Double Helix Collection: A Genetic Revolution Thriller

by Jade Kerrion

  “You can’t protect her,” Seth said.

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Your empathic manipulation won’t make it through my shields.”

  Danyael placed his left hand on Seth’s arm. His touch was light. All he needed was physical contact; physical force was optional. His secondary powers—the dark and distorted mirror of his healing capabilities—lashed out. They whipped with merciless precision through Seth, tearing a startled gasp of pain from the older man.

  Seth jerked his hand away. “You…” he stared at Danyael, his expression combining disbelief and awe. “How did you—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Danyael said. “You can’t win. My shields will hold up against any of your psychic attacks far better than you can concentrate through what I can do to you.”

  “You’d turn on a fellow mutant to save a human?”

  “We are all human.”

  “You know what I mean.” Seth leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “I don’t believe it,” he said, his voice quiet. “You’re convinced that the council abandoned you in your hour of need, and yet you hold on to their founding philosophies.”

  “There is nothing wrong with their philosophies, even though they fail in execution when I’m the one needing protection.”

  “Danyael, you humble me with your strict adherence to your training. I’ll leave her be.” Seth glanced at Zara. “I hope you’re good at keeping secrets. Don’t offer his memories to him. The council didn’t order them stripped, but they will, if he regains them.”

  Danyael looked away. Anger surged, swelling up like a wave nearing shore. He fought to keep his visceral emotion from breaking past his exhausted psychic shields, shuddering as he absorbed its impact.

  Seth pushed to his feet. He placed a hand gently on Danyael’s shoulder, but did not seem surprised or offended when Danyael tensed at the touch. “Get some rest. I’ll check in again on you tomorrow. Is there anything else the council can help you with?”

  “The council can stay away from me,” Danyael said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully.

  “I understand, and I’ll do my best to oblige,” Seth said. Danyael heard compassion thinly disguised in his mentor’s voice. “I’ll see myself out.”

  The door closed with a slam of finality. Danyael surged to his feet and reached for his cell phone. It was dead, the battery drained. He resisted the urge to slam it on the table in frustration.

  “Here.” Zara handed him hers.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, accepting the phone. He punched in a familiar number.

  The first ring had barely begun when he heard a click followed by Lucien’s familiar voice. “Zara?”

  “Luce.”

  “Danyael!” Relief was palpable in Lucien’s voice. “What took you so long to return my call? I’ve left you a dozen or more messages.” Those words eased a fear Danyael had not realized lurked deep within him. His friend still cared. “How are you doing?”

  “Like hell” was on the edge of his tongue, but habit took precedence, and he offered the only answer he had ever given in response to that question, “I’ll be all right.” He paused briefly, “Luce, Seth Copper, the lead physician at the council, was here and—”

  “Good, he got to you then.”

  Lucien’s response stunned him. “You knew? Do you know what the council is doing to me?”

  “Danyael, it’s—”

  “For my own good? I’ve already heard that. That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Not if no one will explain it to me.”

  “Alex Saunders thought that—”

  “I don’t care about Alex. What do you think?”

  There was a damning silence on the other end.

  The silence dragged on. Blood turned to ice in his veins. Talk to me, Luce, please. I need to believe reason can be found in this madness.

  Lucien spoke quietly, obviously choosing his words with care. “I think that if the Mutant Assault Group hadn’t gotten to you and crushed your memories, you would have somehow found a way to cope, but it would have been incredibly rough.”

  And this isn’t?

  “I know it’s bad now,” Lucien continued as if he had anticipated Danyael’s train of thought. “But in the long run, it’ll be easier for you.”

  “It’s easier for me to live a lie?”

  “Yes,” Lucien said with brutal honesty. “It can be, when the truth sucks.”

  Danyael dropped his gaze, his thoughts churning. The self-hatred he had struggled so hard to overcome once before in himself, he would have to work through all over again. Without memories, the effort would be absurdly difficult.

  If Lucien thought that the alternative was worse—

  What happened? What in God’s name happened to me?

  How horrible could the truth be, if Lucien, the friend he trusted with his life, opted for the lie?

  Danyael remained silent for a long moment. Surrender wrenched his soul. “All right,” he said simply. “I trust you.”

  “Thank you,” Lucien replied with quiet gratitude. “Can I talk to Zara for a minute?”

  Danyael handed the phone over to her and walked into the kitchen. Distantly he heard Zara speaking quietly to Lucien, heard her ask a question about Rio de Janeiro. With some effort, he was certain he could decipher their conversation, but it required energy he could no longer spare. The burden of unexplained emotions weighed heavily against his psychic shields, more than doubling the effort required to sustain them.

  Behind him, Zara hung up the phone.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you like anything to eat?”

  “I’ve already eaten.” She paused briefly before saying, “Thank you for coming to my defense, but I could have taken care of myself.”

  “He’s an alpha telepath, and you’re unshielded. He wouldn’t even have had to extend himself to do some serious damage to you.”

  “So your solution was to attack him instead?”

