by Laney Kaye
The dark burgundy must be moodar, an aphrodisiac brewed by Dunbar monks. Hardly surprising Smithton would possess a full bottle, knowing his sexual tastes. While he enjoyed willing women, he tended more to savor those who fought back.
“Opportunity, you say?” Smithton said. “Hmm.” Pausing with his back to us, he stared down at the full liquor glasses. “Can you blame me? I learned long ago that I’d get nowhere unless I scrambled to advance myself. I saw you as—”
“A tool you could offer Tennant to manipulate him.”
He chuckled, perhaps pleased I was willing to speak up, that we could be frank. Turning, he handed me one of the glasses, then took the other two, placing them on a low table in front of a sofa.
“For you,” he said, nodding toward Jag, who leaned against the doorway between the dining room and living area, his arms crossed on his chest. A blue vein ticked in his pale temple, and I wondered what he thought of this conversation. Of me. Because I played a game, much like my father.
“I see now that I’ve misjudged you, daughter,” Smithton said, lowering his lanky frame onto the sofa. “Tracin?” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t dawdle. Come sit beside me.” He patted the black leather surface. “And drink. I imagine you’ll enjoy this, since it’s valeem.” Lifting his glass, he studied the slick liquid that glistened like ink in the low lights.
“Drink from Dragar.” Jag strode across the room, picked up his own glass, and sat in a chair opposite my father. He took a small sip of the liquid.
“Yes,” Smithton said. “Before we left, I took the few remaining cases from what was left of the distillery.”
Not left. Before they completely razed the continent. The Regime had a nasty reputation for invading planets and, once they’d finished stealing all the resources, moving on to another, leaving behind a burned-out husk. Glia was their fourth destination, and it was clear the Regime had not changed their tactics.
Where would they go after Glia had been raped of its remaining riches?
“Sit, Ara,” Smithton said forcefully, pointing to the chair beside Jag’s. “We need to talk. While I might not be able to use you to get what I need from Tennant, we must make the best of this.” Said as if we were co-conspirators, both vested in the same outcome. He rubbed his neck, then pulled back his fingers and stared with distaste at the redness marring them. Fury rose on his face, though he quickly masked it, keeping with the game we played. “As you said, you did bring a Dragarian warrior to the compound. Perhaps we can use…him.”
Tracin’s cooperation would be vital to my father. My cooperation was debatable.
Although, I could still be stitched closed to please a rutting man who wanted to believe I was a virgin. I held in my chuckle, because it was actually true. No stitching needed at the moment.
Perched on the edge of the cushioned chair, I took a tentative sip of the valeem, only daring to try it because Jag had drunk first. I’d never tasted anything like it before, but I could tell already why the Dragarians favored it. Tasting of mulled herbs, it burned as it slid down my throat like dragonfire. I coughed.
“Can I assume dinner will be served soon?” I asked, as if we spent a pleasant family evening together. For now, we’d play a sophisticated game of chalist, each trying to outsmart the other, in order to come out the winner. Perhaps I wasn’t that different from my father, after all.
This had never been about him marrying me off to someone who could benefit him the most. My father’s eyes had not strayed from the now-bright blue length hanging at Jag’s side. Dragonstone. Why did he need the stone so badly that he’d exterminate an entire race to obtain it?
“My husband and I traveled far to reach the compound,” I pointed out. “We’re hungry.”
Actually, I just wanted this evening over, so we could return to our rooms and destroy any spying cameras.
Later, while everyone else slept, we could look for the communicator, assuming we could find a way around any other cameras. If we located it, I could slake my blade and Jag could escape the compound immediately. If things went as planned, Leo and Herc would be waiting at a prearranged location. Leo would hack into the device, send the message to Aaidar, and they could return to help the Resistance fight off the Regime army.
Clinking glass told me someone was setting things up in the dining room. My belly rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since early this morning, and that had only been a few slices of dried turgurken mixed in with seeds and crushed cucua berries, to make a bar. Enough to keep me going beyond the point of exhaustion, but not enough to sustain me for long.
