Violet City

by Page Morgan

  “Rowan!”

  In a flash, he spins around and intercepts the artificer with a flat palm to his chest. It doesn’t just stop the artificer in his tracks—it lifts him off his feet and sends him sailing backward. He lands on the hard cargo bay floor. The other artificers surrounding us quiet down and stare.

  The fallen artificer starts to yell in Volkranian, one arm repeatedly gesturing toward me. The warden unsheathes his lambent, steps around Rowan, and takes aim at the artificer’s head. The circle of artificers surrounding us broadens out, and they fall onto their knees, bowing in supplication.

  The artificer that tried to attack me doesn’t stop shouting. If anything, he becomes louder and more furious. He must know he’s about to die, and he doesn’t seem to care at all. Dread for the artificer’s fate thickens the blood in my veins. Rowan barks a single word to the warden, who scowls, but holsters his weapon.

  He then turns to me. “Go with the warden, Penelope. He will take you to a safe place.”

  I look at the warden. His lavender eyes are the same iridescent color the cityship glows with at night. Natural instinct stops my feet from taking me to his side.

  “Nothing will happen to you,” Rowan says, softer than before. “It is a promise.”

  I’d rather stay with him, but I know I can’t argue. I trust Rowan. If he believes in the warden, I suppose I should as well.

  I nod, and the warden instantly begins to walk away, toward the same elevator shaft I used before. I jump to follow, feeling colder with every foot of space that widens between my back and Rowan. I step onto the elevator platform, and a second later it begins to lift into the shaft. I look out into the cargo bay in time to see Rowan drawing a lambent from the compartment in the thigh of his exosuit. The artificer is still on the ground, but he has shifted forward, onto his knees. His face isn’t lowered though. It’s raised to Rowan’s with a hard, defiant glare.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. “What has he done?”

  “His loyalty remains with the former commandant,” the warden answers.

  Rowan takes aim. I lurch forward, but the floor of elevator slides up into the shaft, cutting off my view a mere second before the muted sizzle of the lambent.

  “It is the way of things,” the warden says.

  Slick coldness spreads through my arms and legs as we rise into the atrium, a place I’d hoped to never see again. It’s just as hectic here as it had been in the cargo bay, only this time, as I stay on the warden’s heels toward the pneumatic module, the Volkranians don’t stop to gawk at me. They’re too busy for that.

  “What’s going on?” I slow my pace to avoid a collision with a pair of suited guards escorting a Volkranian man away from a female and two young children.

  “Is it because they’re loyal to the old fleet commandant?” I ask as I step into the module after him and peer through the clear glass. The female Volkranian huddles with her children, staring after the guards. I think of the artificer. “You can’t just kill all of them. They were only doing what the fleet commandant ordered. What they thought the Sovereign ordered.”

  The module slurps upward, challenging my knees. The warden glares at me with equal challenge. “These are not things you need to concern yourself with.”

  I grit my molars and keep my lips sealed. My opinions and thoughts mean nothing to him. And he’s right. I know nothing about what’s happening on Volkron Six right now. Whatever it is runs deeper than what I can see on the surface.

  The module tosses me around the same way it had before, only the warden isn’t as sympathetic as Rowan had been. His arms stay firmly unhelpful by his sides, his eyes averted from my stumbling. After that last reprimand, he doesn’t speak to me either. When we finally stop and the clear doors open into a long corridor, the warden exits first. The shiny silver walls of the corridor are broken up by panels of darker metal every twenty yards or so. The warden stops outside one of the panels on the left. He holds up a small circle of metal and the panel slides open, revealing the familiar interior of Rowan’s room. He steps aside.

  “You are to stay in here until the fleet commandant calls for you.”

  The instant I step inside, the panel door zings shut behind me. I jump and turn. The warden is gone. Okay, then. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist anyway.

