A ghost of a smile. “I’m a tracker, Dr. Vargas. There are always more hunters in the woods.”
Siena’s vision blurred. The thing wearing Mira’s lab coat was still twitching, still trying to raise the GoPro. “She’s recording,” Siena whispered. “Why?”
“Venandi.” The woman didn’t offer a hand. “One name only. And you’re the photographer who thinks she’s a rescue operative.”
Venandi’s hand shot out, clamping over Siena’s mouth. She pulled them both behind a kapok tree, her body a solid wall against Siena’s back. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, Siena felt the tracker’s heartbeat—slow, steady, absurdly calm.
“Temporarily. The cosmetic effects fade after the host’s death. We’re still refining the delivery mechanism.” He set down his coffee. “You have two choices. Join my collection—I’m always looking for skilled subjects. Or I can release the airborne variant. The Yanomami village downriver? They’d be singing your name within the hour.”
Mira’s face filled the screen—unblistered, tear-streaked, but fierce. “Siena. If you’re watching this, I’m gone. The fungus isn’t the weapon. The cure is. I synthesized an antifungal before they took me. It’s in my left boot heel. Administer via aerosol. It spreads faster than the infection. Tell Venandi—she’ll know what to do.”
She pressed play.
Venandi looked at Siena. For the first time, something soft passed over her face. Not pity. Understanding.
“Our job,” Venandi said. She didn’t shoot him. She zip-tied his wrists and sat him against a tree. “The authorities will be here in six hours. You’ll be conscious for all of it.”
Siena turned.
She lunged forward, but Venandi caught her, pinned her against the tree. “That is not your sister anymore.”
“Mira led them.”
“You’re late,” said a voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
“She was running,” Siena whispered, lifting the camera. Her fingers trembled. “Mira never runs.”
A ghost of a smile. “I’m a tracker, Dr. Vargas. There are always more hunters in the woods.”
Siena’s vision blurred. The thing wearing Mira’s lab coat was still twitching, still trying to raise the GoPro. “She’s recording,” Siena whispered. “Why?”
“Venandi.” The woman didn’t offer a hand. “One name only. And you’re the photographer who thinks she’s a rescue operative.”
Venandi’s hand shot out, clamping over Siena’s mouth. She pulled them both behind a kapok tree, her body a solid wall against Siena’s back. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, Siena felt the tracker’s heartbeat—slow, steady, absurdly calm. Venandi by KC Luck EPUB PDF
“Temporarily. The cosmetic effects fade after the host’s death. We’re still refining the delivery mechanism.” He set down his coffee. “You have two choices. Join my collection—I’m always looking for skilled subjects. Or I can release the airborne variant. The Yanomami village downriver? They’d be singing your name within the hour.”
Mira’s face filled the screen—unblistered, tear-streaked, but fierce. “Siena. If you’re watching this, I’m gone. The fungus isn’t the weapon. The cure is. I synthesized an antifungal before they took me. It’s in my left boot heel. Administer via aerosol. It spreads faster than the infection. Tell Venandi—she’ll know what to do.”
She pressed play.
Venandi looked at Siena. For the first time, something soft passed over her face. Not pity. Understanding.
“Our job,” Venandi said. She didn’t shoot him. She zip-tied his wrists and sat him against a tree. “The authorities will be here in six hours. You’ll be conscious for all of it.”
Siena turned.
She lunged forward, but Venandi caught her, pinned her against the tree. “That is not your sister anymore.”
“Mira led them.”
“You’re late,” said a voice like gravel wrapped in silk. A ghost of a smile
“She was running,” Siena whispered, lifting the camera. Her fingers trembled. “Mira never runs.”
