Beyond the Darkness (11 page)

Pope narrowed his eyes in thought, violet blue eyes that some Callorians had when they didn’t camouflage them with human colors. He hadn’t taken on an ordinary visage for some reason.

Pope said, “From Petra I get a surge of pain and frustration. I felt this from her the first time I mentioned your name. But with the woman here, it was even sharper, like a laser beam. I had the sense that Petra wanted to leave this space but held her ground.”

Cheveyo was watching her while Pope spoke, her face growing redder until she dropped it into her hands.

“It was a very curious emotion that surged in on top of those two,” Pope observed. “One that was even more powerful.”

She looked up at them. “It was jealousy, all right?” She got to her feet, her hands fisted, keeping her gaze on Pope but jabbing her finger in Cheveyo’s direction. “He told me we can’t be together, and fine, we can’t, but then there’s obviously something between him and that woman, because he ran right out there to talk to her alone, which contradicts what he’s told me.”

Cheveyo couldn’t help it. He liked her jealousy, even though he shouldn’t, and didn’t deserve the feelings it represented. Hadn’t he felt the bite of it when he saw her with the guy at the restaurant?

Pope once again tilted his head, looking at Petra. “But you said you weren’t gooey and dewy over him anymore.”

She slapped her hand over her eyes. “Can I just disappear right now?”

“Gooey and dewy?”

“Can we not have this conversation?” she said, sliding her hands down her face.

Cheveyo grinned. “No, let’s have it. What’s gooey and dewy?”

Pope obliged, since Petra wasn’t saying a word. “I believe it had something to do with how she felt after she was with you, a description given to her by her brother.”

“
I
made you gooey and dewy?” Cheveyo asked. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s a good thing that’s a bad thing when it was about you.”

Cheveyo could only nod, though he didn’t get it at all. “Do you feel gooey and dewy about the other guy?”

“No.”

Cheveyo leaned closer to her. “Can I see it? I confess that’s an expression I’ve not heard of.”

“No, but I’ll be happy to show you annoyed.” She made a face that only made him want to laugh more.

Pope was studying Petra’s embarrassment. “Humans seem to be sensitive about some feelings, and yet others they lay right out there.”

“Some feelings are private, Pope,” she said.

“And so you hide them,” he continued, pressing his finger to his cheek. “Or, as I’ve also seen, lie about them. Fascinating. In our dimension, the humans were overcome by them, sickened by them. They were their downfall. Here, humans both suppress them and get swamped by them. This doesn’t seem healthy either.” He looked at Cheveyo on those last words.

“Sometimes you have to suppress them to stay safe.” He glanced at Petra. “Or to keep others safe.”

Pope nodded toward her. “Her frustration was because you hadn’t told her why you couldn’t be together. But that apparently was in the past. She was pleased that she didn’t feel the need to punch pillows over you anymore.”

Ah, hell. He’d caused her a lot of frustration.

“He’s explained that,” she said, giving him a dismissive wave of her hand. “We’re good.”

“Now you will have to explain the woman,” Pope went on, not picking up the tone of her voice, which said
end of conversation.
“She has a great curiosity mixed in with—” He took in her narrowed eyes. “—private feelings.”

Cheveyo had to keep himself from laughing.

She turned, holding onto the arm of the chair, her gaze on Pope. “You laid out my feelings. What’s he feeling?”

Uh oh. Now it wasn’t so funny.

Pope studied him. “A deep sadness. Loneliness, like what the woman described. Something I can’t identify. And great affection when he looks at you.”

Damn. How had Pope picked up what he buried so deep inside? He held out a hand to Petra. “Let’s go for a walk.”

She hesitated a moment but then stood and took his hand.

Pope walked toward the front door with them, and Cheveyo added, “Alone.”

“Oh, these are the private feelings you’re going to discuss. We were schooled on human feelings, but I have had little direct experience with them. I only interact with humans as much as I need to blend in.” He turned and walked back to the living room. “Clearly I need to study them more,” he said to himself.

Cheveyo thought about the yearning Suza had picked up. Did Pope want to feel this mess of emotions deep down inside where all those repressed feelings hid?

