by Jade Kerrion
Too many questions, too few answers, and no easy way of uncovering the truth.
He aroused himself out of his abstraction as the limousine pulled into the driveway of Lucien’s home.
“Lucien’s probably waiting for you in his study,” Phillip said as Danyael stepped out of the car.
Danyael did not need directions to the study. He knew his way around Lucien’s home; he had lived there for a good part of his life. The familiarity should have calmed him, but it did not. Quivering between shock and fury, he chose fury. The anger focused his energy, whatever little he had left, to deal with the situation.
Lucien was indeed waiting for him in the large, dark-paneled study. The furnishings—custom designed and handmade—were elegant, yet distinctly male. They exuded confidence and power, perfectly matched to the scion and heir to the Winter-Callahan financial empire. “Danyael.” A warm grin split Lucien’s face as he stepped out from behind his desk to greet his friend.
Danyael did not step forward into their customary hug of greeting. He stopped several feet away from Lucien and yanked his fingers through his pale blond hair. “Luce. Why did you send for me?” His words were terse, the tone clipped, almost hostile.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Danyael? What the hell is wrong?”
How could he even begin to explain? He could not. Lucien had been explicitly threatened. Lucien was for the most part capable of taking care of himself, but he would be outclassed by a mutant, most certainly by an alpha telepath. Danyael could not—would not—put his friend at risk. He gritted his teeth. Not even if Lucien had—
Trust. He had trusted Lucien all his life. He had to trust. Without Lucien, he had nothing.
Struggling to bring his rioting emotions under control, he fought for calm. He turned and walked toward the window. It was easier if he did not have to meet Lucien’s gaze, a lot easier if he did not have to see the surprised hurt in those expressive blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, trying to start over. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
It was not a lie. They had been friends long enough. Danyael knew Lucien would recognize the signs of exhaustion that bordered on fatigue. The psychic shields he used to protect others from his unchecked empathic powers took a heavy toll on him. He needed solitude and rest—soon, desperately soon—and until then, he just had to take it a minute at a time.
Danyael drew in a deep breath, air filling his lungs. “Why did you send for me?” His tone was once again calm.
“Have you seen the news tonight?”
“No.”
“Purest Humanity attacked and burned Pioneer Labs. Fortunately, one of my friends escaped with Galahad.”
“And?”
“Galahad is here. He was injured in the escape, and I need you to help him.”
Anger snapped up, rearing its ugly head. Danyael spun around, dark eyes flashing. “You pulled me out of New York just because you needed a doctor? Couldn’t you bribe someone in D.C. to take care of him?”
Lucien shook his head. “There’s more,” he said simply. “Come with me.”
4
Lucien flung open the door to the Ivory Room with a gleam in his sapphire blue eyes that Danyael recognized from years of close friendship. He suppressed a smile. Beneath Lucien’s polished sophistication was a man who habitually picked up and nursed strays back to health, including stray people. Lucien had obviously found another cause to champion.
Danyael had spent many years as Lucien’s cause. It would be a relief to hand that baton off to someone else. Lucien gestured to someone behind him but Danyael did not look back. He stepped in and walked toward the motionless figure on the bed. The sooner he was done here, the sooner he could—
Galahad? His breath caught. Shock clawed through him. Icy fingers seized his heart, squeezed hard.
Time slipped by, unheeded.
“Danyael. Damn it, Danyael!” Lucien’s voice yanked him back into an awareness of his surroundings.
Danyael jerked his gaze up. Lucien had his arms wrapped around a young Chinese woman. She shuddered, her slim frame trembling, and would have fallen, if not for Lucien’s support.
Danyael bit back a curse. His unchecked emotions had leaked past his psychic shields, barriers that faltered only when he was exhausted or deeply distressed. With conscious effort, he reeled in his emotions. The air in the room cleared, save for a residual undercurrent of distress, mild enough to be ignored.
Lucien’s grip gentled as the tension eased out of the woman’s body. “Xin? Is it better now?”
