Kindred of the Fallen

by Isis Rushdan

  She wasn’t sure the other evening, but now she was certain of it. Cyrus didn’t have an accent of any kind, his diction crisp and intonation fluid. He spoke like a man who either had no roots or belonged to the whole world.

  “So you want us to stay gone for two days?” Cassian asked.

  “Go have fun. And take a car. I don’t want you on a motorcycle.”

  Sighing, Cassian traipsed away.

  Abbadon eased forward. Sharp eyes the color of the ocean after a storm studied her. At first glance he appeared bald, but a thin layer of dirty blond hair covered his oval head.

  The same electric clip she had felt from Cassian brushed her before she shook Abbadon’s hand. She sifted through the layers of her core, scanning for something, but her internal barometer was kaput. Any sense of what to make of them, besides the exterior they presented, had been masked. She was blind around them.

  Abbadon looked at Cyrus’s chest. “Trouble?”

  Cyrus picked at the hole in his shirt. “I took care of it.”

  They stood in front of a stone path running through trimmed hedges on the side of a Mediterranean style villa. A vibrant green lawn sprawled to the right. A seven bay garage ran along the left side of the mansion.

  “Where are we, exactly?” she asked.

  “My home in Valhalla.”

  “We’re upstate?” She took in more of the lush surroundings. Trees with long limbs stretching from the base of the trunk lined the drive she had missed coming up, forming an archway of emerald foliage that scattered the light. Clusters of purple azaleas adorned the path.

  “Not quite. We’re in Westchester, near White Plains.”

  “If we’re not in one of the five boroughs of NYC, then we’re upstate.”

  Cyrus took her by the hand and headed toward the veranda.

  “We should call the police and file a report,” she said as they ascended the steps.

  Abbadon tilted his head to the side, his expression a tangle of curiosity and amusement as if the suggestion had been outlandish.

  Cyrus breezed through the front door. She twirled around the opulent foyer, trailing him, soaking in the gleaming cherry hardwood floors with marble insets and a dome ceiling so exquisite it must have been hand-painted.

  “Involving more humans, especially police, would only complicate things,” Cyrus said.

  More humans. There it was again, that razor sharp distinction.

  Those mercenaries had told her he wasn’t human before he’d unloaded about being Kindred. And she had witnessed impossible things, like him stopping the blade of a sword with his arm and surviving the blast of an energy gun from a sci-fi movie.

  She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt that been cut by the sword and stopped him. “I’m willing to consider that you’re not human. You and those mercs might be crazy, but I don’t think you’re lying. Not about that. But I’m not Kindred. I’m an ordinary human. A red-blooded American.”

  A deep chuckle rolled from Abbadon’s chest. “I see you have your hands full, Cyrus, but duty calls. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Cyrus nodded in acknowledgement, scooped her arm in his hand gently and led her upstairs. “Deep down you must know how far from ordinary you really are. Have you spent your entire life trying to convince yourself that you’re like everyone else? How many years have you spent struggling to blend in?”

  Failing miserably to blend in was more like it. She had the closest thing to an ordinary life she could create with Evan and it was unraveling in a tailspin. She could never hold down a normal job and her current profession was about as far from conventional as possible.

  They climbed a curved staircase, passing a stained glass window of two lions seated back to back, a half disk rested in between them.

  “You’ve always had a stream of energy, anima or life force, flowing inside of you,” Cyrus said. “Have you ever felt it in another person before you met me?”

  “No. You were the first.” Her feet slowed. “It felt so good to find someone like…” She shook her head. “I’m not like you. You survived that gunshot with only a wound on your shoulder. It tore through metal just like it would have torn through my body if I’d been shot.”

  He quickened his pace, urging her down a long hallway. They headed toward an ornate door with detailed etchings. Déjà vu struck her like a sledgehammer to the chest. A painting of that door hung in her apartment. She had struggled to reach it in every dream before the darkness won. Fear spurted up in her gut.

