He crumpled the printout of the media release.

How convenient that the Psy were beginning to inveigle their way into powerful changeling packs and clans. Whether they called it true love, or dressed it up as diplomacy, it was all about getting their hooks into the strongest alphas in the world. The second the Psy had enough operatives amongst the changelings, the alphas would no doubt start to die, to be replaced by puppets controlled by Psy telepaths.

It was how the psychic race worked. By going into the bear den as she had, Silver Mercant had proved herself as power hungry as any of her brethren. He’d been right to target her, felt no guilt any longer at the choice. EmNet’s “humanitarian” mission was a very clever front designed to give the Psy access to people who wouldn’t normally trust them.

“Patience,” he counseled himself. “She’ll keep.” In the meantime, he’d work on fine-tuning the details of his next target.

He wasn’t a bad person.

But neither was he a fool about to be railroaded into slavery masquerading as a bright new future. If he had to murder to achieve freedom, so be it.

Chapter 9

Deliver to: Silver Mercant at Krychek Enterprises, Head Office, Moscow

Text to read: Mr. I. M. A. Medvezhonok

—Work order at Astonishing Cakes (September 17, 2082)

SILVER WOKE ALL at once, at full alertness.

It was her usual waking process when she wasn’t in a hospital bed recovering from an attempted poisoning. No haziness, no fuzziness, just sleep and then snap, wakefulness. The telepathic scan was automatic, trained into her since childhood. Mercants didn’t sleep with one eye open, as was PsyNet myth, but they woke with both eyes open on the psychic plane.

Her scan picked up no Psy minds in the vicinity.

That was such a strange circumstance that Silver opened her eyes to take in her surroundings. Every city had a mélange of minds. Some, her senses glanced off—the changelings, with their adamantine natural shields; others, her mind recognized as like her own; still others, it shied away from—the humans, with shields so paper-thin that if she wasn’t careful, she’d unwittingly drill into their brains and drown in their secrets.

Except for a limited number of warped Psy driven by perverse desires or greed, most Psy were like her and automatically “bounced” as soon as they detected a human mind. Having another person’s entire psychic presence—thoughts, dreams, nightmares, random pieces of sensory data, echoes of a million conversations—screaming into the brain was not a pleasant experience.

This was not her bedroom.

In fact, it wasn’t like any room she’d ever seen. The walls were exposed stone that had been smoothed out only enough for safety. It appeared as if this place had been—literally—hacked out of the stone, then the ones who’d done the hacking had shrugged and said they were done.

Sitting up, she looked around.

The room held no threats as far as she could see, though the front door wasn’t deadbolted and there was a door to the side she’d have to check. Other than the bed on which she sat—a bed covered with a soft sheet that was nonetheless not as soft as the blanket half-pooled at her waist—there was an armchair in one corner beside a standing garment rack on which hung a number of clothes.

An aged wooden trunk sat underneath the clothes.

Within easy reach of the bed was a small side table placed against the wall. It held a digital clock, the phone she remembered sliding into the pocket of her suit coat that morning, a sealed bottle of water, and a covered tray.

Leaving that for the moment, she focused on the clock. If it was correct—and a quick check on the PsyNet confirmed that yes, the clock was precisely correct—it was now five a.m. on the day after her last memories.

As if the thought had triggered a cascade, the memories rushed back: Valentin, poison, her grandmother, the hospital, small gangster bears, muscled warmth around her, a bass heartbeat against her ear.

Silver allowed the deluge to crash over her before slowly separating out the fragments until she understood where she was and why. The next thing was to test her body. Swinging her legs out over the side of the bed, she tried to stand up on the large rug on which the bed sat. A tremor, two, but she managed to stay upright.

Walking to the door beyond which she could sense no minds at all, she opened it to reveal sanitation facilities. Silver wasn’t used to being dirty in any sense, and right now, she felt exactly that. The antiseptic scent of the hospital clung to her—but below that was the faint hint of perspiration from when the poison first hit her.

A shower was a priority.

Decision made, she walked back to the door to the room, threw the bolt on this side. It was solid. Made sense in a clan of bears. From what she’d seen in the reports on those Moscow bar incidents, bears broke things without trying.

Only once she felt secure did she examine the clothing. None of it was hers, but it looked as if it would fit. A few pieces appeared crisply new while others were used but clean. In the trunk was underwear meant for someone of her size; it was still in packaging that bore the name of the boutique Silver most often utilized.

Her grandmother must’ve sent through the new items.

A quiet alert pinged against her mind, telling her she had telepathic messages to which she needed to attend. They were currently corraled in a psychic vault. The vast majority of telepaths couldn’t form this type of “waiting area”—only the high-Gradient pure telepaths had the capacity, and even most of them found it too much work. It was, but Silver had always found the work worth the convenience.

She scanned through the translucent bubbles in the vault. Each represented a separate message, kept neatly segregated from its neighbors so as not to risk a garbled crossover. For now, Silver ignored all the messages but two.

The first one was from Ena.

Silver, Alpha Nikolaev organized for a StoneWater bear in Moscow to drive some clothes to you. All are new, purchased by my own hand. It struck me during the shopping expedition that contact poisons may have been placed on your less-used garments as a fail-safe. I will have them tested.

The message ended as Ena’s messages always did—with nothing but a crisp silence. Silver knew her grandmother was right to be careful, but contact poisons were unlikely; she had a small, functional set of clothes that she utilized efficiently. Had a piece been compromised, she’d be dead by now.

She opened the second message that had caught her eye.

Silver. Grandmother isn’t saying anything, and I can’t bring myself to believe the ridiculous “political friendship visit” to the bears touted in the media. Cousin Ivan tells me you’ve disappeared from your apartment. I can feel you, know you’re alive. Are you under duress? Do you need assistance?

Ena had told Silver not to trust anyone, but this bond was one nothing could corrupt. If Arwen ever decided to kill Silver, it would mean their family was broken on a fundamental level. She replied without hesitation to the brother who’d been born at the same time as her but who wasn’t her twin.

Their father was the Mercant. He’d signed fertilization and conception contracts with two women. By chance, their pregnancies had occurred within days of each other, one conceiving earlier than expected, one later. Silver and Arwen had been born in the same hospital, only ten minutes between them.

He’d always been an indelible part of her life.

Arwen, she said, reaching out with her mind because her brother wasn’t a powerful telepath, his psychic strength lying in another area. To have reached her to leave the message, he must’ve pushed himself to the point of severe physical pain. I’m fine. There was an attempt on my life, but it was unsuccessful. Please make sure no one gets to Grandmother. If an enemy wanted to hurt the Mercants, taking out either Silver or Ena would do it.