Breaking Fate (2 page)

“Okay, Angel, let’s see what you're up to tonight?” She settled on the couch with her chocolaty drink and propped her feet up on the large wooden crate she’d painted black which now masqueraded as a coffee table. Licking the melting chocolate off her spoon, she watched Angel make Buffy’s life a living hell by leaving her gifts of drained bodies…

A sharp rap on the door and she jumped up, pulled out of her Buffy haze.

Christ on a crutch!
“Still too edgy, Callahan,” she muttered, heart in her throat. Her gaze darted to the wall clock. 1:47 AM.

It couldn’t be Nora. Her friend was overseas visiting family.

Daniel? Her nephew sometimes stayed overnight with her when he was in town, but he usually called and warned her. Smoothing her lemon-colored tank top over pale blue pajama bottoms, she padded barefoot to the front door and peered through the security hole. At the flash of familiar blond hair, she threw the door open.

“Daniel…” Her worried voice trailed off as her gaze zipped straight past her nephew to the stranger behind. Predator-still, he blended into the night, dressed entirely in black.

The man was tall, his shoulders double the size of hers. Brutally cropped dark hair plastered his skull. He sported an awful shiner around his left eye, and his cheek bore a red welt. Even battered and bruised, the man was impossibly good-looking.

Leathers hugged his muscular thighs. A t-shirt stretched over his broad chest. He sported some kind of sword tattoo on his right biceps. At five foot nine, Darci was tall enough to look most men in the eyes without straining her neck. But
he
forced her gaze waaaay up until she bumped into his empty, pale blue stare. And felt as if she’d been sucked into a void.

“This juvenile belongs to you, I believe?” He thrust Daniel forward by the arm.

Her gaze dropped to her nephew and widened in horror. “Daniel! Dear God, what happened?”

Smears of dirt and dried blood marred his face; the discolorations on his right cheekbone were turning a horrible shade of purple. Darci reached for him, accidently brushing the cold man’s arm as he dropped his hand. A zip of electricity darted through her body. Awareness stirred. She ignored the eerie sensation as Daniel stumbled into the living room.

“You were in a fight? Again? Darn it, Dan, what were you thinking?” she snapped.

“I'm fine. I'm fine—” Confused blue eyes bounced all around the room before settling on her. “Please don’t call Dad. Please, Darci?”

Darci didn't know whether to hug him because he was all right or yell at him for making her worry. She pinned him with a gimlet stare. “You hooked up with those loser friends of yours, didn't you? Christ in heaven, Dan, what were you thinking? How is this supposed to work when you won't follow the few simple rules your dad’s set for you, huh?”

His chin lowered and his shoulders sank. Feeling his embarrassment, Darci sighed and abandoned the hardcore aunt. “Go clean yourself up. We’ll talk later.”

Daniel trailed upstairs. Once he’d disappeared out of sight, she turned to the stranger on her front porch. Her breath caught at his unwavering stare. So intense. It made her uneasy, her inner alarm shooting all sorts of warnings through her head.
Thug. Assassin.

Ugh, no, she dismissed that. He’d brought Daniel home. He couldn’t be that dangerous, could he?

Darci hooked a coil of loose hair behind her ear to hide her nervousness. Those piercing pale eyes followed the movement. She had to force out the words through a suddenly dry throat. “What happened?”

“I suggest you keep him leashed.” Ice edged his lightly accented voice. “He gets into fights in places he shouldn’t be.”

Darci scowled, her wariness morphing into irritation. No matter what trouble Daniel got into, no one spoke about her nephew in that manner. “I asked what happened, not your opinion.”

Those eerie, empty eyes narrowed. No, not empty, something deeper — darker stirred within those frozen depths. Wariness crawled up her spine, chasing away her belligerence.
Déjà vu
settled over her in a haze.

She felt as if she’d looked into those eyes before.

***

A brush of her hand, that was all it took.

