Damian's Oracle (16 page)

“You jealous little bi - “

Before she knew what she did, she’d closed
the distance between them and slapped him hard. Fury bubbled within
her, breaking free.

“Tonight, I’ve given you the last shred of me
that was human!” she shouted. “I just signed their death warrants,
and you think I’d stoop so low as to point the gun at someone
because I’m
jealous
? You think I’d sell my soul because of
something so stupid? I’m doing this for
you
! This is what I
am! But you know what, Damian? Fuck you.
Fuck you
!”

Hurt, she fled into the cold night air,
stopping only when she reached the center of the gardens. Pierre
trotted after her. She dropped to her knees and sobbed, unable to
control her pain and fear.

Damian started after her, furious. Dusty
caught his arm and motioned for those in the library to leave.

“You’re a dick. You know how hard it was for
her to tell you that?”

Damian glared at him, his restraint on his
powers rippling. Long buried rage was bubbling upward, along with
the tiny instinct he’d squashed thousands of years ago.

“I can’t believe –“

“I believe her, Damian,” Dusty said in a calm
voice. “Claire’s been on the European front for a hundred years.
She just rotated to the southwest on orders that neither you nor
Jule nor I issued, and the Tucson sites have fallen like flies.
Because of her natural ability, she’s been intimately involved in
screening new recruits. It’d be easy for her to flag the newbies
for Czerno’s men.”

Dusty’s words floored him, and Damian
couldn’t help but feel hurt that his BFF hadn’t told him of his
suspicions sooner. He paced, mind racing with memories he could no
longer suppress, thoughts of his brother, of Claire, of Darian’s
death. Sofia’s words freed them from deep within his mind, and
Dusty’s hammering the fact made it impossible for him to silence
them as he wanted to.

I don’t know if I trust my wife, brother.

Maybe Darian hadn’t been talking about
infidelity but about something else. The memories came faster.
Darian was chopped into so many pieces that there’d been no body to
bury. Not providing his brother a proper burial – the burial of a
king! – had sickened him. Almost as bad, how many others had died
from the treachery of a single Guardian? How many Guardians had he
lost
this year alone?!
How many humans were dead because he
lacked the strength to face his instincts?

He roared and slammed his hands on the desk
at the far end of the library, unable to stop the images racing
through his mind. Claire was all that remained of his brother, and
he’d loved her out of respect for a man whose death he’d never been
able to accept. Memories of how much Darian loved Claire, of his
own nights in her bed, overwhelmed him. That she’d used him, killed
Darian …

“Damian.”

Dusty’s soft voice brought him out of his
mind, and he realized he was kneeling on the floor with his head
bowed.

“Brother,” Dusty whispered.

He knew Dusty was right, knew Sofia was
right, knew he’d known since just after Darian’s death that there
was something not right about Claire but was too desperate to hold
onto the last piece of his brother to face the truth. He was
reliving the pain of Darian’s death, sickened by his own cowardice.
Darian had even tried to warn him, and he’d never wanted to see
what was in front of him.

Forgive me, brother.

“I know, Dusty,” he admitted in a thick
voice. “I think I’ve always known.”

“No, brother, you couldn’t have known how
twisted she was. No one could.”

“Even someone who reads minds?” he demanded
with a bitter laugh.

“Did you ever read hers?”

“No. It was Darian’s rule - if you trust
someone, don’t do it. She is … was the last of my family.”

If he had, how many thousands of lives would
have been saved? How good was a Defender of Humanity who purposely
looked away from something that led to so many deaths?

“Darian’s death is not your fault,” Dusty
said in a hushed tone.

Damian closed his eyes. Dusty knelt beside
him, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

“Trust me,” he whispered. “We’re in this
together.”

The words were familiar, the same words he’d
spoken to Dusty thousands of years ago, when he’d discovered the
youth who was not yet a man on a slave trader’s block, bloodied and
weeping for the family he’d just lost.

He met Dusty’s pale blue eyes and saw his
pain reflected in Dusty’s tight face.

