by Jade Kerrion
Instead of answering, she turned the question back on Galahad. “Why do you think he’s worth the time and mental energy? You went back for him. You risked capture, even death, to free him. Why?”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
“For Danyael? No. You need to weigh the risks and rewards. Your life—your freedom—is far more precious than his. There is nothing you could have risked for him that would have been worth the reward of keeping him alive.”
“He’s a powerful ally.”
“Danyael, a powerful ally? You’re kidding yourself. He’s wasted his life. Done nothing with it.” And when you need him most, he’ll fail to come through for you. “He’s an alpha empath, a healer. He has powers most people only dream about. And what does he do? Work crappy hours for pathetic pay in a free clinic that hires the worst doctors. He’s an insult to the rest of us who started out with far fewer advantages and have worked insanely hard to make something of our lives.”
“I don’t think he considers his empathic powers an advantage. At least it’s one he’d have preferred to do without.”
The flicker of compassion that flashed through her was promptly quashed, steamrolled under rampaging emotions that she could not fully explain or control. She felt off center and unbalanced every time she thought of Danyael. The quiet voice of rationality that pleaded for moderation was muted, unheard over the screaming, deeply negative emotions that could not be calmed or redirected. “True enough,” she said reluctantly, “but that was a long time ago. He’s had sixteen years to face up to it and move on, but he hasn’t. Instead, he’s stupidly chosen to live under the same rules and in the same society that wrecked his life all those years ago. He could have relocated to another country, could have lived somewhere else where mutants are welcomed with open arms, but he’s still here.” Her eyes narrowed into violet slits. “If you’re going to consciously choose to live under a regime without attempting to change it, then you shouldn’t cry foul when it turns around and bites you, as it most certainly will.”
“Can he change it? Can anyone?”
“Perhaps, but not that he would know. He hasn’t even tried. And he won’t. He’s too afraid to change the way things are. He thinks he has so much, but he’s wrong. He has so little, and even that, he’s so afraid to risk. Other people dream and dare. He just sits and cowers. What the hell could he possibly be afraid of?”
“Himself,” Galahad said, his voice pitched low. He turned his head to gaze out the window as the van sped past a suburban landscape that was lightly dusted with the snow that had fallen overnight. The snow was already melting and would be gone in a few hours. No winter wonderland here, just another bland, featureless suburb under threatening, gray skies. “He’s afraid of himself.”
“That’s absurd. Why on earth would he be afraid of himself, when there’s so much more crap in the world to be afraid of?”
“Is there?” Galahad looked back at her. She tore her attention off the road long enough to see the question and uncertainty in his eyes. “Miriya implied that there were few alpha empaths of Danyael’s caliber, and when it finally comes down to it, empaths may actually be more powerful than telepaths. Change the emotion, and the thought processes and actions will align accordingly. I think Danyael is afraid of himself, of what he can do, and of what he carries inside him.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“Emotions powerful enough to kill.”
Zara snorted dismissively. “You and I have both racked up a decently high body count over the past few days. I’d go so far as to say that it’s even part of my job description. But we don’t obsess about it. We do what needs to be done and then move on. Dead is dead, whether it’s from a blade, a bullet, or voodoo magic. There’s no possible reason under heaven for Danyael to be preoccupied and self-absorbed over what he can do to people, when anyone with a gun and a halfway decent aim can do the same.”
“It’s no wonder you can’t stand him. You’re a hard-headed realist, and Danyael, despite all appearances to the contrary, is a dreamer. He wants something more than he can have.”
“The only thing that ever stands between what you have and what you want is ambition, or the lack thereof. The difference between us is that I dared to make my dreams a reality. Danyael is apparently content to let his dreams—whatever they are—drift just beyond his fingertips. He is a spineless, spiritless coward.” Her eyes glittered, cold and hard. “Everything that is happening to him he has fully deserved. Thank God you are nothing like him.”
