Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection

by Kerry Adrienne

  A bullet smashed through the windshield, scattering shards of glass across the passenger seat.

  Kyle instinctively reached for his gun.

  His car jolted forward as he was rammed from behind. The gun slipped from his grasp and slid across the passenger seat before tumbling off onto the floorboard.

  Gunfire from behind sent him diving to the seat. Fragments of faux leather and polyester sprayed through the car interior. He leaned down and reached for his gun. The grip was a fraction of an inch beyond his grasp. He would have to dive for it.

  Kyle inhaled deeply and braced himself. With his right hand, he opened the car door. In that same instant, he lunged forward, seized his gun, and rolled out of the car in a smooth motion. He scrambled around the car fractions of a second before the gunfire ripped up the asphalt around him.

  One of the black cars raced past him.

  A bitter taste flooded his throat. Sofia was in that car.

  And he was trapped, pinned down by gunfire coming from the other car.

  He crouched low, peeked around his bullet-riddled cab, and pulled off a single clean shot.

  Air hissed out of the front tire of the sedan.

  The familiar scream of police sirens pierced the air. Kyle threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The mailman huddled behind a large bush, fumbling with his cell phone. Thank God for innocent bystanders and their ubiquitous cell phones.

  Two cops on motorcycles scrambled onto the scene. Gunfire from the car turned on the cops—the Rue Marcha members were instinctively violent in their response to law. One policeman skidded, screaming and bleeding from a shoulder wound. He tumbled onto the road and curled into a defensive position. His motorcycle slid across the road, coming to a rest beside the cab.

  Kyle stared at the motorcycle’s still-spinning wheels.

  He pushed to his feet and raced to the motorcycle. He yanked it upright, swung his leg over the seat, and wrung the throttle. He raced down the street after the second black car.

  Catching up with the car Sofia was in was not difficult. Getting it to pull over was an entirely different matter. He leaned forward, braced his arm across the motorcycle handlebars, and raised his handgun. For a moment, it wavered unsteadily in his hand before his grip tightened. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  The back tire of the car popped. Rubber instantly shredded into fragments.

  The car careened out of control. It swerved between the road and sidewalk before barreling at top speed toward a gas station at the junction of two roads.

  No!

  The thought was scarcely formed in his head when two thousand pounds of an out-of-control vehicle rammed into a gas pump. The glancing impact swung the car. Its rear squarely hit the adjacent gas pump.

  Kyle’s scream of disbelief was lost in the deafening sound of double explosions.

  Chapter 13

  Flames engulfed the car, shooting high above the square roof of the gas station. Alarmed employees scurried from the attached convenience store.

  No one emerged from the car.

  Shock rooted Kyle to the ground, but panic was greater and propelled him forward. He ran toward the burning sedan, but the heat of the flames drove him back. Soot and ash stained his face. His lips moved, shaping silent words. Sound followed, emerging as an animal cry of pain. “Oh, God. Sofia!”

  He dropped to his knees, his lungs laboring to breathe through the thick smoke pouring into the air. His world coalesced down to the flames shooting from the dark sedan. Dimly, he heard screams around him and saw people running past his peripheral vision. He sensed a crowd forming a safe distance behind him.

  He could not think, could not feel anything beyond the stunning sense of loss.

  Some part of his rational mind screamed at him and told him it was impossible. He could not possibly hurt this much over someone he had known for less than forty-eight hours.

  The gaping hole in his heart told him otherwise.

  He choked on the acrid fumes. Sirens screamed as emergency personnel arrived. A well-meaning emergency medical technician dragged him to his feet and pulled him away to a waiting ambulance.

  “Here, breathe deeply.” The EMT held an oxygen mask to Kyle’s face.

  The oxygen jolted him into sharp awareness of his surroundings. He was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and his smartphone was buzzing.

  He pushed the EMT away and stumbled out of the ambulance before snatching up his phone.

  Zara’s voice, sultry as black velvet, purred at him. “The IGEC called and raised hell. What happened there?”

