“You usually don’t have any problem with women, but that female’s got you riled, and you aren’t thinking clearly.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he said softly.
She shrugged. “Whatever you plan to do with her when you have the information you want, be careful. Shank could be right—she might be a spy for the Enforcers, just waiting for the perfect time to signal them.”
“I had considered that,” he said drily. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”
“Just don’t put it off too long.” With a shake of her head, she walked away.
Damn her, Drakon thought. He should never have let it become so obvious. But Brita was right. In a matter of hours he seemed to have developed some kind of unprecedented obsession with his captive, and it wasn’t normal. Not normal at all.
He didn’t like puzzles. He never had. In his old life, everything had seemed clear-cut, the rules easy to follow. All that had ended with his conversion.
Now he had begun to realize that not everything had changed. Once he’d been capable of real emotion. Humans believed that even new-made Opiri lost their ability to “feel,” and Drakon had believed they were right.
But they were wrong. And Drakon was beginning to realize just how wrong. What troubled him most wasn’t just the way Lark aroused physical need, but that she also touched parts of him he’d believed long dead. The ability to admire courage, to recognize the admirable traits among those he’d once served.
And to make dangerous mistakes.
He returned to his room, collected himself outside the door and went in. Lark was sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up and her eyes closed. Her lovely face was almost haggard, with shadows under her eyes and tension above her brows that couldn’t be feigned.
“How was your meeting?” she asked, opening her eyes. “Has your crew decided to throw me to The Preacher’s tender mercies?”
“No,” he said, standing very still as her scent washed over him and produced what had become his body’s inevitable response.
“What next, then?”
Drakon sat on the chair. “Tonight we have a job, and you’ll be left here under guard. When we’re done, we’ll test the validity of your information.”
“I’m not going to run, you know.”
“We’ll know how much you can be trusted soon enough.”
Leaning forward, Lark wrapped her arms around her knees. “Who are you, Sammael? What brought an obviously educated and cultured man such as yourself to become a Fringe Boss dealing in stolen goods?”
Drakon laughed to himself. Yes, in his old life he had received a fairly decent, rudimentary schooling, the one afforded all Enclave citizens. But Lark spoke of education in a difference sense, and her use of the word culture was meant to convey some kind of status far above the one he’d been born with.
He’d never been one of the Enclave’s elite. What he’d learned of “culture” had come from his Opir Sire, who had seen something in him worth cultivating and had boosted Drakon up the Opir ladder from serf to vassal to Freeblood in a remarkably short period of time. He had stopped aging at twenty-nine, five years ago. It seemed an eternity.
“I was one of those dissidents the government is so fond of denouncing,” he said, skirting very close to the truth. “I spoke out against certain unjust laws and restrictions, the forced separation of families under the Deportation Act.”
“Then you agree with the mayor,” she said with what seemed to be real interest. “You’d like to see an end to deportation.”
“I would like to see some other means of dealing with the problem of satisfying the Opiri,” he said. “But I spoke out on these matters before Shepherd came to office, and I was warned in advance that I was to be taken in for questioning. So I escaped.”
“Shepherd held the same views then, and he was a senator....”
“I had no reason to trust any political authority, whatever his or her promises.”
A spark of anger flashed in Lark’s eyes, but she covered it quickly. “You’re right,” she said. “They can’t be trusted.”
And you didn’t like hearing me criticize the government, he thought.
“Patterson and Shepherd are very much the same, in spite of their supposedly opposing views on peace and deportation,” he said. “And whatever their earlier ideas might have been, power has a strange effect on people. It changes their commitments and alters their promises.”
“How has power affected you?” she asked sharply. “Everyone knows it’s dog-eat-dog in the Fringe. How many people have you killed, just to keep your power?”
“I do whatever is necessary to protect those under my care.”
“Your care? Stealing food from people who need it, dealing in contraband, trading on citizens’ fear of deportation by demanding everything of value they have just so they can—”
“And yet you came here knowing all this,” he interrupted. “You worked for those who abused the people from whom I steal ‘everything of value.’ What benefits did you receive from your employment, Lark?”
Flushing, Lark looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said, as if she meant it. “We’ve all become harder since the War.”
“No,” Drakon said. “People haven’t changed. Only the circumstances.”
“The entire human race never had to fight for its very survival before.”
“And now the Opir race does the same.”
“You’re defending them?”
Drakon knew he’d almost revealed too much. There was something about this woman that threw him so far off balance that he thought he could actually confide in her. Let her see something of himself that he’d shown no one else since he’d been with Lord Julius. Explain why he had to...
“I’ll have a tray brought to you,” he said, turning to leave.
“Wait,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
He turned halfway, his hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t you want the test information?”
“Tell me,” he said.
She did, in brisk detail, as if he were a military commander and she a soldier making a formal report. Drakon could find nothing suspicious in what she said, but that meant nothing at all.
