by Jade Kerrion
“They’re dead.”
She would rather not know how. “Okay.”
Wimp. Jessica sneered, but the insult lacked conviction. The smile on her face widened when Dum walked into the room with a pint of chocolate chip ice cream and two large spoons.
He arched an eyebrow, his only greeting for his sister, handed over the ice cream and spoons, and left the room.
“He’s going to get another spoon,” Jessica explained. She flipped open the cover and dug enthusiastically into the ice cream.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” Dee said dryly. “I wouldn’t know what he was doing otherwise. Does he ever hesitate when he talks to you mind to mind?”
“No, of course not. It’s just a regular conversation like I have with others.”
Dee sighed. “He still doesn’t speak.”
“He will when he’s ready.” Jessica did not seem concerned, but then again, she had alternative communication routes with Dum. Dee did not.
Since talking about her brother made her miserable, Dee changed the topic. “Zara says Danyael is going to be all right.”
“I should hope so, considering the frantic scramble and extraordinary efforts that went into saving his life. Marcia’s wiped out from keeping him alive until the doctors could get enough blood into him so that he could keep himself alive.”
“Did they get his blood back into him?” Dee asked.
“No, they used donated blood that they keep in stock here. They never found his blood.”
“What?”
“I heard Xin say that the cooler of Danyael’s blood was never recovered.”
Dee’s brow furrowed. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Well, it depends on what you do with the blood. One transfusion of Danyael’s blood isn’t going to do anything to anyone. It would be a blood transfusion just like any other. The only problem is that science is accelerating all around us. No one knows if a single-dose of a non-live blood transfusion can be engineered to be as life-changing as a constant infusion of a live blood transfusion.”
“Seth seemed to think he could do something meaningful with it.”
“Yeah, and it is what worries the council. All in all, everyone would feel happier if Danyael’s blood was back in Danyael.”
“Is the council out looking for the cooler?”
“Yes, of course. They’ve even assigned a case number to it.”
“What does that mean?”
Jessica shrugged. “It means that Alex really wants to track it down. The case will stay open until the council figures out what happened to the cooler.”
“It’s not safe, is it?” Dee asked, uncertain as to whether she was referring to the cooler or to Danyael.
“Very little about Danyael is safe.” Jessica’s matter-of-fact statement did not offer peace of mind. “But then again, Danyael is a problem that is too large for any one of us to solve. It’s more like a team effort, and even on the best days, it feels like we take one step forward and slide two steps back.”
“I think Danyael did most of the forward steps on his own.”
Jessica smiled. “Those who know him best know that for a fact.” She shook her long blond hair back as Dum returned to her room with another spoon. She held out the carton of ice cream. “So, are you all set for your concert tonight?”
The dance party was an extravaganza that had to be seen to be believed. The Verizon Center had been transformed into a standing-room-only dance club. A few seats were scattered around the edges of the stadium, but the reports that filtered back to Dee indicated that those seats were ignored. It was hard to sit when the music compelled you to dance and celebrate.
She knew that Lucien Winter was in a private booth, and on the other side of the stadium, Jason Rakehell and the leaders of Purest Humanity occupied another booth, but as for everyone else—
Dee peeked out from behind the curtains that surrounded the soundstage. Wide grins greeted her. Jessica and several enforcers from the Mutant Affairs Council clustered around the soundstage. Dee also caught a glimpse of her friends from Anacostia, recognizable only by their gang colors. In every other way, they blended into the dancing, celebrating mass of humanity.
The turnout, as Clarissa reported to her, was massive. The tickets had sold out before the doors opened, and apparently, there was an impromptu dance party happening in the streets as well. “It’s amazing.” Clarissa beamed. “I never thought I would see clones and in vitros dancing alongside pro-humanists, but it’s happening everywhere your brother’s music touches.”
“And all he’s doing is spinning music,” Dee said as the track switched to another lively beat.
