by Jade Kerrion
CHAPTER EIGHT
March 26—International Celebrity Watch: Celebrity hunters and hopeful women everywhere, it’s time to pack your bags and head to Monaco. Two of the world’s most eligible bachelors checked into separate Diamond Suites at Hotel Hermitage in Monte Carlo yesterday. Lucien Winter, billionaire philanthropist, and Galahad (yes, THE Galahad) are spending the week at the French Riviera, where Galahad is reportedly raking in a fortune at the Casino de Monte Carlo. His current takings? A cool five mil and rising.
Throngs of screaming fans and protestors are doggedly following Galahad through Monaco, thwarting all attempts on the part of law enforcement officers to maintain order in the city. Just as people have always done anywhere else Galahad appears publicly, those who revere Galahad as the perfect human and those who damn him as an abomination engage in heated debates over their age-old philosophical differences. And here, as elsewhere, debates have led to open clashes. So far, no one has died, but you shouldn’t plan on needing a hospital bed in Monaco this week; empty ones are hard to come by.
Our philosophy is that you should always do as the natives do. Since we’re in Monaco, surrounded by the most amazing casinos in Europe, we’re taking bets on which side is going to come out on top. The numbers look fairly even, but you can be sure that whoever wins this time, the contention and conflict around Galahad will go on.
Whatever you may think about Galahad—and believe us, there are lots of very fine things about him to dwell on, like his stunning face and smoking hot body—he deserves kudos for handling the intense spotlight with class and aplomb. Of course, the avowed friendship of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world, Lucien Winter, doesn’t hurt Galahad’s cause.
Here’s a toast to Galahad, the lucky human, abomination, or whatever. We don’t care who or what he is. We just know we’d like a tumble in the sheets with him.
Xin flicked the International Celebrity Watch article aside and scanned an innocuous report that had arrived in her inbox that morning. Simone Delacroix found dead in her Saint Michel townhouse. No sign of forced entry. Coroner believes she died in her sleep from natural causes.
Xin respectfully disagreed. She pulled up a highly encrypted file whose security belied the short list of names in the file. Danyael Sabre’s name topped the list of thirty names. Simone Delacroix was number twenty-five. The order of the names corresponded with the extent to which the person’s genes had been used in Galahad’s “perfect” genetic template. The names after Delacroix’s had been crossed out and dates entered into the following column labeled Deceased. The dates perfectly corresponded with Galahad’s release from Pioneer Labs and his subsequent travels around the world, usually in Lucien’s company, ostensibly for pleasure.
Xin dragged a line through Delacriox’s name and entered that day’s date. She then set the file aside, but her mind lingered on its contents. How many more of your templates will die, Galahad, before this trend stops being a coincidence? Why on earth would you want to kill them, and more importantly, how are you succeeding in spite of all the media hounds on your tail?
~*~
Over the weeks that followed Danyael’s narrow escape from the Mutant Affairs Council, his life at the Mutant Assault Group headquarters settled into a pleasant rhythm. He worked out each morning at the gym and spent the afternoon in physical therapy. Under Jana Earden’s watchful gaze, his body slowly repaired damages resulting from a year of malnutrition and torture.
He felt safer than he had felt anywhere else in his entire life. The soldiers offered no more than a nod of the head in acknowledgment when they passed in the corridors. If he initiated conversation, they were unfailingly professional. The soldiers were psychically shielded; he had little fear of affecting them with his empathic powers, and it blunted his anxiety of being around others. Danyael did not see or speak to General Howard during that time. He received no subtly couched requests or blatant demands. That single fact, more than any other, allowed him to relax.
He spent hours of every day in Reyes’s company, including most meal times. Reyes was the perfect companion, willing to talk when Danyael wanted to listen, willing to be quiet when Danyael needed silence, and willing to listen during those rare moments when Danyael needed to speak.
