She looked up into his eyes. “But I can’t stay with them forever,” she whispered.
“So stay until you’re more sure of which way to go. After all, if Oliver really is the good guy he says he is, he won’t be going anywhere soon. So he can wait.”
Gaia shot Ed a grateful smile. What was it about him? He could always find a way to untangle things,to take a pile of jumbled, ratty strands and pull them apart.He smiled back, and suddenly she became aware of how close together they were lying—his elbow almost touching hers, which was a weird thought because she was quite sure their elbows had touched before. . . and so what, anyway? But for some reason it was different now—Stop.She didn’t like the way her thoughts were going at all. She had enough drama in her life. She didn’t need to be making something out of nothing. “Let’s go see if there are any monks in there,” she said, standing up abruptly.
Daydreaming
“HOW MUCH?” SAM ASKED, POINTING at a bucket that was filled with big bunches of pink lilies wrapped in cellophane.
“Ten dollars,” the shopkeeper answered curtly.
Sam picked out a crumpled ten from his wallet, handed it to the man, and grabbed one of the bunches.It was only as he stepped away from the deli that he felt like a true idiot.Flowers. From a deli, no less. Such a cheap form of truce.Nothing says “sorry” quite like pink flowers!Sam shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. This kind of cliché had no place in his relationship with Gaia. It had nothing to do with them.
But words hadn’t worked. So what else was there? Maybe just the rituals left to the thousands of other couples who struggled to keep their shit together: flowers, make-up dinners. . . couples therapy. Sam snorted at that one. But the thought alone was enough to dampen his mood even more. Buying flowers for Gaia was lame. Period.
How do you know?Sam’s inner voice countered as he waited for the light on Columbus Avenue to change. True, he couldn’t say anything for sure when it came to Gaia these days. She had closed herself off to him, as he had done to her. They were strangers now. Which was why a gesture—any gesture—had to be made. Before it was too late.
Sam hurried down West Eighty-third Street toward Central Park West, tightening his grip on the dripping flowers. As he neared the Mosses’ opulent apartment building, he wiped a hand across his chapped lips and wished for the millionth time that week that Josh Kendall would die.Car accident, mugging, hit, whatever.The means didn’t matter, only the end: Josh lying in a pool of blood. Out of Sam’s life once and for all.
But even if Sam had it in him—even if he were another person, capable of murder and not himself— he knew the story wouldn’t end there; Josh was just a link in the chain. The directives, the threats on Gaia’s life, the orders to ferry packages from place to place. . . all of it filtered through Josh from some other source, one who kept well out of the way, deep in the shadows.
Them,as Sam liked to say in his private thoughts.
What could he say to Gaia as he handed her these flowers? He could never communicate to her that everything he did was out of love—including all of his silences, all of his disappearances, all of his nightmares. . . because Josh had made it very clear that Gaia would be harmed ifone microscopic speck of informationpassed from Sam’s lips to her. A small, bitter smile tweaked the corner of Sam’s mouth as he considered his boldest moments, when he’d truly thought he could walk away from all of this with maybe just a black eye from Josh as punishment.
So much for daydreaming.
Sam hesitated on the corner, eyeing the awning. The uniformed doorman was lurking outside the glass doors. It was a different guy from the other night, though—this one was older, shorter, and fatter. Good. The doorman from the other night probably thought Sam was nuts. He wouldn’t be too far off the mark, either.Apparently love brought out crazy sides of a person.And losing love? That prospect could turn a guy psycho.
Still. . . this new doorman did pose an obstacle, because he would have to buzz up to Gaia to let her know that Sam was here. And she probably wouldn’t let him in. And what if somebody else answered? Someone like—
Brendan.
Sam stiffened.
Well, well.Think of the devil.Brendan Moss marched out the doors, nodded politely to the doorman, then paused on the sidewalk to zip up his windbreaker. Sam felt a familiar expanding hollowness. He knew this sensation well. It came to him all the time now: despair. He also knew he should try to get the hell out of there before Brendan saw him, but his legs seemed to have frozen solid. . . .
