Jack MacGunn: mascot for creative DUI prevention.
Considering the interference in the boater’s minds and Jack’s strange behavior, there was more going on than a case of reckless driving, and Cassie wished she knew what. Jack hadn’t reacted much to the gun, and the driver had seemed to pull it without consciously deciding to do so. She gripped the steering wheel and watched Jack’s eyes for warning that he would fly into a rage.
Jack leaned over the driver — who crouched, whining like a girl — and yanked the keychain apart. Sunlight glinted off the key as it flew in the air then fluttered down into the water. Jack wrenched the emergency oars out of the side compartments, mindless of the paraphernalia he sent flying, and shoved the oars into the laps of the cowering men.
Jack articulated each syllable, “Now get off my lake. And don’t come back.”
Though the first time seemed to happen in a flash, it appeared in slow motion when the man sitting across from the driver raised his arm to point the barrel of a gun at Cassie. Jack pivoted and stepped in front — point blank. At the same time the man squeezed the trigger, Jack slapped the gun aside with a wet crick sound that meant the man’s wrist had broken clean through. Cassie heard the bullet ricochet off the sandstone wall behind her and far to the right.
Jack made a growling sound, raw tenor with a feral edge that raked down her spine. He snapped the pistol in half like it was plastic, then stared the man down, flexing his hands alternately into fists then claws. Cassie held her breath, waiting for him to lose control, wondering what she should do, if there was anything she could do to stop an enraged berserker.
Jack, she nudged his mind, but he was still closed off. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He shook his head and slapped a hand over his eyes, probably trying to hide their iridescent glowing. His shoulders heaved in a visible struggle for control. Finally he turned, wearing a stricken, miserable expression.
She fished his ski out of the water while Jack leaped back across, ripped off the ski vest, and shoved the boat in gear. He tried to wave her away, but she knelt at his side and ignored his seething as she healed the lacerations on his hands. At least her abilities proved useful, limited though they may be.
She kept her thoughts quiet so Jack wouldn’t think she needed comforting. She didn’t. She’d only worried he would do something highly illegal, like commit aggravated murder; he did vaguely illegal deeds constantly. Just now Jack had staved off his berserker rage, control she didn’t know he possessed.
What was the matter with those people? Bad enough to be drunk at dawn, but the chaotic noise in their heads? And the silencers on their guns — not typical equipment for civilians. Once Jack calmed down she’d fish for intel. He seemed to know something.
She’d seen him like this before; jaw clenched, muscles tensed, eyes narrowed and all expression wiped from his face. It meant he struggled to douse his anger so he could think, the berserker battling the soldier for dominance inside his head.
Jack vented his frustration on his fancy boat, which was up to the task. He shot around the channel like he auditioned for a James Bond movie. He had worked as a stuntman before, so he knew his business even though it felt risky. They whipped passed Gunsight Butte, and Cassie was about to ask him to drive back to camp for breakfast when his luck ran out.
Chapter 2
“Mind if I stare at you close up instead of from across the room?”
—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line
Hard-core, reckless Jack never got caught, never got pulled over — until now. Cassie should have warned him the rangers at Lake Powell were à la Barney Fife. If Jack’s temper hadn’t still been in precarious balance, Cassie would have teased him without mercy.
She bit back a smile as Jack acted respectful to a shrimpy officer half his size, who seemed near orgasmic for catching a hot rod boat going “excess speeds which compromise the safety of boaters.” Jack had been doing seventy-seven miles per hour, but there was no enforceable speed limit at Lake Powell. Only two other boats occupied the water, one being the ranger tug and the other a yacht-style cruiser on the opposite side of the channel. Obviously the ranger was hard-up for excitement.
Jack rubbed the side of his nose and shifted his feet. “Uh, speed limit, mate? I don’ think I can break a speed limit that doesn’t exist.” His tone of voice was just barely on this side of polite and his brogue grew heavier; he’d already been riled by the encounter with the drunken zombie-like boaters.
