“I don’t know. And I don’t want to get into a whole nature-versus-nurture debate, either,” he snapped. When she said nothing he leaned on the rail and stared out over the water as if he could already see the freighter. “I enjoyed what we did. I know that about me, and in a way I’m comfortable with it because I know that it serves my appetites. So… maybe there’s a level of corruption — of evil—that I’m okay with. Maybe even a level I want to be part of what defines me.”
“But…?” she prompted.
“But I don’t know that I want to believe that I have no limits. That my darkness has no limits.”
“That’s a little grandiose, Brother.”
He turned and spread his arms. “Look at me, Hecate. Look at us. We’re grand. Everything about us is larger than life. None of it’s real, a lot of it’s not even supposed to be possible… but here we are, and we’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen so much science that we’ve made the impossible possible. There’s never been anything like us before in history. Dad calls us his young gods, and in ways he’s not far wrong. We bend nature to our will.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Paris gave a curt shake of his head. “No, let me finish. Let me say this. Hecate, we’ve always been the Jakoby Twins. People would actually kill to be with us. People would kill to be near us. You know that for a fact because men have killed each other over you on two continents. We’re legends. We also know we’re not normal. We’re not even true albinos. This skin color is too regular, too pure white. Our bodies are without a single genetic flaw. We have blue eyes and perfect eyesight. We’ve never even had cavities. We’re stronger than we should be; we’re faster. And we’re almost identical twins despite being of different genders.”
“Yes, we’re genetically designed. Big surprise, Paris… our father is probably the smartest geneticist on the planet. He wanted genetically perfect children, and that’s what he got. He also made sure that we’re gorgeous and really fucking smart. Smarter than anyone else except maybe the occasional freak. He tweaked our DNA to make us better, to try and create the ‘young gods’ that he’s always dreamed of. So what? This isn’t news.”
“There’s a fine line between genetic perfection and freakism,” Paris said. “And no matter what you or Dad says, we are definitely freaks. If we did nothing else, nothing new or innovative, people will write books about us and talk about us for the next century. Maybe for a thousand years. We broke through boundaries of science no one has dared push.”
Hecate folded her arms under her breasts and said nothing.
“So… what does that mean to us?” Paris continued. “We’ve been raised by Dad to believe that we are elevated beings. We’re gods or aliens or the next phase of evolution, depending on which of Dad’s personalities is doing the talking. Whether he’s right or wrong, the truth is we’re not normal. We’re like a separate species.”
“I know…”
“So, is that why we do what we do?” he demanded, his voice quick and urgent, almost pleading. “Is that why we can kill and steal and take without remorse? Are we above evil because evil is part of the human experience and we’re not quite human?”
“What do you want me to say?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I… don’t want to feel bad about what we’re doing, Hecate, and yet it’s tearing me up inside. It was bad before we saw Dad, and now it’s worse. Maybe because when I see him I think, There… that’s true evil in its purest form. Or maybe it’s that I think that all of this is bullshit rationalization and that we’re just a couple of psychotic mass murderers who have no right to live.”
“Jeez, Paris,” Hecate said with a crooked smile, “when you get a case of existential angst you don’t screw around.” She came over to him and took Paris in her arms. He returned the hug sluggishly and tried to pull away, but Hecate held him fast. For a moment it seemed to him that she was stronger than he was. Hecate leaned into him, her lips by his ear. “Listen to me, sweet brother. We are gods. Not because Dad says or the National-fucking-Enquirer says so. We’re gods because we say so. Because I say so. And, yes, we’re evil. Our souls are as black and twisted as the Grinch’s, but there’s no Cindy Lou Who in Whoville that’s going to turn us into good guys in the third act. We’re evil because evil is powerful. We’re evil because evil is delicious.”
Her arms constricted around him with crushing force, the pressure making him gasp.
“We’re evil because evil is strong and everything else is weak. Weak is ugly; weak is stupid. Evil is beautiful.”
She purred out that last word. Then she kissed Paris on the cheek and pushed him away. He staggered back and hit the rail. If he hadn’t grabbed the rail, he might have gone over. Paris stood there, his knees weak, gasping and startled.
“What the fuck…?” he breathed. “What the hell was that all about?”
Hecate smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dark and deep, the irises flecked with tiny spots of gold that he had never noticed before.
“What the hell are you?”
“I’m your sister,” she said softly. “And, like you my sweet brother, I’m evil. I’m a monster.”
Hecate licked her lips.
“Just like you.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
We landed at a military airport, and the cargo — paper and human — was shifted to an MH-47G Chinook helicopter that swung us over to what had become my home. The Warehouse had been the base of a group of terrorists that had been raided by a joint police/Homeland task force on which I’d served. It had been that raid that had brought me to Church’s attention, and I was recruited a couple of days later. That was the end of June, and we were still a week away from the end of August. So much had happened that it seemed like I’d been part of the DMS for at least a year. In the last two months I’d only spent three or four nights at my apartment. Even my cat, a chubby marmalade tabby named Cobbler, lived at the Warehouse. All of the operators on Echo and Alpha teams had rooms there, though a couple of them also went home — occasionally — to families.
As the big helicopter touched down I saw a squad of armed guards waiting for us — and two people who stood slightly apart. Rudy Sanchez and Grace Courtland. My heart did a little happy dance in my chest when I saw Grace. In the interests of professional decorum I kept it off my face.
She was the first bright spot in this whole mess, and she came to meet me as I exited the chopper. She strolled toward me without hurry, a mild smile on her lips, but I knew her well enough to know that the devilish light in her eyes meant that she was just as happy to see me as I was to see her. I wanted to drag her out of sight behind the row of parked Black Hawks and kiss her breathless. And I knew from experience that she could leave me just as breathless. Rudy hung back, tactful as ever.
“Home is the sailor home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,” she said with a grin.
“Wrong branch of the service. I was a Ranger.”
“I don’t know any poems about Rangers.”
We shook hands because everyone was looking, but as she released mine her fingers gently stroked my palm. It sent heat lightning flashing through my veins.
We headed toward the door and Rudy fell into step beside us.
“How goes the war?” he asked, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation.