Page 3 of Salvation
“I’m not their stooge either, yet here I am,” Graig said. “The recovery effort on Terr continues—”
“I know!” Nick clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’m doing my part to help.”
Graig quirked one ruddy eyebrow at him. “What do you hide from, Nicholaus Bock?”
He blinked. “As if you don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
What the hell? “I didn’t ask for this…this…Gift, you know that. If I choose not to use it, then no one has the right to say otherwise.”
“Do you have the right to deny those in great need who would benefit from your Gift?”
Well, shit, Graig had just played the humanity card.
“Tell me where you’d be, whereallof us would be, if your sister had run away from her destiny.”
And now the guilt card. “Obviously, Alex is a much better person than I am.”
“No, she’s just not a selfish child.”
Ooh. Low blow. But what was wrong with trying to recapture normal? To be the person he’d been before his Gift had awakened in that wide field somewhere in the highest elevations of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. His work here in New L.A. had given him the autonomy he’d craved. And it was helpful, sort of.
“The request also comes from Dante,” Graig added quietly.
Nick’s breath caught in his throat. The Matiran healer was only fourteen years his senior, but had been mentor, brother, and father to him in his hour of need. Not to mention his magister in the healing arts. Without that guidance, he would have been lost, his Gift potentially out of control. Scary thought: a rogue Healer. It’d happened before. Not in his life time, but he’d read accounts of Healers who’d used their Gift to play God, deciding who lived or died based on their whim. Even worse were the ones who’d turned mercenary, hiring out their Gift to governments or other groups. A shudder ran down his spine. Matirans could control the known universe, but their social structure kept a tight rein on its people. Is that why they were calling him back now? Were they afraid he’d go rogue? Nick loosened his fists, his gaze drawn down to his hands.
“Your desertion was one hell of a blow to him, Nick.” Graig appeared perfectly relaxed, but Nick couldn’t help but flinch at the underlying steel threaded through the softly spoken words. There was no denying the truth of that statement.
Unbidden, the memory of Dante’s grim expression the day Nick had resigned his position at the New Damon Beach infirmary surfaced. But, hell, everyone in the family knew how he felt about his “talent.” It’d be unfair for them to expect more from him than he could give.
He flattened his palms over the cushioned back of the recliner and leaned forward. “What do they want from me?”
Graig shrugged his shoulders. “That is information I’m not privy to.”
Nick gave a dry laugh. “Sure.”
“It’s highly sensitive intelligence, that’s all I can confirm.”
“My work here is important, too.”
“To the emotional psyche of your people, yes.” Graig sighed. “Tell me, what would happen to your colleagues if you weren’t there? Would the project die?”
Of course it wouldn’t. The group of twenty-nine musically inclined and dedicated people would continue to work until the project was complete. The foundation of that argument was eroding almost faster than he could think.
Graig’s rugged features softened. “Your people need you more in your capacity as a healer right now,ropo.” My friend.
That was the strategically placed final nail in the proverbial coffin. “Shit.” He slumped his shoulders and bowed his head over his arms under the great weight that had settled on him. As much as he wished otherwise, there was only one choice. “When do we leave?”
“In the morning will be fine.” Graig rose from the couch, grabbing the second towel as he moved toward the front door.
He opened the door and gave a sharp whistle. A moment later a drenched form stepped through. The newcomer shed his black rain duster and accepted the dry towel. He was a few inches shorter than Graig, but clearly Terrian. A flicker of recognition flared in Nick’s mind, but no connection was made.
“Nick, you remember LaShawn Butler from Camp One.”
“Bock.” LaShawn nodded as he wiped the towel over his smooth chestnut brown pate. His all black outfit had ‘covert operations field agent’ written all over it.
“Uh, yeah. Been a while, man.” Nick hadn’t seen LaShawn since the reclamation of Terr from the Anferthians. The young man was only a few years older than him, about twenty-eight now, but his upbringing had been rough. It was difficult to reconcile the man standing in the foyer with the corn-rowed gangsta he had been. “What have you been up…wait, never mind. I know who was following me now.”
