The Watcher (Crossing Realms Book 2)

by Rebecca E. Neely

  Beside him, Meda leaned closer to the man and laid her hand on his forearm. “Sure are glad we found you tonight,” she said, offering him a smile. “That’s a soaker out there.”

  “Yes’m.” Gulping, the old man’s Adam’s apple did a nervous dance as he dug into his cash box to make change.

  Briefly, Dev considered channeling Vitality energy to send the air conditioner flying, overturn a desk to cause a distraction. But the people he needed to protect were too scattered. He couldn’t take the chance. Nor could he afford the exhaustion that always followed. He had to be alert, on point.

  “Here you go.” Trembling, Walt handed him his change, locked eyes with Dev. He glanced down, below the desk, and back to Dev. Again. Dev accepted the bills Walt handed him along with the room key, dangling from a plastic anchor with the motel’s information printed on it.

  He offered the old man the slightest of nods, a silent assurance.

  Walt lifted a bony finger. “That’s to the left.”

  Dev noted the time on the clock on the far wall. “Thanks.”

  Pushing the door open, he hustled Meda outside. Running along the sidewalk flanking the rooms, water dumped from the gutter like the log jammer ride at an amusement park. He had minutes, if that. Dev figured they’d better make it appear they were going to their room, in case the bastards caught on that Walt had been trying to tell him something. Ramming the key in the lock for room number three, he turned the knob and hurried her inside. “Listen,” he said abruptly. “That guy is in trouble.”

  “A guy is holding a gun on him,” Meda said at the same time.

  Narrowing his eyes, Dev pointed to himself. “Guardian of humans. What’s your excuse?”

  She lowered her gaze to study the carpet. “Is that why your stone was glowing on the highway?”

  He wondered if she’d seen that. Had she received the Compulsion too? Surely not. “Meda—”

  She held up a hand. “What’s our plan?”

  “We do not have a plan. You are to stay put. Do you hear me? I’m going to double back and slip in the other door. I think his wife is tied up in there.”

  “She is,” Meda verified quickly. “Please, tell me what I can do.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Stay here.” He gave her a little shake. “I mean it, Meda.”

  Clearly resigned and unhappy about it, she folded her arms. “Should I call the police?”

  “There’s no time. I can handle this. The Betrayers aren’t after us. At the moment. I haven’t felt any cobwebs since we left New York. You keep the door locked. I won’t be long.” He shot her a look, his expression mutinous. “And then you and I are going to have a talk.”

  Apparently there was another whole layer to Mysterious Meda. And he couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

  Hurrying to the bathroom, he stepped on the lid of the commode, threw open the window and climbed through.

  CHAPTER 10

  Meda paced the motel room. What the hell is happening to me?

  In the motel office, the images had swept through her mind, clear and sharp and fast, like clicking through the View Finder she’d played with as a child.

  A younger Walt and Phyllis, under a tree, complete with a picnic lunch, and Walt, proposing. Like ripping a page right out of the man’s book. And then the terror and the anger surged through, as if she’d grabbed an electric fence.

  She raked her fingers through her hair, matted to her scalp from the rain and the helmet. It was the Vitality stone. Had to be. That, and Dev’s energy—which she’d felt since yesterday morning. Both had to be intensifying her ability.

  The very thing she’d shunned for the last three years.

  And in one day Dev had changed all that, thrust her onto the front line.

  Yet she felt compelled to try to help. Not in the same way Dev was, but compelled nonetheless. She worried the collar of her T-shirt. Dev said the Vitality stone wouldn’t hurt her. That all depended on his definition of ‘hurt.’

  It terrified her.

  But not as much as being helpless.

  She sat, stood, watched another minute click off the digital clock on the nightstand. One AM. Dev had been gone less than two minutes. She picked at her thumb’s cuticle until it bled.

  What’s happening over there?

  A shot rang out.

  Shaking, she yanked her phone from her backpack. All bets were off. Mia would’ve run. Meda knew she had to make the call, for Dev’s sake. For Walt and Phyllis’ sake. She tapped ‘Emergency’ on her Smartphone.

  The operator answered. “Lehigh County 9-1-1.”

  Another shot blasted through the night. A strangled cry escaped her. Shaking, she ordered herself to relay the information. “I’m at the Golden Anchor Motel. I just heard two gunshots.” The address? Grabbing the room key, she rattled it off. “Right by the interstate. Hurry!” She ended the call.

  Who knew how long it would be until the police arrived? What if Dev and the old couple had been shot? She had to get to them. And Dev. For they faced, quite possibly, two enemies—the hoods robbing the Kennedys, and the Betrayers. Were these beings that looked just like humans on their way, right now? Or were they already here? And would she know it?

  Trembling, she raced into the bathroom, followed Dev’s example, and climbed through the window. She landed in the marshy grass and mud. Crawling, she hid behind a hemlock badly in need of a trim. Drizzle and fog clung, thickening the atmosphere. Cover. Scrambling across the ground like a crab, she crouched near the corner of the building, judging the office to be about ten feet away. Quickly, she reviewed its layout in her mind.

