Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Rather than blending into the background as befitted one of her ilk, she deliberately drew attention to herself and made the roughest gambling hell, Robber’s Roost, her center of operations. She walked with a no-nonsense strut that put people on notice she wasn’t one to tangle with.

  One big drunk, slurring how cute she was as he grasped and fondled her, found himself on the barroom floor in a rapidly expanding puddle of his own blood. After that, no one bothered her.

  Right under the nose of the local law, she flaunted herself by demonstrating her fighting ability. They didn’t mess with her. Wasn’t worth the hassle to squabble over such a minor point on the Fringe. Lady alone had a right, even a duty, to protect herself.

  Emmet said she’d never fit anywhere, IWOG or WAG. True enough, yet she fit right into the Fringe. Emmet couldn’t have coached her better for life as a Fringe player if he tried.

  In a month, she managed to build quite a reputation for banditry as the woman in purple. Purple Lady of Corona. Mary thoroughly enjoyed her new nickname. She took pride in her work, devious as it may be, but she didn’t kill. She geared her tactical analysis not to kill.

  “No reason to when you can just swipe the goods without them knowing,” she’d told the bartender one slow night. “Less ammo, hardware, and fuel because you don’t have to run away.” She winked. “Also, I like my boots. I’m not about to scuff them up running away when I don’t have to.”

  She analyzed jobs in her head, considering every angle. Dealing with the dangerous Michael Parker had only sharpened her skills. Her mind was in hyperdrive. Not a single loophole slipped by her. She trusted no one.

  At first, when she’d inquired about jobs, no one wanted to take the risk on her, not until she kicked the ass of a big drunk who’d gotten too handsy for his own good. Men and women both became more respectful, but still no job.

  Finally, Captain Morgan, a haggard woman with pale gray eyes, agreed to hire her to run tactics on what she thought was a cakewalk job. For a paltry two percent, Mary pointed out three holes in the job at first glance. As she ran the job through her mind again, she found three more.

  “Looks like a cakewalk over a burbling volcano,” Mary told the other woman. “Give me three percent, and I can double the take without a shot fired.”

  Dubious, Captain Morgan followed her recommendations, and they’d swiped three times as much as they’d planned on, without a single shot fired.

  “Told you I know what I’m doing.” Mary took her small cut and segued into another job on reputation alone. Within a month, she became a hot item. Want to run a sneaky job? Ask that Purple Lady over there.

  She turned down more work than she accepted, and her standard rate per job climbed. Life was good. Except for one nagging problem.

  Michael Parker.

  For not being around, he certainly took up a lot of her mind, mostly at night when darkness filled her gaudy room above the hell. She waited for him to show up on Corona in order to reunite with Kraft, and she knew in her heart he’d never look for her here. Even if he did, he’d never find her.

  She kept her eyes wide, looking for Kraft in the crowded streets of Borealis, but Mary never saw a woman six-three of dark and deadly Walkyrie. Never saw a ship named Prospect. She didn’t ask around either. Inquiries had a way of coming back on you.

  Mary sipped her fancy water and cast her awareness out like a net into the chaotic jumble in the crowded hell. Sharp feelings of elation contrasted by misery caused her to reel in her awareness. Pungent wafts of liquor and greasy food had almost a soothing effect in their familiarity.

  Michael might have already whisked Kraft away, or maybe Kraft had never been here at all. Mary kept looking and listening. More than anything, she just wanted to see Kraft. Mary wouldn’t dare speak to her. Curious, not stupid, she hid in plain sight and kept her eyes and ears wide. “And he’d never think to look for me here.” No. Not here where, if he came, he would look for Kraft, not her.

  Late at night, she thought about Michael. She wondered where he slept and if he slept alone. She missed him. Her body burned for him and she found herself unable to assuage the need with her own hands. She thought time would blunt her desire, but time only sharpened her physical and emotional longing.

  She missed his quirky half grin. The way he said, “Indeed” or “Granted” as if he conceded pawns in chess. The way he looked at her with his wicked golden-brown eyes as he said the most incredibly erotic things in the Void. His lips so close to hers until she begged him closer… Nighttime was hell. The more she tried not to think of him, the more she did.

