Krysta rested her forehead on his shoulder and tried to keep her body from trembling. She wouldn’t cry! Tears were a futile waste of time. She shifted her hands to his warm chest and set her teeth against the temptation to cuddle closer. She had to stay strong, remain focused on the only thing that mattered -- destroying Hydran.
But an insidious wave of weariness swept over her, leaving her achy and longing for things she didn’t understand. How could she trust him when he’d lied so many times? And she needed to trust someone right now, needed to know someone had her back.
He’s the hero, a little voice inside her nagged, you have to trust him.
Pushing against his chest, she raised her gaze to his face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I’d subconsciously controlled the vision. Once that happens, the prophecies are useless.”
He stroked her face, tracing the high arch of her cheekbone with his thumb. “I want to understand what that means. And I want to explain how and why I came to Earth, but I’m dripping all over the carpeting.”
He punctuated the reminder with a charming smile and heat curled deep in Krysta’s belly. She couldn’t let him know how off-balanced he made her feel, how vulnerable.
“So give me your towel and I’ll dry your hair,” she said with a shaky little smile.
His brow shot up at her taunt, but he shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble.”
“A common state of affairs. I’ll tell one of the crewmembers to bring us something to eat.”
She watched him cross the room, enjoying the loose-limbed grace of his stride. How had he managed to defuse her anger so easily? Because you knew he was lying all along. Because you’re relieved to have the pretense behind you. Well, her mistrust was another matter entirely. He may be able to flash his rakish smile and melt her anger, but it would take far more to earn her trust.
* * * * *
Krysta sat at the small round table, bathed in candlelight. Two crewmembers had silently readied the room, but Trey had yet to emerge from the bathroom. The table had been spread with crisp linen and dishes carefully placed, a large covered tray sat in the middle of the table, and a bottle of wine awaited in a cooling-stand. It felt cozy, soothing.
Trey returned, dressed once more in his sleek, austere uniform. The solid white material of his shirt moved with him, following every cord and ripple of his impressive torso, and the perfectly fitted black pants were no less flattering.
He’d touched her, but he hadn’t let her touch him... and she wanted to touch him, to finish what he’d started.
“Are you hungry?” The caress in his amber gaze assured her he intended the double entendre. He joined her at the table. “What did they bring for us?”
“Bread and honey, some sort of roasted fowl, apples, cheese, and a bottle of wine.” She poured a small amount of the beverage into a cup and took a sip. The crisp, faintly fruity taste rolled across her tongue and warmed her belly. She drank more deeply.
“It’s to your liking?”
“I’ve never had wine before.” She set the cup aside. “I’ve read about many things we were not allowed to experience. Shall we try the bird?”
“Would you prefer a juicy leg or a plump tender breast?”
He made it sound salacious and she couldn’t help but smile. She was tired. Her nerves had been stretched to the breaking point by the mercurial events of the past few days. She just wanted to have a normal, informative conversation.
“Enough with your games, all right? Can we just talk?”
“Probably not. You’re not any better at behaving around me than I am around you.”
“Then you’re welcome to finish anything I start.”
“Agreed,” he said much too quickly. “Tell me about your prophecies. How many have you had?”
She folded her hands on the tabletop, almost embarrassed to admit the true scope of her ability. “They started when I was thirteen. I began logging them five years ago.”
He carved several thick slices off the bird’s breast and placed them on her plate. “How have you kept a log without Hydran finding it?”
“I’ll have to show it to you, but at a glance it looks like an ordinary journal. I write how much I hate Hydran, and how frustrating I find life in the Center, on the outer pages, but the outer pages peel back to reveal inner pages. On the inner pages, I log the prophecies. Surveillance reported that I kept a journal and when the orderlies searched for it, all they found was an ordinary looking journal.”
“He allowed you to keep it?”
“Why not? I make no secret of my feelings for Hydran. Corra actually said it helps me channel some of my hostilities to put them down on paper.”
He paused. “Corra is Hydran’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Do each of your prophecies follow the same... format?”
“The Mystic trance isn’t always so obvious, and many have come upon me during the night, but yes, they’re always spoken out loud and always accompanied by a vision.”
“Have you ever spoken a prophecy in any language other than Earthish?” He quickly made a sandwich as he waited for her response.
“Yes. It’s always the same language, but I’ve been unable to identify it. Why do you ask?”
“You spoke Earthish on the recording Hydran showed me, but your voice suddenly had a distinct Ontarian accent. Does anyone at the Center speak Ontarian?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Did your mother speak any languages other than Earthish?”
His tone was casual, but she sensed a greater importance in the question. Was he trying to trick her into admitting something... she had to stop second-guessing him or they would never get beyond this fragile truce.
“Where would she have learned Ontarian? That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”
“From her guardians. Your mother was sent to Earth as an infant in the care of two adult guardians. Do you know what happened to them?”
Again she shook her head, but her mind was inundated with questions. Sent by whom? Why? How had her mother ended up in the hands of a lunatic like Hydran? Why had it taken forty-seven years for her mother’s disappearance to be investigated?
