Primal Instincts Page 10

  They were all playing games with each other. But for now he remained the helpful accomplice.

  “We need her back,” the Prime said.

  “An assault on the clinic would not be wise.”

  “I know that! Did you risk a call to tell me what I already know?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Can your selkie sneak her out?”

  “Possibly,” he answered. “I’ll have her work on it.” He paused to relish the response he knew was coming, then asked, “Should she bring the female vampire along, as well?”

  “The female—!” The Prime calmed down. “They have a female there? Is that why you called?”

  He tried to keep his gratification out of his voice. “Yes. And yes. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Now, didn’t that make him sound like a good, trustworthy ally? It was Purist policy to kill vampire females to keep them from continuing the species. Offering the Tribes a breeder showed good faith, that the Purists had truly changed for the sake of future mutual profit.

  At least it mollified suspicion.

  “Bring me the female,” the vampire said.

  “I doubt I can do it alone,” he answered. “I think what we need is a plan.”

  Daddy hadn’t gotten it. Saffie had a feeling—a bad feeling. And if anyone should have understood about bad feelings, he should have. But he didn’t this time. It was the distance between them, she was sure. Phones and computers were great for keeping in touch, but being able to touch was better. She might not have been a telepath, but at least she understood that much.

  It wasn’t that she was worried that she’d find out that she was from Mars or something. All she had to do was look in a mirror and know that at least her mother had been Indian—maybe born in Ohio or France, but Saffie knew her genes had Indian subcontinent stamped on them. But her dad—no, the male half of her genetic code? What if he turned out to be a flesh-eating demon or something? Not that she’d ever met any demons, but with a vampire for a daddy, who knew what was possible in her paternal DNA?

  She’d had a growing feeling of dread since a couple of days after they’d done the test. Ever since waking up from a dream about the plane crash. She couldn’t remember a thing about the crash while awake, but sometimes it snuck up on her in her sleep. She’d woken up from the latest dream wondering for the first time why she’d lived. A voice in her dream suggested that maybe she wasn’t mortal.

  It had only been a dream, but the dread grew worse with every day closer to the test results showing up.

  She had a few minutes before it was time to walk into a class where disaster awaited. She needed some support. Some defense. Someone to offer more than There, there, there’s nothing to worry about.

  Yes, there was. She didn’t know what, but she needed a plan B. Even a plan A would have been nice.

  “Dee.” Her witch mentor had trained Saffie to listen to her feelings. Dee would understand.

  Saffie gave up on texting and opened her laptop to send a quick sip for advice to the Crew’s witch. All she could do then was head to biology and hope for a chance to check for an answer during the class.

  “Welcome to New York,” Gregor announced to the pair of slaves as he entered their windowless workroom. “I brought doughnuts.”

  This got the geeks’ attention. His entry hadn’t caused them to look up from their computer screens, but sweets did. He handed over the box. “You prove my theory that one should treat pets well.”

  “Dibs on any chocolate,” the female said. “Thank you,” she added when Gregor cleared his throat. Young mortals could be so rude.

  “Did you enjoy the trip from Los Angeles?” he asked.

  “We were handcuffed, blindfolded, and stuffed into an airplane,” the female said. “Oh, yeah, it was great.”

  “Of course nobody bothered to tell us why,” the male said.

  Gregor gestured around the windowless room. “I thought you’d enjoy the change of scenery. I see your equipment also arrived safely and that you’re hard at work. You’ll find that the Master here on the East Coast is even more demanding than the one in Los Angeles.”

  “I thought you were the Master in L.A.,” the woman said.

  “I am but a humble liaison, transferred here the same time you were.” The entire West Coast operation was being dismantled, and they were using Purists’ attacks to divert the attention of vampires and werefolk from their move.

  “What are you doing here, Greg?” the male asked as he handed the doughnut box to his work partner.

  “He’s come to mess with our minds—probably make us forget we were ever anywhere but here,” the female said. “He telepathically wipes our memories now and then.”

  “I don’t remember,” the male said.

  “That’s the point,” the female said.

  Gregor moved to loom menacingly over her desk. “And how is it you remember?”

  She looked up, paling but trying for a brave smile. “Because you told me to?” she guessed.

  “Correct answer.”

  Her quavering smile disappeared. “We’ve made progress on breaking into Sipher.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” the male said. “We’re totally into the Dark Angels’ network.”

  “Only the net sips,” the woman said.

  This pair of mortals earned their continued existence because of their expertise with computers. They were IT specialists, hackers and data miners who gave the Tribe a view into modern communications. It was tricky, allowing the pair access to the Internet and other communications devices yet keeping them from using their knowledge to call for help or plan an escape. Gregor’s responsibility was to keep the pair docile and servile. These mortals were his Master’s private property even though they were Gregor’s to direct. The information they gathered and he reported was shared with the Coalition at the Tribe leader’s discretion.

  Gregor made very sure the pair were well taken care of. There was no reason such a valuable mortal resource should be subjected to the Primes’ usual dominance games. Let them play with each other; it was demeaning for a Prime to abuse anyone but his own peers.

