by Jade Kerrion
“I know.” His dark, fathomless eyes—the only feature he shared with his brother—were regretful, but his expression gave nothing else away. “Rest now,” he said quietly. His empathic powers rippled out like a wave, gentle but irresistible, easing past Jason’s barriers of virulent hatred, channeling an intense peace and calm to lure his brother into a sleep so deep that it was almost a coma. Jason’s head fell back onto the table, his eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, his breathing became deep and even.
Danyael swallowed hard and then got started. The two men watched in silence as he worked with easy, swift expertise. He had done that before, many, many times. He used no anesthesia, no antiseptic. He skipped steps, broke rules, and yet worked with the sureness of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
Distantly, he was aware of Michael’s growing curiosity, curiosity that bordered on confusion.
“You’re a doctor,” Michael said quietly, more to himself than to Danyael.
Danyael nodded in acknowledgement as he used tweezers to extract the bullet. It clattered, a tiny sound when he dropped it on the tray, and then he set his surgical instruments down.
He did not sew Jason back up, did not use needle or surgical thread to seal the incision he had made in Jason’s chest to extract the bullet. Danyael placed his hand on Jason’s chest and closed his eyes. It took a moment to focus his exhausted powers and brace himself for the additional cost and burden of bearing Jason’s injury, but his mutant powers surged ungrudgingly out of him and into Jason, healing from within, cleansing the wound and repairing the injury. The two men watched in slack-jawed amazement as the open incision slowly closed before their disbelieving eyes and new skin sealed over the cut, leaving nothing, not even a scar, to mark its location.
“What are you?” Michael asked softly.
Danyael’s eyes opened, pain flashing through the dark depths. He turned his face in Michael’s direction to acknowledge the question, but did not look up. “I’m a mutant,” he whispered, his eyes still downcast. He said nothing else.
He waited for the inevitable condemnation.
Don’t brace for it; it makes the blow that much harder to take. Open your heart, let it wash over you, through you.
Then let it go.
His breathing was jagged and uneven as he inhaled through spikes of pain. His hands clenched and unclenched through each spasm. Finish this. Just say what you want to say. I can take it. I’ll be all right.
It was just that….
He clenched his teeth. It was just that it would be too hard to take on top of the physical pain.
“You look like you need to rest,” Michael said, his voice quiet.
A muscle twitched in Danyael’s smooth cheek. His jaw tensed. Slowly, he nodded.
“Will you let me help you?”
Surprised, Danyael looked up at Michael, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Yes, thank you,” Danyael whispered. Nausea swirled in the pit of his stomach, blackness at the edge of his vision. He had been petrified at the thought of moving, afraid that he would collapse and pass out and that his psychic shields would fall. With help from Michael, he stumbled toward the door of the research station, flinching from the icy blast of the other man’s disgust and loathing as they moved past him.
He did not understand Michael’s kindness any more than he understood the other man’s disdain for him, but he did not have the energy or even the desire to alter it. He could not pretend he did not care. He was an empath; he felt intensely—perhaps too intensely—but he had learned to accept that in the grand scheme of things, it did not matter what people felt about him.
Nothing changed who or what he was—an alpha empath with the responsibility of protecting innocent people from the worst of his mutant powers.
It was a struggle, even with Michael’s help, to make it back to the suite, but they managed without incident. Danyael was relieved when Michael lowered him to the bed, grateful that he could stretch out on the thin mattress and close his eyes against the world that spun around him.
“Are you all right? Can I get you anything? Food? Drink?” Michael’s voice sounded far away.
Danyael shook his head, his shoulders hunched and tensed against the cold that consumed him from within. He was only dimly aware that Michael had pulled the sheets up to his shoulders and hurried away before returning several minutes later with a heavier blanket that he wrapped tightly around him. “Thank you,” Danyael breathed so quietly that it was almost inaudible.
“You’re welcome, Danyael,” Michael responded, watching as the mutant drifted into restless sleep. Michael stood by Danyael’s bedside for a long, silent moment before he left the suite, locking it behind him. He found Roland in the large lounge, seated in a chair by the window. “Should we get Jason back to his suite?” he asked.
Roland shrugged. He seemed unusually dejected, even morose. “He’s a mutant,” he muttered, his voice laced with profound disgust.
“I don’t see how that was his fault, Roland,” Michael said, his tone level and reasonable. “Maybe we should count ourselves lucky we used him merely as the physical template for Galahad and somehow managed to avoid creating a mutant in the process.”
Roland hesitated. “Did he say anything about Jason, why Jason hated him?”
Michael chuckled under his breath. “Say anything? It took all his energy just to say ‘thank you.’ No, he didn’t say anything about Jason, though it’s obvious, isn’t it? Jason hates Galahad and hates Danyael because they look alike.”
“So you think Danyael knows about Galahad?”
“Considering how simply Danyael accepted Jason’s hatred, that’s almost a certainty. By the way, the central computer just completed its analysis of Danyael’s blood sample. He’s a perfect match for Galahad’s physical genetic code. How could that have happened, Roland?”
Roland grunted and turned away to stare out of the window. “We could keep him, you know.” The words were quietly uttered
“Keep who?”