A roar built in Blaéz’s head. The air rushed out of his body like he’d been on the receiving end of a deathblow. His senses flowed awake as if from a long drought. He drank her in like a man dying of thirst. And desperately inhaled another lungful of her scent.

Did he look as shell-shocked as he felt?

She smelled like sunshine and some flower — at that moment, he had no clue what the hell it was, just knew he’d smelled it before. It grew abundantly around the castle.

She spoke. He answered. Had no idea what he’d said or if he’d said anything at all. Only knew this human with her creamy coffee skin tone and sultry, slanted eyes damn near blew his mind apart. Her curly honey-brown hair was held up with a… chopstick? It revealed high cheekbones and a delectable pair of lips.

The combination of her scent, her mesmerizing stare, and the delicious scatter of freckles across her nose became his siren’s call.

He wanted to leave, walk out. But held there by some impossible force, he reached out and gently stroked her petal smooth cheek instead. Her eyes widened in surprise. Her warmth seeped through the husk of him and his formidable control cracked.

In a move so fast he crowded her against the door, his hands braced on the wood beside her head. Powerless to stop himself, he lowered his head and trailed his nose down her neck. Her soft, feminine scent filled his lungs. His heart pounded in his ears. Blood buzzed, and desire like a tidal wave crashed through him.

“Hey.” She shoved at his chest. “Wh-what are you're doing?”

“Be still.”

At his rough tone, she stiffened and pressed her back into the door. Her striking eyes, a deep brown with spiky bouts of pure yellow edged with green glowered in annoyance.

Sunflowers. That’s what they reminded him of.

“I'm grateful you brought Daniel home. But not
that
grateful. You’re sadly mistaken if you think I'm going to let you…” Her gaze settled on his lips. “Kiss me.”

“You would if I were of a mind to.”

Her seductive mouth dropped open. Her irises turned fully citron, irritation flaring across her gorgeous face.

Emotions charging through him like a livewire, Blaéz forced himself to step back, despite wanting to taste her so badly. He struggled to find an off switch. Struggled not to touch her. If he did, he doubted he’d stop at just a kiss.

And you can't be trusted,
the sly voices in his head whispered.

Yeah, got it. She’s human — an innocent, and he was a fucked-up deviant.

He had to get the hell out of here. He drank in one last look before he took off down the street. At a shady building some distance from her home, he dematerialized. Back on the familiar grounds of the Lower East Side, he took form in an alley, his groin heavy and aching with impossible need. Blaéz ran agitated fingers through his clipped hair.

His gaze lit on the busy entrance to Club Anarchy. He needed a drink — needed to think. Bypassing the crowd there and the demon bouncers, he made his way inside the nightspot.

Heavy metal music crashed around him. Sweat, liquor, and perfume wafted in the air. Strobe lights in multihued patterns buzzed around him like pesky flies. Nothing registered in his hazy thoughts as he headed for the VIP section upstairs, not even the humans who parted, giving him way.

As he ordered his preferred whiskey from the waitress there, the sensation of absolute nothingness, of emptiness returned. He looked up into the mirror behind the bar. And the same expression he’d seen for eons stared back at him. Cold. Emotionless. Colorless eyes. The eyes of a killer. Once, in another life, they’d been as blue as the Pacific, until the day it had all gotten shot to hell and he’d been thrown in Tartarus for several brutal centuries.

His thoughts went on automatic lock-down.

A female in skyscraper heels tottered over to his side. Her vacuous gaze skimmed over him. “Lookin’ for a good time, handsome?”

But it wasn't the whore’s heavily made-up, spaced out grays he saw, but
hers
, those extraordinary hazel ones now imprinted on his mind. Drink forgotten, he headed downstairs and through the dimly lit passageway toward the exit.

He had to see her again. Why only with her did his heart react as if it had been attached to a defibrillator? Why only with her did he feel?

He was a soulless bastard. Emotions weren’t his deal.

