Chapter 23
Zero [ zeer -oh ] noun
A learned, trans-meditative state allowing Breakers to act without emotion. Taught by a Menot or Bane, the ability is crucial in mastering bloodlust.
– Excerpt from The Way of Honor
“Because the individual lines tend to keep to themselves, Introductions became a way for a line to welcome a Talent of a different bent into the fold. It also provides an opportunity to gauge the Talent’s ability, verifying a suitable match. Introductions are the only time it’s socially acceptable to show one’s halos, and even then, quite risqué.”
– Lord Talos, Preceptor of History,
Academy of Glynfyls
Flynn tiptoed through the silent house. Kara was sleeping soundly, but he was too anxious about tomorrow… Shit, today, he amended as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. He sl ipped into the kitchen and froze. Lot was at the table eating a piece of cake. Goddamn it. He was the last person he wanted to see. Fuck it. Too late now.
“Hope that’s not all of it,” Flynn said, opening the refrigerator and rooting around.
“You know Miriam, there’s probably an extra cake in there.”
Man wasn’t wrong. Flynn pulled out what was left and cut a big slice.
“So, she’s a twist.”
He stiffened. Asshole would fixate on that.
“You know it’s gonna be an issue.”
Flynn tamped down his anger. It was the truth. “I don’t care.”
Lot nodded. “People gave me a rash of shit for your mother, too. They’ll get over it or they won’t.”
Flynn choked on his bite. His father’s little nuggets of humanity were throwing him off. “Meddleton… It’s big deal to me.”
Lot nodded, flicking a cherry off his slice. “I’m staying at the flat. It’s best I don’t go back. That upstairs… Enjoy it while you can. You know, no one thought your mother and I’d have a kid. I was more than fine with that, but she wasn’t. Not even Jon understands how the hell it happened and when it did… If you didn’t have my goddamned face… Well, no one can deny you’re mine.” Lot screwed up his mouth, glowering at him like it was a failing.
Flynn leaned against the door jamb. Nothing his father was saying was new, but he knew from experience it was better to stay and take it. He took another bite, waiting for the rest of it so he could leave.
“You were the only thing we ever fought about. I think… Well, you don’t give a shit what I think, but maybe I wish I did things different.”
The fuck?
Lot ran a trembling hand through his hair and met Flynn’s eyes. The hurt in them was a gut punch. “Treat them better than I treated you.”
“Yes, sir,” he husked out.
His father grunted and went back to his cake.
Flynn retreated into the hallway and sagged against the wall. What the hell had just happened? Christ, things were easier when Lot was just an asshole. Never in a million years… But if he could change, maybe it wasn’t impossible that Lot could, too. The thought made him laugh. Not impossible, but not fucking likely either. He scrubbed at his face, not wanting to think about it.
Light pooled from the doorway of Cal’s study. Flynn padded down and poked his head in. His grandfather was at his desk, reading a great tome of a book. He looked up and waved him in, snorting at the massive slice of half-eaten cake.
“Worked up quite an appetite, haven’t you. It’s a good thing we’re leaving in a few hours. You’re giving Miriam an apoplexy with all the shenanigans going on up there.” Cal frowned, motioning to his throat. “Whatever you two are into, I’d suggest you make sure it stays below your collar.”
Flynn shrugged, not sure what to say about that. He ate some more cake. “Light midnight reading?”
His grandfather reached for his tobacco and sat back. “Binders. I’d like to be able to give Kara some idea of the status of her line up here, for what it’s worth. Have you explained to her about renouncing?”
“Not yet. Something else always comes up.”
Cal’s mustache quirked. “You don’t say.” Flynn snorted and kept eating. “Well. Jon and Miriam beat you to the punch.” His grandfather handed him several sheets of thick, official-looking paper. Flynn put down his plate and read them, a smile curving up his lips. “Jon remembered there was some legal precedent for the option. From what I gather, she was less than impressed with the idea.”
Flynn didn’t blame her. It was stupid, but most of the shit that went on up north was. He took the pen from Cal’s desk and signed the marriage contract between their Houses with his big, looping signature. “You know what they’re gonna put her through when they find out she’s a twist.”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing for it. It’s a pointless prejudice and no one but the aristocracy gives a shit. Maybe she’ll knock some sense into them.”
Flynn snorted around another mouthful at the likelihood of that happening.
