Fusion (3 page)

However, an impressive set of steel bars, a nasty brigade of prison guards‌—‌that from their screwed up expressions seemed like they were suffering a bad case of hemorrhoids on a daily basis‌—‌and a wall of China chain-link fence kept Emma away from me.

However, it didn’t keep me away from her. Completely.

She didn’t know about it of course, and I knew it was eighty-eight ways to Sunday seriously creepy, but as I was a being of supernatural quality, gifted with elements of the same quality, I wasn’t about to waste this gift. So, because I could, and because I wanted to more than I knew I should, I teleported into her dorm room every night, right around the same time. A few hours after midnight and a couple before dawn, the only time it would be safe to assume a college student of her four-point-o quality would be asleep.

It was only for a few seconds; I might have been brazen, but I wasn’t a fool. A complete one, at least.

My God‌—‌seeing her like that, asleep, peaceful, too beautiful to be real‌…‌

Those few seconds got me through the rest of the twenty three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-seven seconds until I got to spy on her again.

A helicopter snoring started below me, so intense it rattled the springs of my pee-stained, not-even-fit-for-an-Inheritor mattress. Mr. Rogers, my cell mate and, in my opinion, the second biggest badass in this tomb of posers, was dreaming of sugar plums. Mr. Rogers wouldn’t talk about why he was doing time, so naturally, speculations aplenty ran about, but I could recognize death in a man’s eyes when I saw it.

And Mr. Rogers had it.

And, like me, he didn’t seem to regret it. But while I knew the intentions behind my kills were as pure as killing could be, I couldn’t ascertain that by a mere review of Mr. Rogers’s cloudy brown eyes. Hell, if the fact the man had killed others wasn’t enough to give him a wide berth in the lunch room, the name he’d earned here would have done the trick. Scorpion, Cobra, Danger, those nicknames had nothing on Mr. Rogers. Rule of thumb when it came to prison names: the more benign the name seemed, the scarier the dude behind the name was.

It wasn’t even ten and I had five hours to kill before I could catch a few second glimpse of Emma, so what was I going to do with myself? I could be in Bora Bora sprawled in the white sand, or balancing on a ledge of Notre Dame, or enjoy a bowl of the best red curry I’d ever tasted outside of Pu Khet. I could be anywhere, all night. Every night.

But next to being beside Emma, there was only one place I wanted to be.

I was there before I realized I’d pinpointed the coordinates in my mind and focused my energy on getting there.

I landed smack in the center of a kitchen, in my favorite brother’s house, staring at the back of the woman who’d inadvertently shown me I was capable of falling in love.

She was holding a steaming cup of coffee like it was her religion, and to Bryn, caffeine was. It was one of the few times I’d seen her alone since she’d become a Hayward and I wasn’t going to let a rare opportunity pass me by without riding the wave.

Like the generations experienced cloak and dagger man I was, I tiptoed like a little girl, sneaking up on her where she sat swinging her legs from a barstool.

“Just because I don’t have eyes on the back of my head doesn’t mean I can’t sense when someone’s sneaking up on me in my own kitchen.” She spun around, a Bryn one-sided grin hitched into position. “Especially someone that’s wearing something as bright and ginormous as a hot air balloon. You can’t stalk in that thing. You rustle.” Her eyes scattered over my cliché, right down to the hunter orange color, jumpsuit.

This was why I normally landed in my bedroom first, so I could change before my family wouldn’t let the open door of payback go unexplored. However, the slop served today looked, smelled, and when I’d chanced a bite, tasted toxic. My stomach was screaming‌—‌not because I needed food but because I
wanted
food‌—‌and, while I knew Bryn was hopeless when it came to most things of a kitchen nature, I also knew family dinner night was held at their home tonight and that meant leftovers.

“You were trained by the best,” I said, giving her that sardonic smile right back.

Her eyes made slow work of rolling. “Hey, Bart. How many license plates did you punch today?”

“Hey, yourself, Bryny-bear,” I said, nice and slow and enunciated. “How many pieces of toast did you burn today?”

“That was weak,” she said, giving me an unimpressed face. “Jail’s throwing you off your game.”

“Don’t I know it,” I grumbled, mentally counting off the many ways.

