“How the hell can cotton candy look Japanese?” Kenji shot back before picking up a datapad. “Any new thoughts on the outline agreement since our last call?”
Knowing they were short on time, Riaz decided to update Kenji on the situation with Sienna later, and brought up the contract on a split screen that would be visible on Kenji’s end, too. “Yeah, one.” He quickly set it out. “You see any problems?”
Kenji shook his head. “No, that’s a good amendment.” He highlighted a section in the agreement they’d discussed earlier. “I’m still not sure about this.”
“They won’t consent to a complete strikeout, and it’s not a deal breaker for us,” Riaz said, “but let’s bring it up and see what concessions we can squeeze out of them.”
“Works for me.”
One of the other comm screens in the room chimed a five-second countdown as Kenji finished speaking. Clearing away the contract, Riaz was ready when the third screen filled with Emani Berg’s elegant face. Born in a small village along one of Norway’s remote fjords, Emani had skin of a deep, silken shade of brown, and eyes of midnight. Her black hair had been in curls the last time Riaz had seen her—in Venice—but fell sleek and straight around her face today … complete with a single streak of shocking pink.
Amused, Riaz said, “Good call.”
Emani’s nod was regal. “Mr. Tanaka does keep things interesting.”
Kenji looked disgruntled. “How did you guess?”
“I have someone in your region.” Not even a hint of a smile, though Riaz knew her well enough to know she was tweaking Kenji’s nose. The woman was a killer poker player.
“Fleeced any innocents lately?” Riaz asked, recalling the soccer tickets she’d won off him and Pierce, the same serene expression on her face the entire game.
“I’m planning to do so in the next few minutes,” was the smooth response.
Laughing, he lifted the printout of the outline. “This,” he said, “is fine as far as the basics go, but we’d like to make some changes with regard to the details.”
Her surprise was concealed with such flawless ease, Riaz would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching for just such a reaction. “I’m listening,” she said in that calm, temperate voice.
Riaz nodded at Kenji, who began to go through SnowDancer’s list of requested amendments. Emani frowned at some of their stipulations but didn’t voice outright disagreement. Once Kenji had completed the run-through, she looked up from the copy on which she’d been making notes. “I’ll need to run this past our Conclave, but while we’ll certainly be coming back to you with our own changes, I don’t foresee any major problems.”
“Good.” Riaz folded his arms. “BlackSea realizes we’re already in alliance with DarkRiver and WindHaven?”
“Of course. We understand that should we agree to a full alliance, BlackSea would be expected to come to their aid when necessary.”
“And vice versa,” Kenji pointed out.
Emani gave a graceful nod. “As DarkRiver and WindHaven would effectively become our allies should SnowDancer and BlackSea come to an understanding, our Conclave would like to have a comm conversation with both Lucas Hunter, and Adam Garrett of the WindHaven falcons before we take the final step into an alliance.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” Riaz said. “We also have a request: a face-to-face meeting between Hawke and Miane.” He didn’t mention the fact the request was nonnegotiable, wanting to gauge how well BlackSea was willing to play with SnowDancer.
“I see.” A small pause.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a no?”
“On the contrary. We expected the request.”
“We’ll work with you to set it up then.” There was no use waiting, not when the entire alliance might hang on the reaction the two alphas had to one another.
“Very well.” Emani’s image swayed a little, then righted.
“Rough seas?”
“Nothing unusual.” Tapping at the comm controls on her desk, she looked at him and Kenji in turn. “While we are not yet allied, BlackSea would like to pass on some information in the spirit of cooperation.”
Not waiting for a verbal response, Emani split her screen. “Two days ago, three of our members found a ship dead in the water off the coast of Sardinia—well outside their territorial waters, however.” The empty half of the screen filled with the image of a sleek yacht that had to be at least one hundred feet long. Painted a gleaming black, it was shaped like a bullet, the windows tinted. “As per our own internal rules, they shifted into human form to render assistance.”
Riaz had no trouble believing her explanation. More than one stranded sailor or shipwrecked crew had been saved by those from BlackSea—the sea changelings might have been notoriously secretive, but they didn’t hesitate when it came to a question of saving lives.
“All seven of the people on board were Psy,” she continued. “They’d been dead long enough to cool, but rigor had not yet begun to set in.” Seven crime scene images appeared onscreen, replacing that of the yacht. “As you can see, they appear to have been executed.”