“I know nothing of adult guardians. Perhaps the elders know something, but they’ve never mentioned it to me.”
“The elders?”
“Lorrisa and Bekka. They were in Belle’s room when I came out of the trance. Did you see them on the recording?”
He poured himself a glass of wine. “Long white hair, one looked as if she were blind?” he described.
“Lorrisa is blind.”
“How long have they been at the Center?”
“They were born there.”
He set his glass down and stared at her disbelievingly. “Operation Hydra has only been in existence for about forty years.”
“Yes, I know.” She set down her fork, reminding herself that Trey was one of the good guys. He had nothing to do with the experimentation the original twins had endured.
The original twins did their best to encourage and support the other occupants, to keep the others from succumbing to despair. Krysta and Belle were the only ones who knew what they had suffered. Lorrisa and Bekka shared a special telepathy, a private frequency that others couldn’t hear. Krysta had inadvertently tapped into their transmission one afternoon and it had changed her life forever.
“They were given growth hormones and fertility drugs,” she began in a quiet, choked tone. “Hydran began harvesting their eggs when they were eleven and continued until...”
She took a quick gulp of the wine, blaming the moisture in her eyes on the burn of the liquid down her throat.
“Until what, Krysta?” he asked gently. “When did Hydran stop harvesting their eggs?”
Captivity and manipulation were bitter pills to swallow. When Krysta learned she’d been cultivated for the express purpose of study and experimentation, she’d promptly dedicated her
life to tormenting Dr. Hydran.
“The rapid growth hormones had unpleasant side-effects even in their children, so he allowed her to mature naturally. But as soon as she reached puberty, he started all of the testing, all of the procedures, all of the treatments on her.”
“You switched from ‘them’ to ‘her,’” he said. “Are you talking about your mother now?”
She tightened the belt on her robe and sat up straight before she met his gaze. “Yes. My mother was Hydran’s star pupil, his pride and joy. She loathed the man, you understand, but she accomplished more than any of the others, so he rewarded her for it.”
Trey shook his head. None of it made sense. How could what Krysta believed correspond with what he knew to be true? “How did he reward her?” He attempted to keep the conversation going while he puzzled through the mire.
“I’m as confused as you are.”
There it was again, her uncanny perceptiveness. He was not that easy to read. She had to be empathic. “Can you read my thoughts or just sense my emotions?”
“It’s different with everyone. With most people I can sense enough of what they’re feeling to guess what they’re thinking. You’re actually very guarded. I can’t hear your thoughts and only rarely can I feel your emotions.”
“Vee and the other Mystics will be able to help you expand and control your abilities.”
She laughed, rubbing her temples for a second. “You just bombarded me with resentment. So, it’s not just Vee. Why do you resent the Mystics?”
“We have much more important things to talk about tonight. There is still so much you don’t understand.” He shook back his hair. “There is still so much I don’t understand. I’m not even sure where to begin.”
“How about the beginning,” she suggested with a playful wink. “Why was my mother sent to Earth?”
“To understand that, you’ll need a quick history lesson.” He smiled and handed her an apple. “Ontariese had been matriarchal for as long as organized societies gathered upon her lands, until the Great Conflict, about one hundred cycles ago. The Royal House of Joon declared war on the Royal House of Aune and each of the six great houses was forced to choose sides.”
“Did the House of Joon want to control all of Ontariese or just the House of Aune?”
Trey paused for a couple of hurried bites before he explained. “When the conflict began it was a war of ideals. The Traditionalist Sect, led by the House of Aune, fought to uphold the way things had been for countless generations. The Reformation Sect, led by the House of Joon, wanted change.”
“You said ‘when the conflict began.’ What changed? When did it become a literal war?”
“Fro dar Joon unleashed a biological weapon specifically targeting women.” He shook his head, his expression tight and drawn. “He killed almost as many of his own women as he killed of ours. Now, generations after his death, we’re left with a population so disproportionately male that our world is still at risk.”
She waited until he glanced up to ask, “How disproportionately male?”
“Over a hundred to one.” Her eyes rounded and he chuckled with a sad lack of levity.
After a long pause, she asked, “What does all this have to do with my mother?”
“When the war began, E’Lanna dar Aune knew that the only way to protect her daughters was to hide them from their father, Frim dar Joon.”
She lowered the piece of bread she had been about to bite. “My mother was half Aune and half Joon?” Krysta thought of the passionate kisses and intimate touches they had shared and froze. “You’re of the House of Aune. We aren’t cousins or anything, are we?”
His wolfish grin told her he knew exactly what she was remembering. “No, sweetheart. Our blood tie is nearly nonexistent. Now pay attention. The Traditionalist Sect upholds the matriarchal standards, so all wealth and position is passed down through the daughters. Joon knew that to wipe out our women would force us to conform to the Reformation Sect.”
“The biological weapons,” she said with a little shudder. Then her mind latched on to another facet of his tale. “Are you saying my grandmother was afraid her husband would harm his own daughters?”
