by Cara Bristol
A healer March probably needed. Blood saturated his shirt, indicating an injury more serious than he’d pretended.
“You don’t have to leave right now, do you?” she asked. When he’d shown up at her private suite, she hadn’t wanted to speak to him; now she couldn’t let him walk away. She would grab as many minutes as she could get. Once she got him inside, she could have the healer examine him. She would order it. He would have to obey.
He opened his mouth, to insist he had to leave, no doubt, so she rushed in. “The yacuni is still out there. They have long memories like your Terran elephants. If Papa sees you, he’ll attack again. You should wait until the herd moves on.”
“Your yacuni is built like a Clydesdale, is feathered like an ostrich, has the antlers of an elk, the unpredictable behavior of a rhinoceros, and the memory of an elephant?”
“That about describes them. Why don’t I show you the palace while you wait?”
“What will I tell your father?”
“Tell him the truth. You were attacked by a nursing yacuni and sought refuge until it was safe to leave.”
“I don’t have an alibi for why I landed in the first place. The skimmer was programmed for a fly-by.”
“How did you land?”
“I reprogrammed it.”
She arched her eyebrows. “How did you do that?”
“Long story.” He averted his gaze. “We should notify your father I’ve been delayed.”
“We can try,” she said. “Don’t count on the message getting through. The atmosphere over Romoso interferes with electromagnetic transmissions. We’re pretty much incommunicado. If someone needs to deliver a critical message, they send a runner in a skimmer.”
March drew his brows together. “What about off planet? Can you send and receive?”
“You mean like to a spaceship or another planet?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never tried. I always came here when I didn’t want to be disturbed.” She gestured. “Let’s go in now.”
Unexpectedly, he grinned and sent another pang through her heart. “I did want to see the palace up close. That was why I landed in the first place.”
She’d never expected she would one day share her homeland, her favorite palace, a piece of her life with the man she loved. To do so invited additional heartbreak, but the temptation to indulge in the momentary bittersweet pleasure proved too strong to resist. He’d shown her many beautiful Terran sights; now she had a chance to return the favor.
She’d sent him away once; the willpower to do it again did not exist. The kiss had been replayed over and over. However much time she could beg, borrow, or steal to be with him, she would grab and not let go until it was wrested from her grasp.
She had slipped out a servant’s entrance when she left for her walk, but now she led March through the grand foyer so he could get the full impact.
“Holy smokes!” he gasped.
The idiom was new to her, but the astonishment and awe in his voice provided the translation. As large as many drawing rooms, the entry hall rose two full stories. Pink crystal, chemically-altered to be nearly indestructible and sound-absorbing, had been chiseled into floor tiles and the blocks that formed the walls. She gazed at the palace as if seeing it for the first time. It reminded her of a Terran geode, only without the sharp edges.
It had always felt like home, but her stays had been limited to short visits. Well, I will change that.
Though much smaller than the main imperial palace, this one seemed both grander and simpler. It had features she couldn’t wait to show off. But, first, March needed to be tended to.
A servant glided forward.
“Please show Mr. Fellows to a guest chamber—”
March shook his head. “I can’t stay—”
Julietta held up her hand. “Don’t you want to clean up?”
He glanced at his clothing, widening his eyes at rusty stains on his hands and his blood-drenched shirt. “You’re right. I’m not presentable. I should leave.” He turned toward the door.
No! She didn’t care what he looked like; her intention had been to keep him near for a while longer. Besides, the healer should examine the wounds on his chest. From what she could tell, he’d lost quite a bit of blood—although the bleeding appeared to have stopped. “You can’t go back to the imperial palace in this condition, either,” she said. “Clean up, and then we’ll meet in the main salon, and I’ll give you a tour. I will also try to contact my father and inform him of your whereabouts.”
“That’s a good idea.” He looked so relieved, she felt guilty for lying.
“Follow me, please,” the servant said.
When they’d disappeared up the staircase and down one of the wings that spiraled off the second floor, she signaled another servant. “Mr. Fellows was injured. Send the healer to his guest quarters. Tell him he is not to take no for an answer.”
“At once.” The man scurried away.
March would be displeased, but he would have to comply. A little thrill of power coursed through her veins. Rank had its privileges. She smiled. And it was for his own good, the obstinate man!
He’d been more easygoing all those years ago. Events had changed them both, although in this moment, she felt much more like the girl she’d been on Terra. The aura of gloom had cleared. Her body felt as light as air.
Which is why she wouldn’t contact her father. It would be her bad luck the message would go through. That they were alone together wasn’t inappropriate exactly, but it would arouse awkward questions. She’d never told anyone of their affair, and though she’d masked how distraught she’d been, she sensed her mother suspected she’d been involved with someone.
Her people considered three a lucky number.
One, she’d met March on Terra.
Two, he’d showed up on Xenia.
Three, he’d arrived at night side, her special place.
Perhaps the ancient ones had taken pity on her and gifted her with one last farewell.
Nobody could freeze time, but as a Terran would say, damn it, she would try. For the first time in years, enthusiasm and genuine happiness bubbled up inside. She sprinted up the staircase and down the corridor toward her chamber to change her clothing.
