The Halo of Amaris

by Jade Brieanne

  “No, you’re not hearing things. Nor are you seeing things,” said a deep voice.

  Shen jumped at the sound of a voice from inside of Zicon’s office. He wrapped a hand around his pistol and yanked it out of the holster, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he whipped around.

  A man with dark skin and close-cut hair stood there, indifferent. “You think that’s going to protect you? A gun? Bullets?” The man cocked a brow. “Okay, sure.”

  Shen didn’t lower his gun.

  The man shrugged and grinned devilishly. “Try it.” To make his point, the man made an impetuous move with his hands toward his belt and Shen reacted instantly. He pulled the trigger, unloading three bullets into the intruder’s chest, and watched as the stranger collapsed before he could get off a fourth round.

  Shen prodded the prone body with his foot. Satisfied when it didn’t respond, he shouldered his pistol, and started for the door to call his guard—the guard who was supposed to be stationed outside the office. How did the bastard get this far back to begin with?

  “Easy. I just walked in. Your guard is taking a nice nap in a corner somewhere.”

  Shen swerved back around, his mouth falling slack.

  The man stood there with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Smirking, he slipped his hands out of his pockets and brushed off his expensive-looking latte dress pants, the move drawing attention to the crisp white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing twin sleeves of tattoos. The shirt was covered by a beige vest, and on his feet were dark brown leather dress shoes.

  Shen noticed these details because the outfit was pristine and unblemished. Not a drop of blood or a bullet hole. He swallowed his bewilderment.

  “It’s amazing. I know.” The man eyed the pistol with narrow-eyed disapproval and pursed his lips. “You can put that away now. Only thing you’ve done is wake the neighbors.”

  “We don’t have any neighbors,” Shen stated as he aimed the gun a bit higher.

  The man sighed. “You’ve been watching too many movies. That won’t work either.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m reluctant to give you my name at the moment. Preventative measures.”

  “I didn’t say who but what—however, a who would be nice.”

  “Seems reasonable…” Instead of answering, the man turned on his heels and headed deeper into the office. “Don’t be a hard ass. Offer your guest a drink. It’s been a long night.”

  Shen grunted. “You’re not a guest.”

  “Oh, not right now, but we’ll be friends soon enough. Especially considering all the help I’ve provided—but that will come later. Let’s talk about the liquor.”

  Flinging a cabinet door open, the stranger snorted at the rows and rows of knives and brass knuckles. With his head tilted, he closed his eyes for a moment. “Ah. Zicon doesn’t allow liquor here, nor loaded weapons.” The man eyed Shen’s pistol.

  Shen’s brows furrowed and he blinked, confused. “How do you—”

  “Did you know that telepathy is the simple transfer of energy? Frequencies, like a radio. Knowing my name creates a disturbance. Sometimes, but not all of the time.” He pulled out a long, slim case from a breast pocket in his vest and withdrew a thin cigar and a black-brushed, chrome lighter from it. “My name is Lucan. But everyone calls me Lucan, so you can choose whichever one suits you,” he said as he lit the end of the cigar.

  “That’s the same…” Shen sighed. “Okay, and—?”

  “If I told you everything in one go you’d try something idiotic—like shooting me again— and that would hinder our progress as friends now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I just pumped three bullets into your chest and you’re waltzing around this office like Bernie Lomax. I doubt whatever you’re dying not to tell me will surprise me in the least.”

  “Shen.” Lucan shook his head. “We’re supposed to be working on building a relationship.” His face darkened. “We can’t do that if you insist on pointing that at me,” he said slowly before the smile reappeared. Digging a hand into the pocket of his tailored slacks, he pulled out a bronze coin. “Catch.” Tossing the flat round of metal, he watched it spin until Shen snatched it out of the air. “That’s my grandfather’s Watcher Coin. An amulet of sorts.”

  Shen looked at the coin as if it was supposed to mean something to him, shifting its weight in his palm like it was going to help him find an answer. When it didn’t, he threw the coin back. “I’m looking for the reason why you’re not dead, not to start a coin collection.”

