“What if she’s just a really quick healer?” Baker asked.
“Her doctor said she had bruises.”
“She just healed the worst of them?”
Cliverson shrugged, his thick brows knit together. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? Either talent would be invaluable.” And scientists would want to study her. If what they proposed was true, he pitied Harris. He’d been down on the sub-floors more than once…and the United States program was supposedly humanitarian. “Kitzerow won’t talk. Was her being buried alive another way to coerce her to cooperate? She’ll never talk now. She’s more afraid of someone or something else than the FBI.”
Baker paused, mid-stride. “Whoever belongs to this weird DNA.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Cliverson stood. “Let’s take a trip to the lab and see if they’ve got anything else on our mystery DNA.”
Cliverson locked his office door, pocketing his key. Years in the business had taught him to trust no one. They walked in silence down the hall, Baker running through the possible scenarios out loud. The kid was like a human garbage truck, spewing debris while he processed. It gave Cliverson a headache. “So the women didn’t blank out our agents’ minds but whoever holding them did?”
“That idea’s a whole lot easier to digest, isn’t it?” Actually, if he thought too long none of it made sense. Since he’d been on a past case where his handcuffed person-of-interest simply vanished in front of his eyes only to appear ten feet away unshackled, he was inclined to believe in just about anything. People were fools if they thought humans didn’t mutate like their animal counterparts. He tried not to think about the man growing a second set of arms in the lab down on sub-floor seven.
Cliverson waited while the lab guard retinally scanned Baker, then stepped up himself. A bright flash of light cut a swath across his vision. They pulled white jumpsuits on over their clothing. He heard the snick of the lab door opening. One of these years he should really consider retiring.
People here were dressed in nearly identical outfits, white jumpsuits with built-in gloves and booties as well as removable facial masks. The lab was spotless with white porcelain floors and stainless steel work surfaces. Some people were seated beside computers. Others peered into microscopes or other strange machines.
Cliverson had been here often enough not to gape. That wasn’t the case with Baker.
Cliverson headed to the bank of microscopes and a painfully thin man hunched over one.
“Gene,” Cliverson said. “So what do you have for us this time?”
The man stood, his complexion as washed out as his white jumpsuit. “Roger.” He took Cliverson’s hand in his gloved one. “You did good, son.”
Cliverson smiled. After spending the last couple of weeks with Baker, it was nice to be thought of as a youngster. It was hard to place Gene into any particular era. He’d look just as comfortable in a top hat and cloak as he would dressed in bellbottoms and a tie-dyed t-shirt. He was simply nondescript, maybe in his fifties or sixties, a person who slipped through life unnoticed without even trying. His skin was blemish- and wrinkle-free but his blue eyes were old. Everyone’s eyes were old in this group. Trauma did that to them.
Gene ushered Cliverson to a microscope. “Marvelous stuff,” he gushed. “Doesn’t burn, chemically or otherwise, resists shredding, doesn’t assimilate into any known liquids, gases or solids in our tests. It just constantly seeks to rejoin itself.”
“So how’d it get separated from whatever it belonged to?” Cliverson asked, peering into the microscope.
“The chipper-shredder temporarily disoriented it. Given enough time, I’m betting all the pieces and parts would have rejoined.”
Cliverson straightened and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Would you bet your career on it?”
“This is my career now.” He jerked his head at Baker. “C’mon, have a look. Let me show you the separation and the re-knitting.” He bent over the microscope, hacked at the glass tray with a tiny scalpel and then moved aside for Baker.
Baker fitted his eyes into the grooves and slowly tweaked the lens. Science wasn’t his strong point, but he did have an advanced mathematics degree. That’s all he needed for his uncle, Director of Paranormal Ops, to get him a spot on this team. The glass tray swam into focus.
Yep, cells. And they were all squirming around like a disturbed colony of ants. All of a sudden the two squirming camps became one and a new cell wall developed around the unified piece. “Wow.” He reached to adjust the slide a bit to the left.
