The stand-alone comms to be everywhere, until skull-ports became the global standard. Rak had a communicator; it's back at the Fray base along with his other personal possessions. He probably knows where I can find the technology I need, and I'm sure that he won't tell me willingly. He's made it clear I'm his prisoner, to be handled and disposed of as he decides.
We'll see about that.
I should try torturing him. If I could manage to stun him and tie him up, I could inflict plenty of pain with my ability. He'd suffer for a while—he's stubborn—but eventually he would give in.
Am I really thinking about doing this, minutes after he touched my hair like he did? Maybe he's right, and I'm as self-obsessed and shallow as he thinks I am—welcoming his touch one minute, planning to torment him the next. But what else can I do? He's with me every minute, and he'll interfere if I try to ask someone else about a communication device. Plus, he has the finance card, which I'll need if I'm going to rent a device or bribe someone to lend me theirs.
I've got to subdue him, get the gun and the card, and extract the information I need. Plus, it's only fair—after I was in his faction's power for those days, he'll be in my power. My prisoner. Poetic justice.
My eyes flick to Rak's gun, lying near him on the floor. His eyes are closed, and he seems to be asleep. Still, I'm sure he's sleeping less soundly now, after the incident with the bounty hunter. He'll probably wake up if I try to take his weapon.
But if I don't act tonight, what happens to me? He might be planning to take me to the Fray today, and then I'll be right back where I started, or worse.
Carefully I peel back the sheets and blankets until my legs are free. The bedding rustles loud as thunder in the stillness, so I wait, breathing soundlessly through open lips. Rak doesn't stir.
I sit up, pausing at every tiny creak of the mattress. When my blistered feet touch the floor I wince, but adrenaline dulls the discomfort. My heart buffets my ribcage as I move, step by step, across the floor toward Rak.
When I dive for the gun, he senses the motion and his hand shoots out to grip my ankle—but he's too slow from sleep.
"Zilara, what—"
Staggering back, kicking him off me, I fumble for the gun's settings and switch it to stun mode. Rak's eyes widen right before I shoot him with the buzzing pulse—and then a second pulse for good measure. His teeth chatter, his eyes roll back, and he's helpless.
The shock will wear off soon. I make the most of those few minutes to pull the chair away from the door, set it against the wall, and heave Rak onto it. He's so heavy I nearly wrench my back lifting him—but limb by limb I get the job done. I remember the slider cuffs in his pack, and I use them to bind his wrists behind him. The cord from the curtains serves well enough to tie his legs to the chair. I pull the cord as tight as I can without completely cutting off his circulation.
By the time I finish with his legs, he's moving again, moaning and shifting and starting to struggle.
I back up, gun in hand. "Be still, or I'll stun you again."
"Zilara." His speech slurs. "What are you doing?"
"I need to find a communication device I can use to contact my father. You're going to tell me where I can get one."
"You could have just asked."
"Liar. You told me I'm still your prisoner, remember? That you had to think about what you were going to do with me? Now I'm the one with the power, and you're my prisoner."
"You couldn't just go to sleep." Is he actually smirking at me?
I walk up to him, and I lean close to his ear, until my hair brushes his cheek.
"You think this is funny?" I ask.
"Maybe."
"Then you're more foolish than I thought." I inject as much venom into my voice as I can. It doesn't take much effort, because I'm furious that he's treating this as a joke. I don't scare him—yet.
Moving back, I slide my hand around his throat. He swallows, the muscles and tendons of his neck moving under my fingers.
I spread warmth from my skin to his, energy powering up the particles that create him. Warmer, and warmer. Heat flushes up his neck.
"Zilara." His voice vibrates through my hand, and I tighten my grip, turning up the heat, energy pulsing from me to him. His jaw muscles tense and his lips tighten, but those dark eyes never leave mine.
"Tell me what I want to know," I say.
He doesn't speak. A faint hiss comes from his skin, and I jerk my hand back. Oh, no.
