The Claiming

by Imogen Keeper

  “Manivietto will retaliate.”

  The thought bothered him. Draggor may have squealed to Vangeline about the tunnels, but so far, they hadn’t seen any probes. No one had gotten in, but it could be a ruse.

  “He’d have to find me first.” He disconnected and contacted Vangeline.

  She answered immediately. He could practically see her red lips, big thrusting tits. “Did you kill my lover?”

  “You know I did.”

  She tisked. “Delsanthio, I’d never have believed it of you. Taking out your own.”

  “I value loyalty.”

  “He was loyal.”

  “To me? Or to you?”

  She hummed out a laugh. “You didn’t need to kill him. He told me nothing good.”

  “And what have you passed on to Manivietto?”

  “I threw him some scraps. Enough to make him happy, keep him busy.”

  “The Yellow Palm?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Quit fucking with my business.”

  “I had no choice, Delsanthio. And you know it. His goon had a knife to my neck. I gave him just enough to make him trust me. And I have another thousand guns for you.”

  “Music to my ears. I’m sending them to an address. Leave them there. I’ll get the money to you.”

  “Happy to do business with you. And don’t forget, Delsanthio. A seat.”

  “I forget nothing.”

  If she’d given up his tunnels, she’d pay.

  30

  how does a rich-born felana

  become a gutter-rat with bite?

  “YOU ALIVE?”

  Six red-rimmed eyes stared down at her, blinking slowly. Coca junkies. One of them scratched his scrawny chest where the bones of his sternum stood out in stark relief, shadowed by the raw and burning sun. He made her look chubby.

  She closed her eyes and rolled—okay flopped—onto her back.

  “I don’t know, man. She looks dead as shit.”

  Someone guffawed. “Yeah, like those rats in the swamp. All limp.” He must have pantomimed being a dead limp rat, because his friends laughed uproariously.

  A hard-tipped shoe dug into her low back. “Yo, felana-bitch, you dead?”

  “She don’t smell dead. Smells like she’s in heat.”

  Tessa tried to wriggle her fingers and failed. Every single part of her body hurt. She opened her eyes again and immediately hissed against the blast of a too-bright light.

  One of them was a woman, a humani, with small, deep-set eyes and a crooked nose. She sniffed, showing brown teeth. “She’s alive.”

  “She’s real sick,” said the itchy guy. He had a scraggly beard and a scar across his left cheek bone.

  Tessa pulled herself upright. She was thirsty. And filthy. And she probably had a fever—judging by her too-slow train of thought. That or a concussion. Her tongue was as thick as a dry rag in her mouth and tasted of blood. She’d probably bit it on the way down. And her wrist. She cradled it against her chest.

  The itchy guy scratched his belly again. “She’s definitely in heat.” He looked at the other guy, shifting his hips in a way Tessa knew well. Guys, when they got horny, started shifting their hips like they were getting ready to fuck something.

  “Oh, fuck off,” Tessa said, pulling herself upright. There was an alleyway not too far away. Escape.

  The junkies laughed, moving in a little closer, crowding into her. “I think we could do that.”

  Normally, this might have scared her. Enough that she might have cowered, threatened them, flexed her muscles. But today—right now, she was past that. Today, she laughed.

  It unsettled them enough to back up a couple steps if not leave her alone outright. The woman looked more annoyed by her presence than turned on, but the guys looked ready to fuck her then and there.

  Tessa rose awkwardly to her feet, wincing when one of her ankles protested the weight and her wrist screamed in pain. She wrapped her other hand around the arm and took a limping step toward the one who stood between her and the alley opening.

  He didn’t move.

  She met his eyes. Up close, the white was shot through with fine lines of red, the tiny veins echoes of the lines on the junkie’s map that led her to Sanger all those days ago, like pathways leading her from one place to another. From free-felana, to fucked-felana, to broken-bitch.

  “Get out of my way.”

  He trailed a thick tongue along his teeth, a lazy smile covering his face as he dropped his gaze to her tits. “No. I think we’re going to have some fun.”