  That couldn’t be the door from her dreams. There were probably hundreds, no thousands of doors in the world that looked similar.

  “You are Kindred, but you’re also right,” Cyrus said. “You’re not quite like me.”

  He opened the door and marched through an office. He gently let her go and flung open the double doors to an adjoining room, revealing a luxurious four-poster bed.

  “There are two classes of Kindred. The vast majority are warriors like me. We’re stronger and faster than humans. Our skin is more resilient, tougher. Those of the Psi class, such as yourself I suspect, are endowed with unique abilities. Cassian, for instance, is a healer.” He strode into a walk-in closet. “Some are empaths, who can read feelings. The more advanced empaths can sense thoughts.”

  “They can read minds?” she asked, trailing behind him.

  He hurried out of the closet, throwing navy fatigues on the bed. “No, it’s dependent upon how strongly they sense your feelings.”

  Cyrus unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it to the floor and whisked down his pants. He didn’t have on a stitch of underwear.

  Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze roamed over sculpted buns, chiseled hamstrings, cut biceps and a well-defined back. Growing lightheaded, she reached out to grab hold of the doorway.

  “Ecological empaths,” he continued, unabashed by his nudity, “sense the well-being of an environment, healing a plot of land to make it fertile.”

  “Yes, quite virile,” she muttered, half certain of what he’d said.

  Scorching masculinity radiated from him, heating her body in a delicious way, sparking wicked desire. The only man she’d seen naked was Evan, but Cyrus was sheer perfection.

  Her gaze traveled the length of his strong neck, across his smooth chest and ripped abdomen. He had a rugged build, supple flesh over granite muscles she wanted to caress with her fingers and tongue. His erection bobbed stiff and inviting.

  Strumming three fingers on her lips, she forced herself to look away.

  The adjoining office spun as she strained to focus on some soft, non-phallic object. She stumbled into the room, groping for a sturdy piece of furniture to hold her up. Her hand caught the top of a wingback chair.

  Files rested on a desk angled toward a fireplace. Above a loveseat hung a painting of a falcon, its left eye the sun and its right a crescent moon, clutching a double-bladed sword.

  The distress from her dreams crept up in her chest. Choking on the lucid memories, she wobbled backward.

  Cyrus entered the office wearing fatigues. He slipped knives in various holders and strapped a sheathed sword across his back. The sight of him quelled her trepidation and settled her nerves. He smiled, strutting closer, but stopped an arm’s length shy of her grasp.

  Her feet edged toward him and with each step, buoyancy lightened her limbs. She glanced at the painting. “I’ve seen this before. What does it mean?”

  “It represents Heru, an ancient Egyptian god of the sky. It’s the symbol for House Herut, my clan.” He curled his hands about her shoulders and his breath grazed the nape of her neck.

  “I’ve dreamt of this, but not as a painting.” Even her voice was now light as a whisper.

  Caressing her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “I wish we had more time, but I have to leave.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to euthanize one with sangre saevitas.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If we don’t merge our life f
orce with our kabashem’s, our mate’s, over time our energy becomes poisonous,” he explained. “One of two things eventually happens. Those of the Psi class tend to get severe melancholia, which we call the dark veil while warriors are prone to suffer sangre saevitas…blood rage.”

  Goose bumps prickled her arms.

  He lowered his head and wavy locks fell forward. “With blood rage we have violent fits of madness and lose all sense of compassion and reason. We destroy everything in our path.”

  “Why euthanize them? Isn’t there a cure or some kind of medication?”

  “Connecting to the anima of one’s kabashem, even just once, seems to stave off the affliction, but not all are lucky enough to have their mate born in the same lifetime. Neith, the Great Historian, tries to help by tracking births and our marks to make meeting at least possible, provided politics don’t get in the way.”

  She struggled to process the outpour of information. “So blood rage and the dark veil are untreatable, some sort of terminal illness?”

