THE EQUINOX STONE (Knights of Manus Sancti Book 2)

by Bryn Donovan

  Maybe he could still be with her. It was strange, after being friends with her for so long, but sometimes that happened, didn’t it?

  But what if he screwed it up? What if he ruined things? Their lives were so intertwined that if she ever stopped being friends with him, it would be unbearable.

  It was better to end it now. Nic had said so. Val felt things deeply, but she’d get over him. Even he wasn’t so vain as to believe otherwise.

  Probably a dozen Knights wanted to date her. She went into their psyches and empathized with their struggles. No doubt there were a few who simply hadn’t dared to make an overture toward a beautiful, kind Mage of such a high rank, a strong empath and a clear favorite of Capitán. She’d been hesitant when it came to romance, but maybe now that she’d had a first experience with him, it would give her the boldness to encourage someone else’s advances, or make her own…

  But he couldn’t think about that, or his psyche might fracture for good.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Val lay wide awake, eyes closed. When Michael had walked over, she’d remained still, breathing deeply. It wouldn’t have fooled another empath, but he’d believed she was asleep.

  For a moment, she’d thought he might relinquish his caution and lie down next to her. Instead, he’d retreated to the other bed. She tried to meditate until she fell asleep. But Michael’s feelings filled the room, as impossible to ignore as a television turned up to full volume.

  He was still falling in love with her. She of all people could recognize that emotion, new and luminous. Before, he’d loved her like a sister, a way she’d learned to appreciate, even as she’d never stopped yearning for more. This was more.

  And it didn’t matter. It was all tangled up with dark threads of confusion and regret.

  People acted in defiance of their feelings all the time. It was one of the things that had upset her deeply as a child weighed down with a prodigious empath skill. Individuals could and very often did ignore their own emotions, for months, for a lifetime. And now Michael was going to do just that.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t been intimate. But now she knew exactly what she was missing out on, or at least part of it—his kisses, his touch, the way he talked and teased in bed, the way he guided her to heights of pleasure. He’d only been hers once, and never would be again, and that was almost too much for her to bear.

  His feelings dimmed. He was falling asleep. Soon his breathing became deep and even, his emotional signature no more than a warm hum.

  She ached inside. Other people got to share their lives with people they loved who loved them back. It was such an ordinary thing, and yet it felt as though it would always be beyond her reach. She worked hard, she honored the Goddess, she tried to be kind…but there was no way to earn romantic love. It didn’t matter if you deserved it or not.

  A tear leaked out of her eye, and then another. She cried very quietly so she wouldn’t wake him up.

  *

  In the morning, she called her parents. She’d talked to them two days before, right after the attack, but since Granada was one of the guarídas the Tribunal knew about, she couldn’t stop worrying about them. Her parents assured her it was heavily guarded now, with more Knights in nearby safe houses, locations the Tribunal wouldn’t know about, to be called in if the need arose.

  After she got off the phone with them, she walked to the kitchen for a glass of water and found him sitting in the adjoining room, already dressed in a dark suit. She took in a quick breath. Was she running late for the memorial service? “What time is it?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t have to leave for another hour.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed. “But you’re already dressed up.”

  “They dropped off a suit for me.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else clean.” The suit wasn’t a perfect fit, straining at the shoulders, the sleeves slightly too long. He still looked breathtakingly handsome in it…and she wasn’t going to comment on that.

  “They’re going to have to give you more to wear.” They’d only given him a few changes of clothes.

  “Um, they said they’d drop off more in the other room.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I’ll be on the other side of Jonathan.”

  She’d told Capitán he was stable and could be moved. She believed it was true, and as soon as he’d retreated emotionally, she’d known it would be too difficult for either of them to share a suite. “I’ll go get ready myself.”

  She bathed, put on her makeup, and got dressed. By the time she emerged again, Jonathan, also wearing a suit, was talking with Michael in the sitting area of their suite. As she drew nearer, Michael was saying, “It just wouldn’t have been my choice. I don’t even like classical music.”

