by Bryn Donovan
Shit. If this were an elaborate hoax, and he couldn’t imagine what the endgame would be, they were damn good actors.
Slowly and clearly, he asked the obvious question. “If I was destroyed, how am I here?”
Jonathan gave a wondering laugh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Cassie said, “We killed the demon tonight. It must have…reversed it or something.”
“You can’t reverse death.” Unease coiled in Michael’s belly.
Jonathan said, “Now you see why we were pointing guns at you.”
It still didn’t make sense, though. “How did you know I was back?”
“It was Nic. We made a stop, and he had a few minutes. Your vital signs showed up on his phone—your pulse, breathing, and so on.”
“Excuse me?”
“They can track you,” Cassie said. “Because of that tattoo on your hip.”
Michael unwrapped the blanket to look at himself. The black ink formed a many-pointed star within a circle. “What the hell is this?” He hadn’t given anyone permission to do this to him.
“It’s because you’re a Knight,” Cassie told him. “With Manus Sancti. That’s the name of the group. They can track your vitals plus your GPS.”
“Christos.”
“You curse like him.” She inclined her head toward Jonathan. “Only people in Manus Sancti say that in Latin. As far as I know.”
Was that true? He couldn’t remember. “Shit.”
She laughed. “Okay, everyone says that.”
“I don’t like the idea of being tracked.”
“Yeah.” She looked sympathetic. “I didn’t at first, either. But it’s because they want to keep you safe.”
It sounded like a convenient excuse for total control. “Why was he looking up my vitals if I was dead?”
“He wasn’t,” Jonathan said. “He was our mission runner—sort of the coordinator, on the night you…” He left it unsaid. “When we go on a mission, the runner has our vitals on his phone. All the sudden, your heartbeat and everything showed up again, like you were still alive.”
“I think my heart stopped,” Nic said, punching a button on his phone and setting it down. “And then I thought it was a glitch.”
Jonathan said, “So we’re done with the mission, and we’re almost home, and then Nic comes out of this restaurant with a bag full of tacos saying we have to head back. And he won’t even tell us why.”
Cassie leaned forward. “Jonathan was pissed. He wanted to get me home, because I’m hurt. And Nic refused to tell him why we were turning around.”
Nic said, “It was a long drive back. I couldn’t get your hopes up.”
Jonathan glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. “Believe me, I get it. I owe you.”
I’m the one who owes him, Michael thought. If Nic had assumed, logically enough, that the phone was malfunctioning, maybe Michael would’ve frozen to death before he’d found another human being. Not only had Nic gone back for him, against all hope, but along with Cassie, he’d kept Jonathan from shooting him in the head.
Cassie told Michael, “And right before we got to you, Nic said, ‘this could be Michael, a demon, or some other thing entirely.’” Her face lit up in a smile. “But it was you.”
How could they be sure? If he was Michael West, why couldn’t he remember anything?
CHAPTER TWO
The black candle Valentina Vega had set next to the little Virgen de Guadelupe had burned out. The painted clay figurine had belonged to Val’s grandmother, who had lived most of her days in Mexico City, but for Val it represented the Goddess. Many people believed there were different goddesses, and some, like Val’s mother, believed they were all aspects of the same one.
For help with her work, Val called on the Egyptian goddess Seshat, because Val was also a scribe. She would’ve invoked Hathor or Venus for romantic love, but she’d stopped bothering them years ago. For protection, she turned to Athena. She’d been calling on her that night.
A niche in the steel wall served as her tiny altar. There wasn’t room for much more in her quarters at El Dédalo. The underground Manus Sancti headquarters was expansive, but it housed nearly a thousand people in addition to storehouses of artifacts, arms, and enough supplies to sustain their lives for years, if the need arose. The living spaces, while efficiently equipped, were small.
Urraca Mesa lay four hours north, and they should’ve returned hours ago. Sitting alone in bed, she looked back down at the book opened in her lap…as if she could really read. How long had it been since she’d turned the page?
