Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance)

by J. S. Chancellor

  "Is Trinity really doing what Iris says he's doing?"

  I look at him, his green eyes so innocent; he's already been crushed once. I don't have the heart to do this right now. "Trinity loves you like you're his own son. He told me that. Sometimes people do stupid things."

  "And Trinity's doing something stupid?"

  "Well, he's done a few stupid things in his lifetime. That doesn't mean he's a bad person." This is as good a bullshit line as I can come up with at the present time. I just wish I believed it. "We need to make it back to where your father is."

  "My father's in Ireland?" He suddenly lights up.

  "Yes, and he's probably really, really, really mad at me right now, but luckily he'll be so happy to meet you that he won't think about that." I can only hope.

  "What do I say to him?"

  I stand and help Lucan to his feet. "Don't worry about the words. Someone really wise once told me that."

  Since I look like I just walked out of Rocky Horror Picture Show and little man is in his jammies, we really can't waltz into town and start browsing through the local telephone directory. That and we're in the middle of flipping nowhere.

  We walk for what feels like a lifetime before finding shelter for the night. We could be walking away from where we need to be, for all I know. I build a fire and we huddle near it, though it's more for emotional comfort because neither of us is really cold.

  "Do you think Trinity's worried?" Lucan asks.

  To put it mildly. "I can't imagine that he wouldn't be. When was the last time you had blood?"

  He shrugs. "I dunno. Before I got here, I guess."

  I bite into my left wrist and turn to Lucan, holding it out for him. "Here."

  He takes me up on the offer and drinks from me. I can't help but to smooth his hair from his forehead while he does. It's all sweaty and matted, like a toddler who got too warm while he slept. He wipes his mouth when he's done.

  "Feel better?" I ask.

  He nods, yawning.

  "Come here." I pull him to me, while moving until my back is against a large rock. We're near enough to the shore to hear the water rolling onto the beach. He curls easily against me, and just like his father, he's asleep before he can think to fight the exhaustion.

  I should probably follow suit, but I'm too concerned about the future to let go and close my eyes. Iris won't know we're alive for a while—so we won't run into any Death Dealers tonight. It's the long-term scenarios that are so troublesome. I didn't get to watch the news long enough to see the things Trinity forecasted to develop, but I know they will, if they haven't already. Humans are selfish creatures at their core. They'll rob, kill and steal to get the vaccine faster. Some political activist group will start protests, claiming the government is part of some global conspiracy to kill them and turn everyone into Soylent Green and when no one is willing to listen, they'll start bombing the health centers. I smirk, but only because for once they're kind of right. This is a conspiracy. And it kind of does involve aliens, if you consider all otherworldly beings aliens.

  What concerns me most of all, aside from the positively terrifying probability of Starbucks going under when mankind ceases to exist, is the thought of losing my son and my husband. Both of their souls have been tethered to a world I can't even reach. A world I know nothing about. It's different when you are given a brief on your target. You're told where they hang out, what their routines are. What their weaknesses are. Now, I have nothing. I don't even know myself anymore.

  I look down at my arms as I hold Lucan tightly to me. My skin used to be riddled with small scars here and there and now there is nothing. No physical trace remains of my life as an assassin. Imagine having freckles and then suddenly having none. I would say it was like discovering you aren't human anymore, but I never was.

  And, there is an itsy, bitsy part of me that hears the grief in Trinity's voice as he screamed for me to drink from him at Callmadus. I had thought him responsible for what Iris had clearly done and I will never be able to wipe from my memory the look on his face as I asked him why he had done that.

  And I find myself wondering about a world where things had been different for him. What if he'd never gotten involved in his father's political dealings? What if he'd had no part in the murder of Jacelynd's family? What if he and Quinn had been friends and he was one of us? At some point he made a decision, a single decision that mapped out the course he would take from then on; a course that would bring him here. What if he'd made another choice? A different picture begins to paint itself in my mind of a man I thought I knew.

