CAT SHIFTERS OF AAIDAR: ENDINGS

by Laney Kaye

  Or he’d try to stop me.

  “Tell me,” he pressed.

  “You need to let this go.” Easing forward, I started to rise, but he held me back with a hand on my arm.

  “All right. For now.” Temporary defeat rang out in his voice. While he might be willing to set the conversation aside for the moment, he’d be back at it soon, like a viper stalking a wounded pillion. Never losing sight until his goal had been accomplished.

  “Are we sure it’s okay to talk about our…mission?” I asked Jag softly, settling back at his side. “Is the room bugged?”

  “Already made sure it’s clean. As long as we keep our voices low, we should be safe.”

  “Good.”

  Quelir leaned forward. “This man.” He flicked his long, pale fingers toward Jag. “He not Elder Tracin.”

  “For now, he is.”

  Nodding, Quelir drilled Jag with his arctic gaze. “How this be possible?”

  “Terra made alterations. We’ve ignited the blades.”

  “Elder Tracin blade. Hmm.” Quelir studied mine, where it remained strapped to my waist. “Did not know you bladebonded.”

  “Sort of.”

  His breath caught. “Mean?”

  “We…didn’t complete the bond fully. Tracin did something, I don’t know what, that ignited his blade, linking us together.”

  “Protection.”

  I nodded, because Tracin had implied that, as well.

  “But a Dragarian bond not be all, be it?” Quelir asked, his attention darting to Jag.

  “Somehow…” I swallowed deeply. “Jag…That’s who he truly is. Anyway. Jag and I have also ignited an Aaidarian bond. Specifically, a Felidaekin bond.”

  “Yes, Felidaekin,” Quelir said. “But I sense difference in Jag. And in my Ari. Maybe…”

  “What?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I know not. But two bonds be impossible. One…counter? Is that word? Counter other.”

  “Counter?” Jag said, his voice rising. “You think there’s some way to loosen the bond with Tracin?”

  Wait. If Smithton died, would my blade be satisfied? Could I put it aside and consider a different future than the death dictated by my pair-bond with Tracin?

  A future with Jag?

  “This isn’t important,” I said, suppressing my hope. I wasn’t sure what Quelir was suggesting, but exploring this further would have to wait until we’d finished here. We needed to remain focused on our reasons for coming here. Find the communicator and get Jag—no, maybe me, too—out of the compound. “You said you’d help us, Quelir.”

  Hands clasped together and held to his chin, Quelir blinked, encouraging me to continue.

  “Only Smithton and General Tennant possess a communicator capable of reaching the Other Worlds,” I said. To help, Quelir would need to understand it all. “Since we can assume Tennant took his communicator when he left with the Regime army to attack the Resistance stronghold, Smithton’s is the only device available.”

  “I was explaining this to Quelir earlier,” Jag said.

  “Can you help us find it?” I asked Quelir. “If we can steal it and escape the compound, we have allies waiting for us a short distance away. They’ll be able to hack into the device and send a message to the Aaidarian government. There are things…” Shaking my head, I swallowed back the anger and dread rising up as a solid lump in my throat. “This is even more important than helping the Resistance defeat the Regime during the ongoing battle. Smithton…and Tennant—hells, probably the entire Regime, are conducting a DNA project, intending to build some sort of super-army out of shifters. Creating a mutant army is in direct violation of the Galaxy Living and Welfare Agreements Treaty. We hope, if we can reach the Aaidarian government, that they’ll intervene.”

  “Ah.” The word eased from Quelir’s lungs. “I see. What is device look like?”

  “Similar to a standard-issue com, except black instead of blue,” Jag said. “Our friend drew a picture. They’re slightly bigger, more rectangular than square. I doubt Smithton lets his stray far from his sight. If he’s wise, he’ll protect it for the very reason we hope to steal it. He has to know the Other Worlds would be outraged to learn about the experiment.”

  “DNA,” Quelir said, his gaze focused inward. His clasped hands dropped onto his lap with a heavy thud. “How they do this?”

