Authors: Cindy Paterson
She looked in the mirror and moaned at the ghastly pasty color and dark circles under her eyes. She must be coming down with something. The last time she had the flu was in grade school
, when Bobby Fradkin passed the virus to half the class.
She downed
three Advil then brushed her teeth. She threw up again before she managed to get herself dressed, which didn’t help the drugs take effect. She wished she could lie in bed all day, but she had to open shop and she needed the sales.
Makeup was going to be her best friend today.
She heard the door slam and frowned. She threw her eyeliner back into the drawer and walked downstairs to the kitchen at the back of her gallery. It was common for Anstice to let herself in and Keir had no idea what a locked door meant. Maybe they were coming by to explain themselves.
“Hello?” The wind sifted through her gallery with a sharp gust. She swore she saw a blue aura descend over the gallery, but . . . God
, she really was sick. She slammed and locked the door. “Anstice?” She must have forgotten to lock up last night, and the wind had blown it open. Stupid. Anyone could have walked in here and stolen her paintings. Foolish and stupid. God, she’d never done that.
She was sweating
profusely and her stomach lurched like a ship in a violent storm.
She leaned up against the door
, closing her eyes. “God, Balen, why do I need you?” Shit, she wasn’t going to cry. She promised herself she wouldn’t. She knew before she asked him to have sex that he was leaving. She’d been prepared for this, goddamn it. Yet still the tears surfaced, and slowly she sank to floor and buried her head in her hands.
She had to see
him. What the hell was wrong with her? She barely knew him and yet . . . she had to have him.
No, she was stronger than this. She had survived on her own without a mother, with a father
who struggled to support them, despite his constant state of depression. He had died the day her mother had, except that his body still functioned—his brain still had thoughts, although they all revolved around his wife. But still he raised his daughter while living in his own hell, until that fateful day when he let the depression finally conquer.
She didn’t want to think about them. They were gone. She had fought against the odds and made it as an artist without help, without anyone. So why did she need this man so much that it hurt? She ran from relationships and commitment. Maybe because he
’d left her, instead of the other way around.
She clutched her stomach and scrambled to her feet. She made it to the garbage just in time. She wiped her mouth with a rag splattered with dried paint. Splat meowed
, jumped up on the counter and pawed at the cupboard. “God, Splat I can’t even stomach the thought of eating, and you want me to open a can of your disgusting, smelly . . . I don’t know what they put in there.”
Her hea
d swam as she stood straight up while gripping the edge of the counter for balance. She reached for the shrimp-and-chicken tin in the cupboard and held her breath as she removed the lid. She shoved the offensive stuff away from her and let Splat eat right out of the can. He looked at her as if she had lost her marbles for not putting his food in his ceramic dish with the blue paw prints on the side. “Yeah, deal with it.” He dove into his favorite food regardless of the presentation. Food was food.
She held the r
ailing on the way back upstairs, trying desperately to keep herself from tumbling down and cracking her head open.
Her eyes stared at the bed as images of Balen swam through her mind. Shivers gripped her body and she rubbed her arms up and down. She
’d never believed in premonitions, until this moment. Coldness swept through her veins as the feeling of dread shadowed her mind. She staggered back, putting her hand to her mouth, tears trickling down her checks. A razor-sharp pain gripped her insides, as if she’d been stabbed. She gasped and collapsed to the floor.
****
“Something’s wrong,” Balen said, unbuckling his seat belt and standing up. “Bloody hell, Waleron, we have to go back.”
Waleron opened his eyes and the cool i
ce blue met his own. “We are too far away. You are unable to scent the woman. It is something else you are picking up on.”
Balen paced the length of the private jet, his hand raking through his hair. Bullshit, it was Danielle. She was in pain. Her stomach was upset, her head
pounding. With every breath he could smell the pain she was experiencing.
“No, it’s her
, for Christ’s sake.” Nothing could happen to her. She was within him, a part of him whether he wanted it to be that way or not. He could smell the sweat on her body, her fear, and at this moment, he felt her pain as if his own. He knew his abilities were incapable of picking up a scent from this distance. It made no sense, but it was Danielle.
Waleron watched him with narrowed eyes
, as if reading his mind, and then swore under his breath. “This is impossible.”
Balen stopped dead in his tracks
. “I know what I smell, damn it. Screw impossible. Danielle is in trouble.”
His words had no
effect on Waleron; instead, the guy sat in his seat expressionless with Arctic eyes watching. He wished like hell he could read the man’s mind because right now he appeared like he didn’t give a crap if Danielle was dying.
Someone was bloody well going to get their ass over to Danielle’s. They were too far for
telepathy, so he reached for the phone on the back of one of the seats. As soon as his hand touched the surface, he felt a zap of electricity pierce his body. He abruptly turned to the perpetrator.
“I will contact Anstice.” Waleron had a phone in his hand. “You are too disturbed. You must remain calm.”
He was right, but with the scent of Danielle’s pain pouring through his body, it was not a viable option. He began pacing again. Suddenly, all emotions he was receiving from Danielle evaporated. His chest caved into a black oblivion as panic surged through his body.
“No,” he roared
, unable to decipher what was happening. A terrifying horror ripped through his body like acid scorching every inch of him. Had she died? Was she lying helpless and alone? Had someone attacked her? He had sensed something surrounding them, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on what or who. He should have insisted she stay with Keir and Anstice.
His stomach lurched
, and he clenched his jaw to keep from vomiting. His insides coiled as if a spring ready to explode into a million pieces.
Danielle,
his mind screamed.