  Why was she so angry with him? “If I could shield you, I would have. But I’m not a telepath. I can’t protect you that way.”

  “I don’t want or need your protection. What you did doesn’t change anything between us.”

  “I didn’t expect it to,” Danyael said quietly. He turned his back on her, filled a glass with tap water, and sipped from it before taking another bite of his toast.

  He sensed her silent criticism.

  “Is that all you’re going to have for lunch?” she asked.

  “Yes.” It was all his nausea would permit him to consume.

  “Two slices of buttered toast and water? That’s not the kind of good nutrition you need to get better.”

  He shrugged.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked.

  She was spoiling for a fight. He could hear it in her voice. “The truth isn’t worth discussing, and I’m too tired to keep track of the lies I tell you. Let it go, please.”

  “And are you going to let your memories go too?”

  “I’ll trust Lucien’s decision.”

  “You trust Lucien?”

  “Yes.” Implicitly. Without question. Lucien was the only reason Danyael had survived his childhood at all. Everything in his life that was good, everything that was normal, he owed to Lucien Winter.

  “Like you trusted the council?” Zara challenged.

  His lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. “I’ll have to trust someone sometime, but I’m not stupid or naïve.” He inhaled shakily. “I need to rest again soon.”

  “Give me a few minutes to use the bathroom.”

  Slowly he moved through the small studio. Simple, mindless chores kept his hands busy. He plugged the cell phone into the charger and adjusted the thermostat to take the edge off the chill in the small room. He moved to the bookshelf that also served as a closet and selected a change of clothes. A quick shower to wash away the grime would not hurt. Would he find a new scar to mark whe
re he had been shot?

  He touched his forehead against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The cold seeped into his heated skin, offering marginal relief from the burning fever. He closed his eyes. What would it take to silence the questions pounding through his mind, demanding answers he did not dare seek out? What would it take to be whole again?

  He laughed, a low, bitter sound. I was never whole, just a little less screwed up.

  ~*~

  Zara stepped quietly out of the bathroom. For a long silent moment, she watched Danyael. His face was set in profile, as flawless as a Michelangelo sculpture. His pale blond hair stood out in stark contrast to his sin-black eyes. An old scar, faded with age, cut across his right cheek, from cheekbone to chin. He stood by the window, one arm pressed against the glass, the other wrapped around his waist, as if to hold himself together. His body language screamed that he wanted to be left alone.

  She would have liked nothing more.

  An incomprehensible sense of obligation had brought her to New York in search of him and compelled her to stay through the early hours when she realized that he was in bad shape.

  When the doctor from the Mutant Affairs Council showed up at the door, she made up her mind to stay for another day or two. Seth Copper had not done or said anything out of place, but something about him made her feel uneasy, more for Danyael’s safety than her own. If there was something she had learned over the years, it was to trust her instincts.

  Now her promise to Lucien to watch over Danyael until he was strong enough to fend for himself again would keep her there. It was convenient to have someone else to blame.

  “I’m done,” she said.

  He turned his face toward her, acknowledging her, but not quite meeting her gaze. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  “We’ll need to find a long-term solution that doesn’t involve you sleeping in the bathroom, since I’ll be staying until you’re better,” she told him as he stepped past her.

  He froze, her announcement catching him off guard. “Why?”

  “Because Lucien asked me to.”

  “Don’t. I’ll be all right on my own.”

  “Are you afraid you might actually have to exercise those rusty social skills and talk to me?”

  “You despise me,” he said simply, his tone even. He could have been discussing the weather. “You can’t stand being around me. Why make both of us miserable?”

  “Because misery is good for the soul?” she shot back sardonically.

  “Misery would be one more thing I’d have to process, and it’d distract me from working through the rest of my issues. No, thanks.”

  “Tell me why you’re sleeping in the bathroom.”

  “You’re not shielded.”

  “So? Can’t you sleep with your shields on?”

  “Yes, but I’d wake mentally and emotionally exhausted, which will stall my recovery. Physically, I’m all right. Emotionally…” His hands curled into fists and then slowly relaxed.

  A coping mechanism, she noted. It matched the pain flaring in his eyes.

  Danyael sighed quietly. “I’m tired. I can’t maintain my shields indefinitely. It would be stupid and dangerous to try. They’d drop under pressure, and the impact could be disastrous.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “It’ll be safer for you if I sleep in there.”

  “The floor is small, cold, and uncomfortable.” She had tried. She had to curl up to make it work, and Danyael had at least four inches on her.

  “It’s a flat surface. That’s all I need. I’m too tired to notice. I’ll be all right.”

  Why was he reassuring her? “Are your shields on or off, or can you lower their settings?”

  “Like a thermostat?” He appeared amused. In that moment, he seemed almost human. “I can adjust them, but they’re maxed out right now.” The smile became self-deprecating. “I’m carrying around too much crap.” He turned away from her and took a step toward the bathroom.

  “I can shield myself.”

  “Why—” He caught himself and changed the question. “How strong are they?”

  “They’re basic, but they should allow you to relax your shields enough to get some rest.”

