Lineage
Skyla Dawn Cameron
Published by Mundania Press
Also by Skyla Dawn Cameron
River
Wolfe
Bloodlines
Hunter
Exhumed*
Oblivion*
Solace*
Broken*
Viral*
Bad-Ass Faeries 2: Just Plain Bad
*Forthcoming
www.Mundania.com
Lineage
Copyright © 2012 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Cover Art © 2012 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
Edited by Judy Bagshaw
First Edition February 2012
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60659-297-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60659-296-0
Exclusive Edition eBook: 978-1-60659-298-4 (Sold directly from Mundania Press)
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Dedication/Acknowledgments
Huge, huge thanks to a lot of people for helping out with the areas I was stuck on—of which there were many. I can do angst, but not weaponry. Dina James and husband answered lots of my silly questions, and Dan Reitz didn’t blink when I said, “I need to blow up a building. Do you know anything about explosives?”
This should frighten me about you people. Alas, it doesn’t.
Thank you to my editor, Judy, who put up with me breaking her brain and my fervent clutching of my beloved semicolons while crying “Stet! Stet!” A shout out to Melissa Hayden, who read an ARC and not only wrote a fab review to be quoted on the back of the book, but indulged my ego and sent me notes with her thoughts on the book. And to my mother, who is why I feel obligated to kill characters in the first chapter of anything I write, lest she decide to stop reading.
Thank you to my fellow writers, from the ladies at the #RebelOutpost for their word count competition and encouragement, to the Evil League of Evil Writers for buying me vodka.
Readers...there are far too many of you to thank. But I greatly appreciate the time (and money) you spend on my work and shall endeavor to continue to deliver stories I hope are worth it.
And of course, to Hanna, who in a roundabout way gave me a glimpse into what it’s like to be Peri.
Revenge, at
first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
~John Milton, Paradise Lost
Chapter One
Her Father’s Daughter
I’d already killed two people outside the warehouse.
Now inside, I had five more to take care of.
My eyes were alert for movement, shoulders tense, and breaths were deep and steady from the diaphragm. Wind rattled the windows, coming strong off the harbor, and the noise echoed through the enormous space.
I sat between two crates and studied the shadows fifteen feet across from me with predatory interest. The darkened warehouse provided many places for someone to hide, but that didn’t trouble me: I had patience and a healthy sense of superiority. I slid the SIG Mosquito from the custom holster at my hip, suppresser already on the barrel and ready. Both hands on the grip, I lifted the gun. Waited.
Ninety seconds later I got my wish as my target shifted his position. For an instant, the dim moonlight struck his shoulder, then the figure stepped back and stood still again.
That was all I needed.
I aimed. The trigger clicked and a body hit the floor.
One down.
I took four steps back until my spine bumped the wall, and then holstered the gun as I glanced around. My gaze settled on the ladder nearby, then shifted up, up, to the second level where a catwalk ran across the room. Good vantage point available, though a beam of moonlight cut through the latticed window above and lit a huge patch of the floor two feet ahead, right in my path toward the ladder. All I needed was someone just as patient as me with their gun trained on that spot, and I’d be in trouble.
Five and a half minutes passed as I waited, listened. No more rustling, no movement nearby that I could sense. I looked to the catwalk once more.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I took a breath. Braced. Pushed off the wall and ran for the ladder.
Just as my right foot hit the moonlight, a gun popped and bullets flew. Fire sliced along my bicep. I dropped down and rolled out of the way, hand immediately reaching for my gun to return fire. My back struck the wall and I waited there in the darkness, crouched and panting. Adrenalin pumped through my veins, giving me a rush that staved off pain. The bullet had nicked—I’d been shot enough times to know what it felt like—and it didn’t bleed badly. Nothing that required immediate care.
My gaze scanned the area. Blood splattered across a crate beneath a pair of windows, dark against the cheap wood grain. Holes went through it, too. Given the angle, that would put the shooter right about...
I raised my gun and trained it on the spot where I thought he’d be. If I fired and missed, I’d give away my position. If I fired and hit him, I could make it up that ladder. Tough call. The whole fight had gotten a little boring, though, so I opted for trying and squeezed the trigger.
A body thumped on the floor. Two down.
I’m good.
Wasting none of my precious time, I bolted for the ladder and ascended. It was secure and rattled little under my quick steps. I fell to a crawl on the catwalk and looked at what I could see of the warehouse. Large shipping containers and crates provided good cover, and I didn’t know for sure how many others were with me. I’d counted five when they chased me in, but I hadn’t eliminated the possibility of a sixth. So, three to go? Maybe four? Shit, just one could cause a problem if he saw me before I saw him.
I crept along the catwalk, watching for movement in my peripheral vision. A red dot flickered against the far wall. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but I froze and waited. The light hit the wall again. My gaze trailed in the opposite direction until I saw the glint of moonlight off the barrel of a rifle.
I smiled. My next two shots struck their target and the body hit a crate, wood cracking.
Feet scraped on the cement floor near the guy I’d shot—a partner. Shit. Taking careful aim, I fired again.
The return fire suggested I’d missed.
I dropped down, going flat on my belly, and waited. When the shooting ceased, I sent a few more rounds his way. Someone else shot from the other side of the room and a bullet pinged the metal railing above me. So, one on either side. Two left.
More than a few goodies were tucked into my belt, but right now I just needed another gun. I pulled a second Mosquito from my other holster. Time to find a better position.