And then they debated over the decibel output of his custom-built engine and if it met regulations, if his boat registered in California passed Arizona inspection for zebra mussels, and whether he had a working fire extinguisher on board and as many life vests as passengers. The latter was plain stupid, as Barney Fife had to have noticed the pair of ski vests on the back bench. The man wanted to nail Jack for something and grew desperate. Cassie hoped Jack didn’t fold the man into a shape that would fit inside the glove box.
A deputy climbed out of the cabin onto the deck. Cassie took one look at the man and freaked out. A breathtaking infusion of rage and power arrested her entire being. She couldn’t explain it — she trembled with unholy desire to rip the man’s throat out. Dark, electric heat coursed through her veins, churning an internal storm. Without reason she grew even stronger — bones hardening, muscles tensing, instincts sharpening.
It came with an attitude to match. She wanted nothing more than to decimate the man standing silently on the deck, arms crossed over his beefy chest. She wanted to rip his ribs apart one by one and crush them before his eyes. She would stand over his carcass and laugh herself insane as she conjured lightning to immolate the unworthy remains.
Her breath heaved, her vision narrowed to a focused tunnel where she perceived in painstaking detail. A predator evaluating its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Her spine twitched with anticipation, her fingers clenched, aching for the moment she would crush his throat —
Cassie. Jack stroked her mind, the sensation like the gentle rasp of his fingertips.
Her brain short-circuited, then rebooted. What?
Stay cool, lass. He purred low and soothing, but she sensed his worry.
I want to kill that man, Jack. What’s happening to me?
Dunno, Cass, but you’re scaring me. Sit down. Let me handle this. And do not eliminate the ranger.
His mind sealed shut and she saw him behaving minimally, every movement and word calculated and controlled. He was in soldier mode. It meant the situation verged on chaos and he was reacting with that false calm. She sat and forced herself to do the same.
What just happened? I admit I’m grouchy, but not murderous. Not usually.
Jack didn’t answer, his soldier façade strictly in place. Something was definitely wrong.
But not a clue from Jack.
Two minutes of deliberate breathing, and she nearly doused the urge to do bodily harm. Cassie wished she or Jack had the ability to mindwipe Twitchy Barney and his creepy sidekick and send them on their way with blank stares. “Jedi mindtricks,” as Jack dubbed them, would be handy right now. Barney was seriously annoying, and the deputy — the one she wanted to murder — eyed Cassie shamelessly. Primitive, crude thoughts wafted from his head, appraisal and basic lust. She’d stared him down with bloodthirsty malice, and it turned him on. Gross.
She could tell Jack had about five seconds of good humor left. Four … three …
Both boats rocked as Jack leaned over and grabbed Barney by the collar, then the deputy with the roaming eyeballs. Barney went into overdrive, blinking and wincing in tandem. She decided Jack’s method of persuasion was as effective as the mindwipe if less subtle. For the second time that morning, Jack’s opponents could only wet their pants in response. Absurd, the dark spots on the front of their geeky khaki shorts. She didn’t get it.
Jack was fearsome, sure, but was he really that frightening?
Jack shook the men loose and they stumbled back on the deck. Jack turned to face her, his eyes a hyper shade of neon green that practically shot sparks, and at once, she got it. He’d never made that face at her, but seeing the leftovers made her spine tingle and hair stand on end. His nostrils flared, veins in his forehead bulged, and his eyebrows lowered in an expression that contorted his handsome features into a warlike mask. With the muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched, he exuded menace, volatile like a charging bull. It was a death wish to mess with him.
Jack started the engine and sped away before the rangers recovered themselves, and Cassie burned with curiosity. Something important had just happened, but he still shielded his thoughts from her. All she could read from him was a blank wall with a stark red CLASSIFIED stamped across. Damned military training again.