“Magic. He’s spinning magic.”
Perhaps he was. Dee smiled, watching her brother bop along to the music, quite oblivious to the crowd of twenty thousand dancing along with him. Dum’s attention was entirely focused on Jessica, who danced, quite badly, in front of the stage. His brown eyes glowed with adoration. Idiot, she chuckled, but the word was affectionate. I wish you could have seen this, Mom and Dad. He’d make you so proud.
“Quite a show,” Zara’s voice said from behind her.
Dee spun around and stared into Zara’s amused violet gaze for a moment before noticing Danyael in the wheelchair with Laura seated on his lap. “Oh, my God,” she squealed, throwing her arms around Danyael’s neck and hugging him until Laura, caught in between them, squirmed and pushed Dee away with an irritated huff.
Dee stepped back and studied Danyael carefully. He looked pale and tired, but his dark eyes were alert. “Are you okay?”
Danyael nodded. “The doctors didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to stand for more than a few minutes at a time, but I didn’t want to miss the concert, so we struck a compromise. Thank you. I owe you my life.”
Dee flushed. “Seth would never have gotten to you, if not for Dum and me.”
“He would have found a way, regardless.” Danyael’s gaze shifted toward Dum, a clear indication that the particular topic of conversation was over. “Your brother is amazing.”
“You’re not doing any of it, are you?” she asked, waving her hand over the crowd.
Danyael shook his head. “No, it’s all him.”
The music went on and on, a tiny ripple of happiness and joy that surged from the soundstage and carried across the entire auditorium, expanding as it flowed in all directions. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, Dum’s music subtly and irresistibly altered the landscape of human-derivative relations.
Cynics grumbled and said that the decades-long troubled relationship would revert to the status quo the following day. They were wrong. The relationship did not immediately change for the better, but from that day forth, all remembered the magnificent dance party in the troubled heart of Washington D.C. and recalled that for a time, mutants, clones, in vitros, and humans had celebrated life alongside each other.
Just then though, the future did not matter. Dum’s music reigned dominant, a celebration of life and love, of joy and hope that inspired feet to dance and hearts to sing. Dee glanced back over her shoulder and saw Zara lean down to whisper something in Danyael’s ear. A rare smile, dazzling in its unchecked beauty, curved Danyael’s lips. He reached out and touched her cheek, a gesture that was almost a caress. In that moment, Zara, who was also smiling, did not seem like a cynical, hardened assassin, and Danyael was not an emotionally distant alpha empath. With Laura in between them, they looked like precisely what they were, a family.
Grinning to herself, Dee returned her attention to the soundstage as Dum wrapped up the third and final round of songs. The last piece, a simple instrumental, began with the haunting melody of a harp but swelled in complexity and beauty as the flute, violin, and oboe layered upon the lonely tune.
Dee pressed her lips together and blinked the tears from her eyes. Her chest ached, throbbing as the music seared her soul. The wordless song pleaded for kindness even as it offered compassion and love.
; “Who composed that music?” Zara asked, quiet awe in her voice. “It’s beautiful.”
Danyael shook his head. His eyes narrowed with confusion, as if he vaguely recognized the tune, but could not place it. “I…don’t know.”
Jessica’s voice whispered through Dee’s mind. It’s Danyael’s song. It’s the music Dum hears when Danyael uses his empathic powers to heal. Her mental voice caught on the edge of a sniffle. Damn it, there’s not a dry eye in the stadium.
Dee chuckled, the sound trapped between a laugh and a sob. Dum’s tribute to Danyael was the most amazing piece of music she had ever heard.
When the flawless harmonics of the harp faded away, the applause of the crowd rocked the stadium. The roar was deafening, but it subsided gradually when Dum held up his hand. Just as music had rippled from the soundstage, so did silence until the auditorium was utterly quiet.
Dum turned his head to meet Dee’s gaze. He grinned, waving at her to make sure he had her attention, and then he leaned forward into the live microphone. “Thank you, Dee.”
