by Loren Walker
* * *
Hours later, Phaira was lying in bed, awake and replaying memories, when she heard a beep from the Lissome. She rolled over, and with a flick of her finger, projected the properties screen, looking at the cc readout. No one she recognized. Maybe something happened to one of her brothers. She had to check, so she flicked the option for audio.
Then she waited. The connection light blinked. The faint crackling sound began, and went on and on. There was definitely someone on the other end.
Then it occurred to her: who else would be on the other end of the line?
“Theron?”
“Nice guess.”
“I guess there’s not much point in telling you, once again, to stop calling me,” Phaira said, pushing up to a seat.
“I thought you might be awake. And since you’re in town, I thought you’d consider coming over.”
“What?” Her gaze flew to the window, half-afraid of what she might see. “What are you talking about?”
“I live by the cliffs. You flew past my window.”
“You do not live here,” she accused.
His snicker rippled through the static. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, so if you’re not busy - ”
Phaira stared at the Lissome as cold rushed over her body. The bounty was deactivated. Why was he still after her? Was this some kind of sick set-up to satisfy his ego, even if he wasn’t getting paid for it? Some kind of male pride?
Then her thoughts shifted: how long was she going to run from every thug looking for a payout? Enough tiptoeing around. She couldn’t go on with Theron’s considerable shadow over her. Especially if her brothers were getting involved in her mess.
“Which house on the cliff?” she asked.
A pause. “You’re coming now?”
“Why not?”
Another long pause. Then: “If you walk through the center of town, towards the water, it’s the house with all the windows. On the cliff’s edge.” Then the connection broke.
Phaira surveyed her quarters: still a mess, no bags prepared for her journey tomorrow. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Should she be ready for a fight? She studied the pile of clothing in the corner. Subtle protection over her chest and neck, her regular street clothes and boots, and a single blade, concealed. That would be enough. She hoped it would be enough.
Outside the stars were shockingly clear. Phaira couldn’t help but stare as she walked. Where she grew up, in the heart of industrial Daro, the swathes of florescent lighting made the sky purple and starless. But here, Phaira could make out the hazy aura of each constellation, even the three specks of other planets in the system, blue, red, green. She’d never seen them so clearly before.
When the town came into view, she kept to the outskirts. The ground turned to sand and rock, the crash of water drowning out any sound. She kept moving.
As she drew nearer, Phaira could make out the glint of windows, framed by rock; the house was built into the bluff, she realized.
Still, as she stared, her curiosity grew, tempted by the unspoken dare that bubbled under all those calls from Theron: I can find you. Can you find me?
Phaira caught sight of a terrace, jutting out over the cliff. Then a silhouette appeared, leaning over the railing, framed by an orange glow. “Come on up!” Theron called down to her.
Wary, she eyed the terrace, the boulders below it, the frames of the windows beside it. She could climb, hop from angle to angle, and make her way without much difficulty.
And he could kill her on the way up.
Let him try, she thought.
She leapt. Her hands slid down the glass panels, a split second of freefall until her fingertips caught the frames. Then, with a second coil of energy, Phaira sprang to the next foothold, and the next, moving by instinct, back and forth, up and up, using her upper body strength to swing and grab. Only when she neared the base of the veranda did she slow her movements, dangle for a second over the water crashing below, waiting of some kind of attack.
But there was none. So Phaira pumped her legs, and swung her body over the railing.
In the center of the veranda, a fire burned in an artisan stone pit. The smoke clouded over the stars, turning the edges of the sky violet.
He stood on the other end of the terrace, his broad back to her. Phaira waited, her hands ready.
Finally, Theron turned around. She couldn’t see his face, only his outline of his frame. Then something flashed at his hip, highlighted by the fire: a glass, half-full and held by the fingertips.
“You have all this aggression and anger spilling out of you,” Theron mumbled, so low that Phaira had to strain to hear. “You’re like a walking bomb. And it’s even worse now.”
He rose his glass in her direction. “Look at you, you’re practically jumping out of your skin!” he chortled. “It’s amazing that no one has managed to kill you yet. Can’t be that hard, even with your background.”
He set his drink down on the floor. The fire shifted, and Phaira could make out his features now. Six and a half feet tall; slim but slightly hunched; straight, thick black hair, tied back. By the light of the fire, his square jaw and sharp cheekbones were even more pronounced, and even at this hour, he was meticulously dressed in sleek shirt and trousers.
“I have a proposition for you,” he announced.
