Shards of Hope (Psy-Changeling 14)

Her fingers curled into a fist as the light, bright sensations inside her continued to expand regardless of the other, darker thing that lived in her and that didn’t want to give up its real estate. Shifting over onto her back and trying not to think about the latter, she ran the fingers of her other hand down his jaw and over his chest. “Vasic wears a ring, too.”

Aden’s lips curved slightly, his eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to ask me to marry you to get me to wear a ring. The brooch will have to do in the interim.”

Zaira had never, not in a million years, believed she might one day get married. That was for other, better, less broken people. But now Aden had put the thought in her head and it was so astonishing that she didn’t know what to say. So she kissed him, sliding her ringed hand to behind his neck to hold him close as she put up ferociously protective shields around the fragile new hope in her heart.

Because the rage? It wasn’t gone. Already she could feel it pooling in her belly again, the clarity of her earlier thoughts altering with its presence and the lightness inside her entangled with threads of a heavy, bloody darkness. Aden, I’m not fixed, she said, the words holding despair.

You were never broken. There’s nothing to fix.

Tears fell again from her eyes, were mingled in their kiss. She wished she could believe him, believe her quiet boy who had become a powerful man, but where Aden had a faith that had taken the squad from the pitch-black of a subterranean existence to the sunlight of the valley, Zaira had always had blunt pragmatism. She knew even blind faith and the greatest love couldn’t change a miswired brain.

Chapter 63

SILVER MERCANT WAS loyal to her family.

It was at the core of every Mercant, that familial loyalty. “Politicians and kingmakers come and go but family is forever” had long been the family motto. That didn’t mean Mercants didn’t know how to be loyal to others, too. According to Silver’s grandmother, once, long ago, the Mercants had been the loyal knights of a king. Many had died in battle to save that king, until only a lone Mercant knight was left and the king’s enemies were slain.

“That was when we were given land on which to rebuild our family.”

Silver didn’t know if that was truth or old family legend, the time of kings so far in the distant past that she couldn’t imagine it. What she did know was that the gene for loyalty—if there was one—ran strong in her family line. So strong that once they gave their loyalty, it would take a cataclysm to break that bond. It was why they didn’t offer their allegiance lightly.

Kaleb Krychek had, however, earned it.

Not only had he kept his word in his dealings with the Mercants, Silver had watched him over a number of years and come to understand that Kaleb didn’t turn on those who’d given him their loyalty, even when the people in question broke or got hurt or were otherwise unable to perform their duties. He treated his people as if they had worth beyond temporary usefulness. She was in no doubt that he’d chosen her as his aide because she was a Mercant, but she also knew that had she proven bad at her job, she’d have been demoted without hesitation.

Instead, she’d been promoted to a position of sprawling responsibility, her task to act as the liaison between all three races in emergency situations. Her contacts—effectively Mercant contacts—had spread out across the world as a result of that promotion and had led to a decision that had never before been made in the past three generations.

Kaleb Krychek was now considered a Mercant.

Whether or not he was ever told of that decision remained Grandmother Mercant’s decision, but from this point forward, he’d be treated as a member of the family unit. They’d already given him their loyalty, but now, no matter how bad the situation, they would never abandon him, would fight for him and with him to the death. Family always stuck together. It was why the Mercants had survived where others had fallen.

“Sir,” she said, walking through the open doorway of his Moscow office an hour after Nikita Duncan was shot.

He wasn’t at his desk, but at the shelves on the far right wall, pulling out a hard-copy volume. She didn’t understand why he kept those volumes when he had a direct link to the PsyNet, but even lethally disciplined cardinals had their peccadilloes. “Silver,” he said. “Have you heard anything about Shoshanna or Ming on the grapevine?”

“Nothing beyond the obvious—financial maneuvers and political games to consolidate power.”

Moving away from the bookshelf, he said, “You wanted to speak to me.”

“The matriarch of my family has recalled something that happened eight months ago that might have some bearing on today’s events.”

“Nikita’s shooting?”

Silver inclined her head in the affirmative. “The matriarch was approached via anonymous channels and invited to join a small group of ‘visionaries’ who would nudge the world in the right direction.”

“Did Ena Mercant say yes?”

“Of course.” The Mercants liked information, and the best way to get information was to be in the thick of things. “But she was never again contacted. Her belief is that my connection to you was deemed too high a risk factor.”

“A pity,” Kaleb said, cardinal eyes thoughtful. “If she is approached again, please let her know I have no argument with her joining the group.”

“The matriarch wouldn’t take kindly to being given permission.” Kaleb was now family, and as such, he had to understand family.

“Ah.” Kaleb folded his arms. “In that case, ignore that last request. I appreciate the information.”