by Bryn Donovan
“I don’t know!” Her eyes were wide with fear. She couldn’t be lying. Cracks of nothingness separated the street from the buildings on one side of it. Another chasm opened up in front of them. They were both going to die in this otherworldly plane.
He yelled over the din. “Get out of here!”
She disappeared. Good. At least she’d escaped. The sky and the pavement broke into jagged hunks, with fissures of the void in between.
She materialized again, still on her knees. No, no, what is she doing? She crawled over to him and grabbed his shoulders. At the contact, the quaking slowed to a vibration. “This crack over here!” she shouted over the roar like a hurricane, pointing toward the nearest dropoff. “Concentrate on fixing it!”
This was futile. He had no control here. She held up her hand toward the crack, closing her eyes. He had to at least try to help. Pain still chiseled his skull, but he willed the crack to seal itself up again.
“Yes! Like that!” She could feel whatever he was doing. The two parts of the street sealed up and became one. The roar diminished to a rumble. Maybe there was hope.
Still holding onto him, she said, “Now these buildings over here.” She expanded the range of her control. After a few moments of effort, they became whole.
Michael took a big gulp of air. The pain subsided to the normal throb of a pounding headache. She raised her face to the sky and they saw the ragged pieces coming back together. The healing they’d done seemed to cause a chain reaction. The rest of the buildings and the street came back together. Finally, the rumble gave way to silence.
Exhausted, she let her hands fall from his shoulders. A wordless noise of relief escaped her lips as she sat back on her heels.
“What was it?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I think your psyche was coming apart.”
If she didn’t know…? “How did you know what to do?”
“I guessed?”
My God. It’d been incredibly brave of her, trying to fix him, and it had worked. Michael took both her hands. His breath still came fast.
“Christos. You’re like this beautiful, powerful angel.” He leaned closer. Her lips were parted, her expression soft, for all the world like a girl who wanted to be kissed…
But then she pulled back.
How had he misread her signals? Why did he keep embarrassing himself around her? To cover up the awkwardness of the moment, he said, “Thanks for coming back for me.”
“I didn’t run away. I talked to the rest of them for a second. They were freaking out.”
“What?” She could sense everyone in the normal world, even when she was here?
“Dr. Morales was about to give you an injection to knock you out, but I told her not to.” She winced. “I know you were in pain, but I thought we could fix whatever was happening.”
“You were right.” He still wanted to kiss her, or at least enfold her luscious body into his arms again. But she didn’t want to touch him like that, and he couldn’t push her, even if it left him feeling hollow inside.
She looked away. “It seems like you’re stable. Let’s get out now.”
Michael opened his eyes. He still sat on the hospital bed, Valentina perched on the edge of it.
Jonathan and Dr. Morales hovered over them, and Capitán Renaud stood only a few steps away. “Vega, what happened?” the man said at the same time Jonathan demanded of both of them, “Are you all right?”
Valentina said, “We’re okay. It’s hard to explain.”
“I was coming apart,” Michael said. “She fixed me.”
Capitán Renaud, Dr. Morales, and Jonathan pelted her and Michael with questions. Jonathan asked her how she’d how to fix the shattering, and she told him she’d only guessed.
“Instinct,” Capitán noted with approval. But his mouth set in a hard line after she explained she hadn’t been able to pull up any of Michael’s memories from before the demon spell.
“What’s going on?” a gravelly man’s voice asked.
They all turned. A stout older man—maybe seventy, but with a full head of dyed-black hair—lumbered into the room. He wore a shiny blue short-sleeve shirt open over a ribbed white undershirt. They’d called him a priest. A woman who looked like another one of the soldiers walked in behind him.
The man’s gaze locked on Michael, and his jaw dropped. Michael was already heartily sick of this response. The man turned on Capitán Renaud. “What have you done?” His voice was filled with cold anger and contempt.