  “Kindred are cursed to suffer until our souls are redeemed. There’s a way to break it and save our people…but it’s complicated. More and more are afflicted every day, and at an earlier age. It’s escalating. It’s almost like over generations as our ingeniums, our special gifts, have evolved and grown stronger, the torments of the curse have worsened. Soon we’ll be extinct.”

  “Cursed for what?”

  “We’re descended from ancients, extraordinary beings created before humans. They were cursed for their wickedness and hubris. We’ve found being on our own makes us more susceptible to the affliction. The energy of the collective helps us to fight it. If we’re not with our kabashem, we stay in groups.”

  “Is the energy of the collective similar to what I’ve felt with you?”

  “No, it’s very different, more communal. I’m not sure how to explain it. The energy from the group supports and stabilizes, but it doesn’t nourish and enhance like our connection.”

  The flowing give and take of their merged streams energized her body better than eight hours of rest. “I think I understand,” she said, but so much of what he’d explained escaped her.

  If only he had more time to help her understand. Cyrus stroked her arms, wanting to lessen her confusion.

  Growing up in House Herut, he never had to explain something as natural and simple as existing or the curse that afflicted their species to anyone before. She must feel like Alice after slipping through the looking glass and landing in Wonderland.

  Abbadon entered the room, silent as ever, and lurked near the door. His jacket concealed the arsenal of weapons he now wore strapped to a holster.

  Cyrus met his inquisitive gaze.

  “They’re here. We have to leave now,” Abbadon said.

  Serenity tightened her grip on his hand. “Take me with you.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “It’s not safe. I can’t risk putting you in danger.”

  “I want to believe the things you’ve told me. I want to believe in you, but I need proof. Show me this Kindred with blood rage.”

  A golden opportunity to solidify her trust in him and open her eyes to the suffering of their people. But could he keep her safe?

  “In time all of your questions will be answered,” Abbadon said as he stepped forward. “You’re too important to jeopardize your safety on a mercy killing.”

  Her eyes locked on Abbadon. “Who are you?” Her tone rose.

  Cyrus didn’t need to hear the irritation in her voice to know something about Abbadon chafed her. He could sense her emotions clearly in the stream uniting them.

  “I am Cyrus’s advisor and protector.”

  Clamping the top of her shirt closed, she cut her gaze from Abbadon, dismissing him. “Don’t leave me here,” she said to Cyrus.

  “I won’t,” he said, rubbing her shoulder. “You’d be unprotected without Cassian and Talus to safeguard you. I’ll take you.”

  “Cyrus, this isn’t wise—”

  “This isn’t a debate. After what those mercs tried earlier, they’re liable to do anything. She comes with us and you’ll keep her safe while the rest of us take care of the matter at hand.”

  There was no way he could ask his undermanned team to risk their lives while he sat on the sidelines holding his mate’s hand.

  Abbadon’s chin lifted as he crossed his arms. “You’ll need all four of us to take down one with blood rage. Besides, I’m no babysitter.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told. This is not up for discussion.”

  Though his features remained soft, Abbadon’s gaze settled on Serenity, staring at her like he was trying to unpeel the layers of her mind with his eyes.

  She edged away, just a step or two, and glanced around the room.

  Cyrus took her by the hand back into his bedroom. “Don’t mind Abbadon. He takes some getting used to.”

  She halted at the entrance of his closet. He snagged a lightweight body armor vest from the wall. It’d help shield her in a worst-case scenario, but as long as Abbadon did his duty she wouldn’t need it.

  He handed her the vest. “Put this on.”

  Her jaw hung open as her fingers skimmed the weapons lined on racks opposite his clothes: knives, juttes, a steel tanbo, swords. She stopped in front of a tray of ballbusters—quarter inch metal balls packed with high-yield explosives and set to detonate ten seconds after impact. One could blast through six feet of reinforced steel.