  As Val sat down in the empty chair, Jonathan said, “That’s why you’re supposed to leave directions. We had nothing to go on.”

  “I play the same song on every road trip we go on.”

  “Twice.”

  Michael spread his hands. “Exactly. So why didn’t you—”

  “Yeah, that song would’ve been so appropriate for a funeral.” Their banter warmed Val from within despite the ragged state of her heart. “We tried to give you some dignity.”

  Michael snorted. “Since when do I have dignity?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “We were trying to make up for the rest of your life.”

  She shook her head at the strangeness of it. She recalled so well the terrible day when she, Jonathan, Jonathan’s father via the phone, and a Steward had planned the funeral Mass. And now here he was, making fun of their efforts.

  The people they honored today wouldn’t be coming back. The same thought might’ve crossed their minds, because they sobered.

  “They put out a message about you,” Jonathan said. “Getting your memories back.”

  “Yeah I saw. I’ve got a phone again, thank God. If I had to explain that a hundred times, I’d lose my mind.”

  After a moment, Jonathan asked, “Are you going to call Dad today?”

  “I already did. At around three in the morning.” It would’ve been around nine a.m. for Commandante West.

  Jonathan shook his head. “He must’ve been…wow.”

  “Yeah, he was happy. He wanted to come out, but things are crazy there. They’re figuring out new security and defense protocols, and where to put all the other Knights.”

  “Good.” Jonathan frowned. “You know, when I called him before, he just—”

  “Didn’t want me if I was broken.” Michael’s light tone belied the harsh words. Jonathan took a breath to say something, and he held up a hand. “Forget it. When’s Cassie getting here?”

  “This afternoon. She’s coming with Samir.” Jonathan got to his feet. “We should head out.”

  “Should we get Nic?” Val asked.

  Jonathan shook his head. “He’s picking people up at the airport.” Many people were arriving from out of town, both those who came to pay their respects and Knights arriving to fortify the guarída and the estate. Nobody was trusting cabs or random drivers.

  When they headed down the stairs, a woman was coming in the front door, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She looked up and smiled. “Michael!” She had a slight but muscled build, delicate features, and dark hair piled in a messy bun on her head. Her black tank top and olive utility pants would’ve identified her as a Knight, even if she hadn’t had a gun at her belt. She strode over to say hello.

  Michael asked, “How are you, angel?”

  Val’s throat tightened, and she could feel her ears burning. He’d used that endearment with her, more than once. How many times had she stood in mute witness while Michael flirted with someone else? A hundred, it seemed, but it had never hurt like this.

  “I’ve been good. It’s been a while.” Her erotic interest was so strong that it couldn’t have been lost on anyone there.

  Michael gave an affable smile. His own attraction sparked in answer. “I think th
e last time I saw you, you were wrestling a salakep.” A disease demon, Val recalled, pockmarked and wiry.

  The woman pursed her lips in mock thought. “Hmm, not my best look. But I clean up pretty good. I seem to remember celebrating that win.” Her dark eyes flashed with amusement, as if the small talk was an absurd show. “We should catch up later.” She had the easygoing, confident manner common to many Knights. Val felt like an overfrilled lump.

  “Yeah, definitely,” Michael said. “Hey, I don’t think you’ve met Val. Valentina Vega, this is Angel Cheng, the guarída in Manila.”

  Angel. He’d called her Angel because that was her name. His reflexive attraction to her was already gone—a blip, like when he’d first met Aquario Cruz. It was replaced by a confusing mess of regret and pain.

  “Salaam,” Angel said to Val. “Your name sounds… Wait. Are you the one the Tribunal used to spy on us?”

  Val’s gut twisted. Of course, everyone knew already. Maybe this was how she’d be known for the rest of her life.

  Michael straightened. “They drugged Val and stole from her.”

  “Oh yeah, I know it wasn’t your fault,” Angel hastened to say.

