Narrowing his gaze, Aidan studied him carefully.
"Here's the thing, though," Connor continued, too impatient to try explaining feelings he didn't understand. "The roundtrip isn't without its consequences. The Medium is destroyed on the return."
Aidan stilled. "Destroyed?"
"Killed. Murdered. Game over."
"Fuck."
"Pretty much. So it's not as if we can promise a temporary assignment."
There was a long pause, then, "Thank you."
The two words were spoken with such feeling that Connor was taken aback. "For what?"
"For giving up your home for me. Shit…"
Aidan's eyes reddened and Connor panicked. "Hey! Don't get excited, man. It's okay."
"No. It's not. It's awesome. I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything," Conner said hastily.
Lyssa entered from the living room and Connor almost kissed her with relief. "Umm… Coffee," she crooned. She sported a damp ponytail, clean clothes, and smelled like apples. Dressed in a dark pink velour jogging suit, she looked revived and beautiful. She found the cup Aidan had prepared for her and lifted to her tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth. "Thank you, baby," she whispered.
Connor, grateful for the opportunity, slipped away to change and get ready for the monumental task ahead.
Chapter 8
For a man once lauded for his honor, Michael Sheron's present life filled with lies and treason was an end even he could not have foreseen. The shadowy beings they called Nightmares were nothing compared to the nightmare of deceit he dealt with daily.
As his body flew through air across the distance between the rebellion headquarters and the Temple of the Elders, Michael surveyed the beauty of the landscape rushing by beneath him. Rolling, grass-covered hills. Lush valleys with roaring rivers. Magnificent waterfalls.
All a carefully crafted stage to stave off discontent.
It saddened him that he had come to disdain the paradise he expended great effort to maintain, but the perfection of their surroundings was as evanescent as the dreams his people guarded. Beneath the façade lay a foundation firmly mired in untruths. But only the Elders and the rebels knew this. The majority of Guardians were happy here and they would remain that way, if they were kept ignorant of the uprising.
That deception was his most pressing task, and it grew more difficult by the day. Captain Aidan Cross was a warrior of legend, his mere presence enough to make the other Guardians feel safe and secure. Cross's disappearance was beginning to cause undue speculation and now the loss of Bruce would compound the problem.
They were the two most visible and acclaimed members of the Elite Warriors and lifelong best friends. The Guardians wouldn't understand why two men so fiercely loyal to their people would betray them so brutally. Their desertion would raise questions regarding what had so disillusioned them, and the option-to make them villains-was not one Michael wanted to utilize. He thought it best to keep both men in the good graces of the masses. Hero worship was a powerful emotion, and it could be a useful tool in the future. History was filled with tales of great feats accomplished by invoking the memory of a beloved figure.
The gleaming white Temple came into view and Michael slowed his airborne glide, drifting into a vertical position and then lowering gently to his feet. He paused a moment to pull up the cowl all the Elders used to hide their emaciated features from public view. He'd once been a handsome man. Ages ago. The loss of physical beauty, however, was a small price to pay to achieve his aims.
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."