Xin nodded, inhaling as she straightened. “Yes. Didn’t you feel it? It was…”
“No. I’m not affected by Danyael’s emotions.” Lucien held on to her for a moment longer before releasing her. She stepped away from him. Only then did he turn back to his friend. “Danyael? Are you all right?”
If Danyael had energy to spare, he would have laughed at that question. How could he be possibly all right? Shock and disbelief entwined and wafted up, bubbling dangerously close to the surface, challenging the discipline he had cultivated through months of training and years of practice.
The advice of his trainers anchored him. Name the emotion. Even if it’s warranted, don’t act on it. There is never a good reason to act on emotion.
Exquisite control masked stunned alarm. “This can’t be,” Danyael said quietly. His dark eyes never left Galahad’s face.
“It can. You look like identical twins.” Lucien moved to stand beside Danyael. “We’ve taken a blood sample from him and should have his full genetic code by tomorrow morning. We can run a comparative scan then. I’m sure it will confirm what we already suspect—what anyone with eyes can see. Someone stole your genetic code, Danyael. The real question is, did they take just parts of it, or did they take everything, including your mutant powers?” His mouth set into a grim line. “Imagine, your capabilities, combined with Galahad’s other genetic advantages. If there’s a disaster in the making, I want to be on top of it.”
Danyael nodded, his mind reeling from what it would mean for Galahad and for him. Galahad would turn twenty-five on Christmas Eve. Danyael was twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight. He did not know exactly how old he was, but precision was not needed at this point. They were two, perhaps three, years apart in age, the period of his life for which there were no public records on him, for which he had no memory to shed light on his unknown past.
But he did not have the time or luxury to dwell on himself. Even the events that had taken place on the plane ride into D.C. faded into irrelevance. Danyael’s expression was one of ethereal calm as he extended his mutant powers without moving a muscle. He drove his emotions deep down and opened his mind to absorb the waves of emotions emanating from others.
The deep pain and turmoil lacing through Galahad’s emotional aura bled like an open wound.
“May I?” Danyael asked Lucien perfunctorily, but did not wait for an answer as he moved to sit by Galahad. He turned back the covers, eyes narrowing as he assessed the bloodstained bandages. He placed his left hand on Galahad’s forehead and his right hand across Galahad’s bandaged abdomen, closed his eyes, and allowed his secondary healing powers to surge. No need for props like stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs to camouflage what he was doing. He did not need to hide his capabilities from Lucien, who knew everything about him. “The bullets passed through, which is fortunate, since I won’t have to cut him open to remove them. One grazed his liver though; he’s bleeding internally.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes. Give me a moment.”
Galahad stirred, his dark, pain-filled eyes fluttering open. He stared up at Danyael’s face, identical to his own. Danyael could sense the precise instant in which Galahad’s bewilderment evolved into sharp panic. “It’s all right,” Danyael kept his voice calm. All traces of his personal hell were locked away as he released a gentle surge of peace, deep and tranquil, intoxicating. “My name is Danyael Sabre, and I’m a doctor. I’m here
to help you. May I take a look at your injuries?”
An emotional transformation more powerful than a sedative flooded Galahad’s mind and body. Galahad stared into Danyael’s face for a moment longer and then nodded, lulled by a feeling of profound safety and well-being. Xin, privy to the same emotional transformation but far more mentally alert, stared at Danyael, her expression combining disbelief and awe.
“Everything will be all right,” Danyael promised in the same reassuring tone as his stronger powers surged out, infusing Galahad’s broken body. “Go to sleep now. We’ll sort it out when you wake.”
Galahad resisted for a brief moment, but the depth of trust he felt for an absolute stranger won out. His eyes closed again as sleep, now deeply anesthetic, claimed him. Unaware, he slept as his body healed. Internal injuries closed; the bleeding halted. Open surface wounds knit together, forming scar tissue that gradually receded, replaced by new, healthy skin.