Theron crouched by a wooden crate in the corner. When he rose again, two dark items flew in Phaira’s direction.
She caught them. Sparring gloves, she realized: thinly padded on the knuckles and back of the hand. Theron was already strapping on his two. Phaira stared at the gloves, then the man. He was insane.
“Okay,” Phaira called out. “You’re a mess! And drunk! You don’t know what you’re saying - ”
“I really do,” he interrupted. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not fighting you!”
“It’s not a fight,” Theron said, scratching under his chin. “If it were a fight, I wouldn’t give you gloves, right? This is an experiment.”
He held up his sheathed hands. “I created these. Impact-absorbing gear. So if you’re about to land a hit, a reactionary pulse stops your fist from making contact with my face. Means we can spar at full force. I want a test run before the formal manufacturing. Come on.”
Confused, Phaira glanced at the gloves again. They looked like any pair found in a training center.
But no, he was serious.
And she couldn’t help it: she was intrigued.
“You still might get punched in the face,” she finally said, slipping on the gloves.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Theron’s limbs seemed to undulate, that giant body settling into a stance, his hands up and open, level with his shoulders. Watching, Phaira kept her feet flat and her fists by her face. Theron had eight inches and at least a hundred pounds on her, plus a far superior reach. The odds were against her. She had to be aggressive: fast strikes, vulnerable points. Finish it as quickly as possible.
Theron darted forward. Phaira lashed out with a backhand. Theron pushed her arm aside and sent her reeling, off-balance. Phaira caught herself, pivoted, and went to clip him on the jaw.
But the impact gear did its job; her fist suddenly ricocheted back an inch from his mouth.
Theron took advantage of her surprise and grabbed her from behind, snaking an arm around her throat. She felt for his hair and jutted out her shoulder bone; with one swift jerk, she yanked his forehead into the point of the bone. At his bark of surprise, she managed to slip away. Theron rubbed at the red blotch on his forehead. Despite her better judgment, Phaira grinned at him, mentally daring him to try again.
Theron was the aggressor again, throwing out quick jabs. For such a tall man, he was incredibly agile. Blocking, she saw the opening: with the next punch, she shot out her arms, pinning his on either side, and then slid her hand down to grab his wrist. When she sharply torqued the joint, Theron ducked under, again and again, trying
to loosen the grip, using his height and weight to bear down on her. Phaira managed to keep the hold, changing her balance, pivoting, throwing kicks into the backs of his knees.
Then, suddenly, his body slumped forward, like he lost consciousness. With a squawk, Phaira released his wrist and stumbled backwards, falling hard on her tailbone. Theron landed on his knees next to her. His head bowed, and his shoulders started to shake.
Hotly embarrassed, Phaira wiggled away as Theron continued to laugh. She burned with anger, but she was also humiliated. What he did was stupid and childish, but it worked.
In one fluid motion, Theron rocked backwards into a squat, his long arms over his knees. “Truce,” he announced. “Okay?”
“Who taught you that toddler defense?” she asked him haughtily.
“What did you do, sharpen your shoulder bone?” he retorted, pointing to his forehead.
Phaira held her breath for several seconds to calm her breathing. Then she asked: “What’s the proposition?”
Theron smiled. “Where are you headed tomorrow?”
Phaira thought about lying, but shrugged as she ripped off the gloves. “A temple where I took some lessons as a kid. And no, I’m not telling you where.”
“And what are you going to do there, babysit?”
“I appreciate the concern,” Phaira said sourly. “But I don’t have other options.”
“That’s not an option at all,” Theron pointed out. “If you have a history with the place, with any place, you can be tracked down.”
He wasn’t wrong. She knew that when Renzo suggested the temple, but she planned to take a detour on the way….
“I think you should stay here instead.”
Phaira couldn’t do anything but blink for several seconds. “What?” she finally managed.
“This town has less than five hundred residents,” Theron said. “No one knows you’re here. You can hide out and rest. You look terrible, you know.”
“Gee, thanks,” Phaira shot back. “And where would I say I’m staying? There are a few people who will ask.”
“I thought of that. There’s a Jala monastery ten kilometers from here. Gated community. I’ll introduce you if you want. A place to go to if you feel the need.”
Phaira avoided his eyes as she rolled to her feet. “The answer is no.”
“Why not?” He sounded hurt.
“Because you’re crazy!” Phaira exclaimed. “I don’t know why you keep contacting me, or why you even asked me here. You said you’re ‘into clarity,’ so stop being so vague and be straight about what you want.” As she said the last part, her nerves rippled. She had no idea what to expect.
