CHAPTER 41
A week later, a late season storm swept in over the mountains, dumping several inches of snow. Then the sun came out and the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. Christan stood at the top of the ridge, wearing a thick white sweater and black jeans. The cold didn’t affect him. He liked it when the world was fresh enough for new beginnings.
Below, the cabins were arranged along the path that was visible only because of the different depths of the snow. Christan watched the cabin directly in his line of sight. A figure—dressed in a thick coat and red scarf—came out to stand on the porch, then clomp down the wooden steps, wearing those awful Wellington boots Robbie found in the back of the shed. They were three sizes too large for her and she nearly tripped as she stepped off into the snow.
But she was smiling, her face so beautifully alive he could see it from where he stood. She began to run with a lumbering stride. Her arms were stretched wide as she zig-zagged through the deep snow on a path only she could see. She reminded him so much of five-year-old Gemma, Christan almost whispered the name. And she was singing, a silly little song from childhood.
At the sound of her voice, Marge came out, stood on the porch to watch her. Robbie came too, and Christan could hear the laughter, hers, theirs. Then Marge was in the snow and together they danced around like pagan goddesses until Lexi charged up to a tree and wrapped her arms around the gray bark.
“What is she doing?” Phillipe asked from beside him. He was bundled in a thick jacket and a black scarf, with his thin hands thrust deep into the pockets.
Christan shrugged. “She’s hugging a tree.”
“Does it hug back?”
“It’s something her grandmother did. She taps into the energy.”
They watched her thump through the snow to another tree, wrap her arms tightly.
“She going to do that all day?”
“Probably. At least until she gets hungry.”
“I don’t know why we couldn’t meet inside,” Phillipe said. “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
“We meet inside, she knows you’re here, and she doesn’t need to know.”
“I make her feel unsafe?”
“It’s what you represent.”
They’d already debriefed the events at the villa. Six had been right: Christan should have recognized the pattern and his failure cost the lives of the villa’s human caretaker and his wife. What followed had been the expected recriminations from One. She’d wanted Christan removed from her territories “like the rabid dog that he is.” Christan’s violent nature caused the colossal amount of damage and they all knew the reason why—Three had created a menace with that one word, and if she couldn’t reverse it the least she could do was keep Christan contained. Three’s response had been predictable and quite intense before the discussion moved on to the dreadful business in Zurich. A building had been destroyed, for God’s sake, Six’s building, and One would be cleaning up the diplomatic mess for months. Not to mention those additional deaths in Florence which no one could explain unless you listened to the rumors. One said that while glaring in Christan’s direction, then followed with an indignant denial of the betrayal coming from within her own circle of power. To which Phillipe had murmured—not so silently—that the Italian Calata member preferred to blame others for her problems. His sentiments, while true, only inflamed the situation. But in one respect, Christan had to agree with One: it had been his failure that caused unnecessary death.
Christan pushed aside the memory, preferring to watch the activity in the snow. Phillipe did, too, and Christan felt oddly contented. Robbie was standing on the steps, laughing. Marge was making a snowball. Christan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and eased his stance.
After a long moment, Phillipe said, “You’re looking more relaxed. Being here must suit you.”
“It’s the trees,” Christan said. It was her.
“I know you want time for Lexi to adjust, but this war is heating up.”
“Tell Three to hire more mercenaries.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Christan.”
“Then what does she ask of me?”
“For now, she’s concerned for your well-being.”
“Tell her I’m fine.”
“Lexi’s wellbeing, then,” Phillipe said, nodding down at the girl hugging trees. “Three needs her.”
“I need her.”
“The two are not incompatible.”
Laughter carried in the clear air. The snowball fight was escalating. Marge had scored the first hit, and Robbie had come down off his steps and was fully engaged in the counterattack, while the two women retreated. Christan watched, then noticed Arsen sneaking through the trees.
“Cara,” he said, reaching out through the mental communication that still startled her. “On your left, look beside the big tree.”
He watched her freeze in mid-throw. “Are you in my mind again?”
“Yes. Arsen’s going to ambush you if you don’t move to your right and get behind that bush.”
She grew suspicious. “What are you doing?”
“Playing.” It felt odd to say it. Two days ago, she’d told him he’d been deprived of a childhood and he didn’t know how to play. He’d been on his ass at the time because she’d blindsided him with a pillow when he came out of the bathroom, and he’d been annoyed. He was doing his best to figure it out now.
“Isn’t this cheating?” she asked after a moment.
“All’s fair in war.”
She darted to the side, then rose up and nailed Arsen in the chest. Her delighted laugher carried as the warrior gave chase.
“You’re helping her,” Phillipe observed.
“How could you tell?”
“I recognize the tactics.”
“I’m teaching her to use the telepathy.”
