Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1)

by Lillian James

  Despite herself, Jane laughed in concert with the children. Her fingertips grazed the door as if hoping to connect with the sheer life in the hall. The girl caught the dog, and he yipped in ecstasy and then wriggled free. As he tore away, the children raced after him, the thud of running feet joining the laughter and the barks.

  And a grumble came from Jane’s neighbor. She frowned and willed the children to leave, but they grew louder. When the grumble came again, she hesitated and then cracked her door.

  The puppy saw the movement first. His eyes lit on hers, and he gave a doggy grin and veered toward her. The sudden change in direction proved too much for him, and he tripped over his own feet and tumbled head over end across the floor. The children laughed hysterically, and Jane’s neighbor roared.

  She put a finger over her lips and shook her head. But the children were too busy wrestling with the puppy to notice. “You have to go,” she said softly.

  The puppy slid free and stumbled over. He rolled onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly. The girl giggled again, ran forward, and fell onto her knees beside the puppy.

  “He likes you! He’s afraid of everyone else but us.” She looked up, and her eyes widened. She whispered reverently, “Are you very old?”

  Jane’s cheeks heated. It wasn’t even close to the first time someone had made that mistake, but in all of her twenty-five years, it had never been welcome. Still, sometimes it was easier just to agree, so she nodded and made to shoo the girl along.

  And then it happened.

  The Change.

  Jane could feel it, a new heat and heaviness in the air around her. She could smell it, the scents of grape shampoo and freshly washed puppy fading, replaced by something infinitely more primal. The girl emitted an odd croak that ended in a squawk. Her shoulders stiffened; her spine curved until she hunched defensively away from Jane. And then nothing. She didn’t even breathe.

  Fight, flight, or freeze, Jane thought. This girl froze.

  Tears burned behind Jane’s eyes, an involuntary response to a phenomenon she’d never understood. She whispered, “I’m sorry” and began to push the door closed.

  Then a thump came from the neighboring apartment. And another, and another. Footsteps headed toward the hall.

  She cursed under her breath and then cracked her door again. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. But you have to leave.”

  The puppy scrambled to his feet. Oblivious to whatever it was about Jane that caused such an irrational fear in people, he barked again and ran into her apartment. The girl’s bladder emptied, pooling into a pungent puddle at her feet.

  “Oh no,” Jane said, and she bit her lip. “That’s OK, honey. It’s not your fault. But you really have to go.”

  The door to her left slammed open. And Johnson, one of the few people in the building who towered over Jane, stepped out.

  “What the hell is goin’ on here?”

  His voice roared out into the hall, far louder than any sound the children had made. The scents of vodka, cigarettes, and vomit plumed out in a vile cocktail that made Jane gag. The toddler stood before him, chubby knees trembling. Her legs gave out, and she plopped onto her diapered bottom and promptly began to cry.

  “Shut up!” he yelled. He clomped toward her, and she looked up at him with the baffling hope that he would somehow make her feel better. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Then he growled, the sound reverberating through his caveman chest. The baby bawled, and Johnson spat on the carpet.

  “Stop it!” The words burst from Jane before she considered how ill equipped she was to enforce them. She stepped between Johnson and the baby, heedless of what always happened when she got too close, and she said, “You shut up. Leave them alone.”

  And then she dug her finger into his chest.

  When she realized what she’d done, she dropped her hand, but it was too late. He was going to change just like the girl had, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. His nostrils flared, and his face splotched with crimson. And then he roared again and shoved at her chest with both ham-sized hands. The force of the blow lifted her up and over the toddler. She slammed into the opposite wall, and her temple struck the doorframe there. Light and color exploded in her vision, blocking everything else in the hall. She thought, as she sank to the floor, that Johnson didn’t run or freeze. He fought.

  The hall slanted and blurred through her slitted lids, but she could make out Johnson backing away. The older girl stared at her for a moment and then rose and dragged her sister down the hall. The door behind Jane opened, and she tried to make herself move. Even crawling would be better than lying here, waiting for the next attack. But the door closed with a quiet click before she could do more than groan.

  And then only the puppy remained. He trotted out of her apartment and into the hall. He licked her sunken cheeks, kissed the smooth, sallow skin of her nose and forehead. And then her temple, where she imagined the skin was starting to darken and swell under frizzy strands of gray hair. When he got no response, he loped cheerfully after the children.

  And her lids became too heavy to hold open.

  Jane dreamed of freezing rocks beneath her bare feet. She dreamed of water surging over knife-edged cliffs, of secrets and knowledge and a sense of home. Of people who didn’t fear her.

  She dreamed of freedom.

  She woke suddenly, her pulse pounding in ears that still rang with the roar of rushing water, under skin that could still feel the cold, biting mist of mountain air. Even as the dream faded, the pure thrill of sensation had her longing for more.

  She opened her eyes, and pain shot through her skull. It took her a moment to remember why she was in the hall, but then it all came rushing back: the children’s laughter, the yaps of the puppy. The little girl so terrified of Jane that she peed herself. And, of course, Johnson. The asshole.

