Immortal Syn 2: Blood White Roses

By M.F. Smith

The newest player in the immortality game is a secret organization with an ancient design that can destroy humanity and nocturnals alike! The N.R.B. and the Syndicate are under attack by an invisible enemy that will stop at nothing to destroy them both! The President's plan to uncover the plot has been jeopardized from the beginning, and this is one battle no one can afford to lose. Thorne Templeton and the Regulators find themselves fighting on the same side as ImmSyn, the powerful drug cartel running Manna Moths and stolen life energy. Lives are lost and mysteries unravel as they rush toward the final, explosive showdown!

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Frances
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311371270

M.F. Smith

Haven't you heard? Death is the new red.

Book preview

Immortal Syn 2

Blood White Roses

By

M.F. Smith

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 M.F. Smith

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Dedicated To

Eric Beck, who bravely previewed my ImmSyn books and survived

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One - Cowboy

Chapter Two - Wind of Change

Chapter Three - Matters of Conscience

Chapter Four - Charity Begins At Home

Chapter Five - The Lion’s Pride

Chapter Six - Darkness Falling

Chapter Seven - Blood Red Moths

Chapter Eight - In the Beginning

Chapter Nine - The Olive Branch

Chapter Ten - Lion Heart

Chapter Eleven - In and Out of the Woodwork

Chapter Twelve - Convergence

Chapter Thirteen - Siege!

Chapter Fourteen - Deliverance

Chapter Fifteen - Parting of Ways

Epilogue - Requiem

Prologue

Thorne turned up the collar of his long black overcoat, shoved his hands deep into the pockets and looked around the glade with narrow eyes. The vine maples were entirely bereft of leaves, their delicate trunks and branches looking like bronchial traceries against a landscape made soft and expressionless by drifts of snow. He exhaled and watched his breath drift away, rising like the smoke that curled from the brick chimney of a millhouse huddling several hundred yards beyond where he stood.

Well? asked a familiar voice.

Well, what? he responded, without turning his head to look at the speaker.

Are you going over there?

Thorne inhaled deeply, wincing at the cold bite in his lungs. No.

You son of a bitch, remarked the voice. She’s crying, you know.

Thorne nodded at this. I know. Then he turned to face what he knew to be the specter of Valentino, a member of his elite team of Regulators, who had died tragically. We’re all crying. You put a whammy on this group, Valentino. I don’t know if we can take the hit.

The front door of the millhouse opened, orange firelight spilling onto the snow. A slender figure clad in a white gown was silhouetted in the frame, then the woman stepped into the snow and walked away from the house—unmindful of the biting cold.

She disappears every night since, well, you know. I don’t know where she goes, remarked Thorne, watching the lithe form melt away between the stark tree trunks.

Valentino’s dark eyes looked past Thorne, to the millhouse. You’ve got to keep it together, big guy. When I came into this thing, I didn’t believe in much anymore. You made me believe in the group, our group—the Regulators. Now you’ve got to make them believe again.

How do you propose I do that?

The Italian’s depthless eyes returned to Thorne and the large man shivered involuntarily. Since the ghost was only his memory of the dead Regulator, all Thorne saw in Valentino’s eyes was a specter of himself—and it wasn’t a healthy image.

Go back to the beginning, said Valentino simply. Go to the place where the lion sleeps.

Chapter One

Cowboy

The midnight blue Phantom growled as it rolled through the brittle December night, the wash of its headlight swallowed by hungry darkness as the motorcycle detoured from the main street into an alley in downtown Tacoma, Washington.

The tall, lanky male figure sitting astride the powerful bike resembled an enormous bat; his long overcoat flapping around his body, but if the winter wind chilled him, he gave no external sign. The helmet concealing the rider’s head protected his anonymity as well as concealing his expression.

Reid Kenyon maneuvered the glossy bike into a parking lot filled with cars and sport utility vehicles that tended to boast names like Lexus and Mercedes. He braked the Phantom, easing the bike between the front end of a row of cars and the wall of a well-lighted building. He cut the motor and the lights, pocketing the ignition key. Then he removed his helmet, his sable hair falling to his shoulders.

Laughter drew his eyes upward, to a closed window. The light from above cast his face in sharp relief, displaying hollows beneath his eyes and a ginger stubble on his face that bespoke a recent disregard for daily shaving. The fever burning in his hazel eyes bode ill will for anyone unlucky enough to be enjoying a night at the Union Station Gentleman’s Club.

