I don’t get caught out very often, and when I do I end up beaten and humiliated. The beatings don’t faze me; it’s the humiliation that gets to me.

‘Ms Kane, I presume?’ The stunning Chinese woman before me bent over to get a better look at my bloody, bruised face. ‘You have something that belongs to me.’

‘Call me Theo, won’t you? It’s so much friendlier.’

One of the men pinning me to my apartment floor slapped me across the back of my head, giving me a mouthful of carpet to shut my big mouth with. ‘Show some respect to Miss Lee,’ he growled.

‘It’s alright, Hui,’ Xiang Lee told him, flashing me a heart melting smile. ‘Ms Kane will learn respect before tonight is over.’ She rose, smoothing the folds of her green silk dress down. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ she added casually, like we were at a cocktail party. ‘You must be very good at your job.’

I said nothing. Silence is the better part of not getting your neck broken. Just because I wouldn’t feel it, didn’t mean I’d be any less dead. I watched Xiang glide around the lounge, stroking statuettes and crystal vases.

‘Except you can’t be that good, or I wouldn’t have tracked you down, would I?’ Her almond eyes narrowed. It was the first trace of anger she’d shown all night. She’d watched impassively while her goons kicked seven shades out of me, but the thought that I might not be the consummate cat burglar bothered her. ‘You were in my building two nights ago. You disabled the infrared and the CCTV, but you missed the camera hidden in the safe. Careless, Ms Kane, very careless.’ She shook her head, fine black hair brushing her bare shoulders.

It was careless of me. I’d assumed taking out the main CCTV would disable any back-up cameras, but Xiang obviously had two separate systems. Something I’d failed to notice. Another humiliation. How mortifying.

‘You took a marble statuette of the Virgin Mary from the safe. I don’t see it on display here.’ She gestured around the lounge, putting on a sweetly puzzled expression that didn’t match her eyes. ‘So where is it?’

It wouldn’t benefit me to lie to her, so I didn’t. ‘It was a requested piece. Most of my jobs are. I passed it on to the client the same night I stole it.’ I didn’t actually keep any stolen objects in my apartment. The proceeds of crime may have furnished it, but everything within these walls was honestly bought.

‘Hui, please hit Ms Kane. Hard.’

Hui obeyed his boss with pleasure. My head spun and I tasted blood where his sovereign ring connected with my mouth. Xiang smiled. I wondered if she’d smile so prettily if she knew the blows were wasted. Hui could cut me open and bleed me dry and I’d never feel it.

‘Who was your client, Ms Kane?’ Xiang asked. ‘Keep in mind that Hui and Leo will happily beat the answer out of you.’

Hui and Leo had been beating me from the second they stepped inside the room. They couldn’t make me feel pain, but they could still break my legs. Ordinarily I might take my chances, but Xiang Lee was head of the most powerful crime syndicate in San Francisco. I didn’t want her as an enemy and I didn’t owe my client any loyalty now the job was over.

‘Gregory Winston.’ I spat blood as I spoke; the salty taste a reminder that my body had been damaged. Sometimes I needed those little nudges.

‘I’ve never heard of him.’ Xiang frowned, as if holding me personally responsible for her ignorance. ‘Who does he work for? Who’s he affiliated with?’

I’d asked Winston the same questions when he came to me two months ago. I screen my clients very carefully; never knowing which one might be a cop out to trap me. ‘He works for a small communications company called FutureChild.’

Xiang stared at me, approval in her dark eyes. ‘Let her up,’ she ordered her boys. They released me promptly. So well-trained.

I stood, wiping my mouth. On my feet, I was a little taller than Xiang, though dwarfed by her goons. It’s funny how little things can make you feel so much better about life. I was taller than Xiang Lee, so suddenly the night looked brighter.

‘Do you know anything about FutureChild, Ms Kane?’ she asked me, settling herself on my black leather sofa.

I shrugged. ‘Not really. I’d never heard of them before Winston approached me.’ I could feel something big and nasty building up, like a storm about to break. ‘I checked them out a little to make sure this wasn’t a sting operation, but that was all.’

