Jump Zone: Cleo Falls

by Snow, Wylie

  “Wait up. I’ll help.”

  He caught up, tugging a shirt over his head, and surprised her by snaking an arm around her middle. When his warm palm pressed against the flesh at her waist, she gasped.

  “You okay, darlin’?”

  “Mm-hm. I, uh, it’s the…pain.”

  “Just as I thought,” he said, taking more of her body weight. She wanted to protest but couldn’t form words. His touch, his warmth, his strength left her breathless.

  And annoyed.

  She felt silly clinging to the fabric of his shirt, but it was her only choice. His muscles bunched and tensed under her touch, forcing heat into her cheeks.

  She imagined trailing her fingers across his bare flesh, scraping her nails—

  A rabbit bolted into the underbrush next to her, jarring her from her lascivious thoughts. Cleo stumbled, almost bringing them both down.

  “Whoa. Steady now,” he said, gripping tighter.

  And she let him. For the love of ducks, she even leaned into him for support, though it was entirely unnecessary. As her muscles warmed up, they were gaining agility. But she limped on for show.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, “but I need to freshen up at the river.”

  Libra stuck his nose in the air and sniffed around like an alphacat sensing wounded prey. He dipped his head closer, closer, until she felt his cheek against her hair.

  “Yeah, I was wondering about that rank smell.” He squeezed her side as his words flowed dangerously close to her ear.

  “It’s you, actually.” She tried to match his playful tone but her voice came out dry, breathy.

  “Oh yeah? That intoxicating manly scent is me? You must be ready to swoon.”

  “I’m practically drunk on it.”

  Flirty banter? She had never done flirty banter. This type of behavior usually made Cleo roll her eyes in disgust.

  “Well, try not to fall in the river in your state of inebriation.”

  Cleo giggled—spontaneous and careless, and maybe a wee bit silly. And it felt good. “Will you pull me out if I do?”

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he chuckled. His breath fanned the hair at her temple, re-igniting the weird pulling feeling in her lower abdomen. “But you’ve spent your get-out-of-the-water-free card.”

  “I only get one?”

  “Just one. You’ll have to pick another life-threatening situation next time you want my help. But be original—volcano, quicksand, giant mutant snake.” He grunted like a caveman. “Something challenging. Give me a chance to show off my bad-ass manliness.”

  “Other than your smell?”

  He threw his head back and laughed, rich and low, sending a tingle through her that ended in a smile of girlish delight.

  Truth be told, he smelled delicious, like a late-summer breeze mixed with pine, citrus, and a whiff of wood smoke. She wanted to bury her face in his chest, fill her nostrils until his scent was burned into her membranes.

  Don’t trust outsiders.

  Her father’s voice hummed in her head, though not as loud, not as urgent as before.

  “How about an alphacat attack?” she suggested.

  “That’s woman’s work.”

  Cleo slapped him with an open-hand to the middle of his rock-hard abdomen and instantly regretted it. His skin was hot, too hot. He’d burned her palm, she was sure of it. She swallowed and cleared her throat. Her eyes flitted up to his profile. “So you’re up for a real challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping?”

  He glanced down. “Bring it on, darlin’,” he growled.

  For the first time in her life, Cleo wished she’d brushed her hair. Damn, she didn’t know she was even capable of such nauseating girliness.

  Way to crush on the enemy. Shake it off, damn it. Shake it off!

  She didn’t want to.

  She should run, fast, in the opposite direction. Instead, she looked up from underneath her lashes and beamed.

  They’d made it to the edge of the riverbank, downstream from the falls. He released his hold, the playfulness gone from his eyes. “I was thinking… Maybe I’ll hang around here for one more day.”

  Yes, yes, please do, but no, that would ruin everything! Oh, for the love of skunks. She swallowed her impatience before answering, “Oh, really? Why?”

  “I’d feel bad leaving you.” He glanced down at her leg. “Despite that thing with the cat, you’re still shaky. I just wouldn’t feel right.”

  Way to undermine the plan, girly-girl.

  “I’ll be fine,” she began, but when he reached up and swept a thumb across the top edge of her cheekbone, the rest of her argument lodged in her throat.

  “This bruise here looks much better.” His voice, as tender as his touch, turned her knees to water. “Still a bit yellow around the edges, but the purple has faded into a lovely shade of green.”

  She wanted to turn her face into his palm and nuzzle it. Their eyes met, and Cleo felt as if she were looking directly into his soul. She saw integrity and loyalty, but she also saw shadows and pain and…something else, something dark. She wanted to avert her eyes to get away from whatever blackness haunted him, but she couldn’t. He held her as if by spell.

  His gaze shifted to the ragged pink line in the hollow of her cheek and his expression became shuttered. “What beast left this mark?”

  She pushed his hand away and palmed the hideous scar. She pivoted toward the river. “Doesn’t matter. It’s old.” Limping, she made it to the water’s edge.

  “It doesn’t matter… Doesn’t make you any less…beautiful.”

  His voice dropped on the last word, as if he forced it out.