  Maybe someday, she’d look him up and see what happened with him and Kraft, but maybe she was better off not knowing. Safer not knowing. He would be safer if she stayed away from him.

  Sighing, she kicked back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass to the table, stood and looked around. It was the usual crowd for a weekday. Couple of hard-core rich drunks at the bar arguing sports, couple of hard-core rich gamblers in the back trading fortunes, and the usual mix of WAG citizens, IWOG consumers and Fringe players.

  Rough planks squeaked beneath her feet as she strode across the main floor of the hell. She decided to get another pleasure novel to distract herself for the afternoon. Just as swiftly, she decided to get a juicy novel so she could indulge in an afternoon of Michael fantasies.

  “Looking for work?” A big, weapon-riddled man with coal-black hair and shocking green eyes kicked a chair out into her path.

  She grabbed, spun, and straddled the chair all in one smooth motion. “That depends.”

  He startled back. “On?”

  “The job, how much, who for.”

  “IWOG manufacturing plant. Fifteen percent of the take. You’ll work for me.” His pockmarked face was handsome in a harsh way. Underneath all the weapons, he wore clothing made of duratel. Rumor had it the fabric was effective against laser blasts. The tightly woven cloth sparkled multicolored under the dim lights, making him glitter like a holiday ornament.

  “And you are?” She looked him over, trying to decide if he could be trusted, at least as far as someone could be here.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he said coldly.

  She smiled. “I guess names don’t matter so much.”

  “I guess not.” He returned her smile, flashing white teeth, obviously straightened and bleached. He could be ex-IWOG, not that his origins mattered much out here on the Fringe.

  “What are you looking at on this job?” She leaned forward in the chair and took an unobtrusive sniff of him. He smelled like gun oil and metal. No cologne or booze. Good sign.

  “Quarter Mil.”

  “Yeah-huh,” she said, unimpressed. “We’ll see.”

  “You pull this off, and my captain might want you full time.”

  “One job at a time.” She winked. “You’re not the captain?” It gave her a moment’s pause. The captains had always approached her. She let her awareness flow out around her, but she didn’t feel anything off in the folks around them.

  “No. Recruiter.” He smiled again, trying to reassure her, and maybe flirt, but his grin came off a little creepy.

  “Before I decide, I’ll need to see your ship, inspect your crew and meet your captain.” She stood.

  Green Eyes nodded, following her up. “Seems fair enough.” He motioned her forward. “After you.”

  “Don’t play the dandy on my account.” She lifted her hand to the exit. “You know the way.”

  Forcing a smile, he took the point position and led her out of the hell, making a fine shield. Once in the chaotic jumble of the afternoon streets, he slowed his pace in an effort to bring her up to his side, but she insisted on following him to the ship port. With a mocking country-simple voice, she said, “I’m a woman who knows my place.”

  He laughed, turned and saw she rested her hand over the butt of her IWOG officer’s pistol. He stopped laughing, broke stride with a fumble, righted himself and led her deeper into the spa
ceport.

  The stench of fuel and recyc forced her to breathe through her mouth, but her surreptitious gaze darted everywhere, looking for Kraft, Michael, a host of other folks.

  Following within the yellow walkways, Green Eyes led her to a battered rust-bucket that looked like one hard landing would disintegrate it.

  “What’s holding this thing together?” she asked as they approached the hatch. “Spit, bailing wire and bubble gum?”

  “She’s solid.”

  He led her inside, and she instantly shifted her opinion. The outside was just for show. Updated wall coms gleamed at every corner, and smooth durosteel walls made minimal friction under her fingers. Grippy blue neospring floors cupped her boots and the ship smelled good, kinda minty. She smiled. IWOG, WAG, or Fringe player, not a soul would look twice at this ship because of the outside.

  “Hiding in plain sight.” Mary breathed the words to no one in particular.

  “What?” He cast a gaze over his bulky shoulder.

