by Sydney Croft
“Are there a lot of you?”
“Enough, I guess. I never took a head count.” He shrugged. “Derek was one too. Different abilities. He was stronger, not as fast.”
“And you really don’t think of yourself as a freak?” she asked.
He thought of himself in a lot of ways, but freak was never one of them. “No.”
“Thanks for elaborating on that.”
“Kira, look, I just don’t want to talk about my life. I never have.”
“Are you telling me that there’s no one in this entire world who knows about your life?”
“No,” he said, aware that he was leaving dent marks in the steering wheel with his fingers. Dev didn’t count, because he just…knew. Ender had never actually had to sit down and explain anything to anybody. ACRO had tried to force him to see their shrink only once, and after he nearly killed the man, they decided that Ender was better off when his mind was left alone.
“What about your parents?”
“I haven’t seen them since I was seventeen.”
“So they don’t even know if you’re alive?”
He wanted to ask why it was so damned important to her, but he already knew. He was the first guy who’d known the truth about her, the first guy who protected her instead of merely fucking her.
Killing her would’ve been so much easier than this. “I don’t know what they know. That life just wasn’t for me anymore. I was causing trouble for them. They’re better off now.”
She nodded, like she got that. And yeah, he could see why she did.
He shifted in the leather seat, realized that his cock was hard. Kira was putting out those damned pheromones again.
“It’s almost time,” she said, staring down at his lap and sucking her full bottom lip between her teeth. He heard the low growl of approval rumble in the back of his own throat as her hand traveled between his legs, wondered if she could mount him and let him drive at the same time.
“Can you wait another half hour, just so I can get across—” he started, but she tore open his pants with one hand as she freed herself from her own BDU bottoms, and he had a feeling he was about to find out the true meaning of “zero to sixty.”
When her hand circled his cock, his foot jerked the accelerator nearly to the floor and he pulled the wheel so far to the right they almost ran off the road.
He cursed, righted the wheel with both hands while she chuckled, her voice low and throaty, the way it always got when her heat became an uncontrollable need.
She stroked him until his breathing was faster than normal, until his split concentration forced him to give himself over to Kira in a much different way than he’d been allowing over the past hours.
He held the wheel steady with his left hand, which allowed Kira to climb on board. He put his right hand on the wheel, because he was going to need both hands for this one, and Kira ducked her head against his neck, her warm breath fanning his skin, her sex wet and hot and rubbing his cock in a way that made him jerk his hips upright against her.
“Impatient, are we?” she murmured.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Or what? You’ll pull over and spank me for being a bad girl?”
His breath hitched at the thought of taking her over his knee, and she knew it, knew she had the power this time, more so even than when she’d held him down on the ground.
“Mine,” she whispered in his ear. “All mine. Say it, Tommy.”
“Kira, I…”
“Say it. Please, Tommy,” she said, and her pheromones must be getting stronger, because as hard as he tried he couldn’t resist doing what she asked.
“Yours, Kira. All yours,” he whispered, put his head back against the headrest in silent surrender and tried to tell himself that he didn’t fucking mean it. That it was all part of the goddamned job.
She pulled her hips back slightly so she could accommodate him in one long, slow motion that sheathed him fully inside of her, and he forced himself to just breathe.
He was sweating and shaking, staring at the road with an intense concentration as the pleasure coursed through his body. She bit him at the tender place between neck and collarbone as she arched against him, held his skin between her teeth as if marking him for life, and he was grateful that this particular stretch of back road was long and straight and deserted.
She cried out, “Tommy,” as she rocked against him, and the entire car was shaking from the speed, the floor vibrating beneath his feet, his cock pulsing inside of her, and fuck, this was one of the most out-of-control things he’d ever done. And that was saying something.
And when he spilled inside of her, he eased his foot off the accelerator because he’d started to see stars as his orgasm wracked his body, stronger than ever.
When she whispered, “More,” in his ear, he pushed down on the petal again, because, despite the intensity of the orgasm, he was still hard for her, and dying like this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
TOM PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of a fast-food burger joint at their next stop, and Kira’s stomach rolled when they stepped through the front door. The horrific stench of grilled animal flesh made her taste bile. She should have known not to try. She’d always hated restaurants, couldn’t even begin to fathom why people would cook and eat intelligent, sensitive creatures that communicated every bit as well as humans if they would only listen.
“I’ll, uh, wait in the car.” She backed toward the door. “Just get me a salad. Hold the chicken and cheese.”
What he held was her, with a firm grip on her wrist. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
The hard edge in his voice reminded her that danger still lurked, and that, ultimately, she was little more than his prisoner. Which stung, because after all they’d been through, she felt like they’d become more than that. Partners. Cohorts. Lovers.
Hello, Stockholm syndrome.
“Then we need to go through the drive-thru,” she said curtly, and when he would have argued, she added a pathetic “Please, Tommy.”
Grumbling under his breath, he gave in, and after a run through the drive-thru, he pulled over in a nearby wooded park. Keeping one watchful eye on their surroundings, he handed her the salad and unwrapped a colossal triple cheeseburger. Once more, her stomach lurched.
