Page 10 of Silver Elite

“That’s not a rule.”

“If Redden has his way, it would be.”

No, if our esteemed leader had his way, telepathy would be outlawed because we’d all be dead. He almost succeeded in wiping us out in the Silverblood Purge twenty-five years ago, before he took over the Continent. His men dragged tens of thousands of Mods out of their homes to be executed. That’s how much he hates us.

The sad part is, the Coup wouldn’t have been successful if there weren’t hordes of people who agreed with him. That we’re aberrant. That we’re abominations and our gifts are not natural, even though the things I can do with my mind are as natural to me as breathing.

I cut my speed as I approach the long driveway of our property. Soon our ranch comes into view, the old split-level house and handful of outbuildings on a sprawling acreage that’s far too large for the both of us. Our two hundred head of cattle need the space, though.

Uncle Jim had serious connections when we emerged from the Blacklands, managing to secure us a prime location, and in an asset ward, no less. The Uprising has always been good to Jim, whose insurgent efforts as Julian Ash were both plentiful and effective. Unfortunately, those efforts also made him a major person of interest to the Command. Jim will be a hunted man for the rest of his life.

Right now, in the pitch black, with only the faint glow of the solar porch light guiding me home, I’m reminded of the Blacklands. The eternal night. It’s fucked up, but sometimes I miss it. It was a simpler time.

Three years of fighting for survival…so simple! My subconscious laughs at me.

Yes, okay. It was difficult. Not to mention exhausting, forever being on the alert. I fell off one of Uncle Jim’s planks into the black pits once and realized how quickly I could have drowned if I’d been alone, without Jim to pull me out. It was scary in there for a little girl.

“Why were you gone so long?” my uncle says when I walk into the house.

He’s in his worn leather chair, sipping a glass of synth whiskey. He always grumbles that synthetic alcohol pales in comparison with the real thing. I’ve never sampled anything pure, so I can’t judge.

“You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.” His dark-brown eyes track my movements as I hang my rifle by its strap on the hook by the door. “How was the celebration?”

I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him. I opt for the truth, because we both know he’ll see right through me if I attempt to lie.

“Don’t be upset,” I start.

“Fucking hell, Wren,” he growls.

“I said don’t be upset.” I approach his chair and cross my arms to my chest. “It’s not a big deal, I promise. And I think you’ll agree I was right to act. If I hadn’t, Robbie would be dead.”

“Who the hell is Robbie?”

Yeah, Jim never tried making friends with the citizens of Hamlett. He’s a recluse. And kind of a dick. The other villagers know him as the antisocial jerk who shows up a couple of times a month to get laid or buy whiskey from Mr. Paul’s store. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly social, he grabs a meal and a pint at the pub. When he’s there, he doesn’t spend much time on pleasantries. Despite his last name, you’re more likely to get a “piss off” from Jim Darlington than a “hello.” I suspect someone in the Uprising threw the worddarlinginto his new identity just to needle him.

He’s loyal, though. To me. To his friends in the Uprising. If he loves and trusts you, he’ll go to the ends of the earth to protect you. Literally. He took me to the damn Blacklands to keep me safe.

But if hedoesn’tlove or trust you…well…stay far away, because the man is pricklier than the cactus growing out back.

“Robbie is Rachel Solway’s son, and he almost got mauled by a white coyote. Same one that was harassing us.”

“Damn hybrid’s a nuisance.”

“Yeah, well, it was a starving nuisance. It crashed the party. So I killed it.” I falter when Jim narrows his eyes. He knows me well. “It was an impressive shot.”

He frowns. “How impressive?”

“The controller commented on it. Said you trained me well.”

“Wren.” He utters my name as if it’s an expletive.

“I’m sorry! What, you think I should’ve just let that kid die?”

“Yes.”

“The way you let me die?” I challenge.

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