Beyond the Darkness

Beyond the Darkness

Jaime Rush

Dedication

Dedicated to the Wainscotts and the Newtons, and to R.J., the beautiful young man who gave his life for his country.

Also dedicated to my awesome team of Rushkies:

Virginia Cantrell, Kelli Jo Calvert, Tina Wampler, Nadine Bentivegna, Melanie Thomas, Paula McDonald, Cynthia Hatfield-Garcia, Marissa Montano, Carmen Rexford, Christina Greenawalt, Chris Jones, Stephanie Russell, Tammy Pruitt, Sharon Mostyn, and Ali E. Flores.

Thanks for spreading the love!

And to Kris Gilson and Regina Ross, two wonderful readers at Sue Grimshaw’s Romance blog.

To My Readers:

If you’ve read my previous books, welcome back to the Offspring series! If you’re picking up one of my books for the first time, this is the fifth book in the pulse-pounding series that started with
A Perfect Darkness
and continued with
Out of the Darkness
,
Touching Darkness
and
Burning Darkness
. Fear not! You’ll get caught right up with what’s going on, like jumping on a moving train. This book isn’t directly tied into the story arc of the first three books. And I predict that you’ll want to go back and read the rest of the books so you can experience all the excitement you’ve missed.

Cheers,

Jaime Rush

Contents

Chapter 1

P
etra Aruda leaned back and surveyed the woman in front of her with a critical eye. “You are so going to knock ’em dead.”

Sharla jumped out of the chair in the little cubby and surveyed herself in the mirror. “This is like one of those makeover shows. I’m amazing.” She gestured to the outfit Petra had chosen, a professional suit and skirt from the adjoining thrift store. “You’re amazing!”

Petra smiled as she finished jotting down makeup and skin care tips. “I enjoy it.” Actually, she loved it. She handed the paper to Sharla and smoothed a stray lock of her hair.

Katy Perry’s “Firework” trilled from Petra’s big, plum bag.

“Go ahead, take that. Wish me luck with the interview!” Sharla gave her a quick hug and zipped off.

“You won’t need luck! That job is yours.” Petra pulled out her purple rhinestone phone; she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

A man’s low, smooth voice said, “Petra?”

Her breath hitched for a second before she realized it wasn’t
him
. “Yes?”

“It’s Pope.”

Pope. It took a moment to register. She’d only met him once, but the man had gone against the rules to save her and the lives of those she cared most about. They hadn’t heard from him in three months, since he’d gone home to face the consequences—a home that happened to be in a parallel dimension.

“You’re back? And all right?” she asked.

“I’m back.” He didn’t answer the second question. “Eric gave me your number. I need to meet with you as soon as possible.”

Her heart plunged, taking her breath with it.
Not again. No more running for my life, getting shot at.
“There’s not . . . we’re not . . .” She couldn’t even utter the words
in
danger again
.

Post traumatic stress disorder had filled her dreams with nightmares and her days with paranoia. She couldn’t even go to a therapist. Like he wouldn’t escort her to the psych ward after she told him tales of being hunted by a Rogue CIA officer out to either use or kill her and her friends for their psychic abilities.

“Everything is fine,” Pope said in his deadpan voice.

“No, it’s not. Otherwise you wouldn’t need to meet as soon as possible. That means urgent, and urgent means life-threatening. We’re never going to be safe, are we? Every time we think it’s over—”

“It’s about Cheveyo.”

Hearing his name halted her panicky flow of words. “Cheveyo?” She hadn’t said his name in two months, when her friends stopped asking if she’d heard from him. Now the name slid over her tongue like honey, thick and sticky.

“I need an introduction. I’ll explain more when I see you. Meet me for lunch, a noisy place where we can talk.” Without being overheard.
Oh, boy.

“Cleo’s Café, in downtown Annapolis.” She gave him the general location on Main Street, a touristy area by the harbor.

“I’ll find it. See you in a few minutes.”

Her throat tightened as she looked for the supervisor. The Women’s Center for Independence helped those who were out of work and needed a makeover, job skills, and more importantly, self-confidence. She volunteered her time and skills as often as classes allowed.

“I’ve got a family issue,” she told the woman in the office. “I’ll try to get back before my afternoon class.”

