Heat of the Night (3 page)

"Wager!" he roared, as he passed through one of the arched doorways and found the lieutenant engrossed at a console.

The younger man jumped, then glared. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

Connor grinned. "No. I'm not. I had my share of scares today. It's your turn."

Shaking his head, Wager pushed to his feet and stretched his tall, wiry frame. "It's good to see you smiling." He crossed his arms and stood with widespread legs. He was a handsome lad, with an appeal the female Guardians described as "bad boy."

Women. They loved trouble.

"There's not a whole hell of a lot to smile about. Some freak of nature attacked me today, my best friend has run off with the Key, and I need to get laid."

Wager threw his head back and laughed. "I bet the ladies are missing you, too. I've heard poems are written about your stamina and on Girls' Night Out they compare notes."

"No way."

"Yes, way. Morgan calls you the golden god with the golden rod.'"

Connor felt his face heat and ran a self-conscious hand through his slightly too-long blond hair. "You're full of shit. She wouldn't say that to you."

Black brows rose. "Morgan?"

A mental image of the dark-eyed slender Player Guardian entered Connor's thoughts. His lips curved ruefully. "Yeah, I suppose she might."

"First Cross takes off, now you're in exile… I bet there's more than a few broken hearts."

"You're a popular guy yourself."

"I have my charms," the lieutenant drawled.

"Sometimes when I'm waiting for Cross to connect to the Twilight, I look over the rise at the Dreamers' slipstreams and seriously think about hopping into one. If only for a half hour or so."

Wager's merriment faded into the intensity that made him a damn good warrior. "How is Captain Cross's stream? Is it coming in clearer yet?"

"No." Connor scratched the back of his neck. "It's still murky. I'm guessing that has something to do with the fact that his slipstream connects to that barren plain instead of in the Valley."

For most Dreamers, their subconscious connected to the Twilight in the Valley of Dreams. They touched the lives of Guardians through wide golden beams that rose from the valley floor and pierced the misty sky until they could no longer be seen. The varying streams of subconscious thoughts spread as far as the eye could see.

"Actually, I think that's a manifestation of the problem, not the cause." At Connor's raised brow, Wager explained. "Because we are physiologically different from humans, I suspect our brain waves function on another wavelength entirely. That's what causes Cross's slipstream to connect to the Twilight in a different place and to come across with a degraded intensity."

When Aidan entered the dream state, he came to them in a blue stream. While the other slipstreams where clear enough to look through—almost like looking through a thin waterfall—Aidan came across
snowy
, like a television station with bad reception.

"Okay." Connor heaved out his breath. "That puts a new spin on things."

"Sure does."

"Corporal Trent said you had some news for me?"

"Yes." Wager rolled his shoulders back as if to relieve strain.

Connor's hackles rose. "Lemme guess. It's not good."

"Using information gleaned from the data chips I loaded in the Temple, I found a reference to 'HB-9.'"

"That thing in the Temple was branded with 'HB-12.'"

"I saw that." The lieutenant's lips pursed grimly. "Unfortunately, the file containing the information on the HB Project was incomplete, because the download was aborted too soon."

"Shit." Connor scowled. "
HB Project
? What does that mean?"

"It means that thing was part of a greater program, but I can't tell how extensive it was."

"Fuck." Connor felt like hitting something. "If there are more of those freaks, we've got problems."

"That's putting it mildly."

"I have to warn Cross."

"Yes." Wager nodded sagely. "And because he doesn't remember what you tell him in dreams, you'll have to do it in person."

"
What
?" Connor gaped. "Are you nuts?"

"You've seen one of those things," the lieutenant pointed out, "and fought with it. That gives you an advantage. Trent's the only other Elite who saw it in action and you know he's not ready for a mission such as this."

Connor growled and began to pace the length of the stone-walled room.

"Think about it, captain. Do you trust anyone else to relay the gravity of this situation to Cross? I don't."

"I trust you."

