KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (51 page)

Gemma frowned until her face hurt, not really wanting to remember the man she’d called Father—a man she barely knew. When he was home—which wasn’t often—he expected a cursory visit from her in the morning to give his instructions for the day to her nanny, and a sometimes longer audience during dinner, particularly when they had guests. Even then, she sat at the opposite side of the table in the space normally reserved for her mother—at the farthest distance from the man she both admired and hated with all her soul,

Outside these scheduled interactions, Gemma saw her father only when she secretly watched him from one of the many hidey-holes in this house. And as Paschal suspected, she’d seen and heard a great deal during that time. Secrets she’d told no one—not even Farrow. Particularly not Farrow.

“Lies,” she answered begrudgingly. “He had the uncanny ability to root out lies. Neither Keith nor I could ever get away with anything. Never mind the people he worked with every day. He just knew when people weren’t telling the truth.”

Paschal arched a brow. “How did he use this to increase his wealth? That is one of the key tenets of the K’vr, yes?”

She nodded. The search for the source of Rogan’s magic wasn’t cheap, and descendents of Lukyan Roganov had never lost the taste for living high on the hog. “Blackmail. He’d watch politicians and public figures on television or would meet them in person at black-tie affairs in New York or Washington. When he sensed a lie, he’d do some digging. Invariably, he’d find the truth and exploit it. He made millions.”

“And how long have you shared his talent?”

“Not long enough,” she quipped, always suspecting that she had inherited her father’s ability, but she was never entirely certain.

Her father had always refused to hear a single question about it. Then he’d died, leaving a permanent wedge between his children and the organization that had been his only legacy. Or had it?

“I certainly had no idea you were nearly three hundred years old,” she said.

“Ah, yes. But I never once lied about my age,” he countered. “I always claimed to be
more
than ninety… and you rarely believed even that much.”

“You old dog,” she replied, realizing that, despite her gift, he had indeed found a way to fool her.

From the first time she’d met Paschal, she’d known he was keeping a secret. Trouble was, no amount of research on her part into the supposed university professor’s life had revealed that he’d been born in the seventeen hundreds and had survived the centuries because of exactly the black magic she’d spent her life searching for.

Her father’s ability was not to know the truth—only to recognize the lie. And that much she’d done.

“Big lot of good this gift has done me so far,” Gemma said.

“You knew Farrow was going to dump you long before he had a chance to. You were able to make preparations so that you are still in the running for the leadership.”

“Only by staying alive.”

More and more, Farrow Pryce had teetered toward obsession in his quest to take over the K’vr. He already had mounds of money and, therefore, a shitload of power. She could never understand why he so desperately wanted to be in command. His family had amassed millions simply by working alongside the grand apprentices. Why did he need the title?

“Women know when they’re about to get kicked to the curb,” she reasoned. “Most just have too many romantic notions to get out before it’s too late.”

“Explain then,” Paschal continued, “how you knew the picture of the chalice you showed me back in my hotel room all those months ago was important to me, even when I claimed at first that it was not? Not to be a braggart, but I’m quite an adept liar. And yet you knew I was not telling you the truth.”

Gemma rubbed her cheeks, then her eyes and finally her arms. She’d always thought her talent for ferreting out lies was courtesy of her father, but only because she’d inherited his cynicism, not because she’d stolen some paranormal ability.

“So, being around my father, I just absorbed what he could do?”

“And you’ve done the same with me. After accompanying me on our little journey, you can now touch the flute and transport yourself into the past.”

“No,” she corrected, her hand involuntarily going to her stomach—to where she’d almost felt the bullets piercing her skin. “Not the past. The present. The now.”

Paschal calmly drew a chair across from her but she could tell his coolness was as much a lie as any words. “Tell me what you saw.”

Gemma considered keeping the story to herself, but she could see no purpose. If she truly possessed a paranormal ability—or two—her chance at the leadership of the K’vr had increased exponentially.

Unlike her, Paschal understood how this shit worked. He could guide her. Teach her. Give her the knowledge she needed to exploit this discovery until she had exactly what she wanted.