  “Seriously?”

  His grin spread. “You smell hot.”

  She gritted her teeth. “You do not want to fuck with me right now.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  She didn’t even hesitate. She just did exactly what Jonan and she had practiced a hundred times with Leyla, back in the nights when they’d laugh for hours before bed, when they lived with pride, free under a star-scattered sky. Back before he was dead and she was fucked and Leyla was destined to be the fifth wife of an old man.

  She tucked back her fingers so the heel of the palm of her good hand formed a right angle with her wrist, braced her knees, put the full weight of her strength in her core and slammed her hand up straight for his nose.

  An explosion of blood, a squawking sound, and one of the other guys cursed.

  How does a rich-born felana become a gutter-rat with a bite?

  She gets pushed too fucking far.

  The guy grabbed his nose, pitching forward. She ran back for her pillowcase bag. And while his friends were distracted helping the bloody guy with his red fountain of a nose, Tessa barreled down the alleyway, a little hitch in her stride thanks to the twisted ankle, but she was moving.

  She’d find an abandoned building somewhere, ride out the dregs of the heat, and plan.

  No one would stop her.

  Nothing would get in her way.

  She smiled and took a hard right, running at full speed.

  And ran straight into a Polizei so hard her vision darkened, she ricocheted backward and scrambled, her arms pinwheeling, trying to catch herself as she lurched backward toward the hard-unforgiving pavement.

  Sanger had said her luck had worn out.

  Evidently, he was right.

  A hand grabbed her bad wrist, hauling her up before she hit the ground, twisting so hard she saw nothing but red, and then nothing at all.

  31

  lady boss

  TODAY WAS DEBATABLY the second worst day of Tessa’s life. The day Jonan had died was the worst.

  She could almost picture the series of events that led her to this spot. Running into Sanger at the warehouse, getting his stink on her clothes. Throwing the Prime-scented shirt over the divide to irritate Leyla, the humidity in the bathhouse probably releasing extra-pungent Prime-stinking pheromones that triggered Leyla’s heat to set in a few hours early. Then going to the Yellow Palm, him following her. Going to the Night Market, plummeting into heat in the middle of everything. Holing up in Sanger’s bed, fucking him like the world was ending and his cock was the only thing keeping tomorrow at bay.

  And then today.

  She opened her eyes to find herself cuffed and seated on a sidewalk, leaning against a hover, a heartbeat pounding a sullen beat in the probably-broken wrist cuffed behind her back. Her neck burned. Maybe she’d scraped it?

  Today was the day she found out she’d been fucking her mortal enemy. The day she found out her mom didn’t love her. The day she rolled down a hill, maybe broke her wrist, and beat up a junkie—that part hadn’t been so bad. The day she got caught by the Polizei and been injected with a tracker. That shit hurt. The day she would be handed over to her brother and sold. Probably to a fat old man with bad breath who she’d have to have sex with.

  Gross.

  She couldn’t do it. She knew herself.

  She’d mouth off. She’d say the wrong thing. She’d laugh at his flapping nutsack and eventually he’d have no
choice but to conserve his pride and beat her to death.

  She sucked in a breath. It seemed fair, really. It was her fault she and Jonan and Leyla ran off, her fault he died, her fault Leyla went into the heat early. All of it. Maybe her mother was right and she was inherently unlovable.

  The Polizei closest to her smelled like some kind of mushroom and had a nose that looked like it had been punched flat a few times. He grinned at her, all cocky and smug, like he was thinking up some kind of clever commentary on her predicament.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  “You want some dick, felana”

  “From you? No, please. Vaniiya, I’d rather die.”

  His brows lowered.

  “Seriously man, I’d rather fuck those junkies back there. They smelled better.”

  He took a menacing step toward her, but his partner laughed.

  “Back off, Praggit. She’s the sister of the High Consular. Don’t mess with her.” This one didn’t smell like mushrooms, and his nose was smooth. “His personal guard will be here in a few minutes. Don’t fuck with her.”