She hated being in the dark. Cassie rose and walked back to sit in the seat across from the captain’s chair. She studied Jack, trying to figure him out. She could feel it — something was off, something beyond the hassle of being stopped by the rangers, and the weird incident with the boaters couldn’t be a coincidence.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Jack leaned into the aisle, grasped the side of her neck with one tense, heated hand, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then once more, gently, teasing her with a wicked but tender roll of his lips. Ever so lightly he traced across her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and a dozen alarms went off all over her body. His kaleidoscope hazel eyes flashed with that iridescent glow-in-the-dark energy she’d noticed earlier when his anger flared. Without a word he leaned back and continued driving, watching the channel for traffic.
The shock wore off, but her heart still kicked in a frenzied rhythm. She could swear there was a magnetic heat wave in the forty-four inches of space between their seats. Jack seemed oblivious to the flash of heat, but it consumed her, burning hottest at the top of her head, her fingertips, and a few places she didn’t dare scrutinize. Cassie couldn’t resist the urge to press a finger to her lips — on fire! — and her pulse throbbed there. For a weak moment, she wondered if she would pass out, over one brief kiss. She’d never live it down.
A few minutes later she dared to ask, Care to explain that one, Jack?
No.
She stared at the stubborn line of his jaw, the tingling massaged sensation still fresh on her skin from the scrape of his whiskers. She would never look at his morning scruff again without conjuring the memory.
He took his phone from the glove box and punched a key, speed dial two for Kyros Vassalos, Jack’s boss. Cassie had grown up at Network-One, Kyros’ most elite academy for extra-sentient children; being Kyros’ ninth-great-granddaughter had qualified her when her talent fell short. He would be none too pleased she and Jack hadn’t managed to stay out of trouble for the three days he’d planned to spend with his wife, Lyssa, for their anniversary.
Jack’s conversation was brief and laced with military lingo she didn’t understand, like “SITREP” and “SNAFU” and “MO” and strings of numbers she assumed were coordinates.
Jack hung up and cursed, dragging a hand through his already wild hair.
“What gives?”
His nostrils flared again. “Our vacation just came to an end, darlin’.”
“Wha — Why? Jack, that’s — ”
“I just saw a ghost, Cass.”
That stumped her. She waited for him to explain. He didn’t.
“A ghost, as in … someone you thought was dead, but isn’t after all?”
“Smart lass.”
“Okay … Not Merodach, right? I mean, we’re all sure he’s — ”
“Merodach is oh-so-dead.”
Cassie sighed in relief. It was one thing for their vacation to turn into a Network operation, but facing Kyros’ arch-nemesis with one berserker and a half-rate healer? Suicide.
Jack swerved around a mile-marker buoy, missing it by inches. “Besides, if that was Merodach, you would’ve felt his presence a mile away. It usually made me retch.”
“And did you feel nauseated just now?”
“Only colossally pissed. You felt it too.”
“Tell me, Jack.”
“No. I have to run some patrols, and then we’re going home.”
“It has something to do with those crazy boaters, right? What was wrong with them? You can tr — ”
“No, Cassie.” He said it as a stern parent would, or the owner of a naughty dog.
Irritation reared like an itch, magnifying years’ worth of frustration in Jack’s refusal — a reminder that the Network’s inner circle would always keep her on the outskirts. “I’m not asking for classified information, I’d just — ”
“No!” His vehemence startled her. Tension knotted the muscles in his arms and his gaze darted across the horizon, restless. Weird. She didn’t like seeing Jack spooked.
“Which one is it, Barney or Eyeballs?”
“Eyeballs.”
“He was a creep.”
“You have no idea.”
Minutes later she added, “You’ll probably get a raise, Jack, for uncovering the latest evil plot. Or at least a real vacation?” She knew the situation was serious, because he didn’t even crack a smile.
Chapter 3
“Excuse me? Uh — sorry.
You’re just so gorgeous you made me forget my pick-up line.”
—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line
Jack quit fiddling with the stereo knobs and scanned the twilit highway. He wasn’t going to fidget. He would not wag his knee back and forth or drum on the steering wheel. Flexing his glutes didn’t count, because without a distraction the top of his head would blow off.
