by Sue Wilder
“Not from here,” Darius said as he retrieved a red wallet from the ground and flipped through the contents. “Identification says she’s from Italy, Elene Santori, here on a tourist visa.”
“I’ll send her information to Ethan, find out what he might know.” The blond warrior was on his phone, sending a picture of the identification card to the warrior in San Francisco.
“Any idea why this girl showed up dead in the tunnel beneath your distillery?” Christan asked.
“I’d call it random but look at her right hand.”
Christan stood unmoving, then squatted beside the iron bed and looked into the face of Elene Santori. The girl had been beautiful in life, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her skin was pale, her eyes closed while strands of hair the color of honey drifted against her cheek. Christan tucked the strands behind her ear, straightened the torn blanket, then closed his fingers, slowly, around the limp hand. After a moment, he traced the faint gold memory line with his thumb, feeling nothing, no resonance, no sign of life. She’d taken a last breath here, where there was no hint of light, no glimpse of the sun or stars as her heart fluttered into oblivion. Christan released her hand and then his fist hit the wall.
Bricks crumbled. He wanted to grab the iron bed and throw it across the room, and he would have if Elene Santori hadn’t lain there in silent reproof. Christan hadn’t felt such anger since that night standing on a moon-shot road, looking at Gemma’s broken body lying in the mud.
He straightened. Every inch of the angled tunnel was covered with some form of refuse, accumulated over time, while scrabbling sounds seemed to belong to creatures scurrying out of sight. Christan lifted his head, detected the faint trace of the assassin over that of rot and mold, didn’t recognize the scent of the man. But he recognized the scent of the place from where he’d come and he would not forget it either, since it condemned the guilty more than any fingerprint.
The assassin was not from here. He was not from this continent. He was from Zurich.
Christan turned with the sharp edge of command. He was an enforcer. His authority exceeded that of Three’s favorite general, surpassed every level in immortal society except the Calata and even then, there was a question.
“Darius,” he said, “treat this with discretion. Three will handle the cremation. Once we discover who this girl belongs to we’ll have her ashes returned.”
The former general nodded, stepping aside as Christan walked out of the small room. A timber shifted as he passed, coating him with more gray dust. He forced the energy aside before the tunnel collapsed, attracting attention no one wanted.
Christan turned back for one last look. To Arsen, he said, “Please inform Three.”
“Already done.”
“Tell her it came from Zurich.”
“Lexi’s safe, Christan,” Arsen said from beside him. “I talked to Robbie. Phillipe is still there. They have things under control.”
“No more rumors of war, Arsen. We’re going after Six.”
“Yes, we are, Enforcer, when we find the connections. They dumped Elene Santori’s body here for one reason, the same reason they went after Katerina in Florence and sent Lexi to Montana. This is about you.”
Christan stepped through the last opening that separated the main tunnel from the basement beneath Dar Distillery. He stared silently at the small scratches in the brick and a dislodged piece of wood that revealed the struggle.
“You didn’t cause this girl’s death,” Arsen said, standing close and staring, too. “They’ve been planning for a long time. We need to regroup.”
And find Katerina.
Christan thought of the dark-haired girl with blue eyes and the eternal name that began with K. He slapped a hand on his second’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
Arsen walked forward before he spoke. “She’s involved.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“I always lied to her.”
“I know.”
“So does she.”
Christan followed Arsen up the stairs to the distillery, walked past the oak barrels used for the small batch 80 proof whiskey that made Dar Distillery successful. The mingled scents of green apple, vanilla and cardamom scented the air. It was late in the day, and when the boy interrupted their business meeting, customers had been spilling onto the sidewalk outside the tasting room. But without explanation, Darius had closed for the day, and half-filled glasses still sat on round tables, napkins tossed to the floor. Customers had grumbled, and Christan regretted the disruption, destroying the prosperity nurtured for years.
“An empty tasting room is the least of my worries,” Darius said. “Business comes and goes, but we don’t ignore innocents like the girl in the tunnel.”
“Is your woman in this current time?” Christan asked.
“Not that I’m aware.”
Christan nodded once. “Perhaps when she returns, it will be a safer for her.”
“Perhaps.” Darius was quiet, staring into the distance. “We’ve not always been friends, Enforcer.”
“You stood at my shoulder in Florence. That made us brothers.”
“I know of the rumors from the jungle.”
Christan waited.
“If the rumors are true, that’s fine. And if the truth is worse, that’s fine too. We protect women. We don’t leave them like trash in the dark.”
“I’m sorry I pulled you into this war,” Christan said. “I know you’re retired.”
Darius smiled. “Not anymore.”
CHAPTER 5
Wallowa Mountains
Soft music filtered into the room, providing a counterpoint to the sounds of violence. Lexi stood in the middle of the training mat, thinking it odd that Phillipe allowed music when he usually conducted the training sessions with remote efficiency. But today, he was adjusting the angle of her body with hands that were firm and warm and unlike the reptilian sensation of Six, and she wondered what had changed.
“Use your opponent’s momentum.” He moved her arm upward. “Slide and push, not collide and halt. Then connect where he’s vulnerable.”
