Unbound (19 page)

The energies
in the walls distracted his senses, interfering with the thin, gleaming strand Romir sought. He had difficulty singling out the one he wanted among all the threads of power. Asrial lay in that direction—somewhere beyond uncounted intervening barriers.

In danger.
Instinct argued the likelihood as high, the thought giving him no peace. She would not have left of her own will without informing Amin. She held her kinsman in such high regard that she would not want him to worry unduly.

He cursed her kinsman’s suspicion, understandable though it was. If Amin had sought him out earlier, the trail would not be so tangled. He tugged on the thread connecting him to his badge, the pulse of power he willed through it making it brighten temporarily.

The thread led to one of the dock arms. Unlike Eskarion 14, Lyrel 9 was easy to navigate, its corridors laid out in a discernible pattern. However, certain sections were clearly private: storerooms and the like.

Frustration bit deep into Romir with long, jagged fangs. Already, he had had to backtrack twice, faced with guards at junctions to limited access areas that lay between where he was and the weak pulse that marked Asrial’s location. His lack of familiarity with the station’s design hindered his search more than his ignorance of the ciphers on the walls. He knew where he had to go, but not which route would get him there. Not on foot. Since he did not know where his destination lay, he could not take one of those bubble cars Asrial derided.

His search would go faster if he did not have to thread his way through the station’s corridors. The thought of watchers—spies—gave him only momentary pause. Asrial was more important.

In the next pool of shadow, he misted.

The anchor that was his prison suddenly loomed large in the distance, a tangible presence in the opposite direction to where he needed to go. He could feel it tugging on his essence, a throbbing wound like a beat in his blood.

If he remained as mist, it would only grow stronger.

Until he could no longer resist its call.

 

 

Time passed with
the excruciating sluggishness of ignorance. How many hours had gone by? No sound penetrated the bulkheads. At least the engines weren’t online yet. Given the size of this spare cabin, Volsung’s ship had to be much larger than the
Castel
. His engines would need time to warm up before the ship could undock.

Asrial’s nose twitched, picking up unfamiliar odors. Not the green from hydroponics. A whiff of sweat or molds or something equally rank underlay the reek of old cleaning agents. The scrubbers in the ventilation ducts needed new filters.

She snorted at the criticism. As if she had anything to say about that. But it was better than lying there feeling sorry for herself. Self-pity was just a waste of energy. She hadn’t given up when her parents were killed; she wasn’t about to give up now. She’d get a chance to escape—or make one.

Sooner or later.

But the thought that it might be later did unpleasant things to her stomach.

Something appeared on the bulkhead before her: gas, smoke, vapor? Whatever it was, it shimmered faintly but wasn’t drawn into the ventilation grills. Asrial stared at it warily, clawing at the deck to try to drag herself away when it spread and thickened, rising up and flowing down to the floor. What now?

Before her disbelieving eyes, the vapor took form, taking on details and solidity, until Romir stood there, bare-chested, his long hair a black cape around his shoulders, once again wearing only those loose pants of his. “There you are.”

Relief flooded her at his appearance, tears welling up despite herself. She’d thought she would never see him again.

“You are injured.” He dropped to his knees beside her, outrage darkening his face and striking silver sparks in his gray eyes as he ran his hands over her.

“Got hit by a stunner.” Even now she couldn’t believe how easily Volsung had caught her. She’d walked into his trap like a clueless grounder. “I’ll be fine in a few hours.” As long as they got off this ship.

Romir wavered in her view and not just because he put an arm behind her back and raised her up. He cradled her head, supporting her when her neck proved too weak. His chest warmed her side, a welcome contrast to the cold deck. She must have been lying in the same position for hours; her muscles ached from the misery of stunner hangover. A gentle kiss on her forehead triggered more tears. He was being so careful.

Crap, she hated being so helpless. Frigging crap. And it was all her own fault.

He brushed another soft kiss across her lips, and her threadbare control snapped.