  “So far, they’ve extracted shifter blood,” Jag said. “Stolen from my mercenary brothers. We’ve learned they isolated the shifter gene and found a way to turn it back on in non-Aaidarians with an injection of an altered virus.”

  “They’ve tested the drug on Glians,” I said. “A few of the Resistance fighters were able to stall the project by destroying the Regime data, but the government is becoming more desperate. They must realize they can’t defeat the Resistance without their own shifter army.”

  “Dragonstone,” Quelir said, shock lifting his voice. His eyes widened. “The marrow…”

  I frowned. Staring down at my knife, horror filled me as the connection blazed in my mind. Why hadn’t I seen it all along? “This is bone.”

  “Was bone,” Quelir said. “Spine of original dragons. Dragarian ancestors. Petrified through time.”

  I stared at Jag with panic flaring through me, as if I’d been bitten by an armor spider and would soon meet my death. “Shit, they’re planning to somehow extract dragon DNA and change soldiers into dragon shifters.”

  A dragon would not only defeat the Resistance, they’d be a worthy challenger to a pack of Aaidarian great cat shifters.

  Jag turned to Quelir. “We need that communicator. Now.”

  “It has to be in Smithton’s quarters,” I said.

  “It be,” Quelir said.

  I tossed aside my blanket and leaned forward. “You know where it is?”

  “No, have seen there one time. I help look.” Quelir rose, his back tight with purpose. “I go. Clean from dinner. Watch Smithton. Once sleep, I return.”

  “We’ll wait for you,” Jag said, standing. The two men studied each other for a long moment, before nodding at the same time, as if they’d arrived at a conclusion. Or decided the other could be trusted.

  Good. Unless we worked together as a team, we’d be defeated. I couldn’t stress enough how clever Smithton was, despite constantly projecting the appearance of a witless feylon.

  Quelir left, and Jag tugged me back down on the sofa, onto his lap.

  “I’m not going to let you do it,” he said against my hair.

  Pretend yawning, I snuggled into his chest. For whatever reason, I couldn’t keep from touching him, from being connected to him at all times. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You do. These bonds…This Dragarian one comes with obligations. A blood-blade thirsting. You need to tell me what it means.”

  My hands stilled on his shirt, where I’d been playing with the collar. “Did Terra say anything to you?”

  “Didn’t need to. You did, and then Quelir. I know it’s important. And I watch you. All the time.”

  I chuckled, but humor did not come through in the sound. “Sounds a bit creepy. Stalkerish.”

  “You know what I mean.” His fingertips stroked down my arm to my hand. He squeezed it.

  Where would I be without my need to satisfy my blade? Lately, my blood-blade thirsting felt like a dria feather, snatched up and scattered on the wind. I needed to reinforce my purpose. My debt to Tracin must be paid. Smithton needed to die.

  But me? Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I shook my head. Thoughts like this were foolish when we were so close to completing our mission. For two years, I’d believed I had no future. Now that I’d seen there could be a chance, I could barely hold back my fear. We were in so much danger.

  “We’ll make this work,” Jag said, his arms tightening, pulling me closer. “I…I know it calls to you, that you feel obligated to do something. Revenge? Is that what you need? Whatever it is”—his shoulders tightened—�
�I’ll find a way out of it. For us.”

  With a soft touch, he stroked my hair. My cheek. “I want to help. Do you know what you mean to me?”

  I stared at him, my heart in my throat. Was he suggesting he…

  A quick knock startled me, and I slid from Jag’s lap.

  Quelir opened the door and stepped inside. “Smithton sleeps,” he said.

  “Let’s go, then.” Jag rose and crossed to the pack we’d brought with us and pulled out a small laser pistol.

  I hadn’t realized he’d brought it. “What if we were searched?”

  “Everyone knows you can’t cross a desert without protection from vipers,” Jag said, tucking the weapon into the back of the leather pants he’d pulled on beneath his Dragarian tunic.

  “He would’ve asked us how we’d obtained it. We escaped the Resistance, remember? There’s no way they would’ve handed us a weapon as we left.” My words came out shrill. Not because I really cared about the gun, but because, now that we were about to enter the most perilous part of our mission, fear that Jag would be hurt rose inside me like a starving beast.

