Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
ARTURE
She was so small in my arms. I could easily snap her. And I nearly did.
I stalk through the tangled garden, my steps heavy and purposeful, the sharp tang of venomous blooms biting at the humid air around me. The razor-edged leaves snag at my scales, but I barely feel them; the real pain burns inside.
The heat of Nic-coal’s pulse still flutters against my fingers. I had her in my arms. She bared her throat to me.
And a part of me hates the fact I let the moment go.
Shaking my head, I stumble into a cluster of thorned vines, their jagged edges biting into my scales as if punishing me. I’ve remembered what Samara built me for, my purpose.
I can kill females.
My orders are crystal clear: kill Nic-coal, introduce the threat of an intergalactic war at the same time as proving clones are dangerous.
It's a perfect noose, and Nic-coal's neck is in it.
She even delivered herself into my hands, her pulse rapid against my fingers.
Fluttering. So delicate. One swift movement is all it would have taken to snap her, end her life, fulfil the mission Samara built the Samarastocks for.
I squeeze my fists against my temple to push out the mental image which makes every cell in my body scream.
How, how do I subvert this? Agonizing pain stabs into my head, but I don't care, I have to find a way. What if I get one of the other clones to kill me before I can act on the orders Samara buried into me? If a Parthiastock overhears the dark intent in my head, he’ll kill me on the spot.
My head pounds relentlessly, an unforgiving rhythm that beats in time with Samara's voice echoing in my mind.
I sit amongst dangerous blooms, catching my breath, watching their vibrant petals sway. A vivid reminder that beauty often hides poison. Like Samara.
“Samara wants to prove clones are dangerous,” I murmur to no one, stilling.
“She would want me to kill a female in public, in full view of all women, True Born and Tubers. She’ll take the event and spin it into the threat of intergalactic war.
” My throat closes. Not that Nic-coal’s Earth would even be aware to retaliate; all Samara needs is the threat of it to maintain power.
Mindless clones would have instigated the war and women will need to de-escalate it, and they will need a strong leader.
Samara. Beautiful, strong Nic-coal would be sacrificed in the story the Prif wants to tell.
I punch the nearest tree, the trunk shuddering under the force, its dark sap burning the scales of my knuckles.
Nic-coal’s words come back to me: I need to work with my brain.
“It won't benefit Samara to kill Nic-coal quietly.
It all hinges on the spectacle. So I shouldn't kill her in private, that'll ruin Samara's plan.”
As soon as I think this, the pain eases. At fucking last.
So, it has to be at the Clone Mating Games. At the end, during the celebration. Only podium place winners will be invited up onto the plinth, to be close to a guest of honor such as Nic-coal.
And, luckily or unluckily, my chances of winning are slim at best. The games aren’t just tests of strength, speed, or wit; they’re designed to showcase the perfect mate. And I’m far from perfect, let alone an ideal mate. I’m broken, tired, barely holding myself together.
My fists clench. While she's marginally safe from me and my disgusting hidden orders as long as I don’t actually win, the worst part isn’t me; it’s the other Samarastocks.
Dozens of them, maybe more, all with the same orders as me.
I don’t know if they can kill a female, but Asshole Samarastock told me Samara said she wasn’t a female.
They’ll all push to win, to stand on the podium and then they’ll kill her.
In public, in front of everyone. Exactly the way Samara wants.
The image alone is enough to make me double over, clutching my head as I kneel panting in the dark dirt. Nic-coal, lost. They won’t care about her, and they won’t fight their orders.
But I will.
I groan, remembering Nic-coal’s delicate life in my hands, her vibrancy, the hunger in her kiss. She’s trying to help me, telling me I’m strong enough to fight back against the orders burned into my brain.
Pressing the heels of my hands to my temples, I rock. I thought my way out once. I have to do it again. I have to start thinking like a Samarastock, and win the way Nic-coal told me to: working with my brain.
My head throbs, the weight of trying to balance Samara’s orders with saving Nic-coal grinding down my mind.
I'm the only thing that can stop them. The only thing who can keep Nic-coal safe.
I might be a monster, but I'll be her monster.
The barracks is where the Samarastocks will be, all hiding in plain sight. But how do I find the unfindable? The perfect spies, the perfect assassins blend seamlessly with the others, faceless in a crowd. They could be anyone
I limp into the barracks, scanning the rows of bunks and the pallets set up on the floor.