  There had been one incident in California where the male hacker had been subjected to a beating by a bored Prime while Gregor had been absent. When he’d discovered the hacker too injured to work for a week, Gregor had forcefully reminded the one responsible that it was unwise to interfere with their overlords’ plans in any way and that this delay was not appreciated. The example he made of that Prime had been a valuable lesson to the other Primes. Especially since he’d left the body in the hall outside the slave quarters for several days as a warning.

  Since that incident, Gregor had made sure the pair were confined in a room with their computers. They had cots to sleep on, food brought in, and could download any entertainment that suited them. Their lives were not too different from many other nerds.

  “Nothing has changed with the move. As long as you do your work you’re safe,” Gregor assured them now.

  “More or less,” the male muttered. It was obvious that some part of his subconscious remembered the beating.

  “Tell me about these sips—” Gregor turned as the door opened behind him. “No one is allowed—My apologies, sir,” he added hastily as the Master Prime stepped into the room.

  The Master waved his words away. “I’m told you’ve added prizes to my collection of weapons. I’ve come to see their uses for myself.”

  “No new prize, sir. They’ve merely been moved to headquarters along with everything else.”

  Gregor stood squarely in front of the seated mortals but the Master gestured for him to move aside so he could get a better look. He ignored the female, but he gave the male such a fierce glare the mortal began to tremble.

  “What have you done to deserve to live?”

  The male answered quickly, though his voice shook. “Deciphered the encrypted Sipher social networking—We can now read the messages the Dark Angels send each oth
er.”

  “Master,” Gregor said, prompting the male, as the Master Prime raised a hand to strike the slave.

  “M-master,” the male added.

  The Master looked at Gregor. “Explain this.”

  “Clans and Families use the Internet for what is called social networking—they send short, private messages to each other via an encrypted program called Sipher. These short messages are called sips.”

  “What a stupid notion. Why don’t they simply use telepathy?”

  “Because they mimic mortal behavior,” Gregor reminded the Prime Master. “Also, not everyone using Sipher has psychic abilities, or at least compatible ones. This is especially true of the members of Strahan’s Dark Angels. The Dark Angels use the Sipher network extensively.”

  “This foolishness is useful for gathering intel?”

  “Not particularly,” Gregor said. “The sips are mostly trivial personal conversation.”

  “Then why did the slave speak of anything so worthless?”

  “No! No, Master.” The male mortal was visibly trembling. “If we read enough sips we’re bound to find out lots of things. People let information slip when they think they can’t be hacked. They forget to be cautious. All we have to do is monitor enough—”

  “Tell me what Strahan’s Angels are talking about.” The Master’s harsh voice cracked across the mortal’s dithering.

  The male stared at his computer screen. “Um—well—the latest sips are from a pair of mortals and—”

  “Read them,” Gregor sneered. He understood the mortal’s fear but didn’t disguise his opinion that this was a waste of time.

  “The one called SaffieS says, Dad says not to worry about DNA test. Help! D’Bones answered, Can’t. Stopping apocalypse. UR OK, Saffron.”

  Instead of the fury Gregor expected, the Master looked interested. He smiled. “Saffron . . .” He rubbed his jaw. “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in years. Is this Saffron a person? Or is that a coded message?”

  “A person,” the slave said. “Young, I think. The sips are from a schoo—”

  “Answer only what you are asked,” Gregor ordered the male.

  The Master’s smile widened. “A person named Saffron, connected to Strahan.” He chuckled. “Dragomir will be interested in that. If . . .” His attention switched to Gregor. “Find this Saffron. Bring her to me.”

  “Her?” Gregor asked.

  But the Prime Master walked from the room without bothering to answer.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Traffic’s a mess,” Tobias complained. “Even by L.A. standards.”

  It was raining, and the radio had reported mudslides closing several roads. Francesca missed the promise of sunlight earlier in the morning and sighed at the wet gray all around them now. The slapping of windshield wipers and barely moving traffic was depressing. She wasn’t sure where they were heading and conversation had been nonexistent since they’d left Ben’s place. Strahan had been giving off waves of silent brooding.

  Now that he’d made an effort to come out of his funk, she tried to keep him going. Normally she welcomed Primes keeping quiet and leaving her alone, but she guessed she was attracted to the sound of Tobias Strahan’s opinions. It’d beat the repetitive swish swish of the windshield wipers and dull traffic reports on the radio.

  “This is not the sort of winter I’m used to,” Francesca said, trying out the neutral theme of the weather. “At home it would be a blizzard this time of year.”

  “In my part of the country too.”

  Francesca turned her head sharply to stare at the big Prime behind the wheel. Good Lady, the great wandering warband leader has a home somewhere! She was suddenly dying of curiosity but curbed it. She closed her mouth on the personal questions and shielded her thoughts from broadcasting them. The less they knew about each other the better, right? Anything to stave off this bonding nonsense.

  “I assume the mudslides slowing us up are the end result of the wildfires from last summer.”

  Strahan nodded.

  “I’m told you think that the fires around San Diego right now are arson by the same people attacking us.”

