Deep in the
heart of the sunken city of Venice, six men and five women sat around a long, oval table. They were silent, their attention on a holographic recording playing in the center of the table. Patched together from a number of different sources, the recording was neither smooth nor continuous, but it provided the information they needed.
When it ended in a rush of white noise, the man at the head of the table switched it off, his cuff links glinting rose-gold in the artificial light. “I don’t think I need to explain our interest in Ms. Aleine.”
“She made a point of saying she destroyed the data.”
“She’s a scientist. They never destroy their work.”
Silence as they considered their options.
“We don’t need her, simply the data itself,” one of the women said. “The Psy might consider themselves the best at research and development, but we have people fully capable of utilizing the information.”
“Exactly my thoughts,” the man at the head of the table said. “Then I assume there’s no opposition to my motion—to send out a team to question Ms. Aleine?”
“She’s being protected.” A new female voice, liquid soft
vowels and drawn-out syllables. “No one knows by whom, but they’ve hidden her.”
“The broadcast originated from a CTX transmitter in San Francisco.” The man with the cuff links leaned back, his gaze on the water that lapped at the edges of the mostly undersea habitat. “Could be DarkRiver and SnowDancer gave her a platform because they like to get in the Council’s face, or could be they’re the ones protecting her. But if she’s still in the city, we’ll know within a few hours.”
“What about her abilities? She may have aggressive ones.”
“We’ve got that covered,” the man next to her said. “It’s time the Psy learned they aren’t as all-powerful as they think.”
When the psychologist suggested I keep a journal of my nightmares in order to better find a way to negate their effect, he inadvertently gave me a priceless gift. As far as anyone knows, that journal was closed the day I was pronounced stable. The truth, of course, is that I never recovered from the trauma and the journal was never closed.
—From the encrypted personal files of Ashaya Aleine
Ashaya lay in
the dark, exhausted but unable to sleep.
Ekaterina was dead.
So were the others. All because they’d thrown their loyalty behind Ashaya. She wanted to believe that some had escaped, but she knew Ming LeBon. He would’ve struck hard and without warning. The entire lab had always been rigged to blow from the inside—a supposed precaution against the spread of a lethal bioagent.
Now Ming had utilized that “safety feature” and unless he’d pulled Ekaterina out because he had some use for her, she was dead. Even if he
had
done that, the woman Ashaya had known was as good as dead. Ming would’ve used his abilities to turn her into a mindless automaton. Ashaya didn’t want to think of Ekaterina being violated that way. Better that she’d died in a single instant.
Like the others. So many others.
Ashaya wanted to turn away from the brutal reality of all
those deaths, but she had no right. Because no matter what Dorian had said, this was on her. If she hadn’t provoked the Council with that broadcast, Ekaterina would still be alive. What she couldn’t understand was why Ming had done it, killed so indiscriminately. He knew Ashaya only as the most perfect of Psy, without an emotional flaw that would lead her to mourn her lost colleagues. Had he done it for no reason other than to send her a message? Was he that coldly practical?
Yes, she thought, remembering what he’d said to her once.
You are necessary. I would never simply kill you.
No, he’d torture her, break her, first. Even if that meant he had to kill everyone who might have stood with her.
No survivors.
Wrong, she thought fiercely. There were survivors—scientists on the outside who had sided with her over the implant issue. They were the ones who’d made sure her note about Keenan reached Talin McKade—she hadn’t trusted Zie Zen not to stop her. As far as Ashaya was aware, she and Zie Zen alone knew the identities of those courageous men and women. Zie Zen would never be suspected of rebel activities. Which left Ashaya. She couldn’t let Ming recapture her. Because if he tore open her mind, more people would die.
More blood would stain her hands.
Oh, Ashaya, you’ve been very, very bad.
You’re going to be a mother to your son.
Ashaya curled into a fetal ball, telling herself she was merely thinking things over so she could plan her next step. But the lie was too big to swallow. The past was catching up with her, cracking the brittle wall of false Silence around her mind.