  “Be careful with those. They’re highly explosive.” He spun her around, slipped the vest over her head and zipped the side.

  “Why do you need all of this?”

  “I’m a warrior, love. Sometimes killing is required.”

  She gulped, staring at him with doe eyes.

  “Does this frighten you?” he asked.

  She glanced back at the weapons. “Yes. But you don’t.”

  He smiled, took her by the hand and hurried out into the office. Abbadon leaned against the doorframe, arms still locked over his chest. Serenity lowered her head as they passed him. Abbadon trailed behind.

  Cyrus cut through the conservatory, out to the courtyard. Her head twisted, taking everything in. This wasn’t the way he wanted to show her the house, snippets in fast-forward that she couldn’t appreciate.

  “The others aren’t to know who she is,” he said to Abbadon.

  “Why not?” Serenity asked.

  If the others knew, they’d scare her off with talk of Blessed mates and salvation. “There’s a time and a place for everything. I need them focused on the mission and nothing else right now. A distraction could get us killed.”

  “They’ll ask questions,” Abbadon said. “It’s odd and unwise to bring a…civilian.”

  “That’s why you’re going to quash any questions before they arise. See to it.”

  Abbadon quickened his pace and rounded a corner on to the lawn out of sight.

  Cyrus stopped next to the fountain. “I know you have lots of questions and I promise to answer them when we get back to the house. You’re going to see things, horrible things. The more questions you ask in front of the others, the more it will pique their curiosity at an inopportune time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You want me to act as if everything is normal and not ask any questions.”

  “Yes. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “One soul split into two different bodies, you’re not human, I’m not human, curses, a closet full of weapons—”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Please, close your eyes.”

  Her eyelids shut and she took a deep breath.

  “Listen to the sound of the fountain, the fluid trickle of water. Clear your mind. Root yourself in the current of our merged energy streams. The vitality you feel is my life force flowing into yours. When the two combine it amplifies our anima. You may not understand how, but you feel it as surely as you feel the wind.”

>   She met his gaze.

  “I will show you proof so that your mind can comprehend what your heart and spirit already know to be true,” he said.

  He drew her close, yearning to steal a kiss. Her rosy lips parted as if preparing to meet his. What he wouldn’t give for time. Five minutes to savor the taste of her mouth, another ten to learn the lines and curves of her face. He ran his fingers through her wavy hair. In this light, every variation of brown in her curls shone like cocoa beans glistening in the sun.

  The sound of the helicopter revving up chopped through his thoughts.

  After the mission she would believe him, and then they’d have all the time in the world.

  Chapter Eight

  On the lawn, a black helicopter with spinning rotor blades sat on a landing pad adjacent to the house. Serenity clenched her hands, longing to feel Cyrus’s fingers interlaced with hers as they hurried to the helicopter.

  The armored vest she wore covered her torso and was surprisingly lightweight, but hung loosely, swinging as she jogged beside Cyrus.

  From the helicopter, two men seated in front of the controls and Abbadon watched them intently through the windows. She ducked underneath the rotating blades, holding her hair down.

  Cyrus held open the door and ushered her into the back. Heads turned and the men stared, but said nothing. He sat close, his leg pressed against hers.

  Being near him, touching him was better than being wrapped in a blanket of sunshine—pure bliss. The newfound stasis of their mingled energy stream was like suddenly having more oxygen after existing on the brink of asphyxiation. The ethereal connection joined them beyond touch or words, but she couldn’t shake the disquiet gnawing her. Not human.

  “Where are we headed?” Cyrus asked easily, without the roaring noise she’d expected from movies to muffle his words. The inside of the helicopter was quiet.

  “Montauk,” Abbadon said. “We have to euthanize Jude. The bloodlust took him over with little warning. The others are on their way to D.C. to handle an easier case.”

  Cyrus’s brow wrinkled and he faced the window. The cords of energy between them wavered as if plucked. On the vibrant ripples sorrow resonated harsh and clear.