Either the mines were chilly as hell or the padding in this monkey suit was meant as protection. Either way it felt like he’d put on three sets of robes. He’d almost grown used to the lack of wraps. His Shrouded clothing was safely in Vashia’s care along with his heartstone ring. Here, in the teeny bunker, Mofitan allowed himself to grip the finger where it belonged and, just for a moment, to suffer a pang of doubt.
He couldn’t count Dern’s troops from the bottom of a mine, could he? He couldn’t report anything at all, if he didn’t survive whatever Curel had in mind for him, whatever Dern’s real orders had been. He buckled the utility belt around his hips by using the very last notch and holding his breath. He’d need to get out of the mines and into Dern’s trust as soon as possible.
Otherwise, this skintight clay-colored uniform just might explode.
After he’d checked the contents of the belt and found only a light with spare power packs and a kit with collapsible tools, half of which he understood the function of, he removed a pair of sturdy boots that, miraculously, fit like a glove. Nothing else had been in the compartment except for the knife, and he stared at that again, picked it up, and then put it down just as quickly. What to do?
He lifted the sheath again. Slender, with a clip on the back so that it could be secreted just about anywhere. Mofitan chose the hip, just inside his open uniform. He had no idea what to expect in Dern’s mine. The man might have an assassin waiting for him down there. Did Curel know it? Was the captain trying to damn him or save him?
Mofitan bet on the latter. He adjusted his heavy outer garment to hide the shape of the weapon and closed locker 000.000.000 with nothing at all inside. Better to be down the mine with some protection either way. If Curel used his possessing it against him, Mofitan could always claim he’d thought it was part of the gear, and that he hadn’t used it.
Just so long as he didn’t have to use it.
It still felt better knowing the thing was there, even when the boots started to pinch on the way back out of the bunker. Not quite his size. Damn it. Working for Dern had already started out on the wrong foot in too many ways to count. The final nail in his mission-shaped coffin was waiting with Captain Curel outside the bunker door. Judging from the tone of the captain’s voice, however, he liked this addition even less than Mofitan did.
“There is absolutely no place for you there.”
Gervis Dern’s right arm batted a strand of red hair out of her face and glowered at Curel. Her eyes darted to Mofitan as he emerged, but fell away just as quickly. “Then you’ll have to explain that to Gervis. This is his order, not mine.”
Curel snarled and spat on the ground. The woman crossed her arms over the front of her high-collared blouse and glared at him, pretended her attention was on the captain even though Mofitan felt the first invasion of her damned psychic probing at the edges of his thoughts.
NO.
When he slammed the door, she turned to face him directly, openly. Was it shock or rage in that expression? Curiosity? He reminded himself not to care and flashed her his teeth.
“Where will you bunk?” Curel’s argument deflated. He shrugged and shook his head. “There’s no place for you.”
“I’m certain something has been arranged.”
“I’m not staying, Corah. I won’t be there to protect you.” The captain looked pointedly at Mofitan then, and his eyes darkened. If he regretted the gifting of the knife now, he’d have a hell of a time getting it back. Mofitan smiled for him too and waited for them to sort themselves out.
“I most certainly don’t require your protection, Captain.”
They stared off again, this time both of them flashed nervous glances in his direction. Nice. Mofitan didn’t usually favor sidelines but this one, he could live with. He doubted even Gervis Dern could stand up to this Corah’s icy glare for long. It did the trick on Curel fast enough. The captain sagged and snapped his attention back to Mofitan as if the woman would just vanish if he ignored her.
“You think you’re ready for this?”
“I’m ready for anything,” Mofitan answered truthfully, but his stomach knotted just the same. Corah da Nurah was going too? Why? If Dern ordered his right arm away from him, then it had to be for a good reason, had to be because of him. She’d serve as Dern’s eyes and, Mofitan suspected, she wouldn’t give up on probing his mind anytime soon.
How long would Shayd’s shield hold up under her intrusions?
“Good enough,” Curel said.
