by Sue Duff
His breaths heated the air. Her inner voice screamed to shove him away at being so bold, but silence filled the space between them as her emotions ran amuck and stilled her tongue. Rayne’s head spun, her pulse quickened the longer he was near. Who was he? Where’d he come from?
He groaned and pushed away from the wall, then stepped to the opposite side of the room. “Is he going to be in town?”
“Who?”
“The Heir. Is he going to be around for the next few days?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t always know himself.”
“Make sure he is.”
Her hackles rose. Rayne didn’t know if it was his demanding tone, or the painful reminder. “What if I can’t?”
He turned hardened eyes to her. “Convince him.”
“Why?”
“I can’t . . .” He hesitated. “I can’t stand watch over you anymore.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“You’re far from safe.”
“Who are you?” she said, but bit her tongue when it sounded like pleading.
“A ghost,” he hushed. “I’m nobody.”
“At least tell me your name,” she said louder—insistent—needy.
The handle moved and the bathroom door opened. He reached out. It slammed shut. The handle jiggled. A muffled voice came from the other side.
“Please,” she said gently and took a step toward him.
He met her halfway and paused in the middle of the room, under the light. The mask couldn’t conceal it. Rayne knew a tortured soul when she saw one.
Anguish spilled from his eyes. “Jaered.” He spoke the name so soft, Rayne didn’t know if she had imagined it. His hand waved. The bathroom door burst open.
A man fell into the room and stumbled between them. He startled when he saw Rayne. “You must be drunker than me,” he slurred.
She ignored him and stepped to the side. Jaered was gone.
Rayne rushed out and returned to the table with Jaered’s name haunting her thoughts. She discovered a man seated in the chair next to her vacant one. Her steps slowed and she looked at Ian on stage, engaging a woman from the audience in a sleight-of-hand trick.
Richard Donovan sat with his arm slung across the top of his wife’s chair. He squeezed her shoulder and leaned in to whisper something to her. Carlene nodded.
Rayne sat down and stole a sideways glance. The man had rugged features and an honest tan as if he spent time outdoors. Donovan didn’t acknowledge her and appeared engrossed in Ian’s performance.
Patrick grasped Rayne’s arm and pulled her close. “No Curse.”
Richard Donovan might still be of Weir heritage, perhaps a Duach, she thought, but no Curse meant he wasn’t born with a core. He wasn’t a powerful Sar. Rayne slumped against the back of the chair releasing the pent-up tension as best she could.
Ian believed Jaered to be an enemy. How could she convince him otherwise, without breaking her promise to the ghost and disclosing the secret that she’d carried around for months?
And who—where—was the Duach Sar that set off the Curse?
{22}
Jaered stepped up and got the bartender’s attention with the wave of a twenty. “Whatever you have on tap,” he said, laying the bill down on the counter. The hotel bar had emptied when someone propped open the banquet hall door. The patrons were all taking advantage of the free show.
“ID,” the bartender said while drying out a glass.
Jaered pulled out his wallet and held up his driver’s license. The bartender scrutinized it, then turned away. Jaered stared at the ID. Eve’s connections had created the necessary documents for him to blend in on Earth. The worst part was having his picture taken. Not one showed him smiling. His home world of Thrae had no such petty rituals in their daily struggle for survival.
A foaming beer was set down in front of him. Jaered re-turned the wallet to his back pocket. Yannis entered the bar area with a disgruntled Donovan in tow.
Kurt hung back near the entrance to the bar. Yannis settled at a table within earshot. Aeros had Jaered babysitting the pompous CEO, but there was no love lost—only the illusion of trust—between Jaered and his father. It dawned on Jaered that the serum production wasn’t the only thing Yannis had been sent to keep an eye on.
“I have to keep up appearances. What couldn’t wait?” Donovan stepped up to the counter without making eye contact.
“You blew me off.” Jaered grabbed the brew and took a swig. “You wasted my time.”
“A Pur Sar showed up.” Donovan snapped his fingers and pointed to a bottle of Scotch. The bartender grabbed it. “I’m surprised you didn’t go after him when you felt the Curse.”
