Double Helix Collection: A Genetic Revolution Thriller

by Jade Kerrion

  Galahad’s pupils widened, the green of his eyes consumed by black. Danyael watched, his head tilted slightly. He saw Galahad grip the rails. Galahad inhaled sharply and unsteadily, wavering between choking and hyperventilation. He wrapped his other hand around his stomach, fighting cramps and nausea, but he did not run.

  Danyael’s eyebrows arched. He doubted Galahad truly appreciated how impressive his reaction was.

  Galahad’s emotions flashed, a split second warning before he lunged. Danyael pulled away. With another opponent, the split second would have sufficed to avoid impact, but Galahad was faster than Danyael expected. The glancing blow whipped Danyael’s face to the side. Danyael reeled. He tasted blood in his mouth and doubled over as Galahad slammed his fist into his stomach. Miriya, shield him!

  Danyael felt rather than heard Miriya’s startled reaction, but did not respond to her. It was time to take the gloves off. Instead of trying to roll away, he took the next blow deliberately.

  Galahad was damnably quick—even faster now that fear no longer clogged his mind. He brought his elbow down hard on Danyael’s back, sending shockwaves along his spine. His vision blurred into shadow. He was running out of time.

  Danyael twisted as he fell, reaching to catch Galahad’s descending fist. The physical contact was all Danyael needed. His empathic powers whipped from him, tearing out the pain and driving it through their joined hands. Galahad screamed and staggered as a flash of black appeared between them.

  “Zara, no!” Danyael pushed to his feet and rushed after her to separate her from Galahad. What was she doing? The ferocity with which she had thrown herself between them and turned on Galahad stunned Danyael.

  Miriya cursed aloud. Zara and Galahad collapsed, screaming, their hands pressed against the sides of their head.

  Danyael knelt and drew Zara into his arms. She shuddered, sobbing as he placed a gentle hand over her forehead. His jaw tensed briefly as he eased the pain out of her. He waited for a moment to catch his breath and then looked at Miriya askance. “Don’t you think a psi-blast is overkill?”

  Miriya ignored his question. “Are you out of your mind? Why were you fighting Galahad?”

  “He asked for it.”

  “So you gave it to him? You attacked an unshielded person and as an afterthought, ask me to shield him? What are you going to do next? Kick kittens and drown puppies? You’re supposed to be older, more mature. Act like it for God’s sake.”

  “Aren’t you the youngest person here?” Danyael asked mildly.

  “Yes, by a long shot, but from the way the rest of you are acting, you wouldn’t know it.”

  Zara blinked and jumped out of Danyael’s arms, shoving him away. “What did you do to me?”

  Danyael sighed inaudibly. He hated the endless waltz of distrust and accusations. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

  Her reaction was an emotional slap. Disgust overlaid confusion. He tensed at the impact, watching silently as she walked over to Galahad, quietly murmuring her apologies as she helped him stand and stagger to a lounge chair.

  Danyael sensed Miriya’s eyes on him and glanced over his shoulder to meet her narrow-eyed gaze.

  Miriya’s voice whispered through his mind. I never thought I’d see her take on Galahad to save you, but she did. You didn’t do anything to her, did you?

  I don’t think so. Not deliberately, but I don’t even know anymore. When she acts on instinct, she seems to care, but when rational thought catches up with her impulses, the two never match up, and she concludes that I screwed with her emotions. Maybe she’s right; perhaps I influenced her, days earlier, when I was too messed up to consider how my own needs might have slipped past my shields. She’s certainly confused enough for anyone to conclude that an alpha empath seriously screwed her up.

  It’s not your fault.

  Isn’t it? Danyael heard the bitterness in his mental voice as he turned away from Miriya and approached Galahad. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat across from Galahad. “You pulled your punches,” he said simply.

  Galahad looked up, green eyes glazed with pain. “So did you.”

  “Guess that makes us even.” Danyael smiled faintly and held out his hand until Galahad reached out and placed his hand in his. He absorbed Galahad’s pain as effortlessly as he had absorbed Zara’s.

