by Sue Wilder
“We’ll be going back to Florence soon,” Arsen said, and something cold had entered his voice. “All of us.”
“Me, maybe,” Christan admitted, “but you and Darius aren’t part of this mess.”
“We had your back in Florence, Enforcer, and we have it now. If you go, we go with you.”
Christan scrubbed a hand across his face. “When will you be back?”
“Tomorrow.” Arsen paused. “How’s Slick?”
“Bring new dinner plates.”
“Combat has resumed?”
“Lexi throws things when she’s angry,” Christan said dryly.
“I think I warned you about that.”
“As I recall, you said she was stubborn.”
“Same thing. Different modes of expression.”
“And pointless.”
“It’s not pointless to her,” Arsen said.
Christan knew that and he struggled, unable to understand what Lexi wanted, other than the expressed desire to leave. He said as much to Arsen.
“Slick wants to fight for herself,” his second responded. “She feels vulnerable right now.”
“I protect her.”
“Not from her perspective.”
“You’ve talked about this?”
“She tries to talk to you, but you mix her up and won’t listen. The plan is to leave and have Three mask her energy, more efficiently this time. She asked for suggestions to make it work.”
Christan sighed heavily. “What did you tell her?”
“What do you think?”
“You know what that blood bond does.”
“It’s done. All you can do now is train her instead of allowing her to struggle. I’m not sure you realize how important it is.”
“She wants to learn how to throw people across the room, Arsen. That doesn’t equal security, not against Calata.”
“You can’t prevent every threat and she knows it. If Lexi runs, she’ll hide, and if she hides you won’t be able to protect her at all. Is that what you want?”
Christan had the sudden vision of Lexi’s tear-streaked face when she crouched on a bathroom floor in Rock Cove, terrified after her telekinetic abilities had started to emerge and a claw had appeared on her hand. All he wanted was to keep her separate from a changing world.
“If I do what you ask,” he said as his hand clenched, “I’m putting her in danger.”
“I understand, Christan, and so does Three. She’s made an offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
“If you can’t train her, Phillipe has agreed.”
“No.”
“Lexi doesn’t trust herself,” his old friend said. “She doesn’t trust you most of all because you refused to help. Phillipe might be the best solution. A fresh start. And she’ll stay at the compound.”
Christan pinched hard against the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t sure if he had the courage to do it, let her go to the immortal who was so closely allied with Three. The last day in Florence, before the night had burned to hell, Christan held Lexi in his arms. He’d felt every emotion—bitterness, rage, love, tenderness—alive in the tattoos beneath his skin until his heart bled. She was part of him, and it was a love that had no rules.
But letting her go to Phillipe meant letting go of her. Memories played out in vivid color, of Lexi standing in Six’s office with bravery and defiance. Fierce and vulnerable, crumpled against the wall. The crushing fear when he thought she was dying, holding on to her face and begging her to stay. He didn’t know if he would survive that again.
“I consider you my brother,” Arsen said when Christan fell silent. “But I think of Slick as a sister.”
“You believe I’m hurting her.”
“Christan, I understand why you don’t want to do this.” Arsen’s deep regret carried through the phone line. “But how far are you willing to go to protect her?”
“I love her.”
“Then let Phillipe train her.”
Christan rubbed a hand across the tattoo on his heart, drew in a breath, released it. “No one is as important as she is,” he said, his voice low in his throat.
“Honor is in the action, Christan, not the outcome. You can’t stop what is happening. Let her control her own life. This can’t be your decision.”
Christan stared at the polished desk. “I want to go back,” she’d said, when what he wanted was for her to need him. “Don’t destroy us over this.”
His hand clenched again. He concentrated on releasing the painful tension in each finger before he was able to answer.
“Have Phillipe come here,” he said finally. “They can use the training facilities. I won’t have her going to Three.”
“We’ll fly in tomorrow,” Arsen agreed, his tone smirking through the phone lines. “You know how much Phillipe enjoys the bush plane.”
CHAPTER 3
It was late afternoon when Lexi leaned against the padded wall in the basement training facility, listening as Phillipe explained a fighting technique to Robbie. For the past month, the immortal had been teaching Lexi basic self-defense, and offering Robbie a lethal opponent for practice sessions. The warrior was determined to regain his skills, and since both men wore loose black training pants but no shirts, it was easy to watch the intricate movements. With all the training, Robbie was developing the physique of a man in his mid-thirties. He now moved with controlled grace while Phillipe moved like an assassin, which was odd, Lexi thought, when everyone said he was an academic more inclined to research.
Lexi found the contradiction unsettling. She remembered meeting him in Seattle. Lexi had been talking to Three when Phillipe brought the coffee into the room. He’d been wearing red suspenders with his white shirt, and there’d been something in the way he moved, she recalled, a warning. But Phillipe was hard to read. Being austere in both his attitude and his appearance, Lexi thought he looked older than the warriors but just as hard and lean and somewhat ascetic. He never revealed what he thought about her progress. But he was training her in the telekinesis and Lexi could now snap a bottle of water from the floor. And she could boil water, not that anyone important was around to watch her do it.
