Kindred of the Fallen (15 page)

“It’s not—”

“Do you plan to lock me in here?” she asked.

“Do you intend to leave?”

“Get out.”

“Serenity, please—”

“Get out!”

Cyrus marched to the hall, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Crazy female. Ingrate.
She’d been trapped with humans for too long, that was her problem. He put the key to the door in his pocket. It was his job to protect her, and what was the harm in keeping her happy while he did it.

Slumping against the wall, he was at a loss. An intense, undeniable attraction to her he could handle. Soul-crushing desire that threatened to tear him asunder was different. Since he’d bonded with her energy stream, she’d seeped into his blood, possessing his heart and wreaking havoc to his system on all levels.

He couldn’t afford this kind of weakness. Redemption was the primary objective. Staking claim to her body as one soul was essential. In time, she’d feel more. He turned to the door and debated on going back in to soften her.
 

Shards of anger from their connected energy streams raked his skin. The knob twisted, and she pounded on the door from the other side, calling him foul names. He stormed down the hall toward his room. The second their streams slipped apart he stopped. Coldness bit into him. He continued to his room. The dream of spending the night with her curled in his arms faded with each step.

Abbadon sat on the sofa in his office, leg crossed over his knee.

Cyrus clenched his jaw. He didn’t need this right now.

“Regarding earlier—”

Cyrus raised his hand to cut him off. “It’s not a concern.”

“Heka is strong in her bloodline. A touch of foresight would be natural. Her dream only meant she recognized I’ll play an important role in her life as a mentor and guide.”

What he said was most likely true, but it still irked the hell of out him that Abbadon’s ego had been stroked by that recognition. “I’m tired and need to shower.”

Abbadon rose and crossed the room. Cyrus faced his desk, keeping his back to him, and shut his eyes for the length of a breath to steady his nerves.

“There’s still the matter of her gift,” Abbadon said.

Cyrus swiveled on his heels, muscles flexed, ready for what was to come. “She can project energy waves. It’s not a big deal.”

“The ability to manipulate one’s energy stream in that manner is unheard of, but there’s more to it. Surely you felt it.”

He sifted emotion from his face. He’d felt it, as unmistakable as a tsunami.

“When that
yellow-green
wave hit me,” Abbadon said, “terror, the need to escape came with it.”

“It means nothing.”

“When you discover other manifestations of her power, you need to tell me immediately. I think I know what her gift truly is, but I need to be certain. In the meantime, training should be started right away. She needs to master control before she hurts someone unintentionally. I’ll leave hand-to-hand combat to you in the morning and I’ll finish her instruction in the afternoon.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion or advice. This isn’t your business.”

“You’re mistaken, brother.” Abbadon kept his voice level. “This is the business of us all.”

Cyrus’s temples throbbed, his forehead tight with tension. “This is my responsibility. I’ll handle it as I see fit. Good night.”

Abbadon stepped forward, undeterred. “It was unwise to bring her along today.”

“I couldn’t leave her here unprotected.”

With a solemn expression, Abbadon scrutinized him with hard eyes. “Cassian could’ve easily taken her to the brownstone so he and Talus could have safeguarded her there. Your choice was reckless. You did it to please the female. I urge you to use caution in the future, to let prudence guide you.” He lowered his voice. “I know the pull, the desire for one’s
kabashem
. I nearly died for it. Don’t be blinded by love. Too much is at stake.”

Abbadon left, closing the door. Cyrus sank into the leather chair behind his desk, rubbing his forehead. Since he found Serenity, touched her, he couldn’t think straight. His judgment had been flawed and he’d nearly gotten them both killed tonight. Abbadon was right.

The phone on his desk rang. He banged his head against the chair in frustration. Only House Herut called on this line. What else was about to go wrong?

With a groan, he picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Good evening, Cyrus.”

