Play of Passion (10 page)

“The falcons are making use of the flight treaty,” Matthias said toward the end, his thickly lashed eyes dark and intense. “I’ve seen them flying over my sector.”

“Me, too.” Alexei leaned forward, bracing his arms on a glowing cherrywood desk. “Where are we on a possible alliance?”

“I think it’s a real possibility,” Hawke said. “I sent Drew to spend some time with them on the ground a month ago, and his report backs up my instincts.”

“He in the den?” Cooper asked. “It’d be good to hear what he has to say.”

When Hawke nodded, Indigo said, “Ten-minute break,” in a tone she hoped sounded practical and nothing else, “then we reconvene. I’ll hunt down Drew.”

That proved to be child’s play. He opened the door to his room with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair wet. “Indy.” Blinking water from his eyes, he stepped back and angled his head. “Come in. I was just about to throw some clothes on.”

Heat uncurled in her abdomen—because no matter how pissed she was at him, Andrew Kincaid made her fingers itch to touch. Smooth, gleaming skin, toned muscle, and those eyes that never lost the edge of wickedness. “You’re needed in the main conference room, five minutes.”

Heading back inside when she remained on the doorstep, he disappeared behind the door. “What about?”

“Falcons.” Her mind insisted on providing her with all sorts of salacious images as she heard the soft rasp of the towel leaving his body to pool on the floor, the rougher sound of him pulling on jeans—“Don’t be late,” she bit out and swiveled on her heel.

 

 

Andrew’s fingers clenched
convulsively on the T-shirt in his grasp. She was still mad; that much was clear. And no matter that keeping her angry was part of his ultimate strategy, he had the violent urge to tug her close and kiss the anger right off her lips.

Of course, he thought, in her current mood the only thing that would get him was a nicely eviscerated chest. “Charm,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t forget that—it’s all about charm. Stick to the plan.”

Pulling on the T-shirt, he laced up his sneakers and made his way to the conference room. “Nice to see everyone hard at work,” he said when he walked in to find them playing virtual poker.

There were a slew of responses to that, some rude, some friendly, but the game was cleared away in under a minute, with Alexei declared the winner. After the golden-haired lieutenant took a mock bow, Andrew—viscerally aware of Indigo’s silent presence on Hawke’s other side—laid out his impressions of the falcon wing.

“Good, strong unit,” he said. “Well drilled and trained to work together. The ancestors of the core group formed the wing prior to the Territorial Wars, so they’ve been around several hundred years.”

“Why aren’t they bigger in numbers by now?” Judd asked from his position at the far end of the table.

Hawke was the one who answered. “Birds tend to keep their wings small. I think it has to do with ensuring enough open sky, though I’ve heard they stay in close contact with other wings across the country.”

“Hawke’s right,” Andrew said, even as his wolf picked out Indigo’s scent from all the other threads in the room and rolled around in it like a pup. “I asked Adam, their wing leader, about that. He says their flight paths often overlap, so it makes sense to keep things pleasant. But the end result is that while WindHaven might not be huge, we ally with them, we gain access to a network of wings across the country.”

Cooper raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to sneeze at. So long as they can handle us.” A blunt truth. “Otherwise, the dominance issues will make a mess of things.”

Hawke rocked back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “Having dealt with Adam, and Jacques, his second, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“So we’re going to start the ball rolling?” Indigo’s voice, slicing through Andrew’s concentration with the ease of a razor.

“I’ll talk to DarkRiver,” Hawke said, “see if they have any further information, but yeah, I think we should take advantage of the opportunity.”

Andrew listened as Indigo went through a couple of other matters before ending the meeting. Her words were crisp, her commands clear, and her intelligence as sharp as a blade—there was no way in hell she was going to make this easy for him.

His wolf sat up in anticipation—he’d never wanted easy. He’d always wanted Indigo. And tomorrow, he’d have her all to himself, far from the den and the hierarchy . . . and the rules that she used to keep her own explosive response to him under vicious control. But he knew. He’d tasted it.

