breath, exhaling heavily. “I dislike the idea of you leaving the palazzo without a full retinue of guards.” He shook his head. “If something were to happen to you, I …” My will to not be left behind for the umpteenth time since we’d been in Florence threatened to crumble under the sheer force of concern shining in Marcus’s eyes.

  I straightened my spine and held my head high. “And if I stay here, safe and sound behind high walls and locked doors, but something happens to you … then what happens to me?” I closed the distance between us in two long strides and reached up, placing my hand against his contoured cheek. “The results are the same either way, Marcus; we made sure of that the moment we sealed our bond. Like it or not”—I let one corner of my mouth quirk up in a crooked smile—“and I think you like it … you’re stuck with me.”

  Marcus’s lips twitched. “It infuriates me when you use logical arguments.”

  I grinned, stood on my tiptoes, and pressed my lips against his.

  Marcus’s arms were around me in an instant, the fingers of one hand splayed against the small of my back while his other hand gripped the back of my neck. He took control of the embrace, and it was control I relinquished willingly, simply trying to hold onto sanity as he unleashed a thunderstorm of a kiss. Sometimes, I was convinced that Marcus’s angry kisses were my favorite.

  It was short, but far from sweet, and when he pulled away, I was left gasping for air. “Well … that was … nice,” I said, smoothing down my hair and clearing my throat.

  Marcus smirked and raised one eyebrow.

  Heat flushed my neck and cheeks. “Yeah, so, um …” I cleared my throat again and held the necklace out to him. “Please?”

  He accepted the necklace, holding it up so the pendant dangled in front of his face. It was a three-thousand-year-old lapis lazuli falcon about the size of a house key and had been affixed in a silver setting to convert it into a pendant. Marcus had given it to me the previous night, almost looking bashful as he opened a tiny wooden jewelry box and said, “A falcon for my she-falcon.”

  “Do you truly like it?” he asked me now.

  I turned around so he could secure the clasp behind my neck. The pendant settled against my breastbone, and I touched my fingertips to its cool, smooth surface. To wear something that symbolized Marcus—Heru—so close to my heart … “Marcus, I love it.” My voice sounded thick, and I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat.

  Marcus pressed his lips to the base of my neck, just above the chain’s clasp. “Then I am pleased.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me around, scanning me from head to toe. The faintest line appeared between his eyebrows.

  “What? Is something wrong with what I’m wearing?” I glanced down. The white linen of my sundress was a little rumpled from what had almost happened a few minutes earlier, but it wasn’t stained or torn, and I couldn’t find any fault with the silver-embellished sandals on my feet or the slender leather belt cinched around my waist. I smoothed my hands down the skirt of my dress compulsively and repeated, “What?”

  Marcus frowned. “I’m not sure, I just—” His eyes returned to my face, and he shook his head. “A trick of the mind, I think.” His lips spread into a heartbreakingly handsome smile. “I blame you. You fill my head with such strange fanciful notions every day … such impossible dreams every night.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Right …”

  Again, Marcus shook his head, laughing softly to himself. He quickly buttoned his shirt and slipped on his shoes before taking my hand and threading our fingers together. “Come, Little Ivanov. It would seem we have a busy day ahead of us.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Among & Apart

  Since the Galleria dell’Accademia wasn’t far from the Council’s palazzo—just across the Fiume Arno, the river splitting Florence in two, and several blocks to the north in the heart of the city—we decided to walk. I was utterly delighted. Sotheby’s was far enough away from the palazzo that I’d expected I would only get to see Florence through a rolled-up car window. But now, since foot traffic would likely make driving to the Accademia take longer than walking, I had a chance to be a genuine, slow-walking, gaping-at-my-surroundings tourist. I just wished I had a camera.

  I was in a state of awe as we stepped onto the south end of the Ponte Vecchio bridge, the medieval bridge famous for still being lined by tiny shops as it would have been hundreds of years ago; only Marcus’s hold on my hand kept me moving forward. It was the beginning of summer, and despite it still being relatively early in the morning, the pedestrian-only bridge was packed with tourists on either side, most pausing every few yards to stare into the window display of the next tiny boutique jewelry shop in an endless line of nearly identical shops.

  Lucky for our foursome—Vali, Sandra, Marcus, and me—there was a relatively clear path down the center of the bridge, and we were able to make our way across fairly quickly. Vali took point, which seemed to entail looking everywhere at once while taking momentary brea
ks every now and again to stare down anyone who’d taken an interest in Marcus and me. Sandra, a childlike woman who was at least as deadly as Vali and also one of Marcus’s grandchildren, trailed a short distance behind us. With a brief glance over my shoulder, I saw that she was doing essentially the same thing as Vali, with just a touch more glaring.

  While we crossed the bridge, I gawked at the scene around us, but when we neared its end, I turned my attention to Marcus and gave his hand a squeeze. “So … you own a Michelangelo sculpture.”

  “I do,” he said, scanning the myriad of people and stone and stucco buildings with almost as intense a focus as Vali and Sandra.

  I held back a smile. “Tell me, Marcus—why do you own a Michelangelo sculpture?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, but he narrowed his eyes and pretended to frown as he continued to watch our surroundings. “Well, I suppose it’s because I quite enjoy the way it looks.”

  A soft laugh glided up my throat. “And how do you own a Michelangelo sculpture?”

  I was expecting him to say something along the lines of “I bought it.” But that would have been far too simple. I was being naïve, still thinking like a human.

  “I commissioned it.”

  I stopped mid-step at the foot of the bridge and gaped at him. “You commissioned it.”

  Marcus looked back at me over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “I did.”

  “From Michelangelo.”

  He glanced around, looking bored, but I caught that telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The very one.”

  I held up a hand. “The same guy who made the David and painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? We’re talking about the same guy, right?”

  Marcus tugged on my hand, but I refused to budge. He sighed. “Yes, Little Ivanov, we are speaking of the same man.” His momentary amusement fizzled away, and he returned to scanning the people around us. “May we please continue? I’m eager to assess the damage and conclude this unwelcome business as quickly as possible.”

  I pursed my lips and studied his tensed features. “You mean, you want to interrogate their security people and confiscate any video footage of the breakin as soon as possible … so you can hunt down whoever vandalized your precious sculpture and make them kneel before you and beg for your forgiveness right before you do something exceptionally painful to them, right?”