Too late.
As Brendan glanced down the avenue in Sam’s direction, his stout features hardened. He immediatelystrode toward Sam, his footsteps falling like bricks. “What the hell are you doing here?” he barked.
Sam blinked. “I’m here to see Gaia,” he said softly.
Brendan’s face was a mask of stone. He shot a hard stare at the flowers.
Was it only a matter of months since Brendan had stopped being his friend? Looking at him now, his face a smear of hatred, Sam felt like years had passed since they’d shared suite B4 in the NYU dorm. And evidently Brendan felt like it had been only minutes since they’d had their fistfight. Jesus. Sam still found it hard to believe that he could have so much anger inside himself, such an ugly streak. It seemed surreal. Still. That had nothing to do with seeing Gaia.And God knows,Sam thought, looking at Brendan’s coldly glittering eyes,he wasn’t exactly a loyal friend to me. . .Okay, maybe Brendan hadn’t deserved all of the rage he’d gotten. But he’d deserved a good chunk of it, yes.
“Get the hell out of here,” Brendan spat.
Now this. Did it all have to be so hard, so complicated? Couldn’t Brendan just step back for once? Drop the hatred? Cut Sam one tiny bit of slack? “Brendan, man,” Sam said. “Please. Gaia and I have stuff to talk about. We—”
“I haven’t forgotten what you did to Mike,” Brendan interrupted in a low, harsh voice. “If you think I’m letting a killer near Gaia, you’re sadly mistaken.”
He thinks I’m a killer.
Sam Moon shook his head. There was no point in trying to pursue this conversation. Without another word, he turned and headed back across West
Eightythird, to the opposite corner. There was a garbage can there. He dropped the flowers on top of a half-eaten sandwich and a newspaper, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked south. Maybe Brendan had done him a favor. After all, it was better to have Brendan Moss tell him to get lost than Gaia.
What a piece of luck.
Pale Blue Eyes
TOM MOORE SHIVERED IN THE CHILL of the morning. Brussels. Not his favorite European city. It was elegant, but cold and impersonal—with a threat of rain always hanging in the gray northern light.
“Encore de café, monsieur?”the waitress asked pleasantly as she approached his table at the brasserie.
“Oui, merci.”Tom smiled at her as she refilled his coffee cup. Her forehead was creased in puzzlement. Evidently she thought he was a little strange, sittingoutside on such a damp, miserable day. But Tom had to stay put, despite the far more alluring warmth and light emanating from behind the glass door. He had an assignment. This was the agreed-upon spot: outdoors at Café Belgique, on the corner of Brussels’ main square, Grand Place. Tom checked his watch again, then gave the square a quick once-over, scanning both for his contact and for anyone who might not belong: a particularly obvious tourist, a sweetfaced woman in her twenties. These were the people who could put a bullet through his heart. Expect the unexpected. It was the only way to stay alive.
But the square was empty. A drizzle had started.
Tom swallowed, pulling his hat over his ears. He shouldn’t be here. He should be in New York, with Gaia, protecting her. But he had to put her out of his mind—at least until he had a clear picture of what Loki was trying to accomplish, and more important, where he was. At this point he simply had to stay alive as long as possible. The best way to do so was to obey the Agency’s wishes. Self-preservation was his seco
ndhighest priority. Right after Gaia.
Expect the unexpected,he repeated to himself, and a wave of frustration overcame him. He’d failed to do exactly that. He’d gotten sloppy. He’d assumed that Loki wouldn’t use any decoys or traps, that his intention would be clear. But once again Tom had underestimated his brother’s cleverness. He shouldn’t havedone so—not when his last informant vanished before his eyes at that Berlin train station. Tracking Tom to Brussels would only be a matter of time. The circle was closing in.
Tom forced down another mouthful of scalding coffee. The caffeine sent a queasy rush through his veins. He was bone weary after days of scampering from Berlin to Frankfurt to Brussels, dodging what he felt instinctively were watching eyes. His stubbly jaw tightened. Emotional blackmail. That’s precisely what this was. If Tom weren’t so used to the manipulations of both the Agency and his brother, the anger might have consumed him. But instead he let it drive him. Which was exactly what the Agency counted on.
