Read: no chance of a Mutable strike.
I shudder.
No one in current times had not heard about the Mutables’ existence and their modus operandi. The badass gang rapists of the shifter world. Using females to spawn mutants and siphon off their couplings to give themselves multi-forms then discarding them when they expire from sheer overuse.
No thank you very much.
However... “I think I'll be fine, thanks anyway.” Tucking my pulse inside the front pocket of my handbag, I sashay my ass right out of there.
“Ms. Becker!” Alex calls.
At this point, I'm just being plain rude. Probably tired of all the males in my life right now. Or the lack of them, I should say. Yes. That's more accurate though I shouldn't beat up the messenger of the strange news.
I turn, giving the young physician's assistant my profile.
He stops chasing me down, catching his breath even as he spits out, “Final Enforcement will be in touch in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Maybe they should prioritize younger women first.”
He gives another shrug. “Not my call. But I will say that any viable female is important.”
His words bite at me, given our current climate of infertility and his age. I might have goddess status in his eyes because I can breed. “I guess you should be making my day,” I huff under my breath.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“Nevermind.” I wave a dismissive hand and walk out of the medical clinic, disgusted with the entire process.
I like my life, and a quirk of genetics will not alter my course.
So say the best-laid plans.
Kiel
Thick mahogany hair falls to full breasts. Wide lips, nearly too full for her face, give the impression of an almost-smile as though the expression is reserved for either great humor or great amusement. Eyes and lips take up most of the real estate of a heart-shaped face, and her gaze is the most arresting feature Kiel can see.
At least, from a photo.
Those eyes fill the camera lens with intelligence that incinerates. But so does shadow, the light effectively swallowed by all that dark hair, illuminating the darkest auburn color he's ever seen, but not allowing for the shade of her eyes to be revealed. Creamy skin completes the unique coloring. Kiel's attention shifts to the date, the place.
The photo was recorded last month at a school picnic that took place in early autumn.
The heads of the few children who dwell in schools can be seen mingling around her hips as she is a tall female.
Reading over her stats for the umpteenth time, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like to possess a mate, love one, give a female pleasure.
That imagining isn't for the likes of one such as he.
A murderer of anything who stands in his way of progress. Not just of the clan but of the world.
Which brings his thoughts to the male who will surely be sent from Doric's clan.
Who will die if he lays a finger on Camille Becker.
Of that, Kiel is certain.
Chapter 6
Conrick
M e: “What?” I ask my one-word thought to Murphy over pulse device.
My hand tightens on the slim rectangle, and though it's made of a light, recently developed, supposedly indestructible polymer, the material groans under my grip.
Murphy: “We didn't instantly recognize Drest and have put a damper on his claim of Paige LaRue.”
Me: “How can this be?” My seething mental words come across perfectly on this device, unlike the now-defunct “smartphones” of a few years ago. First Species were slow to respond to the technology because it necessitated human form, but finally, its use became critical. When the Mutables were bringing every new tech development onboard to outwit us, there was no other option.
The mental transference capabilities of Brain Impulse Technology hastens to flavor my words with, emotive response strong. A tag-on that appears in bold after a mental phrase is delivered with a strong emotion attached.
You bet it is. Me: “So one of my best males is out of commission because why?” anger
Murphy: “Narah didn't instantly realize Drest wasn't a Mutable. He made matters worse going for the female straightaway.”
Me: “So it wasn't we—it was only Narah.”
Green letters don't rise to the top of the dark surface, and seconds pound by before finally, green words begin to form, breaking the inky screen with bright color. “She only broke the chap's arm. It's healing already.”
Me: “His arm?” I think-shout into the pulse, my thumb practically rammed through the doc.
Murphy: “She's contrite over the entire incident.”
Oh really?
Murphy: “I heard that.”
I lift my thumb, envisioning Murphy crossing his arms, face morphing into a blistering scowl. After all, we know each other quite well.
Me: “Is she truly sorry that she hurt my cousin?”
A second silence, longer than the first, reigns supreme. For earth's sake.
I depress my thumb again, gifting Murphy with the tight jumble of my impotent rage.
His unexpected reply momentarily freezes my anger.
Me: “There is another female?”
Murphy: “She's older.”
I jam my thumb in the doc again, thinking, “As though that matters. Her aging will cease once she mates with a First Species.”
Eye roll, the pulse indicates.
Murphy: “Yes—I'm aware. Putting many carts before the horse on this, Conrick. Just so you understand not to get your dandies in a twist—Camille Becker is not an ideal candidate.”
Being vampire, Murphy wouldn't know an ideal candidate if it fanged him in the center of his vampiric ass.
Murphy: “I will attempt not to take offense.”
Damn. I lift my thumb from the doc and glare down at a technology that is equal parts thrilling and tiresome. I'm clearly thinking too much while my thumb allows the thought transference.
Murphy and I have become close by default. He shares Grace, my beloved. The product of a female human hybrid who had possessed rare First Species genetics and passed it on to Grace and her younger brother, Toby.
