SUNLIGHT, MOONLIGHT

by Amanda Ashley

  Understanding dawned in Micah's eyes. Of course, he could not let anyone test his blood. The color alone would cause any number of questions that could not be answered.

  "But, Lainey, will you be happy going to this Vegas place to be married?"

  Lainey smiled. "I'll love it," she said, folding her hand over his. "And I love you."

  He started to reply, but the waitress chose that moment to bring their order. She stared at Micah for a moment, her eyes wide. "You aren't… I mean, are you… ?"

  "No," Lainey replied. "He isn't."

  "Well, a girl can hope," the waitress retorted, and walked away, her skirts swishing.

  "Would you like to go sightseeing after we eat?" Lainey asked. "There's a blacksmith shop, an old newspaper office, an assay office…" She frowned, trying to remember what other buildings remained. "Oh, a jail, of course, and a brothel…"

  "Brothel?"

  Lainey shrugged. "You know, a house of ill repute? Whore house? Prostitutes?" She shook her head when she saw he still didn't understand. "A place where men could pay to have sex."

  "Ah," Micah said.

  "Do they have such places on Xanthia?"

  "No, but there are planets where such things are common."

  "Really?"

  "The urge to mate is strong throughout all the known galaxies," he remarked with an exaggerated leer. "My own urge has grown steadily stronger since I met you."

  Lainey felt herself blush from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair as the waitress chose that moment to stop by and see if they needed anything else.

  "We're fine," Lainey stammered. "Just bring the check, please."

  "You're very pretty when your cheeks turn pink," Micah said as they left the restaurant.

  "I'm glad you think so, since I seem to blush frequently since I met you."

  They spent the next two hours touring the town, looking at old butter churns, and flat irons that weighed a ton, and huge black kettles. They saw old fire engines and pot-bellied stoves, cast-iron wash tubs and outdoor pumps, high-button shoes and whalebone corsets.

  "I wish I'd brought my camera," Lainey said as they walked through the old jail. "I can't believe I left it home. I take it everywhere."

  Micah grimaced as he peered into one of the iron-barred cells. It took very little to imagine what it must have been like to be locked up in such a dreary place. All too clearly, he recalled being imprisoned on Einar Three, and, more recently, being strapped to a cold metal table, his freedom gone, his life in the hands of his enemies.

  Leaving the jail, Lainey dragged Micah into Wilson's Western Emporium and insisted he try on a cowboy hat. Most men looked great in cowboy hats, and Micah was no exception. Lainey insisted on buying him one, choosing a black Stetson with a rolled brim.

  "No, Lainey," Micah said, removing the hat. "You've done enough for me already."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You buy my food. You bought me clothes. I live in your house. It is enough."

  "But you need a souvenir," she argued. "Besides, it looks great on you."

  "No."

  Lainey grimaced. Apparently male pride wasn't a trait unique to Earth men. "I want you to have it, Micah. Please? It isn't polite to refuse a gift."

  "But I cannot buy you anything," Micah said quietly.

  "You pick something out, and I'll buy it."

  "It is not the same."

  "Well, then, I'll lend you some money until you get a job, and then you can pay me back."

  Micah considered that for a moment, and then he nodded. He disliked taking money from Lainey, but he wanted to give her something—wanted her to have something tangible to remember him by in case he had to leave her.

  While Lainey tried on boots, he wandered through the store, browsing through shelves of mugs and glassware embossed with the name of the town, T-shirts, scarfs and belts. He paused at a counter featuring an array of jewelry and watches before deciding on a heart-shaped bracelet made of turquoise and silver.

  He paid for the bracelet, then stood near the door, waiting for Lainey while she purchased a pair of white cowboy boots.

  Outside, he handed her the small sack, his gaze intent upon her face as she opened it.

  "Oh, Micah, it's beautiful. I love it." Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

  Micah touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger, and then kissed Lainey on the cheek. "Thank you."

