Prodigal Son (6 page)

That thought brought a change in energy. The vision of Cara melted away. Instead—gunshots. His mother crying out, running toward a doorway beneath his father’s protective arm.

Someone had tried to kill her.

The flow of power faltered. His eyes flew open, his breath coming in pants as his pulse spiked. Was she okay? When had this happened?

Last night. She’s unharmed
. The answers came with a splutter of energy. He focused, balanced out his thoughts so the flow of power stabilized again. He could not risk a backlash.

Instinctively, he reached for his connection to the family. He could sense it, that bond that tied him to the rest of his blood. It was still there; no one had severed it. But where once a strong channel had flowed, now there was only a weak link that coughed and hesitated like a car with a bad carburetor.

“Damn it.” Even as the epithet left his lips, the words caused the energy around him to flare with negative heat. He tamped down his annoyance and concentrated on clearing his mind, letting go of fear and frustration and methodically ending the ritual so that all energy released back to the earth in a natural and harmonious flow.

He would have to use the phone.

He stalked into the house. The telepathic connection had been part of him since birth. That it was so weak from disuse—by his own doing—burned him even more. Perhaps if he had stayed connected, he would not have found out about the danger to his mother after the fact.

Was this another indicator of his powers failing?

He snatched up his cell phone and punched out the number he knew by heart, praying they hadn’t changed it.

“Hello?” Her voice was thready, shaky, but as dear to him as breath itself.

“Are you okay?” he demanded. His heart pounded, and he tightened his trembling fingers around the phone.

“Rafe?” Hope flavored her tone. “Rafe, is that you?”

Warmth bloomed in the region of his heart. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed her voice. “Yes, Mama. It’s me.”

“Oh, my.” A sharp inhalation. “Rafe. Oh, my.”

He wished he could see her, to know with his own senses that she was all right. But his abilities had never worked on his family. Visions in the
tenplu
were one thing, gifted by Ekhia, but anything more than that never worked. That meant he needed to rely on simple conversation.

“Are you hurt?” he asked again, rougher than he intended. But he was losing it, desperate for confirmation that she was okay and just as desperate to get off the phone. It was so tempting to slide back into the family fold. Just act like everything was okay. But he couldn’t. He was a danger to them, and one phone call couldn’t change that.

“No, not hurt, just shaken up. It happened so fast, but I got a flash of danger for your father, so I stopped just in time.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. Thank the Creators for Mama’s famous “flashes.”

“Dad is right here. Do you—”

“No. I just called to make sure you were okay.”

“But—”

“Bye, Mama.” He disconnected the call and dropped the phone onto the granite counter. Then he slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the breakfast bar, as wobbly as if his knees had turned to putty. If anything had happened to her … He didn’t want to even think about it.

But she was okay. Her instincts had saved her life.

He sucked in a long, slow breath. Dad had probably locked her up behind the walls of the compound. No one would get to her there. And his sister, Tessa, would be looking now, actively searching for the person who had put their mother in danger.

Provided her gifts weren’t on the fritz like his.

He couldn’t help a chuckle at the absurdity of the thought. Tessa must have completed her Soul Circle by now. And even if she hadn’t, nothing could weaken or dampen Tessa’s abilities. She, out of all of them, had the true powers of a full Seer. She was so strong that people often steered clear of her, put off by the all-knowing confidence of those unusual violet eyes—as if Tessa would read their minds and report their secrets to the tabloids.

But what else could you expect from a direct descendent of the most powerful Seer in Atlantis?

He had made it a policy long ago to steer away from the
A
word when thinking about his abilities.
He
knew the truth, but he had been schooled since birth to keep his heritage a secret. If anyone asked, he was part Native American and part Spanish. He just didn’t mention that the Spanish part came from Agrilara, the lone survivor of Atlantis who had come ashore in what was now the Basque area of Spain thousands of years ago.

