Parallel Heat

Table of Contents

 

‘‘A fantastic and riveting new voice in paranormal fiction.’’

—Karen Marie Moning,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Spell of the Highlander

 
‘‘At times humorous, at others heart-wrenching, but always compelling. Deidre Knight offers readers a fresh, wonderfully creative glimpse at the complexity of human decisions. What a page-turner!’’

—Gena Showalter, author of
Awaken Me Darkly

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, October 2006

Copyright © Deidre Knight, 2006
All rights reserved

Scripture taken from the New Century Version®. Copyright © 2005 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

eISBN : 978-0-451-21965-7

 
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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To my three angels—Samatha Jenkins, Julie Ramsey, and Elaine Spencer. You make every workday a blast, and you always have my back. This one’s dedicated to you!

Love,
Charlie

There are many wonderful people who helped as I wrote this book. First and foremost I want to thank my amazing and talented literary agent, Pamela Harty of the Knight Agency. Her skill, expertise, and support contributed greatly to making this book truly shine.

Also, megathanks to my support staff within the Knight Agency office. You’re all angels and keep me together day after day: All my gratitude to Samatha Jenkins, Julie Ramsey, and Elaine Spencer. You’ve done a fabulous job learning the intricate workings of agency life! And to my fellow agent and friend, Nephele Tempest: You rock the West Coast!

And heartfelt thanks go especially to my husband, Judson Knight, for listening to my endless speculations on story lines and for making it possible for me to pursue all my dreams. My daughters, Tyler Knight and Riley Knight, make every day sparkle and are my truest inspiration. Mommy loves you both very, very much!

To the fabulous NAL publishing staff—Kara Welsh, Claire Zion and Anne Bohner—thank you for your faith in me and in this series, and for publishing it so well.

My gratitude goes out to fellow authors Susan Grant and Merline Lovelace for assisting with the daunting problem of writing about F. E. Warren Air Force Base. Merline’s gracious sharing of her photographs proved invaluable!

Angela Zoltners, as always, is my touchstone. I love you girlfriend! Thanks for always listening, reading, and helping me stay on track.

Kathy Baker, as always, you’re a gem, and thank you for all your support! I appreciate you very much.

Vickie Denny helped tremendously with my online presence. Big warm hug and thanks to you!

To Whitney Lee: Not only are you a special friend, but your belief in me has meant the world. Thanks for all your hard work on foreign rights for this series.

Nancy Berland and her team have put all their muscle behind this series and behind me as an author, and I will never forget all that you’ve done! Big warm hugs and thanks to Nancy Berland, Elizabeth Middaugh, Deanne York, Kim Miller, Carol Smith, Linda Leonard, and Susan Avary.

Research was a bedrock of writing this book because I had to tackle many subjects that I was unfamiliar with. For contributing their knowledge and expertise, I’d like to thank a number of people. First FBI special agent Norman Scott and FBI special agent Monique Kelso, who met with me in Wyoming (Monique drove a long way for that dinner!). Without your insights, this book would be far less authentic. FBI language specialist Monica Alvarez, your willingness to discuss the language specialist profession contributed directly to the character of Hope Harper—huge thanks!

To Rich and Janice Ramsey, thank you for supporting me so whleheartedly—whether in research or signings or sharing your multitalented daughter. Big thanks!

To everyone at Lockheed who assisted me by showing me the ins and outs of high-tech and furturistic aviation, my heartfelt gratitude. So far, not all that much of that powerful research has made it into the series, but stay tuned until next week! My thanks to Bret Luedke (F22 Chief Test Pilot), Keith Bilyeu (F22 Business Development) J. R. Reynolds (Senior Manager for Security and Emergency Services), Rich Ramsey (Senior Manager of Marietta Facilities), and Janet McBride (Facilities Site Lead Administrative Assistant).

And last, but certainly not least, once again a giant smooch and hug to my longstanding e-group of writing women: Kath, Tas, Mel, Nephele, Micha, Blanca, Anne, Tara, Bennie, Crystal, Stacey, and Angela. You guys helped me find the way through to living my dream!

 
—Ecclesiastes 3:15

 
VERSE TEN, LATENT TEXT: Mating cycles shall be AVOIDED, not embraced, as to engage in the heat is considered a debasing of all that is lovely and pure in the Refarian mating rituals. This principle aside, should the mating fever be requisite for CONCEPTION—if the male is only fertile, or at his RICHEST fertility during a cycle—then the heated mates shall find no shame at their predicament. Our ancients cycleced for centuries, enduring the untenable seasons as a means of siring offspring. Let us not be shamed by the NEEDS of procreation; however, let us embrace a higher state of mind unless we are given no alternative.

 
Certain rumors exist in regards to the D’Aravni and D’Ashani and D’Alari houses, that these high-blooded Refarian royals are given to deep, torturous mating calls. VERSE TEN shall be a noted exception for these lines (or any lifebound to them) who, because of breeding or temperament of blood, find their cycles UNAVOIDABLE.

 
SIDE TEXT ADDENDUM: A word about INTERSPECIES cycling: when Refarian emissaries first explored Outer Worlds in hundreds of years past, it was discovered that non-heated species reacted with particular VERVE to our race’s mating calls. Should an INTERSPECIES UNION be contemplated in such circumstances, take heed and proceed with utmost caution—consider this, our love rites advisory!

Prologue

 
There weren’t many places a dead man could go if he hoped to survive; at least that’s how Marco had always regarded the matter. Back on Refaria as a boy, in the midst of warfare and revolution, he’d learned that soldiers who embraced the afterlife had an uncanny way of finding it. Right now, he wished he could lock in on some eternal, mystic wormhole that would shoot him straight out on the other side of his current hell.

He was literally in the middle of nowhere, hunkered down in the back corner of some dive on Highway 189, the perfect geographic location for him after everything tonight.
He
was nowhere; nameless; lost. He didn’t even know which bar he’d landed in, only that there were a half-dozen pool tables and a haze of cigarette smoke shrouding the place. And beer . . . racks and racks of beer, and Marco didn’t give a damn about his protector’s vows, not now, not tonight. He was going to get drunk and free-fall into a painless state of oblivion if it was the last thing that he did.

His waitress returned, her low halter top revealing a small butterfly on her right breast, and slid yet another bottle of Heineken across the scuffed wooden table toward him. He nodded mutely at the woman before staring down at his swarthy hands. He’d already lost count of how many bottles he’d tossed back since his arrival, and the cut on his forehead still hurt like hell, but that hardly mattered. Taking another heavy swig of beer, he felt the world around him grow even hazier— the dark bar was so cloaked in cigarette smoke, that he could hardly tell if it was the effect of the alcohol on his system or just the cloud hanging over the place. His eyes burned, and for a moment he closed them, feeling the world swim woozily all about him.

Yes, let me forget,
he thought.
In All’s name, just let me forget tonight.

Throughout the barroom, rough wooden picnic tables were positioned, little more than graceless constructions of two-by-fours slapped together at haphazard angles—as if the working-class regulars who populated the place required nothing more than basic stalls for their drinking pleasure. In fact, Marco had been lucky, managing to land one of the only real booths in the joint, and even then, the garish red leather beneath him was ripped and cracked, at least ten years past its prime.