Starbreaker

by Amanda Bouchet

  The ship hummed as Jax kicked up the power. Sanaa raced down the hallway and disappeared, but Merrick stumbled. Shade grabbed him. A fat bead of blood fell toward the metal floor between them. My eyes tracked it, seeing details that seemed impossible. Too red. Too slow. Too shattered on impact. The globule hit the floor like a thunderclap, and I stumbled backward.

  My heart pounded. I squeezed the sore spot on my thigh where the Overseer injected me, shook my head, and forced away the tunnel vision. My senses widened, and I whipped back into action.

  Shelves. Loaded with weapons. I bypassed the guns, pulled a Keeler hand bomb from the rack on the wall, and flicked on the detonator. I turned back to the passageway, counting down the seconds before the weapon exploded.

  As the first goons stepped into view, I launched the bomb down the air-lock tunnel. This wasn’t a blinding flash and concussive blast designed for crowd control. This was deadly fire. This was holes in walls with only the vacuum of space outside. This was body parts to pick up, not bodies.

  With ice in my veins, I slapped my palm down on the door control. The panels whooshed shut, cutting us off just before the bomb detonated.

  We rattled, and I flattened my hand against the wall for balance. Jax would know the second I sealed the ship. The information would flash across the pilot’s console.

  We moved almost instantly, banking hard to the side. I scrambled to stay upright. Shade and Merrick slammed into a rack of weapons. Shade winced. Merrick hissed, his pain obvious. Even from inside the ship, the rip of metal was deafening as we tore ourselves from the vacuum seal instead of closing off the tunnel and releasing it. Jax accelerated fast, zooming away from the starbase. He’d jump as soon as he set the coordinates.

  Sanaa rounded the corner again at a sprint, looking a little wild until she spotted Merrick. She took him from Shade, lifting him in her arms as though the biggest man I’d ever seen weighed nothing. Merrick looked at her, sheer incredulity flashing across his face before his head lolled, and he lost consciousness.

  Next to them, Shade straightened and pulled off the Bridgebane mask, his temporarily blue eyes guarded as he watched me from across the antechamber of the getaway ship. Sanaa did the same, her dark gaze questioning.

  I’d just crossed a line. We could have escaped without those deaths. I could have closed the air lock.

  Whatever twisted in my chest wasn’t exactly regret. It felt more like loss, mourning for a part of myself I could never get back.

  Daraja, Sanaa had called me from the day we met. My bridge was different from hers, from Nathaniel Bridgebane’s, and Caitrin Bishop’s. I didn’t play two sides or pretend, but I had one foot in murder now and one foot in my own good reasons for it. The name fit.

  I’d just left a hole in Starbase 12.

  The vacuum of space was claiming goons, alive and dead.

  Would tomorrow dawn better for it? I hope so.

  I lifted my chin and looked back at Shade and Sanaa. “With any luck, the Dark is sucking out the Galactic Overseer right now and turning him into a chunk of frozen space trash.”

  Because he was garbage. I was done letting that man have power over me. I refused to take the blame any longer for the things he’d pinned on me, or the things I’d pinned on myself because of him. I didn’t make that psychopath hunt down A1 blood, or start the GIN Project, or obliterate the Fold. I didn’t help him find a way to destroy life as we know it, or maybe get a second chance to destroy Mom’s.

  I did, however, try to shoot him, strangle him, and hopefully end his life with that Keeler blast. And I was fine with that.

  Epilogue

  SHADE

  I stood behind Tess, holding her around the waist and watching the rocky peaks get closer through the clear panel as Jax steered the Overseer’s escape cruiser toward New Denver. She’d finally stopped shaking. The long jump to Earth without sitting down or strapping in was an experience neither of us wanted to repeat. We’d both collapsed in the antechamber, our hands clasped. When we came out of warp speed, we picked ourselves up and joined the others, finding Mwende still wrapped protectively around Merrick.

  Now, Merrick lay on the floor of the bridge, Shiori, Mwende, and Ahern each applying pressure to a different gunshot wound. Despite three bullet holes, he was holding up okay. He kept saying he’d been through worse, but when Mwende finally rolled her eyes, said, “Fine, then,” and got up to leave him, he groaned low and long, getting her to come back to him with a worried frown.

