New Release Alert! BREAKER by AK Nevermore ~ Includes an Excerpt!

On an alternate earth, a cataclysm has altered a subset of the population. Talents are persecuted for their psychic and physical mutations, giving rise to two conflicting societies based upon maintaining genetic purity. And the Source, a shadowy corporate entity dependent upon the exploitation of captive Talents, is hunting them…

Self-exiled to the Outside, Flynn Scot is oath-bound to a life of strict penance.

Cursed with a vicious temper and haunted by the blood-stained debauchery of his past, Flynn’s sworn off women, whiskey, and violence, and doesn’t give a damn about whispers of the coming war. He sure as hell isn’t in the mood to make good on a debt when it’s called in, especially when playing white knight outs him as a Talent, and the damsel in distress as his soulmate.

On the run from her future as a broodmare for the Source, escaped Talent Kara Jester is no distressed damsel.

And the last thing she wants is to be trapped in a blizzard with a surly—and frustratingly captivating—thug. Without the suppression meds holding her libido in check, her biology’s primed to procreate, and Flynn’s growled assurances that he won’t touch her doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes.

It doesn’t align with what fate has in store for them, either.

With elite troops hot on their heels and the border set to close, it’s a race to the North, away from Kara’s horrific future and towards the dark past Flynn wants to keep buried. Clinging to the shreds of his oath, he’s forced to choose between protecting the woman he’s afraid to love and letting out the animal he swore he’d never be again. Either may destroy him, if Kara’s secrets don’t get them killed first.

BREAKER, the first spicy dystopian sci-fi romance in the The Price of Talent series by AK Nevermore. 

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BREAKER
A The Price of Talent Novel
© 2024 AK Nevermore

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Talent [tal-uhnt ] noun

1. An individual denoted by halos surrounding their irises with the ability to manipulate reality, i.e. Breakers, molecular destruction; Binders, molecular cohesion; Shifters, translocation; Fixers, transfixation; Finders, spatial orientation.

– Excerpt from A Treatise on Talents, Third Edition

 

‘…We don’t know what went wrong, but it was catastrophic. The population’s been severely compromised and those left, they’ve been altered. There are reports of strange abilities. Public Relations is trying to spin it, calling them Talents. Air units have been sent up to inspect the blast site and plan on returning with samples. We need to get ahead of this and contain it…’

– Internal memo, Corporation files

***

Chapter One

Eleven Months Later

Flynn buzzed his lips and folded, slinging his cards onto the table. The prick across from him grinned, his pockmarked cheeks making like an accordion as he snapped his cards down, one by fucking one.

“Flush, muthafucka.”

Like it would’ve taken more than two pair to beat the deuces Flynn’d been nursing. He shrugged, scanning the room as he lazed back, scraping one foot through the liberal layer of sawdust gumming the floor. His other leg stayed kicked forward, a hunk of dead meat. Change of position shot pain from his knee straight to his groin. Christ, this was gonna suck—

“You still in?” one of the prick’s sidekicks asked around a toothpick. Him, the other two at the table, and the eight taking turns tapping ass in the back room were all Underhill; soldiers for the scab crew that’d claimed Lyden. Not the worst gang Outside, but that didn’t mean Flynn wanted to dance. He had enough trouble walking.

“Nah. I’m spent.” His lack of interest wasn’t feigned. It was what was coming next that had his proverbial panties in a twist, but fucked-up knee or not, the chance to get clear of the Fuil’s onus had offered itself up on a silver platter, and he had to take it.

The prick licked his lips, snagging the bag of sear before anything else in the pot. Man wasn’t stupid. Shit was worth a mint. He swept up the rest of his win, leaving the cards scattered. Even if Flynn had the inclination for another hand, the answer would’ve been no. The fevered glint in the prick’s eye was all about that bag of dope he’d just pocketed. Delaying his fix wouldn’t go well.

And Flynn needed this to go well. He had that damned onus with the Fuil to settle and his cuff to get back. Oh, and promises to keep. Might as well change his name to Robert fucking Frost.