She gasped his name, incredulous at his sudden appearance, hope and fear bubbling over in a volatile brew of emotions. She heard herself repeating his name over and over like some sense-dulled idiot but couldn’t stop. She’d thought she couldn’t feel worse, but worse than lying helpless, trapped in her own body, was lying limp in the arms of her lover, unable to return his embrace. She needed to feel him against her, his familiar heat a promise of normalcy.

Romir kissed her again, this time a hot, urgent exchange that swallowed her cries. He kissed her with the desperation of a spacer down to his last bottle of air, craving more yet wanting to make it last.

She clung to his kiss, drawing on his strength as her tears spilled over. This had to be a dream. But if it was, she didn’t want to wake just yet, not and find herself still trapped, paralyzed, alone, dreading the first tremors of the engines cycling up in preparation for undocking. She poured all those fears into the kiss.

The deck shuddered.

Asrial froze, adrenaline shredding the fog of desperation. It couldn’t be. Surely it was too soon for Volsung’s crew to have been recalled. The ship couldn’t be preparing to undock already, not yet. Surely . . . ?

Holding her breath, she waited for confirmation.

Nothing followed. The silence preyed on her nerves, whispering of imminent discovery, the trap springing shut. No escape.

“Is your business here done?” The calm question shattered the humming tension that held her thoughts hostage.

What were they doing giving Volsung time to complete his plan? They had to get off the ship now while Volsung believed her to be helpless—before more of the crew returned, before it was too late.

“I-I can’t s-stand.” In truth, she could barely sit up. Her body still refused to obey her, her throat tight and inclined to stutter.

Romir slid an arm under her knees, cradling her with a gentleness that belied the fury blazing in his silver eyes. He regained his feet so smoothly she didn’t register the change, as if she lay on a floater instead of a man’s arms.

“They took my s-stunner.” She didn’t know why she said that. It would be utter stupidity to ask him to search the ship for it. But it was hers. Silly jill.

“That would be more difficult to retrieve.” A small smile tipped the corners of his mouth, the only change in his manner.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her stunner hadn’t been anything special. She could always buy another on any station. “But you’ll attract attention d-dressed like this.”

He glanced at himself, the fury in his eyes momentarily cooling with surprise. The space over his chest shimmered into a long-sleeved shirt, the loose pants becoming snug carbon silk. A heartbeat later, his hair was once again pulled back in an elaborate braid. “Now we may leave?” A look of long-suffering accompanied the question.

Asrial managed a smile. His uncharacteristic teasing was so obviously a deliberate attempt at relieving her fear that she had to respond. “Whenever you’re ready.”

In spite of the lit
Locked
indicator, the door slid aside at Romir’s approach, offering no resistance to his strange powers. The corridor was empty, but how long that would last was anyone’s guess. Her heart thundered in her ears, fluttered in her throat with every step Romir took. Any moment now one of those doors would open, and they’d be caught.

Pounding sounded from farther down—heavy pounding for it to be audible. Likely a Hagnashr.

She gasped, her hands clenching on Romir’s shirt despite herself. Like a baby, she huddled closer. As if even he could stop a stunner beam.

“Be at ease. The doors are sealed.” Romir walked on, in no apparent hurry as they passed the source of the noise. She stared over his shoulder as the pounding grew more vehement. That explained it. Hagnash had little tolerance for being locked in; she half expected the metal to buckle beneath that attack.

They reached an airlock without encountering any of the crew and no further alarms. As with other doors, the iris expanded at Romir’s approach, revealing a boarding tube to the station and safety.

He stepped through, launching them into zero grav. Stars flashed over his shoulder beyond the transparent tube, dwarfed into insignificance by the station’s and ship’s proximity. If their situation weren’t so dire with discovery imminent, she might have enjoyed floating in his arms more. As it was, fear and her body’s aches dominated her awareness.

The airlock at the other end of the tube opened on an empty corridor. The lights were off. Not just dim, but dead. The emergency strips glowed faintly, showing where the bulkheads stood but nothing more. Even the signs that depended on independent power were faint.

