Broken Communication (2 page)

So many thought, wrongfully, that the Nazis were the ones who’d pioneered eugenics. Their quest for a Master Race was all over history books and etched in the brains of many, but they’d not been alone in the beginning.

Far from it.

The roots of eugenics hit much closer to home. Hell, it was in people’s backyards to this day, but they didn’t know. The government liked to bury its ugly history and point in another direction to divert attention from themselves.

His existence solidified the statement. Though, had the men and women in charge of it all had their way, he’d not be living proof of anything. The others like him—the ones whose bodies rejected the doctors’ tests and experiments in some form or fashion and who were lucky enough to survive the ordeal—had been relinquished to a secure location to live out their days in peace.

“More bullshit,” he said, his voice harsh.

Casey thought back to his time in what the higher-ups had taken to calling a “long-term care facility”, when in reality it was a prison. Bars were on the windows, armed guards at each entrance and exit, and the men were locked in their rooms at night. None of that added up to a cushy place to lay low and live out their immortal lives.

Far from it.

They’d really been sent there to be held until the government could figure out what to do with them. Apparently, the age-old question of “What do we do with our mistakes?” hadn’t been fully thought out prior to the start of the testing. In the end, the government decided termination and elimination of any evidence of their spectacular failure was necessary.

They wanted no trace of the Outcasts—the genetic rejects. And they’d nearly gotten their wish.
 

Ironically enough, the doctors were the reason Casey had survived the first attempt on his life. They’d altered his DNA and changed his genetic make-up, making him something much more than human, but thankfully not totally animal, as he’d seen some of his brethren become during the testing stages. The doctors had paid particular attention to increasing Casey’s ability to heal, attaining a level that was relatively unheard of, even in the supernatural community.

He looked down at the back of his hand, remembering the smell of burning flesh, as if the explosion had happened just yesterday, rather than decades ago. He could vividly recall that his flesh looked like wax, melting, leaving muscle and bone painfully exposed. He’d not stopped what he was doing. Men—lab rats like him—had still been in the building during the explosion. It didn’t matter that he’d been burned badly. He’d done what he had to in order to get them out.

As many as he could.

Getting to safety had needed to wait when so many were still trapped.

When he’d gained consciousness a week later and found himself in the care and treatment of a tiny elderly woman gifted in the arts of Chinese medicine, there had been no regrets. Didn’t matter that his body hadn’t, at that point, fully recovered, or that every second of every hour he’d lived in excruciating pain. He’d freed his brothers-in-arms. That was all that mattered to him.

What bothered him most wasn’t even the attempt to wipe them all out, it was how they’d been forced to scatter like rats in the wind, losing contact with one another after they’d gone through so much together. He missed them and regretted not being able to locate any of them. They’d been trained well in the art of escaping and evading. They were ghosts and would only be seen and found when they wanted to be. As far as Casey knew, none of the Outcasts wanted to be found.

He couldn’t blame them. They not only had to worry about their own government still wanting them dead, they had to worry about new enemies over the years—sick fucks who wanted to create supernatural armies, and they’d do anything and hurt anyone to see that come to pass. They were as bad as the men who had turned him into what he was.

“Bastards,” he said as he reached to the wall and touched one of the sketches of the main scientist who had been in charge of Casey’s treatments so long ago. Casey had drawn the picture from memory, the man’s features forever seared into his mind. Hell, the guy still haunted Casey’s nightmares.

Others had picked up the baton the doctor dropped and the testing continued in secret, hidden from the public after the shock and horror of Hitler and his scientists came to light. To this day, the war conducted under the noses of humans continued. Though, it was getting harder and harder to hide from them all.

Forensic science advancements continued to grow daily, and at some point hiding would become nearly impossible unless every supernatural in the world went totally off the grid. As Casey had done.

It would never happen.

