The Darkness in Dreams

by Sue Wilder

  “You’re helping her,” Phillipe observed.

  “How could you tell?”

  “I recognize the tactics.”

  “I’m teaching her to use the telepathy.”

  “Are you teaching her anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m protecting what’s mine.” Christan’s attention was on the battle in the snow. The advantage had shifted to the two warriors. The girls were dancing between the trees in an effort to regroup. Mother Nature decided to help, or perhaps Christan had given a little nudge; snow cascaded down from a towering pine and halted Arsen in his tracks. The warrior hooted and wiped the wet snow from his face.

  Phillipe watched in silence, then said, “She’s at risk, Enforcer. She’ll always be at risk for who she is, what you both are now. She’s going to need to know.”

  Christan knew the consequences to Lexi from the blood bond. He would have to tell her what the blood bond really meant, how her life was going to change. But he couldn’t tell her yet. She was still too fragile, and even though she was now immortal, she was as vulnerable as if she were still human. He wouldn’t put her at risk.

  He changed the subject to Arsen’s estranged mate. “Have you learned anything about Katerina?”

  “Dante says she comes to visit Renata regularly. And Ethan turned up some curious details about the private research grant Katerina received.”

  “Did he find out who owns the archive?”

  “An immortal by the name of Sandro Corallo. Interesting financial connections. An investment group out of Sydney, several layers deep but there.”

  “What does Corallo want with Katerina?”

  Phillipe watched as the war of the snowballs continued. “We’re not sure. She’s an Etruscan expert of some reputation, despite her youth. It could be as simple as that. He’s well-known for his interest Etruscan antiquities.”

  “Is Three watching?”

  “As well as Luca, and Dante is building Katerina’s trust. They’re hoping to pull her in to the fold, but she’s wary.”

  “Does Arsen know?”

  “Three briefed him earlier and now I’m briefing you.”

  “Go on.” Because it wasn’t going to end there.

  “Six has been making noises about Zurich.”

  Zurich, where Christan held Lexi in his arms as she disappeared and he’d thought the worst. Where he searched the building, finding no trace of any living thing and then used a newly acquired power to destroy three stories of historic stone and glass and plaster. Power was merely energy in another form, and he’d focused on the inner support beams, collapsed the building in upon itself. Destroyed the priceless art on the walls, the polished, so-civilized desk and the pool of blood on a concrete floor. Not just his blood. Hers as well.

  Then he’d returned to Florence. She wasn’t there. He’d felt no trace of her at all, and driven nearly mad with fury and grief, he had gone after every remaining mortal and immortal, warrior and mercenary who had attacked the villa. Found them all, except the man inside One’s inner circle. Arsen and Darius stood at his side and together, they’d been death in the night. Invisible, with the lethal intent that was the signature of the Enforcers who kept the peace. Except there was no peace for men like him, only the time between the battles when they sharpened the weapons. One had called him a rabid dog when he was done and he hadn’t argued. He would do it again without thinking twice.

  “If Six pushes his complaints,” Phillipe said, “you know One will have no choice. She’ll be forced to call a formal inquiry. That building had some consulate designation, which he’s using to accuse you of an act of war.” Phillipe turned to face the Enforcer at his side. “You’ll be ordered back to Florence by the Calata. Arsen and Darius, too. You won’t be allowed to refuse.”

  “I expected it.”

  “Three believes any inquiry would be a formality—you were fully justified in what you did.”

  “Not according to One.”

  “She wields a great deal of power. As do you, and you cannot be seen to flaunt the same laws you are obligated to protect.”

  “Not my laws.” Christan was still watching the figures in the snow, although it appeared they had called a truce. “I am not Calata.”

  “No, you’re more than Calata now,” Phillipe said. “And if they find out, they will try to destroy you. Just be prepared. Three is curious to see how far Six will go with this challenge.”

  “What happened with the villa?” Christan wanted to change the subject again, a growing habit, he realized. In the past he’d not been as reluctant to discuss certain subjects. But he was also curious. He hadn’t been back to the property, and the memories were important.

  “It’s in the process of being restored. Three is taking care of the expenses. There will be additional security in place.”

  Christan had never seen himself as a land owner, but he knew every hill and dip of the vineyards. Where the soil was rocky enough to produce the best grapes. He knew the olive grove, the place where the road washed out each winter and became a quagmire of mud.

  It was the place where he loved and destroyed. Where he grieved. Where he’d stood, watching the last rays of the yellow sun fade into rose before saying the one word that exiled him into the Void. The only place where he’d come close to finding contentment, other than these few moments now, standing in the snow.

  Christan hadn’t realized how he missed the peace he’d felt in that first life, felt again when he’d watched a five-year-old wearing daisies in her hair, stomping on her aunt’s delphiniums. If he was saddened now, over the destruction of land he’d never seen himself owning, it was because of her. Because of what she had been to him there, lost there, and tried to find again there, in this lifetime.

  Lexi was clomping through the snow; he could see where she’d made a snow angel. The white stuff was stuck in her hair. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Phillipe pulled his scarf tighter around his throat and thrust his hands back into his pockets. “Have you heard the latest rumors coming out of Florence?”

