Kiss

  FEARLESS

  #1 Fearless

  #2 Sam

  #3 Run

  #4 Twisted

  #5 Kiss

  Available from POCKET PULSE

  To Nicole Pascal Johansson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET PULSE, published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Produced by 17th Street Productions, Inc.33 West 17th Street New York, NY 10011

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Copyright © 2000 by Francine Pascal

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address 17th Street Productions, Inc., 33 West 17th Street, New York, NY 10011, or Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-3409-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-74343409-6

  Fearless TMis a trademark of Francine Pascal.

  POCKET PULSE and colophon are

  trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  KISS

  GAIA

  I'll probably never have kids. I'm not just saying that. There are a few really good reasons to think so:

  1. I can't even manage to get a guy to kiss me, let alone . . . all that;

  2. I seem to have very, very bad family karma (if you believe in karma, which I don't, but it's kind of a fun word to say);

  3. Somebody tries to kill me at least once a week.

  If you knew me at all, you'd know I'm not being a wiseass when I say that. Let me give you a quick example: I went on the first real date of my life recently, and the guy tried to murder me -- literally -- before the night was over. So, really, what are the chances I'm going to stick around on this earth long enough to find a guy to love me so much that I'd actually want to have kids with him in the far distant future?

  But if by some miracle I ever did have kids, I would never, never, never have just one.

  I remember this old neighbor of mine telling me how great it was to be an only child, how you got so much more support, love, attention, blah, blah, blah, blah. How you didn t have to share your clothes or fight over the bathroom.

  I would die to have a sister or brother to share my clothes with. (Although to be honest, what self-respecting sibling would want any of my junk?) I fight over the bathroom with myself when I'm feeling really lonely.

  The summer I was thirteen, the year after my mom . . . and everything, it was over a hundred degrees practically the entire month of August, so I used to go to this public swimming pool. All the lifeguards, and lifeguards-in-training, and lifeguards-in-training-in-training, and swim team members chattered and gossiped and giggled while I sat on the other side of the pool. I never made a single friend. One day I overheard my foster creature at the time say, "Doesn't it seem like all the other kids at this pool arrived in the same car?"

  That, right there, is the story of my life. I feel like the whole rest of the world, with all their brothers and sisters and parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts, arrived in one big car.

  I walked.

  The neighbor I mentioned earlier, the one who was so psyched about only children? I think he neglected to consider how the whole scenario would look if you didn't have parents.

  the color of fear

  Gaia sucked in a few shallow gasps of air, raised a pair of wide, haunted eyes to his, and whispered, "I see dead people. . . ."

  Flesh Crawler

  "MRS. TRAVESURA?"

  At first Ella Niven didn't realize the voice was speaking to her. Then she remembered. Travesura was the Spanish word for "mischief." It was the name she'd given when she'd first made the appointment.

  She looked up from her magazine. The stunning Asian receptionist was smiling down at her. "The doctor will see you now."

  Ella nodded. Setting down the magazine, she grabbed her purse and the shopping bag resting beside her chair and followed the woman.

  There were several other women in the posh waiting room. All were reading magazines. All were the indeterminate age of the extremely wealthy somewhere between thirty-five and death. Clearly most of them had consulted the plastic surgeon many times before this.

  Ella noticed that most of the women also had shopping bags with them. She recognized the familiar logos of Chanel, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bergdorf Goodman, and a couple of other Fifth Avenue boutiques, all glimmering like badges of honor.

  Ella's own shopping bag was from Tiffany. As she crossed the room, she was acutely aware of each of the other women taking note of the robin's egg blue bag in her hand.

  The receptionist led her out of the waiting room and into a long, gray corridor. At first Ella thought the walls were made of slabs of marble -- but was shocked to realize they were actually enlarged, black-and-white close-ups of human flesh. A gigantic palm here. A colossal kneecap there. She'd never considered how the wrinkles and creases of one's skin could look like striations in rock.

  Up ahead, the corridor ended in a pair of brushed-aluminum doors. The receptionist indicated that Ella could continue on alone. When Ella was within a yard of the metal doors, they glided open soundlessly.

  The office was large and spare. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around two sides of the square chamber, giving a panoramic, sixty-story view stretching from Central Park to the East River.

  As Ella entered, the doctor was standing behind a large, black desk that gleamed like highly polished onyx. Oddly, it was bare except for a light blue folder that seemed to float -- weightlessly -- above the slick surface. It must have been an optical trick.

  The doctor was tall, and pale, and bald. He wasn't dressed in a physician's white coat, as Ella had expected. He wore a black suit over a black turtleneck.

  Drawing closer, Ella discovered that her initial impression was wrong again. The man wasn't bald. His hair was white, but cropped exceptionally close to his skull. His skin was the same ghostly color. That's what had created the illusion of baldness.

  Still, the doctor's eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were deep set and a light shade of yellowish green. They gleamed like cat's eyes beneath his brow. In all her life she had never seen eyes that color.

