Fate's Edge: A SkinWalker Novel #6: A DarkWorld Series (DarkWorld: SkinWalker)

by T. G. Ayer

  Going to have to have a talk with Senator Branson one of these days. Of all the things to leave car production for, the man had chosen airlines. And she'd once thought him one of the smartest minds in the world.

  Allegra pulled the brake, prayed it would hold, and opened the car door. Grabbing her small black leather purse, she looped the strap over her shoulder and alighted.

  After slamming the car door shut and sending a prayer to Apollo that it would remain so, Allegra faced the mansion and smoothed down the front of her pale pink pantsuit. She kept her work attire low-key, but wealthier clients tended to require a classier look, even on the hired help.

  Tossing the long matching organza shawl over her shoulder, she checked that her bland blonde hair was still neatly within the high ponytail on the top of her head. She faced the guard who stood in the already-strong mid-morning sun, even though the row of trees lining the short driveway provided sufficient shade.

  The Breslins were of the level of wealthy where style bordered on the ridiculous. The latest craze, among those blessed with money, was house-staff dressed and treated as slaves had been in ancient times. When Allegra had read the article on the elektroweb, she'd sworn the world was going mad.

  Slavery had been abolished centuries ago, and today the wealthy were bringing it back, even if they were just pretending. Allegra tilted her head to look up at the polished ebony abs of the sentry.

  He wore leather sandals, a pleated red skirt, a pair of bronze armguards that glinted in the bright sunlight, and a bronze helmet topped with a bouquet of blood-red feathers.

  And pointed a very sharp spear at Allegra's left eye.

  The guard glared at her, his expression hard enough to shatter diamonds. "In the name of Darius Breslin, state your business."

  Apollo save me.

  Allegra pasted a smile on her lips. "I have an appointment with Citizen Breslin. I'm Allegra Damascus."

  No response.

  Allegra gave it another try. "His physio. For his torn tendon?”

  She pointed at her left arm, annoyed now with the show-and-tell. They were expecting her, but she still had to jump through hoops to get inside.

  The man's expression didn't change as he shifted the sharp edge of the spear to a slightly less-deadly position.

  At her left boob.

  "Proof of identity."

  Man of few words, huh?

  Allegra dug inside the little bag at her waist and withdrew her Nike Rehab ID badge. She handed it over, and waited, watching his muscles bulge and shift as he examined the plastic card.

  A soft breeze rustled through the trees, ruffling the red plumes on his helmet. It also lifted the hem of his short pleated skirt, revealing an expanse of toned, muscled thigh.

  Allegra averted her eyes.

  At last he gave the card a nod, then handed it back to Allegra before reaching for a button on the fence wall.

  Automatic gates. No surprise.

  Breslin, the handsome darling of international tennis, had won gold at the last Olympic Games. Seriously, the man was deemed so attractive that the Vestal Virgins were clamoring for the Olympic Games Events to return to the ancient rules of compulsory nudity for all participants. His win had garnered him huge support in the New Germanic States, including an advertising deal as the face of Daimler-Benz, the reigning leaders in international automobile manufacturing.

  Cursing Branson, Allegra jumped back into her vehicle and gassed the engine, crossing her fingers and hoping it wouldn't die on her. Allegra thanked the Fates when the heap of metal grumbled its way along the long drive up to the villa.

  The avenue, lined with a row of tall firs on each side, took Allegra up the hill to a classic Greek-style mansion. It resembled a massive temple with gigantic white pillars guarding the front face of the residence.

  Hades would be proud of such excess.

  At least the entrance wasn't bracketed by a second pair of sentries.

  Must be a limit to slave ownership in these parts.

  The old Branson coughed out a cloud of black dust as Allegra brought it to a halt. Allegra frowned as she exited the car as gracefully as she could, and wondered if the car was finally in its death throes.

  It would be an annoyance because automobile-shopping was her pet hate. Reason she'd held onto her first car all this time.

  Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, Allegra grabbed her leather case which contained her oils and cloths, shut the door with a solid thunk and climbed the majestic flight of marble stairs to the double-doored entrance.

  The Breslins had made a determined effort at majesty with the gaggle of expertly-cracked statues of armless, nubile gods, satyrs and nymphs, the males all well-endowed.

  But the result was nothing less than tacky, and nothing more than fake.

  No judging, Allegra. Keep your mind on the job.

  The door opened and a tall brunette met Allegra's gaze. Honey eyes studied Allegra from head to toe. "You're the physiotherapist?" An arched eyebrow dared Allegra to confirm. Her bearing, and her clothing, said lady-of-the-house.

  Portia Breslin.

  Allegra eyed her short skirt. It ended just above the knee, with generous folds of silky fabric draped loosely from her waist, across her breasts and over her right shoulder.

  "Yes. Allegra Damascus from Nike. If there's a problem, I'm sure the agency will send some oth-”

  Portia raised an imperious hand, silencing Allegra. After a moment in which the skin on her forehead puckered and her lips pursed, she gave a cool nod and spun on her heel.

  The fabric trailing the floor behind her was the only thing gracing her bare back.

  Fashion these days.

  Allegra’s hostess led her deeper into the building, exiting into a square courtyard fringed by apple trees and dotted with stone benches.

  At the center was a pool of clear water that reflected the sunlight like shards of glass. On a cot beside the pool lay the magnificent construction of muscles, limbs and pheromones that was Darius Breslin.

  His skin gleamed a dull gold from baking in the strong Fornia sunshine, and he didn't seem to notice, or care, that he was slowly getting burned.

  Guess you have to suffer for true beauty.

  "Darius, darling. The therapist girl is here."

  Allegra eyed the woman as she crouched beside her husband and gently helped him up. Citizen Portia Breslin, the pretty and very jealous Breslin wife. Some of the gossip mags - not that Allegra read such trash - claimed Darius had a taste for more than just one woman at a time.

  Where there's smoke?

  As Portia leaned over, the fabric slipped off her shoulder and dropped to her waist, exposing her from neck to navel. Neither blushing nor blinking, she tossed the fabric back over her shoulder and lifted her chin to give Allegra a nod.

  Maybe being flashed will be the highlight of my day. Please let it be so.

  Allegra stepped around the cot and came face-to-face with Breslin, and was surprised to be unaffected by his stunning manliness.

  Just as well, since he was a client. Despite his undeniable beauty, Allegra barely blinked an eye.

  Instead, she introduced herself.

  Breslin gave her a noncommittal nod. "Before you touch me, I'll need some sort of reference."

  There was that arrogance she'd been expecting. Stardom gone to his head just like Hercules. "The Nike Agency is very diligent in vetting their therapists-”

  Breslin lifted a hand into the air, mimicking his wife's earlier movement. "Who have you worked with?" At Allegra's puzzled look, he sighed and spoke very slowly. "Anyone . . . that I may know . . . that I can ring up and confirm with?"

  Allegra swallowed the profanity that threatened to spill from her lips, prayed for the strength of a Minotaur, and said, "Of course. There's Ronnie DeLuca, the-”

  "The baseball player? The one who coaches the Nova Roma Tigers?”

  Allegra nodded.

  Allegra’s clientele was mostly the rich and the elite. A
n unusual achievement for someone so young.

  Fortunately, her very first client, after she’d completed her training, had been Olympic sprinter Adnan Suleiman, son of a friend of her late father’s. Suleiman had taken gold in the five-hundred-meters at the Olympics that year and his win had launched Allegra’s career.

  Demand for her services had skyrocketed, with the who’s-who in the sports and movie industries asking specifically for her.

  Ronnie DeLuca had been one of them.

  Allegra disliked name-dropping but she had to get this job done and get out of here.

  Who knew what else these people were into.

  Breslin seemed satisfied, his eyes grazing over her chest and hips in appreciation, despite his wife's proximity. "You may begin."

