Chapter One
Death was an inconvenience that Blue could have done without, and if it hadn't been for the two highly moral individuals breathing down his neck, he probably would have pretended amnesia and simply ignored the news. After all, he was practically an invalid, newly awakened from a coma. Barely out of the bomb-blasted woods. He had an excuse. And for Christ's sake, if his father was dead, there really wasn't much that Blue could do about it now.
No such luck, though. Three days later, Blue found himself bundled onto a commercial airliner, flying solo to San Francisco. He was the only person seated in the First Class Cabin - not a surprise, knowing Dela and her freewheeling credit card - but Blue did find it rather disconcerting to discover that the flight crew had been given ... instructions ... on how to handle him.
As in, with kid gloves. Which meant that for fourteen hours straight, Blue found himself under the carefully pressed and brightly smiling care of three women, who - though he objected strenuously - showered him with books, magazines, hot towels, a private DVD player - and one very large box of chocolate chip cookies that resembled, in the most vague way possible, large and bloated zoo animals. Blue felt like a stinking rich twelve year old being sent on his first airplane ride. Only thing missing was a tour of the cockpit and a pair of those little plastic wings. If kids even got those anymore. Airlines were turning into cheap bastards.
More unfortunate than all of the unwanted attention, however, was the fact that the flight gave Blue a lot of time to think. As in, about all the different ways he was fucked till Sunday. Going home to his father's funeral was just the icing on the cake. And so very convenient.
Convenient enough that he briefly considered the possibility of a conspiracy between his mother and Roland. Something - anything - to keep Blue from running away to continue his - now fruitless - hunt for Santoso and the core leaders of his organization. His mother, God bless her, was capable of such deception, and Roland - well, he was a master at games of manipulation, especially for good causes.
Like keeping his people alive.
Because Dirk & Steele is a family, Blue thought, hearing the echo of Dela's voice inside his head. All we have are each other.
Misfits, outcasts - even some pillars of the community - hiding in plain sight, brought together by an uncommon bond formed by nothing more than the odd genetic quirk - and an unbending devotion to helping others. Living lives less ordinary - off the beaten path inside another world where telepaths and telekinetics and honest-to-God shape-shifters rubbed elbows with the mundane. Secret lives standing in line at the grocery store, at the gas station, sitting on the toilet in the stall next door, flying in an airplane - this freaking airplane - concentrating the entire time to prevent an accident, a short in the system, one tiny glitch that might send everyone down in a massive ball of flames -
Breathe, Blue told himself, gripping the arms of his seat. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax. Just ... relax. Your mind knows what to do. This is nothing. Nothing.
Yeah, and there was nothing like thinking about nothing to make a person fixate utterly and completely on something.
He was so screwed.
And yet, halfway into the flight, with the lights turned down low, he finally began to relax. His shields felt strong, solid and tight, and though he could feel the hum of power surrounding him like a cocoon, it did not rattle his bones or buzz his tongue. Everything was quiet inside his head. Safe and very still.
And feeling very safe, and very still, he began to think, again, of Santoso Rahardjo. As well as the woman who worked for him.
Blue's gut ached, as did his ribs and right leg. His knee popped when he straightened it. His left hand was weak. The backs of his eyes felt odd, which coincided with the occasional bout of stars bursting in his vision. No complaints, though. He was still walking, talking, and if he had his way, he would be doing more than that in no time. Because even though Dela and Roland had assured him that someone was going to take over his investigation - that all his work ferreting out the hierarchy of body parts and money would not go to waste - Blue was not going to be satisfied until he was back in the game, danger or no danger.
You're a control freak. A micro-manager. Trust your friends. They know how to do their jobs.
And if they got hurt? Better him than them. Besides, it seemed to Blue that despite his miraculous survival, there was still a big fat target painted on his head. And sooner or later, someone - probably that blonde - would come and finish the job.
Stop it, he told himself, digging into the box beside him for a cookie. Focus on now. What you have to do when you get home.
Which was all very simple. Heal up, take care of his mother - if she would let him - and attend a funeral where no one would know his name.
Easy as pie.
Or not. Because soon after landing in San Francisco and hobbling through customs, Blue encountered a long row of mounted television monitors, all of them tuned to CNN, and it was like watching - in awful visual stereo - one long eulogy. He did not notice at first - was too busy trying to act like he wasn't in pain - but through the chatter and crush of the airport crowd, the background noise crept in. A woman, with a deep pleasant voice. Blue heard her say the words "tragic loss," and "a great man," and then, quite suddenly, there was a name to go with those adjectives, a memorable name, a name Blue knew as well as his own, because it was his own.
