THE EQUINOX STONE (Knights of Manus Sancti Book 2)

by Bryn Donovan

  “He’s telling the truth,” Val said, feeling Michael’s understandable doubt. Even without Reading the young man, she could tell. He didn’t like Michael and Val, as far as she could tell, but he was worried they’d get tortured, and that was something.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ezra.”

  “Do you have the key to unlock me, Ezra?” Michael asked.

  “No! I—”

  “Look in that case.” Michael jerked his head toward the nylon packet that held the instruments. “Find something that can snap through these chains.”

  The young man’s head whipped toward the door. “I can’t, I—”

  “Ezra, my friend can go into your psyche and explode it, and then you’re going to die and go to hell.”

  An idle threat, but it worked, jolting him into action. Ezra found what looked like a set of large steel pliers.

  Val tensed. He might have a change of heart and plunge the instrument into Michael. But as Michael had already shown, he had insanely fast reflexes—even with his wrists chained to the wall, he could deflect an attack from one man. Still, she was ready to dive into Ezra’s psyche again to freeze him. She couldn’t do what Michael had, said, but…

  Could she?

  That was what he’d been trying to tell her before too. She’d put pieces of a psyche back together. Michael thought she could do the opposite.

  Ezra balanced the blades of the instrument against one of the chain links and squeezed hard. The metal of the chain didn’t budge.

  No. She’d not only never been trained for such a thing, she’d never even heard of it. Well, outside of some old stories.

  And she’d already done other things no one had trained her to do.

  Ezra tried again. “I can’t—”

  “One more chance, and then you’re dead,” Michael said in a hard tone she’d never, ever heard from him before.

  Ezra took a deep breath and positioned the blades against the metal of the chain. He snapped the pliers together with a grunt. The chain gave.

  “Good. Get me free,” Michael said. Ezra tucked the tool under his arm and undid the link so Michael’s hand was free from the wall, though a cuff still surrounded his wrist, a few links of chain dangling from it. “Other side, now!”

  Ezra got it on only the second try that time, probably because he now knew he could do it. Val’s heart soared as Michael stood up and grabbed the tool from Ezra, who flinched, but Michael didn’t even notice. He’s free.

  “Her next. Move!” Ezra hastened over to Val, Michael following him. Why didn’t he cut the chain himself? Oh—because it took two hands. His poor wrist…he had to be in so much pain. Ezra cut the chain that held the metal collar around her neck to the pillar. Michael shoved him aside and kneeled, wrapping one arm around her. Val almost sobbed for relief. They still might die, but at least she got to touch him one more time.

  “Can you stand up?” His voice, so gentle, was a shocking contrast to how he’d been yelling at Ezra before. She nodded and got to her feet, hopping a little because her foot was asleep.

  “She is your wife,” Ezra said.

  Michael stalked to the backpack bag and rummaged through it with his right hand. “Which direction to the highway?” He pulled out the hex. “Ha!” he said, grabbing it. As he rose to his feet again, the door opened.

  Both gunmen walked in, saw Michael standing next to Ezra, and advanced on him.

  Michael ducked as the first shot went over his head. He pulled Ezra in front of him, who screamed as he took the second shot to his shoulder. The men hesitated, even as one took a few steps closer. Michael dragged Ezra with him straight at the man, pointing the hex at him, and activated the blue plasma blade. He sliced through the man’s neck.

  Val screamed as head and body hit the floor separately, bloodlessly. The other gunman fired at Michael again, and he ducked, along with the screaming Ezra, because Michael still had a tight grip on him.

  Now. She leaped into the psyche of the gunman—

  A big circus tent. Discordant calliope music. Shouts and applause but no audience. The trapeze artist above was a corpse attached to the trapeze. A woman whipping a tiger’s flanks, urging him to leap through a flaming ring that was far too small.

  The gunman was four feet away and, predictably, he was shouting at her. She couldn’t even hear him—as if the sound had been switched off—because she was imagining this world all in little pieces, like Michael’s psyche when it had fractured. Like a mosaic.

