Chapter 1
The man on the boat stripped half naked, exposing a lean
golden chest and muscled arms.
In the parking lot across the street from the dock, Lara
Rho sucked in her breath. Held it as he dropped his shirt
to the deck and began
to climb.
The top of the mast swayed, stark against the bold blue
sky. Her stomach fluttered. Nerves? she wondered.
Recognition? Or simple female
appreciation?
The sun beat down, forging the water of the bay to a
sheet
of hammered gold. The air inside the car heated like an
oven.
Beside her in the driver’s seat, Gideon stirred, chafing
in
the heat. His corn silk hair was pulled into a ponytail,
his blue eyes narrowed
against the glare. "Is he the one?"
Lara leaned forward to peer through the windshield of
their
nondescript gray car, testing the pull of the internal
compass that had woken
her at dawn. They’d driven all morning from the rolling
hills of Pennsylvania through the flat Virginia tidewater,
wasting precious minutes in the traffic
around Norfolk before they found this place. This man.
Are you the one?
She exhaled slowly, willing herself to focus on the
climber. He certainly looked like an angel, hanging in the
rigging against the
bold blue sky, his bronze hair tipped with gold like a
halo.
"I think so." She bit her lip. She should know.
"Yes."
"He’s too old," Gideon said.
Lara swallowed her own misgivings. She was the designated
Seeker on this mission. Gideon was along merely to support
and defend. She
wanted her instincts to be right, wanted to justify their
masters’ faith in
her. "Late twenties," she said. "Not much older than
you."
"He should have been found before this."
"Maybe he wasn’t meant to be found before." Her heartbeat
quickened. Maybe she was the one meant to find him.
"Then he should be dead," Gideon said.
The brutal truth made her shiver despite the heat.
Survival
depended on banding together under the Rule. She was only
nine when they
brought her to Rockhaven, but she remembered being alone.
Hunted. If Simon
Axton had not found her . . .
She pushed the memories away to study her subject. He
must
be forty feet above the gleaming white deck. Snagging a
rope at the top of the
mast, he fed it to the two men waiting below, one old, one
young, both wearing
faded navy polo shirts. Some kind of uniform?
"He’s been at sea," she murmured. "The water could have
protected him."
It could do that, couldn’t it? Protect against fire. Even
if the water wasn’t blessed.
"I don’t like it," Gideon said bluntly. "You’re sure he’s
one of us?"
She had felt him more with every mile, a tug on her
attention, a prickle in her fingertips. Now that she could
actually see him,
the hum in her blood had become a buzz. But it was all
vibration, like
listening to a vacuum cleaner in the dark, without shape or
color. Not only
human, not wholly elemental . . .
"What else could he be?" she asked.
"He could be possessed."
"No."
She would know, she would feel that. She was attracted,
not
repelled, by his energy. And yet . . .
Uncertainty ate at her.
She had not been a Seeker very long. The gift was rough and
raw inside her,
despite Miriam’s careful teaching. What if she was wrong?
What if he wasn’t one
of them? At best she and Gideon would have a wasted trip
and she’d look like a
fool. At worst, she could betray them to their enemy.
She watched the man begin his descent, his long limbs
fluid
in the sun, sheened with sweat and sunlight.
And if she was right, his life depended on her.
She shook her head in frustration. "We’re too far away.
If
I could touch him . . ."
"What are you going to do?" Gideon asked dryly. "Walk up
and ask to feel his muscles?"
There was an idea. She gave a small, decisive nod. "If I
have to."
She opened her door. Gideon opened his.
"No," she said again. She needed to assert herself.
Gideon was
five years older, in the cohort ahead of hers, but she was
technically in
charge. "I can get closer if you’re not standing next to
me."
A frown formed between his straight blond brows. "It
could
be dangerous."
She had chosen their watch post. They both had scanned
the
area. It was safe. For now. "There’s no taint."
"That’s not the kind of danger I’m talking about," Gideon
muttered.
She disregarded him. For thirteen years, she had trained
to
handle herself. She could handle this.
She swung out of the car, lowering her sunglasses onto
her
nose like a knight adjusting his helm, considering her
strategy. Her usual
approach was unlikely to work here. This subject was no
confused and frightened
child or even a dazed, distrustful adolescent.
After a moment’s thought, she undid another button on her
blouse. Ignoring Gideon’s scowl—after all, he was not
the one responsible for the success of their mission—she
crossed the street to
the marina.
