Nightshine: A Novel of the Kyndred

by Lynn Viehl

  His last thought was of how utterly he had failed her. I wish I had been stronger, Charlotte. Then I might have saved both of us… .

  Chapter 2

  The CEO of the most powerful biotech corporation in the world looked down the length of the conference table at the faces of his department heads. None were fool enough to avoid Jonah Genaro’s gaze or show their emotions, but he could smell the fear hovering, an invisible, quivering cloud over their heads.

  “I have reviewed all the reports regarding the incidents in Denver and New York.” He let the stack of files in his hands drop onto the table. “All they tell me is that this company has now failed three times to secure acquisitions vital to the successful development of the transerum.”

  One of his attorneys discreetly adjusted the knot in his tie. “Mr. Genaro, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to divert unwanted attention from the media and the federal authorities. I strongly advise that we consider a fresh approach to … acquiring … these particular assets for the project.”

  “I agree,” Eliot Kirchner, Genaro’s chief geneticist, said. “We’ve known for some time that a select group is somehow communicating with one another, and we’ve seen evidence of cooperative behavior. They could be organizing.”

  “I disagree. The last thing these people want is for anyone to know what they are,” Don Delaporte, Genaro’s security chief, said. “They’re not going to start a members-only club.”

  “Then how do you explain the losses here in Atlanta?” Kirchner demanded. “Bellamy had help escaping capture. So did the female shifter in New York.”

  “We know Andrew Riordan interfered in the Bellamy case,” Delaporte said, referring to Genaro’s former technical supervisor. “We were unable to uncover any connection between him and Gerald King, who enabled the shifter to escape capture in New York.”

  “Excuse me,” Evan Shores, the head of accounting, said.

  Delaporte ignored him. “Nor was Riordan in any way involved with Tina Segreta’s operation in Denver. You’re seeing conspiracies everywhere, Doctor.”

  “Excuse me.” Shores used a too-loud voice, and cringed a little as everyone turned to stare at him. “I’m sorry, but there is someone who was peripherally involved in two of the incidents.”

  Genaro sat down. “Who is it?”

  “Uh, an antiques dealer named Samuel Taske, sir.” The accountant sat up a little straighter. “Before he died, Gerald King appointed him executor of his estate, as well as the legal guardian of his teenage daughter.”

  “King’s daughter was already cleared,” Kirchner snapped. “She’s too young to fit the profile.”

  “It’s not that, sir,” Shores assured him. “Samuel Taske also flew to Denver the day after you and Ms. Segreta arrived there.” He pulled a sheet from his file. “I have the hotel records.”

  “What do we know about Taske?” Genaro asked.

  “We ran a standard background check on him when he assumed custody of the King girl,” Delaporte said. “He’s the son of Davis Taske, the discount-supermarket-chain mogul. As the sole heir, Samuel Taske inherited fifteen billion dollars from his family’s estate, which he has since doubled, mainly through the acquisition and sale of rare art and antiquities. He maintains a controlling interest in Taskecorp, but continues to work as an antiques dealer out of Boston. Tax records show that over the years Taske sold several works of art to King. Taske also gave the eulogy at King’s funeral and called him his ‘good friend.’ ”

  Genaro turned to the accountant. “Why was Taske in Denver?”

  “I can’t say, sir,” Shores admitted, “but his financial records show that he travels frequently around the country.”

  “That’s not unusual for a man who buys and sells antiques,” Delaporte said. “Taske is well-known in his business, and he’s never tried to avoid publicity. Quite the contrary; we were able to access dozens of photos of him from newspapers and trade magazines.”

  Genaro, who knew the value of hiding in plain sight, wasn’t convinced. “Can you tell me where he was when the New York operation fell apart?”

  Shores consulted his records. “He flew to New York a week before Gerald King died.”

  “No doubt to find the daughter,” his security chief said. “She ran away from home just after King was diagnosed with terminal cancer. After the old man died, Taske was the one who found her.”