  Lucan is so young, as Trinity once was. Did Trinity ask his father the kinds of questions all sons ask? Did he look to a man with no conscience for a moral compass and leadership? What if he'd never been given the chance to do so? What if he'd been raised away from his real parents and instead fostered by ones who, like Jacelynd's family, cared for him and encouraged the right things? Would he have turned out the same? The part of me that is angry with him for hurting me wants to say it wouldn't have made a difference. He is like his father, corrupted from birth. But, the other part of me, perhaps the one who still remembers what encouraged me to address that final letter to him, thinks he would be changed.

  He's been on my tail for an hour now, but these woods are thick and I know them like the back of my hand. I don't care if I'm on his land or that he's the son of a king. He's easy enough to lose.

  Lady Gray, my mare, tires and eventually I find a place for us to rest and for her to get some water. I sit down and lean against a tree to close my eyes. I stretch out my legs and cross them at the ankles. I'm wearing pants and riding boots, not common attire for human women. Then again, I'm not human. And riding in a dress is positively miserable.

  I hear approaching footsteps and fight to keep the smile from my face. He probably thinks he's sneaking up on me.

  "My lady, for a trespasser you're unbelievably knowledgeable of these woods," he says. He's out of breath.

  With my eyes still closed, completely untouched by his arrival, I say, "For someone who ought to know how to take a person by surprise, you're unbelievably loud."

  I open my eyes. He's tall, with broad shoulders and is likely a formidable opponent. His build is muscular and though I'm loath to admit it, somewhat intimidating. This does not at all detract from his being devastatingly handsome.

  I lift my arms into the air and nonchalantly stretch.

  He leans into the tree with a palm on the trunk and peers down at me. "You don't fear what they'll do to you if they catch you here?"

  "Well, considering who you are, it would seem as though I'm already in that predicament. Wouldn't you say?"

  His cheeks flush, which only serves to highlight how spectacularly unusual his blue-green eyes are. His smile widens as he asks, "And who exactly do you think I am?"

  "That's a cheeky way of getting me to address you by your full title, but if you wish to hear it that badly, Prince Jacelynd." When he doesn't immediately respond I continue, "Begotten of King Nuada and Queen Elatha of the—"

  "Stop, stop … I am woefully familiar with my ancestry." He's laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes and I get the impression he's used to women falling all over themselves in his presence. "Will you grant me the pleasure of having your name?"

  "What, no beheading? Or do you want my name so that you can sentence me properly? I suppose I should at least rise. Being condemned to death while on my rear-end seems a tad … improper."

  He reaches for my hand, seemingly at a loss for words, and helps me to my feet. Once I'm standing, I see I'm at least a foot and a half shorter than he is. I mirror his actions and lean against the tree with my hand a few inches from his. He still hasn't let go of my other one.

  "Please, your name?" he asks again.

  "Lady Jesca of the House of Christianson. Though I would far prefer it if you would address me simply as Jes."

  He sweeps this thumb over my knuckles and simply the feel of his
skin on mine leaves my knees weak—definitely a new thing for me.

  "You prefer," he says, astonished. "So Jes, am I to take it that you knew from whom you were running?"

  "It appears so." I smirk. "Something you're not accustomed to, I gather?"

  "Um … no, being royalty and all."

  I reluctantly pull my hand from his and fix where my right boot has slouched at the top. "Well, just so you know, I could have outpaced you."

  He scoffs. "Yet here you are."

  "I was bored. Not to mention that my horse needed water."

  "You let a prince catch you trespassing because you were bored." He playfully lifts one brow. "Are you sure you're right in the head?"

  "Depends on who you ask, I suppose. I'd like to think I'm of sounder mind than most. Besides, if there isn't a little risk involved, it isn't nearly as fun. And who doesn't love a good beheading?"

  "Gallows humor, quite rare in a woman. And when you're not risking your life for entertainment? What do you busy your time with then?"

