by Sarra Cannon
We know who you are. We know what you are. You have until sunset to get out of town, or we are coming for you.
She skimmed to the bottom. No signature. She checked the top corner. No name. Over and over, she read the lines looking for something to clue her in to the sender. Nothing. Her breath came out long and ragged.
Easy, pet. Calm down before you catch a heart attack and kill us both. Guy’s chiding provided relief for once.
“I’m fine,” she said steadier than she felt.
Yeah. If you think I’ll buy that, why not sell me some crap in a bag? His grim laughter rolled over her nerves like spikes.
“Do you ever stop?” She set her internal radio up to megawatts and ignored him.
When Dr. Cordone re-entered with a pair of scrubs, she jumped and stuffed the note back in the envelope. “Thanks,” she said dropping it on the table and taking the clothes from him.
“Of course.” He straightened and left. The door clicked closed behind him.
Aquamarine is so your color, pet. Guy snickered through her music wall.
“For the love of Pete, give it a rest.” She adjusted the volume another two levels and sighed. Angling toward the desk, she spotted Talon’s business card next to the envelope. Her bag lay at her feet. After dressing in the colorful scrubs, she rummaged through the bag and found her cell phone. A message waited for her, but her attention split between the simple white business card that read, Talon Rede, and the intricate handwritten envelope that bore her name.
Pet, don’t mess with this. Tell the good agent about the letter. The rock song grew quiet as her mind raced.
“If I do that I’ll never be able to get the story.” She put her palms to her temples and squeezed. “They’ll put me in protective custody and I won’t be able to investigate.”
Stop playing reporter and be smart.
“I am being smart. I’m not letting this slip from my fingers.” She pocketed the business card and crushed the envelope in her fist. “And I can’t have them looking at me too closely. I can figure this out myself.”
You’re playing with fire and not our kind of fire, pet. Get it?
“Stuff it. No one’s scaring me off this lead, secrets or not.” Not even Agent Rede. The thought of his ocean blue eyes piercing into her, breaching her defenses, sent a shiver over her skin. Whether from apprehension or anticipation, she didn’t know. And she couldn’t risk finding out.
The letter crumpled in her hand. She stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. “Besides, I’m not helpless, right?”
Oh, are you talking to me?
“Nope. Not at all.” Bongo drumbeats filled her head drowning out the pest’s side and allowing her freedom to think. She hefted her bag under her arm and headed to the discharge area. Her toes tapped along the tiled floor and nervous energy ran through her veins while she waited. Her pocket buzzed, reminding her of the new message on her phone. A quick dial into her voicemail revealed a message from her father. Considering how many times they spoke over the eight years she’d been away from home... Yeah, it spelled headache.
“Sera, I know I’m not your favorite person. I know you blame me for staying quiet about your...abilities.” Her father’s voice droned over the line.
“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” she said aloud.
The message rattled on. “Look, I need to talk to you. I don’t want to say too much in a recording. Call me.”
Her eyes narrowed at the phone. “Useless son of a—” She squeezed the cell, trying not to snap it in half. “You only call when it’s convenient for you. Typical. Well, sorry, not going to happen.” Hitting the delete button, she firmly pushed the issues with her father from her thoughts and headed out the door.
She groaned as she realized her SUV remained locked in police impound. “Not gonna stop me.”
— —
Once aboard the metal deathtrap—her nickname for city buses—she had no idea where to start. Although she’d be damned if she’d let some note scare her out of this story, or worse, another reporter snatching it away. She was the freakin’ eyewitness for crying out loud. The jack hammering stop-and-go routine on the ride from hell didn’t help settle her anxiety. When the stress got too high, she knew of one place to go and no, it wasn’t where everyone knew her name, but close enough. After a quick stop at her apartment for a much-needed clothing change, she headed for her favorite place.
The Jukebox, a Phoenix staple in the downtown scene, was half-modern coffee shop, half 1950s style diner. It appealed to urbanites, nuclear families and aging hipsters alike, and was Sera’s home away from home since college. Heck, the one thing that got her through school was this place. Not to mention the fact Coco—the affectionately nicknamed coffee aficionado and owner—kept the lattes flowing practically twenty-four, seven back in those days.
