Page 56 of Penny for Your Saints

“We don’t know yet,” Seb admits, Frank’s expression darkening as he crosses his arms over his chest.

We spend the next hour or so discussing ‘the new plan.’ While we may have decided to bunk down here at the hunting lodge for Quentin and Louise’s imminent heat—we are also within an hour’s driving distance of the small but reputable Lakeside University, which has a decently outfitted lab in its biology and pharmacy sciences wing.

It’s close enough to the winter holidays that the fall semester has ended, the bulk of the University’s students gone homefor winter break. Though some faculty and doctoral candidates pepper the modest campus in these few weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s—this suits our needs just fine. We can enter and exit the campus with minimal attention from security or students and faculty who actually have a real reason to be there.

While both Q and Louise insist they are not yet fully in heat, and thus capable and invested in being part of this undertaking—Frank dismisses them outright.

“No way in hell,” he grunts out impatiently, pulling a can of spam from the pantry shelf as Sébastien passes Q and Louise potatoes and an onion from the root cellar to sounds of protest from both of them. “I don’t care how much you bitch and moan—either of you, it makes zero sense to let either of you two out in the open when you’re both already perfuming so much, I can hardly think straight,” he barks impatiently.

Both Louise and Q blush furiously. Just thinking about last night makes all of us glaze over slightly—lost in the hazy memory of pleasure; and none of us can argue with Frank after such a clear-cut demonstration—so that part of the conversation is over.

“Seb and Caz hit good old LSU, handle the tests—grab whatever they can in the way of supplies,” Frank continues solemnly—lifting the metal ring in the corner of the can of spam as he presses on. “While the boys are on campus, I am going to see about getting a meeting with the Red Bishop.”

This makes Louise snap to attention. Though we didn’t have much time to mince words before the raid, it’s clear she hasn’t forgotten the mention of the ‘White Knight’ and ‘Red Bishop’ from the recording of Susan Lowry.

Seb motions for me to take a seat between him and Q, producing a knife from his pocket—giving me an encouraging nod to start peeling the potatoes alongside him. I pull out myown knife warily as Louise sets her potatoes and onion down on the table tersely.

“Now hold on just a minute—you’re not going anywhere near this ‘Red Bishop’ character without telling me what the fuck is going on.” She snarls.

“I know we did a little kissy-kissy, fucky-fucky last night, Sweetheart, but don’t forget that I’m the leader of this ragtag gang of Saints—I’m fucking alpha,” he growls, pulling the little metal ring clear off the corner of the can of Spam in his frustration. “You don’t give me orders, Little Lucifer,” he warns, his hand moving to the back pocket of his jeans—slung low on his hips, looking for his knife.

“If you know who these fucking chess name motherfuckers are—especially the one who killed my parents, and you’ve decided not to tell me.” Louise’s hackles raise, her own sigma aura expanding against Frank’s in a battle for supremacy.

Frank produces a switchblade, flicks it open, and plunges it into the top of the can of lunch meat—wrenching the blade away at an angle—ripping away the pop top of the can as the blade withdraws.

“Or you’ll do what?” Frank barks with his full alpha voice, making all of us jump before he slams his blade down into the wooden table—the knife standing upright as he slams the can down beside it. “You’re a good lay—some of the best pussy I’ve ever had—sure; but I’m not about to roll over and cede this entire operation to some little girl who’s barely five years outta Quantico—platinum level pussy or not,” he growls. “You’ll have plenty of time to follow through on your ultimately unsatisfactory little revenge fantasy later, but right now we have bigger fish to fry; the Zeitnot virus, your parent’s involvement, your potential connection—why you and Q aren’t currently on death’s door—and that’s just for starters.”

Louise lets out an anguished scream and pulls the knife from the table. For a split second I panic that she’s going to just stab Frank, but she just grips the handle of the switchblade as she screams directly into his face. Once she’s finished, she turns away from him and plops down onto the wooden bench beside me, resigning herself to peeling a potato—her eyes shiny with tears of rage.

After the magical intensity of the first night at the hunting lodge, the morning was a cruel return to reality.

Frank and Loulu’s violent clash reminded all of us that this isn’t some snowy fuck-cation by the lakeside; it’s a covert operation to uncover corruption and intentional sabotage at the highest levels of government—not to mention a super secret organization bent on clandestine world domination.

While unsettled by my discovery of Quentin’s Zeitnot antibodies and corresponding immunity, I cannot deny that I was also fascinated by my findings.

Before Caz and I left the cabin, I was able to gather samples from all the Saints and Loulu. I brought the blood samples, along with the minuscule amount of fluid remaining in the spent dart the breach team fired at Quentin.

Together, Cazzy and I had no trouble making our way into the Lakeside University labs. Between Caz’s knack for physical security foiling and our collective charisma, we’re able to bluff our way past the campus sign in desks on pure charm and pop open old school spring latches with a little credit card ‘slipping.’Only the last few doors required any kind of advanced ID for entry—and we were lucky enough to slip into the corner of the facility needed for my tests by being in the right place at the right time.

Really, our final obstacle—a door with a keycard tap access, wouldn’t have made Caz break a sweat. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Cazzy spoof an RFID to get us in somewhere; be it a building or through a turnstile for the train. Didn’t need to, though. Another master’s student, dark smudgy circles beneath her eyes, held the door open for us as she made her exit—presumably after one hell of an all-nighter. She didn’t even bother looking up at us as we scurried past her—just gave a sleepy nod and a half-hearted wish of “Happy Holidays” which we returned in kind.

Caz paced nervously past the bank of windows as I worked, hands fisted in the pockets of his nylon bomber jacket—a rare pair of stovepipe jeans, a baby blue cashmere sweater and camel plaid scarf borrowed from Tin-tin in order to help cover his many tattoos and lend legitimacy to his co-ed claims.

I myself wore my fingerless winter gloves, a Nordic pattern with floppy mitten covers and a turtleneck sweater purloined from Tin-tin’s collection in a similar fashion—parting with my heavy gloves only once we’re locked safely in the solitude of the lab.

With Caz as lookout, I got to work right away.

With the proper reagents, vessels, incubators and centrifugal spinning machines—I am able to get everything up and processing inside of a half hour. Once there’s nothing left to do but wait, Caz and I take turns making small expeditions outside of the lab, making sure that one of us is always left to let the other back into the locked lab.

We managed some basics from the first aid kit installed on the wall; painkillers, fresh bandages and antiseptics for tendingFrank’s wound—some clean hypos, test tubes, and other sample containers; as well as replacements for my own chemistry kit.

Not nearly enough of anything useful for me to build a bit of boom, but that can wait. Right now—our focus is narrow—trained on arming ourselves with armaments of information rather than weapons of destruction.

Caz is on one of his patrols around the building when the timer goes off on my last round of tests. I move with purpose, carefully inserting a clean pipette into the first vial of fluid—dropping a single globule of the mixture of blood and chemicals onto a microscope slide before snapping it into place on the view plate.

I press my face to the eyepiece and hold my breath.

There’s a soft knock in a well-known pattern at the door. Even though I know from the pattern that the knock could only belong to Caz, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound.

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