“Careful,” Gene cautioned, reaching for Baker’s hand, but Baker had already overextended and smeared the slide.
He felt a sting. “Ouch. Little suckers bit me,” Baker muttered.
Gene shooed them away. “What were you thinking? I’ve just a little sample. If you’ve ruined it…” He trailed off, adjusting the tray and the microscope. “Downstairs will never release more of this stuff.” He sighed, visibly relieved. “It’s all there.”
“Gotta be more careful around Gene’s alien goop,” Cliverson said mildly. “Let’s see your hand.”
“I must have nicked the edge of the slide.” Blood from a paper thin cut was welling through his vinyl-like white glove. “It’s not really bleeding.”
Cliverson grunted. “You’ll live.”
Baker was relieved when Cliverson turned back toward Gene. Cliverson’s scrutiny could be painful. Despite his age and mostly grandfatherly aura, Baker was a bit afraid of the man. Everyone in the department had a spook story about him.
“Sorry, Gene,” Cliverson said. “I took the kid under my wing. I should’ve been watching out for him.”
Gene was still cooing to his trick cells. “No harm done.” He straightened, careful to not look at Baker.
Yeah right, Baker thought. You want to take your itty-bitty scalpel and drive it through my eye about now. That he didn’t spoke volumes about his relationship with Cliverson.
“Ever seen anything remotely like this before?” Cliverson asked, indicating the slides.
“Some of the guys Downstairs have.” Gene lowered his voice. “Back in the Seventies.”
Not another Roswell conspiracy theory. Baker clasped his hands behind his back and tried to not roll his eyes.
“We got in a sample from a meteor shower. Only it wasn’t any simple shower. Guys thought it was something alien made that broke apart when it hit our atmosphere. Anyway, it was at least twenty years ago, and Vince’s mind sometimes slips when he’s been Downstairs too long. It could be the same stuff.” He shrugged. “We have better tools now. I’d like a bigger piece to work with.” Gene’s voice was wistful.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cliverson soothed.
Gene turned to Baker. “You’re working with a legend.”
Baker rolled his eyes. “Don’t feed his ego.”
Cliverson chuckled. “C’mon, kid. Let’s see if we can get you some more clearance and a suit to go Downstairs.”
* * * * *
Despite Cliverson’s credentials, Baker couldn’t go Downstairs with him. When Cliverson still hadn’t surfaced two hours later, Baker packed up his notes and went home.
The cut on his fingertip hurt worse than the set of ribs he broke last year. Dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table, he headed to the bathroom to pour some hydrogen peroxide into it.
Under the fluorescent glare of his vanity light, the tiny cut looked infected, the edges of the fingernail’s cuticle gray-tinged. He poured peroxide into it, then scrubbed it with soap and hot water. For added protection, he put on one of those useless minuscule Band-Aids that came in the assorted sizes box of Band-Aids. At least it’d keep the dirt out.
After a supper of leftovers and a call to his mother, he lay in bed with the television on. He must have drifted off and dreamed, only the dream seemed too vivid to be just that.
He was walking in the woods. Not just any woods, though. He had paused beside the road signs for what seemed like an eternity b
efore he actually looked at the road names, Burbeen and River Lane. Amazing how clear the names were, as if burned into his retina. After the sign names were filed away, he resumed walking in the woods. For how long, he didn’t know, but he moved with purpose, through old wood growth, climbing over logs and crouching under brush when necessary. When he finally stopped, his chest was heaving and he was actually sweating. Who dreamt they sweat?
Before him was a gradual rise in the forest floor, a gentle knoll, only when his boot struck the knoll, it clanked rather than thudded. Odd. On his hands and knees now, he scraped away dirt to reveal a taupe, nondescript hint of a curve that was obviously not natural to the environment.
Something or someone tugged him away from his find, though he protested weakly, back toward the sheltering cover of underbrush.
