Mind Tamer, page 22
How easily it could have gone the other way, if not for dumb luck. And Lyssa’s brilliance.
His unworthiness struck him, burning hottest in his chest.
Kyros shielded the sinking defeat and grief washing him in waves of shame. She felt triumphant and inspired, and he didn’t want to frighten her.
“Well, Batman. What’s next?”
“Home. Shower. Bed.”
“I thought you wanted to cash in your bet?”
Oh. Their appointment with his hot tub and the polka-dot bikini he’d wanted to see for himself. That seemed like ages ago, when it didn’t feel inappropriate for him to want her. Gamóto, he wasn’t even fit to be her bodyguard.
Gýrna píso se ména, her voice whispered in his head. Come back to me, she begged. He shouldn’t be surprised to find her breaking into his mind. He didn’t even feel it anymore. She was sobered by his despair and even understood his thoughts, which he realized had been in Greek.
No privacy. Now he knew what it felt like to be an open book.
I need you, Kyros. Please come back from there, you’re scaring me.
He grimaced, unwilling to confess his failure in detail.
Did I miss something important? Are we in danger? What aren’t you telling me?
No, always, and too much.
Her bewilderment became anger, and the hand that had been massaging his shoulder turned to a fist, which she pounded into his deltoid, stunning the axillary nerve where a bayonet wound had never healed properly. He ignored the icy chorus of nerve pain and tried to understand what she needed. In her thoughts he heard insecurity and deflated spirits. She saw him as a sort of superhero and was spooked by him feeling vulnerable and defeated. She needed him to show strength.
And she was right. Of course.
Kyros, please be happy with me. You trained me well, and it worked. What I saw back there was teamwork. I want to be hopeful, but hearing you freak out is making me wonder if we don’t have what it takes.
He nodded, feeling humbled. The rookie was right. If it had been anyone other than Lyssa fighting by his side, he’d agree with her assessment. A truth flashed in his mind, and he confessed it without thinking it over.
I hated seeing you in danger. I can’t handle it. I love you, Lyssa—I can’t bear the thought of losing you. It was too close. She stared back, then her image blurred as his eyes watered. He blinked back tears and watched the road.
She needed him to be a hero, and he would deliver. But he’d have to go back on his promise to let her fight. She wasn’t going anywhere near Merodach.
Chapter Seventeen
I pay no attention whatsoever to anybody’s praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings.
— Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1756–1791
Lyssa Vassalos. She was trying it on for size. Dr. and Dr. Vassalos—now that was catchy. Or just Mrs. Vassalos… Wow. Maybe she could get used to it.
Lady Naxos, Kyros corrected, and Lyssa didn’t get it at first. Oh—he meant a title; Kyros was a Greek noble. Overwhelming, how much she still needed to learn about him.
Kyros kept his fingers twined in hers as he stepped through the garage door into the house. He reached for a light switch, then went completely still at the sound of high-pitched whistling. She halted alongside him, and Dr. Hyatt nearly ran into her back—Kyros wrenched his hand from hers and the lights burst on, seemingly of their own accord.
An explosion of motion so swift she could barely follow it: Kyros darted sideways and snatched a missile out of the air with one hand, flipped it around, and returned it with a lightning-fast cock and release of his forearm. It was a spear or javelin, now vibrating with an ominous twang, pegged into a partially opened door down the hall. Kyros had seemed to move in fast forward, even faster than on the racquetball court.
Before she could blink again, Kyros shouted, “Jack! Not now!”
He moved to stand in front of her, arms out at his sides in a catlike crouch, his body motionless but strung as tightly as a bow. Ready to fight, it seemed.
The most outrageous teenage male Lyssa had ever laid eyes on came barreling toward Kyros: six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, his rapid footfall shaking the walls and rattling the light fixtures. Kyros raised a hand in a claw shape, and abruptly the youth froze mid-motion. Apparently it was involuntary, as his eyes widened then narrowed, his face flushing red with rage.
“I mean it, Jack,” Kyros growled. “Cut it out, you little punk.”
There was nothing little about Jack, but he seemed obedient if not contrite. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m in a bad way, bro. Something’s spookin’ me out, and then your text… No action here, though.” He stretched his arms, flexing sinewy and impossibly plump muscles as he jumped up and down. Jack finally did a double take at Kyros’s gore-spattered guests.