He sighed as he sucked down the dregs of his cup, then glanced down at his watch. 0800 on the nail. His contact should arrive imminently: Henrik van de Meulen, an Interpol agent whom the Agency had contacted on Tom’s behalf after the Berlin incident. A man with connections . . .
Sure enough, he heard light footsteps approaching from the rear. He turned in his chair and found himself looking up into the pale blue eyes of a tall man with graying blond hair, bundled in an overcoat.
“Good morning,” the man stated. His voice was clipped and heavily accented. “Henrik van de Meulen.”
Tom shook his hand. He had never met Henrik, but his face was instantly familiar from many photographs.The man had history with George Niven, and George had spoken highly of his intelligence and professionalism— both of which seemed to come through in his half smile and clear, alert expression. George was frugal with praise.
“I am very pleased to meet you at last,” Henrik said as he seated himself. “George has always spoken well of you. I’m only sorry the circumstances under which we are meeting could not be more. . . pleasant.”
Tom nodded. His throat felt dry and flinty, as if he’d been breathing in a coal mine. An image of Gaia flashed in front of him, her gold blond hair not unlike the color of Henrik’s. The informant in Berlin had said her name just before Loki’s men had got to him.Gaia. . . kidnapping . . .
“Do you have anything for me?” Tom asked, low and urgent.
Henrik turned nonchalantly, as if looking for the waitress, but Tom knew that movement, too: it was knitted into his very bones. That slight shift of gaze. Henrik was in fact surreptitiously checking the square and the double doors of the brasserie. “I think so,” he murmured. “But before we do this, tell me, how is your daughter?” He trained concerned eyes on Tom. “Is she safe?”
Safe.The word sounded odd, foreign—even though keeping Gaia safe was the one goal Tom knew intimately, the only thing he cared about, the sole reason behind everything he did. Safe. Yet at that momentit sounded not like a state of being but more like a place. Some mythical land that Tom did not and could not know, an inaccessible fairy-tale island not found on any map. . . .
“I don’t know,” Tom replied truthfully, wishing the question had never been asked at all, wondering if he would ever be able to answer that question in the affirmative. “The Agency is keeping tabs. . . and George is taking care of her, but—”
“Then you need not worry,” Henrik interjected swiftly. “You are leaving your daughter in George’s very capable hands.”
“Yes.”
Tom smiled thinly at Henrik; he could draw little comfort from the words. True, George Niven was a trusted friend—perhaps Tom’s only true friend in the world. But Loki was a true enemy.
“I have a daughter, too.” Henrik smiled and signaled to the waitress to bring him coffee. “Can I see a picture of Gaia?”
Tom fumbled for his wallet, retrieving the photo he’d been carrying with him since their trip to Paris. Again his throat tightened. In Paris he and Gaia had forged a new relationship after all that separation. They’d reconnected as father and daughter—only to have that bond severed. The image brought a fresh surge of pain: Gaia smiling in a hooded sweatshirt, standing outside Notre Dame in the rain, her incrediblehair snaking down her shoulders, completely soaked.
“She hates having her picture taken,” he muttered, trying to smile.
“Yes,” Henrik remarked admiringly. “I can see the fearlessness of which George has spoken. It is here.” He tapped the picture. “In her eyes.”
Tom quickly shoved the photograph back into his wallet. He couldn’t look at it anymore. Gaia’s fearlessness didn’t make him worry less about her. God, it was a curse, not a blessing. Fear was an instinct designed to keep a species alive. Without it, Gaia was fair game. For Loki.
“Let’s get to it,” Tom muttered. “What do you have?”
LOKI
There is nothing worse than being almost home, stuck in traffic, in a holding pattern. You can see your prize, but you can’t touch it.
