Joined: Book One

by Mara Gan

  “I very much doubt that,” I replied, crossing my arms in my best imitation of Perseus. “I retract my earlier invitation. Please feel free to leave the city as soon as you are able.”

  Durga mumbled something else and quickly made his exit.

  Perseus didn’t relax his pose until Durga had left, then he turned to me and resheathed his falx on his back. “I realize this was only my third time listening to petitions with you,” he said mildly, “but are they generally quite so exciting?”

  I slumped in my chair, massaging my temples. “No,” I sighed softly. “I’ve rarely had petitioners try to attack me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “‘Rarely’?” he repeated. “As in, this has happened before?”

  I shrugged. “A few times.”

  A scowl lit his face. “And what happened?”

  I gave a wry smile. “Well, Nia broke the arm of one man who hit me—”

  “He hit you?” His eyes flashed.

  I shrugged again. “That was the first instance,” I replied. “The Mousai would wait outside, like they do now, but Nia heard him and came in to—” I considered my words “—handle him.”

  Perseus’s mouth twitched. “I imagine Nia had difficulty restraining herself.”

  “I understand more damage may have been done on the way to the brig, yes,” I said. “Nia isn’t exactly known for an even temper.”

  “And the other times?”

  “Mel punched one guy and Thal strangled another with her tail.”

  “Did any of them hit you?”

  “Just the first guy,” I said, leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes. I took a deep breath, trying to find the calm I always felt when he touched me. He was close enough now that some of the smoke in my brain had cleared, but the effort of dealing with it for the past several hours had left me drained.

  I could feel his eyes on me. “Would you like to wrap things up for the day?” he asked, voice soft.

  I didn’t want to, since I knew many petitioners still waited to see me, but I couldn’t do much more today. I recognized the signs of when I needed to cry off, so I rubbed my forehead and nodded. “Could you-could you let Erie and Thal know, please? They might have other things to do.”

  My Protector moved toward the door and quietly let himself out. I knew Erie and Thal were keeping order outside, and that the three of them would handle the remaining petitioners with order and efficiency. But I wasn’t going to stick around to let Perseus grill me on my headache and then send me to my rooms, where the pain would only get worse.

  The minute the door latched behind him, I dropped to my knees beside the cabinet behind my desk and slid open the panel. I squeezed in to the secret passageway, closed the panel behind me, and slipped quietly down the hall and away from all my responsibilities.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I hated shopping. Curiously, it scared me. There were so many tiny decisions, and it seemed like every news program or magazine ridiculed someone for wearing something unattractive or obtuse. I preferred just wearing black or gray in unassuming styles to avoid any kind of issue. When you’re the Heir to an entire galaxy, your clothing gets noticed—so I kept mine as unnoticeable as possible.

  Unfortunately, Synie was having none of it. With my Intended due to arrive in the city any day now, she had insisted my wardrobe be updated to include some kind of color and form. When I pointed out that I knew nothing about fashion, she assigned Skore and Clee to take me shopping. I didn’t see the point of a nicer wardrobe, frankly. My Intended was hardly marrying me based on my appearance. Synie didn’t see it that way, though, and so here I was.

  It didn’t help that I was still nursing a doozy of a headache from an overindulgence in cherry liqueur, either. After escaping my Protector yesterday, I’d sequestered myself in a small bar and proceeded to get well and truly drunk, just to block all the emotions and thoughts of people on the station.

  It had sort of worked, but I’m not sure it was worth either the hangover or the wrath of my Protector when he’d finally found me.

  “What about this?” I asked hopefully, holding up a filmy purple scarf.

  Skore made a face. “Princess, Synie wants you to buy clothes, not accessories,” she admonished. “That’s lovely. But what will you wear with it?”

  “My white dress?”

  Clee rolled her eyes. “Come on, Princess. You’re not even trying.”

  I put the scarf down. “I’m just not a shopper,” I said, eyeing the store with a pained expression. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Skore grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the dress section. “Well, I do,” she said. “Come on.”