  Lucan rubbed his chin. “We are short on time so the abridged version will have to suffice. I’m here to get you what you want. How, is the question.” He tapped on his watch three times. “Feel familiar? Or maybe a certain phone call you received this morning telling you to ignore the front door, I presume?”

  “That was…that was you?”

  Lucan smiled winsomely. “Told you we would be friends. To answer a question you haven’t asked yet, I belong to an…organization filled with very powerful people, and we are willing to aid you in your quest for retribution.”

  Lucan closed the space between them, grinning at the gun as if Shen wasn’t pointing it at him. He eased closer until the barrel pushed up against his forehead. “Now the question you need to think long and hard about is how willing are you to help us?” Slowly, Lucan placed his hand on Shen’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

  Shen felt a searing heat in his shoulder, shuffled away from Lucan, and then immediately brought the gun up again. “What the hell do you think you’re—” He paused when he didn’t feel the sharp pull of the stitches or the ache of torn skin. He shrugged his shirt off his shoulder and peeled the bandage back, amazed to find nothing but smooth skin as the stitches fell away.

  He looked up incredulously, barely refocusing on the sharply dressed man before his stomach rolled and his vision spotted. Shen staggered and the gun fell limp at his side. “What in God’s name…”

  Lucan grinned. “Funny you brought Them up.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Unbelievable.”

  Jon kicked a garden gnome that was staring at him through the foliage of a potted fern. The red and blue painted figurine toppled over and rolled under the deck railing before hitting the soft dirt below with a thud. Satisfied, Jon continued his pacing back and forth across the deck, thinly veiled anger fueling his steps. He pushed the sleeves of his white thermal shirt to his elbows and crossed his arms across his chest.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  There was a phrase he’d read while on the can one day. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. A mob boss did not murder your elderly neighbor, sir, she had a heart attack. Your husband was not abducted by aliens, ma’am, he’s cheating on you. That was a flash of lightning during a thunderstorm, nobody is outside of your window taking pictures of you.

  Basic stuff, the kind of thing covered on day one at the FBI Academy, right? Right.

  What they didn’t teach at Quantico was what to do when your simple explanation, your straight-as-an-arrow theory didn’t add up to anything even remotely rational. Jon had run a hundred what-ifs through his head, and not one of them could explain what he’d seen.

  So if it wasn’t common sense, if the answer wasn’t right in front of his eyes, then the only other option was…he was clearly insane. This, all of this, was just a manifestation of his guilt, his overly ambitious desires, his narcissism.

  It had to be one of those because there was no way in hell he was accepting the “angel” explanation.

  An angel, Jon mentally spat. Yeah, right. And I’m the last king of Scotland. He patted his pockets, looking for the familiar bulge of a pack of cigarettes. He stopped when he remembered he’d stopped smoking years ago. There went everyone’s last hope of him being nice about this.

  A sudden commotion from inside the house had Jon leaning back to peer through the glass door. Tahir and Rooke, Key’s little lackeys, were racing up the st
airs.

  Oh, great. Another emergency. Jon scrubbed his face, inhaled deeply, and prepared himself. He slid the door open, made his way through the living room, and jogged up the stairs.

  Jon followed the noise until he was in the bedroom they’d left Aiden in.

  Frowning, he stayed in the doorway and watched what was unfolding before him. “What’s wrong with him?” Jin shouted as she tried to keep her boyfriend on the bed.

  Aiden thrashed, his arms flying and his legs kicking up the covers as he fought to sit up. Words fell from his lips, unintelligible and mumbled, and his eyes were unfocused and cloudy.

  Something was seriously wrong.

  Jon started towards his friend but Key brushed past him. For a moment, his attention drifted from his friend to the other man. Key had shed his jacket from earlier, now in nothing but a tank and a pair of leather pants that were entirely too tight to be comfortable. A series of flat welts—scars—were visible at the base of his hairline, running down his neck. Nine to be exact.