  “And this good friend of Gerald King’s just happened to go to Denver at the exact same time we lost two of our acquisitions.” Genaro sat down. “Mr. Delaporte, I want a complete investigation performed on Samuel Taske. Find out everything about him they don’t print in antiques magazines. Mr. Shores, I want to see a complete breakdown on his personal and business financial records.”

  Shores nodded eagerly. “How far should I go back, sir?”

  “Birth, Mr. Shores.” He regarded the rest of his supervisors. “The rest of you gather the peripheral data. I want to see lists of known associates, employee rosters, medical records, school transcripts, every single thing this man has done since he was removed from the womb. I expect prelim reports by close of business today. Now get out.”

  All of his employees except one quickly left the conference room. Kirchner lingered by the door and, once the last supervisor passed him, closed it.

  Genaro didn’t glance at him. “I am not in the mood for one of your tantrums, Eliot.”

  “Then it’s fortunate that I’m not planning to have one.” He walked over and placed a slim jewel case on the table in front of Genaro. “I received this last night from the lab in Denver. It’s all the data they were able to recover from Segreta’s laptop.”

  Genaro frowned. “Give it to technical for analysis.”

  “I don’t think you’ll want them to analyze her final video phone conversation with you.” He sat down in the chair beside him. “You had her sedate me and search me on the plane. Why?”

  Of course Tina had recorded everything; she hadn’t been in the business of selling merely herself. “She led me to believe that you were working for outside interests.”

  Kirchner removed his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve forgotten why I do this.” Once he had bared his forearms, he turned his wrists out so that the old, dark lines marring his skin were visible. “You remember the conditions of my last employment. They kept me locked in that lab for years. They deliberately addicted me to heroin to keep me motivated. The only reason I’m alive is because you purchased me. You took me out of there, cleaned me up, and gave me back my freedom.” He extended one arm. “This is what’s waiting for me out there. The abyss. Now, why the hell would you think I’d repay you by voluntarily jumping back into it?”

  “Of all my people, you are the one I depend on most,” Genaro told him. “Lately you’ve become temperamental and paranoid. I have to know the reason for it.”

  Kirchner drew his arm back. “I am not experimenting on rats or monkeys, Jonah. For the sake of creating a successful transerum, I have sanctioned the kidnapping, torture, murder, and dissection of human beings. If we fail, all I have to look forward to are a few miserable years on death row before I’m given a lethal injection. Or it’s back to the abyss.”

  “We are not going to fail.” He looked over as the conference room door opened and Delaporte stepped inside. “What is it?”

  “Taske,” his security chief said, crossing over to the wall monitor and accessing the public broadcasting feed. “He’s just been taken hostage in California.”

  Genaro watched the special news report on the Golden Gate Bridge sniper, who shot half a dozen motorists and killed a state trooper before abducting the antiques dealer and a paramedic from the scene.

  “The first patrolmen responding to the scene did not attempt to stop the sniper, who used the paramedic’s ambulance as his getaway vehicle,” the news anchor said. “Authorities have issued an all-points bulletin for the stolen rig and the alle
ged gunman, who is said to be a Hispanic male in his mid-fifties. Police advise that the suspect is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should contact their local police, the California Highway Patrol, or the Crimebusters toll-free tip hot-line.”

  Delaporte switched off the monitor. “I’ve contacted our San Francisco office. The shooter isn’t one of ours.”

  “I should hope not.” Kirchner looked appalled.

  “They’re monitoring the situation,” the security chief continued, “but the consensus is that this was a random act of violence.”

  “The sniper shot everyone but Taske and the paramedic. There is nothing at all random about that.” Genaro checked his watch. “Contact the flight crew and have them prepare the jet to fly to San Francisco in one hour.”

  Delaporte frowned. “Sir, our office out there has an excellent team of investigators and operatives.”

  “No doubt they do.” Genaro stood. “This time I will be able to personally assess their performance in the field.”

