Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1)

by Davyne DeSye

  I stay in the garden until night falls. Khara does not come.

  My meditation that evening is as much to complete the needed purge as to rebuild my happy level of anticipation at being able to help my friend Khara.

  The queen calls me thrice the next day – twice from the garden and once in the evening. I am careful to take as little strength from her as necessary. I want to avoid causing the level of weakness that will lead to her fear, and thus to avoid another attack. The queen’s distrust of me grows and I dread the consequences. I fear my time is short, but can think of nothing I can do to step from my current path.

  Khara comes to the garden the following afternoon after Diane and Tanner leave.

  “Sister Nestra,” Khara says, and reaches for my arms. I can feel her exhaustion and muted sadness.

  “Sister,” I murmur and release the flood of affection and warmth which I feel at the flavor-scent of my human bond-friend. Khara releases her breath in what I have come to recognize as sign of relaxation and well being, although Khara is far from feeling well. Now that she is with me, my impatience drains away and the anticipation is bearable. I wait, comforting and consoling until Khara warms with appreciation and friendship, sharing this easily with me.

  “Have you discovered the traitor?” Khara asks, without hope that I have the needed information.

  My happiness and excitement wash through her, causing her to shiver. Khara’s eyes widen.

  “You have! I can feel it!” Khara rocks forward. “Have you? Can you help me identify this person?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I have a name and physical description.”

  “Tell!” Khara says. I taste the flavors-colors-scents of Khara’s question, shock, surprise. Khara rocks from side-to-side on her bottom to move closer to me.

  “You may not know the person and may not be able to identify this person from the name and description I have obtained,” I caution. I hope my information will be helpful, but my people cannot often distinguish one human from another. I do not want Khara’s excitement replaced with disappointment.

  “Tell!” Khara says again.

  “The courtier who discussed this human with the queen referred to him as,” and here I purse my mandibles and palpus into the difficult formation required for the human language, “Bell-mee.” The word ends with a discordant click as my mandibles move back into place.

  “Bellamy,” Khara whispers. Disbelief, shock waft in waves.

  “Bell-mee,” I repeat, because Khara’s rendition of the word does not sound identical to mine.

  Khara utters several words in the human tongue which I do not understand. The teal-violet flavor of Khara’s shock comes with the new scent of anger. Khara does not move or speak further.

  “His description was given as a human of good height,” I continue, “and that his skin is of an appropriate tint.” I know this is probably not a sufficient physical description to be very helpful, since it merely is a statement the human is tall by human standards and dark of skin, as almost half the humans of this city are.

  “Bellamy,” Khara whispers again, and again follows the statement with words of her own language. This time dark anger replaces the scent of her shock.

  “You know this human?” I ask, sensing recognition amongst the black anger. “This is helpful?”

  “Yes, oh yes, sister Nestra, I know this person. He is trusted. Beyond reproach. This will be difficult for my . . . friends . . . to believe.”

  “He is foolish,” I say. “He believes he will be spared. He believes his life is important to my people.”

  “I’m so stupid. We’ve all been so stupid,” and again words in her language. Bitter blackness thickens the air.

  “He will assist in causing the death of the human leader,” I continue. “I apologize, this human was not identified in the conversation. I cannot tell you a name or description.”

  “He . . . ,” Khara says, then, “Samuel.” She barely breathes the unfamiliar word. The velvet purple-blue I have come to associate with the passionate sharing between Diane and Tanner is evident, mixed with the soft gold flavor-scent of admiration.

  “This is your bond-friend,” I say. “This is your betrayer?” I regret my words, as renewed weariness and sadness flush the air around us.

  “Yes, this was my friend,” Khara answers.

  “He will be called to the palace,” I say.

  “Samuel? To the palace? You mean here?” Khara asks. The sour green-yellow flavor of her questioning shows she feels she has misunderstood my statement.

  “The human leader, yes, will be called to the palace,” I answer.

  Khara does not reply, but the flavor of questioning remains. I taste that Sister Khara now questions the possibility of this statement rather than her understanding of it.

  “You will forgive? You will warn this human?” I ask. The combination within Khara of color-flavor-scents leaves me confused. However, my question clarifies several things in my friend.

  “Yes, of course,” Khara answers. Her emotions solidify from the maelstrom. “He is important to the survival of our race.” The statement does not reflect the pulsating river which shows the human is important to Khara, personally, as well.

  “You are a loyal friend,” I say.

  “You are a loyal friend,” Khara responds. “Thank you for this information.” Khara closes the coverings over her eyes and I can feel the concentration with which my human sister attempts to flood me with friendship, trust, affection.

  “I must go now,” says Khara.

  As much as I want my friend to stay, I understand the urgency.

  “Come again, soon, sister Khara,” I say. The form of the word “soon” implies there is not much time left, but I do not know if Khara’s grasp of my language has reached the level of sophistication to recognize this form. I hope my friend and I will live long enough to meet again.

  CHAPTER 36

  KHARA

  I stand outside the factory where Samuel works, unable to ignore the churning of my stomach, the fear and hungry anticipation of seeing him again. He won’t kill me in the street.

