Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (11 page)

‘No,’ Laura whispered behind him. ‘No, stop it! You can’t! You’ll die!’ Her voice rose in urgency as she reached inside the limo and grabbed his shoulder.

Conrad shuddered. It was the first time she had willingly touched him in more than three hundred years. He resisted her attempts to pull him away and focused all his energy on the pulsing, golden lines around his heart. He lifted his tortured face to the sky, the muscles and tendons in his neck tensing to breaking point.

A hoarse cry left his lips as he tore away a piece of his soul.

Conrad’s world went supernova. He was dimly aware of his life force scorching a burning path along his birthmark as it departed his heart. He sagged and took deep, shuddering gasps. Black spots blurred his vision as his numbed senses slowly recovered from the incandescent explosion that had rocked his very being.

The body beneath his fingers jerked. A second later, the dead man’s eyes slammed open.

Westwood gasped and sat up.

Chapter Nine

‘W
hat in the name of hell was that?’

The Director of National Intelligence rested her chin on the back of her interlocked fingers and scrutinized Conrad across the shiny, polished wood of the conference table.

Conrad returned the woman’s steely stare and absentmindedly rubbed his left arm. Even though several hours had passed since the incident with the president, his birthmark still tingled and throbbed; for all the immortal knew it was a trick of his weary imagination, he thought the black Aesculapian snake looked pretty pissed after what it had endured.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece as it struck one p.m. before turning to watch the Director of National Intelligence once more. They were inside the Roosevelt Room, on the first floor of the West Wing, about a dozen feet or so from the Oval Office. The immortal stifled a sigh. He wished his first visit to the White House had taken place under more auspicious circumstances.

Sarah Connelly had changed out of the stained, gray dress suit she had been wearing that morning. There was no evidence of the bloodied and grim individual who had taken control of the chaotic situation that had followed Westwood’s assassination and revival. In between ensuring the safe delivery of her commander-in-chief to the state hospital and his subsequent extraction to the White House via helicopter, Connelly had the press secretary issue a short statement to the media to the effect that the president had survived an attempt on his life and all law enforcement agencies were working closely together to hunt down the escaped assassin. She had also organized the treatment and interrogation of the injured killer Conrad had captured earlier that day at an undisclosed facility outside D.C. Her features now schooled in the cool, business-like expression that had no doubt helped her attain her current position, Connelly projected an almost palpable aura of authority.

Conrad was unfazed. All he wanted was a hot meal and a bed to crash in for the night. Despite his focused training in the last ten months, using his powers to their limits had drained him. Still, he had fared better than the first time he had done it.

‘Yeah, Greene, what did you do?’ demanded Woods. The Assistant Special Agent was sitting to the right of Connelly.

Laura stood behind Woods. By the look on her face and the way her fingers occasionally twitched at her sides, Conrad suspected she was struggling with a visceral urge to kill him. He swallowed another sigh and slouched in the chair.

‘Sarah, do you know this man?’ said Bill Sullivan. The National Security Advisor occupied the chair on the other side of the Director of National Intelligence. It was the middle-aged man with the receding hairline who had been in the back of the limo.

‘No,’ said Connelly. She regarded Laura with a critical expression. ‘I didn’t know your—
kind
could do that sort of thing.’

‘“
Kind?
”’ repeated Woods. He looked between Laura and Connelly, suspicion darkening his features once more. ‘What “
kind?
” You said the same thing back in the limo! What are you talking about?’

‘They can’t,’ Conrad stated. He ignored Woods’s incensed scowl and gazed steadily at Connelly. ‘As far as I know, I’m the only one alive today who possesses that ability.’ He hesitated. ‘It runs in my bloodline.’

Sullivan’s lips were pinched in a white line. Before the National Security Advisor could utter the protest threatening to explode past his lips, Woods pushed his chair back and rose stiffly to his feet. A vein throbbed in the agent’s forehead.

‘If someone doesn’t start answering my questions in the next five seconds, I swear to God, I’ll—’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

A door clattered open at the back of the room. Conrad looked over his shoulder and froze when he saw the group of men who walked in. He cursed under his breath.

‘It’s nice to see you too, Conrad,’ drawled Victor Dvorsky.

The Head of the Order of Bastian Hunters and leader of the Bastian immortal race paused inside the room, his dark eyes assessing the people at the table.

