Shoot the Messenger

by Pippa Dacosta

  The marshal nodded at the growing station, its branches spinning lazily. “That’s Point Juno. We’re in Halow’s outer system. That station is about all that’s around here unless you want to travel a few days farther toward the debris zone. There’s a few unregistered points out that way, built by scavengers mostly.”

  Closer and closer we drew, pulled as if by some magnetic force, until the station filled the screen. Specks of dust fluttered between Juno’s jutting branches, buzzing back and forth. Ships. I pushed to my feet and leaned over the shuttle controls. So many ships.

  I caught the marshal watching me and settled back in the seat, shrugging off the sight like I saw enormous space stations every day.

  He chuckled, sparking a filament of annoyance inside me. Not at him, but at myself. I was better at hiding my thoughts than this. I had to be better.

  The marshal swept the shuttle under one of the station’s arms, threading it through buzzing traffic. Colored lights blinked, painting the scene in neon greens and pinks. Our little shuttle seemed to speed up now that we were close to the station’s superstructure, but the marshal’s hands deftly maneuvered us around, up, over and through.

  My gut lurched as the shuttle dipped. My nails bit into the seat. Was all this whooshing normal? The marshal’s gaze was glued ahead, switching from the controls to the window. He didn’t seem concerned.

  By the time the marshal spun the shuttle around and locked it in a dock, sweat dampened the back of my neck.

  He turned and paused after seeing my face. “Are you okay?”

  I stared at a static point ahead. Some kind of antenna array. Whatever it was, it helped anchor me and stop my head from spinning. “I’m absolutely fine.” I would be fine once my head stopped spinning and the motion sickness passed.

  He unbuckled himself from his seat, keeping his face turned away, and headed to the rear of the shuttle.

  “It takes some getting used to.” His deep voice rumbled with repressed laughter.

  I couldn’t summon enough energy to care. Pressure seals hissed, and a welcome blast of cool air swept into the shuttle. Peeling my trembling body out of the seat, I breathed in, filling my lungs with fresh air, and touched my whip. The weapon’s coiled energy skipped into my palm, and my magic threaded warm fingers across my skin. The combination of pleasure and pain distracted me enough to put one boot in front of the other until I had passed through the depressurizing locks into a single-level apartment. Low couches grouped in one corner, a table and two chairs occupied a spot by a window and, outside, glittering metal funneled to a patch of black space. We were in what I assumed was the marshal’s home, inside the station’s belly.

  He shrugged off his coat, draped it over the back of a couch and crossed the apartment, rolling up his shirt sleeves past the elbows, revealing well-defined bronze-skinned forearms. He had the physique of a manual laborer, something used to physical exertion, not a paper-pushing street-marshal.

  He stepped behind a counter, hands working across some flat panels with the same familiarity as when he’d piloted the shuttle. A soft sound rang out, and two drinks containers rose out of the countertop.

  He scooped one up and took a long drink. I watched his throat move and trailed that movement down to the gaping neckline.

  He set his glass down and finally noticed me at the door. “You can come in. I don’t bite.” His gaze lingered on me, and mine on him. There was a challenge in the way he looked at me. It had been there from the first moment we’d met in the sinks. But what kind of challenge, I wasn’t yet sure. Was he daring me to contradict him, waiting for me to figure him out?

  I took another step inside, and the pressured door automatically hissed closed with a comforting weightiness behind it. The vacuum of space was right outside, way too close for my liking. It occurred to me that I was a million miles from my home, on an unfamiliar waypoint, in an unfamiliar part of space, with no knowledge of how to pilot a shuttle, and my only company was that of a lawman who I knew could be lethal.

  I shrugged off my coat and laid it over the couch, next to the marshal’s. He wasn’t so tough. He was just one male, albeit his species was unknown. My whip was safely stowed inside my coat. If the marshal was as innocent as he claimed to be, then I wouldn’t need it. But if he tried anything, he’d soon learn that my whip wasn’t my only weapon.