It was a long, uneven walk along sun-bleached boards to
the
end of the dock.
The man descending the mast had stopped halfway down,
balanced on some sort of narrow crossbeam, staring out at
the open sea on the
other side of the boat.
She tipped back her head. Her nerves jittered. Surely he
wasn’t going to . . .
He jumped. Dived, rather, a blinding arc of grace and
danger, sending up a plume of white water and a shout from
the younger man on
deck.
She must have cried out, too. The two men on the boat
turned to look at her, the young one with a nudge and the
old one with a nod.
The one in the water surfaced with an explosion of
breath,
tossing his wet hair back from his face.
Cooling off? Or showing off? It
didn’t matter.
He stroked cleanly through the water, making for the
swimming platform at the back of the boat.
Show time, she thought.
Pasting a smile on her face, she walked to the edge of
the
dock. "Eight point six."
He angled his head, meeting her gaze. She felt the jolt
clear to her stomach, threatening her detachment. His eyes
were the same
hammered gold as the water, with shadows beneath the
surface.
"Ten."
She pushed her sunglasses up on her head. "I deducted a
point for recklessness. You shouldn’t dive this close to
the dock."
He grinned and grabbed the ladder. "I wasn’t talking
about
my dive."
Heat rose in her cheeks. No one under the Rule would
speak
to her that way. But that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
For him to respond to
her while she figured out what to do with him.
"I’m flattered." This close, she could feel his energy
pulsing inside him like a second heart. She tried again to
identify it, but her
probing thought slid off him like a finger on wet glass. He
was remarkably well
shielded. Well, he would have to be, to survive this long
on his own.
She cast about for a subject. "Nice boat."
He shot her a measuring glance; hauled himself out of the
sea, water streaming from his arms and chest. "Yeah, she
is."
She tried not to goggle at the way his wet shorts drooped
on his hips, clung to his thighs. "How long have you had
her?"
"She’s not mine. Four of us crewed her up from the
Caribbean for her owners."
"So you’re staying here? In town."
He shook his head. "As soon as she’s serviced, I’m on to
the next one."
Apprehension gripped her. She arched her brows. "You’re
still referring to the boat, I hope."
He flashed another grin, quick and crooked as lightning.
"Just making it clear. Once I line up another berth,
another job, I’m gone."
"Then we don’t have much time," she said with more truth
than he knew.
He stood there, shirtless, dripping, regarding her with
glinting golden eyes. "How much time do you need?"
Her heart beat in her throat. Her mouth was dry. He
thought
her interest was sexual. Of course he did. That’s what she
had led him to
think.
"Why don’t we start with coffee," she suggested, "and see
what happens."
He glanced at his companions, bundling sails on deck.
"Drinks, and you’ve got yourself a date."
Lara swallowed. She had hoped to be back in Rockhaven by
nightfall. But a few hours wouldn’t make that much
difference to their safety.
She wanted desperately to succeed in their mission, to
prove herself to the
school council. She rubbed her tingling fingertips
together. If only she could
touch him . . . But they were separated by
more than four feet
of water. "Five o’clock?"
"Seven. Where?"
She scrambled to cull a name from their frustrating foray
along the waterfront earlier in the day. Someplace close,
she thought.
Someplace dark. "The Galaxy?"
His eyes narrowed before he nodded. "I’ll be there."
Relief rushed through her. "I’ll be waiting."
***
Justin watched her walk away, slim legs, trim waist,
snug skirt, nice ass, a shining fall of dark hair to the
middle of her back.
Definitely a ten.
"Hot." Rick Scott, the captain, offered his opinion.
"Very," Justin agreed.
Her face was as glossy and perfect as a picture in a
magazine, her eyes large and gray beneath dark winged
brows, her nose straight,
her mouth full-lipped. Unsmiling.
Why a woman like that would choose a dive like the Galaxy
was beyond him. Unless she was slumming. He picked his way
through the
collapsed sails and coiled ropes on deck. Which explained
her interest in him
even after she’d learned he wasn’t a rich yacht owner.
The stink of mineral spirits competed with the scent of
brine and the smells of the bay, fish and fuel and
mudflats.
"The hot chicks always go for Justin," Ted said. "Lucky
bastard."
Rick spat with precision over the side. He was tidy that
way, an ex–military man with close-cropped graying hair and
squinting blue
eyes. "Next time you send the halyard up the mast, you can
climb after it.
Maybe some girl will hit on you."
