by Snow, Wylie
Abrupt silence made Libra think the old man had hung up.
“So it’s true then,” he replied. “Trevayne intimated that you had a little thing for the girl, but I didn’t believe him. Honestly, Libra, how could you sully yourself with such a creature?”
Libra felt his blood heat but refused to play into Achan’s mind games. All through his early childhood, his grandfather considered it a sport to press his hot buttons and watch him implode. Said it would help him handle adversity. Then he’d throw some comment to his mother about not raising him right. Asshole.
“Just give me your word, Achan. Give me your word that you won’t harm her, that you’ll let her go once she’s signed.”
“This is a simple business transaction, my boy. She will sign and leave. I shall be the perfect host, as always.”
Libra disconnected, barely able to stop himself from crushing the satcom in his hand. He’d need it later. He reached deep into his pocket and extracted the tin flask. Right now, he had some friends to make. Then would come the performance of his lifetime.
Thirty-Two
Much like she had in the clearing by the river, Cleo awoke fully alert, but with a crick in her neck and a pain in her side from slouching against a hard, vibrating surface.
As she straightened up, three things became immediately apparent: She wasn’t in the Taiga, she was wearing a different set of clothes, and Libra wasn’t with them. She sensed his absence like she sensed a gathering storm. She wasn’t sure which one of the three caused a bubble of panic to rise in her chest, maybe all three, but the inability to fill her air with lungs was the only thing that stopped her from screaming.
Frick chose that moment to turn around in the seat in front of her. He took one look at her and his forehead creased. “Hey,” he shouted. She felt her eyes bug as she struggled to breathe, tried to move her hands to her throat, but they remained numb in her lap. He reached across the seat, grabbed her upper arms, and rammed her into the back of her seat, jolting her from respiratory paralysis.
Oxygen rushed into her lungs and she coughed until her throat hurt.
“You’ll be okay,” Trevayne said, his tone passive. “Just a side effect.”
Side effect of what?
Her head dropped sideways against a dusty windowpane as her breathing returned to normal. How the hell did they keep dropping her like that? Her tongue was thick and dry from thirst, but she didn’t dare ask Trevayne for a sip from his canteen. She’d die before she put her lips where his had been.
Where’s Libra?
Tinted windows, coupled with the thick cloud cover, made it impossible for her to tell the time of day. They knocked her out just before full darkness, but when? Last night? The day before? Days ago? Without the sun or the forest sounds, she was completely disoriented.
The utilitarian transport vehicle travelled along an arid, barren corridor, bumping over ruts and jostling the occupants. An unfamiliar-scented breeze trickled into the cabin via the air vents in the low ceiling, and helped to dispel the musky scent of her three companions.
The vehicle’s interior was a wide, rectangular box, with plastiform seats—two per side of a narrow aisle, four rows in total. Trevayne was directly across from her in the back row, with a Frack two rows in front of him. The other buzzcut sat directly in front of her, and next to him was the only visible exit. The operator was concealed behind a dark partition that blocked her view of whatever lay directly in front of them. Presumably Gomeda. Escape, as far as she could see, was impossible.
This isn’t how she wanted it to be. She wanted to enter Gomeda on her own terms, not trussed up and presented on Trevayne’s arm like a prize doe.
Low buildings cropped up on the horizon, along with the odd wall and heap of rubbish, and she could see distant fields of the wind turbines that Libra had mentioned, though none appeared to be turning.
Hover board traffic increased and impatient operators zipped around them, weaving on and off the corridor. One rider, in particular, caught her eye. With his shoulder-length dreadlocks and shearling vest, he bore resemblance to a character from the Wild Boys comic books. Taiga kids considered the graphic novels, about a band of troublemakers ever questing for the elusive Ghost Warrior, mandatory literature.
Wondering if the others noticed him, she feigned a stretch and glanced around. Trevayne was looking out the opposite window, Frack was playing with his bootlace, and Frick was snoring.
She pressed her forehead to the glass for a better look. The Wild Boy coasted at the same speed as their vehicle, as if wanting to be noticed. He canted his head in her direction before shooting forward, but she saw what she needed to. A few of his dreads were encased in silver-pointed charms, just like the leader of the Wild Boys! A seed of hope germinated in her belly.
Jaegar! It could only be her brother’s doing. He was sending her a sign to let her know everything would be okay. He must have found out she was captured and sent someone only she would recognize, to assure her that everything would be alright.
Whomever the hover rider was, his presence changed the game, gave her hope, renewed her spirit. She just had to wait patiently for a signal, some cue, a call to action that only she would understand.
Another sight kept her transfixed on the world outside her dusty window. She watched as the faint glow on the horizon grew in intensity. Finally, as the sky darkened behind it, the brilliantly lit skyline of Gomeda came into focus. And it was beautiful. Radiant, beckoning, it unleashed a sense of excitement. No wonder her people came here and never returned. She wrapped her fingers around her stone pendant and craned her neck for a better view.
