Vengeance Borne (13 page)

“That was quite the initiation by fire, wasn’t it?” she asked in a soothing tone. “Stay with me, Micah. Don’t slip back into it. Now, tell me, what did you see?”

Jacquelyn took a seat against a tree trunk and planted her heels into the dirt, bringing her knees up to her chest. Over the small knoll, Micah sat with Trish, performing their Bearer’s tricks on the bloody ground. She snorted, driving her sneakered heel into the earth a little deeper. Bearers were all the same: magic and wonder. Soft when they needed to be and equally hard when the occasion called for it. If only Waerds had choices. Waerds served their purpose, did what they were born to do, plain and simple. Violence was what they were good at. And prisoners weren’t allowed choices.

Pulling the 9mm from her shoulder holster, she leveled the sight at an aspen tree fifty yards ahead. She could’ve shot the tiniest leaf right off the branch if she wanted to. Quivering in the breeze or not. But it took more than a fantastic shot to own the title of Waerd or more appropriately…
hunter
. Raw edge, ruthless abandon, and a total disregard for moral code was what made her lethal. And somehow, the Sentry had known what she’d grow up to be. They’d seen the potential in an infant and taken her right from her crib. Had her parents known all along what would happen or were they still out there somewhere, searching and hoping for her safe return. did they miss her? Had they wept for her? In the dorms growing up, they were taught not to ask questions. Not about who they were, where they came from, how they got there. They were to accept their fate and rolls in life. Period. Waerds weren’t given options. No say in the matter of their lives. Raised by the Sentry, taught to fight, to kill, to police the supernatural forces in this world, she was nothing more than a number. A nameless agent valuable only for the skills at her disposal and the supposed magic that made her what she was. Jacquelyn had yet to recognize anything in herself that she considered special. She was a killer, plain and simple. Nothing special about that. Property of the Sentry until the day she died. A prisoner. Verdict pronounced: Guilty. Sentence: One hell of a community service.

The grinding sound of metal echoed in her ears as she pulled back the Glock’s slide. She wanted to shoot something, anything, to release the tension pooling in her muscles. Her finger shook as she squeezed the trigger—just a hair’s breadth more and she’d hear the resounding crack, anchoring her to an inexorable fate.

A shout drew her attention and she jammed the Glock back into the holster without bothering to flip the safety. Sprinting over the knoll, she paused twenty yards from where Micah knelt, head between his knees, Trish gently massaging his back.
Guess he found something
. So much for Finn’s assumptions that Willie’s attack was none of their business.

As far as she could tell, Micah was more shell-shocked than actually hurt. But she drew the gun anyway, taking the extra precaution. Warm fuzzies were best left to Trish. If anything needed a hole blown through it, she was the girl for the job. She approached with caution, guarding her own back as much as she warily watched up ahead. Micah seemed oblivious to everything around him. He’d finally straightened, but his eyes were distant, unfocused. Confused.

Trish smiled reassuringly, her gray eyes remaining serious. “Put that away,” she ordered with a flick of her wrist. “You’ll use any excuse to shoot that thing, won’t you?”

Jacquelyn holstered the gun, relaxing. If Trish could afford a smart-ass remark, danger was nowhere near. “You okay, Micah?” She hoped she sounded soft, concerned.

Micah turned on a heel to face her, wobbling like he hadn’t found his sea legs yet. “No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m outta here. Jesus Christ. Who the hell
are
you people?”

“We’ll take you back to the RV Park. But—” Jacquelyn hesitated, unwilling to push him over the edge, but needing to just the same—“I need to know, right now, what you saw.”

His dark eyes flashed, widening in shock, or disbelief.
Leave the warm fuzzies to Trish
, she reminded herself. Jacquelyn was on the hunt and needed to get down to business before the shit hit the fan. “What was it?”

Micah ran a palm over the bristles of his hair. Closing his eyes, a shudder passed along his body. He took a deep breath and his gaze passed over Trish before leveling on Jacquelyn. “Three of them.” His voice was hard, vacant. “The voices were—androgynous—I guess. I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe a little feminine.”

“What did they want?” Jacquelyn didn’t like leading him along. But she had to be sure that what he saw was interpreted properly and not planted there by her own suspicions.

“Blood.” He seemed to choke on the word. “And flesh. A pound of flesh.”

“Bullshit,” Jacquelyn whispered. “No way. Just… no.”

“What do you mean?” Micah, demanded, his tone hard as he broke from his emotionless stupor. “You think I’m making this up?”

“No dear,” Trish’s comforting voice flowed over Jacquelyn like water. She wondered if her soft way comforted Micah as well. “We don’t think you’re making it up.” The old woman looked straight ahead, a deep line of worry creasing her aged forehead as her gaze locked with Jacquelyn’s.

“Well,” Micah asked. “What are they?”

“Furies,” Jacquelyn replied. “Fucking Furies. We’re in deep shit.”

Chapter 10

MICAH STILL COULDN’T draw a decent breath. The truck bounced along the rocky tracks—hardly classifiable as a road—too fast for the condition of his stomach. For a little old lady, Trish didn’t hold back on the accelerator. But he didn’t think the nausea or the pounding in his skull was due to her driving skills. He’d have to take a whole bottle of Ativan to banish the memory of that man’s death from his mind. The lingering pull of violence and rage tugged at his ragged emotions. Fear coated his tongue, sharp and metallic. Blood scented the air. His gut heaved and he fought the impulse to empty the contents of his stomach, swallowing lungfuls of fresh air from the cracked backseat window.

