by Jade Kerrion
It wasn’t just a stone. She had expected a specific response from him, and he’d failed to deliver it. What did she want? Gratitude? He was grateful for the occasional moments of kindness, the fleeting moments when everything seemed right between them.
He knew they were just moments. Transient moments. He reminded himself constantly not to read anything into them. Trust was beyond him. He wasn’t that much of a fool. Not anymore.
Danyael slipped the stone into his pocket. “Thank you.”
She turned her back on him and continued down the road.
Was he supposed to buy something for her? With what? Zara out-earned him multiple times over. Assassination was far more lucrative than practicing medicine at the free clinic.
He had nothing to give her. But love. And love, Zara had decided years ago, was not what she wanted from him.
Which left him with…nothing to give her.
Just look. Don’t touch.
Looking was enough. Zara was attractive—more exotic than beautiful—but through an alpha empath’s eyes, through the eyes of a man who saw emotions in color, Zara was living art. Her emotions swirled with gemlike shades, sometimes blending around the edges, more often not. Light and dark, glitter and shadows danced through the colors, sometimes as delicate as lace filigrees, sometimes as stark as slashes of the daggers she wielded.
She did not look the same from moment to moment.
He could not take his eyes off her.
So much of what made her so vividly beautiful to an empath came down to not having the capacity to erect psychic shields. Zara had virtually no innate psychic ability. She could not mute her thoughts or her emotions.
His emotions—unchecked—could kill anyone who wasn’t shielded.
If there was anyone more wrong for Zara than him, Danyael had yet to meet that person. She was better off without him; heck, he was convinced he was better off without Zara. As convinced as a moth hovering around a flame. I’m going to get burned, and it’ll be my fault for not knowing when I should have walked away.
His fist closed around the stone in his pocket.
The gift means nothing. She plays games. Her kindness is a ploy.
Decoy and bait. It’s all I ever was to her. A decoy to take the pressure off Galahad; now, as bait to hunt another assassin. He did not object to either, especially not when he agreed with the end goal. He simply had to remember that she was using him, and he had agreed to be used. He had to be clear-minded about being on board a train-wreck-in-slow-motion.
Don’t fall in love with her. It was one of the last things his former best friend Lucien had ever said to him.
Too damn late. Danyael was in love. He had been in love with Zara for years, but he didn’t have to be a fool about it. He didn’t have to imagine that she loved him.
Dump the stone.
His grip tightened around it.
It’s just a stone. And it’s a gift.
He wanted…needed to keep it, even though he knew the fragment of happiness he held would not last. Perhaps, one day, when he could think clearly about Zara and him, he would figure out why she had given it to him.
“That’s Atheq Laboratories,” Zara’s voice cut through Danyael’s thoughts, directing his attention to a brash, modern building looming over Jerusalem’s ancient streets. “Xin sent me the blueprints,” she continued. “But breaking in will be difficult.”
“Why do we have to break in?”
“You want to find Maya’s information, right?”
“Why don’t we just ask someone?”
She stared at him as if he were crazy. “And you think that the lab will just hand information over to you? We don’t have time to wade through official government channels.”
“Why don’t you let me ask?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to use your empathic powers?”
“They’re probably shielded. I don’t think empathy is going to work on them. Politeness and logic might, though.”
Zara still looked skeptical when she followed Danyael through the sliding front doors into the building. Armed security guards casually toted machine guns, but then again, in Israel, almost everyone was armed.
Danyael limped up to the receptionist. “I’m Danyael Sabre. I don’t have an appointment, but may I please speak to Director Bauer?”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“It’s a matter of national security. Israel’s national security.”
The receptionist arched an eyebrow but made a call. She hung up moments later. Her trained smile revealed nothing. “Please come with me, sir. Ma’am.”
Accompanied by two armed guards, she escorted them up to the highest floor. The elevator opened to plush carpet and muted colors gleaming with refined taste. The director’s office overlooked one of the central parks in Jerusalem, a magnificent green space where children played beneath the watchful eyes of their mothers and the ever-present soldiers of the Israeli military.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Sabre.” The corpulent man behind the desk stood up. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Dr. Bauer. I’ve read a great deal about your work on supplementing missing genetic data.”
“Nothing as exceptional as your father’s work with Galahad, of course, but we’ve tried not to be a disappointment to our country. Please, sit.” He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk and turned his attention to Zara. “And Ms. Itani. Welcome.”
Zara did not seem surprised or fazed that they knew her. Danyael suspected that a master assassin with fluctuating loyalties would likely be under close observation the entire time she was in Israel.
Bauer sank into his seat and folded his hands over his stomach. “What national crisis brings you to Israel? And did you bring the crisis with you?” His laughter sounded thin, nervous.
