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  Bastian’s shoulder began to tremble. The locked tension coiling in his muscles vibrated the entire metal frame as he continued to fight the urge to beat the ever-living shit out of his friend.

  “Viktor.”

  One growled word was all the warning he could manage. The emotional manipulation of Viktor’s skills as a Channeler could only do so much, especially when pitted against the innate warring aggression of a trained assassin like himself. His friend meant well. Ever since that dark night in piazza all those years ago, Viktor had stood by his side, aiding him in the ways of his new calling in life and never once had the man led him astray.

  Yet even this knowledge did little to curb his ingrained dislike of unwanted physical contact. Too many years with one eye over his shoulder made him wary of anyone touching him. Viktor was tempting fate and Bastian was not sure how much longer he could hold out.

  His friend sighed with a slow shake of his head and withdrew both his hand as well as the dreamy haze currently coating Bastian’s thinly veiled rage. “I would offer you my apologies, but the truth is I’m not sorry about what I sa—”

  The rest of the word vanished with the right cross that connected with his jaw. Bastian’s growling only increased and turned into a stream of obscene suggestions in Italian. He slipped from the warm confines of the car into the frigid air of the semi-deserted switching station. He slammed the door shut, but not soon enough to capture Viktor’s raucous laughter that split the winter silence.

  “Did I strike I nerve there, Bas?” Still rubbing his jaw, Viktor exited and followed close on his heels, their eyes peeled for any tiny sign of their true enemy. Gravel crunched under his boots as Bastian scanned the boxcar graveyard, the cold air doing nothing to cool the fire simmering just under his skin. Neither did the miles that now separated him from his mysterious singer.

  How did she come to find herself in such a crappy place as that? The waitress said something about gambling and a debt owed. His mind continued to spin, the possibilities tumbling around his head like the dead leaves and scraps of newspaper around his feet as he plodded on. A spectral glint caught his wandering attentions, and he skidded to a halt on the icy ground. Viktor passed on his left while he stared at the dark spark hiding in plain sight.

  There. After taking a beat to restart his legs, he jogged to catch up with his friend as Viktor knelt to isolate the fragile shard. The tiny sliver of black steel could almost pass for the broken leftover of some high school beer binge. But the gleam only visible to a Guardian Warrior marked this as a dangerous crime scene, the perpetrators nothing short of chaos incarnate. Rogue Warriors had slaughtered the bodies they would soon reach. The evidence of a short struggle still lingered in the air, the faint traces of static and sulfur clung to the grafittied train car. Both parties reeked of evil’s touch, but evisceration was harsh even by his standards.

  Now the true work would begin. Now, the task of determining why. Why these people. Why this place. Chicago had always been a hotbed for Rogue activity, the only city rivaling it for sheer chaotic brutality was Detroit. Taking a knee beside Viktor, his back bowed, he narrowed his focus, calling into bear his unique Guardian skill.

  During his years as a hired bodyguard of the elite of the Italian Renaissance, he found he could easily keep an eye on his target, even those who were less than amiable to his services. No matter how many back alleys and tiny shops his query would stumble in to, he had no difficulty locating them, usually cowering in changing closets or under racks of feathered hats.

  Viktor had explained that when a man was tagged for recruitment, it was due to special skills they had that would help in the battle with their enemies. Some men were brilliant strategists, others held sway over legions.

  Him? He had always thought of himself as nothing more than an enforcer. A paid thug that was very good at his job. He knew how to find people with the intention of keeping them safe or sending them to the next life. Come to find out, he was actually a Catenate, a rare offshoot from the Marshals who could track anything, be they living, dead or something in between. And it was this very skill that led him down those streets where he met his destiny.

  With a slow and deep inhale, he banished the memories and reached for the metal fragment. The sharp edges cut into his palm, the pain centering him. He closed his eyes and blew out a controlled stream of air. A wispy trail sparked to life along the tracks. He stayed focused and still while Viktor sprang to his feet, dashing after the faint pathway. The scene was hours old and the lingering source energy was fading fast. His ribs tightened, squeezing each and every drop of air from his lungs to keep the connection visible to his friend. Spots began to swim behind his closed lids, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his brow as he waited for good news from Viktor.