  “They snatched Sofia. The Rue Marcha snatched Sofia.” He dragged a hand through his hair. It came away black with soot.

  “And the microchip?”

  Thanks for inquiring about Sofia. He ground his teeth. It was Zara. What else did he expect from a master assassin with a glacier for a heart? “It’s…” His voice trembled. “It’s gone. Sofia’s gone, too. The car hit a gas station.” I sent it into the gas station. “It exploded. Sofia’s gone. They’re all gone.”

  Zara was briefly silent. When she finally spoke, her voice was crisp. “I’ve got your location from your phone. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m fine. I got hit, but I’m fine.”

  “Can you drive?”

  Kyle stared at the motorcycle he had commandeered. The engine was still running. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll meet you at Danyael’s clinic.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Her voice softened into a dangerous purr. “Be there.”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it as if it were a snake. His hand tightened around the phone. If he could crush it, he would have. Damn you, Zara.

  And damn me.

  He had killed Sofia as surely as if he had fired a bullet into her skull.

  The motorcycle ride to Danyael’s clinic passed in a blur of blaring horns interspersed with white noise, of other vehicles sliding past Kyle as he wove recklessly through traffic. The stabbing sense of loss made it impossible to focus through the cacophony of his chaotic thoughts.

  If he had held his tongue…

  If he had controlled his temper…

  If he had not driven Sofia away, she would still be alive.

  A car horn blared. Instinct twisted his motorcycle away from a near collision. His heart pounded, but his head was no clearer when he pulled up in front of the free clinic and cut the engine.

  For a moment, he sat there, shoulders slumped. I killed her.

  His breath shuddered out of him, a jagged sound, and he fisted his hands against his eyes.

  If Danyael had not sent Sofia on a fool’s mission—

  No, my fault. She got me out of trouble, and in return, I told her I hated her.

  He was responsible. Just him. And he knew it.

  Kyle dismounted from the motorcycle, squared his shoulders, and stalked into the clinic. He marched past several startled patients and threw open the door of Danyael’s office.

  Danyael’s dark eyes swept over Kyle’s disheveled state. He turned to his patient, an elderly gentleman. “I have to take care of this emergency. Would you mind waiting in the reception area for a few minutes?’

  The old man cast Kyle a nervous glance. “No, no. Of course not.” He pushed to his feet. Leaning heavily on his cane, he tapped his way out of Danyael’s office.

  Kyle slammed the door shut behind the man. “Sofia…Sofia—” His voice cracked.

  “Sit down, Kyle.” Danyael’s tone remained calm, so calm it was practically emotionless.

  Damn him. How could he remain so unmoved, so unaffected when Sofia, the one innocent person in this entire mess was dead?

  “Didn’t you hear? Sofia’s gone.”

  “Last I heard from Zara, Xin’s working with the FBI to identify the remains in the car. I’d hold off on grieving until they find a corpse with matching dental records. Now take off your jacket, your shirt, and sit down.”
>
  Danyael’s steady tone of quiet authority was far more effective than Zara’s soft purr of pure menace. Kyle swallowed hard against the heavy, crushing pressure on his chest and shrugged off his jacket. With a wince, he pulled off his shirt. Dried blood peeled off, leaving an open wound that spilled fresh blood down his left arm.

  Danyael pushed to his feet and limped over to Kyle. With gentle hands, he probed around the edges of the bullet wound that marked Kyle’s shoulder. “It’s clean. The bullet went right through you. There’s bruising around the bone, but nothing’s broken.”

  “Just tape it up.”

  “I can do better than that.”

  “I said just tape it up. I don’t want a mutant or a doctor messing around with it.”

  Danyael shrugged, apparently not offended. “I’ll be a minute.” He went into the adjacent room, leaving Kyle alone.

