Basilisk (The Korsak Brothers #2)

It would be nice.

She wasn’t there the first time I tried. But the second time, four hours later, she was. There was no video this time, too risky, so I didn’t know if she was wearing her favorite freshwater pearl choker dyed in blues and golds and purples—the same as a mermaid would wear. She’d changed her name, she’d said, to the Disney mermaid to remind her to not only believe in fantasy but to always stay a child when she could. She wouldn’t tell me what her name had been before. She said she was saving that for our honeymoon.

Now I could feel my face getting hot and maybe not as red as Stefan’s had been, but definitely not my normal color. Luckily he was concentrating on driving or meditating on not killing me and didn’t notice.

I typed in Hey, so what did you think of the theoretical overriding of the genetic code on the extra DNA strand for my paper? I’d discovered, with Ariel’s help, that the gene connected to the psychic ability to kill—not that that was what I told her its function was—was on only one of the DNA strands, while chimeras like me possessed two. It might be why all the assassins were chimeras. If a person had only one type of DNA as was customary, Jericho’s manipulation could very well not work or could destroy the subject altogether. But to know that, I’d have to create a chimera embryo to see exactly what could happen. I wasn’t going to do that. I wasn’t the Frankenstein that Jericho had been.

She sent back her response in a flash; she was one fast typer. I think theoretically that a viral explosion with some type of injection would lyse the target genes and inactivate them. I tried it on a few of those gene samples you sent and it definitely did something to them. If not complete disintegration, then close. If you’re talking about doing it to a live person, there’d definitely be bruising at the injection area and no sure guarantee that it would work, much less immediately, but in the realm of theory, it’s conceivable.

She called me Dr. Theoretical for as often as I used the word. She said it was my superpower, but I was being accurate. There was nothing wrong with accuracy. More letters appeared before I could reply. Bone marrow transplant would work much better. I highly doubted I’d be able to pull off a bone marrow transplant on thirty genetic assassins. Any cure would have to be almost instantaneous. Her typing continued. But it’s your paper. Hey, why no webcam this time, cutie? Get a bad haircut? Or did you finally break down and get that tattoo I’ve been trying to talk you into? She kept telling me to get a Cheshire cat tattoo from Alice in Wonderland as I was so theoretical I was practically nothing but a floating smile in midair.

Living life on the run was exactly what I was doing, and I thought best not to advertise it. No, I typed back. I dyed my hair pink to be half the genius you are.

“Tell her that her hair is the color of a rose,” came the suggestion from beside me.

“It’s not,” I said absently. “It’s more the color of cotton candy.”

“A chick probably isn’t going to find that romantic. Go with rose.”

“Why would I want to be romant—Hey!” I glared at Stefan as I slammed the computer closed. “How about eyes on the road and your own business? And I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“Revenge is worth it.” His grin was far more wolfish than any I’d managed so far—mirrors and practice don’t lie. “And get ready to play a nineteen-year-old drug lord, jefe, because we’re almost at the reservation. Maybe if you tried some dark sunglasses and stroked your stinky carpet shark like a James Bond villain, they would go for it.”

“You don’t think I can pull off pretending to be a drug dealer?” I knew I was hampered by my face. The Institute made or chose their assassins with faces that were attractive to both sexes but also not so much that we stood out to every eye. We were made to appeal but also to blend in. But we were also taught by them to pull on any mask and play any part or suffer the consequences. “Learn a little faith, Stefan.” I did grab his spare set of sunglasses in the floorboards when we arrived and put them on before climbing out of the car. Stefan brought it to a stop by the first and one of the few buildings on the reservation—a store/tourist spot. The rest of the area was dotted with small wooden houses and the occasional trailer. “I’ll be back.”

Rob Thurman's books