  “I haven’t kept up.”

  “Some rather nasty speculation about a powerful immortal in One’s inner circle. I believe you met the man once. Leander certainly knew him. Apparently, he had some questionable friends. Disreputable sort.” Phillipe shook his head with exaggerated sorrow. “Seems like this gentleman disappeared a month ago.”

  “How unfortunate. I hope someone finds him.”

  “Considering who his enemies are, I suspect that to be very unlikely. Unless his enemies want him found to make a point. Apparently, he had a remote villa in the Piedmont, secured like a fortress, with a full security detail made up of warriors. What do you think about that?”

  “That even fortresses can fall, if the Middle Ages taught us anything.” Christan shrugged. “There’s still a lot of deep snow in parts of the Piedmont. If he lost himself up there, they might not find him until spring.”

  Phillipe looked as if he wished to smile but didn’t. “I heard another rumor, that you were seen in Florence a month ago.”

  Christan remained impassive. “I had some business to take care of.”

  “Leander took personal time the same week. You didn’t happen to run in to him while you were there, did you?”

  “Didn’t see him. Maybe he took his girl to the beach.”

  “Interesting weather for it if he did.” Phillipe shifted his stance. “Three just wanted you to know.”

  “About the rumors out of Florence?”

  “Yes, and that she fully approves.”

  Christan looked at the distant mountains. “Tell her I’m fine.”

  Phillipe’s expression sobered.

  “I’ve never stood beside you in battle, Christan. We never officially met until you came out of the Void. But I watched you walk into hell and back, in more than one war. I’ve seen who you are. You’re not that man in the jungle. You’re not the
man that one word compelled you to be, and you know Three would come in person to tell you that if she didn’t think her energy would trigger the vengeance again. Even now, she’s trying to find a way to reverse the one word she used.”

  “That’s the problem with one words, Phillipe. They don’t always do what you expect them to do.”

  “I remember the one you gave to Lexi.” Phillipe laughed. “I did enjoy hearing about you writhing on the floor.”

  Christan smiled at the memory, how he had been deep in her mind and she’d thrust back with a power so intimate it hadn’t just been the one word that put him down. It was an ongoing joke with those who knew him, but he found he didn’t mind it at all.

  They watched together, as Lexi followed the others up the cabin steps. Her hair caught the rays of the sun like a shaft of sunlight in winter. It was a brief, crystalline moment in the cold air. Then she disappeared, walking through the doorway that was within a direct line of sight from where Christan stood.

  Phillipe turned to look at him. “She’s good for you.”

  “She is.”

  “Take care of her.”

  “I will.”

  “And tell her, Christan.”

  “Soon,” he said as he started down the snowy slope. “But right now, I need to learn how to play.”

  Three weeks later, Christan was stretched out on the butter-soft couch with his head in Lexi’s lap. She was stroking his hair, complaining that it had grown too long and offering to cut it for him in the morning. Christan was trying to figure out how to decline without offending her, since the last time she’d attempted to cut his hair the results had been unfortunate.

  Lexi shifted against him now, and Christan pulled her fingers from his hair to his lips, kissed her palm. The night was cold, while a fire glowed in the fireplace. They were watching the news on the big screen television mounted to the wall, and Christan sat up when the female news reader for CNN International offered the teaser for an unexplained murder in the Piedmont.

  The story, itself, was carried near the end of the broadcast, since it was more a curiosity than it was newsworthy. The body of a reclusive financier had been found in a remote home—more fortress than chalet—in a mountainous area in Northern Italy near the medieval town of Vogogna. The actual time of death was difficult to determine do to the frigid temperatures in a building half buried in snow. The medical examiner flown in from Milan suspected some form of catastrophic brain injury, although an autopsy had not been allowed; the financier had an equally reclusive family.

  Those with unique knowledge understood the message. It took a frightening amount of power to cause total organ failure in an immortal, to sever the brain stem and obliterate all electrical function in a mind that existed in a slightly elevated, telepathic plane. The protective walls in the mind would shimmer beneath the onslaught, finally giving way, sputtering out like a child’s sparkler on that American holiday called the 4th of July before going dark. The body would crush inward, the way a human body was destroyed by a concussive attack. There would be no healing, no resumption of life. No. Nothing. Only a warning.

  However, immortals protected their privacy, so that information was never revealed, and as Christan rose up from the couch and lifted Lexi into his arms, he wondered if his mess, this time, had been clean and neat enough for One.

  Then Lexi wiggled out of her shirt and he decided he didn’t care.

  But others did. They cared about an enforcer who was once a myth, who disappeared for four hundred years and returned, and now was something more.

  An enforcer who possessed the power to destroy a three-story building in Zurich and eliminate an immortal financier in the mountains of the Piedmont.

  It was a power he should not have had.

  And the Calata was not pleased.