Mofitan watched the woman shift her feet. She kept her eyes away from him now, but he had a feeling her attention was not fixed on the captain any longer. She wasn’t dressed for the environment Curel had described. High collar aside, that blouse flattered her just as much as the skirt hugging her hips. He didn’t even want to think about the shoes, or the legs. His chest already fluttered. Curel had the right of it, for certain. She had no business hanging around miners like that, unless she had a clay-colored quilted body cast like he wore stuffed into her little leather bags.
But what were the odds?
Captain Curel washed his hands of the whole situation with a curt wave toward the landing pads. “Whatever. We don’t have time to argue.”
He moved out sharply without even verifying that Mofitan followed. There were no guards now—he’d told the truth about that much. The captain headed for whatever transport they were supposed to take without looking back once. The woman, however, watched Mofitan with a question in her expression. He could have snatched her easily enough, used the knife as a threat and made for the hills with Dern’s right arm as his hostage. Was it another test, or was he seeing traps where there were none?
The idea had its merits, of course. He could negotiate for information, use this one as leverage and possibly spend some time getting to know her. He shook his head to clear away the image, the thought he hadn’t meant to think. Stupid. This woman had “trap” written all over her.
Mofitan glared at her hard enough that she flinched, and then he stomped past her in the direction Curel had marched. He felt the growl in his chest, the itchiness beneath his skin that usually meant he needed to break something. Nothing pushed at his thoughts at least. No invasion, no comment from the woman, though she followed him quickly enough. And if Curel had guns waiting in case he’d taken the bait, they never showed themselves.
The captain waited for them at the ramp of a surface transport. The woman pushed past Mofitan and boarded without pause, without a word for either of them. For a second he thought he saw pity in the glance Curel tossed his way. Then that vanished too. The steel eyes narrowed and Captain Curel waved him up the ramp. The three of them on a small ship. Mofitan and his psychic spy on their way to an unknown mine somewhere on Eclipsis.
With one hand hovering above the hidden dagger, Mofitan boarded the ship with his thoughts both shielded and spinning in uncomfortable circles. He had a feeling the shitstorm he’d stumbled into was just about to start.
“He’s done something to the food.” Jadyek pushed his plate away and gave him a withering look. “Should we even eat it?”
“Let me taste it.” Dielel took his lover’s spoon gently, forced a smile for Jadyek’s sake, and scooped up a bite of colorless mush. The cabin temperatures had reached sweltering today, another prank courtesy of their traveling companion. If Jarn had messed with the food, Dielel suspected it was harmless enough, just off enough to screw with them.
If Jarn wanted them dead, they wouldn’t be breathing.
“It tastes okay,” he lied and handed back the utensil. The flavor had been completely removed. “We need to keep our strength up.”
The ship’s computer controlled everything, and Jarn had overridden and encrypted any access to that. If they pissed him off too badly, it would be an easy thing to shut off the air supply to their room while they slept. Poisoning the food would only waste resources Jarn himself could use later.
“I think we should contact the king,” Jadyek whisper
ed, but it wouldn’t matter if Jarn had their room bugged.
“Shhh.” He’d had the same thought a dozen times. If they turned themselves in, begged King Peryl for mercy, it would mean prison again, but Shroud had no death sentence. At least they’d live. Knowing what he did about the king, it would probably mean they could see each other, even if only on occasion. The heartbond was too revered on Shroud to be blatantly sundered, even for traitors.
Dielel put up a hand and leaned his head to the side. Did Jarn listen to them? Did the demon know they’d happily go back to a hole in the ground rather than remain at his mercy? There had to be a way to do neither. He chewed on that thought all the time now. Throughout the listless days and all through the nights he spent half awake, waiting for some sign that their air had been terminated.
“We still might get away together,” he said. “Jarn will find us a safe port, and then we can start over somewhere alone.”
“I know.” Jadyek managed to smile for him. Hope sparkled in his wide eyes that didn’t, couldn’t possibly still believe in that future. “It’s been longer than I’d thought is all.”