  Still he hesitated.

  “We won’t know until we try,” she insisted. “My shields are up. Release yours gradually.”

  “All right, but stop me the moment you feel any pressure.”

  Weight slammed against her chest. It escalated each breath into an effort. Her heart pounded unsteadily; her stomach roiled with nausea. Damn it, these were just emotions, weren’t they? Why couldn’t she handle them?

  The pressure vanished. Danyael smiled faintly. “Your shields aren’t strong enough, but thank you for trying.”

  “I can do this.”

  “No, you can’t. Trust your feelings on this one. You went into a panic.”

  Panic? The thought was insulting. A hardened mercenary did not panic. Before she could snap at him, he retreated into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  She sank into a chair. Was that what each moment felt like to him, devastating emotional trauma expressed as crippling physical symptoms?

  Several minutes passed before she crept to the bathroom door and quietly eased it open. She did not analyze her actions. If she stopped to consider them, the sheer insanity of what she was attempting would have frozen her in her tracks.

  If she likened the pressure she had felt previously to a gentle summer breeze, what she felt then was the force of a hurricane. It clawed over her, tore through her, hurt her in places she did not think could hurt, and squeezed tears from her eyes.

  Zara closed the door, gasping hard. She fought the panic of drowning in a muddy swirl of emotions she could not tease apart, let alone identify. It took a long time to regain her composure. It took an even longer time to work up the nerve to open the bathroom door again. She had held it open for a second, maybe less, the first time. She would see if she could get to two seconds.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Danyael awoke feeling better, at least once he had gotten through the difficult process of reestablishing his psychic shields. He grimaced as he studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His dark eyes contrasted with his light blond hair and the shocking pallor of his skin. The pinched look around his eyes and the tension in his jaw betrayed the pain he was still struggling to process.

  He had to keep his own emotions buried and pray his psychic shields held. If he was careful, he was sure he could fake his way through the rest of the day. Danyael stepped into the shower. The stingy spray of water sloughed dirt and grime from his skin, and he felt considerably refreshed by the time he pulled on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of denim jeans. His throat was parched and his stomach growled at him in between waves of nausea. With luck, he could manage a bit more than toast.

  Danyael opened the bathroom door and flinched. Sunlight poured in through the windows. He glanced at the digital clock on the microwave oven. Three fifty-three. He was certain he had slept for a great deal more than an hour. How long had he been out? A day? Two?

  Was she still here?

  He walked past the kitchen into the main living area and found Zara seated on the folded futon, her long legs curled beneath her. She glanced up from the electronic tablet she had been perusing. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

  “What day is it?”

  Her smile was thin. “The twenty-sixth. You were out for twenty-four hours. You often lose track of time like this?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry. You should have woken me if you needed to use the bathroom.”

  It was her turn to shrug. “I managed. I even made a food run, though the selection and quality of food in this neighborhood is highly suspect. I had to go to Manhattan for a decent change of clothes.”

  He chuckled, a quietly amused sound. His gaze fell on a small luggage case he had not observed before. Obviously she had been busy. He was certain he had not given her a key to his apartment, but nothing was s
topping her from entering his apartment at will.

  “Seth Copper came by earlier this morning. I told him you were resting and that you were getting sufficient food.” She smiled faintly. “He didn’t believe me.”

  “He’s an alpha telepath. It takes an alpha telepath to lie convincingly to another.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.” She slipped her tablet into a small bag and stood. “I have someone I need to see. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  The sudden flare of her emotions caught him off guard. They belied the calmness of her words. The person she wanted to see was connected to him, he was certain. Curiosity compelled him. “Can I come with you?”

  “This is private. It has nothing to do with you.” Her emotions told him differently. Guilt—her guilt—roiled beneath her anger.

  “I’d like to come,” he said.

  “Why would you want to?”

  A lie would have been easy. He needed to get out of the stiflingly small studio apartment. Moderate exercise would expedite his recovery. Somehow, though, he knew she needed the truth. “Because this matters to both of us,” he said quietly. He was stunned to see her eyes brim with tears.

  She turned her back on him before he could respond. “Fine, we’ll go together.”

  Zara said nothing more to him as they took a cab to a brownstone apartment complex in a west Manhattan neighborhood. An elderly Hispanic woman met them at the door. She admitted them without question and ushered them into a well-furnished sitting room. Her large brown eyes reflected quiet dignity, though he sensed an odd combination of gratitude and resentment. He was certain that the emotions were directed at Zara. The older woman’s attitude to him was neutral, bordering on indifferent, the standard reaction he elicited from strangers when his psychic shields were in place.

  A young boy, not quite two years old, played with trucks and trains on the carpeted floor, oblivious to the complex symphony of emotions resonating through the home. Sadness was permeated by the weariness of slowly losing hope. Danyael sensed fresh grief too, a wound that wept blood. Shock and disbelief flittered through the home, stamped with denial. Danyael gritted his teeth as he braced against the onslaught of emotions and barely managed a smile when Zara introduced him to Lucinda Garcia.