Vampire (Alpha Claim 8-Final Enforcement): New Adult Paranormal Romance (Vampire Alpha Claim)

by Eros, Marata

  Kyle went to the last open seat in the house and folded his lean frame into the embrace of a chair of metal discomfort.

  Brandt began, explaining the mechanics of Pulse to the Suits, their expressionless faces indifferently listening.

  Nevertheless, Brandt went on, finishing with, “So it is akin to our modern microwave, these brain ʻpulseʼ signals are transmitted whether we intend them to be or not, even during rest. The Pulse device that myself and my colleagues have developed will harness those electromagnetic waves in a single focused burst of cognitive information, thereby allowing communication as we know it. No longer will we have to be slaves to manual manipulation. Using the digits of our body to painstakingly transmit communique is no longer necessary.”

  The group looked blankly at him.

  But one man opened up a cigarette case, tapping out the filtered end against the dull pewter lid to pack the tobacco.

  His flat eyes met Brandt's. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and lit it. Right in the middle of the clinic.

  Kyle Hart glared at him, restating the obvious. “There's no smoking here.”

  He turned to Kyle, then his dead eyes shifted to Brandt's. “My smoking doesn't concern you.” His words brooked no argument, no rebuttal.

  As if to taunt, he ignored the lead scientist of mapping the human genome and spoke directly to Dr. Brandt, brandishing his cigarette. He dismissed the prior thirty minutes of Pulse Tech debriefing with a sweep of his nicotine-stained hand, “We have seen that the technology works,” he said, indicating Mary as she sat with the prototype pulse. Brain Impulse Technology's existence would make traditional cellular phones obsolete. Texting had just become an old-fashioned thing of the past.

  “But the larger question looms,” he began in a voice thickened and raspy from a chain smoking habit that yellowed the whites of his eyes. “What of the security?”

  Brandt's eyes narrowed. He should have known that this government entity would be all about covert methods. What elitist endeavors would they consummate once their greasy paws were on the Pulse? Much, Brandt speculated.

  Brandt flicked his eyes to Kyle's, a second dark look passing between them.

  The skinny man who smoked saw their exchange and scowled, the ash glowing red at the tip of his cigarette.

  “Security is an integral component of Pulse Technology.”

  “Explain,” Smoker commanded, his cheeks hollowing as he took a drag.

  Brandt stifled his frustrated exhale. “As I've said, everything will be driven by thought—initiated by thumb activation.”

  “So,” Smoker waved his hand around and a plume of disgusting smoke wafted through the room, spiraling as he rotated his wrist, “each pulse manufactured will be individually encrypted.”

  Brandt nodded. “Yes, that's exactly it. A recipient will purchase their Pulse, the activation and security coding will occur when they press their unique thumbprint against the pulse sensor pad.” Brandt took the Pulse from Mary, and pointed to a pad that was just that much bigger than the size of a thumb.

  Smoker stared at the unit. “Can it be specialized?”

  Brandt's brows drew together. “In what way?”

  “Customized for a multiple user scenario?”

  “No,” Brandt said, his frown deepening. “The brain signature of each person is unique. In fact, that is why the thumb activation is the perfect complement to the device. It protects the device from security breach. The signature of the individual carries the message from point of origin to the reciprocal device. It is not meant for shared users.”

  Smoker stared at Brandt. “Does the thumbprint have to be from a live person?”

  Brandt swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “Of course.”

  A bloated silence swelled in the room like a day's old rotting corpse. Smoker's unflappable expression could be seen through the cloud of smoke that was a haze in front of his face.

  He waited.

  Kyle Hart turned to him. “Why would that matter?”

  “Classified, Dr. Hart. Besides, we're just exploring the... limitations of the device.”

  Right, Brandt thought.

  Kyle's eyes narrowed on Smoker then shifted to Brandt's. “It's possible for a breach.”

  All the men in black's eyes fell on him, like beetles salivating before succulent carrion. Hart plowed on, ignoring their effort at intimidation.

  Or maybe it wasn't an effort.

  “The trials have ended and there have been manifestations of paranormal talent in the non-placebo group. I think I may know what you're circling here.” They waited and Kyle elaborated, “I know that you have a teen subject that has AFTD.”

