Hybrid: A Shadowmark Origins Novel

by T. M. Catron

  Ten patrons sat at the tables with six more inside the cafe. Four chatted quietly with their company, the rest drank coffee or tea without talking. All of them were harmless.

  I always know who’s around me, how many. It’s one of the instincts that keeps me alive. I also know by a person’s actions how they’re feeling. Body language tells me everything.

  For instance, an elderly woman on the terrace sat alone, looking at the water and drinking her tea. She sipped it slowly, almost wearily. Deep lines on her brow and dark circles under her eyes disclosed sadness and a deep contemplation that wasn’t interrupted even when a passing tourist bumped her table. Red-faced and embarrassed, the tourist muttered an apology in Greek, but the old woman didn’t notice. I didn’t need to use my superior hearing to listen to her sigh or my sharp vision to see the sag in her shoulders.

  The woman’s pain was a waste of energy, her introspection a fruitless endeavor that served no purpose. Humans had a way of letting their emotions run away with them.

  “Your breakfast, monsieur,” a tiny server said in French, arriving at my shoulder and interrupting my observations. He placed a plate in front of me, an egg slightly runny, just as I had ordered. The man stood next to me expectantly as if I were going to wolf down the egg and order another. He had good reason—this was the third breakfast I’d ordered this morning. The food here was good, not outstanding. But ever since landing on Earth five years before, I was always hungry.

  Always hungry, never allowed to eat my fill.

  Disrespect! You are provided what you need.

  My own rebuke scattered my thoughts of eating. No one had spoken to me, but the voice of my conscience mirrored the voices of my alien masters.

  As punishment for my disloyal thoughts, I picked up my fork and jabbed it into the top of my hand.

  “Monsieur!” The server reached for the cloth napkin still on the table. He must have known I stabbed myself on purpose but chose to be polite about it.

  I stopped him, waving him away as blood oozed out from four wounds near my knuckle. I stood, threw some euros onto the table, and walked away in frustration, leaving my perfectly runny egg on the plate. My appetite had disappeared.

  Time for a meeting, anyway.

  3

  Meeting

  The grand entrance of the hospital-turned-five-star-hotel exuded wealth and ease …and a healthy dose of arrogance. Sand-colored front steps led from an iron gate to the hotel courtyard. A perfect meeting place—public and full of tourists—where everyone could see you and no one was looking. I met my new contact there.

  The woman walked over to me like she owned the grounds. She did in fact. A stake, anyway. Large sunglasses covered her white face like a mask. A white silk scarf held back her brown hair to protect it from the wind blowing off the Mediterranean. Designer clothing draped off her bony shoulders. She was almost as tall as I.

  She tried to look bored, but I could tell by her quickened heart rate that she was more than a little curious and excited about our secret meeting.

  On the path behind her, a confident man in khaki trousers and t-shirt stood looking at his cell phone. A bodyguard. In contrast to his boss’ quiet expectancy, the man was bored. I sized him up in two seconds. He wouldn’t do her any good if I really wanted to harm her. No matter how fast he was, he wouldn’t be fast enough to stop me from murdering her where she stood.

  Fortunately for her, I was in no such mood.

  “Êtes-vous Morse?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Oui. You must be Armelle.”

  Armelle inclined her head at her name, then glanced around. “I don’t like this,” she hissed in perfect Boston English.

  “It’s very simple, and I won’t cause you any trouble. All I want is to meet him.”

  “My husband will be angry that I’m meeting you now. He has already refused to see you three times. What makes you think I can change his mind?”

  “I’m told you have great influence over him.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I shrugged and pulled a cigarette and red lighter from of the inside of my sport coat. Her bodyguard twitched in response to my sudden movement. Yes, much too slow. If I’d had my Glock holstered under my shoulder and drawn it, Armelle would be dead already. But my gun was secure in my back waistband, and I didn’t want her dead.