He led Petra out onto the porch and down the stairs. There were no manicured lawns here, only brittle grass and pines scattered for miles. He led her over to his attempt at a garden, where dried up tomato plants testified to his neglect. Or, more precisely, to his illusion that he might have enough peace to grow a few tomatoes.

If he were a stronger man, he’d let her think he’d been banging the cleaning lady. He couldn’t, because he knew it would hurt her. He’d done that enough.

She crossed her arms over her chest, staring at his plants. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I was just getting you out of there.”

She looked up. “Oh. Well . . . thanks.” She frowned. “How come
you
weren’t embarrassed or thrown off?”

He smiled. “It takes a lot more than a half-naked woman on my couch to throw me off.” Or to turn him on. “And she was telling the truth. There’s nothing between us.”

“I’m surprised. She’s a hot chick, as my brother would call her. And she’s obviously interested in you. You made a point to talk to her alone. And she hugged you.”

“I needed to tell her to call me before she came to clean again. I don’t want her coming out here and finding Yurek and Baal. The hug.” He shrugged. “Nothing.”

She nodded. “Why were you ragged and sad that day?”

He’d been feeling raw. He had killed a vicious Callorian the day before, and then gone to glimpse a bit of sunshine—Petra. So close, that if he’d shouted her name, she would have turned and walked over. “It was just a mood.”

“I know that place, too.”

He didn’t need to hear that. He brushed a strand of her hair from her face. “When this is over, I want you to go find that guy. Greg.” He had to push out the name. “I want you to have that normal life you want. Forget about me, this, everything. Promise me.”

He didn’t want that at all. She didn’t either, by the hurt in her eyes. “I promise,” she said, a bit too forcefully.

He stared at their linked hands, remembering Suza’s words. She was right. Which was why he had to separate from Petra today. He slid his hand free of hers, slowly, feeling his reluctance.

She said, “The pillow thing . . .”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Yes, I do. I want to put it into context.” She took a quick breath. “Do you know how hard it was being around people who were falling in love? Seeing the looks that burned, feeling the tension, watching them go to their room knowing they were going to have hot, sweaty sex. Of all the Rogues, I was the only one who actually wanted to fall in love with someone, but I’m the only one who didn’t. Then there was you, us, and yet, no us. Not knowing was the worst part, but I understand now.” She gave him a forced smile. “What I said to Pope was true; we’re good.”

Which wasn’t true, but he wasn’t about to refute it. “We’d better go in and make our plan. Time is running out.”

They returned to the house in silence. They followed the sounds Pope was making in the kitchen. He was putting slices of smoked meat on pieces of frozen bread.

“I’ve developed a liking for the food here,” he said, setting one completed sandwich on a plate. “Though I confess I’ve never actually made a meal.”

Cheveyo stepped up to the stone counter. “Might help to defrost the bread first.” He put several slices into the toaster oven. “I’m going to head back out tonight, backtrack and try to find Yurek and Baal. I don’t want them coming here, but you have to be prepared if they do. Baal is tracking me, and even if I’m not physically here, my scent is.”

Pope pulled out a gallon of orange juice and tried to pour it into three glasses he’d set out. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the carton. Nothing came out. “Two against one isn’t good odds.”

“This is frozen, too. Nothing keeps for as long as I’m gone, so I freeze everything.” He put that in the microwave on defrost. “I’ve taken on three before. It’s easier to do it alone.”

“Not from what I saw,” Petra said. “You engage one, the other can come up from behind.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

She leaned against the counter. “You should have a partner. Someone kick-ass who could have your back.” She turned to Pope. “His father is the one who put him on this path. Trained him when he was a kid to kill these beings.”

Cheveyo said, “It’s my path. I’m here to protect the innocent.”

She walked over to him, her eyes never leaving his. Her hand was warm against his cheek. “But you’re an innocent, too.”

He took her hand and lowered it, letting it go. “No, I’m not.” He turned to Pope. “You’ll sense them if they come near, right?”

“Yes, I can still do that.”

“How are you with hand-to-hand combat?”

“I usually blew the enemy apart if I was tasked with that.”