  “Sliding into night. It’s getting dark. You planning on running this job tonight?”

  He nodded and turned, leading her deeper into the ship. Her hackles rose again when he took her to the bridge. Not a wise move on his part. Something just didn’t track about all of this, but she decided to stick around and find out what.

  On the bridge, she found all the slick electronic tricks of Whisper, but these were newer. “Nice. What’s your crew?”

  “Six fighters, a pilot, two engineers, a cook, a doctor and the captain. And you, if you take the job.”

  “Trained fighters?”

  “Deadliest men in the Void.” He flashed her that semi-creepy smile again.

  “We won’t need them.”

  “We won’t need fighters?”

  “Not to fight. They’ll be moving goods. Have them dress… accordingly.” She flicked her chin toward him. “Not like you.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” He drew himself up, clearly offended.

  “You’re so wrapped in weapons you can barely move.”

  He looked down at himself. When he did, she tapped one of the nearby keypads. “Elusive Grace is an interesting name for a ship.”

  Sluggish because of all his gear, he lurched forward to wrest her from the console. She stepped away, turned and dropped one hand to rest lightly on her pistol. “Don’t get your britches in a bunch. I was just checking.”

  He glared. “You taking the job or not?”

  “So far, everything looks good.” Keeping her pistol hand ready, she looked around the bridge again. This ship hid in plain sight. Intriguing. She felt an instant kinship.

  Turning her speculative gaze to Green Eyes, she tried to read more into him. “You’re not in charge here. You’re a fighter and you don’t like the idea of not fighting.”

  Bristling like a trapped musk-squirrel, he narrowed his eyes. “No. I’m not in charge. Neither are you.”

  “Yet.” She turned casually and ran her finger along the top of the pilot’s chair. Despite the rich leather, the pilot chose to cover the seat in ratty sheepskin with fringes of leather covered in beads and pins. “A man’s lifetime in mementos. Your pilot…”

  When she trailed off, Green Eyes automatically supplied, “Rourke.” As soon as the name left his mouth, he clenched his jaw and his face turned red.

  “Rourke considers this his ship, doesn’t he?”

  Green Eyes took a slight step back, just enough to alert her to the truth.

  “Rourke is not the captain but the pilot who feels he owns the Elusive Grace.”

  He lowered his brows. “You want this job or not?” He puffed himself out, expanding his chest like a strutting peacock with enough weapons strapped to him to level Pine Glenn at least once. For him to challenge her in close quarters with her hand on her gun was absurd. If he flickered toward a weapon, she could blast his head apart.

  “You don’t play poker, do you?” She laughed, her eyes never leaving his face.

  He pulled back again. “What?”

  “If you do play poker, stop. If you don’t, do yourself a favor and don’t start.” She shook her head, drew her pistol and aimed the barrel at his right eye. “You have the worst poker face I’ve ever seen.”

  Up, ever so slowly, went his hands. The man was so saturated in weaponry he couldn’t raise his hands to his shoulders. Both hands hovered about mid-chest.

  “You think you can just lure me in here and apprehend me?” She cocked the gun, her aim never wavering. One twitch of her finger and his right eye would explode into a nasty mess in a small space. “I think you need to change your opinion of me right quick.”

  Holding him at bay, she tapped the console again, but everything went black. She darted a dark glare to Green Eyes, who smiled so creepily she lowered her pistol to his crotch.

  “Keep smiling, pal, and I’ll make you a eunuch.”

  The smile slid right off his face. His eyes widened, and he gave an audible gulp.

  “I want to talk to the captain.”

  He looked around in panic, as if waiting for orders that weren’t forthcoming. It alerted her to the fact someone was listening to them.

  “Now.” She said to the air. “Or I start at his kneecaps and shoot my way up.” She lowered her aim to his right kneecap. “I can shoot pieces off your lackey for a good thirty minutes, Captain. We can avoid such a mess and wailing screams by conversing. You talk to me, or things are just gonna be nasty all the way around for everyone involved.”

  The bridge door closed and locked.