However, Murphy has lived in his current form for barely two years, existing as a simple human before that. By earth, that's not even close to the nearly two hundred cycles I've seen; all but the last one in hiding. Murphy's considered an infant by First Species standards. His point of reference doesn't match mine, and our cultures clash though First Species genetics are part of what we gave those who are now wholly vampire.
When in gorillan form, we can take blood as a vampire can. Distant cousins but not without significant commonality.
After a mutual long, dark silence between pulse devices, Murphy's thoughts flow through to my pulse. “Who will you send?”
For the female, remains unthought between us. Who indeed, the question of the hour.
Drest is healing up from a snafu of communication. That leaves only one viable male. Like Murphy would no doubt say, he's not an ideal choice.
Unlike most First Species, Kiel was found—unclanned.
With a heavy sigh, I depress my thumb. My thought transference syncs with Murphy's, sans my emotions this time.
Murphy: “We can't have an unstable chap, Conrick. That's a no-go, as you Americans adore saying.”
I wouldn't classify myself as an American, per se. My lips tweak at the corners. Lifting my thumb, I wait. When my thoughts are succinct, I flatten it against the doc again.
Me: “He is who I have.” I lift my thumb. Kiel is all I have. I depress my flesh against the doc and think, “He's Alpha enough—earth knows—he's fought his way for the opportunity.”
Murphy: “Jesus, mate—he's a walking time bomb.”
Using current vernacular, I think, “You're not wrong.”
Murphy: “If he harms a female, your amicable government status will be revoked.”
Me:
“I do not believe Kiel would harm a female.”
Murphy: “You ʻdo not believe,ʼ” emotive pause skepticism, “or you know?”
Two separate things, of which Murphy is keenly aware.
Me: “I do not know.”
Murphy: “So you're hoping one of your bigfeet fellas does not go crazy on an acquisition.”
Yes, that is my hope, I think. But not into the device.
I don't immediately reply.
Murphy: “Send the lug over. Let's pray he's not barmy. If so, it's on you, Conrick.”
I don't understand the term “barmy,” but in context, Murphy is clearly saying the male has the potential for insanity.
What do you know? The male in question walks through my door in almost the same way Drest had only hours before.
“You summoned me?”
I rise, looking over the other Alpha of our clan—for there are only three.
Kiel is slightly taller than Drest. The same gold eyes. Where Drest's hair is dark, Kiel's is like aged cornsilk. Emaciated when he was discovered a half-century ago as a toddler, he did not flourish mentally—as his parents were murdered by Mutables. There was no mother or father to sculpt him like malleable clay in the ways of the clan.
The sole reason Kiel had been spared by the Mutables but his parents were not?
He had remained undiscovered.
That fact alone tells Conrick that his sire and mother had some forewarning of danger and taken precautions with their only son.
It was I who personally found Kiel. At that time, so few of the First Species had females that Kiel was raised primarily by males. Handled by males. Taught in the male way of our race.
There is no softness afforded such an upbringing. Jockeying for position within the clan was the lesson Kiel learned well.
Too well.
His body has the proof of his hardships within a clan run almost exclusively by males in that day. Small scars litter Kiel's body wherever the eye roams.
Today, a formidable, dangerous male stands before me. One who is without compassion for others.
One who kills with the barest amount of provocation.
A male who has never been shown mercy because he was not merciful. I cannot, in good faith, predict how he will react with a female as a potential mate.
Or to be appointed one. Kiel has won his position among us through brute force and determination.
The First Species way.
However, I hold out hope that biology will assert itself, and when faced with a female of our genetics, his instincts for protection will take over.
But a shadow of doubt clouds my mind.
Kiel
Kiel has a long journey ahead and will need to batten down the hatches of his clothing, so to speak.
Nothing loose in case Mutables attempt to acquire the female, Camille Becker. Kiel understands perfectly if there is nothing to grab unto, he will not be disadvantaged during a battle.
Dark, wheat-colored hair is secured in a short, snug tie at his nape, golden eyes run across a face that is brutally fashioned. The reflection from the mirror's glass is unforgiving. As Kiel himself is.
There is very little information about the female except the picture he'd seen. Certainly, there isn't much information on paper. Or pulse, as it were, for that is the newest technology developed by humans.
The dissertation of disseminated facts regales that she is a teacher of young ones, of formidable spirit and older to manifest the marker of unknown.
He gives a mental shrug at her age, for females of their kind mature later as does a female with prehistoric genes. A good example is an acquisition of a mature female from the prior year, Talyn Phisher. She is now mated to three males and in her fortieth cycle of life, having born twins.
Never to age discernibly as she has prehistoric blood, and that fact slows the process to a crawl. As long as a female remains fertile, she will not age while carrying young or feeding her children from her breasts.
Stasis.
No, Camille Becker might be older for a ʻlife-bringerʼ to humans, but she is in her prime as a First Species female candidate.
Of course, that is—if she has enough blood to bother with.
