Moonlight Mist: A Limited Edition Collection of Fantasy & Paranormal)

by Nicole Morgan

  Derrick shot her a determined grimace. “Something stupid.”

  “There’s no air out there!” Vienna said.

  “I’m aware.” There would be a tiny bubble of air around each ship from the second skin, a membrane formed by air held around the hull to prevent sudden depressurization in case of a breach. But there would likely be a gap of a few seconds as he passed through the unprotected space between the two ships.

  He tightened his grip on his gun and braced himself.

  With a groan of metal, the raider ship uncoupled and moved back from the Mercy. Derrick counted to three under his breath, giving the ship enough space to get clear so he wouldn’t be crushed between it and the Mercy. Then he ran forward and launched himself through the hole and out into space. He easily cleared the distance, landing with a bone-crunching thud against the raider ship’s hull. He grabbed onto the nearest protrusion and, without missing a beat, scrabbled up and over the top of the ship. He only had a minute to climb up to the pilot house and get inside before the ship accelerated, leaving him dangling outside the Mercy with no oxygen—and possibly a broken back from the recoil of being snapped back by the cable clipped to his belt.

  Adrenaline drove him, giving him both speed and strength. He was up the side of the ship and on the pilot house in a flash. He didn’t even pause as he fired his gun at the window. It exploded in a cascade of glass. The raiders inside were too stunned by the sudden appearance of a man on the hull of their ship and the sudden explosion of the window to react. Derrick felled them with a single bullet dead center each. He unhooked the cable from his belt, clipped it to the glassless window frame, climbed through the window, and dropped into the pilot house. He slammed a hand on the ignition, cutting the engines. Then he crossed to the exit, slid down the ladder to the main hall, and took off at a run for the ship’s cargo bay, his leg screaming in pain.

  He didn’t hesitate—anyone who stepped in front of him got shot. He burst into the cargo bay. Luck favored him, because Kyra was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, beside the door. In one motion, he grabbed the restraints binding her wrists and hauled her to her feet. She stared at him in wide-eyed incomprehension. He shoved her toward the hall.

  “Run for the bridge and don’t stop for anything,” he said.

  She started toward the hall and stopped. “They have one of the techs,” she said breathlessly.

  Derrick scanned the room but didn’t see the tech. He shook his head at Kyra. “There’s no time.” He pushed her again. She looked like she was about to argue.

  “Move!” he barked at her. His vision was starting to swim; he was losing blood fast and wasn’t going to be able to stay upright much longer.

  A bullet ricocheted off the bulkhead beside his head. Derrick ducked and shoved Kyra again. But this time, she didn’t need to be told. She took off at a run down the hall.

  They bee-lined for the bridge. Kyra couldn’t climb the ladder with her hands bound and Derrick had no way to cut through the metal restraints.

  “Hell and damnation,” he muttered. He thrust his gun at her. “Hold this.” She took it with a look of confusion. He didn’t give her time to figure out what he was doing. He grabbed her and threw her over her shoulder. She yelped in protest. He climbed the ladder, fire shooting up his leg with every step. At the top, he unceremoniously dumped Kyra on her feet and grabbed back the gun.

  “Look out!” Kyra shouted.

  He spun around and shot the man coming up the ladder behind them. Then he shoved Kyra toward the bridge. They stepped through the doorway and then Derrick slammed a hand on the door release. The door slid closed. Derrick fired at the control panel, shorting it out. Then he pushed Kyra toward the shot-out window. Already the air in here was getting thin now that oxygen couldn’t enter from the main part of the ship.

  He urged her up onto the control panel. “Take a breath,” he said, “and hold it.” He grabbed the winch line, still clipped to the edge of the broken window frame, and clipped it to his belt. Then he shoved the gun at Kyra again and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her tight against him. Her eyes went wide. Then, with one fluid motion, he slammed a hand on the ignition, firing up the engines. He gave the reverse thrust lever a hard kick as he took a running leap out into space, carrying Kyra with him.

  The raider ship moved backward rapidly, leaving Derrick and Kyra floating free. By the time the raiders broke down the door, their ship would have flown miles. They wouldn’t be able to catch up to the Mercy.

