by Allie Burton
“You’re beautiful.” He swallowed the words. Spouting off romantic stuff in the middle of a chase was stupid and inappropriate.
Her smile reappeared—the sun coming from behind a cloud. Her eyes shone with an internal light, focusing on him, warming him.
A grey-haired couple scowled. Their shocked expressions told him they must’ve seen him and Aria land. More stupid stuff he’d done because he wasn’t thinking straight.
Get your head in the game.
“Let’s move.” He grabbed her hand and they hurried through the grass paths. He tried not to use his super-speed. “We need to get back to the warehouse.”
A group of schoolchildren marched noisily through the section in front of them, the plants tall enough to cover their heads. A fountain bubbled in the distance. The sound reminded him of the fountains at the Crucis Museum.
“I’d like to come back some day and…smell the roses.” Her chuckle showed she was adjusting to the danger and her powers. That she could accept and deal with her new life. She was scared of the cop chase and she was worried about her grandfather, yet she found humor in the situation. How could a guy not love that?
Running toward the far side of the park, he gulped, swallowing the word love. It stuck in his throat for a second, slid to his chest, and throbbed in his heart.
Small, well-kept homes sat on the other side of the street. A steady stream of cars drove past. A perfect red rose stuck out onto the path. Without pausing, he snapped the stem and handed Aria the flower.
“I think that’s illegal.” She didn’t sound concerned.
“We’re already being chased by the cops.”
It was as if saying the word conjured the squad cars roaming the street.
Two local black-and-whites and one from the San Francisco Police Department cruised slowly around the edge of the park. The San Francisco squad car stopped. A dark-skinned cop with a black mustache got out of the car.
“That looks like…” Aria halted tugging him to a stop.
He calculated the odds. Going back into the garden would take them too far out of the way and they’d be surrounded. “We’re going to have to leap over the car and into one of the backyards of those houses. It will be harder for them to follow us.”
One cop versus two teens with superpowers. We got this.
“Go!” He let go of her hand and leapt into the air. Turning his head, he watched Aria follow him. His heart soared.
She flew like an ibis—beautiful and graceful.
Up and over and down into a backyard. Aria landed beside him. She still held the flower, the rose scent lingering on her skin.
A snarling bark had him whipping his head toward the sound.
A pit bull bared its teeth, ready to attack.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aria
The dog’s growling sent waves of cold shivers down my spine. I liked dogs. Tiny, little, friendly dogs. Not big, aggressive, protecting-his-territory dogs. This dog’s long, salivating tongue and sharp, pointy teeth wanted to take a chunk out of me or Falcon.
Falcon pushed me behind him. “Stay calm.”
I didn’t know if he was talking to me or the snarling pit bull.
The dog lunged forward a few steps. I could imagine his teeth ripping into me. Drops of saliva dripped from his mouth onto the dirt ground.
Falcon put his arms out, warding the dog off, shielding us. “Jump a couple of houses down.” His even voice had an edge. He was afraid of the dog, too.
That didn’t soothe my nerves. “What about you?”
The dog’s brown gaze glared. Anger and distrust evident. Which I totally understood. We were humans and we’d landed in his territory.
“I’ll be right behind you. I need to distract the dog.”
“Why don’t we jump into a front yard?” Avoid any other guard dogs.
“Cops could spot us. We’re shielded by the houses in the backyard.” His stiff tone showed tension. “When I make an aggressive move forward, you jump. Go!”
Breath failed me. He was risking himself for me.
Falcon surged forward. The dog barked and growled. I threw everything into the leap, going up and over the fence and the next two backyards. Falcon followed. He hit the ground seconds later.
“No bite?” I teased, even though I wanted to collapse, relief weakening my body.
“No bite.” He sent a lazy-sensual smile back, almost like a wink with your mouth. “Keep moving toward the train station.”
“What if someone sees us?” I remembered his earlier concern.
“Our safety is more important.” He bent at the knees, getting ready to jump. “Come on. We’ve got a train to catch.”
* * *
The train ride back to San Francisco took forever. Passengers poured on at every station. The noise of people talking and laughing grated in my head. The smell of the exhaust curdled in my stomach. This morning’s misadventure had gained us nothing.
I’d been ten feet from Grandfather and couldn’t tell him I was doing everything possible to rescue him. I couldn’t put my arms around him and tell him I loved him. My body went limp, discouragement swamping me.
All I wanted was to go back to the warehouse and hide from the police, from the crazy Egyptian sects, from Jeb. I needed to regroup, figure out a plan to save Grandfather, and maybe touch the trumpet.
I wouldn’t play the instrument. I’d fight the temptation.
A sharp pain flashed through my head. Bending over, I clutched my head in my hands.
“Tut’s trumpets!” Falcon grabbed the side of his head. He winced. “Someone’s playing the trumpet.”
“What?” Through my vehement misery I barely heard him. A sharp crack rent through my skull. An urge to take action, to hurt someone, struck me like I wanted to strike someone. Anyone. I stood, unsure of what to do or where to go. Gazing around, I moved toward the aisle.