  For a brief moment he wanted to ask, but Key moved away too quickly, approaching the bed and kneeling down on it. “He’s…he’s…” Key waved a hand and huffed. “It’s like he’s having an allergic reaction to his healing. It happens, but it’s never this bad.” The bed creaked as Aiden fought harder, pushing the first person he could get his hands on—Jin. She fell back hard and Key gaped as she hit the floor.

  Jon watched Key’s face, watched his gaze shift from Aiden to Jin, watched how his eyes focused on Jin and only Jin. It was a captivating level of concern—concern that didn’t make sense to Jon. They were strangers. Where was this vigilant protectiveness coming from?

  With a frantic nod from Key, Tahir and Rooke rushed to Jin and hauled her up off the floor. She yanked her arms out of their grips and strode back toward the bed. She fixed Key with a glare that could burn. “Fix him. You said that you were going to fix him.”

  Key’s answering stare lingered on Jin for a few moments before he pressed his lips together and turned back toward Aiden. Using a knee to secure one of Aiden’s arms, Key ran his hand up the column of Aiden’s neck, to a spot right below his ear. When he pressed down hard, Aiden’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed onto the bed.

  Jin’s eyes were heavy with horror. “W-what did you just do?”

  Jon wanted to know, too. The simplest solution was that he was going to get answers, and he was going to get them now. “Answer. The. Question,” Jon snarled.

  Key stood, releasing Aiden’s arms, and spun to face Jon. “It’s not for you to understand. It’s not like you would, anyway.” He placed a hand on Jin’s shoulder. “He’ll be awake in a few moments. The pressure point I used suppresses the hormone produced from speed-healing. His system will regulate. Watch over him, because he’ll need fresh air once he wakes up.”

  Key brushed by Jon again, harder this time, and Jon did not like the unspoken challenge in the action. He reached out, grabbed Key by the shoulder, and spun him around. Jon pulled Key up close, nostrils flaring. “I need you to understand that I’m being very patient, but if you don’t give me an answer—right now—we are going to have a problem.”

  Key scoffed and shook Jon’s hand free. “Have a problem. Be my guest, I don’t care. You are not my concern right now.” He continued out of the room and into the hallway and the dam that kept Jon’s anger in check broke.

  The next moments flashed in front of Jon in a red haze. He rushed into the hallway, catching up to the other man with long, angry strides. He shoved Key hard, watching him pitch forward toward the steps before whipping around.

  Key’s eyes burned with shock and anger. “What the hell is your prob—”

  Jon cut Key’s question off with a hard right across his face. Key scrambled to duck the next one but Jon chased him with another and another, not caring how his knuckles burned as they connected. The tumult had Tahir and Rooke flying out of the bedroom, Rooke’s face ashen and Tahir’s balled up in fury.

  “What do you think you are doing? Get away from him,” Tahir screamed.

  Jon ignored her. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Key’s flimsy top, tearing it as he slammed him against the wall. “An angel, my ass.”

  Key looked back at him, unruffled, his smirk deepening as Jon glowered at him. “You seem mad, sweetheart.”

  “Keep messing with me and we’ll see what kind of divine intervention your ass can come up with when I toss you down the stairs.”

  “We are the divine intervention,” Key said as he raised his head and glared. “Exodus 23:20. Behold, I send an angel before you to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I have prepared.” Key swatted at the hands wound in his shirt. “Ease off the goods.”

  Jon answered by punching Key hard enough in the stomach to knock the wind out of him. “Do you want to die? Is that what you want?”

  A voice rang out from behind them, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “Enough already.”

  Four heads turned to see Jin standing in the hallway, incensed. Aiden lumbered behind her, a hand on her shoulder for support.

  Jon was unmoved. “Jin, Aiden, get back inside. I’ll deal with this.”

  “Deal with what, Jon?” Jin spat. “Did you happen to learn anything new while you were pummeling his head in? Want to share with the class?”

