by Tina Folsom
Winter swallowed two of the pills and closed her eyes. She was determined not to end up like her grandmother. That’s why she’d gone to a psychiatrist shortly after she’d had her first daytime nightmare, hoping he could arrest the progression of the disease she’d inherited. He’d diagnosed her with PTSD caused by the trauma of losing her grandmother, the last member of her family, even though that event had occurred two decades earlier. He’d prescribed anti-psychotic medication and suggested drawing the images that assaulted her as a way to deal with what she saw, as a way to make them less scary. He’d promised it would help her deal with the episodes, as he called them.
But she knew he was wrong. Deep down she knew it, knew that she was going crazy, that she was succumbing to the same mental illness that had taken her grandmother.
And no amount of art therapy, counseling sessions, or pills could cure her.
3
Logan could hear the giggling of the children as he approached the great room. Life in the Stealth Guardian compound in Baltimore had changed dramatically two and a half years earlier, when Leila, Aiden’s mate, had given birth to twins.
At first, everybody had thought that Aiden would retire from his duties as warrior, and the couple would move out of the compound and into their own secure residence. But Aiden and Leila had surprised everybody by staying. They wanted their children to grow up among the warriors of their race, teaching them from an early age what it meant to be a protector of mankind.
Besides, there was strength in numbers. The compound was still one of the safest places for any Stealth Guardian. Particularly Stealth Guardian children, who were more vulnerable than their immortal parents and needed to be protected to assure the continuation of their race. Danger was everywhere—because the demons were everywhere. Over the past two years, the demons had killed a number of Stealth Guardians, though fortunately they hadn’t been able to find and destroy another compound, as they’d done in Scotland several years earlier. That compound, which had belonged to their ruling body, the Council of Nine, had been relocated to another secure location.
Logan hesitated at the door to the kitchen and great room. He had nothing against children, but the twins were a handful. He missed the peace and quiet the compound had afforded him and his brethren before their arrival. But he would never voice that thought to Aiden, knowing that to his old friend the birth of his twins meant more than just becoming a father—it meant that he was finally getting over the death of his own twin, Julia.
Logan opened the door and stepped into the room. The smell of food wafted toward him, while laughter alerted him to the twins’ whereabouts. To his surprise they weren’t running around the vast room with their parents chasing after them. Leila and Aiden were sitting at the kitchen island, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. The reason for the rather civilized scene in the great room was a visitor: the children’s grandfather, Barclay, known to everybody else as Primus, the head of the Council of Nine.
“Morning,” Logan said.
“Hey, Logan,” Aiden replied, while Leila said, “There’s an omelet in the oven if you want it.”
“Thanks, Leila.”
Then he looked over to Barclay, who was now getting up from the couch where the twins had been using him as a jungle gym. “Primus, guess you can’t stay away, huh? Didn’t those two monsters visit you just three days ago?”
Barclay grabbed both kids, tucked one under each of his arms, and walked toward Logan. “As much as I love these two, I didn’t come to see them. Though I must admit, I relish every opportunity that presents itself to spend time with them.”
“They adore you,” Aiden threw in. “Leila and I wouldn’t mind if you took them with you for a couple of days.” He winked at his wife, who smiled in agreement.
Barclay chuckled. “Nice try, but I’m not a young man anymore. I don’t have the kind of energy it takes to run after Xander and Julia all day long. Neither does your mother. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”
Aiden exchanged a look with Leila and shrugged. “I tried.”
Barclay dropped the two kids back on their feet. Xander immediately ran toward Logan. Logan lifted him up into his arms and ruffled his black mane. He’d never seen a kid with such thick hair, except for the boy’s sister, whose hair was just as thick and only a fraction longer. “Hey, buddy.” Then he looked back at Barclay. “So what brings you to us?”
“I have an assignment for you and Manus. A very delicate one.”
Logan lifted an eyebrow. In most cases, assignments were delivered electronically to the command center, then handed to the warrior who was either best suited for the specific task, or, as in many cases, didn’t already have too many other missions on his plate.
“Shall we go to the command center?” Barclay suggested.
Logan nodded and handed Xander over to his mother.
While they walked along the corridors of the vast building, Barclay was silent. Logan wasn’t one to press his superior for information, especially when said superior was clearly not ready to talk, and therefore walked in silence too.
Only two people were in the command center. Pearce sat in front of the computer console, where he monitored several large screens, one with data rapidly scrolling across the black surface like raindrops, another one showing images from several cameras, and a third one with various open windows for emails and other messaging applications.
Manus was sitting at a desk nearby, leafing through a stack of folders. Both looked over their shoulder when the door opened, a casual greeting on their lips. But the moment they spotted Barclay entering with Logan, they turned around fully and sat up straighter in their chairs. A sign of respect for the older statesman.
“Primus,” both said.
“Pearce, Manus, good to see you.” Barclay nodded at Pearce. “Would you give us the room please, Pearce?”
