The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5)

Home > Other > The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5) > Page 19
The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5) Page 19

by Valerie J Mikles


  “I need to go to Kemah. I need to make sure he’s okay,” Danny said, scratching his cheek.

  Alex broke into a relieved smile, glad that Danny had finally suggested going someplace besides Clover or church. “I think we can get you to Kemah.”

  A buzzing sound made both of them tense, and then Danny pulled a Virp from his front pocket.

  “News alert?” Alex asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you were going to turn that off,” Alex said, putting a hand over the device, but not taking it.

  “I turned off most of the notifications. Just not anything to do with Tray,” Danny said, looking seriously at Alex. “He left the hospital a half hour ago. Dressed to the nines. He has walking crutches.”

  The fact that he reported the news with his eyes on Alex said that he’d been sneaking peeks at the feed before this buzz came.

  “No mecha-legs? That’s a really quick recovery for someone who’s been shot in the leg,” Alex said.

  “In the hip,” Danny said, his lips curling in a relieved smile. “Do you think Coro can get a micro-runner into Clover?”

  “I’m not going to ask. He might for you. Did you ever know Coro when you were alive?” Alex asked.

  Danny shook his head.

  “Try going on foot first,” Alex suggested. “Ketlin didn’t stop Tray from coming into Clover, and they’re not going to stop you.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, and Danny considered the suggestion. The past few days, he’d become more open to guidance, and being on the Cadence, they were far enough from the feel of the city that he’d relaxed some. Last night, Danny had woken Jennifer at three in the morning, raving that his stepfather was going to kill Tray. When Danny was a teen, Steven Hale had driven him from the house, threatening to harm on Tray if Danny ever tried to make contact. The past decade, he’d been telling Alex it was because the man resented and hated him. The past three days, it was because Steven Hale was trying to protect him from associating with Vimbai because the crime boss had marked Danny for death.

  “Danny, turn off the news reports. They stress you out,” Alex said, covering the projection when he saw Danny’s face pale.

  “Tray,” Danny whispered, surrendering the device. Alex skimmed the story; saw the video of the car trundling through the crowd, then the chemical attack, and the fire.

  “He’s supposed to be safe,” Danny whispered, his voice high-pitched and strained. “I didn’t make contact. I promise.”

  “He’s got people protecting him,” Alex reassured. “Look, there’s Saskia shooting up the crowd.”

  “Vimbai is killing him,” Danny said. “In public, so everyone knows.”

  “This is more Ketlin’s style,” Alex said, though knowing that didn’t make watching the attack any easier.

  “It’s not fair that he dies and I live. It’s not fair,” Danny said, fisting the front of his shirt.

  “Danny, he’s not dead,” Alex said. The gates to the Vimbai fortress closed. There was an explosion inside, but no plume of smoke. The news drone flew high, getting an aerial view of the mansion, then zooming in. The car was in tact, with burn marks, but no impact damage. A man on the ground aimed a weapon at the drone and the feed cut. The news reporter came back, narrating as the footage looped.

  Alex’s Virp buzzed and he tapped his Feather. “Jen, we just saw.”

  “About Amanda?” she asked.

  Alex’s heart leapt in his throat. Every day they left Amanda in the hospital was a struggle. “What about Amanda?”

  “She disappeared from her hospital room,” Jennifer said. “They won’t tell me more. The Enn say she might be dead.”

  “But they don’t have a body,” Alex panted, looking at Danny. “Are you home? She might run there if she got out.”

  “At work. Alex, it’s only been three days. She’s probably still delusional,” Jennifer said, her voice shaking as she fought for control.

  “I’ll get Danny home in case she runs there,” Alex said. Danny was only hearing his half of the conversation, but he seemed to get the gist. Alex pressed his lips together, trying to be brave, hating himself for trusting the safety of the psych ward.

  Danny tottered on his feet, using the handrails for balance as he left the bridge, but rather than going down the stairs, he passed into the engine room.

  “Danny?” Alex asked.

  Danny opened a locker and sifted through the fire-suppression supplies inside.

  “What are you looking for?” Alex asked, touching his shoulder.