“Even if I were anything like him, you wouldn’t recognize it.”
For the first time, something akin to uncertainty crept into her tone. “What do you mean?”
“His psychic shield gets in the way of people perceiving him as he really is.”
Uncertainty transformed into incredulity. “Are you saying that he’s messing around with the way I feel?”
“Yes. As I understand it, he does it with everyone.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“He never really explained that, other than to say that he didn’t want the attention.”
“So how much of what I feel is real?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think you can trust anything you feel about Danyael, or for that matter anything you feel about anything else when you’re around him.”
A momentary silence, pregnant with disbelief and coiling tension, passed. “The son of a bitch.” She spit the words out, a cold and controlled fury in her tone.
A flash of dull green in her rearview mirror drew her attention back to the fact that their lives were still very much in danger. Four military APCs. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator, abandoning any pretense that they were just another white van cruising down quiet suburban streets on the morning of Christmas Eve. “They’ve found us,” she said softly. “Time to make a run for it.”
Danyael and Miriya were ten minutes out from Leesburg Executive Airport when Danyael first caught sight of trouble. “Check out the action on the overhead pass,” he murmured into the microphone.
Miriya glanced up and saw a clunky, ungraceful white truck pursued by four military APCs. “Why didn’t they steal something faster?” she asked.
“I think they were hoping to pass unnoticed.” Danyael accelerated past Miriya and led the way around a few sharp turns and onto the overhead pass. They weaved through the thin traffic and caught up easily with the trailing APC. “Can you stop them?”
“Possibly, but I’ll need to see the person I’m targeting if I’m making contact for the first time. The visibility sucks here. They’ve got darkened windows. Your powers diffuse better. Can you do it?”
Danyael glanced to the side as he shot past the APC and caught a glimpse of a slightly open rear window. His empathic powers surged, precise and targeted, transforming anxiety into fear and fear into terror. Within the APC, trained soldiers were seized by terror that wrapped like a shroud around their faces, by panic so real they could almost taste it. The APC screeched to a halt, and the sudden braking made worse by a panicked twist of the steering wheel swung the vehicle in a wide arc. It slammed into another APC, disabling both.
“Nice one.”
Danyael grimaced, gritting his teeth. “I hope no one was too badly hurt.”
“Those things are built to withstand more than just bad driving,” Miriya said. She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve got a few more incoming, and they’re faster.” Two cars with military markings and a containment vehicle—specially designed for use in transporting dangerous criminals, or rogue mutants—chased them.
Danyael winced at the image that Miriya tossed his way. “They’ve found us. It’s going to come down to a race to the plane, and there’s no guarantee they won’t shoot it down. Can you tell Zara and Galahad to get out of that van? We’ll be faster on the bike.”
“Damn pre-cog was right about taking two bikes. I hate it when they’re right.”
“Miriya, there’s a reason Ralph’s
an alpha pre-cognitive. He’s almost always right.”
The white van swerved abruptly to the left and swung in a full circle. The APC that had been right behind it braked in a desperate attempt to avoid an accident, but the tail end of the van smashed right into the APC driver’s seat, seconds before the second APC barreled into the side of the first APC.
Danyael’s eyes narrowed. He twisted his bike sharply toward the left to avoid joining the three-vehicle pileup. “Where the hell did she learn to drive?”
“I told her to get out. I wasn’t too specific on how.” Miriya swung to the right, mirroring Danyael’s actions as she stopped by the passenger door, waiting until Galahad was securely seated behind her before revving the motorcycle back into high speed. Danyael, with Zara behind him, shot past her on his bike, weaving through traffic with the ease of an expert. “Where did you learn to ride a bike?” she asked into the microphone.
“I’m not completely incompetent, Miriya, despite what Zara may think of me. Lucien has lots of expensive toys, and I grew up around him. I can ride a motorbike, fly a plane, and I even know my way around yachts and sailboats.” His shoulders moved in a shrug, partly to alleviate the tension of Zara’s emotions slamming into him.