Darci dropped her cell on the kitchen counter after she’d made her call to her brother and rubbed the goose bumps from her arm.

The memory of the man’s touch, his low seductive voice, made the tiny hairs on her nape rise. She should have been scared witless when he’d trapped her against the door, but instead, awareness stirred deep within her. Almost like she should know him.

Ugh, she must have lost her ever-loving mind. Know him? She’d never seen him in her life. Because one thing’s for sure, he was the kind of man one never forgot. He was too tall, too handsome, too
everything
in a dark, deadly sort of way.

The squeaky sounds of sneakers on the wooden stairs pulled her out of her confused thoughts.

His head lowered, Daniel cleared the last stair and parked himself on the arm of the couch, fingering an old rip in the knee of his jeans. He’d showered and changed into clean clothes, but he looked pale beneath the dark bruises around his eye and on his cheek.

Guilt for calling his father clawed at Darci, but terror filled her heart at what could have happened. Christ, he was only sixteen. It didn't matter if he was tall as a house; he was still a child.

This was all her fault. The few times he’d shown up at her door from his late night partying, she’d let him be. With her being far younger than his father, it made Daniel see her more as a friend than his aunt. Worse, she now realized, by not telling Declan about Daniel’s break in curfew, he’d landed himself in trouble. If anything ever happened to him, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. She looped a stray curl of hair behind her ear and realized, much to her dismay, the man hadn’t answered her question about what had happened. She had to be the worse aunt ever for not questioning him again. Well, she could still get it from the horse’s mouth. But said horse continued to avoid her gaze.

“What happened, Daniel?”

He plucked a thread from the rip. “Dunno.”

Her mouth tightened. “Fine, don’t tell me. But you’d better rethink your line of “dunno” fast because your father’s not going to be happy.”

He frowned and rubbed his forehead. “Honest, Dars, how can I tell you anything when I don’t remember getting hurt? I don’t even recall how that guy brought me here.”

Oh, God, he must have hurt his head. Alarmed, she rushed over to him and ran her fingers over his skull searching for injuries, but found nothing.

The doorbell rang. Daniel stiffened. His accusing gaze rushed to hers. She refused to feel remorse over what she’d done and went to answer. Grace flew inside, Declan followed. Her sister-in-law’s fine, blonde hair was pulled into a careless ponytail, her pale skin ashen. She stumbled to a halt, a hand pressing against the slight bump of her pregnant belly. Her face crumpled when she saw Daniel's bruises.

Darci hurried over and put her arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “Hey now, he’s okay, Gracie — he’s fine.”

Darci glanced at her silent brother. From their maternal grandmother they’d both inherited their tanned skin and almond-shaped eyes, along with a unique blend of black, white, and eastern genes, but right now, he looked like death warmed over, his attractive face drawn tight.

His anger chilled the air the moment he laid eyes on his son. “What the hell were you thinking—” He stopped, dragged in a calming breath, and raked a hand through his short brown hair. “Christ help me, Dan. If I find out you're gambling again—”

“I’m not,” Daniel mumbled.

Declan’s green eyes narrowed dangerously. “Then explain the bruises to me. It sure looks like somebody worked you over. To me, that screams you owe money. I’m an attorney, Dan, don’t blow smoke in my face. I’ve dealt with these kind of cases — the assaults!”

“I don’t remember what happened, Dad. Honest.” Daniel eyed his father warily. “I was hanging with Sean and Jerry at a nightclub.”

A nerve throbbed on Declan’s forehead. He looked minutes from exploding. “Those damn idiots! I'm surprised they didn't dare you into one of those bloody underground fights!”

Daniel shook his head in protest. “No-no, I wasn’t there—”

“Then where?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Oh, no!” Grace hurried to him and ran her fingers over Daniel’s scalp, looking for bumps like Darci had done moments ago.

Declan’s lips thinned. “That’s it! You're grounded until further notice, which probably won’t be ‘til the next decade. Thanks, Dars.” He hauled his son out the front door.