‘FutureChild are owned by Daniel Jean-Baptiste. Does the name mean anything to you?’ she persisted.

I hesitated. Of course I’d heard of Daniel Jean-Baptiste. Who hadn’t? He was a media darling: handsome, rich, generous and far too clever. He was involved with several charitable organisations, but I’d never heard his name in connection with the communications industry. ‘I know the name,’ I said.

‘Did you know Jean-Baptiste funds research into the Launen?’ She leaned towards me, checking my reactions. ‘Did you know he believes they are little more than genetic aberrations that should be destroyed at birth?’

‘No. I didn’t know that.’ The news surprised me. I’d seen pictures of the man cradling orphaned African children, kissing the cheeks of breast cancer patients. That he might be prejudiced against the Launen, the freaks, seemed just wrong. But then … ‘So what? It’s a common attitude.’

She leaned back, stretching her slender arms along the back of the sofa. ‘Leo, find me some brandy,’ she ordered one of her goons.

‘There’s some in the cabinet by the window,’ I put in, wincing at the thought of bull-like Leo putting his hands all over my possessions in his search for alcohol. He hurried to the cabinet. Xiang patted the sofa invitingly. I sat down cautiously.

‘Rumour has it that the government is considering granting the Launen some kind of amnesty rights, to protect them from hate crimes,’ she informed me. ‘It’s not a popular move amongst those who’ve been on the wrong end of a Launen’s bad temper and people are already protesting.’ Leo handed her a crystal snifter of brandy, which she sipped delicately. ‘A year ago one of my sources presented me with information that lead me to believe Jean-Baptiste had a company developing weaponry that targeted the Launen specifically. A neural wave disrupter – in the prototype stages, really.’

I listened, fascinated. Neural technology was banned in the United States – too unethical, too dangerous, and – for some people – too similar to the powers of the Launen. ‘You stole a prototype,’ I guessed.

‘I had the blueprints and the prototype acquired and made sure the prototype was destroyed,’ she confirmed. ‘It was a small project for obvious reasons. The scientist working on the project unfortunately died the same night the blueprints were stolen.’

I decided not to question the unfortunate death of the scientist. ‘What does this have to do with the Virgin statue?’

‘The statue contained a computer chip. The computer chip contained the blueprints. The blueprints are now back in the hands of Daniel Jean-Baptiste.’ Xiang threw her glass across the room. It shattered against the wall, making me jump. I watched brandy and crystal shards slither down to the carpet, a thread of fear worming its way through me at the sudden, unexpected rage in her tone.

She stood, gesturing to her goons. They grabbed me, hauling me to my feet again and slamming me against the wall so hard I couldn’t breathe. She wound her fingers through my hair, tugging on it hard. ‘Jean-Baptiste cannot develop this weapon, Ms Kane. I cannot stress that enough. And since you stole the blueprints from me, you will recover them for me. Do you understand?’

I nodded as best I could.

‘Excellent.’ She released me. ‘You have a week. I understand that a professional like yourself needs time to prepare for a job and I think a week is quite adequate. If you have not returned the blueprints to me in seven days, I will have you killed.’ She patted my cheek affectionately, smiling that sweet smile again. ‘Do we have a deal, Theo?’

I thought I preferred Ms Kane after all. ‘We have a deal, Miss Lee.’ Like there was any other choice.

*****

I’ve found my mind works best when my body is distracted, so after Xiang and her boys had left, I dyed my hair. My natural mousy blonde colour was hidden under years worth of purple-black, a shade called Midnight Violet. Not the obvious choice for someone whose life requires secrecy and the ability to fade into the background, I know, but I always wanted purple hair.

I sat on the edge of the bathtub, working the dye through my hair and letting my mind wander. What did Xiang Lee care if the Launen had equal rights and amnesty? Would it affect her if this neural wave disrupter made it onto the market? Not that I could see. What was her stake in all of this?