“Lyssa, this is Jack MacGunn, my right-hand man. As you no doubt observed, he is a juggernaut, or berserker, of sorts.” He added silently, Aggression is a problem for him. He’s in constant need of expending energy, yet his body is wired to cycle spent energy into fuel, so he’s never satisfied. Drives me crazy. The comment was more fond than grudging.
Jack cocked his head with a jerky motion that made him appear like an overgrown fox, his cropped bronze hair reinforcing the idea. He probably escaped from the set of Braveheart, or Beowulf, or something; he had a fierce, wild look. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen and was rather handsome, in a fae warrior sort of way—at least Lyssa could only guess so, since he didn’t hold still long enough for her to get a good look. Now he rolled his shoulders and bounced on the balls of his feet.
Kyros seemed untroubled by it. “Jack, at long last meet Lyssa Logan.” Jack nodded his head as he jogged in place. His eyes got wider as Kyros took Lyssa’s hand again and tucked her under his shoulder. “She is now mistress of this house and my lady, and I expect her to be treated as such.”
That made Jack pause. He blew his breath out in a gust. Lyssa noticed she couldn’t hear his thoughts. Was he an extra-sentient, shielding his mind? Apparently he was shocked by Kyros’s announcement. “No, seriously, Kyros? You stole her from Cowboy Man? No way!” He tried to fist-bump Kyros, who shot Jack a look of death. Undaunted, Jack looked Lyssa over, making her wish she wasn’t covered in gray matter and blood. Again.
Jack gave a long wolf-whistle but leveled a shrewd stare at her. “Kyros told me, but I can’t believe…” Lyssa felt a curious prodding on the outskirts of her mind, like a poke on the shoulder, and she pushed back, probably harder than necessary. Jack jumped back with a hiss and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“You have no idea, Jack. Beware,” Kyros threatened, and Lyssa could see he wasn’t being playful.
Am I that scary?
Yes, love, you are. And I give you permission to teach Jack a lesson if necessary, Kyros replied so that Jack could hear too.
“Whoa. Yeah, okay, so I’ll stay out. No problem.” Jack winked at Lyssa and resumed his nervous pacing. “The old bachelor, back in the saddle…” He shook his head then bounced his eyebrows suggestively.
“Kyros?” came a silky female voice, and Lyssa looked past Jack to see the incarnation of Diana the huntress making her way down a spiral staircase beyond the open space of the ground floor. Nearly as tall and dark as Kyros, already willowy and graceful at age sixteen or seventeen, the girl was gorgeous enough that 99 percent of the female population undoubtedly hated her. She wore white silk pajamas, which Jack noticed immediately. He seemed to flush then averted his eyes.
“I was in the middle of a lab. Why did Jack pull me out if there’s—” She froze, locking eyes with Lyssa. The girl said quietly, “Oh,” then practically waltzed into the room, taking care to bump Jack with her shoulder. She kissed Kyros on the cheek despite the grime crusted there. Lyssa valiantly pinned down her left brow, which was itching to raise itself in question.
Then she saw it, the resemblance. Holy Hera, Miss Goddess here had to be a relative.
Kyros confirmed it. “Lyssa, meet Cassiopeia Noyon. Cassie, Lyssa Logan. Cassie is my, ah…”
“Ninth-great-granddaughter,” Cassiopeia answered, turning shadowy steel-gray eyes and haughty winged brows on Lyssa.
Marvelous—so Lyssa could be a great-great-great-great, etc. step-grandmother? But then, the thought made her wince—hadn’t Kyros’s daughter been killed?
“It’s complicated,” Cassie retorted in a textbook teenager tone of voice. She turned to Kyros, taking in his appearance from head to toe with a curled lip. “Another cockroach?”
Cockroach? Oh. The assassin.
“So, the excrement has struck the ventilation appliance,” Cassie quipped, trading amused glances with Jack, who disguised a bark of laughter with a cough. She seemed satisfied keeping Lyssa out of the inside joke, but Jack explained,
“Kyros is old-fashioned. We’ve been trying to help him not be such a big geek. That was one of his first attempts at slang.”
