Finders Keepers (35 page)

Authors: Linnea Sinclair

BOOK: Finders Keepers

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“Don’t tumble for me yet, darlin’.” He laughed. “We have business to attend to first. As I was saying, death has afforded me a new perspective. A new maturity, if you will. While my goals haven’t changed, my methodology has. That’s where you come in.”

“A mere captain of a pea shooter squadron?”

“That’s Fleet’s appraisal of your talents. Not mine.”

“No, you always called me an interfering bitch.”

“If you must quote me, please be accurate. A beautiful, interfering bitch. And now that I find I’m in need of one particular beautiful, interfering bitch, I can’t think of one better. So tell me, my angel, are you ready to leave this veritable paradise and make a pact with the ghost from Hell?”

I turned the dagger in my hand, watched the light play over the blade. I’d been willing to sell my soul earlier for a nightscope and a laser pistol. On Moabar, that would guarantee survival. But Sully was offering me more. He was offering me a way off Moabar. Freedom. On Hell’s terms, but freedom nonetheless.

I nodded, stuck my hand out. “Officer’s agreement.”

He clasped my hand firmly, then went down on one knee and brought it to his lips.

I pulled my fingers away from his mouth, angry at the invisible firemoths that seemed to dance across my skin at his touch. “This is a business deal, Sullivan.”

He sat back on his heel, grinning. “Whatever you say.”

“Damn straight.” I pushed myself to my feet, transferred the dagger to my right hand and started to let it wrap around my left wrist. Then stopped. He’d retrieved the rifle and now stood towering over me, his dark eyes glinting brightly from the lightbar in his hand.

I let my fingers close around the hilt of the dagger, kept it between us as I followed him into the forest. Maybe I’d hold onto it this way, for a while. Just in case my ghost’s good humor dissolved like mist from the moons.

Sully tabbed the lightbar down to half-power, just enough to guide us over fallen logs and rock-filled ditches. He held it low, our bodies blocking its telltale glow. I lengthened my strides to match his.

The only sounds were our footsteps crunching against the carpet of brittle twigs, the occasional slap of a branch against our jackets. His, like mine, was black, spacer-issue plain.

We slipped like shadows between the shaggy trees. It was as if I were twenty-two years old again, back in basic training, on a dirtside recon exercise. Sully moved that way too, with a cautious grace. A bright patch of moonlight cascaded through an opening in the forest canopy. As one, we edged around it.

I caught a wry, half-smile on his face. He angled his mouth down to my ear, echoing my thoughts. “Feels like boot camp.”

I hated boot camp. But it had taught me some invaluable lessons. Apparently, Sully had learned them as well—though I couldn’t remember any stint in the military on his dossier. I was about to ask where he’d trained when something glinted ahead of us, far off to the right.

Instinctively I flattened against a tree. My fingers tightened on the dagger. The lightbar blinked out as my heart rate picked up. Then my face was in Sully’s chest as he clasped me protectively. I flinched back involuntarily, surprised not only by his action, but by a rush of heat. Then it was gone and I tagged it as nothing more than adrenaline fighting against a severe lack of sleep. He pushed me to my knees, crouched down with me. He flicked the safety off the rifle, angled it up.

His left hand cupped the back of my head, drew my face against his shoulder again. “Damned redhead,” he whispered. “You glow like a jumpgate beacon. Now, hush. Be still for a moment.”

A rush of wind rattled the leaves around us. I ducked my head further down, even though I knew my hair wasn’t that red. It was dark auburn and, after three weeks on Moabar, far from glowing. I doubted the color was Sully’s real reason, anyway. I didn’t know if there was something out there he didn’t want me to see, or he was simply feeding his ego by playing hero. Either way, I wasn’t about to argue. My strange lightheadedness had returned. I needed a moment to steady myself, find focus.

His breathing was deep and even. He turned away from me, his gaze locked on something on the right. As I was hunkered down between him and the large tree, I could only see the outline of his hand on the rifle and the dark, skewed shadows of the forest floor.

“What is it?” I asked as quietly as I could. His fingers threaded into my braid as if he wanted to unravel it. Or, I realized with a blinding flash of stupidity, as if he searched for a way to get a strong and painful grip on me.