  I look over Rowan’s room and the compact size and plainness of it strikes me again. Volkranians aren’t extravagant, I’ll give them that. I wonder if, now that he’s fleet commandant, he’ll be moving into a new space. I stand still, the only sound the rushing of my pulse in my ears. How long until Rowan calls for me? A ripple of unease runs up my spine. I don’t want to be locked away inside a room on this ship—even if it is Rowan’s.

  Pacing the room, regret settles in, fast. I shouldn’t have come. I should have just stayed in the city. That artificer might still be alive if I had.

  That’s not your fault, Pen. It’s my mom’s voice I hear in my head. I close my eyes and perch on the edge of the immaculate white bed. Rowan has promised to help me find her, and I can trust him. I know I can.

  And if you’re wrong? That voice is my own. It’s muffled. A whisper. Easy to ignore.

  Behind me on the bed, the kidney bean pillow looks inviting. I have no idea how long I’ll be waiting for Rowan to do whatever it is he has to do now that he’s running the whole ship, but I do know that my legs and feet are practically throbbing with exhaustion. My head, too.

  I lean back, and the mattress cradles me. The white cover isn’t silk or satin, but it’s creamy. Almost like suede, only I’m sure it’s some technologically advanced fabric. Or the hide of a space animal.

  Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, I bring up my legs and lay back onto the pillow. He wouldn’t have had the warden bring me to his room if he didn’t want me touching his stuff, right? I turn my cheek into the pillow and breathe in. I expect to smell him, that cold night air scent I’d traced back in the maintenance shed when we’d been pressed against each other.

  Instead, the smell is something I can’t put my finger on. It’s clean, of course, and crisp, and my mind just barely registers the fact that it’s going unnaturally blank.

  A dreamless sleep. Shifting hues of white. They surround me, wobbling like the reflection of waves on a wall. They move and undulate against my skin. I don’t have the desire to wake up or even wonder what’s happening, especially when the most confusing but luxurious massaging sensation starts to take over. From my pinkie toes, up my calves and thighs, along my still-aching ribs, all the way to the crown of my head, the pressure of hands and fingers knead me. They rub my stiff and sore muscles until they’re warm and loose and perfect. The hands are everywhere, against every inch of my body.

  I don’t know how long I sleep this way, but somewhere in the depths of it, I hang on to enough of reality to know I’m in Rowan’s room. In his bed. That something on his pillow is the reason I’m feeling this unnatural, overwhelming relaxation.

  Then, something interrupts the perfection of the dream. A hand. A real hand. A warm, coarse palm against my neck. The sweep of a thumb against my pulse.

  A voice.

  “Wake up, Penelope.”

  The white, watery walls fade. So does the sensation of the whole-body massage. My eyes open, slow as a garage door.

  Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, no longer in his exosuit, but the black, full body sec-suit. His hand cups my neck. “You’ve had enough for now.”

  I roll my head on his pillow, back and forth, trying to sit up, but my muscles are like goo.

  “What is this thing?” I ask, referring to the pillow, but unable to articulate that.

  Rowan’s lips slant. “It is how many of us sleep.”

  “It’s trippy.”

  He smiles fully now. “It does, in a way, transport you.”

  I laugh, even though my facial muscles feel like old elastic bands. “I can’t get up.”

  Rowan heaves me into a sitting position, sliding me well away f
rom the pillow.

  “I should have warned you about the pillow. My tolerance for it is much higher than yours would be.”

  It was like being drugged. This is how Volkranians sleep? It seems completely against their Spartan and strict mindset.

  “How long have I been in here?” I ask, my head finally clearing. My body is still slack and warm though, so I lean against the steel wall that the bed is attached to. Rowan stays where he is, on the edge of the mattress.

  “Three hours. I’m sorry, there was much to do.”

  The memory of him killing the artificer slaps some sense into me. I sit up taller, my spine pressing hard against the wall.

  “What are you doing with the people who are loyal to the old fleet commandant?” My mind churns back to the Volkranian woman holding her children as the guards dragged her husband, or whatever he was to her, away from them.

  Rowan’s eyes stay fixed on mine. “Giving them the chance to accept the truth.”