Chapter Twelve
March peeled off his blood-stiffened shirt and examined his torso. Nanos had knitted tissue and skin together where the antlers had punctured his abdomen in two places. Two pink splotches were all he had to show for the trauma. In another day, all evidence of the injury would vanish. His telltale shirt, however, sported two holes where the horn tips had penetrated.
Jules had been concerned, but he’d been reluctant to let her see how fast he healed. He hadn’t been a cyborg when they’d met. Nothing visually distinguished his legs from biological ones, but they were titanium prostheses covered by rejuvenated skin. Robotic self-reproducing nanocytes traveled in his blood, and a computer processor between brain lobes controlled his mechanical limbs and the nanos.
She had to have noticed he’d changed in ways that couldn’t be attributed to age. With the transformation to cyborg, his body had grown much more muscular, harder, bigger, several inches taller.
Out of necessity, the cyborg project had been declassified. After Lamis-Odg acquired cybernetic technology, the peoples of the galaxy had been informed of the existence of cyborgs for their own protection. However, Cyber Operations still operated in secrecy outside of and parallel to existing government policing agencies. After his transformation, he’d signed a nondisclosure agreement. Even though secrecy had been relaxed, old habits died hard.
Would Jules think less of him now that he was part machine? Some women were turned off. Others were turned on but treated cyborgs like sexbot androids.
A servant had delivered fresh clothes, and he placed the small pile on a shelf before shucking out of his bloodied, soiled ones. After donning the bathing goggles, he stepped into the transparent bathing chamber.
; Common sense warned remaining at night side was a bad idea. He should insist on leaving. But from the moment he’d met her, he’d never been able to stay away from Jules.
The chamber hummed, and seconds later, water rained from all sides, fogging up the enclosure. The wet cycle switched off, and then jets released energized soap particles. Almost nano-like, the molecules moved over his body, removing dirt, sweat, blood, and dead skin. After rinsing, the chamber sprayed scented moisturizer. He could have done without the last. The perfume smelled a little too heavy for his preference, but at least he no longer resembled something a yacuni had dragged in.
Dirty clothes had vanished, whisked into a vent near the floor. He couldn’t have worn them anyway, but he doubted he would get them back before he had to leave. He’d been relying on borrowed clothes since the banquet night. If he’d had any idea how the situation would pan out, he would have packed a bag. No, if he’d had an inkling, he wouldn’t have come. With a sigh, he tugged on the clean clothing he’d been given. Xenian clothing fit loosely, but on him, the tunic stretched taut across his broad chest, while the snug pantaloons hit him mid-shin.
Nanos could control many bodily functions, but not his attraction to Jules. She’d misled him, jilted him, and now, years later, intended to bond with another, and he still desired her. In her presence, his body came alive, tingling, vibrating, hardening. Her light made him glow.
He’d maintained his distance, but passion had clung to every word they uttered to each other, hung in the air like a pink fog. Her eyes had given nothing away, but his cyborg senses had detected a faint blush to her cheeks, an increase in respiration, a pulse fluttering in her neck. And she had insisted he stay.
Xenians practiced an open sexuality, divorced from bonding. Nuptial unions were arranged, mates chosen by their seer. They considered sexual gratification outside the bond to be acceptable, normal, sanctioned. Jealousy did not exist.
March wasn’t Xenian. The idea of Jules with Naimo made him want to punch something—preferably Naimo. For his own peace of mind, he avoided pondering how many men she might have been with since their university days.
He hadn’t been celibate. He’d slept with other women in an attempt to forget, to wash Jules out of his mind. It relieved the itch, but not the yearning, because only she had that power.
Maybe a last fling would get her out of his system. Or make things worse. What the fuck was he going to do?
Leave.
Meet Jules as planned.
Leave.
Meet Jules.
March left the bathing chamber to find a man in medical whites waiting for him in the sitting room. “Mr. Fellows, I’m Sarco, the night side palace healer. I’ve been instructed to treat your injuries.”
“False alarm,” March said.
“On the princess’s orders, I am not to leave until I examine you.” He smiled, but the firmness of his jaw indicated he’d follow his instructions.
“As you wish.” He’d show there was nothing to see, and then he’d be done with it. March lifted his tunic. The pink spots, the sole vestiges of his injury, were already darkening to his normal skin tone. “See? I’m fine.”
Sarco eyed his torso and frowned. “I heard a yacuni had gored you.”
“I’m sure from the princess’s vantage point, it appeared that way, but as you can see, I wasn’t hurt.”
From a bag on his hip, Sarco withdrew a medi-scan.
“That’s not necess—” March protested, but the healer waved it over his body.
Sarco looked up. “You’re a cyborg!”
There was no point in denying it. The medi-scan couldn’t be wrong. He nodded.
The healer eyed the slightly pinker spots. “So you were gored, but your body healed itself.”
“What will you tell the princess?”
“That you’re well. I will leave it to you to tell her anything else.”
“Thank you.” He lowered his tunic. “I understand this palace isn’t used much. I’m surprised it has a dedicated healer.”