  “It’s a shame we can’t stay.” I breathed against the back of Tess’s head, soaking in her scent, her solidness, her. She was still with me. Terror had a new face for me—Tess in a battle for her life without me. It would never happen again, no matter what she wanted or thought was best.

  “Hmm?” She sounded tired. The adrenaline drop was hard on everyone.

  “Now that we’re here, I kind of want to explore Earth.” These mountains looked like they held secrets. We’d passed lakes the size of oceans. There was so much nothing, but instead of feeling lonely and intimidating, it burst with potential. A clean slate. New Denver was tiny, hardly a speck on the horizon. Staying and helping to build it up held sudden appeal. Maybe it was the engineer in me. Or maybe it was just the man who wanted to make something.

  “If the Overseer survived my hole in his box, I give him ten minutes to swear his head off, kill some people out of rage, and then track this ship to wherever we are.” Tess leaned against me. “The second we touch down next to the Endeavor, we transfer everyone onto her, and get the hell out of here.”

  She sighed, reluctance in the little gust of air she let out as she watched the landscape slide by. Did she like these purple-hued peaks as much as I did? There was magic in the sunset colors. A sky on fire.

  I gripped her a little tighter. “We’ll come back.”

  “We’ll come back.” Tess’s parroted answer seemed oddly robotic. I turned her toward me, worry worming into my chest at her glazed-over expression. I knew what happened in the control room. The injection. Was it doing something to her already?

  “Careful,” Mwende said softly from the floor next to Merrick. “She’s very susceptible to suggestion.”

  I nodded, acknowledging the lieutenant’s caution.

  “So if I tell her to bark like a dog, she will?” Reena Ahern asked.

  Tess instantly barked like a dog.

  I gaped at her. My heart banged against my ribs. Reena Ahern’s jaw dropped, an Oh shit! look freezing on her face.

  Tess cracked up. “Just kidding. But yeah, that was weird before.” She sobered. Her gaze dropped to the floor, the picturesque world outside not holding her attention anymore.

  I wrapped her in my arms again from behind, my chin beside her ear and my eyes on the painted landscape. A dusk-hued brushstroke swept across the mountains.

  “I can’t help Merrick if he needs a transfusion,” Tess said, folding her hands on top of mine. “I can’t risk contaminating him with the final injection.”

  “It’ll work out of your bloodstream,” Mwende said, glancing up from her patient. “There are no chemicals for it to bind to.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Tess asked. We both turned to Mwende. Beside her, Merrick blinked heavily, barely keeping his eyes open.

  “It’s an educated guess,” the lieutenant answered.

  Tess bit her lip, nodding. Her eyes stayed focused on Merrick.

  “You’ll be okay, partner,” Jax said, decelerating as New Denver got closer. “Merrick, too.”

  Tess relaxed against me, as if Jax’s voice or words gave her solace no one else’s could. Jealousy wasn’t an issue. I was glad she had him. He could give her anything I couldn’t, and between us, we’d get her through this.

  “Merrick, you holding up okay?” Tess asked. I felt her tense as she waited for his answer.

  “Been bett
er.” Merrick breathed for a moment. “Been worse,” he said philosophically.

  “Surral will fix you up,” Tess said with absolute certainty.

  Of course she would. As soon as we boarded the Endeavor, we’d head to Starway 8 for the best and most trustworthy doctor the galaxy had to offer. This Dark Watch cruiser would draw pursuers here while we skipped across three Sectors—sorry, New Denver.

  Mwende had already contacted Bridgebane. He’d meet us at the orphanage.

  If the Overseer still lived, we had a lot to plan for. Or plan against.

  If the bastard was dead, the Dark Watch would turn to Bridgebane for guidance. At the end of the day, maybe Nathaniel Bridgebane wouldn’t make a bad Galactic Overseer.

  Tess turned in my arms and kissed me. I kissed her back, my heart expanding. Despite so much weighing on us, just like when I looked at New Denver, all I felt was potential. I couldn’t wait to set foot on Starway 8 with new eyes as I looked at the orphanage. I’d stand there beside Tess and see my future.

