She picked up a clean towel, soaked it in water, and placed it on Torek’s forehead. He didn’t react. He didn’t release a small sigh. His lips didn’t curve into a soft smile, and he didn’t open his eyes, suddenly cured from his fever. What was a worse indication of health: delusions or deep unconsciousness? She draped a few more soaked towels under his arms and between his legs. Whether he was delusional or unconscious, her efforts would be the same—she needed to lower his fever. At least unconscious, he wasn’t fighting her.
If Torek died, Delaney would be thrown back in the system, caged for another six months or longer before someone else decided he needed an animal companion. Maybe someone less kind, less caring, less, less—less Torek.
While Torek was cooling, Delaney soaked another towel, added a little soap, and started cleaning herself. She needed to focus on the mundane tasks of the present before the uncertainty of the future choked her. Neither of them smelled like a field of roses, and while the cool water might or might not eventually ease Torek’s fever, it certainly eased the edge from Delaney’s mood. She scrubbed her face a little harder than necessary, but the abrasion of towel on skin was grounding. The cool water was heaven, and the soap was comfortingly familiar.
When she finished washing herself—one problem of a hundred solved—she soaked and squeezed the cloth and started on Torek. She wiped down his face, behind his ears and around his neck. She cleaned the bends of his elbows and behind his knees. She rewet the towel, added more soap, and scrubbed his underarms, gave a quick swipe to other unmentionables, and then set down the towel in favor of the hairbrush.
His fur had been sticky with dried sweat before the sponge bath. Even clean—as clean as one could get during a sponge bath—his fur was still snarled from the melted ice, so matted in places that she suspected he’d have to cut it. Some of his longer hair had curled into thick dreadlocks. She thought of the care he took to groom himself every morning and night following his twice-daily showers, and the prick of her temper returned.
He commanded what seemed like the entire planet’s military force, but not one of his guard could be spared to clean and feed him while he lay ill?
She stroked the brush through the longer fur at his elbow, starting at the roots. Her movement was slow and tentative, but even so, the brush snagged on a knot within the first inch.
Torek groaned.
She took in the entirety of his body with a critical eye, from his shoulder-length head hair to the snarled fur across his entire belly and every gnarled knot in between—and groaned. It was going to be a long grooming.
She gripped the tuft of hair at the base of his elbow to prevent it from snagging his skin this time, and teased the knots from its tip. As the hair unknotted, she elongated her strokes, teasing inch after inch of the long tuft of hair. A minute later, she could stroke down his arm in one uninterrupted stroke.
One arm down, another arm, two legs, a belly, a back, a beard, and a head of hair to go. Assuming she managed to lift him enough to brush his back. She rolled her eyes. She still had to clean his back.
An hour later, Torek’s fur was smooth and gleaming, except for a particularly stubborn patch alongside the keloid scar down the side of his abdomen. No amount of brushing or washing could unsnarl it, and Delaney had a knot in her shoulder to show for her failed attempts. But they were both clean, the room smelled noticeably less pungent, and Torek was no longer radiating heat like the faces of both Lorien suns. He was semiconscious, able to swallow when offered water, and moan his displeasure at being brushed.
Delaney glared at the brush with a wary sort of concern.
She’d never taken particular notice of how much fur Torek shed while brushing himself, and it wasn’t as if he had an owner’s manual that she could consult to confirm whether intense shedding was normal, a natural byproduct of fever, or an indication of imminent death. He hadn’t lost so much fur that his coat was thin or patchy, but the brush was filled to its bristled tips with his tangled sheddings.
She set aside the brush—if only she could set aside her concern as easily—and reached for the broth. He ate another half bowl. Delaney polished off the rest, then stared at the mess she’d made of the young lor’s neat supply rows.
Luckily, she was a golden retriever and didn’t have the mental capacity to clean up.
Grinning, Delaney programmed another list for fresh supplies and bedded down under the comforter.