Felix Perrineau. Dead at the age of seventy. Heart attack in his sleep.
The lights in the terminal flickered. Blue clamped down hard on his emotions, fighting himself, but it was too late: sparks shot from the ceiling fixtures, the electrical sockets, raining down as people ducked and shouted. Static leapt like baby lightening bolts from the carpet.
Blue said nothing. His hands curled into fists. He closed his eyes.
The lights did not go out.
But a moment later, his cell phone began to ring.
* * *
The call was from a stranger, a man who knew his real name. Blue did not like that, but he agreed to meet the fellow because he also knew his mother's name - and he had a message from her In her native language.
The stranger's Farsi was bad, or maybe that was the cell phone connection, but Blue caught enough and all the worry he felt for his friends transferred in one gut-wrenching second to his mother.
"Sleep," said the man, his voice cracking, his accent poor. "Sleep, my son. I wish that sleep come to your eyes and you'll sleep like a stone in the water."
Words from an ancient lullaby, one that Blue had not heard for years on end. His mother did not sing anymore. She did not speak her language. She did not do anything that reminded her of Kandahar, of Afghanistan. Too much pain. Her sisters had died there.
But if his mother had shared that lullaby with a stranger - a song he knew meant a great deal to her -
Something's wrong, Blue thought, dialing her home number. And it sure as hell isn't grief.
She was not at the house. She was not at the law office, either, and her secretary was no help, confessing only that Mahasti had been gone for the past several days, away on a family emergency.
Some emergency. Blue tried her cell phone. No luck there, either.
Limited options. No time to call in the agency. Damn. What a time for an ambush.
And if it is Santoso involved? If this really was a ruse?
Time for a fight, then. No holds barred. No misguided ethics or hesitation. No tricks or subterfuge, either. Blue gathered up his strength and walked through the airport terminal. He did not try to slip away without being see - or better, wait out the man and follow him. Instead, he marched straight into baggage claim, searching for an older gentleman wearing a blue suit and purple tie.
Blue found him easily, the man standing out like a diamond in the rough of straggling airport humanity. Tall, elegant, and lean - waiting quietly beside carousel one. All easy strength, easy class, good breeding melting from his pores. The man's silver hair was thick and full, his jaw set, his keen eyes a very bright shade of silver. He looked remarkably like Blue's father.
"You're family," Blue said to him, when he was close enough to say anything at all. Introductions on his part, he thought, were completely unnecessary - and somewhat of a relief. Because maybe Santoso wasn't involved, after all, and this was just what it seemed to be - a family matter, overdue and difficult. Nothing Blue needed to kill over. Not yet, anyway.
The man did not smile. "My name is Brandon. I'm here to take you home, Mr. Perrineau."
Mr. Perrineau. Blue could not remember the last time he had been addressed by his given name. He thought, perhaps, never.
"You can call me Blue," he said cautiously. "That's good enough."
"Good enough," Brandon echoed, mouth crooking upward. "If you like. Though I can assure you there's no need to hide from the other. It is your legal name."
"Really." Blue tried not to laugh. "If you spent any time around my father, Brandon, I think you would understand why it would be totally ... inappropriate ... for me to take his name."
"Bygones," murmured the man, and pointed toward the double doors leading out of the airport. "If you don't have any bags ..."
Blue did not. What he did have was a burning desire to go home to his apartment and get his gun.
"Where are we going?" he asked, unmoving. "And why would my mother pass on a message to you, instead of calling me herself? Where is she?"
"At your father's house." Brandon walked slowly backwards, towards the exit behind him. "She is safe, she is healthy, and the only reason she did not call you herself is that she wanted to make a point. Something that would make you ... sit up and listen."
"My mother doesn't need messengers to make me sit up and listen," Blue replied sharply. "Something else is going on here."
"Of course," Brandon said. He turned around and walked through the exit. This time, Blue followed.
* * *
It took them two hours to drive to his father's estate. A rambling drive, over winding roads that curled and curled into the mountains. Blue occasionally caught wild glimpses of the sea, heard the cries of gulls mixing with the rasp of ravens. The air was sweet. Beyond the confines of the Audi, his mind encountered only silence.
Brandon did not talk, nor did Blue encourage him. No energy to waste. His body hurt. He could not stop thinking about his mother. Santoso was there, too, but more distant. For the first time since waking up in Malaysia, Blue was ready to hand the case off to his friends.
"We're close," Brandon finally said. His posture was relaxed, voice easy and deep. The road ahead of them cut through deep forest, shrouded from the sun.