Zara’s critical animosity toward him simmered, waiting for the faintest reason, any excuse at all, to boil over. She coiled like a tiger, waiting, watching. She wanted him to fail so she could revel in knowing that she was right about him.
He inhaled unsteadily, the insight into her emotions twisting like a knife in his gut. On top of everything else he had absorbed, her emotions were purest torture, salt against open, still bleeding wounds. Don’t need this now.
“Tell her to get a grip on her emotions,” Miriya said.
Danyael’s trained response was immediate. “She can feel whatever the hell she wants. My reaction to her emotions is my problem, not hers.”
The only relief from the onslaught of Zara’s emotions came from his awareness of her feelings toward Galahad, a blanket of protection—white, safe, gentle. It went a long way toward softening his opinion of her. She’s not incapable of feeling, of caring for others. We’re not actually too different from each other. We’re both just hiding behind facades of strength.
“Danyael!” Miriya said sharply, drawing his attention to the blast of sirens. Tension raced through her voice. “Cop cars—four of them. Incoming from the left about five hundred feet behind us. This race is going to come down to seconds.”
Danyael gritted his teeth. They were desperately short on options. He glanced at Galahad, seated behind Miriya on the red Ducati, his physical mirror image, but different from him on many levels. Galahad was perfect and whole. The genetic code he carried was priceless. There was no one like Galahad in the entire world.
In contrast, Danyael knew he himself was, if not completely broken, then at least deeply flawed.
He knew he was not thinking clearly through the muddy swirl, the virtual quicksand of destructive emotions he had absorbed from his brother and father, but even so, the choice seemed perfectly obvious to him.
The decision, once made, wrenched at his soul. “It doesn’t have to end like this,” he said. He reached down, took Zara’s hand from around his waist, and guided it to the handlebars of the motorcycle. Understanding him, she reached past him with her other hand as well, taking control of the bike. “Tell Galahad to look this way and get ready to catch.”
“Catch what?” Miriya asked, but Galahad glanced over a moment later and nodded, his pale blond hair streaming in the wind.
The two bikes curved smoothly around a sharp turn, momentarily ensuring that they were not visible to their pursuers. Leaning with the motion, Danyael reached for his wallet and then pulled off his helmet. He placed the thin leather wallet, worn with age, in the helmet and then tossed the helmet easily to Galahad, who caught it effortlessly.
What the hell are you doing? Miriya shouted into his mind now that she could no longer shout into the microphone in his helmet.
Too much pursuit. He took back control of the motorcycle from Zara. We can’t all make it. Tell Galahad to put on the helmet. He’s got my wallet; ID’s in it. Take him to Dulles, put him on a commercial flight out of the country. My ID identifies me as a mutant, which will exempt him from the genetic security screen, and I’m cleared for international travel. Zara and I will try to get to Leesburg.
They’re looking for you too, damn it!
There are rules on how to treat a mutant. There are none on how to treat a non-human. Galahad is in far more danger than I am.
But you’re hoping they believe you’re Galahad.
And a genetic screen will prove that I’m not.
Yeah, well, I hope before they beat the shit out of you. Miriya snarled a nasty curse word at Danyael, but she twisted her bike, taking a right turn toward Dulles International Airport.
Danyael slowed down just enough to tempt the pursuing vehicles with a glimpse of him and Zara, both faces clearly visible. Zara shouted something at him, but the words were whisked away by the wind as he accelerated. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder, relieved when the three military vehicles and the four cop cars followed them toward Leesburg Executive Airport.
They had all of a two-minute head start when he abandoned the motorcycle at the entrance of the airport and raced into the building, Zara right on his heels. He gasped and stumbled against the wall. Zara’s emotions scalded him fractions of a second before she grabbed his hand. “Move, damn it,” she demanded.