  Smoker gave Hart hooded eyes, missing nothing. He turned and gave a slight nod to the furthest edge of the group. A government man stood and moved to the swinging doors, turning his back to the group.

  “National security, Dr. Hart.”

  His man at the door never moved.

  “You're hoping the AFTD can pulse through cadavers?” Kyle guessed, the leap of logic automatic.

  Smoker grinned, a parody of a snarling grimace. “We're fully exploring the parameters of this technology. That's all I can say at this time, Dr. Hart. That I even acknowledged the bent of our exploration,” he shrugged, lighting a new cigarette with the old one, “was magnanimous of me.”

  Kyle ignored his comment. His skirting of the issue at hand. “What about the AFTD? Isn't he, what? Fourteen years old?”

  Gary Zondorae spoke up for the first time, “He is the first true manifestation of this ability we've seen. A five-point, Dr. Hart. That talent was thought to be a Theory Ability,” he said, shrugging.

  “I know what he is.” Kyle leveled an accusing gaze at the pair of brothers. “If he is a Cadaver Manipulator, he's automatically a five-point. What about the family? What's their take on their fourteen-year old partaking in this type of ʻexplorationʼ?”

  The Zondorae brothers shifted uneasily in their seats but it was Smoker who answered, “We've taken care of that. It's not a problem.” He smiled. “Actually, it never was.”

  Kyle Hart didn't like Smoker's express.

  It was predatory.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Don't kill the messenger, Jeff,” said his tutor, Stu Miller.

  “It's Jeffrey.”

  Stu spread his palms away from his body. “Fine. But I have to teach you this stuff. It's what I do.”

  Jeffrey didn't care dick about learning French. He didn't want to learn the four foreign languages they were cramming down his craw.

  Dick. Holes. That's were that was at, uh-huh.

  He scowled at Miller. He guessed it wasn't his fault, but still. He worked for Them.

  Jeffrey crossed his arms and said nothing.

  Miller leaned forward. “You know, I'm not half-bad. If you don't cooperate for me, they have other ways of persuading you.” His eyes met Jeffrey's with a silent plea.

  Jeffrey ignored the hidden message and shrugged. They'd killed his Mom. What more could they do? Shit didn't get worse than that. Killing Dave had been a favor.

  Jeffrey swallowed back the lump when he thought about the zombie they'd torched. He hadn't liked that.

  At all.

  He'd never endanger anyone else by caring about them. Like his Mom.

  Stu Miller sighed. “Is that your final answer?”

  What the hell was this? Jeffrey thought, Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Tard.

  Miller walked to the metal door, a peephole the size of his fist, distorted by its convex shape, magnified the guard's face from the other side like he was peering in at Jeffrey from a fishbowl.

  Stu depressed the buzzer that stood by the door and two of the government dudes walked in.

  It was the dead animals that came with them that got Jeffrey's full attention.

  What the fuck was this? His power over the dead pinged to life, linking seamlessly with the dogs.

  The pair were monsters, large square heads with a tan st
ripe down their identical noses—their bodies, black.

  Jeffrey didn't hesitate, he wasn't used to thinking crap through. He'd lived a reactionary existence of cause and effect, survival predicating swift pragmatic choice.

  He shoved his will into the dog closest to the government guy. It turned swiftly, never hesitating and chomped onto his wrist, worrying at it like a pork roast on a table.

  Jeffrey leapt to his feet, surging through the door, the government dude shrieking as blood poured over the dark heads Jeffrey had just been admiring.

  Kill, Jeffrey thought, without an ounce of mercy.

  Whatever seed of compassion he'd had in his old life had been stripped when they'd murdered his mom—his zombie.

  They'd effectively stolen his humanity, leaving him with a shattered shell of moral precepts.

  The other guy ignored Jeffrey's undead dog who'd latched onto his dickhead pal, and put his steely grip on Jeffrey.

  Zero brains.

  Hell, the dude was strong! Felt like a vise clamp. Jeffrey tried to jerk his arm out of the guy's hand and couldn't.