He pushed out of the chair, wincing as he stood. The mood in the room hitched, men’s hands finding reasons to brush across whatever heat they were packing. Flynn kept his movements slow, arms loose at his sides, waiting for someone to breathe. This close to the Source, being built like a brick shithouse topping six-eight made trigger fingers itchy. It pissed him off.

He wasn’t a fucking Breaker.

The set to his jaw and whitening of his knuckles wasn’t doing anything to dissuade them of the notion. The genetically engineered enforcers had a penchant for violence. Shit, so did he, but not the kind that included razing, raping, and pillaging scab squats under a veneer of Corporation-sanctioned peace keeping.

Didn’t matter. Wouldn’t take much for one of these assholes to try and pop him off, despite his beard and the scars running through it like a roadmap in relief. Both were proof-positive he wasn’t from the Source, but facts were for shit when people got excited, and he was one ugly mofo. Didn’t exactly engender warm fuzzies.

Christ, he didn’t have time for this shit. Flynn forced himself to push past the old hurt and relax. Okay, fake relaxing. He’d smile, but that usually made things worse. “Sorry. Not my night.”

The prick grinned, and a murmur went through the room, hands drifting back to tankards and whores. He stood, the soldiers at the table rising with him. His fist bulged his coat where he gripped those six grams of pending euphoria.

“Sucks to be you, but s’been a pleasure on my end.” The prick tipped an imaginary cap at him and whistled. His soldiers fell in, making for the door. Safety in numbers was a euphemism. More like upping your odds by providing alternate targets.

“Can’t say the same,” Flynn muttered. Didn’t have to fake that.

The prick’s guffaw hung in the crepuscular funk of the room as they left.

Flynn sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Right. Trap was baited, now he just had to kill time. Solid five minutes for them to get back to the compound. Omar, Underhill’s boss, would be out in twenty. It’d take all of a minute-six for them to break out that baggie once he was clear.

Flynn’d be in and out before they peeled themselves up off the floor.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

A whore pushed past the curtain leading to the back. Dark hair, streaked with grey. Killer set… Something about her tickled the back of his brain. Empty eyes met his, and he swore. Her hand went to the side of her neck, and a smirk twisted up her cherry-pop lips.

Instant cold sweat. Flynn swung his bum leg around and limped for the bar, praying she’d take the hint. Other than that vague sense of recognition, he was drawing a blank, but had zero doubt the brunette knew him. Or who he’d been. Not that his Come-to-Jesus in that alley was worth a rat’s fart after all was said and done. And he’d done a lot. Goddamn, he hated this shit.

Himself.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender glared up at him, his hand resting on the piece at his belt. Flynn snorted. All a twenty-two was gonna do was piss him off, and the man barely came to his breastbone. Didn’t look like he gave a shit, but that made two of them.

Flynn ran a hand over his beard, honing in on the bottle of Jack shelved against the wall and trying to ignore the gnawing in his gut. Fuck. His gaze ripped away to study the scarred pine planking between them, his blunt fingers tracing grooves.

Lyla. Was that the whore’s name? He’d be damned if he remembered. Christ, he was damned anyway. He slid a unit across the bar. “Coffee.”

The bartender flopped a dingy rag over his shoulder and looked at him like he was stupid.

Man had no idea. Fine. “Water boiled?”

That earned him another look. Bartender filled a battered mug, slopping it half empty as he set it down, then promptly ignored him. Flynn picked up the mug, glad he wasn’t the only one who didn’t do small talk.

He leaned against the bar, flipping open his pocket watch and wishing he had a cigar. Hell, he’d take a hand-rolled of ditch weed right about now. Stink of it would go a long way to hide the tendrils of soured booze snaking up his nose. He shot a finger beneath his nostrils, liking it way too fucking much. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Damn. He needed to get out of here now, and those assholes wouldn’t even be back at the compound—

A hand curled over his bicep. “Hey, sugar. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Shit. He glanced down at the brunette, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Kohl smudged the hollows beneath her dead dishwater eyes, accentuating the sharpness of her cheekbones. She pursed her lips, the slick of red coating them garish against the pallor of her skin. Probably hiding their blue tint, judging by the azure of her nail beds. Damn. Woman was a hard-core sear junkie. Other than those tits, if she was a sample of what they were peddling, it was no wonder the place was lit like a tomb. Not that that’d ever stopped him before…

But that was before.