“I am the crisis,” Danyael said, his quiet tone matter-of-fact. “An assassin is hunting empaths. Two alphas have been killed, and their empathic backlash massacred innocent bystanders. I am the last alpha. Zara and I have to stop the assassin before my past, my memories, and emotions become an emphatic nuclear weapon, escalating into a national, possibly international, disaster.”
Bauer looked pale. “And you are here because…?”
“The assassin, Maya Serach, was created here, at Atheq. We need whatever information you have on her.”
Bauer’s psychic shields concealed his emotions, but the flicker of his eyelids gave him away. “Maya Serach? The name is not familiar to me. I presume you have her genetic code?”
Zara handed the man a thin data disc.
“I’ll have our analysts review this information, but you realize, of course, that we are a private laboratory, so we’re not bound by the international agreements on genetic cooperation.”
“I know,” Danyael said. “And you realize, of course, that you’re in the presence of an alpha empath.”
Bauer waved Danyael’s warning away. “I’m shielded.”
“Is everyone in Jerusalem?”
The man’s eyes fixed on Danyael. “You mean if…”
“If I’m killed, the empathic backlash will kill every unshielded person within ten or more miles.”
“But surely alpha telepaths will be able to contain you.”
“Maybe. They barely managed to contain Cortez when he was assassinated. The backlash killed eighty-seven people; and I’m a great deal more screwed up than Cortez ever was.”
“The Israeli government does not succumb to threats, Dr. Sabre.”
“They’re not threats. They’re statements. We need information on Maya Serach to stop her, and to stop whoever hired her.”
“Hired her?”
Zara sighed. “Surely you don’t think professional assassins take on assignments out of the goodness of their hearts?”
Bauer tapped the disc against the palm of his hand. “My board will have to review your request. We’ll contact you, if they agree to release her records.” With some ef
fort, he stood. “We’re proud of our facilities here. Would you like a quick tour before you leave?”
Danyael frowned at the awkward change of topics, but he played along. “Certainly.”
For a man as ponderous as Bauer was, he was quick on his feet, but he slowed his steps to allow Danyael to keep up. He walked them past research laboratories enclosed behind glass doors and monitored by security cameras. “Not quite as outstanding as Pioneer Laboratories, but we do different work here,” Bauer said modestly. “We specialize in replicating old and fragile DNA samples.”
“Much like the work at Excelsior Laboratories.”
“Indeed. We are the only two that work in this specific area. We’ve had outstanding successes. The dry desert air preserves a great deal of DNA.”
“But it must be hard, nevertheless, to find complete strands.”
“Indeed. Science theorizes perfection. Engineering, however, deals with the imperfect. What we handle here is genetic engineering, but much less glamourous.”
“No Jurassic Park, then?”
“Hardly. Our oldest samples go back to around 73 or 74 CE. Nothing like the 1,200 BCE genetic findings that produced Fu Hao’s clone.”
“Xin.”
“You know her.” Bauer sounded thrilled. “Is she as extraordinary as her ancestor?”
“I’ve never met her ancestor, but Xin is extraordinary.”
“She appears content to work for the U.S. government. I’m surprised. I thought she would have aspired for more.”
“I don’t think there are too many job descriptions calling for queens, generals, and priestesses these days.”
“Possibly, she’s biding her time.” Bauer’s laughter sounded forced. “I’ve found our clones tend to revert to type.”
“It must make for a fascinating study on nature versus nurture,” Danyael said.
“It does indeed,” Bauer said. He paused outside of a laboratory. “This is where the magic happens, and where it’s stored.” He gestured toward a portion of the laboratory, sectioned off from the rest of the scientific equipment. Computers and servers filled that section of the large room, along with a several filing cabinets.
Bauer stopped to stare at the room. “Often, we scientists think everything happens in here, but that’s not true, of course. This is only where physical life begins. The true essence of life is shaped outside of the sterile laboratory, and frequently returns to where it was defined.”
Danyael nodded. “Sometimes, retracing our paths helps us understand decisions that we made, or that were made for us.”
Bauer turned to face Danyael. “I think we understand each other.”
“Perhaps we do.”
Zara, at least, had the tact to wait until they were out of the building and on the way back to their hotel. “What was all that about?”
“That was Bauer giving us the answers we needed about Maya Serach.”
“He gave us nothing. No data. No background on her—” Zara frowned. “Wait…the date.”
“Right. 73 or 74 CE, and his comment about clones reverting to type. We’re looking for an assassin who died around 73 or 74 CE somewhere around here, in dry, desert sands.”
“That could be anyone.”
“Don’t you see? The clue is the reversion to type. How would Bauer know that the genetic donor was an assassin unless there was sufficient information for him to make that claim?”
Zara’s eyes narrowed. “Masada.”
“What?”
“The Roman siege of Masada around 74 CE. The Jewish rebels were led by the Sicarii.”
“Sicarii?”
“A splinter group of Jewish zealots who opposed the Roman occupation. They were the first known organization assassination units.” Zara’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, but her voice exhaled wonder. “Atheq Laboratories cloned a Sicarius assassin…”
“A woman?”