Agrilara was the reason why his family consistently produced members with brilliant blue eyes, no matter what culture they married into. The blue eyes bred true with the seeing gift and had done so every generation for thousands of years—except in the case of Tessa, who possessed the eerie violet eyes of a full Seer and all the awesome powers that came with it.

Everyone, gifted or not, walked cautiously around his baby sister. Except maybe Darius. Big brother had never been afraid of anything.

He let his head fall back against the solid wood of the breakfast bar. Five years he’d been away, but with the sound of his mother’s voice, it seemed like just yesterday. He rubbed a hand over the center of his chest, across the ache that throbbed like a gaping hole. He could recall them all so clearly—good memories.

And bad. Unsteady, he climbed to his feet. That was all long ago. Another life.

But the present wasn’t so hot, either. Not with his powers flickering like a faulty lightbulb, a sweet Jersey girl distracting him, and some wacko shooting at his mother.

He realized he was still trembling. Okay, time to get a hold of himself. He picked up the remote from his kitchen counter and pointed it over the breakfast bar at the TV in the living room. The news came on. Setting the device back on the counter, he got out a box of cereal. First he needed food, and then he would get dressed and go track down Danny Cangialosi. More than that, he needed to get back to Cara, to convince her to go home before that horrible image he had foreseen came true.

Maybe instead of puzzling over the instability of his powers, he should start concentrating on what he was given when they
were
working. Like it or not, he had been handed a vision of Cara’s death, and it was up to him to do something about it.

The vision of her murder had shaken him. She was too nice a person, too soft-hearted—heck, just too damned cute for anyone to want to hurt her. She had to be tied into this mess her stepbrother was into, even if she didn’t know it. And like it or not, Rafe had to protect her from the gory fate he had foreseen.

“
Jain Criten, president of the island nation of Santutegi, delivers a speech today to the Association of International Agricultural Concerns at the Mesopotamian Resort in Las Vegas. He will be speaking about the challenges faced by smaller countries in today’s agricultural market. The president arrived yesterday and has been enjoying the sights of the city.”

Rafe glanced at the TV across the breakfast bar as the pleasant face of Jain Criten filled the screen. The dignitary looked to be in his late thirties, and his casual white suit with the pale yellow shirt made him seem cool, calm, and approachable in juxtaposition to the frantic pace of the airport behind him. His boyish grin invited the viewers to trust him. He wore his dark blond hair in a youthful style that waved back from his prominent forehead, and his green eyes appeared utterly sincere as he replied to a question from a reporter.

Just for the heck of it, Rafe focused on the face in front of him. Concentrated.

Nothing
. Just like Danny.

“What the hell?” He set down the cereal box and leaned closer to the TV, but the story changed to a local fire. Frustration burned in his gut.

He yanked open the cabinet door to pull down a bowl. What in blazes was going on with his powers? They had never been so erratic before, always as reliable as the sunrise. He could look at a photo, at film coverage, or best of all, into a person’s eyes face-to-face and see what he needed to know.

The only time his powers had not worked had been with his own family. Now suddenly, he couldn’t read select people—people who were not related to him in the slightest. People who had nothing in common with each other.

What the hell was going on?

*   *   *

Cara couldn’t help but yawn as she walked into the lobby of the Mesopotamian resort. She knew what she must look like—yesterday’s clothes, no makeup, hair twisted up haphazardly in a ponytail. She had fallen asleep on Danny’s couch last night and, boy, did she look it. She was surprised security didn’t stop her as soon as she walked in the door.

The exclusive hotel complex known as the Mesopotamian Resort and Casino had been designed like an ancient city with huge columns of sandy stone enhanced by gleaming marble floors. Fountains graced the sprawling expanse of shops and restaurants, many adjacent to foliage that hid private grottoes with benches for lovers stealing a moment alone. The centerpiece was the huge ziggurat, a temple-like structure with a waterfall trickling down its steep stairs, set in a high-ceilinged lobby that mimicked the night sky. At the base of the ziggurat was the front desk, concierge stand, and bell station.