A red stain crept under the younger crewman’s tan. "It
was
an accident."
Justin felt a flash of sympathy. He remembered—didn’t
he?—when he was that young. That dumb. That eager to
please. "Could have
happened to anybody."
He’d made enough mistakes himself his first few months
and
years at sea. Worse mistakes than tugging on an unsecured
line.
He wondered if the girl would be another one.
Dredging the disassembled winch out of the bucket of
mineral spirits, he laid out the gears to dry. He was
working his way north
again like a migrating seabird, following the coast and an
instinct he did not
try to understand. The last thing he needed was to get
tangled up on shore.
"I’ll be waiting," she’d
said in that smooth, low voice.
He reached for the can of marine grease. Maybe she could
slake the ache inside him, provide a few hours of
distraction, a few minutes of
release.
Mistake or not, he would be there.
***
This bar was a mistake, Lara
thought.
The Galaxy was four blocks from the waterfront, off the
tourist path, in a rundown neighborhood of shaded windows,
sagging porches, and
chain fences.
She perched in one of the dingy booths, trying to watch
the
room without making eye contact with the sailors and
construction types
straddling the stools at the bar.
Or maybe not.
At least in these seedy surroundings, no one would
question
if she and Gideon helped one slurring, stumbling patron out
to their car later
that night.
Over the bottles, a TV flickered, competing with the glow
of the neon signs. Miller. Bud. Pabst Blue Ribbon. The air
stank of bodies and
beer, a trace of heavy cologne, a whiff from the men’s room
down the hall. She
folded her hands in her lap, her untouched Diet Coke
leaving another ring on
the cloudy table.
"Is it hot in here, or is it you?"
She looked up to find two sailors flanking her table.
"Excuse me?"
The larger sailor shifted closer, trapping her into the
booth. "You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone. Mind if
we join you?"
She wasn’t alone. Gideon watched from an ill-lit corner,
his attention divided between her and the door.
She straightened on the sticky vinyl seat. "I’m waiting
for
someone."
"I don’t see anybody." The sailor—hovering drunkenly
between cheerful and offensive—nudged his companion. "You
see anybody, T.J.?"
T.J.’s blurred gaze remained focused on Lara’s breasts.
"Nope."
"Let me buy you a drink," the first guy said.
"No, thanks," Lara said firmly.
"There you are." A male voice, deep and smooth, broke
through the noise of the bar and the wail of the jukebox.
Somehow the sailors
shifted, and there he was, tall and
lean and
attractively unshaven, looking perfectly at ease among the
Galaxy’s rough
clientele.
It was him. Her quarry from the boat.
Her heart, her breath, her whole body reacted. Her
fingertips
tingled. Well, they would. She was attuned to him, to his
energy.
He grinned at her. "Miss me?"
"You’re late," she said.
Twelve minutes. Not enough to abandon her mission, but
enough to pinch her ego.
"Come on, baby, don’t be mad. You know I had to work."
The
newcomer’s eyes danced, and she realized abruptly he was
acting, playing a part
for the sailors who still hemmed her into the booth. He
lowered his voice
confidingly. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her. She
gets . . .
restless if I leave her alone too long. If you know what I
mean."
Lara kept her mouth shut with an effort. The shorter
sailor
guffawed. His companion shifted his weight like a bull,
hunching his shoulders.
"I should pay you back," the newcomer continued easily.
Man-to-man, she thought, making them like him, make them
side with him,
diffusing the tension. He moved again, angling his body so
smoothly she almost
didn’t see him slide his wallet from his front pocket.
Feet shuffled. Something passed hands. The sailors nodded
to her and then ambled back to the bar.
Lara narrowed her eyes. "Did you just give them
money?"
"I bought them a round." His grin flashed. "Why not?"
"You paid them to go away," she
said, torn between outrage and admiration. She couldn’t
imagine Gideon—or Zayin
or any of the Guardians—dispatching an opponent by buying
him a drink.
"Think of it as supporting our troops." He met her gaze,
his own wickedly amused. "Unless you’d rather we pound each
other for the
privilege of plying you with alcohol."
"Of course not. Anyway, I already have a drink, thank
you."
He eyed her glass and shook his head. "Place like this,
you
order beer. In a bottle. Unless you want to wake up with
something a hell of a
lot worse than a headache."
He turned to signal the waitress.
Lara appreciated his concern. But his caution would make
her task more difficult. Her fingers curled around the
handle of her bag on the
seat beside her. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to drug his
drink, she thought.