  "Oh … there are all sorts of ways to get into trouble. Several of which are against the King's decree."

  "You aren't going to tell me what they are?"

  "I might be reckless, but I'm not wholly bereft of common sense. I mean you are the prince, after all. You could go back and tell someone who might actually do something about it."

  He wants to be insulted; I can see it in his eyes. But he can't be, not with the grin I'm giving him. "What makes you think I wouldn't do something about it?" he asks.

  "Are you saying that you'd prefer my head in a basket?"

  "I'm rather fond of it where it is, actually," he laughs. "Are you always this quick-witted?"

  "Of course not. I'm dreadfully boring on Thursdays."

  "Why haven't I seen you before?"

  I assume he means in these woods, but the door is wide open. "Were you looking for me?"

  He runs his free hand through his hair and clears his throat, then meets my eyes again and this time it's my turn to blush. "What would you say if I was?"

  "I'm not in the habit of being sought after, so, I can't tell you for certain what I'd say."

  "Something tells me that's a lie." A clap of thunder sounds, reminding me why I went riding today in the first place. Jacelynd takes note of the coming storm as well and says, "It's about to rain. Come with me, our keep isn't far from here. You can wait it out there."

  I back up a few steps to where Gray is resting. "Maybe another time, Jacelynd. As much as I'm sure I would enjoy your company, my first love is riding in the rain."

  "Riding in the rain is extremely dangerous."

  "Not riding in the rain, not teaching your horse to trust you and to trust himself under those circumstances when you're likely to find yourself in them at some point, is worse. Gray knows I'll never lead her into harm's way, don't you, girl?" I settle into the saddle and pat her neck. "How else do you think I know these woods so well without you having ever seen me?"

  "You only ride here in the rain," he says softly, almost to himself.

  I give him the biggest smile I can muster before turning Gray in the opposite direction.

  "Wait, when will I see you again?"

  "Listen for the thunder. I won't be far."

  I wake to watch as the sun comes up over the ocean, highlighting the water with streams of gold. Lucan stirs.

  "You didn't sleep, did you?" he asks, stretching.

  "I did for a little bit. Long enough."

  "Are you okay? You were doing that yesterday too."

  "Doing what?"

  "Grimacing when you move, like you're hurt or something."

  I didn't intend to tell him, but I don't want him to worry about me. "Remember when you said you were sure I was dead?"

  He nods mutely.

  "I did die and someday I will tell you all about that, but the reason I am grimacing is because my body sort of retained the memory of the wounds I had before. You can't see them, but they're there."

  Lucan looks peaked. "All of them?" He lightly touches my cheek.

  I try not to flinch, but I can't help it. "Let's get going. I'll be fine. We are running out of time." I stand and look around. By the time we'd made it here the evening before, everything was fairly dark and I couldn't tell where we were. Now, in the daylight, I still don't know where we are.

  We walk for a good long ways before Lucan stops me. "When did you last have blood?"

  "A long time ago, but I think what happened back there started the process over again. I don't feel too malnourished."

  "Hmm. That's interesting. Because you look like hell."

  I tilt my head, shocked at his coarse vocabulary. "Didn't I tell you not to use that kind of lang … ugh, maybe I do need blood." My equilibrium must be catching up with me. I sway and lean over on my knees to steady myself.

  Lucan starts to place his wrist to his mouth, but I stop him.

  "I'm not taking blood from a child."

  "Would you prefer a sheep? That's your only other option. Me, your son, who really doesn't need another crushing blow to his fragile ego, or a sheep—which is it?"

  I laugh despite my previous convictions on the matter. "Well, when you put it like that." I reach for him and place his small wrist at my mouth, and at the first swallow I realize how badly I did need blood. Apparently coming back from the dead doesn't mean anything has changed, sanguinely speaking.

  After I close the wound, I give him a quick kiss where I'd bit him. He grins shyly, "Told you. Aren't you glad you didn't pick the sheep?"