  The curtains were still drawn on the bay window and the door. There was about an inch of space between the panels. The only way she could see inside was to get to the porch. And if she moved from where she was, she’d be making herself a target.

  Thunder rumbled, matching the hammering of her heart. The rain bent the light shining from the motel sign into odd angles.

  One. Two. Three.

  Darting across the breezeway separating the office from the rest of the motel, she flattened herself against the wall next to the door. Biting her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood, she stole a look through the space between the curtains hanging at the bay window.

  Walt lay in a heap on the floor, in front of the desk. His chest heaved. Blood smeared the top of his head and one side of his face. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. One of the hoods stood behind the front desk with his back to her, holding a gun on Dev. He also stood, his back against the far wall of the office.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Sirens blared in the distance. The police were close. Minutes away.

  And that might be too long.

  Again, she aimed a look through the window. Dev’s face might have been carved from stone. He moved his head, a fraction of an inch, toward the window where she stood. In that moment, she made her decision.

  Sucking in a breath, she flung open the door.

  Diving to the floor in front of the desk, she caught a fleeting impression of the robber whirling around, gun in hand. A shriek of red hair beneath a dirty ball cap. The tattoo of a sword slicing its way along his neck.

  And Dev. Lunging forward. Tackling him.

  Another shot rang out, deafening in the confines of the office.

  Cold sweat coating her from head to toe, she huddled in a ball beside a rack of brochures, her face pressed to the worn carpet tiles.

  A chair overturned. Dev cursed. Shuddering, she rubbed her arms. Prayed.

  Dev clambered around the corner of the front desk, clutching his arm. “Meda! You all right?”

  Her mouth open, she leapt to her feet, processing. “You’ve been shot.”

  He grimaced. “I’ll b
e fine. Promise.”

  “Walt,” she cried.

  Kneeling next to the old man, they examined him gently. “Bastard cracked him hard in the head with the butt of his gun,” Dev muttered.

  Blood and bruises tattooed the old man’s wizened skin, a testament to the violence. Moaning, he tried to sit up. Together, Dev and Meda hoisted him into a chair.

  “He might have a concussion. But he’s going to be all right.” Dev smiled grimly at the two thugs, lying on the floor in a heap. “One accidentally shot the other in the confusion.” He pointed to the man with the sword tattoo. “I punched him out.” He gestured to Walt. “Stay with him. I’m going to get his wife.”

  Tossing a few of the desk drawers, Dev located a pair of scissors, ran to the back room door, and returned a minute later with a pale, teary eyed Phyllis.

  A cruiser roared up to the motel, siren blaring, its lights cutting through the storm.

  Eyeing the hoods warily, Meda squeezed Walt’s hand once more and released him.

  A policeman barreled through the open office door, gun drawn. “Police! Freeze!”

  Dev held up his hands, palms out. “They were robbing the place when we arrived. The old man might have a concussion. The wife’s scared out of her wits, but I don’t think she’s hurt.”

  Meda watched, perplexed as the officer holstered his gun and moved forward, chattering into his radio.

  Dev took Meda by the hand. “Let’s go.”

  Baffled, she followed him out the door, staring. Phyllis sat next to her husband, wrapping her arms around him.

  Humidity cloaking the night, they hustled the short distance to their room. Once inside, Meda flipped on the light. “I don’t understand. That’s people, forgetting you? And me?”

  Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Dev removed his ruined jacket. “Yes.” He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “You’re crying.”

  I am? She took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her eyes, warmed by his touch. She winced at the sight of his torn flesh, bit back panic, confusion. Why isn’t there more blood? “Dev, your arm.”

  “Shh.” Dev held up a hand, turned, and moved to the door.

  Energy invaded the space all around them. Like yesterday morning in her apartment.

  But this wasn’t Dev’s. It had an essence all its own, like oxygen being sucked from the air. Dark. Fearsome.

  Foreboding.

  Meda shivered, recognizing it for what it must be.

  Cobwebs.

  They stared at one another. Her every muscle froze.

  And then it was gone.

  Dev’s eyes lit on hers. “You felt that too?”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Betrayers. Are they . . . coming?”

  “They’re always coming. They’re gone. For the moment.” He assessed her, his expression grim. “I think it’s time you and I had that talk.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Clenching his teeth, Dev eased himself into a sitting position on the room’s lone double bed and propped himself against the pillows. Wincing, he inspected his injured arm. “First of all, I thought I told you to stay put,” he fired off. “The only way I can protect you is if you listen to me.”

  Meda felt her nostrils flare. Unbelievable. “I risked my life to help you and this is what you have to say to me?”

  “Exactly. You risked your life,” he snapped. “The safest place for you was here, in this room. Not chasing after me.”

  “I heard gunshots. What the hell was I supposed to do? Nothing?”

  “I’m here to protect you. Not the other way around.”

  Her face heated. “Really? You’re going to sit there and lecture me after you’ve been shot?” Human, Watcher—all men were cut from the same cloth. “Get over yourself, Geary. You needed my help and you can’t stand it. I’m asking, only because I don’t want to bruise your ego any more, do you want to drive to the hospital or shall I?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s been a while since I’ve driven a motorcycle but I think I can remember—”

  “Meda. I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he said with exaggerated patience.