  The cable line went taut, and then began to draw them toward the ship. In a few moments, Vienna and Hunter were hauling them through the hole in the hull. Then Ivy was there with a meso-static skin to cover the hole. She set to work as Derrick collapsed on the deck, being careful not to crush Kyra as they landed hard on the floor.

  Derrick made sure Kyra was okay first—she was shaking and staring at him with terror-filled eyes but was uninjured—and then he rolled onto his back and groaned. Pain throbbed in every square inch of him.

  “That was a hell of a stunt,” Vienna said dryly as she stood over him, arms crossed.

  “And I got shot, too!” he said. He struggled to a sitting position and reached down to clutch at his leg to staunch the bleeding. What on earth had possessed him to go after the woman, drat her hide?

  Vienna helped Kyra to her feet and ushered her into the care of two roughnecks while Hunter hauled Derrick roughly to his feet, sending a fresh wave of pain through him. “Did you or did you not hear me to give you an order?”

  “What order?”

  “To save the tech.” Hunter had hold of him by the collar and gave him a rough shake. “Damn it, Derrick. He was a company man. You know we’re contractually obligated to go after him.”

  “I attempted a rescue. But there weren’t much I could do. We met the contract just fine.”

  Hunter shook his head. The tense line of his jaw made it clear he wasn’t buying Derrick’s story. “I thought she weren’t your type.”

  Derrick flushed. “She ain’t. But I wouldn’t leave a dog to that fate.”

  “Uh huh.” Hunter shook his head again. Derrick swayed slightly, a wave of dizziness overtaking him.

  Vienna sighed and caught him under the shoulder. “Come on, big fella. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

  She stepped forward, trying to lead him. A searing pain sizzled up his leg.

  “Damn it, be careful!”

  “Quit complain’ ya big baby.” She grunted under Derrick’s weight.

  Hunter sighed and grabbed Derrick’s free arm, wrapping it around his own shoulders so he could support him as well. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Tell her I want them little lemon things,” Derrick said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Hunter frowned at Vienna. “What’s he talking about?”

  Vienna smirked. “Ain’t you ever noticed how every time Derrick gets injured, Kyra makes cookies?”

  “Less talkin,’” Derrick said, his leg throbbing so hard now he thought he might pass out, “more fixin.’”

  Kyra peeked around the infirmary doorway. Vienna looked up from the tray of instruments she was sorting. A wave of guilty embarrassment—as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t—washed over Kyra. Her face heated.

  Vienna quirked an eyebrow. “You need something?”

  Kyra glanced at Derrick’s prone form laying on the farthest of the room’s three beds.

  Vienna’s lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. “He’s out cold. He wouldn’t stop bellyaching, so we sedated him.”

  Kyra hesitantly slid a toe into the room and then the rest of her foot and then her whole body. Feeling foolish, she held up a plate of cookies. “Ivy said he wanted these.”

  She was so stupid. Like cookies could in any way compensate the man for what he’d done for her. She was no one. She wasn’t Company. She wasn’t a dignitary. She wasn’t even a rich tourist. She didn’t have insurance. No one should have come
for her. He’d risked his life—had even been shot—for her. Ivy had said there was quite a lot of blood loss.

  She set the plate down on the table beside Derrick’s bed as quietly as she could. He was out cold from the drugs, but still, she felt an urge to tiptoe. She didn’t know how to face him; she had no way to express her gratitude. No words would ever be big enough.

  Derrick groaned, and his eyes fluttered open.

  Kyra yelped in surprise and took a step back. She backed into a wheeled cart. The impact sent it spinning across the room where it crashed into the cart of instruments Vienna was sorting. The tray of instruments flew up into the air. Vienna ducked and covered her head as metal instruments rained down on her.

  Kyra stood frozen in shock. She covered her mouth with her hands and stared at Vienna who stared back with a look of stunned surprise.

  “I’ll clean it up!” Kyra said quickly.