She felt a slight vibration in her cheek a yoctosecond before shutters clanged down, completely obliterating her view. Foggy interior lights flickered on, bathing everyone in sickly yellow.
“What’s happening?”
“Security. Can’t go through the New Chicago with the windows exposed.”
“For how long?” she asked, feeling the space close in around her. Thankfully, the ceiling vents remained opened.
“Until we open them,” he sneered. “Are you impatient to see Mr. Cade?”
Screw you, she wanted to shout.
Jaegar was going to kick this jerk’s ass.
“Speaking of the Cades,” he said. “You haven’t asked about your boyfriend? How come?”
“I don’t give a badger’s ass about the Cades. Any of them.”
“Good. It won’t bother you then.”
There was something in Trevayne’s manner that compelled her ask. Not that she cared. “What won’t bother me?”
“That he’s dead.”
Cleo stared at Trevayne, the lipless gash of a mouth curling up in the corners.
No. Libra isn’t dead. He is not dead. Trevayne was goading her. He wouldn’t be so cavalier if it were true. Would he? Libra probably took off, mission accomplished. Probably didn’t even get on the boat.
“You’re lying.”
One of the buzzcuts chuckled in a knowing, smug way that made her want to drive her foot into the back of his head.
“Your lover boy got himself dead drunk and fell overboard back in the Dead Lakes,” Trevayne said. “We didn’t stick around to watch the flesh melt off him.”
Libra. Dead.
A slash of pain, quick and deep, like a blade under her ribs, snuck up on her before her brain snapped to the obvious conclusion—the bear grease, of course! He planned it, that zhang-loving bastard. She’d given him the method, he took the opportunity.
Coward.
Just wait until she got out of this mess, she’d hunt him down and flay him.
Not dead…
She hated that she felt relieved. It would be easier if he had died. She’d never see him again, never be tracked by his silver-blue star
e. Her cheeks grew hot at the thought of him dressing her in the new outfit. He had stripped her of his clothes like he stripped himself right out of her life. He had removed his very existence, and she had nothing of him left but memories that were too unbearable to recall.
But the disgusting, self-injuring truth was that she didn’t want to forget Libra, and she was scared that if she pushed those moments too far away, his image would disappear forever.
Cleo shivered and sunk deeper into the fur-trimmed coat. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage to dislodge the lump in her throat. She felt as helpless and desperate as she did when the river took her, shook her, and dragged her to her death. What kind of fall would she face at the end of this journey?
He was dead, in a sense. Dead to her. He’d served his purpose, got her to Gomeda. She could do the rest alone.
She bit the corner of her lip and blinked to erase the sting in her eyes. Crying didn’t stop pain; this she knew first-hand. Crying just made you look weak and vulnerable and this warrior, third-class, was neither weak nor vulnerable.
Just…alone.
Libra crouched next to the towering needle that protruded from the roof of the Energy Collective Headquarters. Even without the satellite control spire, the ECH was the tallest building in Gomeda, a carefully considered optic when they designed the city. It was also no accident it grew adjacent to the DynaCade compound. The two buildings were conveniently joined by a sky tunnel so that the president of one could traverse the sky tunnel and become the CEO of the other without getting the soles of his shoes dirty.
The Restoration Party Headquarters were some miles away, straddling the inner and outer ring so that the thousands of government employees didn’t clog the gates into the sanctum at the beginning and end of each workday.
But here, at the core of energy-hungry Gomeda, this is where the real power was. And his grandfather controlled it all.
From his loft above the city, he was able to track the army transport vehicle from the moment it passed into the inner prefecture. Libra’s palm grew warm from holding the flat black disk he’d reclaimed from Trevayne, watching the green indicator light move toward him and wondering if the colonel even realized it was gone. He held it tightly, a tenuous link to Cleo.
Libra touched the auto-focus on his binocs and tracked Trevayne’s group as they escorted Cleo across the rooftop concourse of DynaCade and to the drop plates that would lead them to Achan’s personal suites.
She looked good and didn’t appear drowsy or drugged. The last twenty hours had practically killed him, not knowing.
She was in Achan’s hands now. Safe. The old man would coax her with his politician’s charm, she’d sign the papers, have a nice dinner, and be escorted out in the morning. Knowing his opportunistic grandfather, there’d be a photo op with handshakes and a smiling representative from the UWC to ratify the deal.
He rubbed his face into the crook of his arm. He’d need another hot shower or three to wash the stink off him before he liberated Jaegar from the dorms of the Ministry of Opportunity. That would be easy. He knew a girl who knew a girl. One or two calls, a promise of contraband… It could wait a few more hours.
It shouldn’t be this hard to walk away. Cleo was nothing more than an assignment. Mission complete. He had his freedom, he had his cashpoints and he should be feeling like the king of the zhang-damn world.