Regret lanced through him. Shit. Don’t think about that. Hearing his mother’s voice hadn’t been real. Couldn’t be.

“You’re a better man than this, Laughlin…”

He wasn’t, but he’d still promised.

“Back off, sweetheart.”

She shivered at the gravelly bass leaving his lips and sidled closer, smiling up at him with a look that was probably coy pre-addiction, tongue flicking lilac behind a gap in her ivories.

“Mmm… Now why would I do that?” She brushed a lock of hair from her shoulder, fingers trailing over a puckered scar at her collar bone. That was familiar. He’d left enough of them in his wake. “Been too long since you’ve made me scream…”

Flynn looked away, feeling sick. He snapped the watch closed and shoved it into his pocket, keenly aware of the hardening flesh beside it. God, he was a fucking pervert. The whore’s smile went smug. Shouldn’t be. Had nothing to do with her and everything to do with a year of celibacy. At this point, brushing up against a lamppost was enough to get him off.

Christ, That was a lie. Lampposts couldn’t beg.

And she was. Words weren’t registering, but that pleading cadence… Her breasts pressed against him, hand stroking his arm. It sent a trail of fire heading south. Fuck. He needed to end this. Head in the game, asshole.

“I’m not here for that.”

Her mouth kept running, and he shrugged her away, taking a sip from his mug. The flat metallic tang made his fillings ache. It echoed the one below his gut. His eyes landed on the Jack. No. Not going there. Not again. One long exhale. Damn, he wanted a cigar.

“—please, sugar… I can take it as rough as you wanna give it.”

Flynn went rigid, his past blistering vomit up his throat. “No, you can’t.”

He pushed by her, shadows tinging red, through the hodgepodge of tables. A chair was in his way, then shattered against the wall. Yelling. Somebody racked a piece—

He was through the door, on the street. Cold hit like a Mack truck, his breath billowing around him, coming too fast. He needed to get back to the coop—

“Promise me. No more drinking, whores, or violence… It has to stop…”

Fuck.

This was why he didn’t come into town. Why he couldn’t be around people. His goddamned past… Christ. He was hallucinating about his dead fucking mother. Fists to temples, Flynn sagged against an alley wall, haunches hitting his heels. Head back. Eyes on the churning grey above.

“… it’s time you found your direction…”

West.

Soon as he offed this debt to the Fuil, he’d get his cuff back, and then he was out.

No temptation. No backsliding.

Nobody else would get hurt.

He scrubbed at his face and pushed away from the wall, wincing at the twinge in his knee. Fuck it. He had a job to do. The streets were empty, a fresh coat of snow blurring the trail Omar’s crew had left. Flynn followed it, jamming on a beanie and shrugging his collar closer to his ears. Damn, it was cold. The wind was brutal, those first teasing flakes when he’d gotten into the deadtown turned icy enough to crust the drifts of white like plasma. He frowned. Storm front must’ve hit whatever the Source’s Talents were putting out to shift it from the genetics facility, churning it back on itself and intensifying. Shit was getting real, fast.

A block from the compound, he peeled away from the crew’s trail to the recon vantage he’d scoped out earlier. The filth-caked alley across from Omar’s office was standard issue miserable. So was Flynn, on principle. The weather getting nastier was just garnish, like an olive speared atop a shit sandwich. One of those queen green pimento-stuffed ones.

Damn, aside from the shit, that sounded good.

