Eclipsed (Heartstone Book 3)

by Frances Pauli

  “What are you talking about?” She forced her hands away from her collar, forced off the urge to cover for fear the gesture would only draw his attention. Her best bet would be to keep him guessing. Dropping her ruse completely would only land her in no position to help Mofitan or herself. “I made a judgment call, Gervis. If you’d let me in on your and the captain’s little plan, perhaps I wouldn’t have thrown a wrench into it.”

  Dern’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you still playing, dear?”

  “You’ve decided I’m no longer of use, then? Curel is your new right arm? Will he pry into the mind of your enemy for you? Is he so useful as that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then don’t be ridiculous.” She sniffed and nearly choked on her fear. Gervis’s face didn’t flicker. He thought he had her, and her act hadn’t worked yet. “I thought the man was telling a straight story. But who else read him right? A tip from your cousin saved the day, not Curel or any of your other psychics. You still need me, Gervis. One mistake won’t change that.”

  She feared for a moment that she’d been too bold, that Dern would strike her. He spun fast and closed the gap between them. He lifted one hand and ran his fingers along the side of her neck. Her skin iced beneath his touch. She shivered.

  “You’re right, of course.” Dern nodded, but his eyes were steel. “I do need you. Oh yes. Of course I do.”

  “Well.” The tremble gave away her nerves. Oh well, Gervis would enjoy knowing he’d unnerved her. It might help in the end. “Good then. I’m happy to serve as always, despite the captain’s interference.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.” Corah allowed herself a moment to believe she’d passed. A breath to imagine everything going back to their ordinary routine. She’d bluff her way through, call Niels and make certain they got Mofitan to safety. A prince of Shroud. Niels would latch onto that. He’d want a way to use it.

  “Then your next task is to strip our Shrouded guest’s shields and find out what he knows.”

  “What?” She swallowed and stared into his unflinching expression. Still angry with her. Still suspicious. “I’m not sure I can strip…”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll work it out, my dear.” His hand shifted, brushed his knuckles over her skin, up to settle against her jaw. “Whatever our new friend has done to win you, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice now. It’s you or him, Corah dear. And we both know what a survivor you are.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Take her back to her hovel for now, Captain Curel.” Gervis’s hand dropped away. It banged her shoulder on the way down, pushed her aside physically as he dismissed her verbally. Whatever faith he had in her had vanished. She would be as much a prisoner as Mofitan. And as soon as she gave Gervis what he wanted, he’d kill them both. She heard that just as clearly as she heard his orders to the captain. “And keep a guard on her this time.”

  “Yes, sir!” Curel appeared at her side, snapping a salute and an answer at once. He snarled for her benefit. “Come on.”

  Corah spared a last look at the knives. If she lunged for them now, Curel would take her out before she could strike at Gervis. She had no problem going down fighting, but not unless she could be certain to take Gervis with her. Preferably, she’d like to help Mofitan get out of this mess first.

  “Of course.” She spun on a heel and let the captain lead the way out.

  The morning had waxed brighter, and the workers returned to their posts. New repair crews assessed the damage from the most recent sabotage as if it were any other day. She doubted they’d taken Mofitan back to his shack. In fact, she doubted it would hold him, almost wished they’d been that stupid.

  A prince of Shroud.

  What the hell did that even mean?

  Curel gathered two men with rifles on the way to her shed. Somehow they just fell in alongside her, and when she reached her new prison, they remained at either side of her door with weapons very visibly at the ready. Hardly a good sign and their presence would make the thing she planned to do next all the more difficult. She marched inside, left Curel standing alone in the dust, and closed the door with her mind whirling.

  Her bag waited on the bed where she’d left it. Had they searched it? It looked untouched, but with Gervis that hardly meant a thing. She ignored it in case the guards were paying too much attention, in case the unscathed bag was another trap. But she needed to contact Niels without the guards hearing her. She needed a distraction, and if she could get the saboteur on her side, she’d need to know where they’d taken Mofitan before they made a move.