  On the way back to the car, Lainey speculated on what it must have been like to have been a woman back in the old days, before microwave ovens, refrigerators, washers and dryers, no-wax floors, and polyester had come along and taken the drudgery out of being a housewife.

  With a grin that was slightly smug, Micah informed her that on Xanthia microwaves and all the other things she thought of as modern conveniences were as old-fashioned as washboards and butter churns.

  "Well, we'll catch up," she replied confidently. "Maybe you can introduce some of the wonders of Xanthia to our backward culture while you're here."

  "Maybe," he said doubtfully.

  "Why not?" Lainey asked, growing excited by the idea. "The women of Earth would probably make you a saint if you invented that thing you told me about that does all the cooking. Think of the hours in the kitchen it would save at Thanksgiving and Christmas. A complete dinner at the push of a button. Why, you could make a fortune. You know, a lot of money."

  Lainey frowned as she unlocked the car door and slid behind the wheel. "I don't suppose they have money on Xanthia, do they?"

  Removing his hat, Micah got into the car. "No." He looked at Lainey thoughtfully as he put his Stetson on the back seat, then shut the door. "Would you like to have a fortune?"

  "I don't know." She pulled onto the highway, her brow furrowed in thought.

  She'd never really wanted to be rich. Her father had always provided her and her mother with a comfortable living, and when she got out on her own, she discovered she could make a decent living as an author. Still, it might be nice to drive a low-slung sports car and shop in Beverly Hills.

  "Is money important to you?" Micah asked.

  "Not really. I guess I'd rather be happy and healthy." She glanced at Micah. "And in love with you."

  Heat sizzled through her as Micah placed his hand on her thigh and gave it a squeeze.

  Suddenly eager to be home where they could be alone, she pressed down on the accelerator, thinking she'd be happy to wash clothes in an old-fashioned washtub as long as they were Micah's clothes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Micah bolted upright, all his senses alert as he gazed around the darkened room. Something was wrong.

  He glanced at Lainey, sleeping soundly beside him, then slid out of bed and padded quietly to the window and drew the curtains aside. A full moon hung low in the sky, bathing the grounds in a pale yellow light.

  Head cocked to one side, he listened to the stillness, his gaze sweeping the moon-dappled yard. And then he saw it—a dark silhouette darting from tree to tree, gradually making its way closer to the front of the cabin.

  Cursing softly, Micah went back to the bed, placed one hand over Lainey's mouth, then gently shook her shoulder.

  She woke with a startled cry, the sound muffled by his hand.

  "They've found us," Micah whispered. "Get dressed."

  Lainey stared up at him, his words dissolving the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. Moving quickly, she got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, a heavy sweater, and sneakers.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Micah pulling a black sweatshirt over his head. Like her, he was also wearing jeans and sneakers.

  "I'm ready," she whispered, hoping he didn't hear the nervous quiver in her voice.

  Micah nodded. Grabbing the transmitter from the dresser drawer, he shoved it under his sweatshirt; then, as quietly as possible, he opened the bedroom window, helped Lainey climb over the still, and followed her outside.

  Turning, he closed the window, then gra
bbed Lainey's hand and ran toward the tree-studded hill that rose behind the cabin.

  They had just reached the tree line when a man shouted, "Over here!"

  "Tjete!'' Micah swore under his breath as he recognized Mac's voice. "Run, Lainey!" he said, pushing her in front of him.

  Without stopping to look back, Micah ran after her, scrambling up the side of the hill.

  "Cut 'em off, Gene!" Mac hollered. "I've got you covered!"

  There was the sound of footsteps crashing through dry underbrush, and then a dark shape rose up out of the blackness of the night.

  "Stop!" Gene commanded. "I don't want to shoot."

  Fearful for Lainey's life, Micah grabbed her by the arm and pushed her behind him.

  There was the roar of a gunshot, a slash of white-hot pain as the bullet buried itself in the muscle of Micah's left arm.

  Pain and anger warred within him, kindling the primal instinct to survive, to protect one's mate. Without conscious thought, Micah focused his gaze on the man called Gene, felt the energy swell and coalesce from deep within him.