  Jane grimaced and sat up, and her head swam. Groaning, she touched the back of her hand gingerly to her temple and ground her teeth at the lump she found. Johnson had acted out of instinct, and he sure as hell wasn’t the first person who’d hurt her with it. But he was such a dick about it.

  She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see his shadow beneath his door. He was watching her. He’d probably been standing there the whole time, waiting for her to leave, terrified without knowing why.

  She bit back a groan as she pushed to her feet, and the shadow shifted. Something wicked rose in her at the movement. She lunged toward his door, and the shadow disappeared. There was a gasp, a frantic scramble, and a loud boom as he backed away and fell on his ass. She snorted, muttered, “Asshole,” and returned to her apartment.

  She didn’t even consider calling the police. She would have if she’d thought for a second he’d be arrested. But she knew from experience exactly how that would go down. The moment the cops had to interview the person pressing charges, all attention would shift from Johnson to Jane. They’d be terrified of her, just like everyone else. And in the end, she’d be lucky to keep her apartment. These days not even the police were immune to The Change.

  Without warning, her stomach churned. She barely had time to grab a trash can before losing her breakfast. Empty, she sank to the floor and leaned against the back of the couch.

  Vomiting after a head injury was a bad sign. The last time this had happened, she’d been seventeen. She’d gone to the hospital then, and only one nurse had experienced The Change. This time even leaving her apartment wasn’t an option.

  When she felt she could stand without heaving, she made her way to the kitchenette and wrapped some ice in a hand towel. Then she went to her room and lay down, ignoring the voice in her head that warned of danger. She’d self-treated a dozen injuries over the last decade. She told herself she’d survive a concussion too.

  Sunlight slanted onto the jewelry box that rested on her nightstand. The colors caught the light and shimmered, a breathtaking display o
f blues, greens, and silvers perfectly harmonized. The raised pattern was decorated with jewels in pale, understated tones that seemed to glow even at night.

  Jane rolled onto her side and pulled the box close. She lifted the lid, and her eyes pricked at the sight of the old gray and brown stone within. It rested on a satiny bed, its face carved with meaningless lines and whorls. It was simple, almost ugly, and the most precious thing she owned. It had belonged to her mother, and at times like this it was the only thing in the world that could make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

  She wished she understood why she scared everyone, but she’d given up on finding the answers years ago. She’d only ever figured out one pattern: touch made it worse. A brush of the shoulder in a crowded hall, the graze of fingertips as she handed a cashier payment. These things were guaranteed to trigger the most violent reactions.

  Like poking someone in the chest.

  There was something innately wrong with her, something that every person she encountered could sense and detest within seconds. And she had no idea how to fix that.

  Telling herself it didn’t matter, she pulled the stone close and shut her eyes. And she slept, a gentle drift of deep and dreamless escape, as fluid built on her brain.

  She lay completely still through the long, hot hours of the summer day. Only when shadows cooled the room did she shift. As if to hold her mother’s love closer, she brought her hands to her face, and her breath feathered over the stone.

  And the smooth underside of the rock rippled.

  With her next breath, patterns emerged, three symbols that weren’t on the face of the rock. A kernel of warmth burgeoned in her gut, spawning tendrils of heat that spread out, exploring, expanding, consuming. Her heart raced, a thrump-a-thrump-a-THRUMP-a sound that spiked with each new pulse of heat.

  The burn turned to ice, and every cell in her body froze. The air in her lungs hung suspended; the blood in her veins crystallized. Then her heart pumped, breaking the skein of ice that coated it. Her blood began to move, to warm, and her breath heated her parted lips.

  The knot on her temple receded until the skin stretched over bone, smooth and unharmed.

  And she slipped into the dream.

  She saw him, and she thought, Finally.

  His face was hard and pale, his brown eyes framed by black, close-shorn hair. His mouth was firm, his expression unreadable. But she moved closer. Could have done nothing else. He was irresistible.

  As she drew near, his stare softened and warmed until tones of chocolate and scotch filled its depths. She wondered how he’d look if he smiled. He reached out, his wide palm turned up, waiting for her. There was need in his eyes, and an answering heat curled in her center.

  Then his gaze firmed, and he spoke. She heard him not with her ears but with her mind. His voice, like a rich, velvety wine, slid deliciously through her.

  Who are you?

  She tried to speak, but her voice wouldn’t work. She shook her head and tried again, but she only managed to think, I’m no one.

  Then something began to pull her away.

  Tears sprang into her eyes at the force, cruel and inescapable, that would take her away from him. And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Starship Dhóchas

  A sleep in the starlit room, Mikhél twisted and turned in sheets like water atop a bed once made for an empress. Lost in the dream, he reached for the woman who haunted him in sleep as he would not allow her to in waking.

  When she vanished he woke with a start. Resigned to find his arm lifted above him, he let it drop.

  He pushed the sheets aside and walked, naked and painfully aroused, to the bathroom. In the dark he splashed cool water on his face and waited for his body to settle. In the silence he let fade the memory of amethyst eyes and silver mist. And he promised himself, as he had every prime for the past year, this would be the last time he dreamt of a fantasy.