“Unlike you, I can prioritize.” Jaered took a swig of the beer. Not being born on Earth had one advantage. He was immune to the anomaly that incapacitated the Pur and Duach Sars when in close proximity to each other. The disadvantage was that Jaered had a difficult time telling the rival factions apart.
He positioned his hand below the counter, directly under Donovan’s. Jaered drew magnetic power into his core, using the metal in Donovan’s wedding ring to pin the man’s hand against the counter. Jaered increased the energy draw, just enough for Donovan to get a painful message but not so bad that he couldn’t hide his reaction from the bartender.
“No more games,” Jaered said for only Donovan’s ears. “You promised to give me a vial of the serum tonight to test on a powerful Pur Sar. Where is it?”
The grimace on Donovan’s face twisted into a ferocious scowl. His free hand slipped inside his tux jacket and he re-moved something from the inside pocket. He handed Jaered a small vial of liquid under the counter.
Jaered cut the power draw and pocketed the vial. His relief at obtaining Eve’s prize was short-lived.
“It’s the formula. Almost.” Donovan sneered.
“What do you mean, almost?”
“There’s a missing key ingredient in the one I gave you.” Donovan rubbed his sore hand. “If I was to give you a viable sample, what would stop you from duplicating it in another lab and squeezing me out altogether? I’m not turning over the only bargaining chip I’ve got to join Aeros.”
Jaered had misjudged Donovan. The man was no fool.
“I’ve got a problem.” Donovan slid his bruised hand into his pocket and downed his drink in one gulp. The colliding ice cubes clinked. “You’re waiting around for the formula to be ready. You have time on your hands and can take care of it for me.” Donovan lowered his voice. “My wife, her family, offered business connections that were otherwise beyond my reach. Those days have come and gone. She’s no longer an asset. She’s a human, not one of us.”
“Sic your lapdog, Kurt, on it.”
“Too close to home. I hired someone to take care of her, but the fool has proven to be unreliable and reckless. Her accident was to happen earlier this evening, but he skipped out to take care of his own agenda.”
Was that why he had dragged the child to the meeting? Jaered wondered. “Your domestic woes are your own.” He grasped his glass in both hands. It was either that or toss the man into the stacked liquor bottles behind the bartender.
“If you’re half as ruthless as your father, I would think you’d jump at a chance to kill a human,” Donovan said. “Take care of my problem, and I’ll hand over the missing ingredient a few days early, when it’s too late to duplicate.” He left without paying for his drink. The bartender kept a steady eye on the twenty lying on the counter.
Jaered sighed. Eve said everyone had a price.
{23}
Richard Donovan was a Duach. Ian knew the second they shook hands. The man’s irises were fringed in red. Like Rayne’s. Thanks to his keen sight, Ian didn’t need one of the Pur guard’s prism lights to detect it.
“Sorry I arrived late for your performance,” Donovan said.
JoAnna hung onto Carlene’s arm. “That’s what happens when you’re the one i
n charge. How is business, by the way?”
Donovan appeared to be looking for someone while he massaged the ring finger on his hand. “Couldn’t be better.”
Ian erased the Duach stench on his trousers and studied the room. A few dozen people lingered in the ballroom. Hotel staff were dismantling the steamboat and tugging on the moss in the trees. Rayne’s supposed stalker never reappeared, but could still be nearby.
Ian excused himself and left JoAnna and Carlene with Donovan. A compulsion to get Rayne out of there grew fierce. He found the others near the entrance to the ballroom. Their numbers were short by one. “Where’s Zoe?”
“She hooked up with some guy in a devil mask and cape,” Rayne said.
“Hellish tattoos,” Patrick chuckled. “He took off his gloves on the way out.”
“She said not to wait up.” Rayne yawned.
“Time to go,” Ian announced.
“What now?” Tara asked.
“We’re headed home. We’ve got to get back to the book, but first thing tomorrow our attention focuses on Richard Donovan. He’s connected to the stalker, and maybe to the Duach Sar.”
JoAnna approached. She cast wary eyes at Donovan as he escorted his wife to the door. Ian’s core ignited and his chest blistered from deep within when the CEO put a firm hand on his wife’s back and forced her to keep walking without stopping to acknowledge them.
