“You’re flexible, I’ll give you that,” he said, his eyes watching her with just as much scrutiny. “That’ll be to my advantage later, I suppose.”
“Yeah?” She tried to get inside his guard, but he was too fast. “Then why haven’t you landed a hit on me yet?”
“I don’t like to rush things, as you’ll soon find out.”
Mae made no response as she narrowed her world back into the fight. Exhilaration filled her. She loved this bizarre, antiquated sport with all of her heart, and even though she knew the military had led her to a nobler calling, there was still a part of her that ached with the realization that if not for her mother’s strong will, Mae could have very well devoted her life to it. Porfirio had been right that it was an art. She threw herself into this match, and despite his continuing commentary, she loved that she finally had someone to play against who was such an even match. She had him on speed, hands down. That and agility were both skills she’d honed over the years, skills she’d had to develop against male opponents who almost always outweighed her. Porfirio still moved admirably fast, but it was his strength that took its toll on her whenever their canes slammed together. It was magnificent.
The observing prætorians, however, were less enchanted. After the initial cheering and shouts of encouragement, their enthusiasm had dimmed when no real action or hitting occurred. Mae was vaguely aware of shouts of “Get on with it!” and then eventually, no commentary at all. Porfirio noticed as well.
“We didn’t set any round limits. We should’ve had someone timing this,” he said. A faint sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead.
He was right about the time. Matches were usually only a couple of minutes long at most. Neither of them had thought about that when starting. They’d just wanted to get right to it. She had no idea how much time had passed and didn’t care.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got trouble going a long time after all.”
“Darling, I can go as long as—shit!”
Mae’s stick made contact with his abdomen. Apparently, all it took was one dig about his sexual prowess to throw him off. Typical. She expected some kind of reaction from the crowd but heard nothing. That was when she noticed something that brought her to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, still in his attack stance but not advancing.
“They’re gone,” she said in disbelief.
He looked at where she nodded, his face mirroring her astonishment. The prætorians, bored, had all gone back to their drinking and bantering on the other side of the room. If he really did share a similar background in canne, Mae suspected that he too was used to audiences composed of enthralled fans who could appreciate the subtleties of the sport. Porfirio’s lips curled in contempt.
“Children. All of them. Oh, well.” And with speed that Mae didn’t anticipate, Porfirio lunged forward and tapped her on the calf—twice. “Match.” He tossed his stick onto the floor.
“Hey,” she exclaimed. “That’s not fair at—ahh!”
He picked her up bodily and literally threw her over his shoulder. “I had more points. Ergo, I win. Let’s go home.”
She pounded on his back as he effortlessly carried her out of the hall like some sort of war prize. Both knew she was fully capable of freeing herself, or at least doing serious damage—which would’ve probably restored their audience—but she held back and contented herself with verbal protests and Finnish insults. Once they were outside in the misty night, she finally broke his hold and pushed herself away, settling onto her own two feet.
“You did not win,” she told him vehemently, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t establish round lengths or ever discuss—”
Porfirio pulled her to him, his hand sliding up the back of her neck and tangling up in her hair. She felt his lips crush hers in a kiss of victory, making liquid fire ooze through her body. His mouth searched hers, hungry and demanding, and she responded in kind, her body straining toward his, wanting to feel those muscles against hers, those hands on her skin. When he at last pulled back, leaving them both breathless, he asked, “Look, are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?”
Mae swallowed, still flushed and dizzy from the kiss as adrenaline and endorphins spiked within her. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hard.’”
Which was how she ended up in his bed after all—without being forcefully carried there. It was the kind of aggressive, backbreaking sex that prætorians thrived on, and as she stretched out in the tangle of sheets afterward, she experienced a rare moment of exhaustion. It wouldn’t last, and if a squad of assassins suddenly burst through the bedroom door, her implant would have helped her muscles and heart get the energy they needed to contend with danger. But even prætorians needed to rest sometimes, and it was a nice feeling to lie there with all of her muscles pleasantly worn out. It would’ve been better still to sleep. Post-sex was one of the few times she missed sleep. It seemed like a natural conclusion to the act of passion, being able to drift off in a lover’s arms.
There was no sleep for either of them, though Mae stayed in bed while he showered. When he returned, he tossed something on the bed that made her sit up in alarm. For half a second, she thought he’d thrown some animal at her. Then she recognized his ponytail.
“Your hair,” she said in amazement, peering up at him. He looked as though he’d simply lopped it off in one cut. The ends of his remaining hair were uneven, but he was still dazzling to behold. “You didn’t have to do that. Or you should’ve at least gotten it done properly.”
He waved it off. “A deal’s a deal. I didn’t win. Well, not in canne. You want to keep it as a trophy?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s actually pretty creepy. I was just joking about keeping it on my dresser.”
“Good to know.” To her amazement, he unceremoniously threw the hair away and then sat back down beside her in bed. “But now you don’t have anything to remember me by.”
“Do I need something?” She drew him toward her and felt her pulse start to quicken again. “You aren’t going to return my calls?”