A gong sounded.
“Perfect. Dinner is ready,” Smithton said, standing. “Bring your drinks. We can finish them with our meal.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room, his shoes making heavy clunks on the tiles.
“Don’t drink anymore,” Jag said softly. He leaned over to drain the rest of his valeem into a potted plant.
I gaped at my glass. “You don’t think it’s been doctored, do you?”
“I don’t believe so, but valeem can have a sedative effect, which Smithton is probably well aware of.”
And I was not. “I only drank some because you did.”
“Pretended to drink.”
“Ah.” I dropped my glass onto the low table with a sharp clink. If Smithton got me sleepy, I’d be more easily manipulated. Holding Jag back, I whispered, “Your blade. He can’t stop looking at it. He’s been after dragonstone all this time, and I wonder if he feels a blade will give him the information he needs. He may not know it’s not pure pluvar dragaris, the bonding process has altered it.”
“Interesting,” Jag said. His brow narrowed. “I wonder what the hells his fascination is?”
We walked together into the dining area and, when I spied an older man dressed in a white outfit, across the room, a grin appeared on my face.
“Quelir!” I cried out. I skirted around the table and hugged him. Part-Dragarian, his family had been employed by my mother’s for generations, and Quelir had been Mother’s cook since before I was born. He’d come with her when she married Smithton.
When we drew apart, he bobbed his head. “Ari, ‘tis wonderful be seeing you again. I thought you…” As his blue gaze took in Smithton, color flared on Quelir’s pale face, rising all the way to the tips of his ears. When I was a child, he’d let me sit in the kitchen while he prepared my favorite treats, telling Mother that I actually helped, when I truly hadn’t. I’d wanted to, but Quelir was proprietary with his kitchen, insisting on doing everything himself.
“But, it no matter. You here, now.” He waved to the table set with fancy porcelain cherra and bright silverware. “Sit. I prepare special meal for you.”
As soon as I took a seat beside Jag, opposite Smithton, Quelir lowered a bowl in front of me.
“Ah,” I said with a sigh, my heart warming as I gazed at the creamy soup. “Eelon stew?”
“Yes,” Quelir said, shooting Smithton a dark look. “Someone said best be thin, slice pillion, with jadar, but I make this, knowing it be for you.”
Going against my father’s will, as he had all the times I’d known him. Why had Quelir remained here once I fled the compound? Perhaps he’d had nowhere else to go.
If I knew Quelir, he’d added bits of dried mira leaves to the stew. Mira could be found only on the Dragarian continent. It was a wonder there were any left. But, then, I doubted my father had ever demanded Quelir make the stew, since it had only been enjoyed by me and my mother.
At Quelir’s urging, I dipped my spoon and took a bite of the savory broth. It slid down my throat like warm feyran. “It’s delicious.” I turned to Jag, who watched me, bemused. “Try it. You’ll love it, too. It’s a special Dragarian dish.” I added hastily. “I’m sure your mother made it for you when you were small.”
He sniffed the broth and took a tentative taste. “Good,” he said to Quelir, who bowed, his eyes agleam.
I dug in, scooping up the soup. My Dragari
an blade slipped off my thigh and banged against my chair. “Sorry.”
“Tell me more of this Dragarian stone,” Smithton said to Jag after pulling his gaze away from my knife. “Like the one you turn into blades.”
Quelir grumbled, but when I frowned at him, he turned his back to us, arranging something on the sideboard.
“Is rare,” Jag said, lowering his soup spoon beside his plate. Perhaps he didn’t like eelon.
“I know that,” Smithton said shortly. “But you must have a supply somewhere. How else could you make the new blades for you and Ara?”
Jag dipped his head, putting on his dim-witted Dragarian ruse. “Blades make in secret.” He tapped his pale temple. “Witches be the ones work with stone.”
Smithton leaned forward, his soup forgotten. “Witches? Are there any left?”
Just Terra, as far as I knew.
Jag shrugged.