  Not on a human, anyway.

  "'Mrs. Travesura,' I presume?"

  His tone of voice made it clear he knew it wasn't her real name.

  She nodded cordially. "How do you do."

  The doctor didn't answer but gestured to the chair opposite him -- an artsy contrivance of chrome bars and black leather straps.

  The doctor sat down. "I understand, from our initial conversation, that there is a certain . . . procedure . . . that you wish me to perform."

  "That is correct."

  "Now. If I am not mistaken, you are ... shall we say, employed by a certain L --"

  "Exactly," Ella interrupted. She needed to shut off this particular line of inquiry as quickly as possible. "I am. He, however, is not to be contacted under any circumstances. I must shield him from this undertaking. It is of utmost importance."

  The doctor nodded, but he looked skeptical.

  Ella knew he had past connections to Loki. That's how she had found him. But if he were to contact Loki directly, Ella knew her plan would be derailed instantly. Loki would accuse her of deep, twisted jealousy. But the fact was, when Ella succeeded with this plan, and Tom Moore arrived at the bedside of his poor, disfigured, comatose daughter, Loki would be forced to give Ella the credit she was due.


  For now, she needed to change the course of the conversation. She cast her gaze at the mysterious blue folder and gestured toward it.

  It worked. "Ah ... the portfolio," he explained, placing his hand lightly on the folder. "It represents my ... side business, if you will. 'Before' and 'after' photographs of some of my more interesting accomplishments." He slid it across the desk toward her. "Care to take a look?"

  Ella stared down at the ice blue folder in front of her, but she didn't touch it. She didn't need to see what was inside.

  "Oh, c'mon . . . go ahead." He pushed the folder a few inches closer to her. "Aren't you in the least bit curious?" His tone was friendly. Flippant, almost. But -- glancing back up at him -- she saw that the man's eyes had locked on her with the cold, intense scrutiny of a snake. It was as if he were mentally willing her to look at the pictures. Daring her, even.

  When she didn't respond, he reached forward and started lifting the cover. "Just take one little --"

  "I'm familiar with your work," she interrupted.

  The doctor instantly snapped his hand away. The folder whispered shut.

  He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  Ella had the feeling she'd just failed some kind of test. She tried to regain ground.

  Sitting up taller, she leaned forward slightly, bowing her shoulders so that her cleavage was displayed at its most alluring angle. "Believe me, Doctor," she began in a persuasive voice, "I wouldn't be here if I weren't already highly confident about your ... skills."

  If the doctor noticed her breasts, he made no show of it. His eyes remained locked on her own.

  "And yet," she went on -- leaning forward a little more -- "regardless of your expertise, I think you may find this particular ... patient ... to be an extremely unwilling subject."

  "Many such patients are reluctant," the doctor agreed. "At first." His eyes seemed to sparkle at some dark, private memories.

  "This one is different," Ella stated firmly. She was growing annoyed. Why wasn't he looking at her chest? She leaned forward even more. "You might as well know, Doctor: You're not the first . . . professional . . . I've contacted in this matter. Others have tried to treat this patient. They failed."

  "My success rate is impeccable," the doctor assured her. "And as I informed you at the outset, Mrs. Travesura, one gets what one pays for." He stressed this last phrase meaningfully.

  Ella took the hint. Reaching down, she picked up the Tiffany shopping bag that was lying at her feet. She placed it on the desktop, sliding it toward the doctor across the slick surface. As she did so, her hand accidentally brushed up against the folder.

  Despite herself, she flinched.

  The doctor noticed this, and his lips curled in mild amusement. He took the Tiffany bag, glancing inside.

  Ella watched him and waited. She didn't expect him to react at the sight of the money; he was no doubt used to seeing such large sums of cash. She was waiting for him to notice what else was in the light blue bag.

  The doctor's smile faded. Reaching into the bag, he removed a small, rectangular device. It might have been a cellular phone, except that it had a tiny LCD monitor where the earpiece should be. He held it up, a question forming in his bile-green eyes.

  "It's a tracking device," she explained before he could ask. "Satellite technology. Effective within a fifty-mile radius. It allows you to pinpoint the precise location of a radio transmitter." Opening her purse, she withdrew a tiny metallic chip about the size of an aspirin. "This transmitter, which will be planted on the subject tonight."

  She paused to gauge the doctor's reaction. It was crucial that he go along with the plan.

  "Interesting," was all he said. He placed the tracking device down on his desk and sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together on his chest.

  Keeping her voice steady, Ella continued: "You will use the device to track the subject. There is a telephone number on the back. Once you have completed the job, you are to go to the nearest pay phone and call this number. Is that understood?"

  The doctor stared at her over his fingertips. "Perfectly."

  Was he mocking her? She couldn't tell. But she didn't care now. This transaction was drawing to a close.

  "Good," she said. "Well -- uh, Doctor -- I believe that about covers it."

  She stood up. So did he. She would not let him try to shake her hand. The thought of being touched by those long, bloodless fingers made her flesh crawl.