Surprised at the request, Pearce stood up. “Uh, sure.” He pointed to the door. “I’ll be right outside then.”
“There’s breakfast waiting in the kitchen. Why don’t you take a break?” Barclay suggested.
“As you wish,” Pearce said tightly, clearly a bit miffed about being expelled from his domain. After all, he was the resident geek, in charge of electronic communication and security devices.
“Thank you,” Barclay said, turning to watch Pearce leave and close the door behind him.
During this short unguarded moment, Manus mouthed a silent question to Logan. But Logan could only shrug. He didn’t know why Barclay was being so secretive. In general, assignments were discussed openly between compound mates. There was no need for secrecy among them. After all, they were all working toward the same goal: destroying the Demons of Fear, their mortal enemies, and saving humankind from their destructive influence.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is about,” Barclay started, his look bouncing between Manus and Logan.
Logan met his superior’s gaze, but didn’t respond. He knew he wasn’t expected to.
“Let me make this short. The mission you’ll be tasked with is to remain entirely confidential. Only a few people outside the council are privy to what I have to share with you.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve been made aware of the existence of a psychic.”
Logan sucked in a breath.
“A psychic? A real one?” Manus asked excitedly.
Barclay nodded.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Manus continued. “There hasn’t been one in years, decades even. True psychics are rarer than a virg—”
Logan rammed his elbow into Manus’s side to stop him from finishing his crude remark. Neither Barclay nor Logan needed a reminder of how rare psychics were. And how valuable they could be to the Stealth Guardians. Though psychics were supernatural creatures, they had no telltale aura, no special scent, making it impossible to identify them amongst a crowd. They could hide in plain sight.
“Where did you find him?” Logan asked.
“Her. An emissarius came a
cross her in Wilmington, Delaware. She runs a small tarot shop.”
“She’s a tarot reader? That’s not exactly what I’d call a true psychic.” Logan shook his head. “Are you sure your emissarius got it right? Every town has a few tarot shops, and just because it says psychic in a sign in the window, doesn’t mean the proprietor’s the real deal.”
Barclay tossed him a stern look. “I’m aware of that. That’s why I sent a second agent to bring us more information.”
“And?” Manus asked curiously.
“She confirmed the findings of the first. The woman is a true psychic, though we have reason to believe that she’s unaware of her gift. Which makes the situation even more difficult than it already is.”
There was a short pause, during which only the sounds of breathing cut through the silence.
“If she’s not aware that she’s a psychic, how can your emissarii be certain?” Logan interjected into the quiet of the room.
“Because she draws what she sees in her visions.”
“Excuse me?” Logan asked.
Barclay let out a breath. “She’s been seeing a psychiatrist.” He shrugged. “Mentally unstable. He prescribed anti-psychotic medication and suggested art therapy as a way for her to deal with her so-called nightmares, her visions. Our agent took photos of the drawings that she displays openly in her shop.”
He pulled out his cell phone and tapped his finger on it. A moment later he turned it so Logan and Manus could see the display. Both stepped closer. Logan focused his eyes on the drawing. The psychic was not particularly talented artistically, but even though the chalk drawing was crude, he had no trouble identifying what it was.
“The Callanish Stones.” The location of the council compound that had been destroyed after demons had attacked it.
“That’s not all.” Barclay scrolled to the next picture.
This drawing was somewhat better, almost as if the psychic’s vision had been clearer. “A council member’s dagger.” The nine intertwined rings on the handle were clearly in the right formation. It was no accident. No coincidence.
“She knows things about us, things no one outside of our confidence would know. If the demons get wind of her, if they can bring her to their side and use her visions against us …”
“… they could annihilate us,” Logan finished the sentence.
Barclay nodded gravely. “Yes. If she knows where our old council compound stood, we have to assume that she knows the location of the new one, and perhaps many other compounds around the world. Or if she doesn’t know yet, her next vision might tell her. In either case, it makes us more vulnerable than we’ve ever been.” He sighed. “And with her mental state in the condition it is, she has no chance fighting the influence of the demons once they set their sights on her. If they haven’t already.”
Logan exchanged a look with Manus. It would be a monumental task to protect this woman and shield her from the demons, an assignment that wouldn’t just last a few weeks or months. She would have to be protected until she was strong enough to fight off the mental influence a demon could exert on her and make her turn to the dark side. And that could take years. In the meantime, word that the Stealth Guardians had found a true psychic could not be allowed to spread. Barclay was right to keep this secret under wraps. How long Logan and Manus would be able to keep this from their compound mates, however, was another question.
“We have to act quickly,” Barclay interrupted Logan’s thoughts. “I sent you everything we’ve been able to put together on her on short notice. I wish we could run a more thorough background check, but I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of time. She’s a free spirit, defies conventions.” He pointed to the computer. “The file is only accessible under your logins. Pearce has no access to it. Study all the information carefully, but quickly. You can’t afford to make any mistakes on this one. The existence of our species is on the line.” Barclay met Logan’s eyes. “That’s why I chose you. I know you’ll follow the council’s directive to the letter.”
