Authors: Elle Davis
Tags: #romance, #genetic modifications, #designer babies, #dna alteration, #fantasy 2015 new release
Copyright © 2015 Elle Davis
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Without my gift of color screening, I would never
suspect that the elderly gentleman walking beside me, his hand
cupped lightly over mine, was anything other than a British elite.
He introduces himself as Zane’s father, and although they don’t
look much alike, they both possess the same eerily polite formality
that hinges on a layer of volatile unpredictability. I want to
distance myself as much as possible, but I remember Lawrence said
direct physical contact enhances the ability to influence someone’s
energy. So, I cling to the inside of Harrington Senior’s arm, like
I did Zane’s, trying my best to raise his color screening above the
level of gray. Zane silently follows behind, allowing his father to
lead me down the long corridor that smells like an old musty
“Cataryn, I can’t tell you how pleased I am
with the Designers' cooperation. They performed beautifully this
morning, and as a result, I am in much better spirits than I was
last night,” Senior says, looking down at me as if I should care
what sort of mood he’s in—after all, gray is gray.
“Performed what beautifully…?” I ask
indulging him with a question I’m sure he’s dying to answer.
“You’re about to find out,” Zane interrupts,
stealing the thunder from his father’s confession. He maneuvers
around us gracefully, retaining his polished composure, and pauses
in front of a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
“Remember, we had a deal,” Zane says pointing a finger at his
“If my memory serves me, you’re the one who
can’t be trusted,” Mr. Harrington replies coolly, his eyes
narrowing. The gray energy field swirling around their bodies
expands until it fills the space between them, colliding into a
concentrated ball of particles as they silently struggle for power.
Their opposition to one another gives me a ray of hope. Zane may
not be as aligned with his father’s mission as I previously
thought. I slowly slide my hand from Mr. Harrington’s arm to stand
next to Zane. Something about the action sparks a shower of orange
particles around Zane and his hardened expression softens when he
looks down at me.
“Cat, after you,” he murmurs, swinging the
door open and stepping aside to let me pass through. He follows
closely, placing a hand on my lower back in a sort of possessive
manner that makes me automatically think of Ronan. I'm forced to
fight back tears and the urge to elbow Zane in the gut to displace
his unwanted touch. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the
past few weeks it's that loss of self-control in thoughts or
actions tends to impair only myself in the end, so I swallow the
urge, and allow him to guide me into a small auditorium. It takes a
few seconds for me to realize it's already occupied. There are a
group of men gathered in the center near the front, and Zane
acknowledges them with a mere nod of his head before steering us
toward the aisle on the far left. Aside from Zane, no one in the
room color screens above a blue, and I feel a heaviness wash over
me that is comparable to the sensation of experiencing positive
“Who are they?” I whisper.
“Mostly scientists and business associates,”
It's easy to spot the scientists and
businessmen: conservative suits with neck ties; wire-rimmed
glasses; wireless cellphone headsets hooked over one ear; and a
coffee cup in one hand. It’s the less formal group of six, already
seated near the exit door that makes me uneasy. They screen darker
than anyone else and seem to have a keen interest in me, staring
unabashedly as Zane leads me to my seat. When the exit door opens,
and two very large men step through taking a strategic position on
either side, the group's attention is diverted from Zane and me.
Although no words are exchanged, I sense that neither security
detail is pleased about the other’s presence in the room.
“And what about the men over there?” I nod
toward the six.
“They work for my dad,” he says bluntly.
“And the two by the door?” I don’t really
need to ask. It’s clear to me that although Zane and his father are
in on this together, there’s an internal strife that’s bad enough
that they both feel they need to bring protection.
“Quit asking questions! Sit—I’ll be right
back,” he mutters sharply. I take a seat in the front row and watch
as he strides toward the stage. The six men from the exit door
immediately join him there along with his father. Zane's blue aura
dissipates, adding to the gray that looks like a dense swarm of
locusts surrounding the group.
Love, amity, kindness,
silently propose, repeating the words in my mind over and over
again until I start to feel a distinct lightness, indicating I’m
primed to influence my adversaries. I can’t hear what they’re
saying, but I’m almost certain by the way they glance over at me
that I have a part in their discussion. Since I've been successful
influencing Zane, I make him my first practice target. Under my
mental suggestion, he obediently places his hand on his father’s
shoulder; an action that leaves them both looking bewildered. I can
only surmise by the hostility between them that it's been a long
time since they’ve shown any sort of affection toward each other,
if ever. Zane holds his hand there just long enough for the others
to take notice and when I retract the suggestion, he quickly shoves
his wayward hand in his pocket and slowly backs away looking
“Gentlemen, shall we get started?” Mr.