  “Fucking hell. Lost ’em.”

  Bastian’s hand hit the rough stones hard, sheer will alone keeping him from ending up on the ground. Too late. They were too late to find anything truly helpful.

  He was still muttering curses as Viktor stalked back, his head shaking in dark frustration. “They grabbed a boat and headed back across the Lake. And you know what that means.”

  Bastian growled the end to that statement. “Yes, I know. Dammit all. Don’t they have enough shit to keep them busy in Detroit?” He took Viktor’s outstretched hand, rising to his feet as he slapped at the cold muck clinging to his knees. “It’s gotta be that fucktard’s crew. He’s the only cocksucker this close who’s that fucking driven.”

  Pieter Bekker had descended from Dutch settlers who colonized South Africa around the time of the first Boer War and it was there that the Rogue first sensed his love of pain and torment. Bastian narrowed his eyes, straining to see across the black waters and past the ground separating him from his enemy. Though he could not see him with his gaze, his mind conjured a perfect image without much effort. From the close-cropped hair to the ridiculous tattoos that covered most of his body, the man bucked the system with every breath.

  Tonight was just another in a long line of taunting “Fuck yous” from the smug asshole. Bastian sneered as impotent rage seethed under his skin. Nothing more could be done for now. They had found the trail and knew its terminus. The police lights pulsed, the red and blue reflecting off the ice slicked steel, shadows shifting and dancing. Voices bled in from the crime scene beyond the silent boxcars.

  He tipped his chin in the vague direction of the murmuring voices. “You want to do the honors, Vik?”

  A suspicious smirk met Bastian’s eyes. “You that eager to get back to her? Or are you still going to tell me that she’s nothing?”

  He turned away, his distant gaze fixed on a point deep in the heart of the city. Was he really going to drive right back to that seedy club?

  In a New York fucking minute.

  With a rolling laugh that grated on his raw nerves, his friend clasped him on the shoulder, the knowing grin broadening as the blonde hair bobbed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go on. I’ll catch a ride back from one of the officers. If anything new crops up, I’ll give you a shout. Just remember, don’t hide from the truth, lillebror. Embrace your fate.”

  Bastian growled, but the corners of his mouth seemed to have other plans for his sentiment. “What fortune cookie did you get that crap from, Vik?” The chuckle bubbling up from his chest mirrored the warm laugh of his friend. “‘Embrace your fate.’ You really need to stop reading all those touchy-feely romances. Might need to revoke your man card for that.”

  Viktor’s laughter still rang in his ears over the crunching of the gravel at his feet as Bastian slide back behind the wheel.

  “So says the man about to dash back to save the damsel in distress.”

  Bastian waved one finger toward the rear view mirror at his friend’s last message as the tires bit into the ground, spitting stones into the dark at his back and the nose of the metal beast raced toward the highway. Sans a vocal copilot, he sped along the now-deserted roads, the return path glowing bright in his mind
. Yet, alone with his own company, he discovered every thought did indeed center on his beautiful query.

  Miranda. The waitress had said her name was Miranda. His eyes drifted shut as he tasted the word on his lips.

  “Miranda.”

  The engine revved as he urged the car closer to the angelic face that burned behind his closed lids. Opening his eyes, he smiled wolfishly, driving toward the distant moonlit spires.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Kyle, you have got to be kidding me.”

  Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose, praying this new headache wouldn’t ruin the rest of her night. The final song had wrapped about five minutes ago, and she was eager to put this night behind her. The only bright moment, the smoldering topaz eyes of a handsome stranger, had vanished hours ago, leaving her only with her imagination to fill in the standard blanks. As she stared at the dingy tiled floor beneath her scuffed stilettos, a picture of those haunting eyes bubbled to the surface. He was pure predator and pure male. She could feel it even from her safe distance on the stage.