  She shivered, her stomach twisting and spasming. She’d left Sanger too soon.

  Praggit didn’t stop leering at her, seeming to have a hard time deciding if he wanted to ogle her tits or her face most, shuffling his feet, breathing heavy, licking his lips. He looked like a stud-grazer getting ready to mount a fat heifer.

  She forced herself to put weight on her ankle, rising awkwardly without the use of her hands, and sidled closer to the other one.

  “I think my wrist is broken.”

  Neither reacted.

  “Can you take off my cuffs? Just for a second so I can check? Manivietto won’t be happy if he hears I was mistreated.”

  Again, they just ignored her. She wasn’t getting out of the cuffs until they took them off, probably as they led her straight to the bed of her brother’s closest associate.

  A slash of cramping pain shot through her low belly and she winced.

  “Are you in pain, felana?” The not-mushroomy Polizei’s eyes went liquid. “I could help you.” He trailed his thumb up and down on the scanner he held. “A quick fuck in the hover before we take you in for processing. Take the edge off.”

  “Make that two quick fucks,” blurted Praggit, still a belligerent beast.

  Tessa rolled her eyes to hide her fear. If they wanted to, they could do just that, she wouldn’t be able to stop them. Not with her hands behind her back. “I spent the last four days with the closest thing to a god I’ve ever seen on this planet. Pure perfect Prime. Do you know what humanis smell like to felanas?”

  They both looked stumped.

  “Shit,” she said, her face as earnest as she could make it. “You both smell like shit.”

  Actually, Praggit smelled like mushrooms, and the other like nothing much. Detergent, deodorant, soap, a little man sweat. But it served its purpose. The both stepped away from her, their nostrils flaring as they tried to smell themselves.

  “I don’t fucking smell.” Praggit looked more belligerent than ever. His cheeks washed bright red. “You say one more word, you little bitch, and I—”

  A throat cleared, drawing all their eyes.

  A big guy stepped out of the shadows. Almost as tall as Sanger. He had a bald head, a sleeveless shirt, and biceps bigger than Tessa’s head. She knew him. The guy from Sanger’s basement. The guy from the warehouse. The Boss’s Bald Guy. His number two. His partner in strangulation.

  “I wouldn’t finish that statement,” he said lazily, around the toothpick between his teeth.

  “Why’s that?” asked Praggit, rounding off, mouth pinched tight, the picture of a posturing male.

  “She’s not Manivietto’s. Not anymore. She just got claimed. By the Boss himself.”

  Tessa almost laughed at the look on Praggit’s face, but she was too busy trying to decide if this was better or worse than going to Manivietto.

  Better, she decided. At least Sanger was good in bed. And he smelled like sexy candy.

  The claiming thing might pose a problem later. If he really felt that connected to her, he’d be hard to escape. But for now, he was the lesser of two evils.

  She sidled over toward the bald guy. His nostrils flared slightly in her direction.

  “She’s in custody. I don’t give a shit what the Boss says.” Praggit jerked a thumb at the bald guy. It was a weird gesture, unnatural looking, like he was mimicking jerking off or something. “We’re taking her in.”

  The bald guy smiled, licked his lips, and from the mouth of the alley behind him, melted an army. Ten, maybe fifteen guys, dressed in black, looking dark and dangerous. They moved like Sanger, but unlike him, they were strapped-up. Leather crossed their chests, knives gleaming.

  There was a woman among them with purple hair, a smirk, and a knife held loose in her fingers.

  It was the first time Tessa had seen the Boss play a hand like this. Usually he was a whisper in the dark, a myth, operating behind closed doors, his numbers a mystery, but this, this was serious. He was making an announcement to the whole city here. This was a showdown against the Polizei. He was starting a war. Over her.

  There was a cough from the other side of the hover. Tessa turned to look. Twenty more men stood there, dressed just like the bald guy, an army of black-clothed men, scarred, tattooed, hardened. There were three women mixed in the ranks too.