His attention went to the laptop a geek buddy of his had assured him couldn’t be tracked by anyone. The information pulled up on the screen spelled out everything that had been done in the creation of the Immortal Ops and what so many humans and supernaturals had been subjected to over the years.

Torture.

Testing.

Death.

A small piece of Casey was happy the information had gone public on the internet, despite having gone to great lengths trying to keep it from coming to light. When he’d destroyed a computer running some sort of program that was decrypting files on the creation of the ops, he’d assumed that was the end of it.

Hardly.

He’d never thought about a backup system. He wasn’t clueless about technologies, and was skilled enough to be dangerous, but he was out of his league in certain areas.

The strange, sick satisfaction he got from knowing the information was now out there for those willing to listen, was because it meant the people behind all the madness were probably shitting their pants, scrambling to make it all go away. Another part of Casey understood the panic and pandemonium that would result should humans really believe what had been released. Thankfully, the information leak had occurred on a fringe site—one run by Laney, a woman he thought of as a little sister in so many ways. She’d meant well when she’d researched it all. And she’d never intended for the information to go live.

Unfortunately, Harmony, Laney’s best friend, did as requested. She’d made the information live, thinking harm had befallen Laney. Now the shit storm raining down on them all was massive. Casey should have cut and run, forgetting about everyone else but himself. That attitude had been one he’d adopted once he’d recovered from his burns long ago. Laney, Bill, and Gus had changed that side of him. They had become a family of sorts to him.

Bill and Gus, who were aging at a normal human pace, and who both had suffered horribly at the hands of mad scientists who worked for the government, were safe and sound for now. The Paranormal Security and Intelligence Agency was looking out for them. And Casey’s gut said he could trust PSI. Gus, who seemed connected into the greater cosmos of life, trusted PSI. That was enough for Casey.

Reaching out to the wall again, Casey touched another sketch. This one didn’t remind him of his horrible past. No, this one gave him hope of a future. There were many, similar to this one that he’d done over the course of the past four years. All were of her.

Harmony.

He let out a long, slow breath, his focus pulling to her. He’d find her, no matter the cost. She’d probably have thought it creepy that he could draw her from memory. He wasn’t exactly proud of the way he’d lurked when she was near, or how often he’d trailed her back to her home to assure himself she was safe and sound before he returned to one of the many places he laid his head when the need called for it. It wasn’t as if he was proud of the beast side of him—he struggled to co-exist with the animal instincts on a daily basis. They intensified his own emotions, leaving him so close to losing his control around Harmony that he often came off as gruff with her, even harsh.

In many ways, she reminded him of the socialites he’d known long ago, in his own days of being in the thick of it all. Not much had truly changed. The rich still considered themselves entitled. He knew there was more to Harmony than she presented to the public. He’d seen her feeding the homeless on more than one occasion, and he’d seen her in a tucked-away corner of the park, under a tree, reading a book that some of the brightest people he knew would struggle with.

Not his Harmony.

She was beautiful, hardheaded, often outspoken, rarely shy, and underneath it all, a very intelligent and caring woman. And right now she was out there, probably scared, more than likely hurt, and he needed to get to her.

Chapter Two

“She is gonna fetch some high coin.”
 

Harmony glared at one of her captors, willing him to come closer so she could try again to take his eye out with her heel. She’d nearly been successful on her first attempt. Damn her for over-thinking ruining her favorite pumps. Worth it if it meant the dirtbag lost vision in one eye. Even better if she took out both eyes. She was hardly a shrinking violet, though most assumed she would be. Her love of fashion, makeup and hair tended to fool a lot of people into thinking she was one-dimensional and shallow.

She wasn’t, but it did make for a nice suit of armor to keep others at arm’s length—protecting her closely guarded secret.
 

He kept going, “Bitch is gonna make us big bank.”

Harmony wished she had wings so she could take flight and slam into him. The men had been threatening for days that they were going to sell her on some underground sex-trading ring. So far, they’d only threatened as they continued to discuss an upcoming, large-scale event. Apparently, slimeballs could organize.

