Tangle of Need (30 page)

Changelings have packs
, the alpha had said.
The Alliance is the human equivalent—it not only represents humans as a group, it’s powerful enough that people pay attention.

Not a body to disregard, regardless of the fact that humans were so often labeled the weakest part of the triumvirate that was the world.

“Are they breaking their side of their bargain,” Adria asked, “trying something in our territory?”

“No, but they’ve been implicated in a set of assassinations in the Mediterranean.” He pushed off the wall, decision made. “I’m going to call Bowen. Want to sit in?”

Blue-violet eyes streaked with gold widened at the corners. “Yes, I would.”

Coffees drunk and mugs washed, they headed toward the conference room. “Does the Alliance have people with the training to pull off something so clean, and we have to assume, fast?” she asked after he finished summarizing the situation.

“Bo could’ve done it. He worked in covert ops in the military arm of the Alliance before he decided he didn’t like where that arm was heading under the previous leadership.” Into a violence as cold and self-serving as that of the Council. “If it was the Alliance, I’m more interested in the why.”

Adria raised an eyebrow as they entered the conference room.

“Bo,” he explained, “has been very carefully rebuilding the Alliance’s reputation.”

“And this kind of violence, if it got out,” Adria murmured, “would bring up too many ugly memories in the wider population.”

He reached behind her to shut the door. “Grab a seat out of camera range,” he said, allowing her enigma of a scent to seep into his veins. “I want you to act as a second set of ears and eyes—Bo’s very good at only giving away what he wants.”

Choosing a seat that offered an excellent vantage point, Adria watched Riaz put through the call. His back to her, he couldn’t see her, and so she allowed herself the indulgence of a lingering visual examination, her eyes drawn to his left shoulder and the jagged curves and lines of the tattoo hidden by his T-shirt. She loved the way the black ink looked against his skin, as she loved the muscled beauty of his frame, the way he moved when inside her.

It wasn’t difficult to see why he intrigued her on the deepest level.

But though he was undeniably a sexy, handsome man, her wolf saw beauty through a different lens. It was drawn to his strength, his ease with himself—and with her. Riaz wasn’t bothered if she lost control during intimacy and drew a little blood, didn’t care if she wanted to take the reins at times. When they’d worked together during the battle with Pure Psy, he’d given orders with cool, calm control even in the midst of chaos. The soldier in her respected him for that, while the woman found it another compelling aspect of his character.

However, she also understood that he’d be maddening in a relationship. He wasn’t simply a dominant predatory changeling male, a lieutenant, he was a lone wolf. It was legend how incredibly possessive and insanely protective a lone wolf became with the woman he claimed as his own—as opposed to one with whom he’d agreed to build a friendship based on a storm of shared need … and shared pain.

“Two seconds,” he said, those amazing eyes locking with her own. “Ready?”

Her stomach clenched in visceral awareness. “Yes.”

“Who the hell is this?” a
rough male voice asked, accepting an audio-only transmission after the call rang for a quarter of a minute.

“Bo, it’s Riaz.”

A pause, the sound of sheets rustling. “Christ, let me get out of bed,” was the response, though it had to be midmorning in Venice.

“Late night?” Riaz asked.

“Unfortunately not the x-rated kind.” A couple more seconds passed before Bo’s face appeared on-screen. He’d shaved off his hair, so he didn’t have bed head, but his face was rumpled on one side, the smooth caramel brown of his skin carrying a fine sunburn … as if he’d been out on the water. “That was quick.” Somber eyes that watched Riaz with piercing intensity.

Riaz didn’t blink. “You know what this is about.”

“I can guess.” Bo rubbed a hand over his smooth skull, the lines of his face masculine yet elegant—a man who’d be beautiful if not for the flinty hardness in his eyes, the ropes of muscle across his bare shoulders. “I can’t say anything on this line.”

“It’s secure.”

But Bowen shook his head, a stubborn angle to his jaw. “Has to be face-to-face, and I’m not planning on any travel right now.”

Leaning back against the wall, Riaz folded his arms. “You’re sounding paranoid.”