"Are you his brother?" Blue asked, because sitting beside Brandon was like being next to his father, and that was more disconcerting than he wanted to admit. Even more so than the sudden spike of electricity buzzing his brain. Close, yes. Damn close.
"Does it matter?" Brandon replied. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with the family."
Blue pushed his nails into his palms. "I don't believe I ever had a choice. I know my mother didn't."
Brandon said nothing. Merely tapped on the brakes, slowing the car to a crawl until he pulled onto a narrow turn-off that appeared, quite suddenly, on the far side of a massive cedar. Blue glimpsed a blinking red light - some laser sensor set in the ground - and knew that ahead of them, someone had been alerted to their presence.
"This is your first time here," Brandon said.
"Yes," Blue lied.
Brandon glanced at him, and for a moment Blue wondered if he knew the truth. But all he said was, "Your mother arrived several days ago. I promise you, she's safe."
"Safe's not enough," Blue said, unclenching his hands. "She better be healthy, happy, ready to dance the tango - because if she's not any of those things, if my father has hurt her, all of you are fucked and good."
"So little trust?"
"No trust. At all."
Brandon's only response was a grim smile - which Blue did not find comforting in the slightest.
The house looked the same as he remembered; a mansion made of logs, some California dream of rustic wonder that had always caused Blue to speculate how a man like his father - who had a heart as small and hard as a hollow walnut casing - could possibly appreciate, or even want to live, in a place of such wild beauty. The mind boggled.
Men in dark clothing moved along the periphery of the house, deep in the woods. Blue saw some of them with his own eyes, but there were others waiting out of sight. They carried radios, earpieces, tazers; Blue could feel the electrical currents in his head. He thought about shorting them out, but held back. Later, maybe.
Brandon parked the car in front of the house. Blue glimpsed movement behind the windows. He began to open his door, but Brandon caught his arm and said, "Careful now."
Blue stared at his hand. "I thought this was supposed to be safe."
Brandon released him, but his eyes were hard. "For your mother," he said, and Blue could not read the terrible emotion that swept through his face. "But for you? Be careful."
Blue heard the crunch of gravel; Brandon looked away and quickly got out of the car. Blue stared at his back for one brief moment, gave up the question on his lips - and, gritting his teeth, opened up his own door to follow. His knee popped; the entire right side of his body felt stiff. His confinement to the plane - and the car - had not done him any favors. He tried not to hobble.
A security guard stood nearby, rifle in hand, a pistol strapped to his side. Blue thought about shattering the man's eardrum - one high voltage shock from the radio device in his ear would do it - but again, control won out. Caution, being prudent. Timing was everything.
Brandon gestured to Blue, and together, the two of them walked up to the house. The front doors - carved and embedded with stained glass - opened wide as they neared. Inside, shadows, the outline of hard wood furniture. No lights. The curtains were drawn. Blue caught the edge of movement, and a woman stepped into the light.
"Mom," Blue said, and his relief was nothing less than a sucker punch. He forced himself to breathe.
"Felix," she said. Her voice was soft but firm, no sign of fear or weakness. She wore a dark gray gabardine suit, closely tailored to her full figure. Her thick black hair - courtesy of a good dye job - curled in smooth waves to her shoulders, framing a round face that might have been sweet if her eyes had been as soft as her body. Instead, here gaze was black, sharp, narrow - closer to an eagle than a dove - and Blue did not miss the shadows in her gaze, the appearance of a new wrinkle in her forehead.
Mahasti glanced at Brandon. "Did you explain anything to him?"
"Of course not," he replied. "It wasn't my place."
"Not your place," she echoed sarcastically, and shook her head. She held out her hand to Blue. "Come here. Let me look at you. Your employer said there was an accident."
"Mom," he said firmly, ignoring her scrutiny. "What's going on?"
"Your father," she said, and the disgust in her voice was profound. "Your father and his tricks."
"He's dead," Blue said, searching her face. "Tricks are for the living."
Brandon stepped past them and entered the house. The moment he disappeared around the door, Blue moved in close and grabbed his mother's shoulders. She was a short woman; he had to bend over to peer into her eyes.
"We can leave right now," he told her quietly. "Say the word and we're out of here. No one will be able to stop us."
"Ever the optimist," she murmured, looking away. "I am so sorry, Felix. So very sorry. If it was just myself involved, I would never have allowed this to go so far. Would never have agreed to anything. But it is not just me, and I cannot ... I cannot find a way out. Not this time."
"Mom."