by Jade Kerrion
The philosophy was hardly inspirational, but it had gotten him through many difficult days and nights, and sometimes the outcome was even more than he could have hoped for. What his attitude said about the quality of his life, he did not know. Danyael swore under his breath and then laughed quietly, a bitter, self-mocking sound.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor and paused by the open door of the study. “Galahad?” a soft female voice called out.
He looked up and saw a young woman standing beside Xin, gaping at him. It required a great deal of effort to think through the shafts of pain pulsing through his skull, even more to muster the energy respond to questions. “No, I’m Danyael. Danyael Sabre.”
This was Danyael Sabre? Zara glared at Xin for failing to warn her of what to expect. Maybe Xin thought it would be funny to observe her unguarded reaction to the doctor Lucien had summoned so urgently from New York City, but Zara was not amused.
She stepped into the room and circled the chair to get a better look at him. He did not seem fazed by the close scrutiny; indeed he hardly seemed aware, or to care, that she was studying him.
Danyael Sabre was the perfect replica of Galahad’s flawless beauty, but for a few minor differences: hair, the same rare shade of pale blond, cut shorter, and a thin white scar, almost invisible, that slashed across his right cheek, starting at the top of his cheekbone, close to his ear, and ending at the tip of his chin. One of his hands—his left hand—was subtly misshapen, as if the bones had been broken once and then badly reset. She estimated that Danyael and Galahad were about the same height, Danyael possibly a little thinner. He wore a white shirt, faded denim jeans, and a well-worn pair of black sneakers. A black leather jacket that had seen far better days was draped over an equally well-used backpack.
The biggest observable, and critical, difference was in her reaction to him. Galahad had captured her imagination, and more importantly, her compassion, but Danyael stirred nothing in her. In fact, in spite of his staggering beauty, something about him repelled her. He was not physically repulsive; in fact, he was far from it. He had said nothing or done nothing to warrant that kind of reaction from her, but in spite of her marked curiosity over how both he and Galahad had come to share a face, she had to resist the urge to walk away from him.
Her concern for Galahad drove her to talk to Danyael, though. “Lucien says you’re a doctor. Where do you practice?”
“The free clinic at Crown Heights, Brooklyn.” He did not even have enough social grace to look at her when responding.
The free clinic? The young doctors employed by free clinics were the ones who had barely passed their medical examinations and consequently could not find jobs at more reputable institutions. They were, as a rule, poorly trained and inadequate. She exchanged a dismayed glance with Xin, but her friend’s expression was oddly sympathetic. What the hell? Was this really the best that Lucien could do with regard to finding a doctor?
She bit back a snarl of frustration. “Galahad was shot twice. I need you to see to him.” She could not help the note of superiority that crept into her voice. This pathetic excuse for a doctor was not good enough for Galahad.
“I did. He’s fine.” He still did not look up at her.
He had the manners of a cretin. She spun around and strode out the door, almost colliding with Lucien, who was returning with a bowl of soup and a small plate of crackers balanced on a tray. She gave him a furious glare. “Your taste in friends is questionable, Lucien.” She nodded toward Danyael, who sat hunched over in the chair.
Ignoring her sarcasm, Lucien grinned at her. “I always thought so too. Just look at you.”
Zara’s violet eyes shot daggers at him for the insult. Gritting her teeth, she walked out of the study.
Lucien set the tray down on the side table. “Did you do that to her, Danyael?”
“No more so than usual.”
“I wish you wouldn’t always presume to know what’s best for people to feel.”
“I don’t,” Danyael said, but did not have enough energy to argue his case any further. They had been through that same discussion too many times before. No need to rehash it in front of company.
“Have you two met?” Lucien glanced at Xin.
Danyael looked up at the petite Asian woman leaning against a bookcase filled with rare first editions. She was plain compared to Zara’s flashy, exotic beauty. Her brown eyes were her most salient features, windows into a personality that was equal parts cool intelligence and calm competence. She was not beautiful, precisely, but something compelling about her made her far more attractive than her looks warranted.