Wager stilled, then cleared his throat. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, you know I do. But you need me here going through the entries we downloaded from the database, and you and Captain Cross have a unique dynamic. For centuries you have kept the Elite in tight fighting form with high morale and a low casualty rate. And you're friends. I think in a new world, possibly fighting a new enemy you're going to need that support to succeed."

"It's a bad idea to send the highest ranking officer away from the troops. I don't like it. Not one bit." Connor glanced at the Elder-in-training who slept oblivious in the nearby glass tube. His head hung low, his chin to his chest, his body held upright by no discernable device. This one was dark-haired and very young. Not much past his teens Connor would guess.

"I don't like it either, but here are the facts: I'm the best person to search the database and you are the best person to work with Cross. By reversing that, we would be crippling both missions before they start. We can't afford to do that."

"Damn it, I know that." Connor scrubbed both hands through his hair. "I'm not even really arguing the point. It's just the principle of the thing that gets to me."

"I understand that you're not arguing. I know I'm only saying aloud the thoughts you have in your head. Frankly, I wish I could be the one to go." Wager smiled, his gray eyes lit with wry amusement. "I've got a Dreamer of my own I'd like to track down."

"No way."

Wager shrugged. "But you're the one who should go. I'm more than capable of running things around here."

"I know." Connor heaved out his breath. "You should have been promoted a long time ago."

"I don't know about that," the lieutenant said easily. "My emotions get in the way more than they should. I'm growing out of it, but it's taken me a few centuries."

Connor turned toward the open archway. "I'll go speak to the men. You find me a Medium in Southern California."

"Captain?" Wager called after him.

"Yes?"

"About coming back…"

Jaw tensing, Connor raised both brows in silent query.

"I discovered something else. When we physically ride a human's stream of subconscious thought, we leave a traceable thread behind. It can then be used to 'yank' the Guardian back."

"That's how the Elders brought Aidan back?"

"Apparently. If necessary, we can pull you back the same way. But… the Medium is damaged in the process."

"Damaged?"

"It's fatal to humans." The lieutenant crossed his arms and settled more firmly on his heels, a stance Connor had come to recognize as preparation for a difficult task. "Strokes, dilated cardiomyopathy… 'sudden deaths' are the result."

"Shit." Connor reached out to the threshold of the archway and leaned his weight into it. "That's why it's not a viable means of hopping between the two planes."

"I suspect that's the reason we haven't migrated over there," Wager agreed, "if only in small numbers. We would have to leave guards behind to prevent the Nightmares from using the slipstreams. No battalion would want that assignment indefinitely and we'd have to leave at least that many behind to stem the flow of Nightmares from the Gateway and guard the Valley."

"But we couldn't relieve them because traveling back and forth would kill thousands of Mediums."

"Right."

Every Guardian understood their responsibility. Their homeworld had been invaded by Nightmares, a race of shadowy evanescent parasites. The Elders had created a fissure within abbreviated space. It had served as a portal to this conduit plane between the human dimension and the one the Guardians had been forced to leave behind. The Nightmares had quickly followed, forcing their way past a formidable barrier—the Gateway—and hundreds of
Elite Warriors. "We screwed up by letting the Nightmares in. We can't compound the problem by killing them ourselves or taking over their world."

Nodding grimly, Connor's gaze moved around the room, his brain attempting to wrap around his departure. He may never see this place again. A few minutes ago, that would have been lovely. Now he felt adrift. He smelled the mustiness of damp air and felt the coarse rock beneath his palm, but the sensations didn't ground him. He felt completely unanchored. "I understand. We need the humans alive."

"Yes, for our sense of obligation but also for our own survival. We would top off their food chain, disrupting the order of predation. Over time, they could become extinct and killing of an entire link would have potentially annihilatory effects on Earth. That in turn could ripple outward across their galaxy and beyond. We could see a—"

"Whoa!" Connor grumbled, lifting his hands in a defensive gesture. "Brain overload. I get the idea."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. We'll get through this. The Elite always do." Straightening, Connor inhaled deeply and fixed his mind on his task. "Find me a Medium in Southern California. I'll get ready and explain the mission to the others."

"Yes, sir." Wager saluted.