  “Corey.” Danny dropped to his knees in front of the locker and clasped his hands behind his head, pain radiating from his penitent posture. “They shouldn’t have to die for me.”

  “What is this?” Tray cried, his hand hovering over the sticky stain on his shirt. The man who carried him inside hadn’t been gentle, but Tray was grateful for the assist. They stopped in the entryway of the house, which had a few wood-carved chairs, but no couch to lie on.

  Ayize lay in the middle of the foyer, groaning and trembling, but yielding to Morrigan’s ministrations.

  “Don’t touch it. Smells like Blaze,” Morrigan warned, holding a hand toward Tray to show she was speaking to him, though her eyes never left her patient.

  “Is it toxic?” Tray asked, resting his arm on the nearest chair, his head on his arm. Saskia sat nearby, bringing her skirt up to clean her skin.

  “It’s a narcotic. Usually a powder. I’ve never seen it in gel form,” Morrigan said.

  “I guess Ketlin found a way to weaponize it,” Tray sighed, tugging at his shirt, feeling tingles where the goo had seeped through the material and come into contact with his skin.

  “Zara, help him get that shirt off. It’ll absorb right through the skin,” Morrigan ordered.

  Saskia blinked and rubbed her brow, then scooted closer to Tray.

  “I can undress myself,” Tray muttered, though his hands were shaking from residual adrenaline.

  “You nearly busted a stitch getting into this suit,” Saskia said, pushing the vest off his shoulders.

  “It’s on your hands,” Tray said, catching her wrist, using his vest to wipe away the substance.

  “Ayize. It’s all over his face. Is he going to be okay?” Demissie Zenzele worried, biting his fingernail as he paced into the foyer. He was a lanky black man with close-cropped hair and a smooth-shaved face. His silver tunic and fingerless gloves matched Morrigan’s pantsuit, and the fresh whiskey in his hands showed how he dealt with the stress, even though he’d been safely harbored in the house.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how to get it off without igniting it,” Morrigan said, going to a rustic, painted green cabinet, and unlocking it with a physical key.

  “Igniting?” Tray repeated, kicking away his goo-stained garments.

  “That’s the whole lure of Blaze,” Morrigan said, collecting medicine and tools from the cabinet. “It smokes when it comes into contact with the saliva in your mouth. Sweat too much and it’ll smoke on your skin.”

  That was what had started the fire in the car.

  “Morrigan!” Demissie cried, pointing to Ayize.

  The man’s trembling had become uncontrollable, and little wisps of smoke formed around his eyes and lips. Morrigan quickly snapped on a pair of gloves and knelt by her patient.

  “Sorry about this,” she whispered, injecting Ayize with something.

  “What? What is that?” Demissie pestered, biting his nails, then refilling his drink.

  “Detox. It’ll counter the narcotic, but not the chemical reaction of the burn. It’ll help.” Morrigan had compartmentalized and suppressed her fear to the point where her lack of concern terrified Tray. Using a medical spatula, she gingerly scraped the gel from Ayize’s face, starting near the eyes and lips. “Tray, Zara, how big a hit did you take?”

  “She got more on her skin than I did,” Tray said, worried about how glassy Saskia’s eyes had become. “I’m mostly hurting from all
the physical exertion.”

  “Pain is a good sign,” Morrigan assured. “Zara?”

  “I don’t want Detox,” Saskia said, scratching at her skin, leaving red marks. The stuff that was on her hadn’t turned to smoke, yet.

  “Morrigan, it’s on you, too,” Demissie pointed out, squatting next to his sister, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m fine. I have… I took a Detox tab, just to be safe,” she said, a hint of emotion cracking her stoic mask. Although, she didn’t look scared like she had when they left the hospital; she looked guilty. “Dem, get Zara to her room so she can lie down. Tray—”

  “I want to see Hero,” Tray said, wondering why he hadn’t seen the boy already. His son must have heard the shouting and the chaos when the car arrived.

  “You’re going to lie down and recover first,” Morrigan ordered.

  “Then I’ll stay with S—Zara,” Tray decided.

