by Jade Kerrion
He frequently caught the flash of Zara’s emotions and wondered why she did not confront him. He did sense her, though, when she finally closed the distance, and was emotionally and mentally braced for her when she appeared around the corner, her violet eyes narrow slits. “Enjoy your little stroll?” Zara asked, her voice cool. Irritation simmered beneath her polite facade.
To some extent, he had learned to ignore it. Zara was almost always irritated. Her increasingly frequent spikes of anger and hate, however, cut right through his emotional defenses. Danyael sensed both, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to explode. He kept his tone deliberately neutral. “I wanted some fresh air.”
“Open the windows in your room, then. Why the hell did you leave our suite without telling me?”
“Zara, you’ve been trailing me for the past three hours.”
“The point is you left.” She lowered her voice to not be heard by the resort guests sipping wine at the far end of the courtyard. “You know it’s dangerous, yet you put yourself at risk.”
To draw out the assassin. To find her before you do. He shrugged. “Zara, it was just a walk.” Danyael glanced over at the hotel guests, two men and a woman, flirting with each other. None of the three guests were paying him and Zara any attention. “Sometimes, a bit of space helps.”
Zara’s jaw dropped. Her emotions reeled.
Danyael took advantage of the momentary lull to limp toward the other three people in the courtyard. His empathic powers he sent ahead of him, smoothing the way, easing suspicion to welcome. By the time he got close, the three people were already smiling at him. “You must be a new arrival to the island,” one of the men said. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
The woman laughed, flashing a dazzling smile. “Richard prides himself on being a professional vacationer.” She tossed her dark hair back over her shoulder. She was in her mid-to-late-twenties, radiant with both youth and health. Her golden-dusky skin tone made her ethnicity hard to place, but her accent was ubiquitously American.
“Every man’s got to have a vice.” Richard’s eyebrows, as gray streaked as his hair, drew together. Amusement flicked through him. “You look like you were in a bit of an accident.”
Danyael cast a glance around the courtyard. “At least I’ve picked a good place to recover.”
“And a good time. Come summer, the place is packed with vacationing families. It’s not great then. The kids are the sort who travel first class and complain because they weren’t on a private plane. Right now, you have the quietly and tastefully wealthy people hanging out here.”
“And modest.” The woman laughed again as she slipped her arm around Richard’s. “You forgot modest.”
Richard glanced past Danyael’s shoulder. “Your girlfriend?”
Definitely not. What would Zara say if they asked her that question? Danyael shrugged to keep things simple. It was easier to keep lies straight if one didn’t speak them.
“Gorgeous, but she looks angry.”
“She’s at her most beautiful when she is,” Danyael said, which was entirely true. With her violet eyes flashing and mouth set in a sulky frown, Zara looked stunning.
A moment later, Zara stalked out of the courtyard, taking with her the jagged slash of her emotions. Danyael drew a deep breath; it was easier to think clearly when Zara wasn’t around.
“Better kiss and make up. There aren’t too many people this time of year, and this beauty is already spoken for.” Richard slid his arm around the woman’s back and kissed her cheek. He extended his hand. “I’m Richard Grant, by the way.”
“Danyael Sabre.”
The other man also shook Danyael’s hand. “Sebastian de Beaufort.” His accent was distinctly European, in sharp contrast to Richard’s slightly nasal Bostonian accent. He seemed younger than Richard, but not by much, although his elegance was much more polished.
The woman, still leaning against Richard’s side, smiled at Danyael. “Maya Serach.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maya,” Danyael said. And is it mere coincidence that you have no psychic presence, or are you the assassin hunting me?
He had to figure it out before Zara realized that he was keeping things from her—important things—like the fact that he may have just met the woman trying to kill him.
Hours had passed and the sunset had turned the Atlantic Ocean into a blaze of color, but Zara paid little attention to it as the door of the suite opened to admit Danyael, hobbling on his crutch. Willpower kept her seated on the couch, idly leafing through a magazine, instead of rushing to his side. Was she the only person who noticed the thin lines of pain scoured into his brow?
She broke the silence with, “I’ll order dinner.”
He shook his head. “I’ve already had something to eat.”
“With your three new friends?” Something niggled at her. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”
Danyael stared at her, as if taken by surprise, then he laughed, a sound unchecked by irony or bitterness. “There’s a great deal we don’t tell each other.” He smiled without effort. “Good night, Zara.”
Danyael’s statement was true, Zara decided, after Danyael had retreated to his bedroom. Sometimes, secrets were the key to sanity, but Danyael was definitely not telling her something. She picked up her smartphone and made a call. “Xin, I need you to check something out for me…”
5
The morning was bright but still quiet when Danyael left the hotel suite. Instead of a private breakfast on the patio, he headed to one of the cafes in the hotel where a sumptuous buffet was laid out on a terrace beside a glistening pool. A waitstaff, considerate of both his crutch and his cast, brought over a glass of orange juice and buttered croissants still hot from the oven.
“May I bring you anything else, sir?”