She hummed, sipping her iced caramel latte with abandon. The late afternoon sun beat down on the pavement and cast a horrible glare through the diner’s front window, but she didn’t mind as the friendly barista pulled down the shade and kicked up the air conditioning.
“Man it’s been a hot one today,” Coco said from behind the black and white checkered counter. “Musta hit a hundred and ten.”
“As long as you keep the ice machine working, the lattes flowing, and the air conditioner cranking, I’m cool.” Sera planted her lips back on the straw, sucking down the sugary goodness at breakneck speeds. She leaned into the high stool’s soft teal leather. Melting into the familiar fabric, she let her head fall back to soak in the moment. It’d been so long since she could relax, especially as the clock clicked down to nightfall. No. I’m not thinking about it.
“For you doll, no problem,” Coco said, spraying the countertop with liquid soap.
She smiled at him, then closed her eyes. Her thoughts veered from the damn threat to a certain dark haired, blue-eyed special agent again. “Talon,” she murmured. “Name fits him.” Heat crawled up her neck as she recalled the way he’d stared at her at the hospital, as if he would devour her right there.
Coco’s voice woke her from the heated dreams. “How’s the new article coming along?”
Her eyes snapped open and she looked around as if dazed. “Sorry, I think I had a momentary brain freeze.” She put her fingers to her temple to buy herself a minute. Her body burned with unfulfilled desire and she feared it had all too much to do with the special agent. “Too much ice and caffeine. What was that?”
“Just asking ‘bout work.” He flashed a large toothy grin.
She chugged a mouthful of latte. It coated her throat like battery acid. What the hell could she tell Coco without freaking him out?
How about we took out a gang of murderous psychos? That’d be fun. Guy hadn’t piped in for hours and she foolishly thought she’d get a reprieve. No such luck. Or what about your stint in the hospital? Bet he’d get all-emotional over that one. He laughed, bouncing around her brain. Ew. I got it. Tell him about the note. How you’re supposed to leave town in t-minus...now. His voice sounded like it came from every direction. No? What about lusting over that government lackey, the shifter?
She turned her attention back to Coco. In a nonchalant voice, she said, “Oh you know, same old same old.” She propped a fist under her chin. “My newest headline should read ‘Freelance Journalism: The Ticket to Poverty’ with the way my career is going.”
Coco cocked his head to the side. “What about all this activity with people turnin’ up dead?” He pointed at the TV. “They said something earlier about a bunch of people down in Buckhorn.”
“What did they report exactly?” Her palms began to sweat despite the icy drink in her hands.
“Not too sure ‘bout the details.” He frowned, wiping a rag over the tiled counter for the third time. “Only caught the tail end of it.”
“Could be something.” She shrugged. Can’t tell him too much. Guy tried to break through the pumping bass, probably to argue, but she raised the volume even louder. The ice be
gan to melt in her syrupy, toothache-be-damned drink.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In the mean time, take a load off.”
“That’s the plan.” She crossed her arms atop the table and rested her head, planning just a moment’s reprieve. It took but the span of a minute or two before the clinking of the espresso machine, the whistle from the teapot, and the chatter from the TV drifted into nothing more than white noise. Calm settled over Sera as she fell into an easy sleep.
A thump, a screech, and another thump threatened to break Sera’s rest, but she swatted it from her foggy brain like a fly. Images zapped before her eyes as she slept—a man in a dark mask, Coco bellowing curses, a woman with sharp, black as oil eyes.
Her mind struggled against a tide of drowsiness. She tried to keep the pictures in focus and even pulled herself partially awake. When a slender hand palming a cloth appeared inches from her face and a sweet scent filled her nose, she stopped fighting. Darkness took over her consciousness and she seeped back into much needed sleep.