  “Dem, can you bring me some flour. I have an idea.” Morrigan frowned as she turned Ayize’s face. Then she looked at the ceiling, keeping the tears locked behind her eyes. “We’re going to get through this. No one’s going to die today.”

  23

  In Tray’s memory, the Zenzele house was akin to a haunted mansion. They were the creepy neighbors that would steal him from his father and cook him in a stew. When Tray had been kidnapped and held for ransom as a teenager, he’d been sure he was tied up in the Zenzele’s secret torture room. Now that Tray was in the Zenzele house, he could see that his father had lied.

  Even when Tray had retaken his place at the Matthews estate and flaunted the Vimbai title to get ahead, he’d been wary of associating with the Zenzele family. That sinister aura was gone. Seeing Demissie worry over his family, bite his nails, and babble in ways unbecoming an aristocrat, it stirred a memory of the two of them playing together as little boys, making mischief around the hilltop that their homes shared.

  Saskia and Tray had been assigned rooms in the guest wing on the main floor. Contrary to Tray’s imaginings, the inside of the Zenzele home was spacious and bright, with cathedral ceilings and an abundance of windows and skylights. Tray’s room fit a king-sized bed with room to spare. The room had cherry-stained wainscoting, and the walls were decorated with modern art. In one corner, there was a counter with a sink and mini-cooler, meaning Tray didn’t have to go to the main kitchen to get a snack. The attached bathroom was bigger than Tray’s quarters on Oriana, and had a jetted tub.

  Saskia lay in the bed on top of the covers, a robe flung over her body to replace the dainty dress she’d shed. The skin on her arm was powdered with off-white flour, which had absorbed the moisture and rendered the gel into gummy flakes that were easy to clear away. The narcotics had knocked her out, and Tray kept a hand over her heart, paranoid it would stop if he let go.

  Morrigan knocked on the door, then let herself in. She’d changed into a soft, warm sweater and let her hair down. Her eyes were lined with concern.

  “How is Ayize?” Tray asked.

  “Resting,” she replied, wiping her dry eyes. “At least we’re here. We’re safe.”

  “I should have stayed at the hospital,” Tray lamented.

  “We had to come home eventually,” she said, her expression neutral. Sitting on the far side of the king bed, she leaned over to check on Saskia. Her medical Virp did a quick scan, then projected the results.

  “How bad is this stuff?” Tray asked.

  Morrigan shrugged, manipulating the virtual display. “She’ll wake up hungry. I don’t know how concentrated a hit the gel gives, but unless they put something in there besides the Blaze, there shouldn’t be any lasting side effects from a single dose. She didn’t want Detox, so…”

  “Should we give it to her anyway to be safe?” Tray asked.

  “If Ketlin wanted us dead, Detox wouldn’t do a damn thing,” Morrigan said, taking a shaky breath. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad, considering,” Tray said. She tapped his shoulder and he rolled onto his back letting her do a scan. “Look, clearly I’m not suffering narcotic effects and I want to meet my son. I want him to know I’m okay.”

  “Tray, he doesn’t know you exist,” she replied, shutting down her Virp.

  “Then let me change that. Can you bring him here?” Tray persisted.

  Morrigan shook her head. “You have to come with me. Walk. Upstairs. He doesn’t have free run of the house.”

  “He’s locked up?” Tray asked, jerking upright, then clutching his side as a sharp pain hit.

  “For his own protection. Sikorsky broke into the property. After the funeral.” She choked on the word, then broke into tears. “He must have said something to Hero about getting him back to his mom, because Hero has been trying to run away ever since.”

  “I don’t need a chaperone. Just tell me where he is,” Tray begged. “And then you should get some rest. You’ve been through a lot, too.”

  As much as Tray feared the walking crutches, he needed them to get upstairs. After being shot and bedridden the last ten days, his legs were not eager to take on the load, and his arms weren’t much stronger. He had to stop twice on the stairs to rest, and then again outside the door. This part of the house matched the dark, sinister feel he’d always associated with Zenzele. He didn’t expect to find Hero beaten senseless and hanging from a meat hook, but somehow he didn’t feel there was that much difference when strangers took you from the life you knew and kept you locked in a room.

