Protective: Legatum - Book 1

by Sylvian, LuLu M

  “That’s when you tested other family members,” Aventine added.

  “Exactly. This pattern showed up on the known wolves I tested. I then started testing non-shifter family members. That’s when I really narrowed it down to the exact coding region.”

  She shuffled papers. “I can now identify the specific allele—” She looked at Morgan and assessed his puzzled look. “—that’s a variation of a gene that shows up in the same place on the same chromosome. Like we know what location on the chromosome has eye color, so I can identify which is the set that determines if a person is wolf, ethnically. With this information, we can start to identify what other genes and chromosomal regions determine if offspring will have the ability to change or not.” She looked from Aventine to Palatine. “You realize, gentlemen, this might make us somewhat of a sub mutation of the genus Homo?” Dr. Barnes sat back, sighing.

  “Or the next step in evolution?”

  Morgan cut Roman a side-eye glance. “Superiority complex?”

  Roman laughed.

  “Of course, there is some margin of error, but with the little testing I’ve done, the gene is showing up consistently and predictably. Currently, I have only identified it showing up here as an ethnicity trait. There are most likely additional gene sets. Just as we have genes that identify us ethnically, there are related genes that will show up in some of the medical panels. Genes sometimes travel in packs that way, its called linkage disequilibrium. The other genetic players haven’t been found yet, but trust me, they are in there. There will be other correlations between wolf alleles and other medical issues. I’d put money on there being a tie into our longevity and ability to fight disease and heal quickly. Even non-changers possess and exhibit those traits.”

  “Interesting,” Morgan muttered.

  “Scientifically, this is beyond interesting. It opens up so many questions. If we are a subgroup of Homo, how far did our kind interact with Homo sapiens to become integrated with them? Are we from a previously unknown species that somehow interbred with Homo sapiens, became absorbed into the species, and disappeared as a standalone group the way Neanderthals did? How far back before we run into dormant markers in the general population? How can we breed with an unknown, assumed regular Homo sapiens and come up with one of us?” Dr. Barnes pulled off her glasses and placed them on her desk. “You’re familiar with the mate aura?” She gave the term air quotes with her fingers.

  “But that’s only among our kind,” Aventine said.

  “No, it’s not.” Morgan corrected, thinking about how Honey had looked bathed in golden light.

  “Right.” She pointed at Morgan. “While I think we’re the only ones who see it, humans can glow. It’s how we can all have that one human grandmother and can still shift. I’d say—educated guess here—this means that either wolf is a dominant gene set, or somewhere in that person’s genome, they have wolf. I haven’t yet tested a human mate to really be able to drill down into their DNA.”

  Morgan listened intently. Would Honey be willing to be tested? He couldn’t ask her just yet. It wasn’t a matter of if Honey would have him back, but how soon. She was his. His mate. He would do whatever it took for her to accept him.

  “Clearly, you have years of research ahead of you. But how do we take this information and corral it?” Morgan asked. “We can’t buy out every lab that does this work?”

  Roman shook his head, “No, but we do need to establish a presence in this business community and access the data.”

  “If we alert other labs to the gene signature, their radar goes off and red flags start flying. That would basically be alerting the community that something is up with this code. That would result in noses we don’t want sniffing around in our business and investigating people we don’t want investigated,” Dr. Barnes added.

  Morgan leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, hands fisted together. “Could we infiltrate their databases with some kind of filtering program? Have all matches sent to us?” He rested his lips on his fingers. “We need a piggyback program. Something that runs behind the database software. Something that we can use to get into all the systems, that alerts us without their knowing about it.”

  “That’s one solution.” Barnes agreed. “But programming and infiltrating other databases is going to take time. Fortunately, this is not a widely expressed allele and no one is studying its function yet.

