by Jaime Rush
Cheveyo got to his feet. “It felt the same way it did when I put a memory in Petra’s mind, and that worked.” He held out his hand to her. “You all right?”
She shrugged, then winced. “Just sore. You?”
“Same. How about you?” he said, directing the question to Pope.
A bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. “My head hit the post when we went through the window. It knocked me into unconsciousness for . . . well, I don’t know how long.” He rubbed his head and grimaced, then held up his hand, a handcuff around his wrist. “Yurek tried to cuff me to the railing.”
That’s when she noticed the metal was warped and scorched. “You used your ability?”
“It’s still weak, but coming back. It worked enough to burn through the chain.”
Cheveyo nodded toward Yurek. “I was out for several hours when my father inserted the memory in my head. Let’s move him. I don’t want to waste a minute.”
The two men hoisted Yurek’s limp body, and she opened the front door for them. Once he was in the Tank, they tied him up.
“I’ll get the Sinthe,” she said, running back into the house. Even in the dark she could tell it was in shambles. They’d fix it up again. The important thing was they were all right. It was over.
Over.
Don’t think about that right now.
“You’re bleeding,” Cheveyo said when she stepped back into the RV.
She followed his worried gaze to her shoulder. “Just a few scratches. You have more injuries than I do.” Now that he’d pointed it out, though, those scratches started to sting like crazy.
Pope waved his hand over her, and then Cheveyo. The sting went away. The bruises and cuts on Cheveyo’s face and arms disappeared. She turned to Pope and lifted her hand.
Pope stilled her hand. “I’ll be fine. Save your strength.”
“I’ve got plenty of strength.” She saw Cheveyo’s stern expression and relented. “Fine.”
They drove to the finestra near Zion, a longer drive but better fitted to the memories Yurek would wake up with than the closer one.
She sat in the passenger chair. “So he’ll remember fighting us out in the wilderness, and sending us to our deaths into the ravine?”
“We have to account for why he isn’t bringing any bodies back,” he said. He glanced back at Pope, who was lying on the couch with an ice pack on his head. “He’ll remember having to nail you with the Sinthe, and if he’s not supposed to have one, he can’t really bring your body back anyway.”
“I doubt the C has changed their rules in the last three months,” Pope said. “We’ll use the Sinthe to create scorch marks at the base of the ravine that will coordinate with his memories.”
She aimed a hard look at Yurek on the floor, trussed up like a pig. His shirt was crusted with blood, face bruised. “He’ll remember the altercation that will account for those injuries.”
Cheveyo winked. “And he’ll remember a few humiliating moments, too, just for good measure.”
Three hours later he’d been deposited, without ropes, on the hard ground. The finestra shimmered, even in the dark.
Cheveyo stared at Yurek, his eyes just as hard as the ground. “I wanted to kill him.”
She touched his back. “I know.”
“It was hard to stop myself. Other than Pope, I’ve never let an Otherling live.”
Pope was looking at Yurek, too. “He’ll be back. Not for us, but for someone else. You can take care of him then.”
She looked at Cheveyo. “Will you? Keep fighting, hunting?”
“Who else will fight them?”
She tried to keep her shoulders from slumping. Had she really expected any other answer?
Pope’s large feet crunched on the ground as he walked closer to them. “There are other Offspring.”
“Are you talking about the Rogues?” Petra said.
Pope gave her a soft smile at her worry. “Not them, though I know any one of them would step up to the fight if necessary. One of the people in the original government program donated sperm to a bank. I have found two of his offspring, though I haven’t approached them yet. I don’t know what abilities they might have inherited, from their parent or my father.” He turned back to Cheveyo. “You aren’t the only one who can do this.”
“But it’s the only thing I know.”
She tightened her hand on his back. “There’s more to you than being a warrior. You’re a lover, too. A father. A man. You can take your need to fight to different levels, like protecting abused children and women. Or becoming a bounty hunter. Take your passion for collecting knives and turn that into a career.”
