The Psy-Changeling Collection (172 page)

“No, Councilor. You’re free until the four o’clock with the BlackEdge pack.”

He turned off the intercom and considered the possibilities. It couldn’t be Nikita, the Councilor with whom he had a quasialliance. She was in Nara, Japan, having an afternoon meeting with a man who made his living stealing information from secure PsyNet databases.

Information like Kaleb’s training history.

He hadn’t eliminated the leak at the source. There were some things he wanted Nikita to know. A small light lit up under the smooth black surface of his desk as the airjet landed on the roof. He passed a hand across another section, bringing up the images from the surveillance cameras that surrounded the landing pad.

His visitor was no one he’d have expected.

However, by the time Henry Scott walked into his office, Kaleb was prepared for anything the other Councilor might throw his way. “Councilor Scott.” He turned from the window and nodded a greeting.

“Krychek.” Henry waited until Lenik had closed the door behind himself before advancing farther inside. His ebony skin, stretched smooth over the oval of his skull, seemed to soak in the light, rather than reflect it, but it was the aristocratic lines of his face that held the eye.

According to the human media, Henry Scott was considered both handsome and distinguished. That was why he was the face of the Council, along with his “wife,” Shoshanna—what the public didn’t know was that the marriage was an empty husk, a coldly calculated act designed to “humanize” the Council to the emotional races. In keeping with the fiction, the Scotts were rarely seen separately, and inside the Council, Henry was considered the beta member of the Henry-Shoshanna pairing.

“Would you like a seat?” Kaleb offered, remaining by the window.

Henry shook his head, closing the distance until they were separated only by a short stretch of carpet. “I’ll come right to the point.”

“Please do.” He had no idea why Henry was here. The Scotts made it a point to disagree with any proposal but their own. Shoshanna wanted Kaleb dead, of that he had no doubt. But that was nothing unusual—all the Councilors, but one, were ruthless in their ambition. Anthony Kyriakus was the enigma who proved the rule. “A personal visit is rather unusual.”

“I didn’t want to chance being trailed on the PsyNet.” The other man put his hands behind his back, his stance that of an ancient general. A practiced movement, designed to set the populace at ease, subtly reinforcing the image of Henry as a benevolent ruler. “With Marshall dead, I’ve become aware that I’m being portrayed as the chair of the Council.”

“We have no chair.”

“We both know that Marshall controlled things to a certain extent.”

Kaleb bowed his head in acknowledgment. “You don’t wish to take over the crown?”

“I don’t wish to be used as a stalking horse.”

When had Henry become this shrewd?
The instant after the thought passed through his head, Kaleb realized he’d done the unthinkable. He’d judged Henry on his surface persona, never looking beneath. The man was a
Councilor
. No one became Council without having considerable blood on their hands. Kaleb knew that better than anyone. “You’re the most visible member,” he responded smoothly, even as he wondered how much Henry knew. If it was too much, he’d have to be taken out of the equation—Kaleb had crossed too many lines in the past two decades to balk at one more. “You and Shoshanna chose that role.”

“We both know Shoshanna chose it.” Henry’s stare was somehow … off, but Kaleb couldn’t put his finger on why. Perhaps it was simply a case of the man showing his true colors. “I’m giving you warning that that is about to change.”

Kaleb realized Henry was talking about far more than media appearances. “Why warn me at all?”

As he waited for a response, Henry’s eyes shifted to pure black. The other Councilor was receiving a telepathic message. So was Kaleb. But his psychic control was better than Henry’s and he knew his eyes had remained the night-sky of a cardinal.

Ashaya Aleine’s body is missing. She may have staged her own death.

Ming,
came Nikita’s distinctive mental voice,
that’s a problem but not urgent enough to interrupt us all without notice. She’s a scientist, devoid of the skills necessary to survive on the run for long, even if you are correct about her being alive. I’m more apt to believe that her body has been taken.

Ming responded on the heels of Nikita’s statement.
Her organizer was set to wipe all data if anyone attempted to hack in
—

How is that possible?
Tatiana interrupted.
According to my information, Aleine didn’t have that level of computing expertise.