I stood and sprinted across the catwalk, firing bullets in either direction at the two shooters, metal grating clattering beneath my feet, heart thumping hard. At the end of the catwalk, I shoved the guns into their holsters and dove. My fingers grasped the edge of the ladder, slipped to the sides, and I slid down to the floor. Far to my right, I clearly heard the cries of a man in pain—I’d definitely hit one of them. Provided he didn’t do much moving, I could swing around and take care of him easily. For now, my concern would be taking out the one who hadn’t been hurt.
My back pressed to the wall, I crept in the direction of the unharmed gunman. Big steel shipping containers waited between him and me, and wind knocked the windows in their frames again. I held my breath. Listened. He breathed through his nose, wheezing a little. Sounded like a cold, or allergies. Bad idea to go chasing a woman through a dark warehouse and not have something like that looked at beforehand.
The light wood of shipping crates was bright even in the shadows; they were stacked in varying heights by the big metal one. I folded my hands over one at eyelevel, the textured grip of my fingerless gloves protecting me from splinters or other nuisances, and hauled myself up. That put me high enough to slip onto the metal shipping container. My knees were padded—great equipment came standard in my line of work—so I put my weight on them rather than my shoes and slithered along silently. Near the edge, I peered down, gaze darting around for my target.
Though he’d dressed in black, my eyes had adjusted well to the dark and I could make out his form. He paced back and forth in the space between the steel container I was on and another about four feet away. Ready for another appearance by me, apparently, he had an assault rifle strapped over his shoulder, clutched in both hands.
I could reach for a gun, but variety adds spice to life. I pulled myself into a crouch and waited.
He stopped directly below me, then turned and started away again. I dropped down, my light footfalls drowned out by his heavy boots hitting the cement. In a pocket on my belt waited a length of piano wire with two wooden handles; I slipped it out and crept up behind him.
The man stopped near the end of the row of crates and I paused behind him, barely breathing. He stood nearly a foot taller than me, but the element of surprise tended to be a decent equalizer, much like a kick to the back of the knee.
Just as he was about to turn, I looped the wire over his head and jerked it back as I went for the aforementioned kick.
My foot struck the back of his knee and he went down; I sank my own knee into his spine and knocked him flat. My fingers flexed on the handles and pulled the wire tight. He thrashed. I held. Sweat beaded on my forehead, slicking my black hair as I fought to keep him down. My heart thudded hard from the exertion, but not the act itself. Killing wasn’t a thrill for me, nor did it make me feel badly. It just...was. Something that existed, that had to be done, and a solution when someone stood in my way or wanted to kill me.
And I held him there, pulling the wire still, for two minutes after he stopped fighting.
Four down, one to go.
I released the body and he dropped flat on the ground. My muscles relaxed but I’d feel the struggle in my biceps in the morning. Stealth was my game this time, so I didn’t bother collecting his assault rifle and stuck the garrote back in its pocket. The wounded guy was next and I doubted I’d need much to put him down.
I swiped sweat-damp hair from my forehead and crept around the crates, stalking across the warehouse. One body lay unmoving off to the side—the guy I’d killed from the catwalk. Blood streaked the floor from where the other, still living one had been hit, and subsequently dragged himself to temporary cover behind some crates. Around the corner lay the Caucasian guy in a strip of moonlight, panting, shaking, gripping his gun fiercely. It looked like two gunshot wounds to the leg and one to the upper chest, close to his right shoulder. Nothing life threatening—wasn’t bleeding badly—but he trembled like he was going into shock. A closer look, and I wasn’t surprised: he was barely eighteen or nineteen, maybe. Practically a kid.
I stepped forward. His eyes widened and a squeal of surprise left his lips; I snatched the gun before he could think to do anything with it and cast it on top of the crate behind me. Next I grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the cramped space, then dropped him on the floor beside the body of his comrade.
The kid yelped when I kicked his bloody leg. As he reached out to seize his thigh, I yanked out one of my guns and aimed the barrel at his pale forehead. He froze and his gaze traveled upward to my face.
Sweat poured from his brow. “P-Please don’t hurt me.”
“That will depend on whether or not you can help me,” I replied.
“Anything.”
“Anything?” How quick they turn to the dark side when a little pain is involved. I cocked my head to the side and a lock of dark hair fell over my eyes. “As you might have guessed, I’m here to retrieve something, and since you were here before me, I’m guessing you came for it and know where it is. Where is the shipment that came in at fourteen hundred hours yesterday?”
“I-I don’t know.”
My jaw tensed as my finger tightened on the trigger.
The kid’s eyes widened. “Th-there’s an office, o-over there.” He gestured weakly to the north of the warehouse. “Shipping info is probably there.”
I eased back and lowered the gun. “I’ll be back if you lied to me.”
He whimpered his response.
I jogged in the direction he indicated, slipping around crates and shipping containers, feet thumping on the cement. A tiny office waited, tucked in the corner of the warehouse. I drove the butt of the gun into the window in the door; glass shattered in a high-pitched, tinkling noise. When it was clear, I reached inside and flipped the lock.
The office couldn’t’ve been more than eight feet by six. I pulled out a penlight, switched it on, and cast the beam over the mass of papers across the desk. It was a fucking mess—did these people forget to computerize? But a clipboard hung to the side, front page scratched and creased, with pencil marks all over it.
Shipping manifest. Sweet.
I tore the top page off, stuffed the gun back in its holster, and pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt. I flipped it on, a pinprick of green light telling me it was clear to speak.
