Sentinels: Leopard Enchanted (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Doranna Durgin

  Dammit.

  He availed himself of the facilities and went back to the bed. Whatever this particular Core mastermind had planned for him, Ian would meet it as well-rested—and recovered—as he could. Napping in relative comfort seemed like a fine idea when his painful ribs meant he wasn’t going anywhere anyway.

  Except that his fingers twitched against the covers, drumming to a silent song. There was no nap waiting here, only the tangle of his thoughts.

  His mind whirled with Ana. His heart whirled with Ana. His body ached with mingled hurt and remembered touch, and his mind’s eye gave him Ana laughing and Ana uncertain, and Ana’s face lighting up in response to him.

  He had no idea how to reconcile what he knew of her. What he felt of her. What she’d done to him.

  In the end, with the most ultimate irony, the memory of the peace she’d given him allowed him to fall back into a meditative quiet. Relative rest, his body burning with the attempt to heal.

  By the time quiet footsteps sounded outside his door, he’d had time to settle into himself. To resist taking the form of the snow leopard, no matter how close to the surface it lurked. The leopard was a hunter—it knew how to wait. How to persist.

  So did Ian.

  And Ian wanted answers.

  But he hadn’t expected Ana.

  To judge by her uncertainty as she slipped through the door—as it locked behind her—she hadn’t quite expected to be here, either.

  She pressed her back to the door and regarded him, biting her lip. Definitely uncertain.

  Or pretending to be.

  He didn’t rise to greet her. She’d changed to slacks that fit her petite, rounded form perfectly, and a stretchy shirt that molded to her slender body. Her face held a new bruise—from the morning’s struggle or something fresher, he couldn’t tell.

  He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but that was a lie.

  “Ian...” she said, and stalled out.

  “Ana,” he said, much more flatly. A lie of disinterest, as his heart rate kicked into gear and his fingers gave him away, twitching against the plain green bed blanket.

  Her eyes flicked to the corner of the room and he saw what he’d missed before—the tiny dark spot of a camera lens. Well, that only made sense. Of course they’d keep an eye on him.

  “They must think they can get in here pretty fast,” Ian said, making his voice hard. “Or else they don’t care what I do to you.”

  She flinched. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “No? What in particular? The part where I end up with broken bones? The part where you make wild passionate love with me? Or just the part where your cover gets blown?”

  “We both had secrets,” she said, but her voice held a note of desperation.

  Ian shook his head. “My secrets were my own. Yours were there to hurt me.”

  “No!” She moved forward from the door, just a step, her entire body tensed, her fists clenching—and then releasing in defeat as she retreated, turning away. Her voice came strained. “I guess maybe that’s turned out to be true. But not like this.” She looked up, but he didn’t think the glare was meant for him. “This wasn’t part of the plan. Not that I knew.”

  “So no broken bones, no incredible intimacy and no ever knowing who you really are.” He gave no quarter. “What were you supposed to do?”

  Her mouth twisted in some emotion he couldn’t quite read. “Get inside your retreat. Plant a listening device. Spend time with you—get a sense of you. Fill out our dossier on you. And I thought... I hoped—I could start some sort of dialogue between your people and mine.”

  Ian couldn’t help but bark a laugh, one that ended in a grunt of pain. He stiffened against the lash of his damaged ribs. “Is that what they call it where you come from? Dialogue?”

  She glared at him. “These bruises?” She pointed at her jaw, where she’d either done a better job than usual of covering them or they’d faded faster than he’d expected—maybe they’d never been that bad after all. “I got these because I was only ever supposed to talk to you. I wasn’t supposed to get—” she swallowed hard, looking away “—close to you.”

  “You weren’t,” Ian said, hard words to match the hard sensation in his chest. “You have no idea what close even means. Nice try, though. You had me fooled.”

  “That’s not fair!” She rose to that, pushing away from the door and this time holding her ground. “I had nothing to do with this! You saw—” She stopped herself, visibly gathering up her thoughts and something of her emotions. “You saw what happened at that trail. I had no idea they’d be there. I came looking for you. I was worried. Your friends were worried.”

  “Awesome,” Ian said. “I guess they’ll be even more worried now.”

  She held her silence for a long moment. “There’s not going to be any talking to you, is there?”

  Ian felt the finality of that to his bones. “Not for a while.”

  Not for a long while.

  * * *

  Defeat enervated Ana, leaving her with nothing else to say.

  But then, she’d known this wouldn’t be something she could fix. She’d known it from the moment Ian recognized her as Core.

  That the muscle goons had threatened her along the way made no difference—it hadn’t surprised Ana, and it likely hadn’t surprised Ian. The men who worked enforcement for the Core were trained to accomplish their task regardless, and Ana would have been a fair enough trade for Ian.

  She stepped away from the door to look up at the camera. It was enough. She heard movement from the other side—a long, curving hallway that ran along the wing of this luxurious house, only ever meant to be a Santa Fe mansion and now altered by interior locks and latches and camera feeds so it could serve as Hollender Lerche’s little posse hideaway—and Ana’s home—since their flight from Tucson after Core D’oíche.

