The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Megan Powell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612183602
ISBN-10: 1612183603
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Escape. The word never even occurred to me until tonight.
I hesitated just inside the tree line to catch my breath, looked back toward the estate’s main house, and listened for any sign that I had been discovered.
There was nothing.
Just the high wall circling the estate, with its large white stones and black bricks looming ahead of me, more ominous than ever under the night’s starless sky.
Grandmother would have been so proud.
I scanned the woods around me. In the shadows, I easily located the tiny red light of the security camera between the branches of an adult fir tree.
On a silent inhale, I stretched out my power until I was completely invisible. I took a hesitant step forward. The camera turned in my direction, paused, then returned to its base position. No alarms sounded in the distance.
I released a shaky breath and focused again on the shining wall in front of me. Freedom was only a few feet away. Whatever the outside world held, it had to be better than here. I needed it to be. I needed no more blood or broken bones. No more snarls and midnight attacks.
But could I ever fit into a world without those things?
A sound came from behind me. Leaves rustled, debris crunched. My breath caught in my throat. I glared at the wall.
In a single stride I sprang forward, bounding over the wall, landing silently on the balls of my feet. I was moving before my heels even touched the ground.
I felt weightless, my legs no longer running but dancing over the cold earth. I could practically feel the clinging chains of my father falling from my body, recoiling into the glistening wall of his created hell.
I ran until I hit pavement. The highway. My breath caught, and I skidded to a halt on the smooth surface. The smell of asphalt under my feet, the wind, the night, the sounds of small creatures and insects who lived in the brush all registered perfectly in my mind. But that was all.
There was no stench of the guards who whispered angrily at their stations. No violent cries from my uncle’s adversaries in the throes of his interrogation. No plots from my father or brothers to force my mind alert.
There was nothing.
A sob tore from my chest—a sound more laughter than lament. My fingers gently brushed along the smooth line of healed flesh that stretched the circumference of my neck.
I was free.
My knees crashed hard to the road. My head fell into the cradle of my invisible hands. I cried in joy, in release, in fear. I cried, and let the tears consume me.
By the time I opened my eyes to the speeding headlights it was too late. The vehicle plowed into me, the front tires crushing both my pelvis and my skull, dragging me with its undercarriage until it screeched to a stop.
In that last moment of consciousness I had to chastise myself. I was not supposed to live in this world without violence and pain. And I was an idiot to have ever let myself think otherwise.
There was no peace for the damned.
Lying down on the narrow bench wasn’t the most comfortable way to pass the morning, but at least I was hidden enough to avoid stares—and I had a whiskey to sip. I had to give the Network guys credit—this place really was a perfect front. Peanut shells scattered across the floor, Mellencamp crooning on the jukebox, tenderloin lunch special wafting in the air—no one walking into the Thirsty Turtle would ever think secret meeting place for plotting against supernatural terrorists.
They might think tetanus shot, but whatever.
Movement across the room grabbed my attention. An old drunk had been sitting at the bar since before Thirteen headed downstairs. Smelly and filthy, the man sat hunched on a barstool, slurring his words as he talked to himself. His voice was low and the place was crowded, so I honed in to hear his mumbles. “Downstairs? Down where? Goin’ on a hunt for Miller’s secret breading? Well, I can tell you it ain’t in the Turtle’s basement, that’s for sure. Miller has his secrets locked up somewhere else. Ain’t no one touching this man’s special spices.”
It was total gibberish, but still. Miller’s secrets? He had no idea.
I lifted my head and took a long drink. I should just leave. Run away and never look back. My family thought I was really dead—they wouldn’t be coming for me. I still had time…
My cell phone chirped, and I jumped. I still wasn’t used to the stupid thing. I pulled it out, glanced at the text message from Thirteen. No words, just a smiley face—one with a semicolon for the eyes so it looked like it was winking. I chuckled before I could stop myself.
Crap. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Two guys pushed through the bar’s front doors. OK, here we go. Just like I had with the other members of Thirteen’s special team, I did a quick mental peek at each of them. The first thing I noticed: Jon Heldamo’s mind was far too easy to access for a Network leader. Oh, he wasn’t a chief like Thirteen or anything, but he wanted to be. Someday. He was smart, skilled, and he already walked with that arrogant gait that Thirteen had mastered. On Thirteen it was endearing. On Jon it was just annoying.
Jon wasn’t the one who worried me, though. I shifted in my seat as an uneasiness settled low in my stomach. Theo Mahle. Yeah, something was definitely up with this second guy.
According to Jon, Theo didn’t give a shit about being a Network chief. He, too, was smart and well-trained—maybe even more than Jon—and Theo’s mental shields were solid. I could still get through them, but it would take a strong push. He walked two steps behind Jon, guarding his partner’s back just like Banks always did for Thirteen.