“Neat trick,” Marge said, as Lexi flipped the water bottle into her palm. “Robbie looks great.”
Lexi agreed, sitting down when the older woman slid sideways and patted the bench beside her. “What’s that move they just practiced?” she asked after a moment.
“Where Phillipe is leaping toward Robbie’s chest? I’m not sure, but it’s a form of Cambodian martial arts, called bokator, a close-quarter style of fighting like Krav Maga but far more ancient.”
“It looks like serious fighting.”
“Bokator means pounding the lion. There’s an old story about a warrior who killed a lion with a precisely placed knee strike. Early practitioners studied wildlife and developed traditional animal styles of fighting, with horse styles, lion styles, eagle styles, all based on the fighting forms of those animals. There’s even a dragon style.” Marge winked, implying the origins. Lexi looked toward the training mat.
“Well, Phillipe seems to know what he’s doing.”
“He may have intimate knowledge of that fighting style.”
“As in he invented it?”
“Probably. Not that Robbie’s said anything, just hints dropped when he talks about regaining his skills.”
“Robbie’s looking younger, am I right?” asked Lexi as she looked closely at the man. His mink-colored hair was cut close to the scalp and he had an attractive stubble covering his square jaw. He looked far too dangerous for a healer.
“Yes,” admitted Marge, “although now I feel like a cougar because he looks so young.”
“He’s thousands of years old. You’re young compared to him.”
“Crazy, huh? And I’m a therapist!”
“Robbie would match your age again if you asked.”
“And I won’t, not while we face this new danger.”
The
two men switched the routine, picking up wooden batons three inches thick and moving through an attack so fast it was difficult to track the movements. Phillipe took a vicious swipe at Robbie’s knees, but the warrior leapt upward and slammed his weapon into the immortal’s shoulder. The sound of laughter echoed in Lexi’s mind. Despite her misgivings, she was comfortable with the way telepathic voices carried, even when they weren’t intended for her, and eavesdropping had become a guilty pleasure when Arsen was in the room. The warrior never filtered his thoughts.
“How’s your training?” Marge asked.
“If I hear Phillipe chant focus, focus, focus one more time I’ll scream.”
“But it’s working?”
Lexi held up the water bottle and waggled it side to side. “I can do a few tricks.”
“Has he shown you how to shift yet?”
“I don’t want to try.”
“That claw didn’t appear accidentally, Lexi, and avoidance doesn’t make fear go away.”
“Phillipe says I’m experiencing the Chinese idea of Tao. That I shouldn’t try to shift by a specific date but when the moment seems right, when I think now is the time to do it.”
“Sort of like sex,” Marge said knowingly. “What about self-defense?”
Lexi pointed to a large bruise on her forearm. “I’m learning how to strike hard and incapacitate long enough to get away.”
Marge looked at the bruise in sympathy, adding that warriors had always been male, and effective use of power was how they survived.
“Did you ever think,” Lexi said, looking, now, at a distant point with eyes half closed, “that we’d be talking about fighting immortals instead of laughing about sneaker waves?”
“Does it bother you to talk this way?”
“It bothered me more to learn my energy signal is stronger. Phillipe says I have to be careful if I ever leave the compound.”
“Didn’t Christan answer your questions?”
“He left it to Phillipe to explain.”
Marge asked, “Where is Christan?”
“He went to Portland with Arsen. They’re meeting with Darius, something about the war they started in Florence.”
“Did you talk to him before he left?”
“No.” Christan had stayed with her every night until the fight occurred. Then Phillipe arrived, and after introducing him, Christan disappeared. When Lexi sat alone in the silent cabin, she wasn’t sure if it was an offer of privacy or an effort at avoidance, and she picked at the label on the water bottle until it came apart in shreds.
Marge was quiet for a moment. “Can I ask why you’re fighting?”
Lexi raised the water bottle, hiding her expression. “He’ll tell you I asked for help and he refused because he thinks I’m in danger if I learn too much.” Lexi looked at the older woman. “It’s the blood bond, it always is. He won’t tell me but I know there’s something wrong.”
“With him or with you?”
“You know what he’s become.”
“He was already powerful.”
“Christan demolished an entire building in Zurich. Three stories and in the middle of the block without damaging any surrounding buildings. He was never that powerful before the blood bond, and that’s why Arsen is so concerned. After what happened in Zurich, and then One trying to force them all back to Florence for some inquiry, it’s all a ruse so the Calata can get their hands on him and…” Lexi gestured with the water bottle. “Do something.”
“Is he in danger?”
“Probably.”
“Do you think you manipulated him?”
“I know I did by performing that blood bond, even though I thought I was saving him.”
“And that upsets you?”
“We haven’t been—together—since that last fight, when I asked him to train me and he refused.”
“It was important to you, wasn’t it? That he was the one doing the training?”
Lexi nodded. “And he walked out.”
“You don’t think he understood?”
“He understood.” Lexi’s smile was unsteady. “But he said no, and I forced his hand—Arsen said as much. He told me that’s why Phillipe is here because I threatened to leave and hide where they couldn’t find me.”