  And then I’d make it happen.

  The Kingmaker Chronicles continues...

  Until then, go back to where it all began. A Promise of Fire saw Cat and Griffin change the face of Thalyria, but the story of this world has not ended. Keep your eyes open for the next book in this stunning saga.

  Chapter 1

  I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight linen away from my sticky skin. The southern Sintan climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-high boots.

  Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least looking like a brigand means blending into the circus. Here, discreet only gets you noticed.

  Craning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my way through the beehive of tables already set up for the circus fair. The performers on the center stage are the main attraction. The rest of us surround them, carving out places for ourselves amid the crowd. Tonight, hemmed in on all sides in an amphitheater lit by hundreds of torches and filled to capacity, I feel like a Cyclops is sitting on my chest—suffocated.

  Damp curls cling to my neck. I peel them off and tuck them back into my braid, scanning the crowd as I walk. I recognize some of the regulars. Others I don’t know. My eyes trip over a man and get stuck. He’s looking at me, and it’s hard not to look back. He’s striking in a dark, magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling me he’s a tribal warlord. His build is strong and masculine, his gait perfectly balanced and fluid. He walks with predatory confidence, unhurried, and yet there’s no mistaking his potential for swift, explosive violence. It’s not latent or hidden, just leashed.

  Watchful, alert, he’s aware of everything in his vicinity. Especially me.

  Our gazes collide, and something in me freezes. His eyes remind me of Poseidon’s wrath—stormy, gray, intense—the kind of eyes that draw you in, hold you there, and might not let you go.

  Adrenaline surges through me, ratcheting up my pulse. My heart thumping, I blink and take in the rest of him. Intelligent brow. Strong jaw. Wide mouth. Hawkish nose. Black hair brushes a corded neck atop broad shoulders that have no doubt been swinging a sword since before he could walk. Body toned to perfection, skin darkened by a lifetime in the sun, he’s battle-chiseled and hard, the type of man who can cleave an enemy in two with little effort and even less consequence to his conscience.

  He keeps staring at me, and a shiver prickles my spine. Is this man my enemy?

  There’s no reason to think so, but I didn’t stay alive this long without the help of a healthy dose of paranoia.

  Wary, I sit at my table, keeping an eye on him as he weaves a bold path through an array of potions, trinkets, and charms. He’s flanked by four similar men. Their coloring varies, but they all have the same sure look about them, although they pale in comparison to the warlord in both authority and allure. The man with the gray eyes is a born leader, and only an idiot would mistake him for anything else.

  He stares for so long that I start to wonder if he can somehow bore through my layers of face paint and unmask me, but I’ve never seen him before, and he can’t possibly know the person underneath. I’m from the north of Fisa, where magic is might. He’s from the south of Sinta, where muscle and cunning decide who lives or dies. Our paths would never have crossed in the past, and warlords don’t usually frequent the circus.

  I look away, hoping he’ll do the same. There are plenty of reasons a man stares at a woman. An exotic face and generous figure attract as much attention as a good mystery, if not more, and the warlord’s intense scrutiny feels more appreciative than alarming.

  Ignoring the flush now creeping into my cheeks, I smooth the wrinkles from the coarse wool blanket covering my table and arrange my paraphernalia like usual. My glittering, gold-lettered sign advertises Cat the Magnificent—Soothsayer Extraordinaire, even though flashes of the future only come here and there, usually in dreams. Luckily, it only takes a few questions for truths to reveal themselves like flowers opening for the sun. I read people’s body language and glean who they are, what they want, and maybe even what they’re capable of. It’s about knowledge and illusion. I get a copper for it, which is more than a fair deal for me. I won’t peddle futures. I have an idea of my own, and that’s more than enough.

  My leg starts a nervous bounce. Prophecies can be interpreted loosely, right?

  The audience gasps, and I turn to see what’s happening on the stage. Vasili is throwing knives at his wife. She’s strapped to the flat side of a vertical, rotating wheel, and he’s blindfolded. He’s never hit her, but my heart still comes to a complete standstill every time they perform. Tonight is no exception, and I hold my breath, both riveted and terrified, until he runs out of knives.