  “You didn’t give the artificer that chance,” I say.

  “That is because the artificer stated for all to hear that he would not follow me as fleet commandant. He also commanded me to kill you.”

  The cold metal wall burns through my plaid shirt, and I welcome the sting of it. “I’m guessing giving his new fleet commandant a direct order is a punishable offense?”

  He nods, and then turns to face me, his knee coming up to rest on the mattress. His expression is stony. “I also did not like the way he threatened you.”

  A warm burst of satisfaction pools in my chest. He cares. About me, someone who isn’t even his own species. I care about him, too. I wish I didn’t. I wish I still felt the buzz of irritation just under my skin whenever I looked at him or heard him speak. But I don’t feel irritated. I feel…full. Like I do whenever I see the sparking glow of a firefly at dusk, or when our resident chipmunk skitters close to the sliding glass doors. Like I’ve been given an unexpected gift, and I have no idea what to do with it.

  This is doomed. The logical side of my brain screams at me to see reason.

  It’s wasting its breath.

  Like with the firefly, I’m going to try to catch it. Like with the chipmunk, I’m going to get as close as I can before it runs away.

  Rowan’s bed isn’t large. It’s more of a twin size; compact like the rest of his room. Under his intense stare, though, the space between us shrinks.

  “We have been traveling the Band for twenty years,” he says. The Band.

  “What is that? Some kind of outer space highway?”

  He cocks his head as if considering the analogy. “Yes. However, a craft on the Band travels not just distance, but also time.”

  “Time travel? Really?” It shouldn’t surprise me. If aliens exist, why not time travel? Go big or go home.

  Amusement threatens to lift the corner of Rowan’s lips. “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course. Right. Time travel. No big deal.” I clear my throat. “So, what were you saying?”

  “The entire time, we were led to believe and accept that the human race must die for our race to survive. My father was not the only Volkranian who believed this. There are many who will find it difficult to change, and to now conform to the Sovereign’s true directive.”

  “But the attacks—”

  “Are over,” he says quickly. “I’ve spoken with the Sovereign, who is reinstating human communications tomorrow for a short length of time. Long enough for us to relay a message to the humans and explain what has happened in New York City.”

  To the humans. My people, who’ve been in the dark about what’s been unfolding up on Volkron Six the last two days. I know more about the alien invaders than any other person on Earth. Strangely enough, all that knowledge only manages to make me feel hollow inside.

  Rowan hunches his shoulders and back, an elbow resting on his thigh as he rubs his palm along his cheek. Slight stubble shadows his chin and jaw. So, I guess Volkranians have to shave, too.

  “The attacks are over,” he repeats. “However, leading my people and changing the way they feel about settling among humans is not going to be an easy task. I cannot allow them to see me as anything but firm. I cannot allow them to believe I have any weaknesses.” He holds my gaze. “A personal involvement would be a weakness.”

  Heat prickles over my chest. Me. He means me. I’m his personal involvement. His weakness. I don’t know when it happened...on the cityship, maybe, when he’d so delicately removed the shard of glass from my neck, or in the bungalow, when he’d slurred his confession that he was never going to kill me...but he’d become mine, too. It isn’t logical. It’s probably immoral and treasonous. But it happened just the same.

  He’s right. He needs to win the support of all his people aboard Volkron Six in order to keep leading them. In order to not be unseated the way his father had been.

  “I understand,” I whisper. My muscles no longer feel like silly putty, so I push off the wall and begin to slide toward the edge of the bed. “You can take me home now. I shouldn’t be on this ship. I shouldn’t have come back at all.”

  He throws up an arm, stopping me. “I have more to say.”

  He sounds so calm, while my heart slams around in my chest, my pulse at a gallop.

  “Okay, then. Finish.”

  I’m ready. It’s time for this to end.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rowan lowers his arm…and gently rests his hand on top of my thigh. I eye it, the pressure of his hand heavy, like a stack of schoolbooks. I should buck it off. But I don’t.

  “I did not expect you, Penelope.”