  I knew if I went to the places where he meets with his people, if I found him that way. . . He said he’d kill me. A part of me doesn’t believe this, refuses to give up hope. Another part of me remembers his narrowed brown eyes and his no longer warm mouth drawn tight as he said, “Don’t touch me.” The memory causes a stab between my lungs too real for me to believe it’s psychosomatic imagination.

  Jan and Eli come out of the factory at closing time with other humans. They are as quiet and subdued as the other humans around them. There is no beer-time camaraderie as might have been expected at closing time before the invasion. Jan and Eli don’t appear to see me.

  Samuel’s not with the crowd leaving the factory, but I know from experience he’ll leave last, with his master. They emerge. Samuel moves his head from side to side, not seeming to focus on anything in particular, but I can tell from his sudden stiffening, from the pull of his mouth, he’s seen me. His reaction to me is a punch in the gut. I can barely swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. My breath comes in shallow gasps.

  His master speaks with him, Samuel opens and bends his head back, and his master moves away. He remains stone still, as though his master still occupies the space in front of him, before turning and moving away down the street. He doesn’t look toward me.

  I cross the street, but not running, as I want to. I don’t want to endanger Samuel by drawing attention to him in this way. Once on his side of the street, I continue to walk, trying to catch up to him. As I draw near, my eyes roam over his broad back, the muscles of his bare arms, his solid buttocks and legs. I would be angry with myself, but I have given up on anger where Samuel is concerned. Now there’s only pain.

  “Samuel,” I say, when I’ve gotten close enough to be heard. He doesn’t stop or respond. I’m close enough to him to see the tightness of the bunched muscles in his jaw, the stretched tendons i
n his neck.

  “I met with Nestra. I know who the traitor is.”

  “So do I,” Samuel says without turning toward me, without stopping his walk. “We haven’t suffered one raid since you stopping coming around.”

  “Can you at least listen to me?” I ask. I catch myself reaching out to grab his arm, to turn him toward me. Afraid of how he’ll react, I pull my hand back to my side.

  “I warned you,” he says, with an ominous growl behind the words.

  “I’ve stayed away. I’m trying to give you information that’ll save your life. And maybe all of ours,” I say.

  He stops. He still doesn’t turn toward me. I walk around to face him, careful as ever I was in the past not to touch him or brush against him as I circle him, although now for a very different reason. Remembering how I used to react to anyone touching me, I’m astonished by the hunger to touch Samuel that rises in me now.

  “You aren’t going to believe me,” I say in a rush, and Samuel snorts.

  I cringe, knowing how ridiculous I’m going to sound telling him about his most trusted friend, his second in command. There is nothing left to do but say the words.

  “It’s Bell,” I say. His face twists with an incredulous look of disgust. That look, directed at me, threatens to crush me to the pavement, a blubbering mess at his feet. Around the tightness in my throat, I rush on. “He was identified as Bell-mee, a tall, black man. He’s going to get you killed. I don’t mean figuratively, I mean you, literally. You’re going to be summoned to the capitol building. I don’t know. Maybe the queen is going to kill you.” Samuel’s mouth opens to speak halfway through my speech, but I don’t stop until I have all the words out.

  He shakes his head in disbelief and the look of disgust intensifies with a further squint of his eyes. He says, “Are you finished?” The contempt in his voice pricks at my heart, and my eyes moisten.

  “Yeah,” I say, dropping my head, chin to my chest. “Yeah, I’m finished.” Tears spill from my eyes, fall directly to the pavement. In this moment of exquisite agony, I crave Nestra’s comfort as much as I ever craved the patch. I want so much to reach out to Samuel, to see him smile at me, to hear a kind word. I’m trembling in my need, my pain.

  I see his feet as he takes a step backward, then begins walking around me, to leave me. I want to say something that will convince him, something that will stop him from walking away from me. I spin around to watch him go.

  “Nestra says Diane and Tanner aren’t traitors,” I say toward his retreating back. He stops again. He doesn’t turn around.

  “Ask them. Ask them about me. You can trust them,” I say. I take a step toward Samuel.

  “I know I can trust them,” he says, and then starts walking again. I don’t move until he rounds a corner one block up and I can’t see him any longer. I keep trying to be angry, but I can’t manage it. It takes more energy than I can muster over the throbbing pain in my chest and my head, the choking lump in my throat.

  CHAPTER 37

  DIANE

  We’re sitting together on a lumpy sofa, legs intertwined, and I’m running my finger over Tanner’s collarbone. “Do you think maybe tonight–”

  Tanner interrupts. “Definitely.”

  My smile widens. We understand each other so well. It’s dumplings for dinner then. I love that he remembers me saying I was craving them earlier, love that he’s made the connection before I could even finish my sentence. He’s the yang to my yin. I doubt either of us would long survive without the other – nor would we want to. The comfort of believing this so absolutely is the definition of heaven on earth. I’ll thank him later in that special way he likes.

  I’m leaning in for a kiss when Samuel comes in. His tight-jawed face is red and his fists are clenched into white-hot nuggets. His anger is radiating off him in razor-sharp spikes. There isn’t much that would distract me from Tanner, but this does it. I’ve never seen Samuel so. . . I don’t even know what word to use. Emotional.