“We would never do that,” Capitán replied, unperturbed. “We learned that lesson centuries ago.” Val’s eyebrows raised. “West and Rios defeated the demon. Then they found Michael.”
The priest asked Jonathan, “She’s all right?” Jonathan nodded. “Well, thank God for that,” he muttered.
Capitán clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you know of any myths where the body disintegrates and the soul remains attached?”
“Attached to the remains?”
“Yes. In this case, particles. Dust.”
“Goddamn. No, I’ve—” He stopped, his lower lip jutting out thoughtfully. “Wait. You have an Egyptologist, right?”
“Our best one was Lucia Dimitriou. The one who translated the codex.” Val touched her hand to her chest above her heart, two fingers extended, and others did something similar.
The priest’s mouth tightened in sympathy. “There’s a fragment that seems to talk about a man torn into pieces by a vengeful god. He’s reconstructed when the god is defeated and ‘the jasmine blooms again,’ it says. Depending on who you believe, it might pre-date the Osiris legend.” He shrugged. “It’s in storage at the Australian Museum. That’s all I know.”
Capitán nodded. “Thank you for your assistance.”
The female soldier behind the man stepped forward. “Follow me. We’ll have a driver take you home.”
The priest waved her off and took a few steps toward Michael, looking him in the eyes. “You’re lost here, aren’t you?” The sympathy in the man’s voice cut straight through Michael’s defenses, and a fresh sense of forlornness made his throat ache. “You can trust your brother and Val. And Nic, and Cassie.”
Capitán Renaud was conspicuously absent from that list.
“Okay,” Michael said. He didn’t have a reason to even trust the priest, but for some reason, he did.
The priest and Val exchanged a meaningful look but said nothing. Michael had the strong suspicion that a kind of understanding had passed between them, anyway. Then the priest turned and clasped Jonathan by the shoulder. “I’m happy for you.” He glanced back at Michael. “Be patient.”
Jonathan nodded. “Take care, Morty.”
As the female soldier escorted the man out, Dr. Morales said, “I’d like Michael to get at least a few hours’ sleep before our consult with Dr. Holst later this morning.”
If he were asleep, he’d be completely helpless here. Maybe she was looking for an opportunity to do other tests without his consent. She hadn’t been on the priest’s list of people to trust, either.
Capitán said, “The fracturing could happen again. Vega, stay with him at all times until further notice.”
Yes. Finally, a plan he liked.
Her mouth dropped open, but then she composed herself, murmuring, “Obedezco.” I obey.
“Morales, set up a meeting after your consult with Holst,” Capitán said to the doctor. “Me, you, Vega, Joe, both Wests, Liu, and Malouf. Rios and West, debrief with Lambert in the morning.” He looked around at Nic, Jonathan, and Cassie before his gaze landed on Val again. “Excellent work, all of you.” He left the room, and Nic stirred from where he’d been leaning against the wall.
Cassie started to get out of her chair, awkwardly, because she could only put weight on one foot. Jonathan said, “You’re tired. I’ll get you a wheelchair.”
“No, I’m fine.” She hopped on one foot to grab her crutches.
Valentina stood up and
wrapped her arms around Jonathan, who smiled and hugged her close. Apparently, she hugged everyone; Michael wasn’t special. The knowledge gave him a twinge of disappointment. “Thank Goddess you’re okay,” she told him. “He’s going to be okay, too. I’m sure of it.”
He kissed her on the top of the head, which galled Michael. He would’ve liked to casually kiss the top of her head, or her cheek…or better places. “Thanks, corina. Thanks for everything.” He glanced over at Michael as he said this, and Michael realized he was staring at them. Embarrassed, he looked away.
Jonathan released Valentina and took a step toward Michael. “I know you don’t know who I am right now, but it’s incredible having you back. I can’t even tell you.”
Not for the first time, Michael had the sensation of being the victim of an elaborate prank. “Please stop saying things like that,” he said before he could stop himself.
