Parallel Seduction Page 9

  Hope thought of Scott, back in her bed, still in such obvious pain. "I'm learning just how stubborn that guy can be."

  "Not typical." The nurse blew out a weary, sardonic sigh. "Not typical at all, sorry to say."

  Her remark confused Hope. "Not typical how?"

  "For our people." Shelby snorted. "Well, ahem, at least not typical for most of us. Some of us have at least an ounce of common sense."

  Hope's cane connected with the desk, and she stopped. The folding fiberglass stick was still unfamiliar in her hands. She'd always relied on the people around her, as well as her own fragmented eyesight, for getting around in the world. Or, in the immortal words of Blanche DuBois, she'd always depended on the kindness of strangers, at least once she started going blind. But since everyone up on this mountain was a stranger—well, nearly—she figured it was time to face her ever-declining fate head-on.

  "What will happen to him because of this?" Hope spread her hands on the station desk, dropping the cane between her legs, and suspending it there with her knees. With a glance around her, she saw nothing but blurred antiseptic white and angled lights, black spots blotting out portions of even those details. Her retinopathy meant that large patches of what she could barely see were covered with dark floaters. In the past few weeks the floaters had been expanding faster than ever before, like a great ink spot slowly seeping outward, dimming her entire world.

  "He's probably gonna get himself an infection. Could get real, real sick, Ms. Harper. That is, if he doesn't come to his senses and haul his butt back down here."

  "So the prognosis for stupidity is that good." Hope felt dread gnaw at her insides. "That's just great."

  "Course, he figures he needs to be back on duty, and neither one of us can hardly blame him for that." If Hope didn't know better, she'd have thought Shelby had appointed herself as Scott's personal defender—while also chastising him behind his back for risking his health.

  Hope paused a moment, then admitted, "I'm just so worried that something bad will happen to him because of this." It had been a small, niggling fear inside her since she'd left him back in her bed, the sense that he was stepping into a yawning vortex of danger, just by taking this one action of leaving the hospital.

  Shelby covered Hope's hand where it rested on the desk. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. Thick as it may be."

  Hope nodded and Shelby removed her hand. It was strange, but the main thought in Hope's own head wasn't that the woman had a very comforting, gentle manner, but rather that Shelby was just one more alien who had touched her. And the strangest thing was that aliens, the idea of which had seemed like rumor and speculation and myth just a few months earlier, were becoming a routine part of Hope's daily life.

  "So, they were going to send someone out for my diabetic supplies. Said I should come back for the test strips and shots." Hope's bottle of insulin had almost a month's worth of her medicine still in it. Fortunately she'd had it on her when her barracks were blasted at Warren; she now kept most everything she needed with her constantly in a hip pack, because she never knew when her quarters might explode, or a handsome alien might need dragging under a truck, that kind of thing. Just life's basic kinds of situations when you were diabetic and worked for the FBI translating intercepts. Yeah, buddy.

  "I've got everything right back there," Shelby told her in a sunny voice.

  Hope listened as the nurse's footsteps receded, stilled, then finally returned. When her eyesight had started to go she'd learned to listen closely to what happened around her; it was one of the only ways to get a clear picture of her surroundings.

  "Here we go," the nurse said brightly, pushing several cylinders across the counter. "You keep these extra bottles of insulin in the fridge up there in the cabin, right? You've got your long-lasting and short-lasting medicine in here. Until you're ready to use them."

  Hope smiled at the alien's protectiveness. "I have been doing this for a long time."

  "Of course you have, so here you go. Actually, wait"—Shelby retrieved something from under the desk—"this is a twenty-four-hour cooler bag, and you can use that too. I'm also tucking in some fruit juice in case you need it."

  "So, how'd you actually get this stuff? If you had to go to town, couldn't have it made up, how was it possible for you to get me prescription medication?"

  "Diabetes has been eradicated among our people. We have a fairly simple way of treating it, so you're right: We did have to go snag this for you." Shelby laughed softly. "As for the where, when, how? Well, you'd be amazed at our human connections and placements out in your world."