He smiled and ran his lips along her neck. “Were you going to call?”
“Well…” She allowed him to ease her back down on the bed. “I might need another canne warm-up. You know, to keep me in practice before a real match.”
“Well, then, for that, you can call me anytime.”
CHAPTER 17
THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN THE REPUBLIC
The Nipponese were pleasantly deferential when Justin and his entourage showed up. Reactions to servitor visits varied widely, and he and Mae had received lukewarm ones at the previous three grants they’d visited. A lot of castals resented federal interference, even if it was for their own good. Servitors especially made them nervous, because if a servitor found a dangerous religious group on the grant, he or she could pretty much call in a military invasion. None of them wanted that. The relationship between the Gemman government and “the patriarchies,” as they called themselves, was tenuous enough. The fledgling RUNA, fearing the kind of separatism and resistance to authority that had sparked Mephistopheles’s creation, had had to be careful in allowing its wealthy supporters the ethnic solidarity they’d requested. Patricians had been exempted from the mandates, at their own risk of Mephistopheles and Cain, and given their own land—with very strict regulations.
The entrance to the Nipponese land grant resembled that of all the other grants: a gated road with a checkpoint and a sign welcoming others in both English and the caste’s native language. The guards were lightly armed, per the agreement with the government. The RUNA’s flag was the only ornamentation since no unique castal symbol was allowed either.
Justin’s contact inside was an older police officer who went by his Japanese name: Hiroshi. He didn’t fall all over himself the way the gate security had, but it was clear he was floored at the idea of hosting a servitor and prætorian in his jurisdiction.
“The victim’s wife moved out,” he told them when they reached the house in which the murder had occurred. “But nothing has been changed whatsoever in the building. We got extensive pictures and documentation at the time, and I verified this morning that everything is the same.” He hesitated. “I hope that’s all right.”
“That’s great,” said Justin, earning a relieved smile.
Leo, though pleased at having uncontaminated evidence, was less thrilled at the house’s size. “It’s huge. This is going to take forever.”
To be fair, the house was enormous, especially for two people. The architecture was in keeping with common Gemman luxury homes, though the pointed roof and a few other flourishes hearkened back to the caste’s Japanese roots. The inside told a similar tale. Painted screens and clean lines paired with trendy lush furniture and media screens. Here was a family in possession of stereotypical castal wealth.
Leo immediately began to take apart the house’s main security panel. It monitored every door and window in the house, and like the other sites, initial investigation of the system’s memory had shown no sign of entry anywhere. Video surveillance had been disabled, providing the only clue (aside from the dead body) that someone had been inside.
“Remind you of the old Koskinen estate?” Justin asked Mae as they strolled through the house.
“Our koi pond was bigger,” she said. She gazed around and walked over to an ornamental tea set. Her features were luminous in the light pouring through the window. He was dying to know more about the ex-boyfriend she’d hinted at on the plane and needed to figure out the best strategy for getting information without receiving bodily harm in the process. The relationships people formed—or didn’t form—spoke legions about them, and he was a little surprised that someone who feared others seeing her emotions during sex had managed any kind of long-term relationship.
She didn’t say it was long term, said Horatio.
She didn’t have to. It was in the way she spoke. When he received no response, Justin couldn’t help but add, I guess I can pick up on some things that you guys can’t.
Of course you can, said Magnus. Otherwise we wouldn’t need you.
“Dr. March?” Hiroshi appeared with a petite young woman. “This is Mrs. Hata, the victim’s wife.”
Mrs. Hata looked drawn and nervous, but Justin read it more as a reaction to his presence rather than a sign of any culpability. Police investigations had confirmed her alibi, and she didn’t look like she would have had the strength to drive the dagger into her husband’s heart anyway. He gave her a friendly smile, hoping to put her at ease.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said. “I’ve already talked to the police over and over.”
“I know. And I’m sorry to keep putting you through this, but we just have a few more questions.” He motioned to the dining room. “Can we talk in here? I’ll keep it brief.”
She sat down opposite him at the table, clasping her hands in front of her. Her features showed the phenotype so prized by her caste: dark hair, high cheekbones, golden skin, and almond-shaped brown eyes. Long, thick lashes crowned her narrow eyelids, giving her an added touch of allure, even if the lashes were false. She wore her hair in a smart haircut that went to her chin, meaning she most likely had a touch of Cain. Genetically pure castal woman tended to show off their undamaged hair by wearing it long, like Mae did. As the light caught Mrs. Hata’s hair, he saw an almost lacquerlike sheen, verifying his suspicions. Heavy gloss treatments were a common way to cover the thin and frail hair Cain so often caused. When she brushed that hair aside, she inadvertently revealed a bit of scarring near her ears. There were certain kinds of expensive face-lifts that could smooth out the pockmarked skin of Cain, but they always left slight signs at the periphery. Mrs. Hata displayed most of Cain’s detrimental effects and had no children either. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had asthma too.