“Constantine.” His grandfather, a member of the Council, never called with good news. Usually, it was to remind him that his days as a warrior were numbered and soon he’d have to meet his obligation to House Herut by ascending to a seat on the Council. His destiny as a politician, stripped of a sword, had been decided at his birth based on a cloudy prophecy from one of Herut’s oracles.

His future stretched before him, dark days of oblivion.

“For the past two days, one of our seers has been struck with visions of you.”

Cyrus bolted upright. “What did the oracle see?”

“You with a female who had violet eyes. Perhaps your
kabashem
. Have you found her?”

“No.” The lie left his lips without thinking. He wasn’t ready to be summoned home.

“When you do, you must return to House Herut at once. The oracle saw great darkness.”

His blood chilled. His heartbeat slowed. His spirit grew still.

“Cyrus?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Redemption is upon us. The days of Isfet will soon be at an end,
if
you succeed. Do not fail us. Or our species will face extinction.”

“When I find her, I will not fail.” After a click, the dial tone punched through.

Warning bells tolled in his head. With a steady, deep inhale, he silenced the clanging. Obstacles had to be removed to clear the way for her to come to him, and then he could drive forward with the task at hand.

Chapter Ten

After exhausting herself kicking and banging on the door, Serenity gave up the vain effort of trying to open it. Cyrus actually had the audacity to lock her up.

She spun to face the wall of windows and walked across the room. Wide glass panels stretched from the floor to the high ceiling. No handles or metal framework to obstruct the view, or apparent way to open them. Who would design bedroom windows that couldn’t be opened?

A warden set on keeping prisoners inside.
 

Well, she was no man’s possession or prisoner.

She snatched the chair from in front of the desk and hurled it at the glass wall.

The chair bounced off the window, clattering to the floor. Her jaw dropped and her chest heaved. Not a crack or a scratch on the window.

She crept closer and rapped on it with her knuckles. It wasn’t even pure glass; must have been some kind of unbreakable, bulletproof, industrial plastic. She peered out into the darkness at the grass below. Possibly a twenty-foot drop, maybe more. If she had broken through, she would have survived the jump, but probably twisted an ankle with the way things were going.

There had to be something in the room she could use to jimmy the lock on the door. Not that she had a clue how to do it. She caught sight of a silver phone mounted on the wall near the bed and her heart leapt.

She ran to it and picked up the receiver. A digital display lit up and her premature hope crumbled. On the touch screen menu were icons for all the bedrooms from Cyrus’s room, Abbadon’s, Talus’s, and Cassian’s, to hers. Talk about taking presumption to a whole new level. Outraged, she shook her head at the icon labeled with her name.

Even more disturbing, a small part of her enjoyed the sight of her name on the screen, like she might really belong. No. She wouldn’t let her indignation abate and she most certainly wouldn’t accept being held captive. She pressed the digital button for the kitchen, praying Mrs. Carter was still there. It was a gamble with long-shot odds that the old lady would defy Cyrus, provided she could get her hands on the key. But Serenity had nothing to lose.

“Damn it!” She slammed the phone down. It was nearly midnight. Of course Mrs. Carter was at home by now.

For the heck of it, she called the security room, gym, theater room, dining room and great room. Deep down she knew no one would answer. Abbadon would answer if she called his room, but he’d sooner hang up on her than help her break out.

She scrolled through the menu for any outside lines. No luck. She pressed the arrow icon. A new page popped up with two buttons: Front Door and Main Gate.

Touching the front door icon brought up a live camera view of the veranda and front door. She had to hand it to Cyrus, the internal phone and security system was pretty sweet, albeit of little use to her. She heaved a sigh.

Those mercs had stolen her bag with her wallet and cell phone. Who would she have called anyway? The cops? She didn’t have an address other than the gorgeous mansion in Valhalla. Evan? And say what? That she’d been kidnapped by his client or that they needed to have a long talk? How was she going to explain that she wasn’t human? It was still hard for her to believe. Or that Cyrus was her soul mate, literally?