A minute of silence passed, but to Danyael, it felt far longer, as his powers penetrated into Galahad’s body, repairing the damage. When he finally opened his eyes, the healing was complete. His face pale, Danyael pushed to his feet, grateful when Lucien caught his arm, supporting him. “We should remove the bandages now,” he said. His quiet tone concealed weakness. “They’re tight and constrict his breathing. They’re no longer needed.”
Xin slipped past Lucien to assist Danyael in unwrapping the bandages from around Galahad’s chest and thigh. She ran her hand over the unmarred skin and flesh beneath the bloodstained white bandage and then stepped back as Danyael pulled the sheets over Galahad’s naked body.
Lucien turned to Danyael. “You look like hell. Do you need to rest?”
Yes, he did. Desperately. He had extended his powers far beyond what he typically tried to do in a single day, healing a toddler while extracting the bullets from her body, eliminating the final traces of HIV from Jeremiah Smith’s body, and now this. He pressed the back of his hand against his fevered brow as he struggled to control the deep chills that wracked his body from within, the price he paid for absorbing sickness and injuries. Nevertheless, Danyael shook his head. “I’ll be all right in a few hours,” He hated the fact that he sounded so sick. “I suspect you’d rather talk.”
Lucien nodded. “I would. Xin, if Zara’s awake, can you ask her to join us in my study?”
As Xin left the room, Danyael caught Lucien’s faint flicker of interest. He chuckled softly.
Lucien turned at the sound. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing important. Who is she?”
“I’ll introduce you when she rejoins us. She’s Mu Xin, the clone of Fu Hao.”
“Fu Hao?”
“Twelve hundred BC queen, military general, and high priestess from ancient China.”
“Busy woman.” Danyael walked slowly beside Lucien toward the study. “So what does she do these days?”
“Hacker.” Lucien grinned. “She’s one of the best cyber-warfare specialists I know, and I know—heck, I employ—many of them. She’s on the payroll for the US government, but she does some part-time work for Zara.”
“Zara. Zara Itani? You dated her once.”
“A long while ago. She’s more like a baby sister to me now. A very troublesome one, I might add. You were probably off at medical school when we were hailed as the most incongruous celebrity couple in Washington, D.C., but I know I’ve mentioned her.”
“A little.” Danyael had to wrack his memories for the few snippets of information Lucien had shared about Zara Itani over the years. A human, Lebanese and Venezuelan; a martial arts expert and owner of an agency of mercenaries that she kept staffed through her connections to resistance fighters in both Lebanon and Venezuela. “We’ve never met.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. She doesn’t know you exist. You’ve always been careful to avoid meeting my friends, and I’ve gotten very good at self-censoring the most important friendship of my life entirely out of my communications with others.” Lucien’s tone was neutral, but Danyael winced, clenching his teeth as Lucien’s emotions—resentment, hurt—slapped at him like the chill winter air.
“Not now, Luce. Please,” he said quietly.
Lucien dropped the topic as they stepped into the study together. “Drink for you?”
“Just water, please.” Danyael’s stomach swirled with nausea that he barely kept under control. Eating and drinking would not be an option for several hours yet. With slow, deliberate movements, he lowered himself into an armchair by the smoldering fireplace. He did not think he could handle any swift motions; neither his sorely aching body nor crushing headache would permit it. He swallowed hard and winced at the taste of bile in his throat. God, he needed rest badly.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Danyael did not look up at Lucien. He stared at his hands as he clenched and unclenched them slowly. He ran his thumbs over his numb fingers; he could not feel his fingertips. “I’ll be all right. Eventually,” he whispered, submitting without protest when Lucien reached for his hands.
“Shit, your hands are like ice.” Lucien slammed the glass of water down on the side table and squatted down in front of Danyael. He rubbed Danyael’s hands briskly between his own, trying to warm them up. “When was the last time you ate?”