  “Why are you arguing with me? You could’ve been killed.”

  “Been there, done that,” he muttered.

  Her stomach tightened. “Excuse me?”

  “Later.” He stood with an effort. “Meda, listen.”

  “You’re obviously in shock. Let’s get you to the hospital, and then . . .” She blinked, processed. “Tan. You can heal yourself.”

  “It’s one of the benefits of being a Keeper.”

  “Then why didn’t you heal Walt?”

  “It might sound cold, but I have to choose, always, how I’m going to spend my energy. He’s going to be okay. Me? I could use a little help.” He held out a hand.

  Perplexed, bordering on punch drunk, she knelt next to the bed and linked her fingers with his. At the base of her throat, her stone glowed, in tandem with his. His skin, ravaged by the bullet, joined and replenished before her eyes.

  Healed.

  Minutes passed. Gently he released her. Sitting back on her haunches, she gaped. Blood stained his T-shirt, his arm. Shaking, she reached for him, ran a hand over his bicep, the muscles hard, developed; his skin smooth, unmarred. Whole.

  Gray dots swam in her vision and she slumped to one side. Dev leapt from the bed, grabbed her around the waist and tugged her to her feet.

  “Well.” She leaned against him, steadied herself.

  “I’ve got you.” Encircling her with his arms, he lifted her to the bed effortlessly.

  She fought against the dizziness, struggling to clear her head. “I have an open mind,” she mumbled. “Limits to what I can handle in one day.” On a wave of lightheadedness and a crash of adrenaline, she sank into the pillow. “I’m okay. Just need to sit here a minute.”

  He grunted. “You’re not okay. And don’t argue with me. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  No problem there. The door opened and shut. She twisted the bedspread in her hands. Soaked to the skin, she was. Down to her underwear. Everything she wore clung, chafed, chilled. A few minutes later, the door opened and shut again. Slowly, she rolled over, opened her eyes.

  Dev hefted an armful of sodas, chips, cupcakes, and cookies. “I’m sorry. So much has happened. I wasn’t thinking. You must be exhausted. Starving. I raided the vending machine. Best I can do.” He laid it all on a round side table, sat in one of the room’s two vinyl backed chairs, and cracked open a soda. “Meda, sit up. I want you to drink this.”

  She eyed the junk food and the soda he offered her. More refined sugar than she consumed in a year, what with the whole foods she usually ate. And right now, she didn’t give a damn. Her stomach rumbling, she sat up and lifted the can to her lips.

  “You’ve been through a lot today.”

  Remaining silent, she settled on a bag of barbecue chips and a package of chocolate cupcakes. She plowed through both and finished the soda before they spoke again. “I love those Sno balls. The pink ones with coconut. I used to eat them when I was a kid,” she said, the memory clear in her mind. “I haven’t had any for years.”

  Dev grinned. “Sorry, they were out of those. Next time.” There was that dimple again. Damn him.

  He studied her, gestured to her empty soda. “I’d have brought you something stiffer. This is all I could manage.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “And you work in a bar.”

  “Well, life’s full of ironies, isn’t it? And I’m part owner of that bar.”

  “With the guy who almost threw me out?”

  “Musko.”

  “And he’s your . . . partner?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “My business partner.
He was a close friend of my father’s.”

  He set his soda down. “Meda. I want to know how you knew Walt was in trouble.”

  She’d regained most of her strength. Enough to work up a good mad. “Oh, I bet you do.” She stood. “You know, there were reasons why I was living off the grid. And you’ve helped me remember them all. My life was fine until you showed up. Now, everything I’ve worked for, built?” She snapped her fingers. “Gone.”

  “Why do you go by Mia?” he asked quietly.

  Roaming the tiny room, she regarded the paneling, the sagging mattress, the cracked, pull-down shades. “I must’ve been in a hundred motel rooms like this one with my dad, growing up. Whenever he got a notion, we’d up and chase it. No matter where it was.” She eyed him. “‘Mia’ was for privacy. I wanted that, needed that. My father had quite a following.” She wrinkled her brow, remembering. “One of his ‘followers’ broke into my apartment a few years back, before I was part owner of MJ’s.” She glared at Dev. “Sound familiar? Anyway, he was on the prowl for some of my father’s research, thought he could carry on with it. He wasn’t the only one. People came looking for me often enough after he died. I was grieving, trying to put distance between myself and that life. I found out who I could trust. And who I couldn’t, let’s say.”

  Dev leaned forward in his chair, a frown scoring his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  “And you think that’s going to cut it?”

  “No. It doesn’t even begin to cut it.”

  She slanted a sideways glance at him. “Damn you, Geary. You force me to come with you, almost get killed, horsewhip me for helping you, and then demand to know all the details of my life. That about right?”

  He eased off his chair; moved forward and gripped her shoulders. “I told you before. I need to be able to protect you. And I’m sorry. Yes. From this point forward, your life is an open book. I promised to protect you and if I don’t know what’s going on I can’t do that.”