But he didn’t. He felt as greasy and rank as the bear grease still oozing from his pores. He rubbed his sternum to ease the pressure deep in his chest and looked out over the city, so different from the peaceful vista atop Raccoon Ridge. The night was still and quiet, everything but Gomeda’s inner rings bathed in a consuming darkness. The curfew patrols would soon be out, ensuring the safety of the inner prefecture and not giving a damn about the rest of it. Status quo.
He strode to the edge of the rooftop and leapt over the side onto the deck below. Over the buildings, one by one, he jumped, rolled, crawled, and ran, moving as fast as his unpractised limbs allowed. But he couldn’t leap fast enough or far enough to escape Cleo’s tinkling laugher, her stunning beauty, or her singular uniqueness. He couldn’t outrun the poison of their last exchange.
But God, he tried. He ran until his sweat and grease mingled to sting his eyes. He limped the rest of the way to his old home, to Glory Cade, hoping to find her sober. Only his mother could clear up some nagging thoughts he’d had regarding his father’s work in the Taiga, and maybe give him the perspective he needed to get over Cleo Rush and the mess she’s made of his heart.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my dear friend Elba, who encouraged me to leap and then held my hand during the entire adventure. I’m eternally grateful.
My heartfelt appreciation to my beta readers—Rebecca O’Sullivan, Shana Baptista, Sherry Patterson, and, with minimal coercion, James Watkinson (who saw the heavily redacted ‘PG13’ version)—for their feedback and direction.
I’m blessed with an amazing and supportive network of writers that include Katy Evans, Cynthia Sax, Olivia Loch, Christine D’Abo, J.K. Coi, Amy Ruttan, and Maureen McGowan, who inspire, push, challenge and enlighten me. They make me laugh, listen to me whine, let me cry, and know just when to snark-slap me back to reality.
About Wylie Snow
Most authors will tell you that they wanted to be writers from a very young age. Not me. I wanted to be a detective like Nancy Drew, or a wildlife expert like Jim Fowler, or an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. I even wanted to own my own island resort and make fantasies come true!
I didn’t do too badly… I married a detective, worked in a zoo, explored ancient shipwrecks, and spent 18 glorious years living on a sunny island.
As for those fantasies… That’s another book ;)
I love to hear from readers. You can write to me at [email protected]
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Other books by Wylie Snow
GAME ON
Secrets, lies, lust ... whatever it takes to win.
Clara Bean, Europe’s most respected restaurant critic, lands on American soil to do a promotional tour with a sports icon. But how will she keep her career-ending secret from her deliciously handsome new partner? She quickly learns that all games have rules, even falling in love.
Luc Bisquet can’t seem to score any points with sassy, sexy Clara despite the palatable chemistry between them. But he’s willing to endure as many penalties as it takes to crack her icy reserve, because winning is everything. Game on!
Here’s a sneak peek at the next book in
the Jump Zone trilogy…
Jump Zone:
Libra Rising
Prologue
City of Gomeda
I’d always presumed that being in love would feel fuzzy and warm.
It’s not. Love is painful. And cold.
Love is lonely.
Five days ago I died. Then he showed up to revive me, only to kill me again, slowly, from the inside out.
Every part of me hurts, even more than when the frigid river tugged me under, even more than when the crushing pressure burned my lungs and I was tossed like an arbitrary scrap of flotsam over an eighty-foot waterfall.
If I even think his name, I get piercing sting in the middle of my chest that makes me want to howl like a dying wolf. The pain radiates through my limbs and I have to fight to keep from curling up in a ball.
There are moments I loathe Libra Cade with blackness darker than a moonless night in the Taiga, and a yoctosecond later, I yearn to gaze into his pale blue eyes, feel his breath against my hair,
see the half-smile that makes my knees turn gooey.
Then I remember that it was his fault that I died the first time, his fault that I smashed my kayak because his mythical aer-o-plane distracted me. I hate him.
Then suddenly I feel his phantom touch, his thumb grazing over the scar on my cheek with aching tenderness, or his lips softly kissing the notch on the curve of my ear. He made me believe I was beautiful, even if for just one night.
Trevayne and his human hounds told me that Libra died on the trip south to Gomeda. They said he fell off the boat in the middle of the night and the acidic water of the Dead Lakes melted the flesh from his bone.
But I know differently. I know he used my technique of slathering on bear grease, just so he could escape being around when I awoke from the most recent blackout.
I press my palm against the cool glass of my prison and marvel at the city aglow in lights. It’s awesomely beautiful and I though I want to go home even more than I want to breathe, a piece of me is excited by the odd angles and curves of the tall buildings, the strange glittering colors of the skyline.
Libra is out there. He’s lost himself amongst the eleven million people of Gomeda and I’m betting he’ll never set foot in my Taiga forest again.
He’d better not.
I’ll kill him if he does.
COMING DECEMBER 2013
