Dark Sight Read online

  Dark Sight

  A Dark Sight Novel #1

  T.G. Ayer

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Skin Deep - A SkinWalker Novel #1 Sample Chapters

  Skin Deep Ch1

  Skin Deep Ch2

  Skin Deep Ch3

  Skin Deep Ch4

  Skin Deep

  Blood Magic - A SoulTracker 1 Sample Chapters

  Blood Magic Ch1

  Blood Magic Ch2

  Blood Magic

  Immortal Bound - Apsara Chronicles #1 Sample Chapters

  Immortal Bound Ch1

  Immortal Bound Ch2

  Immortal Bound

  Also by T.G. Ayer

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  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  When Allegra received the call from Nike Rehab sending her to her latest patient, she went with dour reluctance and not even an iota of impending doom.

  Had the Fates been kind to her, they'd have allowed her a tiny premonition. Maybe even a palpitation or two. Or at the very least, a tiny butterfly's flutter.

  But Allegra got nothing.

  She'd driven past the ancient, and mostly abandoned, temples of Apollo and Athena, and neither had seen fit to provide her with even a little foresight.

  Allegra slammed her sandaled foot on the brakes as she neared the wrought-iron gates guarding her client's mansion, the car making the turn onto the cobbled, elm-lined driveway with a sputter and a hiss.

  Struggling with the clutch on her battered old Branson A Class, she came to a shuddering stop only a few inches from the sentry, who stood stiff-spined and expressionless before the gate.

  Going to have to have a talk with Senator Branson one of these days. Of all the things to leave car production for, the man had chosen airlines. And she'd once thought him one of the smartest minds in the world.

  Allegra pulled the brake, prayed it would hold, and opened the car door. Grabbing her small black leather purse, she looped the strap over her shoulder and alighted.

  After slamming the car door shut and sending a prayer to Apollo that it would remain so, Allegra faced the mansion and smoothed down the front of her pale pink pantsuit. She kept her work attire low-key, but wealthier clients tended to require a classier look, even on the hired help.

  Tossing the long matching organza shawl over her shoulder, she checked that her bland blonde hair was still neatly within the high ponytail on the top of her head. She faced the guard who stood in the already-strong mid-morning sun, even though the row of trees lining the short driveway provided sufficient shade.

  The Breslins were of the level of wealthy where style bordered on the ridiculous. The latest craze, among those blessed with money, was house-staff dressed and treated as slaves had been in ancient times. When Allegra had read the article on the elektroweb, she'd sworn the world was going mad.

  Slavery had been abolished centuries ago, and today the wealthy were bringing it back, even if they were just pretending. Allegra tilted her head to look up at the polished ebony abs of the sentry.

  He wore leather sandals, a pleated red skirt, a pair of bronze armguards that glinted in the bright sunlight, and a bronze helmet topped with a bouquet of blood-red feathers.

  And pointed a very sharp spear at Allegra's left eye.

  The guard glared at her, his expression hard enough to shatter diamonds. "In the name of Darius Breslin, state your business."

  Apollo save me.

  Allegra pasted a smile on her lips. "I have an appointment with Citizen Breslin. I'm Allegra Damascus."

  No response.

  Allegra gave it another try. "His physio. For his torn tendon?”

  She pointed at her left arm, annoyed now with the show-and-tell. They were expecting her, but she still had to jump through hoops to get inside.

  The man's expression didn't change as he shifted the sharp edge of the spear to a slightly less-deadly position.

  At her left boob.

  "Proof of identity."

  Man of few words, huh?

  Allegra dug inside the little bag at her waist and withdrew her Nike Rehab ID badge. She handed it over, and waited, watching his muscles bulge and shift as he examined the plastic card.

  A soft breeze rustled through the trees, ruffling the red plumes on his helmet. It also lifted the hem of his short pleated skirt, revealing an expanse of toned, muscled thigh.

  Allegra averted her eyes.

  At last he gave the card a nod, then handed it back to Allegra before reaching for a button on the fence wall.

  Automatic gates. No surprise.

  Breslin, the handsome darling of international tennis, had won gold at the last Olympic Games. Seriously, the man was deemed so attractive that the Vestal Virgins were clamoring for the Olympic Games Events to return to the ancient rules of compulsory nudity for all participants. His win had garnered him huge support in the New Germanic States, including an advertising deal as the face of Daimler-Benz, the reigning leaders in international automobile manufacturing.

  Cursing Branson, Allegra jumped back into her vehicle and gassed the engine, crossing her fingers and hoping it wouldn't die on her. Allegra thanked the Fates when the heap of metal grumbled its way along the long drive up to the villa.