  Perhaps Kyle might even have been the reason for his appearance and just as quick disappearance. The image faltered and then it too vanished. She dropped her shoulders as her gaze drifted over to her younger brother, the words continuing to trip from his tongue in a river of rationalizations.

  “It was a sure thing, sis. They were up by ten points in the rankings and there was no way the other team was gonna cover…” With a tired wave of her hand, he stopped mid-thought, jaw hanging agape. In the momentary silence, she toed off the torturous foot-binding devices she was forced to endure each night.

  “Stop. Please, just stop.”

  Once again at her normal medium height, she focused on the prickling sensations in her tired feet. Unsure if she was going to keep her mounting anger in check, she pushed away from the counter top, pacing the narrow confines of the pantry in the hopes that some distance might help cool her temper and kick start her brain. She managed to make it past the stacks of flour sacks before she threw in the towel.

  “Kyle? What were you thinking?” She spun back to face him, arms tossed up in useless frustration. “A sure thing? It was ‘a sure thing’ that got us into the mess we’re in now. Kyle, there is no such thing as ‘a sure thing.’” Cold metal pressed against her hip as she clung to the countertop’s curved lip. Unsure if she was going to be able to hold her emotions in check until she was in the privacy of her rented room above the club, she forced the stale air through her nose, exhaling slowly as her head drifted back.

  The random dots on the ceiling tiles didn’t spell out any mystical answers. Hell, she couldn’t even make out the odd dog or smiley face anywhere. Still, the explanations tumbled from her brother.

  She wanted to blame him. She wanted to blame someone. All her life, she was taught to be the responsible one. After her mother decided that motherhood just wasn’t her thing when Kyle was eight, she was forced to step into the role during her freshman year of high school. At fourteen, she had a full-time job, moving her way from bagger to grocery clerk at the Jewel-Osco in her Arlington Heights neighborhood, while caring for her ailing father and still managing to maintain a 4.25 GPA, apply to several Ivy League colleges and graduate second in her class.

  Yet, it seemed her fierce dedication to rules and reaching for higher standards did not filter down to her younger brother. Even before their mother left, Miranda had pulled his ass out of the fire after some shortcut scheme of his blew up in his face. Their parents found his “Tom Sawyer-esque” shenanigans as nothing more than a young boy’s pranks, but Miranda saw the dismal truth. The shirking of chores as he pawned off his duties to anyone else fool enough to listen to him painted a pattern that ended with his expulsion from school so many times, she actually knew more principals and guidance counselors than most parents.

  Through it all, even after her father passed, she’d hoped he would grow up and shoulder some of the responsibilities. Leaving her friends and her training at Columbia had been hard enough, but returning to the same store she swore she would never step foot into ever again was a far bigger blow to her self-esteem. It only took a few weeks of watching the bills pile higher for her to realize one job would not cut it. She began giving voice lessons to the students from her alma mater and continued to beg Kyle to find a source of steady income.

  Six months after the funeral, Kyle came home reporting of a real job he had been offered. She had been so overjoyed by the prospect of additional income and overwhelmed by working two jobs to keep the roof over their heads that she neglected to get all the details. One short month later, the nitty-gritty of his “real job” came to light: running numbers for Slick Sal. All too soon, disaster reared its ugly head when Sal’s thugs came knocking at their door. After that, any dream of a normal life for her was shattered.

  “Andy? C’mon, sis. Talk to—”

  “No, Kyle.” Her head snapped over to him, her eyes glistening with tears she would fight tooth and nail not to shed. “You don’t get to just ‘C’mon, Andy’ me on this one. Dammit all.” Another heavy sigh pulled her shoulders down, and she swallowed hard before asking the question she dreaded. “How much?”

