Heat of the Night

by Sylvia Day

  “Batteries? Like a power source?”

  “Exactly. The interior of the tubes are filled with energy. That’s keeping the guys alive without food and water. The whole time we were thinking something was providing power to the tubes, but it’s the reverse. The tubes are providing power for something else. We haven’t figured out what yet.”

  Aidan frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. We exist because of cellular energy. The tubes must tap into that.”

  “That’s what Wager said. There are thousands of those tubes, so either they give off very little power—in which case, why use them?—or whatever they’re hooked up to requires tremendous amounts of energy.”

  Aidan stood there, frozen. “How could they have kept all of this hidden for so long?”

  “We let them.” Connor pushed up from the chair and stretched. “Guardians like me who were too busy wandering aimlessly through life to give a shit. I feel like an idiot. A blind, stubborn idiot.”

  “You trusted those who swore to protect us. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Whatever,” Connor scoffed. “I’m a moron. You’ve got to feel vindicated, though. You were right.”

  “It’s not vindication I feel,” Aidan said wearily, holding up an empty mug in silent query. “Pissed off and sick to my stomach is more like it.”

  Connor shook his head in response to the offer of coffee. “So where do we go from here? Where the hell do we begin?”

  “With what we’ve got.” Aidan filled two mugs, preparing one with cream and sweetener before drinking the one he kept black. He left a clean cup by the coffeepot for Stacey and the sight of that lone vessel did something odd to Conner. The urge to know how she liked her coffee took him by surprise. Such a minor detail, barely personal, and yet it mattered to him. He frowned.

  “I thought I spotted Elder Rachel at an auction once,” Aidan continued, leaning back into the counter edge and holding his green Rainforest Café mega mug with both hands. “I can’t be sure since it’s been ages since she left the Elite and joined the Elders, but the resemblance was uncanny and I can’t think of anyone more likely to want to come here.”

  An image of a raven haired Guardian came to Connor’s mind. “I saw that memory when I visited with you in the dream state. We talked about her being an excellent warrior. I think I served with her at the Gateway once. She’s a bad-ass chick if I ever saw one. Loves combat.”

  All Guardians who wished to join the ranks of the Elite were required to spend a month at the Gateway as an initiation to the most extreme rigors of their job. The vast majority of fledglings failed to last the miniscule length of time required. Only a month, a drop in the endless well of time in their lives, but at the Gateway, it felt like an eternity.

  Because the Gateway was hell, the place some Dreamers saw when they were on the verge of death and believed was ruled by a red-skinned man with a forked tail and horned head. It was a place all Guardians wished they could ignore and forget, but that was impossible. It was the entryway to the Twilight, an opening the Elders had created in order to give them a place to hide from the Nightmares. But their refuge had been discovered and they were now under constant siege.

  The vast door to the Outer Realm bulged with the effort to keep the Nightmares out. Slivers of red light around the jamb revealed how the portal strained at the hinges and lock. From those tiny cracks, black shadows poured in like water and infected the Twilight around the Gateway until lava-spewing pustules formed from the ground. There, thousands of Elite Warriors fought an endless battle, their glaives flashing as they cut down Nightmares in countless numbers. It was an onerous task and one no sane Guardian wished to experience any longer than they were forced to.

  Except for Rachel.

  She had lasted the month and then argued that she could handle a month more.

  “Yes. Kick-ass,” Aidan agreed. “Plus, she’s got a hefty advantage. She knows what the fuck is going on. I don’t. She’s got one mission. My focus is divided. I’ve got to keep Lyssa safe, take care of acquisitions for McDougal, and hunt down the artifacts. And now that we’ve got those…things…to deal with, there’s no way for you and I to do it alone. Two against a widespread group of freaks? I might as well give up, grab Lyssa, and go hide out on a deserted island until everything blows up. Snatch a little peace while I can.”

  “Shit.” Connor blew out his breath. “You’re right. We need reinforcements, but hell if I know who’ll want to come here. The men under my command are committed to the cause, but…”

  “But this is asking a lot.”

  “Yeah. It is. For most of us, the Twilight is the only home we’ve ever known. There aren’t many around who remember the Old World. Asking them to leave everything behind for this,” he waved his arm in a sweeping gesture, “is a tall order.”

  “It sucks, but what choice do we have?” Aidan rubbed one hand across the morning whiskers that shadowed his jaw. “The redhead had the taza I was searching for, so they’re tracking the artifacts. I need to concentrate on keeping McDougal happy, because he’s paying the bills. We need someone to hunt the artifacts while I’m working and a group to hunt the hybrids. The thing that attacked me was insane. One of them is going to get caught or killed and then the Dreamers will know they’re not alone in the Universe.”

  “And anyone close to you is in danger, too, and needs protection. The Elders will use whatever they can for leverage. You think I’d kick Stacey to the curb because of boredom. Fact is, I’d stay away from her because hanging with me could get her killed.”

  Narrowing his gaze, Aidan studied him carefully.

  “Here’s the thing, though,” Connor continued, too impatient to try explaining feelings he didn’t understand. “The roundtrip isn’t without its consequences. The Medium is destroyed on the return.”