“Sera. Sera,” a voice called to her from a dream, mixed equally with gentility and sternness. “Come child, dangers fall upon you. We must speak quickly.”
“What? Who’s there?” Her dream self spoke into a void. Voices formed, but images remained aloof.
School time, pet. Come out and play now. Even in sleep, Guy pestered her. She’d recognize that annoying timber anywhere and wanted to curse. Could she never have peace from him?
“You fight against yourself. Why?” The stranger’s disembodied voice spoke again.
“If you want to talk, then show yourself. I don’t like games.”
A ball of light filled the empty black space, growing in size until it burst forth like a dynamite explosion. Dusted sparkles, remnants of the blast, danced along the air. In the center, a tall male figure appeared. His hair shone like spun gold. Eyes as bright as the sun eradicated all darkness. Impossibly luminescent skin pulled tight over chiseled muscles. A glowing robe covered his perfect body.
Sera stared, awestruck by the creature before her. “What are you?”
“No child, the better question is…what are we?” Soft pink lips curled upward.
“We?” Her mind tried to unravel the mystery as an odd sense of the familiar nudged at her.
“Yes, we.” His tone rang deep like an ancient bell. “I told you in the hospital, we are kin. You can feel the connection. You can hear it.”
“The hospital?” Droplets of light across cotton sheets, a golden figure, a man with the looks of a Greek god—the memory returned. “I remember. I thought I imagined it.”
“No, child, we may be speaking in your dream now, but I am very real.”
“Who are you?” Every muscle tensed. A knot formed at the base of her neck. “And don’t call me, child.” Her foot pounding over the empty floor crashed loudly even in the dream. “I’m twenty-four years old for Heaven’s sake.”
Her outburst must have caught him off guard. He shrank back, his glow fading to a dull yellow. “I didn’t realize this would pain me so.” His hand flew to his chest, rubbing over his heart in small circles. “Forgive me, but you misunderstand. I call you, child, not because of your age.” His fingers curled inward, a loose fist upon his breast. “It is my name for you. It was the same endearment I used for your mother.”
The tension broke first within her heart. It trickled outward from her core, chest, and limbs. Nerves snapped as her blood quickened. Words lay useless on her tongue.
“Sera, child, please do not be alarmed. I want to help you. My name is Helion. I’m your mother’s father.” He extended his arm, palm forward, fingers curled as if catching a baseball. Light soared from his hand. “Your grandfather.”
The dark void that surrounded them filled with dazzling golden hues as the light strained toward her. When it came within inches of her face, she found her voice again.
“What. The. Hell?”
His internal glow dimmed, never reaching her. “I cannot explain. Time grows short. You must stop fighting this connection or I will not be able to come to you in this way.”
Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts jumbled. “What way?”
“The space between, when time lingers, slows. The breath between sleep and awake.”
“What a friggin’ head trip.” She rubbed her forehead. “Ok. First off, what connection? What am I fighting?” Her blood boiled as a fire rose within her. “Second, what are you? And what am I?” The flames that reached her heart extinguished. Tears stung her eyes as the final question grabbed her; the possibility, the hope of family. “Are you really my grandfather?”
A car horn and screeching tires broke through the conversation. “I’m sorry, child. We’ve run out of time.” His dying light expressed an ocean of sadness. “Listen to your inner voice. It will guide you to us, to your family, to your nature, to the truth.”
“Us? I don’t understand.” The dream began to fade, the golden man blurring from her sight. “Wait, please.”
“Stop fighting, Sera. And find me again.” His voice dropped to a whisper, rumbling in the emptiness. With a jolt, her mind sprung awake.
“Are you injured?” A woman’s voice sounded over her shoulder.
Sera didn’t speak, her senses fired on high alert. She had no time to process the dream or the figure who called himself her grandfather. Slowly moving her head, she whirled about to take in her surroundings, her brain assessing the situation. The spin caused her vision to swim, but she still managed to note two steel walls, a metal grate and a pair of doors. The back and forth jerking motions clued her into the rest. Sera sat in the back of a van, her hands and feet bound in front of her with thick ropes.