“You’re right, it’s here,” I said. “Looking for the package now. Requesting extraction shortly. Over.”
A voice crackled on the other line. “We’ve been trying to contact you—you were told to keep your mic and earpiece on. Over.”
Ugh. I tossed that shit the moment I got off the boat. “I will be requesting extraction shortly,” I repeated slowly in case he missed the part where I was too fucking busy to get in a fight with him yet again. “Over.”
“Don’t talk to me ’til you have the damn thing, Kore. Over.”
“Bite me, cocksucker. Over and out.”
There was a reason I didn’t have any friends.
I put the damn walkie-talkie back in its pouch on my belt. No matter my profession, I always had the most obnoxious co-workers.
Penlight in hand, I moved back into the main warehouse in search of the crate. A series of letters and numbers were on each, and I scanned the codes for the latest ones. Midway through the stacks, I came upon those that had arrived within the timeframe I sought. The crate structure was weak, and it took only one kick from me to break open the side. A little messier than a crowbar, but it got the job done.
I dropped to my knees, cleared away the splinters, then hauled out the boxes within, one by one.
Each box had a package of papers sealed in plastic on the top with further shipping information. I found the one I was looking for—a square box of cardboard, decent weight and the size of...well...a human head, actually, which it could very well have been as I’d stolen stranger things before—and picked it up as I stood. Time for my extraction so I could get the fuck out of Dodge.
Pain laced my skull and my vision blurred as something cracked me over the head. The box fell, corner striking the cement ground and caving in. My penlight joined it and spun in circles away from me. I regained my balance only to have something hard and cold strike the side of my face, snapping my head to the side.
This time I hit the ground.
Something heavy clattered as I fell, but I didn’t know what—my ears were ringing and it seemed far more important to get my head on straight. I wiped the blood from my upper lip and glanced up at my attacker. So, there were six inside, then. Yet another white guy stood before me, dressed in black like the others, an assault rifle hanging from a strap on his shoulder and 9mm in hand.
He raised the gun.
I kicked him hard in the shin, then jerked my foot back and around his calf. He went stumbling. My fingers folded around a switchblade in my belt; I flicked it out and whipped it in his direction. The blade hit its mark, implanting in his hand.
He dropped his gun, tore the knife out with his free hand, and glared at me. This one was older than the wounded kid. Thirties, maybe. Mercenary, probably. Experienced, definitely. I half expected him to mutter something about it just being a flesh wound.
I scrambled to my feet and waited, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
He moved fast, swinging the knife my way. The blade narrowly missed my chest as I stepped backward. He attacked again, and once more I dodged. A blur played over my eyes, lightheadedness catching up with me—I shifted slower this time as I fought to keep my balance, and the blade nicked my collarbone.
I winced. My attacker noticed and smiled. I figured he’d be smiling a little less when I blew his brains out, so I whipped out a Mosquito.
Or I would’ve if my right one had still been there.
The gun lay on the ground behind him—motherfucker, someone was always on me about the thumb break on my holster, but I always forgot.
His smile widened.
Ah, shit.
I reached for my second. He ducked the first and knocked my hand away before I could pull the other SIG from its holster. I kicked the knife from his grip, snatched his wrists and jerked him toward me as I delivered a head butt. Hey, I had a tough skull and didn’t need to do much thinking anyway.
He broke from my hold, grabbed my forearm, and gave it an awful twist as he spun behind me. He locked my arm against my back and reached around to squeeze my throat.
“Nice try, girly,” he said in a low voice by my ear.
Nothing bothers me more than a man referring to a grown woman as “girly.” I struggled in his grasp, but consciousness was fading quickly.
“No weapons left and you’re not strong enough to keep fighting,” he continued. “Just quit. It’ll be easier.”
But I wasn’t quite without defenses yet.
I closed my eyes. Took in a long, deep breath. Focused. Felt around me, pulling at the energy in the room, at everything creeping in the darkness, hovering under the surface. It crackled, snapped, reached for me, ready for my beckoning. It took all of my remaining strength, but I did the most difficult thing of all.
I let go.
Let go of my fractured consciousness. Let go of my self-control. Let go of a thirty-something woman named Persephone Takata—severed the connection with my very identity.
My heart was pounding, my whole body thrumming in time with it. Blood rushed, crackling with energy I felt twisting through my veins. At the base of my skull, a pounding started that would be one hell of a headache later, but not now. No, now my head swam in something deliciously murky, like a warm swamp ready to pull me under with weighted, welcoming arms. I opened my eyes to see the room go grainy and hazy. If my attacker faced me, he’d see my irises swirl with red, the whites of my eyes turn black. It was usually enough to scare the average person off, but this situation called for more; I drew in my power, coiling it into a tight, buzzing ball, then released it.
The force knocked my opponent back into a pile of crates; the crash boomed through the warehouse and splinters flew.
I spun to face him. Red pulsed around me and a wonderful fire traced my spine. Man Number Six tried to stand, and as he looked up, he froze.
I didn’t need a weapon as I stalked toward him, grinning deliriously. No knives, no guns. No toys. My fingers locked around his collar and I yanked him up, gazing steadily into his eyes. The look of terror in their depths made something warm and delightful burn in me.
No, I didn’t need a weapon because I’m my father’s daughter.
I rammed my free hand against his chest. Something beyond myself, beyond the warehouse—beyond this very dimension—reached through me and tore into him. His body jerked and he screamed. I held on, watching detached until he fell silent and still. For a glorious moment I felt what took him—felt the tug on me to join him, to sink into the arms of oblivion and be done with it.