“I can’t believe I stayed up this late,” JoAnna said. “Tara, it was wonderful seeing you again. Rayne, I have high hopes we’ll see more of each other.” She grabbed Ian’s and Patrick’s arm and headed out into the hall. “Breakfast in my hotel room tomorrow morning. Both of you. Eight o’clock sharp. No excuses about being hung over. Who knows when I’ll return to town again.” She gave Patrick a peck on his cheek and left.
Patrick groaned. “Did she not see how far a drive we have?”
“You can always crash with her in her suite,” Ian said.
“What am I, twelve?”
The limo turned the corner and headed for the main gate. A rush of adrenaline flushed Ian’s exhaustion and he sprang upright in his seat. Floodlights lit up the inner compound. A regiment of Pur guards patrolled the outer perimeter of the mansion grounds. One of them held up a hand as the car approached. A couple of unmarked dark vans were parked in the circular drive beyond the front gate.
“Oh no,” Tara said.
“What?” Rayne opened her eyes and sat up in the backseat. Patrick snorted, deep in slumber with his head resting against the limo door.
Ian threw a panicked glance at Tara. “I’ve gotta—”
“Go,” she said.
He jumped out of the car and ran into the inner compound. Not one guard attempted to stop him. They dropped their faces in reverence and remained silent as he passed.
Squeaks came from a stretcher being wheeled toward the back of one of the vans. Its doors were propped wide in wait. The body bag bulged from the sides of the gurney. Two Pur guards eased another stretcher out the front door.
Ian approached the closest stretcher, and the guards stopped. With trembling fingers, he pulled back the zipper. The odor of burnt flesh rushed up to greet him. It was one of the scholars. A core blast had stripped away one side of the man’s face revealing charred strands of flesh and bits of splintered cheekbone beneath. Stomach contents rushed up and blistered Ian’s throat. He unzipped the other bag. Nemautis’s dull, lifeless eyes stared past Ian.
What Ian would have given to hear the strident breath coming from those still lips. He pulled further on the zipper. He’d been murdered by a core blast to the center of his chest. Galen’s colleague had died instantly.
Ian rushed inside and nearly collided with a Pur guard re-leasing a message scroll at the foyer table. It spun on one tip over the silver platter, then vanished in a green burst.
A sheet of paper blew past the soldier’s shoulder. A blast had left a gaping hole in the outside wall of the dining room. The cool, ocean breeze sent what was left of the scholar’s notes blowing into the foyer. Some of the Pur soldiers were clearing the debris and gathering them up.
“Were there any survivors?” Ian twisted around. “Drion Marcus? Milo!”
“Here,” came from the great room. The old caretaker sat on the couch with his back to the foyer. The drooped head and sorrowful tone dammed the flow in Ian’s veins.
Ian slowly approached. A thick bandage surrounded the old caretaker’s upper arm. Scrapes covered one cheek. Red, swollen eyes, as if he’d gazed directly at the sun for too long, locked on Ian. His sweater was coated with plaster dust.
Ian’s knees threatened to buckle. “Marcus . . .”
“Upstairs, in your boost.”
“How serious?” Ian asked.
“Dr. Mac removed some shrapnel from his leg. A nasty concussion. He shouldn’t be in there but a couple of hours.”
“Saxon?” The look on Milo’s face stopped the beat of Ian’s heart.
“He took a core blast. Dr. Mac’s working on him in the kitchen.” He looked up at Ian through a veil of moisture. “They got the scholars. I couldn’t save Nemautis. I was blinded by one of the blasts. I couldn’t see a thing.”
Ian threw his arms around the grizzly caretaker and buried his face in the man’s shoulder. The day they had laid Galen and Mara to rest, Ian had promised them that he’d never put himself above the needs of the earth. A selfish desire to please loved ones in his life had taken him away from the mansion tonight. It had cost Galen’s friends their lives.
Milo’s steeled frame melted and he patted Ian’s back. “I’m okay, boy,” he said. “It’ll take a lot more than what they threw at me to put me six feet under.”