“You’ll remain here for the day,” he said. “You may not see me again for some time, but my lieutenant, Brita, will see to your needs.”
“And will you keep me chained while you’re away?”
“Should I?”
Her direct gaze met his. “I promise to be good,” she said with a wry half smile.
Instinct—blind, animal instinct—almost drove Drakon to join Lark on the bed and take her up on her earlier offer. But once again he controlled himself, remembering that they had nothing in common except that she was human, and he had once been.
“Keep your promise, Lark,” he said, striding to the door. “Be very, very good.”
Chapter 5
“He’s crazy.”
The woman with the short black hair and nose ring took the chair, folded her arms and stared at Phoenix balefully. Phoenix had seen Sammael’s lieutenant when she’d run into his meeting with The Preacher, but hadn’t really met Brita until she had brought a breakfast tray bearing an odd combination of nutrient bars and surprisingly fresh vegetables, along with a change of clothing. She came again at lunchtime, when she’d escorted Phoenix to one of the shared bathrooms to clean up.
Phoenix had seen and heard enough to know that Sammael and Brita didn’t always see eye to eye. But Phoenix had no idea where Sammael had gone, and Brita hadn’t enlightened her. In fact, the woman had barely spoken, and on the third visit, when she’d brought a sparse dinner, she’d left Phoenix alone for well over eight hours.
By Phoenix’s estimat
ion, it was probably about four in the morning...an odd time for Sammael’s second-in-command to come calling.
“Why?” Phoenix asked. “Because he believes me? Or has he done something else you don’t approve of?”
Brita scowled. “I got a message from one of the crew,” she said. “I guess your information must have panned out.”
That didn’t sound right to Phoenix. Sammael hadn’t said he planned to check on it when he’d left. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have been possible for him to act on what he’d learned either last night or this morning.
Studying the woman’s grim face, Phoenix pretended to be relieved...which wasn’t so far from the truth.
“Then I guess he’s not so crazy after all,” she said. “Maybe it’s time you started to trust me, as he does.”
“Not likely. I’m just following orders.”
“It sounds as if you don’t trust Sammael’s judgment.”
“I was against keeping you here,” Brita said, the words sounding almost bitter. “If I were him, I’d have killed you on sight.”
Phoenix sat very lightly on the edge of the bed, her feet planted firmly on the floor. “Really?” she said. “It seems to me that your obvious dislike of me isn’t just concern over who I am and what I may be doing here. You’re personally worried about Sammael, aren’t you?” She smiled. “Afraid that I might have some...undue influence over him?”
“You?” Brita snorted. “I know you’ve been offering him every asset you have, but he hasn’t taken you up on your offer, has he?”
Phoenix clenched her jaw, wondering exactly how much Sammael had told Brita. “All I want to do is get out of San Francisco,” she said.
“And you think he sees you as anything but a tool? He’s had better than you a hundred times.”
That was just the kind of reaction that told Phoenix she had to keep pushing. She knew next to nothing about this woman, who clearly had almost as much authority over the crew as Sammael did.
She had to uncover Brita’s motives, decipher her relationship with Sammael, and learn just how much of an obstruction she might be to Phoenix’s mission.
There was no sign that Brita had any idea what Sammael really was. But what if she did? If she was as close to him as she seemed...
Surely not. No free human would aid an Opir spy, even assuming she also knew nothing of what Erebus intended for the mayor.
Still, this was the Fringe, where anything was possible and hostility against the government was rampant. Phoenix had to be certain. She had to risk asking questions of a woman who obviously despised her.
Even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers.
“Are you his lover?” she asked bluntly.
Brita’s muscles tensed as if she were about to fling herself on Phoenix. Phoenix braced herself for attack.
“His lover?” Brita spat, visibly struggling to get her anger under control. “Neither one of us has time for that.”
Phoenix released her breath slowly. At least she wasn’t dealing with jealousy, which was a very dangerous and irrational emotion.
What troubled Phoenix was that her relief wasn’t in the least objective. It was uncomfortably personal, as if she couldn’t bear the thought that—
“By the way,” Brita said, abruptly derailing Phoenix’s uneasy train of thought. “Sammael said to move you to a new room of your own.”
Phoenix stared at the Fringer woman in surprise, noting that her body had relaxed as if there had never been any tension between her and the prisoner.
And that made Phoenix very, very suspicious.
“I don’t understand,” Phoenix said. “I thought Sammael wanted me to stay here.”
Brita stretched out her long legs and crossed her ankles. “He doesn’t want you to leave the premises, but you may be staying here for a while, and you can’t spend all your time locked up in this room.”
“Sammael’s orders?” Phoenix asked.
Brita didn’t answer. She rose and jerked her head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you to your new digs.”
She strode through the door without once looking back. Phoenix followed slowly, half-expecting an ambush.