The organizer is at least seven years old. I suspect someone else set up the encryption. But the point is moot
—
the chip from her organizer is a dummy.
Ming didn’t bother to wait for the ripples to fade from that bombshell.
We’ve searched her rooms and lab, as well as Keenan Aleine’s room, and come up blank. If she’s alive, she’s carrying that chip. If she’s dead, it’s most likely hidden within her body. We need to find her before that data goes public
—
it could bring down the entire Implant Protocol.

And Aleine?
Nikita asked.

Our priority is to recover the chip.

Shoshanna’s icy tone.
Are you giving a kill order, Ming?

Taking her alive would be the best-case scenario. However, if she resists, eliminate her. But only after she gives up the location of the chip. If you need interrogation assistance, call me.

No one asked why he thought his assistance would make any difference. They all knew that Ming was a former Arrow with an inborn facility for high-level mental combat. He’d made torture into an art form.

CHAPTER 9

Only here, in this journal that I should have deleted years ago, but which is the sole thing that keeps me sane, can I admit that every act, every movement, every plan, is for him. For my son. For Keenan.

—From the encrypted personal files of Ashaya Aleine

The clock had
just ticked past eleven p.m. when Mercy finished with Ashaya’s leg and said, “She’ll be fine.”

Dorian looked at Ashaya’s unconscious figure, the grinding tension in his body slamming into a wave of raw protectiveness. “That normal?” She looked so damn defenseless.

“You wouldn’t have gone out. Neither would I,” Mercy said as she cleaned up. “But she’s not a soldier. And I think her body had another hit recently. Some of the readings I got from her blood”—she waved a gadget she’d pulled out from the emergency medical kit—“are off.”

The protectiveness spiked. “Dangerous? Infectious?” He breathed in her scent, but found no taint but the familiar chill of Silence. His leopard opened its mouth in a soundless snarl—he hated Silence with a viciousness even Sascha hadn’t been able to temper.

“No, nothing like that.” Washing off her hands, Mercy came back to stand beside him. “It’s reading as some kind of poison. I’m guessing her body is slowly working it out of her system. Sascha or Tammy would probably be able to tell more.”

Dorian forced himself to look at Mercy rather than giving in
to the compulsion to touch Ashaya.
To make sure she was okay.
“What the hell was that—slipping up with Sascha’s name?”

Mercy’s cheeks heated. “She’s not stupid, and neither of us is exactly low profile.” Her tone was low, harsh. “For crissakes, you’re the frickin’ poster boy for DarkRiver with your ‘Gee, shucks, I’m harmless’ act.”

Dorian was used to being ribbed about his looks. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like a surfer hanging out for the right wave than a blooded DarkRiver sentinel. “Look who’s talking, Miss Bikini Babe 2067.” Even as he teased Mercy, he found himself alert to the steady rhythm of Ashaya’s breathing.

Mercy’s face grew black with fury. “Never, ever mention that. You understand me?”

He smirked. “I especially liked you in the polka-dot— Jesus, that hurt.” He rubbed the spot on his ribs where her elbow had hit home, grateful for the distraction provided by the stab of pain.

“It’s just the start. I plan to kill you in your sleep,” Mercy said conversationally. “And stuff that damn polka-dot biki—” She paused, glanced at the door. “Did you—?”

“I think it’s Vaughn.” He nodded at her to answer. “I’ll cover the Psy.”

Mercy gave him an odd look. “She has a name. You should know, given your teensy obsession.”

“Preparation, not obsession.” Dorian had made it his business to learn the name and address of every powerful Psy in the area. He’d torn Santano Enrique’s heart out with his bare hands, but it hadn’t been enough, not when he knew the evil that had spawned the Psy serial killer continued to exist and grow. He intended to chop off the head of the beast, and if it grew back, he’d damn well do it again. And again.
And again.
As many times as it took.

Perhaps then his sister’s ghost would stop haunting him.

Kylie’s blood had still been warm when he reached her. The cuts that Santano had made … they had destroyed her beauty, turned her from his mischievous, barely grown-up baby sister, to a piece of torn flesh and blood. No matter how many Psy he killed, he couldn’t change that, couldn’t bring Kylie back from the grave. But he could make damn sure no other brother lost what he had, no mother cried as his had, no father screamed.