  A gun raised the stakes.

  Awareness grew inside me. I’d fallen in love with him.

  Quelir must’ve sensed the feelings tumbling around inside me, because he strode over and clasped my upper arms, staring down at me. “It be as it should.”

  I shook my head, because he couldn’t know how torn I felt.

  “Trust me,” he said. Releasing me, he strode to the door and opened it, peering outside, into the hall. “Be clear.”

  “Let’s go,” Jag said, tapping my side. His intent gaze held mine hostage. “You need to trust in me, too, Aren.”

  Shaken by my whirling thoughts—overflowing with hope, combined with a heavy dose of trepidation—I followed the two men out into the hall.

  “What about guards?” I whispered.

  “Only one downstairs,” Quelir said. As if he hadn’t a fearful bone in his body, he strode up to the main entrance to Smithton’s quarters. “Your…father.” He swallowed deeply, and his gills fluttered along his neck. I imagined his spine had gone rigid, too, as his genetic make-up responded to possible peril. “Your father take extra medicine, in soup.” He chuckled. “For rest.”

  At least one thing was going in our favor. We’d be able to search without waking him.

  We crept into the living area, the halolights so dim I could barely make out the matching plush leather furniture, let alone the colorful throw pillows or the paintings the walls.

  Jag pointed to his chest and mouthed, “Desk.” He strode toward it, no doubt intent on looking there, first.

  We could only hope Smithton didn’t keep the communicator underneath his pillow.

  My pulse fluttering faster than a cluster of teezter flies scenting blood, I headed to the high table spanning one wall, the one holding numerous bottles of beverages, each with its own sordid purpose. With distaste, I shifted a decanter of moodar aside, shuddering.

  No communicator hidden behind the murky liquid.

  Quelir had tiptoed into the next room, and I imagined he was searching all the way out to the balcony.

  Frustration and anxiety made my skin twitch, as if a horde of centrians crawled all over my body.

  Where in all hells was the communicator?

  Jag left the desk, shaking his head when I lifted my eyebrows in his direction. He was heading toward the dining room, when something clicked in my mind.

  No, when I remembered something clicking earlier. While Smithton had been standing near my portrait.

  Holding up a finger toward Jag, I nudged my head in that direction.

  As I carefully moved toward the solar-powered fireplace, Quelir returned to the living area. He and Jag came up behind me, their footfalls silent on the carpet.

  I stood, staring at my portrait, barely able to equate the woman I’d been then with who I was now.

  Ara had died two years ago. In her place, Aren had been born. I liked the person I’d become. She was stronger, cleverer, and she was truly loved.

  Maybe not just by Quelir and the friends I’d made in the desert.

  Jag’s hand dropped onto my shoulder.

  Somehow, I’d have to find a way through this, because feelings like ours had to mean something. They couldn’t end with death.

  Shaking off my distraction, I leaned forward, studying the bottom of the portrait’s frame. Something had made a sound here earlier.

  I tugged on the frame, but it remained solidly in place.

  “Let me,” Jag said so quietly, I barely heard him.

  When I shifted to the side, he leaned forward, examining the frame and the slender structure underneath that seemed to support the halopainting. His glance toward me was brief, but filled with excitement.

  His fingers slid along the bottom, and a snap rang out. My portrait creaked forward, leaving a small, dark gap between one side and the wall.

  “Ah,” Quelir sighed. “Not think this.”

  Jag tugged on the frame and the portrait swung fully out, revealing a slender, hidden box behind. A touchpad had been recessed into the center of the sirdar structure.

  “A safe?” I whispered.

  Jag shrugged. He tapped a code into the panel, and a light flashed red. He shook his head, then tried another number. Red again.

  Guessing would get us nowhere. “Can you break in, instead?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “What if…” Quelir nudged himself between us, and his thin, blue-veined fingers hovered over the pad, before he entered a code.

  A soft grinding sound was followed by the front part of the cabinet opening.

  “Ari birth date,” Quelir said.