Her phone buzzed. She jumped and then snatched it up from the bedside table. The screen displayed the name Dominic Joe, above the time: 3:11 a.m. Her heart lurched as she answered.
“Salaam, Nic. Are they okay?”
“Salaam, Val. They’re good. They got it done.” She exhaled in relief. “Cassie sprained her ankle.”
She stood up and pulled a Chinese silk robe over her satin slip of a nightgown. “Are you in medical? I’m coming down.” Tomorrow she’d need to debrief Jonathan and Cassie, going into both of their psyches to review and record every detail of the mission lodged in their memories. But for the moment, she just wanted to hug them.
“Yeah. Capitán wants you down here immediately.”
She froze. Their leader, Capitán Renaud, slept from one a.m. to six a.m. Why would he meet with Jonathan and Cassie at this hour? Something sounded off in Nic’s voice, and her empath abilities didn’t work over the phone. “What’s going on?”
A half laugh. “Michael’s back.”
Her breath stopped in her lungs. The dead returned only in dreams, and she was awake. She pressed her hand to her throat, automatically fumbling for the crystal that used to hang from a chain there—the equinox stone, her mother had called it when she’d given it to her, because it was half dark and half the pale gold of dawn. Val had lost it on a trip not long ago. “What do you mean?”
“We found him wandering near the mesa,” Nic said. “Stark naked and freezing.”
Panic shot through her. “It’s not him.” Had they all lost their minds? What unholy thing had they brought within their walls?
“Jon Read him. He’s sure.”
Because of her job, she’d ventured into hundreds of people’s psyches. No two were alike. One psyche would look like a particular rocky beach, another like the gaudy and gilded interior of a crowded opera house, and still another like an empty office at the top of a skyscraper, overlooking a metropolis.
Jonathan had been in Michael’s psyche several times. He would recognize it.
Val as much fell as sat back down on the bed. “What in the world.”
“Yeah. Capitán wants you to come down right now and confirm Michael’s identity.” He didn’t sound nearly as happy as Val would’ve expected if this were really true. He and Michael were close…but no doubt he was in shock. “And don’t say anything to anyone yet.” Even at this hour, people would be in the corridors. She might run into a Scholar returning from the library, a Diviner going to the computer lab, a Knight on guard duty, a Steward cleaning the floors, or people heading home from the cantina.
“I’ll be right there.”
*
Outside the room in the medical wing, she paused to steel herself for the onslaught of emotions from the people within. She opened the door and they crashed over her like a rogue wave.
Jonathan stood in the middle of the large room, his back to her—a tall, muscular figure in a black tee shirt, jeans, and work boots. She’d known him for eighteen years, from when she’d been four years old and he’d been twelve. His emotional signature, as familiar to her as his voice, spun wild with love, worry, and an almost unbearable frequency of joy.
Next to him stood Capitán Renaud, a pale man with thinning gray-blond hair and a palpable energy that belied his age. He might’ve been sixty. In minor concessions to the lateness of the hour, he didn’t wear his usual suit jacket, and the top butto
n of his blue dress shirt was undone. As always, his ruthless self-control prevented Val from even picking up on his feelings.
A different signature filled her awareness. Michael’s.
It was familiar and an utter shock, blighted with confusion, anger, and fear. She looked toward the hospital bed and met his bright blue eyes.
He was sitting up, half covered by a comforter, wearing a battered West Point hooded sweatshirt. Jonathan’s. They wouldn’t have had any of Michael’s clothes, because he’d died.
Every muscle in her body froze. Jonathan and Capitán both turned to her.
Capitán asked, “Vega, can you confirm this is Michael West?”
She stared at Michael. He’d been dust, and now he was a strapping, living body again. Everything was as it should be. Light brown, wavy hair. Full lips, chapped now, probably from being out in the cold of the high desert. Handsome—almost obnoxiously so. But most of all, it felt like him in the way an empath could not mistake.
