The camera moved to another face. “The next person in the frame is Michael Swift Jr. He owns a martial arts studio in Brooklyn, NY. He and the blond man have been seen frequently with Miss Collins over the last several months. On the rest of this group, we have absolutely nothing. They’re all ghosts, every last one of them.”
How could this be? Irene wondered, her heart pounding against her ribcage. “You think Cara is a terrorist?”
“We don’t know, Miss Hickey. Why don’t we show you the last minute of the footage and you can decide for yourself.”
Irene watched the screen. The SUVs and bikes took off as the warehouse behind them blew up in a massive ball of fire. When the scene ended, the lights came up, illuminating the room.
Irene swallowed, feeling faint. “I know Cara. She’s not a terrorist.”
“We understand you were asked to be in her wedding party?”
Irene’s temper flared. “What’d you do? Tap my phone?”
“I don’t think I really need to answer that, do I?”
Of course they had and of course they didn’t. Bastards, she thought, and eyed the two agents warily. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“We know you plan on spending the weekend in New York with Miss Collins,” said the shorter one with big ears named Caswell.
It was true. Irene was scheduled to leave after work tomorrow for New York on the Acela from Union Station to stay for the weekend with Cara and their friend from Georgetown, Jessamine.
“And?” she prodded.
“We want you to observe. Find out what you can about the blond man, anything about the language you heard, and what your friend’s connection is to the others,” he said.
“Is that all?” she deadpanned. Great, they want me to spy, she thought with distaste. “Can’t you just listen in on her or something? Why do you need me?”
They looked at her, straight-faced. “That would be a violation of her privacy,” said Ellerton, the taller one who wore glasses.
Irene glared at them. “Like that’s ever stopped you before?”
One of the agents let out a breath. “Let’s just say we’ve tried. Our attempts at external monitoring have failed. This needs to be an inside job. At the moment, what we have is circumstantial. She was unconscious when we spotted her, so she didn’t necessarily have any direct involvement in the bombing. She could’ve been rescued, for all we know. Right now, we can’t prove anything. Not to point out the obvious, but we couldn’t understand what was being said, so nothing we have is directly incriminating.”
Now she understood; they didn’t have bupkis without her. Arms crossed in front of her, she asked, “Remind me again why I should do this?”
The agents gave her small, disingenuous smiles. Ellerton answered, “I would think that at your age, you still have aspirations within the State Department. We know that your father would like to get another foreign post before he retires. Scandal can always crop up and destroy anyone’s hope of receiving a well-earned position… or pension.”
Irene’s face reddened to match the color of her hair. “Are you actually blackmailing me?”
“Blackmail is such an ugly word. We don’t subscribe to such measures. But, your country would appreciate it if you shared anything you learned that could be of value.”
Irene frowned. The bastards weren’t giving her a choice. Not that she really expected them to, given they’d dragged her over here in the first place.
“Fine,” she spat. “But don’t expect me to happy about it.” She’d investigate all right and prove Cara was innocent, not a terrorist.
Ellerton handed her a large manila envelope. “Inside is a cell phone and any other instructions you might need. We’re programmed into the first three speed dial settings. One is the hotline for this investigation, and the other two are our cell numbers.”
A third agent with a nice haircut entered the room. “Miss Hickey, Agent Pembrooke will take you down to the lab and familiarize you with the contents of the envelope. But given your former occupation with the CIA, there’s not much you shouldn’t already be familiar with,” Ellerton said, staring over the rim of his glasses.
Glaring at them, Irene stood to leave.
“Miss Hickey, we’ll be watching you,” he said with an unfriendly smile.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less for our tax dollars.” She gave them a tight smile. What she really wanted to give them was the bird, but that would be unprofessional.
Nothing left to say, she followed Agent Pembrooke out, swearing under her breath—Bastards.
Chapter 7
MICHAEL
Brooklyn, New York. Rising Sun Dojo. Thursday, May 23, 10:00 AM ET
“YAHHH!”