  “Why don’t we get a drink and I’ll explain,” I said. I gestured to the road beyond the iron gate and then lit the cigarette, taking a long draw on it as if it brought me blessed relief. In truth, I hate the things. Never could understand why humans love them. But I’d heard Armelle was trying to quit.

  She stared at my hand and then smirked. “Someone stab you with a fork?”

  I smiled and blew out another puff of smoke. “Matter of fact, yes.”

  “Date went wrong?”

  I laughed and offered her a puff. She regarded me a long moment, taking in my cheap sport coat and watch, the pleather shoes, the clearance rack white button-down and khaki slacks. I was just a regular guy—not a threat. Everything about me was designed to signal to her that I was someone she could trust. An everyday, regular guy. Maybe she hadn’t been around any regular guys lately because she liked what she saw.

  Armelle took the cigarette.

  She sighed in relief and exhaled a large puff of smoke. Armelle offered it back to me, I gestured for her to keep it, and we were friends.

  4

  Credence

  The cafe was more crowded than it had been that morning, and all the terrace tables were full—thirty-eight people in addition to the staff. Four tourists lingered together at one of the iron tables, chatting in German and laughing, finishing a bottle of Pinot. The contemplative woman and her somber mood had long ago left. Everyone except one couple was relaxed, happy. A man and a woman sat outside near the door, their frowns and stiff body language indicating they were in the middle of some domestic quarrel. Nothing to worry about.

  Armelle and I found a two-person booth next to the large window inside and waited to order. Her bodyguard had followed us on our walk from the hotel and now stood outside looking like a lost tourist.

  “Roy doesn’t speak French,” Armelle said as she picked up the lunch menu. She still wore her sunglasses. Indeed, the noon sun shone at just the right angle to reach into the booth and blind us.

  Roy. I almost snorted in amusement.

  “Isn’t that a drawback?” I asked, turning the menu over. “Why not get someone who could help you in an emergency?”

  “Au contraire. Roy is very helpful,” she said absently.

  I bet he was.

  The server appeared—same little guy who watched me stab myself that morning. But he wouldn’t say anything about it—he looked terrified of me. Armelle and I ordered seared beef salads and glasses of red wine. After the server had taken our orders, he grabbed the cord for the window shade to lower it.

  “Leave it,” I said to him. Being able to see outside was more important than Armelle’s comfort. The server let go of the cord, nodded, and left.

  Armelle took off her sunglasses and leaned forward, squinting in the sunshine. Her pale blue eyes did little to complement her white face. And the heavy eye shadow only made them stand out more strangely. “So, Morse—is that what you go by—Morse? What’s your first name?”

  “Morse is fine.”

  “It’s all very hush-hush. I like a little mystery, though.” Armelle crossed her legs beneath the table, her delicate ankle brushing the outside of my left calf. When I didn’t object, she kept it there. Good thing she hadn’t touched the knife strapped to my other leg. Although she might have liked it if she had.

  “So, Morse. Why is it so important that you meet my husband?”

  “I’m sorry, Armelle, but I don’t discuss business over lunch. It’s a bad American habit.”

  “But you are American, right?”

  I grinned. “I’m reformed.”

  Armelle scoffed.

  “What a
bout you?” I asked.

  “Born in Paris, grew up in Boston, then moved back to Paris after I got married.”

  “Did your husband move with you?” I asked in a fake-casual voice like I was secretly inquiring about their relationship.

  “Yes.”

  I sighed loudly. “All the best schools.”

  “Of course.”

  “Children?”

  Armelle blanched, which should have been impossible considering her already fair skin. Was she angry? Sad? It was hard to tell with her.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled like I was embarrassed. “Shouldn’t have asked.”

  Her face brightened as she accepted the apology. “Not a problem.”

  She fidgeted with her napkin a moment, twice folding and refolding it into her lap before she seemed satisfied. “My husband doesn’t want children,” she said when she finished. “He’s very adamant about it.”

  “It’s none of my business, but obviously, you want them.”