Torek’s hand slid up her hip, his touch heavy but his palm soft. She snuggled in, forgetting to not enjoy the smooth, clean tickle of fur against her side. She finger-combed the back of his hand, and a strange swell of pride filled her. Not one tangle on that hand.
She closed her eyes, letting the soft fur under her fingers soothe her as much as the petting probably soothed him.
Fourteen
“Clean towels. Fresh water. More broth.” A pause. “Rainol e lokks. Thank you.”
“Voice undetected. Please repeat.”
“Ohjeezuskryst.” A deep sigh.
Torek opened his eyes and squinted through the harsh light blinding his vision. Was his daarok turned on? The second sun had already set, and if the shadows dancing across the room were any indication, the damn thing was on the fritz.
“Clean towels! Fresh water! More broth! Rainol e lokks!”
Or a child had activated it. What would a child be doing inside the estate proper? And even more baffling, what would a child be doing inside his room? Her voice was strange, as if her vocal cords had been severely damaged. Perhaps a birth defect.
He tried to speak, but all that emerged from his dry throat was a harsh, growling moan. He reached out blindly. His arm was bound by the weight of the bedcover. Rak, he was shaking from the effort of lifting his hand. His entire body ached. His head was throbbing. He tried to swallow and nearly choked on the dryness of his tongue. If he succumbed to the scratch in his throat and actually coughed, surely his head would explode and end this misery.
“Shhh, before you hurt yourself. Here.” The child made a terrible noise, a cross between a cough and a groan. It sounded painful.
Something cool and smooth touched his chin, and liquid moistened his lips. Torek drank gratefully. A child angel, then.
After a few swallows, the scratch in his throat and the pounding in his head eased somewhat. She removed the glass from his lips, and his eyes finally began to adjust to the light.
Reshna was holding the glass, staring at him.
Torek gaped. He blinked, wondering if the daarok’s light and dusk’s shadows were creating an illusion.
She blinked back at him. As he continued to stare, her eyes widened. The water inside the glass she was holding began to ripple, and he realized she was trembling.
“Reshna?”
The glass slipped from her hand. Water spilled and soaked into the bedcover. It must have, but he didn’t feel its wet chill. His body was numb. The air was static. All he could see in the tunnel that had become his vision was Reshna. Her rioting hair. Her pert nose. Her smooth skin. She was just as she should be, except her intelligent, all-too-seeing eyes widened with mirroring shock. And on her part, fear, as the color drained from her cheeks.
Someone knocked.
The door burst open before he could answer.
“Commander!” A deep chuckle. “You’re awake and listing my commands, I see.”
Torek tore his gaze from Reshna’s death-pale face. A young lor had just barged into his living quarters. Would surprises never cease?
But the lor was familiar. Torek frowned. His name was Petreok. How did he know that? How did he know him?
A sudden vision came to him. His room was replaced by the icy slope of the Viprok d’Orell, and in his mind’s eye, Petreok’s face was scared and questioning but determined—a far cry from his pleased, eager expression now.
“Petreok,” Torek whispered.
The young lor stepped forward, filled to brimming with self-importance. “Yes, Commander?”
/> The memories rushed forward, pummeling him with nearly as much force as that wall of snow. He’d been buried in an avalanche trying to save Reshna.
Torek moved to cover his eyes with his hands and was thwarted a second time by the weight of his bedcover.
He bit back a growl of frustration. “Did you get everyone off the mountain? Was anyone else caught in the snowfall?”
Petreok shook his head. “You were the only one directly beneath the overhang, Commander. No one else was injured, and by the time Reshna was carried out of the ravine, Brinon Kore’Onik had already arrived to tend her injuries.”
Relief as potent as a narcotic swept over him. “Thank Lorien,” he breathed. “And who do I have to thank for digging me free of the snowfall and carrying me out of the ravine?”
Petreok’s expressive ears pivoted forward. He grinned, tried to cover it with a cough, then grinned anyway. “It was a group effort, Commander.”
“Is that right?” Torek studied him for a moment, noting for the first time that he was wearing a crisp Federation uniform. “Perhaps some people helped more than others and were rewarded for their actions?”
