Perfect Betrayal

by Jade Kerrion

  "It's a flat surface. That's all I need. I'm too tired to notice. I'll be all right."

  Why was he reassuring her? "Are your shields on or off, or can you lower their settings?"

  "Like a thermostat?" He appeared amused. In that moment, he seemed almost human. "I can adjust them, but they're maxed out right now." The smile became self-deprecating. "I'm carrying around too much crap." He turned away from her and took a step toward the bathroom.

  "I can shield myself."

  "Why---" He caught himself and changed the question. "How strong are they?"

  "They're basic, but they should allow you to relax your shields enough to get some rest."

  Still he hesitated.

  "We won't know until we try," she insisted. "My shields are up. Release yours gradually."

  "All right, but stop me the moment you feel any pressure."

  Weight slammed against her chest. It escalated each breath into an effort. Her heart pounded unsteadily; her stomach roiled with nausea. Damn it, these were just emotions, weren't they? Why couldn't she handle them?

  The pressure vanished. Danyael smiled faintly. "Your shields aren't strong enough, but thank you for trying."

  "I can do this."

  "No, you can't. Trust your feelings on this one. You went into a panic."

  Panic? The thought was insulting. A hardened mercenary did not panic. Before she could snap at him, he retreated into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  She sank into a chair. Was that what each moment felt like to him, devastating emotional trauma expressed as crippling physical symptoms?

  Several minutes passed before she crept to the bathroom door and quietly eased it open. She did not analyze her actions. If she stopped to consider them, the sheer insanity of what she was attempting would have frozen her in her tracks.

  If she likened the pressure she had felt previously to a gentle summer breeze, what she felt then was the force of a hurricane. It clawed over her, tore through her, hurt her in places she did not think could hurt, and squeezed tears from her eyes.

  Zara closed the door, gasping hard. She fought the panic of drowning in a muddy swirl of emotions she could not tease apart, let alone identify. It took a long time to regain her composure. It took an even longer time to work up the nerve to open the bathroom door again. She had held it open for a second, maybe less, the first time. She would see if she could get to two seconds.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Danyael awoke feeling better, at least once he had gotten through the difficult process of reestablishing his psychic shields. He grimaced as he studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His dark eyes contrasted with his light blond hair and the shocking pallor of his skin. The pinched look around his eyes and the tension in his jaw betrayed the pain he was still struggling to process.

  He had to keep his own emotions buried and pray his psychic shields held. If he was careful, he was sure he could fake his way through the rest of the day. Danyael stepped into the shower. The stingy spray of water sloughed dirt and grime from his skin, and he felt considerably refreshed by the time he pulled on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of denim jeans. His throat was parched and his stomach growled at him in between waves of nausea. With luck, he could manage a bit more than toast.

  Danyael opened the bathroom door and flinched. Sunlight poured in through the windows. He glanced at the digital clock on the microwave oven. Three fifty-three. He was certain he had slept for a great deal more than an hour. How long had he been out? A day? Two?

  Was she still here?

  He walked past the kitchen into the main living area and found Zara seated on the folded futon, her long legs curled beneath her. She glanced up from the electronic tablet she had been perusing. "Welcome back to the world of the living."

  "What day is it?"

  Her smile was thin. "The twenty-sixth. You were out for twenty-four hours. You often lose track of time like this?"

  He shrugged. "I'm sorry. You should have woken me if you needed to use the bathroom."

  It was her turn to shrug. "I managed. I even made a food run, though the selection and quality of food in this neighborhood is highly suspect. I had to go to Manhattan for a decent change of clothes."

  He chuckled, a quietly amused sound. His gaze fell on a small luggage case he had not observed before. Obviously she had been busy. He was certain he had not given her a key to his apartment, but nothing was stopping her from entering his apartment at will.

  "Seth Copper came by earlier this morning. I told him you were resting and that you were getting sufficient food." She smiled faintly. "He didn't believe me."

  "He's an alpha telepath. It takes an alpha telepath to lie convincingly to another."