From my bathroom window I could see across town to the Launen ghettos. A shantytown on the edge of the city, where the telepaths, empaths and other freaks could live in relative peace. I say relative, because every so often some regular human with a grudge or a phobia would go down there with a knife or a gun and someone would die. I’ll admit it’s hard not to be scared of the Launen. It’s hard not to be scared of people who know your every thought before you can finish thinking it, know your every emotion before you have time to feel it.

People who can rip your worst nightmares out of your head and shove them back down your throat don’t make for good neighbours.

I understood why people hated the Launen. I had been a promising ballerina as a child. My parents weren’t rich, but they scrimped and saved to send me to the best dance academy in Los Angeles. One night as I was leaving my class, a telekinetic Launen broke both my legs with a thought, just because I was a Reg, a regular and he wasn’t. I was ten years old; I didn’t know anything about the division between Us and Them then. I wasn’t a threat to him. There was no reason for him to hurt me that way.

As it worked out, it was the last time anyone ever hurt me. I was rushed to the emergency room and given an experimental anaesthetic, hot out of the labs. It killed my nerve endings. The part of my brain that registers pain just doesn’t work.

If you think that’s actually pretty cool, imagine stepping in broken glass and not realising you’ve cut yourself until you see the blood on the carpet. Imagine walking around with a broken wrist for two weeks before someone points out that your arm looks a little weird. Not so hot.

While I waited for the dye to soak in, I went and sat in my office, flipping through my Rolodex to find Gregory Winston’s card. I recalled his twitching fingers as he’d given it to me, remembered the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Most of my clients were nervous – there’s something about hiring a cat burglar that just makes people jumpy – but I remembered Winston as especially fidgety. Scared, almost.

I dialled his number, rubbing my lips absently. They felt swollen from Hui and Leo’s administrations. I’d be bruised in the morning. Of course, if I didn’t find Xiang’s Virgin statuette, I’d be dead in a week, so what were a few bruises?

Winston answered almost at once, his clipped oh-so-professional tones sounding pleasant and assured. No trace of nerves. ‘Winston residence.’

‘Good evening, Mr Winston. This is Theo Kane. I trust you remember me.’

Silence. I could hear his television in the background, fuzzy cheers and roars suggesting a football game in full swing.

‘Mr Winston?’ I prompted. ‘Are you there?'

‘What do you want?’ he snapped. Ah, there were the nerves. Tension stretched through his words like a too-tight guitar string. A pluck too far and he’d snap. ‘I paid you! There’s absolutely no reason for you to be calling me!’

‘Actually, it turns out we have a little unfinished business,’ I said, rising from my seat to go examine my hair in the hallway mirror. I’d managed to smear dye on my forehead and I rubbed at it as I spoke. ‘I need to ask you a few questions about the item I acquired for you.’ A set of beautiful bruises was blooming on my lip and jaw. They’d match my hair perfectly

‘I don’t have it anymore,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I passed it on. It’s not –‘

‘I’m well aware of that,’ I cut in, turning my attention to my nails. I needed a manicure. ‘Look, Mr Winston, I really don’t think we should have this conversation over the phone, do you? We should meet somewhere. I only need fifteen minutes of your time.’

‘For what?’

Talk about blood from a stone. ‘Mr Winston,’ I said as sweetly as I could manage. ‘I may very well be dead in a week without your co-operation. If I turn up dead, the cops investigating will find that you were the last person I contacted. It won’t look very good – especially when my illegal operations come to light and it turns out you were also the last person I did a job for.'

He inhaled sharply. ‘Are you threatening me?’

I considered it. ‘I suppose so, technically. Now, I can meet you in two hours at the Devil’s Brew. You know where that is?’

‘I’ve never been inside the place,’ he sniffed, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice.

‘Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative, Mr Winston. The Devil’s Brew, two hours.’ I hung up before he could protest and went to polish my nails.

*****

The Devil’s Brew straddled the border between city and ghetto, between Regs and Launen. It was as badly lit and overcrowded as ever. I did a lot of business meetings there, because the clientele were often too drunk or stoned to remember anything. And those that did remember me were drug-dealers and pimps, who were hardly likely to report me for criminal activity. You could conduct your shady dealings in privacy.

