by Sue Wilder
Arsen looked at her for a long moment, and Lexi could see him working through the options by the way his eyes changed. She felt a pang of sympathy, but not enough to take back the request.
He still hadn’t decided and she played her last card.
“If you don’t teach me, I’ll leave.”
It took five more minutes before he answered.
“You can head toward the river, ten miles from here. If you’re a strong swimmer, and lucky, you’ll get across. Then it’s another twenty miles to the nearest town. Stay on this side of the canyon and it’s fifty miles. As the crow flies. Assuming you could change into a crow and actually fly, which you can’t. So… good luck with that.”
The image of the cat nailed to her headboard flashed back, but at least he was giving her a choice.
“You’re getting pretty good at the arguments, Bucko.”
“Been around a long time, Slick.”
Lexi turned in his direction, made her final offer. It sounded like her first. Arsen was kind enough not to point it out.
“If I stay, you teach me to fight and to resist the mind games.” Arsen lifted his eyebrow, and she added, “And that thing that shouldn’t have been possible but it was? What if I can’t control it next time I’m angry?”
Arsen thought about it. Lexi counted her breaths, in for six beats, out for eight.
“Okay,” he said. “Just don’t let Christan know what I’m doing.”
CHAPTER 14
Portland, Oregon
Two weeks after writhing on a cabin floor, Christan stood at the top of a bluff, overlooking the Willamette River. In the distance were the bridges of Portland, and the afternoon sun was bright and warm. Rowing clubs fluttered along the river like gigantic waterfowl. Oars sparkled in the water, faint voices called in rhythm. Oregon natives relished every bit of sunshine that came their way. Summer didn’t start until July, and they crammed half a year’s worth of play into the space of two months, three if they were lucky. Then the sky clouded over and the rains came. The lights on the bridges glowed in the fog and the playtime moved indoors.
Christan shifted, uncomfortable in the black slacks and white formal shirt he wore in deference to the upcoming meeting. He preferred denim and a leather jacket and felt out of place. The meeting was not scheduled for another half hour, so he took advantage of the time. He went first to the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge at the base of the bluff. The walk was easy and allowed him to check to see if he’d been followed. He saw a few hikers, a family of three, walking in the opposite direction.
The area was one of Portland’s favorite wildlife parks—but it was built on top of a landfill. Christan wondered about a culture that thought it could bury its trash so easily. Trash, whether human or inanimate, had an unfortunate way of resurfacing, even after centuries. He would know, although he didn’t place himself in that category. No, Christan was more in the category of those who buried the problems in places where they remained buried. Although sometimes trash needed to be displayed, and he was fine with that, too.
He followed the hiking trail around to the bottom lands of black cottonwood and Oregon ash, where he stood in the twisted shadows and studied Ross Island. He pretended to admire the mallard ducks that lifted off and settled back with military precision. Molten sunlight glittered on the surface of the water, but the placid river was an illusion: beneath the surface it moved with deadly currents. He watched a few teenagers in kayaks play around some rocks and thought he would never get used to the arrogance, the way humans believed in their invincibility. But they would believe what they wanted to believe, never seeing what was in front of their eyes.
After twenty minutes, Christan retraced his steps and returned to the parking lot. He stood watching skinny-jeans bike riders with packs on their backs, couples holding hands. Two boys on noisy skateboards and an old man on a bench with a newspaper in his hands. Satisfied no one seemed out of place, Christan walked toward the redefined southeast area catering to small craft distilleries.
In the 1830’s, the gritty Port of Portland had been the most dangerous port city in the world. Men—who were either drunk or drugged—were smuggled through the underground Shanghai Tunnels and put on ships, most never to return. During Prohibition, the tunnels had been used for illicit bars and bordellos, controlled by mob bosses, and a few rogue warriors.
Now, modern structures concealed a labyrinth that snaked from Old China Town to the river. Most of the tunnels were controlled by Three and hidden in plain sight. The other tunnels were given over to the tourists.
A few minutes before two o’clock, Christan walked into the industrial space on a quiet side street, housing the stainless steel and copper tanks of a working distillery. The wooden bar was ancient, with the patina of constant use, and had, in fact, been used for over two hundred years. The distillery was part of the financial portfolios Arsen accumulated over the centuries, separate from the acquisitions he facilitated for Three. Registered to four privately owned corporations, the properties had no traceable connection to one another, other than they all sat above entrances to the Shanghai Tunnels, nurtured reputations for supporting public art, and housed entrepreneurial businesses, many of them operated by unique individuals. A small sign on the wall read Dar Distillery.
A tall man, known as Darius, stood behind the bar. He was muscular, with an elegant, lethal grace. His skin bore the golden hints of an exotic heritage, somewhere hot and sensual, his dark eyes making more than one patron wonder what great loss he’d endured. Women sought to ease his pain, men found him interesting, but no one really knew the man. He kept his secrets close, his enemies even closer. And he had enemies; he’d once been Three’s favorite general.
Now Darius considered himself retired.