Lexi practiced the movement as Phillipe attacked, fast and aggressive, and she used her elbow, connecting hard with his midsection.
“Yes, exactly.” Phillipe grunted, an unusual sound, followed by a scowl that transformed his acetic features.
“You’re not an academic, are you?” Lexi smiled, hands on her hips, and Phillipe’s eyebrow arched.
“You imagine academics are tedious and slow with chubby backsides?”
“I imagine academics don’t move the way you do. Besides, I’ve watched you with Robbie.”
He seemed to soften slightly. “You are an observant pupil,” he said, moving with lightning speed. Lexi pivoted on one foot, evading, and then he was behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his face to her cheek. Phillipe’s usual tactic was physical, but other than those two points of contact the immortal wasn’t touching her. Lexi felt the shiver of energy, melting like ice. The energy slid down her arms to encircle her hands; mental power held her immobile.
“What is your current weakness?” Phillipe asked.
“That I’m not able to move?”
“Your weakness,” he said, “is that you believe physical effort will protect you when it will not. All the technique in the world won’t help if you don’t understand this one thing.”
Lexi’s hair spilled around her face; Phillipe had tugged loose the tight knot at the nape of her neck, tossing the tie to the floor. Lexi held steady when he pressed his face into the silky strands and inhaled. Energy brushed erotically against her skin.
“You fascinate me,” he murmured, and Lexi realized that were it not for Christan, she would find Phillipe fascinating, too.
She said, “If you released me, we could discuss it.”
“I prefer you this way.” The immortal shifted his tall frame behind her. Everything he did was flawless. He was like Christan, and yet his telekinetic po
wer was different, far more precise, and Lexi sensed a man of strength and honor, and more depth than the ocean. Through him she was learning details of the immortal world, interacting as if they were equals, and yet he intimidated her without hesitation and he was doing it now.
“I thought you came here to help me,” she said.
“I am helping you.” His energy constricted and for an instant, Lexi was back in Zurich staring at a pool of drying blood with Six’s energy tight around her throat. Every fear came rushing back. Sweat limed her skin and her body tensed against the urge to run. Then she was free and Phillipe was five feet away, his head tipped to one side as he studied her.
“You are composed under stress,” he said, and nodded once. “I don’t train the reckless. It’s a waste of my time.”
Lexi smiled. “Arsen should have warned you.”
“He did, but I failed to believe him. We will practice more.” Phillipe slid into one of the Tai Chi forms they used for muscle memory, and Lexi mirrored his actions.
“Are you like Three?” He was pushing forward and Lexi leaned back, her palms resisting the slight power the immortal generated.
“I’m not Calata,” Phillipe said.
“But you’re Three’s advisor?”
“It’s a useful construct.”
“Do you always talk like this?” The man smiled again and Lexi realized he was handsome, and quite deadly. She added, “Okay, so that was rude.”
“You are charming.” Phillipe was leaning to the side in a deep lunge, and Lexi concentrated on matching his movements.
“So how do I protect myself from what you did?”
“How did you defend against the physical attack?”
“I didn’t halt the attack. I avoided it, using momentum to force my attacker away.”
“It is the same concept. Do you feel this?”
A feather brushed against her skin. “Yes.”
“Concentrate. Immortal power is everywhere. Find the direction, discover the edge and slide around it.”
It took a few moments, and then Lexi found the weaker energy and pushed it aside.
“Wow.”
“Yes… wow, as you say.” Phillipe crossed his arms against his chest, pulling the material of his black shirt tight. He reminded her a sleek predator, dark hair, dark eyes that were actually silver. When not wearing those red suspenders, he looked as primal as the warriors.
Phillipe said, “Telekinetic power is not mysterious. You resisted Kace when he tried to influence you, but it was instinctive, driven by your emotions. Now you must learn control.”
Lexi tried shifting the energy wave again since Phillipe was still sending it toward her. “How long will that take?”
“To master it? Centuries.”
“I don’t have centuries.”
“You do. You’re more immortal than human now. Acceptance is paramount before strength. Do you understand?”
“Because as long as I resist my immortal side I can’t use it?”
Phillipe nodded, a faint smile curving his lips while Lexi began a new Tai Chi form. Phillipe followed her movements, then moved her into the circle routine designed to mimic an actual confrontation. Phillipe’s hands came from every direction, and she kept up as the speed increased, a small victory but one she was proud to have achieved.
“Why did Three send you to train me?”
“Because Christan could not do it.”
“Do you know why?”
Phillipe said nothing.
“Three always has a reason,” Lexi insisted.
Phillipe nodded.
“But you won’t tell me?”
Phillipe moved into another pose, and Lexi realized it was his way of not answering, that any answers would have to come from Christan.
“Then tell me why Three agreed to help when Christan refused.”
“She knows war is coming.”
“What kind of war?”
“Calata.”
“Is this her way of forcing him to do something?”
It was a bold question, and Lexi wasn’t sure why she was provoking Phillipe when she knew his loyalty was to Three. As she walked three paces away and began the Tai Chi forms again, she realized Phillipe wasn’t mirroring her movements. It was difficult to continue the exercise as if it didn’t matter. When the music shifted into something more suitable for yoga, a small tremor was visible in her hands.