Harrington says, causing the group to disperse, including Zane who
declines the seat offered to him by one of his eager associates,
instead hurrying over and taking the seat next to me.
“At 3:11 Mountain Time a 7.9 magnitude
earthquake hit the North Dakota area near Williston,” Mr.
Harrington begins as the lights in the room dim and he points a
remote at the screen behind him. A live video feed displays images
of the scene, some barely discernible amidst the fire and smoke.
Occasional aerial shots offer the best vantage points of a torn up
landscape, and destruction of the pipeline as well as the existing
“What we know for sure is that the Keystone
pipeline was damaged in at least three different places, with the
most extensive damage occurring twenty miles south east of
Williston.” He freezes the video on an aerial view, and uses a pen
light to point out a large fracture in the earth’s surface. “Our
men are reporting six to eight foot troughs in the path of the
pipeline,” he says triumphantly, then spends the next forty-five
minutes praising the aftermath of an earthquake that not only
destroyed its intended target, but also claimed the life of
innocent citizens. He shows no remorse and neither do his
associates. A few even chuckle when a woman covered in blood is
filmed staggering through the streets, dazed, and calling out the
names of missing loved ones.
Lawrence, my telepathic mentor, says that I
was genetically designed with open pathways in my brain giving me
the gift to influence energy particles. So far, it’s proving to be
true. But he also said that the pathways would only stay open as
long as I maintained a higher vibrational energy state by harboring
a collection of good thoughts.
“Think of it like a blood vessel
with fast moving blood constantly passing through it. When that
blood slows down, it begins to clot, and over time it will clog the
artery completely—as will a low vibrational state,”
Thoughts influence vibrational states and right now, my thoughts
are consumed with hatred and revenge directed at the man standing
behind the podium. Every emotion associated with the kidnapping of
my parents and brother, blackmailing the Designers, and separation
from Ronan is like someone pouring lighter fluid on a smoldering
campfire. No matter how hard I try—I can’t redirect my thoughts to
anything other than the Harringtons and my own circumstances.
Within moments, I feel the effects of pure hatred spreading
throughout my body—a depressing lag in my own vibrational
resonance. Judging by the way Mr. Harrington is gloating over the
success of this first mission there will likely be more; maybe even
worse than today’s earthquake.
I have to stop them.
have to stop them for good,
I think desperately. I am helpless
to block the thoughts of violence that leech into my mind and I
begin to plot against the Harringtons like a hardened criminal.
Lawrence’s analogy of the blood vessel gives me an idea that takes
over a half hour to get up the courage to try. I had learned enough
from my parents to know that there are major arteries running up
the side of the neck to feed the brain, and constriction of only
one is enough to cause a massive stroke, even death. If my plan
works, no one will be the wiser. After all, old men die every day
from massive strokes, and some might even consider me a hero for
ridding the earth of a gray, I rationalize.
Like a river current, my energy particles
flow toward Mr. Harrington and dance around his gray aura like
snowflakes. I focus on his neck and visualize the artery narrowing;
slowly squeezing shut, and cutting off the blood flow to his brain.
My heart quickens when his speech starts to slur and he squints his
eyes as if trying to get a clear look at the crowd. Zane shifts in
his seat and watches his father with furrowed brows. I wonder if he
would even mourn the loss given the state of their relationship.
Images of my own parents flash unexpectedly through my mind. They
were healers; working endlessly to restore people’s health, even
caring for members of the drug cartel down in Mexico. I can’t help
but wonder what they would say if I ever got the chance to confess
my actions to them. Surely, they wouldn’t hold it against me,
considering everything he’s done to them.
I order, closing my eyes
and repeating the word silently, then reassuring myself once again,
that I’m doing the right thing. After all, with Mr. Harrington out
of the picture, it would be much easier to turn Zane
around—sacrifice one to save one. I have a crystal clear image of
the effected vessel in my mind now, and when he demonstrates
difficulty finishing his sentence, I know I’ve interrupted the
blood flow to his brain. Revenge never felt as good as it does now,
and I gaze up to get one last look at the man before he hits the
floor. That’s when I see it. The energy particles emanating from me
are no longer white and barely even yellow. In fact, they're
progressively getting darker right before my eyes; a consequence I
wasn’t expecting to happen immediately. I falter and lose focus,
giving Mr. Harrington time to recover. He resumes his speech as if
nothing’s happened and I gasp trying to catch my breath. Lawrence
was spot on with his prediction and had a few more seconds passed,
I not only would have been responsible for the death of Harrington
Senior but for my own demise as well, at least in an esoteric sort
of way. The realization of this truth leaves me disappointed but
relieved at the same time, and once my aura returns to white, I try
for a diversion of a different kind. Turning my attention to the
two men near the exit door, I block the calloused words of Mr.
Harrington out altogether.