  “What about you?” Galahad asked.

  “I’ll be all right,” Danyael pushed slowly to his feet. He closed his eyes against the vertigo that swayed him. When his world stopped spinning, he looked at Galahad. “Nice job. I was impressed.”

  “I was told that empaths were the weakest among the mutants, but you’re far from it.”

  Danyael shrugged. “It depends. You’ll learn quickly that there’s no standard. The things we can do and how well we can do them vary dramatically from mutant to mutant.”

  “But nothing in your files said anything about channeling pain.”

  Miriya strode across the deck. Hands on hips, she stared up at Danyael. She stood at least a head and a half shorter, but her belligerent stance assured him that she was not intimidated by the height difference. “You channeled pain past psychic shields?”

  “It’s not a psychic attack. It’s real pain.”

  “What is the difference between non-real pain and real pain?” Miriya demanded.

  “The source.” He kept his voice mild. Tempers were short enough, and he was not up for another round with Miriya. “Did I absorb it from others, or suffer it myself? I can channel the latter, not the former.”

  Galahad frowned. “You took those hits deliberately so that you could send the pain back. Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Yes, but so is taking on an alpha empath, unshielded.”

  “You’re a masochist.” Zara’s rich voice trembled.

  He thought he had heard everything she would have to say to him, thought he had been hurt in every way she could hurt him. Apparently he had been dead wrong. Danyael looked at Zara, stunned. “Is that what it looks like to you?”

  “You deliberately take hits to fuel your powers. You heal others, even though you hurt like hell from it, because it gives you an emotional kick. If that’s not masochistic, then what is?”

  He inhaled sharply and looked away. Her words ripped apart barely healed emotional wounds. Her accusations crashed into him, not clumsily but with devastating precision. The impact was so real that he had to press a hand to his chest, fingers tightening into a claw to contain the pain.

  “I…” He searched for an explanation for her, for himself. Nothing he could say made sense. Her gaze scorched him, left him feeling exposed, vulnerable. He dragged his misshapen left hand over his face. He had to get away from her.

  Miriya’s voice spoke directly to his mind. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill her.

  Because we need her tomorrow. And because she’s right.

  She’s right? Damn it, Danyael. You wouldn’t have taken that crap from me.

  We understand each other. We know that what makes each of us different isn’t always within our control. We know that the illusions and the lies we tell ourselves are sometimes the only the mercy we have, the narrow bridge between reality and sanity. But Zara doesn’t.

  She never will, if you don’t tell her.

  There is nothing to tell. Danyael exhaled, the motion wringing a quiet sigh from him. Without another word, he abandoned the upper deck. It was no longer a sanctuary for him.

  He was not prepared for Xin’s slender arm slipping through his, her support psychological rather than physical. He had not realized how much he needed it until it was provided unasked.

  Don’t think. Just move. Keep moving.

  Xin said nothing as she followed him to his suite, releasing his arm only when he slid open the door of the suite. “Did you want anything to eat?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll be all right, thank you,” he said.

  She did not push it, and he was grateful. “Okay, rest well.” She did not leave, he
sitating as if she were about to say something else.

  He shook his head, cutting her off. “Not now, Xin. Please.”

  Xin pressed her lips together. Understanding gentled the disapproving expression in her almond-shaped brown eyes. “Got it. Don’t let her get to you, all right?”

  Danyael squeezed his eyes shut. Was there no avoiding this topic? Why was everyone so intent on digging through his feelings, when all he wanted was to escape them? “I’m trying,” was all he said. He stepped into the suite, sliding the door shut behind him.

  He was safe. The balcony door was closed, the wide windows sealed. Others were safe from him. Don’t think. Keep moving. He stripped off his shirt and eased himself onto the bed. He swallowed a groan of pain as his back muscles pulled sharply. Damn. Apparently, the tussle with Galahad had bruised more than his ego.

  He knew what to do. He was a doctor, after all. Ice for fifteen minutes, every four hours, for two days to reduce the inflammation.