“Uh-oh, I know that face,” she said, popping off her stool and forging towards the refrigerator. “You’re three and a half seconds away from transforming into a petulant child if you don’t get food.”

She began unloading the contents of the fridge, balancing more plates and bowls than someone with Bryn’s proclivity for clumsiness should. Rib-eyes, creamy garlic mashed potatoes, buttermilk biscuits, grilled veggie kabobs‌—‌Abigail and Cora had whipped together my all-time favorite meal. My mouth was watering. What Pavlov’s bell did to his dogs, rib-eyes did to me.

“An orange jumpsuit is undeserving of this meal,” I said as Bryn began heaping potatoes on a plate. “I’m going to change and I’ll be back.”

Turning towards me with a plate of steaks swimming in their juices, she smiled, lifting the plate at me. “Oh, I know you will.”

And just like that, with a snap of my teleportation fingers, I was sliding a pair of pewter slacks from their hanger the next moment, trying to make as little noise as I could so Father wouldn’t hear me and distract me from sinking my teeth into a twelve ounce divine cut of meat.

The jumpsuit hadn’t hit the floor before I was buttoning up a white oxford and, since jail issue underwear were in the same class as steel wool, I slid out of those too. Since the dresser holding my sexy, expensive, soft undergarments was across the room, I slid into the slacks. I went commando half the time anyways and at the present moment, it meant getting back to food,
good
food, sooner. I could think of few instances that would more warrant a session of feeling, eh-hm,
free
than that.

Shoes and socks would take too long, so I wound up barefoot and undergarment-less when I made my reappearance in front of Bryn.

“That was quick,” she said, surveying my wardrobe change as she slid a steaming plate of food, glorious food, on the breakfast bar.

I pounced into that chair so fast you would have thought it was my first, last, and only chance to spend the night with Emma. And I mean that in a mostly clothed, tapering off before hitting third-base kind of way. Maybe.

I sawed off a piece of meat, smearing it through the mountain of potatoes before burying it into my mouth.

“Oh my god,” I moaned, chewing through my words.

“Pretty good?” Bryn smiled, setting a bottle of my favorite brand of root beer in front of me.

I resisted the urge to pick up the slab of meat and eat it like a slice of pizza. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty good,” I said, cutting off a manly sized piece of steak. “There are no words for this.”

By the end of the next bite, my foot was thumping the ground like a dog who’d found his sweet spot.

“I take it from that expression you’re going to want seconds?” She was already piling up another plate.

“Just keep it coming,” I said around a mouthful of potatoes. They were fluffy like Abby’s, but buttery like Cora’s. They were a superhero hybrid of the two, positively the best mashed potatoes I’d tasted in my two hundred years.

“Where’s the ruler of the universe?” I asked, checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t going to pull a sneak attack.

She shifted, two bites into gnawing her lip when she answered. “Asleep.” The poor woman couldn’t have sounded less casual if she’d tried.

“Asleep?” I said, pausing my knife mid-slice. “The last time I remember William sleeping was‌…‌” My face scrunched in concentration. “Never. I don’t remember the last time he slept. In fact, I’m not even sure William Hayward is capable of sleep.” Chosen One duties have a way of eating into a man’s personal time.

To complement the lip biting, Bryn flushed crimson.

“Bryn, Bryn, Bryn.” I clucked my tongue, taking immense pleasure in her discomfort. “What have you been doing to my big brother that he would require nothing short of the recuperative qualities of sleep to restore himself?”

She rushed to the sink, distracting herself with washing a spotless faucet head. She was either pretending she hadn’t heard my question or was ignoring it.

“You fox, you,” I said, whistling through my teeth.

“Grow up, Patrick,” she said, flicking a few droplets of water at my face.

“I tried it once. Wasn’t really my thing.”

“Then why don’t you keep that large mouth of yours clamped shut?” she said, sliding the second plate behind the one I was two bites away from clearing.

“I didn’t even need to try that to know keeping my mouth clamped shut wasn’t my thing.”

She sighed. I received a lot of sighs throughout the course of a day. “You are exasperating.”

I met her eyes. “Ditto that, Mrs. Hayward.”

That had her squirming again. Not because she wanted me or I wanted her anymore, but because we had history. Well, for my part, we had history. Histories have a way of tainting your present, no matter how fully you heal from them.