Bartow had spared no expense to transport his guests to the mystical world of the ancients, though on the other side of the ziggurat was the entrance to the casino—a very modern setting with flashing lights and human cries of exaltation or dismay.

Cara wasn’t a gambler. She worked too hard for her money to take the chance of losing it on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. Oh, she might drop a few coins into a slot machine, but she wasn’t about to bet the farm, especially now that the business was struggling and her condo was on the line since Danny had skipped bail.

She made her way toward the coffee stand cleverly tucked between two immense statues of ancient gods. Her stepbrother’s apartment had revealed no clues to his whereabouts, not even to her, the person who knew him the best.

Unless someone had already found all the clues. Someone like Rafe Montana.

She got in the coffee line, fumbling in her purse for cash. Montana was legitimate, all right. She’d followed his suggestion and checked with the police, then taken it a step further and called Danny’s bail bondsman, Sal Fellone. Rafe Montana was a bona fide bounty hunter, and he had an excellent track record of getting his man in record time.

Maybe it would be worth it to talk to him, see if they could work together—only this time without the pepper spray and wrestling.

Though the wrestling hadn’t been all that bad, actually.

The thought startled her. Since Warren’s defection, no man had coaxed so much as a blip from her libido. But it was easy to forget about Warren here in Vegas, a place that seemed galaxies away from Jersey. Maybe this was just what she needed, a getaway of sorts to put the past year in perspective. And the bounty hunter sure had been easy on the eyes.

“Good morning, Miss McGaffigan.” Mr. Gray, Bartow’s head of security, slipped into line behind her.

She angled her body so she could see him. She didn’t know what it was about Gray, but he triggered her defenses. Was it his dark eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing? His immaculate suit—really, who was that neat? Or maybe the utter stillness of his body?

“Good morning,” she said finally.

He didn’t look away, kept that dark gaze on her. “Did you go to your stepbrother’s apartment?”

She hadn’t intended to tell him anything, but the words slipped from her lips anyway. “Yes. It looked like he hadn’t been there in days.”

The person in front of her moved up, and they both edged forward as well. The counter seemed miles away. Gray gave her a bland smile. “How troubling that a relative could disappear without so much as a note or an e-mail or a phone call.” Breaking eye contact, he glanced up to peruse the menu board behind the register.

Dizzy. She shook her head like a wet dog, and the world steadied. Cobwebs in her brain, probably from too much worrying and too little sleep. And Gray—was he fishing? No way was she going to tell him about the call from Danny. Not when her instincts were screaming that this guy was part of what was threatening her stepbrother.

Okay, so she didn’t have any hard facts, but everything with Gray and Bartow seemed a little too neat, a little too convenient. And a little too generous. Like calling her to tell her about Danny’s disappearance. Offering to pay her way to Vegas—which she’d refused. Giving her the free room in the hotel—which she’d also refused and yet found herself staying in anyway. Picking her up at the airport in the limo. And the way Adrian Gray always seemed to be there, always solicitous, always curious about whether or not she’d heard from Danny.

Yeah, her alarm bells were clanging big time.

She reached the counter and ordered French vanilla coffee. She could feel Gray watching her, and she tried not to squirm.

He leaned closer, brushing her arm with his fingers. When she looked at him, he caught her gaze and held it. “I’m sure you would tell me if—”

A ruckus erupted in the lobby. He whipped his head around, cutting her free of the nearly hypnotic eye lock. A crowd rushed past the coffee stand. Reporters with microphones shouted questions, and cameramen scurried backward with their equipment balanced on their shoulders. At the front of the onslaught was a fair-haired man in a gray suit and a politician’s smile, surrounded by muscular young guys in dark suits and earpieces.

The cashier brought Cara’s coffee, and she gratefully seized the opportunity to turn away to pay for it. When she faced Gray again, she had braced herself for battle. She nodded toward the melee in the lobby. “What’s that all about?”

He frowned first at her, then at the brouhaha. “Jain Criten, a very important guest. Looks like a press conference.”

Cara raised her brows. “Don’t you have media rooms or something for that kind of thing?”