“Yes, Primus.”
Manus tilted his head to the side. “And I’m the comic relief?”
Barclay tossed him a derisive look. “You weren’t my choice for this job, but I got overruled by the other members of the council. Apparently you have some fans who thought that the callousness you displayed in previous circumstances might be of use in this assignment.”
“I didn’t know I was known as callous.”
“You’re known for many things, Manus,” Barclay admitted, “but I have neither the time nor the inclination to list them all for you. I’m sure you’re aware of your own faults. Just be glad that we need every guardian who’s willing to perform the duties of a warrior, and are therefore willing to overlook your many infractions. For now.”
The reprimand shut Manus up. For now.
Logan had to hand it to Barclay: he knew how to handle his subordinates.
“Well, then,” Barclay said, “let’s go over the details.”
Logan nodded. He knew the drill, but protecting a psychic would be different. Because of her visions, she couldn’t be treated like a normal charge. She had to be let in on secrets that could never be revealed to others. “How much are we authorized to tell her about our species?”
“Tell her?” Barclay stared at him as if bitten by a hornet.
“Yes, so we can get her cooperation and protect her effectively,” Logan elaborated.
“Protect her?” Barclay shook his head. “She’s a security risk to us, one that calls for one action, and one action only. You’re not charged to protect her. The council voted to eliminate the threat.”
The last words echoed in Logan’s head.
Eliminate the threat. He knew what it meant.
Kill her.
4
“Argh!”
Winter yelled out in pain and stared at the blood spurting from the wound. The blade had been razor sharp, the aim perfect—if she’d wanted to cut her own index finger off. Which hadn’t been her intention. But the piece of the salami had slipped from her fingers when she’d tried to slice it thinly to make herself a sandwich.
“Goddamn it!”
Could she not do a single thing right today? First she’d overslept, then she’d almost burnt her hair with her hairdryer because she’d been distracted by a news report on the radio, and now this.
She ran to the other side of the kitchen and ripped open the top drawer. While she rummaged through it, she kept pressure on the injured finger so she wouldn’t drip blood all over the counter. Without success. She tore a sheet off the kitchen roll and wrapped it around her finger, soaking up the blood, while she continued to look for the Band-Aids she knew she’d placed in the drawer only a week earlier—since she’d exhausted her supply of first-aid materials after a similar mishap.
Well, she just wasn’t good with knives, or fire, or hammer and nail. Two left hands, her grandmother had commented many years earlier and suggested she find a job that didn’t require her to handle any tools.
“That’s just great,” Winter griped, ready to throw a fit when she suddenly spotted the box of Band-Aids in the farthest corner of the drawer.
With difficulty she managed to pull one Band-Aid from the box and remove it from its protective sleeve. More blood oozed from the wound, before she managed to seal it with the bandage. She continued to keep pressure on it, and after a minute or two, it seemed that the blood had started to clot.
Winter sighed and cleaned up the mess she’d made, wiping the blood drops from the counter, then looked back at her attempt at making a sandwich. Suddenly she wasn’t really that hungry anymore. She reached for the salami and looked at it.
“Uh, what the heck.” She bit into it, biting off a large piece and chewed. She wasn’t going to give slicing a second try.
She shoved the two slices of bread back into the bag and sealed it, when a sound startled her. Still chewing on the salami, she spun around and looked down the short hallway. The door
that led to her shop was closed. She was sure that she’d hung the sign indicating that she was on a lunch break on the door. So why could she hear the old floorboards creaking in the shop? Had she forgotten to lock the door?
Winter wiped her hands on a towel, then marched to the connecting door and opened it. A tall man stood in the shop, his back turned to her as he looked at some of the drawings that hung on the walls. There was something familiar about him. She felt a spark of recognition ignite in her mind, yet no memory was forthcoming.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for lunch,” she said in a firm voice.
He turned confidently, as if he wasn’t at all surprised that he wasn’t alone anymore. Their eyes met. She froze, couldn’t move an inch. The spark of recognition she’d felt when looking at his back returned, this time stronger. As if she’d seen him somewhere, though she didn’t recognize his face.
And she would have. What living, breathing woman in her prime—and she was in her prime, despite the fact that she hadn’t dated much lately—would ever forget a face like his? Chiseled features, strong cheekbones, pronounced black eyebrows, a straight nose, short black hair, all underscoring his classic good looks. A chin that spoke of determination, yet lips that promised something different, something that didn’t jive with the stature of this man who looked like he belonged on an army recruiting poster. Army, yes, because his body was muscled, not in a bodybuilder kind of way, but like a man who’d seen combat. Everything about this man was hard, every muscle seemed to have a purpose, yet his lips were parted, betraying a softness, kindness, that lived inside him.
Nevertheless she saw that he was troubled. That he needed answers. That he needed them now. Couldn’t wait.
“Miss Collins? Miss Winter Collins?” he asked.