  Vienna climbed to her feet and surveyed the mess impassively. Flatly, she said, “They all have to go back in the sterilizer. Thirty minutes.” With a shake of her head, she crossed to the door and left.

  Behind her, she heard a grunt.

  “Is it safe?”

  She turned. Derrick was struggling to sit up. He shot her a wry look. She flushed. He fished behind him, trying to adjust his pillow. Kyra hesitated, not sure if she should offer to help. The last thing he probably wanted was her anywhere near him.

  “Should I call someone?” she asked.

  Derrick flopped back in the bed with a grunt. “Just hand me one of those pillows.” He pointed to the next bed. Kyra grabbed the pillow and handed it to him very slowly and deliberately so she didn’t accidentally set off another catastrophe.

  Derrick stuffed the pillow behind himself so that he was sitting up but reclining. He settled back and then seemed to notice the plate by his bed. His face lit up. “Oooh, cookies!” He grabbed two of the small, yellow pastries and stuffed them in his mouth. Kyra watched him uncertainly for a moment, wrestling with whether she should thank him. Everything she said and did annoyed him, but she couldn’t in good conscience not say anything.

  Since he hadn’t barked at her or told her to leave, she decided to venture it. Gingerly, she perched herself on the edge of the physician’s stool beside his bed. “Thank you,” she said quietly, “for coming to get me.”

  Derrick stopped chewing for a second and regarded her as if he deciding how to respond. “The captain sent me for the tech. He has insurance. You don’t. I couldn’t find him, and you happened to be there.”

  Kyra nodded slowly. That made sense. In a way, she was relieved. Incidental rescue wasn’t quite as “life debt” inducing as purposeful rescue.

  Derrick squinted at her. “Hey! You aren’t going to get all teary-eyed on me, are you?”

  Kyra swallowed back her tears of gratitude and shook her head. “No.”

  Derrick grunted and grabbed another cookie. “Good.” He took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. He eyes slid to her. “I reckon you can cook okay, after all.”

  She smiled, as a warm tingle of gratification swept over her. He still had that assessing look, as if he couldn’t decide what to make of her, but one corner of his mouth turned up. He had a nice smile—and a nice mouth. Her eyes drifted to his chest. Though he still wore a shirt, the fabric hugged his wide, strong shoulders, broad chest, and muscular arms. Liquid warmth spread through her like an oil slick, kindling a fire deep in the pit of her stomach.

  She was staring. She was ogling. Mortified, she snapped her eyes back up to his face.

  Derrick was happily munching on cookies. He was contemplating one intently with a look of bliss as he chewed heartily. He hadn’t seen her ogling him. Thank God for small mercies.

  He didn’t seem much interested in making further conversation, so she slid from the stool and crossed to the far side of the room. She dropped to her hands and knees and began collecting scattered instruments. A minute passed and then a loud snore erupted from the bed across the room. She peeked up over the edge of the table. Derrick was out cold again.

  Chapter Eight

  Derrick’s eyes fluttered open. He groaned as he moved slightly. Damn bed was harder than the cargo hold floor. He shifted position, trying to find a comfortable spot. It had been three days since the raider attack and his leg still hurt like a son of a bitch. There was a medical facility on New Hispaniola station, and they’d fix him up proper when they arrived there in a few days. For now, he just had to grin and bear it. He’d be up and around already—anything was better sitting here in bed, bored out of his mind—but Vienna had insisted he stay off the leg.

  He glanced at the rolling cart that served as a bedside table and noticed a fresh plate of cookies. A grin slowly spread across his face. Well, a steady supply of meals in bed and treats besides was a nice consolation. Looked like Kyra had stopped by while he was out. Now if only she’d come by when he was actually awake.

  He grabbed one of the dark-colored cookies and sniffed it. It had turned into a kind of game—he tried to guess what might be in them and what they would taste like based on how they looked and smelled. This one smelled of… something dark and sweet… molasses maybe. He took a bite and chewed softly, savoring the flavor and texture, letting it soak into his taste buds as he tried to identify the ingredients. It was soft and chewy but tasted of vanilla and caramel instead of molasses. The flavor was lighter than he’d expected. It was good. Not his favorite, the lemon drops still held that place of honor, but damn tasty nonetheless.