He pulled out an io-bar. Three bites and it was gone, but the Breaker field rations would hold him for hours. He shoved the wrapper back into his pocket. Should pick up another case when he snagged propane on the way out of town. Flynn eyed the darkening sky. Night was setting in, and considering the icy buck-shot peppering down, that needed to be sooner than not. Holing up in a deadtown was asking for trouble, especially after that whore had recognized him. Soon as the Sons caught word he was back—shit. Underhill and the Fuil’d be the least of his problems. Speaking of which… He checked his watch. What the hell was taking Omar so long? Man should’ve been gone.

Of all the damned days to work late. Flynn tugged up the collar of his coat, hunching his shoulders against the wind. It whipped between the abandoned buildings like it had a vendetta. He crouched deeper into the shadows and grime, gritting his teeth at the lamp burning in the compound’s window across the way. It flickered cheerfully back, throwing up a big middle finger of light.

Right back atcha, buddy.

Christ. His eyes swept across the graffitied buildings lining the street. Anyone left clanging around Lyden had taken cover. Well, anyone not desperate or stupid, leaving him smack dab in the middle of both. Why he’d felt the need to do this today—

His ears pricked at the sound of an engine approaching. A rusted military truck rounded the corner and pulled up, flashing its high beams. The lamp snuffed out. Flynn’s boots squelched as he changed position, the bottoms of his jeans icy and sodden. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them. Springing those locks was gonna be a bitch.

Two men came outside. The smaller of them, Omar, looked as round and soft as a buttered roll. Looks were for shit. What he’d done to the last guy the Fuil had sent to do this job wasn’t pretty unless you liked Jackson Pollock and ground meat.

The other guy was muscle. He glared around his bulbous nose, working too hard to look menacing on an empty street. One hand kept reaching into his coat to fondle the butt of his gun. Had to be a new hire. Figures they’d be recruiting the way tensions between them and the Fuil were ticking up.

The two men shuffled through the slush and piled into the truck. It inched forward, the chains on its tires slapping sloppy furrows down the block.

Flynn stood, glancing at his watch. Right. Go time. The io-bar threatened to come up as he pulled talent, biting back a groan at the tingle of power trickling into him. It’d been too long and felt way too fucking good. Cursing at the temptation to glut himself with it, he limped across the deserted street, toward the compound’s side entrance, the frigid sludge behind him undisturbed, for now. In fifteen minutes his cloak would dissipate, and it’d look like a yeti tangoed out from that alley.

Using talent this close to the Source was about a billion shades past stupid, but his fucking knee—It protested carrying his weight, and every other goddamned thing he asked it to do. Didn’t leave him with much of a choice. He didn’t give a shit why the Fuil were so hot for this car of Omar’s, lifting it for them would satisfy the onus, and Flynn would get his cuff back as part of the deal. Win, win, everybody’s happy…

Well, not Omar, but fuck him.

Everyone else would be just tickled. ’Cause there was no way the Fuil would find a way to bend Flynn over, regardless. Christ, he should pick up some lube on the way out, too.

Goddamn, he hated this shit.

He jimmied the lock and was in, lurching down the narrow hall to the office. Decor was decay over desuetude. More garbage than paperwork was strewn across the desk, and the place reeked like bad curry and BO.

Flynn kicked a mound of trash out of his way, making for the pegboard. He grabbed the set of keys stamped with a cross. Frowning at it, he turned, his eyes landing on the wall safe.

Ice hissed against the window, cutting that inclination short. He needed to move. Sighing, he lumbered back down the fetid hallway to the yard’s access door.

His gaze slid past his muted reflection in the glass to the scavenged machinery littering the space between him and the garage out back. He watched the shadows, absently fondling the largest of the ugly scars striating through his beard.

As within, so without.

He sighed again, jacking his beanie farther down over his ears, and opened the door. Tall brick buildings boxed in the junkyard’s three sides, and a chain-link fence ran the length of the fourth. Someone had gotten a deal on razor wire. Shit glinted over everything like tinsel.

Flynn limped to the gate, took the bolt cutters from under his coat and lopped off the lock. It trailed chain, punching through a good two-inches of slush before hitting asphalt and vanishing along with the spatter of its passing.