A miracle. Her heart battered like a bird against its cage of ribs. She ran to the bed, threw her arms around Michael, and held him close. “It’s really you.” Her voice quavered.
“That’s a confirmation,” Jonathan said, triumph in his voice.
When she’d been an adolescent and Michael had been in college, she’d suffered a secret, agonizing crush on him. He’d never seen her as anything more than an honorary little sister, which had only been proper, since she’d been so young.
But in the five years since they’d first been stationed at El Dédalo—she’d just turned eighteen, the age of consent, and he’d been about to turn twenty-three—he’d never desired her. She would’ve known. Still, her unrequited attraction had never quite dissipated. Though she hugged Jonathan all the time, she rarely touched Michael.
But along with Jonathan, he was her closest friend. She squeezed harder, willing him to remain real as tears stung her eyes.
He hesitated before hugging her back, his arms strong and wonderful around her. His bemusement only increased, along with a spike of—what?
Lust.
For a moment, she almost doubted her own senses. But it was unmistakable.
He said in a warm, amused tone, “Hello.”
He used this tone with attractive strangers. They didn’t speak to each other this way. She pulled back to look at his face. A brash smile played on his lips.
Her robe had fallen open, revealing her skimpy nightgown. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have troubled her or anyone else in the room; they were all living on top of one another. But Michael’s gaze traveled over her breasts, and her skin flushed hot in response.
She turned to Jonathan. “He doesn’t know me.” It came out like an accusation.
From where he leaned against the wall in the corner, Nic said, “Yeah, he doesn’t know anyone.” His black hair fell partly in his face, and violet circles underscored his eyes. “Including himself.”
What in the world? Dr. Morales entered the room, clipboard in hand.
It wasn’t like Nic to leave out such pertinent details. But he’d been awake the whole night before this one in preparation for Jonathan and Cassie’s mission, and none of them had ever had a mission end like this.
Val didn’t know Nic as well as she knew the Knights, whose psyches she entered to debrief them after missions. She’d been around him enough, though, to know that even when he was smiling and joking around, even when he was also feeling other things, guilt beat inside him like a second heart, keeping its poison in steady circulation. Right now, he wasn’t smiling. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his leather jacket, and worry was shredding him.
“Retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Morales said, setting the clipboard down on a side table next to Val. She’d filled out a form with her handwritten notes. Apparently, she’d examined and talked to Michael already. “Not surprising, considering he was blown to smithereens and put together again.”
“Is that the medical term?” Michael asked. “‘Blown to smithereens?’”
“Do you remember that?” Val asked him.
He shook his head. “That’s just what they tell me.” His flippant attitude concealed the unease of someone in a dream who stood onstage but didn’t know any of his lines, or even what part he was meant to play.
“He’s totally coherent, though,” Nic said.
Michael’s mouth gave a wry twist. “Thanks.” He turned back to Val. “How did you know I was me?”
“Your emotional signature.”
His lips parted. “You’re an empath.”
“See? He knows everything.” Jonathan spoke more loudly than necessary, as though he could make his brother better through the strength of his voice alone.
“He has procedural memory, but not narrative memory,” Dr. Morales said, walking over to the side of the bed. “There’s no head trauma or any other injuries.” She drew on a pair of rubber gloves and told him, “Take off your sweatshirt. I need to draw blood.”
Michael didn’t move. “What for?”
“We’re doing a number of tests.”
“West, do what she says. That’s an order,” Capitán said, sounding equal parts bored and annoyed.
“Who are you to give me orders?”
Val froze—along with everyone in the room. Nobody in Manus Sancti talked to Capitán Renaud like this.
Capitán’s expression remained neutral. “Make it easy on yourself.”
Jonathan and Nic exchanged a glance. They’d restrain Michael if Capitán told them to, but they’d hate doing it.
Val told Michael, “We all want to help you. This is your home.”
“Really?” He narrowed his eyes. “Because it looks like a prison.”
