Shadower

by Catherine Spangler

  By the Abyss! Two of them! She could readily handle one, but not two. She kicked and thrashed, battling for breath as the tentacles tightened even more.

  "Let me go!" she gasped, crunching her boot heel into her assailant's shin. He jerked, his hold loosening. She rammed her elbow into his abdomen. He squealed, and she slid free of one tentacle.

  The first Jaccian staggered to his feet, waving his two remaining tentacles. He ripped off her cape. Moriah landed a high kick to his midriff, and he stumbled back again.

  "Need some help?"

  She looked over to see the black-clad man standing nearby. While most of Giza's patrons were busy betting on the outcome of the fight, he wanted to play hero. She could just guess what he'd expect in payment.

  "I already told you to stay away from me," she snarled, wrestling with a tentacle. "I can take care of myself."

  The first Jaccian approached again. The man cocked his head. "Appears to me you're outnumbered."

  She didn't need this distraction. Twisting sideways, trying to free herself, she gasped, "I can…handle…this. Go away."

  "Think I'll hang around, just in case."

  Obnoxious and obstinate. "If you really want to help, get me my gun." Moriah heaved herself backward, crashing the second Jaccian into a table. He grunted. She jolted forward and then rammed him again.

  One more time, and she'd be—the first Jaccian lunged against her, pinning her between him and his cohort. "Money and weapons good," he chanted, ripping at the seam of her flightsuit. "Having woman good, too."

  Black, insidious fear flooded through her, robbing her of coherent thought. "Let me go!" she yelled, frantically slugging at her assailant.

  The Jaccian dug the jagged edge of his tentacle into her shoulder. She felt blood welling. Another tentacle wrapped around her breast and the familiar terror threatened to overcome her. A scraping noise drew her back from the edge of hysteria. Looking down, she saw her gun sliding toward her feet.

  She glanced toward the dark-haired man. Even through the panicked, nightmarish haze, she noted the shift in his bearing. His eyes glittered dangerously as his hands moved to rest on his guns. "Let the lady go." Steel edged his voice.

  The Jaccian in front of her let loose a string of obscenities. "Female is mine," he insisted shrilly. "I keep."

  "Let her go. Now."

  "No!" the Jaccian screeched. "I mate with her!"

  "Final warning. Release her."

  "You die!" shrilled the Jaccian, jerking her toward him and drawing his weapon.

  If he thought to use her body for a shield, he was sadly mistaken. Moriah made herself go limp. Falling back against the Jaccian behind her, she yanked the first one forward against his partner. A quick grasp and squeeze of his testicles finished the job. He screamed and her go. She dropped to the floor and grabbed her gun.

  Weapon fire exploded through the room. She managed to shoot a tentacle and weapon from one Jaccian. Slime splattered the top of her head. Before she could move, a heavy weight collapsed on her, slamming her against the floor. More slime oozed over her face and chest. She tried to claw her way free of the heavy Jaccians, or what was left of them.

  She heard a thud, and the suffocating weight eased. Then the weight was gone completely, as a strong hand clasped hers and pulled her to her feet. Chest heaving, legs wobbling, she stared at the carnage around her.

  There was a fire near the end of the bar, where a stray bullet had hit a fueled generator, and Thorne was climbing over the bar with an extinguisher. Smoke clogged the room and drifted around the black-clad man standing there. He had blood on his upper arm, but it appeared to be a surface wound. He'd survive.

  He looked at her and shrugged. "Fortunately, they had poor aim."

  It galled her that she'd needed his help to extricate herself. "If you're expecting some sort of reward, you can forget it," she snapped. "In fact, you should be thanking me. They missed disintegrating you only because of my quick action. Which, by the way, probably saved my life as well, since you showed no reluctance about firing with me trapped between those two cretins. You could have hit me!"

  His eyes narrowing, he slid his guns back into their holsters. "Maybe I should have. It would have simplified things considerably." He probed his wounded arm and winced.

  "I didn't ask you to get involved. All I needed was my gun. I had the situation under control. You didn't have to get hurt."