  The apartment was functional. Clean, tidy. Minimalist. And about five times the size of my box. As I roamed, I found nothing personal. Unless a small fish bowl with one lonely fish bobbing inside could be categorized as personal. It and its fish, however, were worth a fortune in water. I snorted at the extravagance. What kind of archaic fool keeps a fish in a bowl filled with priceless water?

  The space looked like a show apartment or a hotel room. He didn’t spend much time here. Or perhaps this was where he brought all his women before… whatever guys like him did out in the blackness of space. No, that wasn’t fair. Was the marshal dangerous? Yes. I’d seen how dangerous he could be. But, so far, he had only shown me kindness. He clearly wanted something from me. How would he react when he didn’t get it?

  I reached the counter after giving myself the tour and picked up the drink. “Nice place. Must have cost a pretty amount?”

  He leaned a hip against his side of the counter and didn’t reply.

  “Not bad, for a marshal.” The drink tasted like water with a touch of lime. It wasn’t water, but it was damn close. How could a Calicto lawman afford all this?

  “I wasn’t always a marshal,” he admitted. “That’s a… new career.” He picked up his drink and headed toward the couches. Without his coat hiding his outline, I studied the confident way he moved. Broad shoulders carried a man who didn’t know how to hesitate. No wasted gestures. No wrong step. It helped that he had an easy stride and a tight ass I would have liked to admire for a lot longer than the minute he gave me as he reached into a panel in the wall and revealed a slim personal interface screen.

  A seat emerged from the wall. He settled into it. “There’s a shower out back and a private bedroom. Make yourself comfortable. I have reports to file, then I’ll ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.”

  He didn’t look up, just sipped his drink and tapped away on the PI screen. If he believed it would be that easy, he had the wrong girl. But I’d take advantage of his hospitality. After downing my drink, I headed for the back rooms.

  “Kesh?” My name on his lips pulled on an invisible string, bringing me up short. When I looked back, the marshal rubbed a hand across his chin, carefully measuring his next words. “You’re safe here.”

  Safe.

  Safe was an interesting concept. In this place, in this system, I wasn’t safe. Safe was a refuge inside my mind. Safety wasn’t something anyone could give me, but it was a nice idea. “Whatever you say, Marshal.”

  I left the room and heard him say, “Call me Kellee. Can you at least do that?”

  Blood dripped from my fingers and pattered against the dusty ground. Falling like the rain. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Dampness on glistening leaves and on my tongue too. Wetness and blood. But not my blood.

  A fluttering sounded to my right, buzzing in my ear. The curious pixie hissed close, stirring my matted strings of hair. I bared my teeth at its twinkling light and the creature darted off. Like the pixie, but from somewhere far away, I was observed by curious fae. They looked down on me, untouchable, like gods.

  Other pulsing lights danced in the dark. I ignored them and listened hard. Listened to the rapid beat of my heart, to my blood pumping through my veins, filling me up, making me something more.

  Movement shifted to my right. I didn’t hear it so much as feel it. Inside—in what they called the animal part of me—I knew I was no longer alone. My slick fingers curled tighter around my knife’s oak handle.

  I imagined I heard those watching, imagined they chanted my name. They knew what was coming. They loved me for it. And somewhere inside, deeper than the hate, de
eper than the injustice, I loved them too.

  Eyes glistened in the dark. Human eyes, gently sloped. Aeon. And in his hand, an oak-handled knife shone. Just like mine.

  I blinked awake. There one moment, here the next. My heart hammered against my ribs, trying to break free. The dream would leave me soon, but while it had its claws in me, I couldn’t move. Didn’t dare. The pitter-patter of rain on thick, fat leaves beat against my thoughts. The wetness still hung in the air. So much water it fell from the sky. As did the blood.

  And Aeon.

  I shoved from the bed too fast, almost staggering over my own feet. Whose bed is this? Where in the three systems am I?

  The walls, the floor, the bed, the smell—like warm, spicy male cologne. Where the… I pressed a hand to my head, squeezing out the past, making room for the present. The shuttle, the authorities, the marshal, the station, the assassination, the fae.

