by Tanya Holmes
Xavier blinked in surprise. He saw the horror in my eyes and still had the nerve to say, “You don’t believe that.”
As if there was any other possibility after his little performance the other night. He’d basically called me a bitch, and his contempt for Luke wasn’t any less palatable. I wanted to end him. To watch him die. Not quick. But slow. Very, very slow. And when he resurrected, I’d murder him again.
I aimed the gun. “Where did you shoot him? In the face? The chest? Where?”
“Fuck this!” Veins bulged in his neck as his voice roared across the room, hitting me like a punch. “I’ve been treating you with kid gloves, but now I’ll just be blunt. You drop a series of dirty bombs, then get an attitude when I have to clean up your mess! Yes, yours! You’ve turned my life upside down! And Braeden’s too. Oh, yeah, you’ve totally fucked his up! And why? Because you got conned by a crazy bitch! Do you know who killed Luke?” he said with a lift of his chin. “You did, D.”
“What?”
“Why do you think Braeden was so secretive? Because of Protocol. But this thing with Antonelli? It didn’t have to come to that! You killed him the minute you walked through his door with The Scribe’s Oath. He opened the damn cover. That’s a death sentence! The magic in that book is not for mortal eyes. If I hadn’t pulled the trigger, he would’ve been dead within hours. This is what Braeden was trying to protect you from. Our magic. Our laws! We live by these things and mortals die by them. We have a grand race to protect. It’s been this way for millenniums. Why the fuck would we make an exception for him?”
Horror filled me as his words hit true. All my bravado vanished, eaten away by guilt.
If he sensed his victory, it didn’t show for he didn’t back down. He charged ahead. “The only reason you didn’t die is because of that baby!” His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Face it. You killed him when you teamed up for this case. So if anyone’s at fault here, it’s you and those two dead bitches who talked you into this.”
A sharp breath shuddered out of me. He was right. I had no one but myself to blame. No one. I left Braeden standing in the street, begging me to stay. I drove to Luke’s house. I brought that damn book in there. It was all me.
The pain was so raw, I couldn’t stand it. I had to push it away. So I lashed out. It was all I had. “I hate you.”
His eyes turned granite hard. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe the delusion will take hold. You hate what I had to do. But again, you left me no choice. So stop blaming me and own your shit! Which reminds me. Since I’m laying it all out now, it’s high time you admit what’s between us. The connection we have—”
“There is no connection!”
“Oh, it’s there, doll, and it’s not going away.” He slapped his freehand against his chest. “Because I’m Braeden’s other half! We’re the same fucking person. That’s why you can’t get me out of your head!”
CHAPTER 18
XAVIER’S SAFEHOUSE/BUNKER
FREDERICK, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
A cold sweat washed over me. He may as well have said the Easter bunny married the Tooth Fairy. It would’ve had the same effect.
All I could manage was, “Huh?”
His face looked like stone: hard, unwavering, and expressionless. “You read the book, The Scribe’s Oath, right? You saw the part about the four faces? Well, Braeden and me have them. They adapted to our humanity, coming together, but we’re One.”
“One what?”
“Person.”
Ridiculous. And yet…and yet…
Xavier’s eyes stabbed into mine. “All those questions you’ve had about him, about me. You had to have suspected. You had to have known something wasn’t right. It’s been nagging at you. Hasn’t it?”
I shook my head in denial. It was impossible. Completely impossible. No. Not impossible. Very possible. More than probable. Even conceivable and would explain sooooo damn much.
The doppelganger.
The Voice that stole your heart.
Xavier’s voice.
“There was a word in that book,” Xavier said. “A foreign word that started with a ‘p.’ It’s spelled ‘Paréãë∫etrix.’” Most of the letters he’d named, I didn’t recognize because they weren’t part of the English alphabet. “We pronounce it, Profezec,” he clarified. “It means ‘Pregnant and marked.’ You’re a Paréãë∫etrix, D. That means no other Yoreck male can entice you with his pheromone. Only your true mate can stir you. And that would be me.”
I shook my head again, this time harder. I didn’t want to believe it.
He nudged his chin at something behind me. “Get the book. It’s right there on the dresser.”
I wasted no time grabbing it.
“Now turn to page 515,” he said, “and read the second paragraph aloud.”
I flipped through the pages with trembling hands.
As the men were said to be the most impacted by their warring faces, some resorted to a process called The Dividing (or Division) of One in which the tormented soul is split by Elder holy men into two separate individuals, with one retaining some facial (i.e. personality attributes) while the other retained what remained. Both halves shared the same soul or life essence. This kept them supernaturally linked despite their physical separation. And while each possessed a Man’s heart and frailty, one Half sometimes held the greater portion of both. This was often decided by the Alpha or more dominant of the two. Consequently, it was the Alpha who retained the power to give a small part or his entire portion of their humanity to Beta during division.
It was hard to understand, but I got the gist of it. They were one person, split in two. And one of them was more human than the other.
Not that I had to guess who that was.
“Braeden and me are the same soul—descendants of a fallen angel,” he said. “We were born to Dathan Teale McBride and—”
“The Awakening’s Dathan Teale?”