“I can’t live it down.” Kyros sighed. “Yeah. It’s hit the fan. A brainwashed suicide bomber set as bait in an alley. Lyssa handled him,” he said matter-of-factly, but Cassie looked startled at the news, then studied Lyssa warily.
Why has she taken an instant dislike to me? Lyssa wondered.
She’s a brat, Kyros answered, letting a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Give her time, she’ll warm up. Thankfully it seemed Kyros made it a private conversation, or Cassie wasn’t extra-sentient.
Yes, I am, Cassie’s mental voice intruded, and Lyssa jumped. I know you were talking about me.
Cat darted into the room and Lyssa barely had time to catch her as she leaped into her arms, purring like a chainsaw and writhing shamelessly in a bid to have her head scratched. Lyssa chuckled and rubbed behind her ragged ears, flattered that at least Kyros’s ugly cat was glad to see her.
Cassie seemed even more put out. So the cat will be an issue, too? Lyssa felt Cassie’s mental beckoning, like a phone call dialing, then her voice, So, you are his latest flavor. Kyros has so many women, I can barely keep track of them all. Cassie had spoken privately, and Lyssa made a mental note to learn how to do that.
Lyssa wasn’t sure how to respond. She settled for a neutral stare, then winked at Cassie as though they’d exchanged a private joke. She went back to playing with Cat while Kyros finally introduced Dr. Hyatt, who was justifiably freaked out.
Since both Cassie and Lyssa were here to stay, best not to start off with a catfight. Lyssa understood being a volatile, insecure adolescent. Her entire second decade was rocky. Case in point: the flaming phoenix tattoo rebellion. It had gotten her out of the foster home she’d hated.
Kyros sent Jack to call an “agent” to relocate Dr. Hyatt’s family. Then Kyros leaned in and wrapped a hand around her waist. “Thanks for meeting everyone like this.” He reached with his other hand and rubbed Cat’s throat. “Where’s Anne?” Cassie shrugged. He looked around, down to the kitchen. “I wanted you to meet Anne, our housekeeper, before we go upstairs and shower.”
Heat flamed her cheeks at his wording.
The look on Cassie’s face was worth a million dollars.
“Tomorrow, I suppose. I’ll fetch your luggage.” Kyros looked sternly at Cassie. “Cass, please take Lyssa to the upstairs master suite.” Lyssa saw her eyes snap with dark fire as she no doubt argued with him on that cool private-channel thing. Kyros twisted his head in challenge as he stared back, and Cassie acquiesced with an exasperated sigh, making it clear she felt put out.
The crash of shattering glass turned every head toward the kitchen.
“Laila?” spoke a matronly woman, standing in the doorway with her mouth agape a moment before she covered it with a shaky hand. Shards of what had been a porcelain bowl and scraps of lettuce lay scattered at her feet. “Oh, Laila! How can it be…” she trailed, tears welling in her eyes as she took a hesitant step forward.
Lyssa’s heart skipped a beat. The woman could only be speaking to her; they’d locked eyes. She shook her head. “Lyssa,” she corrected. “I’m Lyssa Logan. Sorry, you must mean someone else.”
At the sound of her voice, the woman gasped, and a tear rolled down her face. Then the woman seemed to have a revelation. “Sam Logan. Oh, thank God he found you! Where is he?”
Now it was Lyssa’s turn to gasp. How did this woman know her adoptive father?
“Anne, what is the meaning of all this?” Kyros asked gently, beckoning for her to come forward. “Lyssa, now you finally get to meet Anne. She’s been my friend a long time, and she can’t help being a mother hen, so she also keeps the house.” Jack had apparently returned from making the phone call, because she heard him snickering. Kyros added, “Jack would say she’s our resident domestic goddess…”
Lyssa was barely listening; her head reeled. Something tugged at the furthermost edge of her memory, in a spot that was always blurry on the rare occasion she tried to examine it.
Anne surprised Lyssa by ignoring Kyros altogether and placing her hands gently on either side of Lyssa’s face, the way one would handle a fragile artifact or a newborn baby. Anne whispered, “You look so much like her.” She brushed back a lock of hair from Lyssa’s eyebrow and turned her face to examine it from an angle. “More so than I even dared hope.”