  Sirens wailed in Charlie’s ears, sending invisible ice picks into her brain. Her lungs felt as if she’d inhaled fire, and her heart thudded dully under her ribs. Something had been wrapped around her head—a sack or a pillowcase. A sudden screech of brakes sent her sliding into something big, hard, and immovable; she felt soft hair brush across her face.

  Hands yanked her away by the ankles and grabbed her waist to sling her over a strong shoulder. She heard and smelled seawater and gasoline before something stabbed into her hip. The burn spreading across her buttocks told her she was being injected with drugs; the subsequent sensation of nauseating euphoria and numbing paralysis made her heart flutter with panic.

  Morphine … and some kind of sedative …

  Blackness.

  Charlotte felt the cocoon of softness around her falling away, and hot breath touched her cheek. She opened her eyes to see an enormous black cat staring at her behind silver bars scored with deep scratches. The big cat yawned and began licking its paw.

  A man’s voice spoke in a strange language, and was answered by a deeper, unearthly tone. Charlotte turned her head and saw two shadows, big and small, looming over a golden-haired giant’s bloodied, unmoving body.

  The big shadow dropped down, lifting the golden head and pressing a goblet of red wine to the giant’s lips. Some of the wine trickled down the sides of his face.

  A third shadow merged with the smaller one, and in English Charlotte heard a woman’s sulky voice ask, “Why does he try again? You know it will only kill the male.”

  “He does as he wishes,” the man snapped. “This one was not on the list anyway.”

  “On the bridge Tacal sensed he was Chosen.” The woman sighed. “He was very good at that.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Charlotte heard a choking sound, and the thud of the giant’s body as it dropped back to the floor.

  “We should keep him here until he dies,” the woman said. “The children will only bury him, and then we will have to dig him back up.”

  “The master says he stays with the female.”

  The woman laughed. “Then perhaps she will save us the trouble and burn him.”

  When Charlie woke the next time, she found herself sitting in a chair. She looked down at the cheetah-patterned drape covering her from her neck to her knees before she glanced at the large mirror in front of her. She was in a beauty salon. Someone had taken her hair out of the braid and put it up in a fancy ’do with strands of golden pearls woven through the elaborate coils. She was also wearing dark red lipstick with a golden sheen, dark purple eye shadow, and enough black eyeliner and mascara to polish a pair of shoes.

  She tried to grab the drape and pull it off, which was when she discovered that she was completely paralyzed.

  In the chair next to hers the giant—no, the Limo Guy … Sam, she remembered at last—sat with his eyes closed and his chin tucked against his leopard-patterned drape. The elderly Latina trimming the back of his hair noticed Charlie watching and smiled.

  “Big and virile, isn’t he?” She came around and gently tipped Sam’s head back. “He’s a good match for you.”

  It took Charlie two tries to get the words out of her dry throat. “Where are we?”

  The woman began carefully trimming away the big man’s beard. “You’re safe now, hija.”

  “I’m not your daughter.”

  “I wish you were. I would be so proud to give him a girl child.” She let the golden hair fall onto the shroud until she had cropped his beard close to his skin, and then reached for an electric razor. “Men do such foolish things. Why does he cover such a handsome face?”

  “Who are you?” Charlie demanded. “What are we doing here? Why can’t I move?”

  “So impatient.” The Latina made a clucking sound with her tongue. “All will be explained to you when you wake up.”

  “I’m not asleep.” Everything that had happened on the bridge came rushing back into her head. “I’ve been drugged. I’ve been kidnapped.”

  “You’ve been saved,” the hairdresser insisted. “You should be grateful. You will have a beautiful life with this one. If he lives. I think he will. He is stronger than the others.”

  Charlie wanted to scream. “Lady, I don’t even know that man.”

  The Latina gave her a knowing glance. “You will.”

  Charlie saw the syringe in her hand and heard herself beg. “Please. No more drugs.”

  “This is the last dose, chica. I promise.” The hairdresser stabbed the needle into Charlie’s upper arm.