“You’re correct—with the exception of servants, it’s vacant except for when the princess visits. But night side is remote, and if an emergency did occur, it would take too long to bring in a healer. So, I’m here.” Sarco grinned. “I have to admit I got a little excited when I was ordered to see you. I thought for once I would be able to practice the healing arts, but that is not to be.”
March chuckled. “Sorry I couldn’t help you out.”
* * * *
Julietta’s skirts tangled in her legs as she paced the salon. She’d changed clothing three times before settling on a lacy dress in a bluish-purple color, the style as close to Terran fashion as she could get. She wished to downplay her Xenianness, but how could March look at her and not see a Xenian? Bonding whorls marked her face. She had no idea how long they would take to fade—weeks, at least—unless she coupled with her true mate, in which case, hormones would erase the stain almost immediately.
The door slid open, and he entered, larger than life, larger than the biggest-sized clothing she’d ordered for him. He should have looked silly in pantaloons that barely covered his knees and a shirt stretched so tight every muscle bulged. Instead, he caused her mouth to go dry. The ill-fitting clothing emphasized his masculinity, his Terranness, his otherness. Her weakness.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
Leaving you. Not being honest. Having the same duties as before. “Everything.”
“That covers a lot of territory.” His tone was light but carried an undercurrent of old hurts.
Nebulous plans of seduction folded inward. She couldn’t use him to ease her heartache if she caused him pain.
She pushed back her shoulders. “The healer informed me you weren’t injured.”
“I told you.”
Fact did not lie. The yacuni had flipped him like a Terran flapjack. His blood had stained her hand when she’d touched his shirt. “Show me.”
“If you don’t believe me, believe your healer.”
“Show me.” She pressed her lips together.
“I’m not sure this is proper.”
“I’ve seen your chest before.”
He sighed and tugged up his tunic.
She stifled a gasp. She’d seen him, but not like this. March had always had an attractive body, but he’d been an academic, a man who toiled behind a desk. The missing years had built and chiseled his muscles to rock-hard definition. His chest was massive, his waist trim, his abdomen ripped, all of him smooth and unmarred except for two slight discolorations.
“Satisfied?” He tugged his shirt down.
What she saw now did not change what she’d observed. The yacuni had caught him on its antlers. He’d bled. He should have had wounds.
However, she was relieved he’d escaped injury and wouldn’t waste borrowed time arguing. Julietta inclined her head toward a small table readied in the corner. “I thought we could have a bite to eat.”
Glassware, fresh flowers as close to the ones on Terra as she could find, and tapered glowsticks created an intimate tableau, reminiscent of their romantic dinners on Earth. They’d gone to small cafes where they’d scrunched in at tables so tiny they’d bumped knees. Sometimes the food had been good, occasionally it hadn’t been, but always the setting—a world of their making—and the company, had been perfect. Planetary race hadn’t mattered. They had been two people in love. One of them still was.
“All right,” he agreed with a wariness that stabbed her heart anew. He wanted nothing to do with her. She could force him to spend the time with her, but she couldn’t make him forgive or even like her again. “You’re not serving anything with legs, are you?” he asked.
Was that his concern? The food? “You mean like the fish at the banquet? You don’t like our food?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not what I’m used to.”
“No apology needed. I understand.” Gloom lifted, and giddiness rose within. She’d ma
de the right call with respect to their meal. “Nothing with legs. I promise.” None still attached, anyway. She’d given precise instructions. While the food couldn’t be considered Terran, it was as close to it as her chef could get: bread baked from grain, cheese derived from yacuni milk—if asked, she would omit the mention of which animal had provided the milk—fresh fruit, and marinated sliced meat.
She gestured to the table. “Shall we sit?”
Once settled, she pressed the button on her wrist comm. Moments later, a servant wheeled in a cart, and after dishing out the food, moved to the side to wait. Julietta dismissed her with a wave. “I’ll be fine, Sillena. If I need anything, I’ll get it. Please inform the others I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, Princess.” Sillena bowed and exited.
“Please, eat.” Julietta grinned. “It won’t hurt you,” she teased, forgetting for the moment that Kur and Naimo had been sickened by food poisoning. From what March had observed, Xenian food could hurt him. Perhaps wariness was wise.
He didn’t seem to make the connection and forked a bit of meat into his mouth. “Very good.” His eyes widened with surprise. “It’s almost like Terran beef—but it’s not, is it?”
“Our version of it,” she said. Taste wise, close enough, unless you saw the six-legged lizard the meat had come from. It wasn’t even a lizard because they didn’t have reptiles like Earth did, but it looked like one.
“Terran food must have seemed strange,” he said.
“On occasion. But I loved trying it all. It was an adventure.” She’d gone to Terra to experience as much of the planet as she could. Good, bad, she’d wanted to sample it all. “I loved coffee and chocolate, but I never did develop a taste for balut.”
“You’re not alone. Very few will try balut,” he said. “People eat eggs. People eat duck. Only a select few will eat a boiled duck embryo. If you like coffee and chocolate but not balut, that pretty much makes you an honorary Terran.”
An honorary Terran. A wonderful thing to be, but she’d surrendered any hope of claiming the title when she left to fulfill her duty.
