Alex squeezed her arm, then stepped around her, going into the room first, flipping on the lights to startle the intruder. The window was open and a breeze sifted through the lilac curtains. Lying on the bed was Amanda!
Alex blinked in surprise, sure he was hallucinating. He shuffled to the bed, his feet heavy with confusion. Amanda lay on her side, her hair wind-blown, but her tunic clean. These weren’t the clothes she’d been given in the psych ward.
“Jen! It’s Amanda!” Alex cried.
“Holy Zive,” Jennifer muttered, rushing in and kneeling on the bed.
“She’s blue,” Alex realized when Jennifer turned the body.
“She’s breathing,” Jennifer replied, supporting Amanda’s chin and pulling her lips apart.
Amanda coughed dryly and stirred, her eyes red when she opened them.
“Hey. How’d you get here?” Jennifer whispered, her voice sweet with relief.
“Though the window,” Amanda replied, then coughed again.
Alex laughed at the cheeky response.
“Lungs hurt,” Amanda rasped.
“Did someone strangle you?” Jennifer asked. Amanda closed her eyes again, her body going limp, and Jennifer turned to Alex. “There’s no bruising, but she’s clearly been oxygen starved. She’s not wet, or I would think she drowned.”
“There’s oxygen on the Cadence,” Alex remembered. “After seeing Oriana’s sorry state, Coro made sure to stock the infirmary on the Cadence in preparation for our trip into the world.”
“Good,” Jennifer said, tears falling as she ran her fingers through Amanda’s tangled hair. “I can’t take her back to the hospital. I never should have taken her the first time.”
Alex would have argued that they weren’t to blame, be he regretted it, too.
29
Demissie finished his book and sighed happily. Then the Virclutch popped up a picture of his fiancé—his ex-fiancé—and reminded him to thank her, perhaps gifting her with another book by this author. She’d ordered this book series as a wedding present for him. Eileen wasn’t a reader, but she knew he loved this series. Things had gotten crazy when his parents died, and he’d broken their engagement in a fit of grief. He didn’t know if she forgave him, and a part of him was so relieved by the separation that he didn’t want to be forgiven.
They were from different worlds. She was a software engineer for one of his contractors. They’d met at a company party a year or so back, gotten drunk, and made out on the paddleboats in the harbor. That was the only good night he could remember with her. She’d met his parents a few times, and then met Morrigan when his parents had them all out on the yacht. He thought sure she’d offend everyone, but they all seemed to like her, encouraging him to marry her before she wised up and left him. With their approval, things snowballed.
Demissie dismissed her picture quickly and called up the next book in the series. Eileen had stressed him out all the time. Now she was gone, and he could be alone in his den, with his thoughts, and his favorite books. They hadn’t divided up the furniture in their shared house, because he had everything he needed in his parents’ manor, waiting for him to take charge.
The den was the smallest room, and if he closed the door, the manor didn’t feel as empty. Morrigan had moved in a few weeks after him, and he was glad to have her. He’d inherited the burden of Hero from his father, and was glad to share that trouble with her. Gladder still to hand the boy to his proper father, and resume the easy life of business and books. He hadn’t read so much since he was a kid.
His stomach growled, and Demissie decided to take a break from reading for a few hours, and maybe take a walk with Tray. Tray had lost both his parents, and that seemed to have endowed him with the wisdom not to ask Dem if he was okay every time Dem got wistful about something.
Sliding open the lounge door, Dem heard a noise in the living room, and saw Morrigan at her medicine desk, locking the cabinet where she kept the controlled substances.
“Is it lunch time yet?” Dem asked her. He’d skipped breakfast to read, and had no idea how long it had been.
Morrigan jumped, swore, and slammed the desk cover closed, then smiled at him apologetically. Being eight years older than her, they’d never been close growing up. For the last ten years, he’d only ever seen her at their parents’ seasonal parties, and even then, it was just a cursory hug and obligatory small talk. It was nice living with her now, and getting to know her.