“Want a bite?” he asked, and immediately shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, forgot. Vegan ethics.”
Even though he hadn’t been snarky, she glared and rolled down the window to let out some of the cooked-animal odor. “It isn’t entirely about ethics and morals. I mean, I wouldn’t eat animal flesh even if I could, but I can’t. It’s painful.”
“What, it upsets your stomach?”
“Worse. I can’t even touch it. Tasting it…” She shuddered, remembering the agony, the nausea that brought her to her knees the last time someone at a Christmas party thought it would be funny to slip chicken into a dish that was supposed to be vegan. “It’s like how some psychics get impressions by touch.”
As though he was bored with the conversation, he looked out the side window, all hooded eyes and lazy grace, but she knew better. The danger scent he threw, as a cop car rolled slowly past, was a dead giveaway.
“You’re talking about psychometry,” he said, still focused on the outside.
“I’m impressed.”
She eyed him with newfound appreciation that wasn’t really new, because she always appreciated looking at him. Especially when he turned that hawklike gaze on her, like he was doing now that the patrol vehicle had disappeared.
“I’ve dealt with a psychic or two.”
Interesting. She’d have to ask more about his work. Of course, she’d tried, but he hadn’t been very forthcoming.
“Well, it’s like that. When I come into contact with meat I feel—and taste—the animal’s terror and pain. I experience everything it suffered before and during its death.” She shuddered again. “Imagine waiting in a chute or a cage you can’t break out
of, and smelling blood and death ahead of you, and knowing you’re going to die. I feel all of it.”
“That explains the slaughterhouses that went up in flames,” he said quietly, as he wrapped up his burger and shoved it back into the bag.
She fell in love with Tom Knight right then and there. It was too much to hope that he’d gone veg, but at least he respected her enough to not do something in her presence that pained her, both physically and emotionally.
“I wish I could take credit for the slaughterhouses,” she said in a voice tight with emotion she hoped he didn’t hear, “but doing something like that would have drawn attention I couldn’t afford.”
He chowed on a handful of fries and washed it down with his Coke. “If it’s not you destroying all the research labs and whaling ships and crap, then who?” He swore and nodded grimly. “Itor.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Your bad guys were trying to flush me out, or at least get the authorities to arrest me so they could take me from them.”
“Do you see why you need to join my agency? You can’t hide from Itor.”
“I told you I’d check it out, but you might as well prepare yourself for the fact that I’m most likely not going to join. I won’t be kept or used by anyone. I certainly won’t train animals to fight in wars or whatever idiotic thing the government wants to do with them.”
“But you will give it a chance, right?” If anyone else had used the desperate tone he had, she’d have thought they were pleading with her. Tommy was probably just suffering from hunger pangs.
“I said I would. But don’t expect anything more.”
“Fair enough.” He rolled down his window and tossed the bag of food into a garbage can. “Let’s get this done.”
SUNDAY NIGHT
It hadn’t been easy trying to sleep with Oz being one floor above him, but Dev’s exhaustion took over.
He was so tired of fighting.
“Stop fighting me. I’ve got to get you out of here.” The man’s voice was a low growl. Tense. Rough. Dev smelled fear and wasn’t sure if it came off of him or the man dragging him out of the wrecked C-130.
“Monty.” Dev flailed to reach his copilot, but the man’s grip was stronger.
“He’s gone. They’re all gone.” The man grabbed him and ran, until Dev heard the explosion and the man covered his body with his own.
Dev wasn’t sure how long he lay with his face to the gravel, the ground still vibrating, the air ripe with smoke, flooding his lungs, his eyes tearing. But when he could sit up, he stared into the face of the man who’d saved him. And then he rubbed his eyes and stared some more.
The man in front of him wore a suit of armor, a sword at his hip. His blue eyes were fierce, his features chiseled and strong, his body curiously free of the debris and blood that covered Dev.
The man in front of him was a warrior. A divine champion of justice, a paladin. And just as suddenly, the picture changed and the warrior morphed into a half man, half animal—a man with a cheetah’s eyes and fur—
“Who are you?” Dev heard himself ask.
“No one,” the man said.
Dev blinked again, and for a second, the world went black. He put out his arms frantically, panicked and blinded. The same man came into view once more, dressed in fatigues, covered in black soot and cammy paint. His eyes were haunted, but he was no less a warrior.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he remembered saying.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Dev shouted, waking himself up.
“That’s not true.”
The voice belonged to Oz, not Ender, the warrior who’d saved his life that day. It had taken him months to figure out that his second sight allowed him to see the soul within his special operatives, but part of his gift was being able to spot them. To save them. To know that the person the rest of the world saw was not the truth. So Ender saved him and now Dev saved others.
And Oz had also saved Dev’s life in too many ways to count.
“Another nightmare, Dev?”
He found his voice, but it didn’t sound like his. “Yes. I’m fine now. I’m fine.” Like if he said it enough, it would be true. “I don’t need your help. Never fucking did,” he muttered, feeling punch-drunk. He tried to CRV his room and Oz, but nothing. Just total blackness, and a ball formed in the pit of his stomach.