  "You don't have diabetes at all; that's what you're telling me—but as a people, you used to? Somebody mentioned genetic therapy to me earlier. Is that what you're talking about?"

  If Hope had been able to see better, something more of the nurse than her sheen of straight blond hair and general blurry outline, she'd have sworn the woman grew suddenly serious. Perhaps it was nothing; perhaps it was just the few extra seconds she hesitated before answering the question. But it was enough to cause a check in Hope's mind that something about their version of genetic therapy wasn't quite right. Still, the nurse's words were upbeat and chirpy. "It could be an incredible cure for you and your disease."

  "How does it work?"

  "It's a series of treatments—takes some time, and the explanation itself would have to come from the doctors, which we can arrange. But in the end, your disease would be gone. And you should also know we can fix your eyes up for you as well."

  Hope's heart lodged right in her throat. "You're kidding me." What she really wanted to say, as her jaw fell slack and her eyes grew wide, was, You've gotta be fucking kidding me. But she kept her reaction more polite.

  "No. I'm not joking at all. I wouldn't joke about something so serious."

  Hope swallowed, trying to find her voice. "How?"

  "Even your people know about laser therapy."

  "Oh." Hope nearly burst into tears from disappointment. "No, I've already gone that route. Nothing more can be done."

  Shelby patted her hand. "Sweetie, of course more can be done. Our medical technology is light-years more developed than yours." She laughed awkwardly. "I mean, no offense or anything."

  "None taken." Hope gave a reassuring nod of her head, then asked, "Really? Really and truly there's more you can do for me?" More tears filled her eyes, and she couldn't stop them.

  "Oh, my. I'm sorry, doll," Shelby whispered, stepping around the counter and walking quickly toward her. The woman slipped an arm about her shoulder, pushed a Kleenex into her hands, and repeated, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you like this."

  "These are happy tears," Hope said, blotting at her eyes. "I mean, not being able to see the simplest things, like my hair when I'm trying to fix it or the laces on my boots." She paused, then added quietly, "Or like Lieutenant Dillon. What I just wouldn't give to see him, Shelby. To really see him."

  "I know," the nurse replied in a gentle voice, letting her arm drop. "Listen, you come back here tomorrow when the chief medical adviser is in. He's out today, but we'll get you an appointment with him to discuss your options."

  Hope nodded, still unable to quell her tears of release or even find her voice again. Slowly she turned toward the nurse and whispered, "Thank you, Shelby."

  Shelby gave her arm a light pat, and got her to promise that she'd come back for a consultation. Hope agreed, and set out on the long route back to her room.

  Making her way through the circuitous tunnels that led there, she realized there was one more question she'd meant to ask, but had been so overwhelmed with emotion about the possibility of regaining her eyesight, she'd forgotten it. She'd meant to question why Scott would be so adamantly against genetic therapy.

  Only later, much later, would she realize it was a question she should have remembered to ask.

  Scott stood in the hallway upstairs, gripping his crutch. Of all the unholy moments in his life to be without th
e full use of his legs, this was the worst possible one. With a light sniff of the air, he sensed the intruder moving down into the lower area of their compound toward the medical complex, where undoubtedly he planned to escape into the surrounding deep woods. Jared stood beside him and asked, "What do you sense, Lieutenant?"

  He shook his head, sweeping their perimeter with his highly refined tracking skills. Then his eyes flew open. "He's moving quickly, Jared," he said intensely. "Much faster than I can follow."

  "If you can't keep tracking, we'll lose him," Jared said, his implication more than obvious. So was the blazing look in Jared's black gaze, which told Scott exactly what his king was asking of him.

  Scott nodded, again closing his eyes, because he understood what was required of him. As distasteful, hateful, and truly mortifying as it was, there was no other choice. Not at a moment like this one. "I'll do it," he said resolutely, letting the crutch fall away.

  Jared caught it as it fell. "You're not selling your soul, S'Skautsa," he said. "You know I'd never ask you to."