When Christan stepped through the door, the man’s eyes narrowed. He had a glass and a white bar towel in his hands, but all movement stopped. Christan took a single step across the threshold.
“Heard you were back,” Darius said, not particularly welcoming.
“Heard you made good whiskey,” Christan replied, not particularly intimidated.
“Arsen tell you that?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Arsen wouldn’t know a good whiskey if you poured it on a naked woman and told him to drink.” The warrior set down the glass and towel and braced both hands against the bar. “What brings you here? Tasting Room isn’t open for another two hours.”
“I have a meeting.”
“This going to be a friendly meeting?”
“You have a long memory,” Christan said.
“You have a reputation to uphold,” Darius countered.
Christan remained silent. After a moment, Darius reached for a bottle, selected two glasses and filled them with golden liquid. He held one out.
Stepping forward, Christan accepted the offering. The liquid held the taste of wood smoke, a warm spicy tang, and a trace of bitter chocolate.
“Do I know who’s expected?” Darius asked.
“A representative. I’m sure you know him.”
“You want the basement tunnel?”
“I’d prefer this meeting out in the open.”
The large warrior gestured toward the small walled patio beyond a side door. “One way out there and it’s through me. Should be private if you don’t talk loud.”
After a moment, Christan took the glass and strolled out into the sunny patio. Potted trees filled the corners and created a green buffer. A table and chairs sat in the shade, and he took the chair with his back to the wall. The wait wasn’t long.
A man approached, carrying a black attaché case in his left hand. Christan recognized him from the photo in Arsen’s extensive data base. His name was Phillipe. He was tall, nearly as tall as Christan, with the appearance of an academic. Red suspenders, visible when he settled into the chair, reinforced the harmless image. He was Three’s personal envoy, but those who accepted his role at face value did so at their peril.
; “She sends regards,” Phillipe said. Christan lifted his glass and let the whiskey slide down his throat. Phillipe made a slight movement with his shoulder, as if to say Three was far better at silent intimidation than Christan could ever be. “That was a nice gift you left her to clean up.”
Christan nodded, hearing the smooth warning and not giving a damn. He’d found the one responsible for desecrating the cottage. Felt Lexi had been destroyed enough for a while. Wanted to put something back together for her and didn’t ask himself why.
“Does she know what you did?” Phillipe asked, his silver eyes slanted. Christan knew which “she” Phillipe was talking about.
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Was it necessary to be that messy?”
“He killed her cat.”
“Next time try to make it less obvious. Humans always have their cell phones out, looking for something to post on social media. It’s better to avoid public places.”
A sip of whiskey, nothing visible in obsidian dark eyes. “As she requests.”
Phillipe looked as if he wished to smile but didn’t. There was something familiar, lethal, in that gesture. “Where did you leave the man’s heart?”
Christan shrugged. Three said it herself. There was a monster in all of them and he wasn’t ashamed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before. “It won’t be found.”
They sat in companionable silence, the soft chink of a glass returning to a table, the dull humming white noise of cars in the distance. The man who was not an academic reached down for the attaché case. A moment later he produced a file and pushed it across the table.
Christan flipped open the manila cover and read the top line, printed on plain white paper and positioned above the color photograph of a girl with long dark hair curling around her shoulders. The photo framed a narrow street, and the girl was laughing as she looked over her shoulder.
“She couldn’t drop this off herself and say hello?” Christan asked, referring to Three again, as he read through the one-page document, locked the key details in his mind.
“I think you know why,” the academic answered.
“It would have been a nice gesture.” Christan glanced up as he closed the file. “This is why she recalled me?”
“She recalled you because war is returning, and contrary to your opinion, she prefers peace over chaos. This,” Phillipe indicated the file, “is a recent development.”
“And I should be concerned because?”
“You’re not the total asshole you want people to see,” Phillipe said. “And because this girl is probably one of yours. Three noticed certain energy traces and made connections.”
There was a subtle stiffening in Christan’s posture, a coolness in his voice. “I thought warriors were the only ones who could detect the energy signals.”
“You know Three. She wanted a way to keep track, considering the size of the human population.”
“You’re telling me she created her own version of a human find my phone?” Christan wondered why he’d asked; Three wouldn’t leave such a detail unattended.
“It’s her little secret. None of the others in the Calata know how to do it.” Phillipe settled back in his chair, avoiding the sun, his silver eyes curious. Unlike so many of Three’s assistants through the centuries, Phillipe was not only intelligent but subtle. “You’re sounding quite modern, Christan. Been spending a lot of time surfing the Internet?”
“You don’t like English?” Christan asked in fluent Italian that held the accent of Florence.
“Whatever you prefer.” Phillipe’s response was in Portuguese. Being immortal, Phillipe could speak any language he wanted, and it was another little stand-off between them that was part posturing, part what-the-fuck.
Unsurprised, Christan shrugged, then switched back to English. “I fail to see the fascination with stupid animal videos.” He pushed the file back across the table. “She doesn’t need me for this. Find someone else.”