  “Scars aren’t beautiful. They’re nothing but reminders of past hurts.”

  The air felt thicker and she waited for a breeze to dry the moisture that beaded on her forehead.

  “I’ll go downstream a bit, give you some privacy,” he said.

  She listened to his steps crunch in the pebbles.

  “Unless you need help?” he asked suggestively.

  Her mouth softened and she cocked her head in his direction. “I’ll be fine. Give me fifteen.”

  Cleo started mentally berating herself before he’d left her line of sight. He was getting to her with that charming I care act. And she was silly enough to be letting him.

  But he called me beautiful.

  With a series of frustrated tugs, she liberated herself from her leathers. In hindsight, playing up her limp was a spectacularly stupid move. Cleo couldn’t catch one bit of luck on this fool’s quest.

  No use hesitating at the water’s edge; it would be frigid, and she knew it. Three quick steps, she figured, would take her knee-deep. But one step in, the water barely at her ankle, and a rush of panic, bone-deep clawing fear, struck her. Cleo had been a swimmer her entire life, a strong one at that, but suddenly the thought of submerging into the very substance that almost killed her had her paralyzed with fright.

  For the love of ducks, it’s only water!

  Hesitantly, she took another step. A gasp caught in her throat. Her chest felt squeezed, making it impossible to inhale. She focused on the smooth pebbles that surrounded her toes and tried to calm herself.

  She counted to ten, then twenty, until her breathing returned to normal, until the phantom taste of river mud left her mouth, and took another step forward. The water sluiced around her calf, pulling at her. Her heart raced. She paused to wipe the dampness from her upper lip.

  I can’t do it.

  I can do it. I can do it, damn it. I will do it.

  Cleo managed another step, bringing the water level to her knees. Again, she counted to ten, then twenty.
>
  Come on! Don’t be a ninny.

  Nope. She could count all day, but there was no way in hell she was going deeper.

  She bent over and splashed herself, hung her head low enough to soak her hair but not touch her scalp.

  Using tentative movements, she shuffled backward. At the edge, with only her feet in the water, she felt brave enough to crouch. She dug under the pebbles and scooped out handfuls of mud, rubbing it over her goose-fleshed skin, one limb at a time, using it to slough off the grime and sweat.

  Her skin felt alive and tingly, her wound stopped throbbing, and she felt overall much better but for the curious ache in her belly, an uncharacteristic yearning for the touch of a male body.

  Cleopatra Rush, she whispered to her rippling reflection, has dying made you addled?

  She looked downstream but there was still no sign of Libra, so she stood on the riverbank and faced the wind to let the autumn breeze dry her skin.

  Go with the wind, her father would often say. In other words, go with the way of things, not against as she often did, bucking trends, ignoring rules.

  Go with the wind.

  What if she were honest with him, told him she needed to get to Gomeda? Would he take her? Would he be sympathetic to her cause and maybe even help rescue Jag?

  Don’t trust outsiders!

  No, she couldn’t risk telling him why she was going—she’d keep that to herself—but it would certainly save time if she had someone along who knew the way. And it solved the problem with the Trading Post. She couldn’t be seen there… but he could! She could send him in with a list of supplies, a new harness, a few blades, just to begin. And her father would never find out she’d crossed the Cut.

  Cleo began to dress while she deliberated the pros and cons, just as she’d been taught to do about any important decision regarding tribe matters.

  She still didn’t know much about him and certainly didn’t want to make any hasty judgements. But she didn’t feel threatened by him, a big plus in the pro column. Perhaps she should let him stay one more day, if only to get a better handle on him. She could test him to see if he proved trustworthy. If he passed, she’d approach the topic of tagging along.

  Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

  She had a plan.

  She was so lost in thought that her normally acute senses didn’t flicker, didn’t register any alarm over the man who stood a few dozen feet away, in the deep shadows of the forest, watching.

  Nine

  “Trevayne?” Achan Cade’s voice whisper-hissed in his inner ear, making him stand straighter. Never mind that he didn’t address him by his title. It was Mr. Cade’s privilege.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have we heard from the boy yet?”

  “No voice communications yet, sir.”

  Trevayne tapped the com-plant nodule behind his ear, adjusting the volume so he wouldn’t miss a syllable of his commander-in-chief’s words. The man was deceptively soft-spoken.

  “Why not?”

  “If he’s made contact with his subject, he may not be free to speak.” Trevayne ran his hand over his bristled head and kept his tone firm but patient. His boss knew damn well the risks in using any form of open-channel communication in the Taiga. The boy was told to use his satcom device judiciously and put the mission completion above all else. They could not afford to draw attention. Being stuck on a roasting spit and devoured by the dirty tribal bastards was not acceptable. Besides, he didn’t want the pansy-ass boy to think he could whine to his unit about the conditions twenty-four-seven.

  “Location?” Cade grilled.

  “The last time he activated his com, his positioning signal indicated he was still in the drop zone.”

  “Could he be dead?” The old man’s icy tone could have triggered a glacial age. That was why he respected the old man; Cade never let his personal feelings get in the way of a mission.