A bright red handprint seared on his tanned throat.
"I—Rak, I'm—" I didn't mean to. It happened too fast.
"One thing you can't deny," he says, his voice rough. "I never hurt you."
I fight down a surge of shame, but my voice still shakes. "Tell me where to get a communication device."
"I would have told you if you had asked me."
"You wouldn't."
"I would."
"I'm asking now. Or do you need another lesson?" The words lurch from me, harsher and colder than I intended.
"Is this what you want? For me to fear you?"
I want to know that I'm in control, for once. And I want him to know it. "Answer my question!"
"All you have to do is go the front desk with my finance card and ask. They'll tell you where to find one."
"I need something private, secure, with global range. A standalone piece, not skull-port tech."
He nods. "They can probably provide that. If not, try a device repair shop. I'm sure they have one in town that stocks old tech."
It seems obvious now. But I've never had to buy communication equipment before, or obtain tech for myself. It has always been delivered to me by drone in crisp white boxes, or implanted by smiling technicians in pristine coats.
Inwardly I curse my own privilege and stupidity. Aloud I demand, "Where's the finance card?"
His scarred mouth writhes into a half-smile. "In my front right pocket." He shifts, pushing out his right hip to give me better access. Taking a deep breath, I twist my fingers into his pants pocket, feeling around for the card.
"Take your time, why don't you," he says, his voice tense.
The card is deep in the pocket, jumbled up with some lint and string and a small bit of cloth, and a square of paper. I retrieve the card and the paper, and Rak settles back into the chair.
"Did you get what you need?" he asks, his cheeks flushing through his tan.
I hold up the two items. On the paper is an image of a middle-aged woman and a girl younger than Rak. Both have his dark hair and slightly bent nose, but the girl has blue eyes. Something about their expressions reminds me of him.
"Your mother and sister," I say, glancing at him. He's biting his lip, eyeing the picture like he wants to snatch it from my hand. Bending forward, I tuck it back into his pocket, and when I lift my eyes we're face to face. The heat between us has nothing to do with my ability. His eyes dart to my mouth for a second—down and back up, so fast I could have imagined it.
For half a second I'm tempted to lean in, to close the distance. Instead, I back away.
The wall unit that controls our room's temperature shows the time—dawn isn't far away. After moving the table from in front of the door, I collect everything we brought with us and throw the pack on my back, sucking in a sharp breath as the strap grazes the wound on my shoulder. Then I buckle on his gun belt; I have to tighten it by half a dozen notches. Last of all, I tuck the finance card into the pocket of my shorts.
"There's not much left on it," Rak says as I open the door. "Use it carefully."
I glance back. With his wrists bound behind him, his shirt is pulled tight across his chest, revealing the lines of the muscles underneath. My gaze travels down to his legs, and I worry for a second that I tied the cord too tightly.
"Having second thoughts?" he says.
"Not at all. Just wondering if I should stun you again before I leave. Or gag you." A gag is actually a good idea, so he can't call for help. I close the door again and pick up a sma
ll wash-towel from the bedside table. Unfolding it, I cross the room to Rak. "Open up."
"No." His eyes glitter, challenging me.
How far am I willing to go with this?
Tucking my right hand under his chin, I run my thumb over his lips. They're rough from our days in the sun-baked desert. I press the tip of my thumb between them, pushing in until I touch his gritted teeth. "Open your mouth."
When he still refuses, I pinch his nose until he has to open his mouth to breathe, and then I stuff the cloth in, careful not to push it too far back—I don't want to choke him. After securing the gag with a strip of cloth knotted behind his head, I stand back to admire my work.
The sight of him bound and gagged like this is exciting—and not just because I managed to turn the tables on one of my captors. This kind of excitement heats my cheeks and gives me thrills in all the right places.
Rak watches me, his eyes sparkling. He can't possibly know how I'm feeling, can he?
"Stay," I tell him, and I leave the room, closing the door behind me.