Petreok’s smile widened. “Perhaps.”
“Tell me.”
“I, well—” Petreok shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I would not brag, Commander.”
“It’s not bragging if it’s truth,” Torek fibbed. “Simply inform me of what happened. Consider it your first report to your commander.”
Petreok puffed up at that. The foot shifting ceased. “Yes, Commander. Well, I joined you on the ice, mimicking your technique by sliding across on my stomach. Two others joined me, and together, we found you beneath the snow.
Torek blinked. “You dug me out by hand?”
He nodded. “I didn’t want to wait, and I’m glad we didn’t. By the time Brinon Kore’Onik sent word to Geraevon Kore’Onik, and he finally arrived with the excavation team, they didn’t have to waste time clearing the area. We’d already freed you from the snow.”
“Four lor plus the weight of the snow on cracked ice above a blood-lusting zorel.” Torek blew out a heavy breath. “Quite the risk.”
“For you, Commander, we’d risk anything. As you have risked for Onik,” he murmured. A moment later, Petreok cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll, er, just complete your orders, then, Commander?”
Torek opened his eyes, unsure when he’d closed them. “My what?”
Petreok pointed. “Your orders.”
Torek followed his finger and blinked at the list being projected from the daarok.
Clean towels. Fresh water. More broth. Rainol e lokks.
Torek’s gaze dropped back to Reshna, but she had burrowed beneath the covers while he wasn’t looking. “My orders?”
“Yes, Commander.”
Torek inhaled deeply. Lorien lend him strength. “Carry on.”
“Right away, Commander,” Petreok said, sounding relieved. He slammed the door shut behind him, rattling the hinges with the force of his enthusiasm.
Uncertainty cinched his chest and tightened with each breath. He’d never been one to turn a blind eye, but in this one moment, he was sorely tempted. He could rationalize away some of Reshna’s behavior, like helping him drink. She could have mastered the use and purpose of drinking glasses as she’d mastered door levers and locks. But the bright, projected characters of “his” orders mocked any further rationale he might wield to explain away all her behavior.
Torek attempted to uncover her, and although his arms shook from the effort, the bedcover was still too heavy to budge.
“Reshna,” he barked. “Come out from under there. Now.”
Something of hers began to shiver against his thigh.
He swallowed a curse and opened his mouth, intending to repeat the command in a gentler tone. It wasn’t her he was frustrated with. Not really.
Not mostly.
The door burst open without any preliminary knocks, and Torek actually startled upright.
Petreok strode inside, laden with supplies.
By Lorien’s horn, the avalanche hadn’t killed him, but Petreok and Reshna might.
“Here you are, Commander!” Petreok cleared the bedside table, which had been refashioned as a hospital tray, and laid out a stack of towels, a bowl of water, a cup of broth, and a plate of rainol e lokks.
“Just as ordered,” Torek murmured.
“Well, of course.” Petreok blinked. “Are you feeling all right, Commander? You look much improved, but—”
“Yes, yes. I appreciate your efforts.”
Petreok beamed. “Serving you these many days…” He shook his head, clearly overcome. “I couldn’t have asked for a higher honor.”
Torek took a moment to allow that to process. “How many days have I been abed?”
“Six, Commander.”
“And you’ve tended to me this entire time?”
Petreok gave him a strange look. His beaming dimmed slightly. “I haven’t tended to you. You wouldn’t allow it, but I have obeyed all your commands. It’s the least I could do after all you’ve sacrificed for Onik.”
“Yes, of course.” Torek licked his lips. “And how long have I been giving you commands?”
“I, well…” Petreok glanced at the list still being project by the daarok and then refocused on Torek. “Are you sure you’re well? Should I fetch Geraevon Kore’Onik? He—”
“Not quite yet. So just to confirm—it’s been quite an ordeal, you know—I have been abed, writing my commands to you on the daarok for the last six days?”
“No.”
Torek sighed. The pressure around his chest eased slightly.