“How’s jail?” she asked, smiling devilishly. “Meet any nice single guys in the shower room?”

I nearly choked on my food. “Is it just me, or have you become an exceptional smartass since joining this family?” I asked, pointing my fork at where she stood smirking at me.

“What can I say? I learned from the best,” she said, tying her hair into a high ponytail. “My former strength instructor wasn’t only a master of martial arts, but a master in the art of smartass.”

“Now that sounds like a fine specimen of a man,” I said, digging into the second plate and taking no hostages.

Bryn made a sound of acknowledgement, but not one of agreement. Would it kill her to admit I was a pretty decent guy? I was no William, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t some derelict tube sock.

“Who’s been training the newbies while I’ve been busy fraternizing with the Mortals?” I used to cringe over that phrase, but that was before “fraternizing with the Mortals” included talking, touching, embracing, kissing, and every other “ing” with Emma Scarlett.

“Some guy based out of north Idaho,” she answered, lifting a shoulder. “I haven’t met him.”

“Well, even if he lacked the badass strength instructor, I’ll-rip-your-arms-off-and-beat-you-with-the-bloody-stumps aura, him being from north Idaho should be enough to intimidate any newbie.”

“Ready for thirds?” she asked, a clean plate and a scoop of potatoes at the ready.

“Is there dessert?”

“Of course.”

“Then, nah. I’m good,” I said, demolishing the last chunk of steak. “So, did you get your cap and gown for graduating from talent training? Things were a wee bit accelerated with you and things since have been a little hectic. Plus,” I said with a lazy shrug, “I doubt anyone wants to piss you off given you could kill them with one touch.”

Bryn was a Taker, as in a taker of life. Practically unheard of amongst our kind and the strength of her gift was unparalleled. I was probably the only instructor who was brave, or dumb some might argue, enough to take her on as my pupil. But where a gift of her substance was involved, I preferred that she was with me rather than against me.

“I guess so,” she answered, cutting a deep dish apple pie in half. “Your dad’s actually been working with me lately.”

Bryn was a solid bluffer, about a hundred times better than Emma, but about a million times worse than I was. She might be trying with all her might to keep the apprehension from her voice and face, but she wasn’t fooling me for one sly second.

“Chancellor Charles Hayward has been filling talent instructor shoes? Giving private lessons?” It didn’t add up to me, but I knew father had already solved the equation. He was meticulous with his time and where he expended his efforts‌—‌Bryn had become of some value to him, outside of being a daughter-in-law.

The realization should have been less concerning than it was.

“I suppose that’s what you could say,” she said, focusing her attention on balancing half the pie on a spatula as she flopped it on the plate. “Although there are no guidebooks we’re consulting for our lessons. It’s more of a speculate as we go and test our theories by trial and error.”

She slid the slab of pie in front of me, continuing to look everywhere but in my general direction. This act might have worked on William, but it didn’t stand a chance against my BS detector.

“Vagueness doesn’t become you, Mrs. Hayward,” I said, shifting in my seat until I caught her line of sight. She was seven shades of disturbed.

“Yeah, and letting a girl brush something under the rug might become you if you gave it a chance once an eternity.” Her eyes flicked northwards.

“I doubt it,” I said, diving into the pie as Bryn scooped half a gallon of French vanilla ice cream on it. “I’m one of those people who like the truth.”

“Good for you,” she grumbled, retrieving her cup of coffee and leaning across the counter from me.

“So,” I said, arching a brow, “what has the good Chancellor been trial and erroring with the most gifted Taker in known existence?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” she said, taking a slow sip of her coffee.

“Start telling the truth.”

She sighed, the exasperated kind. “I’m assuming you’ve heard of the Reversal Project?”

That was a truth of Immortal history I’d been happy to keep swept under the rug.

“If you’re talking about a certain low point in Immortal history where a bunch of nut-jobs thought they could transition an Immortal back into a Mortal, then yeah, I’ve heard of it,” I said, scowling into my pie. “But I’d prefer not to take a stroll down that memory lane and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about it.”

“Good,” Bryn said all matter-of-fact, “neither do I, so‌…‌moving on to the next topic?”