  I am Kesh Lasota.

  Messenger.

  Tek-whisperer.

  I am invisible.

  Kesh Lasota. Right. And this room… This was the marshal’s place. I’d lain down, just for a few minutes to rest my eyes. How long had I slept? A weary weight had settled in my bones, now replaced by stiffness. I’d slept for hours, not minutes. Dammit. Sota may not have hours.

  I headed for the door and paused, realizing I was barely dressed. Tossing on my outer garments—self-cleaned and patched up while I’d rested—I strode out into the living area, expecting to find Kellee where I’d left him, monitoring his screen. The ambient light had softened, indicating resting hours, but there was no sign of the marshal. My coat lay on the back of the couch. The marshal’s was missing.

  Throwing my coat on, I turned, considered heading for the main door and spotted the glimmer of Kellee’s personal entertainment screen extended from the wall. Leaving it open and unattended? He wasn’t used to having company. As I sat behind it and swept my hands across the semi-transparent interface, it also became clear that the marshal hadn’t set up his console for someone of my talents. My fingertips tingled, and at my hip, my whip warmed, sensing my latent magic coming to life.

  I sidestepped the marshal’s woefully inadequate security measures. His PI opened like a flower, revealing everything the marshal had been working on while I’d been sleeping, which was apparently me.

  A blurry image flicked across the screen. A figure caught in motion crossing a plaza. Around the person, people were frozen statues, their images encased in electronic ice. The figure was a ghost. But to anyone who knew exactly what they were looking for: the gait, the coat, the hair. The figure was clearly me. The next slide showed a bounty issued on behalf of Crater’s organization. The v-coin payout had enough zeros to make coordinates jealous.

  I looked up, over the screen, at the plush apartment with all its luxuries.

  Of course.

  I was another notch in Kellee’s bounty-hunting belt.

  Crater’s men would likely descend at any second. Worse, Arcon might be about to latch a shuttle to the private dock.

  Kellee had set me up. He wanted all the v-coin.

  I shoved from the seat. I had to get out of the apartment and off the station.

  The apartment door swung open, and the marshal sauntered in, white bag in hand. “Good, you’re up.” He dumped the bag on the counter. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He was at ease, comfortable in his own home and his deception. I’d seen him fight. He was fast, brutal, and efficient, but only when he saw the strike coming. Right now, he was vulnerable.

  My whip hummed gently against my thigh.

  “I brought you lunch,” he chattered. “When did you last eat? Must have been a while ago…”

  I sauntered toward the counter, catching a whiff of something sweet and spicy. My mouth watered. There would be time to eat once I had the marshal subdued and piloting the shuttle away from here. “Suteran food?” I asked.

  “It is.” He seemed surprised and distracted as he collected a couple of plates. “You’ve eaten Suteran before? It’s rare around these parts. I hear they can’t give it away near the debris zone. I’ve often thought about flying out there just to see if it’s true.”

  I eased my hand inside my coat.

  “Why haven’t you?” I asked, keeping up the easy conversation.

  His eyes flicked up. He reached for the bag.

  Power surged up my arm, licking over the whip’s tek and charging it with lethal force. The length of the whip flew upward, aglow with magic.

  The marshal was gone.

  The cool kiss of a blade touched my neck, biting just below my ear. He hadn’t pulled me back, but he didn’t need to. His breath tickled the hair over my ear. The knife did all the talking for him. “If you don’t like Suteran, all you had to do was say so.” He’d angled himself to the side, knowing not to stand directly behind me to avoid any backward head-butt I may have been considering.

  My whip collapsed into a coil of metal chain on the countertop. And my magic fell away with it.

  “That’s one fancy whip. Almost like it has a mind of its own.”

  “Maybe it does,” I replied softly. If he was going to hurt me, he would have already.

  He shifted slightly. The gritty edge of the knife dug in. I didn’t feel it cut, the edge was too sharp, but I felt the trickle of blood slide down my skin and inside my collar. He leaned his hip into my lower back, careful to keep the pressure on without hurting me.