  When his pulse had calmed, he crossed to the window to look out at the dark and the light. They were close. Another cycle, two at the most, and they would have the girl.

  No, no longer a girl, he reminded himself as he turned to dress. Seirsha was grown, a woman. Not yet of jagatai age, but certainly not a child. And Betha would no longer be the young woman he remembered but a person of age, stature, and—in his mind, at least—infinite respectability.

  His heart squeezed at the memory of her. He could still see her so clearly, standing next to Aida, her fear fading as he held the tiny and fragile Seirsha. Betha was of his blood. Did that matter to her as it mattered to him? Would she be able to forgive him the things he’d done since she’d left? Could he expect her to believe he’d had no choice, when he barely believed that himself?

  Shaking his head, he cursed the doubts that plagued him. If the sister of his mother hated him, it would change nothing. He didn’t travel to find family or acceptance. His purpose was clear.

  His purpose was Seirsha.

  An entry request rang through the room. He opened his sedfai and directed it toward the hall beyond his door. And he sensed the outline of a man, tall and muscular, with a palletar insignia on his collar and his hands balled into fists. Valaer.

  Mikhél called open the door as he strapped his weapon to his waist. Once it closed behind the older man, he said, “Status.”

  “We arrive next cycle. Retrieval protocols are in place. I’ve requisitioned a shuttle.”

  When he stopped, Mikhél looked up. “And the other status?”

  Valaer paused, and Mikhél imagined he was checking their surroundings with his own sedfai. Then Valaer said, “We’re ready with the language. Leima will struggle, but she can manage formal greetings. And Eithné is prepared to supplement the gaps in the Baanrí’s training. But there shouldn’t be much to do. She’s been preparing for this her whole life.”

  He didn’t bother to mask the bitterness in his voice. Mikhél knew its source: Bhénen had not had the luxury of training, and it had cost him his life. Understandable as Valaer’s anger was, it had no place on their mission.

  “She’s been coddled since birth,” Mikhél countered. “Practicing at war while comfortable and safe. Such training will be useless if she cannot use it when she faces the enemy.”

  Valaer’s eyes paled. Whatever his feelings toward the Baanrí, he didn’t like hearing she might not be ready for what faced her. But there was much about this mission he didn’t like. As long as he performed his role, Mikhél didn’t care if he was happy or not.

  He dismissed the palletar and retrieved a small, decorated sheet of metal hidden in the wall. The whorls of blues and greens caught the light and held it in deep, mysterious luster while the tiny gems scattered refractions across the room. He ran his thumb over the gem in the corner, but he pulled it away again. It was too soon. This part of their mission would not benefit from haste.

  He hid the communicator and made his way through the narrow, snaking corridors of the ship toward the three-seven lifts. His back was tight, his gut jumping. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong, but he thought a round on the training level might calm his nerves. Then his link flashed a request for conference. He stifled his impatience at the interruption and opened the call. The face of his second-in-command projected into the air, the pale-blue eyes lowered respectfully even in hologram.

  Mikhél said, “Endíett Bavoel.”

  “Endet Niyhól.” Bavoel looked up. “I would request permission to join the scouting team.”

  “Two khéntas have already assessed the area,” Mikhél said, the lie automatic. “They found nothing of value. We’re merely retrieving them.”

  Surprise crossed Bavoel’s face. “I had not heard that.”

  “There are many things Endet Lhókesh chooses not to share with you.”

  Bavoel’s eyes paled even further, and he offered a tekvar, one of the few Nhélanei gestures the Meijhé hadn’t bothered to stamp out. “Of course, Endeté. I meant no impertinence.”
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  The encounter was no different from a dozen others Mikhél had had during the last few cycles, but it had him changing direction. He headed toward the medical unit instead and allowed himself one deep breath when he found Eithné. Her unmistakable hair was like a beacon in the dim halls, the tight burgundy curls springing out from her head in every direction. As she drew near, the lines that furrowed across her brown face came into focus. She leveled her leaf-green eyes on his and then turned into an empty room, and she called closed the door when he followed.

  He called up a seat for her, but he knew she wouldn’t take it. Instead she waited, silent and watchful, hands clasped before her. After a moment he gave up and crossed to the window.

  “We’re close,” he said. “Valaer estimates we’ll arrive next cycle.”

  “Should we initiate the communicator?”

  “We’ll wait until we’re on the shuttle.” He studied the lights set into the wall, dark over the old, empty bed. “Five crew members have asked to join the scouting team.”

  Her eyes paled. “Watchers?”

  “Or power seekers, or people who think higher status will guarantee them safety.”

  “They should know better by now.”

  “They’ll learn soon enough. They always do.” It was barely more than a murmur; his mind had moved on. He started to say something else but then fell silent.

  Still, she waited, her eyes steady on his. If she detected his nerves, she wouldn’t comment. It wasn’t her place. And she was the wiser of them. He shouldn’t have come here. No good could come of confiding in a woman who’d made it clear she held no trust in him.

  He took one last scan of her face and wondered if his mother’s skin would have thinned and creased in quite the same way had she lived. Then he called open the door. “We depart on the prime,” he said as he stepped through. “Make sure you’re ready.”