‘Kira is out of control. I told you a long time ago the girl needed to be put into rehab.’ Disapproval fell hard and sharp. Rossiter had been a longtime friend of her father’s and shared his inability to conceal emotions. Positive or otherwise.
‘And you were right. But this is hardly the moment to discuss my sister’s shortcomings.’
‘Do the Syranians know of Azrael’s absence? I haven’t heard any alarms being raised.’
‘No. They are unaware.’ Blake rose to her feet and braced against the table as the room spun. ‘And I wish to keep it that way for now. They are preoccupied. I believe there is still time to return Azrael before they are even unaware he is missing. I want you to go to the pub and retrieve Perry. If he lives…’ Her voice caught on the words, and she cleared her throat. ‘If he lives, there is a rural hospital where I have a contact. I can make it worth their while to treat him with the utmost discretion. The hospital is desperate for new equipment, I understand.’
‘Blake, do you think Perry is still alive?’
‘It seems unlikely.’ She swallowed against a parched throat. In an ironic twist, the Waters plagued her with a dreadful thirst on occasion. She strode to the bottom of the stairs, pausing there, contemplating her chances of walking to the top without displaying obvious signs of fatigue.
‘This will destroy her.’ Rossiter’s deep voice seemed to fill the space.
Blake frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Your sister, Blake. Kira. I think Perry is the only true damn friend she’s got. And this is her fault. Her stupid mistake.’ He lowered his eyes, and his next word was barely audible. ‘Again.’
The handrail bit into Blake’s thigh, her full body weight against it. All the heat drained from her and she shivered. ‘Nothing can be done about that right now. Please go. Take one of the helicopters. Get to Perry before anyone else does.’
Rossiter strode past her on the steps without another word. Leaving her alone in the basement. When he reached the front door upstairs, he slammed it hard enough to rattle the windows.
Blake made her cautious way to the top of the stairs, taking it slow across the kitchen, into the hall and up another flight of stairs to her bedroom. Vertigo plagued her every step of the way. And just when she thought herself safe, seated on the edge of her bed the contents of her stomach pushed up against the back of her throat. Zigzagging, she made it to the bathroom but failed to reach the toilet. The floor and her clothing suffered for it.
Twenty minutes later she headed back downstairs, snail’s pace, skin damp from her shower, face reddened by the heat of the water. The peach cotton blouse she’d pulled on needed laundering, but it was closest to hand and she didn’t have the energy to give a damn. Her black linen pants were awash with creases and hung around her hips.
Reaching the lounge room, her attention went straight to her mobile phone resting on the coffee table. No flashes of light to indicate the bodyguard had anything important to relay. She was far too eager. Chances were he’d only just lifted off. The doorbell announced a visitor and Blake jumped. She made her way to the front door, pulse racing at a ludicrous speed. Rossiter would not use the bell. She jabbed at the monitor by the side of the door, and a little of the panic subsided.
Blake pulled the door open.
‘Cym, how can I help you?’
The tall Syranian nodded in greeting. High cheekbones shadowed by the porch light, and accentuated by the short cut of his hair. The only one of the Syrana who chose to cut the length of his hair into a more traditional human style. Short back and sides. ‘Blake, I thought I might have a moment of your time. There is something I’d like to discuss . . .’ His shaped, dark eyebrows furrowed. ‘You have been unwell?’
A blush warmed her cheeks. The Syranians’ sense of smell was remarkable, and humiliating. ‘No more than usual.’
Fatigue and anxiety gave her words a harshness Cym did not deserve. She had worked closely with the Syranians from the day of their extraterrestrial arrival. Though he was a medic essentially, his limited knowledge of engineering had proved far more important when only a fraction of the Syranian fleet had survived the journey to Earth. As Blake assumed her place as Technician, in the absence of those sent for the task, Cym had been at her side. And he’d not hesitated to conceal her declining health from those, namely the captain, who would view it less favourably and see it as an opportunity to remove ‘human interference’ altogether.
‘I’m sorry, please, come in.’
She stepped aside, and he entered the room. His movement always reminded her of the loping gait of a giraffe. Clumsy and yet impossibly elegant at the same time.
‘I have been developing the treatment for you.’ Brown contact lenses hid his white eyes, giving his gaze a warmth that was absent in reality. ‘The last dosage was promising. This I believe, may bring further relief. I must warn you, there could be side effects –’
‘I don’t care.’ Blake held out her hand. ‘I’m assuming you have them with
