Chapter 2
Halo [ hey -loh ] noun
The ring around the irises of a talented individual, the color denoting their bent, its width indicative of the amount of power they can ‘pull’ (i.e. summon).
– Excerpt from A Treatise on Talents , Third Edition
“Our crafts were met with scores of affected people clamoring to be rescued from the destruction. The Surge, as they’re calling it now, wiped out all technology in the Northern Hemisphere. They’re floundering up here without services. Establishing a facility in which to house them is paramount…”
– Internal memo, Corporation files
Flynn glowered at the unconscious woman in the passenger seat. He couldn’t see much of her between the sodden hooded coat and those big sunglasses, but it was obvious she’d been out in the storm for way too long. Jake must’ve pulled some serious shit to make her take off in a fucking blizzard. Flynn cranked the heat. If she didn’t have hypothermia, it was a close cousin, and dropping her somewhere wasn’t an option.
He was gonna have to take her back to the coop.
Goddamn Cal’s fucking pickle, but they weren’t getting any farther than that. Not in this. Without that glitchy plaz-converter, they’d already be in a ditch. Right on cue, its indicator light flickered. Flynn swore as the backend fishtailed again. Fucking piece of —he smacked it, and it re-energized.
Christ, all he’d wanted to do was lift the damn car so he could square with the Fuil. Now he was stuck with this bullshit?—
The car skidded as he slowed, turning to hit the goat path for the coop. He scraped through the break in the stones lining the road, gritting his teeth at the sound as he down shifted. All this ice was a problem. The way in was close to impassible. His jaw ached by the time the coop came into view, the barn’s roof a barely discernible dark mass against the trees. The one room cabin at its side was lost in shadow. Not another soul knew about it.
So much for that.
He got his first good look at Cal’s refugee in the pale glow of the junker’s overhead light. The ride had knocked her sunglasses askew. Flynn slid them off and a fist tightened in his chest.
Damn, she was a piece—but talent and beauty’s what the Source bred them for. This one must’ve been slated for some Deep South harem where she could do parlor tricks when she wasn’t on her back. Christ, maybe while she was…
He ran a hand over his face. Focus, asshole.
She made a small noise of protest when he brought her in, but didn’t wake. His knee balked with the added strain, and he bit back a groan of relief once he’d settled her into the bathtub. Shit, now what? She was soaking wet, and the coop was frigid. Not a good combo.
Heat, he could do heat. He lit the lantern on the table and stoked up the wood stove. Space heater would’ve been easier, but Cal’d been right. She wouldn’t have lasted another ten minutes out there. She might not in here. Flynn scrubbed at his beard, lurching back to the tub. Fucking knee.
She was still out cold. He stared down at her, that fist in his chest twisting. Wasn’t anything for it. The wet clothes had to come off. He methodically stripped her down to her underthings, trying not to notice how sheer the white lace was against her bronzed skin.
He noticed.
Had to be a Breaker with that body. It’d also explain how she’d gotten so far. Knives gave credence to the theory. He wrapped her up using every blanket in the coop, praying it’d be enough as he tucked her into bed. The last thing he wanted to do was crawl in there with her.
Yeah, that was a lie.
Damn it. Flynn collapsed onto a chair, bowing his head. That gnawing in his guts eating at him. A memory of song and the taste of blood and bile. The sting of rain on his tortured flesh. Mud running red. The celestial hum when it all faded to grey…and then her.
His mother. He’d promised. Given his word.
He took a deep breath, pulling off his beanie. His fingers ran over the worn stitches like rosary beads. “I shall not want.”
He did.
That was a problem. The shattered headlight, the way the circle of slush had pushed back from them— Christ . No way that’d really happened. The pull was a fucking fairytale. He had to snag the car battery before the cold sapped it. When he did, he’d look at the damage. Had to have been a microburst, hail… He was all keyed-up after the bar, making excuses, rationalizing… She’d just surprised him, falling against him like that. How long had it been?
Eleven months, two weeks, and six days.
Serenity fucking now.
He scowled, heaving himself up. What the hell had he agreed to? She needed to go. He’d make the call to the farm in the morning. The signal for the ham wouldn’t cut through what was coming down outside. His gaze ran over the long line of her body, and he sighed… Fucking Cal .
Riegel bowed to his partner, begging off a second dance as the orchestra struck up another waltz. Couples reanimated like clockwork golems, twirling past him in a flurry of petticoats and white-gloved precision borne from the tedium of repetition.