“Perhaps later. Thank you.” He relaxed in his chair, content to watch as Maya Serach completed another lap in the pool. She turned in the water, sleek and graceful. Her freestyle strokes were clean, her kicks propelling her through the water. The steady rhythm of her swim relaxed him, as long as he did not get twisted around the fact that his empathic senses passed right through her.
Intangible. Untouchable.
As if she weren’t even there.
The conflict between his physical and empathic senses kicked off a migraine. How on earth did normal people get through their day with only five senses to work with?
He smiled when Maya popped her head out of the water, her long, dark hair slicked back. She wore a brilliant smile. “Good morning. It’s Danyael, right?”
He nodded. “Did you have a good swim?”
She heaved herself out of the pool to sit on the edge. “Splendid. No, no, don’t get up. I can fetch my own towel. Besides, while you’re on crutches, you probably shouldn’t be anywhere near water. The tiles are slick.” She snatched up her towel from a nearby deck chair. Her lean muscles showed off a svelte, superbly fit body. Draping her towel around her shoulders, she approached him. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” He gestured to the empty seat across from him.
“Is your girlfriend still sleeping?”
Danyael shrugged. For all he knew, Zara was perched at a window somewhere, observing him through the lens of a sniper rifle.
“Richard and Sebastian are too,” Maya said. “There’s only a fifty percent chance they’ll make it to lunch.” She looked around at the stunning views of the Atlantic. “Such a terrible waste of a day. It’s great finding someone else who appreciates it.”
The waitstaff, a man with a polished Mediterranean accent, came by their table. “May I offer you some tea or coffee?”
“Coffee for me, please,” Maya said, then arched an eyebrow at Danyael.
“I’m fine; thank you,” Danyael demurred. He slid the plate of croissants from the middle of the table closer to Maya.
“Thank you.” Maya dimpled a smile as she reached for the pastry. “Isn’t it fantastic?”
she said after several bites of the croissant. “The kitchen does all the baking on-site. The pastry chef has actually won several awards. Have you tried his tiramisu?”
Danyael shook his head.
“Oh!” Maya raised her gaze skyward. “It’s to die for. The absolute perfect blend of flavor, the rich, deep coffee, the light crème—I can’t even describe it. The desserts alone are absolutely worth the stay.” She eyed his scarcely touched glass of orange juice. “Is that all you’re having?”
“For a start.”
“Do you mind if I help myself?” She gestured toward the buffet tables.
“Please, go ahead.” He glanced around, but Zara was nowhere to be seen.
Within a few minutes, Maya returned to their table with a plate heaped high with pastries and fruit preserves.
Danyael laughed softly. “The chef is to be commended, I’m sure.”
“I do protein too. Here.” Maya pointed at the solitary hard-boiled egg. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“I have croissants.”
“Sometimes, the simplest things are best,” she agreed. Maya bit into a danish, and her eyes briefly closed in ecstasy. “So, what are your plans for today? Any sightseeing, or will you be lounging around the pool?”
“Is there anything in particular you’d recommend?”
“You can hire a private yacht if you’d like to go out onto the Bay of Kotor. The old city and Castle of San Giovanni in Kotor are charming—” She glanced at the crutch resting on the side of his chair. “There’s also a national park—Lovcen, I think it’s called.” She frowned. “I’m not sure how much you can manage on crutches. Montenegro is gorgeous, but most of its beauty is outdoors. If you like, I could show you around and give you a hand over any rough spots. Kotor, perhaps? If we stick to the sidewalks, we should manage. There’s an absolutely delightful delicatessen—their prosciutto and melon appetizer is outstanding. And the delicatessen is next to a gelateria; it’s one of the best in the city.” She stared down at her plate and laughed. “I suppose I should save space for lunch.”
“You love it here.”
“Is it that obvious? Oh, the things I could tell you about Montenegro and its people.” Maya glanced out at the ocean, already sparkling blue beneath the sun. “It’s a gorgeous day. I’ll need just a moment to change, then we can hit the town.”
Kotor was indeed as charming a medieval town as any Danyael had seen in his wanderings through Europe—narrow alleys, cobblestone streets, sharp turns, and lots of blind spots.
An assassin’s haven.
Except that there was a good chance, he was standing next to the assassin.
Was she though?
He could have killed Maya, many times. All he needed was to be close enough to make physical contact, and she was practically bumping up against his shoulder as they walked through the streets together. They paused frequently for Maya to window-shop and for Danyael to catch his breath as he struggled up and down steep inclines on his crutch.
“Shall we stop for a drink?” Maya asked, eyeing a cafe across the street.
“Didn’t we just have breakfast?”
“I thought you might like to sit for a while. That last hill was a little tougher than usual.”
She had noticed. Wasn’t it the nature of assassins to be observant?
Danyael nodded. “I wouldn’t mind some water.”
Maya opened the door for him, ushering him through. “Why don’t you hold our table? I’ll get the drinks; no, no, it’s on me.” She waved away his attempt to pull out his wallet. “Are you sure you want just water?”
