by Loren Walker
* * *
Phaira sat on the top of the Arazura, looking up at the stars. The wind was warm and sweet, but it wasn’t pleasant in any way. Too many questions. Too many changes clouding up her mind. Her time in Kings seemed like a dream, surreal and preposterous.
She hadn’t contacted Nox’s mother and father yet, though she knew she had to say something. But her throat closed up at the thought of his name.
The twisted grey cigarette smoldered between her second and third finger. Lifting it to her lips, Phaira inhaled deeply. Then she exhaled, surveying the horizon. From this vantage point, she could see the edges of two cityscapes, one to the east, one to the south, twinkling with lights. Some miles away, a train rumbled by, spewing smoke into the night air.
In her lap sat the Lissome that Theron had given her. Putting the mekaline down, Phaira popped open the black square and disassembled the circuitry, searching for a tracer. There was none. But she left it open and dead.
The Ikani Mala identification packet lay next to her. She couldn’t use it, of course. But it was too valuable to toss away; she could sell it for extra rana, if she needed to. For now, she would keep it to herself.
Phaira took another inhale of mekaline; she could feel the effects now, that familiar, blissful rush. Good, because her mind was turning again, this time to those unanswered questions about Theron’s intentions. And her secret, aching shame at being played for a fool.
Theron had a hand in this bloodgame. Of course he did. Theron and his cousins were fused in their common tragedy; why wouldn’t he be involved in avenging their lost family? Of course he never thought of Phaira as someone who could ‘make a difference in the world,’ as he’d said. Those were just empty words to try and recruit her to the cause. Another mindless mercenary to join the ranks.
Or, very possibly, a mindless mercenary to clear the path to power. Because on reflection, with Keller, Xanto and Kadise confirmed dead, Theron Sava was the lone successor to a powerful crime syndicate. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Phaira slipped the Ikani Mala passport into her back pocket, and kicked the dead Lissome over the edge of the Arazura. It made a tiny pinging noise as it crashed into the concrete platform. Then Phaira ground out the mekaline and blew it off the paneling.
More than any time before, Phaira and her family needed some kind of protection.
And loyalty, secured in whatever way would stick.