I struggled against the urge to sit up and get a good look when Jon’s scent suddenly hit me. Polo cologne. Shit. My fists clenched as Malcolm’s face flashed in my mind. His cover-model features and soulless eyes—just like Father’s. The sharp tang of the cologne filling my nose, his hot, eager breath on my face. The pain. I’d try not to hate Jon for it, but God, it would be hard. The thought of spending the upcoming weeks smelling
that crap again and again…
Jon’s cologne faded just as Theo’s smell hit me like a punch. My stomach tightened. My chest grew warm. Whoa. Musk, metal, male—I’d never smelled anything so—so intoxicating.
What the hell? I caught myself. I was never affected by anyone like this.
I gripped my whiskey and stayed low on my bench. The door to the kitchen swung shut. Jon’s and Theo’s footsteps echoed on the back stairs, heading down to the meeting room where my introduction would take place. I listened carefully as they entered the large basement conference room. The hum of the room’s security system paused as they opened the door. Thirteen had told me the room was impenetrable to psychic eavesdropping. I don’t know what contractor sold him that load of bull, because I could hear all ten team members just fine. And not just the murmured speculations about the meeting’s purpose, or the click-clacking of some guy named Chang on his laptop. Their thoughts were as crystal clear as the stressed businessmen’s in the booth next to me.
I clinked my ring on the side of my glass to get a refill. Miller stomped up to my booth and slammed the bottle of whiskey on the table. He loomed over me even as he kept his eyes off my face.
“Just keep the damn bottle, why don’t ya,” he growled. I just sighed and jiggled the ice in my glass. Miller huffed and grumbled, then pulled out a clean glass he just happened to have behind his back. It already held ice and sour mix. I smiled. He could deny it all he wanted, but Miller liked me.
He poured my drink then hurried back to the bar, the whiskey bottle gripped tight in his hand. His thoughts stumbled as he made his way across the room. Images raced through his mind: my thick, dark hair, my long legs bent on the booth bench. Thirteen had made me wear these ridiculous capri pants in an effort to appear more conservative. I thought I looked like an idiot, but Miller had no problem at all with the way my annoying pants hugged the curves of my legs.
Miller wouldn’t be in the meeting today. Aside from running the Turtle, I wasn’t sure what role he actually played. I’d have to ask Thirteen later on.
“If everyone will have a seat, we’ll get started.”
Thirteen’s quiet command brought the underground meeting to attention. I’d gotten so attuned to him over the last couple of months I didn’t even have to concentrate to hear him from below.
“We have a new source. As this task force was created to focus specifically on the activities of the Kelch brothers, you can be certain that the knowledge provided by this individual will be directly related to the family. You each know just how important accurate information is whenever dealing with a supernatural threat. It’s even more important when it comes to the Kelch family. With that in mind, this source’s information has been deemed valuable enough to assign temporary agent status as a consulting member of this task force.”
Their thoughts swirled with anticipation. My stomach knotted again.
“But first,” Thirteen continued, “Banks? A status update, please.”
Banks’s mechanical leg whined as he pushed himself to standing. Why the big man insisted on looking like a cyborg rather than getting himself proper prostheses was beyond me. There was a soft scrape of metal on metal as he rubbed his thumb ring over the silver eye patch that was sewn directly into his skin. His barking voice shook the conference room. “Two days ago, Harold Meador’s body was found and ID’d on Chicago’s Red Line. How the local sheriff ended up riding the EL in the Windy City is the least of our worries. Meador is the third Network member’s body to be discovered outside city limits. Someone is taking us out.”
He paused for dramatic effect, and I rolled my eyes. The sooner his update was over, the sooner I could get my part over with.
“Each of our men was abducted while on assignment, each body found just across state lines. Emme Thewlis was the first, found two weeks ago in a dumpster outside a Steak-n-Shake in Henderson, Kentucky. Zak Inge was found nine days ago sitting in a back booth at Zips Diner in Cincinnati. Thewlis was a customer service manager for the overseas pharmaceutical division of Kelch Incorporated. Inge was a junior aide to a House rep who shared conference room space with Senator Maxwell Kelch. All three bodies were autopsied and found to have died from internal injuries that are right in line with the Kelch way of torture.”
I took another long drink. Grinding metal squealed again as Thirteen and Banks broke from the meeting and headed upstairs. Almost time.
I put in my new iPod earplugs and closed my eyes tight. It wasn’t enough. The sound of their footfalls still pounded in my ears. Thirteen’s presence had physical weight as he slid into the booth bench across from me.
“It’s time, Magnolia.”
I didn’t sit up. “Yeah, I know.”
The knot in my stomach upgraded to a full-blown cramp. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to go downstairs and meet these people who were not going to like me and were not going to want to hear what I had to say. Most of all, I didn’t want to be a Kelch anymore.