“Danyael. If Galahad is dead, we could keep Danyael. No one would ever know. They would think Galahad was still in our custody.”
Michael stared at him aghast. “You mean pretend that Danyael is Galahad? That’s not right, Roland. I can’t even believe I need to convince you that the proposal is blatantly, obviously wrong on so many fronts. He’s got friends and family waiting for him. We can’t keep him imprisoned here and tell the world that he’s Galahad, just to save whatever’s left of our reputations.”
“We could lose everything, Michael,” Roland said, his voice sad. “Everything we’ve worked for these past twenty-five years, our entire professional career, is tied up in Galahad.”
Michael sighed. Roland’s life’s ambition had been realized with the birth of Galahad, and now that it was threatened, Roland would have done anything—even sacrifice his firstborn—to cling to that dream. Sacrificing the freedom of a mere stranger would not have registered as even a blip on that scale. What could Michael say? He shook his head and placed a gentle hand on Roland’s shoulder. “Hang in there for a while longer, will you?” His voice was kind, reassuring. “We don’t know anything for certain about Galahad yet. Maybe he’s all right. Maybe this will all work out somehow.”
And maybe the moon is made of blue cheese, Roland thought sourly as Michael walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. A mutant. He scowled as his thoughts turned to Luke, to Danyael. Damned shame. What a bloody waste of a life.
~*~
Miriya was awakened by the ringing of her cell phone. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table, 5:49 a.m. Still pitch black outside. She jerked when she saw the phone number. Her fingers fumbled as she accepted the call. “What is it, Alex?”
“The monitors just picked up Danyael’s primary and secondary power signatures.”
“Great!” She tossed the sheets aside and climbed out of bed. “Where is it?”
“Boonsboro, Maryland.”
“How far is i
t?”
“About an hour out from McLean.”
“We’ll be there. Wait.” She froze as Alex’s words fully sank in. “Did you say Boonsboro, Maryland?”
“Yes, I did. Quiet, rural neighborhood. Wide fields and rolling horse pastures. The octagonal structure of Pioneer Laboratories is out of place amid all the farm houses. Quite an eyesore, actually.”
Miriya’s eyes narrowed as she fought down a combination of confusion and fear. “What would Danyael be doing back at Pioneer Laboratories?”
“Use your imagination, Miriya. He’s probably with Jason Rakehell. What do you think Jason would do to someone who looks like Galahad?”
Miriya’s blood ran cold. “Faked media event. Public execution at the place of his ‘birth.’ Then Jason can claim he’s the hero of humanity—he’s killed Galahad. Crap, we have to get to him.”
“That’s the most likely theory. There could be others, Miriya, because that theory wouldn’t necessarily explain why we picked up Danyael’s power signatures. Just get out there as quickly as you can. I’m sending a team in as backup as well. They’ll likely rendezvous with you by the time you get to Pioneer Labs.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want the mutants involved.”
“I’d like to keep Danyael alive,” Alex conceded. “And if I have to get another enforcer or two out of bed early to see to it, it’d still be a good investment in a life worth saving.”
“I’m surprised you never made Danyael an enforcer.”
“He turned down the offer four times, maybe five. Go get him, Miriya. Bring him home safe.”
She hung up the phone and dressed quickly. Five minutes later, she was pounding on Lucien’s door. He opened it within moments, his eyes alert. “You found him?”
Nodding grimly, she said, “He’s at Boonsboro, Maryland.”
Obviously Lucien was a great deal more awake than she had been when first told. “Pioneer Labs?” She could tell from the anguish in his eyes that he was mentally racing over the same possibilities. She did not miss the resolute gleam in his blue eyes as he started to close the door on her. “Wake Zara and Xin, will you? We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
~*~
Why would the lights be on?
Galahad crouched at the edge of the clearing and stared at the husk of Pioneer Labs. The pale light of the early dawn spread over the complex. Soot darkened the northern and eastern walls of the building, the extensive damage clearly evident from the outside, but the western wing was intact. Lights gleamed softly through the windows.
Just one car in the parking lot, he noted, as he crept around the perimeter of the building toward the western wing, moving soundlessly over the damp grass. He could not imagine why anyone would even be there. There was nothing left at the laboratories, but clearly someone else thought otherwise.
Galahad had a destination in mind, the large suite at the furthest western edge of the octagonal complex. He kept his head low, crouching to keep beneath the height of the windowpanes. He could not risk being seen, being identified. The pace was agonizingly slow, but the caution was necessary. As a result, his clothes were damp with dew by the time he arrived at his destination.
He had no clear expectation of what he would see through the window of the western suite, but his list of possibilities had certainly not included a beautiful young man fast asleep on the single narrow bed, curled beneath layers of heavy blankets. He breathed softly. “Danyael.”
But how, and why?
It did not matter. He sank back, out of sight, as his mind churned through the new information. Danyael was asleep on the bed that had been his, imprisoned in the room that had been his prison. It was surreal, like looking at himself through a distorted mirror, looking into a world where reality had been displaced.