  “No, sir. His vital readings at dawn yesterday showed a slight increase in heart rate, blood pressure, and adrenal surges. All normal for an operative recruit.”

  Higher than normal, actually, but Trevayne chalked that up to fear. That’s what you got when you sent a pussy to do a man’s job.

  “I want to know the moment he checks in.”

  “Of course, sir. You’ll be informed as soon as I hear. Did you manage to get further intel that could aid in bringing her in?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know. One source is dry, the other uncooperative. But we’re working on it. Don’t fail me, Trevayne.”

  “Failure is unacceptable, sir.”

  Colonel Leon Trevayne of the seventh division, Ameradan Army, Gomedan Guard unit, tapped the com-plant volume back down and loosened the breastplate of his dragon-skin armor. The lightweight body protector looked nothing like the regular army-issue equipment, but Cade’s private security force, Achan’s Elite, had access to the most innovative gear. Easily camouflaged by a loose-fitting flannel shirt, he blended in effortlessly with the other sightseers around the Cut. And that was important, not so much to him, but to the old man.

  Achan Cade, CEO of DynaCade, the most powerful independently owned company in Amerada, also held the esteemed title of Minister of the Energy Collective, the controlling arm of the Restoration Party. The good people of Gomeda believed their city a democracy, but those in the know were fully aware that Achan Cade pulled every string and controlled the politicians and citizens like puppets. That said, he couldn’t afford to incite a high-alert situation by breaching the United World Council’s inane preservation treaty. The more those soft-bellied liberals in the UWC got involved, the more difficult their mission. Therefore, it was critical that this mission be kept low key and off of everyone’s radar. Exactly why Trevayne was sent in to run the last-minute operation. Nobody screwed up when he was in charge. Failure was not acceptable.

  He was to arrange transport from the Cut to Gomeda for the operative and the prisoner. Simple. Too simple.

  A Private fresh out of basic training could have run this mission, yet Cade chose him. Made his gears turn, his skin itch. He knew Cade was acting outside of protocol—nothing new there—but he suspected he didn’t know everything he should about this little jaunt up to the edge of wilderness.

  A test of his loyalty?

  He’d seen it happen to others, lesser men than himself. He witnessed firsthand what happened to those who fell on the wrong side of Cade’s temper. They were sent back to the ranks of the general army, back to patrolling Lower Amerada, back to bashing heads of Drifters and breaking up the occasional skirmish between the human slime that populated the outlands.

  Wasn’t going to happen to him. No way was he giving up the unsanctioned pay packets Cade so generously issued. Or the perks.

  So why play the zhanging boy? It was like throwing a pansy into a cactus garden. Libra, unproven and uncontrollable, was a big fat X in the equation, and Trevayne loathed unknowns. But he didn’t get to the top of Achan’s Elite because he was stupid. He had a Plan B, and as he rendezvoused with his men at the boat, he went over the details in his head. He knew how to deal with the pup and was prepared to subdue the enemy as soon as she was within his sights. He doubted he’d have any trouble taking down a mere girl. Even if she could chuck a spear.

  Ten

  “It’s starting to smell,” Libra said as they made their way back to camp. “I dragged it as far as I could beyond the clearing, but that thing weighs a metric zhang-ton.”

  “I heard a few critters getting close during the night. Last thing we need is a wolverine or a pack of coyotes near camp.”

  “We should think about moving.” He glanced down at the gash at the bottom of her pant leg before taking a decidedly longer time skimming up her body. “Though it would be better for you to stay put and let that leg heal.” When his eyes finally
met hers, his tone became entirely seductive. “I could carry you.” Libra’s mouth curled into his signature half-smile so she couldn’t tell if he was being serious or cheeky. Or both.

  He weakened her resolve, her fortitude, and she couldn’t risk being around him too long lest she forget about her primary objective and do something completely foolish, like fall for this outsider. For the next day and night, she’d have to give him reasons to leave the camp, to leave her alone. Which made no sense… How could she determine his motives, separate lies from truth, if she didn’t watch him, converse with him?

  “I’ll show you how to make a travois.”

  “A what?”

  “A travois, a stretcher,” she explained. “Then I can stay put while you get the carcass farther away. And it’s going to have to go a good distance so the scavengers don’t bother us.”

  “Can it wait until after breakfast?” His silver-blue gaze caught hers. “I’m starved.”

  For the love of skunks, her knees wobbled and her head felt like the vortex that her kayak had been sucked into, spinning around and around with no way out. Logic melted into irrationality, sense became stupidity. She couldn’t think rationally with Libra around.

  “Looks like we’ll need more firewood,” she blurted.

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Cleo tried to concentrate on other tasks for his to-do list while he ate a press-formed bar he called “Good, filling protein.” It looked like a particle board to her.

  “How can you eat that?”

  “What? It’s good. Want some?”

  “I’d rather starve, thanks.”

  “You will if you don’t eat soon.”

  “I picked a wild gooseberry bush clean while you were getting the firewood,” she said. “Hey, if I made a few snares, could you set them? It would be nice to have some real food for supper.”