Shadowmaster

Chapter 4

Sammael’s weight shifted as he drew back. “You would sell yourself, then,” he said roughly.

“Isn’t that what you were hinting at all along?” she asked. “Isn’t it possible I want you, too?” She reached out blindly and touched his jaw. The muscles bunched under her fingertips. “Even if I can’t see your face right now, I seem to remember you’re not hard on the eyes.” Her fingers skated down his chest and ridged stomach and came to rest on his cock, straining against the confinement of his pants. “But you’re certainly hard in other ways.”

Sammael didn’t so much as twitch. “You expect to manipulate me with sex. You must have a very low opinion of my intelligence.”

With an effort, Phoenix kept herself from flinching. His body certainly wasn’t faking its interest, and yet he seemed almost offended by her offer. After putting the moves on her with his caresses and insinuating voice.

Was this a game to him? Did he think he was manipulating her?

She outlined his cock with the palm of her hand. “You seem to have a very ‘high’ opinion of my physical assets,” she said.

“I can find women who have a better reason to share my bed.”

“You said my life is yours. My life includes my body.”

He slipped out of her grasp. “I don’t take advantage of powerless women.”

“So you said.” She laughed. “Which is the true Boss, I wonder? The one who makes clear he wants a woman in his bed, or the gallant protector who treats a fugitive like a virgin princess?” She stretched, feeling her nipples aching under her thin bra. “I want you. There’s no reason not to mix business with pleasure.”

“Do you make a habit of sleeping with men you don’t know, especially criminals?”

“I’m a criminal now, too. As you pointed out.” She pressed against him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, straddling him so her thighs were clasped around his waist.

Suddenly, he was kissing her, pushing his tongue inside her mouth and cupping her bottom as he ground into her.

And she enjoyed it. This wasn’t some sacrifice she had to brace herself to endure. Heaven help her, these feelings of attraction—desire—hadn’t been imaginary. He was an Opir, and she was ready...eager...to have sex with him.

She hated herself for it. She was too close to stepping over the line, forgetting that this was all part of the job—and the minute she did, all objectivity would be gone. It had happened before, and it had started the same way. With passionate, heedless sex.

This wouldn’t be heedless. All she had to do was unzip his pants and her own, drag him back to the bed, pull him on top of her, inside her...

It almost worked. She had his zipper down and his cock in her hand. He slipped his palms under her shirt to cup her breasts and kissed her again, spreading her thighs with his knees.

An instant later his heat was gone, and she was alone again.

“Your method needs refining,” he said. “You know you’re desirable, and you pretend to be willing. But no man or woman attains power in the Fringe without the ability to separate truth from lies.”

“Was my body lying?” she asked, pulling her legs together as she sat up on the bed.

“It was your test,” he said. “You wanted to see if I’d lied about taking advantage of you. I’m not playing along. You won’t buy my trust that way.”

He was angry. Very angry. And there was contempt in his voice, as if he didn’t believe a woman had as much a right as any man to freely express her desires.

That’s not why you’re here, she reminded herself. This is a job. Nothing more.

“You have nothing to gain by this,” he said. “Either your information is useful, or it isn’t. You’ll be left alone until I’ve made my decision.”

Phoenix breathed deeply, concentrating on slowing her heartbeat. “Where are you going to keep me? Do you have a cell for prisoners in this Hold of yours?”

He paused, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “You’ll stay here.”

“In your room?”

“For the time being. You’ll have only minimal contact with the others. You’ll wear the blindfold when you do leave this room, and then only in my company. When you’re here alone, you can take it off. I’ll be locking you in.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix said wryly. She pulled the fabric off and tossed it on the bed. His expression was rigidly controlled, jaw clenched, eyes hard. He was mastering his desire, but with a great deal of effort.

He’d said he had women willing to share his bed, and Phoenix had absolutely no doubt that he was telling the truth. It wasn’t only because of his position of power in the Fringe or his good looks, but because he exuded need as well as strength, an odd kind of gentleness as well as indisputable masculinity and a sense of leashed danger tempered only by a peculiar kind of thieves’ honor.

Gentleness? she thought. All Opiri are killers by nature, Daysider or not.

No reluctant kindness or self-control could change that.

“What are the sleeping arrangements?” she asked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from a tiny lamp on the bedside table.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I can sleep anywhere. I’ll take the floor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of subjecting a guest to such treatment.”

“So now I’m a guest? How flattering.”

“Don’t push it,” he said, turning toward the door. “I have business to attend to. Remember, your life and freedom depend on your good behavior and what you tell me.”

“You’ve made that very clear.”

He met her gaze again, his eyes searching her face. How ironic that he was the one Boss she couldn’t hope to fight, either through the use of her superior senses or by physical means.