For eleven more minutes.

He melted into the darkness of an overhang, scanning the windows of the surrounding buildings. That prick and his men should be too busy burning through the bag of sear to be watching the yard, but there was always a boy scout. Maybe. Omar’s crew was sloppy.

Flynn wasn’t.

He wasn’t in this fucking business anymore, either. A pang of guilt went through him. He ignored it. His luxury of a conscience had been taken along with his cuff, and for whatever reason, they wanted this junker. Even trade, then exit stage west.

Goddamn it. Flynn rubbed at his wrist. It shouldn’t matter anymore, but he couldn’t—Christ. He needed to stop stalling and just do the job. His eyes flicked to the shitstorm churning above, fingers sliding through the crumpled wrappers in his pocket to that freaking key chain, and its cross.

“Last time.” He said it like he hadn’t before, and pulled more talent.

Just enough to cloak his footsteps and blur his form into the squall. Too much, and the Source’s satellites would tag the void. Last thing he needed on his plate was a squad of Breakers along with that shit sandwich.

He clambered past the scavenged parts and wrecked vehicles, squaring up to the garage’s entry. His fingers were numb by the time the lock sprang.

Six minutes. He dropped talent, popping visible again. Tempting fate was one thing, thumbing his nose at it another, and he was in the home stretch. There was just enough daylight filtering through the filthy windows to find the chain and hoist up the bay door—

Nails clicking across the concrete pad stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder, tensing as the dog gave a low growl. Fuck. Why did it have to be a—

Jesus Christ, it was a mutie.

He froze, dread icing through his veins. Why the hell would Omar risk using regulated tech to monitor a garage? Flynn caught another flash of movement, and a second mechanized beast came into view. Both had those telltale collars, dim lights pulsing. The fuck? Forget about why, how had Omar gotten his hands on reprogrammed Source test culls?

The larger of them growled softly, taking a step forward, smaller one following suit. Flynn broke out in a sweat. He was screwed.

The goddamned junker was right behind them. There wasn’t anything for it. He let the bay door drop, reaching into his coat. His frost-addled fingers closed around the bolt cutters just as the first mutie sprang at him.

He stepped in, swinging. The cutters connected, metal on metal. There was a high-pitched yelp and a fizzle of circuitry. The thing hit the ground. The other hit him in the chest. He threw his fist up, trying to keep it from his face. It clamped onto his arm, locking its jaws. They fell backward, taking down a rack of tools with a massive crash.

Flynn bellowed, slamming onto the overturned rack. Pain crazed up through his knee, his temper spiking the garage crimson. The mutie let go, scrambling to get off him. It skittered under a bench, tail between its legs. He glared at it, breathing hard. Fucking thing’d pissed on him. His temper jumped again, vision tinging red. Goddamn it. The mutie flinched back, whimpering.

Four minutes.

He had to move. No way that crash hadn’t been heard, and if Omar had networked into those goddamned things… Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to stand. He grimaced as he put weight on his leg, then hobbled over to raise the bay door. His leg was dragging by the time he eased himself into the driver’s seat, eyes snapping to the console.

You gotta be kidding me. More fucking reg-tech. Those motherf—

He had to go.

Come on, you piece of shit…

Forehead to the steering wheel and praying, the engine begrudgingly turned over. Flynn huffed out a relieved breath. That would’ve been par for the goddamned course.

He hit the gas. His halos flared, cloaking the car and its trail. The fucking plaz-converter on the dash sputtered and began to hum, altering the junker’s density. Thing would cut through weather like a tank and power a nuclear reactor on the side. No wonder the Fuil were so hot to get this ride. Where the hell had Omar scored a plaz-converter? Shit. Probably the same place he’d gotten ahold of freaking muties.

In the rearview mirror, Omar’s crew had come running. Two dozen, easy. A handful of them saw the empty garage and split. The rest of them were too busy yelling at each other to notice the gate fuzz out when Flynn nosed the junker through. Not bad, forty-eight seconds before his tracks through the compound reappeared.

