“That’s one theory. The suspect pool is wiiiide. I’m a popular girl these days.”
And he was the reason why. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Cheryl was his mother; she’d always been too proud of him for her own good. Adam scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “God, Ma, I’m sorry. You wouldn’t be catching this kind of shit if I hadn’t let Branwyn talk me into that interview. Should have known I don’t belong on that side of the camera.”
From the corner of one eye, he saw the new intern give him a disapproving stare over her Starbucks tray. Yes, I call the boss by her first name, Adam thought in irritation. We’ve dodged bullets together for years. And made love. And fought too damned much because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom retorted. “Of course, you should have done the interview. You couldn’t let those idiots get away with saying none of it happened.” Her voice dropped to a growl over the rumble of the Honda’s engine in the background. “‘Computer graphics’ my ass. Nobody’s CGI is that good. And why would NBC, DCN, CBS, ABC and Fox cooperate in a mass hoax to fool the American people? Morons.”
“You can’t really blame them. I was there, and it didn’t feel real to me either.” Except CGI didn’t smell like burning meat and bloody copper pennies, a reek he knew too well from fifteen years of shooting in war zones.
The irritation bled from Cheryl’s voice, replaced by concern. “You sound tired, son. You still not sleeping?”
“Not as much as I’d like, no. But that’s pretty much par for the course.”
“I still think you should see somebody.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right… Well, I’m at the hospital. I’d better clock in before they write me up. Love you.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
The call screen vanished as his mother hung up. A Twitter notification popped up: Adam Parker I’m going to put a bullet in ur brain Fake News fucker I know where u live.
Adam sneered at the phone, tempted to invite the asshole to meet him outside the DCN building. Pounding some incel’s head in would make him feel a lot better.
And would probably get me fired. Conal wouldn’t appreciate the publicity. Being Branwyn’s favorite shooter earned Adam a lot of leeway from the company’s CEO, but aggravated assault was probably pushing…
A wave of ice rolled across Adam’s skin. Every hair on his body rose as if he stood in a thunderstorm the instant before a lightning strike. He knew that feeling. He’d felt it a dozen times last week.
Adam bolted to his feet, whirling to scan the room.
There. A white-hot point hung in mid-air. A heartbeat later, it expanded into a human-sized oval that wavered like a pool of clear water.
An alien stepped through.
The creature looked so damned unreal, looming there between rows of desks full of oblivious people working on the late broadcast. In his frozen astonishment, Adam couldn’t seem to speak, much less shout a warning.
The alien walked on his toes like a dog, lanky body covered in gleaming segmented armor. He scanned the room as two others emerged from the hole to join him. All three were better than seven feet tall, gripping long swords in two-fingered hands. Their helmets’ transparent faceplates revealed narrow, blue-skinned faces and predatory red eyes. And they were between Adam and both the newsroom exits.
Damn, but he missed the machete he’d used in Sudan.
“Aliens!” Adam roared. “Code Black!” In this era of mass shootings, it was the DCN code for armed intruders.
“Code Black!” Branwyn Donovan shot to her feet, her voice ringing over the startled shouts of her employees. Despite her crisp tone, her eyes looked huge in her whitening face. “Everybody out!”
Around the newsroom, heads turned, jaws dropping as they saw the lethal threat in their midst. People leaped up and started running.
The lead alien spotted Adam, and his predatory grin widened in triumph. “Ahhh!” he called over the screams, his English heavily accented. “There you are.” Something about the vicious anticipation in his eyes reminded Adam of that Al Qaeda fucker who’d almost slit his throat in ’07. The three started in Adam’s direction. Luckily everybody else was getting the hell out, snatching up laptops, purses and cell phones as they ran.
“Leave your shit!” Adam bellowed, backing away as the three aliens stalked him, swords lifted. “Everybody out -- Now!”
From the corner of one eye, he spotted Akemi Handa cowering behind a desk in a puddle of spilled lattes. The intern’s brown eyes darted in search of escape, and her face looked bloodless with terror. She seemed to be the only one trapped at this end of the room with him.