Lucien made the introductions. “Xin, this is Danyael Sabre. We’ve been friends for a long time. Danyael, Mu Xin. She works with Zara, among other things.”
“It’s a pleasure, Danyael. And thank you for healing Galahad.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you biting off his head the way Zara did?”
“Psychic shields,” she said. “I didn’t have them on earlier, but after Danyael’s emotions nearly knocked me off my feet, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to put a few extra layers of protection in place.”
“I’m sorry,” Danyael said, looking up at her. He winced when the motion—minor though it was—made his world spin.
“Don’t worry about it; I know to be careful around you now. Why do you do it, Danyael?” Xin asked. “Zara does tend toward callousness, but her reaction to you was extreme, even for her. She’s not immediately hostile or prejudiced toward someone she’s meeting for the first time.”
Danyael only shook his head. He did not reply.
Lucien stepped into the awkward silence. “How long before Galahad wakes?”
“Ah…” Danyael looked away, trying to work through a sharp ripple of pain as it sliced through him. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply until it slowly passed. “He’ll…he’ll need at least a full night.”
“Good. We’ll talk tomorrow. Your room has been prepared, by the way.”
“Didn’t you want to talk tonight?”
“Danyael, you can barely form a coherent thought, let alone complete a sentence. You’re done. I’ve got it from here. I’m going to see how much of the pro-humanist media coverage I can subvert before they hit mainstream media. We don’t need anyone else trying to add logs to this fire.”
“What about Jason Rakehell?” Xin asked, “Zara told me that he knows she has Galahad.”
Lucien scowled. “I’ll deal with Jason. He’s a tiresome prick.”
“Right.” Amusement coiled through Xin’s voice. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
Lucien glanced at Danyael. “Pull his records; anything you can find on him before the age of twelve, and focus on anything before the age of four. I want to know of any occasion when his genetic code might have been stolen. You need to tell us where to start digging. We don’t have much time.”
~*~
Zara had not believed Danyael Sabre when he said that Galahad was fine, but Galahad was fine. He slept peacefully, his breathing deep and even. His injuries were gone, vanished as if they had never existed. No mere doctor could do such a thing. The answer was perfectly obvious to her. Danyael was a mutant healer perfectly disguised in the complementary profession of a doctor.
Arrogant bastard. Why couldn’t he have taken the time and the courtesy to let her know what he was? Did he think that his mutant capabilities gave him the right to be a social retard and still command respect from people? Well, he was going to be deeply disappointed then; she was not planning on offering him any respect. It did not matter that he was Lucien’s friend. In fact, it made perfect sense why Lucien had never spoken of Danyael to her before. Lucien’s social etiquette was so polished, he practically glowed in the dark. And Danyael, so graceless and inept, must have been an embarrassment, someone you hide in a dark closet somewhere, dig out when you need him, and then toss him back, hoping no one else saw him.
It was such
a pity Danyael had such a clear connection to Galahad. Obviously, Lucien thought that Danyael held the key to the secrets behind Galahad’s creation. The sooner they found out, the better. They could then toss him back into the closet and move on with their lives.
Sighing softly, she pulled up a chair to sit by Galahad’s bedside. It did not make sense. Nothing made sense. She had seen Galahad and had been impressed by his strength, his courage. She had seen Danyael and felt contemptuous indifference.
Tired and confused by the swirl of conflicting emotions, she curled her feet beneath her. She felt peace there, sitting by him, watching him, thinking, wondering. How can you both look so perfectly alike, and bring out such different feelings in me?
CHAPTER FIVE
Danyael awoke early, as was his habit. His throat was parched, and his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, but otherwise he felt significantly better. A solid five hours of sleep had helped him work through the worst aftereffects of overextending his healing capabilities the previous day, apart from the lingering exhaustion and tension headache that no amount of rest or painkillers could alleviate.