Recently I’ve been thinking about all the speeches I have been forced to make to Gaia—all the lies or embellished truths. I’ve been ruminating over the meaninglessness and intangibility of words. What are they? They are nothing; they are made of air, made of whatever I have at my disposal so as to nudge Gaia toward enlightenment. But soon she will see. She will see that I am the only person who knows how to shape her life. The only one capable of nurturing all her magnificent potential.
Once again I have planted the seed of a fledgling trust between us. She has cracked the door ajar and allowed me to speak through it. This is a highly significant development. She could have slammed it in my face. And I mustdo nothing to jeopardize our fragile new bond. I must let her sort through her conflicting feelings, alone. She is suspicious, hostile—and rightly so. She has been told to hate me. But I sense her vacillation.
An encounter with Gaia is like an encounter with a wild animal: she is vulnerable, untamed, circumspect, all instincts on alert. There is only one way to win such an animal over. Let the animal know you are there—but do not step toward it, or it will run.
Let it know it can trust you by doing absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.
And this is the worst part: the tense wait. She has not sent word. She has not said a thing since I entreated her to come abroad with me. But though Gaia is skeptical of my own good faith, I trust her implicitly. I trust she knows what is good for her,whois good for her. And when the full glory ofher destiny is finally revealed to her, she will not only meet it, but embrace it.
And if she doesn’t?
Oh, but she will.
One way or the other, she will.
DNA
A man in pain, looking for an answer. Or maybe he was just a man going mad.
Furtive Android
SAM KNEW SHE’D BE IN THE PARK. Somehow, even at this late hour, even though she’d moved uptown to live with the Mosses, he knew she’d be right here—alone under the miniature Arc de Triomphe, searching for whatever it was she’d always searched for in the middle of the night.
That counted for something, didn’t it? That he could still anticipate her moves?
Maybe. Or maybe not. He swallowed. The motives behind those moves were still as mysterious as they were that first day he’d spotted her here.
Gaia,he wanted to say. But he couldn’t open his mouth. He could only watch her.
It was incredible. Normally the pale lamplight of Washington Square Park made a person look sickly or tired. Not her. In a way, she was even more breathtaking here than she was in the sun. But maybe the force of his reaction just had to do with his longing for her, hisstarvationfor her. He drank in her outfit: the moss-green hooded sweatshirt with frayed edges, a pair of ancient jeans with a rip near her thigh—
“Sam?”
He jerked. He hadn’t even noticed she had seen him. But she was staring at him, her eyes wide with. . . what? Anger, perhaps.Disgust, more likely.
“Gaia,” he said. His voice rang with much more strength than he felt. “I just. . . I have to say one thing to you.”
She stood there. Her face registered no response. But what did he expect? That she should say something encouraging, like, “Great, go ahead”? On the other hand, she didn’t bolt or curse him out, either. Maybe that counted for something, too. Gaia shot him the ghost of a smile. Or maybe he’d just imagined it. But for moment she looked like the old Gaia,the girl whose toughness and defiance was just a shield for pain.That shield was something they both had in common. Sam could still try. Now was the moment to reach out to her; he could feel her openness, see a shred of something like love still glinting in her eyes.
And then the look was gone.
Too late.Sam’s throat constricted.
“What do you want?” Gaia asked.
“I miss you,” he found himself choking out. “I can’t do this anymore. You’re all I think about.” His voice broke. “This is too hard. I mean, I know I’ve always had a hard time saying exactly what’s on my mind—”
“That’s an understatement,” Gaia spat. “And you know what? You’re still not saying what’s on your mind. You want to know something? You’re a smart guy. But right now you sound like you’re reciting linesfrom a bad soap opera. Stop talking around things. Say what you want to say or leave me alone.”
Sam blinked. For a moment he almost felt angry. The cold, impersonal words she’d barked at him were like a kick from behind, one that smarts and sends a twinge of rage through the body. They were almost insulting. He wasn’t some anonymous “smart guy.” He wasSam.Sam Moon. Her goddamned boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend. Or whatever. And who wassheto tell him not to talk around things?
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