But she didn’t believe in reincarnation or predestination. Her fate wasn’t set in stone. She had the free will to desire and fall in love with whomever she pleased. Right?

The birthmark on his chest probably wasn’t real, had to be some kind of hoax. As the thought entered her mind, she knew everything he’d said had been true. And none of what she felt for Cyrus seemed like much of a choice at all.

Groaning, she rushed to the door and tried the knob again, as if it had magically unlocked. She wanted to slap Cyrus, and heaven help her, kiss him. She missed his lips, his smell, his energy stream giving her a jolt of juice ten times better than a pot of java.

She slid down the door and rested her head against it. The hall was quiet. Not a sound anywhere. Was he asleep in the room next door? She glanced at the heavenly bed a few feet away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crawling into that plush bed and sleeping a wink.

The room overflowed with beautiful things, comfortable furniture and even art supplies she couldn’t live without. Her gaze settled on the amazing glass bowl sitting on the coffee table. It was an evocative blend of frosted and smooth crystal and gold, with engraved leaves. Was the masterpiece Lalique?

It was all too much, down to the mural painted on a wall, the design reminiscent of August Macke’s
Farbige Formen
, but with subtle colors.

Cyrus had designed the perfect cage.

Well, she refused to admire one more piece. She needed to stay grounded in who she was, in her life before psychotic mercenaries and crazed beasts, in the world she had created before Kindred, without getting lost in Cyrus’s.

She rose from the floor, head up, rooted in her resolve. She needed to work.

Bypassing his luxurious bait, she went to the storage unit and pulled out a sketchpad. Not the same brand she used, but it had acid-free, heavyweight paper. Hardbound, thankfully, since the pages slipped around too much with a spiral pad, creating horrible smudges. And the sheets were toothless and smooth, just what she preferred. She rifled through other materials. Good grief, there were even paint brushes made from badger. Very nice, since synthetic sucked.

The fact he’d nailed such specific details stirred a tangled mix of anger and awe.

Ripping the red bow off the desk, she dumped graphite and Prismacolor pencils, erasers and markers on top, and then picked up the chair she’d thrown earlier. She sat down to knock out sketches for clients she’d already met with; two drawings for each soul design.

Basic sketches, she drew with easy precision, were outlines for the stencils Dougie or one of the other ink pushers would use. The second, more detailed, colored sketches were for the clients. Not once had she ever received a complaint about any soul design.

She gravitated toward doing the sketch for an aloof, female client first. The young woman had a frosty, reserved demeanor, presenting the façade of a bitter, cold heart. Yet the reading, quite similar to creating the sketch now, brought a smile to Serenity’s face.

She filled in the colors, adding dimension and life to a long, fluffy, black swan feather, twisted and bent, but far from broken. Delicate ribbons of radiant pastel light flowed from the feather’s shaft, rippling in the same breeze. The young woman wasn’t coldhearted, merely guarded. Brilliant in her field, a born overachiever, she had the rare quality of adapting when faced with adversity and loving unconditionally despite disappointment.

Coloring in the sketch for the next client conjured the same feelings of sadness and pity that she’d experienced when she’d read the man’s soul. A gnarled tree of crooked branches with astonishing, verdant blossoms and flames for roots that threatened to consume it. The man was capable of greatness, but his self-destructive nature would lead to his ruin.

Luckily for her, she only read clients a couple of days a week and not all readings elicited such strong emotional responses. General impressions were better than gripping feelings; otherwise the process would be a constant drain.

The drawing for the last
real
client in her office flowed quickly. Crisp lines and rich color. The customer’s indefatigable drive and passion captured in the crimson of the tiger charging, fangs ready to tear apart any obstacle. Yet the musical notes forming the cloud needed a light touch, a whimsical sense that strayed from the expected. She didn’t know what he did in the music industry, but whatever it was consumed his life. And his success, although enviable, would never be enough to satiate the tiger.