Dee clasped her hands over her mouth. Tears streamed from her eyes.
The crowd cheered with delight.
Dum turned back to the audience. He threw both arms up into the air and grinned. “Thank you.”
THE END
* * *
Continue your adventures in the world of the DOUBLE HELIX with CARNIVAL TRICKS.
* * *
Enjoy this excerpt from Carnival Tricks!
Carnival Tricks
Double Helix Case Files
The wooden, narrow-eyed door guardian wore a permanent open-mouthed scowl hovering on the verge of a war cry. A garish array of feathers spread over the headpiece perched on his furrowed brow.
Fortunately, no one who stared up at his head, mounted over the door, was terrified of him.
Under the frightful Zulu mask, a bored bouncer routinely checked IDs and waved customers into Zanzi-Bar.
The wine bar and nightclub in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, prided itself on its selection of South African wines, its mismatched name notwithstanding. In the dark interior of the bar, spotlights pulsed, bathing the wooden dance floor in pools of white and red. A Latin tune thumped through the loudspeakers; the compulsive rhythm set hips rocking to the beat. Leggy waitresses meandered around clusters of couches covered with zebra-skin and leopard-skin patterns.
One of the waitresses walked to the bar, which displayed an outstanding array of wines and spirits. Sofia Rios tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear, leaned against the wood façade of the bar, and flashed the bartender, Stefan Agnor, her sweetest smile. “I need a Jameson on the rocks, an Eikendal merlot, a brandy, and a Sprite on the house.”
He chuckled as he set a wineglass filled with a pale pink wine on a tray marked with Chelsea’s name. “That smile’s really cute, but it isn’t going to bump you to the head of the line, munchkin.”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “For the record, I’ll have you know that I’m wearing four-inch heels, which elevates me two inches above munchkin status.” She was not going to admit to the blisters on her feet.
“So you’re what, five-foot-four now? Color me impressed.” Stefan began work on another order. His blond hair, slightly longer than was fashionable, lent new meaning to the words “artistic disarray.” He grinned at her. “How are you doing tonight?”
Sofia’s rosebud mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Had a microbiology exam this morning.”
“You aced it, right?” He turned his back on her and reached for a bottle of Absolut.
Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the ice chips beside the sink. The transparent shards quivered and then leapt, as if flicked by an invisible finger, into the sink. She shrugged. “Won’t find out for another week, but I hope so because I hauled ass on that one.”
“And such a cute ass it is too.” Stefan turned around and leered at her. “When do you get to anatomy? I can help you with the practical exam.”
“I bet you can. Tell you what; you rush my order and I’ll bump you to the front of the line on my practical.”
“Ahead of the video game-playing geek who lives on your right and the overweight accountant who lives on your left?” Stefan snorted. “Oh, can you tell that I’m really worried about the competition?” He set a glass of Sprite down on her tray.
Chelsea, a well-endowed blonde, swung by the bar and hefted her full tray. She arched an eyebrow, and her grin was wicked. “The hot guy’s back.”
Sofia leaned to look past Chelsea’s shoulder. “Where?”
“He sat down in your section again. That’s three nights running. Maybe he’s got a thing for you. He’s not alone this time, though.”
Stefan jerked his head in their direction. “Go get their order. I’ll have this one filled by the time you get back.”
Sofia grinned. She leaned over the bar and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m moving you up to the head of the line.”
Stefan snorted. “I should be so lucky.”
As she returned to her section and to the three new customers who had claimed a large circular booth, Sofia tugged down her white shirt to cover more of her bare midriff. She blamed her fluttering pulse entirely on the dark-haired, leanly muscled man whose steady green-eyed gaze seemed to take in everything, from the small mole just over the left side of her mouth to the fact that her manicure was slightly chipped. His mouth was firm and unsmiling, which was a shame. A smile would have gone a long way toward making his rough-hewn features more attractive.