“Plan B is better, then: grab Petra, teletransport to somewhere else.”

“One small problem: I don’t know if I have the power to do that right now. Sometimes I can, sometimes I cannot. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to go, much less take her with me.”

“Which would leave her here alone,” Cheveyo said.

“And me possibly unable to come back to help her.”

Fear seized his chest at the thought of that. Her, too, by the way her face paled.

“I’ll have to fight them,” she said. “I did pretty well back there at the river. You said so.”

Just the memory of Petra fighting stirred his gut. “Pretty well isn’t going to cut it. As you said, two against one isn’t the best of odds, especially when you haven’t been dealing with these beings most of your life. There’s something to be said about your natural instinct to survive, but it may not be enough against skilled killers.”

Her veneer of bravery was wilting now that she was thinking it through. He felt her fear, too.

“I can hide even better,” she said.

“Not well enough for these guys.”

The toaster oven dinged. Pope swiveled around and took out the bread, setting two slices on each plate. “What do we do now?”

Cheveyo took a deep, heavy breath. “I’m going to have to take her with me.”

Chapter 9

“C
ome at me with the knife like you mean it,” Cheveyo said, facing Pope, who looked awkward holding one of the knives from the sacred weapons room.

Pope obliged, and Cheveyo grabbed his arm and had him on the ground in two seconds. “Now I’ll show you how to do that.”

Petra sat on the grass and watched them. The cool breeze caressed her as it whispered past, becoming a murmur in the pine forest that surrounded the cabin. She breathed in the scent of sun-heated pine and sap. On a black piece of felt next to her were several more of those knives so Pope could try different ones to see which worked best.

“What you need to do,” Cheveyo said, “is disable his weapon hand and simultaneously go on the offensive.”

He wore a pair of tan pants that clung to his body and allowed ease of movement. Or he was trying to torture her, but she doubted he knew what he was doing to her. He obviously wasn’t self-conscious about his scars since he wore nothing else. She supposed he accepted them as he’d accepted being a warrior.

“The thing about knife fighting is that by default you have to get close to your opponent. It gives you a lot of flexibility but also puts you in proximity to whatever weapon he may have. If he has a knife, always know where it is and be ready to move your body out of the way of a slice. You want to keep moving; never be a stationary target. The best defense is to knock the weapon out of his hand.”

“What if it’s a gun?” she asked, feeling very much on the sidelines.

“You take it out from a distance.” He threw the knife toward the edge of trees, slicing off a thin branch before the blade sank into the trunk of a tree just beyond it.

She didn’t want to look impressed, but
holy hell
. . . “I suppose you meant to cut that branch.”

He merely lifted an eyebrow and then walked to the tree to retrieve his knife. “Your opponent may not expect you to use the knife as a distance weapon. If you throw it properly, you can disable him before he gets near you.” He wrenched it from the tree and spun around to inflict a perfect slice through an imaginary opponent.

Pope looked at the knife in his hand and then a distant tree. “I should get used to handling the knife before I start throwing it.”

“Definitely. Now, don’t forget that you can use your body to both maneuver and to put strength behind your thrust, as well as evade.”

He showed Pope a couple of moves that made Petra restless. What the hell was it about watching Cheveyo fight that got her so hot and bothered? She didn’t even like fighting.

“Aim for soft, fleshy parts of the body, not places where the bone is close to the surface,” Cheveyo was saying. “Remember, you’re in it to kill. Callorians can take on a human appearance, which means they have human vulnerabilities. Go for the organs.” He pointed to places on his body. “Heart, thrust up like this. Kidneys. Liver. If you thrust enough in this section, you’ll hit something.”

She relived the moment when she’d sunk her kitchen knife into the dog beast’s leg. She’d felt the blade split through flesh and hit bone. Revulsion washed over her, but triumph followed. She’d been scared, but she took action. Maybe it was dangerous, but she helped in the fight and hadn’t gotten killed. And again, by the river. She’d been an asset, hadn’t she?

She picked up one of the smaller knives and felt the weight of it in her hand. Curled her fingers around the handle. Her teal-tipped nails looked good against the carved ivory handle. The ivory looked old and genuine and carved in perfection. The scene depicted in miniature was a man and tiger engaged in battle.