  Again Scott nodded, and wondered whether his best friend could really understand a twisted, dark soul like his own. "We have no other choice," Scott said, taking a tentative step without the crutch. A cascade of pain ricocheted through his entire body, further clarifying his decision. "That's good enough for me."

  "I know you can stop him, but don't kill him. Not yet."

  Scott shot him a curious look, unbuttoning his uniform jacket and shrugging out of it. The fewer clothes, really, the better. At least in the end. "One thing you know about me, Jareshk—I show no mercy to vlksai."

  "This one claims to be an ally."

  "An ally who points a weapon at my king?" He shook his head resolutely. "No mercy."

  Jared seemed to hesitate, but then gave an abrupt nod. "Do what you will."

  Scott issued a crisp salute to his commander, then with a shimmer of energy became what he had always been, in his soul and in his heart of hearts: an Antousian ghost shifter. Without another thought or a sound, totally undetectable by Jared or the others around him, he slipped through the walls and spun toward the hospital corridor, following in his enemy's wake.

  Walls were no problem for Jake, not in this amorphous, invisible state of his. In fact, he gave little thought to the security perimeter around him, or the fortress, or any other physical element that stood between him and the outside. Being invisible and without substance except for his energy shadow meant he was utterly unstoppable. No, his current predicament of being trapped in the compound barely bothered him at all.

  But what did upset him was that, based on what they'd just told him upstairs, McKinley had already come through time and been shut down. This new intel meant one of two things: Either they'd already changed the future, or McKinley would still betray them in the end. But neither of these options left room for Jake to hang around in the compound, hoping to make nice and be buddies. None of them believed he was an ally, and he certainly couldn't tell them the full truth about his identity anyway.

  Penetrating the elevator that would lead to the bottom level, he shifted back to physical form. It was dangerous to spend any longer than short bursts in this ethereal body of his; well, not unless he wanted to spend hours trying to regain his physical equilibrium when he shifted back. And so he would have to maintain a careful dance between his two halves of formless and physical self.

  In these past moments, during which he'd traveled as far from Jared and the others as he could, one choice had imprinted in his mind as the only real option: He had to get the hell back to his own time. Somehow, some way, he had to use the mitres to travel ten years back into the future. And that was the biggest problem of all—when he and Kelsey had aligned the mitres and opened inter-dimensional space, it had been for a one-way journey.

  They never figured he would need or want to return.

  Entering the main corridor, Hope hit her stride, neatly folding her cane. This part she had memorized: Twenty-eight steps would place her by the elevator. Plus, the lights were bright enough that she could see if anything got in her way. Yeah, it would be simpler just to use the cane, but she hated the thing already. Counting off her steps—twenty-one, twenty-two—she heard the elevator doors slide open. Immediately a towering, dark form appeared just ahead, blocking her way.

  Male, tall, bulky, she noted, giving a small nod of greeting. Her heartbeat sped up slightly, as it did whenever she encountered someone new in this unfamiliar place. Only this time, the tempo of her heart hit overdrive when the stranger cried out sharply; it was a quick, jolting sound of pain, stopping him in his tracks. She took a brisk step forward, relying on her FBI training. Whatever was happening here, she had to seize control of the situation. Perhaps this Refarian feared humans.

  "What's wrong?" she blurted, almost reaching him. "Tell me what's happened."

  He staggered backward from her. So she took yet another step or two. "Please. Just tell me what's wrong, sir."

  "Hope," the stranger whispered on a strangled cry. "My gods. Hope."

  This time she was the one who took a step back. She'd never met this man before in her life, at least, best that she could tell. More than that, two glowing spheres had appeared where his eyes should be. His eyes were blazing like pure fire.

  "H-how do you know me?" she managed to stammer, arrested by his fiercely radiant eyes. They shone more brightly than anything else in the corridor. "And your eyes. What's the deal with your eyes?"

  The orange-red glow ceased as quickly as it had begun. "You're Hope Harper—aren't you?" His voice was raw as sandpaper. "It has to be you."