The corridor outside was damp and cold. The only light came from Brita’s headlamp, which she turned on as soon as they left Sammael’s room, and a few flickering lights spaced several yards apart. Phoenix assumed they conserved energy whenever possible, since the Fringe’s access to the city’s power grid was strictly limited.
Brita escorted Phoenix along several corridors and stopped before a warped door. “About as good as any room you’ll find here,” she said, “and it has a decent bed.”
She led Phoenix inside. “If you need anything,” she said, “bang on the door. This place gave up being soundproof a long time ago, if it ever was. But you wouldn’t be very smart to try and leave this room without an escort. Every exit from this building is guarded by a whole network of booby traps and alarms, and they have to be disarmed very carefully.”
“How many prisoners do you have here, anyway?” Phoenix asked.
“Just do as I tell you.” Brita closed the door, locking it from the outside. Phoenix listened for a while after Brita’s footsteps had receded into the distance.
This was obviously some kind of test...or a trap. And Phoenix was by no means sure that it was Sammael’s idea. She would certainly learn the truth when Sammael and his crew returned. Since they worked at night, they’d be finishing up their current “business” by dawn or soon after...only a couple of hours away.
Brita had told her not to leave the room, and Phoenix knew it would be dangerous to try. On the other hand, she might never have a better shot at looking for evidence that Sammael was in direct communication with Drakon, and how he might lead her to the assassin. The odds that anything obvious would turn up were probably thousands to one, but the odds weren’t her concern. The looking was.
Still, she didn’t attempt to leave until she heard voices that seemed to be coming from outside the building, too indistinct for her to decipher the words but clear enough for her to identify one of the speakers as Brita.
After a few moments’ careful consideration, Phoenix decided to take the risk. She tested the door and quickly discovered that the lock was broken—more proof that this might very well be a trap. She paused outside, listening again.
Brita definitely wasn’t in the building, and Phoenix was finally able to pinpoint the direction of the voices. Before she did anything else, she had to know what Sammael’s lieutenant was up to.
Still, she hesitated, sensing something out of kilter besides the obviously ineffective lock. It took her a few minutes to find the webwork of nearly invisible wires stretched between floor and ceiling on each side of the door, clearly meant to trigger an alarm on contact. Or perhaps do something much worse.
But Brita clearly didn’t know that this govrat’s training had included such esoteric skills as disarming bombs and alarm systems.
In five minutes, Phoenix had found the trigger and disabled it. She used every one of her half-dhampir skills to make her way through the maze of corridors while avoiding the surveillance cameras she spotted at each end of every hall or corridor. She found a rear exit and searched the area for the “booby traps” Brita had mentioned.
As she’d suspected, there didn’t seem to be any safeguards to prevent escape, only to keep potential enemies out. If Sammael’s crew did take prisoners or hostages, they certainly weren’t confined in rooms with half-broken locks.
Once she was certain she wasn’t going to trip any alarms, Phoenix carefully moved through the outer door. It was hidden from the view of outside observers by the strategic placement of old crates and pieces of discarded metal and wood, but the voices grew more distinct, and soon she could make out the words.
> “I told you I’m happy where I am,” Brita said. “I don’t care what you offer me. I’m not switching crews now.”
“Even though everyone in the Fringe knows that Sammael’s crew is getting restless because he gives half your booty away?” the man’s voice asked.
“He gives a shit about the people who live here. And you’re wrong about his crew. I grew up in the Fringe. I know what it’s like, and I know how to survive here. Sammael’s no weakling, and you’re never getting to him through me.”
“We can always find someone else.”
“You don’t think Sammael’s watching? You think he’s so soft that he’d let some traitor go over to your Boss?”
There was a long silence, and Phoenix could almost hear the man’s shrug.
“Your funeral,” he said. “But The Preacher’s gonna come for Sammael’s turf sooner or later, and it’s gonna be a nasty war. Whoever loses is gonna take his crew down with him, so you better make sure you’re on the right side.”
“And you better make sure you don’t come here again, or I’ll kill you myself.”
The man laughed. “You can try.”
The sound of his footsteps receded, and then there was only the darkness and silence.
Phoenix retreated just inside the door and waited until Brita returned, disarmed the alarms and stepped into the Hold. Her pupils were huge in the darkness, and when she saw Phoenix she stopped in apparent shock.
“You were talking to someone from The Preacher’s crew,” Phoenix said, leaning against the wall.
Brita’s eyes narrowed. “You got past the web.”
“You were laying a trap for me,” Phoenix said, dodging the question. “Why?”
“Because you’re not who you say you are.”
As you are not, Phoenix thought. “You’ve obviously believed that from the beginning,” she said aloud, taking a step toward Sammael’s lieutenant. “Who do you think I am, Brita?”
“You’re not human.”
Phoenix wasn’t shocked. If she recognized Brita, then it was bound to work the other way. But she had to be sure. “Why would you think that?” she asked calmly.
Harlequin Nocturne March 2014 Bundle: ShadowmasterRunning with Wolves Page 5