I thought you had a heart of fucking ice the first time I met you, but I never took you for a coward.
Dorian was right. She was a coward. Staying away from her son when all it would take to keep him safe from the worst monster of all was a single bullet. Keenan would never have to know the chilling truth once Amara was gone. All she had to do was look into eyes identical to her own, into a face she’d promised to protect, into a mind linked to hers since before birth, and pull the trigger.
Her stomach revolted.
Resisting the urge to throw up, she began to chart the cool certainty of DNA patterns inside her mind, giving herself a firm mental command for sleep. It didn’t come. At least not then. She lay awake, perhaps for minutes, perhaps for hours, and when exhaustion did finally suck her under, it was only to return her to the one moment she most wanted to forget … but that she relived every night with clockwork precision.
She was in a hole, hard-packed soil all around her.
A grave, her mind whispered.
Like before.
No, she told herself, reaching for Silent calm. She was seventeen years old, had basically completed her progress through the Protocol and graduated with honors in her chosen specialty. The Council was planning to offer her a training position in one of its top labs. She was going to accept.
She couldn’t be in a grave.
There was wood above her—planks, they were planks.
See, not a grave. But the air was growing heavy, dirty, harder to breathe.
“Amara,” she said, asking for help, for an explanation.
Only the rumble of earth and rock greeted her. Dust whispered through the planks. One of the pieces of wood fell in, crushing her leg. She didn’t notice, knowing only that her resting place had been covered with earth, that no one would hear her. She could’ve gone into the PsyNet, could’ve screamed for help that way.
But she couldn’t. Because in that moment of understanding, of knowing that she’d been entombed again, something snapped inside of her. She lost her sense of humanity, of logic, and became a creature of pure primitive chaos. She screamed until her throat was raw, until her hands were bloodied and her cheeks wet with tears.
She screamed until Amara decided to dig her up again.
Ashaya came awake
with sudden,
quiet
alertness. It could be no other way. If she’d woken up screaming in the lab, it would’ve alerted others to her aberrant mental state. And Ashaya had no wish to end up in the Center, her personality erased, her mind reduced to the level of a blithering idiot’s.
Conscious that sleep would elude her now, she got up and walked out of the bedroom, judging her dark red pajama bottoms and black T-shirt reasonable enough should Dorian prove to be awake. Her hand stilled on the doorknob as she considered whether or not she wanted to venture out and chance speaking to him.
He would call it cowardice.
She called it self-preservation.
Because Dorian was creating giant chinks in her armor, making her question everything, even her decision to keep her distance from Keenan. Her hand tightened on the knob. He didn’t understand. Everything she’d done, every single act in the years since his conception, had been to ensure Keenan’s safety.
Choking dirt in her throat, grit in her teeth.
Shaking off the flashback, she opened the door. There was no one in the living area of the apartment—the safe house—but a wall sconce had been left burning. It gave her just enough illumination to make it to the kitchenette. Once there, she turned on the light using manual rather than voice activation and, since it was five a.m., began to prepare breakfast.
Psy lived on nutrition bars and she found them perfectly acceptable—they provided everything a body needed to survive. However, she was also fully capable of making do. That thought in mind, she found milk and a sealed container of some kind of wheat cereal, as well as a banana.
Food prepared, she stood at the counter and ate it in measured bites. Taste was nothing that could be bred out, but those of her race were conditioned to consider it a danger. To prefer one taste over another was a slippery slope, one that could easily lead to sensuality in other areas of life. Considering how precariously she was balanced on that slope, Ashaya ate with a deliberate lack of attention to the tastes.
Amara was asleep now; Ashaya could feel it. It gave her a chance to fix the fissures in her shields that had allowed her twin to slip through and find her. She filled her mind with the patterns she knew best—the twining strands of DNA, the proteins glittering like gemstones on a twisted wire of bronze. White noise. A shield.