  The avenue, lined with a row of tall firs on each side, took Allegra up the hill to a classic Greek-style mansion. It resembled a massive temple with gigantic white pillars guarding the front face of the residence.

  Hades would be proud of such excess.

  At least the entrance wasn't bracketed by a second pair of sentries.

  Must be a limit to slave ownership in these parts.

  The old Branson coughed out a cloud of black dust as Allegra brought it to a halt. Allegra frowned as she exited the car as gracefully as she could, and wondered if the car was finally in its death throes.

  It would be an annoyance because automobile-shopping was her pet hate. Reason she'd held onto her first car all this time.

  Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, Allegra grabbed her leather case which contained her oils and cloths, shut the door with a solid thunk and climbed the majestic flight of marble stairs to the double-doored entrance.

  The Breslins had made a determined effort at majesty with the gaggle of expertly-cracked statues of armless, nubile gods, saty
rs and nymphs, the males all well-endowed.

  But the result was nothing less than tacky, and nothing more than fake.

  No judging, Allegra. Keep your mind on the job.

  The door opened and a tall brunette met Allegra's gaze. Honey eyes studied Allegra from head to toe. "You're the physiotherapist?" An arched eyebrow dared Allegra to confirm. Her bearing, and her clothing, said lady-of-the-house.

  Portia Breslin.

  Allegra eyed her short skirt. It ended just above the knee, with generous folds of silky fabric draped loosely from her waist, across her breasts and over her right shoulder.

  "Yes. Allegra Damascus from Nike. If there's a problem, I'm sure the agency will send some oth-”

  Portia raised an imperious hand, silencing Allegra. After a moment in which the skin on her forehead puckered and her lips pursed, she gave a cool nod and spun on her heel.

  The fabric trailing the floor behind her was the only thing gracing her bare back.

  Fashion these days.

  Allegra’s hostess led her deeper into the building, exiting into a square courtyard fringed by apple trees and dotted with stone benches.

  At the center was a pool of clear water that reflected the sunlight like shards of glass. On a cot beside the pool lay the magnificent construction of muscles, limbs and pheromones that was Darius Breslin.

  His skin gleamed a dull gold from baking in the strong Fornia sunshine, and he didn't seem to notice, or care, that he was slowly getting burned.

  Guess you have to suffer for true beauty.

  "Darius, darling. The therapist girl is here."

  Allegra eyed the woman as she crouched beside her husband and gently helped him up. Citizen Portia Breslin, the pretty and very jealous Breslin wife. Some of the gossip mags - not that Allegra read such trash - claimed Darius had a taste for more than just one woman at a time.

  Where there's smoke?

  As Portia leaned over, the fabric slipped off her shoulder and dropped to her waist, exposing her from neck to navel. Neither blushing nor blinking, she tossed the fabric back over her shoulder and lifted her chin to give Allegra a nod.

  Maybe being flashed will be the highlight of my day. Please let it be so.

  Allegra stepped around the cot and came face-to-face with Breslin, and was surprised to be unaffected by his stunning manliness.

  Just as well, since he was a client. Despite his undeniable beauty, Allegra barely blinked an eye.

  Instead, she introduced herself.

  Breslin gave her a noncommittal nod. "Before you touch me, I'll need some sort of reference."

  There was that arrogance she'd been expecting. Stardom gone to his head just like Hercules. "The Nike Agency is very diligent in vetting their therapists-”

  Breslin lifted a hand into the air, mimicking his wife's earlier movement. "Who have you worked with?" At Allegra's puzzled look, he sighed and spoke very slowly. "Anyone . . . that I may know . . . that I can ring up and confirm with?"

  Allegra swallowed the profanity that threatened to spill from her lips, prayed for the strength of a Minotaur, and said, "Of course. There's Ronnie DeLuca, the-”

  "The baseball player? The one who coaches the Nova Roma Tigers?”

  Allegra nodded.

  Allegra’s clientele was mostly the rich and the elite. An unusual achievement for someone so young.

  Fortunately, her very first client, after she’d completed her training, had been Olympic sprinter Adnan Suleiman, son of a friend of her late father’s. Suleiman had taken gold in the five-hundred-meters at the Olympics that year and his win had launched Allegra’s career.

  Demand for her services had skyrocketed, with the who’s-who in the sports and movie industries asking specifically for her.

  Ronnie DeLuca had been one of them.

  Allegra disliked name-dropping but she had to get this job done and get out of here.

  Who knew what else these people were into.

  Breslin seemed satisfied, his eyes grazing over her chest and hips in appreciation, despite his wife's proximity. "You may begin."