Kenyon watched a pair of middle-aged men leave the club through double oak doors, one door held open for them by a brawny woman who obviously spent more time at the gym than at the gentleman’s club.

The businessmen failed to notice the man sitting on the motorcycle. They moved lethargically, speaking too loudly and finding humor in mundane remarks. Another man exited the building, hurrying after the first two, cautioning them to wait for him while he retrieved their car. This man was not inebriated or, if he was, not as obviously as his companions.

Designated driver, Kenyon thought as his attention returned to the club’s doors.

The woman who tended the door was easily six feet tall. Where it was visible above the collar of her overcoat, her neck was thick and corded with muscle. The coat concealed her muscles, but its very width and the way it almost seemed stretched across her back and chest suggested considerable mass beneath. The legs, encased by knit pants, gave away the nature of the bulk, that it was all muscle, without an ounce of fat.

The New Age Valkyrie ignored the arctic breeze that teased her blonde curls, surveying the street and the parking lot with supreme confidence, failing to note Kenyon’s presence. Satisfied with the state of her small portion of the world, the doorperson returned inside.

An engine coughed to life across the lot and lights suddenly bathed the cars blocking him from the lot, the light penetrating tinted glass and illuminating the Regulator. He remained motionless as the car idled toward his hiding place, then slowly turned and rolled out of the lot.

Nothing about Kenyon’s aspect indicated that he was concerned about being discovered. He swung a leg over the bike, dismounting, then opened one of the dual saddlebags. Reaching inside, he pulled out a particularly lethal looking, light-modified SIG. Although renowned for his sniper expertise, Kenyon was no slouch when it came to handguns. He checked the action then slipped the weapon into a holster that hung inside the folds of his coat.

Into a pocket on the opposite side he dropped several light-and-concussion grenades. He didn’t expect enormous resistance, from the intelligence he’d gathered the gentleman’s club was merely a stylish front for an expensive moth brothel—but where there was such an obviously professional set-up there could be Syndicate backing.

He walked out across the parking lot so that he didn’t approach the front door from the direction of his parked bike. Gathering his coat closely to him and hunching slightly as though trying to avoid the cold, he hurried toward the front door. As expected, the door opened before he reached it, meaning that either the doorperson had vision that could penetrate solid wood, or there were cameras monitoring the front entrance.

He kept his head down, assuming it was the latter of the two possibilities, and not wishing his face to give away his intent. He didn’t know if he would be recognized, but he also didn’t believe in taking avoidable risks

Thanks, he said breathlessly to the bulky woman as he rushed into the entry vestibule. Quite a night? He shook his coat back on his shoulders, straightening and only facing the woman when the door closed behind her, shielding them from street view.

Quite a night, she agreed, eyeing him suspiciously. What is your membership number, sir?

Sixty-nine, he said, then grinned broadly when she wasn’t amused. Sorry, bad joke.

"Old joke, she clarified. May I see your card?"

Kenyon made a show of patting his pockets. I must have left it in my other coat, he apologized.

You’ll have to leave—now, her cold demeanor assured him of physical retribution if he failed to follow her order.

She reached for the door handle, but Kenyon grabbed her nearer wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Without finesse, for he felt the woman’s outraged muscles flex to rid herself of him, he threw his full weight against her, driving her face into the unyielding door. The oak creaked, or it might have been the bones of her face, and she collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

One side of the vestibule was taken up by a tall podium upon which sat a monitoring screen that displayed a view of the front entrance, as Kenyon suspected. A tall stool stood just behind the podium. Kenyon dragged the large woman behind the podium, arranging her in a sitting position on the floor so that she was not immediately visible to anyone entering the vestibule.

He straightened his coat, took a deep breath, then pushed open the inner doors and entered the club lobby. The few men and women chatting and laughing as they crossed the lobby on their way to various sources of entertainment, did not give him a second glance. Apparently, if you got past the imposing woman at the door it was taken for granted that she had admitted you and you belonged.

Sir? a sweet voice drew his attention to his left. A petite woman wearing a satin top and panties that resembled a tuxedo smiled at him from behind a polished counter. May I check your coat?

For what? he asked, smiling suggestively.

She giggled attractively. I meant, may I take your coat?

Kenyon wandered over to the coat-check room. If you don’t think I’m being too forward, may I say that my coat would not compliment your fetching ensemble?

Again, she laughed. You’re new here, aren’t you?