  His eyes sparked with anger. "Oh, right. You were only pinned between two seven-foot Jaccians, had three tentacles wrapped around you, no weapons, and your clothing being torn off. You didn't need any help. Pardon my interference, but I love getting laser burns. I live for them."

  Opening her mouth to retort, Moriah inhaled smoke and went into a paroxysm of coughing. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She grabbed a table for support.

  "Hey, you okay?"

  "Yes," she choked out, just as her legs buckled.

  He caught her before she hit the ground, his arms encircling her and pulling her flush against his hard body. "Sure you are."

  Alarm resurfaced, lending strength to her legs. She'd sworn no man would ever hold her like this again. "I told you I'm fine. Let go of me!" More coughing interrupted her protest.

  He eased her onto a chair. "Take shallow breaths."

  She gasped and wheezed, her eyes stinging. The man seemed unaffected by the smoke from the smoldering generator. He retrieved her cape from where the Jaccian had thrown it. Prying her gun from her hand, he shoved it through his belt. Then he tossed the cape around her.

  "You need some air. Let's get out of here." Taking her arm, he pulled her out of the chair and to the exit. All those who had gathered to watch the action stepped back, giving them a wide berth. Hoots and lewd suggestions followed behind them.

  Shivering violently, Moriah stumbled after the man. She didn't know if her physical reaction was shock from the narrow escape, or from the ugly memories that surfaced every time a man touched her.

  Outside, the humid, stale air offered little relief to her burning lungs. Twin full moons illuminated the barren surroundings and the litter scattered on the hard-packed sand.

  "Ugh. There's nothing worse than Jaccian slime." The man helped himself to the edge of her cape to wipe his flightsuit.

  "Hey! That's mine." She snatched the cape away, but he immediately retrieved it and raised it to her face.

  Strangely lightheaded, she made no protest as he wiped the ooze from her cheeks and chin with surprising gentleness. It felt so good, she closed her eyes, swaying a little, forgetting for a moment that a man was touching her. Until his ministrations moved to the front of her flightsuit, jolting her to full alert.

  She smacked his arm away. "Stop that!"

  "Just trying to help." He flashed a devilish grin, and her heart missed a beat.

  There was no denying his physical appeal. The moonlight illuminated a face most women would call devastating: high cheekbones, deep-set black eyes, an arrogant nose, a sensual mouth. The shadow of a beard only served to emphasize a stubborn jaw, to enhance his overwhelming masculinity.

  He was just the type of man Moriah found the most threatening.

  Needing to put some space between them, she stumbled away and headed toward the settlement, ignoring the shakiness in her legs and the throbbing in her shoulder. The footfalls behind her told her this man wouldn't be so easily brushed off.

  "Wrong way, lady." He took her arm again and turned her toward the landing strip. "Where's your ship? You should get off Calt—now."

  She pulled her arm free. "I have business to take care of first."

  "Haven't you learned? There are a lot safer places than Calt to support a gambling habit. Unless offering that luscious body of yours to any lusting male is your business. Even that would be safer elsewhere."

  Outrage and disgust shot through her. "You sleazy scourge of the universe!" She raised her arm to strike him, only to find her wrist caught in the magnasteel vise of his hand.


  "Temper, temper," he chided. "Is that any way to thank a man who risked his life saving your honor?"

  She wondered if he was ever serious. Jerking her wrist free, she snapped, "All right then, you overgrown desert krat. Thank you! Now, as I said, I have unfinished business. Then I'll be all too glad to leave."

  "Care to share what that business is? Perhaps I can help."

  She wanted to tell him she'd never accept assistance from him, or any other man—except that she just had. But that was as far as it went. "Arius could go nova, and I wouldn't need any more help from you."

  All playfulness vanished from his face, and a glittering determination filled his eyes. "Then forget it. Calt is far too dangerous for you to hang around, especially since most of the beings at Giza's just lost a lot of money betting against you. You're leaving now, if I have to strap you into your ship and set the pilot for automatic."

  Oh! She'd love to shoot that overbearing expression off his face. One small problem—he had possession of her weapon. "Give me back my gun."

