Dark and Deadly: Eight Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance (82 page)

He entered the airy lobby through the revolving glass doors and adjusted his sunglasses.

The receptionist’s desk lay straight ahead, in front of a half wall that sported a mini-waterfall and the company logo. On either side were two long corridors, their walls painted a variety of bright colors. Some designer probably said it would inspire worker productivity and workplace satisfaction, but to him, the wall made it look like a bunch of highly paid children worked here. The Ping Pong table, Nerf hoop, and what looked to be a wall of jellybeans in the atrium confirmed his suspicions.

Rather than some washed-up security guard behind the desk monitoring the comings and goings, it was a plump young woman. He was going to enjoy this. He pulled off his knit cap and rubbed his bald head, but he left the dark glasses in place.

“Thank you for calling Real Media Images. Can you hold, please?” She tapped her earpiece and looked up to greet him. “Welcome to—” Her canned smile faded into disbelief—then shock—then horror.

Just as he expected.

Her full cheeks reddened, almost to the color of the company polo shirt stretched tightly across her tits. She reminded him of an overripe tomato, where the touch of a knife point would make her skin burst wide open. He tried not to laugh, but she looked hilarious.

“Uh…um…can I help you?” she stammered.

He considered taking off the glasses and leaning in close to
really
give her something to stare at. He loved people’s reactions when they saw the entirety of his face for the first time. Long ago, he’d learned to use negativity as the fuel he needed to push himself further. Now, he fed off it, like a drug.

But he’d wait a little longer. He might need the leverage later.

“Andy Carroll. I need to speak to him.” He grabbed a hard candy from the crystal bowl on the counter and popped it into his mouth. Butterscotch. He spit it back into the wrapper and tossed it on the desk, where it lodged under her keyboard. “I fucking hate butterscotch.”

Frowning, she blinked a few times and tried to collect herself, unsure how she should respond. Finally, she managed to ask, “Is he expecting you?”

“No.”

She turned her attention to a few colored sticky notes on her desk and pulled off a red one.

Jesus. Even their office stationery looked like it belonged in an elementary school.

“I…uh… I’m afraid he’s out on assignment right now.”

“When will he be back?”

“Probably tomorrow. He’s shooting footage again today. Would you like to make an appointment?”

He didn’t make appointments. “Who’s the producer, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“The editor,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. She looked at him with a blank expression that mirrored her intelligence. How dumbed down did he have to make this? “You know, whoever takes his images and video clips, cleans them up, and loads them onto your site in all the various sizes and formats for people to download. That’s who I want to talk to.”

She visibly bristled, her cheeks reddening even more. “We don’t
clean up
our images, sir, or doctor them in any way. They’re on the site in their raw state, just as they appeared through the lens of a camera at the time they were taken.”

He was beginning to lose patience. His bad hand started to ache like it always did when he wanted to resolve a situation with violence. If what the woman at the hospital told him was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, he needed to see all the footage taken at the scene of the explosion. The news blogs with the best pictures listed Andy Carroll from RMI in the photo credits. He wanted to see them all.

“Let’s try this again,” he said in a singsong voice with exaggerated slowness. “Who hooks the fancy camera to the computer and presses the little button, so that, wow, all the pretty pictures go onto the web thingie?”

Her eyes narrowed at his condescending tone. “Are you referring to the image processing manager or the director of digital systems?”

He gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. His anger was never far away, but stupid people seemed to have a knack for bringing it out. He was done being nice. “I don’t care what the hell the job title is. I want to speak to the person who handled the fucking images that Andy shot yesterday.”

The woman’s glare went even icier. “I don’t accept your speaking to me that way. Would you like me to call security or would you like to leave now?”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the documents from Institute. They gave him complete authority to use whatever means necessary, but he hadn’t wanted to use them because it meant he’d failed to persuade her on his own. However, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. With a flick, he tossed them carelessly toward her. They skidded across the shiny surface of her desk.

“What’s this?” She stared at the folded papers as if they contained the plague.

“Go ahead. Look. I’ll wait.” He pulled a toothpick from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped the thing in his mouth.

“I don’t care what that is,” she said. “Our director of digital systems is in the editing room and wouldn’t be able to meet with you anyway. You’ll have to come back another time or make an appointment. But next time, I suggest you bring your manners.”

Editing room? Hadn’t she just told him they didn’t fuck with their images?

God, he hated gatekeepers. He shouldn’t have to explain every little thing to some little twit who had no talent other than sitting in a chair and knowing how to use the phone. Each minute spent dancing around like this widened the gap between him and his quarry.

Time to put an end to this. Glancing at the nameplate on her desk, he removed his handheld device and opened a note-taking app.
Brenda, receptionist at RMI
. When he had some free time, he’d be sure to pay her a little visit after she left work.

He leaned closer and pulled off his sunglasses, giving her a good long look at his ruined face and milky, unseeing eye. After glancing at him once, she squirmed in her desk chair and blinked uncomfortably, refusing to meet his stare.

“I don’t care how busy anyone is,” he seethed through his teeth. “This is an urgent matter. Did you even read those papers?”

She grabbed the document—probably as an excuse not to look at him—then swallowed nervously as she read it. He put his sunglasses back on. Without saying another word, she punched a few buttons on her phone.

The left side of the counter was desk height, so he moved over and rested a butt cheek on the edge while he waited. Two men with RMI badges were crossing the lobby. Although they glanced in his direction, they didn’t stop, just kept walking and talking. God, they looked young enough to still be in high school. Privileged prep school brats who probably had everything handed to them. Daddy paid for college and helped them get internships and now they’re working at an Internet company owned by Daddy’s frat brother.