“Okay,” Theron said. He tipped backwards so he sat cross-legged on the tile, folding his large hands in his lap. “I’m interested in funding your start-up expenses. To become an independent contractor, so to speak.”
For a moment, the ocean winds died down. Phaira realized that her mouth was open in shock. She quickly closed it. “I thought you were a bounty hunter.”
“I’ve mentioned a few times now that I’m not.”
“Then who are you?” Phaira shot back. “Who are you, really?”
His amber eyes shifted; he was weighing what to say. It made her all the more suspicious. “Is that why you took me to Midland? Is that why you wanted to spar? To test me, guilt me into becoming your hired thug? No thanks.”
“It’s just an option, Phaira,” Theron said. “The same goes for the offer to stay. I wouldn’t invest in you now, anyway. You’re a mess.”
Phaira’s temper rose with every comment. It bruised her ego to admit it, but he was right. She was running aimless. Just like Cohen and Renzo, she too needed to be trained on how to survive. What she knew wasn’t enough anymore. Doubly true when it came to Huma or the Hitodama or other sects.
“If all of this is an elaborate plan to shoot me, just tell me now.”
The fire behind Theron swelled, casting him into a silhouette again. “I’m not a fan of firearms in general.”
“That includes knives too,” she quipped.
“I have no violent intentions, Phaira. Truly.”
“Why do this, then? Why do any of this?”
Theron shrugged. “I think you have the potential to make a difference. Be a significant player in the world.”
It was probably the highest compliment she had ever received.
But she couldn’t possibly trust him or anything he said.
Then Phaira’s mind clicked on another path: why should that matter? She didn’t trust anyone. But he was a skilled fighter; he had skills in information gathering, some connection to the underworld, by the sound of it. Anything that could give an advantage might be worth a day or two. And if there were any hints of betrayal, she wouldn’t hesitate to take him down. She was free of mekaline – no one would get the advantage over her again.
“Do I get my own room?” she asked.
He smiled. “Whatever you want.”
VII.
When dawn broke over the shoreline, Phaira sent encrypted messages to her brothers and to the temple compound, explaining that she’d chosen a new location to rest. She didn’t specify that it was the farm town, but she promised to be careful and to remain concealed. Then she locked the old Volante behind her, slung her bag over her shoulder and began the long walk back to the glass house.
Theron waited for her by the wall of windows, holding the door open.
Phaira followed him through the house, up one flight of stairs, then another. Neither spoke. Their footsteps echoed through the open space.
Finally, he stopped at an ornate wooden door: unusually tall, like all the other doors they passed. Custom-made for him, she thought. This really is his place. He must be from a rich family, to have a house like this at his age; he can’t be more than thirty.
“Here,” he said abruptly, gesturing at the handle. Then he walked away, turning the corner, out of sight.
Okay, then. Phaira thought, unnerved. She pushed on the handle and peeked inside.
It was a small but luxurious bedroom, with plush curtains, soft white carpets, and one enormous bed shrouded with a sheer canopy, so lavish that Phaira felt dirty in comparison. So she dropped her satchel just inside the door, and left to explore the rest of the house.
Every room was expensively furnished in delicate whites and grays, gleaming metals, granite floors. Art and foreign artifacts were strategically placed. There was a glittering kitchen that didn’t look to possess a single fingerprint. The whole place smelled of cotton and ocean air, pleasant enough. Aesthetically, every inch was beautiful, but it didn’t seem like much of a home. And the silence of the place was jarring: not a sound, not a stirring in any corner.
Wait, she realized. Where did he go?
She turned in place, listening hard. Nothing.
He’s gone.
I’m alone in this place.
Her mind reeled. She needed air.
Padding onto the veranda, the sound of the ocean was a relief. Enough light had risen for her to make out the shadows of fish in the water, the orange rust and spidery grass growing in the crevices of the rock. Phaira squinted, searching the landscape. There was no sign of Theron in any direction.
Phaira was used to cities and smoky air. Out here, when she took in a deep breath, her lungs seized, and she coughed and coughed. But she stayed outside, watching the waves roll in for a long time. Then she made her way back inside.
When Phaira locked the bedroom door, she also pushed a dresser in front. Still, she kept her knife at her thigh as she kicked off her boots and crawled onto the canopy bed. She would just close her eyes for a little while. But sinking into the soft warmth, within seconds everything went dark.