“Yeah. He penned it for my mom, Bonny-jean McBride.” He watched my reaction. “She goes by Angela now.”
“Braeden’s Angela?”
“Yep, she’s our mom.”
Dear God. Angela was their mother? So the rose that appeared over her chest that first morning was maternal love.
“We were born Ian Callum McBride,” Xavier continued.
“Wait.” I set the heavy tome back on the dresser, my head still reeling. “That’s the man Samuel Nowak mentioned. Are you saying he was telling the truth?”
“Yeah. Every word. The annoying little shit knew us during the war. And you, D got to really know us tornado night.”
“What does that mean?”
“When Braeden died, did you see a gray mist hover over him?”
I was so afraid of what he was about to tell me I barely managed a nod.
“Well, that was me, doll. If either of us dies, the living one is drawn to the other. We separated years ago, and joined back together temporarily that night when he resurrected.” He studied me in silence. Seeing my mounting alarm didn’t dissuade him. He kept going full steam ahead. “Braeden has little patience for poetry. When we split, that part of Ian came with me, because it’s mine. Always has been. That’s why I know it was Yeats.”
Even with the Fever, I’d have sworn my blood ran cold right at that moment. “W-what was Yeats?”
“The first poem you tried to recite in Braeden’s lab that night. It was by William Yeats. Your voice got through. It calmed me—calmed us. It’s the same poem I recited when I held you in the tub.”
My eyes rounded when realization hit. If what he said was true, that meant I’d had sex with….
He was still looking at me, seeming to gauge my reaction. Was he telling me too much? Too little? Should he slow down or repeat himself?
But even through the gathering fog in my head something else stood out like a beacon. He’d remembered what I’d told Braeden when he was unconscious, about how poetry ca
lmed me. So he’d sung to me and recited Brown Penny during the worst of my delirium.
Because he remembered what I’d said.
Because he was there, inside Braeden.
Xavier’s eyes burned with determination. “You remember feeling that instant heat between your legs the first time we met?” His voice was deep and rough. Pulling me in, tugging at my insides. “It told you I’d been there before. Same thing with the kitchen. That’s why you would’ve begged me to fuck you if you hadn’t run.”
My nerves were beyond fried. “That…that should have never happened.”
“Are you going to deny the dreams too?”
Oh, no. Please God…. “Dreams? What dreams?”
“Yeah, play dumb all you want, but I know about them, ‘cause I was in there with you.” When my breath hitched, he said, “They happened because of the longing. It’s a link that connects us. The child connects us and makes it even stronger. Your body was just reaching out for the piece that’s missing. Me. You had Braeden in your heart, but you craved the whole—me and him—and that’s why you pulled me into your dream.”
I covered my gasp with my hand. “Oh, my God…”
“Uh-un. God wasn’t in that bathroom. I was.” His eyes raked over me sensuously. “That was me fucking you.”
The pieces, like sand through an hourglass, packed the gaps in my mind, places where every unanswered question lay. “All this started because of some pheromones?”
“Yes, and no.”
A new fear sliced through me. “Then tell me how can I be sure what I feel for Braeden is real? And what about his love for me?” I cupped my forehead and blinked several times. “Yoreck pheromones have been manipulating everything.”
He was quick to shake his head. “Pheromones are for sex. Not love. And they wore off hours after we resurrected. So everything else happened naturally.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I mean, what’s love but a bunch of fucking chemicals? A biological witch’s brew of pheromones, electrical impulses, and other bullshit nobody knows anything about.” He nodded a couple times. “Yeah, D. He loves you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because of what he’s giving up. What he’s asking me to give up.”
“And that is?”
He hesitated as if weighing his words. “It’s complicated, okay?”
“Tell me.”
“His freedom for one. He’s sitting in a jail cell right now because of all this. He sacrificed himself for both of us.”
He was holding something back, something important. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know at this point. I’d yet to grasp everything else. With this headache, fever, and brain fog, I was close to information overload.
“Anyway,” he continued, “Just believe me when I say it’s real for him. I mean, I’ve had to deal with his annoying feelings even before that storm. I’ve been able to field every other emotion of his except this thing he has for you.”
“So what is it with you, Xavier? You can’t love on your own?”
He looked confused. Either the question flew over his head, or he didn’t know how to answer it. After much deliberation, he said, “I wouldn’t use the word ‘can’t.’ I just don’t. Not by your definition anyway. It’s like water off a duck’s back. I get wet, but I stay dry. I feel what he feels, but it doesn’t stick.” He glanced at the ceiling for more examples. “Um…think of a sieve. Liquid goes in, but it spills right out.”
“Can you plug the holes?”
He shrugged. “I never tried.”
“Why?”
He shot me a dark look. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood to answer.
But I persisted. “Does that mean you’re a sociopath?”
Xavier laughed. “You mortals and your labels. Look, I have feelings, just not ones you’d consider normal. But guess what, doll? These feelings have me wanting a woman who hates my guts, a woman who’s even shot at me. But you don’t see me sitting here whining about it, do you? I mean, it is what it is.”
The more he talked, the more frightened and confused I became. Only one thing could remedy this. “Take me to Braeden.”