He had to distract the fuckers so she could run. Though he was probably screwed. Still, I survived that mob in Libya by stalling like a motherfucker. Might work again. Knowing Branwyn, she was probably already on the phone to the NYPD.
“We do not intend to kill you,” the alien told him, though the grin on his face suggested otherwise. “Surrender, and you’ll be treated with mercy.”
“Tell it to the people you killed in Times Square.” Adam snatched up the heavy gooseneck lamp off his desk, jerking the plug out of the wall as he retreated.
“It is merciful to make an example of a few to teach the many to accept their fate,” the leader said.
“Yeah, fuck you. Akemi, Goddamnit, move your ass!” He hurled the lamp at the alien, only to see it bounce off empty air as if it had hit something. What the hell?
The three aliens spread out, as if they intended to surround him. Adam ducked into the nearest cubicle, grabbed an office phone off the desk with his free hand, jerked it from the wall and threw it at ET. The creature gestured, and the phone exploded in shards of plastic.
Akemi yelped in alarm and raced to join the exodus out the nearest door. The aliens didn’t even glance her way, totally focused on Adam.
“You have no reason to risk battle,” the leader told him. “Your value as a hostage is high, and we shall not injure you if you surrender.” Red eyes narrowed. “But anger us at your peril.”
Adam fired the desk lamp at him with every ounce of force he could muster. “Yeah, fuck off, Papa Smurf.”
The lamp bounced off something invisible a yard from the bastard’s head. Adam grabbed up a backpack and sent it after the lamp, then immediately snatched up a paperweight and hurled it like a fastball.
Retreating, he grabbed chairs, phones, anything that came to hand, and threw it all as fast and hard as he could. Unfortunately, his projectiles kept bouncing away from his targets before they got anywhere close. What was up with that?
“What the hell do you want me for?” Stupid question -- they obviously intended to kill him. But fifteen years of dealing with psychotic assholes in a dozen countries had taught him that the longer you could stall, the greater your chances of escape.
“Ask your father.” ET’s blue lips peeled off inhumanly sharp teeth. “If he gives us what is ours, you’ll be released unharmed.”
“My father? I haven’t seen that man in twenty years, and he didn’t particularly give a shit about me then.” Assuming it really had been Paul Rogers. Their eyes had met and Adam had started toward him, but he’d disappeared in the crowd.
The alien sneered. “You’d best hope he cares, or you’ll have no value to…” He broke off, eyes widening, then whipped around to scan the room.
Ice rolled over Adam’s skin again -- the chill sensation of one of those doorways opening. Shit, what now?
“Leave him alone!” a deep voice barked. “If you want me, here I am!”
Adam whirled. One of those doorways had indeed opened, but this time the two figures stepping through it wore gold armor. The same armor as the man who’d saved him in Times Square.
But that voice… He frowned, realizing he recognized it, though he hadn’t heard it in decades. Dad?
* * *
“Leave him alone!” Ulf roared, striding through the gate. “If you wan
t me, here I am!”
As Opal followed, she heard his voice in her mind through the mission ring she wore on her left hand. She’d used a spell to link it to Ulf’s signet so they could communicate telepathically. Protect my son. I’ll deal with the Fomorians.
Adam turned, evidently sensing the gate -- yeah, he was a first-generation Latent -- and their gazes collided.
Damn, but he looks like Ulf. A couple of inches taller than his father, he had a glorious blond mane that tumbled around his shoulders and a thick blond beard. His eyes were a startling turquoise blue against his deeply tanned face, and he was as powerfully muscled as Ulf in jeans and a black knit shirt.
Adam’s gaze flew to his father’s face, and for a heartbeat he froze.
One of the Fomorians, seeing an opportunity, lunged at him. Opal sent her will stabbing into the Mageverse, opening a conduit to the hot sea of magic roiling there. Dragging the power into her mind, she shaped it into an attack and sent it pounding across the room. The Fomo didn’t see it coming in time to shield, and the force blast batted him into his fellow warriors. All three slammed against the rear wall with a meaty thump.