Ian leaned back. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“By the time I woke up and found Marcus, the Pur guards were responding to the alarm. There wasn’t anything you could do.” Milo swiped his nose on his grimy sleeve. “Ian, the book. They got it.”
Ian’s nightmare went viral. “How did they get into the safe?”
“It wasn’t in there. They attacked right after dinner, before it was put away for the night.”
Tara dashed into the house. A Pur soldier stuck an arm out to stop her, but she darted around it and ran into the room. She threw her arms around Milo from behind. The guard detained Rayne and Patrick at the front door.
“Let them through,” Ian ordered. They started into the great room, but Ian shook his head. “See if Dr. Mac needs any help. He’s working on Saxon in the kitchen. You too, Tara.”
“Milo?” Tara asked.
He patted her arm. “I’m fine. Check on Saxon.”
They disappeared down the hallway.
“A Duach Sar with core blast powers attacked Saxon out-side. That much is certain.” A twinge of fear clouded Milo’s features. “But that’s not who killed the scholars. Ian, I might not have been able to see, but I still have my nose. I think it was a Pur Sar who killed them.”
Stunned, Ian recalled the body bags. The overwhelming odor of burnt flesh. Shock at the injuries. He’d never noticed what was missing. The smell of sulfur.
“Everyone’s to stay put,” Milo said. “Primary’s orders.”
Thoughts swelled so fast, Ian’s head threatened to explode. “But I can help.”
“There’s no fixing this, Ian. Only damage control.” With a grunt, Milo scooted to the edge of the couch. Ian helped pull him to his feet and didn’t let go until the old caretaker’s rickety legs stopped quivering. Milo didn’t protest.
“Why am I not dead?” Milo said.
“You’re too stubborn to die,” Ian said without a lick of amusement in his voice.
“They slaughtered the scholars, but spared Marcus and me. Why?”
Saxon lay on his side. The large wolf covered much of the table. The odor of sulfur slammed into Ian when he entered the kitchen. Duach core blasts reeked of it. Ian had been hit by a few. The smell triggered a twinge of nausea.
Dr. Mac had a stethoscope pressed t
o the wolf’s chest and he was bent over, listening. The girls stroked Saxon while avoiding a bandaged patch. It stretched from the wolf’s ribs and stopped short of his hip.
Patrick was pouring a cup of coffee. More than a few drops spilt. The tremor in his hand wasn’t all alcohol withdrawals.
A lump formed in Ian’s throat at the thought of how close they’d come to losing Milo, Saxon and Marcus. His back bent with guilt for the murdered scholars, for failing to protect Galen’s colleagues. Despair at the loss of the book cemented it in place.
Dr. Mac righted up and patted Saxon’s head. “He’ll recover. It didn’t penetrate too deep thanks to his thick coat. He’s one lucky dog.” Saxon lifted his snout and directed a weak growl at Dr. Mac. “Sorry ol’ boy, wolf.” Dr. Mac slung his stethoscope around his neck.
“Can we try putting him in my boost when Marcus is done healing?” Ian asked.
“The boost works entirely off a core,” Dr. Mac said. “Since he doesn’t have one, the healing powers wouldn’t be triggered. He’s tough. He’ll recover quickly on his own.” Dr. Mac shuffled toward the sink in his soiled pink bunny slippers. “If you wouldn’t mind cleaning up, I’m in need of a hot shower.”
Tara grabbed a trash can and swiped the bloody rags into it. Rayne helped gather up the surgical instruments.
Dr. Mac regarded Ian. “You look like hell. How long has it been since you got a full night’s sleep?”
“I don’t know,” Ian said. “A few days.” If the elders only knew about the level of power drain he’d endured for the sake of love.
“Then get some rest. You’re no good to anyone like this.”
“I can’t sleep with what’s going on. Marcus might need me.”
“His squad is a well-oiled machine, with or without him.” Dr. Mac yawned. “Catch a few winks, Ian. You’ve got some explaining to do.” He left the room.
“What did he mean?” Rayne asked.
“The book was my responsibility. This is my disaster,” Ian said.
“But you successfully kept it hidden from everyone for months.”
