Regna Born

Chapter One

adept / ˈæd.ɛpt/, /əˈdɛpt/

noun

1. The colloquial name of the human subspecies Homo sapiens psychica, born with enhanced senses, strength, and varying degrees of telepathy and telekinesis.

—National Intelligence Strategy White Paper: Top Secret (TS): Release of this document will cause severe damage to the security of the United States—Adept Assets

THE RICH GREEN jungle could be the Garden of Eden. Too bad it’s just as full of snakes.

The journey was an endless cascade of rickety bridges and muddy craters, making travel in Myanmar dangerous, especially in remote areas. And this is the most remote of the remote areas.

Armies of mosquitoes cluster in clouds so thick they absorb the sunshine like miniature black holes. They stalk Gabriel in synchronized precision yet ignore the miners because the smorgasbord his unique blood presents is too enticing. A symphony of exotic birds and mournful crickets serenade predators and prey alike.

Which one is he?

He blocks the relentless sun with his hand and grins, recalling a quote from Rudyard Kipling: Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. His Londoner father would be a shocking lobster color by now.

Gabriel’s sense of smell, enhanced by the wolf bond, struggles to decipher the onslaught of sensations in the heart of the jungle. Rich chocolate from the wild orchids and the subtle honey of cherry blossoms suffuse the thick, humid air. The scent of metal and oil from the jaws of the mine conspire to wipe this sweet fragrance from the face of the earth.

As he draws nearer, the clamor of machinery drowns out the jungle’s orchestra. The air pressure drops, and the siren song of gemstones laden with ley energy rushes to Gabriel’s head. The tug grows stronger, threatening to pull him into the ground. He closes his mind because he can’t risk getting ley drunk. Finally, he emerges into a stadium-sized pit of ravaged earth.

A guard carrying an ancient rifle and a scowl stands under a crooked sign written in English. Welcome to Ruby Land, it proclaims in blood-red letters set against a white background. The mine is new, but the sign’s battered lettering silently flakes away.

Tall and taciturn, the foreman’s question-mark posture proves he lives in a world not made for the different. Eyes that refuse to meet Gabriel’s dart about looking for a safe harbor but find none.

They’ll meet you at the shrine. The foreman jerks his head to the north. This way.

He grunts past the guard and leads them down a narrow, rocky path. They walk in silence, broken only by Gabriel’s dog, Zuko, sneezing from the dust kicked up in the foreman’s wake. Zuko’s massive paws carry his lean one hundred pounds silently behind Gabriel, his snow-white coat oddly untouched by the dust and mud. Despite his size, Zuko’s floppy ears and Snoopy-like face put everyone at ease. But if he were to bare all the gleaming white teeth Gabriel dutifully brushes each day, no one would be at ease.

Gabriel wipes sweat away from his eyes and takes in his surroundings. Has anyone else been here?

No, comes the quick reply. You’re the first.

Gabriel smiles when he detects no lie in the foreman’s answer.

Flowers cover the Buddhist shrine where he’ll meet the latest warlord laying claim to this profitable hole in the earth. He’s led to an open vestibule with a bird’s-eye view of the vast countryside. If they have a bird’s-eye view of the countryside, who has a bird’s-eye view of them?

Wait here, the foreman says. It won’t be long.

The distant rumble of a convoy snaps the foreman’s head to attention. He reaches for his gun, and beads of sweat break out on his forehead. For a long moment, his ragged breathing joins the rhapsodizing birds and crickets.

It’s them, Gabriel says, smashing a mosquito against his forearm. Without a word of goodbye, the foreman turns and scurries away.

Deep in the outback, Gabriel expects a ragtag group fighting for independence, but a high-tech armada of bulletproof glass and modern weaponry barrels into view. They drive and park in that careless way that says they drive and park however they please. Like cops, and a shiver runs up his spine. In the middle of the caravan, the doors of a black four-door SUV open in synchronized precision, and the occupants, dressed all in black, march toward him with ramrod-straight posture.

Two men and one woman carry Kalashnikov rifles in the low-ready position and surround an older man in a protective cocoon. Behind them, two men carry a large wooden trunk. Their stance indicates a threat, so Gabriel sweeps the area. This highly trained squadron can’t be mercenaries because they radiate military precision. Their conspicuous lack of uniforms means that whatever happens here will vanish without a trace.