  Fissures crisscrossed throughout the soulscape, first a few, then a dozen. Then hundreds.

  He stopped shouting and looked around him wildly, realizing something was happening.

  If she could make it shatter, she’d need to get out fast. Otherwise, she’d die with him. Or would she even have time to get out? Maybe not. But if it took out her enemy, and kept that enemy from killing Michael, it was more than worth it.

  The hundreds of cracks turned to thousands, cobwebbing across his vile circus.

  Wait.

  Wait.

  Now.

  She lifted her arms, shouted, and flung her power in every direction at once.

  Everything exploded.

  Get out!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Michael wasn’t sure what had happened.

  When two gunmen had burst in, he’d figured that was the end. He could fight off one shooter with a makeshift, close-range weapon and a human shield, maybe. But not two.

  There had been a moment of hesitation and surprise on the part of both men as they’d registered that he had hold of Ezra, and then they’d rushed him. Ezra had taken a bullet, and Michael had used the plasma blade on the shooter, slicing through his neck. Then he’d turned and found the second shooter lying on the ground.

  “Shit! Shit!” Ezra was screaming, holding the top of his shoulder. Michael pulled his hand away to look at the wound. Bleeding, but not gushing. It hadn’t hit a major artery.

  He let go of Ezra and crouched down next to the other fallen shooter. Dizziness overtook him, and he fell on one knee. He wasn’t going to be of use much longer, still wracked by the kick to the groin, losing blood from the wound in his leg and from behind the patch where his tattoo had been, and with a broken wrist.

  The smell of burning reached his nostrils and he looked around wildly before spotting the charred gash in the far wall. Damage from the hex.

  Somehow, he needed to get Val to safety, before his strength gave out. Was this guy dead? How? He set the hex down and checked the man’s carotid artery. Nothing. He was gone.

  He grabbed the man’s gun—more useful when it came to self-defense, though the hex had proved surprisingly effective. He had no place to put it; he was still naked. With his left hand, Michael straightened, looking to Val.

  She was in the fetal position on the concrete floor, gasping for air.

  She’s been shot! Michael’s own heart stopped as he rushed over to her. Please, God… “Valentina!” His voice choked on her full name, the one she preferred. Dropping on his knees next to her, he put his good hand on her shoulder and searched for the wound.

  She opened her eyes. “I’m okay,” she said breathlessly. “I did what you said.”

  What had he said?

  The second gunman. She’d gone into his psyche and destroyed it. Just as he’d suspected she could, though he hadn’t known for sure. “Holy hell.” Her face was blank, stunned. They had to get out of there. He turned to Ezra, who still sat on the floor, holding his shoulder. “Where are the car keys?”

  Ezra moaned. “I don’t know.”

  Val started shivering. She had to be in shock.

  As he wrapped his arm around her, keeping his jacked-up wrist straight, he prayed the worst was over. “It’s okay, almeris,” he murmured. “Let’s go in the house.” Ezra had said there weren’t any other Tribunal.

  Anyway, he had a gun now. And apparently, Val was a weapon unto herself.

  The door creaked. Mo
re of them!

  Michael jumped to his feet in front of Val as the door opened, raising his gun— “Fuuuck,” he breathed, lowering the weapon.

  It was Nic. He also held a gun. Alarm from the close call pumped through Michael’s battered system. He’d been a twitch away from shooting his best friend through the heart.

  No, that wasn’t true; Nic was wearing a ballistic vest over a black T-shirt and jeans, enough to deflect ordinary bullets. Still, it had scared the hell out of him, and from the look on Nic’s face, the feeling was mutual. When had Nic started carrying a weapon?

  Jonathan stepped in behind him, also in a vest and armed; he wore a backpack, and Nic had his duffel bag slung across his back. They took in the scene: Michael and Val naked, dead bodies on the floor, one decapitated.

  “Shit,” Nic said.

  Jonathan directed his gun at Ezra. “Who’s this?”

  “Tribunal,” Michael told him. He swayed and saw black stars. He lowered himself back down onto one knee so he wouldn’t fall.