  “But she got a ton of information from one of them.” Pride in Val and desire for her shot through his muddled emotional state. The glint in Angel’s eyes had dimmed, though she still wore a friendly smile, and Val sensed only mild disappointment.

  Maybe Val should be glad that his heart still belonged to her…but how long would that last when he refused to act on it? It might be better for everyone involved if he invited Angel Cheng to his bed that night, as she’d obviously wanted, and as he must’ve done at least once before. At least then, things would be clear.

  The other three chatted about changes in Manila and the fact that no other guarídas had been attacked since Anantara. It was as if the Tribunal had crawled back into a hole somewhere.

  Angel went to her room to change, saying she’d catch a ride with Nic soon. Val went to the downtown cathedral with Jonathan and Michael, where they had to search a long while before finding a parking space.

  Six Knights were posted on guard duty, one by each doorway and four at the perimeters of the property. It gave her some measure of comfort. In any case, a basilica filled with armed Knights set on revenge was an unlikely target.

  They filed inside, and Jonathan and Michael dipped their fingers in the holy water and genuflected, crossing themselves before they found a seat. The sorrow of the place wrapped around her along with the scent of the votive candles. She upbraided herself for her selfish thinking. She wasn’t a child, to feel sorry for herself for not having a boyfriend—well, one specific boyfriend. She had her parents and her friends. People here had lost those they dearly loved.

  My fault. She’d said before that she didn’t feel guilty, and she’d been telling the truth, but now, the feeling overwhelmed her. They couldn’t have drugged her if she’d been awake and paying attention. When she’d lost the crystal, she should’ve suspected something.

  Those thoughts would make her lose her mind if she let them.

  The Saint Augustine guarída had arranged for the rebuilding of this basilica in the early 1800s. Of course, nobody knew that, although Manus Sancti got to use it now pretty much whenever they wanted it. Val didn’t even know who the regular priests or the bishop thought they were. Wealthy donors, maybe.

  A golden figure of Christ stood at the front of the altar, flocked by saints and angels. More angels peered from the scarlet ceiling through the exposed timber beams. Val searched for a figure of the Virgin Mary and found a statue of her, wearing a large crown and nursing her child. She tried to remind herself, even on this terrible day, that the Goddess’s love was eternal, in life after life. The grief and anger in the sanctuary pressed into Val at all sides, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Two of the dead had been Catholic, one had been Muslim, and one had been agnostic. It wasn’t a Mass, but a Catholic priest—Father Trujillo, an elderly man from El Dédalo—invited the participants to pray or meditate for a short time.

  There were only three Catholic priests in Manus Sancti. Besides Father Trujillo, one served at Granada and one in Sao Paolo. There were as many imams, and Manus Sancti had a small and beautiful mosque for their exclusive use in Jakarta. Both Paris and D.C. had rabbis.

  The Catholics in Manus Sancti had split with the papacy centuries ago during the Inquisition, though they’d learned later that the worst inquisitors had been in no way sanctioned by the Church. Cassie, raised Catholic herself, had recently wondered aloud how anyone in Manus Sancti could consider themselves Catholic at all, untethered from the Vatican and with such sharp divergences of thought, but they did.

  A sniffle punctuated the silence, and then a muffled sob. The raw emotions of more than two hundred people around her intensified until they swallowed her own thoughts. Grief. Remorse.

  In the row across from her, a boy in a suit put his head down on the pew in front of him, weeping. His father patted his back, but his eyes were vacant, with no real comfort to give. It pierced Val’s heart. She hunched over, her own face bathed with tears.

  Michael touched her shoulder, and she looked up. Jonathan’s head was still bent in prayer. She wiped her nose with a handkerchief. Like everyone else, she didn’t dry her tears, because they honored the dead.

  The priest or leader said, “Capitán Renaud will speak.”

  Oh. A few murmurs rippled across the pews. Capitán attended every memorial service in every guarída, without exception, but he never spoke.