Feeling wretched for her nephew, Darci turned to Grace. “At least he’s safe now.”

“It’s all my fault,” Grace whispered, resting a trembling hand on her belly. “I try not to neglect him with everything going on, but I should have tried harder.”

“You’re doing the best you can under the circumstances. Are you okay?” Darci eyed Grace’s stomach with growing concern. After several miscarriages in the past ten years, and now at fifteen weeks, Darci prayed Grace would carry this pregnancy to term.

“I will be once we get Daniel home. Darci, I'm sending him to Texas, at least until the baby arrives. On the farm with Mom and Dad, he’ll be safe. If anything happens to him here…”

Darci hugged her, Grace's hard belly pressing into her. Daniel living with the Masons would probably be the best thing for him. Grace’s parents were firm and loving, and honest farm chores would do her nephew a world of good.

After her family had left, Darci remained on the porch and breathed deeply, hoping it would end well. She owed her brother so much. She couldn’t bear for Grace to suffer another miscarriage, and see the devastation in his eyes again.

Their mother had died a few days after giving birth to Darci. Their father, unable to handle the burdens of a family, had up and left when Darci turned two, leaving her and Declan in the care of their much older and rather strict godmother, Rose.

Her childhood had been anything but happy with constant nightmares tormenting her. It had gotten so bad that Rose had taken her to a psychiatrist, not that it had helped. But Declan had been her rock. When Rose had died from a stroke, newly married, her brother had taken her to live with him. Then she’d turned ten, and the horrid dreams just stopped. It might have been a long time ago, but the nightmarish echoes remained scattered in her mind.

Flames crackled around her. Laughter… horrible laughter… the hissing snap of a fiery whip as it laid into her skin, splitting her flesh. Pain, excruciating pain—

God! She rubbed her face, trying to rid herself of the memory.

As Darci entered the house, she remembered that she hadn’t mentioned the stranger who’d brought Daniel home. Perhaps it was better that Declan and Grace did not know, Daniel was already in so much trouble. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d see the man again.

***

For the first time ever, Blaéz canceled a scheduled training session. He texted his sparring partner,
Raincheck on the swords.

Aethan would probably be ecstatic at the time-out. He could spend time with his mate, who’d recently awakened after several months in a comatose sleep. Not waiting for a response, Blaéz made his way down the three flights of narrow, winding stairs to the castle basement and entered the gym. He hit the switch.

Recessed lights in the ceiling flooded the enormous room, revealing miles of austere white walls and gray granite floor tiles. He skirted the strung up punching bags, bypassed the heavy artillery, and headed for the treadmill. Dropping his cell on a bench, he stepped on the machine and started his run.

The events of last night had certainly broken his ennui. Darci Callahan was unexpected. Just the thought of her and he half expected his heart to thump faster, but as usual, all remained calm. The results of the background search he’d done revealed only the basics. Twenty-six, single, and she worked at the library in East Village.

The information wasn’t enough for him. No matter. He planned to see her today, and he’d find out what he wanted.

After he’d left Club Anarchy in the early hours of the morning, he’d gone back to her brownstone. The place had been in darkness, and she’d been asleep. Instead of knocking on her door and awakening her — that wouldn’t have gone down too well, considering he’d probably shocked the life out of her with his actions — he’d chosen to wait, despite wanting to experience that extraordinary moment again.

He, however, never played to lose. Patience. He was good at that. He would get what he wanted. Her. Over the passing years, he’d amassed more than enough mementos from the other Guardians. His latest acquisition — Týr’s vintage Harley from a game of foosball — pissed off the warrior to no end.

But she was more.
She
made him feel.

Increasing the speed on the treadmill, he ran faster and tried to understand.

Why her? Why now?

Nothing made sense.

One needed a soul to feel, and he didn't possess that any longer.