  She nodded.

  “Then why stay with him?”

  In answer, Armelle smiled and picked up her glass to drink, and her precisely cut diamond wedding ring sparkled in the sunshine. Eighteen carats? Maybe more.

  Obviously, she liked money more than children.

  Our food arrived, and we chatted about more mundane topics. The stress of travel. The color of the sea. The cleansing smell of salt when the breeze moved off the water. The shared feeling that Marseille was a magical place. Coincidentally, we both thought it the best city in the world. Old and peaceful and full of rich history. I watched her facial expressions, listened carefully to her responses. Everything I said was designed to make her trust me, to like me.

  While we ate, Armelle’s leg moved farther up mine, an inch at a time. When that wasn’t enough, she shifted around until her calf touched the inside of mine.

  I smiled in triumph. She was going to make my mission so easy. I made sure to lay on the extra charm.

  By the time we drained our third glass of wine, Armelle would have licked my fake-leather shoes clean.

  She paid for our meal, and I guided her through the still-crowded tables and out the door with my hand on her lower back. Roy still stood watching the crowd. I nodded to him. “Please order Madame Armelle’s car.”

  Roy pulled out his cell phone—a black Samsung—and called someone.

  Armelle turned to me with hooded eyes. She leaned closer, shoulder touching my chest, voice husky and full of promises. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  I pressed her arm. “That sounds—”

  Armelle reeled back in surprise, stumbling ever so slightly as her eyes widened.

  “What?” I asked as I held her upright. One too many drinks.

  “Nothing,” she smiled. “Just thought I saw something, that’s all.”

  I smirked. “You were looking at me. What did you see?”

  Armelle leaned in close again, her lips touching my ear. “Danger,” she whispered.

  Glancing at Roy to make sure he hadn’t heard, I laughed quietly.

  Her car arrived—a new Rolls. Black, extended wheelbase. “Fancy,” I said as I put her in the back seat.

  “It’s my husband’s.”

  Armelle frowned when I showed no intention of slipping in beside her.

  “Another time?” I asked. As an apology, I lit another cigarette and handed it to her.

  She took a puff, then shook her head and handed it back. Only one vice at a time, it seemed. “When?” she asked.

  “Soon.”

  Roy sat up front with the driver, and the Rolls drove off. Armelle was already passed out in the back. I memorized the license plate, just to be thorough, then snuffed out the cigarette in disgust and threw it away.

  5

  Toral

  Armelle’s husband, Gregory Emerson-Wright, of Emerson-Wright Financial, had the ear of every corporate magnate and president in the Western Hemisphere. And they had his. He probably knew more secrets than all the intelligence communities combined, and he was lauded for being tight-lipped with them. I needed his intel, but the man lived entirely in shadows and tightly sealed conference rooms. No wonder Armelle looked like a vampire—she probably didn’t get out much.

  A close association with her husband could get me in with top finance leaders, but it could also get me introductions to the world’s most powerful governments… and their secrets. Could I contact these people on my own? Yes. But getting in EW’s good graces was like going from New York to Paris on a plane instead of a rowboat—I would be saved years of closed doors and tedious networking. And I didn’t have years. I needed the government contacts ASAP.

  The best way to get them was to get rid of EW’s security detail and replace it with my own. According to rumor, his closest bodyguards never left him. He was paranoid of his own network and refused to go anywhere without them. In fact, I’d run across the rumor that EW had a bodyguard stationed inside his bedroom door at night. I wondered how Armelle felt about that. But then, maybe he was so rich she didn’t care.

  After my successful meeting with Armelle, I walked along a stone walkway leading down to a public beach—Plage des Catalans. A somewhat small stretch of beach, it was bordered by sand-colored buildings in a U-shape, which blocked a view of the shore to the left or right.