His parents had coped by leaning on Pack … and going
roaming. Anytime the memories got too bad, they turned leopard and left. Dorian couldn’t deny them their escape, but he couldn’t follow either. Not only did he lack the ability to go leopard, he was a DarkRiver sentinel and they were at war, even if it was a quiet, stealthy one most people didn’t know was happening. Lucas had allowed Dorian’s parents their grief. He’d given Dorian his shoulder, but in the end, he expected Dorian to deal.

It was exactly what Dorian expected of himself—any special treatment would’ve been an insult. More, he needed that responsibility to Pack. Sometimes, it was all that kept him from picking up a rifle and going rogue.

That truth was at the forefront of his mind as he watched Mercy open the door with sentinel cautiousness. Vaughn raised an eyebrow at their guarded expressions. “What, do I smell like wolf now?” He sniffed at his arm. “Nope. I smell like my gorgeous Red.” A slow smile as he mentioned his mate and walked in.

Dorian didn’t shift from his position by the bed—he’d brook no interference in his dealings where Ashaya was concerned, regardless of how he felt toward her. If Vaughn was here to assume control, blood would spill. “If you’d smelled of wolf,” he said, trying to sound as if bloody possessiveness didn’t have a chokehold on him, “I’d have had to kill you.”

Mercy closed the door and grinned. “It would’ve been a mercy killing.”

“Reduced to making bad puns,
Mélisande
?”

Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone’s got a death wish today.”

Ducking the punch Mercy threw at him, Vaughn leaned indolently on the wall beside the door. “What happened to her leg?”

Dorian let Mercy give Vaughn the lowdown, viscerally aware of how vulnerable Ashaya was right then. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a Council spy.

His hands fisted. “So,” he said to Vaughn after Mercy finished, “why are we running a taxi service for lost Psy? Hell, how did she even get to the Grove?”

“Aleine’s defected,” Vaughn said.

The leopard wanted to purr. The man wasn’t so easily convinced. “How sure are we?” What better way to infiltrate an enemy citadel than on the back of an innocent child? Everyone
knew predatory changelings were savage about protecting cubs, no matter if they wore human or Psy skin. “She was in deep with the Council.”

“Anthony confirmed she’s got rebel sympathies.” Vaughn didn’t have to say any more. Not only was Anthony Kyriakus the father of Vaughn’s mate, Faith, he was the leader of a quiet revolution against the vicious straitjacket of Silence. “He’s the one who arranged the pickup, though Aleine doesn’t know about his involvement, so keep it quiet. He’s certain she isn’t a spy, but the fewer people who know about his activities, the better.”

Much as Dorian respected Vaughn, he had no intention of trusting Ashaya until she proved herself.
To him.
Because this was a personal war. “She hooked up to the Net?”

“Yeah.” Vaughn straightened. “So treat her as a possible leak. I think Anthony’s solid, but until we’re absolutely sure about her, we don’t take any chances.”

Mercy nodded in agreement. “Even if she really has defected, as long as she’s linked to the Net, they might be able to suck information out of her.”

Dorian had never been able to think of the PsyNet as anything other than a hive mind, but now he wondered what it would be to know that the very thing you needed for life could also lead death straight to you. “Where are we going to put her?” It was a question he hadn’t realized he was going to ask until it was out.

“Why do we have to put her anywhere?” Mercy said, displaying the ruthless practicality that made her a sentinel. “She could be more trouble than she’s worth if the Council’s after her. She saved Noor and Jon; we repaid the debt by saving her son and stitching her up. Anthony must have people who can take her in now.”

Dorian found his beast’s lethal attention focused on Mercy. The reaction came from the same place as his irrational possessiveness—the thinking part of him knew Mercy was simply doing her job and watching out for the pack’s interests. It was exactly what he should’ve been doing—instead of standing guard over a woman who might yet stab the knife of treachery straight into DarkRiver’s back.

And still he couldn’t make himself move.
Fuck.

Vaughn’s voice broke into his razor-edged thoughts. “Anthony said she’s been given details of a new identity, complete
with bank accounts and a path to follow, so, could be, she wakes up and goes. If she doesn’t, we might as well take advantage of what she knows—trade-off is we help her.”