He didn’t look convinced. After several long moments he looked at Pope. “These others, are they trained to hunt? Are they able to take a life?”
“The two from the sperm donor could qualify. One is ex-military, and from his records, he’s both a skilled killer and an exuberant one. The other is a possibility, too. Then there is Nicholas’s sister. And Jerryl’s sister.”
Petra wrinkled her nose. “That’s someone I would not want to meet.”
Pope nodded. “Bringing her to the people who killed her brother wouldn’t be wise, no matter the circumstances.”
Cheveyo nodded. “We should get out of here, in case Yurek wakes. The last thing we need is for him to see the people he remembers killing.”
They made the long walk toward the road where they’d parked the Tank. If she never walked in the wilderness again . . .
Complaining again?
She shot Cheveyo a look of ire. I deserve to complain.
Yes, you do. But is it making the trek any easier?
Yes. Though in truth, it wasn’t. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and kept on going. For the most part they walked in silence, lost in their thoughts. Probably about the future. She didn’t want to hope Cheveyo would come around. Been there, done that.
After what felt like hours she looked into the distance and blinked. The Tank, shimmering in the distance. “Please tell me that’s not a mirage.”
“It’s real,” Cheveyo said.
“Thank gawd.” She stepped up her pace and nearly stumbled to it, latching onto the door handle. Both men joined her a minute later, looking not the least bit tired but definitely amused at her dramatics.
As soon as Cheveyo unlocked the door, Petra collapsed on the sofa, letting the air conditioner chill her damp skin. Cheveyo handed her a bottle of cold water, and she sat up to drink it.
Cheveyo and Pope stood in the narrow passage of the kitchen chugging down water, too. They had come to mean so much to her, in different ways. Pope with his distinctive looks . . .
“If Yurek comes back on other business and sees Pope, he’ll know something is off.”
Cheveyo looked Pope up and down. “She’s right. You don’t exactly blend in. Can you change your appearance?”
“We choose one earth dimension ‘suit’ and commit to it. I can’t morph at will like Yurek. That is his particular energy signature. But I can change my look, if necessary.”
Cheveyo nodded. “I think it’s necessary.”
“If Yurek is close to me, he’ll recognize my Essence. That never changes. However, the chances of running into him are skinny.”
“And from a distance, he won’t recognize you at all,” Cheveyo added.
She tilted her head, studying Pope. “You might want to pick something that fits in a little more. You’re handsome, very striking, but you stand out. Can you pick, say, a Johnny Depp look?”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. I visualize general characteristics and then start the process. It’s uncomfortable to change and takes time to get used to.” Pope looked at Cheveyo. “Unlike the way you change to your cat, which I suspect is natural for you, changing my suit is not natural at all. Neither is being in the suit to begin with. But I shall have to get used to it, I suppose.”
Petra sat up completely. “You never did answer my question earlier: what do
you look like as a Callorian?”
“I’ll have to revert to my real self before I can change. Are you sure you want to see me? I look even more different.”
“I do,” she said.
She glanced at Cheveyo, who said, “You can’t look worse than a Glouk.”
Pope laughed. “No, nothing like that. We’re quite beautiful, if I don’t say so myself.” He sat next to her on the couch and relaxed his body. “It will take some time. Do not wait for me to return to human before heading home.”
“Will you be able to talk to us?” she asked.
“Not during the process. Callorians speak to each other psychically and so do not use voices very often. I like the nuances in the human voice. They reveal much of emotions, even if I cannot always tell what those emotions are.” He took a breath and closed his eyes. His human suit shimmered, slowly becoming golden static, and then fell away.
“You are beautiful,” she said on a breath.
His form remained in a human shape, but he was opalescent, the same shade as his eyes. His skin was perfectly smooth, as was his head. He tensed, his body contorting, fingers curling.