Their practiced steps floated across the exotic hardwood floor. It swept through the ballroom, abutting sitting areas of plush couches. Talents draped themselves there with artful languor, as much a part of the decor as the extravagant crystal chandeliers. The cost of the rich fabrics and jewels accentuating their perfect forms paled in comparison to the wealth they brought in. Each of them exuded a calculated indifference, hiding the subtle currents of backbiting and petty jealousies they thrived on from the watchful eyes above.
Patron Salist must be pleased with the new shifting technique his Fetches had developed. Tonight was extravagant, even by Source standards. It was rare to have all five lines of talent congregating at once. Riegel eyed a crowd of Binders. They stared blithely back.
Dualities had a tendency to chafe at one another.
He made his way past the yin to his talent’s yang, to the long teak bar, passing a section of diaphanous curtains. His gaze lingered on one of the pairs coupling behind them. A platinum-haired beauty’s smile invited him to partake as she undulated above a dark-skinned man. Another Talent came up and joined them, pulling her attention from Riegel. Mirrored panels cleverly set within the wall’s mosaic of semiprecious stones caught every angle of their tryst.
He turned away, drumming his fingers on the bar’s satin finish, resigned to suffering through another tiresome event. Only incidentally entertaining, they allowed Patrons to showcase their thralls to various powers for employment opportunities ranging from the battlefield to the bedroom.
Business was booming.
He glanced at the mezzanine above, the tinted windows running the circumference of the lavish room. The Corporation’s board of directors would be up there now. Riegel’s jaw tightened. Patrons. Nothing but the pampered spawn of whoever’s bloated posterior had been parked in those leather chairs when the Surge blipped out the Northern Hemisphere. Now the chosen few decided the fate of nations over paté and caviar, perusing the buffet of flesh below as critically as their canapés.
Through his hate, he couldn’t help but feel relief that he was currently off the menu, thanks to the temporary stay granted by his summons to breed.
It would be exceedingly short-lived if he failed to retrieve Kara.
Riegel ground his teeth at the possibility. Most of the women he could tolerate, but he despised servicing the men. Not that his preferences mattered. If you were a Talent, your Patron’s word was law, and if you were a Breaker, Patron Titus’s word was divine.
A homely woman sidled up to him. Sabet was from a generation of Talents prior to the breeders’ perfection of cosmetic enhancements. Though plain enough to be one of the untalented subalterns bearing silver trays about the room, she was far more useful. He motioned to the sub behind the bar for two glasses of kir.
“It’s such a pleasure to watch you dance.” Sabet took a crystal flute from the bartender and ran a clumsy fingertip around its rim. She was wearing as much perfume as jewelry, and the unpleasant cloud was jarring.
Undeterred, Riegel moved closer, his arm brushing across her wilting bosom with calculated precision. Her breasts’ lazy-eyed tips pebbled askew, and Sabet beamed at his attentions. Flirtation was a game at which he excelled. He smiled warmly, giving her moist hand a squeeze.
“It’s a shame I can’t entice you to join me out there. You know I love showing you new steps.” The older woman’s pupils widened to the stark ring of burnished bronze around her irises. She licked at the pale peach gloss coating her thin lips. It was an unfortunate shade on her. “Did you see my requisition?”
“I did, and it shouldn’t be an issue for a day or two, but repositioning a vector for any longer will run into difficulties.”
Riegel schooled his expression to indifference, damning the slat. Without that vector to pick up Kara’s inevitable surge of talent, she’d be over the border and ensconced in the North before anyone realized she was missing. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.
“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” He skated his fingertips down the back of Sabet’s arm, not in the mood for the wheedling she so enjoyed, but the game had to be played. Her face became splotchy. Riegel took a sip of his drink, hiding a sneer. The woman couldn’t even blush attractively.
“I’m sorry, Riegel. You know I’d do anything for you, but the contracts governing satellites—between the requisitioning paperwork, and the approvals needed… I can give you two days now. Let me see what I can work out later.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Sabet patted his square jaw fondly. “Pouting doesn’t become you. Call on me tomorrow, I’ll let you show me those steps.” She fondled him in passing to join another group.
The woman was insufferable. Riegel downed the rest of his drink, motioning for more. Not for the first time, he cursed Patron Albanach’s eccentricities. It was entirely due to his habitual absences that Kara’s disappearance had been overlooked. Riegel’s brow furrowed. What had that pulse been?
“Slumming again, Rie? I would’ve thought you’d be tired of riding that nag.”
