Authors: Lynn Viehl
“You know.” She let her gaze drift down the length of him, pausing to study the excellent fit of his khakis to his strong thighs and lean hips before looking into his eyes again. “You give me an apartment; I give you what you want. Trade.”
“What do you think I want, Rowan?” He didn’t sound offended or angry; now there was something like pity in his eyes.
She’d spent years in bars hustling pool tables and getting hit on by beer-soaked Romeos; she’d heard every come-on in existence. She had few illusions about her looks. The only reason a guy hit on her was because he was plastered or desperate.
But Dansant wasn’t drunk, and if he was hard up for a woman she’d eat her helmet. As spectacular as his looks were, he was also kind and gentle, and had tended to her as if she were some stray kitten he’d found in the alley. She had no right to think he wanted her to pay the rent on her back; he hadn’t made one move on her. She looked at his hands again, and saw how immaculate and well shaped they were. The evocative scent of jacqueminot warmed her lungs, as if she was standing in some unseen garden. One where she could happily spend the rest of her days.
He’d definitely been shopping in the wrong cologne department. . . .
Isn’t there someone waiting for you at home?
So beautiful and clean and perfectly groomed, Dansant was, right down to his manicured fingernails.
My partner sleeps to dawn.
Oh, hell.
Suddenly it all made sense.
He’s gay.
“Nothing. I was wrong.” She ducked her head. “Sorry.” And she was, for herself and all her sisters in the world who would never have a chance with the man. “You’re sure about this?” Still a little heartbroken, she glanced up. “I mean, giving me a job, letting me stay here?”
“Oui.”
He’d said only one of the apartments was empty. “Do you live in the other one?”
He shook his head. “The man who lives there is a mechanic. I think he will know how to repair your motorcycle.”
A job, a place to live, and a neighbor who could fix her bike. That was a hell of a lot more than she had waiting for her in Boston.
“Well, you may be crazy, Dansant, but I’m not. All right.” She grinned at him. “You’ve got yourself a new tenant
tournant
.”
In reality the room was an enormous, two-thousand-square-foot sealed, sterile space, with its own air lock, power grid, security system, and complex, multifiltered air supply. Until they submitted to a full-body scan, no one who was authorized access could enter the room. Each day security personnel performed similar, intensive scans on the surgical steel walls, floors, and equipment inside the lab.
Nothing was brought into the room that was not first thoroughly inspected.
The official explanation was that the stringent measures were to protect the delicate materials involved in ongoing genetic experiments. In reality the measures were taken to protect the reason behind those experiments, and to assure that no activity or conversation held inside the clean room was monitored or recorded.
Lately, GenHance chairman Jonah Genaro had been spending a great deal of time in the clean room, but he had no choice. A month ago he’d discovered a traitor on his staff, one who had been passing along information on GenHance’s most sensitive projects to the company’s primary targets, the Kyndred. He was taking no more chances.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dr. Elliot Kirchner told Genaro after he finished relating the details of his latest test trials, and handed off the file to his assistant, Nella Hoff. “Results consistently show that neuroblockers will not mute or nullify the negative effects.”
Genaro regarded the two scientists for a long moment. Kirchner, a tall, gray-haired man with the graceless build of a long-legged bird, looked like an ostrich beside his petite, slightly built assistant.
“Whoever injects the transerum will experience significant, cascading cerebral destabilization,” Kirchner continued. “The breakdown of behavioral inhibitors and impulse control will occur within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
As they had all witnessed when Bradford Lawson, a GenHance executive wounded during a botched attempt to capture a particularly valuable Kyndred, had stolen and injected himself with the transerum. “Is the damage reversible?”
Kirchner shook his head. “The transerum doesn’t damage the brain, sir. It alters it.”
“Permanently,” Hoff added, nodding enough to make the bell of auburn hair around her face bob.
As chairman of one of the largest and most profitable biotech research corporations in the world, Jonah Genaro was accustomed to success. Under his direction GenHance, Inc., was actively researching therapeutic treatments for dozens of genetic abnormalities and disorders. His company was also widely considered the global leader in ground-breaking genetic research procedures, medical applications, and other important developments in the biotech industry.
Genaro had spent a great deal of time and money to create and maintain that illusion, to ensure that no one learned of the real work going on behind GenHance’s humanitarian facade: using Kyndred DNA to create a serum that would genetically enhance humans and turn them into living weapons. He would not accept that the work of the past eleven years—indeed, of his entire existence—had all been for nothing.
