Outwardly prepared, Michael stepped through the massive red torii gate the Elders used as a motivator. Its warning engraved in the ancient language— Beware of the Key that turns the Lock—had given the Guardians both a goal and hope, two things required to maintain mental health. If he could keep the knowledge of the coup contained, the message could continue to serve its purpose.
As he crossed the open-air center courtyard, he left a trail of droplets in his wake. His robes were still soaked from his confrontation with Bruce and would have to remain that way for the time being.
He was expected, and punctuality was the best way to stave off unwanted curiosity.
Knowing he was being watched through the vid monitors, Michael kept his movements to a leisurely pace. He paused at the chôzuya. Dipping the waiting ladle into the fountain, he rinsed out his mouth and washed his hands, his gaze sweeping over the center courtyard, a place that brought comfort to most Guardians but felt like a prison to him.
Releasing his breath, he cleared his mind, knowing that a confident and casually arrogant mien would be required to get him through the audience ahead. He had suggested meeting with Bruce, but the events he had set in motion during that discussion were entirely of his own design. It was a complicated dance he engaged in, and a misstep would cost him everything.
Michael crossed the center courtyard and entered the haiden where the other Elders awaited him.
His peers. Or so they called themselves. In truth, there were very few of the many who shared his goals.
The cool interior engulfed him, the room's rounded walls hidden in shadow due to the light that illuminated only the dead center of the space. He came to a halt within that beam and it immediately dimmed, revealing the hooded figures who sat before him in semicircular rows.
"Has Captain Bruce connected with Cross and the Key, Elder Sheron?"
"If he has not done so yet, he will shortly."
The benches above him exploded in a hum of dozens of conversations. Michael waited patiently, his stance wide, his hands clasped at the small of his back. With a toss of his head, his wet cowl was thrown back to better convince the others of his sincerity. No one feigned sincerity as well as he did.
"What do you suggest we do now that Bruce is out of the Twilight?"
"We should send an Elder to lead the team recovering the artifacts."
Discussion swelled again, hundreds of voices competing to be heard over the din.
"Sheron."
He smiled inwardly at the feminine voice. "Yes, Elder Rachel?"
"Who would you send on our behalf?"
"Who would you prefer?"
Rachel stood, pushing her hood back to reveal raven tresses and snapping green eyes. "I will go.
And lead."
"You were exactly who I had in mind," he drawled.
Elder Rachel was a warrior of singular skill who had a rare gift for command, much like Cross and Bruce. Her appearance was also a plus. Only the female
Elders
retained
their
youthful
attractiveness. She would not be as conspicuous as the men would be.
"Captain Cross will have difficulty facing a woman opponent," he said. "That is an advantage we will need."
"And Bruce?" someone questioned. "I still do not understand how his presence in the mortal realm helps us in any way."
"Each of them is immovable alone. Together, they are fluid. They lean on each other. They have more to lose when they know their actions affect the other one. They will become more firmly rooted in the mortal plane. They will venture farther, experience more, take bigger risks than they would have apart."
"It will take too long!" someone complained.
Michael sighed inwardly. "If we hope to have the Dreamer conceive a Guardian sired child, we will need to give them time. They are poised on a knife's edge and until they feel secure enough in their future together, they won't chance pregnancy. Regardless, the gestational period for a human female cannot be changed."
"But she is not like other humans."
"Which creates even more questions," he argued.
"We cannot rush this. We must be patient and allow the pieces of the puzzle to fall where they may."
Discussion ensued and lasted for hours. It was always this way. The Guardian community was resistant to change by nature. Michael often thought it was a fortuitous circumstance that they were immortal. Otherwise, they would never have the lifespan required to accomplish any task.
In the end, however, he achieved his aims.
"Elder Rachel, you will begin preparations?" an Elder asked. "The acclimation to the human world will not be easy and working against Captain Cross will test you."
Her lush mouth curved, but the smile wasn't reflected in her hard green eyes. "I will be ready."
"It is decided then," the Elder said, speaking for the collective. "We will proceed to the next chapter."
Stacey finished packing up her stuff and took one last look around Lyssa's guest bedroom to make sure she didn't forget anything.