“Anstice is in sleep
, recovering from healing Jedrik. He had a run-in with a Long Neck. Damien will go to the gallery.”
“Damien? The guy’s an asshole. He hates women.” Of all
people, it had to be the biggest jerk in the history of Senses. Okay, supposedly Kilter was the worst, but he’d never met him and disliked forming opinions without knowing for himself.
“He will do as asked,” Waleron stated.
“We have to go back,” Balen said.
Waleron reached in his front coat pocket and pulled out his Pez. The click sounded and a white pill popped out into his hand. He slipped it into his mouth. “Balen, I give one warning. You have been deemed guilty for your crimes by the council. They will be irate
over our disregard for not putting you into Rest. If we ignore exile, they will retaliate with death.”
“I will take the risk.”
Waleron’s eyes narrowed.
Balen’s breathing became deep and ragged. Something was
amiss. He felt the disquiet seep through his body like nails being driven into his skin. Waleron looked too calm and accepting of what was happening. Like he knew . . .
“What did Delara tell you? Why didn’t you put me
into Rest?” Balen asked.
“I have ignored putting you
into Rest for reasons you do not need to know.”
Balen
would have sworn an array of curses, but he hated swearing and he required Waleron’s assistance in getting the bloody plane turned around. Pissing him off would only provoke him. “I know it sounds crazy, but I can smell her sickness. Whatever Delara said to change your mind and risk the wrath of the council has to be significant, otherwise you’d never go against them, although I really don’t care. All I care about is Danielle, and if she is harmed . . . God help you because I will be the most pissed-off Senses you’ve ever encountered.”
Waleron’s voice lowered and
the snake tattoo on the side of his neck twitched. “Are you threatening me?”
Balen made a low roar in his throat. No, he
wasn’t. He was just frustrated as hell and he was going crazy being unable to know what the devil was going on. “Her scent is gone. It’s like . . . she has . . .” He couldn’t say the word. “I can’t lose her.” He closed his eyes, searching for one emotion from Danielle. Nothing.
“You will lose her anyway. She is human and mortal.” The phone rang and Waleron answered. Few words were spoken on Waleron’s part and then he hung up.
“Damien has arrived,” Waleron said. “She is ill. He believes it is the flu of some kind.”
Flu? Bullshit. It was different than a sickness.
He had to get back to her.
“Damien will remain until Anstice
can aid her,” Waleron said.
Fighting Waleron was an option that would get him nowhere. His Taldeburu would just put him in Rest with a flick of his tattooed hand and that would be the end of it. Shit, how could he convince him to turn back when even he had no idea what the devil was going on?
****
“
Are you ill?”
Danielle had no time to react to the stranger standing beside her bed as a wave of nausea hit her stomach. He held out a pail without even asking and she
spat into it. Nothing was left in her stomach to throw up.
She grabbed the pail from his hand, noticing the tattoo that marked the back of it and traveled all the way up his arm. The white
T-shirt he wore covered the rest of the tattoo, which, by the look of him, went all across his body. He had jet-black hair and eyes that held no sympathy in their depths. A jagged scar ran across his left cheek, which was twitching to accompany his scowl. For a second she thought she recognized him from somewhere. His eyes had an odd familiarity, but she didn’t know from where.
“Who the hell are you? And how
did you get in here?” She had no weapon except the stupid garbage pail, and by the look of him, that would only make him laugh if she hit him with it.
“Anstice sent me. I am Damien.”
“I don’t care who you are. Get the hell out of my place,” Danielle shouted. Her head revolted and she gripped it with both hands, the pain escalating.
“I cannot.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell and held it out to her. “Call Anstice.”
Danielle glanced at the phone. Her head felt as if someone with a sledge hammer was slamming into her skull.
When she refused to take the phone from
him, he pressed numbers into the keypad. She could hear it ringing and ringing until finally she heard a soft, groggy voice. “Speak to your friend,” he said and abruptly thrust the phone in her direction. This time she grabbed it from his hand.
“Anstice? Yeah, I’m fine
, just not feeling so hot. Okay, but . . . No, I’m not going to the bloody hospital . . . Fine, he can stay but . . . Yeah, but . . . Shit, okay. I’ll see you later.” She pressed the end button and passed the cell back to Damien. “She will be here shortly, so you can leave.”
“Not happening,” he replied.
She gasped as another wave of pain shot like a bullet into her stomach. She leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Sweat dripped down her brow, but her body was freezing.
“You look like hell,” Damien said.
“No shit,” Danielle said while clenching her teeth. “You’re a real genius.”
“Listen. I don’t want to be here any
more than you want me here, so cut the sarcasm and we’ll be able to tolerate one another for the next few hours, until Anstice arrives and I can get back to important shit.”
“Then leave. I’m not stopping you.”
He mumbled something about duty and some word she had no clue what it meant.
Danielle groaned. The pain was getting worse and it wasn’t the flu. Something was crawling through her insides like a le
ech and sucking the life right out of her. She curled into a ball and closed her eyes, willing the pain away.
Balen,
she cried.
Balen where are you? If I die, know that . . .
Damien’s cell rang. He grunted something and then passed the phone to her.
As soon as she heard his voice, a wave of relief passed through her. “Balen?” How did he know she wasn’t well? How did he know Damien?
“I’m here, little one. Tell me what’s wrong,” Balen said.
“I don’t know. I feel like crap. I think I’ve come down with some bug.” She grabbed her stomach when the imaginary knife went plunging, at least that was what it felt like or what she thought it would feel like.