Explanations were out of the question. He wouldn’t believe
her, and they might
be overheard. But surely she could rouse something in him,
a response, a spark,
a memory.
Assuming he was one of them.
Perhaps she should offer to feel his muscles after
all.
The thought made her flush. "I don’t even know your
name."
"Justin." No last name.
"Lara. Lara Rho."
She started to extend her hand, but at that moment he
caught the waitress’s eye and the opportunity to touch him
was lost.
Lara swallowed her disappointment.
The waitress, a hard-edged, hard-eyed blonde who looked
like she’d rather be somewhere else, left the knot of
locals absorbed by the
game on TV. "What can I get you?"
"Two Buds," Justin said.
The waitress looked at Lara. "ID?"
"Of course," she said, reaching for her purse.
Axton insisted they do their best to abide by human laws,
to blend in with their human neighbors. She pulled out her
perfectly valid Pennsylvania driver’s license, hoping
Justin would do the same, eager for any hint to his
identity, any clue why he hadn’t been found before now.
He smiled at the waitress. "Thanks."
The blonde cocked her hip, pulled a pen from her stack of
hair. "Anything else?"
His grin was quick and charming. "I’ll let you know."
Oh, he was smooth, Lara thought as the waitress sashayed
away.
"So, Lara Rho." He stretched his arms along the back of
the
booth, his knees almost-not-quite brushing Lara’s under the
table. "What brings
you to Norfolk?"
You.
Bad answer.
"Um." She inched her foot closer to his across the sticky
floor, hoping that small, surreptitious contact would give
her the answers she
needed. "Just visiting."
"For work? Or pleasure?"
Her toe nudged his. A buzz radiated up her leg, as if her
foot had fallen asleep.
Deliberately, she met his gaze. "That depends on
you."
His tawny eyes locked with hers. The tingling spread to
her
thighs and the pit of her stomach.
"I’m done work," he said.
Her mouth dried at the lazy intent in his eyes. "Won’t
they
be expecting you? Back at the boat?"
"Boat’s been delivered and I got paid. Nobody will care
if
I jump ship." He smiled at her winningly. "I’m a free
man."
She moistened her lips. "Isn’t that convenient."
No one would miss him if he disappeared tonight.
Her heart thudded in her chest. All she had to do was
identify him as one of her own kind, the nephilim, the
Fallen children of air.
From his corner, Gideon glowered, no doubt wondering what
was taking her so long.
If only she were more
experienced . . .
The waitress returned with their beer, two bottles, no
glasses.
Lara gripped the slick surface and gulped, drinking to
ease
the constriction of her throat.
"Let’s get out of here," Justin invited suddenly.
"What?"
He reached across the table and took her hand, wet from
the
bottle. An almost visible spark arced between them, a snap
of connection, a
burst of power. Shock ripped through her.
His eyes flickered. "You pack quite a punch."
So he felt it, too. Felt something. Hope and confusion
churned inside her. She dampened her own reaction, feeling
as though her
circuits had all been scrambled. The air between them
crackled, too charged to
breathe.
"I . . . You, too."
Her heart thudded. He was not
human.
Or only partly human. His elemental energy beat inside
his
mortal flesh.
But he was not nephilim either. She didn’t know what
he was.
His energy was not light, but movement, swirling, thick,
turbulent as storm. It swamped her. Flooded her. She clung
to his hand like a
lifeline, focusing with difficulty on his face.
". . . find someplace quiet," he was
saying.
"Let me take you out to dinner. Or for a walk along the
waterfront."
"What are you doing?" Gideon demanded.
Lara flinched.
"Who the hell are you?" Justin asked.
Gideon ignored him. "Are you trying
to call attention to yourself?" he asked Lara.
Lara tugged her hand from Justin’s, her mind still
stunned,
her senses reeling from the force of their connection. "You
felt that?"
"They could feel you in Philadelphia," Gideon said
grimly.
"Shield, before you get us both killed."
Justin’s eyes narrowed. "Look, buddy, I don’t know who
the
fuck you think you are, but—"
Gideon gripped Lara’s elbow. "We’re getting out of
here."
Justin rose from the booth. "Take your hands off
her."
"It’s all right," Lara said quickly. She struggled to
pull
herself together. "I know him."
Justin’s mouth tightened. "That doesn’t mean you have to
go
with him."
"Try and stop her," Gideon invited.