“Suggests a team with military training,” Kenji murmured before pausing and asking Emani to reorder the images a certain way. “No, not a team. Look at what I’d bet was the first kill—broken neck. The rest are all clean strikes with a laser weapon. Silent and efficient.”
“We agree. It appears the individual responsible for the executions took the weapon from the first victim and proceeded to use it to eliminate the others.”
And, Riaz thought, if the yacht had been found in the high seas, that pointed to the involvement of a second craft—no one but another water-based changeling could’ve swum to shore from that far out. In which case, BlackSea would’ve sunk the boat and its dead cargo in short order, no one the wiser.
“Our people,” Emani said, breaking into his thoughts, “had enough time before a Psy team located the boat that we were able to gather a significant amount of data. One of the things we discovered was this scrap of fabric.”
Riaz stared at the image of the ragged square, one half of it bearing an emblem of some kind. “I’ve seen that before.”
“Yes, very likely.” Emani input a command and the fragment re-formed into a whole.
Kenji hissed out a breath. “Son of a bitch.”
ADRIA had just finished having coffee with Tarah and was heading back to the office she’d been assigned down the corridor from Drew when Shawnelle ran up to her. With an exuberant personality and wild bronze curls to match, the athletic fifteen-year-old was incredibly sweet, a gentle maternal submissive.
“You didn’t forget?” the girl asked.
“No,” Adria reassured her. “I was about to get my camera—you want photos, right?”
A bright smile against skin the shade of polished teak. “Do you think anyone will want to see?”
“Don’t try that shy act on me,” Adria teased, tugging on one of Shawnie’s tight curls. “Walker’s put me onto your tricks.”
Shawnie giggled, protesting her innocence all the way to Adria’s office, where Adria grabbed a camera capable of taking holographic images as well as high-definition two-dimensional shots. “I’m all yours.”
Shawnelle led her quickly down the corridors, past all the busy sections, to a small room at the very back. Pushing through the door, she waved Adria in with excited motions.
Entering, Adria whistled. “You have a bunch of elves working for you?”
“The others helped,” Shawnie said. “Especially Becca and Ivy.”
Adria shook her head. The room had been four plain stone walls and a door when she’d assisted Shawnie make the request for a work space. The teen had been terrified of approaching Riley on her own, but she’d had the will. All Adria had had to do was provide moral support.
Now, the four walls were each painted a different colors from lime green to blood orange to aqua-blue and crisp white, the paint remnants no doubt left over from when the maternals had redone the common areas of the den. Vibrant and alive, it suited Shawnie. The faded carpet on the floor was clearly a discard from someone’s home, but it had been washed and dusted to within an inch of its life, its battered elegance imparting a warm coziness to the room.
Against one wall stood a long table on which were spread swatches of fabric, beside it a compact sewing machine, while there was a small curtained cubicle to the back. Walking to the cubicle, Shawnie whispered to the person on the other side—Ivy, from the scent—then glanced at Adria. “Ready?”
Adria held up the camera. “Set.”
Taking a deep breath, Shawnie pulled the curtain back with a theatrical flourish to reveal her friend dressed in a beautifully worked black jacket that nipped in at the waist before flaring out gently just above Ivy’s slender hips. It was detailed with funky beading on one shoulder—as if a colorful rain had fallen down the velvet of the jacket—and set atop a simple pair of blue jeans, strappy black heels completing the look.
Stunned by the beauty of Shawnie’s work, Adria didn’t say anything as Ivy held a number of poses to fully display the jacket. “Sweetheart, you’re a star.” She smiled at Ivy. “And you’re on the way to being on a catwalk.”
They both blushed, looking toward each other with huge smiles.
Adria snapped a photo, capturing the moment. “That one’s for you two.” Then she took a number of shots of Ivy displaying Shawnie’s creation for SnowDancer’s weekly newsletter.
“You really like it?” Shawnie asked afterward, her heart on her sleeve.
“I’d wear it if it was in my size,” Adria said honestly, conscious that nurturing the juvenile’s pride and self-confidence, while listed nowhere in her official mandate as Shawnie’s trainer, would flow into every other aspect of the girl’s life—including the defensive and aggressive moves Adria was teaching her.