  Squelching a sigh of relief, Allegra said, "Where would be the best place to perform the therapy?" She glanced around the courtyard looking for somewhere in the shade. "We should be out of the sun. I don't want you to get dehydrated."

  "He's been drinking water." Portia commented coldly. "And you will start when we've verified with Ronnie."

  "Portia."

  All he uttered was that one word and Portia turned on her heel and hurried off. Seconds later, four attendants – pretend-slaves - entered the courtyard holding the four poles of a makeshift tent, shade offered by an elaborate handwoven tapestry carpet.

  Was this a thing? Or was Portia smarter than she looked?

  The four slaves, two men and two women, all wearing nothing more than a pleated silk skirt which hung low on their hips, secured the tent. Then the men left while the two women took up positions at each side of the cot, awaiting their master’s needs.

  Allegra avoided looking at the two topless women and said, “Citizen Breslin, I'm going to need you to lie on your back."

  As he resettled himself, Allegra dropped her purse beside the cot and turned to her case to snap open the lid. She withdrew a bottle from the rows of herbal rubs; cold-pressed olive oil infused with cloves. She didn't think his sun-baked skin would handle anything stronger.

  "First, I'll manipulate the muscle a little, to gauge the tension and inflammation. It shouldn't hurt, but let me know if it does."

  With the cot so low, Allegra was forced to kneel, placing herself gingerly on the roughly-hewn terra-cotta tiles.

  Movement at her side confirmed the return of the jealous wife, and the woman’s cold silence confirmed she’d made her telephone calls. If she only knew that her precious husband did nothing for Allegra's libido.

  As the wife and slaves watched, Allegra reached out to place her hands onto Breslin's shoulder joint, studying the swollen muscle and reddened skin.

  The agency had advised his condition when she’d received the job; a partial tear. Rehab should get him back to normal as long as he behaved sensibly, and followed his doctor’s instructions to the letter.

  Based on the available evidence, Allegra expected nothing of the sort.

  She placed her hands on his shoulder, palpating the muscle and concentrating on the feel of tissue beneath his skin.

  She'd planned on running him through a series of low-key exercises to ease him slowly into the rehabilitation process.

  But the moment she touched Breslin, her vision shifted. The light changed, searing sunlight replaced by a dull moon shaded by inky clouds. The pool sat half-filled and was covered in green slime, and the courtyard lay deathly still.

  Before her lay Breslin, but this time there was no cot. His lips were parched and bruised, blood caking small cuts where he'd broken the fragile skin.

  “Citizen Breslin?" she gasped, unsure of what had just happened. "What's wrong? Are you ok?"

  A voice echoed in her ear, like something from a dream. "What's the matter with you?"

  The voice was indignant and irritated, but in her vision, Breslin had barely opened his mouth. She drew closer. "How can I help you?" she asked again, but he didn't seem to hear her.

  And yet he answered. "Water."

  The word crackled from his throat, the sound hoarse and pained. His skin was flushed, droplets of perspiration covering his forehead and bare chest.

  She frowned. “You have a fever. What happened?"

  "Help," he called again, but even Allegra could hear his energy fading, his resolve dissipating.

  He turned his head to look at her, his eyes glazing over slowly until she knew he was dead. And he'd died staring at something beyond her shoulder. Allegra shifted around and let out a cry of horror.

  Someone tugged her shoulder, hard enough that the vision disappeared and the sun shone in her eyes.

  She was lying on the ground, both the Breslins glaring at her in annoyance, the two slaves curious enough to break the rules by openly gaping and tittering.

  Allegra pushed herself into a sitting position and put a hand to the back of her head. "What happened?"

  "You hit your head on the stone," said Portia unsympathetically.

  "When you had your vision." Breslin.

  "It was more like a fit."

  Breslin glared at his wife and she closed her mouth.

  Allegra stared up at Breslin who looked so different from the dying man she'd seen mere moments ago.