A woman sits at the desk, but she's not the one who checked us in. This one looks to be about my age, with straight, striking features, pale green eyes, perfectly shaped full lips. She's chomping on a wad of something, twisting a piece of her short black hair in her fingers, and flicking through a newsfeed on her holo-screen. Her black-lined eyes assess me as I approach. She says something in a language I don't understand, but switches immediately to Global. "You need something?"
"A communicator," I say. "Something with secure mode, and plenty of range."
She quirks an eyebrow at me. "We don't have those here."
"Do you know anywhere that would offer them? For rent, maybe?"
"DigiGam, two streets over," she says, jerking her thumb to the right. "Dev repair shop. They don't open for hours though."
"Anywhere else? It's urgent."
Pressing a button on the skull-port behind her ear, she shuts off the holo-screen and takes a long look at me. Then she pulls the lump of chewed whatever-it-is from her mouth and tosses it in the trash bin next to her desk. She leans forward, all her attention on me. "What's your name?"
Why does she want to know? "Reya. Reya Narselle."
She smirks. "You're lying."
"What? No."
"Did you have something to do with the break-in tonight?"
"No."
"Another lie." She reaches for her skull-port device, finger poised over one of the tiny buttons. "Tell me why I shouldn't call the authorities right now."
Somehow she knows when I'm lying. She must be Evolved.
I have to tell her the truth. I don't have a choice. Maybe she'll help me—if not, I'll have to stun her.
"I'm Zilara Remay, the daughter of the Magnate of Ceanna," I tell her. "I was kidnapped by Fray rebels and held hostage. Then some Vilor guys attacked the Fray base, and I escaped with a Fray soldier, and we crossed the desert and came here. I need to call my father so he can come get me and I can go home."
My right hand hovers over the gun at my hip. Her finger moves nearer the button on her skull-port device.
Then she drops her hand. "Truth, at last," she says. "What about the dead guy? If you were involved in that mess, why didn't the investigators mention you?"
"The guy was a bounty hunter, looking for me," I say. "I hid in another room while the investigators were here. I didn't know if I could trust them."
"But you're trusting me."
"Do I have a choice?"
She grins. "Always." She pushes back her chair and props her booted heels on the desk. "Sit, Zilara, Magnate's daughter. Maybe we can help each other."
I take the chair opposite her. "I'm listening."
"You like our little town?" she asks.
"It's—conveniently placed."
"It's crap. Problem is, it's hard to leave once you're here. Take me for example. My job isn't exciting, but it pays the bills—barely. Leaves almost no money for anything else. And what I want most of all is to leave this sandy dung-hole behind for eternity. So let's say I help you contact your daddy and lay low until he comes for you, and you get him to cough up a generously funded finance card for me, so I can get out of here for good. Sound fair?"
"Yes. How much is generous? We should settle on specifics."
She names an amount less than my monthly allowance, and by the tension in her face I can tell she thinks it's too high, that I might not agree.
"How about twice that?" I say. "And we'll call it done."
Her eyes widen. It's a strange effect, the heavy black eyeliner and the pale, translucent green of those orbs staring at me. "Deal, Princess."
"Don't call me Princess."
"Well, I shouldn't call you by your full name, in case someone overhears. How about I call you Zil?"
"Whatever you like. And you are?"
"Safi."
"Safi, I'm guessing you know how I can contact my father safely?"
"I could use my port device, but I'd rather not have a direct connection to such a big-name guy as your dad in my logs. I've got a stand-alone device you could use, though. It has a few extra layers of security and it can reach anyone, anywhere in the world, with no backtrace." Pride glows in her eyes.
"Sounds impressive."
She swings her boots off the desk and stands. She's taller than me, tall as the models my friend Vissa worships. With that height, her slim shape, and those lips, she could stalk any runway back home and draw cheering crowds, or star in any vid she liked. The scuffed boots, hole-spattered pants, and sun-faded jacket are anything but glamorous, though.