  After only a few moments of silence—she couldn’t bring herself to look at Ian, as aware as she was of his painfully uneven breathing. She’d barely been able to look at his face in the first place—the ugly puff of his cheekbone, the angry split at the edge of his brow. She certainly hadn’t been able to ask how he felt beneath it all—if he still carried the headache and illness that had driven him away from the house to start all this.

  She rubbed the side of her head, perfectly well aware of the lingering headache and trying not to think too much of it. She carried her own bruises, both physical and emotional; she’d been just as ambushed as Ian on that trail, if in a totally different way.

  The room locks disengaged; the knob turned. Ana moved away from the door, tucking herself into the corner beneath the camera—barely making way for Lerche and the remaining posse goon.

  Ian didn’t move as they entered—not really. But something about him changed, his gaze going from Ana to Lerche, his eyes narrowing to shadow the bright blue. Lerche might not see the anger there—he was far too busy gloating over the coup of capturing Ian—but Ana did.

  Anger for her. In spite of what she’d done. For she knew, seeing that expression, that Ian had instantly identified Lerche as the man who’d dealt her those earlier bruises.

  It left her naked. Vulnerable and revealed and naked.

  She swiped desperately at welling tears, swallowing against the barely controllable sob in her throat and perversely glad for the blur that kept her from seeing that look on Ian’s face.

  But humbled, too.

  By Ian.

  By a man who cared more for what had been done to her than for his own grudges and hurts.

  “I want to thank you,” Lerche said to Ian, characteristically unaware of the subtle byplay. “For you to have stumbled out of your safe little retreat and onto the mountain while we happened to be paying such close attention to you...for you to have done so while s
o clearly out of your head...it was a tremendous opportunity. I know you’ll forgive me for taking advantage of it.”

  So many things Ian could have said in response. He was brilliant; he was never without words and never without dark humor and never without attitude. But as Ana regained control over her emotions, she found him silent, regarding Lerche with such a simmering anger that she couldn’t imagine how he restrained himself at all.

  “Well, perhaps not,” Lerche acknowledged. “But I’m sure you’ll see that I couldn’t waste the chance.” He shot one cuff, adjusting it with a twitch. “In any event, here we are. Do I need to mention that the more cooperative you are, the easier these days will be?”

  “How about if I’m not cooperative at all, and you cut to the chase and kill me so you can see how I tick inside?”

  Ana startled at Ian’s words. Lerche didn’t. He assumed a thoughtful expression. “But that would deprive you of the chance to pretend to cooperate while you look for ways to escape.”

  Ian barely lifted one shoulder. “True.”

  Lerche waited a moment for Ian to say more, and made a brief disappointed moue when Ian did nothing but watch him. “Well, then. Let me make your circumstances clear. Not only does no one know you’re here, once your motorcycle is discovered, they’ll think that you met your demise on the mountain. No one will look beyond that convenient little parking lot. I own you, Mr. Scott.”

  “You’ve captured me.” Ian didn’t look captured, sitting against the headboard with an aplomb Ana couldn’t begin to muster. “It’s not the same thing.”

  Lerche tipped his head, a casual point-to-you gesture. “Not yet.” He left the obvious promise implicit. “You’ll have a day to recover from your illness—I’m afraid I need you thinking straight for my purposes, at least to start with. By then your broken ribs should be tolerable, from what I understand of your healing proclivities. Future persuasion will be more exacting.” He smiled unpleasantly. “You do intend to need persuasion, don’t you?”

  “Probably,” Ian said.

  “Excellent. You expand my opportunities by the moment.”

  Ana couldn’t stop herself. “Ian—” Don’t play with him, she wanted to say. Don’t doubt him.

  Lerche offered up a cruel laugh. “Ana, dear, he knows what he’s up against. That’s more than I could ever say for you.” He gestured to the walking wall of a posse bodyguard.

  The man reached for the doorknob, opening it just enough to indicate he’d done the job and then waiting for further sign from Lerche—one eye very much on Ian. “As you can imagine, at that point I’ll be asking you a certain number of questions, as well as using the opportunity to test some of our new workings on you. Nothing mortal, of course—that would be wasteful. But I wouldn’t look forward to it if I were you.”

  At his nod, the bodyguard pulled the door open and stepped back so Lerche could precede him. Ana held her breath on a sigh of relief, prepared to make her own escape.

  From what she’d done. And from what she was no doubt about to do.

  She should have known better. Lerche.

  He gestured at her. “Since it causes you such discomfort to be here, Ana, I’m happy to strengthen you with a new assignment—you will be the liaison for our prisoner. You’ll see to his every need, and keep a log of his meals and other requests. You’ll report to me on the schedule I provide. Of course, someone will make sure your records correlate with the camera footage.”

  Humiliation washed across her face, heating it. She couldn’t help but glance at Ian—preparing herself for his annoyance, and for the rejection she expected to see there.

  But the anger was directed at Lerche, not at her. When he did meet her gaze, she found an expression she couldn’t quite fathom—something with compassion behind it.