She tilted her head. “Are you suggesting that women can’t be assassins?”
“That’s not a common profession for a woman in 74 CE.”
“No, you’re right.” Zara frowned. “And it doesn’t answer the question of why Bauer had to drop those ridiculous clues instead of handing over the project records.”
“Maybe they’re not willing to own up to what they did.”
“74 CE? That’s an ancient clone, not quite as ancient as Xin—nothing is as ancient as Xin—but those are solid bragging rights.”
“Why is it I can sense Xin’s emotions, but not Maya’s?”
Zara’s brow furrowed in the hint of a frown. “You think they screwed up the cloning process, and they don’t want word getting back to the International Genetics and Ethics Council.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“And the other?”
“I don’t know,” Danyael murmured. “I’ve only got the hazy edges of an answer. We have to go to Masada.”
Zara held up a hand for a moment of silence as she made a quick call, speaking in a language that could have been Hebrew, or Arabic, or Lebanese. She was frowning by the time she hung up. “Masada is closed.”
“What do you mean closed? It’s a major tourist attraction.”
“The official report is that the government is undertaking major restorations of the ancient buildings on the site.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“The Israeli government doesn’t do restorations, not when there are private interest groups lining up around the block to pay for and manage those projects. If the government has indeed cut off access to Masada, then something else is going on up there.”
“And that’s where we have to be.”
Zara folded her arms across her chest. “Have you ever been to Masada?”
“No.”
“It’s on a rock plateau.”
“All right—”
“And the only way to access it is through steep paths.”
“All right.”
She gave his crutch a pointed look. “And how exactly did you intend to get up there?”
“The same way everyone else does. Hiking up the path.”
“You don’t hike, Danyael. You can barely walk. A half day on the cobblestone streets of Kotor nearly killed you.”
“The answers are up there.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Bauer said life returns to where it begins. Something important to Maya is at Masada, and that’s where I’m going.”
8
Danyael rarely gave ultimatums. When he did, however, he stuck to them, Zara noted sourly as she hiked behind him along the Snake Trail, up the eastern side of the mountain. She had leaned against his bedroom door in the predawn hours, watching as he wrapped thick layers of bandages around his left thigh for the extra support. He also swallowed two pills.
“Painkillers,” he explained, when she had asked.
Of course, why not. Sign up to do some impossible shit and accomplish it while high on painkillers. Why not toss in some liquid adrenaline while he was at it?
“That’s a good idea,” Danyael said, absolutely straight-faced. “I’ll bring some too.”
She suspected he carried more pharmaceutical wonders as well as extra bandages in the backpack he slung over his shoulders. Zara scowled at his back. She would have to call in a chiropractor she trusted to examine him. Exerting all that physical effort would almost certainly screw up his skeletal and muscular alignment.
In fact, his body was probably already screwed up after the two or more years he had spent hobbling around on his leg.
“Why don’t you get it fixed?”
Her question snapped through the cold morning air.
“I’m saving up for it,” Danyael responded mildly.
“What?”
“I’m saving up—”
“I heard you, but why? The Mutant Affairs Council has healers who could help you, and I’m sure Alex would be happy to pay for it.”
“I’m sure Alex would be happy to have me back in his c
lutches, beholden to the council. No thanks. Life is harder on my own, but I don’t have to worry about what’s around the next corner if I fail to live up to the council’s expectations.”
“You know they’re still watching you. They always will.”
“I know, but I don’t have to come when they call, and that’s worth almost anything.”
“How much longer do you think you can continue on that leg?”
He did not reply for a long time, which worried Zara. Danyael did not lie frequently or easily. In fact, he often chose not to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “As long as I have to, I guess.”
“And then?”
“Surgery. Get better. Walk normally again.”
Zara could almost hear the hint of a smile in his voice.
Danyael continued. “Maybe take a day off and go to the beach. It’s been a while since I’ve walked on sand.”
“Will you swim too?” she asked caustically.
“Probably not.”
“You were a good swimmer.” She recalled the time when Danyael had taken to water effortlessly to save Galahad.
“Once. A long time ago.”
“When you weren’t afraid of water?” Before ADX used water and electricity to torture you.
Danyael’s shoulders stiffened. “I know I’m screwed up, Zara. You don’t have to point it out.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t insist on hiking up Masada on a ruined leg.”
He turned around slowly. His black eyes were ablaze with pain, but not a shred of it crept into his voice. “Life goes on, Zara, and whatever price it demands—I’ll pay it for as long as I can.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Danyael sounded surprised. He looked around. “I’d pay it for views like these, and those back at Montenegro. For a cool night in Anacostia when all seems at peace. For a patient’s grateful smile. For Laura’s laughter. For—” He shook his head. “Every time I look around, I see how much I still have. And all of this…it’s more than I had last August when I started over.”
“It doesn’t take much to make you happy.”