Winston was loitering nervously in the doorway, watching a hooker proposition a white-eyed Launen. ‘Kane,’ he greeted me, sidling over. ‘What the hell is this place?’

‘Good evening, Mr Winston,’ I said, my brightest professional smile in place. ‘You should have waited inside, you would have been more comfortable.’ I stepped into the pool of yellow light spilling from the doorway.

Winston frowned at me, scanning my face so brazenly I would have thought he was about to proposition me, if not for the unpleasant twist to his lips. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘It’s so rare to meet a gentleman these days.’ I entered the Devil’s Brew, letting him trail behind me. The wash of light and noise was reassuring; the smells of cheap beer and weed reminded me of the old days, before I could afford my plush apartment and expensive hair dye. It’s always good to remember your roots, so to speak.

I touched a hand to my lip, feeling the flesh swollen and warm. I’d applied a fair amount of make-up to my bruises before I left, but there was only so much concealer could do. I went to the bar and ordered two glasses of Serpent, a thick cerulean liquor that was illegal in most states.

‘Someone beat you up, didn’t they?’ Winston hissed in my ear. ‘Shit, Kane, I don’t want to get involved in this! I can’t!’

I handed him his glass and directed him to a quiet table in the corner. ‘You’re already involved,’ I pointed out. ‘You hired me in the first place, remember?’

‘And I paid you!’ He sniffed his Serpent suspiciously. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘Serpent. It’s imported from China, I think.’ I sipped at the buttery liquid, shivering at the warm trail it blazed down my throat. ‘I’ll be blunt, Mr Winston. Someone has instructed me to recover the statuette I supplied to you.’ I touched my split lip again. ‘It’s in my best interests to get them what they want, and for that I need you to tell me where the statuette is now.’

He took a swig of his drink and began coughing violently. ‘I … don’t … have … it,’ he sputtered, eyes glazing over.

‘I’m sure you don’t.’ I wondered if he knew about Xiang’s precious computer chip, decided he didn’t. He was a disposable, expedient go-to-guy. Jean-Baptiste had probably given him the bare minimum of the details needed to contract me and sent him on his way again. ‘I’m equally sure you know where it is now.’

He wiped his streaming eyes on his royal blue tie. Sheer class. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Please don’t lie to me,’ I chided. ‘It’s an awful thing, lying to a lady.’

He laughed at this and took another, gentler sip of Serpent. ‘Look, I just do as I’m told, okay? My boss gives the orders, I make them happen. I don’t know where the damn statuette is now.’ He glanced around, his eyes rolling over the assorted hookers and drug-dealers around him. One or two Launen, distinguished by their white eyes and ragged clothes, sauntered amongst the normals, who drifted nervously away from them. ‘Can I go now?’

‘No.’ I clamped my hand over his before he could rise. The motion startled him visibly. Sure, he outweighed me by about one hundred pounds, but he was skittish and uncertain, whereas I was supremely confident.

Confident that I didn’t want to die at any rate. And if that meant a little bullying, my conscience could stand it. I leaned in towards him, lowering my voice to a husky whisper. ‘I know you work for Daniel Jean-Baptiste, Winston. I know that’s who you gave the statuette to. All I need to know is where he keeps it. Just that tiny piece of information, and you can walk out of here safely. If you refuse to co-operate…’ I looked suggestively towards the white-eyed Launen women at the bar.

It was an empty threat; no way I could get a Launen to hold a door open for me, let alone anything else. But he didn’t know that. He swallowed loudly and went for another swig of Serpent. ‘You wouldn’t set them on me.’

I simply smiled.

He wiped his sweating forehead, again with his tie. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m innocent here, okay? I don’t know –‘

‘Do you know where Jean-Baptiste keeps the damn statuette?’ I cut in, digging my nails into his wrist a little. ‘His home? His office? Safe? FutureChild headquarters? Where?’

‘His place in Santa Cruz,’ he said, eyes flickering towards the Launen again. ‘I swear that’s the truth, Kane. Now let me go!’