Justin was ready to reel her in with his charm and pleasantries, but a second glance at her stricken face made him decide not to play any games today. He kept his interview brief, asking the same questions he had before about any questionable religious involvement on the part of the victim. Like his past interviewees, she was quite alarmed at the thought of her family being connected to a cult. In fact, she even adamantly pointed out that her husband had petitioned the grant’s government to ban all religions on their land. He’d had a particularly vehement dislike of them. That was an interesting tidbit, and Justin wondered if it was enough to have put Mr. Hata on some group’s hit list. The only hiccup in that logic was that a retribution theory implied that a Nipponese religion was involved, which wouldn’t likely have interest in other patricians. Still, it was a connection worth noting.
They chatted a bit more, and he finally let her go. She was eager to return to her mother’s home. Mae, unable to stay still long, had gone outside, so Justin joined Leo as he examined the site of the murder.
The master bedroom was expansive, the size of three of the bedrooms back at his house put together. A silk coverlet draped the bed, and a small alcove near the fireplace held a table that might be used for reading or tea. Blood stained the carpet. Leo knelt by the fireplace and stood at Justin’s approach.
“It’s sealed. Only for show.” Leo pointed up at a horizontal line of windows near the ceiling. They were the only ones in the room. “Those are too small for anyone to get through.”
“And I’m guessing the security system recorded no entry in the door?”
“Nope.” Leo walked over to the doorway and ran his hand along the side. “It only recorded his entry before he died and then his wife’s a few hours later. If the door’s locked from within, only hand chips could open it from the outside—unless you had the demolition equipment to bust it down. Obviously, that didn’t happen.”
“Then it’s the most secure room in the house.” Justin examined a picture screen on the dresser that scrolled through various personal shots of the family’s life. “Like with the other murders. I’d almost say whoever did this is showing off.”
He’d seen a head shot of Mr. Hata in the official case files, but the personal pictures showed a whole different view into the dead man’s world. A wedding picture focused in on the happy couple’s faces. He couldn’t see much of their attire, but she wore a traditional Japanese hood that hid the scarring and short haircut. At a glance, Mr. Hata’s face showed no ostensible signs of Cain, but that wasn’t uncommon. A family whose child had good genes could arrange an expensive marriage to a family hoping to weed out Cain. He’d observed it in the previous castal investigations as well. It was why Mae’s vocation—and the fact that she even had one—was so unusual.
Other pictures showed the Hatas on vacation or with other family members. A pretty portrait showed Mrs. Hata posing in a flower garden, while a more candid shot showed Mr. Hata grinning triumphantly at what looked like the end of a marathon. Still another—
Justin did a double take and scrolled back to the marathon picture. “He was a runner,” he told Leo.
Leo was still engrossed in the door. “So?”
“So no asthma.” Justin flipped through a few more pictures, scrutinizing Mr. Hata’s face. It was as flawless as it had seemed before, emphasizing his wife’s very subtle defects. A shot of their extended family showed occasional appearances of Cain, but even among his unmarked relatives, there was something especially bright and attractive about Mr. Hata.
The wheels of Justin’s mind began spinning. His instincts told him there was something here. He flipped through all the pictures again, consumed by the dead man’s face.
“He’s perfect,” he said to Leo. “Beautiful and perfect.”
“Sad you can’t ask him out?”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.” Justin could feel it in his chest. He was so, so close. “It’s uncommon.”
“Is it? G
o look at your girl out there. She’s sporting a pretty good set of genes.”
And that’s when it hit him. “So did our last victim. And the others.”
Justin took out his ego and pulled up all the data on the case. Mostly, he’d been going by the summary Cornelia had first shown him. Now he delved deeper into Mr. Hata’s file, looking for the number he was certain he would find.
“An eight,” he said triumphantly. “He was an eight.”
Even that gave Leo pause. “Not bad for a castal.”
You’ve got it, said Magnus.
Justin searched through the other victims’ files, a thrill running through him at the breakthrough he’d made. “They’re all eights and nines. And look at their pictures—beautiful and perfect.”
Leo gave up on the door, his own face puzzling out the new development. “Our killer has refined tastes.”
Mae stepped into the room and glanced between them. “What is it?”
“A pattern,” said Justin. “There’s always a pattern.”
He scrutinized Mae, for once with little attraction. His view was detached and objective. Another flawless specimen, in the prime of her life. The image of her screen came back to him, providing another shocking revelation.
“You’re twenty-eight years old. All the victims were twenty-seven and twenty-eight. All were genetic eights and nines.”
“You worried she’s next?” asked Leo wryly.
“No,” said Justin. “But I think something remarkable happened the year she was born. Were you in vitro?”
Mae looked uneasy at the direction this was going. “Yes. So were my brother and sister.”
The answer wasn’t a surprise. In an effort to grasp at any genetic hope, most patricians were conceived in petri dishes using their parents’ healthiest eggs and sperm. “Were you all made in the same place?”
“I have no idea. It was literally before my time.”
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