My fingers peeled back from his shirt and he slumped to the ground.
I crumpled as well.
Knees gave first, thumped hard enough to send shocks up my thighs. I fell onto my hands and sucked in air greedily, but it didn’t seem enough—the air was stagnant and warm and did nothing to ease the ache in my lungs. My nose bled, my skull felt cracked in two. I reached out and pulled everything back into me, stuffing all the bits I’d let go of back into myself and sealing it away. Bile rose in my throat; I swallowed it back.
I am Peri Takata. If I still had my name, my head was still on straight. I swiped at the blood on my lip, soaking it up with the back of the glove on my hand. I still had to get out of the warehouse and to safety, and I couldn’t afford to fall apart yet.
My legs shook and threatened to dump me on my ass again as I stood straight. My penlight waited for me, casting a thin beam of light across the cement; I snatched it up first, then grabbed the package I’d come here to retrieve.
“Kore here,” I said as I pulled out my walkie-talkie once more, using my code name in the very unlikely event someone listened in on our channel. “I have the package. Get me the fuck out of here. Over.”
“Proceed to the southern dock,” came the voice on the other end. “We have a boat waiting. Over and out.”
About fucking time.
Before heading to the extraction point, I stopped next to the wounded kid again. He still lay there on his back where I’d left him. He looked up at me, saw the package, and relief passed over his face.
“You got it,” he said. “Good.”
“Yes, I did. Thanks for your help.”
I brought my heel down on his throat and snapped his neck.
I couldn’t blame that death on the genes from my biological father, and it certainly wasn’t the influence of those who raised me, who were really nice people.
I guess I’m just naturally a violent bitch at heart.
Chapter Two
Home Sweet Home
The boat returned me to our American safe house thirty miles from my warehouse assignment. A familiar face met me at the dock, and it wasn’t smiling. Light from the overhead dock lamps cast shadows across his dark face, catching every crease, every line, every scar that told the story of his long career with Bravo Division. There was also no mistaking the hate in his dark eyes—he clearly didn’t like me. Not many people did, though, so I wasn’t about to lose any sleep over it.
“What did I tell you about keeping on your mic and earpiece?” he said, ready to continue our discussion from earlier. Ah, Fraser Lake. My supervisor and all around cockbite.
I stopped just inches from him and met his gaze. My body ached from my hair to my toes and a jackhammer pounded in my temples—I so wasn’t putting up with his shit. “What did I tell you about not fucking with me when I’m working? I’m the one out there risking my ass. I can’t hear shit around me with you talking.” I dropped the parcel he’d wanted at his feet and stalked past him.
If I wasn’t good at my job, he’d’ve had me bumped off already. Hell, he’d probably do it regardless, but I wasn’t stupid: I had people above him who liked me. He wouldn’t lay a hand on me for that very reason, so I made life as difficult for him as I could get away with.
Post-mission, my options when returning to the base consisted of either sitting through a debrief—possibly an hour or so with my shoulder and head both throbbing this time—or visiting the med unit. Fraser would prefer I do the former, so instead I went for the latter.
Most of the building was underground. I figured it was an old army hole or something, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing where you get a tour and history lesson when you first show up, so I didn’t know for sure. But it was less conspicuous than a huge sprawling complex above ground—helicopters wouldn’t notice anything odd.
I walked through the halls, passing the usual people on the night shift. A few nodded my way. Most ignored me. The walls were steel gray, floor unadorned cement or tile in the nicer rooms, and lights overhead bright fluorescent bulbs.
There’s no place like home.
The medical department had their own wing, which was standard no matter where we set up. They probably rivaled the armory in terms of needing space for the equipment. A sliding door automatically opened as I approached, humming along the track in the threshold. I almost expected to find our resident physician asleep, like any normal person would be, but the lights were on in his office and he sat at his desk, fully awake and working at his laptop. The walls were lined in dry-erase boards with scrawlings so messy I couldn’t hope to decipher them. Those marker notes in red, blue, and green offered the only color in the room except for a few LED lights on equipment. Bravo Division was all about monochrome, either because they didn’t want color stimulating our little brains or they were too lazy to decorate.
From behind a pair of wire-framed glasses, kind brown eyes looked up at me. “How many?” Dr. Drew Singer ceased typing and sat back. A smile played on his lips, the corners creasing only slightly. His eyes didn’t have many of those lines either, and dark brown curls of hair boasted only a few salt and pepper shakes at his temples. Most people would put him at early thirties, and they’d be shocked to know he had turned forty a week and a half ago. I knew because I sang “Happy Birthday” at his party...or would have if I was the kind of person who sang “Happy Birthday” instead of standing awkwardly across the room while thinking about stabbing people with plastic knives.
“Two outside—no problem. Inside, I thought there were five. Turned out there were six, to my obvious surprise.”
“Ah. That explains it.” He nodded to the examination room through the door opposite his desk. “Please go on in and we’ll see how physically bad this surprise was.”
He knew me pretty well. I generally only showed up voluntarily when I was banged up, and that generally only happened when I was on my own against multiple opponents. Even though I just had the odd scrape this time, the multiple opponent part was correct.