  “I’ve already checked our database. We run hundreds of thousands of DNA tests, and the only cases of the gene are found in the tests I’ve run.” Dr. Barnes collected the papers spread across her desk. “I have an idea that should work in the short-term, while you figure out the big picture and how to harvest this information from other databases. I am a clinical researcher. I can put a call out to other labs in the US and Canada for this information. Right now its junk code as far as anyone is concerned. I tell them I’m looking for a few different sets of junk code. Give them several options, so nothing is pointing to our identifier specifically. Tell them I’m researching if it is, in fact, junk code or a placeholder for related medical issues.” She nodded to herself. “Tell them it’s viral related. Really send them in the wrong direction.”

  “This way I can start collecting the information, and we can see how far spread this really is. In the meantime, tell everyone you know to not go in for genetic testing.

  “The only problem I can see with that,” Roman drawled, “is if you get a match. We won’t have patient information associated to it.”

  “No, but we’ll be able to see how many more are out there being tested. Are the labs regional? Will we be able to pick up that type of data?” Morgan asked.

  Dr. Barnes shook her head. “Labs are all over the place and not regional. I might be able to get location information from the other labs, but you’re right, nothing identifying who the DNA belongs to. Not unless they happen to be a perp in the national and federal database of criminals who has been tested for DNA.”

  “It’s a start,” Roman noted. “How soon can you take action and get this moving?”

  “You mean start contacting other labs regarding bogus research? A few days. I need to come up with a brilliant and feasible hypothesis to present along with my request. I can get that started right away.” She motioned with her hands. “It’s going to have to be good to sound convincing.” She turned to Roman, “I’m going to need funding. Rumor says you’re trying to purchase SeaQuence. I think once that’s done, you can officially green light my research project. In the meantime I can get everything set up and ready to go.”

  “Do that. We’ll keep brainstorming on how to access the information on a more permanent basis.” Roman stood, indicating the meeting had come to an end.

  Morgan also stood. “Julia has probably already started the process of locating a genetics group to buy out. If I know her, she’ll be putting together prospectuses for our directors that will be ready by the end of week.” He swept his hand in a motion to indicate the business office. “So this the facility Aventine Industries is working on acquiring?”

  Roman nodded. “Yes, Aventine Industries is already moving forward with a purchase option for SeaQuence Labs.”

  Reaching forward to shake Dr. Barnes hand, Morgan said, “Thank you, Dr. Barnes. This has been most enlightening. We all have a lot of work ahead of us. Let me know if you want to run some tests on Palatine DNA to confirm any of your findings and ensure this is not an Aventine specific anomaly.”

  “Thank you for offering. Would you mind giving me a sample right now?” she asked.

  “You need blood?”

  “I can take blood, hair, urine, spit. A buccal swab is the easiest and the cleanest,” she explained. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped out of her office.

  Roman clapped him on the back. “I’m going to leave you here. Let you do your swab test. I will have a car called for you to take you back to your hotel in San Francisco. I have more meetings on this side of the bay this afternoon, so no need for yo
u to wait on me, right?” He stuck out his hand for Morgan to shake.

  “Right.” Morgan shook the offered hand. “Aventine, you’re not what I expected, based on your father’s reputation.”

  “Thank God. That old wolf is a bit too antiquated for my tastes. But he’s the boss.”

  Morgan chuckled. He knew that sentiment, but now he was the boss. “I’m sure Julia will be in contact soon regarding the specifics.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Morgan stood waiting for Dr. Barnes to return after Aventine left.

  She directed him to open his mouth while she ran a cotton swab over the inside of his cheek. He obliged her then filled out a short form identifying the swab as his.

  Dr. Barnes thanked him, then guided him back out to the lobby.

  The receptionist confirmed a car had been called and would arrive shortly. Her sneer indicated she was not as impressed with Morgan as she had been with Roman Aventine.

  Morgan waited less than five minutes before the receptionist approached him letting him know that his car had arrived. Morgan slid into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car and told the driver which hotel to take him to in San Francisco. He settled back in his seat and began texting Julia notes from his second meeting with Aventine and the doctor. Morgan’s large thumbs made typing awkward on the phone’s small keyboard display. Most of what he sent Julia was ideas and the related obstacles that might prevent a course of action from being viable.