  She began by pacing. That seemed like the appropriate reaction to house arrest, and the heels of her boots made a fantastic racket against the metal floor. Each time she passed the end of the bed, however, her gaze dragged to the bag. The temptation of swift assistance teased her feet. The guards outside hadn’t moved, but the mine had its own noises, the constant hiss of gas punctuated by the random bursts of laser fire and the background of distant conversation.

  Not enough to cover a secret rebel phone call, perhaps. But Corah needed to make that phone call.

  He’d been lying the whole time too. Even in the mine, he’d stuck to the prison story. Of course, she’d had her own lies to protect. Corah could understand that. Mofitan wouldn’t know she wanted Gervis Dern as dead as he did. Did he even want Gervis dead? Shit. She needed to sort this out.

  What does he want? For that matter, what is he doing here?

  The answer popped into the open once she stopped and asked the question. He’d been sent by the other one, the one in Wraith. He’d be spying for the new regime on Eclipsis, the one Gervis considered a thorn in his side. That was something, at least. It put them both not on Gervis’s side, but not exactly on the same side either.

  Niels said the child was as bad as the father. He couldn’t believe in anything aside from total revolution. She’d been drilled in it. Don’t trust the facade. As soon as the power shifts, the old tricks will return. The old horrors hiding just beneath the shiny veneer.

  What did Corah believe?

  Mofitan’s anger at the new governor’s mate had felt genuine. His mind still held the answers she needed, for whatever reason. Yet she hadn’t been able to bring herself to probe harder, to push at his boundaries like she normally would have. Now that she’d stepped over that realization she knew it. She’d chosen not to invade him, and if she’d tried hard enough, no shield could have kept her out.

  Something about it scared her. Was she afraid of what she’d find in Mofitan’s thoughts? Or afraid of what she wouldn’t? Maybe, she’d only shied away from what it would make her, what she’d become for Gervis’s purposes. A little rebellion that said, I am not entirely yours yet. I am not the monster.

  She’d drifted to the bed again, and this time she sat and wound one arm around the bag that had held her lifeline. Maybe still held it. She had to know, guards or no guards. Her hand slid inside the bag, found the gap in the lining too easily. If they’d searched it, then they had her communicator. They’d have had to be blind to miss it.

  Her fingers snaked inside the pocket, fished until her heart hammered against her ribs, and then brushed against cool metal. There. Just fallen to the bottom. She retrieved it slowly, triggered the device while it was still hidden just inside the bag. She’d drop it if they opened the door. She’d be as quiet as possible, but she had to make the call. She had to talk to Niels, because aside from killing Gervis Dern, Corah had no idea what to do next.

  Chapter Twenty

  They’d dropped him in another hole. This one had no branching tunnels, and he could touch the straight walls on either side without fully extending his arms. Above his head, two spans above, he could see a circle of gray that might be metal or sky. Either way, he’d never reach it on his own. Not unless he could crap wings.

  She’d defended him. Lied for him, even. Now Corah was up there somewhere facing Gervis Dern without his help. Mofitan growle
d to the steel or sky and hammered a fist into the wall, denting the packed soil but doing next to nothing to assuage his frustration.

  Why had she lied for him?

  How the hell had she gotten that knife back? Unless she’d had a copy the whole time. He snarled and punched the dirt again. Thinking in circles wouldn’t help her. Or him either. He pummeled the walls of his prison, taking no satisfaction in the crumbling of soil, in the worthless pile of loose dirt he managed to knock free. He could dig giant divots for weeks here and never manage to carve his way any closer to the surface.

  More likely, he’d bury himself in the process.

  That thought stopped him. He stilled his punches and examined the damage he’d wrought on both the prison and his flesh. Blood on his knuckles didn’t worry him. He flexed them and let the pain seep deeper, soothing some of his nervousness like a familiar balm. Pain was life and feeling. He’d take it if only it would get him closer to his goal.