  “Samuel?”

  Tanner turns toward Samuel. Samuel stops in his tracks but doesn’t look at us. He looks like he wants to break something, like if his muscles were strung any tighter, he’d go pinging off the dark, wood-paneled walls like a golf ball.

  “Dude,” Tanner whispers. He’s not addressing Samuel.

  No kidding.

  We have to find out what’s wrong, to help if we can. Samuel is always so strong and clear-headed and I admire that. If he’s this upset, it must be bad.

  I stand and let go of Tanner’s hand. I cross the threadbare blue carpet and close the door Samuel came through.

  Samuel’s jaw unclenches and he pants two quick breaths. His mouth closes and he breathes through his nose, nostrils flared and white with the long inhale, then relaxing with the exhale. His fists loosen their grip and he spreads his fingers wide before settling them against his thighs.

  “Samuel?” I put my hand on his biceps, stroke toward his elbow. He’s regaining control and I hope this will help. “Everything okay?” When he doesn’t respond, I put a finger to his jaw and pull until he’s looking down at me. “What can we do?”

  His eyes don’t seem to focus, and then he is here, he is with me. He shakes his head, and tries to smile but the attempt is a travesty.

  “Is someone hurt? Did something–”

  “Fine. Everything’s fine,” he answers.

  Tanner is beside me now. “Tell us what we can do.” Tanner pokes his thumbs to his chest. “We’ll do it, man.”

  Samuel stays stiff for another moment, then exhales a breath that sounds like defeat. Ignoring the two ragged, overstuffed side chairs, he moves around the cheap coffee table to the sofa and collapses into the mismatched cushions.

  “Khara,” he says and my insides flutter with apprehension.

  “Yeah, where’s she been?” Tanner asks.

  I’ve been worried about Khara. When she disappeared, Samuel was vague about her being on some mission. Now I’m afraid something’s gone wrong. Khara’s amazing – fragile as glass and tough as titanium – and I can’t imagine her screwing any mission up, but these are dangerous times.

  “Is she okay? She’s not hurt?” I ask.

  “No, she’s not hurt,” he answers, biting off the words. The anger is back.

  “Samuel, what’s going on?” I ask. I’m relieved by his words but not his tone.

  When he doesn’t answer, I go over to the private stash and poor a shot of vodka into a mason jar. Samuel prefers gin when he drinks – which isn’t often – but we don’t have any.

  “Take your time,” I say as I hand him the glass and settle onto the sofa next to him. “But, we’re not going anywhere. Khara is our friend.”

  Samuel snorts and his eyes flash with anger again. Then, his face crumples into misery.

  Tanner sits on the other side of Samuel, one long leg folded under him. He smiles, at his most encouraging. “What works best for me,” he says, “is to start at the beginning. Once we know what’s going on, we’ll figure out a way to fix it.”

  Samuel downs the vodka, sighs, drops his chin to his chest and starts talking at such a low volume we both have to lean in to hear him.

  “I’ve got to talk to somebody.” Neither Tanner nor I answer. Samuel will get to it in his own time. But, his tension and upset are contagious. I wish I could touch Tanner, hold his hand, curl up in his arms.

  “We have a traitor – a human traitor – in the rebellion.”

  I want to gasp, want to say something in response but all I can think is that Samuel started this by saying “Khara.” Not possible. I need to hear this out.

  Tanner says, “Go on.” He’s not the exuberant boy everyone knows, but the quiet man that only rarely shows himself, and most often when we are alone.

  Samuel tells us. First, what he heard about Khara from Bell, along with all the evidence. Then, what he heard about Bell from Khara, and about Bell being complicit in Samuel’s betrayal and death.

  Poor Samuel. His be
st friend and trusted lieutenant, versus the woman he loves. Even if he doesn’t know how he feels about her, I do. When you’re in love, you can see it in someone else.

  “I...” Samuel says. He doesn’t finish, but I know what he was going to say.

  I don’t know what to do.

  “Samuel,” I say. I move to my knees on the floor in front of him. I want him looking into my eyes. “We all trust Bell,” I say. “There isn’t one of us who doesn’t owe him our lives at one point or another.”

  “I know!” he says and agony is plain in the twist of his mouth, the clamping shut of his eyelids.

  “Tanner and I know and trust Khara. She’s our friend and I don’t believe she’s the traitor,” I finish. Samuel’s eyes open in surprise.

  “So. They are both accusers and both accused,” I finish.

  “Right,” Tanner adds. He already knows where I’m going with this.

  “Then, what either of them said doesn’t matter. You can’t choose. You can’t know.”

  “But...,” Samuel says.

  “The important thing here is, one of them hasn’t said anything about you and the other said your life is in danger.”

  “So?” Samuel can sense I’m leading to something but he hasn’t gotten there yet.

  “So, we act to protect you,” Tanner finishes, slapping his hand on the orange cushion for emphasis. A dust cloud rises and hangs in the heavy air.

  I pick up where Tanner left off. “Khara said you were going to be called to the capitol building – the ‘palace.’ What if you are? What if you are going to be killed there, like she says?”