  Identification was always something they had to be careful with. Family members who couldn’t change still had to be welcomed into the fold, else they might feel ostracized and feel the need for retaliation of some kind.

  Now to have confirmation they could be traced on a genetic level brought with it a whole new set of concerns for all his kind. His kind. They had lived, hiding in plain sight for centuries. They weren’t even certain they were the only type of shifter out there. Rumors of others surfaced from time to time certainly, but never confirmation. And they were not exactly the werewolf of legend, but certainly wolf-shifters. They had a level of control and could decide when to change. They did not rely on the magic of the moon for their shifting abilities. That did not mean there were not werewolves out there that the moon controlled, but if they existed they remained well hidden. Just as the Palatine family had. Just as the Aventines had.

  Morgan made a quick note to contact Dr. Barnes and have her on the look-out for other potential shifter races. Race. Was Wolf now a race? Was that even the correct term? Wasn’t race considered purely a social construct? Wolf as ethnicity, a sub-species, a scientific classification? Morgan had always thought of himself as Californian, which superseded his Italian and Portuguese heritage. Of course, he had always figured the arguments and one-upmanship was wolf, pack order, and not the typical, hot-blooded, Mediterranean heritage. Most likely the hot headed temperament came from both.

  Always heavy, traffic was noticeably slower for this time of day approaching the bridge. The interior of the car grew dark. He looked up. They were boxed in between two semis, not moving in the traffic jam. Normally, this wouldn’t have fazed Morgan, but this time, something felt off. He leaned forward to speak to the driver. A sharp ppst sound popped in Morgan’s ears, and the driver slumped over the steering wheel. The windshield shattered and a canister dropped onto the front passenger seat.

  Morgan grabbed for the door handle and shoved against his door. Crap! The door would not open. A low hiss sounded, followed by billowing white clouds of pungent, chemical-smelling smoke that filled the interior of the car. Morgan covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and threw himself against the door again.

  In seconds, all went black.

  10

  Morgan felt like he had been kicked in the head. His mouth tasted bitter, like chemicals. His face pressed against something smooth, like paper. The rumbling and movement suggested he rode in the back of a truck. He blinked, attempting to bring focus to his eyes. Nothing.

  He closed them again and tried to shift his position. His hands were tied behind his back. He tried to rotate his wrists, straining with his fingers to feel what bound his wrists together. Whatever the binding was, it was just out of reach. He pulled his wrists apart, expecting to break through his restraints. In his weakened condition, all that motion did was hurt.

  He tried to open his eyes again. Dark. Some filtering light. He blinked and let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. A flat expanse blocked part of his vision. He leaned, face first against a cardboard box. Morgan used his shoulder to right himself to a more comfortable sitting position. Comfortable was subjective. Now that he could see, he realized he sat on the sheet metal flooring of a panel truck.

  Morgan assessed his situation, reviewing everything he knew. Which wasn’t much. His driver had been shot. He had been drugged. His head throbbed. He was now in the back of a cargo truck, not too big from the dimensions, so not a semi, and they were moving. From the constant and continuous rocking, Morgan surmised they were on a freeway, headed away from the Bay Area and its constant traffic jams. The aftereffects of the drug left him groggy and weak. There was little for him to do except sit and wait.

  The truck pulled off the freeway and stopped once briefly before getting back on the road. The rocking motion and lack of sensory input lulled Morgan to sleep. He awoke as the back door to the cargo area rolled up with a clatter. Morgan squinted at the back-lit figure that stepped up into the cargo hold. Night. A fluorescent lit marquee advertising cigarettes and beer. They were stopped at a gas station.

  Morgan turned his focus to the man in front of him. He tried to open his senses to identify who had kidnapped him. Nothing. He quickly assessed his captor’s physical appearance. The man wasn’t overly tall and had a military-style buzz cut. Morgan considered neither piece of information to be useful.

  “Who are you?” Morgan asked gruffly, his words mere mumbles of sound.