  Unfortunately that looked bleak. The walls continued to block him, despite the upright divot he’d pounded in the slate-gray dirt. Black rock gleamed beneath that. He’d barely scratched the surface for his trouble. He flexed his fingers again, and watched the rivulets streak over his skin. His heart thundered now, answered him faster than his swirling mind could. The Heart. His Heart.

  Mofitan squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to will the truth away. The stone was too far to be sure, right? He had no ring, no fragment of heartstone to guide him to any such realization. There would be no ceremony here, no choosing. No confirmation, and yet he knew it as surely as if the great Shrouded crystal had blazed alight for them.

  Corah was his heartmate. Gervis Dern’s right arm was Mofitan’s true, bonded mate.

  He bit his knuckles, swallowed blood, and then sank to his knees and leaned back against the cold planet. Shit. He punched the floor, but ended up elbow deep in the loose dirt he’d already dislodged. Corah. Somehow, here on Eclipsis, in hell, he’d found his heartmate and, of course, immediately lost her.

  Worse still, Dern had her. He growled, tipped his head back to shout at the gray above, and caught a face full of loose dirt. What the Shroud? He brushed the crud out of his eyes with the back of one hand and only ended up smearing a bloody, muddy mess all over his face. Shit. He tried his arm, cleared his vision enough to try again, and only just dodged the next cascade of filth.

  Something dug into, or rather out of, the wall of his oubliette.

  Before he could register what, another fall of grit descended and he was forced to shuffle aside, around the wall four feet to a point where he could watch from safety. Which was still within arm’s reach, of course. If the mystery tunneler meant him harm, it would be very close quarters combat.

  Mofitan watched the dirt shake. He excelled at close quarters combat. Any combat would work at the moment. He could use it to blow off some frustration on more than the inanimate walls of his prison.

  White spots wriggled in the dirt, almost changing his mind. Battle was one thing, but worms he could live without. These looked like fat maggots, and it wasn’t until they’d pushed far enough into the open to reveal the hand and arm attached at their bases that his shoulders relaxed. He’d seen plump, pale limbs like that before. For whatever reason, a Chromian dug its way into his hole. No combat then. Mofitan couldn’t quite feel disappointed. Maybe the little guy could get a message out, not that he had anything helpful to say to her.

  I’m in a hole. Not sure where. Can’t get out, and I think we’re supposed to be together forever.

  Shroud, he was in trouble.

  The arm scratching its way into his hole was joined by a second limb and then a round, doughy face with nothing at all about it to distinguish it from its fellows. Two black eyes blinked and a rain of soil fluttered to the pile.

  “Uh, hi.” Mofitan waved a hand and looked up. No one looking so far, no movement, and he’d almost decided that was a metal trapdoor at the top.

  The Chromian executed a final push, rolled out of the wall, and dropped, landing on his feet inches from where Mofitan squatted. It smiled, blinked again, and then waved its arms in the air.

  “What?” He checked the steel/sky again. “I don’t understand.”

  The Chromian pointed at the hole it had spawned through.

  “I’m not going to fit in there,” Mofitan said. “Not a chance.”

  The Chromian smiled and pointed.

  “I’m big.” Mofitan flexed and stood up. “See. That’s a very small hole.”

  He peered inside it from across the pit. Dark, and now that the Chromian had vacated it, he could identify the place the little man emerged as a tunnel. How did a creature with no claws bore through rock? Impressive. He still didn’t plan on trying to squeeze inside. Then again—he eyed the silver circle above—his other option was to sit here and wait while whatever happened on the surface happened without him. Corah. Dern. Tiny black tunnel.

  “Shroud.”

  The pudgy Chromian blinked and waved at the hole in the wall. Mofitan squinted at it, sidestepped the little man, and closed on the tunnel, peering inside and gauging his shoulders’ width against the girth of the opening. A tight fit by any count, but beyond the rough edge, the tunnel did smooth out and widen just a touch. He reached in and tried to measure it with his hands.

  “This is going to be tight. You realize that, right? How am I supposed to move?”

  The Chromian blinked and waved reassurance.