As I walked, I stripped off half of my clothes. First the gloves, which I tossed somewhere to my right—I hadn’t bothered with the light in the examination room, so I couldn’t be sure where—and then I tore down the zipper of my vest. Rufus, the guy who usually took care of any equipment I carried, would flip over my tossing a vest full of his stuff to the floor, but he usually got his knickers in a wad over everything. He was totally going to shit penguins when he heard his expensive microphone and earpiece were swimming in the ocean.
Holster and Mosquitos thumped on top of the pile. Next I stripped off my form fitting black shirt, peeling the long arms past my hands, and threw it on the floor. I hopped on the exam table, kicked off my shoes, and waited in just my tank top and pants, figuring he’d be able to reach any important wounds.
“You were shot?” Drew entered the room and flipped on the light above me.
The bulbs burst to life one by one and I blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted. “Just a scratch.”
The taps blared as he washed his hands, minutes ticking by. Shit, I shoulda debriefed. My shoulder ached and my head still felt split in two, like someone had cracked it open, dragged the meat out, and stuffed rocks in there instead. Drew could offer painkillers and all sorts of goodies, but he was so quiet, so still. So silently unassuming and it drove me fucking batty sometimes.
The water shut off. He dried his hands on paper towels and slipped on a pair of gloves. I’d already plotted out an escape route from the room when he approached with gauze and disinfectant. Apparently for now I’d be staying put.
He cleaned the wound quickly but gently. I winced a little from the sting, but it was hardly the worst pain of that night, let alone my life. After he’d fixed gauze over the chunk missing out of my flesh, he pulled out a penlight and shone it in my eyes. I stiffened but let him hold my head in place while he checked my pupils.
“No concussion.”
“I could have told you that.”
He flicked the light off and gave me that, “I’m just doing my job, Peri,” look that he seemed so fond of.
“Usually they drag you in here kicking and screaming.” He brushed the hair from the side of my head to study whatever happened to my poor flesh after getting beat up and tossed around.
I kept my tone colorless and unemotional. “Fraser probably wants me to debrief. Your company is preferable to his.”
“It happened again?”
Of course he’d never buy my lame excuse. My jaw tensed and throat tightened. “It doesn’t ‘happen.’ I do something. Don’t act like it’s something I can’t control.”
“What were the circumstances this time?”
I knew it was professional curiosity, but I still didn’t want to talk about it. That’s why I didn’t debrief first—why I rushed to the med unit for some patching up that I really didn’t need right away. I needed time to think, time to distance myself from the events.
But there was no getting away from it—not here. Not even with Drew.
“I need to document—”
“Yeah, I know.” I sighed heavily and waited until he’d disinfected the cuts on my face and backed off before continuing. Drew took a seat on the swivel chair three feet away and scratched some notes on his tablet—likely regarding my injuries—then met my eyes.
“It was when number six attacked me,” I said. “He was strangling me from behind. I’d been knocked in the head a few times so I was a little off my game. No gun, no knife, and I was about to pass out. As you know, it gets a little hazy after that, but he was very much dead at the end of it.”
“Did you find it difficult to...return to your previous state afterward?”
Always do. “No more than usual.” The truth was, I did feel it escalating—did find it harder to snap back to myself, to push the demons back down again. But I wouldn’t tell him that. There was no such thing as doctor-patient privilege when with Bravo Division: what he knew, he had to tell others. If they thought I was losing it...the hell if I knew what would happen to me. Probably lock me up and throw away the key so they could “observe” me some more. As long as my abilities seemed stable, they’d keep using me. And as long as they kept using me, I could keep using them.
“I’d like to take a blood sample.”
I nodded my consent. It didn’t matter anyway—they’d take it in my sleep if they really wanted it. And I had no idea what anyone found in my blood, either. Another “need to know” kind of deal where apparently I didn’t, in fact, need to know.
Part of me hated making out Drew to be some kind of monster, though. He wasn’t. That’s why, some days, I detested him more than the others—because he was decent and that made him more insidious, somehow. But I could have been dealing with a lot worse and I knew it. We’d discussed it casually before, and he admitted there had been times when he wanted to leave in a huff, pissed at the way things went and with what he had to do, but it worried him who might take his place. He was willing to fight to remain as ethical as possible. Where would that leave the people he treated if he left and someone more willing to toe the company line were to take his place?
It would leave me with someone harder to manipulate, that’s where.
“This will sting a little,” he said me as he brought out a needle, vials, alcohol, and some cotton swabs.
Like I really needed reminding. “A little” was a bit of an understatement as well. I had small veins that were difficult to find, and even a butterfly needle meant I’d be in a hell of a lot of pain. But he tried to make it easier on me.
The smell of alcohol struck my nose as he cleaned a spot on my arm with a cotton swab. A pinch of pain came next as the needle slid into my vein. He drew enough blood to fill a couple of vials. Whatever it was they were searching for, apparently they needed a lot to work with.
Afterward, he left me sitting on the exam table with a Band-Aid on my arm while he went off to put my blood in storage. My gaze went to his tablet of notes about my visit, which he’d left sitting on the counter across the room. I’d love to have a look. Though I doubted he kept anything more revealing than notes about my attitude problem, it might have more useful things—like patient numbers or something. I’d attempted to glance through their system a few months ago, but found we were listed not by names, but by numbers. Welcome to Bravo Division, where your individual identity had no importance to the people running things.
Even if you were a quarter-demon.
Drew returned before I could decide what to do either way. It was just as well. Though it surprised me on occasion, I did have a bit of a conscience, and I didn’t want to betray his trust and go through things without telling him. If he trusted me, there was a lot more he could do to help me—things he could tell me, warn me about, and general gossip. It was always good to have a friend keep you in the loop about something.