  His answer was a blow to the head and a sharp needle prick in the side of his neck. The man shoved Morgan away, so he landed with his face against the flooring of the truck. The lights outside of the truck blurred out of focus seconds before Morgan blacked out again.

  *

  Morgan groaned. His head felt like he had been hit repeatedly. The constant frantic throbbing in his temples wasn’t helping any. A sharp slap stung the side of his face. A second slap was followed by a kick to the ribs.

  “Wake up,” a voice growled.

  Morgan slowly moved his pounding head. Consciousness flooded him. Thumping that didn’t originate inside his head assaulted him. The rapid thud of helicopter blades created the backbeat to the pain in his skull.

  Keeping his eyes closed, Morgan assessed his predicament. He was no longer in the back of a truck—that much was certain. He sat upright in an upholstered swivel chair. Pounding, aching head—check. Bitter chemical taste combined with morning-after mouth, demon breath, and fuzzy teeth—check. Wrists bound behind back—check. Weak as shit—check. He opened his senses to gather more information, this time with a little more success. A human pilot sat behind him—that meant he was rear facing. A wolf-shifter in front of him. A not-quite-human who didn’t smell right—sick or drugs, Morgan couldn’t hone in on the smell. It was being masked by the unmistakable cloying stench of French designer aftershave on another human.

  His lids still clenched, Morgan let his eyes open enough to let light flood his brain. He closed his eyes again and breathed. Slowly, he opened his eyes again, letting his vision focus on the man directly across from him. Wolf. A Japanese man with short black hair and black eyes stared back at him. Next to the wolf, in a separate captain’s style chair, sat an extremely pale man with a military haircut. Morgan recognized his shape as the one who’d stuck a needle into his neck earlier.

  “Good, he’s awake.” A familiar snide voice pierced Morgan’s brain. That explained the cologne, Morgan thought. He turned to face the man next to him, his entire chair rotated.

  Morgan huffed. �
��What the fuck are you doing here, Maplecourt?”

  “I should ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m the one with his hands tied behind his back. So I get that you think I have some information you want or need. Let’s start by asking me something I might actually know?”

  “Why do they think you have any power? You’re a construction worker.” The confusion in Maplecourt’s tone told Morgan the man was out of his league, and he didn’t know who, or rather what, he was keeping company with.

  “Again, try asking me something I might actually know, Maplecourt. Last time I was awake, I was in traffic headed for the Bay Bridge. Now—” Morgan swiveled his chair away from Maplecourt, looking out of the helicopter window as they passed over a ski lift and treeless side of a ski slope. “—we appear to be flying over the Sierras. Maybe your new friends here could help you out?” Morgan nodded to the wolf. “What do you say, fellows? Want to fill Maplecourt in on what’s going on so that I can get out of here?”

  They stared back at him enigmatically.

  “Nothing?”

  The Japanese man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and placed it up to his right ear. He nodded as he listened. He placed the phone back into his pocket.

  “Morgan Palatine,” the wolf-shifter began, “our Lordship has a proposition for you.”

  “Lord? God told you over the phone to offer me a job? No thanks, I have one.”

  “Shut up!” Maplecourt hissed.” You don’t know who these people are. They are very powerful. If you don’t accept their offer, they’ll kill you.”

  Morgan caught a whiff of adrenaline and fear under Maplecourt’s assaulting aftershave. He was nervous, excited, and clearly in over his head.

  “I get the feeling—” Morgan addressed Bryce directly, “—that you don’t really know who these people are either. Do your friend’s at Cyan Group know you’re here?” He needed to keep the man unbalanced before he figured out it was his job to kill Morgan.

  “Cyan Group is a bunch of daisy scouts.” Maplecourt scoffed. “They act all tough like they’re Russian mafia or something. They don’t know shit. They don’t have real power.” He gestured towards the men sitting across the luxury passenger cabin. “Their Lordship has real power, controls real money. This—” His gesture included the helicopter. “—is not even a show of the magnitude of his wealth.”