Wounded Angel (The Earth Angels) (6 page)

Nate sent his thumbs over the screen. “
I
feel
the
same
way
,
Menlo
.
Though
I’m
not
sure
I
belong
on
these
boards
now
that
my
locator
mojo
blew
a
fuse
.”

“
STFU
,
dude
.
Once
a
freak
,
always
a
freak
.”

He supposed that was Kyle’s way of being reassuring.

“
I’ve
been
looking
into
your
problem
,
Nate
.”
Macbeth’s comment was the next to pop up on the live feed. “
The
ability
to
psychically
locate
is
rare
,
but
it’s
not
unique
.
It
shows
up
time
and
again
throughout
human
history
,
from
remote
-
viewing
to
an
ability
commonly
referred
to
as
dowsing
.
Have
you
tried
using
a
physical
object
to
try
and
jump
-
start
your
gift
?
Dowsing
rods
or
a
crystal
hanging
from
a
chain
?”

Nate made a gagging sound before he could stop it. “
You’re
kidding
,
right
?”

Kyle seemed to be of the same mind. “
Macbeth
...
WTF
.”

“
There’s
no
escaping
genetics
.
Your
powers
are
still
there
because
your
DNA
is
still
there
,
see
?
Since
your
gift
stopped
functioning
in
one
way
,
I
wouldn’t
be
surprised
if
it
manifested
itself
in
another
,
totally
new
way
.”

Nate sighed and typed. “
Thanks
Macbeth
,
but
I
can’t
see
myself
stomping
around
holding
Y
-
shaped
sticks
.
My
powers
are
gone
.”

“
Not
all
of
them
.
When
you
first
found
NeoPhilim
,
you
said
you
still
had
your
speed
,
right
?”

Nate shrugged as if Macbeth could see him. “
Yeah
.
What’s
your
point
?”

“
My
point
is
that
what
you’re
going
through
is
probably
psychological
,
and
you
might
need
a
way
around
whatever
mental
block
you
have
to
get
your
locating
powers
to
reboot
.”

Kyle chimed in. “
Leave
it
to
Macbeth
to
make
you
sound
like
your
hard
drive
has
a
glitch
,
Nate
.”

“
I
think
what
Macbeth
is
saying
is
that
you
can’t
change
who
you
are
,
Nate
.” Menlo
appeared next, before Nate could think of anything to say. “
You
were
born
a
member
of
the
Nephilim
,
and
that’s
who
you
will
always
be
.”

“
That
may
be
,
but
only
minutes
after
I
was
born
,
Mommy
dearest
hacked
my
wings
off
with
a
meat
cleaver
.
That
pretty
much
crippled
any
real
power
I
might
have
had
,
so
it’s
not
surprising
what
locating
talent
I
did
have
faded
away
entirely
.
Trust
me
—
you
guys
are
the
true
Nephilim
now
,
not
me
.”

But after Nate signed off and headed for his car, the thought
of trying something different lingered. Thanks to his crazy-ass mother—who had
repeatedly cut off her own spontaneously re-emerging wings during her manic
phases—he knew squat about his bloodline’s gift. Or curse, as she’d called it.
She’d point-blank refused to say anything good about the family’s supernatural
legacy—how it worked, how many facets of it had been displayed throughout
history, or what could be done with it. He probably wouldn’t have known anything
at all, had it not been for her compulsive need to take the bows for his lack of
discernible power compared to the rest of their supposedly accursed lineage.

That was another area where his mother had never held back—the
misery running rampant in their family tree. Every horrific detail of what it
was to be part of the “abominations” known as the Nephilim was indelibly branded
into his brain. Most kids got bedtime stories. He got to hear how she’d found
her father with his brains blown out and a note proclaiming he could no longer
stand the hidden things crying out for his attention.

With a rough sigh Nate stretched his neck before the tension
there could bloom into a killer headache. Some instinct had told him that his
mother would either wind up the same way as her old man, or perhaps even kill
him, her own son, to “save” him from the family’s curse if it had ever
manifested itself in any noticeable way. But come to find out, there had been no
need to worry; her butchery on him had been complete. From the beginning of life
she’d dealt him a wound from which he could never heal, while her own powers
flailed out of her, uncontrolled.

Time and again the apportation of things his mother was looking
for would occur—car keys, her wedding ring, and that one memorable time, the
family cat that had managed to get out of the house. Every time the physical
apportation of objects happened, a black depression settled over her to the
point where she’d stay in bed for weeks—not sleeping, not talking. Barely
existing.