  The knowledge of what to do was separate from the will to do it.

  God, he was tired. It would have to wait until tomorrow. He braced against the onslaught of pain as his psychic shields relaxed, and he waited for the blessed oblivion of sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Zara lay awake long after Galahad fell asleep beside her. If she gazed long enough into his flawless profile, she might be able to get the equally beautiful, but scarred one out of her head. If she focused on the sound of his steady breathing, she could avoid thinking about the disbelief stamped over Danyael’s face when she had accused him of being a masochist. Maybe then she could forget the glimpse of wrenching heartache in his eyes as he turned and walked away.

  He deserved it. Everything she said about him was true. Yet, it was not simple. With Danyael, nothing was ever simple. She hurt him, but he hurt her too, immeasurably. So why could she not get the memory of him out of her head? Why could she not purge the echo of guilt that resonated within her?

  Because she had screwed up, that’s why. Damn it. She sat up in bed and reached for her robe. Within minutes, she stood outside the door of Danyael’s suite. Doubt assailed her, but she paid it no mind. Instead she inhaled deeply, braced herself, and in single swift motion, slid the door open and stepped in.

  She had grown accustomed to Danyael’s unshielded emotions, all those nights, sitting by his bedroom, the door carefully cracked open. All those nights, closing the door when she could no longer see past the tears. Each night she had waited until the emotions she felt were once again hers, waited until she dared push the door open again.

  All those nights had paid off.

  The pressure of his unshielded emotions clawed through her. The tears came immediately, springing to her eyes, spilling unchecked down her cheek as she walked to the bed. Danyael lay on his side, shirtless, partly covered by the thin sheets. He was asleep, but not comfortably. In the dim light of the full moon spilling in through the window, she could see him tense with each slow breath. Gently she ran a hand down his back. The muscle was swollen, hot beneath her touch. He flinched beneath her probing fingers, but did not wake.

  Stupid idiot. She checked other far-less flattering thoughts as she reached for the phone on the bedside table. “I need ice packs and towels,” she told a crewmember who answered.

  Danyael woke the instant the cold pressed against his skin. He sat upright in bed, and when he saw her, disbelief registered in his dark eyes. Danyael threw his head back, the muscles in his neck cording. He gasped, swallowed the screams of pain, first from the effort of drawing his psychic shields over his mind and emotions, and then from the spasm clawing at his back as his body tensed, clenching from the psychic strain.

  “Shhh…” She soothed him, laying a hand gently against his back to press him to the bed. Her anger flared, hard and quick, to conceal the sensations fluttering in the pit of her stomach. “Were you planning to leave this untreated, to draw on the pain?”

  Danyael gritted his teeth and pushed up to look into her eyes. His gaze held her—dark and searing. It stunned her. Was it anger, or was it hate? She could not tell, though something deep inside her quivered, not in fear, but with something that felt like loss. Nothing slipped past his psychic shields as he spit out the words, “You take everything I am, twist it, make it something…sick.” He shook his head in disgust, for her or for himself, she didn’t know. “Why are you here?”

  That was a good question. “I came to see how you’re doing.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Make up your mind, damn it. I can’t take this shit from you anymore.”

  “Make up my mind? You screwed with my mind, fucked my emotions. Before I went to New York, I knew what I felt about you. I despised you. I hated you. Everything you’ve done to me since then should have made it worse, but somehow, it didn’t. I don’t even know why I’m here, but whatever it is you’re doing to me, I want you to stop.”

  “I’m not doing anything to you.”

  “Then I want you to take it away.”

  Danyael’s eyes widened. His eyes were always expressive. Wasn’t it an occupational hazard for an empath who lived and breathed emotional control?

  She studied his profile, the chiseled line of his features, perfection sculptured into reality, except for the nearly invisible scar that cut across the right side of his face from cheekbone to chin. Her gaze drifted over his body. Like Galahad’s body, there was a surprising amount of steel and strength within the athletic frame. Unlike Galahad’s, Danyael’s body was scarred. The injuries were old, the white scars faded with time. Gently she traced the cigarette butt burns on his arms and chest, the lash lines across his back. She wrapped her fingers around his misshapen left hand. The wounds from the ruins of his childhood were an intrinsic, inseparable part of him.