Not entirely, he replied, leaning on the counter. Are you old enough to work here?

Her mocha complexion pinked slightly at his question. Yes, I’m old enough. You must be new; everyone here knows me and I’d remember you, she remarked, obviously intending this as a compliment.

Kenyon glanced over his shoulder into the subdued lighting of a room glassed-off from the opulent foyer. Beyond the smoked glass he could see voluptuous women in evening gowns lounging on couches or sharing drinks with men of varying ages, all dressed as though they had just come from an evening at the opera. Their flirtatious laughter barely found voice beyond the glass. Then he looked down at his ankle-length duster and grinned.

I suppose I stand out, he apologized.

I don’t mind, she told him, giving the people beyond the glass a disapproving glance. They think people like me are beneath them just because they can afford clothes with names they can’t pronounce sewn into them. Her frown failed to detract from her aesthetically pleasing features.

Why don’t you quit? he asked. You don’t deserve to be treated poorly.

Well. She grinned ruefully. I’m taking classes during the day, and the pay is pretty decent. She shrugged her slim, dark shoulders. I suppose I’m tough enough to take it until I graduate.

Kenyon leaned forward conspiratorially. Can I tell you a secret?

Her lively dark eyes twinkled. Sure.

This place is shutting down.

It is?

He nodded solemnly. For renovation.

The young woman looked around the Art Deco foyer. They didn’t mention it to me. How do you know?

Kenyon opened the left side of his duster and the gold badge winked at the woman. I’m the interior designer. Then he opened the right side so that she caught a glimpse of the arsenal he carried and her delicate jaw dropped. Why don’t you drop off your resignation? I can think of better, healthier places to work than this one.

Nocturnal Regulation Bureau? You mean they’re—? She looked past him, into the ostentatious lounge.

Unregistered nocs, yeah, Kenyon confirmed her assessment. And not the nice kind, if you know what I mean. He jerked his head toward the front door. Take off darlin’, find yourself a job where they treat you right.

Y—yeah, okay, she stammered in agreement, grabbing her jacket and purse from underneath the counter and taking two steps toward the exit, then stopping. Turning suddenly, she made her way into the depths of the coatroom. Kenyon didn’t have time to ask what she was doing before she emerged from the shadow clad in a sumptuous, Zang Toi floor length coat. She noticed Kenyon’s appraisal and gave him a shrug. Severance pay.

He grinned widely, liking her. If you’re going, now would be a good time, he told her as he turned away, pulling a light-and-concussion grenade from an inner pocket and pulling its pin, keeping his thumb on the trigger so that it would not count down to detonation until he required its services.

The girl nodded and hurried to the exit, but she paused in the doorway. Hey cowboy, she called back. Kenyon turned to her. What’s your name?

He smiled. Reid Kenyon, ma’am.

She nodded thoughtfully. Maybe I’ll see you around, Sheriff. And she winked playfully before running out the door.

For a fleeting moment the idea of following her tripped through the agent’s mind then laughter from the other room drew his attention back to the reason why he had come to this building. He strode across the carpeted foyer, planted a foot against the meeting place of the twin etched-glass doors and shoved hard enough to slam them open, shattering one panel. The elegant people inside the lounge froze in whatever they were doing, fixing him with startled stares.

He opened his coat, flashing the badge. FDA, he informed them. Nocturnal Regulation Bureau. This speakeasy is shut down and its proprietors are under arrest.

A portly man with a flushed face slowly rose to his feet, facing Kenyon. And you would be?

Agent Kenyon. You are?

Samuel Parsons, I am a member of the Board of Directors who established this gentleman’s club and I can assure you this is no—what did you call it?

"Let me assure you that I wouldn’t be here unless there was enough information to put your entire board behind light."

Really, Agent, the man laughed. Are you suggesting that I, or any of my board members, are nocs? And he burst into deep, rolling gales of laughter, looking around at the people in the lounge, encouraging them to laugh along.

Kenyon smiled wolfishly. Sir, you are under arrest for operating an illegal moth speakeasy. Please keep your hands in sight and place them on the bar.

Surely you’re kidding, Agent, the man drawled. I mean, what evidence do you have?

Kenyon glanced aside for a split second, locating a tall blue glass held by a svelte blonde. He reached out with deliberate sloth, extended his right index finger and dipped it into the contents of the glass. When he retrieved his finger and held it up toward the portly man, everyone could see that it was coated with a thick, iridescent substance.

