by Meli Raine
“Sorry.”
“No. It's okay. I like being close to you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
We breathe into each other, mouths a few inches apart, her features blurring. An edge lives inside me, vibrant and real, relocating wherever it's needed. It divides me, making me know the difference between baseline calm and danger.
I want to live in baseline with her.
I want to live with her. Not co-exist.
Live.
She turns, somber and achingly present.
“We can't keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Not talking about this.”
Instead of asking her what she means, I slide my hands to her waist, palms greedy at her curves. She's taut and fit, with more muscle than I can see. My hands find it, memorize it.
Want it.
“Let's talk, then.”
“We're breaking every rule.” Her eyes flit to the jammer bar on my wrist again.
“Once you’ve mastered the rules, you know when you have to break them.”
“We were never taught that.”
“I was. Out there.” I nod toward the door. “There's a world of people and ideas and opportunities you cannot fathom, Kina.”
“It's our mission to destroy their world, Callum. To corrode their ideas. To eat them away by undoing the fabric of society, one stitch, one thread at a time. One person at a time. They worship institutions and systems–”
“And I'm committed to my mission. I am. But it's all more nuanced than you can understand. Come with me and I'll teach you.”
She leans in. “What else can you teach me?”
The kiss comes fast, strong, and hot. It lingers, a raw spot on her lip tasting like blood. My tongue doesn't care. Hers pushes past it, yearning and eager, pressing her hips into mine so hard, so long, so grinding. My erection rides up, uncomfortable and constrained, begging for release.
Begging to sink into her.
My fingers thread through her mussed hair, memorizing her features, luxuriating in the contrast of her soft, spun-sugar blonde locks and the hard, defined muscles around her hips. Cupping her ass leads me to a thick, powerful muscle that takes me to warm wetness, my hands turning her body into a playground, one I do not ever want to leave.
“Callum,” she murmurs against me, the word breaking our kiss. “I'm sorry. I taste like blood.”
“You taste exactly the way I want you to.”
“Are you a secret vampire? You like blood?” she jokes, suddenly nervous.
“I like this.” I squeeze her ass, my other hand sliding up her ribs to find a pert breast. “I like you.”
Spine arching as I touch her, she lets out a breathy sigh. When our eyes connect again, hers are filled with a sensual lust that makes me harder. I've imagined touching her like this for years. Too many years. Too much imagination.
It's time to face reality.
It's time to take this from dreams to something more.
“I like you, too,” she confesses, as if it's scandalous. The words are simple. Too simple. Nine years of missed opportunities, now lost. We needed that time together, rich and full of shared experiences.
Tap tap tap.
A shriek bursts out of her as the sudden, sharp knock on her front door startles us both out of our heated moment. The bottle of peroxide tips over, spilling all down the side of the vanity, pooling on the baby blue floor mat in front of the shower.
“I'll get it,” I assure her as she runs her hands through her hair and straightens her clothes. I pull the jammers off our arms, blood streaking along the tight tendons that pop when she rotates her wrist.
She rushes to the door.
We haven't even bandaged her wounds yet. I have antibiotic cream smeared on my cheekbone, my jaw, my eyebrow.
It makes me smile.
“Another one?” I hear Kina gasp from the other room.
“Wait–Kina!” Philippa says in a voice that makes it clear she sees Kina's wounds. “What happened?”
I walk out to find blood everywhere, but no Angelica.
Hmmm. Glen was fast.
“I slipped and fell,” Kina says, playing it off, holding the bandage to her brow. “Head wounds. You know. They bleed a lot. I'm fine.”
Philippa immediately glares at me. “Did you hurt her?”
“No!” Kina and I say simultaneously.
“Good.”
“Another newborn?” Kina asks. “What's going on? Why so many?”
Philippa shrugs.
Kina goes to the door that leads out to the nursery, stopping when she realizes I'm still here.
“Go,” she says simply.
“I will. Meet me in my office later.”
“No, Callum. I mean go to your assignment. Find McDuff. Do what you need to do.”
“I'm not leaving you here. It's too dangerous.”
“Angelica is dead. She really was the biggest threat to me. I see it now.”
What about Glen? I want to ask, but I table the discussion for later.
“I'm not going anywhere tonight,” I assure her. Pretty sure I'm saying it to myself, too. “Take care of the new baby. We'll talk later.”
As I reach my room, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Glen.
Cleanup crew coming. Got the body taken care of. Get out of there. Read up on McDuff.
A file comes through. Who the hell does she think she is? The power grab is obvious. Not worth a response, though. Let her think whatever she wants to think.
Power plays are done by insecure people. Don't need to throw your weight around when you're truly in charge.
Blinking hard, my eyes struggle to focus on my screen. It takes too long for me to realize it’s my contacts. Five minutes later, contacts are soaking and my glasses, the prescription old but good enough to read, have to be enough for this.
I sit on the couch, adjusting myself so bending doesn't make the ache worse.
I open the file and start reading, pulse pounding behind my eyes, below my abs, in the skin where I touched Kina.
Eventually it settles down.