“Finish up and come sit with me.” Cal went over to the Ash’a board. Flynn followed, shoveling the last bite into his mouth. The board was still set to the game they’d started almost a decade ago. He wasn’t surprised. No one else would play with the old man.
Cal poured himself a glass of scotch. “Your move.”
Flynn studied the board as he chewed. His players, the red pieces, were scattered recklessly across all three levels. He saw what he’d been trying to do, but it wasn’t very elegant, and Cal was within a few moves of winning.
“You need to be on point tomorrow. Things are moving fast, and I’ve a suspicion Titus is banking on harvesting before year-end close.” Cal took a sip, watching as Flynn made his move. He made his own without much thought, but then he’d had plenty of time to study the damn thing. “I should’ve just buried him when I had the chance. Never leave an enemy behind you, boy, guaranteed it’ll bite you in the ass,” he muttered, patting his pockets for his matches.
Flynn studied the board, sourly agreeing with the sentiment. Victor and all the Sons in Hamlin… Letting them walk had been a mistake, regardless of what promises he’d made.
“Case in point, Nora sent me a message. Someone’s been deployed to Glynfyls to abduct Kara. Titus suspects she’s bred.”
A blinding burst of fury seared through Flynn, tinting the room scarlet. Cal pushed back so fast he almost fell out of his chair. His hand whipped out and took Flynn across the face with a solid crack. The shock of his grandfather hitting him cut through his anger, and he quickly threw that veneer of calm over it, his fury licking around the edges, making it bubble and crack. A growl escaped from his throat.
“You better calm down, son. You need to keep a lid on that.”
Flynn tried to cloak his emotions, fighting to bury his rage. He felt Kara stir upstairs. Goddamn it?—
Cal shook his head, grabbing a book of matches from his desk with shaking hands. “Listen to me. You knew they wouldn’t just let her go. I wish to Christ you’d waited to bond her, and I’ll admit, the ante’s upped now that she’s bred with your heir, but she’ll be safe at Meddleton.”
Cal was right. Flynn ran a shaking hand across his mouth, thinking about Kara and the baby. If he lost them… His stomach rose into his th roat. Christ. He swallowed raggedly, wishing he hadn’t eaten so much cake. She needed him to keep his shit together. He could do it, for her. Taking a deep breath, he moved another piece on the board, trying to regain his equilibrium.
Cal righted his chair and sat. They played in silence for a time, Flynn’s stomach sinking back where it belonged, his breath evening out. His grandfather peered up at him from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows like he was gauging his mood.
“When we get up there… It’s not the city you remember.”
“I can’t say I remember much after Mom passed; not clearly at least, and what I do, I’d rather not,” he muttered, making another move.
“Regardless, Flynn, it’s long past time you stepped up to do what you were raised to do. Lot and Jon aren’t suited to the role. Neither are your cousins. Everything Deirdre excelled at you’ve got in spades when your head’s pulled far enough out of your ass to play the part. Time’s come for you to stop squandering all that training and use it.”
Flynn gritted his teeth. And there it was. The sole reason his grandfather wanted him here along with a heavy dose of guilt. Go push House Scot’s fucking agenda. The only person who’d ever really given a shit was in a hole six feet—Christ, he wasn’t going down that path. No matter how much it ate at him, he’d end up doing what the old man wanted. He always did. Best suck it the fuck up. He snapped his bishop down hard enough to rattle the other pieces.
Cal gave him a long look before going to counter it, then sat back, staring at the board and his king, surrounded. “Son of a bitch.”
Flynn glared at him, deadpan. Take that, asshole .
Cal returned it through the smoke curling up from his cigarette, not giving a shit. “I need you to do that up there, boy. You were born for this, and they’ll never see it coming. Go to bed. I gotta make a call.”
Dismissed, Flynn went upstairs. Kara was curled up in a ball fast asleep. He climbed into bed, kissing the shell of her ear, and she snuggled against him. His hand drifted to her abdomen.
His heir.
Fucking Cal .
Flynn’s satisfaction at his win evaporated. He was as boxed in as that fucking king.
“They remind me of the great cats in the Deep South.”
Titus grunted his agreement, glancing from the breeding pair to Salist. He blended in seamlessly with the crepuscular gloom of the observation chamber, his midnight robes blurring his edges against the coal leather couch. Above it, the white of his eyes and teeth floated ghoulishly in the twilight.
