The Source is hunting Talents… but Kara Jester is no distressed damsel...
Split
The Price of
Talent Book 1
by AK Nevermore
Genre
Spicy Dystopian SciFi Romance
On an alternate earth, a cataclysm has altered a subset of
the population. Talents are persecuted for their psychic and physical
mutations, giving rise to two conflicting societies based upon maintaining
genetic purity. And the Source, a shadowy corporate entity dependent upon the
exploitation of captive Talents, is hunting them…
The city of Glynfyls is burning.
And Flynn Scot is powerless to stop it. Now that his status
is in question, the Assembly is calling for his head. The only thing keeping it
on his shoulders is the commons rioting with the demand he be made Overlord.
Fluctuating between extremes, Kara’s talent deficiency is
becoming critical.
With her body failing and Flynn at the Assembly’s mercy,
Kara Scot has no choice but to take his seat and fight for her House. But
clearing Flynn’s name and battering herself against the tide of public censure
threatens to drag her under.
So does the wave of Humanity Purists marching toward
Glynfyls.
No Talent is safe outside the city. Refugees flock to the north fleeing extermination only to find a metropolis torn by prejudice and fear. Unless Flynn and Kara can find a way to survive the machinations of the Assembly, there will be nothing standing between them and annihilation. Because even if they survive the extremists, Titus’s army is following in their wake ready to harvest whatever is left.
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**Don’t miss the other books in the series!**
Breaker
The Price of
Talent Book 1
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Binder
The Price of
Talent Book 2
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AK Nevermore
enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for
Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores
antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or
running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore
the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science
Fiction and Fantasy full time.
She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.
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Glynfyls was burning.
Flynn stared out the window of the Assembly Hall, overlooking the eastern spokes of the city. Beyond the wavy glass, the rising sun was a crimson smear across the smoke-streaked horizon. Below, the clamor of an angry mob rioted through the streets.
They were pissed.
How the hell a cluster fuck of this magnitude had gotten kicked off last night—he scrubbed at his face. Shit. He knew exactly how.
His hand rose and talent the color of old blood flickered between his fingers, sparking off and singeing the carpet. He scuffed it out with his boot, jaw clenching. After the past few weeks of trying to play the goddamned part, he’d fucking split when he put Riegel down and, caught in a catch twenty-fucking-two, the entire city had seen him do it.
But if he hadn’t, the boost the Breaker was rigged with would’ve blown Glynfyls to shit. Flynn sighed. Instead of the city, everything he’d worked for had gone with Riegel into the hereafter. Christ, Julia and Lord Morris must be having a fucking field day with this. Both of them would be in chambers now, smug as shit, lambasting the room with big fat I-told-you-so’s…
God, he was gonna puke. Dual-Talents couldn’t hold office, and he’d used both a Shade’s talent to phaze away the blast, and a shit ton of Breaker ability, publicly. He’d saved the city only to hand it over to Julia, and she’d pass it right on to Titus.
His eyes closed, seeing it all play out. Legally, he was screwed. The Shades were gonna abjure him from his seat on the Assembly. Lords Klein and Ketsing, the Fixer and Binder Firsts that’d pledged their line’s fealty to him, would pull their support. Then Crandall would bury him. He’s gleefully drive the last nail into Flynn’s coffin by tying him to the Sons that’d been slaughtered out on the plateau.
And as for Phyllis and Markham? Neither one of them was gonna do a fucking thing. No, check that. Markham would mop the sweat from his brow when they came at Flynn with a rope to hang him. Couple of minutes swinging, then done deal, Flynn’d be in a box and they’d be back to business as usual.
Until Titus sent in his troops and Peacekeepers harvested the lot of them.
“I wish I was a fucking twist, then I wouldn’t have to pretend…”
Of all the wishes he’d ever made, it figured that would be the one granted. God had to love fucking with him.
Kara pushed up under his arm. “We can tell them it was me—”
“No. I won’t lie about it.” They’d gone over this. If Merchant couldn’t get him off, he’d cloak them at Meddleton until the baby was born, then head west. Disappear. He’d done it before, he could do it again. He kissed the top of Kara’s head, wrapping his arms around her.
“You should try and sleep.”
She laughed, the strain of the past twenty-four hours etched across her brow. Once the adrenaline from the bout last night at the Pony had faded, Riegel’s death had triggered a cascade of memories. Each one left her more brittle than the last, and that damned talent debilitation plaguing her pregnancy was back. Add to it being locked up in this goddamned conference room without any idea of what was going on other than one hell of a shit show…
Christ. What a fucking mess.
The door opened and Merchant hustled in, looking grim. His suit was rumpled and his grey-streaked hair awry. A servant came in after him and set a coffee service and two plates of eggs on the conference table. Flynn’s stomach growled. Damn, he could go for—Kara turned to his chest, pale with nausea. Goddamn it, he needed to get her home.
“Take it away, please.”
The woman looked at him in surprise, then wet her lips, glancing at Merchant. She pulled a scrap of paper from the napkin, holding it out with trembling fingers, and flashed her colors. Thin rings of fuchsia pulsed around her irises. It was the signal Flynn and Dorian had agreed upon for when the Finder had turned something up on Crandall.
Flynn took it from her, and she bobbed a curtsy, fist to heart. Vassal to Overlord. He snorted, like that was gonna fucking happen—his temper spiked at the contents of the note, and it smoldered where he gripped it. Damn it—His anger was too close. Too easy to pull from. All this time, is that what that constant simmering rage had been? Talent just waiting to come out?
“I suggest you cloak this conversation.” Merchant frowned, tossing a newspaper onto the table. “They’re attempting to charge you with inciting the commons.”
Flynn’s jaw dropped, note forgotten. That’s not—His halos flared verdigris, cloaking them. “But they all saw—”
“A great deal of talent being used. As evidenced by that front page still and multiple reels. You haven’t developed concentric halos. By definition, a twist evidences a dual-halo, and without a second ring around your irises, you cannot be considered as such. Additionally, without confirmation from the Breaker line as to whom was doing what, any and all charges are unsubstantiated, and will be treated as libel and or slander. Now, I suggest we focus on the matter at hand.” He snapped open his briefcase.
“The matter at—are you serious?” He—there was no way—how was this not about him splitting? Was Merchant seriously getting him off on semantics? Shit, Cal had said he was good, but no one could be that good.
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