by JL Madore
“Ronnie, this is my lovely wife, Austin.” Zander caught an overweight chocolate lab as it jumped up against his chest. The dog laved him with wild kisses.
Austin frowned. “Zander, stop letting him do that. “Down, Stetson. Heel” She pointed to the marble tile at her foot and the dog shuffled to sit next to her leg.
She bent down and patted his head, and then held her hand straight out. “Hi Ronnie, and welcome.”
Zander had mentioned in the truck that his wife was blind. She wondered if she was totally blind or legally blind? It sucked either way but was something Ronnie might have to come to terms with herself one day.
“Danel,” Austin said, turning to where he stood brooding at the back of the pack. “I’m relieved you’re safe. We were all about losin’ our minds with you AWOL.”
Danel stood, straight-backed against the closed door. She could tell by his face he didn’t remember any of this. It probably didn’t help that everyone was staring at him.
Ronnie stroked the dog’s ear as he rubbed her thigh and nearly pushed her over. “It’s kind of you to extend a welcome, Austin, but like I told your husband, unnecessary. My father will descend as soon as he’s able. There’s no need for you to be put out like this.”
“Nonsense. American girls need to stick together up here in the cold, Canadian winter. Ain’t nothing that can’t be fixed with enough sweet tea and southern charm.”
Ronnie smiled. “American by birth . . .”
“And southern by the grace of God.” Austin’s hazel eyes lit up with her smile. “It’ll be good to have a girlfriend to swap stories with. And don’t worry, Bo and Kyrian have the kitchen well-stocked, there’s cut wood stacked at each of the fireplaces, and aside from a few rooms not having furniture yet, this place is rarin’ to go.”
Ronnie glanced around the interior. “It’s a beautiful home.”
“It will be.” She leaned back and winced. “Okay, boys, how about we take a load off. My back is killin’ me and I’m near dead on my feet.”
With a delicate grace she never expected from a soldier of his size, Zander caught her behind the knees and lifted her into his arms. “Where would you like to relax—the great room?”
She cupped his jaw and smiled. “That will be fine, thank you, angelman.”
The two of them seemed to stiffen but maybe that was just her imagination. Ronnie picked up one of her two duffle bags and followed. She’d packed in a hurry, her meds and syringes in the one she carried, her clothes and personal items in the one Danel had.
She unzipped the bag and took out the packages inside. “Can I get this put into the fridge and these into the freezer? It’s very important.”
“Done deal,” the Viking said. He joined them, carrying Sam and Dean’s cage, and set them on what looked like an antique table. “I’m headed that way. Are these guys okay in here?”
Ronnie looked at her hosts to see if they might object. “My pet rats,” she offered, for Austin’s sake. “Sam and Dean.”
Austin smiled. “A Supernatural fan?”
“The biggest. You?”
Austin laughed. “You have no idea.”
Ronnie made a mental note to find a padded tablecloth or blanket to put under the cage the first chance she got.
“Hey, D,” the massive blond said when his hands were free. “Glad to have you safe and sound, my man.”
Danel looked overwhelmed. She had a sense that he was about to lose his cool. “If it’s not too much trouble, could someone show me to my room? I need to lie down for a bit.”
“I’ll take you.” Kyrian pointed the way to the open staircase on the left. “Austin, you lie down, sweetheart. D, come up and I’ll give you the tour, my brother.”
“I doubt it will spark anything. None of this feels familiar.”
“It wouldn’t. You’ve never been here. Once you’re settled, I’ll take you over to the clinic across the track. You’ve been there, and Doc Drina will want to have a look at you. Then, I’ll take you to your old place and you can grab a few things of your own.”
Danel’s brain was swimming in one Olympic-sized pool of mindfuck. These people, this life; nothing rang a bell. Watchers of the Gray? What did that mean? He wished he was back at the warehouse loft with Ronnie, obliviously ignorant of any of this. “What’s with the full-on body art—’cause these tats are obsessive. Kind of cultish, don’t you think?”
Kyrian tipped his head from side to side, as if considering what, or how much to spill. He slowed their ascent, allowing Ronnie to get ahead. “The ink isn’t our choice. It comes with our position as protectors. It’s called a Watcher’s Mark. And no, not a cult. We’re a brotherhood—a garrison of soldiers fighting for the safety of humankind.”
“Well, that’s not bizarre at all.”
“And Ronnie doesn’t see our Marks or my wings, so it’s best if you don’t talk about it. She’ll think you’re crazy.”
Aren’t I? “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Don’t sweat it, D,” the guy said as they reached the second-floor landing. “It’ll come back to you, I swear. Maybe your cranium gave you a tap-out, so you can catch your breath. Take the win, my friend. Oh, and here. This is yours.”
Danel accepted the strange dagger Kyrian handed him. Wicked sharp, it looked like it would cut through steel or bone. The center chamber held a brilliant blue liquid which sloshed back and forth as he tipped his hand.
“Sheath that.” Kyrian pointed to a slot in his vest. “It’s even sharper than it looks, so be sure you want to do critical damage if you draw it on someone.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
Kyrian shrugged. “Shit happens. Best to be prepared.”
They headed down the hall, past a long line of Renaissance artwork. Hung in gilded gold frames, with gallery lighting to highlight the subject matter, he wondered how much those pieces would be worth. Ten, eleven, there were twelve down this hall and the opposite hall looked the same. The tally must be close to a million, if not more.
“Are you guys art thieves?”
Kyrian laughed. When he shook his head, his golden hair waved and then fell back into place perfectly, like it was trained to do so. “I promise, we’re the good guys.”
“Is the artwork yours?” Of the men he’d met at the loft, Kyrian seemed to be the cultured one. He wore his leather weapons vest over a dress shirt and designer jeans, his boots and lambskin jacket straight out of a GQ magazine.
“Zander is the collector of the group—has been for more years that you could imagine.”
The mention of Zander brought Danel’s hackles up. There was something about that guy—something that rubbed him raw. “Zander and I don’t get along, do we?”
Kyrian scrubbed a hand over his smile. “Is that a memory or a gut-shot?”
“A feeling . . . also I’ve never been to his house, and every time I look at him, I want to put my fist through his face.”
Kyrian tipped his head back and laughed. “See, you’re in there. You’ll be back to your old self before you know it. For now, enjoy the clean slate. The complications of our life will heap upon you soon enough. Take the staycation and enjoy.”
Kyrian stopped and opened a door to his right. “Ronnie, you’re in here and Danel, you’re across the hall. Since no one’s moved in yet, you have the house to yourselves. Call if you need anything. Otherwise, stay inside and we’ll be back once your father lands.”
Kyrian handed him a new phone and squeezed his shoulder. “Glad to have you back, my brother. We were crazy worried. Even Zander . . . though he’ll deny it. Look, take your time and I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Left to themselves, Ronnie grabbed a sports drink from her bag and headed to bed. She tipped the bottle back and then set it on the bedside table. She clicked the lamp on and dropped onto the mattress. “Can you turn off the light, please?”
“Headache?” He flicked the switch for the overhead fixture and set the bag he
carried next to the other. Left unzipped, he couldn’t quite grasp all the bottles, syringes, and fluids inside. “What’s got a hold of you, Ronnie? Can I help?”
She set her glasses at the base of the lamp, pulled the bedspread over herself and frowned. “That’s not your job or your business, is it?”
“You’re a friend—the only friend I have—and I thought it might be nice to talk about someone other than me for once.”
“I’d rather talk about you.”
He closed the door and sat on the end of the bed. He found her feet under the blanket and squeezed. “It’s obvious it’s serious. You have more medicine than I’ve ever seen, you’re frail and tire easily, and considering that you work nights, have ten pairs of sunglasses on your hall table, and squint under overhead lights, I assume you’re photosensitive.”
“You’re a detective now, are you?”
The fact that she didn’t answer him didn’t go unnoticed but who was he to force a confession. “Anyway, if there’s anything I can do to help, or that you need, let me know.”
She closed her eyes. “There’s not . . . but thanks.”
Gregor ran a gnarled finger over the dozens of blades and bolts laid out for his children to view. His youngest wife had done a beautiful job, setting the cache on a black velvet alter, dimly lit to allow the candle flame to highlight all those seductive points and bleeding edges. Let his people marvel. Let them get a feel the arcane power their crafting provided. Let these weapons plant the seeds of confidence—inspire the cautious to boldness—to the greatness that lay within their grasp.
The Watchers were immortal no more.
These weapons killed their keepers—the brilliance of a true Darkworld pioneer.
“Sire.” An attendant stepped around the privacy screen at the back of the tables. “Daughter of Shedim Master Stryker is here and asks for a moment of your time.”
He missed Stryker, though his illegitimate daughter, Thrash, possessed the beautifully malicious instincts of her sire, wrapped up in the sadistic cynicism of her mother.
Quite a potent gene pool combination.
“Did she forget ssssomething?”
The male shook his head. “No. It’ssss the other daughter. The one who mated the Greek Watcher.”
Interesting. Cassiane dared to enter his home after betraying everything Stryker stood for and whoring herself for a filthy Watcher? He would slaughter any one of his daughters if they did the same. He might have to do Stryker the honor in his stead . . . since the male wasn’t able to do it himself.
“Show her in.”
Gregor shuffled to the center of the weapon’s display and waited until the girl and her guardian joined him. He recognized the thickly muscled male at her side. Stalker—was his Hunter name, if memory served. That male often accompanied Stryker during summit talks at the Prince of Hell’s table.
“Cassssiane. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The mousey ginger strode in, straight-backed and with more confidence than the last time he’d seen her—more confidence than she should possess, considering her surroundings.
She eyed the table of weapons, her expression tight as she dipped her chin in polite reverence. “I’m sorry to intrude, Sire, but I thought you might be interested in a venture I’ve entered into with the Watchers.”
“A venture?” He laughed, the sound breathy and winded. “Issss that what you call opening your thighssss for the enemy? How proper of you.”
Stalker stiffened and reached into his empty weapon’s belt.
Cassiane raised a hand. “It’s all right, Dougal. I am not ashamed that I mated Kyrian.” She licked her lips and smiled. “It gives me a unique perspective to learn the workings of what Nephilim do, and create opportunities to improve the standard of living for Darkworlders. The DonorWatch program is one such example. Within weeks, the Shedim feeding needs will be met and we’ll expand to other organ-consuming races.”
“Why would that interesssst me?”
“Because it’s an example of how they will compromise in order to support the accords while improving our situations. There are no true victors in war. Lives are lost on both sides.”
“Not necessarily.” He motioned Duxel out of the shadows. His son was magnificent, his second phase body fearsome.
Cassiane and Stalker were right to step back. If they knew what was good for them, they’d run.
“I don’t believe either of you met my sssson Duxel in his Serpentine phase but isn’t he magnificent as Leviathan?”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Stalker hissed. “This is a direct violation of the Darkworld accords. It’s a declaration of war upon your entire species.”
Gregor’s ophidian hair undulated in delight, scenting the sudden fear in the dank air. “The declaration of war came with the sssslaughter of my sssson. Duxel was killed while abiding all lawssss, ssssimply because a Watcher wanted him dead.”
Cassiane shook her head. “I can’t believe that. Kyrian and his brothers wouldn’t risk all-out war during a time of rebellion and uprising. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Your sympathizing isn’t welcome here, female. Duxel, my sssson, tell our guessst who killed you?”
His boy turned his obsidian gaze on the stammering female. “It was the Persian—Danel—Watcher of the Gray. I was wrongly slain and will exact my right for vengeance.”