When she blinked and saw nothing but white, she panicked. Then she remembered where she was. She lifted her head to study the door. The dresser hadn’t moved. And the light was dimmer now in the room: late afternoon, perhaps. Was she still a
lone?
“Hello?” she called out into the hall. Smoothing down her mussed hair, she rubbed her face to jolt awake her senses. Wake up. It’s bad enough you fell asleep so quickly in a crazy man’s house.
“You’re awake.”
Theron’s voice came out of nowhere. Phaira jumped, her hands flying into fists.
“I was coming up to invite you to train,” the voice continued, his tone nonchalant. “If you have the strength.”
He was just around the corner, by the sound of it. Phaira stayed in the doorframe. “Train? Where?” she called, feeling ridiculous. “Outside?”
“Come on.” She heard his footsteps, growing more and more distant.
Phaira paused, wondering if she should just go back inside. But her gnawing curiosity won out again. She followed the sound until she finally caught sight of his tall frame.
In silence, they went down one flight of stairs, then another, and still another. The final flight opened up into a dim, expansive basement, gray-walled and sparsely outfitted. The blue floor was thinly padded, pliant under Phaira’s bare feet, but sturdy. I could take a fall on this, and the impact would be absorbed, she mused.
But are there exits in this place? her instincts warned. This could be the basement of a serial killer: soundproofed, bodies hidden in the cellar.
“I thought I could show you my martial arts technique,” Theron’s voice broke into her thoughts. He sounded almost shy, standing in the center of the basement, wearing black cotton pants and shirt, and looking sober this time. “It’s based on redirecting energy to both attack and subdue. You’ve probably learned about it.”
Phaira’s eyebrows drew together. This was one of the strangest experiences of her lifetime.
“Okay,” she said cautiously, easing down to the floor. “Why not? Show me.”
Theron’s demonstration was impressive: as he moved through an independent string of movements, each posture rolled into each other, elegant and fully expressed. It looked easy enough. But Phaira remembered how nimbly he unbalanced her on the veranda. So her mind took photograph after photograph, cataloguing every position of every muscle. Then she stood and joined him on the floor. Theron restarted his sequence. Phaira stood behind him and mimicked his movements. Dipping, flexing, flowing and receding, Phaira felt a bit silly. Quickly, though, she began to realize how powerful this kind of offensive could be, to use the opponent’s energy against them instead of relying on pure aggression.
“Who was your teacher?” Phaira asked when they finally took a rest.
Theron paused before replying. “My grandfather. Now we spar. Shall I get the rebound gloves?”
“No,” Phaira said quickly. “They’re too weird for me. No offense,” she added.
“Noted. No gloves then.”
After that, there was little conversation between the two of them, save for quiet comments or brief questions. Yet as the hours went on, a sort of bliss washed over Phaira, a satisfaction that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She always loved the artistry of hand-to-hand combat. And she had to admit that Theron was an excellent teacher, patient and concise with his explanations.
They chose to stop when the space grew stagnant with humidity, and they were both drenched in sweat. Phaira was exhausted, but ecstatic. As she pressed her face into a towel, wondering what would happen next, she heard the creak of weight on wood, then the sound of a door opening. He was going onto the veranda.
Well, she wouldn’t stay in that basement alone. And the thought of cool night air was too tempting to avoid.
The sky was clear, a thousand pinpricks of light strewn across the pitch-black; Phaira could even see the dusty, brilliant sweep of galaxies. The ocean had calmed, too, its waves a steady brush against the rocks.
Theron lit a fire in the pit. He remained in a crouch, gazing into the flames. Phaira moved to the farthest corner, leaning over the railing, taking in the smoking wood and salty air.
Neither spoke. The crackle of the fire merged with the rush of the water below, a soothing white noise. It was peaceful, in a strange way. And for once, Phaira chose not to question the moment.
* * *
Within the hour, Theron disappeared again. This time, Phaira took advantage of his absence, wandering the cavernous house. She found prepared meals in the kitchen, stored in cold: real, fresh meals, not the cheap meal packs she had eaten for months. The taste was euphoric. Then Phaira found a washroom with a large white bath, and with a chair lodged under the doorknob, she happily sank into hot water. It felt wonderful to soak and scrub clean. After, she made her way back to her room, fell onto the bed and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Once again, she woke at sunset. This time, Phaira focused on her own training routine, lapsed over the past few days: she ran up and down flights of stairs, and used her body weight for resistance. Then she taped her hands, tied up her hair and headed to the basement.