  Tray unlocked the door—this one also used a physical key—and let himself into the room. A single nightlight lit the room and the shades were drawn over the window. Tray used a dimmer control to bring up the overhead light. There was a desk set up by the window, but the top had been cleared and a smattering of art supplies, trinkets, and broken electronics littered the floor around it. The plush toys had been ripped apart. The walls were bare.

  Hero lay on the bed, his back to the door, and he sat up quickly when he saw Tray, pressing against the wall, hugging his knees.

  Tray smiled at the perfect, little six-year old. Hero was dressed in a plain school uniform—dark pants, embroidered tunic, arm warmers that went from wrist to elbow, striped to indicate his classes and grade. Hero had his mother’s wide, round eyes and his father’s rounded chin. His nappy hair was just long enough to look both tidy and messy. With his uniform cuffs slouching below his elbows, he was erring on the side of disheveled, and Tray could hear his father’s voice in his head criticizing, but Tray bit his tongue.

  “Who are you?” Hero demanded, his little voice quaking. Hero had his mother’s thick lips, and they quivered nervously.

  “Tray Matthews,” Tray replied, hobbling closer to the bed. “Did your mother tell you about me?”

  “No,” Hero said, scrambling off the bed, crouching on top of the desk, like he expected Tray to attack. “But you can bring her here and she can tell me now.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Tray promised. “Why is the window closed?”

  Hero slid off the desk, sidling along the wall, keeping as far from Tray as he could. “I don’t like seeing outside. It hurts my feelings.”

  “Because you’re trapped in here?” Tray asked. “If I take you outside, will you promise to talk to me and not run away?”

  Hero shook his head. At least he was honest.

  “What happened to your mom?” Tray asked, sitting on the bed. There was no chair by the desk, and he couldn’t stay on his feet.

  Hero’s lips parted, then he sank to the floor, his suspicious eyes locked on Tray. “She took us to this big, big house. She said we could live there, and things would be better. We wouldn’t have to be on the dole line. She said people were starting to attack the doles, worse than when Aaron Maynor punched me.”

  Hero rubbed his eyes. “Mommy said it would be better, but it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t ours and somebody found out, and they came after us. She told me to hide in the closet and I covered my ears. I was so scared. And then it
was loud. And then it was quiet. And then this big man came, and he carried me here.”

  “Hero, I’m so sorry,” Tray said, shifting closer to Hero.

  “It’s worse here. Worse than worse since Miss Merridie died,” Hero said, going to the window, touching the drawn shade. Merridie Zenzele was Dem and Morrigan’s mother. Tray hadn’t really processed the fact that Dem and Morrigan had inherited Hero, not kidnapped him.

  “I get dressed for school, but Miss Morrigan won’t let me go. She says it’s dangerous outside the fortress,” Hero continued. “No one punches me in swim class. Can I go back to swim class?”

  “I need to get more information about what’s going on first, before I make you any promises I can’t keep,” Tray said. He’d wanted to give his son a better life, and now the boy couldn’t even go to school or swim class.

  “I wish I’d never gone to that stupid house?”

  “You sound just like your Uncle Danny,” Tray chuckled. His mind reeled, hearing himself say ‘uncle’ for the first time. Hero didn’t seem to notice. “It’s my house. I told your mother she could live there. She shouldn’t have gotten in trouble.”

  “Your house? It’s your fault!” Hero cried, grabbing a handful of paint supplies and chucking it at Tray’s head. Then he leapt onto the bed, pummeling Tray with his tiny fists. “Give me back my mommy! I want my mommy!”

  Hero kicked, catching Tray in the gut, and Tray bowled off the bed, hitting the ground. Hero kicked again, this time hitting Tray’s spine, and then made a run for the door. Tray gasped for breath, seeing stars. The door opened, and a shock-dart hummed. The blast knocked Hero to the floor, and Demissie came in.

  “Did you just shoot my son with a shock-dart!” Tray cried, pushing up to his elbows, then collapsing in pain.

  “He kicked you, didn’t he?” Demissie snarked, scooping up Hero and putting him back in the bed. “He’s done a number on Morrigan’s old room.”

 

‹ Prev