Back then he’d called those The Scary Times. Even now, years
later, they still were.

He’d only been three when his father took off and was never
heard from again. For years he’d half hoped, half dreaded his mother
deliberately using her gift of apportation to make him come back. It never
happened, and by the time Nate entered his teens he’d been taking care of
himself and his mother for years, secretly determined not to view the family
legacy as a burden, but as a gift. The irony of that decision didn’t escape him.
As the only one in generations who’d appreciated the gift for what it was, he
was the one who’d lost it.

Though, considering the death toll his gift had racked up, that
loss was no less than he deserved.

* * *

“...and after walking the second batter in a row and
loading the bases, the manager called down to the bullpen to get their relief
pitcher up on the mound. It proved to be a fatal decision. The first pitch
resulted in a grand slam homerun.”

Phoebe regarded Ella with hooded eyes. “Who was the relief
pitcher?”

Frantically Ella racked her brain. “Hernandez.”

“Are you guessing?”

“No.” Well, maybe a little.

Her boss sat unmoving behind the reception desk, as inscrutable
as Buddha, before nodding her blue head. “Well done. And better still, it seemed
like you actually understood everything you just said this time around.”

“I learn from my mistakes.” And the last thing she wanted was
to get another hour-long lecture on how it was necessary to change lifelong
habits by embracing new concepts such as the infield fly rule. “Besides,
baseball isn’t rocket science. There are some aspects to it that remind me of
chess.”

“Which you don’t play. Right?”

“Right.” Ella’s sigh was interrupted by the cell phone buzzing
away in her pocket. Holding up a hand to Phoebe, she fished it out and after a
brief glance at the screen—Out Of Area—she hit the right button. “This is Ella.”
At first she wasn’t sure she heard anything, before she caught the faint
tinkling of elevator music. “Hello?”

“If it’s a heavy-breather, hang up,” Phoebe said, loud enough
to be heard through the entire front room. A click in Ella’s ear made her glance
at the screen once more and found she’d lost the signal.

“I’ve got to get a new phone,” she muttered, pocketing the
device. “I suppose I can pick one up on my half-day off.”

“That’s right, we made a deal.” Phoebe plucked up a pair of
zebra-framed half-glasses from the desk and turned to the computer. “You’ve just
earned yourself a half-day off, young lady.”

“Yippee, except for one thing. It’ll have to wait.”

“Why?”

“Look at my afternoon schedule—I’m packed. I’m training the new
intern on how to conduct a start-to-finish course during my self-defense class
in about fifteen minutes, and then I’m locked away in Jacob’s Doom Room with
kickboxing. How about tomorrow?”

“Looks good.” She glanced up over the rim of her glasses. “You
don’t have your new man-mountain client scheduled for this afternoon, do
you?”

“His name happens to be Nate da Luca, not man-mountain, and
he’s scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight.” As if Phoebe didn’t already
know.

“Uh-huh. Then why is he showing up now?”

“What?” Startled, Ella glanced over her shoulder as Nate
sauntered in like he owned the place, black sweatpants and a black and red
Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt peeking out from under a long duster, a gym bag
slung over his shoulder. He caught sight of her and came to a sudden stop, as if
he didn’t have the capacity to simultaneously see her and walk. A light sparked
in his somber dark eyes, and he focused on her with a single-minded intensity
that made her feel like the only other person in the world.

Without warning, her throat snapped shut. She pressed a hand
against the disturbance and was swamped with an irrational relief that the shirt
she wore was still adequately covering her. There were just some men who could
make a woman feel like she was wearing nothing but a blush, and Nate was one of
them. Hell, who was she kidding? He was probably their reigning king.

“Mr. da Luca.” Apparently oblivious that Nate and Ella had
fallen into a spontaneous staring match, Phoebe beckoned him to join them at the
desk. “What a surprise. If you’re here for Jacob’s kickboxing class, you’re a
bit early. It doesn’t start until five this evening.”

“Yeah, I know.” He nodded at Phoebe but his attention swerved
back to Ella as if he had an all-important need to keep an eye on her. “I’m sore
from yesterday’s workout with Ella, so I thought I’d warm up with the class that
comes before it.”

“That would be my class.” Ella forced herself to speak, because
the simple ability to string words together was slipping away beneath that
mesmerizing attention. Any minute now she’d be nothing more than a babbling
mess. “But I can’t imagine you’d be interested in it.”