  The man screamed, a terrible high-pitched shriek of agony. Slowly, as if all his bones were dissolving, he toppled forward and rolled down the hill.

  Micah whirled around, reaching for Lainey, when a second shot reverberated through the night.

  Time seemed to have slowed, crystalizing every sound, every movement. He stared at Lainey in disbelief as she stumbled backward, her hand flying to her chest before she crumpled to the ground. Even in the darkness, he could see the dark crimson stain soaking her sweater.

  With a feral cry, he turned on Mac, who was creeping up behind him. For a moment that seemed to stretch as long as infinity, they stared at each other.

  A vile oath enipted from Mac's lips as he raised the gun, his finger curling around the trigger.

  Rage unlike anything he had ever known suffused Micah. He felt the power boiling up inside him, burning out of control.

  Time seemed to stop as Mac fired the gun.

  Micah felt the searing heat of the bullet, a sharp stab of pain as the slug buried itself high in his right shoulder.

  The sound of the gunshot echoed and re-echoed in the stillness of the night. A plume of blue-gray smoke eddied from the barrel of the revolver, slowly rising toward the sky.

  Fury as cold as the outer reaches of space rose up within Micah, overshadowing everything else. He felt the deadly power flow out of him, hotter than the fuel that propelled his ship, more devastating than the firestorms of Orizzon.

  A long, agonized cry of pain and fear blotted out all other sound as Mac's skin blistered and turned black until nothing remained but a pile of charred ashes.

  Shock had rendered Micah's wounds momentarily numb. Knowing it wouldn't last, he shoved the transmitter into his pants pocket, then yanked off his sweatshirt. He tore off one of the sleeves, made a thick pad, and placed it over the gaping wound in Lainey's chest.

  Tearing the rest of his sweatshirt into strips, he wrapped them tightly around her chest to hold the makeshift bandage in place, and then he gathered Lainey into his arms and carried her up the mountain.

  As the shock wore off, so did the numbness in his arm and shoulder. Each step jarred the bleeding wounds, sending shafts of bright white pain lancing through him, and still he kept going, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other.

  He was covered with perspiration when, at long last, he reached the top of the mountain.

  Gently, he placed Lainey on the ground. He gazed at her for a moment, and then he pulled the transmitter from his pocket and activated the distress signal.

  With luck, Pergith would still be in the area.

  Sitting down, Micah drew Lainey into his arms and held her close, trying to warm her with the heat of his own body. He'd always been lucky, he thought as he rocked her gently back and forth. Always. He'd come through numerous disasters unscathed, had singlehandedly battled his way off a cannibalistic planet, had rescued three children from a burning building on Quinton Rells, had survived the crash of his ship.

  He stroked Lainey's hair, praying that his luck hadn't run out.

  He could feel her temperature rising even though her body was trembling as though cold.

  "Lainey? Lainey, can you hear me?"

  Her eyelids fluttered open. Her beautiful brown eyes were glazed with pain.

  "Micah?"

  "I'm here."

  "I can't see you."

  His arms tightened around her. "I'm here, cominza."

  "I'm dying, aren't I?"

  "No!"

  She tried to lift her hand so she could touch him, but she didn't have the strength. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  "We'll never… get married… now."

  "We will, Lainey, I promise."

  "Love… you…"

  "Lainey!" He shook her slightly as her eyelids fluttered down. "Lainey! Don't leave me." Ah, Great God, don't let her die, please don't let her die.

  He sat there through the night, holding her body close to his, heedless of the cold, of the damp ground, of the monotonous throbbing of his wounds. He thought of nothing but Lainey, of what she had come to mean to him, of how much he had grown to love her in such a short time. He could not lose her now.

  Time and again, he glanced skyward, willing Pergith's ship to appear. Xanthia possessed remarkable medical technology, but even their doctors couldn't restore life once it was gone.

  He placed his hand on her brow, feeling the heat radiating from her skin, the chills that wracked her body. She'd lost so much blood. How much could a human lose and still live?

