Liz finally fell asleep. Zeke couldn’t. Uncertainty continued to eat at him, growing as the minutes ticked by. Given how his belly was now growling, coupled with his increasing hunger, he figured it had to be well past sunrise. Not only time for breakfast, but answers.
As gently as he could, Zeke eased away from Liz. Her hand fell to the mattress. She sighed deeply but didn’t wake up.
He left the bed, repeatedly glancing over to check on her as he grabbed a fresh tee and jeans from one of the nightstands. While he dressed, snatches of his vision returned. Blood clinging to the blade of a knife. A woman’s hand holding—brandishing it?
Zeke padded to the bed. He studied Liz’s hands, trying to match them with the remembered image in his mind. The skin color might be the same, but the nails were wrong. He couldn’t figure it out until he recalled seeing a glimpse of the thumb. The nail was dark. Polished? With what color? A deep red? Black?
His memory refused to give up more details on the matter, while another disturbed him.
Who was the young man dressed in denim, his clothing coated with dust? Did he know the woman with the switchblade? What did they have to do with anything that had already happened or would?
Before Liz had come into his life, Zeke’s visions had never shown him what might happen to someone he loved. He’d had no warning about Gabrielle’s murder or any when Jacob had been wounded that first time. The fucking visions revealed only possible attacks on Zeke, or what would occur to his enemies, people he hated. Now, though…
He’d seen what was supposed to have happened to Jacob last night and had prevented it. Barely. He hadn’t even come close to saving Liz.
Agitated, Zeke backed up to the door, his attention never leaving her. Liz’s chest rose and fell with her quiet, untroubled breathing. Zeke hated to leave her, a part of him feared it even without any warning vision, but there was no choice.
In the hall, he debated where to go first, deciding on Jacob’s room.
Empty. Bullet holes marred the limestone walls, the nightstands and door from when Carreon’s men had been in here. Frowning, Zeke hurried to the lower level, the communal dining area. Heavenly aromas of freshly brewed coffee, bacon, ham, apple-cinnamon muffins filled the enormous room. Several of the young women and older men ate in groups.
A few weeks ago, they would have given him a welcoming smile or called out in greeting. Not today. They stared as if he were the Ghost of Christmas Future, come to do them harm, or to invite them to the meeting he’d promised them last night, which he’d offered only to settle things down. As if they already knew that, they shut him out and focused on their meals.
At a table near the back, Jacob sat alone, his coffee cup stalled a few inches from his mouth. His attention flitted from Zeke to the others, their cool reception.
Zeke joined his brother. “How’s your leg?”
Jacob put his cup on the table. It make a small clacking sound that seemed too loud, given the sudden silence in here, the suspended conversations. “Fine. No problems.”
“And the jaw?”
A nasty bruise had blossomed on the side of his face. During the battle with Carreon’s men, Zeke had slugged Jacob to keep him from being foolishly brave, getting himself shot again, then killed just as Zeke’s vision had shown. Jacob had taken the first bullet while trying to protect Kele.
He’d been prepared to die last night. Just as he had weeks earlier when he’d put himself in harm’s way, saving Zeke from an ambush by Carreon’s men. An event not forewarned by any vision. Those pricks had nearly killed Jacob and ultimately caused Zeke to kidnap Liz and bring her here to heal him.
Zeke’s head spun with the unintended consequences of that act—some of them being very good, some not so much.
Jacob gave him an uncharacteristically sheepish shrug as though he felt responsible for the bad crap. “I’ll live.”
“That was the point—the reason I hit you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Not expecting such an agreeable response, Zeke wondered what was up with his brother but didn’t have time to get into it now. He pulled out a chair and sat, then leaned closer so they could speak without anyone overhearing. “Is Dr. Munez up yet?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“What room is he in?”
“Bartholomew’s.”
A pang of sorrow twisted Zeke’s gut. Bartholomew had been one of the men who’d rescued Zeke and Liz from Carreon’s stronghold but never made it out. Rather than ending up a prisoner, tortured into revealing anything about their clan, Bartholomew had turned his gun on himself.
“He was a good man,” Jacob said.
“The best.” Zeke cleared his throat to steady his voice. “I need to speak to Liz’s father. While I do, I want you to keep an eye on her. Bring her some fresh clothes. Make certain she gets something to eat.”
Jacob’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and more than a little apprehension. Before last night’s battle, he and Zeke had argued about Liz. Jacob wanted Zeke to share her. He’d refused, telling his younger brother that she was his, always would be.
Clearly, Jacob had finally gotten the message. But why? All of his life, Jacob had competed with Zeke as though he needed to prove he was as good, worthy, whatever.
Zeke knew Jacob was and had tried to tell him that repeatedly. Jacob had never listened. Had never believed. What had caused the change in him now?
He stabbed his fork into his scrambled eggs, focusing on them, not Zeke. “Are you afraid Kele, Isabel or one of the other women might say something pissy to Liz if they take her that stuff?”
“No.” At least that wasn’t his greatest worry. “She’ll accept it more easily if you bring it. Liz trusts you. Does Kele ever wear nail polish?”
Jacob stopped playing with his food. “What?”
“Nail polish. Does she ever wear it?” Was it her hand Zeke had seen in his vision? Had her jealousy returned over Jacob wanting Liz, or had it never left? Oh shit, was it Liz’s blood on the knife’s—
Kele had risked her life last night against Carreon’s men, no different from Zeke and Jacob. Hours before, she’d stood with them against the rest of the clan. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, no matter how much she wanted his brother. If Zeke ever allowed himself to believe anything different, she’d have to leave the clan. And go where? How far would she get before Carreon’s men took her down?
“I don’t recall,” Jacob said.
It took Zeke a minute to catch up. When he did, he frowned. “You’ve slept with Kele for years and you don’t know if she ever paints her nails?”
“No, I don’t,” he shot back, a bit of his usual defiance returning. “What’s it matter anyway?”
Zeke didn’t want to get into it. “Where’s she now?”
Jacob lifted his fork, pointing it toward the business end of the kitchen.
Craning his neck, Zeke saw Kele helping the other ladies with the food preparation, Isabel included. None of them was speaking or looked particularly happy. He leaned forward a bit farther to see if he could make out Kele’s nails. Unfortunately, he couldn’t.
“What are you doing?” Jacob asked.
“Nothing.” Zeke leaned back in his seat. As long as Kele was scrambling eggs, she couldn’t do any harm. There were knives in the kitchen, sure. However, none of them was the switchblade he’d seen in his vision. Recalling it allowed him to relax, crazy as that seemed. “Keep an eye on Liz. I don’t want her healing anyone. Those times when I’m not around, make certain she doesn’t.”
“Why?” He screwed up his face. “She’s a healer.”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is. I need to speak to her father about it.”
“Why?” Jacob’s expression changed, mirroring Zeke’s concern. He leaned closer and whispered, “What the hell happened while you two were gone?”