  Skore went toward the back of the store and stopped in front of a series of dresses. She pulled out a rubber band and tied her curly, black hair into a ponytail, and I groaned, knowing she meant business.

  “This one,” she said, piling something green in my arms, “and… this one.” Skore continued throwing things off the rack until I was relatively certain I would be trying on the entire store.

  My arms were sagging under the weight of so much clothing when the clerk hurried over. “Here, Princess,” she said urgently. “Let me take those for you. I’ll put them in a dressing room for whenever you’re ready.”

  I gratefully handed my burden to the her and she scurried away. Skore didn’t notice and had moved on to another rack, piling more clothes on me.

  I sighed and looked around, wishing I had broken an ankle or something to get out of this appointment.

  “Ooh!” Clee exclaimed, moving to a rack. “This one is gorgeous!” She turned, holding a lovely white cloak up for my examination. “You must try it on.” She tossed it to me—

  Skore caught it before I could even make a move for it. “No, Clee,” she admonished. “Nothing white. Synie’s orders.”

  Clee stuck her tongue out at Skore and continued looking around.

  “Alright, Princess, get to it,” Skore said, hands on her hips.

  I stared at her blankly. “Get to what?”

  “Try them on.”

  My jaw dropped. “All of them?”

  “You have somewhere else to be?”

  “Well, no, Synie cleared my calendar for the morning, but I thought—”

  “Nope,” Skore chirped. “She cleared your calendar for us, I’m afraid. Now I want to see everything I gave you.”

  I paled. “Everything?”

  Clee laughed. “Relax, Princess,” she said, coming up behind Skore and leaning an elbow on her shoulder. “This is hardly combat training.”

  “I think I’d prefer that,” I mumbled. “This is easy for you guys. Everything looks good on you. It’s so much harder to match clothes to my hair.”

  Skore rolled her eyes. “Right,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll agree with you on the color pink, but you’ll notice I didn’t give you any pink. Now stop complaining and start dressing.”

  I pointed at one pile of gauze. “That looks pink.”

  “It’s peach,” Skore retorted. “And trust me, that will look gorgeous on you. Now stop stalling and get in there.”

  For the next hour, I tried on clothes and subjected myself to Clee and Skore’s judgment. Ironically, their problem was that they liked all of it. Feeling unreasonably anxious—I’d negotiated peace treaties, for goodness’s sake—I avoided looking in the mirror, not willing to subject myself to my own personal criticism of what color looked how. Looking down was quite enough.

  “It’s just so difficult to choose,” Clee complained. “I’m so used to seeing you in white or black that everything looks good.”

  “Your hair helps too, Princess,” Skore said, blue eyes smiling. “I really like the green you have on.”

  Clee admired the green half-dress I was wearing. It was a gorgeous light forest green that reminded me of the tree leaves in the Hypethral at the beginning of their seasonal cycle. It was long-sleeved and the material gathered stylishly at the front and wrapped to the back in a sma
ll tie. It hung loosely to my knees in swinging, uneven layers. Pale green leggings underneath slipped into delicate green slippers.

  The wrap dress also managed, in a curious feat of fashion engineering I barely understood, to bare the right shoulder.

  “I feel naked,” I whispered, rubbing my bare shoulder.

  “You look awesome,” Clee said, winking. “The Intended would be an idiot not to adore that.”

  “I can’t wear this,” I replied, trying to move the material over my bare skin.

  “Why not?” Skore demanded. “It’s gorgeous. You look great in it.”

  “But… it shows so much skin!”

  Skore rolled her eyes. “A little bit of a shoulder won’t kill you,” she said. “Now. Keep that one on. You’re wearing it. Do you have any other favorites?”

  I sat down tiredly. “Does any of it come with a shot of liqueur?”

  Clee laughed. “Check the pockets.”