She stood, knife in her hand. “Teach me, too.”

She was prepared to argue with him, but he nodded. His eyes flared. “You were amazing when we faced both of them at the river. Strong, confident, and fierce.
You
have to believe you’re amazing, not that you did pretty well. The most important thing to remember is—” He grabbed her from behind, spun her, and dropped her to the ground. “—to never drop your knife.”

Her gaze went to the knife, now lying a yard away. He hovered an inch above her.

“You have to be ready for anything. If you had your knife, you could still defend against me. Now you’re defenseless.”

She could only nod.
In so many ways.
“I dropped it during my fight with Baal, too. But I got it back.”

He pushed to his feet and extended his hand to her. “You got lucky, but luck shouldn’t play a part in surviving.” He gave her a look that reminded her of the comment she’d made earlier.

She jumped to her feet without his help. Not to prove a point but to work on being agile, though she didn’t do it as gracefully as he did. She swiped up the knife. “Teach us more.”

He stepped easily into the role of teacher. “Imagine this common scenario: your opponent has a lock around your wrist and will either attempt to pry the knife out of your hand or squeeze so hard you’ll have to drop the knife.” His fingers clamped around her wrist. “Shake me off.”

She brought her knee to his groin, but he blocked her with a swivel of his hips.

“Nice try,” he said.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He tilted his head at her. “I’ve been through a lot more than this. Do what you have to do to get free. Let me see what you’ve got.”

He was pressing at a point in her wrist that was weakening her hold, twisting her to the side so the knife would drop harmlessly to the ground. And dammit, it hurt. She shoved her body into his, tipping them off balance and sending them both to the ground. He was on the bottom, taking the brunt. She wasted not a second, taking advantage of his surprise and the momentary loosening of his grip to twist her hand free. She brought the knife down, but he grabbed her arm before the tip even got close to his chest. He flipped her over him, her legs flying in the air, and before she’d even landed, he had the knife out of her hand and pointed at her neck.

She was breathless, her back sore.

He didn’t gloat, at least. He stood and this time didn’t offer his hand. “You put up a good fight, but you’re dead.”

He turned back to Pope. “How do you usually fight?”

“My best weapon is—was harnessing my energy into a laser beam of destruction.”

She jumped to her feet. “Eric said you incinerated the guy who was trying to kill us down in the Tomb.”

Pope nodded. “I did.” He held his hand out, palm angled toward the ground, his face a mask of concentration. “I feel a tingle, as though it is coming back.” Another few seconds later he shook his head and leaned down to touch the ground. “Not enough to even warm the dirt.” His mouth tightened, giving away his frustration.

Cheveyo said, “No matter how comfortable you are fighting with your skills, using a knife will be completely different. You have to be ready for that. You’re sinking a knife into someone’s flesh, and you’ll be close enough to see them die.” He included her in that warning.

They worked through a couple of scenarios, talking through his actions for both their sakes.

She thrust with the knife in her own imaginary scenarios, getting more used to it. Focused totally on her task, she didn’t hear the footsteps coming up on her. Arms grabbed her and spun her to the ground. She rolled before Cheveyo could pounce on her, jumped to her feet and held up the knife, still clutched in her hand. She gave him a triumphant smile.

“Good job,” he said. “Next time come up ready to attack.”

Her smile sagged when she saw that the knife point was facing the ground. “Next time?”

“I’m going to jump you every chance I get.”

She arched her eyebrow at him. “
Every
chance?”

He met her gaze, a playful glimmer in his eyes. “When you least expect it.”

Pope walked up to them, his violet eyes shifting from him to her, his head tilted. “I’m picking up another new emotion.”

They both looked at him and said simultaneously, “Forget about it.”

For the next two hours, they worked on move after move, Cheveyo playing the opponent for her and Pope in turn. She didn’t want to admit how exhausted and sore she was, bruises accumulating on top of the bruises from their last altercation. As the two men sparred, she dropped onto the scratchy grass and watched. The afternoon sun glistened on Cheveyo’s damp skin. He had the grace of a ballet dancer but the fierce determination of a Native American warrior. And the patience of a saint.

