No wheel lock, no electronic gizmos keeping the vehicle safe. That was why she’d chosen a small, cheap, older model. If she hadn’t found one, she’d have risked a bigger one, or even running and flying, but this was better. No psychic trail for them to trace. She’d learned how to bury her shape-shifter self years ago and she did it now, forcing her psi into slumber.
Feeling sorry for the ordinary office worker whose car she’d just stolen, she headed for the barriers. No alarm sounded. She still wore the ankle bracelet and it still held good. Any minute now the alarm would sound and the ankle bracelets would be deactivated.
Once out of the building, she heaved a sigh of relief. She felt even better when they’d traveled a few streets and she could be sure nobody followed them.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Harken said. He didn’t look so confident now. When she risked a glance at him, she saw the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of strain by his mouth. “I don’t think I could have held out for much longer. They questioned me once. It wasn’t pleasant. They would have done it again. That woman did it once, the one you took down. She was probably on her way to doing it again.”
“That’s okay. Somebody had to get you out.”
It was done. So why did she feel so bad, instead of triumphant?
*
Andros groaned and rolled over, reaching for Faye. Why had he fallen asleep? He wanted more of this woman. After they’d shared a half bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, he’d dozed, determined to wake and have more of her.
He rolled on to his back and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Fuck, he felt groggy.
He was alone in the bed. Maybe she was taking a shower. He shoved the covers aside and crossed the room on shaky legs. When he opened the door to the miniscule bathroom he found no one there, only two glasses rinsed out and drying on the side of the sink. Something roiled in his gut. Slowly he turned back to the room. Her sports bag was gone too. Oh no.
Running a hand through his tousled hair, Andros tried to think. They’d made glorious love, shared the wine and then—nothing. And he had a killer headache pounding at the back of his skull.
Realization hit him with the force of a jackhammer. Fuck, she’d drugged him. He remembered her hand going into her bag before she poured the wine—getting more condoms, she said, and she’d showed him a couple. Probably picked up a pill at the same time. He hadn’t kept the glasses in clear view all the time. Shit, he wasn’t an agent, why should he worry? Besides, if she wanted to rob him, she was out of luck…
His shocked gaze went down to his bare feet. She’d taken his ankle bracelet. Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuckety fuck. He had to get back to STORM, fast. Or make contact. He glanced at the bedside table. No phone. Cheaper hotels sometimes did away with phones, but with cell phones so prevalent, people didn’t use them like they used to. Pity his cell was back at his apartment in STORM.
He went back to the bed and tried to concentrate, to work on his psi, to try to contact someone telepathically. The effort made his head pound and he had to fight down a rising wave of nausea. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t contact his other self. What the fuck had she given him?
The answer came fast. Cephalox. That would block his access to his dragon self for a while to come. Surgeons used it to maintain a shape-shifter’s form during procedures, stop involuntary shape-shifting, but since it had entered a wider market, people used it to drug and capture shape-shifters. He couldn’t use his psi, either. No telepathy. She’d incapacitated him. Why hadn’t he brought some clothes with him, or some plastic so he could send out for some?
Because he hadn’t been using his head. At least not the one with his brain in it.
He leaned back because his head hurt less that way, and thought.
He only had to get across the park. He jogged there most mornings. The exercise would probably help to clear his head, as well.
With no clothes or cash it’d be tricky. He couldn’t even pay for the room here, and he’d bet she hadn’t bothered.
How the fuck did he get out of this?
Half an hour later, a disheveled Andros jogged through the main door of STORM. He’d stolen a hotel towel to cover his privates, fashioned it into a loincloth. Otherwise he’d have been arrested for indecency. That law still applied, even for shape-shifters who didn’t give a shit about nakedness. He’d face security here if he had to. He’d have to fess up about the ankle bracelet, anyway.
The only person in the chilly marble area was the receptionist, who glanced up and grinned when she saw him. “You been out partying?”
Thank God, someone he knew, someone who wouldn’t ask for his identity, with any luck. He’d lunched with her in the cafeteria one time, even tried to hit on her without much success. He forced a grin. “Something like that. See this often, do you?”
She eyed him up and down and raised a brow. “Not often enough.”
His hand went to the knot on his towel. Still securely tied. He’d gotten a few stares, but as far as he knew, nobody had taken pictures.
He gave the receptionist a mock snarl and strode past to the sound of her giggles. “You’re lucky they’re busy today,” the woman remarked. “I can’t see the boss appreciating you arriving in that condition.”
Her words made him turn. “I thought it was a quiet day.” He hadn’t heard of any new operations, anything that would make them extra busy, and as one of the heads of departments, he’d have heard something.
She flapped her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Lots of fussing, and I’m supposed to check everybody who comes through.” She gave him a slow perusal, up and down. Then she did it again. “So I checked you. And I’m beginning to change my mind about that date.”
So was he. “I’ll call you. Right now I need to get out of this—towel.”
The fuss could be anything. He could only hope that it didn’t concern him and his missing ankle bracelet. Unlikely, but if it was, he’d find someone waiting for him.
By some miracle the elevator car was empty. He stalked in with a sigh of relief and stabbed the button for his floor.