That could’ve been his life, he thought with disgust. Everything handed to him, the world as his oyster—that kind of bullshit. He had been brilliant once, and creative, and he’d had the support of Mommy and Daddy, too. But the accident changed all that. No longer was he the perfect, pretty son that could be proudly paraded in front of their country club friends. They even shipped him off to a remote boarding school, saying he needed to “be with others just like you” to learn “life skills.” He’d developed skills, all right. Caught the attention of some very powerful people. Now, he quietly fixed problems the government couldn’t afford to fix on its own.

The receptionist cleared her throat as she stood, making a point of looking at his ass planted on her desk. “Ms. Hart will see you now. Right this way.”

After a quick check to see that no one was within earshot, Asher began, “I’m a member of an elite group of warriors who, for generations, have been tasked to protect our people from those who would harm them. We’ve been coming here for centuries for that very reason.”

“Harm? But who would—” Olivia’s confused expression quickly changed to a knowing one. “Our army, right?”

He nodded.

She let out a long breath. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. I’ve never quite believed the propaganda they spew about the quote unquote evil barbarians who come through the portals to rape women and blow up cities.”

“They are good at spreading false truths.”

“Since the army controls many of the information outlets,” she said, “they can say whatever they want.”

“And many of your people believe them. Righteousness, even when misguided, is a powerful motivator.”

“But you can’t deny that the explosion was very real. It wasn’t a made-up story or a minor incident fluffed up to look worse.”

He set down his cup. “One thing I want to make clear to you, Liv, is that an Iron Guild warrior would
never
do the things they claim that we do. Yes, we kill soldiers and destroy army property, but it’s only to keep them from finding the portals. We never kill innocent people.”

“Then who was it?”

He stared out the window as he recalled seeing the dark figure with the backpack right before the explosion. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, although he had his theories.

“Well, I’ll tell you who I think it is,” she said, putting down her cup. “The army. They make it appear as if it’s the work of our enemy in order to further their own ends. It’s the ultimate justification to start or continue a war.”

“What kind of government would do that to its own people?”

She gave a harsh laugh. “The kind that kills a father in front of his family and kidnaps the son.”

He let out a low curse.

When he met up with Rickert, Toryn, and the other warriors at the next rendezvous, he’d tell them what he’d witnessed at the club and relay Olivia’s story about her father and brother. Maybe it was time for another raid on one of their military bases just for the hell of it.

“Why are you here now?” she asked. “Are you alone?”

He told her about the army finding the Crestenfahl portal and the death of his friend Fallon.

“Shit, Asher. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m seeking out the one responsible.”

“What I wouldn’t do to seek out my own revenge.” She set down her cup. “You said our army harms your people. What…do they do exactly?”

The group near the fireplace stood, gathered their things, and headed toward the door. Asher waited until they passed. “Those in power here have always been jealous of what we have in Cascadia. Not our technology or our way of life, of course. Things over there are somewhat medieval. No electricity or running water. We use horses for transportation and live simply in villages and castles. What they’re looking for over there are those with
fata-blood.
”

She frowned. “
Fata-blood?
”

He rapped his knuckles on his chest. “The magical blood of the Fates. Those who have it flowing in their veins have special abilities that others don’t have.”

“You mean Talents?”

He nodded.

“I’ve never heard it described that way. Are people like me common where you’re from?”

“I would never describe you as common, Liv. But yes, there are more people over there who are Talents.”

Children in Cascadia were told these stories about their birthright from the time they were born, so he was surprised Olivia didn’t know this. The fact that he had no special abilities didn’t matter. These oral histories were passed down to all Cascadians, whether they developed Talents or not. It was part of their heritage.

“Descendants of the Fates sometimes develop special abilities. The Pacifican Army wants to use those with Talents in order to gain power. Not only over my world, but to grow their influence in yours. Imagine what an army of Talents could do.”

She nodded in agreement.

He told her about the Obsidian Wars and the story of the three brothers. “Two were born with powers and one without, and together they controlled the three kingdoms. But eventually, there was a power struggle that stemmed from jealousy and greed. The one brother wanted what the other two had and war broke out between them. It lasted for many years and many people died, until finally the Fates stepped in and created the separate worlds, joined only by a few secret portals.”

She rubbed her forehead. “That story sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure why. It makes sense, though. The army coerces those of us who develop Talents over here to work for them.”

“Yes.”

“Like my brother.”

“And you, too,” he said. “You’re wise to lie low and not draw unwanted attention to yourself. You don’t want to be drawn into this war.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand. How did Vince and I grow up to have Talents? We’re Pacificans, not Cascadians.”

He gazed out the window, unsure of how much he should divulge. Some family secrets were best kept hidden. Especially tragic ones. And who was he to expose them? A stranger from another world. Although he had to admit, they weren’t exactly strangers, given how they’d spent the past twelve hours.

She must’ve sensed his reluctance, because her hand came down over his. “Tell me, Asher, I deserve to know why.”

“Yes, you do.” For thousands of years, people had been doing terrible things to each other, but it was often the children who suffered most. “It’s the army, Liv. They’ve been coming to our side for centuries. They come because…they steal our children.”

She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles going albino white, horror and disbelief reflected in her eyes. “That’s impossible. I—we were born here. We’ve got baby pictures taken in the hospital. I’ve got our mother’s mismatched eyes. Vince has—had my father’s nose.”

He thought about that for a moment. “But what about your parents? Or their parents? Is it possible that one of them was born in Cascadia and stolen as a child? You could’ve inherited the
fata-blood
that way.”

Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth as the realization hit her. “Oh my God. My mother. She was adopted by my grandparents when she was two years old. She’d been told her birth mother didn’t want her anymore and had given her up for adoption. Her parents had been unable to have children of their own, but because they were older, they were not able to get an infant. My mom was already walking and talking when they got her.”