Hiding from Amara.
Protecting Amara.
She finished the meal in five minutes, and only then realized
that her injured leg hadn’t so much as twinged. Excellent. Cleaning up after herself took only another three minutes. Rather than go back into the bedroom, she walked to the large French doors that led out to a small balcony overlooking the bay—the glass was clear, the balcony railing formed of iron bars that sliced the view into rectangular pieces. She took a cross-legged position on the soft carpet, her back straight, her eyes on the dark swell of water in the distance.
It was cool where she sat, as if the chill of the outside air had stained the warmth inside. She resisted the urge to touch the glass, and turned her senses inward, into her mind. It was where she felt the most free. She wasn’t quite sure who or what she was in her body—it had never truly seemed to belong to her. The psychological separation wasn’t healthy, she knew that. But it was a coping mechanism. After the horror of her seventeenth birthday, she’d needed some way to keep her psyche together.
Dorian threatened that separation. She didn’t want to know what the result would be if she tried to reintegrate the pieces. Dangerous thoughts. Again, she pushed them away, concentrating on the white noise of DNA … and, behind that psychic wall, on the lethal chill of secrets she’d carried so long, they were burned into her very cells.
She’d told a number of lies during the broadcast.
But those lies hid a far more perilous truth, and it was a truth that Ashaya intended to protect to the death. Except Ming had upped the stakes and her original plan of publicity, misdirection, and distraction lay in shreds at her feet.
The entire plan had been stupidly simple—to make herself so visible that neither her nor her son’s death or disappearance could be swept under the carpet. Zie Zen was a good man and his advice to run had been reasonable, but she knew exactly what happened to those who tried to outrun the Council—she had an eleven-year-old death certificate to prove it. Ming had been tracking and executing rebels for decades.
Since she had no chance of killing Ming, she’d weighed the variables and decided to take a stand. The bonus had been the destruction of Protocol I—she didn’t want any child exposed to the horror of implantation. It had all been going as it should … until Ekaterina’s murder.
Her mind filled with images of the destruction of the Implant
lab, but this time, she maintained her calm. Ekaterina was dead, but Keenan, her little man, was alive.
She would let
no one
snuff out that life.
Dorian watched Ashaya
from his bedroom doorway. He’d been sleeping the light sleep of a leopard on guard, but even so, he’d dreamed. Not of ice and death, but of a beautiful woman’s cries of pleasure. In sleep, he’d run his tongue over that perfect silky skin, so rich, so tempting that he’d barely resisted the urge to bite, to
mark
.
Then she’d whispered, “Do it. Take me.”
He’d woken hard as a rock, and very aware that Ashaya, too, was awake. He’d listened to her move around, figured out that she was grabbing some breakfast. Joining her had sounded like a good idea. But by the time he got his erection under control, she’d finished her cereal, and was taking a seat by the window.
Intensely curious about her, he simply watched as she brought her breathing and heartbeat under a level of control he’d never witnessed in any living creature. It was almost as if she’d willed herself out of existence.
He came closer on silent feet. It was as he crouched down beside her that he realized how fragile she really was. Intellectually, he’d always known that her bones were weaker than his, her physiology much more breakable. But when she was awake, he tended to forget. He saw only the cold steel of her spine, the chilly determination of her gaze.
Strength.
He saw a woman of incredible strength.
But now, as his eyes took in the naked skin of her nape, framed by two tight braids, he glimpsed the vulnerability of her. Her body was curvy, quintessentially female, but delicate, too. He had the certain awareness that he could close his hand over her shoulder and crush it.
His beast snarled at the idea.
Agreeing with the sentiment, he maintained his silence and continued to study her. As he’d witnessed a number of times now, she could put on the appearance of a perfect Psy on cue, but he knew in his gut that that was all it was—an appearance. No woman could have faked the reaction he’d scented in her on the balcony. Fury. Pure, pissed-off female fury.