Chapter 11 #2
He was ingrained here, and that put another dent in her hopes.
She had more or less expected to find Tristen Veld eking out an ordinary existence in a world he didn’t feel he belonged in, hopefully desperate to return to the world he’d come from.
She’d been prepared to offer him anything he wanted.
Money, because Jevryn would pay whatever the Shaman wanted if it freed Griff.
Access to the Congregation, because they wanted to speak to him.
A chance to find the family he’d been taken from.
She’d already worried that the lure of the Congregation wouldn’t matter to him, given how bitter she would have felt about them in his place. She’d just learned his family had sold him. And she was surrounded by a multitude of evidence that he didn’t have the slightest need of money.
The only hope she had was that, as far as she’d seen, Tristen wasn’t happy. He had people like Valerie, who were devoted to him for curing whatever incurable problem they’d had, but they didn’t know him, and she thought that was because he didn’t let them. Because he didn’t trust them.
He dropped the last two items from his pocket into the bowl and Nyx blinked, staring at the lighter and pack of cigarettes. “You’re a Shaman and you smoke?”
“Why not? I can’t get lung cancer, emphysema, or any of the other myriad problems it causes. Don’t be surprised if the Shaman you know has some hidden vices. From what I remember through the Congregation, it’s a common problem for us, given the lack of physical repercussions.”
“Yeah,” Nyx said drily, taking a seat on one of the island’s barstools, “I don’t think Tobi’s smoking and trying illicit drugs on the weekends.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He’s nine.”
Everything about Tristen went cold. “And where is he now?”
Too late, Nyx realized that with his history, Nyx knowing a young Shaman probably didn’t speak in her favor. He would assume the boy was in a situation similar to the one he’d been in.
“With his adoptive mothers who love him,” Nyx said evenly.
He leaned across the island, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “And where are his real parents?”
“Ankira and Diana are real parents, but his biological parents are dead.” It had taken a long time for Ankira and Diana to glean that from Tobi.
As much as they had wanted children, and as much as they loved him, they would never have kept him from his birth parents if he’d been forcibly taken from them.
But Tobi had never spoken about them to Kaden on Arkadia, and it had taken months of sessions with a healer for Tobi to recount what he remembered.
It hadn’t been pleasant. “Ankira and Diana adopted him.”
Far from looking reassured, Tristen’s gaze hardened.
“Shaman children whose parents die don’t just get lovingly adopted.
They go to the Council by default. I’ve seen the nurseries in the Enforcer corps.
The Congregation thought showing them to me would make me feel better about leaving my mother.
It’s how I knew she’d sold me to someone else entirely. So maybe try again.”
The look in his eyes told Nyx she had about ten seconds to fix this before he decided they were done.
Telling him the truth would fix it, but it came with a cost. “Tobi was adopted,” she said, “just…not legally. Or rather, not as himself.” Jevryn had gotten him new identity papers, along with Kalvar and Lauralyn.
His family name was now Ankira’s, rather than the one he’d been born with.
“And if I tell you how that happened, I’ll be putting a lot more people in danger than just myself. ”
Tristen spread his arms wide. “Look at where we are. Who am I going to tell that it would even make any sense to, much less matter to?”
“If you agree to come with me, you will be in a position to tell quite a few people who it would matter to.” Even knowing that he would find out on his own eventually—he would see Kaden, he would see the wanted poster in the Station—she felt uneasy at putting it into words.
It felt like a betrayal, like putting her friends at risk for the sake of what she needed.
But he was going to find out anyway, and maybe it would be better if it came from her now, where she could spin the narrative before he discovered it on his own and jumped to conclusions.
“You’ve already said the kid wasn’t adopted legally, which I assume means whatever else you don’t want to say involves something illegal.
Which means I would have to report it to an authority, which ultimately answers to the Council.
” He crossed his arms. “The Council left me to rot in this place. I’m not interested in doing them any favors. ”
He was going to have to do at least one councilor a favor, but she was not going to mention that now.