Why did Pope want to talk with her about Cheveyo? What was going on? The questions buzzed and crackled in her chest like a lightbulb about to burn out. She got into her bright yellow VW bug with its yellow silk flower in the holder, happy face charm dangling from her rearview mirror, everything bright and shiny to cover up those six weeks of Hell with a capital H.

Yeah, how’s that working for you?

The fact that hearing Cheveyo’s name twisted her all up inside said it all. He’d held her body against his, whispering in her ear, his hand tight on her waist. And that was their first meeting. He’d been locking her down to keep her from bolting, hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream. He’d come on business, to bring them someone who needed their help, but there was nothing businesslike about the way her body came to life against his, how
she’d
come to life when his gaze met hers. He’d known her in an intimate way, known her fears, her idiosyncrasies. She’d felt every bit of the psychic connection he claimed they had.

She was in full fidget mode by the time she walked into the noisy seafood restaurant that overlooked the docks. The seaside-ish decor fit its waterfront location, with tables that looked like weathered wood, and crab traps around the lights over each table. Tacky quaint, but the food rocked. The scent of fried calamari and fresh-squeezed lemon didn’t begin to tweak her appetite now, though. All she wanted was water to moisten her dry mouth.

She spotted Pope sitting at a table near the window. Her gaze was drawn to him as though he’d mentally flagged her down. Maybe he had. He stood as she approached the table, and people glanced over. At six-foot-five, with a shaved head and dramatic, defined features, Pope was striking. He seemed to either ignore or not notice the attention he got. He held out her chair and waited for her to get situated before retaking his seat across from her.

“You’re back in one piece,” she said, taking a sip of water from the glass on the table. “Does that mean things went well over there?”

Please, please let things have gone well.

He shook his head and opened his mouth to answer when the waitress arrived with a chirpy greeting. He ordered iced tea; she ordered a latte, glad for the waitress to depart so she could hear more. Her brother, Eric, had pretty much squashed her nervous habit of cracking her knuckles, but she’d picked up a new one: braiding her hair.

Pope leaned forward on his elbows, long fingers clasped together. “I stood before the C—the Collaborate—and had to explain why I used my deadly powers. Though we can’t communicate when I’m in this dimension, my power usage is something they can track. They didn’t believe me when I told them the truth, and they sensed my deception when I didn’t.”

Dread trickled through her veins like the slow drip of ice water at the thought of his facing the panel of leaders who resembled a powerful United Nations. “What did they do?”

“Neutralized my deadly abilities and scheduled a SCANE.” His light violet eyes gave no clue as to the stress he’d gone through.

“A SCANE? That sounds freaky-scary. What is it?”

“A laser that probes your brain to extract your memories and knowledge. Unfortunately, the beam burns the tissues as it does so.”

“But . . . you’d be brain damaged.”

He nodded. “It’s better when the recipient dies.”

“That’s barbaric. How did you escape?”

“I called in a favor from a comrade. Now I am a Scarlett.”

Only then did she see a flicker of emotion, perhaps disappointment or shame. “An outlaw.” She’d gotten the sense that he’d been a highly regarded officer for the Collaborate. Her hand went to her chest. “You saved our lives but put your own in danger. I’m sorry.”

“I can live with that. Or . . . not.” His mouth lifted at the corner in a smile tinged with resolve. “I do not regret my actions, so there is no reason for you to feel bad.”

“Mostly I’m just grateful. But you’re here, away from all that horribleness. You’re now a permanent resident of our dimension. You need a life.” Her gaze dropped to his shirt: boring, white cotton business attire. “And style advice.”

“I need more than that, as you astutely surmised from our earlier conversation.”

Her smile faded. “I was hoping advice was what you needed so badly. And maybe you just wanted to meet Cheveyo out of curiosity. It’s all part of my bright shiny plan.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind.” She released a long breath. “Hit me. I mean, tell me what’s going on.”

“One of my roles while I worked as a Shine—an agent—for the C was Extractor. When a Shine went Scarlett and slipped through to this dimension, I brought him or her back. Or killed them if I couldn’t. Now an Extractor has been sent for me. He is relentless, powerful, and ruthless. Apprehending me is preferable to killing me, as the C wants information. But killing me is the backup option. I have known him for many years. He used to come here illegally on independent business before he joined the C.”