“These oracles are dangerous,” Dusty said
with a faint smile. “I forgot that part about them.”

“Darian’s finally dead to me,” Damian said
hoarsely. “Tonight, I lose him forever.”

“You’ve still got me and Jule,” Dusty
reminded him. “And a terrified little oracle who’s sobbing her eyes
out right now.”

“I fucked that up.”

“She’s resilient to make it this far. She’ll
be ok,” Dusty said. “As for the traitors, I’m offering up my skill
set, if you need it.”

“You can have the others. I’ll deal with
Claire.”

“Are you sure?”

“I should have done this long ago, brother.
No one else will die because of me.”

Dusty’s phone dinged, and he retrieved
it.

“Jule’s asking if you’re ok.”

“Tell him we identified his Europe
issue.”

Damian picked himself up, grateful for
Dusty’s presence.

“Have the four rounded up,” he ordered. “Let
them sweat for a day, then do whatever you want with the
three.”

“Interrogation? Execution?”

“Both.”

Dusty nodded and strode out. He’d not had to
work too hard for confessions in the past thousand years, not after
word of his cold, methodological skills leaked to the Guardians.
Dusty was a one-man Internal Affairs department. The Guardians knew
that betrayal would be confronted by Dusty, and even those loyal to
Damian feared him appearing unexpectedly at their door.

Damian knew him well enough to know all the
tales weren’t true. His reputation alone was enough to make most
men weep when confronted. But this time, he suspected Dusty would
live up to his legend.

As for Claire … pain spiraled through him. He
waited in the library until he’d composed himself and left for his
suite. He couldn’t stem the memories flooding his mind and felt the
wound of Darian’s death reopen wider than it had originally
been.

Pierre was in front of Sofia’s door. He
stopped, guilty yet too raw to confront her. Pierre glanced up from
his video game at his hesitation.

“She sleeps, ikir,” he supplied. “’Tis the
best time to deal with her.”

Damian snorted. Pierre’s lip was completely
insubordinate, and it was obvious he’d never worked for Dusty.
Dusty was a stickler for formality from his men, while Jule’s
hemisphere was far more relaxed. Damian didn’t care; Sofia liked
Pierre, and he had a feeling Pierre’s blunt dose of reality was
soothing to her in a world where nothing else made sense.

He entered her room, emitting enough of his
power to hide him from her senses. Her curtains were open, as they
had been every night since she transformed. Her face was streaked
with tears, her eyes puffy even in sleep. Her sleep was troubled.
He sensed the visions in her head, not surprised to see his own
black memories playing on the screens on the back of her eyelids
along with a dark nightmare of a man in a corner crying. He
wondered if the man was his soul, weeping for his brother.

He sat down heavily in the corner, watching
her. He was ashamed of his last words to her. She’d struggled with
Claire, wanting to spare him the pain he’d unleashed on her. Her
eyes had been shadowed since he met her, her own struggle with her
new world taking a visible toll on her. The videos running through
her head were dark and disturbing, had been since she entered his
world. They drove her away from him and the true purpose of his
Guardians. She was alone and segregated, partially because she was
new, and partially because an oracle’s soul-reading job was brutal
enough that most oracles - including his mother - killed themselves
soon after their full powers manifested within them.

He wanted her to see what he saw, the good
his Guardians did for humanity, the courageous, selfless hearts of
his men, the difference they made in fighting evil. It was a war
his family had been fighting for millennia, one that wouldn’t end
even with his death. He ached to show her how much she meant to
him, to open her closed vision of him and his world and show her
the beauty that made him fight as he did.

She saw nothing but death and the darkness in
every soul she ran across.

Yet she tried to learn her new role with a
selflessness that struck him now as incredible. Everything she did,
she did for
him
, even if she feared him. Jule had always
said he inspired men to follow him, though he saw nothing different
in what he did than what his deputies did. He’d been as gentle with
her as he’d known how, and still she suffered under the weight of
the visions. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless to
help the small form of the woman before him.

