Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
NICOLE
I press back against Arture’s scales, each one of his thundering breaths a reassurance he’s alive.
The flying motorbike thing we’re on whines as it cuts through the air.
Ahead of us, Juran waves, then picks at something on his bike’s hull.
Ezra follows suit and Arture does the same, revealing a little sticker of silver chips and wires.
He tosses that into the wind. Well, that’s the tracker down at least. But what about water?
We leave the chaos of the oasis behind, the shouts of excitement fading into the silence of the surrounding desert.
Out here, there’s nothing but wind and sand stretching endlessly in every direction.
Our speed does nothing to reduce the temperature, heat shimmering from sands as bright as Arture's golden scales.
Everyone knows now. Everyone's seen a gold-and-black Samarastock, and they’ve seen Arture defy the Prif's orders.
Did that change anything? What do all those Olorians think?
Are they challenging Samara for torturing a whole branch of sentient males in creating her own clones, or are they huddling closer to her out of the fear she manufactured?
Juran floats ahead, our scout, and Ezla sticks by us. We can't really talk, and any time I open my mouth to try, I get a mouthful of superheated air that's like trying to drink my tea straight out of the kettle. But I am getting worried. I stroke Blood Feather’s nose to comfort him and myself.
They’re going to find us, or we’re going to die out in the desert.
Arture leans around me, pulling me close to his scaled chest. “You okay?” he yells next to my helmet.
I put a thumbs up. He’s gone through so much, I can keep this to myself for now.
Juran ducks down and lands next to some caves, their shadows like long dark fingers grasping at the desert. He waves to us and Arture steers our flyer next to him. When he switches it off, my breathing sounds too loud.
It's desolate in every direction apart from the caves. I squint. Actually, they’re skeletal remains of buildings, buried halfway in the sand.
“What is this place?” I mumble, mouth full of sand and as dry as an overcooked kipper.
“It’s an old Olorian city, destroyed at the height of one of our many wars,” Arture replies, arms still banding around me, as if he doesn’t want to let me go.
Ezla sniffs the air. “Radiation is not at an acceptable level, even for a night’s stay.”
“I can deal with that,” Juran says, excitement making his voice higher. “Let me go first, and I’ll soak it up.”
“Very cool,” I tell him, and his silver scales flash to pale lavender again.
“We won’t linger long,” Arture explains. “We need to find water, let the flyers refuel, and leave in a few hours.”
I turn in place to look at him. He doesn’t look ready to leave in a few hours. He looks like he was scraped off the floor of a boxing ring, slapped in the face with a sandy towel, and shoved back into the fight.
His golden-brown eye winks at me. Yep. Still Arture.
Juran leaps off his bike and trudges ahead to check the buildings out, and Ezla heads over to linger near the entrance. I seize the moment, sliding off the bike I share with Arture. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” he says, getting off the bike stiffly.
I narrow my eyes and smack his left shoulder. “What were you thinking, turning into a dead weight to drag that clone into the plant with you?”
He shrugs, turning to grin at me as he brushes sand off his shoulder. “I don’t know. A noble death?” His eye goes distant, face softening. “Protecting you.”
The sincerity in his tone makes my chest ache. I grab his face, my hands slipping over his sweaty, dusty scales until I’m nearly cupping his ears, and yank him down to my level. His eye widens, but he doesn’t fight me.
“Never do that again,” I say fiercely, pressing my lips to his salty, sandy ones.
He stays stiff against mine, like he doesn’t know what to do. Then he exhales, his muscles becoming liquid, and he kisses me back. Warmth spreads from his lips down into my core, my body aching for his touch. We’re together again, and he’s okay.
But it's so not the time, and we're not safe yet. I pull away, rubbing my hands over his forearms. “You’re limping.”
“I am,” he admits.
“What happened?”
“Broke my leg. It healed wrong, so I broke it again, but then the jungle trial was sprung on us, and…” He shrugs again. “I couldn’t let it heal properly. I'm not up for trying a third time.”
I gape at him, then mutter, “You’re impossible.”
As I look at him, standing battered and worn but still here, working his ass off to protect me, lightness floods my chest. Impossible is how he is, and I'll accept that if I can have the man. Watching him throw off his mental chains is just the beginning, and I can't wait to see him soar free.