  Skore slapped her upside the head. “Don’t tease, you reprobate,” she scolded. Clee skittered off, giggling. “Scatterbrain,” Skore muttered. “I know you’re tired, Princess, so we’ll make this our last stop. But you still need to pick a few outfits.”

  “What are these outfits even for?”

  “Well,” Skore considered. “I believe some are for meeting the Intended, the receptions before your betrothal, and some are just to….” She cleared her throat. “Um, liven up your wardrobe.”

  “Is my fashion sense really that bad?” I asked mournfully.

  “Princess, space wears more colors than you do,” Skore replied. “Come on. Pick a few.”

  I eyed the pile. “Why don’t you just pick some for me?” I suggested. “Pick the ones you thought looked good.”

  Skore raised an eyebrow. “Will you wear them?”

  As a diplomat, I knew which battles were worth fighting. This was not one of those, so I held up a hand. “On my honor.”

  Skore narrowed her eyes. “Alright, then.” She leaned down and sifted through the pile, picking out colors and tunics she’d thought were best.

  I sighed and massaged my temples. The Mousai were well trained, I knew, even for guards; their preparation had included mental and emotional instruction, partly for my sake. They could guard their thoughts and emotions better than almost anyone on the station, except Kos or Perseus.

  Unfortunately, I could still sense them on a smaller level, along with everyone else. The clerk’s anxiety in particular was driving me bonkers. The keeper’s thoughts were like a siren, clawing through the inside of my skull and scraping at the back of my eyes.

  Will she buy anything? Will she notice me? Goodness… the Princess! The Heir to all of Galaxia, in my shop! I can hardly believe it. Should I offer her a drink? A snack? Maybe—

  Coupled with a hangover and my own anxiety about shopping, I was getting one monster of a headache.

  I slipped by Skore and wandered out of the store, desperately trying to evade the shopkeeper. Wanting to make the woman happy, however, I smiled politely on my way out, thanking her and murmuring that Skore would be making my purchases. I wondered what had happened to Clee. I stood at the shop entrance for a moment, scanning the busy Esplanade, before ambling down the line of shops, stopping in front of my favorite: the bookstore.

  I loved books. Books were quiet. Books didn’t have emotions; I could focus on my own thoughts and feelings when reading one, rather than the jumbled mess of everyone around me. Books were calm, organized, rich. I could merely imagine the emotions of the people in them rather than feel them firsthand, and I could dream about far-off places I’d not had the chance to visit. I had only visited war-torn worlds in my line of work. The Heir didn’t get vacations.

  Lately, I found myself reading a lot of history, as it helped me better understand and resolve conflicts, but I frequently read several books at a time, both fiction and nonfiction. I picked up whatever interested me at the moment and finished them quickly, sometimes up to two a day if I wasn’t busy with petitions. I often read on a data pad, but I had a particular affinity for real, hardbound books. I loved the feel of them in my hands, the smooth pages, the smell of print… I repeatedly fell asleep with my bed covered in them, one spread over my chest where it had collapsed as I’d drifted off.

  I ran my fingers along the smooth spines of the books lining the shelves outside the shop. A book about Mathos caught my eye.

  I knew little about Mathan history, aside from what was general knowledge. I told myself my interest had nothing to do with my fascination with my Protector as I picked up the volume and perused the early chapters.

  I had flicked a page, reading, engrossed in the history, when I was slammed into from the side.

  I had no time to cry out. Whatever had hit me was enormous and felt like it was made of solid rock. The wind was knocked out of me and the book flew out of my hands.

  I landed hard and my head cracked against the ground. My eyes swam as I dimly recognized Perseus above me, and then all was black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I played Dískos on the beach once. I leaped for the disk, caught it, and landed on the sand.

  It hurt, a lot. Sand is so soft to walk on, but it doesn’t do much to cushion a fall.

  This was a lot like that, except the sand was now just solid ground, and it felt like I hit a giant rock first.

  It wasn’t going to kill me, but it was enough to rattle every cell in my body and knock the wind right out of me.