  Aidan stilled. “Destroyed?”

  “Killed. Murdered. Game over.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Pretty much. So it’s not as if we can promise a temporary assignment.”

  There was a long pause, then, “Thank you.”

  The two words were spoken with such feeling that Connor was taken aback. “For what?”

  “For giving up your home for me. Shit…”

  Aidan’s eyes reddened and Connor panicked. “Hey! Don’t get excited, man. It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not. It’s awesome. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Conner said hastily.

  Lyssa entered from the living room and Connor almost kissed her with relief. “Umm…Coffee,” she crooned. She sported a damp ponytail, clean clothes, and smelled like apples. Dressed in a dark pink velour jogging suit, she looked revived and beautiful. She found the cup Aidan had prepared for her and lifted to her tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth. “Thank you, baby,” she whispered.

  Connor, grateful for the opportunity, slipped away to change and get ready for the monumental task ahead.

  Chapter 8

  For a man once lauded for his honor, Michael Sheron’s present life filled with lies and treason was an end even he could not have foreseen. The shadowy beings they called Nightmares were nothing compared to the nightmare of deceit he dealt with daily.

  As his body flew through air across the distance between the rebellion headquarters and the Temple of the Elders, Michael surveyed the beauty of the landscape rushing by beneath him. Rolling, grass-covered hills. Lush valleys with roaring rivers. Magnificent waterfalls.

  All a carefully crafted stage to stave off discontent.

  It saddened him that he had come to disdain the paradise he expended great effort to maintain, but the perfection of their surroundings was as evanescent as the dreams his people guarded. Beneath the façade lay a foundation firmly mired in untruths. But only the Elders and the rebels knew this. The majority of Guardians were happy here and they would remain that way, if they were kept ignorant of the uprising.

  That deception was his most pressing task, and it
grew more difficult by the day. Captain Aidan Cross was a warrior of legend, his mere presence enough to make the other Guardians feel safe and secure. Cross’s disappearance was beginning to cause undue speculation and now the loss of Bruce would compound the problem.

  They were the two most visible and acclaimed members of the Elite Warriors and lifelong best friends. The Guardians wouldn’t understand why two men so fiercely loyal to their people would betray them so brutally. Their desertion would raise questions regarding what had so disillusioned them, and the option—to make them villains—was not one Michael wanted to utilize. He thought it best to keep both men in the good graces of the masses. Hero worship was a powerful emotion, and it could be a useful tool in the future. History was filled with tales of great feats accomplished by invoking the memory of a beloved figure.

  The gleaming white Temple came into view and Michael slowed his airborne glide, drifting into a vertical position and then lowering gently to his feet. He paused a moment to pull up the cowl all the Elders used to hide their emaciated features from public view. He’d once been a handsome man. Ages ago. The loss of physical beauty, however, was a small price to pay to achieve his aims.

  Outwardly prepared, Michael stepped through the massive red torii gate the Elders used as a motivator. Its warning engraved in the ancient language—Beware of the Key that turns the Lock—had given the Guardians both a goal and hope, two things required to maintain mental health. If he could keep the knowledge of the coup contained, the message could continue to serve its purpose.

  As he crossed the open-air center courtyard, he left a trail of droplets in his wake. His robes were still soaked from his confrontation with Bruce and would have to remain that way for the time being. He was expected, and punctuality was the best way to stave off unwanted curiosity.

  Knowing he was being watched through the vid monitors, Michael kept his movements to a leisurely pace. He paused at the chôzuya. Dipping the waiting ladle into the fountain, he rinsed out his mouth and washed his hands, his gaze sweeping over his surroundings, a place that brought comfort to most Guardians but felt like a prison to him.

  Releasing his breath, he cleared his mind, knowing that a confident and casually arrogant mien would be required to get him through the audience ahead. He had suggested meeting with Bruce, but the events he had set in motion during that discussion were entirely of his own design. It was a complicated dance he engaged in, and a misstep would cost him everything.

  Michael traversed the courtyard and entered the haiden where the other Elders awaited him. His peers. Or so they called themselves. In truth, there were very few of the many who shared his goals.

  The cool interior engulfed him, the room’s rounded walls hidden in shadow due to the light that illuminated only the dead center of the space. He came to a halt within that beam and it immediately dimmed, revealing the hooded figures who sat before him in semicircular rows.

  “Has Captain Bruce connected with Cross and the Key, Elder Sheron?”

  “If he has not done so yet, he will shortly.”

  The benches above him exploded in a hum of dozens of conversations. Michael waited patiently, his stance wide, his hands clasped at the small of his back. With a toss of his head, his wet cowl was thrown back to better convince the others of his sincerity. No one feigned sincerity as well as he did.

  “What do you suggest we do now that Bruce is out of the Twilight?”

  “We should send an Elder to lead the team recovering the artifacts.”

  Discussion swelled again, hundreds of voices competing to be heard over the din.

  “Sheron.”

  He smiled inwardly at the feminine voice. “Yes, Elder Rachel?”

  “Who would you send on our behalf?”

  “Who would you prefer?”

  Rachel stood, pushing her hood back to reveal raven tresses and snapping green eyes. “I will go. And lead.”