She inhaled deeply and fixed a warm smile on her face. “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”
“I’ll have a Kahlua coffee martini,” one of the man’s companions said in a reedy voice. Sofia placed him somewhere between fifty and sixty years old. His tweed jacket was too large for him, and his large brown eyes darted from side to side behind the large frames of his eyeglasses. He was definitely not typical nightclub material.
“Me too,” the third man squeaked. He seemed slightly younger, but cut from the same cloth. If Sofia mentally merged her geeky video game-playing neighbor with her overweight accountant neighbor, and then aged him thirty years, she would have expected him to resemble those two men. They seemed like professors or scientists, grossly out of place in a nightclub.
How different they were from the man who stared intently at her. He did not belong in a nightclub either, but that was because she could imagine him in military fatigues, toting a machine gun with easy expertise. He looked dangerous enough for that impression to fit.
“And you?” she asked.
“Water.”
“No vodka tonight?” She smiled. “Sodas are complimentary for designated drivers.”
“Water’s fine.”
Sofia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Couldn’t he be friendlier? A smile wouldn’t crack his face. At least he had not sounded irritated, though his indifference was insulting. Then again, she was not in the market for another guy, so what did it matter what he thought of her?
She straightened. “I’ll be right back with two martinis and a glass of water.”
Stefan arched his eyebrows when she returned to the bar. “No hot date, huh?”
He had always been good at reading her mood. Sofia shot him a dirty look. “When do real men give me the time of day?”
He pressed a hand to his chest and managed a passably good impression of pain. “You wound me, baby. What do they want?”
“Two martinis and water.”
“Boring.”
Stefan was often right, but not that time. Sofia’s eyes narrowed. From her place at the bar, she watched the man scan the club while his two companions sat in silent and apparent discomfort. Something was not quite right, but she could not place her finger on it.
She had remembered what he ordered.
Kyle Norwood gritted his teeth. Damn it. Observant people were dangerous.
It probably did not matter, though. She was just a waitress, one of the regulars he recog
nized from his prior two visits. Many of Zanzi-Bar’s customers and employees were regulars, a fact that made the nightclub a perfect place for a drop. He did not want to be surprised by hostile parties or unexpected enemies. It had happened on more than one occasion, and the last time had left scars, physical and emotional.
“Where are they?” A thin voice, its tone whining, interrupted his thoughts.
Kyle glanced over at Alvin Smith. The lanky professor was one of the leading minds on genetic manipulation. He and his counterpart, Bert Reynard, were scientists at Proficere Labs, a research facility that prided itself on work so innovative and so cutting-edge that it would have been illegal if only the authorities knew what to make illegal.
Kyle would typically not have taken them on as clients, but it was not his call. Zara Itani, his boss and the owner of Three Fates, an agency of mercenaries, made those decisions, and she tended to skim close to criminal behavior. Her close connections with the government allowed her to escape without repercussions, most of the time.
As long as she extended the same courtesy to her employees, he would be happy to take on any job she offered. Zara paid well and did not micromanage. One could not hope for much more in a boss.
He continued his scan of the club, mentally checking the employees against the employment records he had downloaded from Zanzi-Bar earlier in the week. Once he confirmed that they were all longtime employees, he moved on to the customers. The three men at the bar flirting with the male bartender were regulars; he had noticed them the prior night. Young professionals occupied some of the tables in the other sections. Unless he missed his guess, and he rarely did, he pegged them for lawyers or bankers. They looked just uptight and miserable enough.
Four students in University of North Carolina sweatshirts and jackets, their backpacks sprawled in untidy heaps beneath their chairs, occupied a table in his section. The waitress stopped by their table and chatted while unloading their drinks from her tray. Laughter, warm and infectious, exploded before subsiding into muted chuckles. The students were regulars too, judging from the waitress’s easy conversation with them.