“What are you doing here in the middle of the day?” she asked, leading the way to the kitchen.
“Didn’t have any meetings, so I’m working from home,” he shrugged. He worked from home a lot, and he wasn’t used to answering for it.
“Uh huh,” Morrigan said, grinning knowingly. “How many chapters do you have left?”
“None,” he said, opening the fridge to hide his flushing cheeks.
“You just started that book yesterday,” she teased, sitting at the bar in the kitchen. She claimed to be a terrible chef, and he was happy to prepare meals for the pair of them.
“I regret nothing,” he smiled, selecting leftover salmon from last night, and pulling out the sandwich toppings. “Why are you here?”
“I live here,” she said flatly, which for her meant ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ “Looking in on Tray,” she added, her eyes drifting to the left. “I have never seen gravity therapy do that to a person.”
“Yeah, but . . . I know I asked you to, but . . . Doesn’t this interfere with your work at the hospital?” Dem stuttered, standing across from her.
“Nah,” she shrugged.
Dem knew he had no place to speak. He’d skipped work more often than she had, and neither of them were getting a gold star in the healthy grieving category. “I don’t want you losing your job over Tray,” he said, keeping his eyes on the sandwiches. “You just started your residency a few months ago.”
“Just before Mom and Dad died,” she said, sucking in her cheeks as bitter emotions surfaced. “I already kind of screwed that up.”
Dem’s eyes shot up. Morrigan was fiddling with the pepper grinder, twisting it just enough to feel resistance, but not so much that pepper grounds came out.
“You can bounce back. I have complete faith in you,” he said encouragingly.
Morrigan set down the pepper shaker. “I like concierge medicine. It’s safer. Less stressful.”
They stared off, her wielding their dad’s patented glower, saying she was upset about things beyond her control.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Just back off,” she said.
Dem nodded and handed her the first sandwich and a glass of wine. Taking his plate around the counter, he sat on the stool next to hers. He wished he’d known her better before their parents died. He didn’t know if it was weird that she acted this cold, and he didn’t know anyone to ask.
“I was thinking, maybe if we go out on my yacht, we can sit on the water longer without the Enn getting suspicious. Feel like figuring things out on the water?” he asked. When he’d made his first million in business, he’d followed in his father’s footsteps, bought himself a yacht, and started having his own parties. It used to be a great place for business meetings; now it was a great place for reading.
“I don’t ever want to get on a yacht again,” Morrigan said.
“And I don’t want to blame the ocean for the death of our parents,” Dem said. It wasn’t an accident that their parents’ boat sank. “Remember how beautiful it is? How calming? How we’d sit at the front of the boat and let wind blow through our hair?”
“It’s all messed up now,” she said, her eyes welling with tears.
“I know,” he said, choking on his sandwich, but forcing it down with the tears. “It never gets fixed. It never gets better. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have moments of peace mixed in.”
Morrigan massaged her forehead, then took a calming breath and resumed eating her sandwich, her expression dull.
&n
bsp; “Tell me what’s wrong?” Demissie asked.
“I don’t know how,” she said.
Dem put a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned against him, tears welling in her eyes.
“Tray told me he didn’t want grav-therapy. He told me it made him sick. I didn’t listen. I’m a doctor and I didn’t listen to my own patient,” she said. “It was awful, Dem. The blood vessels were bursting all over. I’m worried I’ll have to take him back to the hospital now!”
“He’s not complaining,” Dem chuckled, hugging his sister. “In fact, I think I heard him and Zara—or Saskia… you know.”
It was little things that put them over the edge these days. Little troubles seemed unbearable, because they already carried so much. Morrigan was a good person, and she hated seeing others suffer. It made it almost impossible for Dem to share the true depth of his pain with her.
Morrigan stole the decorative handkerchief from Dem’s breast pocket and dabbed the tears from her face. She usually did it to irritate him, but this time, he’d forgive her.
“How about a game of gin?” she asked, sniffling, then taking a gulp of wine. Their parents had taught them the game. Dem couldn’t say no.