  “You were exactly who I had in mind,” he drawled.

  Elder Rachel was a warrior of singular skill who had a rare gift for command, much like Cross and Bruce. Her appearance was also a plus. Only the female Elders retained their youthful attractiveness. She would not be as conspicuous as the men would be.

  “Captain Cross will have difficulty facing a woman opponent,” he said. “That is an advantage we will need.”

  “And Bruce?” someone questioned. “I still do not understand how his presence in the mortal realm helps us in any way.”

  “Each of them is immovable alone. Together, they are fluid. They lean on each other. They have more to lose when they know their actions affect the other one. They will become more firmly rooted in the mortal plane. They will venture farther, experience more, take bigger risks than they would have apart.”

  “It will take too long!” someone complained.

  Michael sighed inwardly. “If we hope to have the Dreamer conceive a Guardian sired child, we will need to give them time. They are poised on a knife’s edge and until they feel secure enough in their future together, they won’t chance pregnancy. Regardless, the gestational period for a human female cannot be changed.”

  “But she is not like other humans.”

  “Which creates even more questions,” he argued. “We cannot rush this. We must be patient and allow the pieces of the puzzle to fall where they may.”

  Discussion ensued and lasted for hours. It was always this way. The Guardian community was resistant to change by nature. Michael often thought it was a fortuitous circumstance that they were immortal. Otherwise, they would never have the lifespan required to accomplish any task.

  In the end, however, he achieved his aims.

  “Elder Rachel, you will begin preparations?” an Elder asked. “The acclimation to the human world will not be easy and working against Captain Cross will test you.”

  Her lush mouth curved, but the smile wasn’t reflected in her hard green eyes. “I will be ready.”

  “It is decided then,” the Elder said, speaking for the collective. “We will proceed to the next chapter.”

  Stacey finished packing up her stuff and took one last look around Lyssa’s guest bedroom to make sure she didn’t forget anything.

  It was going to suck going home to an empty house, but there was no reason to stay and she really didn’t want to. The vibe would be too weird now that Lyssa and Aidan knew she’d been intimate with Connor. Besides, Connor was here on business. Knowing how singularly focused Aidan was about his antiquities, they’d probably want to get started right away. She had things to do, too, so…

  Slinging one strap of her backpack over her shoulder, Stacey headed downstairs.

  She was surprised to find Connor alone. He was seated at the dining table, gingerly cleaning some dirt-encrusted object. A black T-shirt stretched to its limits over his broad shoulders and his long legs were encased in loose-fitting faded jeans.

  “Hi,” she said, as she passed him on her way to fetching her purse from the top of the breakfast bar. “Where’s Aidan and Lyssa?”

  “They went to sleep. Apparently, they drove all night and they’re wiped out.”

  Stacey turned to face him. He watched her with those aqua eyes that seemed so knowing. As if he’d seen and done more than was possible for a man of his years. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, she’d guess, but he had the stamina and energy of a man half that age, as she knew firsthand.

  She shook her head. “I was hoping they’d enjoy some time off. They both work too damn hard.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked softly, his eyes on her baby pink and black Roxy backpack. She would never have purchased such an extravagance for herself. A five dollar backpack from Wal-Mart would do the same job. But Lyssa had noted her admiring it in the store and bought it as a gift. Because of that, it was one of her favorite “luxury” items.

  “Home. I have some things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff. The house needs cleaning. I can rarely get to it when J
ustin’s home. And the front step on my porch is rotted. My neighbor said he’d take a look at it for me, so I’ll see if today works for him or not.”

  Connor set the object in his hands down and pushed back from the table in a dangerously graceful movement. For as big as he was, he moved like a panther. Sleek and stealthy. “I can fix it for you.”

  She blinked up at him, her head tilted back slightly to take in his height. Even from a few feet away, she had to raise her eye level to look at him. “Why?”

  “Why would he fix it for you?” he countered.

  Stacey frowned. “Because he’s a nice guy.”

  “I’m a nice guy.”

  “You’re busy.” And gorgeous. Dear god, he was luscious. Black was his color, for sure. She’d noted that yesterday when he arrived. It accentuated his golden skin and hair to perfection. The slightly too-long locks, T-shirt, jeans, and black combat boots made a heady bad boy combination. The mental picture of him in her house did strange things to her equilibrium.

  “I need to strategize,” he said. “I can do that anywhere.”

  “Fixing a broken step is boring.”

  “Your neighbor doesn’t think so.”

  “He likes my homemade apple pie.”

  Connor crossed his arms over his chest. “I like apple pie.”

  “It’s really not a good idea…”

  “Sure it is,” he insisted, with a stubborn bent to his jaw line that she found endearing. “I’m great at fixing porches.”

  She should say no. Really. She knew he was hoping that a quick repair would lead to some sexual gratitude. Thing of it was, she was worried he might be right to hope. She’d spent the entire length of her shower wondering what it would be like to make love to him with time on her side. Without rushing through it.

  Hazardous thoughts.

  “I think we should just say good-bye now,” she said.

  “Chicken.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

  Connor tucked his hands in his arm pits, flapped his arms up and down, and made squawking noises.