  The drape rose up and wrapped itself around her head, smothering her into unconsciousness. For a long time she drifted, lost and aimless, until a beautiful warmth surrounded her. While she still couldn’t see anything, she no longer felt as if she were alone.

  What is going to happen to me?

  Be careful what you ask, a deep voice whispered. You may not care for the answers.

  Lines began stretching out through the darkness, radiating around her like a web made of amber light. In the center of them stood the big blond man from the bridge.

  Samuel?

  He turned toward her, his eyes closed but his mouth smiling. There you are. He held out his hand, and she saw her own reaching for it.

  As soon as they touched she knew the warmth had come from him, for a deeper, richer wave of it swept up her arm. Are you doing this, or am I hallucinating?

  A little of both, I think. He drew her closer. Charlotte, whatever happens, you must live. Fight for your life. Everything depends on it.

  Everything? She felt bemused. Like what?

  I can’t see it yet, he admitted, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s like you. I can only feel it. But it’s very important that you live.

  We all die, Sam. She didn’t want to think about it. This is a great dream, though. She admired the shifting patterns of the lines. I could stay here with you forever.

  That’s not your destiny. He sounded tired now. Or mine.

  I thought you couldn’t see anything, she chided.

  I know that I’m dying, he said gently. I thought I’d accepted it, but now … Why couldn’t I have met you years ago?

  We have. She didn’t know how she knew that, only that it was the truth. On the bridge, I felt it. I’d never seen you before in my life, but I swear I recognized you.

  It was the same for me. He lifted his head and then put his arms around her. I don’t know if I’ll survive this, but when you wake up, look for me. Find me.

  I will. The darkness was dragging at her, pulling her out of his arms. Samuel.

  Don’t be afraid, Charlotte. The light and the warmth dwindled, and the last thing she heard was his voice. Here or in the real world, I’ll be watching for you.

  Time passed unnoticed. The sound of the sea finally roused Charlie, but the sunlight on her skin and the decadent comfort of the fine linens swaddling her tried to
lure her back to sleep. The fragrance of some exotic fruit rose from the pillow under her cheek, as if the sinfully soft bedsheets had been washed with pineapples or mangoes. She turned her nose into the delicious scent, and a firm, smooth texture brushed across her lips.

  Skin. Naked skin.

  She opened one eye and looked at the chest she was nuzzling. The golden eye of a bird tattoo stared back at her, and for a moment she thought she saw its scarlet-tipped black wings flutter where they had been inked over strong collarbones. She glanced down and saw its lower body had been fashioned out of curling flames.

  Not a bird, Charlie thought as she idly traced the blaze of fire and feathers with one fingertip. A phoenix.

  A phoenix tattoo.

  She pushed herself away from the chest. The man beside her lay sprawled over two-thirds of the enormous bed, his clean-shaven face still, his chest barely moving as he slept on.

  It was Sam, the man from the bridge. But why was she in bed with him?

  Charlie jerked off the scarlet cotton sheet twisted around her and saw only naked skin. She crawled away backward, not stopping until she went over the side of the bed and fell to her knees. Softness cushioned her shins, and she looked down at the black fur throw spread out over a floor made of clear blue water, coral, and tiny tropical fish. Only when she saw the ghostly image of her own wide-eyed face staring back at her did she realize the water was under a layer of crystal-clear glass.

  Slowly Charlie lifted her head. If she was in a hotel room, it was the largest she’d ever seen: at least two thousand square feet, with a cathedral ceiling supported by innumerable lengths of smoothly polished bamboo. Primitive-looking motifs and murals covered the walls in bright primary colors, all of which darkened into an azure-purple ombré at the base, giving the impression that the entire room was melting into the gigantic aquarium of the floor. Irregular flat plates of multicolored stone had been stacked to form treelike columns that supported light fixtures of green glass blown in long, graceful curves that suggested palm fronds. Bowls woven from twigs and set on carved wooden pedestals held mounds of fresh fruit.