“Could you bring me some of the stone?” Smithton asked. He slid his fingertip along the length of his spoon, acting as if he didn’t care one way or the other about Jag’s answer, but his hand shook.
What did he plan to do with dragonstone?
“There be few,” Jag said.
Terra had used the last pieces on Glia to forge my and Tracin’s blades. Those who survived my father’s massacre took the rest with them when they fled the planet.
With a catch in my throat, I finished the last of my soup and dropped my spoon in the bowl with a clatter.
Busy with their conversation, Jag and my father had eaten next to nothing. But Smithton had never cared for mira, saying it tasted and smelled foreign. Feeling as he did about anything that wasn’t Median, it’s a wonder he ever ended up with my mother. But, then, Mother had been beautiful, sweet, and kind.
Far too good for Smithton.
Quelir took away our soup bowls, setting them on the sideboard, then dropped plates with thick slabs of beetric covered with a rich brown gravy in front of us. Small bites of vegetables lay alongside the succulent meat, as well as a mashed root, which he’d also slathered in gravy.
For some reason, my vision was blurry. I rubbed my eyes, but my sight wouldn’t clear.
Maybe my joy over the chance to savor one of my favorite dishes had made me dizzy. Otherwise…
I stared up at Quelir, noting for the first time, the fear and shame blazing in his blue eyes.
“I sorry,” he mouthed, as my head spun. Pivoting, he rushed from the room. I squinted, staring after Quelir, but only the click of the door behind him told me he’d been in the room.
Sorrow and fear scrambled inside me, dragging my shoulders down. I’d been betrayed by one of the few people I thought I could trust.
Turning, I gaped at Jag, who stared at me with concern.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured. His hand took mine, and he squeezed. “Tell me.”
“Drugged,” I whispered.
As the world blacked out, I fell sideways, collapsing in his arms.
Chapter Eleven
Jag
With my arms wrapped around Aren’s unconscious form, I couldn’t leap the dining table and smash Smithton’s face, though every instinct in me demanded I do so. He’d harmed my bondmate.
Smithton’s chair grated across the floor as he shoved back from the table. It overbalanced with a crash, but he ignored it as he skirted around the banquet-sized slab of polished cucua wood, the inlaid scrolls of gypsa glinting like blood in the diffused overhead light.
He laid a hand on Aren’s shoulder, and I resisted the urge to jerk her away. “What’s wrong with her? What did she say?” To his credit, Smithton looked both surprised and confused—but the man was a master actor. Since we’d been stationed on this arid shithole, Herc, me, and the other guys had pegged the Commanding Officer as nothing more than a bumbling coward. But Aren had painted a far different—and more damning—characterization of her father.
“Drugged said has been,” I snarled as I stood, barely remembering to play the part of Tracin. Aren weighed nothing in my arms, and I cradled her against my chest, holding my breath as I quickly scanned her. Though her eyes were closed, her face was relaxed and the pulse in her neck ticked steadily, her veins a purple throb across her exposed upper chest as her robe hung loose from her slight frame.
Smithton frowned. “Must have been the valeem. Though I’m surprised a snifter would have such an effect. Perhaps taken on an empty stomach it is more potent.”
“You not know valeem soporific?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Alcohol is either a stimulant or a sedative. Choose your poison.”
Poison seemed more his style, but anger was making it hard for me to maintain the cadence of my words, keeping the Dragarian inflection, and I couldn’t spare the brain matter to argue his choice of terminology. Besides, I needed to get Aren out of there, and check her over properly. “Take her to room, I must.”
Smithton frowned, but nodded. “I suppose so. Our discussion will have to wait until morning.”
Despite my suspicions, I wasn’t sure whether his frown indicated genuine concern for his daughter, or merely irritation that he couldn’t probe me more for the location of this dragonstone that seemed so important to him. However, the fact that he was willing to let me go, when it obviously didn’t suit his plan, threw into question whether he had intended to drug Aren. Plus, he was right. The glass of valeem had been small, and Aren had basically only touched it to her lips, taken a tiny sip. It shouldn’t have had such a potent effect.