Connor returned the gesture, then spun about and left.

Connor stared at the streams of golden light and inhaled deeply into his lungs. He reminded himself that Aidan made this very same journey just weeks ago. If he could do it, so could Connor.

But Cross wasn't happy here
, whispered a voice in his mind. Connor was. He'd always been content.

"Are you ready, Captain?"

He glanced through the glass monitor at the console where Wager worked and nodded grimly.

"The stream directly to your right will take you to a Medium in Anaheim, California, which is about an hour from Temecula where Captain Cross is living with Lyssa Bates."

"Got it."

"These slipstreams work differently from those of Dreamers." Wager leaned back in his chair, his features tight with strain. Long strands of his black hair escaped from his queue, his exterior so at odds with his almost bookish nature. He looked more like a Hell's Angel biker than he did a computer geek. "They are in motion. You will leap into their subconscious and find yourself riding it into their plane of existence. Your appearance there will cause a temporal disturbance, which will affect a hitch in time."

"A hitch?" Connor frowned.

"Yeah, a major slowing down. A second to them will be like a minute to you. I'm not sure how that will feel. Not good, I'm guessing. But if you hurry, it will allow you to leave without being detected. Otherwise, for the humans, one second you won't be there and the next second you will. That'll be hard to explain, so I wouldn't push my luck if I were you."

"No problem. I'll get out of the way quick."

"I'll be able to track you through your dreams, just as you've been meeting Captain Cross in dreams."

Connor gave him a thumbs-up. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. His throat was too tight to speak.

Despite his many centuries of living, for the most part he felt not much older than he'd been when he graduated from the Elite Academy with Aidan. Sure, he could no longer fuck all night and tear up Nightmares the next day without feeling like rubber. But that was more of a dig to his male pride, than it was a sign of his age.

Right now, though, he felt every one of his years.

Wager heaved out his breath. "I admire you greatly, Bruce. I think I'm more nervous than you are."

"Nah. I'm just hiding it better." He turned to face the appropriate slipstream. His glaive was strapped to his back and he wore a clean uniform. He was as ready as he would ever be. "See you on the other side," he said.

Then he jumped.

Wild beasts were ripping off his limbs and pounding his skull into a rock.

At least that's the way it felt to Connor as he slowly came to a vague sense of awareness. It took all the energy he had just to lift his head. Getting his eyes open was nearly impossible. Blinking, he tried to focus on where he was.

It was dark except for the multicolored tiny lights glowing in the night sky. The smell that filled his nostrils was intense, overpowering. Musky, smoky, nauseating. Connor felt his stomach lurch, then roil. His skull was gripped in a closing vice. His teeth ached. The roots of his hair stung and burned.

He was dying. No one could feel like this much shit and live. It wasn't possible.

Connor's brain stumbled into painful thought, goaded by sheer survival instinct.

…
one second you won't be there and the next second you will… that'll be hard to explain
…

He wasn't sure there was anyone to explain to. From the looks of it, he'd ridden a slipstream straight into a hell dimension. The stench in the air was just a few breaths away from making him vomit.

Heaving his torso upward, Connor managed a kneeling position and then pushed back to rest on his heels. Everything around him spun dizzily. He groaned in misery and clutched his waist.

"Fuck me."

He glanced around with gritty eyes. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. A thin line of light beckoned and Connor reached out for it… and promptly fell back into an ignoble sprawl. It was a curtain and he tugged it out of the way to find a massive convention hall. People stood nearby, impossibly close, frozen in a single moment in time.

It was a science fiction convention of some sort. Some of the attendees were heavily disguised in costumes that ranged from alien beings to robots.

Looking over his shoulder, Connor surveyed the room he was in. He was in a small makeshift tent of some sort. Everything was black. The floor was hard and cold, but covered in a rough tarp. There was a round table nearby draped in black material. Atop it was a globe, which was creating the light reflecting off what he now realized was a ceiling. A woman lay on a padded table, eyes closed, lost in the hypnotic state that had brought him here. Connor suspected she had been "put under" by the man presently bent over stealing money from her purse.