Adam wasn’t stupid. The minute they hit the ground, he whirled and made for the door.
Ulf charged in, whirling his sword in a figure eight. Cursing in their guttural language, the Fomorians scrambled out of the debris and scattered, obviously meaning to surround the vampire. Judging from the uneasy expressions visible through their faceplates, they knew they were facing a Knight of the Round Table. And probably wishing they’d brought a dozen friends. All three focused on Ulf, grim determination on their faces.
Too late now, boys. Sensing the rise of their magic, Opal stepped in close to the big knight, flicking up a shield just before the first force blast detonated against it in an explosion of sparks.
An image flashed through her mind. A werewolf, fanged jaws gaping, lunging at Joaquin. Shielding him just a heartbeat too…
Not helpful, Opal. She shut the memory down hard. She had to focus on the knight, listening for his mental commands through their mission rings.
As one of the Fomorians lunged at them, Ulf snapped, Drop the shield!
She obeyed, and he leaped forward, moving with such speed she could barely follow the action. His blade met the lead Fomorian’s armored throat and sliced into the gorget like cardboard. Violet blood flew. The Fomorian made a choked sound and staggered back, but the other two kept coming, hacking at Ulf with their swords.
She was tempted to feed one a fireball, but the quarters were too tight for effective spell work. Besides, combat in a burning building was nobody’s idea of a good time.
Opal longed to wade in with her own blade, but a Round Table knight did not need help against three opponents, Fomo or not. So she kept far enough back to avoid getting in his way, but close enough to shield him if he needed it.
Until his head snapped around and his mental voice barked, Opal, there’s Adam. Get him out of here before someone kills him.
Startled, she glanced back. Sure enough, there Adam stood at the other side of the room, holding a cell phone and pivoting smoothly to follow the action as his father fought.
The lunatic was filming the fight.
The whole point of this was to keep the Fomorians from getting their hands on him, and here he was trying to get himself captured. “Parker, get out of here!” she shouted.
Adam ignored her.
Cursing, she sent a spell winging toward him, something to jack up his adrenaline and encourage a little common sense. She’d rather avoid using a compulsion on him. Those kinds of spells tended to leave big, bloody footprints on a mortal’s mind.
Opal felt the spell bite home, but Adam didn’t even flinch. Well, of course he didn’t. The man goes into war zones armed with nothing more than a camera.
Growling under her breath, she grabbed more magical energy and upped the juice, intensifying the effect into outright terror. To her satisfaction, Adam’s head jerked and his tanned face paled.
Then his lips peeled off his teeth, he set his big feet wide… and stayed exactly where he was.
Opal, get him out of here, Ulf’s mental voice rang from her ring.
A compulsion spell it was, then. Opal reached for her magic, took a moment to compose the wording, and fired it right into his head.
Adam’s eyes met hers, going wide before they narrowed with helpless fury. He pivoted like a marionette and staggered from the room. She could feel him fighting the spell with every step. Her brows rose. She’d never been all that impressed by this generation, but Ulf’s son could teach stubborn to a Missouri mule.
When she turned back to her partner, two of the Fomorians were down, and Ulf was stalking the third.
“What’s this about?” The big knight demanded of the Fomo, frustration and rage in his voice. “What do you want?”
“Give it to us,” the Fomorian spat. “It is our queen’s. You have no right to it.”
“I don’t have anything of your queen’s,” Ulf snapped. “I don’t steal, Fomorian.”
“It is ours!” The Fomo leaped at him, sword raised high.
Opal shot a tight, contained shield spell over Ulf’s head to deflect the blade. The weapon rebounded as Ulf drove his sword into the Fomorian’s chest plate. Despite the armor’s protective spells, vampire strength rammed the blade through the Fomorian and out his back.
Dying, violet blood spilling from his lips, the Fomo’s red gaze met Ulf’s. “Return… it…”
“Return what?” Ulf demanded.
But the red eyes had already gone fixed.