  “Do you have anything else inside that coat you’re considering flinging at me?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He had probably already rummaged through the dozen pockets. He wouldn’t have found anything. The coat knew when to keep its secrets.

  “I know it’s not the food. Suteran is damn good. So why the sudden hostility?”

  His tone held an edge. It wasn’t as sharp as his knife, but it still cut open old wounds. The blade nicked over old scars. Gooseflesh scattered down my neck and farther. It had been a long time since someone had gotten the best of me—warfae excluded.

  “How’d you afford this place?” I asked.

  “I told you. Previous work. Now why don’t you answer my questions, seeing as I’m the one with the knife?”

  “What does it matter? You’re just going to hand me over to Crater’s men anyway.”

  Quiet swelled, softened only by the humming of the circulation filters. “You hacked into my PI?”

  “Hacking is so… clumsy.”

  “All right. You whispered your way in.” He shifted against my back. “Do you think you know me, Kesh Lasota?”

  I knew no human could outmaneuver my whip. I knew Marshal Kellee liked to bend the rules to suit him. And I knew he had no reason to keep me alive, or keep me safe, if not for the bounty.

  “I had nothing to do with Crater’s death,” I told him. “The miners will kill me and ask questions later.”

  “I believe you.”

  I smiled. “But it doesn’t matter what you believe, right? You’re just in it for the v?”

  The knife vanished, along with Kellee’s weight against my back. I dabbed at the blood on my neck and turned, catching a glimpse of sharp incisors behind his slightly parted lips. I’d expected to see anger on his face, maybe some resignation. The heat in his glare burned away any snide remarks. He breathed too hard for someone under control, and for the first time, an icy finger of fear traced down my spine. I hadn’t believed he would kill me, but something had changed.

  He turned his face away and swallowed. The bloody knife trembled in his hand.

  “I’m not about to sell you out.” He ground out the words, still looking to the side.

  No, I see that now. You’re about to kill me.

  “Whatever you say, Kellee.”

  He flinched at the sound of his name and drew in a deep breath. It seemed to center him enough for him to look me in the eye without snarling. But something slithered behind his skin, something he kept so well hidden that I onl
y now began to understand just how dangerous Kellee might be.

  What are you?

  “You have a hard time trusting people,” he remarked, moving around the counter to resume emptying his Suteran takeout. He moved differently. Gone were the smooth, confident gestures of a man in control. Now he moved as though with every grab at the food cartons and every snatch at the cutlery he was teetering on the verge of snapping. “But you need to trust me.”

  Was he joking? I’d be a fool to trust the thing I’d seen lurking beneath his skin. He was wound so tight he almost charged the surrounding air.

  He dumped a plate in front of me. “Eat the damn food.”

  The spread looked delicious, fruity with something like noodles and brightly colored vegetable slices tossed in. Was it drugged? My stomach growled.

  He growled deep and low at my hesitation. “I won’t harm you. But you’re testing my patience, Lasota.” He stalked off and disappeared toward the back of the apartment. I heard a door close.

  If Marshal Kellee didn’t want the bounty, what did he want from me?

  I eyed the door—my escape route—knowing what I had to do, but running wouldn’t solve this. He would find me again. I picked up a green shoot covered in syrup and bit down. He was right. The food was good. I was halfway through the dish when I realized the marshal had taken his bloody knife with him.

  Chapter 8

  Whatever lurked beneath the marshal’s skin didn’t appear to be there now. He’d emerged from the back of the apartment without the knife, served up his takeout, carried it to the table by the window and tucked in as though I wasn’t in the room.

  I leaned back against the counter and watched him eat, the silence pulling thin between us. The next person who spoke would set the tone. If I threatened him again, he’d likely kick my ass again. He wasn’t fae fast. He was faster. Almost a blur. I didn’t sense any magic on him, but then, the magic I knew about was fae-based. And everything I’d seen of him so far indicated he wasn’t fae. So what was he?