And turns into cold determination as I finish the file.
3
Kina
This one is so young, he still has vernix in the folds of his chubby little thighs.
Philippa is with the older babies while I bathe him. He cries a bit, but soothes easily with a pacifier. I love the tiny ones. The older babies are wonderful, too, but with a newborn, every second you care for them counts. It matters. When else can you be so important for every second of something you do?
Older babies can soothe themselves. Or rest quietly in a crib and play with toys. Newborns, though–you are their toy. You are their soother. Nothing else compares.
“Hey, little one,” I croon to him as his eyes open and he stares at me with blue eyes ringed with steel grey, his mouth a rosebud, the wrinkles in his lips so lovely. Widening his eyes as I use the warm lavender-scented washcloth on his scalp, rubbing gently, he tracks me for a few seconds. Or at least, I think he does.
Then he stares at something over my shoulder.
His body is full, lively, the clear result of a mother who was healthy. Where is she now? I ask myself.
Huh. I've never wondered that before.
The image of my own mother in memory makes my hands start to shake. Fortunately, the newborn is in a small inflatable tub, propped up, being washed with an inch or so of water. I can turn away and collect myself, an overwhelming, overflowing feeling taking over.
She must have washed Glen and me like this.
She must have crooned at us.
Did she brush our faces with extra gentle touches when she bathed us? Did she stroke our cheeks to watch for reflexes? Did she gaze into our eyes and hold the look until we went so deep, as if we were pulling her back into an old life she'd forgotten?
Did she huff our scalps as she held us and get woozy with the pure feeling of holding such a
new life?
My chest seizes.
She did, didn't she?
This babe in my hands isn't from my body, but I think loving a newborn is universal. It goes against every shred of my teaching to think such thoughts, but in the quiet privacy of the nursery, I allow myself. An indulgence, for sure, but one that has strengthened over time.
This emotional bond means something. It has its own power. The leaders don't respect it. In fact, they denigrate it. I never bother to defend it.
Why?
People only value that which reinforces what they already believe.
A bleating cry, like a baby goat, comes out of the baby as I diaper and dress him. The newborn outfits with enclosed bottoms are perfect, easy to swaddle and oh, so good for making sure the babies don't kick off their blankets and get chilled. By the time he's wrapped, his mouth is wide open–eyes, too–and I know he's hungry.
They always are after a bath.
“Hmmmm,” I say as I pick him up, tucking his head under my neck, the sound my throat makes meant to be an auditory balm.
“Kina.”
If I were holding anything other than a baby in my arms, I would drop it from shock. That can't possibly be who I think it is?
“I see why the children thrive,” he says again, slightly formal. His voice is rich and low, a bit craggy with age.
“Thank you, Dr. Svetnu,” I whisper, trying not to upset the babe, who is fussing. In all my years here, never before has Dr. Svetnu ever come into the nursery building.
Not once.
“A new arrival,” he says as I move to the shelves and find a room-temperature container of formula for the baby. The nipple is already attached. Stateless orders this hospital-grade system. The babe–let's call him Jonas–sucks greedily when I put the nipple to his mouth, my hand needing to coax it a bit till he gets the right latch.
Once he does, his little body relaxes.
Mine, on the other hand, tenses.
“Yes, sir. We've had more than usual lately.”
“And yet they are all well cared for.”
His reply is smooth. Too smooth.
“Thank you.”
“You’ve had quite a couple of days, haven’t you? Too many attacks. Too much of your past thrown at you without warning.”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are.”
The only sound for the next thirty seconds is Jonas' sucking.
Then he passes gas.
We ignore that.
The silence stretches on and on, uncomfortable and building with every second that passes. Why is Svetnu here?
Someone behind me, a woman, clears her throat. I turn to find Sally there, face inscrutable. Over the years, she's floated from field to the compound, back and forth with a fluidity I imagine Callum will possess as he takes on more responsibility. She was less cruel than Angelica, but not quite kind. Perhaps she was less ambitious. I can't find the words because I don't have the vocabulary to describe something I feel.
After all, I'm not supposed to feel.
“We are here to ask you about Angelica. And the two men from earlier.”
“Of course.” I begin swaying, my hips finding a light rhythm. The baby settles down even more.
Her gaze jumps to the baby, then back to my face. “Do you need to put it down?”
“No.”
“Fine. What did you do to provoke the attack from the men?”
My heart rate jumps. The baby startles. Of course he senses it. Babies do. They are the opposite of what we're trained to be. They react to everything. That is because they are raw and real, with no filter. No shame. A human being who passes gas in your arms is one without a social forcefield. He just is.
He just feels.
“Provoke?”
“Nearly nine years without anyone touching you, Kina, and suddenly Callum comes back and two trainees attack you? And he kills them? Then you kill Angelica after hurting your own sister? It's suspicious.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she takes an aggressive power stance, feet apart.
With Angelica dead, there's a hole in the chain of command. Someone has to fill it. Sally's making a play.
“That’s one interpretation,” I say calmly.
“Give me another.”