Omar’s truck skidded around the other end of the block. Flynn held his cloak on the junker, turning the corner. What a goddamned clusterfuck. That son of a bitch did have the muties networked… Which meant he’d be able to pull Flynn’s image from their cores, if he hadn’t seen it already. Motherf—Where the hell was Omar getting access to all that regulated tech? The Source should’ve been farther up his ass than a proctologist with a dental degree.

It didn’t sit well. Flynn stopped under a trestle to give the car a once over, but it was clean. Well, as clean as a stolen car with tech pirated from a multinational conglomerate able to vaporize him from space could be.

“Fuck my life.” He pulled off his beanie and threw it up onto the dash, riffling his hair as he drove out of town. Whatever, at least that end was quick. If Omar caught up with him, it wouldn’t be.

Flynn sighed. What else was new.

He headed up Route 32. He needed to snag that propane tank, then put this shitty day behind him. His knee throbbed. Muties. Fucking muties! Fucking Fuil, fucking weather—

His pocket vibrated. He pulled out the burner and laughed. How did that asshole get this number? Sure. Why not. Let’s just make this shitty day a hat trick. He flipped it open.

“What d’you want?”

“Nice to hear your voice, too. Need a favor.”

“No.”

Asshole kept talking like he hadn’t just been shot down. “Got a runner for you to bring in. She didn’t want to stay with Jake.”

Bet she didn’t. No wasn’t in that perv’s vocabulary. “Not in the mood, Cal. Roads are shit. I’m not driving all over hell and gone looking for one of your refugees.”

He could hear the old man smoking. Must be nice. “She’s on foot, headed north up 32.”

Well, wasn’t that convenient? Flynn riffled his hair again and turned on the headlights. They both knew he was gonna cave. “What am I looking for?” Damn it. Why’d he have to pick today for this shit job?

“Brunette. Grey coat. Source barcode, right wrist. You need to do it now, boy.”

“I gotta stop—”

“No, you gotta find her.”

A gust of wind sent a curtain of ice hissing against the windshield, cutting his protest short. Chance of survival on foot out there was quickly becoming close to nil. Flynn grimaced. “Fine.”

“Call me when you have her, I’ll be waiting.”

The line went dead. Fucking Cal. Like Omar and the Fuil weren’t bad enough. Flynn snapped the flip phone in half and threw it out the window. Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any shittier. Now he had a goddamned pickle to go with his sandwich.

***

Kara struggled to put one foot in front of the other, kidney-shaped footsteps stretching out behind her, dark against the white. Sleet pelted at her, making it impossible to get anywhere fast.

That was exactly where she needed to be.

The wind picked up, sending a stinging burst of ice against her face. She barely registered it through her exhaustion. If she’d known it was going to be this bad… Yeah, she’d still be out in it. After what that jerk Jake had tried to do, things wouldn’t have ended well, which would’ve drawn attention.

And it would’ve wasted time. She needed to move.

The inside of her skull ached as Riegel quested for her through their psychic bond, sensing her misery just as clearly as she could sense him waiting to pounce. The moment she used her talent, vectors would pinpoint her location, and he’d drag her back to the Source to be bred. If she could just get out of range… Greyburn? Graden? What had Nora—

Kara stumbled on some hidden debris and fell to a knee. She choked back a sob, struggling up, numb fingers righting her oversized sunglasses. If the Sons or one of those humanity-pure zealots caught sight of her halos out here, she was dead.

She was probably dead anyway.

It was so cold. The medic in her was screaming that not being able to really feel it anymore was a bad thing. It was difficult to care. That clinical voice gave her another twenty minutes, tops.

Trying to make it to the next safe house on foot had been a terrible idea. If this was the norm Outside, the amount of talent the Fetches back at the Source were using to shift the weather from the city was mind-boggling. She lifted a foot, forcing herself forward. The muck beneath the crisp crust of ice licked into her boot before she’d taken her next step. How did anyone live in these conditions?