When the man in the center enters the shrine, he makes eye contact with a slight tilt of his head. He’s wiry and vascular in a way only triathletes and career military are. His gray hair is cut regulation short, and his teeth are shark white.

Gabriel wishes he didn’t sweat so easily. He gingerly perches on the small wooden chair the leader offers him. Given his size, it feels as if he’s stolen it from a six-year-old. Please, don’t let the fragile thing collapse. A rickety table adorned with a single bright yellow flower sits in the center.

The leader sits opposite him, reminding Gabriel of a king on a throne. At his nod, two of the soldiers open the trunk, revealing the freshly unearthed rubies Gabriel’s crossed the world to buy. Their jagged red edges tell the story of a violent ejection from the earth. Gabriel feels the urge to whisper them an apology.

May I see one? Gabriel’s Burmese is tinged with a British accent. He wants to throw them off their game, which appears to work when the four exchange furtive glances. He opens his mind to one of the soldiers and touches the language skills part of his brain. As long as Gabriel is within close proximity of the man, he’ll be able to speak Burmese.

The leader smiles. Do you have the money?

Another soldier, the one with a nervous eye twitch, grips her gun and stares at Gabriel. He picks up an image of her killing him and taking his money. In her grisly fantasy, she’s applauded by her superiors and promoted. Gabriel watches the bloody scene replay in her mind, a movie trailer stuck on repeat.

A thrumming sound vibrates deep in Zuko’s chest, and the leader’s honor guard steps back. A grave warning emerges from the lizard part of their brains. Run, it says. An apex predator is on the hunt. The crickets and birds swallow their songs, and their symphony abruptly stops. Every leaf in the teeming forest stills, and the air goes silent.

The leader meets Zuko’s gaze and doesn’t look away.

Gabriel chuckles. He’s just irritable about not getting his usual food. At Gabriel’s small gesture, Zuko submerges his face in his huge front paws. The crickets are the first to resume their song, and the birds quickly harmonize.

Gabriel gathers his adept talent when a childhood memory forces its way to the surface. Flashes of a blaring siren in the rearview and the taste of his mother’s terror fills him. She turns on the interior lights reflexively, despite the sun gleaming off her gold Moroccan bracelets, and calms his fears with a deft touch on his mind. The cop lumbers toward their Mercedes; he’s huge in a way that says pro wrestler gone to pot. Mirrored sunglasses can’t hide the coiled violence that lies behind them. Steroids practically seep out of his pores.

The bare skin of his mother’s delicate brown hands, glued at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel, glistens in the sunlight. A twelve-year-old Gabriel withers at the onslaught of the cop’s glare.

Get out of— The policeman stands back and smiles. —next time, be more careful when entering the rotary, ma’am.

When they’re back on the road, Gabriel asks, I’ll be able to do that one day, right?

His mother hides the uncertainty in her mind, but she can’t hide it in her face.

Gabriel shakes off the memory and returns to the stifling humidity of the jungle.

Calm down.

Gabriel sends the thought into the woman’s mind with as much authority as he can muster. The young soldier’s head briefly leans back, and her eyes search for the leader, but her superior’s eyes never leave Gabriel.

Have I just agitated her and made things worse?

Zuko’s lips pull back from his teeth, and the soldier raises her gun. But then her iron grip relaxes, and the gun drops to her waist. Gabriel swallows hard and takes a deep breath while Zuko continues sitting with his ears perked.

Hard United States currency as agreed, Gabriel says, pitching his voice at a volume he prays is commanding. You know my reputation. I didn’t come all this way to chat.

The leader nods and spares Zuko a long glance. The tiniest smile breaks the pronounced lines around his mouth.

Come, he says in English and pats his legs with his hands. Anxious for canine attention, he reaches his arms out, almost in longing, but Zuko doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. The leader utters a number, still looking at the impassive dog. Gabriel lets it hang unanswered in the air as they sit and listen to the jungle’s song.

That number is much bigger than the trunk, Gabriel says, batting away a cloud of mosquitoes. In the empty silence, he sweeps his gaze over all four and rests his eyes on the rubies.

The plain-clothed military commander frowns, and his gaze narrows. He gestures toward the trunk and beckons Gabriel forward. Gabriel expected some kind of safe designed to look like luggage, but it’s a common wooden chest such as found in a million attics.

Who are they that they’re so unconcerned with basic security?