Tray rubbed his cheek on the soft, microfiber towel that covered his pillow. His body felt like a giant bruise, but at least he’d gotten the metallic taste out of his mouth. Saskia’s hand ghosted over his shoulder, and then she pulled away. The closer she drifted to sleep, the more the instinct to spoon her body against his took over. Feeling a cramp and burning in his gut, Tray brought up his knees, glad that the move relieved the immediate pain.
“Saskia,” he murmured.
“Thirsty?” she asked, pushing up to her elbows, reaching for the water glass on his nightstand.
“Maybe,” he said, lifting his head. She scooped her hand underneath, supporting him while he sipped the water, and the cool liquid on his tongue brought much-needed relief. “I guess there’s no substitute for real gravity in my book.”
“When Oriana’s grav-drive was installed, we flew with it a good three months,” Saskia pointed out. “Whatever’s going on, it probably has more to do with medication and getting shot than the grav-therapy. Plus the stress.”
“You know, when I pictured us not making love tonight, I assumed it would be because Mikayla was in the next room over,” Tray laughed, guiding Saskia’s hand to his cramping thigh.
“Why would that stop us?” Saskia asked, sitting up to give him a proper massage.
“Because I still love her,” Tray said.
Saskia’s hands froze. Before Tray could explain, Hero appeared behind her, clutching a stuffed dog, and knocked on the dresser. Scrambling in surprise, Saskia dove for her stunner and used the bed for cover. When she realized the intruder was Hero, she slumped on the bed and put the weapon away.
“Hey,” Tray smiled, inching up on the pillow, unable to sit. “Were you thinking of me?”
“You didn’t bring me downstairs for dinner. You didn’t say goodnight,” he said, rocking side to side, rubbing his cheek against the stuffed dog. Tray had seen a few dismembered stuffed animals in Hero’s room, but hadn’t realized one survived.
“That’s because I’m not feeling well and I’ve been in bed all afternoon,” Tray explained.
“Are you sick?” Hero asked, shuffling to the side of the bed, tucking the dog under one arm. The fur was dark, and in some places sticky. Tray hoped the boy didn’t intend to offer the grubby animal as a form of comfort.
“I’m hurt,” Tray said. “I had an accident with my physical therapy.”
“Where is Jamese?” Saskia asked, crossing the room, touching their closed door. “Who’s guarding you tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Hero shrugged.
“He teleported in here. Isn’t that crazy?” Tray smiled, delighted his son could find him just by thinking about him. “My son, the hybrid. I’m guessing it’s from his mom’s side, if this kind of thing is inherited.”
“I’m not your son,” Hero said.
“Actually, you are,” Tray said, tapping the back of Hero’s hand. “I was hoping your mom would be here to tell you.”
“He’s a hybrid?” Saskia repeated incredulously, hands on her hips. “And you didn’t think you should warn me?”
“I told you before we went to the clinic,” Tray said.
“No. You didn’t,” Saskia ranted, smoothing her dark hair away from her face, then knotting it in a bun—a clear sign that she considered Hero a threat.
“Yes,” Tray argued. “He was soaked, and I told you he went swimming.”
“I thought you sprayed him down with a hose. I didn’t think he teleported to the ocean!” Saskia exclaimed.
“I went to the pool,” Hero said innocently, scooting closer to Tray.
Saskia slouched on the bed, legs crossed, and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. “So does the rest of the household know?”
“No, and they don’t need to,” Tray said. “Liza destroyed her whole city because they forced her to be a weapon when she was just a kid. I don’t want that happening to Hero.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” Hero asked, whispering the question in Tray’s ear.
Tray chuckled and rubbed his foot against Saskia’s. “Yes.”
“For now,” Saskia glowered.
“How come she never eats lunch with us?” Hero asked.
“Because I wanted to get to know you,” Tray replied.
Hero frowned and hugged the stuffed dog. “Mommy says not to trust men who try to get little boys alone.”