  "You really don't believe in saying please, do you? Someone needs to teach you some manners."

  "I don't need you or anyone else to tell me what to do. Go burn in the Abyss."

  Moving like a striking serpent, he grabbed her and pulled her against him, so close, she felt every millimeter of his unyielding body, felt the heat emanating from him. He was fast—she'd give him that. Furious, she squirmed against him, and he inhaled sharply. She stilled immediately, alarmed by the physical evidence of his reaction to her.

  "I will see you off this planet," he insisted, clamping her legs inside his own.

  "I'll see you in hell first!"

  "Sweetheart, we're already there." He framed her face with his hands, his thumb wiping away another patch of slime. "You know, you clean up pretty good. You need to work on the attitude, though."

  "Men like you don't bring out my best side." A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she clutched the front of his flightsuit for support.

  Desire flared in his dark eyes, sparking an odd rush through her veins. He must have sensed her reaction, because his expression turned predatory. "I wonder if you taste as good as you look," he murmured.

  Before she could react, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her body felt sluggish, like she'd been drugged, but her senses went into overdrive, making her acutely aware of the rock hard pressure of his legs hemming her in. Of the searing solidity of his body pressed against her; the startling feel of his lips molding to hers, taking confident possession. Of the heady taste of liquor as his tongue invaded her mouth.

  Her thoughts scattered like marbles in a vortex, leaving her oddly disoriented. For one mad moment, she almost savored the unique experience; the comfort and security of this man's embrace…the absurd feeling of finding a haven.

  Then the black talons of horror and revulsion descended. Panic surged, and adrenaline pounded through her body. Another wave of dizziness sent her reeling. She tried to push away, but her legs collapsed.

  Darkness engulfed her.…

  Chapter Two

  Blazing hells, Sabin thought wryly. He knew he was good, but he'd never made a woman faint before. Yeah, right, Travers. You're such a lady killer. He had no idea what had possessed him to kiss her, given her obvious aversion to him. But her lush, tempting mouth had lured him into a fool's game. That, and something in her eyes, a vulnerability contradictory to her fierce bravado.

  He shook away that last thought. It was lust, pure and simple, one of those inexplicable attractions that just happened sometimes. No big deal. As for her fainting, the shock from the brawl was the likely culprit.

  He eased her to the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm. He was bleeding, but not heavily. He'd take care of the injury later, after he dealt with the woman. She should come around quickly. But the dark stain seeping from her left shoulder gave him cause to reconsider. He pulled her cape back and saw ugly, raised welts through her torn flightsuit, blood oozing from them. He wanted to kick himself.

  He should have blown those two goons to debris as soon as the woman had been compromised. He'd known no one else at Giza's would come to her aid. Bar fights, and betting on who would win them, were a favorite pastime there. He would have stepped in sooner, but she had displayed an impressive ability to hold her own, readily dispatching the Antek. She hadn't done too badly against two seven-foot Jaccians, either.

  But if he had intervened sooner, she might not have been injured. A wound from a Jaccian tentacle could be serious, especially if the victim reacted unfavorably to the mild poison stored in the barbs. Even without a high sensitivity, the poison left the victim sluggish and disoriented for a few hours, not to mention the risk of infection.

  So now he had to play healer to an overbearing female who showed no gratitude whatsoever to him for saving her hide. Hell, he didn't even know her name. Since he had no idea where her ship was and had no intention of taking her back to the settlement, his own craft was the only option. Just what he needed—an unwelcome intrusion into what had already been a miserable day.

  He hefted her into his arms, staggering slightly and trying the keep the weight off his injured arm. She obviously didn't miss any meals, although from what he'd seen, her body was in top condition. The woman was tall and statuesque, nicely curved in all the right places.

  Don't go there, he warned himself. He didn't need any distractions, not with so much gold on the line for Galen's capture. And not with the horrifying rumors of a deadly virus the Controllers had unleashed in their battle against the Shielders. He prayed those rumors weren't true.