“Romeo died in the field and it caused a power vacuum. Callum was brought back and promoted. That pissed off Glen and Angelica, who conspired to take him down. Angelica decided to eliminate anyone weak who was affiliated with Callum. I'm weak, in her eyes.”
“Affiliated?” Sally asks.
I know what she's saying.
“Callum came to me to ask for information. Romeo died by cyanide. I was given cyanide during The Test, by Romeo, as my weapon. He made the connection and asked questions.”
“You two share more than that,” Sventu says calmly.
No use in lying, but I won't offer myself up on a platter, either. “Yes. Perhaps Angelica got envious. She always did let her ambition get away from her. Maybe the same was true of her emotions.”
Sventu's eyebrows go up, eyes gleaming. “Astute.”
Sally nods, grudgingly giving me the point.
“A valuable asset died in your apartment less than an hour ago. Glen says you killed her. Angelica was a very special tool for us,” she interjects.
“Then she shouldn't have threatened me. And if I killed her, it means she was weaker than The Mule.” Willing my heart to calm down, I stare Svetnu in the eyes, my gaze even and unrelenting.
“You've said that before, Kina.”
“Yes, sir. I have. It's not a phrase I like to use. I don't like to kill trainees or operatives. I only do so when they give me no choice.”
“Like Jason,” he says. My skin flares with a creepy sensation, like thousands of feathers brushing every hair follicle at once.
Sally's head tilts slightly. This is new to her.
“Yes, sir. Like Jason. I killed him.”
“Callum finished him off, though,” Sally adds.
Ah. She knew all along.
They all knew.
Of course they did.
They knew, and yet Callum did get the credit. They knew what I was capable of and still I got–I got what? Left behind, put in a low-level job, forced to stay inside these fences, and made the training body.
Why?
“None of this changes the fact that our two top trainees and one of our main field agents are now dead at your hand, Kina.” Svetnu looks at the baby, who is fast asleep. Most people smile, the corners of the mouths lifting slightly, eyes softening when they see a baby.
Not him. His eyes are cold and flat.
“No, sir, it doesn't.”
The baby twists in my arms, suddenly upset as he wiggles. A cry, high pitched and taut like a guitar string before it snaps, rips through the air. The baby begins screaming, the pain-filled cries of a newborn with a gas bubble unmistakable to my ears.
“Goodbye, Kina. We'll be back to ask more questions.”
And with that, Sally and Svetnu leave.
The second they shut the door, the baby stops crying.
4
Callum
“It makes no sense for me to go into The Field right now, sir. There's too much going on here.” We're back in the conference room, the table completely clear except for his folded hands on top of a pale yellow folder, the veins rolling under loose skin like worms beneath a wet sheet. I caught a few hours of sleep before taking a quick shower, skin buzzing. It's lunchtime. My stomach threatens to growl. My head aches from dehydration.
But I'm here. So are they.
And nothing looks good right now.
“That's not your call to make.”
“It's more my call to influence, though. In my new role,” I assert.
He doesn't even look at me, instead glancing at Sally, who nods. Smith enters the room, eyes roving until they land on the folder in front of Svetnu.
What's in there?
“Your ‘new role' se
ems to be less to fill Romeo's shoes and more to play in the nursery,” Smith snaps.
“People in leadership positions are dropping like flies here at the compound. In the last twenty-four hours, we've lost more operatives right here at our own central grounds than we have in The Field in the last month!” I snap back, banging my fist once on the table for emphasis. “Of course I want to stay here. We're eating our own!”
“Kina is the one who killed Angelica.”
“And I killed the trainees who Angelica ordered to attack Kina.” Not acknowledging the truth is worse than trying to manipulate it. I know Glen killed Angelica. Kina says no one's recording in her apartment, so I checked on that. Smith says she's right – there are no cameras.
I'm still not convinced, but if it's true, that fact means more than having film that shows Glen's guilt.
“Between you and Kina, those three kills wiped out some of our best people,” Smith grunts.
“If they're some of Stateless' best,” I bark back at Smith, who looks pleased with himself for the observation, “then our entire project is FUBAR.”
The smile falls from his face like I smacked it off him.
“Romeo is dead,” I say before anyone can interrupt. “I'm his replacement. Angelica caused a lot of crazy to go down in the short time between his death and hers. Ordering those trainees to attack Kina. Pulling a gun on her when she was talking to Glen. Angelica is the common thread here.” I splay my hands on the table and stand slowly, measuring my movements. “And she's gone now. If the chaos at the compound continues, then we know she wasn’t working alone.”
Sally shakes her head slowly. “I knew her very well. She wasn’t capable of that level of deception.”
“We're all capable of that level of deception,” Smith reminds her.
One of Svetnu's eyebrows threatens to rise, but doesn't.
“That's right,” I say. “But only if we're smart enough.”
“And you think Angelica wasn't?” He snorts. “She was a field operative. She–”
“She's dead, isn't she? Killed by The Mule,” Sally says evenly.
“Speaking of Kina,” I murmur toward Svetnu, “the nursery should be placed under guard until we can install a better security system.”