“Yes, you forced him by threatening to leave. But Christan agreed to let Phillipe do what he couldn’t. He loves you. He wants to protect you.”
Lexi drew in a ragged breath, wanting to press her palm beneath her collarbones when her lungs grew too tight.
“Do you love him?” Marge asked.
There was a sharp twist to Lexi’s heart. She breathed through the realization that it shouldn’t matter who trained her. But she’d wanted Christan to prove something. And he’d refused.
“Galaxy?” The immortal’s cool voice carried from across the room. “I am waiting. Please present yourself.”
“He’s so formal.” Lexi left the water bottle on the bench and walked to the training mat, facing the man who wasn’t Christan, teaching her what she had demanded to learn.
CHAPTER 4
Portland, Oregon
Hidden below the streets of Portland were the remnants of a scandalous past. A brick and timber labyrinth known as the Shanghai Tunnels snaked from Old China Town to both rivers—the Columbia and the Willamette—where men who were either too drunk or too drugged to resist ended up on ships and never returned. The gritty Port of Portland had once been the most dangerous port city in the world, filled with cheap labor and even cheaper lives. But the ocean was a cruel mistress and the docks were rough and hard, and a man took his chances when he went out at night.
Now, the Shanghai Tunnels drew tourists into their shadowy depths. Crude steps led into cluttered corridors where the lighting came from single yellow bulbs strung along the ceiling, chasing dark shadows into the dusty alcoves. Stories of bordellos and gin houses, illicit gambling and murder filled in the gaps since most tunnels were disappointing. There were, however, other tunnels that were not so disappointing, hidden beneath buildings controlled by the Calata member known as Three.
There was one such tunnel beneath Dar Distillery, an establishment popular for its craft whiskey and friendly proprietor. In the basement, a stairwell descended to a sub-level beneath the utility cables and sewer pipes, leading to a tunnel filled with dirt and discarded broken bricks. Christan crouched in the debris, disregarding the risk to his trousers and white shirt. The air was stale and full of damp and mold and something darker, and Christan brushed his fingers across the faint marks on the brick floor. Kicking. Dragging. Darius, standing beside him, was as aware of the marks as Christan—Darius had once been Three’s favorite general, but now he made craft whiskey and claimed he was retired. After the battles in Florence, no one believed him.
Arsen stood to the other side and held a large-beamed flashlight; the light was for the young boy who was leading the way.
“It’s… just ahead here.” The boy’s voice wavered as he dug a dirty tennis shoe into the rubble. “I’m sorry I bothered your meeting, Mr. Darius. I… thought you’d want to know.”
“You didn’t bother us.” Darius spoke gently. “And thank you for coming. We appreciate it.”
“Then can I go?”
The kid was wearing a blue shirt with a super hero on the front. His face was pale and there was a slight tremor in his lower lip.
Christan squatted down to the boy’s eye level. “What brought you to the tunnels instead of racing with that skateboard on this fine day?”
The boy gripped the board against his side. “It was a dare. My friends said I was too little and too scared so I had to prove ‘em wrong.”
“Courage.” Christan nodded. “I admire courage. I once faced down a dare.”
“What did you do?”
“A powerful man dared me to take him where I didn’t want to go.”
“And?” Suspicion glittered in those young eyes.
“I took him and dumped him in such a big mess he
never dared me again. You did well today.” Christan straightened and placed a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. “I wouldn’t hang out in the tunnels, though. It’s not the safest place these days.”
“Okay, yeah. No more hanging.” The boy kicked up the skateboard with a snick and Christan wondered why the kid even brought the board with him, then decided it was a security issue for the nine-year-old who used the skateboard as a primary means of transportation.
“Can we trust him not to talk?” Arsen asked as the boy disappeared. A small beam of light wobbled through the dark; the kid had brought his own flashlight when he faced down the dare.
“The boy’s father works for me,” Darius answered when the light faded. “His son knows not to talk to the local authorities. I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”
Darius led the way through a tunnel that documented centuries of construction, from rock to bricks, rough-hewn timbers to modern milled studs. They reached the section of tiny cubicles, found the one with a broken metal bed frame shoved against the wall, attesting to a past use as a bordello. Soot from countless oil lamps left black streaks on the walls, in a space that was little more than a stone cell. Remnants of a tattered curtain hung in the wood-framed opening. The air was thick with dust and the acid tang of animal droppings, and the faint, clean scent of soap overlaid with fresh flowers.
A girl with blond hair lay curled on her side. She wasn’t more than twenty-two.
There was no sign of physical trauma, not that there’d be evidence if a warrior used telekinetic power to induce an erratic heartbeat. The autopsy, if there was one, would conclude sudden death due to an undiagnosed heart condition. Well acquainted with the method of death, Christan knew the exact amount of energy needed to alter the fragile balance within a human heart and slow the muscle until it stopped. Any warrior with an average talent could do it and, in fact, over the long centuries Christan had done it so many times he’d lost count.
Arsen cleared his throat and asked, “Do we know who she is?”