Of course, I suppose that isn’t a sign of a conscience, but rather that I’m a manipulative sociopath. Close enough.
As I moved to hop off the table, he took my elbow gently to keep me steady. Latex gloves off now, his hand was warm to the touch. A blush suffused his cheeks and he looked away. Professional interest aside, I knew he had a thing for me. Pity for him I wasn’t on the market.
“Debriefing is next?”
“Probably.” I slipped my shoes back on and gathered up my clothes in my arms.
“You have a physical scheduled for next Thursday.”
I didn’t really, but I wouldn’t argue. If I had a sudden physical scheduled, it meant that the people higher up had been informed of the circumstances surrounding the death of “Mr. Number Six”—probably during Drew’s absence to store the blood—and they wanted me checked out. It never fucking ends.
His gaze locked with mine and I saw an apology in the depths of his eyes, like a goddamn wounded puppy dog looking back at me. So he was a nice guy who hated doing bad things. I guess that was better than me, a bad person who liked doing bad things.
“I’ll be there bright and early then,” I said as I left the room.
As if I have a goddamn choice.
Chapter Three
Objective
To my right, the corridor outside the physician’s office led toward the common areas, such as the conference room where Fraser was no doubt waiting for me. If I followed the one to my left, I’d end up in the dormitory, and thus delay any debriefing that was to take place.
I opted for the left.
My temporary quarters in this complex looked like my temporary quarters in any other complex I’d been in. I swore they built all these places to look exactly the same. I had a small room with a single bed and a ridiculously small closet. You know, just in case I ever had any personal items to store in it; most of my clothes were for “work” and were kept in a locker elsewhere. I also had my very own toilet and sink, which were two feet away from the bed. Classy. For a shower, though, I had to trek to a common room at the end of the hall. Come to think of it, the whole set up kind of resembled a prison.
Except we didn’t get T.V.
I kept my tank top on, but stripped off my pants in favor of a clean pair of charcoal gray workout ones, and tossed my scuffed up clothes down the laundry chute. I’d have to drop the vest, holster, and goodies in Rufus’s office before he came looking for them.
After splashing water over my face and through my hair, I tugged a brush through my black locks and smoothed it back. Though technically ready now to face Fraser and the crew head-on, I paused at the foot of my bed and knelt at my kamidana. The setup was simple: a short bench which was supposed to sit at the end of my bed but I’d shoved against a wall; tiny dishes of white ceramic with the requisite offerings when I could get my hands on them; rice straw rope with shide sectioning it off. Not a single person in Bravo Division ever dared touch it except for the guy who tried when I first joined. The only time his name had been uttered since was when making a point about Not Pissing Peri Off.
A cushion conformed around my knees, making kneeling there for lengths of time much easier, and I tucked my feet under me. It was there I lit a candle and closed my eyes and prayed, all the while avoiding looking at the faces in the torn family portrait that stared at me from their vantage point. But they were always there in my head, watching me.
Hating me.
Blaming me.
And I apologized to them again, like I did every time. I prayed for their souls to rest, to find peace, to be cleansed and without torment. But I never prayed for forgiveness. I knew better than to ask for that.
Ready to leave again, I grabbed the vest to give to Rufus and went to the door. I sent one final glance back at the picture sitting on my kamidana, then blocked it all from my head and went to debrief.
****
Fraser never did tell me what I went to the docks to steal. I got used to not asking. Sometimes finding out the truth was unavoidable, like when I’d have to steal something not sealed in a box. Or sometimes it wasn’t stealing, either, but any other number of things. Sabotaging something. Kidnapping someone. Killing someone. I worked without complaint—it was none of my business anyway.
What did piss me off was that Fraser ended the debriefing with a “suggested” “therapy” session.
By “suggested” he meant “required” and by “therapy” he meant I was to speak to one of their supposed shrinks, who were little more than spies that reported back to Bravo Division. This was why I liked at least Drew; he didn’t bullshit me and pretend that anything was in confidence. But these people did. I knew enough others like me who broke down and confessed something to a company psychologist, then up and disappeared the next day.
Therapy sessions were supposed to be mandatory when somebody had to be killed while working in the field. Not one somebody, though. That would be expensive and time consuming. No, it was when multiple people had to be killed. I’m not sure why. When you kill several people, they all become kind of faceless. When you kill just one, usually their face sticks in your head for awhile.
Like, maybe an hour or so.
That wasn’t the reason for the “therapy” session this time, though. Like everything else, it came back to me and what I could do. If my mother still lived, she and I might have to have a chat about that sex-with-the-son-of-a-big-evil-kami-thing she did that resulted in conceiving me.
I went straight for the gym, however, and advised Fraser that if he wanted someone to speak to me, they could meet me on the treadmill.
Sure enough, someone did. A someone I already knew: Lilah Mui. I worked in the field with her brother, Tim. You’d think someone would call “conflict of interest” on their asses, what with being related and all, but no one had yet.
I meant it when I told Fraser that I’d only talk when on the treadmill, however. While I ran a steady eight-minute mile, sweat dripping down my forehead and muscles aching, Lilah neared. Dressed in a fine, camel-colored suit with high heels to match, she approached me with a cautious smile. A folder with notes on our sessions was clutched in her arms.