You can’t possibly have anything against us partaking in a few drinks?

Kenyon brought the finger close to his face, then opened his mouth and popped his finger in, slowly sucking the substance from his finger before drawing it out, clean. He swallowed and blinked once at the man.

I might have a problem if the energy in these glasses isn’t accompanied by the appropriate government requisition forms. The portly man nodded at this, as though impressed by Kenyon’s action.

At that moment the blonde door person staggered in. He’s alone, she snarled, nursing facial wounds that indicated she, at least, was human.

The portly man waved a hand in dismissal as he sat down. Kill him, he casually ordered.

Kenyon seemed to realize he was surrounded and stepped back. I did mention that you’re all under arrest, didn’t I? En masse, the nocturnals slowly turned on him, circling. I’m sensing a definite lack of respect for the law, he remarked. He raised the hand holding the grenade and the nocturnals stopped advancing. Now, if you wouldn’t mind forming two lines? Ladies on the left, gentlemen on the right.

This is a private club, Agent, the portly man commented. You’re about to find out what happens to trespassers.

Are we forgetting my guest pass? asked Kenyon, waggling the grenade. A lithe redhead leapt past him in a blur of superior noc speed, twisting his hand as she passed and snatching away the grenade when he reflexively released it. Bitch! he exclaimed in minor pain, examining the condition of his wrist. The noc woman smiled coyly at him, pressing her thumb over the grenade pin.

The portly man passed an energy tumbler to a shapely, chestnut-maned woman. Fill this for me, my dear? he asked. From him. He indicated Kenyon.

The woman accepted the heavy glass from him and slowly crossed the room, her hips swaying provocatively beneath the almost sheer material of her white dress. She stopped barely five inches from Kenyon, having to raise her face to look up into his eyes. There was a shadow of amusement on her classic features, and a smile explored the edges of her sensuous mouth.

Ordering another person to kill a Federal Agent carries a minimum penalty of light imprisonment for a hundred years without the possibility of parole, she cited, tilting her head. And a maximum penalty of death by lethal exposure.

Don’t worry your lovely head about that, the portly man assured her.

I’m not, she replied, turning to face him. I was simply informing you of the charges you’ll be facing. The smile that finally found her lips was born of cold, not warmth. F.D.A., Nocturnal Regulation Bureau. A moth landed in her hair, fluttering.

The tableau held for another second while the nocturnals assessed this betrayal, then several of them leapt for the two humans. Rhiannon and Kenyon were diving in opposite directions at the same moment, drawing weapons and firing as they rose. A pair of nocs collapsed with perfect holes burned bloodlessly through their chests. Glasses were abandoned at tables as the human patrons scrambled for the exits while the nocs sought cover from the lethal light fire, or reached for weapons equally lethal to humans.

The portly man pulled out an automatic handgun, leveling it at Rhiannon’s sleek coiffure. Regulator bitch, he snarled.

Before he pulled the trigger his head was bathed in brilliant light and when the light faded, his head was gone. The corpse toppled to the carpeted floor and Rhiannon looked beyond it, to where Agent Fitzpatrick was already grappling with another nocturnal. A noc woman shrieked, diving atop the female agent, rolling over and over with her as she sought to touch her skin in order to draw the life energy from the agent.

Kenyon turned from the debris of noc bodies at his feet. Rhi! he shouted a warning, seeing that the noc with whom she wrestled was the one who had taken his grenade. A noc stabbed at him with an energy tumbler, but was smashed in the face with it, Kenyon then tossed aside the glass and metal fragments.

He was running toward the agent who pushed away from the nocturnal and slowly rose, while the noc examined the floor around them rather than continuing her attack. Kenyon saw that the noc’s hands were empty and realized she’d lost the grenade. Beyond Rhiannon, Fitzpatrick decked a human thug and was turning to the other agents when Kenyon impacted solidly with Rhiannon, carrying her backward to collide with the nocturnal agent.

Grenade! he shouted in explanation as the three of them tumbled over a decorative divan, tipping it over them as they hit the floor.

At that same instant, the grenade exploded with light and concussion waves and several humans shouted in pain while many noc voices that began in like pain, ended with abrupt silence. For several moments there was no movement in the room except for the few humans who had remained to fight, rolling and moaning on the floor, stunned. Several figures rushed through the open glass doors, weapons ready, spreading out in the room to search for survivors to arrest. Thorne Templeton stalked through the misty residue