Nella Hoff’s delicate floral perfume didn’t quite cover the odor of her sweat, and Genaro noted the woman’s nervous hand movements and damp temples before he addressed the chief geneticist. “What will it take to deal with this destabilization issue?”
Kirchner frowned. “We’ve explored every possible modification, sir, without success. As it is now, the transerum cannot be used on humans without serious consequences.”
“Unacceptable.” Before the geneticist could reply, he added, “Lest you forget, there are hundreds of human beings in the world who have already been successfully enhanced. The Kyndred were genetically altered and given extraordinary abilities. They still lead normal lives. None of them has gone insane.”
“That we know of,” Hoff broke in. As both men regarded her, the skin around her nose tightened, but she plowed on. “I’m sorry, Mr. Genaro, but Dr. Kirchner is right. The transerum can’t be fixed unless we re-create the original experiment. The process used to enhance them was lost along with the geneticists who created them. The records were destroyed. There are no living witnesses. Where we are now, we’re dead in the water.”
Genaro glanced at Kirchner, whose expression remained remote. “The Kyndred are alive.”
“They’re idiots,” Nella insisted. “Most of them probably still don’t even realize that they were deliberately enhanced.”
“Dr. Hoff is correct. I’ve reviewed all of the transcripts from the interrogations of the Kyndred we’ve captured alive,” Kirchner admitted. “It’s obvious that they were altered in utero or in early infancy. They have no real recollection of the experiments, only fragmented memories and nightmares from childhood. They can’t provide any useful information.”
Genaro wasn’t interested in the childhood tragedies of the Kyndred. “Then what is the next step, Dr. Kirchner?”
His geneticist began to speak, but once more Nella interrupted. “I believe I’ve discovered the solution, sir.” She lowered her voice a notch. “While Dr. Kirchner was testing the neuroblockers, I decided to take the initiative with another approach. I accessed the bioarchives, retrieved a Kyndred sample, and used it with an organic human specimen in the neurosequencer.”
“What?” Kirchner’s face darkened. “You took a sample and wasted it on a cadaver brain?”
“Only a recovered partial sample,” Nella snapped back, ire sparkling in her pretty green eyes. “We never recovered a full cell spread from the female. It was useless to us.”
Now Genaro cut off Kirchner’s furious response. “What were the results, Dr. Hoff?”
She produced a confident smile. “Introducing the Kyndred cells to the cadaver brain stabilized the serum. I recorded the simulation. If I may show you, sir?” When he inclined his head, Nella went to a terminal and pulled up a video file to play onscreen. “This is the neurosequencing of the specimen after being injected with the transerum. As you can see here”—she traced a bright yellow, branching light—“the destabilization process is well advanced. At this point I introduced DNA recovered from the female’s single tissue sample.” The web of yellow light began to shrink and in a few seconds disappeared altogether. “The specimen stabilized completely after thirty minutes, at which time the female’s DNA became dormant.”
Genaro had her run the simulation a second time before he asked, “Do you know why?”
“I have a theory about this particular female, sir,” the assistant said, all eagerness now. “It’s related to her specific enhancement. She’s the most powerful Kyndred we’ve identified to date. Her ability physically transforms both matter and energy. That makes her what I like to think of as a dominant.”
Kirchner made a disgusted sound. “First you help yourself to the bioarchives, and now you think you can categorize them?”
“With you wasting time on testing conventional inhibitors, someone had to,” Hoff replied before turning back to address Genaro. “Sir, I can provide you with a detailed analysis of my experiment. All indications are that a full cell spread from this female subject will control the destabilization process during the enhancement stage. This is the breakthrough we needed.”
“So it would seem.” Genaro studied her damp face, and wondered why such an attractive woman would choose research science as her success vehicle.
Perhaps she hasn’t.
“Dr. Hoff, why did you not first obtain permission from Dr. Kirchner for this experiment?”
“With all due respect, sir, Dr. Kirchner is not interested in anyone’s opinion but his own. I knew he would treat my theory with utter contempt, and refuse to allow me to run the simulation.” She folded her arms. “Conducting the experiment without his knowledge was the only way.”
Genaro nodded slowly. “Very well. Make copies of the simulation, and I want to see a complete analysis of the experiment as soon as possible, including all pertinent notes and research.”
“I’ll have it on your desk before the close of business today, sir.” Without looking at Kirchner, Nella left the lab.
Genaro waited until the doors of the air lock resealed before he spoke to his geneticist. “Your assistant is a very ambitious woman, Elliot. She wants your job, I suspect, so she can have complete access to the project materials.”
