Cannot Unite (6 page)

“You know…you’re almost believable,” she
replied.

“We’re about out of time. A 4D Team is due
any moment. We need to disappear before then.”

“We?”

“I came here to find you. I don’t intend to
lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She
reached for the cross again.

“A 4D Team is about to obliterate your hotel
room, Jeannette. You can’t stay here.”

“Four D?” she queried.

“It stands for deploy. Destroy. Disinfect.
Disappear.”

“Oh. I get it. Rather like the Men in Black.
I suppose now is when you tell me they’re real, too. Why not,
Jeannette? You might as well get labeled a crackpot conspirator
theorist, too.”

KayNan forced the frustrated sound back. “4D
Teams handle clean-up for the Vampire Assassin League. They’re very
reliable. Concise. Quick responders. We have to go. Now.”

“The Vampire
what
?”

“Assassin League. Please don’t make me force
anything, Jeannette. Please?”

“It’s going to take a lot more than
half-assed explanations and male muscle, KayNan. I know your
weakness. Remember?”

She lifted the cross. KayNan kicked it out
of her hand, ignoring the instant flash of agony. And the burn. And
then the hall door ruptured inward.

He’d been wrong. It wasn’t a 4D Team.

A boot finished slamming the entry door
against the bathroom portal. Several teargas canisters rolled into
the room – only these wouldn’t contain teargas. They’d contain Holy
Water under pressure. It immediately began misting the area.
Camouflaged men stormed through the fog, one after the other,
sending arrows out in an arcing pattern, covering 180 degrees, both
low and high. They hit the television, the lamps, the walls,
furnishings, everything in sight. Except him. KayNan had reacted
the moment the door was breached, slamming his way through the
window, using his back for the hit. A moment later he was in full
flight, swooping around skyscrapers toward the hangar. He took
Jeannette with him. Holding tightly to him with her eyes scrunched
the entire way.

Oh dear. I’m about to violate
the
rule!

Jeannette stopped the thought. Stopped
everything. The impulse to scream. The need to fight. Everything.
She had to. No emotions. Ever. That was a major rule. Emotions
clouded issues, warped reality, altered judgments. She had to
staunch them so she could think. That was her preferred
methodology. Gather facts. Ponder. Do it rationally. Calmly. With
detachment. Logically. She knew from experience that if she
incorporated emotionless reasoning with the list of rules she’d
created a decade or so earlier, everything would pass. Her sanity
would return. Her world would right. And if she was lucky and
blinked just so, this would turn into an aberration in the fabric
of time, and she’d be back in that dining room having white tea
infused with strawberry, peach, and vanilla, while carrying just a
hint of rose petal undertone.

And then she wouldn’t need to fret over
where her overnight bag with all her identification might have just
gone. Ah!

Remember the rules, Jeannette. Stick to
the list
.

Making that list had given her something
constructive to do while incarcerated in a little padded room; one
with no door handle even if she could have unfastened the
strait-jacket. That’s where she received an education in modern
witch hunting techniques, and how to survive them. Through all the
badgering. The medicating. The questioning. The doubting. The
treatments. The counseling. That’s when she learned the truth.
Nobody listened. Nobody believed. Because nobody else saw things
like she did.

That’s when she came up with Rule Number Two
- never speak of it to the unimaginative. The emotion thing was
another rule, but it was down the list. Never exhibit emotion,
especially hysteria. That’s what they’d called her breakdown, those
psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists, and every other doctor
that practiced on her.

Nobody listened to
why
.

Nobody dared.

Because if they did listen, they’d have to
deal with how accurate her vision was. And that meant they’d have
to believe her psychic abilities were real. They’d realize she
really had witnessed her mother’s death by a drunk driver while
sitting safely in an eighth grade geography class. They’d labeled
her ensuing screaming fit as hysteria. That was the same diagnosis
given the girls of Salem, Massachusetts back in 1792, the one that
started off the Witch Trials. Hysteria: exhibiting signs of massive
emotion that clouded reality. That had been the diagnosis given
that bit of history, and it was the same one all those physicians
had given her. The Inquisition hadn’t really ended. It was just
subversive. Hidden. Jeannette came to terms with it and then she
pretended to accept the diagnosis. And then she gave them the best
acting of her life through every moment of it. That’s what got her
out of that room six months later, and she was never going
back.