Lara shook her arm from his grasp. "That’s enough," she
said, her voice sharp as a slap.
Gideon met her gaze. "Your little energy flare just gave
away our location. This place will be crawling in an hour.
We need to leave
before they get here."
Lara’s throat constricted. "What about him?"
"Is he one of us?"
Not fully human. Not nephilim
either.
"No," she admitted.
"Then lose him. He’s not our responsibility."
He was right. She was still new to her duties as Seeker,
but the Rule of the community, codified over centuries, was
clear about their
obligations to keep and preserve their own kind. And the
dangers of getting
involved with those who were not their kind.
Yet . . .
"Give us a minute," she said.
Gideon’s face set, cold and rigid as marble. "Five
minutes," he acceded. "I’ll wait for you outside."
Where he could guard the entrance and scan for danger.
She
nodded.
With another glare at Justin, he left.
"Are you okay?" Justin asked.
"Fine," she said firmly, whether it was true or not. Why
had she felt the pull of his presence if she wasn’t meant
to find him?
"Listen, it’s none of my business," he said. "But if this
guy is giving you a hard time . . ."
His willingness to look out for a stranger shamed her.
Especially since she was about to abandon him to his
fate.
"Nothing like that. We work together," she explained.
He looked unconvinced.
"What about you?" she asked.
He frowned. "What about me?"
Who are you?
What are you?
"Will you be all right?" she asked.
"I think my ego will survive being ditched for another
guy." The glint in his eye almost wrung a smile from
her.
She bit her lip. Their enemies would be circling, drawn
by
that unexpected snap of energy. She already had to account
for one mistake. She
couldn’t afford another.
Besides, he was not one of them.
He would be safe. He had to be.
"Right. Well." She slipped her purse strap onto her
shoulder. At least now she didn’t have to drug his beer.
"Take care of yourself."
As she slid out of the booth, he stepped back, lean and
bronzed and just beyond her reach. "You, too."
She walked away, reluctance dogging her steps and
dragging
at her heart.
***
Justin watched his plans for the
evening walk out the
door with more regret than he had a right to. Her tight
butt in that slim skirt
attracted more than a few glances. Her fall of dark brown
hair swung between
her shoulders. The woman sure knew how to move.
He shook his head. He’d known she was slumming when she
came on to him that afternoon. Presumably she was going
back where she belonged,
with Mr. Tall, Blond, and Uptight.
He hadn’t lost anything more than half an hour of his
time.
So why was there this ache in the center of his chest, this
sense of missed
opportunity?
He took a long, cold pull at his bottle, his gaze
drifting
over the bar. He’d been in worse watering holes over the
past seven years,
before he got his bearings and some control over his life.
Worse situations, in
Puerto Parangua and Montevideo, in Newark and Miami. He
drank more beer. He fit
in with the surly locals and tattooed sea rats better than
pretty Lara Rho and
her upscale boyfriend ever could. But he didn’t belong
here. He
belonged . . . The beer tasted suddenly flat
in his mouth. He
didn’t know where he belonged.
He set down his bottle. He didn’t want to drink alone
tonight. And he didn’t want to drink with the company the
Galaxy had to offer.
Careful not to flash his roll, he dropped a couple of
bills
on the table and walked out.
Nobody followed.
Outside, the sky was stained with sunset and a chemical
haze, orange, purple, gray. The day’s heat lingered,
radiating from the
crumbling asphalt, sparking off the broken glass. He headed
instinctively for
the water, free as a bird thanks to the coworker boyfriend
with the ponytail,
trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his
evening.
Or maybe his life.
Beyond the jumbled rooftops at the end of the street, he
could see the flat shimmer of the sea. He passed a homeless
guy huddled in a
doorway, clutching a bottle, watching the street with flat,
dead eyes.
Something wrong there. He kept his arms loose and at his
sides as the pawn
shops and tattoo parlors gave way to warehouses and razed
lots.
His neck crawled. Alley ahead. Empty. Good.
He lengthened his stride, taking note of blank windows
and
deserted doorways. Good place to get jumped, he thought,
and angled to avoid
the dirty white van blocking a side street.
He heard a thump. A grunt.
Not his problem, he reminded himself. None of his
business.
A woman’s cry, sharp with anger and alarm.
Shit.
He circled the van, shot a quick look down the
street.
And saw Lara Rho backed against the brick wall of an
empty
lot with a couple of rough guys circling her like dogs.