“Who?” Lyssa whispered back, her heart pounding in her throat. She feared the answer, knowing it had to do with what had been shielded in the back of Sam Logan’s mind and buried deep in her own. The hidden spots were dark and painful, and Sam had asked her not to tamper, for both their sakes. So long since she’d even thought about it…
“Oh, your mother, of course. Laila Artiga.” Her face fell. “Then you didn’t know her.”
Lyssa could only blink. How was it possible? “No one knows who my parents were. Sam Logan adopted me from Massachusetts Social Services when I was a baby, and that was—”
“Forty-five years ago. Almost forty-six.” She smiled. “Happy birthday…next month, right? I remember Laila was due in June, but she disappeared in March. What can you tell me about it, Lyssa?”
“Nothing at all, apparently.” Lyssa didn’t realize she needed to sit until Kyros helped her into a chair. Her knees gave out. “You knew Sam?”
Anne blinked then wrung her hands. Kyros got her a chair too. “Yes, I know Sam Logan quite well. He was wounded in Vietnam and sent to the convent where Laila and I taught school. There was a secret Spanish medical corps stationed there, and we helped hide the soldiers. Those two had quite a romance. Where is he?”
Lyssa said, “He disappeared when I was twelve.” Decades of suppressed grief threatened to rear its ugly head. Not now.
“Sam Logan is…was your mother’s boyfriend.” Anne wrung her hands. “But not your father.”
Lyssa’s lips quit working; she felt numb from the neck up. She looked around, finally aware of clutching Kyros’s arm so tightly he would probably lose a limb. Everyone else had left them in privacy.
“Then who was?” After thinking herself some dysfunctional freak all her life, supposing she’d been abandoned not once but twice because she was abnormal, now it seemed there was another tale.
The apology in Anne’s eyes was more sincere than any sympathy she could have spoken. “I don’t know, dear.” She shook her head, but Lyssa heard it in her thoughts anyway. Laila was raped.
Kyros swore under his breath, and she felt him go still.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Many truths clicked into place at once, her knowledge and intuition weaving a tapestry that rendered itself complete in mere seconds. At that moment Lyssa hated being an extra-sentient for how quickly her brain pieced together all the pertinent information and delivered the conclusion before she could handle it.
It hit like a tidal wave, stealing her breath. She refused to turn it over in her mind, tried to shove it away. Nearly simultaneously she heard Kyros’s mind following the same thought pathways and arriving at the same hypothesis; it might have been comical if she didn’t feel like impaling herself on the nearest blunt object.
Vaguely she recognized Kyros speaking to her, his arms tight around her, but her mind screamed, OVERLOAD! And more swiftly than it had ever happened before, her mind slid into chaos, a macabre carnival of blaring, distorted images in black and red. Images she didn’t know were locked away in the back of her mind flashed before her eyes. Faces, sounds, smells—she couldn’t escape the deluge. They flipped faster and faster, then strobed in violent pulses. A murderous scream rose from the bottom of her lungs, climbing up her throat with spiked cleats. Her blood pounded so noisily in her ears it drowned all external sound.
What was that hammering at her head? It poked at the side, then tried to sneak through the bottom, then rammed at the front. She fought back with a frantic shove as she released the scream from her throat, but it didn’t relieve the pressure building in her head. What was that obscene, barbaric shrieking sound hurting her ears? It was the antithesis of all melody—
Interruption. Relief, like cool water on her burned tongue:
Què li darem, an el Noi de la Mare?
Què li darem que li sàpiga bo?
It dissolved the chaos in her head. The innocent, lilting melody soothed her pulse back into its normal rhythm.
Jo li voldria donar una manta
Que l’abrigués ara que fa tant fred.
She knew this. How? Her academic brain told her it was sixteenth-century folk Romance, but her heart already sang along. Lyssa opened her eyes to find herself all but making out with the leg of a chair. She lifted her face away and pried her fingers from the wood spindle one by one, forcing herself to take slow, measured breaths.
It was Anne singing, and Lyssa translated the lyrics without effort. It was a folk Christmas carol. By all accounts she should have no clue what it was, but she could’ve easily supplied the next line, Una cançó jo també cantaria, I might also sing a song. Anne stopped, giving Lyssa a weak smile of relief, then nodded, indicating Lyssa should look to her right.