Michael’s arm shot up to block Simon’s bare size fifteen foot coming straight for his face, and countered with a low kick to Simon’s thigh, knocking him off balance. Simon hit the gray cushioned mat with a loud thunk. Michael suppressed a satisfied smile. In less than five seconds, Simon was back on his feet.
“That the best you can do, Messenger?” he asked telepathically, and smirked.
“I’m not the one whose butt just kissed the mat,” Michael said silently and glared, trying to catch his breath. Michael held a defensive stance as his blond-ponytailed Nephilim sparring partner circled him on the mat in the sparsely decorated main studio. The scent of mild disinfectant, mixed with rubber flooring and overexertion, circulated through the air. Painted white, the room had a floor-to-ceiling mirror covering the front wall, while neat rows of pads and headgear of varying sizes dotted the back wall. None of which they used. They sparred unprotected, just the way Michael liked it.
Wearing just the bottoms of their gi, Michael’s smooth, hairless chest glistened with sweat despite the air conditioning while Simon appeared unaffected. Unlike humans, Nephilim didn’t perspire or react to temperature changes.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Michael stared into his opponent’s eyes, a striking blue only a shade or two lighter than his own. Six feet seven with powerful sculpted muscle wrapped around his V-shaped torso, Simon’s shadow could swallow Michael whole. Not that Michael was small by any means at six feet and one eighty-five. Quite the opposite. Up until he opened the dojo a year ago, his body had been his livelihood as a male model. Without a doubt, Michael could match Simon ripple for hairless ripple, but Simon had one advantage beyond his size that Michael didn’t. Simon wasn’t 100 percent human, which was the only reason his chest wasn’t dripping with sweat like Michael’s. Same for its baby-bottom smoothness. Michael had only his father to blame in the bald chest department—though he’d resisted blaming him for anything while he was alive. Dying, that was the only thing he blamed him for now…
Simon returned his scrutiny and circled with the assurance of a panther. Intimidating for sure, Michael knew beneath the red tattoo of the Guardianship crest on Simon’s smooth pectoral beat the heart of a true warrior and a loyal friend.
Michael brushed his hand over his own red tattoo. The Swift family crest combined with his given name made up his Mark as a Trinity Messenger.
He was in his element here. On the mat he was free. A place he could let down his perfect façade, push aside his insecurities, and be judged solely on his skill. A place he could escape the feelings of loss from his father’s death. A place he’d hidden from his past since he was eight years old.
Earning his first black belt at the tender age of nine, by eighteen, Michael had won several national championships. Now, at twenty-six, he’d mastered all of the striking martial arts and achieved his dream of teaching what he loved.
He continued to eye Simon, reading his body language for clues. If he didn’t stay on his game, Simon would kick his ass.
No reason to rush. He didn’t open until eleven on Thursday mornings.
Usually Michael looked forward to his morning sessions with Simon. Today, not so much. His foul mood had dogged him since he’d woken up, throwing off his concentration and m
aking him sloppy.
This time, Michael anticipated Simon’s blow, moving back in time for it to miss its mark and to throw a blow of his own. Simon grabbed his arm and in a heartbeat, Michael was on his back, staring up into Simon’s grinning face.
Anger welled up inside of Michael. To hell with his exhaustion; his rotten mood urged him on. He took Simon’s proffered hand, shifted his weight, and arched his back. Jumping back onto his feet, he did a back aerial somersault and landed in an offensive position. Surprise registered on Simon’s face right before Michael struck him with a flying butterfly kick, knocking Simon flat on his back with a hard thump.
This time, Michael was the one offering his hand. He reached down to Simon, using verbal speech to break the silence. “I could use a breather. You want some water?”
“Not before I do this,” Simon said, and again, Michael was on his back staring up into Simon’s self-satisfied face.