Gabriel plunges his hand inside, almost to the bottom, and withdraws a ruby. He scrapes it on the small table and examines it. If it leaves behind any red residue, it’s fake. Feeling every eye on him, Gabriel studies the trail the stone leaves behind while the leader tips forward in his chair, holding his breath. Next, Gabriel removes a loupe from his pocket and examines the ruby. It’s beautiful in all its imperfections, as with the best people. After a beat, Gabriel nods his assent, and the leader exhales.

One of the soldiers snaps his head to the right, catching Gabriel’s attention.

Where’s the sniper? The question rings so loudly in the soldier’s mind it drills into Gabriel’s temple.

A sniper? But why?

There’s little defense against a sniper, and Gabriel wishes he’d left Zuko home. Holding the ley-rich ruby in his broad, thick-fingered hands, he siphons its energy to bolster his power and find the gunman.

It’s true. He’s an intelligence asset. Now, it’s the leader’s thoughts that grind against Gabriel’s psyche.

But I’m not. Did they sense me reading their minds? Who are they? Are they House Pyu?

Gabriel pulls out another rock and scrapes it across the table. Again, it leaves behind no residue, and the color is good. Some are excellent. He stands and grips the handles of the chest and lifts. It easily weighs four hundred pounds. For thirty seconds or so, he shakes the trunk. He wants to avoid these men robbing him by selling glass intermingled with genuine stones. This act doubles as a show of physical strength meant to intimidate his negotiators, who stare wide-eyed. Gabriel towers above them. He hasn’t missed many meals. In point-of-fact, he’s missed none. When Gabriel says his favorite foods are pasta and steak, no one is surprised.

He smiles. Just making sure the weight is what I’d expect from rubies direct from the mine.

Placing the trunk back down on the floor, he states a number. It’s higher than he’d typically pay because he wants to leave with all his internal organs where he expects them. A stabbing pain pulses in his temple, and he catches other soldier’s thoughts.

Aung gave the kill order.

I’ve been set up. Gabriel sees an image of himself bleeding from a bullet wound to the head coming from several of the soldiers. Then he hears the sniper’s thought.

Terminate.

Gabriel hones in on the assassin and plants an idea in his head.

The target brought his own sniper. If I terminate him, I’m dead.

He repeats.

The target brought his own sniper. If I terminate him, I’m dead.

He pushes the idea, sprinkled with fear, into the sniper’s mind while siphoning all the ley energy from the ruby. The gunman’s finger snaps away from the trigger.

It worked.

Gabriel lacks the power to communicate across the world, but in case they do kill him, he sends a thought out anyway, like tossing a message in a bottle off the Titanic: Sorry, Joe. I thought this was a routine buying trip.

Hear me, Joe. Don’t let our last words be, See you soon.

In the space between seconds, he hears it.

Or you could kill them all, a voice says.

What?

Time stills, and Gabriel becomes one with every thought of the surrounding soldiers. Their emotions become notes on a keyboard he can play. Reaching for the sniper, Gabriel finds his heart as if it’s beating in his hand—a tiny bird he can crush with a thought. Power shoots through Gabriel, and the shock of it stuns him. The power departs as quickly as it came, leaving Gabriel breathless.

The leader stands, his face ashen, and the sniper engages the safety. Gabriel’s lunch threatens to exit the same way it entered, but when he exhales, it settles.

General Aung, Gabriel says, seizing the moment, I’m increasing my offer to apologize for my dog’s inexcusable behavior.

Gabriel bows and continues in a low tone, I think you’ll agree it’s more than fair.

Fear flickers across the leader’s face in less than the blink of an eye. But Gabriel’s eyes never leave the man with whom he’s negotiating, and he hears the general’s frantic voice in his head.

He knows my name. We were set up.

You were set up?

The general nods in agreement and offers his hand to close the deal in the western style. It’s a significant token of respect after Gabriel’s bow. The young officer’s disappointment smashes into him with hurricane force.

No promotion for you today.

Zuko prances to Gabriel’s rented Jeep and patiently awaits admittance. As he drives out of the Mogok Stone Tract, wooden chest safely in the trunk, heart still pounding, Gabriel’s cell phone comes into range. He looks at the display with Zuko’s smiling snout, and his day improves. It’s Joe.

Where are you? I’ve been blowing up your phone.