  "I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow." She slipped her tablet into a small bag and stood. "I have someone I need to see. I'll be back in a few hours."

  The sudden flare of her emotions caught him off guard. They belied the calmness of her words. The person she wanted to see was connected to him, he was certain. Curiosity compelled him. "Can I come with you?"

  "This is private. It has nothing to do with you." Her emotions told him differently. Guilt---her guilt---roiled beneath her anger.

  "I'd like to come," he said.

  "Why would you want to?"

  A lie would have been easy. He needed to get out of the stiflingly small studio apartment. Moderate exercise would expedite his recovery. Somehow, though, he knew she needed the truth. "Because this matters to both of us," he said quietly. He was stunned to see her eyes brim with tears.

  She turned her back on him before he could respond. "Fine, we'll go together."

  Zara said nothing more to him as they took a cab to a brownstone apartment complex in a west Manhattan neighborhood. An elderly Hispanic woman met them at the door. She admitted them without question and ushered them into a well-furnished sitting room. Her large brown eyes reflected quiet dignity, though he sensed an odd combination of gratitude and resentment. He was certain that the emotions were directed at Zara. The older woman's attitude to him was neutral, bordering on indifferent, the standard reaction he elicited from strangers when his psychic shields were in place.

  A young boy, not quite two years old, played with trucks and trains on the carpeted floor, oblivious to the complex symphony of emotions resonating through the home. Sadness was permeated by the weariness of slowly losing hope. Danyael sensed fresh grief too, a wound that wept blood. Shock and disbelief flittered through the home, stamped with denial. Danyael gritted his teeth as he braced against the onslaught of emotions and barely managed a smile when Zara introduced him to Lucinda Garcia.

  Following Zara's lead, he sat on one of the chairs in the living room. He suppressed the instinctive need to take the painful edge off the emotions flowing through the home. He knew, perhaps better than most, that some emotions needed to be worked through instead of unnaturally altered. Furthermore, a policy of noninterference worked best when he had no inkling of the context. Instead, he listened and watched with ears and eyes, mind and heart, tapping into the undercurrents of emotions that confirmed the truth or made lies of human interactions.

  "How is Maria?" Zara asked, accepting one of the mugs of hot apple cider the woman offered.

  Lucinda shook her head, the gesture slow and defeated. "She's in shock. I've tried to explain to her, but she refuses to believe. Maybe she's too weak; maybe she doesn't understand."

  "And Jose?" Zara's gaze drifted toward the child.

  "I think he's too young to understand that his daddy is not coming home. He's more attached to Maria, anyway. I do not know what will happen to him when she's gone."

  Zara's hatred flared into focus as Lucinda spoke, but she did not look at him. She did not acknowledge her emotions in any way as she continued speaking to Lucinda. "He has you."

  "Yes, but I'm old." Lucinda tried to smile, but it was bitter. "It is a sad thing to outlive one's children. It's not the way life was intended to be."

&
nbsp; "May I see Maria?"

  "Yes, of course. She's resting in the bedroom."

  "I know the way." Zara stood. She did not seem surprised when Danyael rose to follow her down the narrow corridor and into the room. The bedroom was small, and the woman in the bed, swamped with pillows and blankets, appeared shockingly frail. Maria was not much older than either of them, but prolonged sickness had obviously ravaged her body. She wasted away, each breath labored. Zara sat beside the bed and placed her hand over Maria's. "Maria, it's me, Zara Itani."

  "Zara?" Her whisper was choked with pain. "Carlos...mi Carlos..." A single tear trickled down her wizened cheek.

  Zara swallowed hard, struggling against her own tears. "I'm so sorry, Maria."

  "But Jose...he will be alone. Who will take care of our Jose?"

  "He will be provided for, Maria, I promise." Zara's hand tightened over Maria's. "You needn't fear for Jose. I will make sure he's cared for, that he has everything he needs and wants."