A sudden chill coiled deep within as his mind groped for answers. What were the effects of the live blood transfusion other than the numbing weariness that lasted for weeks until his body purged the existing blood cells—both his and those from his donor—and eventually replenished them with fresh blood?
Live blood transfusions were banned because more than just blood transferred between individuals. Decades earlier, Stanford University researchers had studied pairs of old and young mice sharing a circulatory system. As a result of the experiment, the brains of older mice were rejuvenated—the number of neurons increased as did synapse activity—but conversely, the brains of the younger mice deteriorated. The two mice had become a single, closed system seeking equilibrium.
How much of it was temporary? How much permanent?
Nobody knew.
The research promised tremendous medical implications for age-related brain disorders, but like the creation of the perfect human being, it was more than people could stomach ethically, and in response, the governments clamped down on live blood transfusions.
None of those old facts answered the single question that churned endlessly through his mind. Who wanted his blood—the blood of an alpha empath—enough to take so many risks over so many years? If it had begun sixteen years prior, it had to be related to the council somehow. No other explanations made sense, but he did not know who to talk to; he could not tell friend from foe. Above all, he did not dare put Lucien at risk.
Not even the familiarity of his surroundings could reassure him. Solid wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling. The walls were painted a warm shade of cream and decorated with black-and-white photographs of the great architectural wonders of the world. The room had been his since the first day he had been informally adopted into the Winter household. Even after he moved out, it was set aside for him, always available, should he choose to return. The room was his first, and likely the only place he would ever call home. Here, he felt safe.
Almost.
The room reminded him that he owed everything—his sanity, even his life—to Lucien. He would pay any price to repay his debt to Lucien and often wondered if Lucien knew that too.
Was Lucien finally demanding payback?
He could not see any way for his desire for anonymity and privacy to survive the latest revelation, not when he shared a face with Galahad, the pivotal point in the genetic debate on the evolution of the human race. If rumors were true, Galahad had been coded with superior intelligence and health. The alterations made in his chromosomes through the extension of his telomeres ensured vitality and longevity. Current estimates ran that he could live anywhere from two hundred to three hundred years.
Galahad also apparently possessed genes from an alpha empath. With any luck, they would be only the genes that coded for physical appearance. Nevertheless, the complex interaction among genes was still something of a mystery. Nothing good could possibly come from possessing the genes—any gene—of an alpha empath.
In the span of one evening, everything Danyael thought he had known about himself shattered. As for the fragments left behind, none made sense.
Like a broken-winged bird, panic fluttered against his psychic shields, trying to break free. Danyael’s hands clenched into fists; he could not let it out; he would not. He needed to focus his thoughts, and more importantly, his emotions. He could never lose sight of the fact that his self-control and impenetrable psychic shields were the only things that allowed him to live free, among people.
His training kicked in; his willpower seized control. One breath at a time, he cut off the shrill edge of panic and pushed aside the dread weighing down on him. One step at a time, one hour at a time, he would find a way to make sense of the fragments.
Danyael glanced out of the window. It was still dark, though a rosy dawn tinted the distant horizon. He pushed the covers aside, inhaled deeply, and released his breath in a soft sigh. It was time to start his day; time to, once again, start piecing the fragments together, with Lucien’s help.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the breakfast nook, his emotions locked beneath his psychic shields. The term “nook” was ludicrously applied to a room large enough to accommodate a circular oak table for eight and a sideboard on which a variety of breakfast choices had been placed. French windows, framed by white lace, opened out into a magnificent view of the patio and swimming pool.
A lean Hispanic man was already seated at the table with massive servings of eggs, sausages, and hash browns heaped high on his plate. He looked up, his jaw dropping at the sight of Danyael. “Por dios! You’re out of bed already? Man, you were practically dying yesterday!”