Did you hear my call? Gabriel asks, though he knows it’s impossible. Joe is an asset of House Angeles. They pay witches a princely sum to ward Joe’s mind against intrusions because it holds their secrets. But what if he did get my message in a bottle? What if love born out of desperation found a way?

What call? Joe asks.

Oh, okay. Gabriel shrugs. Don’t you remember? I’m in Burma. His knuckles turn white as the Jeep dips into another crater—Zuko still reclining serenely in the front seat. I’m on a buying trip. My mobile has been a paperweight. Why? What’s wrong?

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Is it Peter? Gabriel asks. Did you tell him?

Oh, not yet, but I will. I did it, Gabriel. I mapped your genome. I mapped Zuko’s first, giving me the clues I needed. And I think I can infuse precious stones with what you call ‘ley energy.’ I mailed you a sample yesterday.

What? Gabriel exclaims. I’m chuffed to bits—Gabriel can’t help channeling his British father—I always knew you’d change the world.

I’m excited but scared. Will your uncle protect me?

From what?

I’m announcing a new psychic human subspecies tomorrow. You won’t be a secret anymore.

What? Did the Angeles House patriarch approve you going public? We can do it?

I can’t wait for the Angeles. Humanity needs this, Gabriel. Yes, it’ll be a shock, but the cures and therapies we can create with the immunities in adept blood will be incredible.

"A shock? Joe, we can’t defy House Angeles."

What’s the earliest I can see you?

I’ll be out of the jungle and on the highway in about an hour. If I’m lucky, ah, tomorrow morning. I’ll leave Rangoon ASAP. Gabriel hears Joe’s mobile beep with an incoming call.

Oh, no, Joe says. It’s Peter, and I have to tell him.

Chapter Two

ADEPT HOUSES

Adept society is governed by Houses. A House is comprised of the ruling families in a territory, which is equivalent to a country. These families, the most genetically powerful adepts, elect a matriarch or patriarch to lead. We know the CIA recruits from House Caddos. House Caddos rules over Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana.

—National Intelligence Strategy White Paper: Top Secret (TS): Release of this document will cause severe damage to the security of the United States—Adept Assets

JOE HEARS HIS husband gasp when he opens their front door. The sound echoes off the granite floors in a foyer so large his father’s trailer would fit inside. A painting covers one wall. It’s by an artist whom his mother-in-law says every couple should own but whose name always escapes him.

It’s good to see you at the piano, Joe says.

Why are you home so early? The last time you left work early, I had appendicitis. What’s wrong? Did your trainer cancel? Is the gym closed? Peter smirks and turns over his sheet music.

I should’ve performed that surgery myself. Your doctor was an idiot. I’m making some coffee. Do you want any?

No, thanks, Peter replies.

Their massive living room covers at least seven hundred square feet, filled with modern furniture and art, also selected by Peter’s mother. An interior designer staged the room, and an art consultant chose the art. Joe suspects his mother-in-law bought all the staged furniture when the apartment was for sale. It would explain a lot.

In the gleaming marble kitchen, Joe grinds his Peruvian beans for exactly six seconds. When the distilled water gets to 200 degrees Fahrenheit, he patiently pours it over the coffee grounds and observes the bloom. Joe sets his watch timer for four minutes to allow the coffee to steep. When it is ready, he’ll go in there and get it done.

Hey, Peter, he yells from the kitchen. Play ‘Giant Steps.’

Isn’t that what I played the night you proposed?

That’s the one.

Joe looks at the French press, knowing he has three more minutes to depress the plunger. He smiles, recalling Peter’s concert two years ago when his deft fingers created an ephemeral art that ensnared him. Peter became the center of Joe’s universe that night when everything made sense. Peter’s music made him feel something, something lost. Joe’s smile fades into oblivion. Peter’s playing picks up speed, and he hears a flaw. Whether it’s art, data, or love, there is always a flaw. Only math is perfect. Joe pushes the plunger down and pours himself a cup. So armed, he enters the living room.

No need to adjust your posture, Peter says with a smile. It’s always perfect.

Old habits die hard.

Joe sits and crosses and recrosses his legs. He gestures to Peter to leave the piano and sit opposite him on the couch. I’ll get right to the point.

Okay. Peter’s left eye twitches, and he bites his lower lip.

This isn’t easy to say, but our marriage isn’t working. Don’t you agree?

What? Peter whispers.