  I look him in the eye, waiting. The sentence sounds unfinished, but that’s all there is to it. He hadn’t anticipated me during all the years he’d spent hurtling toward Earth. Hadn’t known to.

  “Yeah, well, I really didn’t expect you,” I say, then gesture around us. “Or any of this.”

  Rowan’s right cheek tics. A smile.

  “I am still bound to you,” he whispers. I shake my head and begin to say that part is all over, that I’ll find my mom on my own. He’s already saved my life in return and we’re more than square. “Not honor bound,” he interrupts. “Not because I must. Simply bound. Because I wish to be.”

  Once, I watched some NASA footage of a star exploding in deep space. The time-lapse camera captured numerous silent, violent explosions until it blasted into a brilliant cloud of gas. One moment, there had been star. The next, a supernova, bright and hot, sending out a shockwave of energy.

  That’s what Rowan’s confession feels like inside of me.

  He lifts his hand from my thigh and lets it hover just above my jeans. Probably something to do with proper Volkranian conduct. I guess this is where my ignorance is bliss. I weave my fingers between his and lift the warm tangle of our hands to my lips. I press a kiss to the ridge of his knuckles before looking up.

  His eyes don’t spark like I expect. His irises cloud, pushing away most of the blue and leaving a green so dark and sooty I might have mistaken it for anger if we were anywhere else, doing anything but this.

  Rowan takes his fingers from mine and rakes them through my hair, tugging me forward. I slide along the silky white blanket until our knees connect. Our mouths quickly follow.

  He brushes his lips against mine, then pauses. He’s never, ever done this before. Not like I have all that much, but I know I have to either take the lead or push him away.

  I don’t want to push him away.

  So, I press my lips to his, gently. Then with a little more pressure. He mimics me, though the push of his lips is stronger. I push in return with another kiss just to keep from falling onto my back. I run my tongue along the seam of his mouth, and he takes a short, surprised breath. I can feel him about to pull away. But then he mimics me again, touching my lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

  That one sensation triggers a landslide of warm honey inside me. Rowan fastens his huge hands around my hips, lifts me from the bed, an
d settles me down in his lap. I can’t close my eyes, not when his are still open. They’re heavy-lidded and watching me. Waiting, perhaps, for me to show him what to do next.

  There’s so much more. Infinitely more, especially when I consider how little physical contact Volkranians have. I kiss Rowan again. My palms cup his cheeks and rub against the rough stubble of his beard.

  “Part your lips,” I whisper. He takes the order like a soldier, and my tongue dives into his mouth to wrap around his. He’s a fast learner, and within seconds, I no longer have the lead.

  Rowan braces my spine with his forearm and takes me down to the mattress. My head hits the kidney bean pillow, but before I can inhale a single breath of whatever drug it’s infused with, he tugs it out from underneath me and tosses it onto the floor. All without breaking our kiss.

  He tastes like mint and snow, cedar and citrus, and it makes my head whirl, my blood pump. As his body, heavy with muscle, presses over mine, I gasp for air. He pulls back, but I keep my hands locked around his neck.

  “I’m hurting you,” he says.

  “What, with all your superior musculature?” I smile to let him know I’m joking. Hopefully he gets it.

  He grins and lowers his mouth to mine again. I guess he does. This time though, it’s not just his lips that have me spellbound. His hand slips between the mattress and my back, down to the curve of my hip. He explores it with a slow press of his hand before skimming lower, to the back of my thigh. The nerve endings in my body are suddenly firing off like a Roman candle.

  Rowan stops kissing me and rests his forehead against mine, our noses aligned. “I enjoy the kissing,” he says.

  I laugh at his formal declaration. “So do I.”

  His hand travels back up my leg, over my hip, and rubs against my ribs. “You are not offended when I touch you?” Restraint cords his voice.

  “Why would I be offended?”

  Rowan’s fingers brush against my breasts, but it’s his ravenous gaze, eyeing the length of my body beneath his, that makes me breathless. “Because of what I am.”