“You think she’s a spy?”
Genaro shrugged. “Has she offered you anything out of the ordinary?”
“Sex, a month after I hired her. I thought I had dealt with it.” Kirchner rubbed his forehead. “I apologize, Mr. Genaro. It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t have her terminated.” When Kirchner gave him a surprised look, he added, “She did solve the problem with the transerum. I think that in itself deserves some reward.”
Kirchner frowned. “What exactly did you have in mind, sir?”
“Once we recover the female Kyndred with the dominant DNA and use it to stabilize the transerum, we will need a fresh cadaver brain.” Genaro eyed the simulation loop still playing on the screen. “Dr. Hoff’s should serve adequately.”
It had worked.
Taire wiped her face and nose on her sleeve before she moved away, taking care to stay in the shadows. No one was on the streets now, and she was only three blocks from her place, but she wouldn’t risk being seen. Not now, when she was so close to getting some real answers.
She’s older, and she’s on her own.
She lifted her cold, curled fingers to her mouth and blew on them.
She has the marks. She has to know something.
An hour ago Taire had been idly watching some kids tagging a building when Rowan had stopped her bike at the traffic light. The first thing she’d spotted was the jacket tied around Rowan’s waist, which in the freezing cold made no sense. Then one of the homeboys had gone over to sweet-talk her and then tried to grab her keys, and she’d grabbed him back. When the edge of Rowan’s sleeve slid down, and the edge of a black tattoo appeared, Taire had straightened.
Then something strange had happened.
Taire couldn’t see Rowan’s face, but she got a good look at the weird blue glow that had appeared under both of her sleeves. She’d heard the tone of the boy’s voice when he’d called her some Spanish name. Cold as it was, Taire had also picked up the faintest scent of something tart and fruity and—for want of a better word—ticklish. Complex and alien, it was coming from Rowan.
She had breathed in deeply to break down the other girl’s scent into its components. It smelled of grapefruit, oak, apple, pears, and mint. Then it came back to her, that New Year’s Eve, when one young nanny had smuggled a bottle of champagne out of the wine cellar and up to the nursery to have her own private celebration. She’d let little Taire take a sip from the clear, flat-bottomed cuvée.
Rowan—a biker chick—smelled like that. Like Cristal.
Taire stopped across the street from her place and waited, turning her head to watch both sides of the street. The old hotel had been closed for several years, but the owner had hung onto the property until his death last year. Taire had found the place after reading about the owner’s heirs suing each other over rights to and disposition of the property, as the land the hotel was built on was worth millions to the city’s space-hungry real estate developers. Until the case was settled, and ownership established—something that would take years, according to the paper—the hotel would continue to stand, empty and useless, slowly decaying behind the graffiti-covered plywood nailed over its doors and windows.
It wasn’t as bad as some of the places Taire had slept. Once she’d spent a weekend hiding in the corner of a warehouse in the meat-packing district, and the stink of old blood and raw meat had made her so sick she’d puked up everything she’d tried to eat. She knew better than to try sleeping in Central Park, but she’d nodded off out of exhaustion one afternoon while sitting on a bench, only to wake up in the dark to find some old boozer groping through her jacket pockets for money.
He hadn’t even been embarrassed over getting caught.
Ain’t you got nothing you can gimme, little girl?
Taire tried never to think about him, but sometimes she woke up smelling rotten breath laced with cheap wine, and seeing those bloodshot eyes bulging out as if they were going to pop out of his dirty, scabby old face.
It wasn’t my fault. I was so tired.
Once she felt sure no one was watching, Taire closed her eyes. A moment later she darted across the street and climbed through the narrow gap in the boards, pausing only to secure them again before moving toward the old reception desk.
The city had cut off water and power to the building long before Taire had moved in, so the interior was as frigid as the outside, and the boards and sheets of plywood blocked out any light from the street. She’d bruised and scraped her hands and face falling over things more than once, but eventually she’d memorized every inch of the place, until she could walk freely in the dark. Now she moved confidently through the labyrinth of dry- rotting furniture in the lobby, sure of every step, leaving puffs of her breath to hang in the frozen air.
To keep anyone from discovering her presence she’d been careful to disturb nothing, leaving the cobweb-laced drapes drawn open and the front desk to collect nothing but layer upon layer of dust and dead insects. Rats had been a problem for a while, until she’d found all the holes they’d been using to get in and sealed them from inside, where the repairs couldn’t be seen, using some drywall patches and filler that she’d taken from a supply shed at a construction site.