El Dédalo was her safe haven, but she could imagine how it would appear to him, with no memory of it. The barbed wire perimeter, the armed guards. “Everyone here is your friend. I promise.”
“Friends. Including the one who’s threatening me?” He jerked his head at Capitán.
His insolence stole her breath. “That’s Capitán Renaud.” But that wasn’t going to mean anything to him. “Please let them run tests,” she said more softly. “I know you don’t remember anyone, but I want to make sure you’re okay. We all do.”
He glanced up at Dr. Morales. An unsmiling woman in perhaps her mid-fifties, her dark hair threaded with silver, she stood with her gloves on, needle in hand.
Michael returned his gaze to Val and sighed. “I’m only doing this for you.”
Her heart fluttered. The tension dissolved from the room as he shrugged out of the sweatshirt. The tee shirt underneath was a little too tight. It was hard not to stare.
What was wrong with her? He was one of her best friends, he’d somehow come back from the dead, and his mind had been compromised. The last thing she should be thinking about was his body, built up through training and trials, alluring and vital. But even more than his looks, his emotional signature held her captivated. It was more irresistible than ever…now that it thrummed with attraction to her.
Dr. Morales tied the rubber tourniquet above his elbow and pulled his arm straight. “Make a fist.” He frowned but complied, and she inserted the needle into his vein. As the tube filled up with his blood, she told Capitán Renaud, “We have a conference call scheduled with Dr. Holst in a few hours. He’ll probably have ideas about the memory loss.”
Capitán folded his arms. “First thing, I want to know why he’s back.”
“Sir, I had a quick consulta with five Scholars,” Nic said. “Jian Liu and Marcela Malouf have an idea, but they want to look into it more.”
“Tell me.”
Nic tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Okay, well, this was a very fast conversation in four languages, one of which I don’t speak.” Nic spoke more languages than Val did. He’d grown up in Seoul and Washington, D.C. with a Korean father and an American-born Chinese mother, and he’d lived in Shanghai after his father had been killed in the Shifter War. She had a vague recollection that h
e’d spent time in Paris as well. “Basically, they say the demon might’ve used a spell to implode Michael’s body and soul simultaneously. A bit of his soul was attached to each particle of matter.” Nic took a breath. “In one story they reference, there was still, uh…there was still consciousness.”
Michael said, “Well if that’s true…” He shook his head, logic clearly failing him. “What the fuck?”
“He was still here?” Val’s voice came out high. “In a billion little pieces on the ground?” He couldn’t have been. Scattered like dust, forsaken on earth but far from any heaven. She still sat on the edge of Michael’s bed, and it was all she could do not to wrap her arms around him again.
Jonathan pressed his fist against his lips. The long shadow of his horror merged with her own.
As Dr. Morales removed the needle from Michael’s arm, Nic cast Jonathan a look of guarded sympathy. “They think when Jonathan and Cassie destroyed Dakos, the spell was reversed.”
“But most of me’s missing.” Michael’s voice was stark as he reached for his sweatshirt again.
“Hold on. One more shot,” Dr. Morales said. “Antibiotic.”
As she injected him once again, Nic asked the doctor, “Is it weird the nanochips went back in place? They’re not cells.”
“Yes and no. They’re biohybrids.” She drew the needle out again. “If he’d had any fillings, I bet they’d be gone.”
A burst of bright energy distracted Val. Cassie stood in the doorway on crutches, her ankle and foot set in a splint. Strands of her straight dark hair escaped her ponytail, framing her flushed face, and her brown eyes sparkled with excitement. Pride warmed Val from within. Cassie’s first mission, a difficult one, and she’d triumphed.
Jonathan reached her in two strides, his eyes on the cast, a crease of concern between his brows. “It was broken?”
“A clean break. No surgery.” Although she’d only just become an initiate, a Knight’s nonchalant attitude toward injury came naturally to her.
Val would never be that way, shrugging off pain. But everyone had her own gifts.