Chapter 6
Chapter six
Wynn woke with a start, like a pulse rifle fired next to her ear. She jerked upward, sitting straight, her heart hammering in her skull. The bedcovers slid down her body to pool at her hips, and she fisted them in her hands, trying to catch her breath.
A rumble of thunder made her look up. Rain splattered against the narrow window, the light level fractionally brighter than it had been when she’d fallen into bed.
She’d worked for hours in the greenhouse, allowing exhaustion to seep into every bone before attempting sleep.
Her mind had only wanted to hyperfixate on the man dying in Foster’s quarters.
When her eyes had barely stayed open, she’d called it quits.
The rumble of thunder had soothed her like a lullaby, with an occasional boom disrupting the constant purr.
She glanced at the door, dread swirling in her stomach. Another person died here, only meters away, while she did nothing.
Her insides twisted, and the room spun. She reached up and settled her hand on her forearm, the feel of the lines against her palm grounding her. Turning her head, she stared at the washroom door. The urge to get up and retrieve the kit she had stashed there was making her twitchy.
No. She didn’t have time for self indulgence when there was shit she needed to do.
She had to check the body. If comms were back up, she would report the incident to her superiors at the Science Academy.
She also needed to find out how long this storm was going to last, and if any of her fields had survived the night.
Pushing the covers aside, Wynn rose. The carpet felt cool against her bare feet.
She padded to the wall compartment and pulled out a set of CORE-issue comfort wear, a long-sleeved shirt and loose fitting pants.
Quickly, she swapped out her tank and shorts for the clean set, and pushed the dirty ones into the laundry sluice.
Her door slid open when she stepped close, the lights in the hallway set to half-luminosity for night. She paused, swallowing. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to have another dead person haunt her dreams.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the corridor. Nausea swirled in her stomach as she walked to Foster’s door. She stopped in front of it, lifted her hand to touch the control, then paused.
The sedative she’d given him would have allowed him to pass away in his sleep, but how would he look after bring ravaged by radiation all night?
Get it over with.
Wynn swallowed the bile climbing the back of her throat and pressed the control to open the door. She expected the stench of death to have already started because of the rotting of his organs from the inside out, but there was nothing.
And no one.
“Lights full,” she whispered, and everything brightened.
She sucked in a sharp breath. The room was empty, the bed unoccupied. Rumpled sheets mussed the bed where he’d lain, but he was nowhere to be found.
Heart in her throat, she spun around and scanned the hallway up and down. Had he somehow dragged himself out of the room and died elsewhere?
Two steps took her to the door of the lab. It opened as she approached, and she darted inside, eyes scanning everywhere. It was empty too.
She continued on, past the door to the greenhouse and through the short hallway that led to the living room. Her bare feet screeched to a halt. Her chest seized. She gripped the door frame to remain standing.
The man stood at the window naked, looking out into the storm.
He stood. Upright. Alive.
She flexed her fingers against the door frame. His back was to her, and he lifted his arms slightly away from his body, his palms facing forward. His spine was straight, tall, his buttocks taut, and his shoulders wide—unlike the hunched, stumbling posture of when he’d arrived.
And his skin… it no longer appeared bright red and blistered.
Smooth, healed flesh covered sleek muscles.
Not possible.
Her skin prickled in warning. He shouldn’t look that way.
Severe radiation burns didn’t reverse themselves with one dose of medicine.
She hadn’t been trying to cure him because that would’ve been impossible without a whole lab and crew dedicated to the task.
Given the circumstances, she’d been trying to make him as comfortable as possible for the last few hours of his life.
None of this was right. It defied logic. It defied science. That prickle turned into an itch, and she took a step back.
He twisted his head, dropping his hands against his thighs. Wynn froze in place. He still wore those glasses. They wrapped around enough that she couldn’t see his eyes at all.
She retreated another step, her hand dropping away from the door frame, then stopped again when he faced her fully.
His front was as perfect, as undamaged, as the back of him.