What was he supposed to do, with Cassie’s head cradled in his lap and her hands twined around his thigh? Did she think he was her personal teddy bear? He tried not to think about her pouty lips resting over what was not a pillow …
What he hadn’t told Kyros over the phone: he was losing control. And the cause of his insanity: Cassiopeia Noyon. That boat driver trying to wreck into her — bad enough. But a gun aimed at her head? Three decades of careful discipline had come undone in one panicked moment. He’d nearly gone berserk — lucky he’d ripped apart beer cans instead of spinal cords. It had been close, had hung in the balance, until her voice cut through the red haze in his fevered brain.
It railed against every instinct to turn tail and run away when a resurrected psychopathic terrorist patrolled Lake Powell disguised as a park ranger. And what about the brainwashed drunken boaters and their half-assed assassination attempts? What was the point? With Kyros as the mastermind and Jack only the sidekick, when ordered to stand down, he did. True, the prime objective was guard duty. Check. He had to quit worrying about it or go out of his mind.
A wooden Utah-shaped sign announced he had left Arizona. Jack glanced in the rearview mirror and bid farewell to his weekend at the lake — towering sandstone hills painted crimson in the sunset offset by the stark cerulean of the water. The duo-chromatic desert landscape was a boon for his eyes; he saw only primary colors and gradations of light.
Stuck on the sparse desert highway, seven hours to go, with oblivious Cassie hammering away at his self-control. No place to put his right arm but to drape it along her side. His fingers toyed with a tattered belt loop on her cutoff shorts. Without permission his fingers traveled to graze the soft skin of her thigh as his arm rested along her flank. The contact made her body temperature rise to match his, and the spicy perfume of pheromones clouded the air from the glands inside her thighs near her groin …
Still sound asleep.
Jack cursed and gripped the steering wheel. He counted the yellow lines on the road. He shouldn’t have kissed her today, a foolish impulse, because now
he knew what she tasted like, and he wanted more. Kyros trusted him with Cassie, one of only two known extra-sentient females in existence.
The adorable little tyrant had stolen his heart fifteen years ago, but he quit feeling like a big brother when her looks changed from coltish to woman. He’d quit wrestling her on the floor and carrying her on his shoulders, for one thing. Now she had the looks of a goddess and a medical degree, and he was still Jack the berserker — a mouth-breathing gorilla, in her estimation. She considered herself slumming, here with him.
At age twenty-one she wasn’t jailbait anymore, but he did have seventeen years on her. Of course, Kyros was almost three centuries older than his wife. They both looked no more than twenty-five. No doubt Jack was also an immortal extra-sentient, frozen in his twenty-something body. Too early to tell for Cassie. He would take her either way. But she didn’t seem to want him in the first place, so it didn’t matter.
Not to mention the issue of her being the ninth-great-granddaughter of the bloody freaking most powerful extra-sentient in the world, Kyros Vassalos. The three-centuries-old Greek warrior-slash-physicist was the founder of the Network, essentially a sanctuary for superheroes — or freaks. X-Men for nerds, without the vinyl uniforms.
Kyros could alter electromagnetism, but he played second fiddle to his wife Lyssa, whose powers were colossal but unstable. She’d killed the thousand-year-old supervillain, Merodach, by stealing Kyros’ incendiary power and detonating a molecular electromagnetic anti-matter bomb operated solely by her mind. Word had it, all that remained of the evil extra-sentient was a film of pink goo … which is why Jack would be downright stupid to mess with Cassie when she had the King and Queen of Freaky Magic as guard dogs.
Yet all Jack could think about was Cassie, a tribute to the male fantasy, lounging in what she didn’t know looked like a post-coital pose. That white retro one-piece swimsuit she wore was supposedly in protest of … whatever. It didn’t work if she meant to be less provocative. It turned translucent when wet, for starters. The memory of her bending over to find his ski vest danced in his vision, replaying over and over in slow motion. She was like a naughty fifties pinup girl.
The Valkyrie's Guardian Page 2