Movement caught his eye. Where nothing had been, now there stood three men and a woman. He recognized Adrianne Harris immediately. So she was being held under duress, he thought, but he was dreaming and this couldn’t be real. Two men appeared from the woods carrying a deer between them. The three men surrounding Ms. Harris stepped back.
This was the point he absolutely knew he was dreaming. Ms. Harris vanished and now there was a huge lurking creature in her place. The five men appeared undisturbed by its presence. His subconscious mind screamed Dragon! but he rejected it. Here was the oddball animal the lab must have the DNA on. Just an undiscovered dinosaur that hadn’t really died out? Only where was Ms. Harris? Had that creature eaten her? Even as he watched, it consumed the deer carcass.
His mind was playing tricks on him. Ms. Harris was back. Did she control the animal?
Questions, questions, questions. He did not stay to watch. Instead, he backed away quietly through the brush. And found himself back in his apartment, in bed, drenched in sweat. He glanced at the clock. The television had long since turned itself off, compliments of the sleep mode setting.
His paper cut throbbed. He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom for a warm washcloth. Splashing water on his face, he glanced in the mirror. He looked scared. He hated being scared.
“A stupid dream,” he muttered. Uncapping the mouthwash, he gargled. The burn of it on his tongue was a soothing familiar bit of reality.
If he and Cliverson had been interviewing someone and they mentioned the road signs, Cliverson would look them up. Cliverson was big believer in dream interpretation. He also had a habit of consulting psychics and fortune tellers. Baker wouldn’t be caught dead having his palm read.
But he could look up those road signs. Cliverson need never know.
A colossal waste of his time, no doubt, but he was wide awake now. Might as well check it out on the Internet.
The roads not only existed. They intersected, in the middle of a large swath of forest. Baker broke out in a cold sweat again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nikki is here to see you, Navarre murmured.
Adrianne stirred, raising her head off her pile of eggs. She felt a bit groggy. Navarre had interrupted her while she was touching her babies’ minds, trying to discern whether they were male or female. She thought she knew. She couldn’t wait to tease the others with that newfound bit of knowledge.
I shall watch over them, Navarre promised.
Stretching, she moved aside for him to take her place. Navarre in dragon form excited her as much as in his human form. His scales gleamed like thousands of jade jewels, compliments of the ship’s unnatural light shed from its underbelly. When he reached her side, she wound her tail around his, sat back and flexed her wings.
Later, love. His mental touch stroked her body, sending delicious shivers through her.
She returned the favor, dwelling way too long on parts of his anatomy she currently couldn’t see. His scales darkened a shade. He curled himself around their eggs and, with a sigh, watched her retreat.
Once in human form, she approached the nest again and shook her finger at him. “I’m not glass. I feel fine. Tonight I’m getting sex. You decide whether you’ll be my partner or not.”
Idle threats, he said lazily.
She put her hands on her hips, prepared to lecture.
Nikki is present.
Adrianne turned around. Nikki was staring open-mouthed at the pile of eggs. When she saw Adrianne, she smoothly shifted her expression. “So which one of these is my god-child?”
Adrianne laid her hand on one of the eggs. “She is.”
She? Do you know for certain? Navarre tried peering beyond her shields, but she kept them tightly in place.
Ignoring Navarre, she said, “Or would you prefer a different girl?”
Nikki’s eyes twinkled. “Do I have a couple to choose from?”
Navarre’s head lowered to Adrianne’s shoulder, eyes whirling. Tell me.
“I can’t believe you can actually shapeshift,” Nikki muttered and swallowed hard. Navarre’s big triangular head a mere foot from her face was unnerving. “Two girls, huh? Would I be greedy if I asked to be godmother to all the girls?”
Erifydal, Navarre pleaded. Do not be cruel!
Adrianne linked her arm through Nikki’s. “Let me give you a tour of the house. What a behemoth.” She blew a mental kiss to Navarre. When you’re done egg-sitting, maybe I’ll tell you. I’d like to go on a picnic. I’ve been cooped up too long.