  Squelching a sigh of relief, Allegra said, "Where would be the best place to perform the therapy?" She glanced around the courtyard looking for somewhere in the shade. "We should be out of the sun. I don't want you to get dehydrated."

  "He's been drinking water." Portia commented coldly. "And you will start when we've verified with Ronnie."

  "Portia."

  All he uttered was that one word and Portia turned on her heel and hurried off. Seconds later, four attendants – pretend-slaves - entered the courtyard holding the four poles of a makeshift tent, shade offered by an elaborate handwoven tapestry carpet.

  Was this a thing? Or was Portia smarter than she looked?

  The four slaves, two men and two women, all wearing nothing more than a pleated silk skirt which hung low on their hips, secured the tent. Then the men left while the two women took up positions at each side of the cot, awaiting their master’s needs.

  Allegra avoided looking at the two topless women and said, “Citizen Breslin, I'm going to need you to lie on your back."

  As he resettled himself, Allegra dropped her purse beside the cot and turned to her case to snap open the lid. She withdrew a bottle from the rows of herbal rubs; cold-pressed olive oil infused with cloves. She didn't think his sun-baked skin would handle anything stronger.

  "First, I'll manipulate the muscle a little, to gauge the tension and inflammation. It shouldn't hurt, but let me know if it does."

  With the cot so low, Allegra was forced to kneel, placing herself gingerly on the roughly-hewn terra-cotta tiles.

  Movement at her side confirmed the return of the jealous wife, and the woman’s cold silence confirmed she’d made her telephone calls. If she only knew that her precious husband did nothing for Allegra's libido.

  As the wife and slaves watched, Allegra reached out to place her hands onto Breslin's shoulder joint, studying the swollen muscle and reddened skin.

  The agency had advised his condition when she’d received the job; a partial tear. Rehab should get him back to normal as long as he behaved sensibly, and followed his doctor’s instructions to the letter.

  Based on the available evidence, Allegra expected nothing of the sort.

  She placed her hands on his shoulder, palpating the muscle and concentrating on the feel of tissue beneath his skin.

  She'd planned on running him through a series of low-key exercises to ease him slowly into the rehabilitation process.

  But the moment she touched Breslin, her vision shifted. The light changed, searing sunlight replaced by a dull moon shaded by inky clouds. The pool sat half-filled and was covered in green slime, and the courtyard lay deathly still.

  Before her lay Breslin, but this time there was no cot. His lips were parched and bruised, blood caking small cuts where he'd broken the fragile skin.

  “Citizen Breslin?" she gasped, unsure of what had just happened. "What's wrong? Are you ok?"

  A voice echoed in her ear, like something from a dream. "What's the matter with you?"

  The voice was indignant and irritated, but in her vision, Breslin had barely opened his mouth. She drew closer. "How can I help you?" she asked again, but he didn't seem to hear her.

  And yet he answered. "Water."

  The word crackled from his throat, the sound hoarse and pained. His skin was flushed, droplets of perspiration covering his forehead and bare chest.

  She frowned. “You have a fever. What happened?"

  "Help," he called again, but even Allegra could hear his energy fading, his resolve dissipating.

  He turned his head to look at her, his eyes glazing over slowly until she knew he was dead. And he'd died staring at something beyond her shoulder. Allegra shifted around and let out a cry of horror.

  Someone tugged her shoulder, hard enough that the vision disappeared and the sun shone in her eyes.

  She was lying on the ground, both the Breslins glaring at he
r in annoyance, the two slaves curious enough to break the rules by openly gaping and tittering.

  Allegra pushed herself into a sitting position and put a hand to the back of her head. "What happened?"

  "You hit your head on the stone," said Portia unsympathetically.

  "When you had your vision." Breslin.

  "It was more like a fit."

  Breslin glared at his wife and she closed her mouth.

  Allegra stared up at Breslin who looked so different from the dying man she'd seen mere moments ago.

  "What happened? What did you see?" He seemed to be the only one interested. Of course, Allegra had mentioned his name during the vision.

  She blinked, still disoriented, then looked at the spot on the floor where he'd lain dying.

  "You were sick. Dying." She hesitated before saying the last word in a whisper. "Died."

  "What?"

  "You . . . you were feverish . . . dying of thirst. You kept calling for help, but there was nobody to help you."

  "What is this crap, Darius? Tell her to leave." His wife’s cold expression indicated she'd had enough.

  "Let her speak, Portia."

  Again the mention of her name shut her up.

  Allegra looked at Darius, shaking her head as he said, "Did you see the future?"