Well, pet. What have you gotten us into now?
Chapter 6
CHANNEL 9 NEWS, WEST PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Jame leaned over the ostentatious chrome desk, sure to give the News Director an ideal view. Her fitted black tank top coupled with the forty-five degree angle put her cleavage in his direct line of sight. Honey before the vinegar, as her grandma used to say, or Talon’s credo, Throw him off his game, then knock him on his ass. Either way, the plan was simple—distraction.
“So, Mr. Floyd, I know you’re a law abiding man and a caring citizen.” She propped a hip against the desk and bent lower. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt, would you?”
“Please Agent Bradshaw, call me Harold.” His eyes lingered six inches shy of her face.
“Harold, nice name.” Smiling, she placed her palm flat on the desk. Her other hand strayed over the tops of her breasts. “And please, call me Jame.”
“Jame? Like James without the S?” His lips fell into a lopsided grin. “Very pretty.”
She batted her eyelashes, trying not to lose the momentum. The wave of nausea rolling in her stomach didn’t help. Her words came out a tad too harsh. “So Harold, what’s it going to be? Are you an honest man?”
“Of course. As honest as can be, which is why I hold true to my principles.” He slid back in his chair, a stubborn pout set on his lips. “I can’t reveal a source, not mine or my reporter’s.” His hands crossed behind his head. “It would be unethical.”
Drat! An inner grimace rose, but she clamped it down before it showed on her face. “We certainly wouldn’t want that.” She straightened and hopped onto the desk. Her ass landed midway across, close enough to the newsman to get the plan back on track. “See my friend over there.” She waved toward Bull. He stood in the corner unmoving, a living statue filled with quiet rage.
Harold’s gaze glided to the mammoth vampire. “Yeah,” he said coolly.
Jame’s smile brightened. The newsman’s voice remained steady, but the sweat across his brow gave him away. Flirty cop, scary cop. Gotta love spinning the classics. She sighed, an embellishment, but worth it. “Well you see, I...” Her fingers fluttered to her mouth, drawing Harold’s focus back to her. She bit her thumb, suckling the tip. “I admire your integrity. Hell, it’s kind o
f sexy even.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Really?”
She reclined, placing her weight on one elbow and bending toward him. “Sure,” she cooed—well, she attempted to coo. It sounded more like a growl, but whatever. “Problem is Bull over there is more of an act now, ask later kinda guy. Know what I mean?” Wisps of black and blonde hair curled around her face when she shook her head. “Doesn’t have much use for integrity.”
Poor Harold’s lower lip began to tremble as he placed his hands on the desk. Her eyes locked on the movement like a shark. Gotcha now. She listened close—her shifter ears attuned to noises unheard by humans. His heart sped up, a triple beat faster than its relaxed rhythm.
“If I was a betting man...” He sat up straighter, locking eyes with Jame. His voice lowered to a whisper—not that it would prevent Bull from hearing, but the sensitive newsman didn’t need to know that info.
“Yes, Harold? What would you bet?” Now she got the cooing right.
“I’d put my money on my reporter’s boyfriend.” He winked at her. “Rachel’s been dating a local boy down at the 4-1.” He folded and unfolded his hands.
“So your pretty redheaded reporter from the six o’clock news is dating a cop?” She played with his nervous hands, making small circles atop his steepled fingers.
“Yes, that’s right. And you know how them boys love to talk.”
She hummed an affirmative reply. “Anything else I should know about?”
“No, but if you leave your number, I can give you a call if anything comes up.” His eyes sparkled, flecks of light amongst the dark brown.
She sighed inwardly. He’d almost be cute, if he weren’t so damn pitiful. Prying intel from a puppy-eyed newsman on the verge of a midlife crisis was not on her dream list of PCD agent responsibilities. She wanted her own team, where she’d be the one calling the shots, diving into the action. A place where her talents would be more than simple seduction. Not that Talon treated her like a sex object—in fact, she wouldn’t be complaining if he did—but she needed more.
