Watch her, Nick Carter had told Mark Burton, and sent Mark
into the night after Tayla Garrett--into the sporadically lit Phoenix
park she patrolled this night. Watch her patrol, watch her stalk the
night greenways--a little sideways jog to avoid a loose dog, so casual,
and then all her attention back on the night, on the people within
the park, and only Mark's excellent warding keeping him from her scrutiny.
Watch her. As if Mark had been doing anything but watching
Tayla Garrett since his recent reassignment had them crossing paths in Sentinel
field activity. Not to mention in the Phoenix brevis regional office, in the
hallways. . .in the damned security lot where she sometimes parked a scooter and
sometimes parked a bike. But she'd made it clear enough she still--after all this
time--preferred to keep her distance, and he'd reluctantly, achingly, respected
her wishes. In spite of the restlessness, the aching, and the tendency to offer
her name at intensely inappropriate moments in his personal life. Not that he'd
expected to see that particular date again, anyway.
She'd always done that to him. As an awkward fourteen-year-old, growing
into impossibly long legs, learning to hide her natural speed from the world
and to finesse her cheetah shift, while Mark, a much more mature and worldly
eighteen year old, learned that he was indeed human-bound in shape, regardless
of his parentage and obvious peripheral shifter skills--the physical prowess,
the tracking skills, the prescience. . .
She runs the Phoenix city parks at night, Nick Carter had
told him--Nick, regional adjutant and rarely directly involved in Mark's Sentinel
assignments. "You'll see what I mean--and I need you prepared to deal with
it. You're going to work together on the summit. "
Summit. Fancy word for a meeting with an Atrum Core
snitch, a man whom the local Core sect would no doubt love to identify and eliminate--after a
satisfying round or two of torture.
The Atrum Core. Not nice people. Not from their very prehistoric start,
when the world was barely looking at AD, and the Romans and the Gauls were mixing
it up in so many different ways. The Sentinels were finding their shape-shifting;
the Atrum Core remained ever determined to outpower them any way it could, full
of need and greed and ancient family squabbles. And while the druidic Sentinels
had grown into their calling as protectors of the earth and its inhabitants,
the Roman-sired Atrum Core became entrenched in grabbing power and influence
without scruple or care for the consequences, stealing from the earth and even
from the lifeblood of innocents to create their power-manipulating amulets and
twisted workings.
She runs the Phoenix city parks. Hot damn, she certainly did. Must have been a challenge to dress in the necessary natural materials needed
for taking the change and still look like that. Skirt that short, blouse
that sheer, camisole peeking out low over her perfectly plump breasts. Her hair,
fiery copper, spilled carelessly from a high, loose ponytail, strands of it framing
her face. A saucy little purse dangled off her shoulder, and long, long legs
stretched down to leather flats--incongruous but no detraction at all. No, no,
not the slightest. A living lure, she was.
And a huntress. With all the innate grace of her cheetah form, she
moved across the dark grassy grounds of the east Phoenix park, showing no sign
of whatever Nick Carter thought Mark might see--what he should prepare to
deal with. Nothing but the ever-present thump of wild blood in his veins,
wishing for that which he could never do so he might join the one he might never
have.
Prescience stole his breath. Here. Now. It happens.
Prescience, a gift from his mother's line. And tracking, from his father's
side. Not to mention the Sentinel strength, the uncanny night vision, the superb
hearing. A certain resistance to death. But when it came to the shifting, Mark
was empty. Nothing there to reach for, nothing there to set free.
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