Shadowmaster. Susan Krinard
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memories he had managed to bury deep in his mind since his deportation. A little boy, laughing in delight because his father had managed to buy him a very rare bound edition of The Iron Corps for Christmas. It hadn’t been black market, but Drakon—the man he had been then—had saved up a portion of many months’ salary to buy it, even though Mark had still been a little too young to understand all the words.
“I know of them,” he said coldly.
“Then I don’t have to explain.” She shifted her weight, and even that slight movement brought his attention back to her body and the aching hardness that refused to be banished even by a firm act of will.
It’s the blood, he told himself. Like fine wine, human blood came in many vintages.
And he’d never smelled anything so rich and sweet. He wanted it, badly. But he knew his reaction now was fueled as much by hunger as inconvenient lust.
He would have to access his stores very soon. They had been going down more quickly than he’d expected and would need to be replenished, not a task he could entrust to any member of his crew. “Lark,” he said, pushing his hunger aside. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
She pulled a few strands of her dark hair out of the blindfold. “I’ve been branded a traitor by the government.”
“Why?” he asked.
She plucked at the blouse of her torn uniform. “I was an Admin. Very low clearance. I came across confidential information I wasn’t supposed to be able to access. Someone found out, and—”
“What kind of information?” he interrupted.
“Let’s just say that it would be more than a little embarrassing for the higher-ups, and possibly make trouble for certain parties involved in the election.”
Suddenly, Drakon was interested in Lark for more than her blood, her beauty and her spirit. “And what?” he prompted.
“They regard any breach very seriously. Rather than take a chance I might use it, they trumped up charges against me and were going to have me executed. I was able to—”
“Executed?” he interrupted. “Not deported?”
“They don’t deport traitors,” Lark said, a grim set to her mouth.
“And are you one?”
She suggested he do something anatomically impossible. Drakon let it pass. Whatever she’d discovered, it couldn’t just be “embarrassing for the higher-ups.” Drakon knew well enough that the Enclave government could be as ruthless as the Citadel’s Council, and would sooner kill than take the slightest chance of a security risk.
“So you think you’ll be safer out of the city,” he said.
Her blindfold shifted, suggesting eyes widening in astonishment. “Wouldn’t you, if you didn’t have such a good thing going here?”
He leaned over the bed. “What do you know of my business?”
Her body quivered as if it recognized the threat of a predator. “Only what I saw, back there. What you told me. And what everyone knows about the Fringe.”
“That there are ways of getting out in this part of the city? Why do you think such exits exist?”
“You are kidding, right?”
“I’m deadly serious.”
“Everyone remotely connected to the government knows that such passages exist. Most of them have been shut down by the Enforcers, but someone always manages to find another one. It’s common knowledge that convicts can be smuggled out of the city for the right price.”
“The price.” Drakon straightened and circled the room, his heart beating fast. “Why do you believe we have use for information on the foibles of a government official?”
“That’s not all I have,” she said. “Some of it might be very useful to your...operations.”
He came to a stop before her. “If you have something valuable to us, why do you believe you can withhold anything we choose to take from you?”
“You mean by torturing me? Or do whatever you thought this Preacher guy would do?” She shook her head. “That would be a mistake. You see, even the lowest-level govrats—to use your Fringe lingo—are given anti-torture conditioning. It’s not much, but usually it works by triggering a fatal chemical reaction in our bodies after a significant amount of pain is applied.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard of such conditioning,” Drakon said.
“It’s new. They want to keep it secret, of course. But I’m telling you now because I have nothing to lose, and you’d be better off taking what I’m willing to give you instead of losing all of it. I promise you that what you’ll get from me will be worth what I’m asking.”
Drakon took the chair again.
“Assuming you have such information,” he asked, “how are we to substantiate it without risk to ourselves?”
“I never said it was without risk,” she said, “just as I knew it could be a fatal risk coming out here.”
Perhaps even worse than merely fatal, if he acted as loyalty dictated. He had no reason to trust her. If he found a chance to pass her on to Erebusian agents who could get her to the Citadel, she could be extremely valuable as a source of intelligence.
But he couldn’t envision taking such a drastic step, and he certainly wouldn’t return her to her Enclave hunters. His mission had been clearly defined, and once completed would have virtually the same effect as if he were to tear the government down with his own two hands.
One highly popular mayor, in the midst of a highly contentious election, dead. The mayor who claimed to want to end the deportation of criminals to Erebus, cut off the tribute of blood serfs who were so essential to maintaining Opiri society in the Citadel of Night. Essential to maintaining the Armistice and preventing another devastating war.
Aaron Shepherd. One of the two men in all the world Drakon wanted dead more than he wanted to live.
* * *
Phoenix couldn’t see the man’s face, but she didn’t have to. She’d memorized it the first time she’d glimpsed him, when he’d snatched her away from the leering henchman of The Preacher, the Boss she’d been sent to find.
Either someone at Aegis had given her very bad information, as this man had told her, or her instincts had been dangerously off. But she didn’t think hearing a man offer to buy her for “five hundred A-dollars” would inspire much confidence in even the most desperate fugitive.
She could honestly say she’d been incredibly lucky. This Boss’s treatment of her had been no worse than she might have expected from any one of his kind, likely better than most. He was handsome, most definitely, with his defined features, gray eyes and auburn hair. Strong and fast, his movements swift and graceful. He had struck her right away as being someone extraordinary.
Even so, she hadn’t been sure until she’d seen the faint red reflection behind his otherwise very normal-looking eyes. His incisors were covered in some way she couldn’t quite define. She’d been luckier—or unluckier—than she or Aegis could possibly have imagined.
The man who had “saved” her from The Preacher wasn’t human. After the first shock had passed, Phoenix had quickly realized that neither his fellow Boss nor either of their crews knew what he was. His coloring told her he must be a Daysider—one of those very human-looking “mutant” Opiri who could walk in daylight without suffering fatal burns—and Daysiders looked very human to most non-Opiri. The headlamp he wore wasn’t just protective camouflage, since his breed couldn’t see nearly as well in the dark as dhampires or other Nightsiders. But he seemed to have forgotten that no ordinary man or woman could keep up with him, and that he was supposedly leading a human female to safety.
What