They didn’t. Unless they were murderous roving gangs waiting to pounce on any Talent stupid enough to sneak past the Breakers protecting the Source.

That, or would-be rapists moonlighting as smugglers.

Ugh. Outside was awful, no wonder it was forbidden. A pang of self-pity, then anger shot through her, feeling Riegel revel in her misery. She tried to swallow her emotions, but the futility wore on her. It was only a matter of time. They’d never let her go. Her genetic material was too important. She rubbed at a wrist. When they found her, she’d have to be faster. All that was staying her hand now was her promise to Nora.

For what it was worth.

The wind gusted tinkling waves of sleet across the ice-encrusted hillside of stunted trees and rocky outcroppings. All of it, a blighted wasteland. Well, what she’d seen of it between safe houses. The rest of the continent could be perfectly lovely.

She snorted, tugging the rime-caked fur edge of her hood closer and tripped, stumbling to her knees again. Slush wicked up her jeans, and she laughed—

Cried.

It was stupid. All she needed to do was pull talent and bind herself with heat. Then the Source would swoop in, snatch her up, and she’d never be cold again.

She’d just be breeding stock.

Another burble of laughter welled up, her libido jumping at the thought. Her physiology made her want to puke. Without access to fertility suppression meds, she was primed for insemination.

And would rather die.

How much time did she have left? Clinical Kara didn’t answer, and she smiled.

It was short-lived.

A faint hum cut under the wind and light bounced off the ancient wires roping the sides of the road. A vehicle was coming up the rise behind her. She looked around the barren hillside, stark white in the gloaming, and staggered to her feet.

Too late to take cover and nowhere to go. She’d meet her end standing.

She shook her head, trying to focus. The steady crunching of ice beneath tires shot through the storm-riddled silence. She watched the vehicle crest, creeping through the gathering dusk.

She’d seen maybe a dozen pre-Surge cars. Well, working. Plenty of them were scattered around and left to rot. This one didn’t seem far off from that fate. The backend skidded sideways. No wonder they hovered now. Its lumens were very bright, then dimmed as it approached. She swayed, as muddled as if she’d been drinking.

“Hey, you good?”

She got the impression it wasn’t the first time the question had been asked. The car had stopped next to her, an aperture open. How’d it get so close? She hadn’t felt anyone shift…

A man got out. Her pulse sped as he shambled toward her.

Not a man, a Breaker, and he was huge. Her knife…the leather sheath at the small of her back was so waterlogged she wouldn’t be able to pull it…

He stopped at arm’s length.

Kara took half a step back before something other than his size registered.

Flaws. Heavy scarring, a badly broken nose smeared across his face, and… She fumbled for the word, struggling to remain upright.

A beard.

She stared, wanting to touch it. Talents couldn’t grow…

He lurched forward, catching her as she fell, the air thickening around them—

It pulsed out, taking her breath with it. The sharp crack of breaking glass split through the night.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” He glared down at her. “Come on, get in the car.”

He pulled the bag from her shoulder, then his hands were on her, ushering her into a maroon bucket seat before she could protest. His grip lingered on her arm, wrenching her sodden cuff back to look at the barcode on her wrist. He sighed, dropping it.

Her hand slapped down onto her lap.

“Shit, sweetheart, you’re in a bad way, aren’t you. Hold on.” His voice had become kind, low and soft, like molasses over gravel. He stripped off his coat and tucked it around her. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was his frown.

***

Riegel sat back in his chair, throwing the tablet down hard enough to crack the plaz. The hologram above the desk fizzled out and the sweet smell of damaged electronics filled his twenty-third floor office. A melodious feminine voice drifted out from behind an oil painting of a bullfight done in thick ochres and reds. He normally found it quite soothing. The painting, not the voice. It apologized for the disruption of services, and the air stirred as the room was sanitized.

None of it registered, nor was he soothed.

Something had happened to Kara.