  For the merest instant, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  And then his expression shuttered and he looked away, his eyes gone cold and his body quiet, and she tumbled back into the realm of the utterly bereft.

  Chapter 8

  Lerche left the Sentinel alone for the rest of the day—not so much as a mercy, but to provide him with time to think about his situation. To let his resentment toward Ana build, and his worry about his little friends at the retreat.

  Not to mention the reality of his capture at Lerche’s hands—the inevitable unpleasantries and ultimate death.

  And, yes, the man needed time to heal. Not that much time, being what he was, but Lerche wanted to start with someone who was robust enough to take the process. He hadn’t wanted the Sentinel damaged at all, but he supposed it had been inevitable—he’d had too much recovery time away from the retreat amulet to be taken easily.

  Those at the retreat continued to sicken in a satisfying manner. No doubt they had help coming—perhaps even as soon as today, to judge by what the spy working had relayed—but Lerche expected it to be deliciously too late. Even if the healer guessed there was a working in play, he’d never find it in time.

  In another several days the amulet would slowly disintegrate, destroying all evidence it had ever existed. That, too, was a skill that the Sentinels had not yet discovered.

  Lerche smiled to himself, heading toward the small amulet workshop housed in what had, most incongruously, been a baby’s nursery. Now the bright windows illuminated specialized sorting cabinets and wooden work tables alongside the man who called this place his domain. Budian waited for him here as well, no longer taking pains to hide himself from Ana.

  Lerche gave them no preamble. “Which amulets have you chosen?”

  The specialist, a man named Peter, glanced up from his work and gestured to a wooden tray of samples, each labeled with a neat, hand-printed card. “Experimental inducers,” he said without ever turning away from the notes he was making. “Having primary feedback on the efficacy of these would be most helpful.”

  Lerche looked them over, only skimming the identifying cards. The amulets themselves were a variety of shapes, each with its own meaning, and each was also incised with precise, delicate glyphs—an ancient language known only to the specialists. That the glyphs were formed with such precision told Lerche all he needed to know—only complex, upper level amulets received such exacting attention.

  Peter pushed two amulets across the table with one finger each and withdrew to his notes again, a disrespect that inspired Budian to look at him askance but which Lerche had learned to accept as part of the man’s brilliance.

  In truth, at this level of craft, the only specialists left were the brilliant ones. The others didn’t survive.

  Peter said, “Get this one into his room today. It should lower his resistance. He’ll detect it, of course, but I assume you can overcome that.”

  “It won’t be a problem.”

  Peter grunted as if he’d expected it to be just so. “The second of these will tell you whether his shields are still up. Don’t waste any of these amulets until you’ve broken through.”

  “No,” Lerche said, amused at Budian’s stiffening posture. “I have no intention of wasting this opportunity.”

  Peter nodded to himself, as if checking that point off a list. “I’ve arranged the amulets in order. The first ones will be quite subtle in effect, and I’d appreciate careful monitoring—pulse, respiration and a camera on his face. Once you reach the red dot amulets, the effects should be perfectly clear—but of course you’ll continue with the notes.”

  “Ana will,” Lerche said, and smiled when Peter glanced at him. “As I’ve said, this is an opportunity not to be missed.”

  Peter only shook his head slightly and went back to work. Lerche chose to interpret the gesture as admiration, and left Peter to his work. It was time, he thought, to put Ana through her paces...and to remind her of her place.

  * * *

  Breakfast was good, and Ian ate it without
reservation. If Hollender Lerche wanted to drug him or poison him, he’d do it either way—he’d already planted amulets to keep him isolated from other Sentinels, to chip away at his shields. Meanwhile Ian was healing—healing fast, in those dark restful hours of the night, and in need of fuel to keep doing it.

  When lunch came, he asked for seconds.

  Ana brought them, duly noting the fact in on her clipboard page for the day—along with the readings from the glorified fitness band he now wore around his wrist. She’d readily shown him the notes—had even taken his suggestion in a spot or two.

  But now, as she brought the second tray, she also sat in the room’s single chair for the first time, tucking it back in the corner under the camera. “I think he’ll be in to talk to you soon,” she said, her hands folded on the clipboard in a way that might have seemed casual if it hadn’t been for the whitened knuckles. “I don’t know what’ll happen then.”

  “He’ll torture me somehow,” Ian said, so casually, dipping a forkful of grilled steak into barbecue sauce. “And he’ll probably ask me a lot of questions while he’s at it. Because, as we know, your Hollender Lerche isn’t one to let opportunity pass by.”

  “He’s not my—” But Ana stopped herself, openly gripping the clipboard now.

  Ian shot her a look, not inclined to be charitable. “Ana, I get it. However you got tangled with this guy, he’s got power over you. Easy for me to say you should have walked away before things came to this. So, yeah, I get it. It’s complicated.”

  She gave him a wary look. “I got tangled with him by being born,” she said. “And because I believe in what I do.”

  Born Core, just as he had been born Sentinel. No telling what she thought she knew of Sentinels. “Right,” he said. “You believe what you did was justified, then?”