Michael pounded his fist on the mat. “No wings! You’re a sore loser.” It was the only rule they’d both agreed to. Simon couldn’t use his wings and the power they contained during a match. And then there was the one rule Michael covertly added: he wouldn’t use his natural born ability to read minds to anticipate Simon’s moves. A secret Michael intended to keep. As close as he was to Simon and Cara, they didn’t know the extent of his true talents, which went well beyond the ability to use their telepathic channel.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “I’m not the sore loser here.” He pulled Michael to his feet.
“But you cheated!” Michael, incensed, glared at Simon as he paced. What’s wrong with me? He wasn’t often in such a vile mood. Usually, not much bothered him. He swiped his hand through his dark tousled hair. Was it because he’d be seeing Sienna in the next couple of days and forced to finally confront his cowardice?
Simon gave him a sideways glance. “Michael, is everything all right? You usually don’t mind if I end with an enhanced move when you know you’ve already won. What’s the matter?”
Michael grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and chest.
Simon stared at him with laser focus, undeterred. “I can feel when something’s wrong. You can tell me. I’ll keep your confidence.”
Michael knew Simon’s intent wasn’t to pry but to protect him and Cara. Even though Simon was no longer officially assigned to their Trinity, he still shared their strong psychic connection which kept their collective emotions tied together… sometimes too closely. Michael understood being part of the Angelorum required flexibility when it came to his privacy, but it made him uncomfortable. There were some things he’d never be willing to share.
He grabbed two bottles of water from the portable fridge next to the two large glass cases on the wall outside the sparring area. One case contained Michael’s personal trophies alongside the team trophy Michael’s dojo had won six months ago. The other case held training weapons and remained locked at all times.
He handed a bottle to Simon, then opened his own and nearly drained it in one long swallow.
“Well?” Simon was like a dog with a bone when his mind was set.
Michael gave up, and let out a long breath. “It’s Sienna.” Even her name passing through his lips rattled something inside of him.
A slow smile replaced the look of surprise on Simon’s face. “Cara and I suspected that something had changed between you both while we were in San Francisco. What about her?”
They sat down on the long bench at the edge of the sparring area and Michael looked at his hands. Other than the couple of conversations he’d had with Cara when they’d first met, he hadn’t shared anything about his personal life with anyone in a very long time. It felt safer to keep it all inside, but Simon meant well and might have some insight to offer.
Because right now, he couldn’t stand himself.
His jaw tensed. “I kissed her,” he said tightly without looking up.
Simon let out a deep chuckle. “She’s very beautiful. That must have been enjoyable,” he said softly. “Did this happen recently?”
Michael shook his head. “No, after dinner before we rescued Kai. Right before you called me into the kitchen. And yes, it was more than enjoyable.” So enjoyable, in fact, that he could have easily lost control and taken her right then and there.
“You haven’t seen her since?”
Shaking his head again, Michael replied, “Not since the night I dropped her off after we got back from San Francisco.” Coward, he thought, hating his weakness.
Simon’s brow pinched. “That was almost two months ago. Why have you been avoiding her?”
He swept his hand over his face and blurted, “I’m afraid she’s going to want something I can’t give her.” The partial truth seemed better than admitting his desire for her terrified him.
Understanding seeped into Simon’s blue eyes. “You won’t find out if you don’t speak to her.”
Michael leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs and wringing his hands. “You’re right. I feel like a jerk, and I’m not ‘that guy.’ ”
Large fingers grasped his shoulder and applied gentle pressure. Simon’s voice was kind. “I know you’re not. Make sure you let her know that, too. Be honest with her, and see where things take you. Learn from my mistakes. Being dishonest can hurt you both.” Simon referred to his deception with Cara, hiding his true identity as her Trinity Guardian while he dated her and they fell in love. It nearly cost him their relationship and one hundred years of imprisonment. Ultimately, he got off easy by only losing his position as their Trinity Guardian and suspension from the Guardianship. Michael witnessed the pain they’d both experienced firsthand; it was palpable.