“Never took you for a coward, Magnolia,” Banks growled as he put two fresh shots of whiskey on the table. “Didn’t think it was in yer blood.”
I took a deep breath. I would do this for Thirteen; I owed him that much. I waited until my song was over, then wrapped up my earphones, shoved my iPod in my pocket, and gave in.
As I sat up, my long hair fell forward to cover half my face. Thirteen didn’t react at all, but Banks’s leg squeaked again as he staggered in place. And Miller’s audible gasp from across the room made me want to groan. The man seriously needed to get a grip.
Thirteen leaned forward until I met his eyes. He was enormous. Even sitting, I had to look up to see his face. His gray hair was longer now than it had been the night I’d escaped, and he’d lost some weight recently—probably from stress—but neither change took away from the innate authority that radiated off him. The crinkles around his bright blue eyes softened. God, the look on his face—such an odd mixture of pride and worry. No one had ever looked at me the way he did.
With a slight nod to one another, we stood. I paused long enough to throw back one of Banks’s offered shots then followed the two men through the kitchen door. The back stairs were longer than I thought, and at the bottom a tall, light-haired woman stood in front of the auto-locked metal door that led to the meeting room. She was attractive enough—midtwenties with high cheekbones and a thin frame—but her eyes were too sharp to be pretty. She casually looked over my outfit, pretending to admire my clothes while really looking for weapons. Then she met my gaze. And gasped. Just like Miller, her mind drifted into a lust-filled stupor.
“Ugh! See?” I motioned to the woman. “I told you this would happen.”
Thirteen patted my arm. “Cordele,” he said coolly.
She blinked. Then blinked again. Finally, she shook herself, opened the door, and stepped aside, glaring at me the whole time. I didn’t move until she walked back toward the long meeting table in the center of the room. She didn’t know what I had just done to her, but she knew it was some kind of power. And she was pissed.
Great. I hadn’t even entered the room and already one of my “teammates” hated me.
Theo sat at the head of the table beside Jon. His scent had drawn me like a magnet the moment I walked in the room. He was gorgeous: a jaw rough with stubble, long hair that curled at his collar, eyes warm like melted chocolate. The hard contours of his face put my brothers’ pretty-boy looks to shame. And when he gasped at the sight of me, sucking in a deep breath along with everyone else in the room, his faded T-shirt stretched tight over his muscled chest, my own breath faltered. Power pulsed beneath my skin. This was wrong. I was too distracted. Vulnerable.
I dragged my gaze away from him and forced myself to focus on the nine other people in the room. Banks and Thirteen stood off to the side. Most everyone had blinked themselves back into focus and were now either confused or pissed. The GI Joe seated closest to me, a big guy named Charles Hilliby, was especially itching for a fight. As was his
wife, Marie, the Latina fashionista to his right. Their minds were sharp, suspicious, but neither of them was really a concern. Not like the psychic I sensed in the room. Automatically, I made sure my mental walls were set.
A loud smack came from my side, and I turned. Banks had whopped the small Asian techno-geek, Nicky Chang, on the back of his head. Chang coughed and sputtered, then covered his eyes with his hands—like if he didn’t see me, maybe I’d just go away. I rolled my eyes. Only the weakest minds got so out of whack at the sight of me that they had to be slapped back into focus.
“Er, we’re sorry about that.” A pretty brunette rose from her seat on the opposite side of the table. “We just weren’t expecting…well, someone like you. You know, with powers.”
We wore nearly identical outfits, only she looked comfortable in hers. Then she smiled. “I’m Heather,” she said brightly, “Heather Lamping. Welcome to the team.”
What. The hell. Was this?
Thirteen’s team was supposed to be an elite task force. An experienced group of Network agents willing to take down my father and uncles. Instead, he had trigger-happy newlyweds, a video gamer who couldn’t look at me without passing out, and a fucking preschool teacher complete with patient smile and peach sweater set. Hell, other than Theo and Jon—who were dangerously controlled at the moment—the only other capable fighters at the table seemed to be that chick Cordele who’d opened the door and a silent blond giant named Shane Bailey. He hadn’t missed a thing since I’d walked in. I turned to Thirteen, the angry confusion plain on my face.
Look closer, his thoughts whispered. He’d lowered his mental shields, anticipating my telepathy. I glared at him for a moment then turned back toward Heather. She smiled expectantly.
“Um, hi,” I finally managed. Her smile turned sympathetic as she sat back down. I probed deeper into her mind. She had strong, natural mental blocks like Theo, but they were easily pushed aside. God, her thoughts were as pleasant as her smile. Genuine, kind, sympathetic…wait a minute. Not sympathetic. Empathetic. She actually related to what it was like for me to stand here, knowing that everyone in the room was suspicious of me. She felt it as if it were her own discomfort. She was the psychic I’d felt earlier. But she was more than that. She was a true empath.
No Peace for the Damned Page 1