“Rafe was there, but he wasn’t solid. He was all… sparkly.”

Paschal’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what that means. You’re sure it was him?”

“Pretty sure,” she replied. It was kind of hard to tell, since he had been, essentially, see-through. But it wasn’t her eyes that told her the being of light was Rafe Forsyth—it was something deeper. “And I saw a woman. Brown hair. Relatively tall. Dressed in khaki and standing in front of what looked like…” She searched her memory for a comparison. She’d seen a structure like that before, but not in person. In a book. On television. Maybe a movie. “Chichén Itzá.”

“Mexico?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Hell if I know. The place looked Aztec or Inca or Mayan. You know, one of those pyramids with lots of steps up the sides and a flat top. And old. Really, really old.”

“Perhaps you did see into the past again,” he said, finding the flute and, holding a hand across his lower back as a brace, bending down to retrieve it. “To one of the previous owners, before the K’vr took it back into their possession.”

He attempted to hand her the instrument, but she waved it away.

“No, thanks.”

“You are not drained,” Paschal insisted. “Not like before. You can do it again.”

Only a few days ago, their initial contact with the flute in the underground repository and the subsequent witnessing of past events had knocked them both out, though she’d been in decidedly better shape than Paschal. Now, she supposed she felt a little woozy, but nothing in comparison to before. That didn’t mean she wanted to take the risk if the payoff wasn’t worth it. What more could she see?

“Maybe I bounced back quicker because I’m younger,” she teased.

“All the more reason for you to try again,” he concluded.

“I wasn’t trying to transport myself anywhere. I was just playing with the damned flute. I don’t want to do it again.”

He continued to stare at her. She wasn’t one to back away from a challenge, but she needed a few minutes to come to terms with all she’d learned.

Paschal stood and began to pace, his hands hooked behind him. She watched him go back and forth until she thought he might hypnotize her into agreeing.

“Will you stop that, please?”

Paschal turned sharply on a heel. “Tell me more about the woman.”

Gemma cradled her chin in her hands and stared sightlessly at the lines in the floor, trying to re-create the images in her waking mind. “She was definitely from this time. She was wearing pants and had a backpack. She was holding something. A package. Something shiny.”

“Did you see her face?” he asked.

Gemma closed her eyes, wincing at the terror that had marred the woman’s attractive face. “Yeah, for a split second.”

He held the flute out to her again. “Show me.”

“I said no,” she insisted.

“To find my brother Aiden,” he argued, “it was the woman with him who was the key. Maybe this time, I’ll know this woman as well. We have to take the chance. There’s something about this. Something… circular.”

Gemma ran her hands roughly through her shorn hair. She couldn’t deny Paschal’s impression—she’d felt it, too. The Roganovs, the Forsyths, the Gypsies, the K’vr—they’d all been interconnected for centuries. Nothing in her entire life had ever happened by accident. If she’d caught sight of that woman in Paschal’s presence, perhaps there was a reason.

She wanted to unravel this mystery. She wanted to explore the full breadth of her new ability. Could that override her apprehension? And what about Paschal? Could he survive another journey?

A vision of the present—or perhaps the future—might not tax Paschal as their previous journey together had. She supposed she had to try.

“Sit down,” she directed him.

He obeyed.

She took a begrudging seat beside him. “Yeah, now you start taking my orders.”

He held out his hand. “Let’s do this.”

She rolled the flute across her palm, gasping when her skin started to tingle. “I have to warn you,” she said, leaning back into the cushions and twirling the flute across her knuckles again, trying to re-create the circumstances of her journey. “When I last saw her, someone was shooting at her.”

Paschal groaned. “Then she must be with my brother. There’s something about Forsyth men that draws women to danger.”

She took his hand in hers and closed her eyes tightly. “Tell me about it,” she muttered, just before the world began to spin.

Sixteen

Unseen, Rafe pushed Mariah to the ground. He huddled over her, as if he could protect her in his insubstantial state. But he couldn’t. He’d saved her from a hail of bullets, but as long as he was a phantom, she had to rely on her own street smarts to stay alive.

“Remain down,” he ordered.