“She wants you.”
“I’ve spent a long time in the Void.”
“A blink of an eye for you. Besides, you’re her favorite.”
“She must have other babysitters.”
“Not like you.” Phillipe picked up the manila folder and returned it to the attaché case. “I will share a detail not in the file. The number of girls is up to ten now, five attacked within the last week. Others are noticing.”
“Not my problem.”
“Always your problem. Power is power, and the girl in that photograph has disappeared. The last time Three knew her location was two weeks ago. She was in Italy. No trace since then. She has no living family other than a godfather in London, no reason she would leave her two friends on their tour around Europe.”
“Who sourced this information?” Christan asked, and perhaps he was more concerned than he let on.
“The Italian group. They have their own problems, and they don’t have the manpower to launch an extensive search.”
“You still haven’t given a compelling reason.”
“As I mentioned, her energy is faint, but enough for Kace if he gets close. We don’t know who she’s connected to, other than her name. Katerina Varga. Blue eyes. How long ago did Arsen lose his mate?”
“I have no idea since I’ve been on vacation.”
“She died young, I believe, in the last century. You’ve known Arsen for thousands of years. You would recognize his mate as quickly as you would recognize your own. What color are her eyes? What letter does her eternal name begin with?”
Christan didn’t reply. There was no need, as they both knew the answers to those two questions. After a moment, Phillipe removed a second file from the attaché case and slid it across the table.
Christan opened it. He stared down at the photos for several long moments.
“As you can see, they aren’t just awakening past life memories anymore,” Phillipe said. “They want more. Florence has seen an uptick in deaths staged to look like accidents, but they’re getting sloppy. And Katerina was last seen in Florence.”
“I hate Florence.”
“Everyone loves Florence. It’s one of the top vacation destinations in the world.”
“I can’t leave right now.”
“I agree you can’t leave your woman where Kace can get to her. It was a reckless thing you did, Christan. I’ve never known you to be so impulsive.”
“You’ve never known me. I was gone before Three adopted you as her pet.”
“Still, we’re grateful you survived.” Phillipe chuckled. Obviously, he knew about the one word debacle, which meant Three did, too. “Take Galaxy. She’s human. If Katerina’s memories are returning, she might be able to help. A woman’s influence and all.”
“She is not likely to accompany me anywhere, let alone half way around the world to Florence.”
“Then you’ll need to convince her, because Kace is no longer in Portland.” Phillipe stood, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small computer thumb drive. “This is what we have on Katerina Varga. Go to Florence, Christan. Take your woman, drink some wine, and help ease Three’s mind. Take Arsen as your chaperon if you have to. If Katerina is there, we need you to find her and bring her home. She’s someone’s mate, if not Arsen’s.”
“I hate Florence.”
“She knows you do.”
CHAPTER 15
Wallowa Mountains, Oregon
The flight from Portland to the small airport in Enterprise took an hour. From there, Christan boarded a private plane and sat restlessly through the twenty-minute flight to Arsen’s compound in the Wallowa Mountains.
The complex was nearly invisible to Google Earth technology. The landing field looked like a grassy meadow but wasn’t. If anyone bothered to study the satellite views, they might notice a few outbuildings, sheltered between the pines. Further investigation would reveal a lodge, with eight surrounding cabins, offered for private retreats aimed at executives struggling with team-building fati
gue. Inevitably, someone would try to book the rustic cabins. But of course, reservations were filled for more than two years in advance, and the lodge didn’t operate during the winter.
From the air, the view was stunning. The compound was isolated in the middle of twenty thousand acres of private forest land and surrounded by the largest wilderness area in Oregon. Jagged granite peaks rivaled anything in the Rocky Mountains. At the highest elevation, deep fissures remained white with snow. Small lakes were hidden in the blue shadows, secret places that were reminiscent of a time when the world was new, clean, and filled with magic too ancient to recall. When warriors ran with the wind, thrilled to the power that made them and fought with the ferocity and pure joy of exhilaration.
The drone of the plane’s single engine had become a white-noise. The pilot didn’t speak through the earphones Christan wore, and for that he was grateful. He was lost in his thoughts, staring out through the small window to his right and not interested in conversation.
Christan wondered, now, about the curiosity that had compelled him during those early centuries, when he’d watched humans even as he killed them. Christan had not been alone with his fascination. Other warriors found the human contradictions intriguing. Hate and love. Pleasure and pain. Thought and action. Human histories—recalled at night around blazing campfires. Christan longed for what he didn’t understand, realized life could be lonely, deep in the bone. The isolation was what he knew, felt most comfortable with, and yet he still climbed mountains, searched deserts for some need he could not identify.
Perhaps his interests were too complicated. Perhaps it was a way to fill the endless years between the wars. Or perhaps it was a rebellion against the Calata’s power to control his life. There was no absolution, though. Christan knew what he was, what he had done and what he could do again with the right provocation. He’d been trapped then. He was trapped now. And he didn’t want to go to Florence.