If somehow Danyael had been mistaken for him, that meant that he could be free. He could be free to embrace the fullness of life, while Danyael took his place.
He could almost taste the sweetness of it on his tongue as he basked in the thrill of that possibility. No one would know. The scientists would, but protecting the secret meant even more to them than his freedom to him. Their reputations, their lives’ work were at stake. Danyael would know, but who would believe him? He would have no contact with the outside world, no way to get the word out. Danyael would languish in there, as Galahad once had.
The sweetness curdled, souring the pit of his stomach. He clenched his teeth against the hollow ache. He had tasted freedom. He wanted it, needed it, craved it with every fiber of his being, but he could not walk away from Danyael.
Pioneer Labs was his personal hell. He had spent twenty-five years in it. It was not Danyael’s to endure, but nor would it be his, never again. He would never return to his prison as a captive, but he had no intention of being caught. His hours-long journey from Washington, D.C. back to Pioneer Labs had driven home one single fact: He could not make his way in the world alone. Not yet. He knew too little. He had too little.
He desperately needed allies. Danyael had proven a willing ally and a powerful one. More importantly, Danyael was the key to securing Lucien’s aid.
Moving as quickly as he could, Galahad returned the way he had come. He paused by the broken front doors of Pioneer Laboratories, hesitating before taking the final step that would commit him to what he had come to do. It struck him as singularly ironic that he was trying to break into the laboratory, instead of making good his escape.
He inhaled deeply and crossed the threshold.
He had rarely been permitted outside the confines of the western wing in the twenty-five years he had spent at the laboratories, but it was not hard to navigate around an octagon that had only two directions in which to go, forward or backward. A security door blocked off his access to the western wing, but without hesitation, he pulled out the access card Zara had given him and held it against the panel. The red light flashed to green and the door slid back.
Galahad knew where he was. It was home—cold, sterile, and unwelcoming—and he knew his way around. He did not see anyone, but he was not going out of his way to tempt fate either by searching all the rooms. He headed straight toward the double doors that barred the way to his suite. Another swipe of the access card opened the door. Bless you, Xin, he thought as he slid the card back into his pocket and raced toward the bed.
“Danyael?” Galahad shook the alpha empath. Danyael stirred, his brow furrowing into a crease of pain, but he did not wake. Galahad swept sweat-soaked locks from Danyael’s fevered brow. The mutant was shivering hard under those heavy blankets, yet burning with fever. “Danyael, please.” Galahad shook Danyael with greater urgency. “We have to go.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For several seconds, Jason Rakehell stared blankly up at the blindingly bright florescent lights as they wavered into focus.
Where the hell was he?
He sat up slowly, pushed aside the bloodstained sheets covering his body, and ran a hand over his chest. There was no evidence of injury, yet he remembered the staggering impact of the bullet as it pierced him. He had looked up into his father’s dark eyes and expressionless face. His stunned gaze flashed to the gun his father held as Michael Cochran, his father’s partner, ran toward him, toward Danyael. The curse forming on Jason’s lips had faded as he reeled, his vision blurring into blackness.
Jason curled his hands into fists. He possessed just enough memory and context to make an excellent guess as to where he was.
Pioneer Laboratories.
Danyael was here too; he had no doubt of that. He picked up the bloodied bullet from the small tray beside the operating table. He had not imagined getting hit by the bullet. Danyael must have removed the bullet and then healed him.
Jason ground his teeth. It would not change anything.
Danyael was a fool if he thought that a single moment of kindness would make up for the fact that he had driven his mother to madness and deprived his brother of her love and care. A single right did not ma
ke up for a lifetime of wrongs.
Yes, Danyael was here. He had to be here somewhere. His father too.
Jason had never had an opportunity like this: a single chance to set everything right.
He picked up his shirt, which had been discarded on the floor beside the operating table, and put it on. His jaw set, his eyes gleaming with hatred and glittering with anticipation, he stepped out of the research station. A series of guest suites lined the hallways, with Galahad’s suite at one end and the lounge at the other. Avoiding Galahad’s suite, he searched the other rooms, finding them empty, but chancing upon his father’s weapon of choice, a Glock, in the suite his father had selected for his own use. A quick check confirmed that he had bullets enough to spare, one for his brother, one for his father, and even a few extras, just to be sure the job was thoroughly completed.
As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard the low murmur of voices from the lounge. He recognized his father’s voice and Michael Cochran’s. Just as well. It was long past time to finish the nightmare that began with Galahad’s creation.
Stepping into the lounge, he brought his weapon up to aim it at his father’s face. “Good morning, gentlemen. Am I in time for breakfast? Stay seated,” he warned Michael, who had started to rise from his seat by the window.
Michael froze, and then lowered himself back into the chair.
“Jason, what are you doing?” Roland demanded irritably. “Put the damn gun down.”
“Oh, I will eventually, after I kill Danyael.”
“Jason, there’s no reason to do that,” Michael spoke quietly, his voice calm, though his dark eyes darted from side to side.
“I take it you’ve met him. What do you think of him?”
“I know you’re angry with Galahad, but this isn’t Danyael’s fault. He’s just the template.”
“He’s not just the fucking template.”