When the elevator doors opened, Andros wasted no time in hurrying to his apartment. This floor held several guest apartments and a few residential ones. They’d given one to Andros when he was still disabled, and he’d been there ever since. Going to work had never been so easy.
Luckily he didn’t bump into anyone on the way. He couldn’t have borne the water cooler gossip. He’d have moved out first.
Back in his apartment, he ripped off the hated towel and headed for the shower. After he’d washed his hair for the second time, he felt the steam go out of his temper. He needed that. Needed to think properly. He let himself relax under the spray, let his mind drift and open to ideas. And then the thought came to him.
He knew where to start looking for her. She’d opened to him for a fraction of time at the peak of her final orgasm and they’d melded minds. He’d caught a few images and learned her pattern. Once in her vicinity he could find her. And he knew where she was, because he recognized one of the images. The old architecture was the center of the university where he’d signed up to do a doctoral course. When his illness worsened, the course had helped to give him something to live for, but on his conversion he’d given it up. He needed time to learn how to be a dragon, how to cope with his new life, his new body. So he’d dropped out. He always meant to go back.
He could get his ankle bracelet back. He tried an experimental shape-shift. Oh yeah. It hurt, but he could do it, and when he opened his mind, he could sense something. If he worked at it he could get that back, no problem. She must have given him a small dose, because a full dose of cephalox would have lasted twenty-four hours.
In a better frame of mind, he dressed, ran a comb through his hair and left his apartment.
When he ventured downstairs to his office, Andros found STORM in a state of controlled chaos. But nobody bothered him and nobody waited outside his office. Once he’d closed the d
oor behind him, he sighed in relief.
His office was a long, narrow room with shelves on each side. At one time it had probably been a storeroom, but the shelves now bore a selection of state-of-the-art computers and peripherals, as well as cables, piles of paper and other junk. But Andros saw the order at once. He’d always preferred order; in the days of crutches and wheelchairs, he’d needed the order. Even though his sister always lived in an area that looked as if a bomb had hit it. He grinned when he recalled how Johann, Ania’s lover, now husband, had reacted to the chaos of the apartment they’d shared in L.A. Johann had imagined someone had broken in and ransacked the place.
Andros wondered how they were managing to keep their New York apartment tidy. Ania tended to scatter items in her wake. She created nests, and everywhere she went she left something behind, a watch, a shopping list, a discarded sweater. Their apartment certainly seemed tidy enough, but maybe Johann was employing help. Besides, Ania had more than tidiness to occupy her these days, because, like Andros himself, she’d been converted. But unlike Andros, she’d become that rarest of Talents, a converted vampire. Since vampires had to give up their lives in order to convert a mortal, that didn’t happen very often.
Next to that change in lifestyle, tidiness seemed a paltry matter.
Sitting at the computer, he booted up the nearest PC and opened a web browser. He typed almost without thinking, having conducted many searches before as part of his job. He always started with the common web searching engines. It was amazing what he could find out just with those.
Ah. Result. He found a list of faculty at the university and brought it up on the screen, together with the thumbnail photos. Yes, there she was.
Fuck, she hadn’t even used her real name.
Well, he’d pay Ms. Faye McCauley a visit. Time he resurrected his university career. Good time of year to do it too. He checked the dates on the website. He’d be just in time to register. It closed at four thirty today, although he rather imagined that Ann Reynolds could get him an extension if he asked her to. And if he wanted to draw attention to himself, of course.
He stretched, reaching his arms above his head, savoring the ease with which he could do that, and caught sight of the pair of crutches propped by the door. He didn’t need them anymore, but he kept them anyway. Insurance, a reminder, or maybe he was just used to them. It wasn’t home unless he had some crutches in sight. These were one of the pairs he’d customized in his emo-goth days. Painted black, decorated with stick-on skulls, stars and moons he’d found in a craft store, then sprayed with iridescent clear lacquer. Flashy, but preferable to the boring gray or white hospital-issue ones. These were forearm crutches, better designed ergonomically, meaning he could lean on them and use his hands freely. He remembered his first pair, and how much better he’d found them than the underarm type. While he couldn’t think of them as happy days, they weren’t all bad. Maybe that was why he couldn’t completely leave that time behind.
Leaving his office, he headed downstairs, crutches tucked under his arm. If he’d learned one thing from his time here, it was not to give adversaries any advantage. The last time he’d gone in to classes, he’d been in a wheelchair. They had no idea about his conversion—very few people did. There’d just been no reason to broadcast the fact, although he hadn’t made a secret of it, either. Just didn’t go out much, nor had any call to. He’d make it work for him now. About time the disease that had nearly ended his life gave him some payback. If he came up against any problems, they’d assume he was weak, and Faye hadn’t taken that ankle bracelet on a whim. She’d done it with a purpose in mind, so she might have accomplices.
If she worked at the university, she lived nearby, near enough to commute. But she’d rented a hotel room, which meant she didn’t want to leave traces behind, which meant she’d planned it. If not him, then another man. The thought was enough to make him growl low in his throat, but when his companions in the elevator gave him raised brows and odd looks, he left off and started to plan his revenge instead.
