Life Sentence
Daniel Boyd had overcome many obstacles in his life, and mortality was simply the latest challenge. He’d been born into an illustrious family of sorcerers, owners of a multinational corporation. Money and magical powers. The proverbial silver spoon ... or it would be, if your father hadn’t screwed the company over and gotten himself—and his sons—disinherited. But Daniel had surmounted that barrier, and so he would with this one.
“We’re heading down to the laboratory,” Shana said, her voice coming through his computer speaker. “It’s underground, so let’s hope we don’t lose the connection.”
They’d better not, considering how much Daniel had paid for the equipment. He leaned back and watched the screen bob as Shana descended the steps, the camera affixed to her hand.
The doctor had given him the death sentence two weeks ago. Inoperable cancer. Six months to live. Daniel didn’t accept it. He had money, he had power, he had connections; he would find a way to commute this sentence. So he’d begun his search, delving in the black market of the supernatural world.
Shana finally reached the underground Peruvian laboratory. As much as Daniel wanted this cure, he wasn’t flitting across the world to get it. There was no need to when he had Shana.
She was, as he’d always said, the perfect assistant. Loyal enough to follow orders without question. Astute enough to anticipate his every need. Attractive enough to make everyone presume he was bedding her, and smart enough never to correct that presumption.
She’d been with him for six years, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. Luckily, he didn’t need to worry about that.
“Still there, sir?” Shana asked.
“I am. Audio and visual working fine.”
A man’s face filled the screen, coffee-stained teeth flashing. “ Hola , Mr. Boyd! I’m delighted that you’ve taken an interest in my studies. May I be the first to welcome you to—”
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Of course. You’re a busy man. I mustn’t keep you—”
“No, you mustn’t,” Shana said. “Now, this is the lab, I take it?”
The camera panned a gleaming, high-tech laboratory. Dr. Gonzales was funded by a European Cabal that wouldn’t appreciate him double-dipping with a Boyd for a client, but he’d been unable to resist Daniel’s offer.
Gonzales walked to a table full of beakers and tubes and started explaining how he’d distilled the genetic component.
“Not interested,” Daniel said. “I only care about the end result.”
“You can fax the results to me,” Shana said. “So our scientists can check your procedures.”
“Yes, of course. Well, then, on to the subjects.”
The screen dimmed as they returned to the hallway. Daniel answered three e-mails while they walked and talked about the cure. It wasn’t a cure for cancer; Daniel had realized early that was a band-aid solution to avoid tackling the underlying problem of mortality.
Vampirism seemed the best solution. Semi-immortality plus invulnerability. But as it turned out, the process of becoming one was far more convoluted than he’d expected, and promised only a twenty-percent chance of success . . . and an eighty-percent risk of complete annihilation of life and soul.
Most vampires, though, were hereditary, and therein, he believed, lay the answer. After some digging, he finally found a lead on Gonzales, a shaman who claimed to have isolated and distilled the genetic component that would make anyone a vampire, for the right price.
“Sir?” Shana murmured.
He glanced at the screen to see what looked like a hospital ward. He counted eight subjects, varying ages, all on their backs, unconscious, hooked up to banks of monitors.
“We began clinical trials five years ago, starting with rhesus monkeys—”
“Could you tell us about these subjects, please,” Shana cut in. “Have they completed the trial? How much attrition did you experience? Have
Daniel Boyd had overcome many obstacles in his life, and mortality was simply the latest challenge. He’d been born into an illustrious family of sorcerers, owners of a multinational corporation. Money and magical powers. The proverbial silver spoon ... or it would be, if your father hadn’t screwed the company over and gotten himself—and his sons—disinherited. But Daniel had surmounted that barrier, and so he would with this one.
“We’re heading down to the laboratory,” Shana said, her voice coming through his computer speaker. “It’s underground, so let’s hope we don’t lose the connection.”
They’d better not, considering how much Daniel had paid for the equipment. He leaned back and watched the screen bob as Shana descended the steps, the camera affixed to her hand.
The doctor had given him the death sentence two weeks ago. Inoperable cancer. Six months to live. Daniel didn’t accept it. He had money, he had power, he had connections; he would find a way to commute this sentence. So he’d begun his search, delving in the black market of the supernatural world.
Shana finally reached the underground Peruvian laboratory. As much as Daniel wanted this cure, he wasn’t flitting across the world to get it. There was no need to when he had Shana.
She was, as he’d always said, the perfect assistant. Loyal enough to follow orders without question. Astute enough to anticipate his every need. Attractive enough to make everyone presume he was bedding her, and smart enough never to correct that presumption.
She’d been with him for six years, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. Luckily, he didn’t need to worry about that.
“Still there, sir?” Shana asked.
“I am. Audio and visual working fine.”
A man’s face filled the screen, coffee-stained teeth flashing. “ Hola , Mr. Boyd! I’m delighted that you’ve taken an interest in my studies. May I be the first to welcome you to—”
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Of course. You’re a busy man. I mustn’t keep you—”
“No, you mustn’t,” Shana said. “Now, this is the lab, I take it?”
The camera panned a gleaming, high-tech laboratory. Dr. Gonzales was funded by a European Cabal that wouldn’t appreciate him double-dipping with a Boyd for a client, but he’d been unable to resist Daniel’s offer.
Gonzales walked to a table full of beakers and tubes and started explaining how he’d distilled the genetic component.
“Not interested,” Daniel said. “I only care about the end result.”
“You can fax the results to me,” Shana said. “So our scientists can check your procedures.”
“Yes, of course. Well, then, on to the subjects.”
The screen dimmed as they returned to the hallway. Daniel answered three e-mails while they walked and talked about the cure. It wasn’t a cure for cancer; Daniel had realized early that was a band-aid solution to avoid tackling the underlying problem of mortality.
Vampirism seemed the best solution. Semi-immortality plus invulnerability. But as it turned out, the process of becoming one was far more convoluted than he’d expected, and promised only a twenty-percent chance of success . . . and an eighty-percent risk of complete annihilation of life and soul.
Most vampires, though, were hereditary, and therein, he believed, lay the answer. After some digging, he finally found a lead on Gonzales, a shaman who claimed to have isolated and distilled the genetic component that would make anyone a vampire, for the right price.
“Sir?” Shana murmured.
He glanced at the screen to see what looked like a hospital ward. He counted eight subjects, varying ages, all on their backs, unconscious, hooked up to banks of monitors.
“We began clinical trials five years ago, starting with rhesus monkeys—”
“Could you tell us about these subjects, please,” Shana cut in. “Have they completed the trial? How much attrition did you experience? Have
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