And he was going to make Indy admit it—even if he had to sneak in under her defenses using every dirty trick in the book. This was war. Who the hell cared about playing fair?

Councilor Nikita Duncan
met Councilor Anthony Kyriakus outside a small house situated on the heavily forested edges of Tahoe, having driven herself there in a bland gray sedan with tinted windows. “Was this where your daughter lived while she was in the Net?” she asked Anthony when he pushed open the door.

Anthony’s black hair, silvered at the temples, lifted a fraction in the forest breeze as he answered. “Yes.” He nodded at the door. “Please.”

“Thank you.” As she entered, she took in everything about the place. The room immediately to her right may once have functioned as a living area, but was now an office/meeting room with a small table featuring a built-in computer panel and four chairs. “Does the F ability make an appearance every generation?” The NightStar Group’s grip on the market for foreseers was all but airtight.

“There are sporadic skips, but overall, yes,” he said, as they took their seats opposite each other. “It is the same in your family, is it not?”

Nikita answered because it was no secret—the “flawed” E designation was the Duncan family’s genetic millstone. “It tends to skip a generation.” Not quite the truth, but close enough that it would pass. “You know why I contacted you.” And why she’d done it away from the dark skies of the PsyNet.

Anthony’s eyes were penetrating as they met hers across the table. “Something is happening with the Arrow Squad.”

“Yes.” Ming was the official leader of the assassins who were the Council’s most lethal army, but Nikita’s spies had caught ripples that said things might well be changing. “If the leadership shifts, there are only two possible successors.”

“Kaleb and Vasic,” Anthony said. “But while Vasic is an Arrow and the single true teleporter in the Net, my information is that he doesn’t consider himself a candidate for the position.”

“However, with his support, someone else could take the leadership.” The squad was incredibly secretive, but Nikita wasn’t a Councilor because she gave up at the first hurdle. She’d unearthed enough data that she felt confident in saying, “There are rumors of another Arrow the squad may accept as a leader.”

Anthony took a moment to reply. “His name is Aden. I’m keeping an eye on affairs as they develop.”

It was, Nikita understood, a very deliberate sharing of information. “Good. But that situation, while important, isn’t the critical one as far as we are concerned.” Neither of them was in the fight to lead the Arrows.

Anthony made no pretense of not understanding her meaning. “Henry and Shoshanna,” he said. “They support the idea of Purity to the exclusion of all else, though it is clear that Silence is failing.”

“Divided, we have a high chance of falling to their stratagems,” she said, having made her decision the first time she called Anthony, “but together, we are a force to be reckoned with.” Then she asked the most important question. “Where do you stand, Anthony?”

Anthony took a drink from the glass of water at his elbow, answering only after almost ten seconds of thought. “I do not support any group or system that would erase my individuality, and the Scotts are determined to create a true hive mind in one form or another.” He put the glass on the table. “More importantly, they have interfered once too often in this territory—and in my business interests.”

Nikita wondered if the Scotts had attempted to meddle in Anthony’s subcontracting agreement with his daughter. Not that the details mattered; whatever they had done, it was to Nikita’s benefit. “If we are to work effectively together,” she said, “there is something else we need to discuss.” And then she spoke of death.

It had taken
Judd more time than he’d expected to track down Xavier’s missing parishioner, Gloria. His mate, with her brilliant mind, had done most of the cyber-detective work, backtracking the phone number and digging through layers of security to unearth the address that went with it.

“No activity on her charge cards for the past four days,” Brenna had said, worry a dark shadow in her eyes when she gave him the information. “And it appears she’s given up her lease. She might not even be there.”

Now, in the chill quiet of the midnight hours, Judd picked the low-security lock on Gloria’s former apartment and slipped inside. If there was someone within, he’d teleport out before they ever saw him. But he felt only the cold emptiness of a place in which there had been no life for days.

Using a flashlight with its beam set on low, he checked both rooms. The furniture was still there, but from the looks of it, it might well have come with the apartment. There were no clothes in the wardrobe, no toiletries in the bathroom, and no food in the kitchen. More importantly, the apartment was clean.