I held on a minute longer, then released him and took a casual sip of my drink. ‘If I find out you’ve told Jean-Baptiste about this meeting, I will make your life difficult,’ I informed him, letting my gaze linger on the Launen. She noticed my attention this time and smiled, one hand raised to display the tattoo on her palm. A heart, symbol of the empaths. I didn’t respond, focusing on Winston again instead.

‘I won’t say a word if you just stay out of my life!’ He finished his drink, setting the glass down with shaking hands. ‘I never wanted to get mixed up in this shady shit.’ He slid out of the bar, head down, eyes fixed on the filthy, sticky floor. Trying to attract as little attention as possible.

Chances were good he would contact Jean-Baptiste immediately; unless he was more afraid of the Launen then he was his boss. As he passed the empath woman, she reached out and brushed his cheek with long, graceful fingers. He shrieked and bolted for the door to a chorus of jeers and laughter.

I was probably safe, if I acted quickly.

As I left, the empath Launen smiled at me, wrapping a wave of warm, inviting emotion around me. I shuddered and fought it off, stepping into the cold darkness where she couldn’t reach me. The empaths shook me up more than any other kind of Launen. A telepath might get into your thoughts, but he couldn’t change them. An empath could twist you to their will with ease, drowning you in whatever emotion they decided to push on you: lust, despair, fury.

Besides, we were too alike. I was a girl, she was a girl … It would never work out.

*****

Two nights later I was driving a rented pickup truck through Santa Cruz. Even if I owned a car of my own, it would be stupid to use it on jobs. When I retired and didn’t have to worry about cops tracking me down, I was going to buy a Pontiac Firebird and spend my old age driving across America and acting disgracefully. Until then I made do with rusty rentals.

Before the 2001 Act that forced them into controlled ghettos, Santa Cruz was a hotbed for the Launen. After the Act, it was cleaned up and only a few pockets remained. If Daniel Jean-Baptiste really was as anti-Launen as Xiang had said, it made Santa Cruz an interesting choice for a holiday home. The area was steeped in Launen culture still and the Regs tended to be more tolerant of them than elsewhere.

I checked the address I’d found for Jean-Baptiste once more and turned right into a cul-de-sac. The street lamps glowed with cool, bright light, but the houses were all in darkness. I’d called in a few favours to discover Jean-Baptiste was attending a charity function tonight, but I had no idea when he was due back. I’d given myself a small window of time to do this in, afraid of being caught short. I pulled up outside his house and pulled my equipment bag up into my lap to check the contents.

Lock picks, tension wrench, latex gloves, a mini-laser for glass cutting, a can of deodorant for catching infrared alarms. Yeah, old-fashioned, I know. But it still works. A few other little bits and pieces, all tucked and folded neatly away in the small leather bag. I fastened it round my waist and headed for the house.

It was a small place, which made things easier. The first time I’d stolen this stupid Virgin statuette, I’d had to chloroform two cleaners and disable two separate CCTV systems. I was guessing Jean-Baptiste had outdoor CCTV, but hopefully none inside. I paused at the edge of the lawn.

Yes, there it was. The soft, intermittent red flash of a camera. It was positioned over the porch, turning slowly from left to right. I waited, counting under my breath as it made a few sweeps of the yard. Ten seconds to move from left to right. Not much, but enough that I could be under the porch and out of the camera’s eye before it caught me. Oh yeah, the old-fashioned methods work best. I darted across the well-manicured lawn.

The lock was as old-fashioned as my beat-the-camera strategy. A deadbolt. My God, when was this place built? I drew out my lock picks and tension wrench and got to work. In movies you always see enterprising villains picking locks with hairpins and paperclips. Personally I’ve never achieved that. Even the most basic lock is complicated; a series of tumblers and pins that really are only supposed to be opened with keys.

I slid the wrench into the keyhole, turning it like it was a key, until the metal frame was slightly offset from the door itself. Keeping the pressure on the metal, I began inserting my picks to lift the pins. A soft click was my reward as the pins fell into position. It took a few minutes, but finally the pins were all in the right place and I was inside.

