Deathtrap (Crossbreed #3)(23)
“Give him up for adoption.”
Made sense. After all, the kid wasn’t even his. Maybe Patrick once had a thing for the kid’s mom, but that didn’t mean he was obligated to care for her children after she died. Then again, guys like Patrick loved that kind of shit.
Good PR.
“You make a valid point,” Patrick said, leaning to one side. “But it’s too late for that kind of thing now. He’s grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. I’ve had him since he was a wee baby. The house wouldn’t be the same without him. No, sometimes a man must put aside his selfish needs and rise to the occasion. Just as you did.”
Nice segue, Shepherd thought. He didn’t want praise or recognition for saving the kid. He was just doing his job. A kid falls, you catch him. Period.
Patrick pulled out a cigar. “Are you a smoking man? Feel free to light up. I don’t have rules about that kind of thing.”
Shepherd opted for one of his cigarettes instead. Rather than wasting a match, he stood up and lit it on one of the candles. The taste was heaven. He savored the first drag that removed the flavor of turtle soup from his palate. Eating those nasty little monsters wasn’t the highlight of his evening, but he’d had too much fun after seeing Raven’s horrified reaction to his liking it. She wasn’t normally the squeamish type, so he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
He sat down and propped his elbows on the table, tendrils of smoke climbing to the ceiling. Candles flickered between them, and his gaze distractedly dragged up to the painting on the wall to his right. He could hear Viktor’s words in his head. “Make small talk.”
Had this been anyone else, Shepherd would have asked him to turn on the fucking lights. Candlelight was a way of life in the Keystone mansion, but this house was wired from top to bottom.
“I want to offer you a favor of equal value. A life for a life,” Patrick began. “There’s only one caveat. I’m an important man, and you realize I can’t have you walk away with that kind of favor to keep in your pocket. Men change over time and sometimes abuse favors that were granted them.”
“What are you asking?”
Patrick puffed on his cigar and blew out a deformed ring. “I want to know your favor before you leave this room tonight.”
Shepherd felt a hot coal in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t need anything.”
Patrick tilted his head to the side, his narrow eyes brightening. “Oh, come now. Every man has a past bountiful with enemies. Not many have the opportunity to gain a favor from someone in my position; don’t be so quick to decline. I have a lot of connections.” He leaned forward and gave Shepherd a pointed stare. “I’m not taking your good deed lightly, and neither should you. Whatever you ask will stay between us.”
Shepherd took another drag and flicked the ashes onto his empty dessert plate. That was a lot to lay on a man.
“A life for a life,” Patrick repeated before he sat back in his chair. “Would you like more cake?”
Cake? Was this guy serious? Shepherd kept staring, and before too long, Patrick rose to his feet and approached him from the left.
He set down his glass in front of Shepherd and walked off. “Just in case you need some reassurance.”
Although most Sensors used their gifts to store experiences and sell them, Shepherd always wanted to be more than just someone who made a few bucks working sensory exchange for addicts. He got a high from playing detective with emotional imprints and deciphering complex emotions. It took years of practice, but he got real good with picking up trace amounts on objects that most Sensors would miss or not feel at all. He wasn’t hypersensitive, only hypertrained.
Shepherd’s cigarette stayed wedged between his lips as he cupped his hands around Patrick’s glass. A tiny flutter of emotions tickled his fingertips, and he allowed it to move through him.
Truth. Conviction. He didn’t pick up a hint of insincerity.
“I haven’t always been a man of class,” Patrick began, rounding the table and leaning against it as he studied the foxhunt painting. “I was born to a pauper and clawed my way out of poverty by the time I was a man of forty. And it wasn’t easy,” he said with a laugh. “It was years later before I was turned. Obviously I get a lot of stares from people, wondering why a man of my age was chosen, but my Creator was a visionary. In those days, Creators surrounded themselves with young men who were soldiers, but my Creator knew we were heading toward a more civilized world and leaders would be defined by the intelligent men who surrounded them, not the brave. A sharp intellect is deadlier than a sharp knife.” Patrick briskly turned and sat in his chair with a look of disgust. “What a shame that humans got ahold of him and cut off his head for treason against their mortal king. That kind of injustice would never happen now. Not just because of human laws, but because Breed finally organized a system to protect and punish our own kind. Just think of how many were lost in the witch hunts alone.”
Shepherd regarded him with a smile. “You’re running out of jail space.”
“Humans are in love with self-condemnation. They’re guilt stricken. We have better sense than that,” Patrick said, tapping his head. “The more laws you create, the more jail cells you need. We can’t afford to build more facilities for people who want to steal cars or do drugs. It’s hard enough to keep the prisons we do have off human radar, so you have to choose your battles. What you do is admirable, but you’re a smart fella. Do you really think we want them all returned alive?” He winked and set down his cigar.