  Bathers—tourists mostly—all passed me, dragging along brightly colored umbrellas and stuffed-full beach bags. Children squealed happily as they reached the sand. The women nervously pulled sheer coverups around their bodies as if they weren’t about to expose themselves to everyone on the beach as soon as they got closer to the water. I never could figure out what difference a few feet of sand made. Sometimes humans behave in a way that defies all logic.

  A small, tanned woman in an orange and pink sari walked by me—the only modestly clothed female on the walkway. As she passed, I noticed a long, thin scar across her face. She looked relaxed, but there was a tightness to her expression that was either caused by the sunlight in her eyes or an underlying worry. She walked on down the walkway, and my gaze drifted out to the calm water.

  My stomach growled even though I’d eaten only two hours ago. I would have ordered another lunch if it hadn't drawn more attention from the little server. Armelle wouldn’t have noticed—she’d been too drunk. When she got home and slept off the wine, she wouldn’t remember half of what we said. What a lightweight. Maybe I should have gotten in that car so she wouldn’t forget. But I only would have insulted her when I refused to sleep with her. And insulting her would not have recommended me to her husband.

  The irony was not lost on me.

  I reached the end of the walkway and paused to remove my socks and shoes. A swim would clear my head. Wine doesn’t affect me, but I hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours, and I wouldn’t sleep again until I’d put my plan into motion. I folded my sport coat over the top of my shoes and walked into the surf, clothes and all.

  The salt spray stung my wounded hand as I waded out into waist-deep water. Small and medium-sized stones dug into my feet. I dove in, swimming out beyond the gentle breakers and into the deep. With a breath, I went under. The azure water rippled over the rocks and sand at the bottom thirty meters below. I swam all the way down, touching a rock before floating back up to the top.

  At the surface, I took another deep breath and repeated my exercise, attempting to forget my hunger and the ungrateful thoughts that rose with it. I wasn’t allowed to feel resentment, shouldn’t have been feeling it. Since coming to Earth, I’d had to punish myself more than once for my thoughts. Never my actions, though. I would never commit a physical act of treason.

  On the fourth dive, I gave up and looked around. The day was growing late, and I had to check in with my masters. Far away on the beach, the woman in the sari was sitting near my coat and shoes.

  I swam for shore, careful not to go too quickly and draw attention to myself. When I waded out of the water, she was still sitting two meters from my clothes, determinedly watc
hing the surf without a towel or umbrella or anything to suggest she’d planned this excursion. Her phone sat in her lap. I pulled my wet shirt and undershirt away from my chest, checking that my scars—my adarre—weren’t showing through my clothes.

  The woman watched me pick up my coat and shoes. Long dark hair flowed down her back and brushed the sand behind her. She was pretty—for a human—with soft brown eyes and full lips. Her caramel skin was radiant. The long, thin scar ran from the top of her left eyebrow, barely missed her eye, went over the bridge of her nose and onto her right cheek. It was darker than the skin around it and perfectly straight like she had been at the wrong end of an expertly wielded knife.

  When the woman caught me staring, she held up a hand to her eyes to look at my face.

  I nodded, planned on moving along. I should have been in a hurry, but I didn’t leave. Instead, I placed my coat back over my shoes and sat down where I was. My clothes soaked the warm sand beneath me.

  “Parlez-vous français?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Oui, mais je parle mieux l'anglais.”

  “I speak English, too.”

  “Oh! I had hoped so.”

  “Why?”

  Her face brightened. “Because I wanted to ask how you learned to swim so well, and I didn’t know all the words in French. I was trying to look them up on my phone.” She held up the phone for me to see. Her English was perfect, and the Indian accent added to her charm.

  I swept away a drop of water tickling my forehead and ran my fingers through my wet hair. “Well, I’ve always been a swimmer, I guess,” I said, adopting a false sense of modesty.

  “But you went out very far! And I saw you surface each time. You can hold your breath a long time?”

  “Yes. Just practiced a lot.”

  “I would like to learn to do that, but I don’t swim.”

  “Really? You’ll have to learn. There’s nothing to it, really.”