“Are you teaching her anything else?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m protecting what’s mine.” Christan’s attention was on the battle in the snow. The advantage had shifted to the two warriors. The girls were dancing between the trees in an effort to regroup. Mother Nature decided to help, or perhaps Christan had given a little nudge; snow cascaded down from a towering pine and halted Arsen in his tracks. The warrior hooted and wiped the wet snow from his face.
Phillipe watched in silence, then said, “She’s at risk, Enforcer. She’ll always be at risk for who she is, what you both are now. She’s going to need to know.”
Christan knew the consequences to Lexi from the blood bond. He would have to tell her what the blood bond really meant, how her life was going to change. But he couldn’t tell her yet. She was still too fragile, and even though she was now immortal, she was as vulnerable as if she were still human. He wouldn’t put her at risk.
He changed the subject to Arsen’s estranged mate. “Have you learned anything about Katerina?”
“Dante says she comes to visit Renata regularly. And Ethan turned up some curious details about the private research grant Katerina received.”
“Did he find out who owns the archive?”
“An immortal by the name of Sandro Corallo. Interesting financial connections. An investment group out of Sydney, several layers deep but there.”
“What does Corallo want with Katerina?”
Phillipe watched as the war of the snowballs continued. “We’re not sure. She’s an Etruscan expert of some reputation, despite her youth. It could be as simple as that. He’s well-known for his interest Etruscan antiquities.”
“Is Three watching?”
“As well as Luca, and Dante is building Katerina’s trust. They’re hoping to pull her in to the fold, but she’s wary.”
“Does Arsen know?”
“Three briefed him earlier and now I’m briefing you.”
“Go on.” Because it wasn’t going to end there.
“Six has been making noises about Zurich.”
Zurich, where Christan held Lexi in his arms as she disappeared and he’d thought the worst. Where he searched the building, finding no trace of any living thing and then used a newly acquired power to destroy three stories of historic stone and glass and plaster. Power was merely energy in another form, and he’d focused on the inner support beams, collapsed the building in upon itself. Destroyed the priceless art on the walls, the polished, so-civilized desk and the pool of blood on a concrete floor. Not just his blood. Hers as well.
Then he’d returned to Florence. She wasn’t there. He’d felt no trace of her at all, and driven nearly mad with fury and grief, he had gone after every remaining mortal and immortal, warrior and mercenary who had attacked the villa. Found them all, except the man inside One’s inner circle. Arsen and Darius stood at his side and together, they’d been death in the night. Invisible, with the lethal intent that was the signature of the Enforcers who kept the peace. Except there was no peace for men like him, only the time between the battles when they sharpened the weapons. One had called him a rabid dog when he was done and he hadn’t argued. He would do it again without thinking twice.
“If Six pushes his complaints,” Phillipe said, “you know One will have no choice. She’ll be forced to call a formal inquiry. That building had some consulate designation, which he’s using to accuse you of an act of war.” Phillipe turned to face the Enforcer at his side. “You’ll be ordered back to Florence by the Calata. Arsen and Darius, too. You won’t be allowed to refuse.”
“I expected it.”
“Three believes any inquiry would be a formality—you were fully justified in what you did.”
“Not according to One.”
“She wields a great deal of power. As do you, and you cannot be seen to flaunt the same laws you are obligated to protect.”
“Not my laws.” Christan was still watching the figures in the snow, although it appeared they had called a truce. “I am not Calata.”
“No, you’re more than Calata now,” Phillipe said. “And if they find out, they will try to destroy you. Just be prepared. Three is curious to see how far Six will go with this challenge.”
“What happened with the villa?” Christan wanted to change the subject again, a growing habit, he realized. In the past he’d not been as reluctant to discuss certain subjects. But he was also curious. He hadn’t been back to the property, and the memories were important.
“It’s in the process of being restored. Three is taking care of the expenses. There will be additional security in place.”
Christan had never seen himself as a land owner, but he knew every hill and dip of the vineyards. Where the soil was rocky enough to produce the best grapes. He knew the olive grove, the place where the road washed out each winter and became a quagmire of mud.
It was the place where he loved and destroyed. Where he grieved. Where he’d stood, watching the last rays of the yellow sun fade into rose before saying the one word that exiled him into the Void. The only place where he’d come close to finding contentment, other than these few moments now, standing in the snow.
Christan hadn’t realized how he missed the peace he’d felt in that first life, felt again when he’d watched a five-year-old wearing daisies in her hair, stomping on her aunt’s delphiniums. If he was saddened now, over the destruction of land he’d never seen himself owning, it was because of her. Because of what she had been to him there, lost there, and tried to find again there, in this lifetime.
Lexi was clomping through the snow; he could see where she’d made a snow angel. The white stuff was stuck in her hair. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Phillipe pulled his scarf tighter around his throat and thrust his hands back into his pockets. “Have you heard the latest rumors coming out of Florence?”