  Jon opened his mouth, hot with a retort, when he realized she was right. “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

  Key laughed. “Poor little stupid doggy.”

  “And you,” Jin said, rounding on Key. “Being a smart ass probably got you real far wherever the hell you are from, but my advice would be not to antagonize a man with a short fuse. I don’t have the time for you idiots to have a dick-measuring contest.”

  All were silent as Jin stared them down. Eventually the anger drained from her face and her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know if its dawned on you yet, but we almost died. I want answers. Please.”

  Reluctantly, Jon lowered his hands and took a step back away from Key.

  Key straightened his shirt, and wiped the blood from his cut lip. “Well, if you want answers, let’s talk,” he said, heading down the stairs. “And someone get me an aspirin.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Zicon pulled his auburn, dreadlocked hair back into a band as he walked into the bakery. The place was empty, weird for a Sunday night, but he wasn’t complaining. He didn’t really like sharing Imane’s attention with a bunch of caffeine-addicted college kids.

  The bakery was cool inside, so he tugged the collar of his leather jacket a little higher as he took a seat at a table in the corner. He waited patiently. Imane always heard the bell when the door opened, and it never took her long to greet a customer.

  “Welcome to Dolce’s, I’m Imane! How can I help—oh.”

  “I’ve been gone two days and the most you have to say is ‘oh’?” Zicon leaned back in his seat, his long legs sticking out from under the table at sharp angles.

  Imane grinned. “What exactly were you expecting, Yoon Zicon?”

  “A kiss, a hug, maybe? Something other than ‘oh’.”

  Imane dusted off her hands and lifted the end section of the countertop.

  Zicon smiled as she looked back at him. He loved everything about Imane. Moroccan, she had gorgeous sunkissed skin, hazel eyes, and the most blinding smile. Imane was shaped like a pear, with flared hips and a modest chest. She was opinionated, well-traveled, and a strong believer in redemption. It was how they’d met. She had a patient ear, and a heart big enough to get him through tough times.

  His smiled waned as she approached his table, unsmiling. “Okay, no kiss?”

  Imane snorted and glared down at him. “You’re lucky I don’t whop you across the nose. That guy you suggested, damn near begged for me to hire? What’s his name? Shen? Yeah, he flaked out on me. I had to run this entire place by myself this afternoon. Thank my stars, the delivery woman just so happened to stop by this morning with
a package from my wholesaler. If it wasn’t for her, I would have had to deliver them myself. Money down the drain! She saved my life!”

  His smile disappeared altogether. “What—what do you mean he didn’t show?” He had to have shown up. It all hinged on him showing up.

  “No call, no show. And he never picked up his phone. I’m sorry, but he can’t come back.”

  Zicon pressed his lips together. Shen wasn’t coming back after today, anyway. “Um, I’ll find out what happened. I promise.”

  “And on top of that, I heard there was a gun fight or something down on Spring Street! Everybody heard the gunshots. The last thing I need is for my customer’s thinking this is some crime zone,” she grumbled.

  Zicon heard her, but now his mind was racing. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone; punching in Shen’s burner cell phone number and waiting for it connect. It didn’t even ring, going straight to an automated voice telling him a box hadn’t been set up yet.

  Imane took a seat across from him and grabbed his hand. “Are you okay? You’re pale as a ghost.”

  “I—um—” Zicon paused. Actually, he was okay. He was absolutely fine. How Shen’s plans panned out, how Shen was doing, if Shen’s mission was successful— all of that had absolutely nothing to do with him. He’d done his last favor. He was done.

  “Yeah,” he finally said, smiling. “I’m fine.”

  Imane returned the smile. “Good, because my dad’s in town.”

  Zicon’s smiled dropped yet again. He didn’t need that sort of pressure right now. He didn’t.

  George Elder, Imane’s adoptive father, was the one who’d sold him the deed to the tire warehouse. He also held Zicon to rigid rules of behavior that made absolutely no sense, and he was always going on and on about honor, duty and respect. The lectures escalated when he found out that Zicon was dating his precious little girl.