“It is survival of the fittest, and we are breeding the fittest humans ever. It makes sense there would be some casualties.”
“Casualties,” the woman gasped, and I—he—we looked closer. Her makeup had run, tears streaking down her face. “You make it sound like we’re in some war. We just lost a baby.…”
“It was a miscarriage. Unfortunate, that’s true. But you’re young and healthy and you still have Derek.”
“Some consolation that is,” she whispered, lowering her head.
“You will try to have another child. Your genetics are absolutely amazing.…”
“You arrange all this—everything—” she retorted, “as if we were show dogs to be bred and sold.”
“No. Nooo,” the mystery person said, a woman by the pitch of her voice, and suddenly she was in view. A slender brunette with her hair tucked up in a conservative style. My breath caught, recognizing her. Dr. Jones. “We are simply encouraging good matches.”
“‘Encouraging good matches’? Is that what you call taking DNA samples and arranging marriages?”
“No. I call that prudent science and evolution.”
“Mary. Stop harping on the woman. She’s just doing her job.”
“And is that what we should do? Treat all this, our marriage, our children”—she caught herself with a gasp and corrected herself, saying—“our child, as a job?”
He looked at her, stoic and aloof. For a long minute he watched her, letting her cry quietly. “You do know survival of the fittest doesn’t mean survival of the strongest or the fastest—the ones who survive and thrive are the ones who adapt. You need to adapt to our special circumstances.” He turned to Dr. Jones. “I apologize for my wife, Doctor. She’s emotionally distraught over the loss of our baby. We both are aware that Derek is a prize asset, very trainable and potentially the first in our line.”
“So you will both get back on the job shortly,” Dr. Jones confirmed. “And adapt to your circumstances.”
“Of course.”
Derek’s mother just hung her head and we stepped back, the images fading away and leaving me in the dark of the old shed, colder than ever, one thought in my head: adapt to survive.
Alexi
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Amy dogged my steps, following me from room to room in the Queen Anne as I opened closets and pulled out gun and knife cases and other things that had become tools of my rather unsavory trade. My time with the black market had served me well. By being one of the bad guys so frequently, I knew how to handle the same sort of people when I had to switch my black hat for a white one.
“Amy,” I finally said, setting one case on the foot of my bed and popping the latches so it sprung open. “If you want to help, assemble that.” I pointed to the gleaming Glock.
She stared at me.
“Then stay out of my way,” I added, grabbing the gun and slamming it together before I opened the Baggie containing the scrap of an old T-shirt still damp with gun oil and wiped down the gun’s muzzle.
She crossed her arms, and the stare became a glare. “I just want to help get Jessie back.”
“I know. But right now there is nothing you can do but stay out from underfoot and wait for our return.” I handed the Glock to Cat. “Unless.”
“Unless what?” Amy asked, stepping closer.
“Do you pray?”
She swallowed. “Occasionally” was all she committed to, finding something fascinating about the floor nearby rather than keeping her eyes on mine.
“Excellent. Now would be a wonderful time to reconnect with your god. Pray for us.” I brushed past her, Cat close behind, Max still in the dining room with Pietr, laying plans.
“You must not hesitate if the moment comes,” Max was saying.
“I have not recently been known for my mercy,” Pietr snapped at his brother. “Dmitri believes—”
“Da,” I interjected. “Dmitri believes you killed those people at his orders. But we know you got them out. You were not a murderer—you were their salvation. The premeditation of murder is more than you might be up to.”
“And,” Cat added, “if Amy is correct and Dmitri is back in the picture…”
“There will be additional trouble and perhaps a necessity to premeditate such a severe act. Hesitation may cost us in lives. He will surely have the proper bullets.”
“And with only one wolf…,” Amy whispered, looking at Max pointedly.
“I will be careful,” he assured her. “I have much to return to. But, Pietr, if Marlaena…”
“I am prepared to kill her,” he muttered.
Something heavy as a stone sank into the pit of my stomach. He said the words, but his tone was wrong—his body language soft and lacking determination. He was not being honest with us about something. Or perhaps not being honest with himself.
Perhaps he did not even know what it was.…
I squinted at him, examining his posture. Something was wrong beyond the fact he was still a werewolf—minus the wolf.
“We need to go,” Cat said from the door, her coat, hat, and gloves on once more. She looked more the part of a fashion plate than someone on a rescue mission.
“Da. We must.”
We gathered the last odds and ends that defined us as being officially at war and left Amy and the comfort of the house for one more dangerous adventure.
Marlaena
They were bouncing on the beds, doing jumping jacks and moves that’d make a simple human cheerleader jealous of their agility and grace. “Down!”
Londyn bounced one more time, grinning.
My growl knocked the bounce out of her and she slipped off the bed to land nimbly on the floor, pouting.
“Why, why must you ruin everyone’s fun, Marlaena?” Dmitri asked, giving the pups his best She sucks the life right out of the party look.
“If they create a disturbance, we get complaints. Then the motel’s manager will kick us out or raise the rent.”
Dmitri shrugged. “Do I not handle all the bills?”
“Just because you can handle the bills, and possibly the manager,” I said, my gaze drifting to the bulge in his waistband where he kept one gun (there were others), “doesn’t mean we need additional attention.” I glared evenly at each pup. “So keep it under control. You got me?”