I wiped a sweaty strand of hair from my forehead and took a few seconds to contemplate my next move. If I were hiding a statuette of the Virgin Mary with a computer chip inside it, where would I put it? An office or study was usually the best bet – that was where people tended to keep their safes.

As I contemplated this, I scanned the hall automatically for signs of more cameras. I didn’t find any and I wasn’t really expecting to. Rumour had it that whilst FutureChild had one of the best security systems on the planet, Jean-Baptiste took a more relaxed attitude to home security. I wasn’t about to complain, but it was unusual for a rich man to neglect these things.

I padded through the house, absently admiring the tasteful décor. Part of me itched to take my time and explore thoroughly. I wanted to see if the lounge had as many elegant antiques as the hall. I wanted to double check the Van Gogh by the stairs and see if it was real.

I resisted the urge, reminding myself I was on a strict schedule. I peered round doors, scanned the rooms quickly and closed the doors again. A study or an office, I told myself sternly. No time to properly case the joint.

Whatever else he was, Daniel Jean-Baptiste was not creative. I found his safe behind a fake Picasso in a plush office. Safes work fine up to a point, but fundamentally they all have to be accessible to a locksmith in case of malfunction. It’s a weakness that I’ve become apt at exploiting with a few tools and a lot of patience. Jean-Baptiste had gone for the classic wheel-pack lock, a combination dial attached to a spindle. You get one wheel per number in the combination. It’s more complex than lock picking but you don’t need as many tools.

I spent a few minutes figuring out all the little things I needed to know: how many numbers were in the combination, where my contact areas were, where the wheels needed parking… Yeah, it’s not as exciting as it looks on TV. With more time and less finesse, I could just blast it open. The problem with that is that it’s a bit of a giveaway for the victim. With this method, it could be hours, days before Jean-Baptiste knew he’d been robbed.

After an age, the heavy safe door swung open soundlessly. I spied a thick packet of documents, an antique pocket watch that I quite fancied and there, at the back, that damned statuette. I fished it out; checking it over to make sure it was the same one I’d stolen from Xiang. There was a telltale hairline crack around the base. The first time I’d stolen it, I’d assumed this was just mishandling and ignored it. Now I took the time to examine the fracture, running my fingernail along it. I was guessing the base could be removed and that the microchip was hidden in it.

Well, since it was the microchip Xiang really wanted, I had to make sure, didn’t I? I played and prodded until the base came loose in my hands and the microchip tumbled into my palm.

The feel of it made my fingers itch. If Xiang wanted this little thing so badly, I could name my price…

…And she would probably drop me in the bay with concrete boots on.

This wasn’t the time to get greedy. This was the time to quit while I was ahead.

*****

Xiang Lee turned the statuette in her hands, running her fingers along the seam in the base just as I had. ‘Perfect,’ she said after a long silence. ‘I’m impressed, Ms Kane.’

‘So what’s my reward?’ I asked, trying for casual humour. My words fell heavily between us, like a slap across my stupid mouth.

Which I received, when Xiang nodded curtly at the man behind me. Once again, I ate carpet courtesy of Hui. I tasted blood in my mouth and decided I didn’t want a reward as much as I wanted Xiang Lee out of my life.

‘Your reward is that you’re still breathing,’ she told me icily. ‘Keep up the backchat and that won’t last long.’ She stepped over me daintily. ‘Good night, Ms Kane.’

I spat my blood onto the carpet, sighing in relief as my front door slammed shut behind her.

*****

I was feeling much happier about life the next day. I rose late, took a leisurely bath and ordered a bottle of Serpent online. I deserved a treat, I figured. I was lounging in my recliner, wrapped in a plum-coloured kimono, when the doorbell rang. I went for the door, expecting my Serpent delivery guy, and made a mistake.

I opened the door without checking the spyhole.

I only knew I’d been shot because my leg gave way beneath me. I staggered, bracing myself against the doorway and staring in disbelief at the man holding the gun. ‘You shit!’ I spat, glancing down at my ruined kimono. A ragged hole gaped in the silk, soaked with blood already.