He was already there, his back to the stairway. Though eager for the night to begin, Phaira lowered her voice to a bored tone. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Maybe four hours a night.” Theron didn’t turn around as he continued: “I thought you should show me how to work with your Calis firearms.”
Shock rushed through Phaira, followed by a sting of embarrassment. “I can’t. Someone stole them.”
“Who?” Theron asked, looking over his shoulder.
The memory of ice-cold fingers in her brain made her stiffen. “It doesn’t matter,” she said shortly. “I don’t have them anymore.”
“Too bad,” Theron said. “I’ve never worked with them. I hear they’re incredibly difficult, but powerful.”
Think. Get him off this track.
“What if I show you submissions?” she finally blurted out. “I used to specialize in them: joint locks, pins, throws. Not that you get much use out of it in the military, of course, but…” Phaira trailed off, nervous again. “I can show you.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Lead the way.”
So Phaira began to explain the muscles and bones of the body, how they connected, and what torques would cause excruciating pain, loss of sensation or blackouts. She made Theron stand up, and demonstrated as she talked. Then he mimicked her movements. Again and again, they grasped each other’s wrists, shoulders, hands and knees, working the joints and tendons until the movements were smooth. His limbs were remarkably flexible for a man, though not enough to avoid a grimace of pain as she expertly twisted his wrist to the breaking point. Holding the lock, the shades of pink inside his hand caught her attention. Heavy scar tissue lay in the center of his palm, pink cross-lines, old scars, but deep ones. A hell of an accident, or deliberate.
There was a huge element of trust in working so closely together, and Phaira could sense a softening between the two of them, even as they worked to hurt each other. He complimented her on her in-depth knowledge and she smiled at him, surprised at herself. On a break, Theron asked her about the instructors in the armed forces, and the levels of training she had undertaken. She shared a little about her years in the military, and her initiation into active duty on her eighteenth birthday: how scores of men and women had dropped out, and by the end of several weeks, Phaira was one of four soldiers remaining, ready to be sent overseas.
The morning came, gray and hazy. Phaira’s bones ached, but it felt good. This time, Theron didn’t bother with the veranda. Instead, as soon as she walked upstairs, he offered her a glass of something clear. She took it after a moment’s hesitation. Theron had one in his hand already. Then he turned and walked outside.
Through the windows, Phaira saw him emerge onto the beach, walking along the shore, away from the town center, to the edge of the rocky peninsula at the end of the beach. Phaira watched him as he made his way down the length, stepped with the knowledge of one who had made the trek many times before: beautifully nimble, without a trace of hesitation. Then Phaira flushed at her thoughts, sniffed the liquid in the tumbler,
determined that its contents would get her good and inebriated, and followed him.
By the time she made her way to the peninsula, Theron was already at the farthest point, placing his glass on an adjacent rock, perched on top of a massive boulder. He didn’t look back at her as she approached, slipping in her bare feet, trying not to spill her drink. She couldn’t hear anything but the ocean on all sides. Finally, she stumbled to the boulder and hoisted herself onto it, and next to him.
Their legs dangled over the edge, a foot of space between them. The wind was stronger here; there was no option for conversation. All the better.
Staring at the sea, Phaira had a sudden impulse: how easy to just reach out and shove Theron with her foot. Did he know how to swim? If he fell the right way, he might be knocked unconscious and drown. Did he fight the same urge? Was this all a set-up for a surprise death?
Then fatigue overwhelmed her. If he planned to kill her that night, she didn’t care.
Phaira leaned back on her hands and let her head drop back to look at the sky. The moons were out tonight, pale pink around the edges. Pretty.
She had another vision, then. If Theron’s shadow were to cover her, if he were to kiss her, she would let him. Wind her hands through his hair, yank it out of that red cord that held it back. It had been a long time since she had been touched. The desire for it was sudden and overpowering.
Phaira didn’t move, though, and kept her eyes closed.
In the days that followed, Phaira sat on that boulder often, watching the water. And sometimes instead of training, she went back to her quarters, locked the door and slept for hours. Her physical body was exhausted, far more than she had realized. But, strangely, she felt a sense of sanctuary in this place, a peace she had been unable to find in the old Volante, even with the support of her brothers. Her body began to settle, her mind slowed to a cool, dreamy pace. Thoughts drifted in and out: about Sydel, Renzo, Cohen, Nican. How this new life would work, and where they were going to go from here. What Theron’s mouth tasted like; her embarrassment at those fantasies; her musing on whether he had the same thoughts. And she worked over the whole situation with the Hitodama, from the first contact to the final attack. There was something unresolved about it all, but she couldn’t figure it out.