Phillipe studied her before joining in the exercise. “Perhaps there’s something I could explain,” he offered, “that would help you feel at ease.”
“Why is Christan worried?”
“I won’t describe him as worried. Nothing worries an enforcer with Christan’s abilities. But he recognizes the rising dangers and the risk to those he is sworn to protect.”
“What are these rising dangers?”
“Other members of the Calata, powerful segments of immortal society. We aren’t sure, but danger exists because your world has become our world. Three is not benevolent, but she respects justice and doesn’t want to see human populations harmed by another Calata war. If Six usurps her power on the Calata, destruction will follow and your world will suffer.”
“The Calata can’t be any worse than humans when it comes to war.”
“Your wars last decades,” Phillipe agreed. “But during the Dark Ages of Cambodia, there were no historical records carved into the stone temples, not one king recorded for over 200 years. The cause was not due to changing dynasties and ecological problems as your historians believe. Six was engaged in a territorial dispute out of spite and boredom. He had no real interest in the outcome and saw it for the entertainment value and the blood.”
“Is Six interested in the outcome now?”
Phillipe stopped the gentle exercise, bowed at the waist, then straightened. His eyes were molten mercury. The color reminded Lexi of a thousand secrets, held over thousands of years. The distance of immortality.
“He is,” Phillipe said. “And now we must talk of Zurich.”
CHAPTER 6
“She’s getting along well enough with Phillipe?” the enforcer asked.
Marge shrugged. “She’s learning quickly.”
“You know I was talking about the animosity toward Three.”
“Phillipe is explaining his side of the argument and Lexi is listening. Sometimes it helps to get another perspective. I can offer the same to you.”
“I don’t recall asking you to be my therapist,” the enforcer murmured, glancing at the older woman walking beside him.
“Then as a friend,” the therapist proposed.
Christan shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black slacks. The evening was filled with shadows. Yellow light spilled from the windows in two of the scattered cabins. The snow had disappeared when a warm front ran through on the way to Idaho, but the air was cold, now, clean, and as they walked from the main compound tiny lights flicked on, marking their progress. The fixtures were part of an elaborate surveillance system installed at the compound hidden in the Wallowa Mountains, and Christan appreciated the innovation. After the discovery of Elene Santori’s body, security had become his priority.
Christan hadn’t mentioned his concerns to Marge, since she didn’t need the worry and Robbie would explain the details. He paused where the path began to veer away from the compound, sorting through the threats and issuing a few telepathic commands. When he glanced up, Marge was waiting a few steps ahead, looking at him.
“Are we safe here?”
“Yes.” It was an honest assessment. The moment Christan stepped off the plane with Arsen, he’d changed into the puma and raced around the perimeter. There’d been no trace of energy that didn’t belong.
Christan listened to the croaking of frogs, followed by an answering song from the amphibians in a distant pond, normal sounds, reminding him of the small villages from centuries ago. Unhurried chirps from the birds and the furtive rustlings in the underbrush were a first line of defense. Under normal
circumstances, Christan would have relaxed, but now he remained vigilant, unable to shed the anger and regret over a girl’s body in a dark tunnel beneath the streets of Portland. It was why he was with Marge. Robbie was a healer of men. Marge was a healer of the mind.
Marge patted his arm and began walking, glancing over her shoulder. Christan realized she was leading him down the longer path where they’d have more time for whatever this was—her form of therapy, something he hadn’t asked for but appreciated.
Marge’s voice was soft. “What happened in Portland?”
“There was a girl with memory lines on her hand. She was here on a visa from Italy and they killed her, left her body beneath the distillery. Her name was Elene Santori.”
“Have you identified her mate?”
“Not yet.”
“You feel responsible.”
Christan glanced at Marge as she walked ahead of him. “I am responsible. I should have ended this long ago.”
“You’re only one man, Christan. As honorable as you are, it’s not reasonable to take responsibility for everything.”
“It was the purpose for which I was created.”
“And you think you’re not achieving that purpose?”
Christan didn’t answer. Marge kept a steady pace although she slowed until Christan was once again walking beside her.
“You can’t control every risk, Christan,” Marge said gently. “No one can. You didn’t want Phillipe to train her, but you allowed it. You don’t see that as a negative, do you, as failing in your purpose to protect?”
“I was frightened today.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult it was, finding the girl that way. It must have felt like Gemma all over again.”
Christan had shared, in one of those dark moments, how he found Gemma’s broken body at the side of the road, beneath a black moon with stars twinkling overhead. He wondered if anyone understood his rage four hundred years ago—both toward his enemy and himself. He’d felt the same rage earlier that day when he stood over the pale form of Elene Santori. The girl had been left crumpled and discarded, and for one desperate instant Christan thought it was Lexi lying on the filthy iron bed. Only when he realized the hair was honey and not blond, when he lifted the limp hand, touched memory lines that did not resonate within his tattoos—only then could he breathe again. And the relief disgraced him. Christan understood with crushing guilt that Elene Santori needed protection too, and he had failed her. Marge must have noticed his expression; she reached up, pressed her palm against his cheek.