“Are you okay?” He grabbed my shoulders in a rough grip. His eyes scrunched. He felt the pain, too. “Where are you going?”
Another jolt of torture. I was being hit from the inside. Confusion swirled, making me dizzy. “What’s happening to me? I’ve got excruciating spasms throughout my body and…” I took a step into the aisle. “I have this urge to go somewhere. To follow the pain. And…” I tried to collect my thoughts. “And I want to punch you. Punch anyone.”
“Do damage?” He winced and his grip lessened. “You want to follow the pain of the music. I understand. The trumpet of war is being played.”
Jealousy skyrocketed, firing my anger into the stratosphere. Someone was playing my trumpet?
“Who?” I sank back onto the bench seat, fighting against the urge to run. It wasn’t as if I could go anywhere. I was stuck on a train.
He sat beside me, twisting his hands together, fighting an urge to follow or hit. “I don’t know.”
“One of your warriors.” I spat the words. I knew leaving the trumpet at the warehouse was a bad idea.
“Olivia would’ve texted me.” He punched the vinyl seat. “Except my cell phone doesn’t work.”
The torment and anger dulled my brain process. I put my thoughts together. “How do you know someone is playing the trumpet?”
“This pain.” He winced again.
Falcon didn’t seem to be affected as much. I wanted to bend over and scream in agony at the same time I wanted to run down the train aisle and smack people.
“Yeah, I feel the pain.” I experienced duress in three dimensions. Physical and emotional anguish. The need to hurt and the need to follow the wretched music in my head.
He took my hand and squeezed. “It’s worse for you because you played the trumpet so recently.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?” The anguish crescendoed, exploding with my anger.
“Concentrate on your focus object. It will help control the pain and the desire to injure people and things.”
I scoffed. The last thing I needed was to desire something els
e. “I don’t want to think about your eyes.”
Choking, my cheeks heated. I couldn’t believe I spewed that I’d picked his eyes as my focus object. When he’d been teaching me, he’d been staring with intense concentration. His emerald gaze had held a gleam of encouragement and respect and inspiration. And I’d been inspired. By him.
The gleam returned to his eyes with a noted spark of amusement. His eyebrows wiggled and his smile bloomed. “Focusing on your object will help the torture and the anger.”
Was he making fun of me? My anger spiked instead of soothed. I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck and not in a romantic gesture.
“What do you know about my suffering?” I whisper-screamed, trying not to draw attention.
Even so, a few people stared. Maybe it appeared to be a lovers’ quarrel.
Falcon grabbed my chin. “Look at me.”
His demand made me angrier. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“When the trumpet is played,” he spoke, soft and calm, “anyone who has previously played the trumpet hears the call inside. It’s what causes the pain and the urge to find the source. The anger command coming from the trumpet filters into everyone. These people on the train aren’t close enough, or the trumpet hasn’t been played long enough for it to affect them yet, but it will.”
I opened my eyes. “When you broke into my grandfather’s house, is that how you knew I’d played the trumpet?”
“I’d felt this pain while both you and your grandfather played and followed it to your house. I didn’t know who’d played the first couple of times. But when you played in the secret room…” His face screwed up, small lines etching by the corners of his eyes. “I had to stop you.”
“Because you were in agony?”
“Yes, but I knew once you played you’d experience this pain whenever anyone else played. I had to secure the trumpet of war.”
I angled my head. “You knew I’d played the second you touched me.”
“When I touched you the first time, I knew you’d played because our touch shocked as if I’d been electrified.”
My heart jolted. What I thought was attraction was really only a side effect of us both having played the trumpet? “Every time we touch you feel a painful shock?” I jerked my chin, trying to get out of his grip.
He resisted, keeping his hold on me. “It’s not as bad as the first time.”
“I don’t understand.” I was learning about an entirely new dimension of our world.
“Every time we touch, the pain lessens. Maybe it’s because I haven’t played the trumpet in centuries or because you and I…”
Holding my breath, my heart ticked at a rapid pace. “You and I…what?”
His cheeks reddened. He cast his gaze down. “We’ve connected.”
The connection chimed in my heart. The answer to my call or the reprise to my chorus.
The minute I lost eye contact, a new, sharp, throbbing pounded in my head. The hurt sizzled in my brain. The anger ramped up.
He stared at me. “Focus.”
My gaze narrowed with the torment. I fought to keep staring at Falcon. “So you’re not feeling the pain as intensely?”
“Correct.”
“Back in your original time, how intense was it when you touched someone?” I didn’t want to think about Falcon touching anyone, especially another girl.
“No one else alive had blown the trumpet.” Sadness reflected in his eyes. “And I was forbidden to touch anyone.”
An answering sympathy swam through me. He must’ve been so lonely. “What about your family?”
“I wasn’t with my family when I served Horus, and then I lost my family.” The words scraped out of his mouth.
The raw response sent a chill through me. I remembered how he believed his family’s murder was his fault. The guilt I understood. I believed it was my fault my parents had died, too. We had more than the trumpet in common.
“I only had the god Horus until the Society took me to become their Chosen One. They didn’t want me touching anyone, either.”