“Can’t argue with that logic,” Saskia sneered.
“I’m not just any man. I told you. I’m your father,” Tray said, giving Hero’s hand a tug. “Trust me. I hate kids. I wouldn’t be trying to get to know you if you weren’t mine.”
“Tray!” Saskia cried, swatting his knee.
“What?” Then Tray saw the look on his son’s face and realized his mistake. “Oh, Hero, I didn’t mean I hate all kids. I don’t hate you.”
“Making it worse,” Saskia said, finding a robe to cover her scant sleep clothes.
“Do you like games?” Tray asked, desperate to dig himself out of the hole. “I made you a game. It’s another thing I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you.”
“You made a game?” Hero asked, his eyes going wide.
“Yeah. Games have to come from somewhere,” Tray said, relaxing. “Saskia, can you get the Virclutch.”
Saskia’s look softened to one of moderate approval and she handed him the device. Holding the Virclutch to the edge of the bed, Tray started talking about the adventure game he’d made. It had started as a simple treasure quest, easy for a six-year-old, but during his many sleepless nights in Boone, he’d folded in some of Oriana’s journey home.
“Can I sit up there with you?” Hero asked. “I can’t see.”
“Sure,” Tray said, shifting to make space. Saskia lifted Hero onto the bed and Hero cuddled next to Tray so they could both see the Virclutch. Despite the pain of the pressure on his skin, Tray gritted his teeth and they played together. Tray dozed first, and Hero must have followed, because he felt Saskia lift the Virclutch from his hands and tuck the blanket around him.
An alarm startled them both, and Hero kicked instinctively, clinging to Tray’s neck. It was mildly painful, but Tray kept reminding himself it was a signal of the boy’s trust.
“I’ll check it out,” Saskia said, taking her stunner to the door. “Jamese!”
“Security breach. Hero’s missing!” Jamese reported, her footfalls heavy as she charged down the hall.
“He’s in here,” Saskia called back.
Jamese swore, and Hero clung tighter to Tray.
“You’re fine. Go back to sleep,” Tray soothed.
“You should have told me you brought him down!” Jamese snapped, storming into the room. “I’ve been searching for the last twenty minutes!”
“And you sounded the genera
l alarm before checking in here?” Tray berated.
“Don’t get smart with me,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I can see to it you never have a second kid.”
“Ooh. Don’t punish me, too,” Saskia winced, rubbing her chest.
“You are full of wit tonight,” Tray criticized. They exchanged a look that turned into a playful snicker
“Hero, Ms. Jamese is going to take you back to your own bed,” Saskia decided.
“He’s already asleep,” Tray said, surprised by the quick turn.
“Then he can stay here, and I will go to my room,” Saskia shrugged. “Night, Tray.”
She was gone before Tray could protest, and Tray hugged his son tighter, feeling the bitter rise of abandonment creep in. Somehow, he’d convinced himself that he could have Saskia and Hero. His arms shaking, he unhooked Hero from around his neck, lying the boy on Saskia’s side of the bed.
Jamese exhaled and rubbed the sweat from her upper lip, coming over to check on her charge.
“Did he ever try to tell you that he didn’t run away?” Tray asked. “A scary man came to his room, and he didn’t want to go.”
“Yes, he did,” Jamese said, stroking Hero’s hairline tenderly. “And from the description, I know that scary man was Sikorsky. What I don’t know is how he got into the house. If Hero’s description weren’t so accurate, I would have thought he dreamed up a monster. Do you really want him sleeping in your bed?”
“Is that a problem?” Tray asked.
“From a security standpoint, it’s perfect,” she grinned. “Just asking as a parent. I had a very hard time getting my six-year-old to sleep on her own.”
“Huh,” Tray frowned. He’d been too focused on his own troubles to think about her family. “Does your kid live on the property?”
“She used to part time before the… before we locked down the grounds,” Jamese said, choosing her words carefully. “Now she lives with her grandparents.”
The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5) Page 24