  Shifting his burden more securely in his arms, he trekked across the sand to where his ship sat on a landing pad. It was a battered piece of junk, but it had seen him through many a scrape. He carried her up the ramp to the rear hatch, punched the control with his elbow, and went inside. The engineering bay was on the right. He could see Radd's legs protruding from the open stardrive casing.

  "How are the repairs coming?" he called out.

  "Huh?" Radd slid out and sat up, a faraway expression on his face. He was always like that when he was deeply involved in the complexities of stardrives and stabilizers and thrusters. He looked like a youth, with his mussed, dark-blond hair, and a smattering of freckles across his round face. But Sabin knew he was older than he looked, a lot more astute than he acted, and one of the best star-class ship mechanics in the quadrant.

  "How are the repairs coming?" Sabin repeated.

  "Uh, just fine. The new stardrive is almost in, and then I have to run diagnostics. Should be done in about three hours." Radd stared at the woman in Sabin's arms. "Who's that?"

  He didn't feel like going through lengthy explanations, especially since he didn't know very much himself. "A woman."

  Radd blinked his owlish eyes. "You're bringing a woman on board? D'ya want me to leave?" "She's unconscious, in case you didn't notice."

  "Uh, there's only one kinda woman on this planet, far's I know. And some guys don't seem to be too picky about whether a female is conscious or not."

  Outside technical ship jargon, that was the most Radd had ever uttered at one time. Sabin stared at him, bemused. "Yeah, well, I don't go in for that one-sided stuff. I like my partners more active. This lady tangled with some Jaccians and needs medical attention."

  "Oh. Looks like you need some treatin' yourself."

  Sabin's arm was throbbing painfully, but he'd suffered worse. "It's just a laser burn. No big deal."

  Radd started back inside the casing. "By the way," he called out, his voice muffled, "your transceiver sounded twice while you were gone."

  It had probably been his partner, McKnight, since Sabin hadn't checked in at the prearranged time. He'd just have to wait. Sabin carried the woman into his cabin and lowered her onto the bunk, shaking out his cramped arms.

  He slipped off her cape. Her deep, even breathing reassured him she wasn't suffering an acute reaction to the poison. But her smooth
skin was pale, her full lips bloodless. Despite that, despite the blotches of slime, her classic beauty shone through. Her lustrous hair had come partly undone from its twist, and he couldn't resist sliding his fingers beneath her head to loosen the rest of the strands and smooth them out. Her hair flowed like rivers of burnished copper over her shoulders and generous breasts.

  Who was this woman? What business could she possibly have on Calt, outside of prostitution? But although, as Radd pointed out, that would be the obvious assumption, Sabin would be willing to bet a lot of miterons she wasn't a prostitute.

  She could be a professional gamer, although that didn't feel right, either. She knew how to fight. One unpleasant possibility reared its head: she was a Controller agent. Maybe even a shadower, although he had never run into any female bounty hunters. He hoped both those possibilities were wrong. He rifled through her cloak and the pouches of miterons, until he found what he sought—her identification disc. He would check it after he took care of her wound.

  She stirred, and he realized he'd better hurry and treat her injury, as well as his own. Unfortunately, he had only the most basic medical supplies on board. While he knew rudimentary first-aid, a necessity for those in his profession, he wasn't willing to spare the funds to stock his ship with such sophisticated equipment as infrared sterilizers and suture units. Not when others had needs more pressing than his own. His partner had a well-equipped medical lab on his ship, but McKnight was on the other side of the quadrant, tracking down a lead.

  Sabin did have something to sterilize the wound, though—sulfomagtrite, a harsh but effective treatment. It wasn't the ideal cure, but it was all he had, and it would have to do. Stuffing the woman's ID disc into his pocket, he retrieved the antiseptic and some bandages from his supply vault. Realizing her gun was still stuck inside his belt, he tossed it inside the vault and returned to his cabin.

  He quickly peeled away the top of his flightsuit and slapped a bandage over his wound. He'd clean it later. Right now the woman's needs were more pressing. He turned to the bunk. She hadn't moved. He thought about cutting her suit away, but decided instead to undo the front seam and slide it off her shoulder. The suit was ruined, but she needed something to wear back to her ship.