  “Bad idea. Open the door or I’ll ground your ship, and then I’ll blow weapon-boy free of kneecaps.” She eyed the console to see where the most effective blast area might be.

  The door to the bridge opened with a quiet swoosh.

  Waving him out with her pistol, she forced Green Eyes to walk in front of her. “Fetch, boy, find the captain.”

  He stalked down the hall to a wall com. “Sir?” The door opened, and he sneered as he swooped his arm to the room like a game show host. “After you.”

  “Not in this lifetime, pal.” She waved her pistol. “You first.”

  Bristling, he entered the room with his hands still up. She entered behind him, using his body to block the target of hers. She peeped around his shoulder and her heart almost stopped beating.

  “Hello, Mary.”

  Recovering quickly, she lifted her chin. “Michael.”

  Motioning her pistol at Green Eyes, she ushered him out of the room. She closed and locked the door, keeping her gun trained on Michael while she disabled the com. She hoped he couldn’t see that she shook in her purple boots.

  Michael gave her that crooked half grin as he leaned back against his desk. He looked exactly as he had when she’d first seen him. Red silk. Black leather. Seven solid feet of male.

  He nodded to her right foot. “Nice to see you mobile again.”

  His velvet-gravel voice charged her body with sudden desire, causing the pistol in her fist to tremble.

  “Guess I owe your doc for that. I think my ankle works better now than it did before.” She sounded far more casual than she actually felt. When she took a deep breath to steady herself, all she could smell was citrus and pine and it only increased her anxiety.

  “You’ve made quite a name for yourself here. Or rather, quite a reputation for a woman who won’t give her name.”

  “What’s in name?” She lowered the pistol because she didn’t want him to see how badly she shook from adrenaline and longing.

  “Indeed.”

  She shivered at that one word. She tried to cover by looking around. The room was a miniature version of his office on Windmere, except the paintings were fastened more securely to the walls, the floor was covered in grippy neospring, and his important desk was metal and bolted to the floor. Two curved benches flanked it and he stood between them, leaning casually against the edge of the desk.

  “What do you want, Michael? I don’t think y
ou brought me here to hire me for a job.” She feared he’d orchestrated this in order to take her prisoner again. As much as she found the idea erotically appealing, she didn’t want to lose her freedom or become his captive while he loved another woman.

  He straightened and walked toward her.

  Panic compelled her to lift the pistol. “I don’t think so. In fact, why don’t you just sit yourself down?”

  “You’re not going to shoot me.” He moved back to sit on the edge of the desk.

  “Not unless you give me a reason to.”

  “Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?”

  “Why do you keep saying that to me?” A flush crept up her neck. Could he smell her desire and fear from there? She took a step away from him in case he could.

  “It’s a rhyme from Earth. I probably should stop saying it since you are the Bandit of Taiga. Purple Lady of Corona. My captive and captor.”

  “I’m Remarkably Average Mary No-last-name.”

  “Shall I count the ironies?” He laughed. “You are Scary Mary to my planet, my moons and the bulk of my influence. You have terrified my people. As much as they respect me, they respect you.”

  She straightened with pride. Respect was a hell of a lot better than folks underestimating her.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, when she really wanted to know why.

  “I didn’t. Nash did.”

  “Funny, I didn’t see him.” Mary would have remembered seeing his blond bulk hulking around Borealis.

  “That’s because he’s afraid of you. He agreed to find you, but refused to apprehend you.” Michael laughed. “You terrified a triple-platinum Runner. The notorious Never-Fail Nash.” Michael sounded impressed.

  “I thought his balls would have recovered by now. Oh, yeah, and his finger. Guess the pain still lingers.”

  “You do have a way of sticking in a man’s mind, Amazing Mary.” His eyes blazed almost feverishly bright.

  “If you must call me names, I find I prefer Purple Lady of Corona.”

  “Fitting.” His gaze wandered leisurely over every inch of her. “You look absolutely wicked. Nothing like the woman brought to me as a captive three months ago. Nothing like the woman I surrendered to.”