So. She had her rules and adhered to them
without thinking anymore. Because they kept her safe. Hidden. Sane.
Free.

Rule Number Six: No emotion. Showing emotion
got you attention, and attention got trouble. Both to be
avoided.

Rule Number Five: No speaking with the dead.
Just the idea scared Jeannette.

Rule Number Four: No altering of events. No
being has the right to change or alter the future.

Rule Three: Cause as little harm as
possible. To every living thing, and that included the planet.
Jeannette was even an invisible partner in two salvage companies
that were losing propositions. She’d already violated this rule
with the creature, but he’d seemed to recover. Besides, he was
already dead.

Rule Number Two: Never speak of her powers.
To anyone. Especially the media. If she had answers, she gave them.
She never said how she got them and never described it. It was
safer. And saner.

And those rules were all preceded by
the
Cardinal one: Rule Number One: Never, ever, under any
circumstances, use her gift for selfish reasons.

Ever.

Until she reached legal age, she kept
everything to herself. She never spoke of her gift. Never used it.
Ran from any vestige of it. Acted calm and practical and completely
sane. That’s how she got by. Once she reached twenty-one and gained
her inheritance, however…well. All bets were off. She started
flexing her gifts – but only for the benefit of others. Never for
herself. The trauma of being with her mother for her last moments
was too great. Too frightening. Too emotional.

Remember Rule Number Six, Jeannette. No
emotion. No screaming. No hysteria.

That’s why she’d waited to react until this
creature ceased flying. Or whatever he’d been doing. She kept her
eyes tightly closed the entire time, denying everything. Him. The
destruction of her hotel room. Flesh-like, rock-hard chest and abs
she was pressed against and wrapped around. Strands of hair
slipping past her cheeks with wind. The slight queasiness of her
belly with each dip. Almost like a roller-coaster. As if they
really were flying. Jeannette didn’t release one inch of her hold
about his neck, or where her legs straddled his hips.

“Do you always speak to yourself?”

Ignore him, Jeannette.

Something on him had flexed with his words.
Her thighs felt it. An instant tingle radiated from there all over,
surprising her. Then annoying. Then horrifying. It wasn’t possible
she’d spoken aloud. Then again, it wasn’t possible that she’d been
airborne in the arms of a vampire, either.

“You do…don’t you?”

She scrunched her eyes tighter before
answering. “Yes. And no.”

“It’s either one or the other. So, it’s yes.
Right?”

Denying his existence wasn’t working.
Jeannette sighed heavily. The body she clutched seemed to do the
same maneuver, but that was ridiculous. He was dead. Dead things
did not breathe. Nor did they ask questions. Nor should she
answer.

And just like that, she violated Rule Number
Five.

“Okay. Fine. It’s a yes. I do speak to
myself. But it’s also no. I usually think to myself. I’m a loner. I
don’t speak aloud when others are about.”

“I’m about.”

“No you’re not. You’re dead. You don’t
count. I do not speak with dead people. It’s another of my
rules.”

“Until this morning, I’d have agreed with
you. I mean…yester-morn.”

“You would?”

“More the dead part of that. And what it
means. And what we need to discuss. You and me.”

“Listen up, Mister. I’m about to violate my
cardinal rule. You’ve been warned.”

“What is that?”

“Something so sacrosanct, it’s
inviolate.”

“What does all that mean?”

“Don’t you understand plain English?”

“Um. Usually. That was plain?”

“Look, Mister Nan—”

“Who?”

“Mister Nan. Kay Nan. You told me that was
your name.”

He chuckled. Everything on his torso moved
with it. And she’d been wrong. They were still moving.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still flying.
No. Don’t say it.”

“My name is KayNan. One word. And the answer
to your question is yes. And also no.”

“What?”

“Do you want a plain answer? Or one gussied
up with large adjectives?”

