Into Darkness

31

One of the many things she adored about her husband was his inability to stay mad at her. You’d think a man who’d once been the tribe’s most fearsome assassin, the famed “Wrath of God” himself, would have a little more fortitude in the face of a few feminine wiles. But Xander’s fury melted like snow in sunlight with nothing more than a kiss from his wife.

And because of her inability to stay out of trouble, Morgan spent a lot of time kissing him.

That wasn’t the only reason, of course. Xander was an excellent kisser.

“Knew I’d find you here, kiddo,” she called as she stepped through an egg-shaped opening in the stone, cradling Hope’s frosted collar in her cupped hands.

In stark contrast to the rest of the caves, this room was illuminated by a soft, ambient light that almost perfectly mimicked the warm glow of a summer sunrise. It seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, but its source was the young man seated behind a sturdy wooden bench strewn with every kind of electronic device in various states of assembly. He was staring through a lighted magnifying glass, and didn’t look up when she came in.

“Auntie M,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I am no longer a ‘kiddo.’ I am a grown man. Allow me to demonstrate.” Still without looking up, he flexed both arms, causing a pair of spectacular biceps to bulge from his short-sleeved shirt.

“Beckett, really,” she sighed. “Muscles might impress your little groupies, but I happen to know from personal experience there’s much more to being a man than a pair of big guns.”

Beckett looked up from his work and grinned. The light in the room grew brighter. “Vast personal experience, no doubt.”

Morgan attempted an outraged expression, but found herself grinning back at him instead. “Cheeky bastard! Don’t let your uncle hear you talking to me like that, or he might just tear off one of those big arms of yours and beat you over the head with it.”

“What?”

He pretended innocence, and Morgan could see exactly why all the young girls—and most of the older ones, too—swooned in his presence. He had long, curling lashes, eyes the exact color of new grass, adorable dimples, perfect teeth, and golden, always-tousled hair. Along with a quarterback’s body and a pirate’s swagger, he was utterly charming. And bright. And one of her favorite people in the world.

Beckett said, “I’m sure the poor man knew he was marrying a man-eater—”

“Goddess, I think you meant to say.” She rounded the desk and presented her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, and she gave him an arch look. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the virgin when I married your uncle. Completely untouched!”

He grimaced. “Way too much info. And, if I know you at all, a complete fabrication.”

“Well, if you’re going to insult me I won’t give you your present,” she said lightly, perching on the edge of his desk.

The room was cramped with makeshift tables covered in a haphazard sprawl of wires, the innards of computers, broken monitors, boxes of mobile phones, data pads both working and not, and a jumble of other unidentifiable electronic flotsam. One wall was covered in old maps, the opposite wall displayed posters of World War II bombers, muscle cars, Amelia Earhart, and the odd pinup girl. Then there was the clock collection. Stacked in old milk crates in a teetering column that nearly reached the ceiling, hundreds of old clocks ticked out the minutes and hours, all of them set to pre-IF, global standard time for New York City, which Beckett insisted was the center of the civilized world before the Flash.

His obsession with pre-Flash memorabilia was eclipsed only by his fascination with electronics from all eras and countries. Some of it he’d scavenged from abandoned homes and offices in the surrounding countryside, and some if it came from much farther afield; when Magnus went hunting, he never failed to bring something back for Beckett’s collection, pilfered from some lab or locked building.

Magnus’s Gifts rendered things like locks, and even walls, obsolete.

“Present?” Beckett perked up like a dog when it hears the word treat, his eyes alight. “What present? What is it?”

Another reason to love him: He was easy to please. Morgan stretched out her arms, opened her palms, and said, “You’re welcome.”

He went still, eyes widening. “No way.”

Morgan laughed. “Way. Take it, will you, it’s freezing my hands!”

“On the glass, on the glass!” He swatted aside the tiny silver chip beneath the lighted microscope as if it were a fly. “Here!”

Morgan gingerly deposited the heavy chunks onto the lighted glass base of the microscope and sat back, watching Beckett with an affectionate smile. He leaned down to peer at it. Beneath the glass, the light ticked up several degrees, though he hadn’t touched any dial or switch.

“Whoa,” he breathed, “this is totally new technology. There are all kinds of code embedded in the links, and is that . . . what is that?” A bubble of light the size of Morgan’s wedding band hovered over a jagged spot on the edge of a broken link, illuming the blackened metal from both sides. He made an interested grunt. “I’ve never seen that on any of the other collars.”

“No doubt they’re improving all the time,” muttered Morgan sourly.

Careful not to touch it with his fingers, Beckett used a pair of wooden tongs to rotate the broken collar. The bubble of light followed the move. “Why is it frozen?” He tapped a link. “Honor?”