The electronic tablet provided by the assault group was Danyael’s window to the outside world. There was little news of Zara, but the many media reports on Galahad provided glimpses of Lucien’s life, including a report the morning of Lucien and Galahad’s visit to Monaco.
Danyael still woke several times a night drenched in cold sweat as he braced against the ghostly memory of pain from an electric collar, but he managed to rest for several hours at a time without sleeping pills. On most days, Danyael was almost convinced that he was getting better.
Jana agreed with his assessment late one afternoon as she helped him stretch out his leg. “You’ve regained much of your flexibility. Strength will be harder to come by with all the scar tissue in your quads, but you’re making progress slowly. Graduating from two crutches to one is a major milestone. Does your leg still cramp?”
Is the sun hot? “Every few hours, but not as often—”
The door burst open, and one of the infirmary nurses rushed in. Her white shirt was blood-streaked, her brown eyes wide. Her emotions spun, gyrating on the edge of terror.
Jana stepped back, alarmed.
Danyael sat up and swung his feet over the side of the couch. He reached out and grasped the nurse’s wrist, steadying her. “What’s wrong?”
“Need your help,” she gasped. “Terrible accident.”
Danyael grabbed his crutch and followed her to the infirmary. The nurse raced ahead, stumbling in her haste. Danyael, teeth gritted against the cramps shooting through his left leg, followed quickly. He stepped through the open door of the infirmary and gasped when rampaging emotions careened into him. His dark eyes closed involuntarily as he absorbed them, quenching the panic, dousing the fear.
He opened his eyes and took a single unsteady step forward.
The doctor was working on a patient. Carson tossed a glance over his shoulder. “We have to stop the bleeding or we’ll lose her.” His movements were quick and jerky as he reached for another large strip of gauze.
A young woman lay on blood-soaked sheets, her tangled blond hair draped over the pillow. Her face was pale, her skin clammy. Blue eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at the ceiling. Her trembling hands clenched a torn uniform that exposed the gaping wounds in her abdomen. Four jagged slashes, each at least seven inches long and an inch wide, cut across her stomach.
Danyael’s eyes narrowed. From the talons of an animal?
She gasped, a sharp sound that ended in a choked breath.
Carson barked out an order. “She’s going into cardiac arrest. Get the—”
“I’ve got this.” Danyael leaned over the injured woman, setting a hand against her stomach and the other against her cold cheek.
She flinched from the contact. Her gaze sharpened, and her eyes focused on him,
“It’s going to be all right.” Danyael’s voice was quiet. He released a gentle surge of peace, deep and tranquil, intoxicating.
She pushed back, instinctively defensive. Her psychic shields quivered.
An alpha telepath.
He did not push. Instead, he pulled, easing her into his emotional embrace, lulling her mind into a feeling of profound security. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised. His healing powers surged out, reaching deep into her body. Internal injuries closed slowly; the bleeding halted. Open surface wounds knit together, forming scar tissue.
He gritted his teeth against the chill that emanated from within and watched in silence as scar tissue receded, giving way to healthy skin.
“Amazing,” Carson murmured. The reverence in his tone seemed more appropriate in a place of worship.
Danyael paid it no attention. He swept his empathic powers over the woman, confirming that his work was done. The
healing was complete, but her recovery was not. “She needs a blood transfusion. Two…no, three pints. A-positive.”
Carson nodded, scurrying from the room.
The woman’s gaze lingered on Danyael, silently questioning.
Danyael glanced at the insignia and name embroidered on her ripped and bloodied uniform. “Major, let’s get you into a clean bed.”
He found a hospital gown on one of the shelves in the infirmary. She was weak but determined, and with his help, she managed to change out of her uniform into the gown. Getting her to the other bed in the infirmary, however, posed challenges. Danyael, on a crutch, could barely support his own weight, let alone someone else’s, especially not when he was fighting vertigo and nausea from healing her. Reeling like a drunken couple, they stumbled toward the other bed. Luck sent them crashing into it rather than onto the tiled floor.