  A clear solution, simple and obvious, but Mofitan still balked at the rescue. He’d have to wriggle like a grub out of here. If he didn’t suffocate in the process, he’d likely become stuck, wedged inside the tunnel to starve in the darkness.

  “Fantastic,” he said. “I love this plan.”

  The hole stared back at him, even less opinionated than the Chromian. If he meant to tackle it, it offered no clue as to potential success. He’d probably die soon. Better out there than helpless here in the pit.

  The Chromian clapped its hands together and thumped its tail, a sure indication that it was time to get moving. When Mofitan pulled his torso into the tunnel, when he dragged himself all the way in, the little alien scrambled up and in behind him. Cold dirt against his belly, a planet’s weight over his head. The only way left to go was forward and, he prayed, up. Mofitan used his elbows to prop his body the half inch he had of extra space. Then, exactly like a grub, he eased himself forward along whatever path his silent friend had carved for him.

  “I’m trusting you, you realize.” He grunted and dug his elbows in as the tunnel sloped upward. A good sign, but also a lot more work. “And I don’t trust anybody.”

  The grit tore miniature craters in his forearms.

  “Not even Dolfan. And I’m here in this mess because of him.”

  The Chromian climbed behind him still. He could hear the soft scratching of limbs against the tunnel sides. It kept its opinions to itself and he was left to ponder his jailbreak on his own. Where would the tunnel break the surface? He’d need cover and some way to get to a weapon. For all he knew, this hole could end at the mineshaft. He could plummet to his death before he reached terra firma again.

  Better than prison.

  Better than doing nothing, he supposed. It didn’t make his heart any lighter nor his head any clearer, but that thought kept him crawling, worm-like, one scruff at a time, straight forward.

  They might as well have been in prison still. They’d trusted the pirate, spent their only ace on a prayer and half a plan, and now, Dielel didn’t feel safe leaving their habitat for a second longer than it took them to fetch their share of the day’s food. He carried two of the sealed ration containers now, each holding a day’s share of the pirates’ resources.

  He was allowed to partake in this, he supposed, because he and his lover were worth more to the pirates alive than dead. They still resented the sharing. He could see that in every nasty glance tossed his way, in every mumble as he braved the crowd of the perpetually drunk an
d filthy ruffians. If he didn’t have value, they’d have slit his throat in his sleep by now.

  Today marked another free pass, however, and he hustled his steps while balancing two containers in his arms. His hygiene had suffered here too, unfortunately. The theme on this rock seemed to be dust and filth. Dielel’s clothing stuck to him, his hair felt heavy, and he itched everywhere. He did his best not to imagine parasites.

  Maybe they could sneak out to the washing facilities tonight when the captain wasn’t—his feet stuttered. He nearly dropped the containers. Only his hunger and reflexes prevented the boxes from hitting the dirt. The pirate captain stood outside their hab. He leaned against the door, blocking it, keeping Jadyek inside.

  He continued forward, mostly because he had nowhere else to go, and he clutched the rations tight and did his best to look strong and straight. Stand tall and walk like, like Haftan always did. Shoulders back and chin pointing the way. The captain ignored him even after he reached the doorway, looking instead out toward the landing pads and the line of ships there.

  Dielel cleared his throat and waited.

  The pirate captain stared at the ships, rubbed a smear of dust across his nose, and coughed.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Got some questions for you.” The man didn’t look at him, didn’t show any sign that he’d even noticed he was in Dielel’s way. “An yer girlfriend too, I suppose. Just a minute.”

  “What?”

  “Wait for it.”

  Dielel waited. He tried to imagine anything else he might do, but the captain didn’t budge. No way could he fight the man physically, and Jarn usually clung to him like a shadow. Jarn. Where was that bastard? Not inside with Jadyek. He cleared his throat again. This time trying to swallow panic. The way this pirate called Jadyek his girlfriend bothered him, but again, what recourse did they have here?

  “Where is Jarn?” He asked for Jadyek’s sake.

  “Using that ship’s comm.”

  “Oh.” Across the complex then. Safely at a distance. That knowledge lent him a measure of confidence. “What questions?”