Simon’s hand fell away.
“Well, I can’t avoid her for much longer unless I skip your party on Saturday night.” He massaged his temples with his fingers. “She was upset that night, and I just wanted to make her feel better.” He remembered pushing back the black, silky curtain of hair to reveal the tears in her sky-blue eyes, and how his heart had softened. And how she’d skirted his considerable defenses.
“Is that all?”
Michael let out a deep sigh and looked over at him. “It would be so much easier if that's all it was and if she wasn’t Cara’s best friend.”
Michael had met Sienna when Cara had asked them both to accompany her for a long weekend to the Connecticut farmhouse, the same trip that turned into a cross country adventure to rescue Kai. From the moment they’d met, he and Sienna were like two caged tigers, swiping at each other every chance they’d gotten. Sienna elicited primal reactions from him that were way out of character for someone who prided himself on good manners and as a sensei. Michael followed the code of humility, respect, compassion, patience, and calmness both in and out of the dojo. At times, he took it almost to the extreme, making his reaction to Sienna even more puzzling. Then it all changed the moment she needed him… really needed him. Like someone had flipped a switch in his brain. All that borderline hatred turned into a fiery passion Michael had never felt before. And it scared the living daylights out of him. He’d promised Sienna they would talk afterward. Instead, he ran, and he was still running. And then there were those damn dreams…
“Speaking of confrontations,” said Michael, changing the subject, “how are you handling Kai coming to town and staying at your place?”
Simon groaned. “Good deflection, Messenger.”
Michael lips quirked up in a small smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.” He knew Simon’s history and how he’d punished himself after losing both his first love, Calliope, and the Soul Seeker in his last Trinity, Mina. Over one hundred years had passed before Simon put himself back in the Trinity rotation and became their Guardian. During Kai’s rescue, Simon had watched Cara almost die, again helpless to save his Soul Seeker. Michael knew Simon’s masculine pride had taken a hit when Kai saved her, doing what he couldn’t. Another man whom Cara had loved and who’d loved her.
“I’ll always
be grateful to Kai. But I guess we both have some demons to face, no pun intended.” Simon looked at him and sighed. Michael saw fresh pain there. “You’ve been avoiding Sienna, and I’ve been avoiding thoughts of San Francisco.”
Michael made an exception and let his shield slip for a moment. Simon’s private thoughts flooded his consciousness.
“Kai saved her when I couldn’t… Would she still have chosen me if Kai hadn’t been married? He would’ve been able to give her a child.”
The last part took Michael by surprise, unaware this could be a real issue in a Human-Nephilim relationship. Even with her altered DNA, Cara might still have the ability to bear children. Simon, on the other hand, as a natural-born Nephilim, lacked the ability to procreate—a condition of the Angelorum’s pact with God.
Michael reached out and touched Simon’s shoulder to reassure him. “Hang in there. She and Kai have a long history, but you’re the only man she loves.” Michael didn’t need to read Cara’s thoughts to know who’d captured her heart.
Simon nodded. “Thanks.”
“No problem. By the way, did Constantina tell you anything about our trip next week?”
Simon snorted. “What do you think? Even though she birthed me in another life, it doesn’t give me any special privileges. One thing you can trust is that she has her reasons and they’ll be good ones. All I know is when and where to be for our flight to the Sanctuary. If it makes you feel any better, I find it equally maddening.”
Michael shrugged. “Thanks. It was worth a try.”
Simon gave him a pointed look and grasped his shoulder. “If I knew I’d tell you. Just because Cara and I are together, doesn’t mean we keep things from you.”
Guilt hit Michael in the chest. As honest as Simon and Cara were with him, he couldn’t see a way to completely return the favor.
“Besides, we may have bigger issues,” Simon said. The bench creaked and shifted as Simon stood.
“What do you mean?”
The Wanderer's Children Page 5