by Jade Kerrion
“Take a left here!” Roland Rakehell ordered.
Michael Cochran twisted the steering wheel and swung the car out of the lane as he negotiated a sudden turn.
Roland gripped the leather seat as the car swerved. What were two elderly scientists doing in the midst of this madness? That they were responsible for this madness was of course the obvious answer. Jason had destroyed the lab and allowed the creatures to break out of their holding cells, but Michael and Roland had created the creatures in an all-consuming pursuit of genetic perfection. To compound their mistake, they had chosen not to euthanize the creatures even when they realized that those creatures were monstrous reflections of humanity twisted beyond comprehension.
“That is the Purest Humanity headquarters, right there in that building.” Roland leaned forward in his seat to peer up at the triangular building constructed of glass and steel. It was reminiscent of a pyramid—a symbol of eternal life. He considered it especially ironic. Humanity had aspired toward godhood. He had given the world Galahad, the closest thing humans had for a god, the embodiment of humanity’s absolute perfection. Inconceivably, the world had balked at it.
A crowd had gathered outside the building, and judging by how they were riding the razor-thin edge of open hostility, they were probably derivatives—in vitros and clones. “There’s a parking garage around the back. It’s probably a bit quieter there too,” Roland said.
Michael Cochran nodded.
It was insane what they were doing, or planning to do. The Purest Humanity headquarters was unquestionably the only place where Jason would have taken Galahad. What they were going to do to get into the building and find Galahad had not exactly been defined yet. What they were going to do to get out once they actually found Galahad was even less clear.
Roland knew Michael did not think much of their chances, but personally, he was determined to try. What could possibly go wrong? It was as simple as driving into an anarchic city where there was open fighting on the streets and the authorities seemed determined to stay out of sight, break into a well-protected building filled with pro-humanists who considered them the greatest criminal masterminds and corruptors of the sanctity of human life, find Galahad, and then walk out, perfectly unharmed, not a hair out of place.
Not hard at all.
Michael took another right turn and slammed his foot down on the brakes.
Roland jerked forward in his seat. His seatbelt saved him from going through the glass. He threw an annoyed glance at his partner. “The garage is in the next building. The white brick one.”
“Look…” Michael breathed, pointing a trembling finger at a figure standing against the building adjacent to Purest Humanity.
Roland looked over and inhaled sharply. He saw a young man, tall and leanly muscular. The man was dressed in a white shirt, blue jeans, and a black leather jacket that had seen better days, yet no amount of dressing down could conceal that heartbreaking, rare beauty
Galahad.
Danyael lingered within the shadows cast by the adjacent building. He could easily deflect attention if it came down to that, but there was no point in overextending his powers until there was a real need for it. He assessed the mood of the crowd. As a descriptor, furious would have been a mild understatement. The derivatives were livid at the way they were routinely treated, the years of pent-up anger over their legal discrimination finally boiling over. It would not have taken much to push them over the edge into rabid.
That was not his intent. He needed to control the crowd, needed to keep it from breaking into the building. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to calm and focus his thoughts and emotions. He reinforced his internal shields, the ones that kept his worst memories and their associated emotions locked away, and then deliberately dropped his external shields.
He called vast power to him without moving a muscle.
For a moment it seemed as if the world held its breath, just waiting. His emphatic power finally whispered out, softly seductive, wickedly insidious. It wove its way through the mob, leeching into each person there, manipulating emotions the way a skilled musician coaxes the violin to sing.
The crowd surged as his power urged them into a crescendo, and then fell back as he issued a softer note, sent out a gentle surge of cool rationality to take the edge off the heat of their emotions. He kept them teetering between calmness and fury, kept them shouting angrily and pounding on the doors of Purest Humanity without breaking the doors down.
Miriya’s voice echoed with its rich, vibrant timbre through his mind. Danyael, we’re in. We’re moving on ahead. I’ll instruct the guard to leave the door open for you.
He eased into a rare, unchecked smile. The old Jedi mind trick?
Miriya’s response was flippant. Works every time.
I’ll be right there.
It was time to send them home. His concentration and focus were so intertwined in guiding and shaping the emotional flow of the crowd that he was oblivious to the aches of his weary body. He knew he would feel them acutely once he was able to relax again, but relaxing did not seem an option in his immediate future. Danyael inhaled deeply and then released his breath. He felt his heartbeat slow in response, his mind calm in preparation for the release.
A surge of panic swept through the crowd; fear skidded on the edge of terror. Startled, he glanced up. The five grotesque shapes of the abominations from the laboratory prowled down the street, looking neither to the left nor right, headed straight for Purest Humanity. Danyael pressed back against the wall as they passed within twenty feet of him. His heartbeat accelerated. His fear—a natural one of the creatures that were faster and stronger than humans—surged and spilled unchecked past his lowered psychic barriers.
His emotions washed into the crowd to whom he was emotionally linked. Their fear, amplified by an alpha empath, transformed into terror, the kind that spurred stampedes and left people crushed, dead on the ground, as their companions trampled over them in unthinking panic.
His external psychic shields snapped down around his mind, but it was too late. Within seconds, the steps leading up to Purest Humanity were cleared of anyone who could still move. Only the dead and critically injured were left behind.
