Book 2 - Felecia
For Janus Kymbel, terror had a face as angelic as a woman’s gets. It belonged to Felecia Kymbel, his mother. Her small frame and perfect little hands moved in fluid harmony like sea grass, and her pale, raspberry heart shaped lips always seemed to be open for something other than conversation. The same went for her legs.
For Janus Kymbel, terror had a face as angelic as a woman’s gets. It belonged to Felecia Kymbel, his mother. Her small frame and perfect little hands moved in fluid harmony like sea grass, and her pale, raspberry heart shaped lips always seemed to be open for something other than conversation. The same went for her legs.
When his father, Omar, was out on patrol, her door was always open and Felecia had more black-market wares than all of the heavy rollers in V Sector combined. And when no one came a knocking, she always had Janus to turn to. When he was twelve and a Protectorate stooge from the fertility clinic came with word that he was fertile and therefore considered divine in Anshar's eyes, she knew her days with him were numbered, but a bigger cash cow she couldn’t have hoped for. What Anshar's women wouldn’t pay for a shot of his golden swimmers was a limit she could only have fun reaching for.
That was the same day she called Spits. Everyone just called him the surgeon. He was Murrow’s brother, and Murrow ran Anshar. He wasn’t worried about keeping a breeder out of harm’s way. He liked living a major league life just as much as Felecia did, and he didn't give a crap if Anshar disappeared from history, or altogether for that matter.
“Just two vials a day, Janus. That’s all I ask. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll buy you things, real nice things. Things that idiot idealist of a father of yours will never be able to afford,” she told Janus the day Spits arrived for the first time. "You'll get used to it."
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