‘How the hell did you get here so fast?’ snapped Conrad. ‘Weren’t you in Europe?’

‘I was in Virginia, actually,’ Victor replied blithely. He acknowledged Connelly with a brief nod. ‘Sarah.’

‘Victor.’ Connelly’s expression remained guarded.

With his tailored three-piece suit, silver-streaked dark hair, trim goatee, and lean build, Victor Dvorsky was the poster child for Capitol Hill politicians. In a sense, he was a truer statesman than any past or current member of Congress. Born into one of the most powerful noble families of Bastian society, Dvorsky had negotiated the treacherous corridors of the world’s greatest powers for more than seven hundred years. He had survived countless political squabbles and blood-soaked battlefields in that time.

The four Bastians who made up his escort fanned out around him.

‘Long time no see, Greene,’ said one of the bodyguards. The red-haired immortal winked at him, an impish smile lighting up his face.

Conrad sighed. ‘Anatole.’

Anatole Vassili looked across the room and grinned. ‘Hey Laura.’

Laura gave him a dirty look. ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’

The red-haired immortal raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders in a ‘What’d I do?’ gesture.

Woods sagged. He turned to Connelly, his expression deflated. ‘Who the hell are these people?’ he said, waving his hand vaguely at the Bastian immortals.

Before she could answer, the door facing the Oval Office swung back forcefully on its hinges. The president strode in with two members of his detail. Connelly, Woods, and Sullivan rose respectfully to their feet, while the US Secret Service agents took up position next to the door. Conrad did not move.

James Anthony Westwood did not look like a man who had died two hours previously. In fact, bar the telltale bulge of the dressing covering the wound on his chest, he seemed to be the definition of health.

At just over six feet, he had a lanky build that projected a wiry, restless energy. Though not classically handsome, his features were nonetheless arresting and were dominated by piercing brown eyes that hinted at his distant Italian ancestry.

Now that he was in the presence of the man when he was upright and breathing, Conrad noticed the strong-willed light in the president’s expression. He felt a flash of pity for the men and women of the US Secret Service; Westwood looked like the kind of guy who would have them dancing to his tune whether they liked it or not.

‘Mr. President,’ Victor greeted politely.

Westwood’s gaze slipped briefly from Conrad’s face. ‘Victor.’

‘Can we have a moment?’ said the Bastian leader, his tone still relaxed.

Sullivan took a step toward the president. ‘Really, James! What’s the meaning of all—?’

Westwood cut his eyes to Sullivan. The National Security Advisor fell silent, his posture rigid.

‘Could the five of you leave?’ Westwood’s gaze swung to encompass Sullivan, Connelly, Woods, and the two agents. ‘I need to speak with these gentlemen in private.’ He glanced at Laura. ‘Agent Hartwell can stay.’

Connelly opened her mouth to voice a protest, thought better of it, and clamped her lips shut for a second. ‘As you wish, sir,’ she said in a tightly controlled voice. She hesitated. ‘May I interject something?’

Westwood indicated she could speak.

‘In view of what Woods and Sullivan witnessed back there,’ said Connelly, ‘I feel it would be wise if I updated them about the—
unusual
circumstances of this situation.’

Westwood looked at Victor. ‘Do you have any objections?’

The Bastian leader shrugged. ‘As long as they’re aware of the conditions surrounding that information and what could happen if they breach them, I have none.’ Although his tone remained friendly, no one could miss the underlying veneer of steel that coated his words.

Connelly acknowledged the Bastian noble’s words with a stiff nod and departed the room with Woods and Sullivan in tow. Westwood waited until the door closed behind the Secret Service bodyguards. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his probing gaze focused on Conrad once more.

‘What did you do to me?’ he asked in a low voice.

The immortal ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He was starting to wish he’d stayed in the goddamned rainforest after all. ‘I gave you one of my lives.’

Shocked silence descended on the room.

‘You did
what
?’ said Victor in a hard voice.

Conrad sighed and glanced at his old mentor. ‘He died before I could heal his injuries. The only way to bring him back was to gift him one of my seventeen lives.’

‘Is that even possible?’ said Westwood after a pause. He glanced at the bloodstains on Conrad’s clothes and directed a wary look at Victor. ‘I know you people have…
abilities
,
but I didn’t know reviving the dead was one of them.’