“How awful for you.” With the recent loss of my parents, I didn’t know what I’d do without Grandfather’s hugs. I appreciated what he’d done for me since the funerals. “What about my grandfather? He played the trumpet? Is he feeling this same pain?”
Falcon’s Adam’s apple moved up and down. “Yes.”
Leaning back in horror, I sucked in a shaky breath. “Every time I played, Grandfather felt this torture?” I remembered how I’d played for hours at the Society’s mansion. “Oh, my. He’s in his seventies. He can’t handle this type of intensity.”
My concentration on Falcon’s eyes ceased. All I could think about was Grandfather dealing with this mental agony and the fact I’d caused it. My anger ratcheted up. At the trumpet. At the Society. At Falcon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. You already felt guilty about the riots.”
I didn’t feel guilt anymore. Only fury. Fury that Falcon had kept secrets from me. Fury at what I’d done to my grandfather. Fury I couldn’t control the anger even now, knowing why I was feeling the mad. Because the trumpet commanded.
The train pulled into the station and I stood, breaking all contact with Falcon. Breaking whatever connection we had. “You should’ve told me.”
The agony hit harder. Flashing terrible images in my head. On shaky legs, I exited the train and headed toward whatever called.
Falcon tried to grab my hand. I yanked it away and kept walking. Walking toward the pain, the trumpet. Walking away from Falcon. Walking toward my terrible destiny.
A destiny of being a slave to the call of the trumpet of war.
My gaze glazed over. Like a spinning kaleidoscope I saw images of people running toward trains, saw two groups of kids fighting, saw a homeless guy being kicked. It was as if the view wasn’t real. There was only one thing I cared about—finding my trumpet and the person who played.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Falcon
Falcon stood, dumbfounded, as Aria walked away from him. Walked away from their connection. From all he’d shared. The pain and the lure of the trumpet had to be driving her actions.
He understood the pain. He felt it in his head, felt the need to follow the trumpet, too. But he fought it. He’d had more experience and distance.
Centuries.
Dashing after her, he exited the train station. Car horns blared, making the headache worse. Thugs—or probably not even thugs, just people affected by the trumpet—roamed the streets. The trumpet-playing changed normal people into trouble-causing hooligans.
An older woman took a round sewer cover and threw it into a shop window. The glass shattered. Shards showered on Aria. She didn’t even seem to notice.
She was going to get killed because she wasn’t paying attention. She marched in a trance, unaware of the danger. He remembered feeling like the walking dead.
Bracing against his own discomfort, he followed.
Looters rushed into stores and stole valuable goods, unconcerned with the legality of their actions. Falcon couldn’t stop everyone. He needed to help the one he cared for.
Crossing the street, he dodged a speeding car and grabbed her arm, trying to force her to stop. Worry for her churned in his gut. “Aria, look at my eyes. You have to focus.”
She shook off his hand and kept walking. His heart stuttered. Rejected.
He stayed a few steps behind, hyperaware of trouble she might encounter. He forced his pain to the back recesses of his mind. Tried to think of his focus object. His mind kept circling back to Aria.
Her feet stomped on the pavement. She didn’t waver, moving straight ahead.
A black shadow in her path caught his attention. He focused on a sewer without its cover. He remembered the cover being thrown into a window. Aria was going to step right into the hole. The churning flipped.
Using his super-speed, he ran to her and swooped her off her feet.
S
he thumped on his chest, each hit a strike to his heart. “Let me go!”
At least he knew she could speak in the catatonic state. He leapt over the hole and landed on the other side. The desire to hold on to her, to fight her pounding fists and squirming body, was great. He could keep her safe in his arms. But he understood the power thrumming through her veins, the need, the addiction.
He felt it, too. He’d learned how to control the desire.
He stared at her blue eyes that had lost their light, and her scrunched-up nose. Even in anger, she was a temptation. A different kind of temptation than the trumpet.
Resisting, he set her back on her feet.
Without a backward glance or an angry yell, she continued her journey.
He released the hurt breath. She didn’t know what she was doing and he couldn’t take offense.
The alley she entered was narrow. Dumpsters lined the sides by the back doors of the most famous shops. Rancid smells rose from the asphalt. A group of men dressed in black blocked the other end of the alley.
The hairs on his arms rose, sending a bad tingle through his body.
The six men spread across the opening, their gazes narrowing in on their target: Aria.
With feet spread wide, they moved as a unit. One swung nunchaku. One held a baseball bat. Something glinted in a third guy’s hand.
Falcon couldn’t let her walk into these hoodlums’ arms. Sickness swirled in his stomach, imagining what they’d do to her. He had to protect her even though she wouldn’t care.
“Aria! Watch out!” He leapt over her providing a wall between her and the men.
The sudden move startled the gang, but didn’t stop Aria’s forward momentum.
“Look what we have here.” The guy tapped the bat against his open palm. “Strike zones.”
The group’s laughter sounded menacing.
The sickness jarred, burning his chest. “Leave us alone and we won’t hurt you.” Falcon held his hands in a peace-making gesture.
Aria kept walking forward as if the gang didn’t exist.
“That’s a joke, right?” The bat guy stepped forward.