The clinic was so busy that Danyael always worked through lunch, and his dinner plans had been sidelined when four thugs in business suits snatched him off the streets of New York. “Breakfast,” he murmured. A half-cup of milk and an apple.
Lucien scowled. “I’m going to get you something from the kitchen.”
“Can’t eat right now.”
“You’re going to damn well try.”
Danyael heard Lucien’s departing footsteps. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. Icy fingertips connected with his fevered brow. The emotional satisfaction he usually derived from helping someone in need was buried under layers of exhaustion. He needed to relax for a few minutes, but he required a fully enclosed room to contain the swell of emotions once he let down his guard. He did not have the time for it, not with so much at stake, and so many questions that demanded answers he did not have. I can rest in a few hours. I can do this. Just need to take it slow, a few minutes at a time. Don’t stare down the future. Just face the right direction and watch your feet move, one step at a time.
The philosophy was hardly inspirational, but it had gotten him through many difficult days and nights, and sometimes the outcome was even more than he could have hoped for. What his attitude said about the quality of his life, he did not know. Danyael swore under his breath and then laughed quietly, a bitter, self-mocking sound.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor and paused by the open door of the study. “Galahad?” a soft female voice called out.
He looked up and saw a young woman standing beside Xin, gaping at him. It required a great deal of effort to think through the shafts of pain pulsing through his skull, even more to muster the energy respond to questions. “No, I’m Danyael. Danyael Sabre.”
This was Danyael Sabre? Zara glared at Xin for failing to warn her of what to expect. Maybe Xin thought it would be funny to observe her unguarded reaction to the doctor Lucien had summoned so urgently from New York City, but Zara was not amused.
She stepped into the room and circled the chair to get a better look at him. He did not seem fazed by the close scrutiny; indeed he hardly seemed aware, or to care, that she was studying him.
Danyael Sabre was the perfect replica of Galahad’s flawless beauty, but for a few minor differences: hair, the same rare shade of pale blond, cut shorter, and a thin white scar, almost invisible, that slashed across his right cheek, starting at the top of his cheekbone, close to his ear, and ending at the tip of his chin. One of his hands—his left hand—was subtly misshapen, as if the bones had been broken once and then badly reset. She estimated that Danyael and Galahad were about the same height, Danyael possibly a little thinner. He wore a white shirt, faded denim jeans
, and a well-worn pair of black sneakers. A black leather jacket that had seen far better days was draped over an equally well-used backpack.
The biggest observable, and critical, difference was in her reaction to him. Galahad had captured her imagination, and more importantly, her compassion, but Danyael stirred nothing in her. In fact, in spite of his staggering beauty, something about him repelled her. He was not physically repulsive; in fact, he was far from it. He had said nothing or done nothing to warrant that kind of reaction from her, but in spite of her marked curiosity over how both he and Galahad had come to share a face, she had to resist the urge to walk away from him.
Her concern for Galahad drove her to talk to Danyael, though. “Lucien says you’re a doctor. Where do you practice?”
“The free clinic at Crown Heights, Brooklyn.” He did not even have enough social grace to look at her when responding.
The free clinic? The young doctors employed by free clinics were the ones who had barely passed their medical examinations and consequently could not find jobs at more reputable institutions. They were, as a rule, poorly trained and inadequate. She exchanged a dismayed glance with Xin, but her friend’s expression was oddly sympathetic. What the hell? Was this really the best that Lucien could do with regard to finding a doctor?
She bit back a snarl of frustration. “Galahad was shot twice. I need you to see to him.” She could not help the note of superiority that crept into her voice. This pathetic excuse for a doctor was not good enough for Galahad.
“I did. He’s fine.” He still did not look up at her.
He had the manners of a cretin. She spun around and strode out the door, almost colliding with Lucien, who was returning with a bowl of soup and a small plate of crackers balanced on a tray. She gave him a furious glare. “Your taste in friends is questionable, Lucien.” She nodded toward Danyael, who sat hunched over in the chair.