The UN Science Committee's conference room in Geneva smelled like recycled air and expensive coffee. Victoria Kane had been in worse places to sell a lie.
Twenty-three faces watched her from the horseshoe arrangement of tables. Representatives from nations that rarely agreed on anything, united only by the recognition that supernatural abilities had stopped being theoretical problems and started being strategic assets. Or threats. Depending on who was doing the calculating.
She adjusted the presentation remote in her hand. At twenty-eight, she was young for this room. The "independent researcher" credential on her name placard did nothing to hide whose daughter she was. Viktor Kane's legacy opened certain doors. Even—especially—among people who'd celebrated his death.