Danyael gritted his teeth, fighting nausea and on the edge of blackout. He had been able to ride the bike without too much difficulty, but actual physical effort was more than his weakened, starved body would allow. “I can’t keep up,” he confessed, flinching when her anger and disgust slapped him. “Just go. Hide. They’re after me, not you. I’ll…” His teeth clenched again, and he closed his eyes briefly. Resignation passed over the flawless features. “I’ll be all right.”
Zara ran, but did not go far. She was watching from a bookstore, her long dark hair bundled beneath a baseball cap she had just purchased, when fifteen or more uniformed men—some police, some army—pushed past startled passengers to grab Danyael, who had just made it through the doors leading out to the tarmac where Lucien’s private jet was waiting.
He fought them with the ferocity of a trapped wildcat, surprising her with the taut strength in his body, but the outcome was inevitable. He was brutally beaten and then slammed facedown into the ground. His hands were pulled back, his wrists bound with electrical cuffs. She saw him wince, saw the flash of pain that surged through his eyes as the cuffs sent bursts of electrical pulses through his skin, stunning his nerve endings into numbness and incapacitating movement from his fingertips up to his shoulders.
They hauled him back to his feet. His dark eyes widened with alarm when one of the military personnel stepped forward, an electrical collar in his hand. Danyael struggled when the collar was locked around his neck, then he convulsed, doubling over in agony as the collar was activated. The first flash of electricity was always the worst, shocking mind and body into submission. Subsequent pulses, less intense but constant, kept mind and body docile, helpless to resist. The ability to speak was stolen; it was impossible to form words with the jolts of electricity directly piercing his throat.
Zara winced, biting down on her lower lip as an odd sense of pity warred against her instinctive dislike of him. Safely concealed among gawking crowds, she watched Roland Rakehell stride through the airport. Roland stared at Danyael, twisted his head sharply to the side, and scrutinized the almost invisible scar that marred the right side of Danyael’s face. “It’s just the template,” he snapped.
She saw the exact moment when Roland crushed his younger son with four simple words. Danyael could not speak. He would have collapsed from exhaustion and from the constant surge of electricity through his body if the soldiers were not holding him up, but he did not need to speak. Danyael’s express
ive dark eyes flooded with despair a fraction of a second before he dropped his gaze to the ground, trying to conceal his pain.
Roland looked at Lucien’s private jet, silver and glistening in the sunlight. “It might as well be good for something.” He glanced over his shoulder at a thin man dressed in military fatigues. “Wipe his memory as we discussed and put him on the plane back to New York.”
“Here, sir?” The man looked around the public airport with an expression of consternation. “That’s not a good idea, sir. He’s an alpha empath, and I’ll need to get through his shields to shatter his memories. An alpha empath without shields is just…not a good idea. The containment vehicle is right outside. It’ll be safer to do it there; his powers will be contained while we—”
“Do it right here, right now,” Roland ordered, his eyes narrowing. “Humiliate him in public. He was going to embarrass me. This is nothing less than he deserves.”
The man swallowed nervously and then nodded toward the soldiers. “Hold him down.” He squatted on the tarmac and looked down into Danyael’s dark eyes. “I’m Tim Brown. I need to take two days of your memories,” he said quietly, with an odd sort of compassion in his voice. “To be precise, I don’t erase them. I shatter them in a way that no longer allows you to make any sense of them. You may recall fragments in dreams or flashbacks, but those would be the exception rather than the norm. I’m very good at what I do, and the memory fragments will be so small as to be largely passed over by both your conscious and unconscious mind.”
Danyael shook his head. Even at that distance, Zara could see the growing terror in his eyes.
“It’ll be all right,” Tim promised, his voice soft. “You have to drop your shields, let me in. And you’ll have to control your own emotions, or everyone else will be affected by what you feel. Come on,” he urged. “Drop them, or I’ll have to force my way through. The outcome is inevitable in any case. Save your strength for the aftermath because you’ll need it.”
