Ren

by Starr Huntress

  “You are awfully small for a Mahdfel,” she said in a decisive tone.

  Ren lifted the hem of his shirt to display the clan mark tattooed on his skin. Her eyes went wide with recognition. Immature? Yes. Satisfactory? Very much so.

  “If I am not, then my mother deceived my father,” he said.

  They arrived at the airlock. Pashaal raised her hand to the control panel, then paused. “You must understand that Emmarae signed a contract with me. She is my employee for another fifteen months.”

  “Then I will purchase the remaining contract.” He named a figure.

  Pashaal’s brows rose. “Generous, but I am about to embark on a long journey. It is difficult to replace staff while traveling.”

  “She is my mate. She belongs with me.”

  “Yes, no one is disputing that fact.”

  “You cannot keep her from me. The treaty states—”

  “The terms of the treaty clearly state that such contracts and other obligations are dissolved once a match occurs. After is… murky.”

  He did not like the way she stretched out the sentence, or the way her brows rose, as if expecting Ren to plea or bargain for his mate.

  “Negotiable,” she added.

  Did the female want a bribe? No, she was on the Council and would phrase it behind legal-sounding words like fair compensation or recompense.

  “This is more complex than I expected. I am only a mechanic,” he said and lifted his tool kit as proof of his lack of an ulterior motive or subterfuge.

  “We will discuss this after dinner, yes?” She nodded, the decorative horn chains jingling with the motion. “I cannot wait to hear your story. I am such a romantic at heart.”

  The airlock opened onto the station docking bay, and Pashaal nearly shoved Ren down the ramp.

  He had a few hours to prepare.

  “We have a change in plans,” he said into his comm, heading to his ship to scrub himself clean and change into proper attire, whatever that meant.

  “There was a plan?” Havik replied, which Ren ignored. Havik was not amusing.

  “Yes. Inform Zalis that the bots have been deployed. He can remotely run the decryption programs.”

  “And you are unable to do this task because?”

  “What is proper attire for dinner with a Sangrin Council member?” Ren asked, ignoring another question.

  “Armor. White or a light gray, to better display the blood of your enemies. Several weapons on display and a succession of blades in diminishing size to be hidden on your person,” Havik answered with surprising speed.

  “Interesting, but let us pretend that this is not a Rolusdreus drama where everyone dies at the end,” he replied.

  “Those are the only good ones. The others are dull. Too much standing around discussing sand.”

  “Sand is a metaphor. Have you no culture?” He knew he should not have watched a classic Rolusdreus drama with Havik. The male missed the point of the story.

  As it happened, Ren did not need the armor after all.

  Chapter 6

  Emry

  She could always use poison.

  No. Poisoning her boss would be wrong. Sort of.

  Emry leaned against the galley kitchen’s long counter, every available surface in use, and could not believe she had to convince herself that poisoning her boss was wrong.

  Even if Pashaal had it coming.

  Sure, a contract was a contract, but Ren offered to pay twice the contract’s worth. Emry lurked around to eavesdrop on their conversation and was stunned at Pashaal’s refusal to sell her contract. Emry had only worked for Pashaal for a few months, but other staff told her when she arrived that the only thing Pashaal loved more than herself was money. Sure, Pashaal talked a good game about loyalty and frequently lavished her employees with gifts, but they were all to make herself appear generous and wealthy.

  So why hold on to Emry’s contract? She didn’t believe Pashaal’s thin excuse of it being too difficult to hire staff while traveling. Pashaal’s ship cycled through staff constantly, whether docked or in transit.

  If Pashaal wouldn’t let Emry go, then clearly, she needed to be poisoned.

  Or maybe just impaired. Beyond the fact that Emry had little practical knowledge of poison beyond old mystery novels, poisoning her food was just an insult to her profession. Emry had never served tainted food or given anyone food poisoning, and she wasn’t about to start.