Pope was getting the hang of it. Twice he had the knife within a few inches of Cheveyo’s throat. Something sparked in those violet eyes as he fought. Pope was a warrior, too. Losing his skills had probably felt like castration to him.

A few minutes later Cheveyo wandered over and reclined beside her, shielding his eyes with his arm. He released a long breath, letting his body totally relax . . . for about a minute. Then he sat up, rolling up the cloth that held the knives so carefully she didn’t hear the metal clank together once. “Let’s grab showers. Does that knife work for you?”

She tilted it so the sun glinted off the blade. “Yeah. It’s not too heavy. And it’s pretty.”

“Pretty.” He rolled his eyes. “Keep it. I’ll see if I’ve got a holster that works with it. You want to have it on you at all times.”

“You think I’ve got a good handle on it?” Of course, she wanted to hear him praise her skills, amazed that she’d become proficient so fast.

“I hope so.” He turned to her as he continued walking. “What do you think?”

“I think . . . I think I won’t be a liability to you.”

Pope said, “You looked capable to me.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

Cheveyo tucked the bundle under his arm as they reached the front porch and held the door open for her. “Meet me in the Blade Room after your shower.”

She went to the room where he’d put her things and took a shower. The floor above her creaked. His bedroom. She could well imagine him stripping out of his clothes and taking a shower, because she
had
seen him do both.

A half hour later she walked into the room he kept under triple lock. The cabinet in the RV was nothing compared to the scarily amazing room. Knives of all kinds were mounted on the walls in groupings, the corresponding sheath beneath each. The sheaths were often as elaborate as the knives. Three large cabinets probably held more.

Pope stood near one of the tables covered with an array of knives, holding a primitive looking knife with reverence.

Cheveyo was polishing one of the blades with a cloth, slow, thoughtful strokes. He slid an impatient gaze to her from beneath his eyelashes.

Pope took the two of them in. “I shall leave you to your task.”

As soon as he left, Cheveyo set down the knife he’d been polishing. “Princess, you’ve got to cut your get-ready time by two-thirds.” He took in her dried and brushed hair, made-up face, and probably the scent of her cherry blossom body lotion, since his nostrils flared. “For one thing, you don’t need it. For a more important thing, we don’t have time for glamour.”

She leaned against the table next to him. “For one thing, I
do
need it. For a more important thing, I need to have control of something. Right now it’s not my life, my surroundings, or much of anything.” Especially her emotions. “But my getting ready process, which I enjoy, is something I can control.” She tightened her hold on the knife she’d brought down. “And don’t call me princess. My dad used to call me that.”

“You don’t like your dad?”

“No, it’s not that. I love him, of course.”

He regarded her. “But somewhere along the way he let you down.”

She ran the flat edge of the blade along the thick velvet that covered the tabletop. “No. But if I’m a princess, then he’s a king. He’s not strong enough to be a king.” She pushed away the hurt. “When he remarried, his wife wasn’t thrilled to inherit three motherless teens. I know he was lonely, and it meant so much to have a woman in his life again. He didn’t want to lose her.”

“He sold you out?”

She met his gaze, seeing the hardness in his eyes at the thought of that. “Not sold us out. But she chipped away at him, manipulating him into considering sending us off to a private school—one that was about two hundred miles away.”

“Sounds like selling out to me.”

“It wasn’t like that. He was just . . .”

“It’s okay to be angry about it. When you care about someone, you will do anything, sacrifice everything, to keep them safe and happy. Especially your children. He was being selfish, plain and simple.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to be angry at him. I just have a hard time with his weaknesses. And when Darkwell was hunting us down, my dad called the police to report Eric. If I hadn’t heard him, Eric would have been arrested—and killed. Dad didn’t know the danger, and who would believe that kind of craziness anyway, but the man called the police on the boy he’d raised as his son.”

He was still regarding her in that curious way. “In
Cinderella,
her father married the wicked stepmother. Didn’t he abandon her or die, leaving her in the clutches of those awful women?”