That is blackmail.
You learned our language quick.
Navarre growled. One thing. I have a daughter?
She relented a teensy bit. Yes, you have at least two daughters.
The shrill bleat of dragon joy had Nikki slapping her hands over her ears. And Adrianne scolding Navarre for waking the babies.
Altarre and Benito met them at the surface. “What is amiss?” Benito asked. “Is something wrong with the eggs?”
Adrianne couldn’t think of her daughters and sons as eggs. “The babies are fine. Navarre is a little excited, that’s all.”
Altarre’s eyes narrowed. “I have gathered as much. Do you intend to share the news with us or must I pry it from my brother?”
“Do pry,” she said sweetly to Altarre. Then she leaned close and whispered the number of each sex to Benito.
His eyes widened and he clasped both her hands in his own. “You have made an old dragon very happy.” Then he kissed her a bit awkwardly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“As brother-in-law and your physician, should I not be allowed to share this secret?” Altarre persisted.
“I’d much rather see you torment Navarre.”
“You are a cruel mistress.” He mock-stormed off.
Nikki and Adrianne walked down a path leading from the ship to the mansion-in-progress. Several concrete mixers were busy churning out mortar for the structure. The foundation for the wings was already laid as were the walls for the nursery.
“Will they really have this done in two months?” Nikki asked, head tipped back so she could watch the trusses being erected.
“It seems like someone is working on it night or day.” She led Nikki through an opening. “We’ll have a guest suite. I wish you’d stop by more often.” She didn’t mean to sound so lonely.
Nikki looked uncomfortable. “I’ve been really busy at The Beast…” she trailed off. “Screw it, the FBI’s poking around. And apparently they’ve replaced Haynes and his flunkies.”
Adrianne stopped, her heart in her throat. “What? When? How come you haven’t said anything? Are you all right?” Nikki physically looked all right. She hadn’t felt anything worse from Quince. How could she have been so naïve to think the police would finally leave them alone?
“Of course, I’m all right. I’ve been taking care of myself just fine for years.” Nikki waved her hand. “Besides, you have more important things to worry about. It’s nothing Quince and I can’t handle.”
“Quince is still healing. You both should stay here. You’ll be safe.”
“I said we’re handling it,” Nikki protested, an edge to her voice.
“Okay then.” Adrianne backed down, taking a deep breath. She needed to be objective about this. The FBI didn’t torture people. The FBI didn’t have a clue what was going on. Yeah, right. “If it gets to be too much, if they pressure you…”
“Quince won’t let them do anything.”
She wanted to scream, Look at him! Look at that limp! He’ll never be all right. There are pieces and parts of him that we couldn’t put back together. She remembered standing at the edge with him, thinking they were both going to slip into the black maw and oblivion. She took another deep breath. “Quince isn’t a hundred percent yet,” she said softly.
Nikki ignored the comment. “I brought you a present.” She handed Adrianne a cell phone. “In lieu of getting together as much.”
Damn you, Nikki. How can you be so complacent about all this? She must have been radiating her unease. Percet passed by and raised a questioning eyebrow. She shook her head a fraction. No, she didn’t need help. She needed a frickin’ psychologist. “Thank you.” She flipped open the cell phone. Its purple and metallic case winked at her. “They’ve bugged your phone?” She didn’t look up.
“Yeah, the bar too. We’re now important enough to have some special paranormal task force assigned to watch us.” Nikki snickered. “It must be a convenient place to stash their flunkies. I mean, come on, it’s not like our government’s dealing with aliens.”
A long, silent pause.
“Oh yeah, right. Um, can you have sex with Navarre while he’s a dragon?” Nikki looked away.
Adrianne blinked. “Like this?” She tapped her human chest.
“Yeah,” Nikki mumbled, still looking away.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Nikki embarrassed by anything related to sex. “You’re sick.”
Nikki raised her head then and met her eyes, defiant. “It presents interesting possibilities.”
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