These rooms were meant for True Born sons to rest between bouts, and they're covered with cameras so females can observe who they want at their leisure.
There aren't enough bunks for the hundreds of clones who passed the initial exam to get into the very first Clone Mating Games, so they're finding places to rest anywhere there's a spare bit of floor.
The barracks hum with energy, an undercurrent of excitement rippling through the resting clones.
Some stretch out on bunks, murmuring in low voices, while others check gear or brace themselves for the next round of the games.
I remain at the edges, cataloguing every face, every movement, my nerves stretched tight, waiting.
The Samarastocks could be anyone. They could be anywhere.
“Who are you looking for?” a Lautostock asks, folding the sheets on his bunk at crisp angles. I guess I am surveying the room like a clone on the hunt.
“Friends of mine,” I reply.
“And what are their designation codes?”
“I… hm. Never thought to ask them.”
Another Lautostock approaches. There’s no way a Samarastock would want to hide as such a weak clone, so I ignore him until he stops in front of me, his expression earnest. “Thank you for rescuing me, Gerverstock. I’m Juran.”
A murmur ripples through the nearby clones. Several turn their heads, their faces shifting with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
A name. Not a designation code. Clones don’t usually introduce themselves with names.
“Yes, I have a name,” Juran says to them, his tone is calm but firm. Didn’t know a cleaner could be so forthright. His gaze shifts back to me. “Can I talk to you?”
He’s different, sure, but there’s no malice in his face, no indication he’s a Samarastock. Still, I don’t answer right away, my instincts screaming caution.
The barracks door swings open. A Selthiastock strides in, his emerald scales catching the light as his gaze sweeps over the room. “Does anyone here need healing?”
His eyes land on me. They narrow slightly as he tilts his head, studying me like I’m a problem he’s already halfway to solving. “You again. Your leg probably didn’t set properly earlier.”
I stiffen, instinctively drawing back a step. I don’t need this attention, but the Selthiastock doesn’t back off, his piercing gaze flicking between my face and the faint tremor in my left leg, the strain in my stance.
“I’m fine.” My right hand curls into a fist. “Focus on someone else.”
The Selthiastock raises an unimpressed brow.
Juran leans in close to me, whispering, “I do need to talk to you.”
I grit my teeth. “About what? I’m busy.”
The Selthiastock presses, “I can see you're favoring your left leg, and you were the clone with…” He glances to either side. “Nic-coal.”
Juran startles. “How do you know Nic-coal?”
“How do you know Nic-coal?” I fire back at the younger clone. He’s got my attention now. Drok na. But I do need to be at my best to defeat the Samarastocks—aw, fuck—no, to win the tournament and be within striking distance of Nic-coal.
Relenting, I perch on the edge of a bunk, letting the Selthiastock examine me. My body protests, stiff and aching, and I barely suppress a flinch as his hands probe my leg.
Juran lingers nearby, staring at me intently. “Nic-coal went to see you. She seemed concerned about you.”
“She was,” the Selthiastock says. “Very concerned.” He shoots a dark look at me. He would have seen me kissing Nic-coal, but did he see how close I came to wrapping my fingers around her neck?
“What happened?” Juran asks.
The healer clone straightens. “He told her to leave. Then kissed her. Then seemed to go mad, trying to reach her. I thought he had hurt her, but the female said he did not. I’d say it was a Gerverstock rage, but there wasn’t any red on him.”
The cleaner balls his fists. “You used Gerverstock rage near Nic-coal? You could have hurt her. What were you thinking?”
I try speaking again, but I can’t. I can’t tell them anything of Samara’s plan, what my purpose is, the hidden danger stalking Nic-coal.
And now these two clones are suspicious of me. I don’t think they’re Samarastocks, but they’ll be in my way.
The Selthiastock works efficiently, his movements precise as he manipulates my leg. “You'll need to rebreak this and let me set it, then rest while your nanites heal overnight.”
“I can't be incapacitated overnight.”
“Why not? Mating games competitors don't have anything else scheduled.” A flicker of his earlier glare returns. Oh, he thinks I’m rejecting Nic-coal’s direct advances by ignoring her and continuing in the Clone Mating Games.
“I’m trying to reach her,” I explain. That’s safe enough to Samara’s plans to tell them.
He stands up slowly. Then he nods. “Let me know if you want me to rebreak it for you.”