The door opened. Michael strode inside, circled the heavy equipment, and sat across from Blaéz on a workout bench. The old tee he wore looked like the moths had had a great time feasting on it. It didn't surprise Blaéz that the archangel was still here when he rarely stayed at the castle. It was expected after Blaéz had missed the “chat” last night.

Well, he’d been busy… stalking. He couldn’t make the meet.

Michael’s eerie blue eyes settled on him. They appeared like shattered sapphires, as if he’d lived through a brutal torture. The jagged pieces never quite fit anymore, allowing a strange silvery glow through.

“What’s going on?”

Time for his grilling. With no way to escape this one-on-one with the snarly male, Blaéz said, “You know what I am. Why the questions now?”

Michael picked up a three hundred pound weight and began his arm curls. “For centuries, every few months you disappear for days at a time. I gave you space, understood you needed it. But that time in Tartarus has long passed. You’re losing all your cognitive skills, ones that make you a Guardian. Sure, you do the job, but there’s a lack of care now.”

Blaéz heard the unasked question. Maybe he should have felt guilty that he cared so little about his own health, his life. After all, Michael had given up more than his status as the leader of the archangels, lost something irreplaceable to free him — free all of them from that hellish hole.
And
he’d chosen to stay on as their leader. Why anyone would want to take charge of moody, temperamental fallen ex-gods, Blaéz had no idea.

Still, he could never reveal the reality of what he’d done… still did, or where he disappeared to every few months. Days he could never speak off. The truth would crush the warriors.

He functioned on autopilot in his role as a Guardian. Nothing more than an automaton. It’s why meeting Darci, and the emotions that had unfurled so briefly, yanked him by the balls.

“You're becoming self-destructive,” Michael snapped.

He was way past self-destructive.

He reeked of Hell.

Couldn’t the Arc smell it on him?

Blaéz brushed the sweat from his brow and pounded harder on the fast moving belt. A slow burn started in his thigh muscles, followed by a trickle of pain. “It’s been three and a half millennia, you think I'm a loose cannon, then take me out.”

Those silvery fissures in Michael’s blue gaze flared at his blunt words. Jaw rigid, the archangel switched the free weight to his other hand. “You're seriously pissing me off, Celt. Get your shit together, fast. We work because of anonymity. Those cage fights will bring us notice. We go viral, all hell’s going to fly. And I don’t mean by me.”

“So noted.”

Gaia, the Being they’d sworn their allegiance to as Protector of Earth, of all mankind… No, he didn't imagine she’d be pleased. They were supposed to remain a myth — beings that didn't exist. Indeed. The sweat dripping down his abs felt very, very real, as did the female who, for one breathless moment, had him feeling again.

He stepped down from the treadmill, pulled off his tee, and swiped his damp face. Picking up his cell, he left the gym with Michael’s gaze boring holes into him. At times, he just wished the Arc would take him out. And end it all.

Shower finished, Blaéz walked into his dressing room, checked through his clothes then decided to skip the leathers. He pulled on black pants and glanced at the time on his cell phone as he shrugged on a shirt and buttoned up. 3:44 P.M.

He was done waiting. Snagging the Veyron keys from the bureau, he left his quarters and headed down the long corridor toward the circular gallery with its hoard of paintings and armored figures.

Afternoon sunlight poured into the foyer through the floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. It bathed the grand staircase and dappled the marble statues watching over the several tall potted plants in a kaleidoscope of colors.

“Yo, Celt, where are you off to this early?” Týr called out, coming in from the direction of the kitchen and tearing open a packet of M&M’s. Once from the titanic pantheon of the Norse gods and now a fellow Guardian, the warrior’s disarrayed blond hair framed a face that had the females panting to get into his leathers.

“I have something to take care of. Later.”

Týr’s gaze dropped to the car keys in Blaéz’s hand. An eyebrow shot up. “You're taking the Veyron? I thought it was just another showpiece like all the other stuff you accumulate?”