Very,
very
clean.

The kind of clean that meant someone had been erased out of existence.

Gloria was dead.

His instincts told him someone—likely in the Council superstructure—had sent in a cleanup crew to ensure no trace remained of the woman who’d found herself in Xavier’s church. But Judd wasn’t going to give the priest that information until he was certain—because there was a slight chance Gloria had been rehabilitated instead.

A fate worse than death.

Deciding to work SnowDancer’s Psy contacts when morning broke, he focused on the image of the bedroom he shared with his mate, and then . . . he was home. Dressed in a strawberry satin and white lace slip, Brenna lay curled up on his side of the futon. She always did that when he wasn’t with her, as if she was holding him close even in sleep.

Taking off his clothes with a silent grace that came from a lifetime of training, he slipped in beside her, and then, bracing himself on one arm, leaned down to press a kiss to the silky warm curve of her neck.

She shivered, her body relaxing from its curled-up position as she turned to face him, her hands reaching out to press against his pectorals. “Judd.” It was a sleepy murmur of welcome, her wolf apparent in the brilliant night-glow he glimpsed between her barely parted lids.

Claiming her lips with his own, he moved his hand down over her pretty little nightdress until he found skin. Then he indulged in a pleasure that seemed to get ever more piercing, ever more intense. Once, he hadn’t been able to touch her without causing himself pain. Now, it only hurt when he didn’t touch her.

 

 

Though the day
dawned clear and bright, the sun promising a brilliant show, Indigo was in a snippy mood and she knew it well enough to keep it under control. It wasn’t the fault of these poor teenagers milling in the White Zone that Drew was an idiot who’d changed everything between them with an imbecilic play for sex—then made the whole thing worse by refusing to face up to it.

Beating her snippiness into submission, she helped one of the juveniles tighten the straps of her small pack. “You looking forward to today, Silvia?”

The girl swallowed, flushing under the lush coffee of her skin, and her words, when they came out, were hesitant. “I’m not strong like you.”

And
that
, Indigo thought, was even more of a problem than the control issues of the dominant males. “You listen to me,” she said, cupping the girl’s cheek, able to feel the soft down of youth against her callused palm, “we soldiers are the brawn, the muscle. It’s the maternal females like you who are the heart of the pack. You’re the glue that holds us together. Far as I’m concerned, you’re the strongest part of SnowDancer.”

Silvia blinked those long, silky lashes, leaning her cheek a little into Indigo’s touch. “I . . . my mom said . . . but it’s nice to hear it from you.”

Smiling, Indigo hugged her, and they walked over to join the rest of the group. Twelve kids between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. All simply needing a little bit of extra attention to get them back on the right track. “Everyone ready?”

A sea of nods.

“I thought Drew was coming,” said a slender young male with a thick mop of pale brown hair and a voice that was far too deep for his scrawny body. It’d be perfect when Brace grew into those shoulders, but right now, he tended to flush whenever he spoke up.

“He can catch up.” Okay, so maybe she wasn’t over the snippy. “Follow me.”

She set a steady pace—not so easy that they got bored, not so hard that they couldn’t keep up—taking them up into an unusual part of the mountains, one of such exquisite beauty it could make the heart stop, but an area even the pack rarely visited because it was more difficult to get to than so many other gorgeous spots. However, right now, it had the benefit of being almost entirely clear of snow, while comparable areas in the southern section of the Sierra remained packed with the white stuff.

They stopped for snacks around midmorning. No sign of Drew.

If he left her alone all weekend, she’d strip his hide. “Come on,” she said, hoping her inner snarl didn’t show. “We’re not even halfway yet.”

Pained groans, but she knew they were faking. She’d felt their exhilaration as they tested their bodies, as they loosened up enough to speak to her, ask her questions. So she upped the speed, knowing they could take it, that they’d be proud of it. But they were still exhausted when they walked over the edge of a hill and to the spot where she intended to break for lunch . . . to find the plateau set with a huge picnic blanket holding fruit, drinks, sandwiches, cake, and, of course, potato chips.