A spark of temper flashed in Cassie’s eyes, and then she caught herself. Well. Someone was protective of her man. But things were weird enough without Jonathan making them weirder, and the way he’d swung from murderous intent to tearful joy still unnerved him.
Jonathan’s expression closed. “All right. Get some sleep.”
“Good night,” Nic said and turned to head out alone.
Jonathan followed Cassie out. She stumbled on her crutches in the doorway, and he grabbed her. “Oops,” she said, readjusting herself. Jonathan opened his mouth, no doubt about to say something like I told you that you needed a wheelchair, but then shut it again.
When Michael was alone with Valentina, he said, “So you get to babysit.” It was a joke, but once he said it, he suddenly felt like a burden. She had her own life, and making sure that he didn’t shatter like glass wasn’t part of it.
“It’s fine. I’ll be right over here.” She moved to the chair Cassie had vacated.
“You can’t sleep on that. Lie next to me.”
She darted a wary look at the hospital bed, which seemed to have been built for two people.
He held up his hands. “Just sleeping, I promise.” Erotic images played in his brain, and he did his best to keep his face neutral. But what was the point? She knew his feelings.
She tilted her head. “It might be best. So I’ll wake up right away if something’s wrong.”
Despite knowing his desire, she believed in his pledge. It humbled him, and his soul filled with gratitude. Had he earned that kind of trust in the supposed past life he couldn’t remember? He moved all the way over to one side of the bed and laid down on his side, facing her. She came over, sat down on the other side, and kicked off her slippers.
Facing away from him, she stretched out, and then sat up again to fuss with her long robe, which had apparently bunched around her legs. She laid down again, then shifted position, as if she still wasn’t comfortable. With a sigh, she sat up and took off the robe so she was only in the satin slip.
Her back was to him, but he could still appreciate the sight of her naked shoulders and the way her curls brushed them. God, how he’d love to see her lush, naked body, to cup and caress those welcoming curves, to sink deep into her. He didn’t move. She took in a long breath and let it out. After a minute or two, her breathing became deeper, more regular.
What was this life? Maybe he could get a good night’s rest, a big breakfast, shoes for God’s sake, somebody’s money, somebody’s gun, and get the hell out of here. But it wouldn’t be easy. He thought again of the guards at the perimeter, the armed men stalking down the glass hallway. Probably, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Why did they even want him, though? Loneliness overtook him, making the dark room darker. If he slept, everything was going to disintegrate. Maybe this was all a dream.
He was still on the desert, with less freedom or dignity than the insects who crawled over him. Motionless, voiceless. Cold, scattered… No. His heartbeat sped up with panic. He should wake her up and tell her he might be falling apart again. That was what she was here for.
But he didn’t want to. It was humiliating. She’d already saved him once. And she’d just gotten to sleep.
If he could touch her, that would help. But he’d promised to leave her alone, and whoever he was, he hoped he was a man of his word.
But maybe if he got permission… He cleared his throat and asked softly, “Hey, Valentina?”
She stirred. “Yes?”
He pushed back his embarrassment. “Can I put my hand here?” He touched her hip once, lightly.
She didn’t answer him. Shit. She wanted him to leave her alone. He opened his mouth to say something like Never mind, forget it.
“That’s fine,” she said. Her voice was soft, maybe even…nervous? She wasn’t mad at him.
Thank God. He set his hand on her hip. Just the sensation of the warm, soft, silk-covered flesh beneath his palm made him feel solid and whole. The dread and the sense of abandonment retreated. As lost as he felt, he had one small, real connection—to her.
He should let her get back to sleep, he knew. But instead he asked, “Will you tell me about something that happened to me?”
“Of course.” Her immediate, gentle response gratified him. “What?”
“Just…any stories about me.”
“Hmm.” She shifted slightly. “Did you know you and Nic have gone to Vegas together a few times?”
“So he and I are friends?”