One step at a time. Starting with convincing him she wasn’t a Shaman trafficker.
“Tobi was taken from his parents when he was seven.
They fought for him and they died for it.
He was sold to a wealthy man who was sentenced to the Arkadian prison planet, and who thought smuggling a Shaman in would both keep him alive and be his ticket to a comfortable life sentence.
“He was rescued by someone who was wrongfully imprisoned there, who protected him from the many terrible things that could have happened to him.” She emphasized that point because Tristen clearly cared about what had happened to Tobi, either because he was another Shaman or because he imagined his younger self in the boy.
Making it clear that Kaden was the reason Tobi was alive and in as good a shape as he was should go a long ways toward convincing Tristen to keep what he learned to himself.
Tristen considered it. “I’m taking it the ‘wrongfully imprisoned’ individual didn’t get off the prison planet by serving out their sentence?”
She shook her head. “Every Arkadian sentence is a life sentence. And the Council won’t bring anyone back from there, even people like Tobi, who should never have been there in the first place. They consider it too risky.”
“So they broke out?”
She hesitated. She could just say yes and leave it at that.
She didn’t have to mention her own involvement.
But she decided to for several reasons. One, not admitting it felt a lot like being willing to put her friends at risk but not herself.
Two, if Tristen agreed to help them, his fate would be tied up with hers, so he should know that mentioning any of this would put her—and therefore himself—at risk.
Finally, since he seemed to be conflicted about his own life choices, maybe knowing that she was far from perfect would make him feel a little more connected to her, and therefore more inclined to be sympathetic to what she needed.
“In a manner of speaking. I went there and got them.”
Tristen blinked. “You infiltrated a prison planet and led a convict escape?”
“I’m more resourceful than I look,” she bit out. She was getting tired of being underestimated.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He looked at her like he was searching for something, an intensity in his gaze she didn’t know what to do with.
She shook her head. “But that’s enough about me. I believe you brought me here so I could listen to you talk. Over coffee. Do I get coffee or not?”
He shook his head, but it looked like it was out of amusement rather than refusal. “Sure.” He walked over to a small espresso machine and asked over his shoulder, “What do you want?”
“Americano, black,” she answered automatically. Then her gaze landed on the array of syrups and sauces in the rack next to the machine, and she realized, suddenly, that she was starving for something different. Something new. “Wait, no. Dark chocolate caramel breve with whipped cream.”
His turned toward her, his eyebrows lifting. “One of those things is not like the other.”
“No,” she said, smiling a little to herself. “It isn’t.”
He shrugged and pulled a container of half-and-half out of the stainless steel refrigerator, along with a can of whipped cream.
He pulled grounds into the portafilter, tamped them, and slid them into the machine, hitting the button for a double-pull.
He was efficient with his movements, and she was content to watch him, because there was something soothing about watching someone do something they’d done a thousand times before.
A quiet proficiency that was comforting.
He popped the top on the half-and-half, poured a generous amount into the pitcher, lifted it up to cover the steam wand, and started steaming.
The familiar sounds of it all washed over her and her throat tightened.
Because with his back to her, not much more visible than his build and his black hair, he could almost be someone else.
He made two identical drinks, placed both mugs on a tray and then carried them over to the island, taking the seat across from her. She took her mug but didn’t drink, waiting. He did the same, looking like he was having trouble figuring out where to begin.
“Edward Caruthers isn’t the only person I’ve killed.
Not that day, and not since. He probably won’t be the last.” There was a challenge in his words, one that confirmed her belief in why he’d brought her here.
He wanted to tell her what he had probably never been able to tell anyone else—the extent of what he’d done.
And if he flung the words out in a tone that said he was certain she couldn’t accept them, she thought the tone and the armor was because he did want her to accept them.
He wanted absolution and she, as someone who already knew the basics of what he’d done—and who could potentially understand why—was the perfect person to offer it.
“Why did you kill him?”