Silver Elite

by Dani Francis

Primes don’t have enhanced gifts. They also don’t experience any physical signs when someone infiltrates their thoughts, whereas Mods feel it like an electric shock. People like him should be on guard.

The Aberrant, as they call us. Or silverbloods, when they’re feeling nice.

The only aberration around here is General Redden and his irrational hatred for Mods. We didn’t ask to be this way. Some thoughtless war a hundred and fifty years ago released the toxin that made us like this. We didn’t have a choice in the matter.

This guy is…inconceivably attractive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better-looking human, male or female. I’m momentarily lost in his cobalt-blue eyes, peering down at me from beneath thick lashes. His hair is dark, swept away from flawless, symmetrical features that could’ve been chiseled out of stone. Just the right amount of stubble shadows a strong jaw, and one corner of his mouth bears the indentation of a dimple. I wonder how pronounced it gets when he smiles, although judging by the cold, dangerous glint in his eyes, I get the feeling he doesn’t smile often.

All telepaths have their own unique signature. When I was a kid, my uncle described it as your essence, a surge of energy exclusive to you. It’s almost impossible to explain unless you feel it yourself, but after an initial connection’s been formed, you automatically recognize the other person’s energy when they ask to link.

Yes, the majority are the very definition of silverbloods, the veins in our arms glowing when we’re using our powers. A rare few, like me, don’t fit that mold.

A Mod who can wield her powers without transmitting her actions to her enemies is a major asset for the Uprising.

I’m in a cocoon. It’s rather pleasant. I burrow deeper and deeper into it, basking in its warmth and the sense of safety it provides. Until the cobwebs in my mind begin to clear and I’m alert enough to comprehend that the cocoon is actually a male body curled around me, and that I’m burrowing my backside against a groin that’s awakening faster than its owner. What in the hellfuck!

“Does it get you off, the idea of forcing women to do things they don’t want to do?” “I didn’t realize you were so interested in what gets me off.” I recoil. “I’m not.” His gaze locks with mine. “Are you sure?” “Fucking positive.” “That’s a shame. I’d be happy to satisfy your curiosity.”

“That’s Cross Redden, Wren. The General’s son.”

“Are you offering to fuck me, Dove?” His visible humor has me tightening my lips. “If that’s what it takes to strike a deal, then sure, I suppose that’s what I’m offering.”

“I believe that humanity is wired for destruction no matter the environment. Old Era, New Era. Aberrant on top, Prime on top. We will always find a way to destroy ourselves. We’re a doomed species.”

wish I could talk to him telepathically. Spill my thoughts into his mind, share my pain. For a moment I’m tempted to reach out to Wolf, but I’m distracted when Kaine takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs.

“What is this?” I repeat. “Why are they here?” “They’re fragmented.” Understanding dawns. I remember sitting with Jim a long time ago in the Blacklands while he tried to explain what happens when a mind isn’t strong enough to withstand our gifts. It didn’t quite sink in back then, that opening paths and linking to other minds could overwhelm anyone, could break them. That some mind readers were unable to filter or link willingly, that their shields weren’t good enough to dam the barrage of voices from foreign minds.

Cross’s eyes are wild. Blazing. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as he peers down at me and snarls, “Who are you?”

“I don’t know how the fuck this is happening. Is this actually happening?” He’s in my head now. Wolf. He sounds different, though, because I know what Cross sounds like. “Your voice is not as raspy as you think it is.” He grins at me. “Yours is higher than you think.”

“Kaine, come in. Please.” “Tyler.” I hear the note of fear in Xavier’s voice. “Kaine.” “Jones. Tyler, damn it.” We’ve abandoned call signs as we plead for our fellows to answer. Silence.

“I went to see Ellis earlier.” I bite my lip in humor, hesitating only briefly before asking, “Did you know he was working for your enemy?”

“The Uprising has something planned for the Silver Jubilee.” He stiffens. “And you’re only telling me this now because…?” “I only just found out. And I don’t even know what the plan is. I am so low on the food chain that it would take an infinity ladder to see the top.”

“Thank you. Now walk slow, stay behind me, pay attention to your footing, and don’t fucking touch anything.” Literally twenty seconds later, he touches something.

“You fucking asshole!” I lunge toward him and, with an angry roar, slam my fist into his jaw. “What the hell, cowgirl?” Kaine rears back in shock, rubbing his chin. “What the hell?” I echo. All I can do is gawk at him. “What the hell? How are you alive?”

“You’re Grayson Blake,” I accuse. “Mr. Hotshot Pilot.” He bites his lip as if fighting a grin. One of those mischief-laden grins I’ve missed so desperately since he died. Or didn’t die. Fuck him.