He nodded. Both alcohol and caffeine weakened his finely tuned control over his empathic powers. As an alpha empath, he couldn’t afford either. He studied her as she stood by the counter, speaking animatedly in a language he couldn’t quite pin down. He recognized most major European languages though. “Were you speaking Montenegrin?” he asked when she returned to the table with a bottle of water for him and a cappuccino for herself.
“Serbian, actually, but the languages are mutually intelligible. Most people here speak Serbian anyway.” Maya twirled a biscotti into her cappuccino.
A shrill voice drew their attention to the commotion across the street. A middle-aged woman, radiating anger like an exposed nuclear core, shoved an elderly man out of her door. A little boy darted out from behind the woman, but was seized before he could run to the old man. The child flailed, kicking, screaming, tears streaming out of his eyes. The man, his shoulders slumped, extended his hands, empty palms raised, to the woman and child. Tears made most of the man’s words incoherent, but alpha empaths did not need words to understand. Danyael gritted his teeth, bracing himself as the man’s shame and sorrow poured out like a spring storm, drenching the ground.
“He’s sick,” Maya explained, summarizing the woman’s tirade. “She thinks he’s a burden.”
“The child doesn’t think so,” Danyael said.
“Children are different.”
Yes, they were.
The woman slammed the door with a thud that shook her storefront windows. The old man crumpled to his knees, his shoulders trembling with sobs. Passersby scurried past him, tight-lipped. No one stopped.
Danyael stared at the old man. Bad idea. He was sitting across from a woman who could likely be an assassin sent to kill him.
But he had no proof of it. And he was confronted with a real need.
Fear versus truth.
When was the last time he paid any heed to that warning voice?
Never.
So why start now?
Danyael reached for his crutch and struggled to his feet. He crossed the street to the old man and grasped the man’s hand gently, pulling him upright. The old man did not even look up. Despair was a salivating monster, consuming the old man up from within, making it impossible to straighten his spine or raise his head.
Danyael had been there before.
He could absorb the man’s despair, but changing the man’s emotions would not alter the situation. He had skidded on the edge of suicidal despair. He knew the truth better than most; lasting change required a great deal more than the emotional equivalent of an energy drink.
It demanded physical change.
Danyael’s healing powers surged, rivers of psychic light plunging through the man’s veins. The old man’s body yielded its secrets to an empath’s touch. Danyael’s training as a doctor interpreted the cold facts—stage IIIC liver cancer with a five-year life expectancy of eleven percent.
But I’m not too late.
Danyael braced himself as his empathic powers wound through the man’s body, exchanging healing for sickness, life for death. Danyael’s breath caught, his muscles clenching around the hard knot of pain in his lower abdomen—right where his liver was. It’s going to be all right. It’ll pass. His body would process the cancer. It would take time, but he had time.
The old man raised his head and stared at Danyael, his wide eyes still watery.
“You’re fine now,” Danyael said quietly.
Maya’s voice, behind him, took him by surprise. How long had she been standing there? She addressed the man in Serbian, perhaps translating Danyael’s words. The man blinked, nodded. Words babbled from his mouth, his hands fumbled with Danyael’s cold hands, fervently shaking them. “He says thank you,” Maya translated actions that needed no interpretation. She slanted Danyael a sideways glance. “Should we go back in?”
Danyael closed his eyes against the swirl of vertigo. His peripheral vision twisted into undulating bands of green-streaked yellow. “I need a minute.”
“You can’t stay out here in the middle of the street. Come back to the cafe. You can rest there.” She gripped his waist to steady him and helped him back to their table. She slid his glass of water to him, but he did not reach for it.
His nausea would not allow him to keep anything down.
“You’re his hero,” Maya said quietly.
D
anyael raised his head and followed her gaze to the window. Out in the street, the old man jabbered to anyone who would listen, frequently pointing toward Danyael.
He looked away. Thanks were fine, but he did not need or want the spotlight. “Heroes and villains are all around us. Sometimes, they’re even the same person.”
Maya bit off the tip of the biscotti. “Do you think of yourself as a good person, Danyael?”
He considered her question for a moment, and could feel the touch of a furrow between his brows. “I haven’t thought much about it.”
“That’s a surprisingly honest answer. Why is that?”
“There are far more urgent things to worry about. Life feels like a series of short interludes between major crises.”
Maya laughed. “I’ve never heard it put that way before, but you’re right. The urgent steals from the important, and before we realize it, we’ve gone through life never contemplating what’s truly important.”
“And what do you think is important?”
“What comes after.”
“After death?” He stared at her. “You take the long view of things.”
“I’d argue that’s the only view worth taking.”
Danyael turned her matter-of-fact statement over his mind. “Many people are too busy trying to keep afloat to spend much time thinking about things that could be decades away.”
“Or hours…minutes…away. We don’t ever know, do we?”
“No, but I think ignorance allows us to keep going. I don’t know where the finish line is, so I might as well keep walking until it shows up and finds me.”
Maya dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “That’s a remarkably practical view, Danyael. You’re not quite what I expected.”
He felt it again—that flash of emotion—exactly like what he had felt that night before that bullet pierced his shoulder.