Jerking his sword free, he let the body fall and surveyed the carnage grimly. “What the hell do they think I have?”
Chapter Two
Goddamnit! Adam raged in silent frustration as his body clattered down the concrete stairs, ignoring his furious efforts to regain control. That bitch did something to me. She’d gestured as she’d looked at him, and it had felt as if something had grabbed control of his body and marched him right out the door. At least he’d managed to livestream a few minutes of the fight to the DCN app before… whatever she’d done. For that matter, how had she done that? It made no sense. But then, he’d been living in Bizarro World since last week. He should be used to it by now.
The narrow stairwell felt hot with the press of people, all of them babbling in fear and confusion. Voices yammered about “aliens,” “terrorists,” and “dragons,” the words sharp with growing terror as they stoked each other’s anxiety. They’d be lucky if this didn’t morph into a full-fledged stampede.
At last they reached the bottom floor and the pack spilled across the lobby, all but running. He burst out the building’s open exit doors into the night with the others, helpless against whatever pulled his strings. The whole pack scattered, heading for the nearest subway stop, grabbing cabs or Ubers, or just running like hell to put as much distance as possible between them and the aliens.
“Adam!” Branwyn’s voice. “Oh, thank God.” From the corner of one eye, he saw her reach out to grab his shoulder.
He tried to tell her what was happening, but his lips refused to obey and his feet kept walking. He wanted to howl in rage, fear and frustration.
“Adam? What’s the…” She cursed, her voice going grim. “Fin, he’s under a spell. Can you break it?”
A spell? But there’s no such thing as magic!
But there was. Obviously. What else explained the fire-breathing dragon that had incinerated those people? And how does Branwyn know I’m under a spell?
A heavily accented Irish voice said, “It’s Magekind work. I don’t have the juice to break something like that.”
Jesus. She and this Irishman seemed to know more about what was going on than he did.
Branwyn stepped in front of Adam and began to walk backward, staring into his face, still gripping his arm. “Why would the Magekind put a spell on him?”
The Irish voice snorted. “He was probably shooting
something they didn’t want him to shoot.” Weirdly, the voice seemed to be coming from the vicinity of her hair. Was her phone on speaker? Yet her long curls stirred, as if something hid in there…
“Yeah, probably.” She frowned, examining him in concern. He stared into her violet eyes, looking for reassurance in the face of his terrifying loss of control. She gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “Listen, Adam, you’ll be okay. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve got a good reason.”
Who are “they?” What the fuck do you know about all this? And how do you know about it? he ached to ask so desperately, the questions seemed to exert a physical pressure against his lips.
Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Call me when the spell breaks.” She stepped out of his path and turned away.
Adam desperately wanted to follow her, but his body didn’t even pause as it strode across the sidewalk to the curb. One hand shot up, and a yellow cab rolled to a halt. He walked over, opened the rear door and got inside, his mouth rattling off the address of his Brooklyn apartment. The cab started with a lurch, and he sat back.
What the fuck’s happening? And what does any of this have to do with Dad?
Had that been Dad in the newsroom?
But that made no sense. According to his mother, Paul Rogers had been a businessman who traveled a lot. Not the kind of guy who wore armor and dueled aliens. Whatever kind of guy that was.
Though… one of Adam’s earliest memories was of holding a blunt wooden rapier in chubby hands. His father knelt at his back, guiding his hand through the eight parry positions. Prime… Seconde… Tierce… Quarte… Quinte… Sixte… Septime… Octave… Good, boy! Very good…
Adam tried to open his mouth and tell the cabbie to turn around and go back to DCN, but his lips wouldn’t move. Whatever the woman had done to him was still in effect.
Spells. Aliens. Armored men who might be his father.
What the fuck was going on?
* * *
It took more than an hour to make it home to Brooklyn through the heavy city traffic, and Adam spent the whole trip grinding his teeth. At last the cab rolled up to the five-story brownstone he called home, a former safe factory cut into loft apartments.
Master of Passion Page 2