Beyond the thick two-way plex in front of them, a pair of Breakers were amidst their throes of passion. The female slammed the male’s head against the floor of the concrete cell, and his fist clipped her chin. She spat a gob of crimson into his eyes as they strained against each other.
“Their foreplay is much the same. Her rung is higher than his, but once she allows him to mount her, it will go quickly.” Titus had seen it play out thousands of times. Some primal remnant of wild Talent behavior. His own grin was feral as the female cold-cocked the male, sending him sprawling. Magnificent. She stood, stalking around his dazed form, her bare skin stippled and striped vermillion. A great cat indeed.
Titus reached over and made an adjustment on his tablet, releasing Beritram’s mating pheromones into the room. The female’s head jerked up, nostrils flaring. Her nipples hardened, and she was on the prone man before Titus had picked his drink back up. Salist leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees.
“Fascinating.”
“Harnessed properly, bloodlust is a divine throttle. Without that innate physiological response to my Alpha, they’d be uncontrollable.”
Salist was silent. He’d reclined against the pillows again, stroking the side of his glass. The thick window between them and the mating pair rattled with a backlash of talent.
Another successful bonding.
Titus’s lips tightened, watching the male nuzzle at the female and carry her to the floor mattress. He licked his blood from her mouth, kissing her tenderly. It was always surprising how attentive they were to their mates after each violent clash. Pity that trait was so difficult to breed out. It unnecessarily complicated breakings.
“The Jester girl’s crossed the border with your Shade.”
“Yes.”
“Albanach’s response?”
“Last I knew, he had the situation well in hand.”
The white of Salist’s smile disappeared. “The board grows weary of your brinksmanship.”
“As do I.” A sharp pain shot behind Titus’s eyes. He hit the lights so he could see the dark man at the other end of the couch. “And I would end it. This is a minor setback, there are contingencies in place. The board’s pissed away decades with their indecision. They can wait a little longer for my plans to ripen.” Digging out his pills, he tossed a few into his mouth and chewed them, the astringent micro-beads popping between his molars. Blasted headaches. He needed Otto to attend him again.
Salist’s lush lips pruned. “Is that what you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them whatever you want.”
“Is there any chance of more specimens before the quarter ends?”
“With the border closing?” He snorted. “Not bloody likely. They’ll have to make do with what I’ve already procured. A harvest is necessary, Salist.” The man’s face was of carved onyx. Titus rolled his eyes. “Instigated by proxy, of course.”
“So, we’re back to waiting for them to put their own necks in a noose and jump.”
Titus sipped his bourbon. “The noose is in place and they’ve one foot over the chasm. Fifty-thousand units says within the next few weeks there will be an act of aggression from the North worthy of military retaliation. My troops are set to respond within hours.”
Salist had turned back to the breeding chamber, watching the female undulate above the male. They would battle and copulate consecutively until the blastocysts lodged within her uterine wall. Then she would be removed to stasis until she whelped. Separating them was another procedure that trait of sentiment complicated. There had to be some way to mitigate it…
“What happens on the day your Alpha is bested?”
The abruptness of the question jolted Titus from his reflections. “When Beritram ages out, Brix will step into his place?—”
“No. What would happen should a wild Talent best your Alpha?”
Titus laughed and Salist flinched at the rusty exhalation of sound. “Impossible. With the genetic enhancements the line has gone through, no Breaker bred outside the Source can compare.” As if to underscore his point, the female in the breeding chamber hit the window hard, buckling it, then flew at the male, tearing at him with her teeth and nails.
“They would turn on us,” Salist murmured, watching the pair’s ferocity as if he hadn’t heard. “That hierarchy you exploit to control them could just as easily?—”
“Yes, yes, Salist, and a meteor could hit tomorrow. It’s just as likely, and your paranoia only further proves a final harvest is necessary. If you’re so afraid of one of them upending our status quo, the obvious solution is to gather them all in hand.”
The dark man finished his kir and ran a velvet-pink tongue over his teeth, sucking on them. “Fifty-thousand. In escrow. Between that and whatever your intent is in having the Commandant sniff around the skirts of Albanach’s concubine, I foresee having to collect from your widow.”
Titus smiled. Nora Jester had been very busy leading Marcos around by the nose, priming him to make foolish decisions, as he had himself by seeding the man with what was in those redacted files. All of it moves in the long game.
“My intent, Salist, is to win.”