  I took slow stock of my body. I assumed I had only been out for a matter of seconds; most of my fall had been relatively cushioned, all things considered, but my head had smacked the floor with teeth-jarring efficiency and I could feel that sharp, razor-like pain that accompanied head injuries.

  I opened my eyes and slowly my Protector’s concerned face swam into view. It was close enough that his eyes consumed my vision, and his scent enveloped me like an opiate.

  His hand was cradling my face and I instinctively leaned into it, gazing at him like the lovesick puppy I was. Slowly, I became aware that his other arm was around me and we were lying on the ground as others surrounded us.

  Everything was warm, and I felt so safe and comfortable, despite a vague pounding at the back of my skull.

  “Are you alright, Princess?” Rania asked, kneeling swiftly beside me, her falx in one hand.

  I turned, painfully, to focus on the most beautiful member of the Mousai, her olive skin and green eyes blinding me with their perfection. God, how I wish I looked like she did; I envied her model-perfect height and never-out-of-place hair. I had always wished for dark hair and dark skin, and sadly until I had been five years old, I thought I did look like that. I happened by a pond one day and was so horrified by the red hair in the reflection that I’d cried for a week.

  “I… think so,” I said, taking mental stock. My head hurt like the devil, but everything seemed in working order. “What just happened?”

  My Protector turned his head to eye the scene behind him. “Egil took care of it,” he said curtly, his jaw clenched.

  I struggled to a sitting position, Rania and Perseus offering support. “That’s—great,” I said, shaking the fuzzies out of my head. “But that doesn’t answer my question.” I gazed up at the second-floor balcony, where the commotion seemed to be focused, and saw Synie and Egil hefting an unconscious man onto a stretcher. Clee still had her sword out.

  “You were almost killed.” Perseus’s voice was clipped. “There was a shooter up there.”

  My eyebrows popped into my hairline. “On the Esplanade? In the middle of the day?”

  “I doubt your assassins care what time of day it is, Princess,” he said, his jaw still ticking. “What the hell were you doing?”

  I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes, barely. “Oh, I don’t know. Walking out in public with dozens of people around, in a normal store, in a safe city….”

  He was about to snap something else when Rania interrupted. “Are you injured, Princes
s?” she asked, her kind eyes searching my face. “Your eyes look funny.”

  I shrugged. “My eyes always look funny.”

  “You know what I mean,” she replied, her mouth twitching. “Can you follow my finger?” She moved it back and forth and I tried, but my eyes crossed and I swayed.

  “Ugh, no,” I protested, grimacing.

  Perseus slipped his hand into the hair at the back of my head and swore. I flinched a little at the unpleasant word but didn’t say anything. I could tell that he’d discovered a nice large egg forming at the back of my skull.

  Great. A concussion. I hated those. I yawned, thinking there was no way I was avoiding a visit to Dr. Remy.

  Perseus patted my cheek roughly, startling me. “Hey,” he said loudly. “None of that. No going to sleep until the doc gets a look at you. Stay awake, little girl.”

  I smiled, my annoyance temporarily forgotten. “Why do you call me ‘little girl’?”

  “Would you prefer ‘little boy’?”

  “No,” I answered, giggling sleepily. I yawned again and struggled to stand.

  Perseus supported me with Rania standing ready, both watching me carefully. “Can you walk, Princess?”

  I nodded and he helped me to my feet. “No prob—” I started to say, before my legs buckled. Perseus easily caught me and smoothly lifted me into his arms.

  “So much for that,” he muttered.

  “I can walk,” I insisted, tensing. I had never been held like this. It was distinctly unnerving, putting myself in someone else’s hands, literally and figuratively. And it was extremely personal, particularly for someone who had never really been touched at all. “Really. I just got dizzy, that’s all.”

  “Head injuries will do that. It’s alright, Princess. It’s not like you’re heavy.”

  My heart fluttered wildly in my chest. Being so close to him, I could smell that rich aroma of bergamot that enveloped him, strong and deep, and it made my head swim with something other than the concussion.