Powered by the docked ship, the airlock’s iris sealed shut behind them, unaffected by the outage. Unfortunately, that also meant anyone could follow them from the ship. But it looked like pursuit was the least of their problems.

Small spots of light appeared in the distance, bobbing nearer. Disgruntled mutters echoed down the dark corridor, ominous and unsettling.

“Easy f’r you to say, Red Eyes. You don’t mind caves.”

Red Eyes?
One of them was a Xer then, adapted to low-light conditions. This darkness would be no hindrance to a Xer. He’d be able to see them.

The sudden, metallic taste of blood on the tongue startled Asrial out of the trance of fear gripping her. She’d bitten her lip without knowing, the pain blending with the clamor of her aches.

“What’s to be scared of? It’s just like space. Safer, if you think of it. There’s an atmosphere.” The reply was louder, closer. The thumps of heavy boots grew louder, too—almost as loud as the pounding of her pulse.

“No, it ain’t. There be no stars. Na enough light.”

Romir walked toward the voices, seeming to float, so silent were his steps despite his burden. Asrial couldn’t hear him, though her ears strained for the first dreaded shout of discovery.

Any moment now.

Any moment . . .

Xer eyes swiveled in their direction, glowing red in the faint light of handheld lamps. “Who’s there?”

Asrial stiffened. They were outnumbered, but they couldn’t escape. Romir couldn’t make any speed carrying her.

One of the hand lamps turned their way, battling to pierce the darkness. A dark cloud swallowed the thin beam as it got closer, revealing little.

But it was enough for her to see the vapor surrounding them, thick and murky. It came from Romir, a shapeless cloud much like he’d come to her earlier. As if he spread himself thin, though the arms and chest around her felt solid.

Her heart skipped a few beats at the sight. She didn’t look down for fear of what she might see—or not see.

“Nah, nothin’ there.”

What a coward she was. Romir was using his djinn powers to hide her from the bastards who’d tried to scoop her up, and all she could think of was him floating legless? The image might be spooky, but it gave her something else to think about besides impending discovery.

“Someone’s there, I tell you.” The beam slashed around, crisscrossing the corridor. It lit the gray bulkheads with their dead lights, the sealed airlocks, the brown tiles of industrial flooring, the lamp holder’s wary companions standing in a loose circle.

Asrial darted a glance at Romir, waiting for him to do something. He only pressed his fingers over her lips, warning her to silence, as he continued down the corridor.

“Don’t hear anything.”

“Yer imagin’ things.”

She kept her eyes on Romir, clinging to his resolute expression. He betrayed no uncertainty, his confidence absolute, as he slipped past the first of the spacers. She didn’t think he would fade while he held her—physical contact seemed to give him strength. But after . . .

If he drained himself, his prison would draw him back.

And she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

As they passed the knot of arguing spacers, an airlock irised open behind them. At the hiss, hand lamps slashed the darkness, homing in on the sound.

The lights pinned the Hagnashr sporting a broken horn and bad temper. Raising a massive hand before his narrowed eyes, he broke out a freight load of swearing. “What’s the holdup? You lot lazing around still?”

“Power’s down, and Red Eyes here’s freaking.”

“I tell you—”

The Hagnashr drowned out the outraged protest. “’Nough of that. Get moving. We’re done here, and there’s work to do. Pain in the crack hatches ...”

Distance reduced the complaints to unintelligible grumbles, but Asrial didn’t breathe easily until Romir turned into another corridor and she lost sight of the spacers.

The remainder of
the walk to the
Castel
passed without incident. Romir kept to the side corridors, avoiding the bubble cars and the more brightly lit areas, even backtracking in order to do so. They eventually gained the
Castel
’s bay, still shrouded in a thick mist of anomalous darkness that extended from his body.

Asrial’s heart thundered in her ears, dread an efficient amplifier. She couldn’t imagine how much that expenditure of power cost him. His form was reminiscent of that time his prison had nearly reclaimed him. Only the solidity of the arms supporting her assured her of his continued freedom.