  “I’m bleeding to death,” Ezra wailed.

  “He’s not,” Michael said through gritted teeth.

  Nic’s jaw flexed. “Any others?”

  “I think we’re clear.”

  Jonathan kept his gun on Ezra as he dug into his backpack.

  Nic gave him a slight nod and holstered his weapon. He got out his phone and punched a button. “Hey, you almost here? Yeah, they’re alive, we’re all clear, but we’ve got one Tribunal prisoner.” Jonathan was cuffing Ezra’s hands behind him. “You can take him. Tell the rest of them they can go back to the house.” So they had even more backup, Michael realized. “I know. See you in a minute.” Nic strode over to Val and crouched in front of her, searching her face. “What do you need? How are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Just the tattoo removal.”

  “All right, corina.” The word meant, more or less, sister of my heart—a name that carried both affection and deep respect. He turned to Michael, looking at the wound on his thigh. “How bad is this? Any other injuries?”

  “My wrist—it’s broken. And my balls may be crushed.” His adrenaline was burning off, leaving him in a symphony of pain, one part of his body screaming, the other parts answering with agony of their own.

  “Christos,” Nic said. “Sit.” He unzipped his duffel bag.

  Gingerly, Michael found a seated position while trying not to cause more agony to his groin. Jonathan ordered Ezra to stay on the ground by the wall and, with a worried glance at Michael, stalked over to the doorway to watch for more men.

  Nic pulled out a medical kit, opened a pill bottle, and handed one pill to Val. “I want you to take this for the pain, okay? Hold on, I’ve got water.” He offered her the bottle.

  He was speaking to Val in the gentlest and most caring of voices, and Michael loved him for it. His poor angel…who’d turned out to be an angel of battle, like the one Michael himself had been named for. And one day, Michael would take her name in marriage, become Michael Damarius Vega, because her family had been in Manus Sancti much longer than his. He’d be proud to become a part of that line…

  His thoughts were wandering. God, he was exhausted. Nic handed him a pill and the water bottle too. Michael took it and hoped it would kick in fast.

  “I need something for a splint,” Nic said. He looked around, his brow creased. Then he unlaced and pulled off his work boot. He yanked out the insole and set it down on the duffel bag. Carefully, he wrapped a layer of gauze around Michael’s wrist and hand.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Ezra asked Jonathan.

  Jonathan turned to him. “After we get all the information we can out of you? I don’t know.” He could’ve clarified that he’d get this information psychically, rather than through torture, but he didn’t.

  Nic looked over at Ezra. “Were you a part of this group when your men attacked a Christmas party and slaughtered our friends?”

  Ezra said nothing.

  Nic placed the boot insole under Michael’s wrist as a makeshift brace and began to tape it. He wasn’t trying to set it; no doubt leaving that for a doctor, which was wise. He was just immobilizing it. “One of them was a father. A wife, two little boys,” he told Ezra as he worked. “Did you know that?”

  More silence.

  “Were you a part of this group when they killed an innocent old man and gouged out Lucia Dimitriou’s eye?”

  Michael took dull satisfaction in this line of questioning. Nic’s rage, controlled and righteous, rang through every syllable. He rarely saw this side of his friend, and he never wanted to be the target of it.

  “Were you in the Tribunal then?” Nic pushed.

  “I was born Tribunal,” Ezra said in a low voice.

  “Your conscience kicked in a little late.”

  “I wasn’t there for…the other things.”

  “So it’s not even conscience,” Nic said. “You’re just squeamish.”

  Michael sucked in a breath. The tape came close to the place that hurt the most. Nic’s gaze shot up at Michael’s face, and he cut the tape there. Then he secured the splint again at the top, to Michael’s hand.

  “That might stabilize it,” Nic said, not sounding impressed by his own handiwork. He poured a little cold disinfectant on the wound on Michael’s thigh, making him wince. “You could use a few stitches, but we don’t have time.” He pressed a large pad of gauze to the area. As he bound up the leg, he said, “What happened to your balls?”

  “I got kicked.”