  Her brother fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It’s not as bad as you think…” Her icy glare stopped the next round of lame avoidances. His gaze hit the floor, his dirty blonde locks curtaining his face as he mumbled in answer. “It’s only twenty G’s, but it’s—”

  “Twenty thousand dollars?” She began to pace the narrow confines in earnest. With that much money at stake, she would enslaved to Slick Sal until she was eighty. But the fear that truly chilled her blood went beyond the number of years she would be indentured. It was the stark realization of how she would be spending those years.

  “Hey, girlie? Everything OK there?”

  She unclenched her jaw as the concerned words of her bass player drew her back to her surroundings. Swallowing past the bile rising, she forced her lips to curve upward and urged her voice out of neutral. She nodded as she looked in Eddie’s general direction, unable to hold his penetrating gaze.

  “Yeah, Eddie. I’m fine. Just…just family stuff.”

  The thick black eyebrows pulled together in hesitant disbelief, the smirk on his face telling the same story. She remained strong, reaching to the counter at her back to steady her trembling hands. According to her band mates, her poker face was better than her brother’s. She could only hope for Eddie to overlook the guilt that shadowed Kyle’s baby blues.

  “All right, girlie. You go home and rest those pipes, OK?” He nodded to her before stepping back through the kitchen’s back exit, letting in a needed blast of icy air. The cold shocked her emotions back under her control as well as reminded her that she was still in her flimsy stage costume.

  “Thank you, Eddie. See you tomorrow.”

  And tomorrow and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that one.

  She turned to face her brother. As he stood across from her, hands shoved in his pockets, she flashed to the young boy she remembered walking home from yet another meeting with yet another principal. He would scuff the ground as they made their way to the tiny one bedroom apartment, apologizing by placing the blame on some other kid.

  She shook her head, sighing with a bone-weary exhaustion that had begun to wrap itself around her soul. As she reached down to retrieve her shoes, she pulled on her emotions, tucking them safely back inside her own Fortress of Solitude. By the time she was upright, the smile on her face didn’t hurt.

  “Look, Kyle, it’s late. I’m tired, my feet are killing me and I really want to get out of this hairpiece. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.” Her hand opened fast, stopping the eager and enthusiastic response on the tip of his tongue. “Just promise me, no more betting tonight, all right? I just need a couple hours to think this thing through.”

  As quick as a wink, that small boy was back as he threw his arms around her in breath-stealing bear hug.

  “Sis,
you’re the best. And no more betting, I promise.” He released her then planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll hang with the guys tonight to give you some space.” He let her go so fast she nearly toppled off her bare feet.

  She shot him a look as he dashed up the three stairs leading out of the pantry and back to the dining room door. Another moment to gather her thoughts and she pointed her feet toward the same exit. His blonde head popped back through the doorway, a heartfelt smile lifting his lips.

  “We’ll be OK, Andy. Don’t worry, OK?”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him just how far from OK they were. But she knew. Deep down inside, she knew that she would be the one paying for this latest fiasco. Her only hope was that she wouldn’t need to lose her soul in an attempt to keep her only remaining family together.

  With a tired wave of her hand and an equally tired smile, she ambled down the hall toward her broom closet of a changing room, digging out the bobby pins holding the second head of hair atop her own throbbing melon. By the time she reached the flimsy door, she had managed to retrieve all but two of the evil little buggers. One good yank later and the blonde bouffant rested in her hand, the creature returning to its dormant state until tomorrow night. She tossed the coif onto the narrow vanity, not caring whether or not it stayed on the worn white Formica countertop as she plopped heavily onto the battered tripod stool.

  Her mind spun in dangerous circles as she sleepwalked through her routine. Her fingers dug into her damp and matted, deep auburn waves, massaging her scalp to revive the thick, shoulder-length curls from their enforced slumber. Eyelashes were peeled off and stuck onto the edge of the dingy mirror, one of the two flickering bulbs out for the count while the remaining six held onto the light as best as they could. Three make-up remover wipes later and she could look at her reflection. Lingering smears of the thick foundation continued to vanish with each swipe of the fourth, and most importantly the last, make-up remover of the night.