"I'll prep the device," she says. "Meet you at your room. Number five, was it?"
"Three. Um, one more thing—I kind of have a man tied up in my room."
She smirks, raising an eyebrow.
"It's not that kind of thing. He's the Fray rebel who brought me here."
"If he helped you, why'd you tie him up? Seems like a poor way to repay someone." She's frowning, obviously wondering if she can trust me to honor our deal.
"He was going to give me up to the Fray again," I say. "I had to show him who's in charge. He's not a bad guy—just confused about his loyalties."
She nods. "Always good to show the men who's boss."
I'm about to head back to the room, but my curiosity overcomes me and I turn back to her. "How do you do it? Identify when I'm lying and when I'm not?"
"I can sense a person's pulse and breathing rate. It's a gift, always being able to identify the deceivers."
"Do you have to hide it, living here?"
"I don't go around showing it off all the time, or people in this town would never talk to me," says Safi. "You, I don't mind telling, because you're a stranger and I'll probably never see you again once you've passed through. Are you going to keep asking questions, or can I get the device ready?"
"Go ahead."
I hurry down the hall, back to the room where I left Rak, and I punch in the unlock code. As I complete the code, I transfer the pack from my back to my hand, ready to toss it on the floor as soon as I'm inside.
When I open the door, the chair is empty.
Tensing, I step forward into the room, dropping the pack and letting the door close behind me.
Rak's left arm wraps around my neck from behind, crushing against my throat as his other hand darts for the gun. I swivel my hips so he misses the grip, and I stomp on his foot. I draw the gun myself, but his right hand closes on my wrist, hard and unbreakable as a bio-cuff. Summoning all my energy, I push surging waves of heat into his palm until he cries out and lets go. Instead he wraps his right arm around my waist, and I'm trapped against him, my airway shrinking under the pressure from his left forearm. I can't angle the gun correctly from this position, either.
"I don't want to hurt you, Zilara," he says in my ear. "Relax and stop fighting me."
Fiercely I exude searing heat from the skin of my neck into the male arm across it—but my focus shatters as I fight fo
r air. I can't concentrate hard enough to burn him. I writhe, but his chest is a hard wall at my back and his arms are iron bands. I force myself to relax, and he releases me right before I pass out. As I crumple to the floor at his feet, he leans down and picks up the gun.
"Now," he says. "Let's talk about boundaries, and communication."
10
I choke and gag, feeling my throat.
"You'll live," Rak says. "With a less permanent mark than this one." He points to my red handprint on his neck.
"You can't give me up to the Fray," I say hoarsely. "You can't. I want to go home."
He stares down at me, reluctant sympathy in his eyes.
"How did you get out of those cuffs, and the cords?" I ask.
"They were too loose. Next time you decide to tie someone up, do it better if you want him to stay put."
"Rak, I made an ally. She's getting me a communication device, and she'll be here with it any minute."
"You work fast." He scratches his head. "Who's the ally?"
"The girl from the front desk."
He bites the scar on his lip, worrying it.
"Stop that," I say.
"What?"
"Biting your scar. It looks painful, and weird."
He frowns. "I don't care what you think."
"Obviously." I stand up and move to the bed. He follows me with his eyes, but he doesn't raise the gun. "Rak, what are you going to do?"
"I should turn you over to the Fray, or whoever passes for Fray in this town. If I don't, I'll be in more trouble than you know—and not only me. My family will lose the protection of the Fray faction."
"You could tell the Fray leaders that I got away from you."
"That story won't hold up. There will be security vids of us at the bar, and in the street. Walking together, talking."
"And even if you turn me in now, they could look at those vids and wonder why you didn't do it sooner. Face it, Rak, if you really wanted to, you could have turned me in yesterday, or last night. Do you think your Fray buddies will understand why you waited? And while we're on the subject—why did you wait? Why not give me up right away?"
Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1) Page 9