Oh, God. No… Guilt clawed icy talons through him.
Still concealed within the shadows, he watched in silence as the creatures lumbered up the steps and walked through the reinforced glass that had kept out a furious mob. Terrified screams rose from within the building as people ran for safety or gathered, with the misplaced courage that only the truly misguided could summon, to fight off the abominations.
Danyael was about to shout out a mental warning to Miriya, when her telepathic powers connected with his mind, creating a conduit for his empathic healing powers to pass through her and into Galahad, Zara, and Lucien. His friends were bracing for a fight. Not the abominations; they couldn’t have seen them yet. The pro-humanists, most likely.
He cursed softly under his breath. Not exactly what they had bargained for. They had not counted on fighting pro-humanists and abominations at the same time. He had to get to his friends quickly.
Pain exploded against the back of his skull and drove him to his knees.
His head ringing from the blow, Danyael twisted around to see Jason Rakehell standing over him with a brick in his hand.
A thin sneer curved Jason’s lips. “Well, well, hello my little piece-of-shit brother.” His grip tightened on the brick as he hefted it in his hand, preparing to bring it down again on Danyael’s unprotected head. “You should have died years ago. I’ll make sure of it now.”
11
I’ll take point. Ladies first and all that,” Zara insisted when she saw that Lucien was about to protest. “If you went first and got shot, your dad would be pissed at me, and it’s a bad idea to piss off someone who can afford to buy all of Hong Kong, most of London, and at least half of New York.”
“Maybe just a third of New York,” Lucien corrected with a tigh
t grin, but waved her ahead. “I’ll admit you probably have faster reflexes anyway.” He and Galahad followed her, and Miriya brought up the rear with a final glance over her shoulder. Lucien asked, “Everything all right, Miriya?”
“So far,” she said, though she sounded uneasy. “I think I’m just the paranoid type. It’s been going well so far; it’s probably about time for something to go wrong.”
Zara flinched as something—like the flick of intangible fingers—brushed against the back of her neck.
Just me. Miriya said. Connecting you with Danyael. You’ll be fine as long as he’s able to sustain you.
As long as? Zara scowled. Was she the only person concerned about the fact that their survival lay in the hands of a man had cowered from the abominations, too afraid to fight—a man who had closed his eyes and looked away to conceal his tears when his world shattered from the knowledge that his own mother had tried to kill him?
Scorn left a sour taste in her mouth, at odds with the ache in her chest. Too confusing. She tried to shove aside the memory of Danyael’s dark eyes—physically like Galahad’s, yet where it really counted, nothing like Galahad’s. Power, and equally, pain, shimmered in Danyael’s eyes; and usually when she least expected it, she caught glimpses of peace—a flawless equilibrium that gracefully navigated each emotional storm.
Zara gritted her teeth. Focus. With effort, she tore her thoughts away from the alpha empath, as she stepped onto the expansive landing of the second floor. Framed paintings lined the brilliantly white walls, and a curved desk constructed from burnished copper plates in an artsy form of questionable stability was occupied by a single receptionist.
Zara smiled at the woman. “They told me to come and cover for you if you want to catch a glimpse of the action downstairs.”
The receptionist’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed as she pushed back from her desk. “Thank you so much!” She dashed toward the stairs, squeezing past the others who were on their way up. She even threw a flirty grin at Galahad as she skipped past him.
“Do they have any idea how pissed off that mob is?” Lucien wondered, his voice pitched low.
“Obviously not. Prudence is in very short supply here. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”
“People are getting hurt,” Galahad pointed out.
“Just not them, and not yet. Which way, Miriya?”
Miriya nodded toward the north, down a corridor that led to a reinforced steel door. The good news was that the door was open. The bad news was that they had arrived during a change in shift, and instead of four guards, there were eight. The guards took a single look at Zara’s predatory expression and reached for their guns. Without breaking her stride, she dropped into a crouch and swung her leg in a wide circle, sweeping two of the closest guards off their feet.
“We’ve got it covered here,” Lucien ordered her as he and Galahad moved to attack. “You keep moving. Find her.”
Zara nodded, pausing long enough to slam one of the guard’s heads back into the ground, knocking him out. She yanked the guard’s security pass off his shirt pocket, before scrambling to her feet and sprinting down the hallway. Her signal’s coming from the end of the corridor, Miriya’s voice murmured straight into her mind.
“Okay.”
Just think it, no need to say it out loud too. You’re echoing.
Zara did not bother to reply. She paused by the last door, listening, but heard nothing. Only one way to find out. She swiped the security card over the security panel and the bolt slid back. Pressing two slender fingers against the door, she eased it open. Voices, a male voice, slow, ponderous, a female voice, vibrant, irritated.
Zara allowed herself a faint smile. Found her.
“Will you just look at my driver’s license?” Xin demanded of the pro-humanist interrogator who stood in front of her with her driver’s license in one hand and a pugnacious look on his face. In spite of her best efforts, incredulity infused her voice. How could anyone be that dumb? The human race was headed for the rocks. “Does it say Zara Itani on that anywhere? That’s because I’m not Zara Itani.”