I open my mouth to tell him, even though his big head will just get bigger, when Juran calls: “I found something.”
“Good honorary Gerverstock,” Arture says, holding out his arm for me.
He tries to hide his limp over the shifting sands, but his leg really is bothering him, so I pull him gently to lean on me.
Even his sexy hip wiggle is affected, he’s so very hurt.
I nibble my lip, adding that to the list of shit to fret about.
Outside, the metal struts of the building look like they’ve been fighting the desert for centuries.
The desert sun beats down, making the entire structure shimmer faintly, like it might dissolve at any moment.
Sand-scoured scars streak the rusted and pitted metal walls near the edge of the encroaching sands, a testament to unrelenting winds.
We approach a jagged hole, with rusted metal like shark teeth underneath, sun-bleached to a pale, sickly orange, with seams barely held together.
It seems like a horrible place to hide, but as soon as we step through the seal, everything changes.
The air inside is startlingly cool and clean, a crisp sterility jarring after the oppressive heat and grit outside.
The walls are pristine white, smooth and unblemished, like they’ve somehow escaped time.
There are beds set against the far wall—simple platforms with coverings so sheer they’re nearly invisible.
Everything in the room has that same see-through quality: the chairs, the small table in the corner, even the lamps with their glowing, skeletal structures.
The cushions look surprisingly plush, but the translucent fabric makes them feel too clean.
It’s far too clinical to be comfortable, but it’s out of the heat at least.
I run my fingers along the edge of one of the beds, half expecting it to dissolve under my touch, but it holds firm, soft but sturdy. I glance around at the others, trying to gauge if they feel the same strange tension I do—this place is both sanctuary and a reminder of how foreign this world is.
“Must have been hermetically sealed.” Arture taps the door. It rings like a bell, the chimes echoing on the walls surrounding us, as if the room’s savoring the only sound it's heard for a century.
“Found it.” Juran comes back holding up two orange metal canisters in each hand with a joyful smile on his face. He puts them down with a clatter, cracks one of the lids off and sniffs at the contents before handing it to me.
Inside is water, cold, precious and oh-so-refreshing. I drink deeply as Juran passes out others, then I pour some out for Blood Feather. True to form, the horse doesn’t drink, sailing around the room to explore.
Juran hands me a fourth container, but I push it back. “No thanks. You all need it more than me.”
Arture scowls, practically pressing it into my hands. “You're having it, no arguments.”
“Or what, you'll lock me in a room?” I grin at him, fishing in my technical t-shirt pocket and pulling out a small vial of sedative to wave at him.
He sucks in a breath between his teeth. “You really did hide them everywhere.”
“It’s my last one.”
He holds out his hand and I drop it in, a show of trust which doesn't go unnoticed. His gaze softens as he curls it into his palm and puts it in his deep pockets.
Ezla clears his throat. “Perhaps we should rest, and I should probably examine the, uh, excision you performed on yourself, Arture.”
There's no blood on Arture's face, just the empty metal socket. “I don’t think there’s anything to do, but I can take an initial look. I’m a vet, an animal doctor.”
Ezla inclines his head, but a new interest fires in his turquoise eyes.
“I'll take first watch,” Juran states, pacing to the door outside. “Ezla, you're next. Arture, I think you need to heal.”
“I'll take third,” I offer.
Again, they look at me like my head's on fire.
A low chuckle shakes Arture’s chest. “She's nothing like any female you've ever met. She dug several klicks of irrigation channels next to me.”
A small smile trickles onto Ezra’s face. “Human females are very different indeed. I’d be honored to call one my mate.”
Arture’s fingers tighten briefly around mine, but then he lets go slowly, as if forcing himself to.
His signs for “I have lots to talk about,” even though I know he won’t want to.
Blood Feather seems happy here with Juran and Ezra, so I take Arture’s arm and guide him into another room with a long couch that looks like a cross between a chaise lounge and a day bed.
No fancy mechanics to shut the door here, just plain, unadorned rectangles of metal.
For a moment, the simplicity of it jars me. I could be on Earth.
“Do we have anywhere to wash?” I ask, rubbing sand and dried crusty plant juice between my fingers.
Arture jolts, as if I startled him. “There’s probably a facility here. I’ll investigate.”