“You’re not concentrating,” Theron said flatly one night, landing an easy strike against her jaw.
Phaira crossed her arms, fingers tapping on her bare biceps. “I have something on my mind.”
“What is it?”
Phaira considered. She hadn’t planned on bringing it up with anyone, but why not? “So, hypothetically - ”
“Hypothetically?” Theron countered.
“Yes, hypothetically,” she shot back. Then she chewed her lip for a moment before continuing. “Why would someone kidnap an old man and hide him away, with no attempt at abuse, no ransom request, or contact with anyone at all?”
Theron took the question seriously. Several moments passed before he answered: “Do the two know each other?”
“Not as far as I know. And there was no conversation between them, so says the captive.”
“Blackmail, then.”
“I told you, there were no demands for his release.”
“There’s more than one way to blackmail,” Theron pointed out. “Silence can make a person to do anything for an answer.”
Anandi, Phaira thought suddenly. The whole thing had nothing to do with the Hitodama; those murdered members just got in the way. Saka kidnapped Emir to get to Anandi. To force her into servitude? She remembered, then, what Anandi said at the Hitodama gathering, when they were hiding from law enforcement: “Know the name? You’ve never heard of me?”
And the conversation Saka was having: “You don’t need her, Keller.”
“You get the answer you needed?” Theron’s voice brought her back to the present.
“Yes.” She winced as she turned her head from side to side. That strike from Theron had landed in just the spot to strain her neck tendon. It’s always the little stupid moments that screw up your body, she thought: a trip over a step, a grain of sand in your eye -
“Stop. Let me.”
Before she knew it, Theron had taken three long strides and his hand hovered over her neck. She flinched and backed away.
Theron sighed. “I’m not going to kill you. Can I please work out your strain?”
She believed him, oddly enough. But she still walked away, to the other end of the room.
“I thought we were past this?” he called out with frustration.
What did he mean by that? She kept her eyes on the wall, her palm cupping the side of her throat.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t have the same instant panic as she did when it came to the neck. People never considered the throat in battle, but for Phaira, it was a prime example of the vulnerable human body: the airway, the jugular vein, the cervical spine, all contained in one square foot. After the incident with the angry mob, the shots fired, the wooden splinters lodged in her throat and the scars left behind, she always kept it covered.
But she didn’t want to fall back into the abyss again. She didn’t want to ruin what was happening here, whatever this was with Theron. It had been so long since she felt any connection with someone.
So Phaira unzipped the collar of her sleeveless shirt. Then she pulled away the material to expose the left side of her throat and waited. Her eyes remained on the opposite wall, her teeth clenched to keep from chattering.
When his warm hands landed on her shoulder, a small spasm of panic ran through her. His thumbs found either side of the strained tendon and pressed along the length of the sinew. At the touch, Phaira battled a sudden, maddening urge to cry. But as her neck began to loosen, something began to build in her stomach, relief or fear or desire, she wasn’t sure. It would be easy to open her eyes and reach for him, though. Forget about everything outside of this house, fall into the easy routine of nothingness. She never wanted to leave this bubble.
“Better?” came Theron’s voice.
Phaira nodded with a tight smile. His shadow moved away.
Phaira rubbed the unknotted tendon. Then she touched the skin at the base of her throat. It was as sensitive as a sunburn.
Quickly, she zipped up her collar again. Then Phaira settled onto her back leg, raising her hands again in a defensive stance. “Come on,” she instructed. “Back to it.”
VIII.
Phaira woke to the smell of smoke. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she sank down into the warm bed. Her ankles cracked as she stretched. The dawn air was cool, running down her throat, coupled with the faint scent of smoke. Theron had lit another fire.
No, wait: it was afternoon, she could tell by the position of the sun. And the smoke burned her nostrils. Chemical.
Phaira slid out of bed, pulling a tunic over her head. Unlocking the door to her suite, she peered around the frame. No sounds, no movement, just the shine of spotless floors.
Her legs and feet bare, Phaira padded down into the luxurious room with the wall of windows. The glass was cold under her hand as she searched the horizon.
The Volante was burning.
Past the fish houses and fields, Phaira could see the speck of Nox’s old transport, consumed with violent orange flames, black smoke rolling into the blue sky.
Something is fueling that fire. It’s moving too fast. But there’s no accelerant on board that would ignite like that by accident.
