Chapter 8 #2
Amelia had worked with a few draic mercenaries under contract with the Fleet—but she’d only worked against one once. She told the story to Torian in the dead of night once, pulling up her sleeve to show a ragged scar on one arm. His talons ripped through my skin like butter.
If Amelia walked away with that kind of scar, Torian was definitely dead.
The draic flexed his claws, facing her again. His fangs were bared.
Instinct took over, and Torian squeaked, firing another bullet directly at his chest. She didn’t wait to see how that one landed: In the echoing aftermath, she fled into the trees.
Her heart lodged in her throat at the idea of injuring a draic—partly because she really didn’t like shooting people, but mostly because shooting a draic would just piss it off.
With the image of a rampaging draic behind her, Torian ran faster and harder than she ever had before.
Moss was right. She should have stayed on the fucking ship.
The ground was overgrown, a mess of tall grass, thick bushes, and gnarled roots. She tried to stay to the stone paths, but then realized that would lead the draic right to her—so she dove into the underbrush instead.
Behind her, the draic snarled furiously. She didn’t hear footsteps, but wingbeats thump-thumped overhead. Shit. Torian had been fortunate enough to never meet a draic face-to-face. For some reason, she’d always assumed their wings were less functional, more intimidating.
But being chased by air might work to her benefit.
These trees were tall, even if they were dwarfed by the blue tree overhead.
She slowed her frantic sprint, her heart thudding dangerously, every nerve alight.
It took all of her control to swallow her gasping breaths, and that made her very dizzy, but she pressed against a thick tree trunk and stayed perfectly still.
The wingbeats stopped. He’d landed somewhere.
Torian clenched her eyes shut, shuddering in fear.
She wasn’t meant for this. She just wanted to find a new home.
Weld model starships in the warm sun of Rhymarra.
Visit exciting new planets in her new starship.
But humans stayed in the protection of their solar system for a reason—without a truce with the Confederation of Spacefaring Species, there was no guarantee aliens wouldn’t default to murder.
This draic could kill her today, and no one would ever care.
“The trees won’t hide you forever,” the draic growled.
Torian stared at the gun in her hands. Everything narrowed to this moment. Somewhere, her security experience pushed past the fear, and she distantly recognized her choice. It was either her … or the draic.
She’d promised Moss she’d be back. Hell, she promised Celise she’d be back.
And damn it, she would be.
Torian eyed the honeycomb glass dome. It was mostly hidden by the blue tree’s leaves and dense pine needles, but if she shot at the right angle, she could hit a window. Jelly bullets, by design, wouldn’t harm metal walls, but maybe that glass was a different substance.
A human bullet, even a squishy one, might fracture it.
Even a small crack could cause a slow decompression. The temperature would drop drastically. Draics were a volcanic species; they couldn’t survive in the cold.
But humans could—at least long enough to get back to a ship with its own oxygen supply.
Torian’s fear faded, her resolve solidifying to this moment. She took aim through the tree branches, picking a hexagon. A spot on the hexagon. Just a crack, and she could make a break for the Destitute, and then she might stand a chance.
Maybe.
But the second she took aim, the draic dropped from the branches above her and plucked the pistol from her grasp.
“That,” the hulking creature said, folding his wings resolutely, “is a shockingly bad idea in space.” The draic crushed the pistol as effortlessly as one might crush a peanut’s shell. He dropped the metal fragments on the ground, then crossed his arms.
For something about to kill her, he was remarkably amicable about it.
In that breath, Torian decided she didn’t like being scared—even if her scars held the memories to justify it. This draic was just … toying with her. She wanted to be like Amelia: calm, even snarky, in the face of danger.
She channeled her ex-captain’s energy. “If you’re going to murder me, get on with it.”
“Why do all humans think I’m going to murder them? Nasra never has to deal with this,” the draic grumbled, scrubbing one taloned hand over his eyes. “I wouldn’t either, if Dutch hadn’t walked off.” That last part was muttered, almost to himself.
Torian’s frantic heartbeat started to slow, enough to let exasperation filter into her voice. “I shot you.”
“The first time missed. The second tickled, I guess.” The draic shrugged, inspecting his shoulder. Seeing nothing but smooth dark-red scales, he calmly folded his wings over his shoulders like a cape. “No hard feelings.”
Huh.
He was wearing very dashing clothes, Torian noted belatedly: trousers with pockets and a very nice shirt. One of his curved horns was wrapped with a thin black ribbon, tied where it met the back of his skull.
Torian was torn between multiple emotions. Her mind spun as she spluttered, “Oh. Well. I’m … I’m sorry, then. What—um, why are you here?”
“That’s my question, actually.” The draic crossed his arms. “I’d like some information from you.”
Not like she had a choice. She swallowed past a dry mouth. “About what?”
“Well, let’s start with that ship you stole.”