Smithton ran a hand across the nick my blade had made in his neck, his cold-eyed glare letting me know that, even if he felt a scrap of empathy for his daughter, there was no way I was off the hook. Well, hells, the curved Dragarian blades were heavy. It was kind of hard to hold one against a filthy armatote’s neck without slipping, just a little.
His words dripped acid. “And I should have a medic look at this.”
“That you should.” I was damned lucky that he needed information from me or, with Aren unconscious, I had no doubt he would have ordered my murder, and then had Aren prepared for Tennant’s enjoyment. For her sake, if no other reason, I had to stay safe. And that meant getting her out of this room right now, before the protective anger aroused by the helplessness of her limp form in my arms dispelled my caution.
Although Smithton had seemed to buy Aren’s explanations—and was perhaps even a little amused by the revelation of her true character—he was definitely playing a part. The cold glint of avarice in his gaze, the flashes of anger in the tight, white-rimmed squeeze of his lips, dispelled any pretence of amiability, despite his fake cordiality.
And that made him more dangerous than an Aaidarian glothan. Even unprovoked, those cuddly mammals would turn in an instant, poisonous spines thrusting upright from the deception of their soft grey fur, their velvety lips peeling back to reveal wickedly-spiked, needle-sharp teeth that would slice through flesh and latch into bone in an unbreakable grip, the hollow fangs draining a man’s life-force in minutes.
I strode toward the door we’d entered through, not needing to touch it as it slid open beneath the hand of the servant Aren had greeted in such friendly fashion only minutes earlier.
A deep line furrowed between his oddly dark brows as he stared at Aren. “My little Ari. She be well.”
I wasn’t entirely certain whether he was asking me or making a statement, so I went with the universal placation. “Gods will it.”
They’d damn well better will it, or there’d be hells to pay.
“Quelir,” Smithton said from behind me. “Com through to the med centre and get someone over here. Dispatch them to Elder Tracin’s quarters. They can check on Ari, and then I have a little scratch,”—he stressed the word, making it clear that he considered my blade no threat—“that needs attention. Damned cuts fester so fast in this gods-cursed place.”
Yeah, there was a lot about this place that was rotten.
I gave Smithton a curt nod and stalked from the room with Are
n in my arms.
Our quarters were nowhere near far enough away from the commanding officer for my liking but, kicking the door shut behind me, I crossed the lounging area and entered the smaller bedchamber.
As I lay Aren on the sumptuous bed, she sank into the soft luxury of dria feather quilts encased in smooth burgundy satinworm thread. She murmured softly and, if I’d not retained my Felidaekin senses, I’d probably have missed her word. Jag.
My heart swelled painfully, and I growled low. Even in her sleep, she called for me.
I brushed her short hair from her forehead and lay my fingers on the pulse in her neck. Steady and strong, it seemed she was simply in a deep sleep. My knowledge of medicine didn’t extend beyond rudimentary field dressings, so there was nothing I could do for her until the medic arrived.
I’d committed to memory Leo’s description and sketch of the interplanetary communicator we needed to find. It’d be perfect if I could leave Aren safely asleep and find it myself without risking her. But two things stopped me; Smithton would still be awake, finishing his meal and doing gods only knew what for however long after that. I’d need to wait for the dead hours of the night, the time when a human’s circadian rhythm slowed, leaving them at their most vulnerable, before I started prowling through the apartments.
More importantly, though, I wasn’t convinced Aren was safe here alone. I needed to guard her.
My chest rumbling with frustration, I stalked through the rooms, seeking the spy cameras. Four concealed in each room. Including the bathroom. Every angle covered. Had they been there Aren’s entire life?
“Sick bastard,” I snarled as I yanked the miniaturized devices from their housings and crushed them in my fist. We’d been beyond lucky that the damn things didn’t have audio, or we’d already be dead. Though we played a deadly game of false courtesy, Smithton, Aren, and I knew the truth; we wouldn’t all survive to fight in the looming battle between the Resistance and the Refugees.