“Hi Peri,” she said brightly. It was around five o’clock in the morning and I had no idea how that woman could sound so chipper for that hour considering she couldn’t have had much sleep, but I didn’t question her. “As Mr. Lake probably told you, we should have a chat.”
I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead on the dark gray wall across the room, but gestured to the machine next to me. “Get jogging.”
I generally did what I was told to, though I wasn’t above making life difficult for everyone.
She hesitated, of course. Anyone else would probably leave and complain to my boss rather than engage me, but eventually she did slide off her shoes, and left them next to the machine. She slipped off her blazer, folded it with care, and set it and the folder with her shoes. After changing the treadmill to one of the lower settings, she stepped on and walked beside me.
Lilah brought a digital recorder out, turned it on, and set it on the machine near me.
“This is Dr. Lilah Mui,” she said loudly, “speaking with field agent Persephone Takata. Records show this is our fifth session together.”
Wow, five. You’d think she would have guessed already my personality wouldn’t be turning to roses and sunshine with a few therapy sessions, but Lilah seemed to seek the best in people and was trying her damnedest to see the best in me.
“Mr. Lake explained to me you had an episode today.”
That’s what they like to call it when I bring out the demonic big-guns passed to me by my biological father. Episodes.
“Not talking about it.” I bumped my speed up. The treadmill hummed, my feet pounded, but none of it drowned out her voice.
“And I understand you told Dr. Singer it was no different than what you experienced other times.”
“Still not talking about it.” I reached over and set the speed on her machine even higher as well.
Lilah stumbled. Trying to speed walk in a skinny skirt does that to a girl.
“What shall we talk about, then? Ken or the twins?”
Bitch was trying to bait me, probably. I say I don’t want to talk about one thing, so she brings up something she knows I definitely don’t want to talk about. I’d play that game if she wanted me to, however.
“Sure. Last night I dreamed I was in the flat with them when the bomb went off and I saw them blown up. Little arms and legs were flying everywhere. Perhaps I could draw you a picture later in art therapy.”
“Would you like to do that, Peri?”
Damn, she was good. Usually bringing up my dismembered children so coldly was enough to freak people out. I could probably escalate and go for graphic descriptions of intestines and bits of bones and things from my dreams—see if that got to her. I once made one of the company’s therapists vomit in the trashcan by his desk. That was satisfying, and though it got me a lecture, I had to wait until they hired another psychologist to deal with me before having another session.
“I’m not sure my stick figures would really do them justice,” I replied. “So I think I’ll have to pass on the art thing.”
“We haven’t talked much about the twins in the past,” she said.
I loved how these fucking therapists use a “No shit, Sherlock” sentence to start a conversation.
“They were six when they died?”
“Murdered.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They were murdered. Don’t say bullshit stuff like ‘they died.’ Someone loaded the building with explosives and detonated them. That’s murder.” I turned up my speed again. Sometimes it felt like if I ran fast enough, I could actually escape things. Unfortunately, even I realized the irony of that considering I ran in place. “And their birthday was that weekend—they would have been seven.” And had they lived today, they would have been twelve and a half.
“And where were you at the time?”
Her question stung. Where was I? Obviously not where I was supposed to be.
My feet pounded a steady beat on the treadmill belt below me, never faltering. Body on autopilot. In the back of my mind, it flashed—the feeling of the ground shaking, the shrill of sirens, the moment I stepped out of the restaurant in Chuo-ku and something dropped in the pit of my stomach as I saw the smoke in the distance. My cell phone slipped from my grip—
I blinked. Gave my head a mental shake. “I was running an errand,” I said to Lilah at last. “I’m pretty sure if you actually read that file of mine you carry around, you’d know. So I ran an errand, they were killed when it should have been me, end of story.”
“But it doesn’t quite end there, now does it?”
“No. Your people picked me up. Ran a lot of tests. Trained me and handed me over to Bravo Division. Gave me work. You have over five years of information on me right there—videos, too. Why are we going over this again?”
“Because you’ve made a lot of...assertions regarding what you’re going to do when they’ve told you everything you want to know, and I’m not sure it’s...healthy.”
“What, the part about me killing everyone involved in the bomb?”
“No.” She turned off her machine, then reached over and switched off mine.
The treadmill came to a halt, and I stopped dead and turned to her, rage prickling under my skin. Sweat was in my eyes and she was damn lucky I couldn’t see straight or I’d take a punch at her immediately.
“Granted,” she continued in that very official, therapist-like voice, “I don’t think revenge is terribly healthy, but that’s not specifically what I’m referring to. Peri, we’ve never talked about your...plans for afterward.”
Oh. The suicide thing. “I don’t think it’s really anything for you to worry about.”
“How’s that?”
“Because it means until I’ve met my objective, I’m focused on staying very much alive, and your bosses should be happy about that.”
Chapter Four
The Dot
I’d had enough of my conversation with Lilah by that point, so I grabbed my bottle of water and stomped out of the gym. The gauze on my shoulder was loosening from all the sweat slicking my skin but I didn’t want to head back to Drew’s so I rifled through the metal cabinet in the change room until I found some first aid supplies.
Lilah’s brother, Tim, sat on a bench in the unisex locker room, lacing up his runners for his morning workout.
“Your sister’s a bit of a cunt.” I dropped to sit next to him and tore open a package of gauze.
He sat up and starting wrapping his hands in preparation for boxing, sighed, and sent a glance my way. “What is it this time?”
I shrugged awkwardly as I slapped on the new bandage. “General things, such as being a shill for Bravo.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Just don’t get her fired—she means well.”