She nodded. “Good friends. He’s been your mission runner for quite a while.”
“What’s a mission runner?” When was she going to get tired of all his questions?
“When you go off to fight a ghost or a demon, the mission runner arranges everything. They plan the trip, get all your equipment, and keep in touch with you to see if you need anything else. And if things don’t go right, they tell you to do something different.”
Huh. “So they’re like…your assistant and your boss?”
“That’s actually not far off,” she mused. “Their job is to help you do yours and to get you home.”
What had it been like for Nic, then, when Michael had been turned into dust?
“The first time you went to Vegas, you gambled,” she continued. “But Capitán outlawed it right after that.”
“Sounds like we were really good at it,” he said wryly.
She laughed. “Well, you don’t have a poker face. But it wasn’t you and Nic’s fault. People in Hong Kong and Manila were gambling a lot in Macau. Zurich was losing too much in Monte Carlo, and it was a huge scandal, because they’re supposed to take care of our money. That guarída is basically a bank.”
“‘Guarída makes you sound like terrorists,” he said.
“I guess if you’re a demon, we are,” she said pertly.
“You’re all over the world?”
“Almost. The guarídas are small. I guess most of them are…I don’t know, one hundred and fifty or two hundred people? They vary a lot. But this is the big headquarters.”
“But they let you out to have fun.” And the gambling ban withstanding, it sounded like they got generous expense accounts, which was about the last thing he would’ve expected. “Do you go to Vegas on your time off?”
“Oh, Goddess, no. I don’t like crowds. If it’s a short leave, I stay here.” She didn’t feel trapped here, then. It looked confining to him, but it was her home. “But sometimes I go to Santa Fe. I take a lot of time alone to meditate. And there’s a great spa there,” she added. “Body scrubs, massages…” There was a little purr in her voice, talking about it.
She should know better than to talk like that. But no—it was his issue, not hers. And he couldn’t even be sorry for the beautiful images of her unfolding in his imagination. He shifted to put a little more space between himself and her.
“You and Nic liked Vegas, though,” she said. “I think you both met girls, a couple of times. And…rumor has it that you do a pretty memorable karaoke version of a Mariah Carey song.”
He vaguely recalled who that was. “I
’m a good singer?”
“You’re terrible.” She giggled. “You always were. When you were a kid, you’d sing a lot, and we’d tell you to stop.”
Her amusement made him smile. “You all just didn’t appreciate my unique style. Do I have any not-embarrassing stories?”
“Yes.” She sobered up at once. “So many.”
“Tell me one.”
She was silent for a few moments.
“You can’t think of one,” he said, teasing, though her silence perturbed him.
“I don’t know if you’ll like it.”
“Why?” She didn’t answer, and he sighed. “Well, now you have to tell me.”
“You know how I told you that you were a UFC fighter?”
“Right. When did I quit?”
“You weren’t in it very long. It was just for training, but then you got ranked and you were getting too conspicuous. So they had you say you’d been born again and were giving up fighting.” Born again. He supposed, now, he had been. “And then you took your Knight vows and came here.”
“So what was the story?”
She shifted. “Well, you were getting a little famous for being so nice and friendly to your opponents. I mean, before and after you’d brutally beat each other up for no reason.” She shuddered. “But you were in this fight and winning. He wasn’t a match for you. You were always really fast.”
“You watched me fight?” He could hardly imagine it.
“I watched YouTube videos with Jonathan. You thought the guy had a concussion after you kicked him in the head, and he wouldn’t tap off—tap out,” she corrected herself. “You yelled at the referee to stop the fight. He ignored you. So you tapped out. You stepped back and got on one knee and tapped on the floor. You lost the fight to end it.”
“Wow.” He wanted to hold the story tight to his chest: one proof that he was a worthwhile person.
“That’s the biggest reason you were getting too famous. Most people thought it was inspiring. But some people were mad at you and said you were weak.”