  “Not exactly,” was his answer.

  “What on earth do you mean by ‘not exactly’? Are they or aren’t they? Sidonie said you did your best to convince every immortal in San Diego they were under attack. Of course, this was before she became a Dark Angel, so she was allowed to be skeptical about your motives. Now she says of course the fires were set by renegade immortals.”

  “When did you talk to Sid about me?”

  “Last night before I went to bed.”

  Francesca groaned as she realized she’d walked into a verbal trap. Admitting that she’d called her BFF to discuss a man totally discredited her cool, sophisticated image. She slumped in her seat, looked straight ahead, and crossed her arms. Maybe she should take out her e-reader and pretend to be absorbed in a book, she thought.

  Strahan chuckled.

  “I hate you,” she muttered.

  He reached out and patted her shoulder. “There, there, dear.”

  She would have preferred if he’d patted her thigh—though she wasn’t sure if it was because it would give her a chance to protest his behavior or because she wanted the warm rush of a more intimate touch. Her reactions to him confused the hell out of her.

  “Think what your confusion does to me,” he said, reading her feelings. He sighed. “I need to keep a clear head. We need to have sex again.”

  It was Francesca’s turn to chuckle as she looked back at him. “That is the best line any Prime has ever used to try to seduce me.”

  “The truth is always best,” he answered sententiously with a wicked gleam in his dark brown eyes.

  Even his teasing turned her on. Francesca decided it was time to get the conversation back to safer ground. “Please explain what you meant by ‘not exactly.’”

  “The people we’re up against now are second stringers,” he answered. “Dangerous enough, certainly a threat to the local immortal population, but the big boys have already cleared out.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “My certainty frustrates you.” He gave her a teasing smile.

  She knew it would be rude, and far too suggestive, to bare her fangs at him. Besides, what if someone in a nearby car saw? “Answer the question, Strahan.”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” he said.

  Francesca managed to keep from reacting with the anger that flashed through her. Maybe he wasn’t being facetious. Instead of flaring, as the dear brother who’d given her her stupid nickname put it, she made herself analyze what Strahan had said.

  “You’re a precog?” she asked.

  “Hell, no! I wouldn’t wish precognition on anyone. I can’t see the future or anything else; I get strong feelings about things, situations—I know that this is right, this is wrong, this is what’s going on. It’s complicated, but facts fall into place to support my feelings.”

  “Always?”

  “I am Prime,” he responded.

  Francesca bristled. “Of course. Primes are never wrong.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, maybe I’ve been lucky so far.”

  Ah, the Prime wasn’t being typical. He was teasing, being self-deprecating instead of arrogant. Strahan kept behaving in delightful ways she wasn’t used to in a male.

  Suddenly traffic was moving again. It was also raining harder. Strahan set about weaving in and out of traffic with the skill of a commando NASCAR driver. He grinned like a maniac, and she laughed at the adrenaline rush as well. Much honking trailed in their wake.

  Francesca asked, “Didn’t you have a feeling about the plane crash?”

  “Good question,” he answered, but he looked pained.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to drag up bad memories for you. My curiosity got the better of my—”

  He held up a hand. “I meant it. It’s a good question. You need to know my weaknesses along with my strengths.”


  Francesca genuinely didn’t understand what he meant by this. Was he talking about lifelong commitment? About bonding stuff? About protecting her as a Dark Angel? She decided it was better not to ask.

  “I had a very bad feeling when I got on that airplane,” he said. “But my attention was on what to do after finding the murdered werelions. I was already considering how to organize what became the Dark Angels. I knew there was going to be opposition to the idea and that the logistics were going to be a nightmare. Fear of a future pitting immortals against immortals distracted me from my feelings about the present. And Saffie was pretty darn distracting too,” he added with a fond smile.

  The affectionate look on his face totally melted Francesca. It made her want to grab him and kiss him and rest her head on his shoulder.

  “Damn, you’re a dangerous man,” she complained.

  His gaze slid briefly to her, then back to the road. “So I’ve been told.”

  She knew all she’d have to do to know if he was reacting to what she really meant would be to relax her guard, to let her consciousness flow with his. He seemed to have no trouble getting past her shielding—she could tell it wasn’t even conscious effort on his part. Maybe it was one of the ways his feelings worked. Psychic gifts were complex and downright weird. She knew that with anyone else she’d have been furious and spitting viciously at the way she was being read. But with Strahan—it was just the way he was. Correction: it was the way they were together.

  Bonding. Shit.

  “Logistics nightmare?” she asked, trying to keep both their attention on a subject that had everything to do with him and nothing to do with them. “I thought the idea of the Dark Angels spread like wildfire. And why such a dramatic name, anyway? It’s so, so—”

  “Clan?” he asked, and laughed. “Why would an adopted Family Prime use something that sounds so chivalrous for his special ops group?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Clans name themselves after creatures mortals think of as vermin—when in fact they are the protectors of mortals. The Families are into living between both worlds; their culture is about communicating with both, so we have names like Cage, which comes from the word for ‘door’ in some old language. And Piper, Bridger.”