  There was only one more matter to square away before she could leave.

  She placed her hands on his desk. "I have to make sure we're perfectly clear on one point," she informed him, trying to make her voice as threatening as possible. "You may be as ... thorough . . . as you desire. In fact, I encourage you. But it is of the utmost importance that the subject makes it through the procedure. Alive."

  The doctor stepped around his desk, smiling widely and warmly. "Your concern, Mrs. Travesura, is quite touching," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But it's unnecessary."

  He suddenly dropped his smile -- and with it, his act. "The subject will live. I can assure you of that." His voice was much colder now. Deader. As devoid of life as his skin. "There's no challenge in it for me otherwise."

  He nodded at the folder, still sitting on his desk. "They all lived," he informed her, his voice ringing with chilling pride.

  Shortcomings

  GAIA MOORE MOVED QUICKLY ALONG West Fourth Street in the direction of Washington Square Park, not bothering to slow her pace for her friend, Ed Fargo, who wheeled along a yard or two behind her.

  As she walked, Gaia switched the strap of her beat-up canvas messenger bag from her left shoulder to the right. It was a smooth, fluid movement -- one she made often over the course of her day. If she was doomed to have the overdeveloped deltoids of a Russian gymnast, at least she'd make sure they were equally overdeveloped. Being a supermuscular freak was bad enough. Being a lopsided one was too much to bear.

  Gaia was painfully self-conscious about her body. Even now she was aware of her muscular arms and shoulders, although they were safely camouflaged beneath the bulky yellow-green Polartec parka she'd started wearing since the weather turned cold.

  Long ago she'd given up trying to fight it. No amount of doughnut scarfing could erase the six-pack definition of her abdominals. Her genetics were simply stacked against her. Her muscles were as much a part of her as her blue eyes and her light hair and her extreme devotion to chocolate.

  "Jesus, Gaia, could you slow down? The speed limit is thirty miles an hour, last I checked."

  Gaia cast a glance back at Ed. "Why don't you speed up? You've got wheels, for God's sake."

  It was a game they played. If she'd actually slowed down for his benefit, Ed probably would have clocked her. He appreciated pity exactly as much as she did.

  The chess tables were coming into view. Gaia hoped there would be a new face today so she could earn some money for lunch.

  Over the past three months she'd developed a reputation among the chess players. When she'd first arrived on the scene, it had been fairly easy to score a twenty-dollar game. That was in late August. Now the only regular who would play her for cash was old man Zolov, an international master. Since Gaia had helped save Zolov's life back in September, the "undefeated chess champ" of Washington Square suddenly began losing to her at regular intervals. A little too regular. It seemed as if they'd traded the same twenty dollars back and forth ten times in the past week.

  And then there was Sam Moon. Sam could also get a game off her, but he was a different story entirely. They had played only once. They played to a deadlock until she'd freaked out and forfeited her king. Sam wouldn't take her money, but he had walked off with her heart that day.

  Impatiently Gaia gathered her long hair from where it blew in her eyes and mouth and threw it behind her back. She'd forgotten to bring a hair band.

  Maybe if she were lucky, Zolov would let her win today.

  If she were really lucky, Sam Moo
n wouldn't show up at all.

  Ed had caught up and started badgering her the way he'd been doing all day. "Gaia. Do the line from the movie. Pleeeease?"

  And maybe -- if she were really, really lucky -- a certain someone would get his wheelchair caught in a sewer grate any moment now.

  She glanced in annoyance at her self-appointed best friend. What had she done to deserve him?

  "I'm not going to do it, Ed. So you can stop asking."

  "Please, Gaia? I'm going to Pennsylvania tonight, so I won't get to see you for a whole four days. Besides, I promise I won't laugh this time. I promise."

  "That's what you said the last time. And the time before that." God, why had she ever attempted that stupid imitation? She was just fooling around in the cafeteria at school, and Ed acted like it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen in his life. He wouldn't shut up about it.

  "That was the old me. I've changed since then. I swear."

  "The only thing you've changed is your underwear -- and that's debatable."

  "Guy-uhhhhhhhhh . . ."

  "Oh, sure, whine my name. That'll convince me."

  "I'll pay you."

  "You don't have enough money."

  "Oh, you might be surprised."

  "I doubt it. Seeing as you can't even afford socks that match." She gestured at his feet.

  Ed shot her a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

  "Your socks. Are you celebrating Christmas a month early? Or did you get dressed in the dark this morning?"

  Gaia had walked a good ten paces before she realized Ed was no longer at her side. She spun around.

  He'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and was bent over in his seat, staring down at his feet with a strange, aggravated expression on his face. "Aw, man. You're kidding me, right?"

  Gaia put her hands on her hips. "Kidding you? You put them on, elf boy, not me."

  Ed squinted up at her. "Great. Thanks. Make fun of the color-blind guy. Go ahead."

  Gaia cocked her head. "You're not color-blind," she pronounced.