A trade-off, she thought, as he walked out the door and locked it behind him. Sammael would know about the assassin as no human would. But she was going to be fighting in other ways—fighting his nature and her own—if she hoped to get the information she wanted.

Because if she didn’t figure out how to carry out this mission without losing her head, it was already over.

* * *

“So who is she?” Brita asked as Drakon sat down at the battered meeting room table.

Remembering Brita’s warning, Drakon scanned the faces of his crew. Very few of them would be considered desirable companions by ordinary Enclave citizens. Some, both men and women, had suffered ugly lives of poverty and abuse. The majority of them had been condemned to deportation for relatively minor crimes, and had chosen to brave the dangers of the Fringe rather than submit. A few were simply dissidents with revolutionary ideas who had found their lives made “uncomfortable” by the Enclave authorities.

The ones he considered likely troublemakers were slumped in their mismatched chairs, clearly disgruntled by Drakon’s decision to bring an outsider into the Hold without consulting anyone else. Others seemed openly curious, but the majority were waiting for an explanation, their expressions neutral.

Brita was in the last group, and as Sammael’s lieutenant she had the right to speak first. Drakon nodded to her.

“Who is she?” Brita repeated impatiently.

“A fugitive,” he said. “An administrative assistant who gained access to certain restricted information that may be of use to us.”

“A fugitive,” Shank said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “Just what we need, more Enforcers on our backs.”

“They never even got near us,” Drakon said, staring into Shank’s eyes. “She wanted help, and I determined that the benefits outweighed the risks.”

“You mean you wanted her for yourself instead of selling her to The Preacher. She’s quite the looker.” Shank licked his lips. “I wouldn’t refuse, either, if I was you.”

“If you know my mind so well, Shank, what am I thinking now?”

The human quickly dropped his gaze, but his posture remained defiant. In spite of Brita’s repeated warnings, Drakon wasn’t concerned. If necessary, he’d make an example of the man, or any others who challenged him. He had to maintain his cover. And his connections.

“What did she do?” Ferret, lean and tall, asked quietly. “Try to sell this information? Blackmail?”

“I haven’t had time to learn the details yet. I’ll know soon enough.”

“You went too easy on her,” Brita muttered.

“She’s been here less than an hour,” Drakon said. “She wants out of the city, and is willing to pay.”

“And you think she’s telling the truth?” Repo asked.

“Have you ever had cause to doubt my instincts?” Drakon said, sweeping the crew with his gaze a second time.

No one had the nerve to answer him. Brita alone shook her head. “Don’t waste your time, Sammael,” she said. “I can get this ‘information’ out of her without the bargaining.”

“She’s to remain alone and untouched, in my room.”

“So Shank was right,” Beachboy said, tossing his shaggy blond hair away from his forehead.

Drakon rose abruptly. Beachboy shrank in his seat.

“My only interest in this female is what she can give us in return for her escape,” he said. “And I’ll make sure it’s worth our help.”

“And if it isn’t?” Brita asked.

Drakon’s silence gave them their answer. Glances were exchanged, and Brita shook her head, clearly disgusted. Drakon ignored her.

“So what’s next, Boss?” asked Grimm, folding his thick arms over his protruding belly. “We gonna make some real money this time?”

“We have a shipment of fresh produce coming in from the South Bay agricultural compound tomorrow night,” Drakon said. “My contacts have arranged for one of the ships to be rerouted to the Hunters Point shipyard for repairs. From there, we’ll have to get the cargo into the city.”

“And you’ll give half the stuff away to the Scrappers, like always,” Shank complained.

“You know how I do business. The Scrappers know things even we don’t, because no one pays attention to them. We feed them, and they help us.”

“Fear is enough to keep ’em in line,” Shank said.

“Would you like to test that theory?” Drakon said, planting his fists on the table and leaning toward the human.

Again, Shank backed down. A charged silence fell over the room.

“I’m going to send most of the crew to watch the passage and make the run to the shipyard,” Drakon said. “I’ll need a few of you with me to take care of other business. Brita, you’ll remain at the Hold and keep an eye on Lark. Make sure she gets food and fresh clothes.”

“Sammael—”

“I need you here. No interrogation. Just provide her with necessities until I return.”

“And if she makes trouble?”

“There are shackles and a blindfold there if you need them. But she’s not to leave my room.”

“Fair enough,” Brita said, though she was clearly peeved at being left behind.

“The rest of you will receive your instructions at 1300 hours,” Drakon said. He walked away from the table, indicating that the meeting was over. The whispers and mutterings he heard as he left the room were no more than he expected under the circumstances.

Listening carefully to make sure no one followed, he strode to the roofless room where he kept his blood stores. The refrigeration unit ran on solar power, but the door was flush with the intact room adjoining it. Drakon had no need to step into the dangerous morning sunlight. He opened the two manual locks, noting again that his supplies seemed more thin than he remembered, and withdrew a vial of blood. He took a careful, measured amount—just enough to keep him strong and alert, but never quite sufficient to ease his hunger completely.