He rubbed his face, mind going to Dusty.
Despite his reserve, he could tell Dusty liked her. He suspected it
was because the same mettle lining Dusty’s backbone lined hers.
They had similar cool reserve, unlike Damian and Jule, and had both
survived ordeals that would cripple anyone else. He understood why
she’d looked at Dusty before telling him about Claire. She’d found
courage in a kindred soul.

He leaned forward. He’d hurt her tonight. He
didn’t want to hurt her. Ever. Even with all his powers, his
armies, his ability to read minds, he didn’t know how to make
things right with her. True, they had eternity to figure each other
out, but he didn’t want her turning cold like Dusty or jaded like
Jule. He loved her fresh innocence, her selfless courage. He loved
her hugs, though he’d never experienced hugs since he was a babe.
He liked that she sought him out, not the leader of the Guardians,
not the White God, not the Defender of Mankind. She wanted
him
, the man behind the titles and the power.

He’d treated her like shit tonight, and he
was at a loss as to how to prevent the tortured existence that
became the fate of most oracles.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He snatched
it and transported himself out of her room. Jule’s message brought
him back to the unpleasant task ahead of him.

I’ll be in town in a day or two. Dusty told
me everything.

Grimly, he returned to his duties of
entertaining his guests, feeling as if he needed to do something
for his little oracle.

“Sofia.”

She stirred from her trance, mind replaying
scenes of Darian’s death. Darian had quieted as the scenes of his
violent death played through her dreams. He sat in the dark corner
of her mind, still and silent.

“We must go, Sofia.”

Pierre spoke from her doorway, framed against
the light of the hall. The clock read 2:38.

“Right now?”

“It’s important.”

The thought of Czerno loose somewhere in the
house made her sit up quickly. She still wore the gown, though
strands of hair blinded her and she knew her pillow would be filled
with makeup. Pierre eyed her and crossed to her bathroom, tossing
several items into her travel bag. She fixed her hair while sliding
on her shoes.

“Is Czerno here?” she asked.

“Mon dieu non!”

“Then what’s the rush?”

He waved her out and led her at a quick pace
to the front door.

“You look terrible,” he said, considering
her.

“Rough night,” she muttered and snatched her
makeup bag from him.

A town car with darkened windows awaited
them. She spent the next half hour in the dim lighting of the car
fixing her makeup with Pierre’s persistent pointers. They entered a
large neighborhood and drove the same few blocks a few times before
stopping in front of a large adobe hacienda walled off from its
neighbors.

“Go inside. I’ll wait til you enter the gate.
You’ll be safe.”

She hesitated then exited the car and
shivered in the late night breeze. The town car left as she stepped
inside the gate. She knocked on the door. When no one answered, she
knocked again. It wrenched open, and a man in a black trench coat
Damian’s size looked her over once.

“Not tonight. Get the fuck outta here.”

And slammed the door. Sofia took a step back
and silently urged Pierre to hurry. Damian’s men were not the type
she wanted to piss off.

“Why are you not in side, mademoiselle?” he
asked, agitated as he trotted through the gate. “It’s not safe out
here.”

“You said it was.”

“It’s safer inside.”

Sofia swallowed a retort. Pierre pounded on
the door with the discretion of a jackhammer. The door opened, and
a different, blond man looked them over before stepping back.

“Pierre,” her bodyguard said, clapping him on
the arm.

“Everyone and their mother is here tonight.
You might as well come in,” was the surly response.

“What happened?”

“Rainy was supposed to protect a Natural he
found. The vamps fucked her up real good tonight.”

“What’s her talent?”

“Tracking.”

She trailed them through the house that
resembled a frat house. The only décor consisted of international
beer bottle displays and pictures of scantily clad women or cars.
The living room was equipped with a massive flat screen television
and worn furniture. They reached a second foyer where the man in
the trench stood with a caramel colored man covered in blood and a
third.

“This is the Tucson Sector team,” Pierre
said. “They’re the Guardians at the operational front of our war.
Their job is to kill the vamps and any other of Czerno’s creatures
while minimizing collateral damage.”