  Jeffrey felt his mind command the dog before the thought was fully formed and it went right for the guy's gonads.

  That worked awesome.

  He forgot all about Jeffrey, the zombie Rottweiler riding the loser to the ground.

  Testie triumph.

  Jeffrey stepped over the howling pair as five more guys in black suits raced around the corner of the testing and training facility.

  Jeffrey's home.

  One had a flame thrower.

  No! Jeffrey shouted and the dogs raised their dead gazes to him, his emotional signature of extreme fear stopping their feasting.

  Blood dripped from their muzzles. Gonad-destroyer licked his chops.

  Jeffrey shuddered, the guy moaning and writhing around like a snake on the floor.

  The lead government dude let loose on the flames and torched the dogs where they stood. The dogs howled as the heat and flame flowed over their black fur, singeing and engulfing their bodies in a wave of heat.

  Hot tears rolled down Jeffrey's face as he watched the zombie guard dogs destroyed. While two of the suits each held one of his arms pinned against their bodies.

  Jeffrey's hate grew larger, blackness blooming where only a seed had germinated before.

  A tall skinny dude walked down the hall with purpose, a cigarette dangling from lips that held a bluish tinge. “Hold him,” he said casually.

  Jeffrey Parker knew who he was.

  His hate became like a universe. It orbited Jeffrey and his head felt light, weightless.

  The Smoking Man said, “This is a little taste of what you can expect, Parker.” He gave a casual glance at the smoldering dogs that lay oozing on the hall floor, the medicinal white now covered in smoking gore that colored the surrounding surfaces like bloodied soot.

  He leaned into Jeffrey, their faces almost touching, the smoke from his cigarette the only barrier. “Every time you do not cooperate, we're going to let all the road kill that is piling up here like an undead menagerie feel the whip.”

  Jeffrey's mouth fell open.

  Road kill?

  The Smoking Man straightened, his hands going to his bony hips like protruding handles. He was a walking skeleton.

  “That's right,” he flicked his ash and it fluttered down like gray rain on the corpses of the dogs.

  Jeffrey swiped at his eyes angrily.

  “I know this is your soft spot.” He smiled at Jeffrey and he saw it for what it was. Plenty of Mom's Guys had smiled at Jeffrey that way. Like they had a dirty joke and he was the butt of it.

  Emotion surged and Jeffrey was helpless to stop it as every insect that had died within a mile of the facility poured into the hall, sweeping under the doors like black fog, heading straight for the government jerkoffs.

  “Fuck,” Smoking Man muttered and hit Jeffrey in the back of the head, right where it'd steal consciousness if executed perfectly.

  It was obvious he'd had practice as Jeffrey crumpled into a boneless bundle next to the zombie dogs he'd called without knowing.

  The cloud of bugs responding to his emotional turmoil like an automatic turnstile churned to an abrupt halt when Jeffrey's eyes closed. The bugs scattered like a changing current and swarmed back the way they'd come.

  The hall turned black, the ceiling lights that were held in grid like cages softened to a pinpoint of yellow buzzing light and Jeffrey lost the battle of wakefulness, slipping into the oblivion of the abused.

  “Why'd ya do that?” McKenzie asked Smoker. Even Smoker's own men thought of him that way. For he was the ghost of this little operation. He was the cleaner. He cleaned up messes no one else would touch.

  They didn't even know his name.

  Fine by McKenzie, Smoker gave him the fuckinʼ creeps. A hard thing to get in this job.

  Smoker looked down at the lanky teenager on the floor, pale from the fun of the latest revelation. He'd come around, both physically and metaphorically.

  Jeffrey Parker would comply, or suffer more of the same.

  They'd done a little poking around and finally determined that the one area that was a painful oozing wound was the killing of the dead that were already dead.

  No morbidity paradox there.

  Not any dead, but Jeffrey Parker's dead. And because of his youth, his absolute lack of skill and abundance of power, he was raising every dead thing within five miles of their covert training facility.

  He smiled. That just worked out Jim dandy , Smoker thought, taking a long, lung-filled drag from the stub of his cig.