A true smile bloomed across his lips as he turned to kiss Ielle’s cheek. She flicked her long, jet-black hair over a pale shoulder, taking a glass of kir from the sub. She was lovely tonight, though he would never tell her. Plucking the sugared cherry off the rim of her glass, she fed it to him, holding his gaze with irises of midnight, haloed by the deepest of lavenders. Her strapless sheath matched them precisely. No doubt the marketing department had a file with the exact shade of dye required. Set against the crimson of his jacket, they made a pretty pair.
Such a pity she was a Finder. Had it been allowed, he would’ve enjoyed being her consort. Instead, he had to share her bed with scores of others. He pursed his lips, and the courtesan gave him a sly look.
“You’re thinking naughty things about me, aren’t you?”
“Usually.” Riegel returned a lazy smile, considering taking her behind the curtains. Her laughter was like the tinkling of bells.
It cut off sharply as Marsh walked in.
Riegel focused on him, and the little man glanced up, a hare sighted by a hound. He rushed to join a group at the back of the room, but there was no safety in those numbers…
Ielle stiffened, watching the exchange. “You need to talk to him about her, don’t you?” She was unreasonable when it came to Kara. Ielle didn’t… She couldn’t understand. Not yet. “We don’t need her, Rie.”
“I don’t care to discuss this again.” He straightened his jacket, breaking their easy intimacy and striding away without a backward glance. A smile tipped up his lips, knowing what he’d see if he did. She’d get over it.
As he approached, Marsh broke away from his companions, looking resigned. He polished off his drink with a cough and put the empty glass on a passing sub’s tray. His limp hand was lost in Riegel’s as they shook.
Marsh glanced up at him through ancient spectacles. “L-lovely party, hey?”
“Quite,” Riegel rejoined succinctly.
It was telling that Marsh’s Patron hadn’t gotten a Binder to correct his vision. Riegel tamped down his disgust at the man’s dual-colored halos. Weak rings of bronze and lavender surrounded his rheumy irises, proclaiming his Fixer/Finder bent. Of all the near-culled, this one should not have earned a reprieve, no matter his legal acumen. To be flawed with both physical weakness and to be a twist was detestable. Thankfully, they’d forbidden him from breeding. It’d be a crime to pass on those genetics.
Marsh took several sharp, short breaths, a frequent occurrence when he had less than ideal news. Once steadied, the words spilled out.
“I had to stop delaying petitions. Albanach’s enacted a clause—” The little man gasped as Riegel’s hand dug into his upper arm, steering him toward the balcony outside.
Perfect snowflakes an inch across drifted down, evaporating on the heated granite flagstones before they could accumulate, the results of a particularly nasty storm Outside. Riegel imagined it was largely responsible for Kara’s misery. Buoyed by the thought, he smiled winningly at the little man .
“What’s this about a clause?” He eyed Marsh’s badly crumpled sleeve. He sometimes forgot other lines weren’t physically enhanced as Breakers were. How sad for them.
“Albanach’s enacted a stipulation that makes your contract forfeit if Talent Jester’s not bred within thirty-days, retroactive from your summons date. It’s an old provision but has plenty of legal precedent. The man’s probably the only one alive that remembers it’s on the books.” Marsh stopped fussing with his jacket and looked up. His foggy glasses magnified his eyes, turning them bulbous.
“You’ve got seventeen days left. After which, you’ll have no redress. It’ll be over.”
The possibility of that made Riegel’s teeth hurt. Damn that slat! He clasped Marsh on the shoulder, and the frail man stumbled.
“I appreciate your efforts, my friend. Don’t let me keep you from the party.” The twist scurried away, glad to be free of him. Riegel wiped his hand off on his pocket square; the feeling mutual.
The sun was well into the sky when Kara jerked awake. Where…?
Assess. Always assess before committing to action.
She killed her instinct to thrash off the mound of blankets swaddling her. Heart thudding, her nose wrinkled at the overlying scent of must and pee. A wall of rough planking was in front of her. Silence—no, snoring close by. The male from last night? She shivered, easing out of the nest of blankets.
The room… Her closet at the Source was bigger. This was only about a dozen paces long and half as wide, made smaller by the mountains of books stacked and shoved everywhere. They ran floor to ceiling in the far corner, and random piles littered the ground, creating a bizarre labyrinth interspersed with chunks of machinery, dirty laundry?—
And him.
Just past the foot of the bed, sprawled out in a recliner, snoring beside a sinister potbellied stove .
His left sock had a hole.