Gregor nodded and raised his hand. His Royal Guard seized the two and secured them without effort. The female’s citrine eyes flashed as her mouth was gagged and her hands bound. “Apologies. You can’t race home to sssspeak of our planssss. Besides, I owe your father a debt which needs to be repaid.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Danel stared at the screen of Ronnie’s laptop, a heavy sadness pressing hard on his chest. She was dying. He hadn’t meant to pry but, it seemed, when faced with a mystery, he had a compulsive need to research and gather all facts. He added that characteristic to the short list of things he knew about himself and sighed. How could a woman, so full of piss and vinegar, have a countdown ticking?
Gathering the pill bottles he’d taken from her bag, he quietly set them all back the way he’d found them—exactly the way he’d found them. He seemed to also possess an uncanny ability to recall details.
Like photographic, or eidetic memory, or something.
Once everything was in place, he cleared the search history on her computer and tucked it back into the duffle filled with her clothes. Cystinosis: a rare, multisystem genetic disorder characterized by the accumulation of an amino acid—cystine—in tissues and organs of the body, destroying the kidneys, eyes, muscles, liver, pancreas, and brain.
That sucked ass.
It also explained why she was as tiny as a faerie and lived in a warehouse with no windows. One of the earliest onsets of the disease was cystine crystals accumulating in the cornea of the eyes, causing photophobia and eventually, blindness.
He wondered how she’d thrive—an independent woman living sightless in Toronto? Maybe he should talk to Austin.
Familiarity flickered, but his memories remained locked.
A light knock on the door startled him. He ensured her belongings appeared exactly as she’d left them, then headed out of Ronnie’s room.
Her words from that morning rang in his head.
Shit happens. If you walk away from it and are graced with another day on this earth, you’re doing good.
Yeah, he supposed him forgetting his life for a bit didn’t compare to what she faced every day.
He met Kyrian in the hall and pointed for them to move away from the door. His stride stretched out, long and strong, his body right and tight. No aftereffects of his SUV run over. No bruises or sore spots that needed tending.
He was vital strength personified. Ronnie wasn’t.
She had every right to handle things her own way, but damn, it gutted him to think that she was alone in her suffering. In her situation, he’d be lucky to pull up his big-boy pants and handl
e things half as well.
“You okay?” Kyrian asked, as they reached the top of the sweeping staircase.
Sharing Ronnie’s condition screamed of betrayal—even though he’d found out by spying. “Yeah. All good. Where are we headed?”
“To the clinic. Doc Drina wants a look at your noggin.”
The idea of Ronnie alone in a strange house stalled out his decent. “Maybe I should stay here . . .”
Kyrian continued down the steps, so he followed. “Don’t worry. Seth and Phoenix are in the kitchen and Austin will check in on her. Your girl is good.”
His girl? His friend, definitely. His responsibility . . . she’d argue that, but it felt that way to him. But she wasn’t his. He met her two days ago. Well, technically, a year ago, but he only remembered the last two days.
When they hit the hardwood on the main floor, they headed for the foyer and pulled on their boots. Kyrian grabbed their coats off the hooks and tossed his over.
“Why do I dress like a Netflix vampire hunter? I look ridiculous in this thing.”
Kyrian laughed. “You love that jacket. It allows you to carry weapons without getting eyeballed by human law enforcement at every turn. We patrol the streets at night and your weapon of choice is a sawed-off. Hard to conceal a shotgun with a bomber jacket on.”
“My weapon of choice is a shotgun? What am I supposed to do with that? Who the hell are you people?”
“Not Hell, remember, I told you, we’re the good guys.”
Danel mulled that over and hunkered down to face the cold. Kyrian opened the front hall closet doors. Or what he thought were the closet doors, ’cause he stepped inside and headed down a flight of stairs.
“Secret tunnel? How Sherlock Holmes of you.”
Kyrian chuckled. “The escape route offers no sightlines annnnd we avoid the cold. This tunnel connects the clinic, the horse arena, the parking garage, and two different ways to disappear without a trace. Zander commissioned it to make Austin’s life easier and safer.”
Well, the guy certainly seemed to be head over heels for his bride. “So, why do I hate Zander so much? ’Cause man, it’s powerful. It’s the strongest emotion I have.”