It seemed all he had become was hunger. Hunger for blood, for peace, for revenge. And now for a woman he’d only met a few hours ago.

He locked the blood away again, boarded up the room and returned to the labyrinthine corridors of the Hold. Lark’s unique scent seemed to permeate the entire building, and his new and constant state of arousal was worse than a week without blood.

“Be careful,” Brita said, coming up behind him.

Drakon turned to face her. “More rumblings from the crew?” he asked.

“I’ve known you too long,” she said. “Don’t forget I’ve seen the stray kitten you brought in.”

“Your point?”

“You usually don’t have any problem with women, but that female’s got you riled, and you aren’t thinking clearly.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he said softly.

She shrugged. “Whatever you plan to do with her when you have the information you want, be careful. Shank could be right—she might be a spy for the Enforcers, just waiting for the perfect time to signal them.”

“I had considered that,” he said drily. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

“Just don’t put it off too long.” With a shake of her head, she walked away.

Damn her, Drakon thought. He should never have let it become so obvious. But Brita was right. In a matter of hours he seemed to have developed some kind of unprecedented obsession with his captive, and it wasn’t normal. Not normal at all.

He didn’t like puzzles. He never had. In his old life, everything had seemed clear-cut, the rules easy to follow. All that had ended with his conversion.

Now he had begun to realize that not everything had changed. Once he’d been capable of real emotion. Humans believed that even new-made Opiri lost their ability to “feel,” and Drakon had believed they were right.

But they were wrong. And Drakon was beginning to realize just how wrong. What troubled him most wasn’t just the way Lark aroused physical need, but that she also touched parts of him he’d believed long dead. The ability to admire courage, to recognize the admirable traits among those he’d once served.

And to make dangerous mistakes.

He returned to his room, collected himself outside the door and went in. Lark was sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up and her eyes closed. Her lovely face was almost haggard, with shadows under her eyes and tension above her brows that couldn’t be feigned.

“How was your meeting?” she asked, opening her eyes. “Has your crew decided to throw me to The Preacher’s tender mercies?”

“No,” he said, standing very still as her scent washed over him and produced what had become his body’s inevitable response.

“What next, then?”

Drakon sat on the chair. “Tonight we have a job, and you’ll be left here under guard. When we’re done, we’ll test the validity of your information.”

“I’m not going to run, you know.”

“We’ll know how much you can be trusted soon enough.”

Leaning forward, Lark wrapped her arms around her knees. “Who are you, Sammael? What brought an obviously educated and cultured man such as yourself to become a Fringe Boss dealing in stolen goods?”

Drakon laughed to himself. Yes, in his old life he had received a fairly decent, rudimentary schooling, the one afforded all Enclave citizens. But Lark spoke of education in a difference sense, and her use of the word culture was meant to convey some kind of status far above the one he’d been born with.

He’d never been one of the Enclave’s elite. What he’d learned of “culture” had come from his Opir Sire, who had seen something in him worth cultivating and had boosted Drakon up the Opir ladder from serf to vassal to Freeblood in a remarkably short period of time. He had stopped aging at twenty-nine, five years ago. It seemed an eternity.

“I was one of those dissidents the government is so fond of denouncing,” he said, skirting very close to the truth. “I spoke out against certain unjust laws and restrictions, the forced separation of families under the Deportation Act.”

“Then you agree with the mayor,” she said with what seemed to be real interest. “You’d like to see an end to deportation.”

“I would like to see some other means of dealing with the problem of satisfying the Opiri,” he said. “But I spoke out on these matters before Shepherd came to office, and I was warned in advance that I was to be taken in for questioning. So I escaped.”

“Shepherd held the same views then, and he was a senator....”

“I had no reason to trust any political authority, whatever his or her promises.”

A spark of anger flashed in Lark’s eyes, but she covered it quickly. “You’re right,” she said. “They can’t be trusted.”

And you didn’t like hearing me criticize the government, he thought.

“Patterson and Shepherd are very much the same, in spite of their supposedly opposing views on peace and deportation,” he said. “And whatever their earlier ideas might have been, power has a strange effect on people. It changes their commitments and alters their promises.”

“How has power affected you?” she asked sharply. “Everyone knows it’s dog-eat-dog in the Fringe. How many people have you killed, just to keep your power?”

“I do whatever is necessary to protect those under my care.”

“Your care? Stealing food from people who need it, dealing in contraband, trading on citizens’ fear of deportation by demanding everything of value they have just so they can—”

“And yet you came here knowing all this,” he interrupted. “You worked for those who abused the people from whom I steal ‘everything of value.’ What benefits did you receive from your employment, Lark?”

Flushing, Lark looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said, as if she meant it. “We’ve all become harder since the War.”