Phaira stepped away from the windows. First thing was to get out of there and find somewhere to hide. The Macatias must have issued a new contract on her, one that Anandi hadn’t seen. If the hunters had already searched the vessel and chosen to torch it, they were already too close. Theron would have to understand; in fact, it didn’t matter if he understood or not. She had to leave. Maybe use one of the artifacts in this room to get some rana…
A knock reverberated through the house. The cool marble floor quivered under he
r feet.
Phaira swore under her breath. She slid her back along the wall until she reached a weaponry wall display. A longblade was featured among others: intricate carvings along its hilt, ancient and expensive, no doubt. She ripped it off the wall and checked the blade. Viciously sharp.
A knock came again: harder this time, followed by the sound of a drill. They were breaking in.
Phaira gave the longblade a few test swings: light and pliable, perfectly balanced. If she could incapacitate the hunters long enough, she could make an escape without having to kill anyone.
“Phaira.” The sound of her name travelled through the room, hushed but insistent. It was Theron, holding open a closet door on the far side of the room. He pressed an index finger to his lips and gestured for her to come.
Bearing the longblade with two hands, Phaira shook her head at him. What was he thinking? To hide in a closet, it was suicide. “I can manage,” she whispered. “The Macatias never send - ”
“Not them,” he said through his teeth.
He mouthed the next word slowly: Hitodama.
The sound of glass breaking echoed up the stairwell.
Please, he mouthed, his eyes wide and flashing.
There wasn’t time to argue. Phaira sprinted to Theron, ducking under his arm. He shut the door, sealing away the light.
Blackness, and the sound of their breath. Theron stood behind her, his fingertips on her elbow, barely touching, but still sending a message: Be still.
Outside, Phaira could hear crashing sounds, footsteps and unintelligible voices. Inside, the pitch darkness threw off Phaira’s senses; it felt like everything was getting smaller. By the feel and smell, the space was filled with old, dusty boxes, and with barely four feet of space to move in. Stupid, stupid. Easy targets in here. Theron was a fool. If she could see his face, she would be glaring at it. Or giving it a smack. Phaira’s anxiety grew, like an animal desperate for air. Adrenaline burned in her muscles and lungs. You don’t know! Phaira wanted to yell at Theron. You don’t know what you’ve done. We’re dead. And Ren and Co, I never got to tell them…
Then Theron’s fingers slid over her wrist. Startled, Phaira went to yank her arm away, but he held fast, pressing his thumb inside her palm. He directed her open hand over to something rough and flat with a fastener: some kind of storage container. To the muffled backdrop of shattering glass and pounding hammers, Theron pushed her hand under the lid. Her fingers brushed cool metal, ridged edges, a distinctive trigger. It wasn’t the only one either; there were at least six others in that container, neatly stored and waiting. She lifted one pistol an inch off its resting place: lighter than she expected, but modern in its design and brand-new by its smell. She felt for the gun clip. Loaded.
The sounds of chaos continued. The room grew warm and stagnant. She focused on the cool firearm in her hand, the sheathed longblade in the other, and Theron’s solid frame behind her. Waiting for that burst of sudden light.
But the door never opened.
And suddenly, she realized that the house was silent.
Theron opened the closet door, letting in a crack of vertical light. Blinking, Phaira glanced around at the stockpile of weapons behind her. There were several more containers in there; filled with what else, she couldn’t even imagine.
But outside, the room was destroyed. The great wall of windows contained a hundred spider webs, the cracks stretching from panel to panel. The rugs were trampled with dirt and oil. All of the artifacts were smashed, stomped on, tossed into the corners. Curtains lay in piles, shredded on the floor. There were even holes in the walls, the drywall yanked away.
Phaira surveyed the damage, aching with guilt. The house was strange, and cold, but it was still someone’s home. The Hitodama put out a hit on because of what she’d done to them. There would always be someone in the crossfire.
Theron remained by the closet, hunched into himself. Phaira laid down the pistol and the longblade on the floor. Then she spoke carefully: “I’m sorry. Your house.”
He said nothing.
Phaira looked down at her bare feet. “I should go,” she muttered. “They might come back again.”
“Don’t.” Theron’s voice was strained.
His back heaved. Then he crumbled.
Phaira swore, diving to grab him as he fell. Twisting in the effort to keep his head from hitting the floor, she landed hard on her hip, gasping as pain shot up her spine.