“It looks beyond uncomfortable,” she said. “It looks painful.”
Cheveyo was watching, too. “He wouldn’t have done it if he couldn’t handle it. I have a feeling Pope can handle a lot.” He walked up to the front and started the engine.
Petra remained next to Pope, watching over his transformation. He trembled, and she felt his energy straining. Over the next hour his exterior began to take on a fleshlike consistency. His face took on definition, square chin, full mouth, and a nose that bordered on cute.
“How’s he doing?” Cheveyo asked, flicking a glance back at them.
“He’s coming along nicely.”
They were almost home when Pope’s eyes fluttered open. He stretched as though wearing a tight bodysuit, and finally he focused his gaze on her.
“Handsome,” she said. “You kept your eye color.”
“I can’t seem to change it.” He ran his fingers through thick hair. “I thought it might be good to not deal with hair since we don’t have it in Surfacia, but this will be a nice change.”
“I like it.”
Pope shrugged. “It’ll do. Humans are too preoccupied with appearance.”
She had been, not so long ago. “I feel like I’ve shed my human suit, too. The things that used to matter so much . . . not anymore.” She walked over to the passenger seat and sat down. “Everything’s different,” she said to Cheveyo. But she would go back to her life and try to fit back into it.
His expression was sober. “I see too much of the warrior, not enough of the princess.”
“You liked when I was more princess. You don’t like seeing me as an equal. But I’ve changed. I’ll never be her again.” She tilted her head. “Don’t look so sad. I like who I am now. No matter what happens in life, I know I can handle it. I’m not afraid like I used to be. You’re different, too.”
“Nothing has changed for me.”
“Your son is alive. You have the chance to have a normal life. A family. Your father made your choices before. Who you were. Who was in your life. This time you get to choose.”
She could see his resolve, in the way his mouth tightened, the way his eyes were shuttered.
“You’re not going to see Cody, are you?”
“It’s better if I don’t. The illusion my father created could easily happen.”
She moved closer, her nose almost touching his. “You’re going to let us all go, for our own good. But what about your good, Cheveyo? Don’t you deserve to be happy? To have love?”
“I deserve to know that I didn’t cause the death of my son and his mother. I deserve to know that I haven’t gotten you killed. That’s enough.”
She wasn’t going to give up that easily. Mostly because she could see that boy, his blue-gray eyes shadowed by loneliness, by what was missing in his life. A younger version of Cheveyo, and that alone rubbed her heart raw. “I grew up without my mother, and the loss of her was a hole in my heart my whole life. I was angry at her sometimes, I cried and felt sorry for myself, and occasionally I felt sorry for her. I needed my mom, even if she wasn’t normal. Even if she could set fires with her mind.”
His gaze hardened as it met hers. “But being with her wouldn’t have jeopardized your life.”
She sighed. Damned stubborn man. “What if Cody inherited the cat? I’m sure your father prepared you. How old were you when you first turned? What was it like?”
That got him. His eyes darkened in a human way, showing her how scary it had been, even knowing what to expect.
He looked beyond her, sinking back to that time. “I was twelve, almost thirteen. Puberty triggered it. I lost my child’s voice and gained a jaguar. Yes, my father did warn me. It was still terrifying. And painful. It is the first several times, like having your body ripped apart and then clumped back together.”
He shifted his gaze to Pope. “It’s natural now, but not at the beginning. I was overwhelmed with the need to hunt, as though the jaguar had been in hibernation my whole life and was now famished. My father set me loose in the woods and told me to free my cat. I caught and ate a rabbit, and was horrified. When I came back to myself, I had blood and guts and bits of fur on my face. I threw up. That was my initiation.” He pulled his gaze back to her. “I’ll watch the boy, of course, and if he shows signs, I’ll intercede. I’ve got a few years.”
She looked at Pope, startled at his new appearance. His hair was dark brown, thick and rough cut. And in those eyes she saw the mirror of her pain.