  The crowd is too caught up in the circus to take advantage of the fair, so I get up again and head to the performers’ gate to watch the end of the show and put some distance between the warlord and me. He’s still looking when he shouldn’t be.

  The air coming through the gate is fresher, bringing with it the sound of Cerberus’s chuffing breaths and the scent of sweaty dog. He’s Hades’s pet, so I doubt the heat bothers him. I toss him a wave, and two of his three upper lips curl in a snarl of acknowledgment. One of these days, I’ll get all three, although in eight years I never have. I think his middle head just doesn’t like me.

  Finished with his performance, Vasili unstraps his wife while Aetos launches himself onto the stage with a triple flip and lands in a fighter’s crouch that shakes the platform. The solid wood creaks under his colossal weight, and the rapt crowd murmurs in awe. Aetos straightens, pounds his chest, tears the horse pelt off his giant back, and catches fire. His roar shakes the amphitheater. No one can roar like Aetos. I’ve seen him perform hundreds of times, and I still get chills.

  Seven and a half feet tall, muscle-bound, and tattooed blue from head to toe with Tarvan tribal swirls, he moves his hands in an impossibly fast dance, weaving fire until he’s encased in a sphere of living flame. He bursts through the crackling barrier with another roar. The explosion blasts the hair away from my face and dries out the inside of my nose. I’m forty feet away but feel like I’m in the furnaces of the Underworld. Fanning myself is useless. I’ll never get used to the southern heat, and with Aetos performing, it’s even worse.

  The Sintan Hoi Polloi can barely contain themselves. It’s like doing tricks for children—everything enchants. For them, the circus is a whirlwind of power and impossible magical delights. Everywhere from the hard-packed dirt floor surrounding the fair tables and stage to the high, far reaches of the circular stone seating, people jump up and down, hooting and stomping their feet.

  My feet tap along with the crowd’s, my eyes following Aetos around the stage. What a relief to be back in Sinta, even with all the dust and heat. I do whatever I can to stay on
the west side of Thalyria. Our recent sojourn in the middle realm of Tarva made my lungs tight and my fingers itch for a knife. I’d probably start jumping at shadows if the circus ever went all the way east to Fisa. Just the thought of my home realm makes my sweat turn cold.

  Sinta. Tarva. Fisa. West to east. Here to… Nothing I’m going to think about.

  The audience whoops in approval of Aetos’s fiery moves. Hoi Polloi in the amphitheater are ecstatic—and not only with the show. They’ve been celebrating ever since a warlord from the tribal south hacked his way north to Castle Sinta to put his own sister on the throne. You’d think Dionysus had dumped a three-month supply of wine over the entire realm. Temples have been overflowing with Sintans offering prayers of gratitude, their holy men overcome with gifts to help clothe and feed the poor. Statues of Athena, who is apparently well loved by the conquering warlord, are being spontaneously erected in towns and villages from here to the Ice Plains in Sinta’s north. Happiness and generosity abound, and I don’t even want to think about how many sheep have been slaughtered for celebratory feasts.

  For the first time ever, the magicless majority is in charge, and Hoi Polloi are literally dancing in the streets—but only when they’re not throwing themselves in abject loyalty at the feet of the new royal family. Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually seen the new royals, but news spreads fast when there’s something to say. After the warlord and his southern army secured the Sintan throne during the spring, his family took weeks just to move north. Not because they’re slow, but because of the sheer number of adoring people in their way.

  It’s no secret the northern-born Magoi royals here in Sinta were despots, just like everywhere else in Thalyria. Hoi Polloi know they’re better off with one of their own in charge.

  But royals without magic? My cynical snort is lost in the boisterousness of the crowd. It’ll never last.

  Sweeping the horsehide back over his shoulders, Aetos takes a mighty leap into the air and doesn’t come back down. He hovers well above the open-air seating and shoots flames into the darkening sky. They drizzle down in a shower of sparks that char the raised wooden stage and add to the oppressive heat. He lands with the last of them, tramples a budding fire under his huge boot, roars, of course, and then takes a solemn bow.