  He heard a soft sound in the doorway behind him and he twisted quickly to see what the source was, which caused a sharp pain to shoot up his leg. He stifled a yelp of pain and lay back in the bed.

  Kyra came into sight, hurrying forward with a bowl in her hands. “Are you okay? Do you need me to get Vienna?”

  “I’m fine,” he said curtly, embarrassed to have betrayed that he was in pain. The jolt had taken him by surprise was all; he wasn’t such a weakling that he couldn’t take a little bitty hurt like a gunshot.

  Kyra was looking at him with big, worried eyes, and he frowned, not liking the pity.

  His frown must have appeared menacing, because she jumped forward, as if stuck with a pin, set the bowl on his table, and then backed away quickly.

  “What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the bowl. A delicious aroma was emanating from it, meat and herbs and fruit, and he tried to disguise a long inhale as a sigh.

  “Supper,” she said. She turned to go.

  “Yeah, I know that, but what is it?”

  She hesitated for a moment, as if it were some type of trick question. He reached out and nudged the physician’s stool by the bed, hoping maybe she’d sit and visit for a bit. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t purposely gone after her when she’d gotten taken. It had been obvious from the look on her face that she hadn’t wanted to be indebted to him—and he didn’t want her feeling indebted either. If she stayed and visited, he wanted it to be because she wanted to, not because she felt obligated.

  She glanced at the chair, hesitating again, as if she thought he was playing a trick on her. She glanced up at him, but didn’t quite meet his eyes, as she slid onto the stool. She sat gingerly, poised on the edge, as she had in the lounge, the first day he’d met her. How many times had she injured him since then? He’d lost count. Though, he supposed he couldn’t quite blame the gunshot wound on her.

  He nudged the bowl, reminding her that she hadn’t answered his question.

  Her cheeks turned pink. “It’s roast pork with a fruit compote.”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That came out of a Re-Con?”

  “Well, the meat did, but the compote was from some of my produce.”

  He picked up the bowl and brought it closer to his nose to inhale the scent. He cut the hearty chunk of bio-synth meat with his fork; it was tender but solid—just the right consistency. He speared the piece and put in his mouth, letting the pungent flavors unspool on his tongue. He had
to bite back a very unmanly moan. If this was the sort of food they ate on First Worlds, he guessed he could understand why she wanted to go to one so bad.

  She was watching him, though trying not to let on she was watching. Her eyes kept darting up and then dropping back to her lap. He still couldn’t quite figure her—she seemed timid upon first acquaintance, but the more he got to know her, the more he thought maybe she was just shy. Or, maybe it was just that her face was so damn expressive. It seemed to give away everything she was thinking. She’d been brought up in the trades like him—which meant she’d been taught from an early age to keep her head down and her mouth shut. He thought maybe she tried to avoid making eye contact as a way to try and hide her thoughts. It didn’t much matter; the rest of her face gave away just as much, from the rosy flush of embarrassment to the worried twist in her lips to the rise of her finely arched eyebrows. The girl better not ever try to play cards; she had no guile whatsoever.

  “I notice you still ain’t eatin’ any,” he said mildly.

  Her blush deepened to a dark red. “I thought you’d be asleep. I wasn’t planning on staying.”

  So, she was still avoiding him. An uncomfortable mix of annoyance and disappointment washed over him. He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully, searching for a topic of conversation so she would stay.

  “This is good,” he said lamely.

  She stared at him, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finally, one side of her mouth curled up slightly in a shy smile. To his surprise, the smile sent a slow, sweet warmth through him.

  He relaxed slightly, settling back against his pillows.

  “What’s your favorite thing you ever made?” He took another bite, chewing slowly to savor it, trying to make it last as long as possible.

  “Oh, jeez, I don’t know,” she said, an adorable furrow appearing between her eyes. “I don’t exactly make things on purpose. It’s always an experiment based on what I’ve got on hand. Except for the cookies. Those are generally from recipes because they use standard ingredients. But for cooking? Every meal is a surprise.”