It was going to suck going home to an empty house, but there was no reason to stay and she really didn't want to. The vibe would be too weird now that Lyssa and Aidan knew she'd been intimate with Connor. Besides, Connor was here on business. Knowing how singularly focused Aidan was about his antiquities, they'd probably want to get started right away. She had things to do, too, so…
Slinging one strap of her backpack over her shoulder, Stacey headed downstairs.
She was surprised to find Connor alone. He was seated at the dining table, gingerly cleaning some dirt-encrusted object. A black T-shirt stretched to its limits over his broad shoulders and his long legs were encased in loose-fitting faded jeans.
"Hi," she said, as she passed him on her way to fetching her purse from the top of the breakfast bar. "Where's Aidan and Lyssa?"
"They went to sleep. Apparently, they drove all night and they're wiped out."
Stacey turned to face him. He watched her with those aqua blue eyes that seemed so knowing.
As if he'd seen and done more than was possible for a man of his years. He couldn't be more than thirty-five, she'd guess, but he had the stamina and energy of a man half that age, as she knew firsthand.
She shook her head. "I was hoping they'd enjoy some time off. They both work too damn hard."
"Where are you going?" he asked softly, his eyes on her baby pink and black Roxy backpack.
She would never have purchased such an extravagance for herself. A five dollar backpack from Wal-Mart would do the same job. But Lyssa had noted her admiring it in the store and bought it as a gift. Because of that, it was one of her favorite "luxury" items.
"Home. I have some things to do."
"Like what?"
"Stuff. The house needs cleaning. I can rarely get to it when Justin's home. And the front step on my porch is rotted. My neighbor said he'd take a look at it for me, so I'll see if today works for him or not."
Connor set the object in his hands down and pushed back from the table in a dangerously graceful movement. For as big as he was, he moved like a panther. Sleek and stealthy. "I can fix it for you."
She blinked up at him, her head tilted back slightly to take in his height. Even from a few feet away, she had to raise her eye level to look at him.
"Why?"
"Why would he fix it for you?" he countered.
Stacey frowned. "Because he's a nice guy."
"I'm a nice guy."
"You're busy." And gorgeous. Dear god, he was luscious. Black was his color, for sure. She'd noted that yesterday when he arrived. It accentuated his golden skin and hair to perfection. The slightly too-long locks, T-shirt, jeans, and black combat boots made a heady bad boy combination. The mental picture of him in her house did strange things to her equilibrium.
"I need to strategize," he said. "I can do that anywhere."
"Fixing a broken step is boring."
"Your neighbor doesn't think so."
"He likes my homemade apple pie."
Connor crossed his arms over his chest. "I like apple pie."
"It's really not a good idea…"
"Sure it is," he insisted, with a stubborn bent to his jaw line that she found endearing. "I'm great at fixing porches."
She should say no. Really. She knew he was hoping that a quick repair would lead to some sexual gratitude. Thing of it was, she was worried he might be right to hope. She'd spent the entire length of her shower wondering what it would be like to make love to him with time on her side.
Without rushing through it.
Hazardous thoughts.
"I think we should just say good-bye now," she said.
"Chicken."
Her mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
Connor tucked his hands in his arm pits, flapped his arms up and down, and made squawking noises.
"Oh my god," she muttered. "That's so childish."
"Whatever. You're scared to take me with you because you like me too much."
"I do not."
"Liar."
She set her hands on her hips and asked, "Why do all men regress to being big babies when they don't get what they want?"
He stuck his tongue out at her.
Stacey bit her lower lip and looked away quickly.
He laughed, a full-bodied guffaw of pure joy.
She choked while trying to keep from joining him.
"Come on. Enough of this nonsense." He rounded the dining table and took her backpack from her.
The grin he gifted her with made her tummy flip.
"I promise to behave."
"But I'm so irresistible," she drawled wryly.
"I know."
The intimate timbre to his brogue arrested her and kept her staring at him long after she should have looked away. His gaze was warm and possessive, slightly hungry. She was asking for trouble with a capital "T" by taking him home with her. Letting him play man of the house for the afternoon. Allowing him to imprint himself on her home.