“You’ve been giving me commands on the daarok for the last five days. You didn’t have any commands on that first day.” Petreok’s ears perked forward tentatively. “You’ve washed and brushed and eaten yourself back from the brink of death, Commander. All of Lorien is talking about it. Only you could have done it. People were saying it couldn’t be done, but I didn’t say that. I knew you would pull through.”
Torek stared at Petreok, the pressure around his chest contracting in a swift, deadly second strike.
Maybe the avalanche had killed him, and this was all that existed after death.
“No one tended to me. Not even Geraevon Kore’Onik?”
“Well, Geraevon Kore’Onik did upon your arrival. I inquired about your care, and they said that he anticipated a swift recovery. So they granted my request, in honor of my, well…” His ears tucked bashfully. “They allowed me to care for you since you were already on the mend. It seemed only a mild case of fepherok, which was expected considering how much snow had soaked into your fur. Until it wasn’t mild.” Petreok swallowed. “But you commanded me to leave you to care for yourself, and Dorai Nikiok insisted that commands were given to be obeyed. Even Geraevon Kore’Onik had his doubts, but here you are, healed, and by your own hand!” Petreok ended that final sentence on a rushed shout, clearly jubilant over the prospect of Torek’s near resurrection.
A long moment of silence passed, and Petreok’s beaming became noticeably strained. He cleared his throat. “Do you need anything else, Commander?”
“No. Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
Petreok genuflected, closing the door behind him.
The lump that was Reshna shifted under the bedcover, still trembling. Probably suffocating on her own hot breath.
He should just turn a blind eye.
“Come out, little one,” he coaxed with reluctant resignation. “Let me see you.”
Her shifting stopped, as did the warm breaths against his hip. The trembling increased.
He moved a finger and found a smooth part of her—a shoulder, maybe, or her cheek. So many parts of her were soft and smooth, he couldn’t really tell. “Reshna. I haven’t seen you since that moment on the ice. Your body bloody. Your leg twisted.” He cleared his throat and covered it with a soft viurr before he embarrassed himself. “Let me see your face and k
now you’re well.”
Nothing.
For the love of—
Frustration surged through his veins, feeding muscles that, according to Petreok, hadn’t been used in six days. He gritted his teeth, and, with a mighty shove that flooded his vision with starbursts, he tossed the cover from the bed. Reshna shot upright. Gasping from the effort, he didn’t notice her expression until he’d caught his wind, but once he did, seeing her was equal parts relief and added ache to the pressure squeezing his chest.
She was perfect and healed and beautiful, the little diva. Her curls sprouted like a golden halo around her head. Her skin was clean and soft, and if her cheeks were slightly more hollow than he preferred, well, he could fix that easily enough. But her pink, pinched lips were shaking, and the skin rimming her wide gray eyes was rubbed raw.
She leaned forward incrementally and nudged her head against Torek’s shoulder, a shoulder that, by the looks of it, had been cleaned and brushed.
He needed to find the words, but his thoughts were still catching up with the facts in front of him.
One of her curls had sprung in the wrong direction and was tickling his muzzle. He blew at it, but the movement only caused it to tickle more. She nuzzled deeper. The tickling became torture, so his voice was more harsh than necessary when he growled out, “Reshna, stop.”
She froze, leaned back slightly, and shifted her gaze to meet his. Her lips stretched into a hideous mockery of a smile.
“You’re not in trouble. I don’t know what you’re thinking or why you’re suddenly so terrified. But it’s okay. It’s just you and me here, and you know how much I love you.”
Her trembling eased somewhat.
“There’s my good girl.” Torek stroked his pointer finger against her skin—the back of her hand, as it turned out—and viurred. “Now, how long have you been able to speak?”
She froze, then cocked her head and blinked.
She was good.
“It’s no use. You see?” Torek flicked his eyes pointedly to the evidence of her speech glowing on the projected words behind her. “For six days—no, five—I’ve lain unconscious with no one else in this room to give Petreok those commands. I know I didn’t give those commands. Who else does that leave?”
Beyond the Next Star Page 13