And they’d both seen the looks Jarn cast in their direction when they dared venture from the cabin. Unless he’d summoned them for a purpose, their pilot wanted them out of sight. Until he needed them, he wanted them only as something to torture.
Maybe screwing with them helped him pass the time. Maybe it helped Jarn sleep, though Dielel hadn’t managed to catch him at that. He’d fancied it a dozen times, catching Jarn fast asleep and summoning the courage to slit the man’s throat before he could wake, but even in his fantasies Dielel suspected he’d never have the guts to really do it.
He’d have to find another way to be rid of the madman. He’d have to, for Jadyek’s sake. And they’d have to think of it in a hurry, he suspected. If Jarn found a use for them, the man wouldn’t hesitate to seize it. When the time came, there wouldn’t be any room for contemplation. They’d have to act, fast, and that had never been Dielel’s style.
Jadyek’s hand settled over his, a warm comfort. “It will be fine, Dielel. You’ll see.”
Looking into Jadyek’s pale face, he could almost believe it. He breathed, felt the heart beating in his chest, and the ship they rode on lurch to one side as something impacted the hull.
The devil’s voice screamed through the intercom: Jarn, coming through the walls to reach them. “Get out here! The bastards have found us.”
Chapter Eight
The transport jumped and skidded off another updraft, knocking Corah forward against her restraints. The belts dug into her shoulders, but they kept her upright and out of the captain’s lap at least. He sat opposite her, alternating between glaring and shaking his head at her predicament. The bastard had strapped the giant beside her, and was pointedly enjoying her discomfort.
Trying not to touch her neighbor had occupied her for most of the trip. Now that they’d encountered atmospheric turbulence, that task had shifted to not losing her breakfast all over a huge lilac buffoon. He did his best not to touch her as well. Thankfully. The transport had room for only half a dozen passengers, and his bulk took up more than one space.
He leaned away and allowed her to right herself, but the concerned look he gave her only sharpened her discomfort. So much of him, a wall of muscle and mystery, and no matter how hard she tried, Corah couldn’t crack whatever he’d wrapped around his stubborn, likely lilac brain. His mental defenses continued to keep her out, and in doing so, kept her both from obeying Gervis Dern or using this man to end him.
If she survived this mission, it would be a miracle.
She hoped to contact Niels from the mining district. As far as Corah could tell, that was her best shot at outliving her Shrouded companion. Niels would either order her out, or expedite the end goal. He’d extract Corah and foil her assassination plans, or he’d give her the okay to finally finish the job. He’d have to. All she had to do was get a message through, avoid blowing her cover in the meantime, and keep both eyes on the man sitting way too close beside her for comfort.
“Not long now.” Curel grinned at her, damn him.
“Good.”
“The mine director’s name is Boon. Once I’ve turned you both over to him, I’m leaving.”
Corah smiled through tight lips and tried to pick up anything useful about Boon from the captain’s thoughts. A man shaped like a barrel, picked from the slaver ships just like this Mofitan. Curel believed they’d get along well enough, but he had doubts about her own safety. The fact that those concerns fueled his rotten attitude at present went a ways toward soothing her fury at him. Mines are no place for Dern’s woman. Corah caught that as well, the assumption she hadn’t been aware of. Blind of her, considering what she knew about Gervis. She followed the thread of an idea in Curel’s mind and found an ugliness behind it.
They all think this?
It sobered her, the revelation that Gervis’s men believed she was his mistress. Her skin sprouted goosebumps, but her mind latched onto the opportunity. As ghastly as it was, she saw what Curel didn’t. Allowing the lie to continue might offer her a measure of protection even in the remote mining district. If she was his woman, whoever harmed her would fare worse than the slaves he traded in.
“Are you well?” The question didn’t come from Curel, and Corah opened her eyes to face a swinging black braid. The Shrouded man leaned over her, watching her digest her new cover as the devil’s bedmate.