  Had my father thought of me, all this time?

  Inside the safe, I spied shelves filled with envelopes, perhaps money. Or, important papers. I grabbed them and tucked them into my pocket for later examination.

  “Hot damn,” Jag said as he lifted a black box off the top shelf. “Just what we were looking for.” He frowned, cocked his head, handed me the box and then strode toward the balcony.

  My fingers wrapped around the communicator. I should feel elated, but instead, this all felt too easy.

  And when someone shoved something hard into my back, knocking me against the wall, I nearly leapt from my skin.

  “Knew you’d be back,” Smithton said snidely. He stepped sideways, his weapon trained on us.

  Appearing from nowhere, Jag dove forward, slamming into Smithton. The two men tumbled over the sofa and crashed onto the low table in front of it.

  Smithton didn’t stand a chance. In seconds, Jag had not only punched my father in the throat, making him shout out in pain, he’d disarmed Smithton and taken the gun.

  “Heard you coming from clicks away.” Jag glared at Smithton.

  “So much for daughterly love,” Smithton said as Jag yanked him to his feet. He smoothed his clothing. Not sleepwear, as I’d expected, but a uniform. He must’ve suspected we’d be back and laid in wait, hiding beneath his covers, pretending sleep.

  “My daughterly love equals that of your fatherly affection,” I said. Which we both knew barely existed. I was relieved I could throw away the simpering maiden I’d play-acted forever.

  “You won’t get far,” Smithton said. “I’ll sound the alarm the second you leave.”

  Jag gouged the gun into Smithton’s temple. “Maybe I better end it now, then. Nothing like making sure someone’s quiet for good.”

  Smithton reeled away, blinking at Jag. “You’re not Dragarian.”

  Jag smirked. “What gave me away?” His gills flared wide, and the back of his shirt jutted out as his spine rippled.

  “Don’t know what in hells you are,” Smithton said. “But I’ll be taking your blade.”

  “Not as long as I’m living,” Jag said.

  Smithton flared his nostrils and wiped the back of his hand across his thin lips. “One shout for my guard, and you’ll be lying on the
floor, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.”

  “Guard downstairs be sleeping,” Quelir said.

  “What did you do?” Smithton shouted.

  Quelir’s blue eyes twinkled when he turned them my way. “Everyone enjoy soup.”

  “I had wondered why you’d returned, Ara, and now that I see him with that,”—Smithton’s chin nudged toward the communicator Jag had clipped to the front of his shirt—“It’s clear what you came here for. But you’ll soon find it’s useless. Only I can make the device work.” He rubbed his eyelid.

  “Retinal scan,” I blurted out, realizing immediately what he thought he could hide. “He’s going to have to come with us.”

  “What?” Jag snarled. “He’ll only slow us down.”

  “The communicator won’t work without his access. Access programmed by the Regime that can only be activated with a flash against Smithton’s retina. This is correct, isn’t it, Father?”

  Anger flared across Smithton’s face, confirming my assumption.

  Jag growled, and I wondered if he’d shift and reveal who he truly was, but he regained control and remained Tracin. “Okay.” He raked his white hair off his face. “Guess this mission just got a bit trickier.”

  “He yell at gate,” Quelir said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Not if we…” My gaze fell on the numerous bottles I’d shivered while touching a few moments ago. “How about a drink before we depart?”

  “No time for that crap,” Jag said, but I could tell he’d caught on to my idea.

  After shoving Smithton down onto the sofa, we force-fed him benna and benzal, washed down with a good amount of moodar and valeem, plus a dark green liquid we found in a tiny bottle at the end of the row. A heady mixture guaranteed to make anyone placid. If we doped him up enough, he might be quiet.

  No such luck. Eventually, he was singing purchase mate ditties and swaying on the sofa, bumping shoulders with Jag and Quelir like they were best friends. Maybe it was the moodar, or perhaps the green concoction we’d dumped into his stomach, but whatever we’d given him had at least made him cooperative.

  We hustled him to his feet and out into the hall. Jag ducked into my room for his bag, and we were ready.