Shards of Hope (Psy-Changeling 14)

Aden pressed his lips to the curve of her neck from behind. “She’s my ride to New York. I’m heading to see Dev.”

That explained his civilian clothing. “Your security team?”

“I can’t be seen with a security team,” Aden replied, his hand on the panel that would open the door. “That defeats the whole purpose of the squad’s reputation, especially with the Beacon publishing rumors about my suitability as squad leader.” Authorizing the door to open, he nodded at Nerida.

I’ll come with you, Zaira said, not angry at the Beacon article because she knew full well it was idiotic and that Aden would have a plan to handle the subtle attack on the squad.

Now, he looked at her.

As your . . . She paused, at a loss. I will never be a girlfriend.

Aden thought again of laughter, and that he might be capable of it. We can discuss terms later.

Stepping out with Nerida, he asked if she was fine transporting them both. Unlike Vasic, Nerida wasn’t a teleporter by birth, but a Tk who had teleport abilities. As such, her range, while wide, was more limited than Vasic’s. Increasing the number of passengers further narrowed that range, as did any other duties she may have completed recently that required a psychic burn.

“No problem,” she said.

’Porting them to the basement of a refurbished hotel that was shuttered while it waited for the final planning permits, Nerida left for her next task. Depending on the timing, Aden and Zaira would most likely catch a high-speed jet back, making the final part of the trip back to Central Command in one of the vehicles they kept garaged near the closest jetports.

“You want to spend some time here on Blake’s trail?” Zaira asked as they walked out of the hotel via a basement exit. “We can hit the locations that have already been searched.”

It was a standard technique: when caught in a trap, you returned to the place your hunters thought they’d cleared. “That’s a—” Aden’s instincts suddenly went on high alert, his subconscious picking up something his conscious mind hadn’t yet worked out.

“Aden! Get down!”

The bullet buzzed over his head a split second after Zaira’s cry. He’d dropped to the pavement, palms flat on the plascrete and legs stretched out, the instant she spoke. An Arrow did not ask his partner to clarify a warning, trained to know that a single nanosecond of delay could equal death.

That lesson had just saved his life.

Zaira was moving past him within two heartbeats, her legs covering the ground at lethal speed. Following on her heels, Aden pinpointed her target—a slender male holding a weapon at his side.

“Down!” Aden yelled at a passerby who hadn’t already hit the ground.

The assassin turned and shot again midrun, but Zaira had judged his movement and dodged it, as did Aden. The bullet slammed home in a tree. That was the last shot the male made. Zaira slammed him to the ground the next instant, his face hitting the pavement with such force that blood splurted out, his nose clearly smashed in.

Aden saw Zaira’s expression, realized she’d fallen into the blind protective rage that would leave the assassin dead in seconds.

Zaira. Secondary threat.

As she jerked around to neutralize the imagined threat, he was already contacting Vasic. His friend appeared a second later, his boots, jeans, and dirt-stained T-shirt telling Aden he’d probably been helping Ivy with the gardens the empath was creating in the valley.

Zaira turned back right then, her focus on the unconscious male once more. “He tried to hurt you.” The words were calm—if Aden hadn’t known her, he’d never have perceived the ice-cold fury inside her.

Vasic ’ported them both to a desert cloaked in night just as Zaira’s body tensed for a deadly attack. I’ll take care of the assassin, Vasic said. Call me when you need to return.

Then he was gone.

Aden went to touch Zaira, help her calm down . . . and she turned on him. Her eyes dull and blank, her face set, she slammed out with a fist, followed it with a kick. He blocked her moves, but made no offensive ones of his own. Zaira, he said telepathically and verbally. “Zaira, it’s Aden.”

Her hand-to-hand combat skills were deadly. Aden could hold his own against her only because he was bigger and stronger. It usually gave him just enough of an edge that they were evenly matched, but he realized at that instant that he’d never fought against a Zaira in an unthinking rage.

She was a fury, a whirling storm.

He took a blow on the jaw, a second in the neck, a third on the cheek.

Realizing she wasn’t hearing him, Aden focused on getting her down with as little damage as possible. It meant taking a number of further blows himself, but the one thing Aden would not do was hurt Zaira. He’d made that promise to her long ago, would never break it. Instead, he used his greater bulk against her, slamming his body into hers as she lifted up on one leg to deliver a roundhouse kick.

Unbalanced, she fell, and he saw her knee begin to bend the wrong way. He flipped her so she wouldn’t fall wrong and twist or tear her tendons. His action had the unintended side effect of throwing her harder against the ground, the air rushing out of her. He came down over her before she could recover, clamping his hands on her wrists and using the weight of his lower body to pin her down.

“Zaira!”

Muscles tense enough to snap, she tried to throw him off. He crushed her to the sand while gripping her wrists, but not so hard that he’d leave bruises. “Zaira, it’s Aden,” he repeated.

No recognition in her eyes, on her face, her mind a closed door.