He pushed himself up and rested his free arm on a knee. “How about I bring him to you?”
Hope surged. “You can do that?”
“Yeah, but you need to answer a question first.”
“What?”
“How much do you love him? Enough to accept him”—he gestured at himself—“warts and all? Because we’re a package deal.” He eyed the weapon. “I noticed you’re still gripping that gun. Good. Because if you plan on seeing him anytime soon, you’re gonna have to kill me.”
* * *
A DETENTION CENTER IN MARYLAND
BRAEDEN
____________________________
Braeden folded his hands as his lawyer, Lizzy Moore, a heavyset sixty-year-old woman sporting a tight black bun with a touch of gray at the temples, entered the interrogation room. She placed a shiny new briefcase on the scarred table and plopped down across from him, causing the chair to emit a groan.
Appearances were deceiving because her name wasn’t really Lizzy Moore. She wasn’t sixty years old, she wasn’t a lawyer, and he doubted she weighed the two hundred pounds she’d squeezed into her ill-fitted blue pantsuit. She was Janette Sikes, Xavier’s on-again, off-again friend with benefits, a Yoreck Scrubber with a body-shifting gift. Braeden had never met her before today, so he didn’t know what she really looked like, but he’d have welcomed whatever face she presented.
Thanks to Chief Stanton, a Yoreck operative in the police department, she’d pulled off the alias with ease. Nobody questioned her credentials, or her request that no one but the chief and his deputy—who also happened to be Yoreck—handle him. Braeden guessed that one of them, or both, possessed the power of suggestion or compulsion. Whatever the case, everyone had steered clear of him since he’d arrived.
After signaling the guard to leave them, she telepathically disabled the sound for real. Sure, the police were supposed to give attorney-client privacy, but Scrubbers never took chances. This way there’d be no surprises.
Janette spoke in Yoreck. “So how are you holding up?”
“I’m a Scot. We’re built to survive,” Braeden said, eager for news. He scooted closer. “You’ve spoken with Xavier again, yes?”
She nodded. “Briefly, but first—”
“How’s Denieve?”
“Don’t worry. She’s fine. He’s taking good care of her.”
He sighed in relief.
“But I’ve got to tell you something….” Her face turned grim. “Your house. It’s gone, Braeden. They burned it to the ground.”
The news winded him. He sagged in his chair. “The Elders?”
“Yeah. They sent a Scrub team in before the cops issued your arrest warrant. They couldn’t have mortals searching it.”
He’d expected no less from them. They were tidying up the mess he and Xavier left. Fire had eaten over four centuries of his life. Everything he was, everything he owned, his house, all his precious possessions….
Gone.
Sensing his distress, the woman reached across the table and squeezed his bare hand, a move forbidden for most prisoners. But to Braeden, who’d been denied touch for so long, hers was comforting.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice warm with empathy.
Braeden swallowed, gave his throat a hard clearing, and nodded. “No,” he choked out, “but I will be.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “What else?”
“Xavier sent a Scrubber team to his condo too. They removed everything incriminating, which wasn’t much. He lived pretty simply.”
His next question surprised him more than her. Why did he even care? “What about his pets? Did you find a good place for them?”
She wrinkled her nose in disdain. “You mean those things in the tanks?”
Braeden nodded.
“Yeah. They’re fine. We transferred them to a wildlife facility.
Unfortunately, the police raided the safe house he took Ms. Knight to. But they got away, and the cops found nothing.”
He shot forward, his chair squeaking. “Where are they?”
“He’s taken her to one of his cabins in the woods. It doubles as a bunker.”
A laugh escaped him. Xavier’s madness proved genius in the end. He really did have a bunker. For years Braeden had chided the idiot’s paranoia, but it seemed it had finally paid off.
“Well, I’m glad that amuses you,” Janette said with a smile. “It’s good to see you laugh. Especially after all you’ve been through.” Her smile waned. “Oh, before I forget, I have news about Milton Vogel.”
Braeden’s heart quickened. “Were you able to save him?”
She glanced off.
“Please tell me they didn’t—”
“No, he’s alive,” she said. “His ravings were enough to get him a ticket to the psychiatric ward for observation. But Braeden, you had to have known what a loose cannon he was. I’m sorry, but we had to wipe him.”
“What?”
“It was either that or death. We gave him a choice, and this is what he picked. He’s been well taken care of. He’ll live comfortably for the rest of his life just like you wanted.”
“Yes, provided you left him with all of his marbles,” Braeden said bitterly as a dark memory surfaced.
Death or erasure. The latter being a complete brain wipe. There was no clean way to do it. Vogel had lost every memory he’d accumulated till now. Including the years he’d spent with his wife. The Yoreck usually avoided this extreme measure because of the risks.
“His choice,” Janette repeated. “So don’t go blaming yourself. It’s done. And he’s fine. Last I heard, they were flying him to the Bahamas for an extended vacation.”
Well, at least they hadn’t turned him into a vegetable.
“Now, back to the Elders,” she said. “They’re not very happy with you.”
“I gathered as much when they burned my house down. By the way, who did they pin it on?”