How many times have Conrick or, for that matter, Drest—left their clan in search of a viable female who supposedly had the right blood? Back at a time when there was only rumor and no high-tech tests administered by the Brain Impulse Technology of the 21st?
Many times the Alphas returned empty-handed, or worse, were too late and discovered Mutables had overtaken a female before their scant number of viable males could extradite her from their perverted grip.
Kiel hates the colony with an unprecedented passion. They are responsible for the deaths of his sire and mother before he could remember them clearly.
There is no mercy in his heart for creatures such as them.
Every last degenerate shifter should be executed like the human magistrates of old.
With a disgusted snort, Kiel shows his back to the mirror and begins to ram a fist of supplies inside the rucksack they all pack for journeying.
It's only five hours by vehicle to Sioux Falls proper, but Kiel will cut that time in half. Full First form will shred the distance. Good earth, he can fling his body four meters a stride when using his fully changed form.
Besides, cars make him uneasy. The transport that will be the successor—pulse vehicles. There are plans to make such vehicles automated by the 2040s.
Give me a proper forest filled with the subtle symphony of life, weather, and terrain, and I will show you speed, resilience, and power, Kiel muses.
Kiel feels his face tighten at his next thought: Drest is healing but not ready to transition Paige LaRue.
The vampire bounties guard her, which naturally makes Kiel uneasy. An unbelievable circumstance considering the female who works with Murphy attacked Drest, leaving Camille Becker in unsafe limbo—no escort.
Kiel's lips thin as he ponders the prehistoric clan who are led by Doric. He will be sending a representative as well.
Which just pisses Kiel off.
With a frustrated grunt, he dumps his rucksack and stalks to the bathroom. Emptying his bladder, he bangs the lid down and flushes. Running the water in the old-fashioned corner sink until it frosts the metal, he slaps artesian-fed well water on his face.
Kiel grips the rolled porcelain edges of the tiny sink and leans forward, his stoic expression greeting him from the small mirror.
First Species do not shave often, and it is known that when in their alter forms, they have allover body hair that is downy and light, but in the human vessel, it is only the hair on their heads which grows with abandon.
Jaw hard, Kiel cranks the tap off and leaves the bathroom. Angry that he's undeniably going to have competition from a prehistoric, pissed that the female's clear expectation is a uterus-sprouting male to appear who has flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, he stalks out of his subterranean domicile.
For earth's sake, can the human community not educate their females in the shifter ways so the expectation is not the burden of their clan or the other supes?
Clearly, no.
Vampires, Lycans, and prehistorics all fight the same uphill battle with both pre- and post-acquisition. The flowery pulse brochures distributed to all females when their routine bloodwork is administered says nothing of the hardships of the change/turn.
The malesʼ expectations, though transparent to even the scantest research or interest, are not delved into or exhausted in any of the pulse literature that Kiel is aware of.
Females are transitioned, and many times, it's against their will, in haste, and with little knowledge and a dose of terror. The female will die as a hybrid without a Changer, Turner—one of Kiel's kind or a prehistoric. So there is no choice but to transition when weighed against death as the permanent alternative.
The great revelation made everything more tense, not less. Now every human looks over thei
r shoulders or around corners to see if who they cross paths with is human.
Or other.
Conrick and Doric talk of deference, patience, and integration.
Kiel believes the humans had better learn who the superior race is. Quickly. After all, just because they once could breed indiscriminately does not prove anything except an alley cat status.
Kiel shrugs one strap of his rucksack onto his shoulder, removing a slim, disposable pulse as he does. It contains only the bare facts about Camille Becker.
His thumb depresses against the docking pad, causing her image to rise to the surface as though a photograph is being dragged through layers of dark water.
Kiel does not allow her beauty to move him.
That is the least of it. She could be the most gorgeous female who breathed air, but if she cannot be bred, looks are immaterial.
However, even as the thought slides through his mind, his eyes roam the lovely contours of her face, starting to hollow out, having lost that cherub-cheeked look some females have in the beginning bloom of adulthood.
No, Camille Becker is mature. Sculpted cheekbones showcase widely spaced, deep-set eyes, and hair that is burnished, reddish-brown, framing an intelligent face.
Kiel's eyes narrow. A determined expression is affixed to her features. He feels himself smirk.
He loves a spirited female. Or the idea of one. In practice, the disposition might not work. But certainly, docile submissive females seemed like a poor choice for warriors of the First Species.
Not that Kiel has been acquainted with many. But inside his private imaginings, he hoped for a partner as well as a mate. Though, how he could ever be tender enough for one of the fragile females of his kind is uncertain.
Kiel does not have a tender bone in his body that he is aware of.
Loosening the strap for his rucksack for his shift to First, he leaves the clan.
He wills his change, enduring the short-lived but crushing pain of morphing from human to the fully-changed form of his First.
A short while later, Kiel runs. This form eats the distance between himself and a female he might, if the earth allows, be his.
First Species Page 5