Jacquelyn sat in the front seat, rigid as stone. She stared straight ahead, one hand resting on the butt of the gun in her shoulder holster, the other resting on her thigh, bouncing impatiently. He wondered what was bouncing around inside her head. Still a little out of it, he didn’t have the focus to read her emotions as he had on the drive there. Another wave of nausea crashed over him, and he took a sharp breath in through his nose. He seriously needed to man-up.

“Micah,” Trish’s voice seemed to float to his ears on clouds of comfort, gentle and strong at the same time, supporting him. “I think it might be a good idea if you stayed with me tonight. I’d hate for you to be alone, and I have plenty of room. You can keep me company.”

Jacquelyn turned her head and quirked a sarcastic brow at the old woman. Micah didn’t sense much curiosity from the simple expression, more of a challenge. As if she was silently scolding Trish for inviting a stranger to stay the night at her house. God, he wished his emotional compass weren’t so off kilter. If he ever wanted to know what Jacquelyn was feeling, it was right now.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Trish asked Jacquelyn in an overly gentle, almost mocking tone. “You look as though you’re about to have some sort of fit or episode. Do we need to pull over?”

Jacquelyn snorted and turned to stare out the window.

“Well, Micah?” Trish nudged, apparently up for Jacquelyn’s challenge. “I haven’t had a house guest in years. Humor an old woman.”

A corner of his mouth tugged upward in a reluctant half-smile. He had a feeling Trish was seldom humored by anyone. More like, obey or else. A night alone with his thoughts and a bottle of pills left a sour taste in his mouth. And for some reason, this seemingly frail woman made him feel protected. He could stay the night and then leave in the morning. A few hours wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ll need to pick up a change of clothes and a few other things if it’s all right with you.” His smile grew, in spite of his intentions to leave McCall in his wake.

Trish’s steel-gray eyes caught his in the rear-view mirror. They crinkled up at the corners and he didn’t need to see her mouth to recognize the smile there. “Why don’t we let Jacquelyn fetch your things? I’m sure she won’t have any trouble finding what you need. That way you’ll be free to help me with dinner.”

House arrest, huh? She wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to slip away. Sly. And a little scary. What was this woman, some sort of granny mob boss? Maybe over dinner she’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “I guess that’d be okay,” he answered, slowly. “I don’t need much. I can tell her where everything is.”

“Does anyone care if
I
think that’d be okay?” Jacquelyn sneered from the front seat. “Seriously Trish, when did I get the assignment of errand girl?”

The old woman turned a stern eye, facing Jacquelyn. “You don’t mind.”

Her fingernails clicked impatiently on the butt of the gun and Micah wondered if Jacquelyn was considering drawing the weapon on Trish. He suppressed his laughter as he pictured the
Dirty Harry
moment, though it wasn’t too far-fetched. Closing his eyes, he took another deep breath and held it in his lungs until they burned. With a gust, he expelled every last particle of air, and with it, the remnants of evil lingering within him.

Better.
So much better. His emotional compass had finally begun to right itself and the waves of nausea subsided. Unfortunately, he wasn’t completely free from the clutch of someone else’s emotions. Evil, they weren’t, but Jacquelyn had a way of broadcasting her feelings, jack-hammering each one into his chest. Micah rubbed at his sternum as if he could dissolve the hard knot that had congealed there. Anger, resentment, frustration, and—of all things—sorrow burrowed deep into his soul. The feisty girl sitting in front of him was full of the most painful anguish he’d ever felt. Despair worse than anything he’d drugged himself into forgetting. Wanting nothing more than to take whatever was hurting her away, he focused on the knot in his chest and coughed as it grew, tightening his lungs as if his ribcage were collapsing.

The
clicky-clack
of Jacquelyn’s fingernails on the gun-butt came to an abrupt halt. “Why can’t empaths keep their emotional feelers to themselves,” she muttered. “The energy is bugging me out.” Her seatbelt came loose, flapping like cooked spaghetti as it wound up in the door. A sideways glance to Trish, and the old woman’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, her attention suddenly focused completely on the road. Jacquelyn turned to face him, her large, green eyes like endless pools. She popped up on her knees and flung one leg, then the other, over the bench seat, plopping down beside Micah. The weight of her stare pressed him down into his seat, intimidating and inviting at the same time. Without thinking, he raised a hand toward her face.

She grabbed his hand with both of hers, folding his fingers into a fist. Her own palms were warm, soft, and strong despite the fact that it took both of her hands to cover one of his. Bending, she rested her forehead against his fist, draping their entwined fingers in a cascade of curling ebony hair. His heart was breaking, but he knew it wasn’t his heart.

“Don’t,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. “They’re mine, and real. I have a right to feel something, Micah. Don’t steal my emotions from me. I’m tired of being numb.”

He closed his eyes, relaxed every particle of his conscious mind, and—let go. The rush took his breath away, turned his world on its axis. But he felt lighter. Unburdened, like he’d just dropped a heavy backpack at his feet. God, had he really taken all of that from her? How could she possibly bear the weight of it? Releasing the weight of her emotions felt like absolution, something he sensed Jacquelyn thought she’d never have. With his free hand, he smoothed back the wild tangle of her hair. Cupping her cheek, he coaxed her face upward until she had no choice but to look at him. Her hands dropped from around his fist, and he grazed his fingers along her jaw. Words failed him. Nothing he could say would do justice to the moment. So he stared, drinking up the features of her face: russet skin, the slight blush of her cheeks, full, pouty mouth parted slightly, and her eyes, reflecting a dark soul he might never understand.

“God damn,” he murmured.

“Not you,” Jacquelyn replied ruefully. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”