  Recreational drugs? She had no idea where to start. A space station that saw lots of traffic seemed a likely place. Lots of people needing to stay awake. Lots of people looking for a good time or to take the edge off. Still, she had no idea where to start other than to awkwardly ask, “Do you know where I could purchase some drugs? Not for me. For my boss.”

  Nope. Not happening.

  Alcohol?

  There was an idea. Pashaal moderated her drinking while she plied her guests with glass after glass, then took advantage of them at the card table.

  It would be unethical to double the amount of booze in the evening’s cocktails.

  Pashaal entered the kitchen and surveyed the trays ready to be served. “Wonderful. So appetizing, but you are not wearing your costume.”

  Emry stood up straight, aware that her hair needed to be brushed and put back into order. While she didn’t appreciate Pashaal referring to her chef’s coat as a costume, she understood her meaning. Emry needed to be dressed to impress and could do with a shower too before the guests arrived.

  “With the heat malfunctioning, I didn’t want to ruin it with sweat,” she said.

  Pashaal wrinkled her nose. “Yes. That is good thinking. Make sure you have enough time to make yourself presentable. Appearances matter.” She paused, scrutinizing Emry. “You should wear something special. An ornament, I think.”

  “That’s really not practical. Jewelry catches—”

  “Nonsense. I will lay out a selection in my cabin. Take your pick,” Pashaal said, already out the door.

  So jewelry isn’t up for discussion.

  Emry finished in the kitchen before making herself presentable. A cold shower helped clear her mind, and she found a tray of trinkets on Pashaal’s bureau.

  Rings were a hard pass. Nothing took off fingers like getting a ring caught on something hot and sharp. Bracelets? No. Long, dangling chain necklaces?

  Emry selected a choker with a black onyx pendant short enough to not get in the way when she worked.

  Until recently, Emry hadn’t questioned Pashaal’s extravagant spending or conspicuous consumption. She hadn’t questioned the guests who needed to be wined and dined or the need for discretion. If the business deals were shady, Emry was paid not to care.

  When had she become so crass and selfish? She couldn’t pretend she had a change or heart or reached a new level of personal enlightenment. She only cared now because Pashaal couldn’t give Emry the thing she needed. She was bad as Pashaal.

  Alcohol. It had to be booze.

  Disgusted with herself, Emry sliced fruit to go in a light, summery mixed drink. She’d pour pitchers of the stuff down Pashaal’s throat if necessary and then…

  Fine, the plan got fuzzy at that point. Appeal to Pashaal’s sentiment?

  Because that went so well earlier.

  Emry dumped the fruit into a pitcher. The details didn’t matter. She’d think of something. She was leaving with Ren, and they would find Gemma.

  There was no other option.

  Ren

  Ren wore a white suit with a ribbon of black fabric tied around his neck. He felt ridiculous. The vented back of the jacket allowed room for his tail, but that was the only positive thing to say about the outfit. The shoulders were too tight. Fabric strained, the seams fit to burst at any moment.

  Murder Mittens sniffed the hem of the trousers, then hissed.

  “I concur. This is an injustice, but formal attire is required.”

  If the feline had opinions about his sacrifice, she kept them to herself.
<
br />   He scratched under her chin and behind her ears. “Kill many rodents while I am away. You will not even notice my absence.”

  * * *

  All eyes watched him when he arrived on the ship. Ren recognized faces from his reports—Pashaal’s business contacts. Some were more legitimate than others. Some strayed into questionable territory but stayed on the side of legality. Barely. Each held extraordinary wealth. Each was known for excess.

  Ren found the best position to monitor the location. The crowd murmured with gossip.

  “Is this him? A real Mahdfel?”

  “I don’t know what I was expecting. Someone more impressive?”

  “I thought they were fed growth enhancements as children? He seems ordinary.”

  They said nothing he had not heard before. Their words were only words. He refused to allow overindulgent magnates to rattle him.