“I haven’t kept up.”
“Some rather nasty speculation about a powerful immortal in One’s inner circle. I believe you met the man once. Leander certainly knew him. Apparently, he had some questionable friends. Disreputable sort.” Phillipe shook his head with exaggerated sorrow. “Seems like this gentleman disappeared a month ago.”
“How unfortunate. I hope someone finds him.”
“Considering who his enemies are, I suspect that to be very unlikely. Unless his enemies want him found to make a point. Apparently, he had a remote villa in the Piedmont, secured like a fortress, with a full security detail made up of warriors. What do you think about that?”
“That even fortresses can fall, if the Middle Ages taught us anything.” Christan shrugged. “There’s still a lot of deep snow in parts of the Piedmont. If he lost himself up there, they might not find him until spring.”
Phillipe looked as if he wished to smile but didn’t. “I heard another rumor, that you were seen in Florence a month ago.”
Christan remained impassive. “I had some business to take care of.”
“Leander took personal time the same week. You didn’t happen to run in to him while you were there, did you?”
“Didn’t see him. Maybe he took his girl to the beach.”
“Interesting weather for it if he did.” Phillipe shifted his stance. “Three just wanted you to know.”
“About the rumors out of Florence?”
“Yes, and that she fully approves.”
Christan looked at the distant mountains. “Tell her I’m fine.”
Phillipe’s expression sobered.
“I’ve never stood beside you in battle, Christan. We never officially met until you came out of the Void. But I watched you walk into hell and back, in more than one war. I’ve seen who you are. You’re not that man in the jungle. You’re not the man that one word compelled you to be, and you know Three would come in person to tell you that if she didn’t think her energy would trigger the vengeance again. Even now, she’s trying to find a way to reverse the one word she used.”
“That’s the problem with one words, Phillipe. They don’t always do what you expect them to do.”
“I remember the one you gave to Lexi.” Phillipe laughed. “I did enjoy hearing about you writhing on the floor.”
Christan smiled at the memory, how he had been deep in her mind and she’d thrust back with a power so intimate it hadn’t just been the one word that put him down. It was an ongoing joke with those who knew him, but he found he didn’t mind it at all.
They watched together, as Lexi followed the others up the cabin steps. Her hair caught the rays of the sun like a shaft of sunlight in winter. It was a brief, crystalline moment in the cold air. Then she disappeared, walking through the doorway that was within a direct line of sight from where Christan stood.
Phillipe turned to look at him. “She’s good for you.”
“She is.”
“Take care of her.”
“I will.”
“And tell her, Christan.”
“Soon,” he said as he started down the snowy slope. “But right now, I need to learn how to play.”
Three weeks later, Christan was stretched out on the butter-soft couch with his head in Lexi’s lap. She was stroking his hair, complaining that it had grown too long and offering to cut it for him in the morning. Christan was trying to figure out how to decline without offending her, since the last time she’d attempted to cut his hair the results had been unfortunate.
Lexi shifted against him now, and Christan pulled her fingers from his hair to his lips, kissed her palm. The night was cold, while a fire glowed in the fireplace. They were watching the news on the big screen television mounted to the wall, and Christan sat up when the female news reader for CNN International offered the teaser for an unexplained murder in the Piedmont.
The story, itself, was carried near the end of the broadcast, since it was more a curiosity than it was newsworthy. The body of a reclusive financier had been found in a remote home—more fortress than chalet—in a mountainous area in Northern Italy near the medieval town of Vogogna. The actual time of death was difficult to determine do to the frigid temperatures in a building half buried in snow. The medical examiner flown in from Milan suspected some form of catastrophic brain injury, although an autopsy had not been allowed; the financier had an equally reclusive family.
Those with unique knowledge understood the message. It took a frightening amount of power to cause total organ failure in an immortal, to sever the brain stem and obliterate all electrical function in a mind that existed in a slightly elevated, telepathic plane. The protective walls in the mind would shimmer beneath the onslaught, finally giving way, sputtering out like a child’s sparkler on that American holiday called the 4th of July before going dark. The body would crush inward, the way a human body was destroyed by a concussive attack. There would be no healing, no resumption of life. No. Nothing. Only a warning.
However, immortals protected their privacy, so that information was never revealed, and as Christan rose up from the couch and lifted Lexi into his arms, he wondered if his mess, this time, had been clean and neat enough for One.
Then Lexi wiggled out of her shirt and he decided he didn’t care.
But others did. They cared about an enforcer who was once a myth, who disappeared for four hundred years and returned, and now was something more.
An enforcer who possessed the power to destroy a three-story building in Zurich and eliminate an immortal financier in the mountains of the Piedmont.
It was a power he should not have had.
And the Calata was not pleased.