What was that pulse? He seethed in frustration, his eyes snapping to Nells. The wiry man flinched straighter, the grey of his uniform sodden around his turkey neck. They needed results, not excuses. She’d been gone for eleven days without a trace, and when Titus found out, someone would be held accountable.

Nells continued to stare unblinkingly ahead, throat bobbing. They both knew who that would be. The thought improved Riegel’s mood. He smoothed back a lock of honey-blond hair that had escaped the confines of its tail.

“Well?”

“Ah, I haven’t been able to discover anything to suggest Kara—ah, Talent Jester’s left the facility…” The subaltern picked at a loose thread on his cuff, avoiding eye contact. “Perhaps if you’d requisition a Finder—”

“That decision falls solely within Titus’s purview.”

Nells swallowed again.

For the love of—How difficult could it be to find proof Kara had escaped? Riegel’s abrupt urge to vent his frustrations on the untalented fool was unbearable. The vein in his temple throbbed, and Nells edged closer to the door. Riegel mollified his tone to feign concern.

“The satellite vectors must’ve picked up something, anything…”

“Other than a large-scale healing in Albanach’s tower, there’s been nothing unsanctioned. The inquest came back listing it as a rejuvenation, but the man has to be in diapers after a Binder pulled that much talent.”

Riegel snorted. Albanach was old enough to have been in diapers to begin with. “I find it difficult to believe she was able to escape without using her powers.” If she had, it was indicative of a much larger issue; someone helped her. He knew exactly who that would’ve been, and his fury redoubled at his inability to prove it, or Kara’s disappearance.

Nells squirmed farther away, and Riegel forced a calming breath. His position was entirely dependent upon his ability to maintain a veneer of control over his temper, thin as it may be. He picked up the damaged tablet, its exposed circuitry glimmering as it repaired itself. A map of the area crackled into view, wavering above his dark walnut desk. He had to tread carefully, he’d already been written up twice this month. His eyes flicked to Nells. That slip would be reported.

Riegel refocused on the map. His bond to Kara streamed somewhere outside of precinct Q15, at the edge of what the vectors were monitoring. That needed to be rectified without exposing his knowledge of her whereabouts. The situation was maddening. He rolled his broad shoulders, shifting the close-cut velvet jacket over them in annoyance.

“And the deadtowns we spoke about?”

Nells ventured closer, squinting as the hologram’s resolution steadied.

“Ah, they’re both due a razing. Lyden’s a good size squat for the area. Couple hundred subalterns, mostly scabs…uh, scavengers. Greyburn’s smaller. We’d been using it as an outpost before the Sons organized. One of the men was stationed at a clinic there.”

And what a mess that was, but Nells had actually said something useful. Riegel caught the time on the clock past the man’s shoulder. Blast it. He was going to be late. Patron Salist was throwing a fête tonight, and attendance was mandatory. Yet another distraction to keep the inmates occupied. Riegel shook off his creeping despondency; it didn’t serve him as well as his anger.

“Have him report. If a Fetch can imprint the location, shifting to the site will save us a considerable amount time. Otherwise, what are we looking at?”

“A craft can be there inside of three hours.”

“Prepare the first available. A vector’s been requisitioned to surveil the area, I want a squad on stand-by.”

Nells blanched, and Riegel couldn’t blame him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned from the man. His steps were silent as he crossed the plush carpet to the long row of windows overlooking the sprawling industrial facility, its five towers stabbing into the night sky. He needed to give Nells a plausible motive to bring back to the Commandant. Though accurate, the desire to suck Kara dry of talent certainly wasn’t going to fly.

“As you’re aware, our quarry and I share a dam. It would…pain me should anything happen to her. Perhaps I’m bending procedure here, but wouldn’t you do the same for your half-sib?” Riegel turned from the window, catching the man’s expression soften.

“Ah, yes sir. I’ll see it done, sir.” Nells saluted sharply and left him.

Fool. Riegel’s jaw clenched, and he took another calming breath. Despite the abrupt dormancy of his link to Kara, their connection was growing fainter. She was moving farther north. If she didn’t give him something soon, he would be forced to act rashly.