“IDs can be faked,” he intoned.
“Right. And I’d go to all that trouble to fake everything else, right? Including credit cards and my government ID that clearly identifies my security clearance.”
“Maybe you’re just a meticulous, detail-oriented person.”
“Or maybe I’m just not Zara Itani. You have no clue who you’re looking for.”
“We do,” the interrogator protested, sounding hurt. “Rakehell said to look for a woman with dark hair.”
Xin rolled her eyes. She might have smacked her forehead if her hands were not cuffed behind her back. “All you got from Jason Rakehell is a description that would fit hundreds of millions of people in the United States. Didn’t you think to ask for more information, or better yet, a picture?”
“We know what we’re doing, Zara.” He backhanded her across her face. “Now, where is Galahad? Where did you hide him?”
Xin jerked her head back to glare at him. “Did you look between your ears?” she responded sweetly. “There’s so much empty space in between, she could be hiding there, and you wouldn’t know it.”
The interrogator hesitated for a moment, his wide blue eyes drawing together in momentary confusion. Xin’s jaw dropped. Was it even possible for anyone to be that stupid? Maybe it was long past time for the derivatives to rule the world, especially considering the evolutionary path—or rather the de-evolutionary path—of the naturally born humans.
Or maybe it was just a pro-humanist thing. Fanaticism tended to soften the brain cells, since none were required to process even an iota of original thought.
Xin tasted blood when he struck her across the face again. That one was going to need some pretty serious make-up to cover up. Unexpectedly, the open cut in her mouth closed, the flesh twitching as the edges pulled together and sealed seamlessly. The only evidence that remained was the faint taste of blood. Puzzled, she ran her tongue over the smooth inside of her cheek. Danyael? It had to be. Was he doing now to her what he had done with the others earlier that morning, healing through Miriya’s telepathic link?
There weren’t any other explanations that would have made sense. That meant that he and the others were close. Relieved, Xin lowered her eyes to hide her jubilation.
Her interrogator however took her action to mean that his methods of interrogation had succeeded in breaking her spirit. He grinned triumphantly. “So where is Galahad?” he asked.
Xin looked up, her brown eyes innocently wide. “Right behind you,” she suggested.
He turned and a booted heel slammed into his midsection, knocking him back. A flash of long hair swept through the air as another kick, this one straight into his chest, cracked ribs under the impact. He slammed back into the wall and then slid to the ground with a heavy whoosh of air.
Blearily he looked up at the young woman who stood over him. Dark hair framed a face that was more exotically mixed than purely Asian. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to hit women who weigh about eighty percent less than you do?” Zara asked, her voice a feline purr more frequently attached to porn stars than to martial arts experts.
“He insisted I was you,” Xin said as she jiggled her handcuffs hopefully. “I told him I was prettier and smarter than you were, but he didn’t believe me.”
“I hope she also told you that I’m the more dangerous one.” Zara did not bother to wait for an answer. She took his head between her hands, and with a sharp jerk, snapped his neck. She searched his pocket for the keys and had just freed Xin when Lucien rushed into the cell, Galahad not far behind him.
“Thank God you’re all right.” Lucien seized Xin in a tight hug that made her wince.
“I’m fine, really.” She patted his back when he did not let go after several long seconds. “Lucien? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He released her, his practiced aura of calm
momentarily displaced. “I thought we’d lost you when the pro-humanists got through the police barricade.”
“They wanted answers out of me more than they wanted me dead.” Xin shrugged, rubbing her sore wrists absentmindedly.
“Are we done with the reunion?” Miriya looked into the cell, her tone sharp, even irritable. Blond hair swaying, she shook her head, trying to process the inexplicable flash of chaotic images she had received from Danyael. The derivatives screaming, fleeing, a stampede, people dying. They were all the more terrifying because those images were seared with Danyael’s sudden fear and near panic. He had lost control of the mob. “We need to go. Now.”
“We’re doing fine, Miriya,” Zara said. “There wasn’t even any opposition worth mentioning.”
Screams of terror and pain clamored through the building.
“I hate it when we jinx ourselves,” Lucien muttered. “The derivatives must have broken through.”
“No, not the derivatives,” Miriya murmured. She shuddered as more images transmitted to her through Danyael’s eyes. Grotesque, humanoid forms lumbering up the steps, shattering the reinforced glass doors of Purest Humanity with no effort at all. The inhuman snarls and moans that played bass to the terrifying soprano of human screams confirmed those images. “The abominations. They’re here.”
Danyael did not have years of martial arts training to fall back on, but his sense of survival was surpassed only by his tolerance for pain. As the brick descended, he dropped down on his back, reached up with two hands to grip Jason’s hand, and then yanked forward hard, slamming Jason’s head into the wall behind them.
As Jason crumpled in pain, Danyael rolled to the side and back onto his feet. He barely had time to regain his balance when Jason lunged at him, tackling him with arms wrapped around his midsection and wrestling him to the ground. Jason had the advantage of superior weight, and his strength was fueled by furious hatred for Danyael and for Galahad. It hardly even mattered who he was fighting, when he hated them both, and they looked so alike.