Kara fisted the quilt, bringing it to her throat. It was no wonder she’d taken him for a Breaker; he was massive. Older than her, mid-thirties, maybe? His wavy chestnut hair stuck up in wild tufts, and his nose had been broken more than once, then set badly, if at all. Incongruously, a well-manicured beard hugged the contours of his jaw like a thick shadow. Her eyes traced the ropey scar slicing from his hairline. It just missed the corner of his eye, snaked across his cheek, through his beard, down the side of his throat, then disappeared into the stretched-out collar of his Henley.
He should’ve been terrifying.
She had a ridiculous urge to curl up in his lap and see how far that scar went.
Ugh, way to assess, Kara. Stupid lack of meds.
She swallowed and looked away, her eyes falling on his worn boots lying in a muddy puddle tracked in from the door. It was made of planks like the rest of the place and rattled with every gust of wind. On the wall to her left was a cabinet, a window with a small table before it, and two chairs piled chest-high with textbooks. Her clothes were draped over them, ostensibly to dry.
She wrapped the faded quilt around herself and crept over to her jeans. Still damp. They’d gotten the top book wet, water pooling in the lip of the back cover. Something about load differentials. Hopefully it was salvageable. She had a soft spot for print, almost everything in the Source was digital.
Kara snaked out a hand, grabbing her clothes and flinching at their chill. A doorway was to the side of the bed, partially blocked by its rusty, slatted headboard. Linoleum peeled up from the threshold. She stepped in, pulling a sad curtain across the opening.
She rested her head against the jamb.
The last thing she remembered was trekking through an endless landscape of biting white, and then him. Who was he? Other than a slob. The pile of filthy laundry beside the toilet was rank. He wasn’t a Breaker, but the odds of him being a good Samaritan? Slim.
A steady plinking drew her eye as she struggled into her stupid jeans. Her coat was looped over the shower rod, dripping into a rusted tub. She choked back the sad laughter threatening to spill from her lips. How was she going to get anywhere without a coat?
It wasn’t her most immediate need. The gold of her halos reflected like a cat’s from the medicine cabinet bolted above the sink. She had to find those sunglasses.
The man cleared his throat from the other side of the curtain.
Kara started, putting her back to the mirror. How had she not heard him get up?
“Some dry clothes here.” Two steps away, the dingy fabric swayed, his voice rumbling through it to her, percolating her heart into her throat. There was a pause, then a door opened and closed.
Kara snaked a hand out and grabbed the pile, shucking off her clammy things for the ones he’d left. A pair of sweatpants and an old Henley with two buttons missing. It was huge, falling off her shoulders and gaping indecently. Putting it on backwards helped. The pants weren’t much better. Thank Glory for drawstrings.
Glancing back at the curtain, she cracked open his medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, toothbrush, and a pair of ornate scissors. She turned them over, furrowing her brow. The rings were filigreed bronze, with a small bird on one side. They looked like something that belonged in a woman’s embroidery basket, not a sketchy book-filled cabin in the woods… Unless he’d murdered said woman. Maybe she was buried under that pile of laundry. Kara rubbed her thumb over the blades. They were wickedly sharp, and she had no idea where he’d put her knives. Not that she’d need them if he got handsy…
Your opponents will underestimate you—Let them.
Rogan’s advice was sound, but given that male’s size, not arming herself was stupid. He was huge, and those scars said he was a fighter and certainly in shape. A flush of heat went through her, and she frowned, nestling the scissors in her cleavage.
Better safe than sorry.
She ran her fingers through her dark hair, brushing long bangs low across her eyes. It would have to do. Reclaiming the quilt, she sat at the table, shivering. The frost-laced window looked out on a ramshackle barn and ice-heavy trees. No sign of him, but a path led to the other side of the structure. Inside, a sock, bits of machinery, and books cluttered the tabletop. The Art of War, Walden, The Dialogues of Plato …and a porno mag with Ielle gracing the cover.
Kara flipped it over so she didn’t have to see the courtesan’s stupid, smug face. Guess she knew what happened to the other sock, but if he had that in his house, he wasn’t one of those zealots?—
Her eyes pricked with tears.
She’d almost died last night, and not because of a zealot. Great going, Kara. Got any more bright ideas? She wiped at her cheeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid… Ugh! Enough crying. New game plan; instead of running off half-cocked, let things play out until you know the score, then figure out how to get back on track.
Easier said than done.
She grabbed one of the slimmer books from a stack and cracked it open, Riegel’s amusement at her fragile determination coiling like brambles through her brain.