Her low, amused chuckle charmed a smile from him.
He set his crutch aside and helped her into the bed, adjusting the pillows until she relaxed against them, and then pulled warm blankets over her. His world spun when he attempted to step away. Gripping the bed rails, he closed his eyes. The darkness settled the dizzy swirl, at least briefly. He had to lie down and give his body a chance to process the injuries he had absorbed from her.
Still, he waited beside her until Carson Smith returned with packets of blood. Danyael smiled down at her. “I’ll look in on you later, but you’re in good hands now, Major Chandler.”
She seized his hand as he turned away. Surprised, he met her gaze.
She smiled, though weakness from blood loss limited it to a barely perceptible curve of her lips. “Amanda. I’m Amanda Chandler.”
~*~
He checked on Amanda Chandler through the night. It was hard to sneak up on an alpha telepath; she usually stirred when he entered, but he soothed her with his empathic powers before she fully woke.
Dawn was breaking when he looked in on her once again. That time, she was awake and sitting upright in bed, working her way through a hearty breakfast. She looked up, a charming flush tinting her cheeks. Her gaze dropped briefly before steadying on his face. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He closed the distance to the bed but did not touch her. “How are you feeling?”
“Lucky to be alive.”
“What happened?”
“Just a training accident.”
“A training accident? I’ve never seen any injuries like yours. Were you attacked by an animal?” A really big animal?
Her jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. It’s…classified.”
“Fine.” He checked his natural curiosity and backed off. I’m not part of the assault group. This isn’t my business.
She reached out to him. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
“You don’t.”
“Of course I do. Why else would you be turning away from me?” Her voice lilted up, coy and teasing. “I don’t make you uncomfortable, do I, Doctor?”
Danyael looked at her, seeing her for the first time as a woman instead of as a patient or a soldier. Confusion flashed; he quashed it but not before he had taken an involuntary step back.
She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “I do make you nervous.”
Was she flirting with him? He could not recall a time when anyone had ever done that. His psychic shields were designed to deflect interest, to encourage indifference. “Doesn’t your general discourage fraternizing among the troops?”
“Lucky for me then that you’re not actually part of the assault group.” The warmth of her smile briefly sparkled in her light blue eyes, but her smile vanished as she studied him. “You aren’t used to this, are you?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, I’ll apologize then. With your kind of looks, I just thought…” She shrugged.
He damned himself for quenching the lively gleam in her eyes and smile. “I didn’t say it wasn’t welcome, just that I’m not used to it.”
“Ah…” She drew the single word out. A slow smile spread over her face. “Join me for breakfast, Doctor?”
He hesitated briefly, but set his crutch aside and sat across from her.
She picked up her fork and speared a morsel of scrambled eggs. “How are you enjoying your stay with us? Do you feel safe here?”
Danyael nodded.
She held out the fork to him.
He shook his head. “Ladies first.”
She popped scrambled eggs into her mouth. “I’m glad you feel safe. The general told us to keep our distance. We’ve all had to check our curiosity, and it’s been hard. Are you allowed to talk about yourself?”
“I rarely do.” He realized belatedly how abrupt it sounded.
She did not seem offended. Instead she offered up more scrambled egg.
That time, he accepted it. The uncomfortable intimacy of eating off a single plate swirled unfamiliar emotions through him. He tried to soften the brusqueness of his earlier response. “What do you want to know?”
“Are the reports true?”
“If they’re the same reports Carson has, then yes.”
“Rough life. I’m sorry.” Her emotions resonated with sympathy and sincerity.
“It gets better every day.”
“At least you’ve got an interesting story to tell.”
“A rough life is easier to deal with when it’s left in the past, where it belongs.” As far as he was concerned, that was the first and last time he would ever talk about his past with her. “But it appears I’m at disadvantage. You know about me. I know nothing of you, except your name.”