  Nic cringed. “Shit.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” Michael managed to say as Nic dug into the duffel bag again. “They were going to cut one of them off.”

  His friend’s face darkened with fury. He pulled out a folded fabric bundle. “Here, get dressed.”

  He set a similar bundle next to Val, who stared at him. “How did you have time to get us clothes?”

  He shrugged. “I’d already packed them. You two hate those school clothes.”

  Given Michael’s aching groin, he was happy to see Nic had brought him sweat pants. Another wave of nausea overtook him as he got dressed.

  “Salaam, Jonathan.” Two more Knights appeared in the doorway, and the one who’d greeted Michael’s brother advanced and clapped Michael on the shoulder. He was a tall man with a brown complexion, and his grin showed bright white teeth. “We’re here to take out the trash.” He strode into the room and stopped in his tracks as he saw the decapitated head. He pointed at it and asked Michael, “How’d you do that?”

  “Was wondering that myself,” Nic muttered, closing up the first aid kit.

  “The hex,” Val said behind Michael before he could respond. She was dressed now, though barefoot, in a purple feather-printed caftan.

  “Huh.” Nic’s voice registered surprise.

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “I love that thing.”

  The Knight strode over to Ezra, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him to his feet. Nic carried the first aid kit over to the other Knight, a white woman with a sleek, dark bob. “Here, wrap him up and stop the bleeding before you take him to the house.” She nodded.

  Nic looked around, spotted the hex, and threw it into the bag before zipping it up. He slung it over his shoulder and picked up his gun. “All right, let’s head out.”

  Jonathan looped an arm under Michael’s to steady him. Every fiber in Michael’s body sagged in relief. He felt safe now, in the way he always had with his older brother, from when he’d been a small child. For the first time, he realized how terrified he’d actually been. “You’re all right,” Jonathan said.

  He helped Michael into the back seat, and Val, guided by Nic, got in on the other side. Nic took the driver’s seat, Jonathan riding shotgun.

  Val met Michael’s gaze as the car pulled away, her beautiful brown eyes liquid, filled with love and relief. He might’ve wept with gratitude if he’d had the strength. As he turned to look at her, his cheek came into the contact with the b
ack of the seat, bringing him fresh pain. Oh, yeah; he’d been kicked in the face. It was probably swelling. She still had a metal collar around her neck; he hadn’t even looked to see how it unlocked. He stopped himself from demanding that they get it off her. They’d do it as soon as they could.

  He reached across his body to take one of her hands in his good hand and wordlessly pressed her palm against his heart, one of the parts of his body that didn’t hurt. He’d never felt closer to another person in his life. He closed his eyes briefly, cherishing the touch and her presence, before releasing it again.

  “Hey,” he said to Nic and Jonathan, and his voice came out a rasp. “How the hell did you find us?”

  Jonathan said, “When you first came back, I told Capitán you might try to run away. Since you knew you had a tracker in your tattoo, they gave you another one.”

  “So I wouldn’t do what Sophie did,” Michael said. Understanding dawned on him. “That’s probably where these assholes got the idea to do it to us. Someone was probably talking about Sophie.”

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said. “Dr. Morales injected your arm with the second one.”

  Michael remembered. “She said it was an antibiotic.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t faster,” Nic said. “That tracker wasn’t on my phone. I didn’t even know about it until I told Capitán you two were missing.”

  Michael felt for him. “That must’ve been fun.”

  Nic shook his head. “I could’ve told Jonathan right away. Then I would’ve known sooner. But I was hoping to find you both before he knew you were lost.” Nic’s voice was steady, but Val leaned forward, her eyes glossing with unshed tears. She patted Nic’s shoulder.

  “Anyone would’ve done the same thing,” Jonathan said.

  At the red light, Nic rested his head back on the seat behind him, exhaling. “You guys scared the shit out of me.”

  “We should call Jacinto too,” Michael said. Black stars buzzed in his vision again, oblivion tempting him, but he still wanted to know what was going on.

  “He’s headed to the other safe house.” The light turned green, and Nic made a left turn. “He’ll meet us there.”