Daniel Jean-Baptiste looked as good in real life as he did on TV. Designer suit, designer stubble, roguish smile. He calmly tucked his gun out of sight and cocked his head to one side, considering me. ‘You’re not going to scream?’

‘Hell no.’ Even if the shot had hurt, I wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction.

Easy to say that in my painless position, of course.

I limped back to my recliner, dripping blood across the carpet. It would need shampooing again. ‘It’s the statuette, right?’ I guessed. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on the damn thing.’

‘Where is it?’ he demanded, sweeping into my apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. He looked good amongst my expensive object des arte, with that cool demeanour. I sensed rage bubbling under the surface though.

I reached for the tissue box next to my recliner and padded my gun wound. The bullet had shot through the muscle and tissue of my upper thigh, passing clean through. The tissues did nothing to stem the blood flow. I staggered for the kitchen and my first aid box. ‘I don’t have it,’ I snapped, collapsing onto a stool. So it didn’t hurt, but being shot in the leg is still an inconvenience. ‘I passed it onto my client. Why don’t you go shoot her? She’d scream at you.’

He followed me, a pitbull in Armani, ready to attack again. ‘Where the fuck is the microchip, you fucking Reg bitch?’

He said it so quietly, so calmly, it took a minute for the words to sink in. I paused, a roll of gauze in one hand, to look him over. No. No way. He didn’t have the tattoo. He didn’t have the milky eyes. He couldn’t be Launen. Xiang had said…

I swallowed hard. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ I asked softly, a tremor of fear running through me. I was having some nasty thoughts.

He stared hard at me, dark eyes glittering. ‘You gave it back to Lee. You stupid little bitch.’

I dropped my head; letting my hair mask my face as I wrapped my thigh tightly, hoping the shot hadn’t done any permanent damage. ‘You stole it from her,’ I pointed out, wetting my lips. ‘Well, I stole it from her for you anyway. Almost the same thing.’

He slammed his palm down on the countertop. Spiderweb cracks shot along the granite, chilling my blood. A telekinetic. Like the one who’d broken my legs all those years ago. Shit. But his eyes… He had Reg eyes… ‘Do you have any idea what was on that microchip?’ he asked, still calm, still smooth. My cracked countertop belied it all.

I swallowed again. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘You were going to use it to create a weapon against the Launen.’

‘Is that what she told you?’ Icy amusement crept through his tone.

I looked up at him again. ‘Isn’t that the truth?’

He laughed and ducked his head, covering his eyes with his hands. When he looked up again, those eyes were milky white, Launen-coloured. ‘What do you think? You’ve been had, Kane.’

‘Shit.’ Caught out and humiliated twice in one week. How would I ever live it down? I glanced at my bloody legs and hands and decided I’d find a way. ‘Why?’

‘Xiang Lee has a long memory and a short temper,’ he replied simply. He leaned against my countertop, fingers tracing the cracks he’d made. ‘You stole from me.’

‘It’s my job,’ I said. ‘Nothing personal.’

‘I’m taking it personally. You owe me, Theo Kane.’ He looked me over thoughtfully. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, gesturing to my leg.

‘Nothing hurts me.’

He nodded slowly. ‘That’s good.’

He never moved. He didn’t have to. One minute I was balanced precariously on my stool, the next the world was black. I flew off the stool backwards, my head cracking off the countertop. I slumped to the floor, seeing stars and short of breath. When my vision cleared, Daniel Jean-Baptiste was gone and I was alone in a pool of blood.

I didn’t hurt. Of course I didn’t. But it still took me twenty minutes to haul myself up and drag myself to a phone. I needed a doctor and a bigger bottle of Serpent. When I reached the phone, I found a business card and a note by it. The card was printed with Jean-Baptiste’s phone number. The note was very simple.

Call me. You owe me a statuette.

I scrunched it into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace. Just once, just this one time, I wished I could feel my pain. Maybe if it hurt when people shot me, hit me, threw me around like a ragdoll, maybe if I suffered for it, I would learn to stay out of these messes.

© Naomi Clark 2007