‘It isn’t,’ Victor retorted gruffly. ‘At least, it’s never happened before, to my knowledge.’ The Bastian leader’s eyes shifted to Conrad’s birthmark. An unreadable emotion darted across his face. ‘How long have you been able to do this?’ he asked in an accusing tone.

Conrad was aware of Laura’s heated gaze as he studied his hands. ‘This is only the second time I’ve gifted one of my lives.’ He hesitated. ‘The first time was eleven months ago, when I brought Rocky back.’ He looked up, saw their blank expressions, and suppressed another sigh. This was the part he was going to struggle to explain.

‘Who’s Rocky?’ Westwood asked, nonplussed.

Conrad shifted uneasily in the chair. ‘My dog,’ he mumbled.

This time, the silence that followed was deafening.

‘Your what?’ said Anatole, slack jawed.

‘Rocky is my dog,’ retorted Conrad. He was unable to stop the defensive note that crept into his voice.

Westwood opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. Conrad suspected it wasn’t everyday the president was rendered speechless.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Victor dully. ‘You suddenly develop this hitherto unknown immortal ability, and the first thing you do is use it to give one of your lives to your
dog
?’

‘It was an accident,’ Conrad admitted grudgingly.

He hoped they would buy the blatant lie. For although the event had indeed started out with a tragic mishap, it had been his decision to kill himself that had enabled him to unlock his greatest power.

Thirteen months ago, on an unusually hot night during the wet season, when heavy rains had pounded the forests for weeks and inundated the floodplains of the Amazon, Conrad had woken at dawn to the sound of yelping coming from the swamp outside his cabin. He’d walked out into a faint morning mist, stopped on the bank of the pond, and spotted something floating in the water.

It turned out to be a wet, bedraggled puppy clinging to a log of wood that had drifted down the bloated channel feeding the marshland.

Surprised that the creature had survived the deadly caimans that inhabited this part of the rainforest, Conrad took the canoe out and went to rescue the shivering dog. When he lifted the animal up from the log for a closer inspection, it gave him a long, assessing look from soulful, chocolate eyes.

Conrad brought the dog inside the cabin, dried it with an old towel, and fed it the stew he’d made the night before. The puppy wolfed the food down, licked the bowl clean, released a giant burp, and promptly fell asleep.

The next day, Conrad went to Alvarães to make enquiries about any missing pets. Two weeks later, no one had come to claim the animal. The immortal was unexpectedly relieved. In the short time they had spent together, the puppy had completely won over his heart. He named him Rocky.

For the next two months, man and dog were inseparable. Although he knew the animal’s life span would be a blip in the night compared to his own long and insufferable existence, Conrad was nonetheless grateful for the canine’s company.

One night, when they were sitting outside the cabin watching a thunderstorm dance across the dark skies, Rocky bolted from the deck and disappeared into the trees crowding the banks of the swamp. Conrad heard him growl before emitting a single, high-pitched yelp and falling silent.

He grabbed a fire torch from the hearth and raced into the jungle, where he found the dog lying by the water’s edge. The fading rattle of a bushmaster snake sounded in the undergrowth close by. In the flickering light of the flames, Conrad spotted the pale body of the deadly creature, with its diamond-shaped patterns of darker colors, disappearing along the forest floor.

Rocky had been bitten twice, on the head and on the neck. Already, the puppy’s face was swollen and his breathing labored. Faint whimpers escaped his slack jaws. Within seconds, he was vomiting and drooling uncontrollably.

As fat raindrops cascaded from the storm-tossed clouds and extinguished the torch by his side, Conrad fought desperately to save the dog. Kneeling in the mud, in an inky darkness that was lit by the occasional bolt of lightning, he cradled Rocky’s head to his chest and unfurled the ungodly powers that he had inherited from the male predecessors of his pureblood lineage, all of whom were nobles directly descended from the original forefathers of their race.

His attempts to reverse the advancing effects of the venom were in vain. When he felt the dog’s life force start to ebb from the tiny body quivering in his arms, centuries of loneliness and despair erupted to the surface of Conrad’s consciousness with a vengeance. He threw his head back and raged at the heavens. No one answered his broken cries.

What the hell am I doing?
he finally thought wretchedly.
I live alone in the middle of nowhere. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody cares if I live or I die.