“You would, too, if you’d just had the week I’ve had. It’ll only take you what”—Bo frowned—“three hours on an express airjet to get here?”

“This isn’t the best time for a SnowDancer lieutenant to leave the pack.” Riaz held the Alliance male’s gaze. “What priority is your intel?”

“High.” No hesitation.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Trust me, Riaz. You want to hear what I have to say.” Bowen signed off with those portentous words.

Waiting until the screen was clear, Adria said, “Why didn’t you confirm a trip?” He was right about the timing, but it was doable, wouldn’t affect the strength of their defenses.

“If he’s on the mark about the comm being monitored,” Riaz said, blue-black
strands of hair falling across his forehead, “it’s no use tipping off any listeners to the fact we’ll be in the area.”

Her pulse spiked. “We?”

“I’m going to need backup.” Riaz saw Adria’s eyes widen. “Situation like this, I’d usually ask my man already in the area, but he’s got something else on his plate, and you speak fluent Italian.” He knew it was the right decision, that her linguistic skill and status as an experienced soldier made her the perfect choice. He also knew he was treading a dangerous line.

But Adria, when she rose to her feet, showed no indications of having read more into his suggestion than he meant. “How do you know that? The fact I speak Italian?”

“It’s my job,” he said. “I keep track of anyone in the pack who has a skill that might come in useful internationally.” Adria’s CV had passed across his desk when she transferred. “What I can’t understand is why you chose to learn Italian when Spanish would’ve been more useful in the region.”

She didn’t answer, her next words telling him her mind was on something else altogether. “I don’t want to disrupt things so early on with my trainees.”

“It should only be a day or two.” He knew how heavily the juveniles relied on their assigned supervisors.

A slow nod. “That’s manageable. I was planning to ask Riley to put me on a high-perimeter shift anyway.” Catching his questioning look, she said, “They might be submissives, but constant oversight isn’t good for any wolf’s development.”

“We’ll leave early morning tomorrow,” he said, wondering how a tough senior soldier understood SnowDancer’s submissives so well. “That give you enough time to organize cover for your duties?”

“No problem.” Then to his surprise, she did a funny little dance around her chair, singing, “I’m going to Venice. I’m going to Venice.”

It startled laughter out of him, his wolf standing up in fascination at the unexpected and sweetly charming crack in Adria’s sober facade. “If you’re really good,” he said when she stopped dancing to grin at him, “I’ll take you on a gondola ride through the canals.” Delight, bright and dangerous, cascaded through his veins.

Chapter 37

HAVING COMPLETED HIS
research, Vasquez located the first three addresses fast enough, but it took hours of hacking through Net firewalls to unearth the second three, and four days to complete the list. Psychically exhausted, he considered sending the one he served an e-mail with the update, but they had agreed on electronic and psychic silence.
Nothing
of their plan was going to leak and jeopardize everything they had set so meticulously in place.

Conscious that tiredness could lead to mistakes, Vasquez slept long enough to become functional, then made his way to the compound hidden deep in a rural sector of Ireland. “I have the coordinates and necessary images of the first set of targets.”

“When can we move?” The voice was a rasp, a broken saw, issuing from a throat that had suffered second-degree burns when Henry Scott screamed as his legs were turned to ash, one of his arms sliced below the elbow by a whip of cold fire.

The medics had been working to repair the damage, but it was severe. Sienna Lauren’s X-fire had cauterized the wounds, so they’d needed to be cut open vein by vein to allow for the regeneration aids to work. However, the worst damage had been done when a Pure Psy operative shoved his body over Henry’s in an effort to protect him. That operative’s weapon had melted into the former Councilor’s flesh.

It was proving near impossible to excise the plas from his body, some of it appearing to have integrated into his organs. As a result, Henry remained hooked up to multiple devices, his body supine on a hospital
bed inside a large chamber of sterile glass, his ruined voice issuing via a speaker. However, the fire had done nothing to his mind, and they were Psy. The mind was all that mattered.

“Are we in a position to strike?” Henry elaborated, his bloodshot eyes looking at Vasquez through the glass.