  Danyael stood back, silently observing. Heartache and mutual loss connected the two women. No other words were exchanged, though Zara stayed by the bedside until Maria slipped into fitful sleep. Zara pushed to her feet; the look she shot him was cold and disdainful. "I'll need five minutes to talk to Lucinda, and then we can leave."

  Danyael nodded. He stepped aside to let Zara out of the room. The quiet murmur of conversation started in the sitting room, but he tuned it out as he sat by Maria's bedside. He inhaled deeply. There were many reasons why not to heal her, but instinctive compassion set the compass of his heart. He placed a hand over Maria's and another hand on her stomach. His eyes closed as he reached out with his senses, his empathic powers seeking and probing. The answer was easy: a stage IV stomach cancer had rapidly metastasized to her liver and colon. It was consuming her from the inside.

  The solution was not as simple. Experience told him that the only way to heal her was gradually, over several sessions, partly to disguise the healing as gradual improvement, but primarily to spread out the burden of absorbing the cancer.

  Instinct told him that the only way she would live was if he did it all at once.

  Did he dare? His mouth twisted into a grimace as he wavered between self-preservation and self-sacrifice.

  He thought of the child, bright-eyed, curly haired Jose, with matching dimples in his cheeks, a child deeply loved by a dying mother.

  Because he could, more importantly, because he wanted to, his healing powers surged, flowing ungrudgingly out of him, subtle yet irresistible. They penetrated her body, a golden warmth and radiance that flowed through her blood vessels and filled every cell, undoing the damage and coaxing the cancer into remission. He felt her stir as the pain left her body and entered his. Maria called out, strength infusing her voice. "Mama---"

  He heard the sound of racing feet. His eyes flashed open, and he pushed to his feet, staggering against the wall for support as Lucinda burst into the room, ready for battle. "What are you doing to my baby?" she demanded, throwing herself between Danyael and her daughter.

  His vision blurred. The world faded into indistinct shades of gray. He pressed his face into his hands to support his painfully aching head.

  His action was a mistake. Lucinda interpreted it as guilt and struck him. "You stay away from her. Get out!"

  Zara pulled him from the apartment. "What did you do?" she asked, seizing his wrist. "You're burning up. When did your fever start?"

  He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. "I need a moment..."

  "You healed her? But Seth told you not to. He told me...he said you could die. You're not strong enough to handle it right now. Couldn't you wait a week?"

  "She had hours, not days," he murmured quietly in defense. He wrapped his hands around his stomach, gritting his teeth against the taste of bile in his throat. "I'll be all right. I just need some time."

  "What are you going to do? Wait out here in the corridor until you're strong enough to walk?" she demanded. "How long will it take? Damn you. Do you even think about all the trouble you're creating for others? I'm not going to waste my time on you if you're going out of your way to set back your progress."

  He looked at her, dark eyes glazing as his head spun from the motion. "I told you to leave. I don't need your help."

  "How are you going to get home?" she asked scornfully. "You can't even afford the subway fare."

  He had not thought about the fact that he had not yet replaced the contents of his lost wallet. "Guess I'll walk."

  "It'll take hours."

  "I've nowhere else to be." Damn, did he really sound that bitter?

  "You can't make it."

  He wanted to ask her why and how he had managed to escalate her anger and hatred by healing Maria, but he did not have energy to spare. He had not fully anticipated the physical cost of a significant heal on top of the emotional chaos he was working through. He needed rest. He desperately needed rest. Danyael closed his eyes against the vertigo that threatened to knock him off his feet. "I'll be all right," he said softly, voice trembling.

  He felt her leave and take with her the punishing assault of her emotions. He inhaled shakily and shivered beneath the warmth of his leather jacket. Nausea roiled through him. He was grateful he had eaten nothing; there was nothing to throw up.

  Danyael pushed away from the wall and managed two steps before sinking to his knees. He dragged air into his laboring lungs. Struggling to his feet, he leaned heavily against the wall for support. His vision blurred as his heart struggled to pump enough blood to reach his brain. He knew he was minutes, maybe even moments from blackout, and he had nowhere to go.