He touched her hand, squeezing it gently. “It was a legitimate fear. The House of Joon killed her other two daughters. Your mother was one of the royal twins, the last of the High Queen’s progeny. Drastic measures had to be taken to protect them.”
Her appetite fled. Was there no place in the universe where men cherished women, loved and protected them? Would she always feel threatened and alone? Pushing away her plate, she tried to comprehend the convoluted story. “What measures?”
“High Queen E’Lanna opened an interdimensional portal and sent them to separate destinations while allowing everyone on Ontariese to believe she had miscarried a single child.”
If this was all some wild tale, he was an even more convincing liar than Dro Tar. She followed each element of the story, looking for inconsistencies or contradictions, but all the while something inside her stirred. An elemental knowing. His words rang true. His explanation felt right.
She started to melt, to accept the truth into her being and rejoice in the revelation, when one fact brought her skittering to a halt. Damn him. He almost had her going.
“Nice try, dar Aune.” She pushed to her feet. “You missed one little detail. If your story were true, my mother would be a hundred years old.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hydran glanced at the man standing beside him, attempting to judge his reaction without drawing his attention. The demonstration had been flawless. How could he not be pleased?
“Mental conditioning safeguards the handler?” the general asked, his cold blue eyes never wavering from Saebin’s svelte form. Clad in a formfitting, black bodysuit, she stood at attention, her arms clasped behind her back, her silvery blue gaze vacant.
“Mental conditioning makes the safeguards nearly unnecessary,” Hydran corrected. “They are two separate routines.”
“Has she only worked with one handler? How long will it take to expand her programming to include multiple operators?”
“That all depends.” Hydran paused for a wily smile.
The general bristled. Though dressed in civilian clothing, his precise bearing was as telling as any uniform. “Her face could be a problem. She’s too -- striking, too memorable.”
“Faces are easily altered.” As you obviously know. The general had to be nearing sixty, but his smooth skin and thick dark hair made it apparent that he spent a great deal of his earnings at a regeneration clinic. Vanity was such a waste of time.
“How well did the new batch of Libidium work?”
Hydran’s eyes narrowed on the chiseled profile of the other man. So, he hadn’t imagined the general’s carnal interest in Saebin. She was a beautiful young woman. But Hydran considered the occupants his children, and no father liked to think of his daughter in a compromising situation. Except for Krysta, of course. Krysta deserved everything she got.
“I’ve only had the opportunity for one test and we both know Krysta’s reactions are unpredictable.”
“What was the result?”
He thought of his terse conversation with Trey Darrin. The young man had been angry, yet eager to get Krysta alone and more thoroughly sample her charms. “The mixture may be too strong.”
“Ah.” The general finally dragged his gaze away from Saebin. “I wish I had more time. I’d love to experiment with the compound’s secondary benefits. Did this off-worlder report any increase in susceptibility to suggestion?”
“I don’t believe so,” Hydran said. “Just sexual stimulation.”
“All right, then.” The general headed toward the door. “Begin the process with the other three. I’m more than satisfied with the results.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Any progress with Level 4?”
“I have one final obstacle before we can launch.”
“Do you anticipate any problems overc
oming this obstacle?”
Hydran looked meaningfully into the demonstration room and the woman standing there. “Have I failed to deliver anything I’ve promised?”
The general smiled and took his leave.
Hydran stood alone in the observation booth, faced with his handwork. Saebin remained utterly motionless. At her feet sprawled her enemy: two of Hydran’s personal bodyguards, easily twice her size. She’d used her power to render one unconscious, while a vicious extended kick to the chin took out the other. If her handler hadn’t called her off, she’d have snapped their necks, killing them without thought or reservation.
Hydran heaved a heavy sigh, part weariness, part exasperation. How had Operation Hydra come to this?
* * * * *
“Krysta, wait!”
She ignored Trey and rushed from the dining area. Why did he persist with these foolish games? Had Hydran’s team surgically altered his eyes to swirl like an occupant’s? But that made the prophecy false and the -- his hand grasped her upper arm and spun her around. She gasped.
He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into her palm. “I know this is hard for you to understand, and even harder for you to believe, but look at the disk.”
Opening her hand, Krysta looked at the object he’d given her. Etched around the edges in a geometric pattern, the disk appeared translucent in the middle. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“I suspected we’d have this conversation while we were gone, so I grabbed this from my cabin just before we left my ship. It’s an image disk of my brother and his soul’s mate. He created it the day she was crowned High Queen of Ontariese.”
He took her fingers and positioned them at the edges of the disk, and then held it up, allowing light to pass through the disk. The disk came alive, a vivid, three-dimensional image formed within the etched circle.
The man was lean, gracefully strong like a dancer, the shape of his mouth, the sharp angle of his cheekbones; Krysta could see his resemblance to Trey. His hair was inky black with subtle blue strands and his eyes combined shades of gray, blue and brown. His arm was wrapped around the shoulders of a woman. Krysta’s eyes narrowed and she shifted the disk, bringing the woman into sharper focus.
Ontarian Chronicles 2: Operation Hydra Page 11