  Capitán stood up from the front pew. He wore a black suit with a black shirt, as he had at Michael’s and Lucia’s memorials, giving him somewhat of a priest-like look himself.

  He was like a priest in some ways, leader and servant. Single and celibate too, though his injuries during the schism had no doubt been a factor there. In the act of saving Jonathan and Michael’s father, he’d been hit below the waist by a scalding spell that had all but destroyed the generative organs. He’d been thirty-two years old.

  His tailor in London designed his suits especially to conceal treatments for the scarred flesh and the catheter bag and tubing. The bag was strapped to his calf. Val had learned about this from her parents, who’d grown up with Victor Renaud and remained close, but nobody talked about it. Even in Manus Sancti, where secrets were usually impossible to keep, few people knew besides her family, an old surgeon, an even older nurse in Granada, and the Wests.

  And almost certainly, Mercedes Navarro, she realized. The Knight who’d become more and more like Capitán’s body servant had been trained as a nurse prior to serving her twenty years as a Knight.

  Val couldn’t sense physical pain, but she knew from her mother that his condition was profoundly inconvenient and frequently painful. He bore the affliction, and whatever personal hopes and desires it had cost him, without complaint. He worked fourteen hours a day, taking meals as he worked. Besides that, he exercised daily, and he slept. That was his whole life. He took no days of leave. He had no family. On rare occasions, he’d sit down to dinner with Val’s parents and Mr. West. Other than that, he didn’t socialize.

  Who knew, though, what the nature of his relationship with Mercedes Navarro really was? It was no one’s business but theirs, but Val hoped it brought him some comfort.

  It was good that he was speaking. He’d never been a man of many words, and those he did utter were practical rather than philosophical, but still, he knew about staying strong in the face of suffering. In the aftermath of such a shocking attack, he’d reassure them all.

  He stepped up to the lectern and studied the crowd for several seconds, too long to be comfortable, looking from one face to another, briefly meeting Val’s eyes. “I don’t have words to console you. We are at war.”

  Next to her in the pew, Michael and Jonathan both sat up straighter. Perfect silence hung in the sanctuary.

  “Today we grieve the loss of those we respected and loved. Dawn
MacDermot, a cook. A beloved wife, mother, sister, and friend.” At this, the briefest of biographies, fresh tears jumped into Val’s eyes, although she hadn’t known the woman. “Shot in the chest and the abdomen. In front of one of her two sons.”

  The boy in the pew, she was sure. Why would he be so specific, right in front of the child? What was he doing?

  He spoke of Mellie Demir and the two dead men just as bluntly, though quietly. The facts themselves carried enough outrage and sorrow. “We still mourn Lucia Dimitriou, a Scholar. A beloved daughter, fiancée, and friend. They gouged out one of her eyes. She took her own life to protect us.”

  Val covered her face, and next to her, Michael winced. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, warm and strong, his concern and love for her a sweet thing in the midst of bitterness.

  “Let’s go outside,” he whispered. Jonathan gave a slight nod. No one would’ve judged an empath for not making it through this. But she gave a quick shake of her head. Her complicity in the latest attack, even though it had been unwitting, kept her in her seat. Mi derrota, mi deber. My defeat, my duty.

  “We don’t know why or how this enemy has risen again. But we know what they are. They murdered my mother and sixty-seven others in Paris. Long before that, the French Revolution. They sent scores of us to the guillotine.” Capitán had always spoken in short sentences, and it shouldn’t have been a positive trait in a public speech, but Val found herself riveted. “In our earliest days, they tortured us. Our most gifted women and men. They burned them at the stake. And why do they hate us?” He let the question dangle in the air for a moment. “Because they suppress knowledge. We seek it. They demean women. We respect them. They hate all religions but their own. We honor all paths to goodness. Because of these reasons, they see us as a threat to the world.”

  For the first time, Capitán raised his voice. “The world we give our labor and our lives to protect.” Val’s righteous anger rose at the words. “They surround us. They threaten our destruction. Which would mean the world’s ruin.”