  * * *

  Where was he? He could not have gone far, not in his condition.

  Bewildered and annoyed, Zara retraced her steps. Out of options, she decided to knock on Lucinda's door again. When Lucinda came to the door, Zara was startled by the radiant joy on her face. "Miss Itani, you came back. Where is he?"

  "He, uh..." She had hoped he would return to the apartment, seeking a safe place to rest and recover, but apparently that move was too obvious and logical for him.

  "You must see this." Lucinda led her to the bedroom where Jose snuggled against his mother. Maria seemed shriveled in her white nightgown, but she was awake and alert. She sat upright in bed, a large portion of beans and rice on the tray in front of her. Her pallor was replaced by a healthy flush, and her brown eyes beamed as she looked up at Zara. "Where is he?"

  "Danyael?"

  "The angel sent by the Virgin. He touched me and took the pain away." Awe shone in her eyes, and she nuzzled her son's curly head of hair. Jose leaned into her and picked out the beans from her rice to shove into his own mouth.

  The innocence of a child. He did not know that he had nearly lost both parents.

  "Get some rest, Maria. I'm glad you're feeling better," Zara said, though the words "feeling better" were completely inadequate to the task of describing Maria's miraculous healing.

  "Where is he?" Lucinda asked again as she accompanied Zara to the front door. She wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip. "I told him to get out. I thought he was hurting her. I didn't know." Distress filled her eyes. "I didn't mean to. I didn't know."

  "It's okay," Zara reassured her. "So, he didn't come back here?"

  "You don't know where he is?"

  How could she explain that she had left him pale and trembling, alone in the corridor, too sick to stand? "I'll find him." Damn.

  She headed down the corridor toward the front door of the apartment complex, but paused as she heard a muffled cough, quickly stifled. Retracing her steps, she stopped in front of a custodial closet. She opened the door and saw a violent coughing fit wrack Danyael's body, the sound muffled by the leather jacket he held against his mouth.

  He looked at her with weary disbelief as he wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you still doing here?"

  "Came back to check on the progress you've made. Congrat
ulations. You're about ten feet closer to home." She squatted and reached out to him, but he pulled away from her. "Don't be stubborn. Lucien will kill us if I leave you here. I've got a cab waiting out front."

  She suspected he would have willingly spent the night in the closet to avoid being around her, but he was too exhausted, too sick to argue. She dragged him to his feet. It was not easy, though he did his best to support his own weight. Fortunately the cab still waited by the front door of the apartment complex. The two entered the vehicle, and she directed the cab driver to Danyael's address in Brooklyn.

  She glanced at Danyael as the cab lurched to a start. He leaned against the headrest and turned away from her. His eyes were closed, but she saw the subtle twitching of facial muscles. He was still struggling to get out from under the pain. She ground her teeth. There was no point in asking if he was fine. He never changed his answer, irrespective of his actual physical state.

  "Don't, please," he whispered.

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't think about me."

  "And you're a telepath now?"

  "It pisses you off, and I can feel it."

  Was she supposed to be responsible for her feelings too? Her anger coiled, lashed out, and she saw him flinch in response to her emotions. Unfortunately her perverse sense of satisfaction was significantly ruined by the concurrent flicker of guilt.

  Danyael struggled up the five flights of stairs to his apartment. She did not offer help, and he did not ask for it. Breathing hard, he unlocked the door. The door was barely ajar, when his head snapped up, his eyes unexpectedly alert. She glanced at him and picked up on the subtle fissure of alarm. "Four," he murmured quietly. "Hostile."

  "Mutants?"

  Impossibly, his eyes appeared to darken further. She caught a glimpse of the power lancing through him. "Unlikely. They're not shielded."

  Easy enough. She pulled the dagger from the leather sheath tucked into her right boot.

  He glanced at her, dismay in his eyes. What had he expected? She was a mercenary. Fighting and killing were prerequisites for success in her chosen profession. "Stay here." She mouthed the words at him.