Who knew?

The man curled his lip at her before he leered in her direction. She flipped him off. He raised his brows. “If you don’t behave, I just might come in there and teach you how to,” he threatened.

“In that big of a hurry to get your ass handed to you by a girl—again? Oh yeah, nothing screams manly man like crying after I kneed you in the balls.” When they’d blitz-attacked her at her friend’s backup pad, she’d been caught off guard, her mind too focused on the disappearance of her friend to worry about her own safety.

Stupid.

She knew that now. Though, she had given her attackers a run for their money, making it anything but easy for them to subdue her. Had one not stunned her with a stun gun, she was pretty sure she’d have been the victor, even in her heels and with her manicure intact.

The man made a move to charge the cell bars. The other guy, who never seemed to leave Jerk Off’s side, grabbed him, yanking him back. “No. Krauss wants her without any bruises and untouched. You do not want to piss him off.”

Jerk Off collected himself, his gaze still hard. They’d go rounds again and she was betting on it. This time she’d be ready and she’d show him she wasn’t a girl to be messed with. At least that was what she kept trying to tell herself. The reality of it all wasn’t exactly so.
 

Her gaze went to the other cell, where a hulk of a figure had remained behind a partial cinder block wall, just out of her view. She’d caught sight of clawed, fur-covered hands. She’d also seen the size of the chains around the thing’s wrists.

She gulped. A pang of fear licked at her gut as thoughts of the guards’ previous threats played out in her head.

Giving her to the beast-guy in the next cell as punishment.

If that wasn’t enough to scare the living daylights out of her, hearing it roar and snarl sure did. Of course, she did her best not to show it. She stared at the wall, wondering about the man on the other side of it—if he could be called a man at all.

She wasn’t so sure there was anything human left in him. From the sounds of it, there wasn’t. She’d been asleep when they’d first brought the guy in, his top half covered in some sort of a hooded mask and the rest of him chained, his body limp. It had been too dark in the holding area at the time to get a good look at him. That had been yesterday, if she was even counting her days and nights correctly anymore.

She wasn’t sure about anything except she needed to get free. There was no white knight coming. No help. No one knew where she was. With Laney missing, there would be no one to notice Harmony was gone. Her father surely wouldn’t.
 

Her nostrils flared, and she felt her magik prickle again, unable to surface for some reason. Her guess was that the cell she was in was lead-lined. That would prevent her from being able to properly use her natural-born gifts. Gifts her mother liked to say were curses and then pretend Harmony didn’t have.

If Harmony could figure out how to get her magik to work, she’d stop being scared of it and use it to zap the asshole that was still making lewd gestures at her. But unfortunately, she wasn’t exactly competent in her gifts. More to the point—she seemed to excel at magikal mishaps. At least most of the incidents were in her past. With her father’s money, he’d been able to cover up the majority of them.

Harmony exhaled slowly, thinking about her father. He threw money at everything. It was how he showed affection, how he handled problems and how he shouldered the guilt of what he’d done—aligned himself with bad men all so he and his wife could conceive a child. A daughter born from a science that was anything but ethical, and from everything Harmony could gather, had left her father a pawn in his associates’ sick and twisted world. He owed them and they’d never allow him to forget as much.

The shame she felt knowing her father had ties to groups who experimented on supernaturals and humans was epic. She’d been trying to funnel information about them out to the proper channels, but she’d hit a snag.

Mainly, Laney. Her best friend in all the world.

Moisture welled in Harmony’s eyes, but she refused to cry. Refused to allow the dirtbags sitting on the other side of the bars to see her show any weakness. Her family didn’t show weakness and she wasn’t about to start now. Didn’t matter that she’d been held prisoner for so many days that she’d lost track of the exact number.
 

Didn’t matter that she was battered and slightly bruised or that, despite being granted bathroom privileges and two showers since her arrival, she still felt dirty, as if the grime of the cell might never wash off.