  Still, he did not enjoy being the center of attention. It went against the mandate of the mission. He was meant to place the device and leave before detection.

  No contacting his mate.

  No dinner parties with the pampered elite.

  No drawing unnecessary attention.

  The mission could be salvaged if Pashaal believed he sought his mate, nothing else. Taking Emmarae from the older female had to happen, and not simply because of the mission. He couldn’t let his mate go a second time. The first time had been an unpleasant necessity. He’d make Emmarae understand.

  Somehow.

  His mate signaled him from a doorway.

  “Hey,” she said as he approached. She peered over his shoulder. He did not need to know they were being observed.

  “Very nice. Very James Bond.” Emmarae’s voice had an appreciative tone as she ran her hand along the jacket collar.

  He frowned.

  She bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, James Bond is a fictional character.”

  “I am aware of 007.” He had watched the films while Thalia lectured on all the espionage mistakes. More than the random explosions and the lack of subtlety, Ren disliked the way the male mated with a different female in every film. “The likeness is purely superficial. I am not James Bond,” he said, needing Emmarae to understand.

  “Well, I just felt that you needed to know you looked nice.”

  “Yes?” His tail perked at the praise. “You find this attractive?”

  “A well-fitting suit with all these buttons? Yeah.” She touched the cuff of his jacket. “It’s very attractive.”

  “Hmm. The garments hinder my range of motion. They are uncomfortable, but your praise makes them tolerable. That is strange.”

  His mate glanced back over her shoulder, checking for unseen threats. “I, um, heard you offer to buy out my contract.”

  “Yes. She refused, but I am not deterred.”

  “Just so you know, I may have doubled the alcohol in the cocktails.”

  “My metabolism will not be impaired.”

  His mate sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Look, Pashaal likes to play cards and gamble. And she likes to make a big deal of herself. And she’s a little more drunk than normal, so…”

  Her voice trailed off, waiting for him to finish the thought.

  “Take advantage of her intoxication,” he said, approving of his mate’s guile.

  A smile spread across her face, pulling the scar tissue tight and twisting her lips.

  He liked her smile.

  “I’m serving the meal soon. Bon appétit.” She rocked up on her toes, an expectant look on her face.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She stood there, waiting. For what, he did not know. With a disappointed sigh, she left.

  The meal was an extravagance, rich food, fine wine, and self-important people filling the void with meaningless prattle. One male, the one who decorated himself in silver chains, talked at length about nothing. Emmarae periodically appeared at the table to announce a dish. Whenever her eyes caught his, she’d blush and look away.

  Pashaal loved the drama of it, of the reunited lovers. “Tell me everything. I want to know.”

  Ren said the minimum number of words to placate the female. He was not interested in a conversation. He tuned out the noise and focused on the meal his mate prepared. Every bite was perfect. The rest of the experience he could do without.

  He had suffered through several banquets on Rolusdreus. The warlord enjoyed spectacles. He’d gather the clan together for some petty reason, a holiday, or an anniversary of a notable achievement. Course after course of decadent food arrived. Wine flowed. Confections and concoctions filled the tables. With each new delicacy, tension melted away. Perhaps this was not a trick. Perhaps the warlord merely wished to celebrate. The guests lowered their defenses.

  Every time.

  Invariably, the warlord revealed the true reason for the banquet. Some warriors required discipline or the clan needed a reminder not to defy the warlord. Kaos always found a reason for new acts of cruelty.

  Whether Ren had an invitation to the banquets depended on the flavor of cruelty.

  If the warlord wanted to make a point of his generosity, he made a show of allowing Ren, a defective male, to remain in the clan.

  If he wanted to humiliate a warrior, Kaos demanded that the warrior earn their place and defend the weakest member of the clan. Or prove their worth by defeating the weakest member of the clan. Or prove that they were more loyal than the weakest member of the clan. The result was the same: Ren’s humiliation.