Jeannette cracked open an eye. Then, the
other. He might be dead, but he was still stirring. Handsome.
Manly. Especially with strands of hair escaping his queue to trail
alongside his cheeks. He had really gorgeous green eyes, too. She
might as well admit it. His eyes were emerald green with a heavy
outline of darkest brown. Being this close only added impact. This
was too much attention from too much male. Jeannette closed her
mouth before he noticed.

“Plain,” she finally answered.

He smiled. He had great lines about his
eyes, too. And she really needed to look at something else. She
moved her gaze over his shoulder, took in a view of four enormous
recliner chairs, in sets of two, facing each other around a highly
polished table. Carpeting. Soft lighting. A large projection-type
screen. Cream-colored, pin-dotted walls. Window ports that
reflected back nothing but blackness. Just like a movie set for a
very expensive private plane.

“We’re flying,” she said.

“Exactly. That’s the yes portion of my
answer. As well as the no one.”

“What?”

“We’re flying, but it isn’t due to me. We’re
aboard my jet. And I have a pilot. His name is Vaughn. He’s very
good.”

Jeannette looked back at him, and
consciously forced her arms to loosen their hold about his neck.
She refused to acknowledge how he was still ensconced between her
legs, her ankles linked behind him, while one of his arms supported
the position. The other arm felt like it was behind her, sealing
her against him. Worse and worse.

It felt good.

Rule Number Six, Jeannette.
No
emotion. Definitely no male-to-female, enticement-type emotion.
Geez. She was violating that rule, too. Of all the horrible
consequences to this episode. She had to stifle this odd
attraction. She’d deal with it later. When he wasn’t giving her his
complete attention, and flushing again as if he read her mind.
Which was more insanity. He was dead.
Dead things do not flush,
Jeannette.

She cleared her throat. “All right. You
win.”

“I do?”

“Where…exactly, is your pilot flying
us?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Safe?”

“That wasn’t a 4D Team back there. Those
were Hunters. They now know you. They have your scent. And your
contact information. Nowhere is safe. Except with me.”

“Oh, no. No. I told you I didn’t contact any
hunters, vampire or otherwise.”

“You don’t need to contact them. All you had
to do was query. They’re good. Very good. We never underestimate
them. They probably had you in their sights the moment you reached
out to me this morn. I mean yester-morn.”

“Reached…out to you? Look. I wasn’t
reaching. I was envisioning. That’s what I call it, anyway.”

Damn
. There went a huge violation
of Rule Number Two.

“Envisioning. That’s what you call it?
Hmm.”

“For lack of a better word, yes.
Envisioning. I help with investigations. For family closure. I
rarely tell the cops what I see. It’s a waste of time.”

“Why?”

“They wouldn’t believe me. I can’t blame
them. Right now, I don’t even believe me.”

“Why not?”

“I see…things that aren’t visible to
others.”

“I know. I heard.”

He sucked in his cheeks, pursing his lips,
and damn it all, if she didn’t immediately think of kissing him!
Physical contact was completely out of the question. He was a
murderer. A creature of the night. A vampire. Undead. Unclean.
Kissing him should horrify and disgust, not be causing a flurry of
shivers that felt deliciously decadent. Illicit. Tantalizing. What
was the matter with her? His clean looks and lack of fangs aside,
any overture was impossible to even contemplate. She was adding
that to her rule list.

“You should probably stop that,” he told
her.

Jeannette forced herself to meet his gaze.
Ignored the buzz of reaction that tugged at her. Attempting to drag
her into a mesmeric fog. Reaching to encase her. Wanting to enwrap
her. Again…

“I do not hypnotize that easily,” she
informed him.

He grinned, the gesture showing lots of
white teeth, and nothing with a sharp fang. Dang. He really was
gorgeous. She had to remember he wasn’t what he looked. He was a
killer. A monster. It wasn’t working. He still looked good. Really
good. And kissable. Jeannette narrowed her eyes next.

“Listen. KayNan. You need to take me back. I
have a life. My own apartment. A business. It’s all completely
innocuous. And totally safe.”