She smiled and nibbled on a crispy strip of bacon. “I’m fifth-generation military. My great-grandfather lied about his age to fight in World War One, and since then, there’s always been a Chandler in the military, usually more than one. My mother was a test pilot until she retired from the military about ten years ago, and my father is still a general in the Air Force. They were thrilled when I graduated from West Point, but a little less so when I told them I wanted to join the Mutant Assault Group.”
“Why?”
“They believe mutants should be integrated into the four military divisions. The separation of mutants from regular forces only reinforces the artificial divide.”
“That’s an enlightened view. Are your parents mutants too?”
“My mother is a pre-cog, which comes in handy when you’re a test pilot. Dad’s just a regular guy who believed the cute little pre-cog when she told him that he was supposed to marry her.” Amanda smiled, as if tickled by the memory. “They were surprised when I turned out to be an alpha telepath instead of a half-rate pre-cog, but the genetic lottery appears to be ten-percent science and ninety-percent luck anyway.” Her emotions, glittering with joy, reflected the love in her voice.
“You’re happy.” His voice ached with envy-tinged wonder.
Her blue eyes locked on his. They were gentle with compassion. She nodded slowly. “I got lucky. I’ve had more than my fair share of time-outs and groundings—hard not to, when you’re the only child—but I’ve never doubted their love.”
“It’s good to know normal still exists.” Danyael stood slowly and reached for his crutch.
She sighed. “Now I’ve chased you away.”
“Hardly,” he lied, “but I have to start my day.”
“I won’t be here later. Carson’s discharging me after breakfast. He says it’s a sham to lie around in bed when I’m obviously functioning at a hundred percent. Not too bad for someone who would have died yesterday, if not for you.”
“Glad I could help.” He turned away, but not before he caught the minute shift in her emotions from thoughtful to playful.
Her voice lilted with humor. “You know, someone else would have used my gratitude as an opportunity to see me naked.”
“I already did, yesterday.”
“Ah, I forgot.” She paused. “But I wasn’t at my best yesterday. Do I get a second chance?”
Her plaintive question tore a laugh from him, and he turned back to face her.
She grinned appreciatively. “You’re handsome when you smile. You should do it more often.”
He relaxed enough to respond in kind. “If you give me a reason to, I will.”
Her blue eyes lit. She ran a hand through the blond hair that fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Her smile reminded him of Zara—sleek and confident—minus the ache of accompanying memories. She leaned forward. “A challenge? I should warn you, I’m very competitive, and I’m a sore loser.”
“Then don’t lose. I’ll see you around, Major—”
Her brow furrowed in a hint of a frown.
“—Amanda,” he corrected. He limped to the door and glanced back over his shoulder at the young woman seated upright in bed.
Her once-pale cheeks were rosy. Her smile was speculative but warm as she chuckled, a low, rich sound that stirred in his gut. “Count on it, Danyael.”
~*~
The hours that day flew by more quickly than usual. He was not sure how much of it could be credited to Amanda Chandler, but the pleasurable memory of her lighthearted flirting helped pass the time. He was feeling considerably relaxed when he joined Reyes for dinner at the cafeteria.
Reyes grinned at him. “I heard about what you did for Major Chandler.”
“Word gets around.”
The older man shrugged. “It’s a small base. I heard they carried her into the infirmary yesterday, fully expecting to see her transferred to the morgue within minutes. Instead, she walked out in the morning, bright-eyed and smiling. Quite a miracle.”
Restless, Danyael shifted in his seat. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“It was to her, to her family, and to her team. You did a good thing.”
His empathic senses prickled at the tension rippling through the soldiers in the cafeteria, a peculiar kind of alertness that heralded the approach of an authority figure. Danyael glanced up and saw the general walk in with his dinner balanced on a tray. Several aides flanked General Howard, but he dismissed them and moved toward the table shared by Reyes and Danyael. “May I?” he asked.