Every time she stole something, guilt ate at her stomach. She wasn’t a thief. But taking something that didn’t belong to her was better than waking up to find some of her hair gone, gnawed off to line a rat’s winter nest.
Since the elevators no longer functioned, Taire used the service stairs to go up to her room on the fifth floor. Along the way she checked each step for new footprints or signs that someone else had moved in. An abandoned building was an open invitation to anyone left out in the cold, and the plywood boards were getting old now. This winter was going to be a bad one; she could almost smell in the wind the coming snowstorms. If squatters broke in she couldn’t fight them; she’d have to go and start looking for another place.
She thought of the faint blue glow that had appeared so briefly under Rowan’s sleeves.
Or maybe I won’t have to.
The door to the room she used was locked like all the others, but she’d filched one of the master keys from the manager’s desk and used it to let herself in. It was the smallest on the fifth floor, and contained only a single twin bed covered with a cheap brown and green paisley spread, an empty metal television stand (the heirs had gotten to the TV sets before the case went to court), and a cramped shower and toilet. The inch of water left in the toilet had frozen.
Taire had chosen the room not because of the bed, which she never used, but for the closet tucked away behind the door. The small room adjoined another, larger suite, and the closet between them could be opened from both sides. If someone came in unexpectedly, she could take her things and slip out into the adjoining suite without opening the interior door or being seen.
She went into the bathroom and stepped into the tub, tugging down her jeans before she crouched down low and emptied her bladder into the drain. It had taken some practice before she’d learned how to pee that way without splashing herself with her own urine. When she was finished she stepped out and poured down the drain a little bleach from the small jug she kept hidden behind the toilet. The smell from her urine abruptly disappeared.
Out in the room, she shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the closet rail before looking down at the sagging black garbage bag that contained her spare clothes and shoes. She’d spread the extra blanket she’d found on the closet shelf over a mound of sheets and cushions she’d removed from some rooms on another floor to make a bed for herself. Because the closet was only three feet wide she had to sleep curled up like a shrimp, with her feet braced against the inside of the door, but the cramped quarters made her feel safer than if she had been sleeping out in the open.
At first it was like curling up in a refrigerator, but it didn’t take too long for her to warm up in the small space. The three blankets she’d taken from other rooms trapped her body heat and kept her from freezing even on the coldest nights.
She didn’t bother to remove her shoes as she settled in, covered up, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She began to warm up a little, but then her stomach started to growl. After a few minutes of listening to it, she took half a protein cereal bar from her jeans pocket. The foil wrapper crackled as she unfolded it and held the torn end to her nose. Although it was stale now, the white chocolate, toasted rice, and dried strawberries still made her mouth water. It was the last of her food stash, and she knew she should save it for tomorrow, but she was too cold and hungry now to sleep.
Her eyes stung as she nibbled at it, chewing every bite slowly to make it last as long as possible. This time a year ago she would have been asleep in her own bed, warm and cozy, her belly full. She’d never realized how lucky she’d been to have so much; she’d taken it all for granted. Back then she’d wasted enough food in one week to live on now for a month or two. Then it was gone, as if it had never been.
No more mistakes.
Taire reached under one of the pillows, took out the flashlight she’d found in a utility closet downstairs, and turned it on as she removed a folded paper from the plastic bag holding her belongings. The paper, a glossy, professionally printed flyer, had the photo of a young girl in the center along with a detailed description. Anyone who had information leading to the recovery of Alana King, the flyer promised, would be given a reward of five hundred thousand dollars. All they had to do was call the toll- free number printed on the flyer.
Taire crumpled the stiff paper in her fingers, and then smoothed it out and refolded it neatly before putting it back in her bag. She was convinced that Rowan could help her, but asking for that help would be almost as bad as making the call to the hotline for Alana King. She didn’t know Rowan. The biker chick might not want to help her. She might even turn Taire over to the cops.
She was so close that it didn’t seem fair that so many things could go wrong now. But they could, and just like the last time, one wrong decision would destroy everything. She had to be very careful, or she’d blow her last chance to make things right with her father. If she didn’t fix this, he would never let her come home again. He wouldn’t send her to the room. This time he’d make sure she never had a place to live or someone to love.
This time, he’d kill her.
It’ll be all right.
Taire tucked a cold hand under her cheek and closed her eyes, imagining herself back in her old bed, surrounded by white eyelet lace curtains and clean linens, falling asleep while watching the snow fall outside.
Rowan’s here now, and she’ll make everything fine again. She’ll help me get back home.