“Then force him, Three. If you fight this war without Christan, you’re going to lose.”
Three lifted a photo of the girl standing by the sea and doubted Christan could be forced to do anything. Too much had happened—and the crimes both she and this girl committed had never been forgiven.
There was so much she never explained. Decisions, made out of necessity, a contingent of power, of calculation. Lifetimes that had come and gone and spun around again. An Agreement all had sworn to protect but none had wanted to support—the alchemy could not grant immortality, so reincarnation had been a logical choice. The chance to find and reclaim the love that was lost. By the time Three recognized the destruction, the blood was already on the floor.
“Do you know why he did it?” Phillipe asked. “Why he put himself in the Void?”
Three had no way to answer. There were some tragedies that never should have happened but did. In her mind, Three could still see the girl with sunlight in her hair, turning her back on an enforcer already crushed by anger and pain. In her long life there was little Three forgot, but there was nothing she remembered with more acuity than the exact instant when Christan left the world. When the sun dropped from the sky as if it would never return. When the cypress trees—mourning trees—lived up to their name before the darkness devoured them.
The memories flashed through the edges of Three’s mind while her eyes remained fixed on the distant skyline of Seattle. “To do nothing would be safer,” she said.
“To do something would be more interesting.”
The silence extended into a period of waiting that grew painful. She supposed it was the arrogance of confidence, or the magic she hadn’t understood. Now the magic was failing. The girls were remembering the disasters in their past lives. They were dying. If Christan did not come back, if the warriors broke the Agreement, the peace would fall apart—and the old wars would start up again.
Energy spread in the room and rolled along the walls. Water in the bay grew turbulent. There was a moment—like an indrawn breath caught in surprise—before Three flicked her hand. Such a small gesture, barely there, and then thunder split the air above Seattle. Buildings rattled. Birds flew screeching into the air and people flooded the streets, gripping their cell phones and staring up at the clear blue sky.
“He’s in Montana and not himself,” she said as the power drifted away. “Plant your breadcrumbs, Phillipe. Let’s hope Arsen finds him in time.”
Because Phillipe was right and force had been the only way. Three needed her enforcer. Needed the girl who looked like Gemma. Needed them together.
And no one understood better than Three how difficult it would be.
Because there was a darkness in the dreams.
They’d planned it that way.
CHAPTER 2
Hells Canyon Wilderness, Eastern Oregon She was so screwed.
Lexi sat on the ochre-colored sand and realized she wasn’t in Rock Cove. Nor was she alone.
There were two of them: the dark-haired man who’d come to her office that morning and the blond. His name was Arsen—and just what the hell kind of name was that, anyway? He looked like a surfer boy, with his sun-bleached hair, Hawaiian shirt and sandals. It was far cry from the sleek Italian suit he’d worn last week at the Coffee Universe. Marge had dragged her over to meet him. Lexi hadn’t wanted to go, but Marge said he was a hotshot intervention guru who helped people who refused to face their problems. And Marge, who was her therapist, her best friend and surrogate mother figure, believed Lexi wasn’t facing her problems.
Well, Marge was in for some disappointment.
“Did my therapist arrange this intervention hit job?” Lexi asked. “Because if she did, I’m firing her as of now.”
“Marge is concerned,” Arsen replied.
“About what, exactly?”
“Your dream problems.”
“I don’t have dream problems. They’re anxiety issues and an intervention won't help.”
“Why are you defensive?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“We’re not here to hurt you.”
Lexi shrugged as if she didn’t care about their intentions. Looked away, tense with a migraine caused by stress. She recognized Arsen’s impersonations now. Three months ago, the man had called himself Bob, a day-tourist chatting her up over shells at the Beachcomber’s Market. Then he became Mike, doing something she didn’t remember. Last week he held court in the crowded Coffee Universe and talked about interventions. Said he’d written a book. Lexi reached down and pushed her fingers into the gritty sand.
She was still in Oregon, in the Hells Canyon Wilderness. She knew this because of a psychic ability that revealed where she was and what disturbances shimmered in the environment. Marge described it as a form of post-cognition, the kind that could pick up energies left by traumatic events or moments of great passion. Lexi discovered the talent as a child. Over the years she’d learned ways to dampen her sensitivity, to shield her mind when violent imprints remained behind, and while she realized there were no disturbing energies within the vicinity, she sensed the tragedy beyond a distant ridge.
Lexi glanced toward Arsen, with his lying eyes and killer smile. He sat cross-legged on the sand, nurturing a campfire like this was one big, happy Boy Scout cook-out or something. Arsen’s partner in crime called himself Mr. Smith, but she doubted the name was real. He was raw power, male darkness, the kind of man a woman wasn’t likely to forget. When she first saw him in her office he reminded her of a waiting predator, evaluating her strengths, her weaknesses until she’d wanted to run.
Lexi’s migraine thudded. The gritty air caught deep in her lungs and she knew the predator noticed. His hard mouth curled, but not in a smile. His eyes were as volcanic as obsidian, while midnight hair lifted in the breeze. There was such a wall of isolation around him her throat ached.
But the isolation vibrated with darker emotions that slid across her skin. Lexi dragged her gaze back to Arsen.
“How did we get here?” She’d already searched the sandy terrain. No vehicle or road in sight. No nothing. The sun had risen high enough to tell her it was nearing noon, which made no sense, since her meeting with Mr. Not-Named-Smith had been at nine. And she’d been in her office in Rock Cove, not sitting in the desert on the opposite side of the State.
“Where do you think we are?” Arsen asked.
The tactic annoyed her, the way he answered with questions of his own. “We’re just above Dug Bar,” she said. “Along the Snake River, which is only accessible by whitewater raft or a seven-hour drive from where I live. That’s interesting enough by itself, but not as curious as getting into these hills. The roads are rough after the winter rains and without an off-road vehicle you’d have to hike in by foot. And I don’t recall hiking.”
She could have told him more. Eastern Oregon held generations of tears, shed through many centuries, and the psychic imprints remained behind like layers of old paint in ancient buildings.
Now those memories tasted of sun-dried grass, the spicy lavender-gray sage and a distant juniper, poignant and lonely. Lexi watched as Arsen fed more twigs into the fire. He found nothing unusual in either her description or her questions.
“Have you visited this area before?” he asked.
“No.”
“You seem to know a lot about it, though.”
“I’m sure Marge gave you a dossier.” It would have told him how she sensed imprints in the earth, read events that happened in the past and interpreted what she sensed as a collective emotional residue left behind by psychic trauma. Lexi braced for the depreciating smile, but Arsen only reached for more twigs.
“A lot of people believe in extrasensory perception,” he said.
“Which is why an intervention won’t help.”
“Then let’s talk about what will help.” Arsen tipped his head to the side, curiosity in those lying eyes. “What’s it like when you dream?”