  “You seem lost in thought, warrior,” Pashaal said. “No doubt anticipating the reunion with your mate.” The older woman gave a knowing smile that soured Ren’s stomach.

  “Apologies. I was remembering the last time I was invited to such a grand banquet.”

  “Oh? Do tell me all the details.” She held up a wine glass, indicating for a refill.

  “It is not for polite conversation.”

  “Sounds scandalous. Even better.”

  The female did not want to hear the sordid details, but something in her smug expression irritated him.

  “The last time I was invited to a banquet, I had to mutilate a male.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, and he spat them out as quickly as possible.

  The table fell silent. Emmarae held a tray of bite-sized morsels, her eyes wide with surprise.

  Ren took a long swallow of the wine, the acidic flavor chasing away some of his disgust. He much preferred water, even though he did not worry about keeping a clear head. His metabolism processed alcohol too quickly to feel any effects. He simply disliked the taste.

  “You must explain yourself,” Pashaal said, her words slurring slightly. “That sounds like too good a story to miss.”

  “My past is not a story for your entertainment.” Ren stood from the table, no longer remembering why this dinner was necessary. He planted the device. He contacted his mate, despite efforts to avoid that complication. He could carry Emmarae off, and no one could stop him.

  Yes. Do that, the feral part of his mind whispered. Then he would not need to wear uncomfortable garments, even if his mate said it made him look like James Bond.

  His mate appeared behind his shoulder. “Is that why you sent me away?” She whispered her question, soft enough for only his ears.

  Moving unconsciously, his tail knocked against her shins.

  He twisted in his seat to face his mate. If he shared this tale, he would only share it with her.

  “A male in the clan, a younger warrior, committed an offense. I do not recall the specifics. The warlord was capricious, orders changing on a whim. It was too easy for a warrior to find himself on the wrong side of the warlord’s ire.” Ren took another drink, aware of the eyes on him. He focused on his mate. “I am the only son of the warlord’s most trusted warrior, but I was a source of disappointment. The warlord declared the clan did not have the resources to support two disappointments.”

  Another drink. There was not enough wine in the sector to banish the sound of dishes ratt
ling, of glasses knocked to the ground, and a table crashing under the weight of two males fighting for their lives.

  “His two worst warriors were commanded to fight. The survivor won his right to remain in the clan.”

  His audience sat in stunned silence.

  “I don’t understand,” Emmarae said, her face pale. The melanin dots on the bridge of her nose stood in stark contrast. “Why not just leave? Why didn’t you both leave?”

  “Running away is not honorable. A warrior must face his challenges,” he said, knowing his words were inadequate. He reached for her. She stepped back, evading his touch, and his gut lurched.

  “Did you kill him? You must have. You were the survivor,” she said.

  “I broke his tusks.” Ren had tossed the bloodied bone fragments onto the warlord’s plate. The male had not even paused in his feasting to watch the struggle. The broken tusks were swept aside as worthless because Ren used a shell cracker to pry them out of his opponent’s jaw instead of using his bare hands.

  “What the fucking hell?” Emmarae muttered. “That’s why I couldn’t stay?”

  “I did leave. I have told you this.” He held out a hand. She shuffled forward, like a timid creature, uncertain of his intentions. “It was not safe for you there.”

  She nodded as she finally understood. His actions had been a necessary cruelty to spare her greater harm.

  “Where did you say you’re from again?” The question cut across the room, shattering the fragile connection he had with his mate. The ridiculous male in the ornate decorations leaned forward on his elbows, intrigued.

  Emmarae stepped back and busied herself collecting an empty tray. “The dessert course is coming up. We have fresh strawberries and cream.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Pashaal said.

  More wine. More sweet morsels.

  Ren did not understand how anyone could consume food in such quantities without making themselves ill. Every guest at the table gorged themselves like it was their final meal before a battle. They devoured not to nourish their bodies but to experience the pleasure of it while they could.