  Praggit deflated. His shoulders just went limp, like a child who’s been deprived of a coveted toy.

  The bald guy grinned, all white teeth and strut, as he reached out a hand. “The cuff opener?”

  Mutely the other Polizei handed it over. There was a dull clink, and the cuffs popped open.

  The bald guy held out a big palm, gesturing down the street. “Shall we, Lady Boss?”

  Okay, she had to admit, that sounded kind of cool. Lady Boss.

  But still, she had to try. “Any chance you’d reconsider taking me back to Sanger.”

  His brows drew together.

  “I don’t care if he claimed me o—”

  He bared his teeth. “Silence.”

  That was when she realized her mistake. She’d used his name.

  The Boss’s identity in Didgermmion was officially no longer a mystery.

  32

  that you would even

  compare the two

  tells me everything

  SANGER’S WRIST BUZZED. He nodded an apology at the informant he’d been talking to and glanced down. Shane.

  “Yes.”

  “Got her.”

  In front of the informant, he wouldn’t give in to the relief. So, he kept his face composed. “Good.”

  “Not good. They’ve got your name now. She let it slip.”

  “Sanger?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Fuck.” Sanger was the name of the ex-commander of Tamminia, the bastard of the Roq. Manivietto would remember raping his wives. Killing them. It was the reason he kept his identity secret, rarely showed his face. Manivietto would know it was personal now.

  “Pretty much,” Shane said succinctly.

  “Take her to my room in the tunnels, I’ll be there in eight minutes.”

  “There’s one other thing. She got a neck tracker. The Polizei put it in her.”

  Sanger chewed on the inside of his lower lip.

  It actually served his purposes well. A Tessa who was afraid of being tracked by Manivietto if she put her head above the surface was a Tessa who was less likely to escape. “Make sure she doesn’t cut it out.”

  Shane hissed out a laugh.

  Sanger nodded his head at the older humani man who’d been telling him about a group of junkies he’d seen with a felana an hour ago, and handed over a stack of yenna. This man had been one of his most devoted informants. “Keep your head down for a few days.”

  It was as close to a warning as he’d get.

  With that, he set off toward the Night Market, contacting Freysa on the way. “I ha
ve to go underground temporarily. If you need me, leave a message. I’ll check in every few hours.”

  “Got it.”

  Then he contacted Tor.

  His brother answered with a terse, “What?”

  Sanger raised a brow. “Bad time?”

  “Make it fast.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “None of your business, migane.”

  Not for the first time, it occurred to Sanger to wonder just what did happen when an Argenti woman and a Vestige Prime got together.

  “I can hear you thinking,” Tor said, his voice hoarse. “Stop.”

  “Is Klym sucking your dick right now?”

  “I’m going to pretend you never said that.”

  “Does she go into heats?”

  “Move on.”

  “How often.”

  “She doesn’t have fucking heats. She’s from Argentus.”

  “So, what does happen?”

  “Why do you care?”

  He couldn’t really come up with a good answer to that. “Idle curiosity.”

  “I give no shits about your idle curiosity. I answered because I figured you had news.”

  “I do.”

  “Then fucking tell me so I can get back to—”

  There was a long, distinctly Klym-sounding hum, that had Sanger even more confused. “—to idle curiosity?”

  Tor laughed like he was in pain. “Something like that.”

  Sanger turned left down the boulevard that ran straight up to the Night Market, and the tunnel-access beneath them.

  “My name’s been compromised.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a woman. I told her my real name.” A fact he couldn’t bring himself to regret. Those days he spent wedged between her thighs would have sucked if she’d been chanting any name but his. “She used it in front of Polizei.”

  The thick pause carried all the weight of Tor’s understanding, a strange experience. Tor had been gone their entire adult life. He barely knew the man he’d become. They’d been kids together. Then young men together. Bloodied together. Fought together at Punt-Rayabad. There was a bond there despite the gap of Tor’s ten-year escape from Tammin. It wasn’t unpleasant.