  Her lips pressed together as she studied the bandage wrapped around his lower left arm. She had wounded him too.

  She asked quietly. “How much of what I feel is real?”

  “I don’t know.” His tone matched hers. He averted his gaze.

  “You’re the empath. How can you not know?”

  He sighed and brought his left hand up to cover part of his face. “I swear I didn’t change your feelings deliberately, but unconsciously?” He let his hand drop, but he continued to stare out into the distance, away from her. “I don’t know. When I’m not well, I don’t have precise control.”

  “Over your needs?”

  He nodded. He said nothing else.

  As far as she was concerned, it was a confession of guilt. “I want you to take it away.”

  “All right.”

  She had not expected him to concede so easily. She certainly had not expected to hear the quiet shimmer of pain in his lowered voice. “Are you going to absorb it?”

  “Yes. I’ll always have the memory of how you feel in me, but you don’t have to live a lie anymore.”

  “Then I won’t love you?” Damn it. Had she said the “l” word aloud?

  “No, you won’t.” Danyael did not appear to have noticed her slip. “In fact, you’ll hate me.” A wry smile curved his lips, but his eyes did not reflect the smile. “You’ll be back in familiar territory. Sit down.”

  Danyael waited until she sat. The mattress shifted slightly with her weight. He held out his hand, but did not otherwise reach for her. He waited.

  He was giving her the out she wanted, the one way to end the confusion that kept her up through the night and nagged at her all day, the one way to ensure that the only face she saw in her dreams was Galahad’s perfect one.

  Hesitantly she reached out and held her hand above his, separated by fractions of an inch. She did not make contact. Something held her back. Perhaps it was the throbbing hurt somewhere in the vicinity of her heart or the deliberate blankness in his eyes. “You…” To her shame, her voice caught. She tried again, forcing a strident anger she did not feel into her voice. “You want me to hate you.”

  “You want to hate me,” he corrected.

&
nbsp; “What do you want?”

  Danyael shrugged and looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly.

  She could not bear seeing him so resigned, defeated. “When are you going to fight for what you want?”

  He shook his head, raising his gaze to hers. “A lie isn’t worth fighting for. We’ll never know if what you feel for me is real or whether I created love where there was none. If I screwed you up, I’m sorry. Give me your hand, Zara. I can end this for you.”

  “And what about you?”

  Danyael tilted his head, the gesture mocking, even challenging. “What I feel is my business, not yours.”

  “What if it happens again?”

  “Stay away from me when I’m not well, and it won’t happen again. Don’t come near me when my shields are down.”

  Was he never going to answer the question? “Do you love me?”

  He was silent for a long time before he said, “What I feel is irrelevant, if what you feel isn’t real.”

  He had answered her question. How could she feel sorrow and joy at the same time?

  She could not think. She only knew that she could not decide now.

  She dropped her hand to her side and deliberately avoided his startled gaze as she pushed to her feet. “After we save Lucien. We’ll do this after we save Lucien. Now, lie down and turn over. You need ice on your back.”

  His dark, questioning gaze lingered on her for a long time before he turned away and eased down on the bed. She felt him tense again as the ice packs made contact with his back. “It’s all right.” She ran her fingertips gently across the breadth of his shoulders. “Relax.”

  He was trying. She knew, from his deliberately deep breaths and in the carefully slow way in which he exhaled. From the tension in his shoulders, she knew that he was failing. “Is this helping at all?” Zara asked.

  “Your touching me isn’t.”

  Warmth suffused her, starting at the pit of her stomach and wafting outward in a cozy embrace. She chuckled, soft and low. It was good to know that she could affect him as easily as he affected her, with a simple glance, a casual touch. “Suck it up,” she told him in a briskly practical and deliberately unsympathetic voice.