  He looked at his underling, McKenzie. “Had to be done. This kid has to know who's boss. We can't have him doing whatever he wishes.” Smoker tapped his temple, an inch of ash dropping as he did. “He'll be of no use to us, running amok, raising whatever he likes.”

  He looked down at Parker's still form, the reek of the dead dogs permeating even his obliterated olfactory senses, ruined by his nasty habit.

  He lit a new cig with the red hot ember of the old, dragging in soft bursts, causing the flame to ignite instantly.

  Smoker blew the smoke into McKenzie's face.

  He swung a palm in front of his nose to banish it.

  Smoker smiled.

  “He's just a kid, did you have to bash him?” McKenzie persisted.

  Smoker looked at McKenzie. “Ask Walter and Lents.”

  McKenzie looked down at guys he'd partnered with, done surveillance with. Other shit. Cleaning up garbage for the good old U.S. of A. Of course, if the American people really knew what the price of their freedom, or imprisonment was, it'd be a different nation. Walters was holding his crotch, sweat running down ashen skin with rapid breathing edging toward shock. Lentsʼ hand dangled from his arm, hanging at an awkward angle.

  “They need medical attention, right?” Smoker asked rhetorically.

  McKenzie reluctantly agreed. He hated this asshole. He bossed them around, he stank and he was merciless, even for their line of work.

  They were assassins, couldn't sugarcoat a turd.

  But Smoker was the Cleaner. He cleaned shit up. He had an absolute nose for averting trouble. He'd been uncanny on operations that necessitated any degree of intuition. McKenzie shuddered to think of what he would have become if Smoker could have received the Cocktail.

  Thank Christ he was out of puberty. Thinking of this guy with a paranormal ability? Hell, he was crazy enough naturally. All this passed through McKenzie's mind in seconds. He responded to Smoker in as level a response as he could, “Yeah. I-I'll phone it in.”

  “Nah, you get cleaning up this mess and I'll pulse it.”

  McKenzie whipped his head in Smoker's direction and Smoker held up the new Pulse Device.

  “Shit! How'd you rate that?” McKenzie asked in the middle of a white hall with two torched zombie dogs and an unconscious teenager.

  “How do you think?”

  Right, McKenzie thought, he did what he w
as told. Whatever it was, Smoker got it done. Of course he'd be the first to get a device. McKenzie had to know. “Do you like it?”

  “Oh yes. The device makes communication perfect. No matter what the interference.”

  Don't ask, he told himself. He did anyway. “What interference?”

  Smoker smiled.

  “Blood, or other events that would get in the way of conveying information.”

  “Oh,” McKenzie said, wishing he hadn't asked.

  Smoker turned on his heel, walking away. As he moved down the hall he spoke without turning, his hand raised in the air, “Clean this up. Get the C-M back to his room.”

  McKenzie looked at the two on the floor, blood everywhere, the dogs stinking up the hallway enough to make him gag while the AFTD slept on the floor.

  He sighed. Sometimes his job was beyond fucked up.

  They began cleaning. It took five hours. The stains were all gone, you'd never know it had happened. Only the smell lingered in the hall. Eau de cooked corpses.

  *

  Jeffrey Parker woke up with a head that felt like a truck had rolled over it. He couldn't be cleaned. His psyche had a stain that never left, spreading like an insidious disease of hate and distrust. For the ones that took him—for what he couldn't help.

  Parker would find a way to take it down. All of it.

  Jeffrey Parker made a pact with himself that day. It would take patience and perseverance.

  And the dead, of course.

  He began to cooperate with his schooling, his natural intelligence outpacing some of the tutors; eventually forcing his ward's hand in the hiring of college level professors.

  Jeffrey Parker became fluent in five languages with a special aptitude in math and science. But it was his specialized talents that lent him the ability, when the time came, to assist another AFTD in a future he was yet unaware of. That unexpected yoke in his life's path proved integral to his plan.

  He didn't know it then, but Kyle Hart's unborn child would be the catalyst to what he'd envisioned from that lonely moment of ephiphany.

  Some things were meant to be.

  Caleb Sebastian Hart was no accident. No fluke of Biology or genetics. It was not at the point of Jeffrey that death began, but Caleb.