  "Thanks and yes, I am eternally grateful."

  "No prob. Hey, do you have any idea where we are? What if we're going the wrong way?"

  I smile. "Any direction that takes us away from Iris is the right way for now." And I don't know where the gate is.

  "So, you don't know where we are?"

  "Not a clue." We've traveled mainly along the shoreline, but the beach is narrowing and before long we'll have to tread on higher ground. Which, after a couple hours of walking, is unavoidable.

  We are climbing up an embankment when Lucan asks, far too excitedly, "Hey, wait, do you hear that?"

  I am really having issues breathing and climbing at the same time—which is likely due to my chest pain. I shake my head to indicate that I don't and that I couldn't talk even if I did.

  "No, listen." He stops us and we remain still for a full minute before I hear it. Voices. We are close to civilization. Which would be a good thing, but like I've already said, we aren't exactly in appropriate attire.

  I reach up to grab the waistline of his pants. "Don't. We—" Wow, I seriously need a break, "need to—"

  "I'm really getting worried about you. And those are kind of lame superpowers—you can break steel, but can't make it up the side of a hill?"

  "We can't—"

  "Down there! It's a little boy and a woman!" a woman's voice suddenly shouts from somewhere above us. "Hey, hold on! We're getting help!"

  I groan and watch in horror as several men start to make their way down to us.

  "This isn't good, is it?" Lucan asks.

  Going Under

  I know they mean well. Humans usually do. But we are short on time and I don't have an explanation as to how Lucan and I wound up this way that would satisfy the local authorities, whom I am told are en route. We are in a hospital in Wexford and hooked up to IVs, which does absolutely nothing for a vampire but make us weaker. Lucan is sleeping and I am waiting for the pain to wane enough for us to make a break for it. Problem is, the more diluted my blood becomes, the more I feel the pain. Two physicians have already taken a stab at me, neither of them could find anything wrong with me or lower my heart rate and blood pressure (I bet you thought I didn't have a pulse).

  "Let's have a look at you," a tall female physician says as she steps beyond the curtain, "and see what all this fuss is about, eh? My name is Abigail O'Dea, but you can call me Abby if you like. I'm a psychiatrist and from what my collea
gues tell me, the two of you have been through something pretty traumatic, but neither of you is willing to say anything. Do I have that about right?"

  Dr. O'Dea—I don't like the idea of addressing anyone by their first name who has the power to commit me—reaches up and inspects the bag for my IV. "We've given you a fairly strong sedative, what with your fighting your rescuers and all, so you see why we're all a little concerned with your being wide awake and fully alert. Your heart rate is dangerously high. Now, any idea as to why the drugs wouldn't be working on you, but seem to have worked just fine on the little one?"

  I assume at this point that they're waiting on the drug panel to come back and want me to admit to being on something prior to that occurring. Problem is, they'll have a whole new set of questions when that panel comes back and I doubt it will involve what drugs I've been given.

  What is wrong with these people? If I haven't answered the last legion of ridiculous questions asked by her magnanimous predecessors, why would I start spilling my guts now? I shrug, noting that little man is indeed completely out on the bed next to mine. I should never have let us come that close to the shore, or anywhere near a human hospital. I look at her and am about to finally grant them the gift of hearing me speak when she makes the mistake of touching my shoulder at the exact location of a rather deep wound.

  I can't help but to respond verbally and physically to this, which likely strengthens their theories of my mental instability. In the process of jerking away from Dr. O'Dea, I rip the IV out of my hand and stumble to my feet.

  I hear the curtain pulled back farther and expect men in white coats to come rushing to my side, straightjackets in hand. Instead, I see a medium-height man with sandy blond hair. Yet another physician.

  "Abby let me handle this one." He isn't Irish, but I can't quite nail the accent. Englishgermadutch, maybe.

  "Is this the virus, you think?"

  "No. I'll let you know what's going on. I promise."