“Sure she does.”
“Hey, did you know Delarosa is on the base?”
This gave me pause. Christina Delarosa was Fraser’s supervisor—she oversaw several groups like ours. I assumed they were all called Alpha Division, Charlie Division, etc, but no one talked about other divisions.
She was also one of the higher ups who wouldn’t let Fraser get rid of me. She pulled me out of Bravo’s testing facility that held me in custody for two years after my family died, stuck me in training for another two, and promised me answers in exchange for field work. I’d been doing that for over a year and she’d yet to tell me shit. If she was visiting, there seemed a chance she was there to talk to me.
One way to find out.
Delarosa would be at the far end of the base, so I headed there. I hadn’t seen any sign of her during debriefing, but maybe she just got in. Or maybe she was watching from elsewhere—most rooms had cameras that I could see, and the ones I couldn’t probably had them hidden.
Most of the people I passed in the halls were dressed better than me, like Lilah—suits and attitude. I only ever got beat up and shot, so there was no point in me being so spiffy. My track pants, tank top, and bare feet likely bothered them more than me, though, as everyone gave me wide berth when passing.
ADMINISTRATION blazed in white letters on the wall ahead, with a blocky arrow pointing left. I skipped the receptionist desk—as no one ever manned it anyway—and hoofed it for Fraser’s office at the end of the hall. His door lay open, leaving a strip for me to see through; his big square desk was piled high with crap and a pair of shapely female legs in nude stockings were crossed to the side. It was probably Delarosa, unless Fraser had some secrets I didn’t know about.
If so, those were killer legs he kept hidden.
My feet padded silently on the cement as I crept up to the door; I turned and pressed my back to the wall, head cocked toward the office.
“This is a bad idea,” Fraser said in his usual pissed off voice.
I had the distinct impression he referred to me.
“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” Delarosa said coolly. “I was telling you how this is going to play out. If I wanted another opinion, I’d speak to someone of far more importance.”
She was such a bitch. I loved that woman.
A chair squeaked and something heavy thumped on the desk—probably his hand. “I’m the one who has to work with her. You just breeze in like you have a fucking clue, but the fact is, she’s unstable.”
Yep, knew they were talking about me.
“I seem to be the only one around here who remembers what the fuck we’re dealing with,” he continued. “Her father is the antichrist. The moment she decides we’re not useful anymore, she could destroy this whole goddamn complex as well as everyone in it.”
Well, he had me there. I never said Fraser was a stupid man, just a fucktard.
Nails drummed, clicking on a smooth hard surface—maybe the desk or chair arm. “And how long do you suppose we can keep her with the company without giving her what she wants?” Delarosa said. “That’s how these things work. You give a little, you get a little. If she doesn’t get what she wants soon, we may lose control of her. We don’t want her frustrated.”
“No, what you should have done is killed the bitch when you found her. It would have been safer for everyone, but instead you brought home this rabid dog, left me to deal with it, while you don’t have to lift a finger or risk your own ass. What about my people here? What if she lost control and killed the lot of them? Would you just write them off as losses in your little experiment?”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Lake, if you think none of this has occurred to me or my superiors. If we felt she was a threat right now, she’d be put down immediately.”
I was really getting sick of all these fucking dog metaphors.
“But that time is not yet,” Delarosa continued, words clipped and tone warning. “So you will keep your mouth shut on the subject and do what you’re told to.”
“Hear that, boss?” I strolled in the office and locked gazes with Fraser. “Be a good little boy and don’t question Mom or Dad.”
He sat behind his desk, hands coiled into fists, positively glaring at me. It was great.
“You heard most of that, I presume?” Delarosa said, not sounding the least bit bothered by my eavesdropping.
I shrugged as I glanced her way. “Woof.”
Though those killer legs were casually crossed, her spine was straight, shoulders squared, and I figured more weapons than I could count were stowed on her person—in garters, her purse, under her white blouse, and possibly in her hair. There could even be a knife tucked under the manila file folder sitting on her lap. She looked like a suit who had been in the field, which might’ve been why I had a smidge of respect for her.
“Come into the briefing room.” She nodded over the mountain of files and books on Fraser’s desk to the adjoining door that led to a hall which in turn led to the big conference room. “We have things to speak about.”
I gave Fraser a smirk as I walked past him with Delarosa. The only thing better than getting to be a pain in his ass myself was seeing others do it for me.
Though the corridors elsewhere had been bustling, the private hallway leading to where we took meetings was silent and empty. Delarosa brushed past me, her long black curly hair sleek even under the fluorescent lights where practically nothing looks flattering. She hauled open the heavy door to the conference room and stepped inside.
The place was gray like everything else, but the walls had a thick stripe of darker gray running horizontally. A large round table sat in the center with thirty swivel chairs around it. Never did we have so many people for a meeting—at least not the meetings I went to—but I figured they wouldn’t have had them there for nothing. Delarosa flipped on the overhead lights, brightening the space immediately. She took a seat in one of the chairs and opened the folder she carried, spreading papers across the polished tabletop.
I hopped on the edge of the table two feet from her and waited.
Christina Delarosa...I’d tried for years to place her age and kept drawing a blank. She had the grace and class of a woman in her forties but didn’t look it. Skin was flawless. Hair didn’t show a sign of gray. She must have been drinking the same anti-aging stuff as Drew. There might’ve been a time, years ago, when I would have cared or been a little envious. The murder of one’s family tends to put such things in perspective, however.