I remembered what had been on that Takan guard’s agenda and tried to jerk my head back. Then I heard it.

A wheezing noise. A crackling. The sound that tissue paper would make if it were composed of glass. And another rush of wind, air pushing past me.

My mouth suddenly went dry.

Sully shifted his weight, brought the rifle up to eye level. The faint greenish glow of the nightscope reflected back on his face.

The crackling stopped.

I smelled something foul. My stomach clenched in response. A jukor. A vicious, fanged mutant beast with the distinctive scent of rotting garbage. A breeding experiment by the M.O.C., jukors were a distorted, hideous version of ancient, imaginary soul-stealers. They’d been bred to combat the more current, very real telepathic Stolorth
Ragkirils
. The government halted the jukor experiment ten years ago, when it had become apparent the creatures couldn’t be controlled. Not like Takas.

I knew the smell because I’d had escort duty with a ship hauling a pack of jukors to be destroyed. It was a smell I’d never forget.

It was one I knew I shouldn’t be remembering now.

A long wheeze, closer. My heart thudded at the sound. It was scenting for something. Us, most likely. Or its mate. Either option was a bad one. If it chose us as prey, its powerful hind legs and winged upper forearms would make it damn near impossible to evade.

If it were scenting for a mate, it would kill any other creature in its path in its lust.

A frightening thought. If it
were
scenting for a mate, that meant jukors were alive, breeding again, for M.O.C. purposes. Perhaps even new and improved?

Either way, we were dead unless Sully killed it first. My dagger would barely be able to pierce its hide.

Fingers tugged at my scalp. He
was
unraveling my braid. I mentally questioned my ghost’s sanity and jerked my head away, frowning.

He yanked it back. His breath was hot against my ear. “Your hair wrap. I need it. Now.”

I swore silently, slapped the dagger back around my wrist then as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, unraveled the leather and fabric laces. My hair fell almost to my waist, drifting over my arms as I shoved the cords into his outstretched hand. My mind still questioned his sanity.

He thrust the rifle at me. “Keep a lock on it.”

As I brought the nightscope to my eye I caught a glimpse of Sully grabbing a stout, broken tree limb from the ground.

Two moons dotted the night sky, adding their light. The jagged form of the jukor almost jumped through the eyepiece at me. It was twenty-five feet from us. Upwind. Its long snout moved slowly side to side. I heard the crackling again as it flexed one wing. Barbed tips, like tiny razors, glinted sharp and cruel.

Its lower arms and legs were furred A hide formed of rock-hard scales covered its chest and back. Only the base of its throat was vulnerable. A soft spot, unprotected.

Damned small.

I moved the rifle slightly as it moved its head.

Sully’s hand covered mine, traded rifle for a leather and fabric-wrapped tree branch.

“It will see it, scent it.” He put the eyepiece to his eye again, the greenish glow like a small alien moon on his face.

I understood. The leather and fabric held my scent.

“Beer toss,” he said.

I understood that, too. Wasn’t a station brat in civilized space who didn’t. Old pub game.

“On three.” He adjusted his balance slightly. He’d have to move the moment the jukor sprang.

“One.” The word was a soft rustle of leaves.

I rose slowly, becoming part of the tree on my left.

“Two.”

I started my windup.

“Three.”

I hurled the branch high, arcing it upwards in the clear moonlight. The dark form lunged. Powerful wings snapped out, pushed downwards. An unbearable stench rolled toward me just as three flashes of light erupted on my right.

Sully: springing, moving, firing.

The dagger snapped into my hand. If he missed, or only wounded it, it would be here in seconds.

A roaring sound. An enormous blot of darkness descending from the air at an unbelievable rate of speed. Wings beating, fingered forelimbs yanking itself through the trees at us.

Sully, firing. “Run!”

He hadn’t hit the jukor’s throat.

I bolted sideways, headed for the thickest brush, hoping it would snag a wing, entangle an arm.

Branches whipped at my face, but the only pounding footsteps I heard were mine.

I stopped, spun about. Saw Sully drop to the ground, roll, come up firing again as the jukor’s barbed wing slashed inches from his body.

Shit! I plunged back through the trees just as the jukor roared and slammed Sully to the ground.