We haven’t been communicating, and let’s face it, we’re avoiding each other.

You’ve been avoiding me, Peter says. Why? Are you giving up on us?

Admit it. You’ve seen this coming. Our relationship is dead, and I’m just burying it. You’re angry all the time. Don’t you ask yourself why?

Angry? I’m not angry. I love you.

Joe straightens unnecessarily and frowns. I’m not good for you.

"You are good for me. You’re—" Peter utters a guttural sound, seeming to rise from the depths of his being. It’s low and dark and takes on a fury all its own, like his best concerts.

I’m not, Peter.

You are. What happened? Where is this coming from? I mean, whatever it is, we can fix it. We can work on it.

No, we need to move on.

Why not work on it? Peter says, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes are a crimson red. You’re always working. It’s what you do.

We want different things.

I want you to let me love you.

I’m sorry, Joe says, his eyes darting away. But this is for the best.

The best?

I want us to be friends.

Friends? You don’t have friends. Peter’s brow furrows, and he meets Joe’s eyes. Have you thought this all the way through?

Yes. The answer comes without hesitation, and Joe’s voice doesn’t crack or waver. He reaches up and gently massages his forehead with one hand.

Are you seeing someone?

How does that matter?

Nothing matters, Peter says with a sigh. Of course, you’re not just seeing someone. You’re seeing Gabriel. You’re leaving me for your ex.

He has nothing to do with this.

Peter chokes out a hollow laugh. He has something to do with whatever it is you’re planning. You’ve been calling him a lot. You’re going to publish that paper, aren’t you? You’re going to betray Barbara and me. Well done. Are you going to credit her? Why are you talking to Gabriel and not Barbara? I won’t let you do this.

What did I say about you being angry all the time? Joe raises an eyebrow and attempts a smile to lighten the mood, however briefly. Barbara Bates doesn’t need help from you or me or anyone, I imagine.

I’ve heard you mention all your keywords—‘peer review, grant money, and data.’ You don’t want me around for that? You don’t want me around when you steal Barbara’s prize?

What about your prize? Joe counters.

You know full well the music industry has turned its back on me, just like you.

Joe exhales and crosses his arms. My publishing doesn’t have any bearing on our future.

Doesn’t it? When no reply comes, Peter lowers his voice in an apparent attempt to appear calm. I believe that loving someone means putting them first, so if this is what you want, I have to think of you and not me. But if there’s a chance we can get through this, we should take it. Give it a few months. Maybe we can get a therapist or—

There isn’t a chance. Joe leans back in the armchair, relaxing for the first time, and sips his coffee. I didn’t let it steep long enough, or maybe the water wasn’t ready. He stares at the cup. Oh, I know what I forgot. I’ll have to make a new batch.

Is that what you’re focused on? Your coffee?

I’m focused on the future, as you should be. Joe puts his cup on the side table and gives it a disgusted push.

You don’t have a future, Peter says.

The comment hangs suspended in the air. Joe says nothing in reply but frowns, and they sit in a stony silence.

I’m sorry, Peter says. I didn’t mean that. You’ve been distant, but I love you, Joe, so much. Couples have come through worse than this. So can we.

We can’t.

You mean you won’t.

Peter, don’t—

Don’t worry. I won’t make a scene. Peter takes one shuddering breath. I have a question, though. What happened to your love for me? Peter folds his arms across his chest. You complain that when families hear a loved one will die, they can’t accept it. Facts are facts, you always say. They don’t stop being facts if they’re difficult, and isn’t this a death? If you’re going to break my heart, then do it right. You do everything right.

Joe flinches, and the temporary loss of control wrenches his gut. My love for you hasn’t changed. We’re going in opposite directions, and it’s best we let each other go.

At least you can’t look me in the eye when you lie to me, Peter says. I’m going to P-town tomorrow. One lone tear streaks down his cheek.

Okay. Take all the time you need.

Of all the men I could’ve picked. Peter grabs his sheet music, Forever Mine, tears it up, and drops it on the floor on the way out.

*

THE SUN STREAMS into Barbara’s corner office, lasering between the narrow slats of the blinds. She rejected the offer of expensive custom roller shades because the previous occupant, whom she forced out of the company, chose these blinds, and she didn’t want to appear elitist by replacing them.

Barbara built a bar behind her desk where most people expect a bookcase because she wants to send the message expect the unexpected. Her diplomas hang off to