  The silence of the room closed in around Kyle. He buried his face in his right hand. Mentally, he revisited every second of his car chase, every wrong move he had made, every bad decision he had taken. He had killed Sofia with his choices, his recklessness, his—

  Danyael walked back into the room. The blame and self-hatred churning through Kyle’s head fell silent, settling like restless and bickering wolves in a den calming at the return of the alpha wolf.

  Kyle looked up. “Don’t do that. Stop screwing with my emotions.”

  “It’s what I do,” Danyael said. “Healing is eighty-percent mental. If you refuse empathic healing, you should at least be in prime mental and emotional condition so that your body can heal itself.”

  “I said I don’t want your help.”

  “Most people don’t get what they want. Trust me on that.” Danyael’s quiet chuckle was ironic. “You, however, are getting what you need.” He returned to Kyle’s side and cleaned the wound before swabbing an antiseptic ointment over it. A layer of deftly applied bandages sealed the wound without limiting Kyle’s range of motion.

  The alpha empath stepped back. “How do you feel?”

  Kyle swung his arm cautiously. The pain was a dull ache, easily ignored.

  “Over-the-counter pain medication should suffice,” Danyael continued. “But if the pain gets too bad, come back here and I can prescribe something stronger.”

  The door opened, and Zara walked in. Without greeting or preamble, she said, “Four corpses. All male. Are you sure Sofia was in the car?”

  Kyle’s breath caught. The quick flutter in his chest—it could not possibly be hope, could it? “I saw them grab her. She wasn’t in the second car—the one that rammed me—right?”

  “Metro police arrested those four men. No Sofia either.”

  His shoulders sagged in spite of the surge of relief. A silent sigh whispered from him. “They must have dropped her off somewhere, but how could they? I was too close. I would have seen them.”

  “Could they have pulled a switch on you?”

  A switch? Kyle’s gaze became unfocused as he tried to re-create the scene of the highway moments before the two cars exited the freeway. The freeway remained crowded with black cars, many of similar makes and models. His voice was quiet, reflective. “They knew I’d be on the lookout for two cars traveling together. When they split up briefly on the highway, another black car—a decoy—could have taken the place of the car carrying Sofia instead. More than likely, the car with Sofia never pulled off on exit sixty-three.”

  His hands clenched into fists. He had fallen for one of the most obvious tricks in the book. He had screwed up and Sofia had paid the price. “Where is she now?” he asked. He fought to keep his voice even but knew that it grated with frustration. “Any idea?”

  “Impossible to know for sure.” Zara propped a hip against the side of Danyael’s desk. “The Rue Marcha doesn’t operate much in D.C. There’s no dossier of past movement to draw from.”

  “And the four Rue Marcha who were taken?”

  “In FBI custody, but they’ve proven resistant to questioning. They’re not mutants but they have strong psychic shields. It’ll take awhile for the telepaths to break through.”

  And the entire time, Sofia’s life was at risk. What choice did he have? “I’ll question them.”

  Zara snorted. “And what makes you think you’ll get any more traction than a telepath?”

  “Psychic shields don’t protect against physical pain. They’ll talk. I guarantee that.”

  Danyael shook his head and looked away. His shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. “I can get them to talk.”

  “Oh?” Zara arched an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to get involved.”

  Danyael did not directly answer Zara’s challenge. “It’s the fastest way to get the truth out of them. They’re probably trained to resist interrogation techniques. Physical pain may not mean much to them, but their psychic shields won’t protect them from direct contact from an alpha empath.” He looked at Kyle. “If you’re willing to accept my help, that is.”

  Kyle grunted. “Sofia is the only one who matters now.” Whatever it took—swallowing his pride and accepting help from a man he despised—he would do whatever it took to save Sofia.

  Chapter 14

  The J. Edgar Hoover Building loomed over Pennsylvania Avenue. Kyle found himself dragging his feet as he approached the building. He had spent most of his adult life avoiding law enforcement agencies, especially federal agencies.

  In fact, if Xin had not been standing at the entrance, waiting for them, Kyle was certain that he and Zara would have been arrested immediately. The Chinese woman nodded in greeting and escorted Kyle, Zara, and Danyael past the security desk. No one made him give up his handgun, and no one insisted Zara turn over the multiple guns and daggers she was likely carrying.