Theron continued to twitch in her grasp. His body weight pinned her to the ground. Phaira slid one hand around his jerking forehead, the other around his chest, and held tight.
Please stop, she begged internally as his tremors went on and on. Please stop. Please. I don’t know what to do.
Then, just as quickly as it started, Theron stopped shaking. His head turned, his eyes drifting over her face, unfocused. He blinked slowly, then rapidly, and scrambled off Phaira. His long black hair hung stringy around his face, and his hands trembled. He clenched them into fists and slid to the wall, leaning his temple to the metal, facing away from her.
Phaira stared at his back, bewildered. Did he just have a seizure? Or some kind of panic attack?
She didn’t know what to say. So she held onto her elbows, gazing at the open closet behind him.
“They should have found us in there. Easily,” she murmured. “How could they miss it?”
“There’s a reason - why I wanted you to get inside,” came Theron’s ragged voice. “It’s designed to protect - it alters brainwaves - makes it invisible to the outside eye - and protects against psychic attack, when needed - ”
“You mean Ekos?” Phaira blurted out.
Theron’s head lifted from the wall. He twisted at the waist, so his amber eyes met hers. “You know about them?”
Phaira faltered. Should she tell him? She still battled the impulse to run away. But she had never told anyone what happened.
“A week ago, we encountered a group of people - followers.” The words were so awkward, rolling off her tongue. “They were - they had abilities that I’ve never seen before. They knocked us out. Then their leader broke into my mind and pulled out my worst - the most terrible - ”
Phaira wet her lips with her tongue, willing her voice to be steady.
Then Theron drew his right thumb down his forehead, and his hand turned into a claw, dragging across the top of his skull.
“The cold, right?”
Phaira’s eyes prickled with tears. Horrified, she blinked to push them away.
Theron nodded, sliding closer to her. “Who was it?”
“An older woman. Short white hair,” Phaira said haltingly. “Huma. They took the girl from that commune, Sydel. I don’t know where. We can’t find her. They’ve disappeared.”
Shame flooded through her, too much to bear any longer.
Phaira rolled to her feet and strode out of the destroyed room, intent on packing her few belongings and getting as far away as possible.
But Theron followed, his long gait quickly catching up to hers. “You didn’t have any way to defend against that kind of assault. There’s no disgrace in what happened, Phaira.”
There is if I continue to do nothing about it.
Phaira stopped short at the thought. Theron nearly ran into her back, he was following so closely. He looked even more confused when she stuck out her hand.
“Thank you for everything,” she said sincerely. “But I have to go.”
He stared at her outstretched hand. Then his face twisted into a scowl. “Really? You’re leaving, just like that? Did you forget our agreement?”
“We had no agreement,” Phaira said, insulted. “I don’t work for you, and I don’t need your dirty money.”
Those words stung him. Theron took a step back. “You have a strange sense of loyalty,” he said flatly. “You barely knew that girl.”
Phaira opened her mouth to argue, but his words were true.
“No one else is go
ing to get her,” she said finally. “But she said her elder was an Eko, too, back in Jala Communia. If I can convince Yann to show me - ”
“You’re going back there?” Theron asked, incredulous. “When you know what that man is capable of? He’s dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than anyone else,” Phaira countered.
Theron’s amber eyes went cold. His jawline became a hard right angle.
A shame, Phaira thought. We’re the same in a lot of ways.
“Look,” she said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. “Yann knows Sydel, and he knows how an Eko works. I don’t. It’s a start. Even if I wanted to work for you, I’d be a useless investment if my mind can be easily destroyed.”
She paused, considering. “You could come with me, you know. Learn how to protect yourself so it never happens -”
“No,” Theron said. “Those people can’t be trusted.”
“Fine,” Phaira replied, exasperated. She twisted her hair behind her head as she padded back to her bedroom, avoiding the shards of glass and plotting her strategy. What was the best route to get back to the Communia? And how would she convince Yann to talk to her?
Her quarters were similarly torn apart: the mattress upturned, pictures smashed, grease stains across the walls. Fortunate that she had so few possessions.
As Phaira laced up her boots and bundled her remaining items into a satchel, she rehearsed her goodbye to Theron. She wondered if she should try to say thank you again, or if it would be better to just nod and turn away.
But the house was silent again. And on her threshold lay the sheathed longblade, and something small and square wrapped in velvet.
Inside was a fresh Lissome, one ticket for passage on a charter flight to the Midland border, and an identification packet with her picture and the name Ikani Mala.
How romantic, she thought. The means to disappear completely.