  "What happened? What did you see?" He seemed to be the only one interested. Of course, Allegra had mentioned his name during the vision.

  She blinked, still disoriented, then looked at the spot on the floor where he'd lain dying.

  "You were sick. Dying." She hesitated before saying the last word in a whisper. "Died."

  "What?"

  "You . . . you were feverish . . . dying of thirst. You kept calling for help, but there was nobody to help you."

  "What is this crap, Darius? Tell her to leave." His wife’s cold expression indicated she'd had enough.

  "Let her speak, Portia."

  Again the mention of her name shut her up.

  Allegra looked at Darius, shaking her head as he said, "Did you see the future?"

  Excitement edged his voice. Like most people, seers fascinated him with the possibility of knowing his future. But Allegra didn't think he'd want to know this particular fate.

  "It wasn't really the future. I don't know what it was. You didn't look any different. Like it could be today or tomorrow, or in the next few months."

  "And what did you see?" he asked again, as if the second time around he'd get a different answer.

  "You died here. Alone."

  Breslin paled and the courtyard fell into a cold silence despite the heat of the sun.

  Portia scoffed, folding her arms and giving Allegra a sneering smile. "Is this some sort of prank? You a SeerGram or something?"

  Allegra looked at Portia but she didn't have the heart to reveal what else she'd seen.

  "I'm sorry. I don't feel well." Allegra got to her feet, grabbed her bags and straightened, staring at the couple stiffly. "I have to go."

  She fled the house without a backward glance.

  For some unearthly reason, her car started on the first turn and she drove off, terrified of what she'd seen, terrified in case Breslin gave chase for more information.

  The sentry at the entrance opened the front gate for her, oblivious to the drama that was probably playing out inside the mansion right this minute.

  As Allegra turned onto the main road, she gave the house one last glance. She'd made it out in time. If she'd been there any longer, Portia's bitchiness would have pushed Allegra to tell the vicious woman the truth.

  That Allegra had seen her death, too.

  When she'd turned to look at what Breslin had been staring at the moment he’d died, Allegra had let out a horrified cry. Portia must have sat down on the stone bench at some point. She'd been lying on her back, hands hanging to the ground on either side of the narrow seat.

  With two black crows sitting on her chest, pecking out her eyeballs.

  # End of DARK SIGHT Excerpt #

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  Cursed Sight

  Shadow Sight

  Dark Prophecy

  Cursed Prophecy

  Shadow Prophecy

  Immortal Bound - Apsara Chronicles #1 Sample Chapters

  Immortal Bound Ch1

  In all the years of her particularly strange line of work, and her particularly strange kind of life, Vee Shankar had always done what was required in order to get the bad guy. But today, she was sure she hovered too close to that line she knew she’d never cross.

  Too close.

  Damned well better be worth the effort.

  Vee leaned against the cool brick of the alley wall, ground her already overly-gritted teeth and tilted her head a little to allow her companion easier access to the curve of her neck, the kisser providing the best cover as she kept a cold eye on the bar across the street.

  With Kort a regular on this street, distraction was a better choice than destruction. And Vee may find a use for him in the future. But, one of her biggest discomforts right now was what Syama would think of Vee’s current activities.

  Although thankful for the ever-watchful protection of a four-eyed, four-foot-high, black-as-night hellhound, make-out sessions—fake or real—had never fallen into the appropriate-to-witness box.

  A glance over at the hellhound—currently shrouded by a dense glamor that rendered her invisible to all other eyes, human or otherwise—confirmed that the bitch’s expression was downright judgmental. Vee suppressed a sigh. Making Syama feel better about guard duty for such a distasteful event was going to be a mish.

  She gave the hellhound a warning glare as Kort concentrated on making his way south. Vee’s attention then returned to the entrance to the only establishment on this street still open at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. All the other stores had had the good sense to close up at an hour closer to one deemed not on the straight path to Hell.

  Around the corner was another story entirely; Hunts Point in the Bronx, not the place you’d want to spend your free time even in the stark light of day.