“I recommend waiting until we have at least ten complete sets.” It would allow them to strike back to back, leaving no time or room for a counterstrike. However, it all depended on whether Vasquez could muster enough trusted personnel with the right abilities.

Loud, rattling breaths. “The Net is becoming weaker with each day that passes, filled with those whose Silence is flawed. We need to remind them of who we are as a race.”

“Yes, but our chances of success rise exponentially if we act without any warning.” Giving the enemy no time to prepare before the avalanche.

Henry took a long time to reply, his breathing so rough Vasquez knew this interview would soon end. “Five sets,” the former Councilor said at last. “Five complete sets and one outlier.”

“Sir?”

“A small location, a demonstration of what we can do ahead of the primary hits.”

“A test to ascertain the validity of our refined method?” Their earlier plan had proven to have a fatal flaw, so he could agree with the precaution, except that it risked tipping their hand.

But Henry said, “If those in the Net want to feel, then perhaps we should teach them the taste of terror.”

Vasquez would never betray the only man who appeared to be taking the disintegration of Silence not as an inevitability but as a disease that needed to be stopped, but he was also not a cipher who followed Henry’s every command. “We chance losing the element of surprise,” he said. “It could lead to the primary targets being sequestered.”

“Would it not be better,” Henry said, “if we did not have to act against those targets? Perhaps one demonstration is all that will be needed.”

Vasquez considered the question, realized his leader was right. This strategy was not one they had agreed to lightly—it went against the founding tenets of Pure Psy. However, it was a proven fact that those
who adapted to altered circumstances were the ones who survived. “One outlier,” he said, already weighing up suitable possibilities. “If we are to hold to the timetable, I must get back to my duties.”

“Go.” A pause. “Vasquez?”

“Sir?”

“You have been loyal. I won’t forget.”

“Purity will save us, sir.” Vasquez’s ancestors before Silence had been murderers and sociopaths. Silence was his salvation. “I’ll set things in motion.”

Everyone, no matter their location or race, had a Psy neighbor, colleague, or business acquaintance. When Pure Psy rose this time, it wasn’t only the Psy who would learn the meaning of fear.

Chapter 38

RIAZ STEPPED OFF
the watercraft he and Adria had boarded to reach Venice after the airjet landed in nearby Marco Polo Airport, both of them carrying small duffel bags. It was temperate this time of year, the air around them dusky with the oncoming sunset, the soft light burnishing the old stone of the buildings that remained above the waterline.

As a result of changing water levels in the Adriatic and an undersea quake that had badly damaged the wooden foundations on which Venice stood, much of the jewel of a city was now underwater, though some of its iconic, graceful bridges survived, a few marooned in the midst of wide canals. However, instead of sinking into obscurity, Venice remained a vibrant, living city as a result of its complex network of biospheres below the waterline.

The spheres had been developed by a consortium of water-based changelings and put into place during the final decade of the twentieth century. A large number of BlackSea’s people still called Venice home, but Riaz’s wolf found the old city claustrophobic, especially beneath the surface, where the biospheres acted as—to his mind—protective prisons.

“I’ve always been fascinated by Venice.” Adria did a full circle on the “floating” roadway designed to rise with the water, her eyes taking in everything with unhidden wonder. “It’s filled with so much history you can almost hear the city whisper it to you.”

Painful though his memories of Venice were, it was impossible not to be affected by the infectious depth of her joy. “You should see it during Carnevale.” It was just before the last Carnevale that he’d first seen
Lisette, and he’d been unable to stop himself from seeking her out during the celebrations.

Standing in the shadows created by the alcove of a moss-covered building, his face concealed by a half mask, he’d watched her lithe figure swirl in her husband’s arms, both of them full of the wild energy that came from the beautiful chaos of the festival. She’d been dressed in red and black, a Spanish flamenco dancer transplanted onto Venetian soil, her sun gold hair dyed a vivid black.

“It’s on my list.” Adria’s slightly husky voice broke into his thoughts, so very different from Lisette’s French-accented soprano. “Along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans, the Inca Trail, the Taj Ma—” Her eyes connecting with his, she cut herself off midstream, a slight wash of color on her cheekbones. “Sorry, I’m talking your ear off.”