It seemed surreal, talking about lobotomies and hunters while all around people chatted and laughed about celebrity gossip or their baby’s latest accomplishment.

The waitress brought their drinks, setting them on place mats that looked like fishnets. Petra hardly looked at her steaming mug. “Nothing else for me.”

The waitress looked at Pope, who waved away any order he might have as well.

When she left, Petra leaned forward. “You need our help to get rid of this guy? Because we will. We owe you big-time.” She pushed out those words like boulders from her throat. The ground shifted, threatening the tenuous hold she had on “normal.”

He smiled. “You are brave, pretty one.”

A laugh erupted. “Maybe with the rest of my peeps. But we can’t include Amy, ’cause she’s preggers. Or Lucas, because she’s going to need him.” She picked up her mug and lifted it to her mouth.

“I just need one of you. Cheveyo. I’ve heard you have a connection to him.”

“You talked to Eric.”

“Something about you being gooey and dewy whenever you saw Cheveyo. Can you explain this? Eric only laughed when I asked.”

“He teased me because my eyes looked dewy, which means . . . Never mind that.” She rolled her eyes. “Eric, who gave everybody a hard time about falling in love while we were in danger and then fell the hardest.” The worst part was, she’d been the only one who wanted love, and now she was the only one who didn’t have it.

Pope pressed a long finger against his mouth, regarding her with curiosity. “I’m getting anger from you.”

“You can sense my feelings?”

“Since ours have been bred out of us over recent generations, they are much more apparent in humans. Like a loud sound in a quiet marsh.”

She forced a smile. “It’s not anger, only frustration.” She waved it away and planted her elbows on the table. “I saw Cheveyo twice. Yeah, maybe I was a little gooey and dewy, but that’s only because he’s mysterious and sexy, and he saved my life. One of the enemy who could mind-control got into my head and made me start the car in the garage so I’d kill myself.” She shuddered, still smelling the carbon dioxide. “Cheveyo swept in and got me out of the garage, breathed fresh air into me, breathing life into me.” She shuddered again, this time for a totally different reason. His mouth on hers, his urgently whispered words, begging her to come back to him. “After I revived, he kissed me and the whole world spun on its axis.” The memory still gripped her, just as it did every time she thought about the damned kiss, which was hardly ever.

When he saved her life, she’d hugged him, thanked him.

“I didn’t do you a
favor
,” he’d said.
“
If you died . . .” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, but the fear of that thought was clear in his voice and expression. She’d seen his desire, too, when she pleaded with him to stay with her, and seen pain when he said, “I wish I could. You don’t know how hard it is to stay away from you.”

She squashed the way that made her feel. He had reasons for staying away, and she had accepted that. Well, pretty much.

“When two people kiss like that, it means something,” she told Pope. “Three months have passed since the danger’s been over and not even a lousy call.” Okay, it hurt. She thought she’d shored herself better. “I’m not gooey and dewy anymore.” She latched onto her braid again, unraveling it. “I’m so over him.”

“I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not.”

“It’s a good thing. I no longer kick my couch or punch pillows.” She gave him a forced smile because she’d said too much. “I’ve moved on. I’m taking a college program on esthetics, which is skin care and such. I have a date tonight with a guy who hopefully can’t do amazing, crazy things with his mind, who hasn’t killed anyone or been hunted by the government.” She released a breath. “A nice, normal guy.”

“A date: a social interaction with sexual motivation.” He nodded.

“Wow, way to take the romance out of it. What’d you do, study our dimension?”

“Yes, we take extensive training to learn your ways. Our world is much like yours, but human emotions and social interactions are very different. So you have no troublesome feelings for Cheveyo?”

“None whatsoever. Just a lingering frustration, and only because I never found out why he couldn’t contact me. It’s like when you date someone once or twice and never hear from him again. You always wonder why.” Had he ever fallen for someone and felt the ache of their loss? “Ever been on a date?”

“I have no desire to engage in that sort of activity, as I see the chaos it creates in humans.”

She snorted. “Probably a good idea.”
Look at me, and Cheveyo and I didn’t even go out on a date.
“I can’t tell you all that much about Cheveyo.”