“Fine. Thank you.”
He stared half a moment too long and his eyes narrowed a bit before he nodded and turned back to gazing at Curel. Unnerving. She hadn’t expected intelligence behind that much muscle, nor did she appreciate the fact that she couldn’t interpret his expressions with the assistance of his thoughts. Even his surface emotions swirled just out of reach anytime she tried to pick anything up.
The transport danced again, tossing them together and apart just as quickly. The hull creaked. The pilot spoke through Curel’s headset, like static in the background, and the captain grinned wider.
“Can they manage to land us in one piece?” She snapped it and felt the bulky man beside her quake with a suppressed chuckle.
“We’re coming into the basin now.” Curel tapped the side of his headset and listened to their status with his mouth pursed. “We should have visual.”
They all twisted together, a ridiculously synchronized move. The front of the cabin flickered from opaque gray to moving image, twin to the pilot’s viewer. Laid out on the wall now, the surface of Eclipsis streaked below them like a river of sharp black rock formations. The valleys between were darker, deeper than the light could penetrate.
Ahead, one of these widened out into the Banshee Basin. She’d been here once before, when Gervis had done an inspection of the facility after a gas leak had caused a cave-in down one of the less significant shafts. Even so, the sight of Banshee took her breath away. The gray towers and storage sheds held little aesthetic appeal, but there was an efficiency here, a scale and scope to the operation that Corah had to admire. The pipelines fed out of the shafts. Their branches led to classifiers, processing plants, and warehouses for shipping ore off-world. Specialized lines carried the waste gases to either cleaners or storage tanks depending on their usage. Everything had a job to do, and nothing was wasted.
“There she is,” Curel said. “Welcome to the deeps, Mr. Mofitan. I hope the damps are to your liking.”
“Not mister.” The big man’s voice had a gruffness to it, but there was something refined there as well, something that didn’t sound like a slave at all. “It’s just Mof.”
He caught Corah’s eye then, caught her looking at him and his eyes narrowed again. Thinking his hidden thoughts, no doubt. How did someone like this end up on one of Gervis’s slaver ships? Not by accident. Not by ill fortune.
Not like her parents had.
Corah pulled her gaze back to the view of the mine and chewed on the inside of her cheek. She had to
get through that shield he’d erected, but it wouldn’t be the way Gervis wanted. This Mofitan already suspected her far too much for seduction to work. He disliked her already, if her impressions still counted for anything. She would have to find another way.
“Take us in.” Captain Curel ordered the landing. The Banshee flats streaked away below. Corah watched the screen like a gargoyle and tried to find a crack in Mofitan’s mind shield, any crack would do.
His emotions swirled. Though she’d picked up no psychic ability at all from her brief glimpse inside, the second she tested his edges, the man stiffened. He felt her in there somehow, and that was going to make her job damn difficult. She stared at the screen but knew he knew what she tried and resented the hell out of it. Fantastic first step if she ever meant to make the man her ally.
But did she?
He’d be better suited for Gervis’s team, all muscle and fury. His secrets intrigued her, but if she couldn’t find a way to use him against Gervis, he’d be too much of a danger to let the boss recruit. Corah tried to sort it into a tidy plan, but the weight of the man’s presence in the cabin had her thinking in circles. If Niels didn’t order Gervis dead soon, all that purple muscle might come in handy. Niels would never even have to know it had anything to do with her.
Maybe that was this guy’s agenda anyway. If he wanted Gervis Dern dead too, maybe she wouldn’t have to manipulate anything. All she’d have to do was lie for him, tell Gervis to trust the brute and wait for the inevitable. Damn. If she could see his motives, her next move would be a lot clearer. As it was, she couldn’t quite bring a plan into focus.
Their nose dipped for landing and Corah went with it, nearly rapping her head on the view screen. A grip on the back of her shirt stalled her just shy of a bruise.
“Careful.”
Eclipsed (Heartstone Book 3) Page 6