Danyael relaxed into a faint smile at the obvious case of mistaken identity. “I’m not Galahad. My name is Danyael Sabre. I arrived late last night.”
“Danyael? El medico? Zara said last night that Lucien had sent for you. But you look just like him! How can that be?” His voice echoed his bewilderment, the questions tumbling out of him. “Do you know that you look like him?”
“Yes, I do. I saw him and healed him last night.”
“But did you know that before last night?”
“No, I didn’t.” Danyael stepped over to the sideboard to select an apple from the tray of fruit. “I’m Lucien’s friend. Call it luck or serendipity that brought Zara and Galahad to his door.”
The man blinked again, trying to absorb it all, and then he stood up, wiping his hand on his napkin before extending his hand to Danyael. “I’m Carlos Sanchez. I work for Zara Itani.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Carlos sat down, shaking his head again in good humor as he picked up his fork and dug into his scrambled eggs. “This is all pretty crazy, you know.”
No kidding. Crazy, in Danyael’s mind, was a heck of an understatement. He let the discussion drop, and the conversation faded into silence until Lucien and Xin joined them a few minutes later.
Lucien inclined his head by way of greeting. “We have a lot to talk about, but let’s wait for Zara and Galahad before we debrief on the situation. The maid just informed me that they’ll be coming along soon.”
Danyael felt the low hum of hostility first. It set up a throbbing resonance that pulsed through his skull like a painful toothache, too minor to warrant intervention, yet too insistent to be ignored. Zara, he realized, as she walked through the entryway of the breakfast nook a moment later.
He looked up and met her gaze.
Danyael’s eyes widened.
When he had met Zara the prior evening, he had been too sick to focus beyond his aching head and spinning vision, but now, on a new day and with a clear head, he got his first good look at her.
His breath caught.
Where was the muddy swirl of grey he had expected to see smeared across the morally questionable aura of an assassin? I
nstead, Zara’s emotions shimmered with the vivid color and brilliance of precious stones set against a background that blended darkness with light without conceding to shadows.
In the eyes of an alpha empath, she wasn’t just beautiful. She was a masterpiece.
She offered a warm smile to Lucien, Xin, and Carlos, who were already gathered around the table. She was too practiced to allow her smile to slip when her gaze passed over Danyael, but her emotions flashed into dislike, even disgust. A muscle in Danyael’s smooth cheek twitched at the impact that was as real to him as a physical blow. He inhaled deeply, bracing himself against the continued onslaught, and then looked up as a fresh wave of emotions flowed into the room. He picked up on a strong current of uncertainty underscored by wary caution, and then a flash of intense shock from Galahad as two pairs of midnight black eyes met across the room. Apparently no one had seen fit to warn Galahad.
Shock turned into disbelief and then transformed into denial. Galahad took a single step toward him. “I don’t understand. This isn’t possible.” Galahad glanced at Zara, perhaps waiting for an explanation, but when none appeared forthcoming, he closed the distance to Danyael and stared into a face identical to his except for a faint scar that cut across Danyael’s right cheek. Galahad’s dark eyes narrowed. “I didn’t just imagine your face last night.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m Danyael Sabre. How do you feel this morning?”
“I feel fine.” Distrust and suspicion flashed through Galahad’s emotional spectrum. “I remember last night. You healed me. But how?” he demanded, his tone sharp, almost brittle.
Danyael winced. His psychic shields were designed to contain his emotions, not block out the emotions of others. Indifference he could easily handle, but negative emotions directly targeted at him hurt like hell. Galahad’s emotions sliced deep, and Danyael had to drop his gaze to hide the flicker of pain. “I’m a mutant,” he said.
A sudden burst of enmity from Zara slammed into him like a blow between his eyes, and he had to tighten his grip on the edges of his chair to keep from reeling. He had felt that reaction often enough from others. She hated mutants. Welcome to the club, he thought. He was far too accustomed to that kind of reaction to take it personally.