  The minutes passed slowly, each one like an eternity, and then, in the darkest hour before the dawn, he heard the faint whir of a ship.

  Looking up, he saw Pergith's spacecraft break through the clouds to hover directly overhead. The bottom hatch opened; a moment later, a transporter beam carried Micah and Lainey up into the ship.

  "Zermicazyne!" Pergith entered the transporter room, his arms outstretched in welcome, until he saw Micah's burden. "Tjete," he swore softly, "who have you got there?"

  "Her name is Lainey St. John, and she's badly hurt."

  "It is against regulations to bring an earthling on board an exploratory vessel," Pergith said. "I could lose my commission."

  "Your commission be damned," Micah said curtly, and before Pergith could argue or ask any more questions, Micah swept past him, carrying Lainey down to the hospital deck.

  A doctor and two medic assistants, both dressed in light gray jumpsuits, looked up as Micah burst into the room and placed Lainey on one of the examining tables.

  "She's dying," he said, choking on the words. "Do something."

  "You do not look so good yourself," Pergith remarked, entering the room behind Micah. "Maybe you should climb up on the other table?"

  "Lainey first," Micah insisted.

  "We will take care of her," the doctor said, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves. His gaze swept over Micah, noting the dried blood on his left arm and right shoulder. "Do not worry, commander. Rathe, take Commander Zermicazyne into the other room and look after his injuries."

  "I am all right," Micah said, not wanting to leave Lainey's side.

  "I am the commander of this ship," Pergith said firmly, "and you will do as Doctor Corda has ordered." Clasping his hands behind his back, Pergith fixed his gaze on the doctor's face. "I want him to have a complete examination."

  "Pergith!"

  "Head to foot," Pergith said. He glanced back at Micah. "I will be in my quarters when you are through, Commander."

  Micah glared at his old friend, but there was nothing to do but obey. He wasn't on Earth now. Technically, he was on Xanthian soil, and Pergith was in command.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he followed the medic out of the room. Lainey's face was as pale as the thin white cloth that had been placed over her. Her hair, as black as the crystals of Maddorriah, only emphasized her lack of color. But it was the dark cri
mson stain on her chest that held his gaze. She had been badly hurt, and it was all his fault.

  Following the medic into the next room, Micah striped off his clothing and stretched out on the exam table, feeling its built-in warmth relax him until he was hardly conscious of the dull ache in his arm and shoulder.

  He closed his eyes as the medic quickly and expertly washed the wounds with warm water laced with a soothing antiseptic, sprayed his arm and shoulder with a pungent disinfectant, and neatly stitched the wounds. When that was done, the medic applied the lazerpad which would accelerate healing and eliminate scarring.

  With the injuries taken care of, the medic subjected Micah to an in-depth physical examination, pronouncing him in remarkably good health in spite of the blood he had lost.

  "I will make my report to Commander Pergith," the medic said. "You should report here for a recheck when the stitches disappear."

  Micah nodded as he hopped off the table, his only thought to see how Lainey was.

  "You will find a clean uniform in the closet," the medic said as he took his leave.

  Minutes later, dressed in a regulation Fleet uniform, Micah returned to the main operating room. Fear coiled around his heart as he entered the compartment, which was ominously silent. Lainey rested on a long white table, covered by a dark green, temperature-controlled blanket. The doctor stood beside the table, his face grave as he listened to her heartbeat. He glanced up as Micah entered the room.

  "How is she?"

  "Not good," the doctor replied. "There has been considerable blood lost. The wound itself is not fatal, but…" The doctor shook his head. "Her prospects for survival are not favorable at this time."

  "What does that mean, exactly?"

  "She needs blood. Human blood, but of course, we have none on board."

  "Take mine."

  The doctor shook his head. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "We have never mixed our blood with this species."

  "Just do it."

  "Very well, but I will not be responsible for the consequences to the earthling—or to you, Commander."

  Micah nodded impatiently. "Just get on with it."