“No,” she argued, punching through him until he burst into a puff of colorful smoke.

With no time to indulge her shock, she clawed for the dilly bag and then crawled for the nearest cover behind a narrow stack of stone that, from a distance, looked to be part of the pyramid. It actually stood about a foot away, giving her just enough room to slide behind. Another gunshot exploded on the ground, sending shards of brittle limestone spiking against her skin.

From behind the obelisk, she grabbed Rogan’s marker and shoved it deep into a pocket on her pant leg, which she zipped closed. She also retrieved her 9mm Glock 19, which she’d loaded this morning after the chopper had first appeared. She couldn’t believe anyone had managed to track them this deep into the jungle. Yeah, she’d left some pretty obvious machete marks, but she’d doubled back twice and had forced the donkey to walk on the rockiest of paths in an attempt to hide his hoofprints.

Whoever fired those shots had been determined to find her. She’d have to be just as determined in order to escape.

“Rafe,” she whispered, her voice as much a prayer as a plea.

“I’m here,” he replied. He’d faded once again into nothingness—and for that, she was very grateful.

“You need to tell me exactly where the shooters are.”

“I understand.”

She felt his disappearance, and her chest ached from instant loneliness. She concentrated on checking her weapon, loading extra ammunition from her bag into her pockets and wrapping a sheathed knife around her middle and hiding it beneath her shirt.

“Ms. Hunter,” an unfamiliar voice called from just beyond the clearing. “I apologize for my associates. There was no need for gunfire. Please come out.”

Man. Educated. The accent was urbane, but American. Not the Mexican government official she’d stolen the coins from, though Mr. Friendly could be a mercenary hunter much like herself, hired to steal back what she’d taken for Velez. The rustling and cursing told her there were at least a half dozen men out there, likely all armed and waiting to get a clear shot at her.

Suddenly, Rafe joined her again. He sounded surprisingly out of breath. “Over your shoulder, to the northwest.”

She’d gotten turned around during their trek and barely knew which way was up. “Pretend a clock is behind me. Twelve midnight directly ahead. What time is he at?”

“Ten o’clock,” he replied. “And another at three.”

She spun out from behind the obelisk and fired four rounds—two in each direction Rafe had indicated. A flash of red and a scream punctuated the volley to her left, and she heard grunts and a crash to her right before she twisted back behind the obelisk. She couldn’t take them all out, but she needed to establish that she was just as armed and just as dangerous as they were.

“I’m not coming along quietly, mate,” she shouted. “And I’m not giving up my find. Just back off and no one else has to get hurt. Least of all me.”

She muttered the last part to herself.

Sounds of boots scraping on limestone alerted her that someone was attempting to come up from the other side of the structure. She was practically out in the open, alone and armed with only two magazines of ammo. She was certain she’d been in worse situations before, but she sure as hell couldn’t remember when.

“Rafe, around back. Is there anything you can do?” If he replied, she didn’t hear him, because the man below had called out to her again.

“You’ve proved yourself an able marksman, Ms. Hunter. Your show of strength is duly noted. But, please, I did not come all this way to harm you. I’m willing to negotiate for what I want.”

Mariah’s heart slammed against her chest with the force and rhythm of a native drum. A split second later, she heard the descending scream of someone falling off the pyramid on the other side. Rafe had done as she asked.

“That’s at least two down,” she replied. “Just how many men are you willing to sacrifice to get a bunch of old coins?”

“Coins?”

The man laughed—not exactly the high-pitched cackle of a typical B-movie villain, but damned close.

“I am not after your Mayan coins, Mariah Hunter. Yes, I know who you are. I know about your disagreement with Señor Velez, and I know that you were, less than a week ago, in a hard-to-reach corner of Germany that the locals called Valoren, the land of the lost. I also know that you took a stone from there, centered with a large fire opal that has, shall we say, special properties? I want that stone, Ms. Hunter. And I want it now.”

The tall obelisk she’d hidden behind began to shake. Sand and stone rained down as the structure began to break apart. With the dilly bag tight across her chest, she dashed for the nearest opening in the pyramid, only to be stopped by a second cascade of stone.