  How much influence did Xin—supposedly just an NSA analyst—wield?

  “We’ve brought them together as you requested,” Xin said to Zara as she led Kyle, Zara, and Danyael toward the interrogation rooms on the seventh floor. She stopped outside a steel door. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

  Zara deflected the responsibility. “Danyael’s request, not mine.”

  Danyael shrugged. “True horror is self-inflicted. If I do this right, I’ll only have to talk to one person, and you’ll get the truth, or at least versions of the truth, from the others.”

  Kyle shot Danyael a narrow-eyed glance. Danyael and Zara—in spite of their profound differences—were perfectly made for each other, after all.

  “Who’s the leader of the group?” Danyael asked.

  Xin nodded. “Biggest one, though they’re all big. I really don’t think you should go in alone.”

  “You’ll need strong psychic shields to survive unscathed what I’m about to do.” Danyael glanced at Zara. “You’re not going in.”

  Zara snorted. “If you think I’m letting you go alone into a room occupied by four trained murderers, you’re out of your mind.”

  “We discussed this earlier.”

  “So we did.” Zara’s smile was thin. “But I never agreed. I’m going in with you. I suggest you find a way to keep my emotions and mind protected while you’re in there driving them mad with horror.”

  Kyle suppressed a snort. Zara specialized in delivering ultimatums.

  Xin’s eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “Can you do it, Danyael? Zara’s going to be worse than four trained murderers if her mind and emotions snap.”

  Zara arched an eyebrow. “That was almost a compliment.”

  Danyael ignored her commentary. “I think so.”

  “You think so?” Xin echoed.

  “Good enough for me,” Zara said. “We’re wasting time. Let’s do this.”

  Xin shook her head and reached out to catch Zara’s arm. “I don’t think—”

  “Danyael would never put me at risk, you know that.” She shook off Xin’s restraining arm.

  Danyael blocked her entry into the room. “When I take your hand, don’t fight me.”

  She glowered at him
. “Why?”

  “I’ll need physical contact to protect you.”

  “Fine, but take my left hand. I’m a better shot with my right hand.”

  Danyael nodded at Xin, who leaned close to the biometric iris scanner to unlock the door. Zara stepped in, followed by Danyael. Xin pulled the door shut behind them and gestured to Kyle. “We can watch them from in here.”

  She led Kyle to the adjacent room, where a large glass panel provided a clear view of the interrogation room.

  Kyle cursed under his breath.

  Xin nodded, apparently agreeing with the sentiment. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

  Each of the four men in the room had at least half a foot on Danyael’s six feet and likely weighed two times more. Tattoos carved intricate patterns over heavily muscled biceps. Compared to them, the crippled alpha empath looked laughably weak.

  The largest man snorted. “Who are you?” His words were thickened by his South American accent. His perfectly groomed handlebar mustache did not conceal the smirk he wore.

  “If you have to ask, you’re probably better off not knowing.”

  Kyle smiled in spite of the tension of the moment. Danyael had guts, that much was certain.

  Danyael continued in the same quiet, confident tone he used with his patients. “Where’s Sofia?”

  The man smirked. “Don’t know.”

  “I’ll settle for whatever you do know.” Danyael hobbled forward, his hand outstretched. Zara kept pace beside him.

  The gangster’s face paled. He retreated until his back hit the wall.

  Kyle’s mouth dropped open. “What—?”

  Xin shrugged. “Danyael shields a great deal of his power to blunt its effect on people around him, but when he exerts himself, it’s usually best not to be present. It’s a good thing he’s a defense-class mutant and his powers don’t penetrate physical barriers, or we’d be in trouble too.”

  In the room, Danyael continued. “Your last chance to change your mind before I change it for you.”

  The man shook his head, but his brow was deeply lined with worry.

  The look in Danyael’s eyes was almost compassionate when he reached out and touched the man.