Faye sat at her desk and leafed through her list of students for the term. Teaching literature could be exciting and it could be the most tedious and frustrating experience in existence. It depended on the students. She had a class of seventy to lecture to, and a group of five to mentor. None of them appeared any different than the last bunch, but hidden gems were just that—hidden—and she’d found one or two in her time here.
So much had happened since she last sat here—had it really been only the day before yesterday?—that perhaps she should give herself some time to catch up with events. Her fatigue could well be the reason she felt like this—completely drained and demoralized. The adrenaline spike had thrown her whole system off kilter.
She glanced up as the door opened, and smiled at Harken Nordheim. He carefully closed the door behind him, looking far better than he had a right to, considering his ordeal. When he took two large strides to sweep her into his arms and give her a smacking kiss on each cheek, she laughed, a little embarrassed. “Thanks, you beautiful thing,” he said. Harken was tall, with gleaming gold and gray hair swept back from his high temples, gray eyes and classical features. His tall frame wasn’t half bad, either. So why didn’t he turn her on like Andros did? And why was she still thinking about Andros? She’d set herself to forget, but so far that project had been an abject failure.
“Hey, Harken, nice to see you too,” she said, trying to be normal, not letting him see how profoundly last night’s adventure had affected her. She needed to set it all in place in her own mind first.
He loosened his hold but kept her in the circle of his arms. “You were fantastic. So cool, the way you put out those guards. I’m proud of you.”
She’d hated that part but she shrugged, trying not to let it show. That one telling moment when Harken had kicked the Sorcerer for no reason other than revenge had concerned her. She already knew Harken had an arrogant streak. Now she wondered how far that arrogance went. “They just weren’t expecting an attack. I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t set it up right.”
He cupped her cheek. “Did he hurt you? The guy you took the ankle bracelet from?”
“No.” She pulled away and went back behind her desk, head down. “He was okay. I felt a bit of a shit doing it, actually. Some geek who worked at STORM.”
“Did you have to go all the way?” He stood on the other side of the desk, placed his palms on the shiny surface and leaned forward. “Don’t feel bad. You needed that ankle bracelet and all’s fair these days.” He didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of distress on her behalf. Just triumph that they’d done it.
Faye hated to admit that lurking thrill she felt, that she’d broken into STORM and rescued a prisoner where so many others had failed. She’d never heard of anyone escaping from that place before. But betraying Andros and the hurt she’d inflicted on people only doing their jobs made her feel sick to her stomach. Harken seemed to have none of her misgivings.
He didn’t care what she’d done to get that bracelet. He didn’t give a shit, so long as she’d rescued him. That hurt the most. She’d thought they had something, the start of a relationship maybe, but he hadn’t shown any regret or anger that she’d fucked someone else. He’d paid her special attention, told her some of his secrets. They’d shared a few enjoyable dates and, while they had yet to go to bed together, she’d imagined it would be part of the developing relationship. He still appeared to think so, but now she knew that would never happen.
Finally he picked up on her less than ecstatic mood. Harken rarely used psi, but this time she felt his light entry into her outer mind, touching her concerns. Although mortal, he’d learned to use his innate telepathy, the skill most mortals suppressed at birth without even knowing they had it. Now some used it, and were taking classes in developing it.
He gave her a wry smile. “Listen, sweetheart, I know this hurt. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. The guy won’t get into trouble—just get taken to task, p
robably. You did right. He doesn’t know you, can’t trace you. Speke isn’t the biggest university in New York, but it’s not the smallest, either.” He touched her chin. “Hey, how about dinner one night?”
He was humoring her. And he didn’t seem rattled, not one bit. His lean, handsome face didn’t hold a wrinkle; not a line of worry marred his smooth forehead.
So she humored him back. “Sure. I’d like that.”
“That’s my girl.”
She wasn’t his girl. Not anymore. Something else occurred to her. “So why aren’t you running? Won’t they come back for you?”
“If they come back for me this time I’m ready. I have lawyers on the case and I’m holding a meeting of the society later. I’m going to tell them what happened. They’ll never dare do anything like it again and it should start the debate properly. They won’t be able to hide their ambitions anymore. You’ll come.” It wasn’t a request.
“Of course.” After all, she’d saved him. “And STORM definitely wants to force the registration of all Talents.”
He gave her a look that clearly said “duh”. “You saw the evidence.”
Papers that stated their support for the senators, declarations of intent. Yes, she’d seen them. But untypical doubts filled her today. Maybe that connection with Andros, seeing STORM as a very human institution and not a megalith, had sown the seeds of doubt in her mind. “Don’t tell them what I did. I did it on my own, nobody else knew.”
“It makes you very special.” His voice warmed. He’d withdrawn his mental presence so she could only go on what she saw.
And she saw danger. Not because it was there, but because it wasn’t. She’d put herself in his hands by accomplishing the rescue on her own. Only he knew, and now he could tell. Or he might decide she was best out of the way. She’d never come out, never revealed her true nature, so he could do that too.
ShiftingHeat Page 4