  "Yes, I'm Hope," she told him cautiously, regaining her equilibrium. She took a tentative step closer. He seemed to have braced himself against the wall, hands beside him as if in recoil. "I'm not going to hurt you," she ventured softly. She'd had plenty of experiences trying to soothe wary subjects as an FBI linguist. "I'm here as a friend."

  "I know exactly who you are." He moaned softly, seeming to shake his head. "My gods, what has fate done to me?"

  She pulled back, blinking up at him. "I'm sorry."

  "I know you, Hope Lee Harper. Every scar, every freckle and mole on your body. I know you, all of you. That's what I'm saying."

  She hated her middle name; nobody ever learned that her silly mother had named her, in a backward kind of way, after Harper Lee. The other things he could claim, but not her middle name, which was a well-guarded secret. Then she thought of the moon-shaped scar on her inner thigh that she'd gotten surfing years earlier. You wouldn't see it unless you discovered a lot more private places than she let most people examine … apart from a lover.

  "What scars?" she demanded, planting a hand on her hip.

  "Surfing scar, interior right thigh."

  "Shit."

  "It's like I said," he explained quickly, glancing about them with a nervous-seeming gesture. "I've known you for a long time."

  "But I've never met you!" she finally shouted, flinging her hands into the air. "I just don't understand this"—she waved between them—"this reaction. I don't get it. I don't know you at all."

  "But I know you very, very well, sweetheart."

  She was about to insist that he not call her sweetheart ever again, when he truly shocked her down to the marrow of her bones. He stepped toward her, pulling her right into his massive, brawny arms, until her face met nothing but thick wool and a tree-trunk chest. "My love, my heart," the giant whispered, pressing his face against the top of her head.

  What the hell? Panicked and squirming, she managed to escape out of his bearlike grasp, but she stumbled, finding herself back against a wall as he towered over her. Terrified, she glanced down the hall, calculating just how far away the elevator might be. If she ran, she'd probably fall. She could hear blood rushing in her ears, her own staggered breaths, yet all she could do was brace herself against the wall. Without her eyesight, she was at the stranger's mercy.

  The man took several steps toward h
er, whispering her name over and over. And his eyes had begun to fill with that light again—that eerie, translucent light. "Who are you?" she demanded.

  In one graceful movement he had hold of her once more, crushing her within his arms. As he buried his head atop hers, pressing his face into her hair, she was shocked to feel dampness. The brute of a man was crying.

  "I'm someone you cared for. Once." His voice was raw with powerful emotion.

  "No, no. I mean, what's your name?" she asked impatiently. "Please, you owe me that much."

  Without releasing her, both arms wrapped around her in a powerful embrace, he said, "I knew you. In a future time, one that I've come from, I knew you very well until—"

  "Wait, hold up! You came here from the future?" Her thoughts reeled with all that she'd been told about the Refarians' mastery over the time-space continuum, their intimate knowledge of using the weapon they called the mitres, and how it could be utilized to journey backward—and presumably forward—in time.

  He seemed to catch himself, releasing his hold upon her as if awakening from a trance. "Forgive me," he replied stiffly. "I used the mitres and traveled back into this time. I thought … I'd never see you again. That's what I meant. Just that I knew you once, Hope."

  Funny, but it wasn't the words future time that made her mouth go dry and unexpected tears well within her eyes; it was something strange about him having "known her." The past tense of his statement. She'd seen enough about what the Refarians were capable of, and had already learned about their travels from the future via the mitres. That part she got. But why would he speak of her as if she were dead?

  "Knew me?" she whispered. "As in, past tense?"

  At first he said nothing, but there was a strange pall between them that Hope could sense very clearly. Certain things were obvious whether your eyes worked well or not.

  "We … were … friends. Close friends."

  "Then tell me your name."

  "I'm Jakob Tierny." He stuck a hand out to her, taking hold of hers before she could stop him; he had large, muscular palms, calloused and hard. But there was something surprisingly gentle in the way he grasped her, finally letting go as if he hated to lose their physical connection.