She turned back to Cheveyo, holding onto his words that night after they’d first made love. How would he walk away from her now? How was she supposed to walk away from him?
In a hoarse voice, he said, “I’ll make you a flight reservation to go home. My place isn’t fit to stay in.”
She nodded, though he wasn’t looking at her. “Pope, what will you do?”
“Make a life, I suppose. Find a place to live in Annapolis, perhaps.”
That made her smile. “Close to your family. We are your family, after all.”
He smiled back. “Yes. I have identities that I can use, histories and appropriate paperwork. But I don’t have them with me, so I cannot fly. We could rent a car and drive together.”
“You’ll stay with me until you integrate into a new life,” she said with a nod, the matter settled.
“Thank you. I will watch out for anomalies, as you have been doing.” He directed that to Cheveyo. “I will keep in touch with you.”
“Yes, let me know.” That warrior’s light shone in his eyes.
It sank her heart.
“But before we go, we shall get your house in order,” Pope added. When Cheveyo began to protest, he added, “I’ll brook no argument. Petra and I can handle the disarray.” She swore he winked at her. “Then we will depart.”
Cheveyo didn’t look grateful, only resolved. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
Chapter 23
Their car reservation was for the following day. Together with Cheveyo, Petra and Pope had spent the last day repairing the house. Cheveyo worked himself into exhaustion, banging away late into the night until she’d already given up and gone to bed. He fell into his deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow and woke before she did. Before then, she would have never thought one could avoid someone else when they were sharing a bed. She wore pajamas to sleep, he wore cotton pants. He would not send her from his bed, but he would not let himself be tempted, either.
She paused as she dropped the last of the broken wood from inside the house onto the pile by the steps and watched Pope and Cheveyo set the new window in place. Both men were shirtless, and Cheveyo’s chest glistened with sweat. They’d been working all morning.
Pope didn’t sweat. It was still odd to see him looking so different. So human. She loved that he was coming back with her, but it didn’t assuage
the ache that wracked her body and strangled her heart like a vine. Turning away from them, she walked along the front porch to the decrepit garden. Speaking of vines . . . She crouched down and started pulling out weeds, but her gaze kept going to the porch. To Cheveyo.
He was watching her, too, but shifted back to the task at hand. What she felt for him, it was different than the longing she’d once felt for Lucas. Back then she’d thought she needed someone to complete her. She’d seen her friends as halves of a whole, seen herself as a lone half. For a while she’d thought Cheveyo was her other half. Now she knew she was whole by herself, and so was he. She didn’t need him to complete her, but she did need him.
She yanked a stubborn weed out with a grunt and tossed it aside. Damn it, she needed him in her life. She was stuck with him in her heart. Her fingers dug into the dry dirt.
“What am I doing? If he doesn’t care about this stupid garden, why should I?”
Still, she kept on weeding. It was mindless work that was satisfying. Once she’d amassed a pile of landscape refuse, she turned again to the house. It spoke to her, with its simple lines, front porch with rockers, and the windows that reflected the late afternoon cloudy sky. And Cheveyo, standing on the porch alone watching her, his hand resting against one of the heavy posts. The sight of him made her ache, and she turned and attacked more weeds. It could be a nice garden. Just the right size for some carrots, broccoli, maybe even cucumbers. Definitely herbs. With a border of flowers, just for fun.
She unearthed a tiny tomato hiding beneath the brown vines. “You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Fighting to survive without water, food, or love.” She sighed. “Should I fight? Should I be stubborn?” She pulled another weed, leaving the tomato in its place. “He’s already made it clear that all he cares about is his cause. And it’s a good cause. Who am I to tell him, to beg or plead with him, to give it up? I suppose that would be selfish. And frankly, I can’t stand rejection again.” She blew a few stray strands of hair from her face, her hands too dirty to do the job. “I’m talking to a tomato. Really? Really?”