  If you enjoyed reading this story, please support the author by leaving an honest review on the site where you purchased it, so that others might enjoy the author’s work.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  No story comes into being without the assistance of many people, and this novel owes much to the assistant of the following professionals. Melissa Frain, who provided developmental editorial guidance and the insight needed to write the story I wanted to tell. To beta readers, Kristen, Brittany, Shannon and Paige, who were enthusiastic and enriched the development of the story. My thanks to Professor Angela Zagarella, who patiently assisted me with the Italian dialog in this novel and added her personal knowledge. Any errors in the translations or typographical errors are strictly my own.

  As always, this book is dedicated to my husband and children who had been unwavering in their support and enthusiasm.

  For more information about Sue Wilder, please visit suewilderwrites.com and subscribe to the blog to learn more about upcoming titles and release dates.

  https://suewilderwrites.com/

  amazon.com/author/suewilder

  Enforcer’s Legacy series (the stories around the Calata’s Enforcers)

  The Darkness in Dreams

  Christan and Lexi’s trilogy spring 2018

  The Fire in Vengeance

  Christan and Lexi’s trilogy summer 2018

  The Danger in Justice

  Christan and Lexi’s trilogy summer 2018

  The Tears in Midnight

  Arsen and Katerina fall 2018

  More to come

  READ ON FOR BONUS CHAPTER

  THE FIRE IN VENGEANCE

  THE FIRE IN VENGEANCE

  CHAPTER 1

  Wallowa Mountains, Eastern Oregon

  The battle was furious and would have been epic if anyone had known about it. The battleground was identified as a cabin hidden in the Wallowa Mountains, the destruction limited to a single room. Fortunately for the combatants—and there were only two—what happened in the Wallowa Mountains remained in the Wallowa Mountains, and dignity was preserved.

  The victory, if there was one, should have been awarded to the enforcer of some repute. His opponent was the girl with whom he’d battled throughout several lifetimes. In the first lifetime she’d been Gaia; in the lifetime no one talked about she’d been Gemma. In both lifetimes the battles had been unique, with some debate regarding the winning side, but this battle was considered more significant by far. It dealt with issues neither combatant had anticipated, nor did they want. They were dealing with the consequences anyway, and no one was sure which way it would go.

  Both had retreated to the hidden compound out of necessity, arriving together in the middle of the night. Their world had grown dangerous and their refuge was a lodge, with eight separate cabins, set in the middle of twenty thousand acres of privately owned forest land, surrounded by the largest wilderness area in Oregon. It was private and very secure. Access was by plane or by foot and monitored by the kind of security no one mentioned in public.

  From satellites, the compound appeared quite ordinary, in deference to Google Earth technology. If anyone looked carefully they would notice a few outbuildings. Further investigation would link to a professional website, where it would be revealed that the lodge was offered for private and very exclusive retreats aimed at executives struggling with team-building fatigue. Unfortunately, reservations were booked out two years in advance and the lodge didn’t operate in the winter.

  What was known about the compound remained minimal. But what was known about the battle was more extensive. Details were revealed by the participants, each to their own supporters and with some bewilderment on the part of one.

  It seemed the opening skirmish had been an observation, made quite innocently in the enforcer’s opinion. The girl had countered the attack—which she considered underhanded and betraying their earlier peace accords—and said something along the lines of “Do not call me stupid.” Her finger had been shaking in the air, the enforcer recalled, and she’d been dancing backward in a movement he recognized quite vividly as the opening shot in her traditional tactics.

  He had battled those tactics bef
ore and rarely won. But on this occasion the enforcer fought back, his mouth dropping open before asking, “Did that word come out of my mouth?”

  To which she had answered, rather archly, he thought, “You said I couldn’t boil water, Christan, and in this century, it means you think I’m stupid.”

  That was the point when Christan had crossed his arms and widened his stance and the battle went off the rails. He told her rather emphatically that if she’d paid attention to his instruction she could have boiled the water by lighting the stove with her telekinetic abilities, which he was trying to teach her if she’d bother to listen to him once in a while. Plates were thrown. Tears were shed and doors slammed. The peace accords went downhill from there.

  In fairness to the participants there were extenuating circumstances. The woman was newly immortal but still thought like a human. The enforcer understood she was vulnerable, wanting only to protect her. She still moved like a wild creature, with the lithe grace he remembered from the first life when they met, when she’d been Gaia of the earth.

  There were other lifetimes, when the woman had been known by the immortal G names, which she now rejected. She loved to say it with fire in her eyes; “I am me now!” But who she was, and had always been, remained etched in the tattoos that curled across the enforcer’s chest and down his left arm. Some of them throbbed as he’d watched her, his body growing hard with need.

  He had tipped his head and studied her, he recalled later. Noticed that she trembled. She’d always been fine-boned, but there were new shadows beneath her eyes, an expression of exhaustion. She hadn’t been sleeping because of the dreams. He knew, because she still let him share her bed. He knew when she cried. When he needed to wrap his arms around her slim body to keep her calm. Some dreams were of past life memories, working to the surface. Other dreams were torture, implanted by their enemy to force the memories. The worst dreams came from six months ago, when they’d traveled to Italy. Dreams of a moon-lit road where she faced a truth about herself in a past life that nearly destroyed them.