“Dev, breathe, all right?”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. Shit, your lips are practically blue. Breathe, dammit,” Oz commanded, put a strong hand on his bare back where the comforter had slipped down.
“Is the writing still there? Fuck, Oz, I can’t see.”
“You haven’t been able to see for ten years.”
“You know what I mean.” He tried to stand, but Oz caught him, and for a second, held him tight. “Is the writing gone? What does it say?”
“Let me check you. Please,” Oz said, and Dev was too tired to argue anymore, let Oz’s hands run over him. “There’s no writing there.”
Suddenly Dev’s mind flashed to the two of them sitting together, his own naked body curved into Oz’s T-shirt and shorts-clad one.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he whispered, felt Oz smile against his neck.
“At least your second sight’s coming back.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You can’t go on like this,” Oz said, and for once, Dev agreed with him. “You’ve got to let me send it back.”
He wanted to tell Oz that he didn’t need his protection, his walking-dead routine, but he was tired of lying. So damned tired. “Not yet.”
And then Oz spoke, his voice a notch below pure rage. “You never listen. Cocky fucking asshole, taking everything on yourself.”
“Look who’s talking,” Dev said softly. “What? Did I take the job you wanted?”
“You still believe I wanted ACRO, don’t you? You know I try not to deal with humans, Dev. I deal in souls. I was never interested in saving the world.”
“Maybe because the dead are the only ones who can stand you,” Dev said, wanting to strike the killing blow. But Oz didn’t give an inch, and Dev suddenly didn’t want to play this game of who-hurt-who-most anymore.
“The dead aren’t the only ones who can stand me,” Oz said in his ear. “And that’s probably what kills you the most.”
“Fuck you,” Dev whispered, sounding desperate, even to his own ears. And he was still in Oz’s arms.
“I missed you,” Oz whispered back, his voice gentle, soothing. “I didn’t want to, but fuck…”
Dev swallowed, hard, but he couldn’t get the words out. Instead, he just reached a hand out to Oz, gripped the front of his shirt hard and hoped the other man knew what he meant.
“You’ve got to let me send this thing away. For good. Shit, you promised me last time, Dev.”
“I know. But I need the ghost. You have to make it help me.”
“What could be so bad that you’d call that thing out again?” Oz asked.
“Things are happening at ACRO…things I can’t explain.”
Oz was silent for a long moment. “Tell it to talk to me. Tell it I’ll share with you everything it reveals. It’s the only way to find out what it knows.”
“I want you to be safe,” Dev protested.
“You need to stop worrying about me,” Oz told him, even though every fiber in Dev’s being told him that Oz didn’t mean it at all.
Dev concentrated on the ghost. “Hey,” he shouted. “I’m ready to deal. But you’ll need to talk to Oz.”
For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then the room went cold, and Dev felt the ghost’s presence like a weight pressing in on every inch of skin. Oz’s breathing grew rapid, and then he jerked away.
“Oz—”
Oz’s palm slammed into Dev’s chest as though to prevent him from going anywhere, but no worry there. He wasn’t moving, not while Oz sat next to him, his body taut, his skin icy.
“It’ll deal,
but it’s demanding the same thing it wanted before,” Oz growled, and Dev felt the cold all the way to his heart. As a teen, Oz had banished the thing before it had a chance to request anything in return for information about Dev’s past and future. Then, almost four years ago, it had asked for something Dev couldn’t give, not even to find the ACRO agent. The guilt ate at him, and this time, he wouldn’t back down.
“Yes,” he whispered, and then louder, “Yes. Let it know that if it gives me the information I need, it can have my body. Like it wants.”
Dev could feel Oz’s fury, a wave of psychic energy that blasted through his brain with enough concussion to snap his head back. “You’ll be fighting for control constantly. It won’t stop at your body. You’ll be in a battle for your soul.”
“I can handle it,” Dev said, and Oz cursed. “Now find out what it’s wanted to tell me for all these years.”
The room grew colder, until Dev’s teeth chattered, and the pressure on his body increased, as though he were sinking deeper into the ocean, and then suddenly, everything was back to normal.
“Jesus,” Oz breathed. “Oh, Christ.”
Dev grabbed Oz’s hand and turned to him. “What? What is it?”
Oz pushed to his feet, and Dev felt the loss like a strike to the gut. “Dev…just, shit.”
“Goddammit, Oz. Tell me!” He’d never heard Oz so rattled, so on the verge of what he could only guess was fear.
“His name’s Darius.”
“And?”
“Give me a second.” Oz was pacing. Dev could hear the footfalls, could hear Oz running his hands through his hair frantically. “He was a Druid priest who worked for the man who ultimately took over Itor.”
Dev blinked. He hadn’t seen that coming.
Still pacing, Oz continued. “Thirty-six years ago, that man, Alek, had Darius tortured to death. It was bad. God, it was bad. He’s showing me…the blood, God.”
Oz was rambling now, his words coming fast, too fast, because Dev had a sickening feeling he didn’t want to know any more.