Pectorals, biceps, abdomen—defined muscles swathed his body like the sculptures of old.
His cock hung between corded thighs, a light dusting of hair thickening as it traveled downward.
The storm behind him highlighted their size difference.
A dying man held little threat, but this large, naked man?
Her mind raced to figure out how he could be well and whole. He’d walked from the direction of the research station with nothing with him. No case, or luggage, or… anything. He couldn’t have some ground-breaking drug that cured radiation sickness overnight, and she certainly didn’t have one.
And again, familiarity struck her. Something she couldn’t place, but urged her to step forward as much as retreat.
“Who are you?” The question snapped out of her, combative. “Why are you here?” She clenched and relaxed her hands, trying to grab hold of anything that would make her understand.
Was he Tellusian? That didn’t make sense either. Where were his tattoos, then? He wasn’t wearing a warrior’s uniform, or even what she’d seen of Tellusian styles on media reports. His clothes and boots weren’t like anything she’d seen before.
In answer to her question, he tilted his head, the jerky movement sending more fear down her spine.
Retreat. Get to safety. Run.
She took another step back. He tilted his head the other way, almost animalistic.
Another shiver raced through her body, over her scalp and down her arms. Her thoughts disconnected, like someone yelled at her through the decontamination room’s door. She could see the shouting, but didn’t understand the words, her mind and gut telling her two different things at the same time.
Frozen in indecision, Wynn jumped when he stepped toward her. A sensation of otherness washed over her at the motion. Despite his appearance, something told her he wasn’t human.
Icy realization cascaded over her body, shortening her breaths. No. It wasn’t possible. No no no no no. There had to be another explanation, something that made sense and didn’t threaten her very existence.
She kept telling herself that, even as all the pieces fell into place, everything from his unusual healing ability to the clothes he wore.
“Take off your glasses.” The words passed her lips in a tortured whisper.
She didn’t want to find out if she was right—what her whole body had been telling her since she saw him standing at the window.
He didn’t move except to tip his head oddly.
“Take off your glasses!” she yelled, panic gripping her throat.
A moment in time stretched between them, punctuated by her shallow breaths.
He reached upward slowly with one hand and grabbed hold of the side of his glasses. A swipe, and they were off. He lowered his arm until they dangled from his fingertips at his side.
Wynn exhaled a long breath. His eyes appeared normal, just a lighter shade of brown than usual. Perhaps hazel.
A relieved shiver passed through her body, and she almost laughed aloud at herself. Of course he wasn’t Calypson. They didn’t leave their area, just lured people to their doom with some sort of immortal promise.
Then he turned his head, and the overhead lights caught in his irises. For a second, his eyes glowed. Cat’s eyes. That was what she’d heard the effect called.
All the blood rushed from her head. He was Calypson. And he stood before her. In her living room. In her outpost. On Earth and not in Sector Ten like he should be.
Protect yourself.
She spun around and ran, through her lab, out into the hallway, toward the exit and the pulse rifle waiting in the clean compartment of the decontamination zone.
Shaky hands punched in the code. Where the hell was her PALM? She could’ve just swiped her hand instead of getting the code wrong on the first try.
She glanced over her shoulder and screamed.
He was right there, not a meter away, each of his features as clear as day: his full lips, sharp nose, and high cheekbones. And those disturbingly reflective eyes accented by a furrowed brow.
She hadn’t heard him move over the noise of her heart pounding in her head.
His hands were empty, the glasses gone. She couldn’t tell his age, maybe upper twenties like her, but being Calypson, who the hell knew how old he was.
Her hand reached out toward the compartment, slapping the compartment’s panel. When it didn’t open, she tore her gaze away and punched in her ID code again.
It opened, revealing her sanitized suit from yesterday, as well as all his clothing. She grabbed a handful of the flexible material and threw it at him, one garment at a time. Then came his boots. They hit his body, but he didn’t react.
Wynn swallowed and touched the barrel of the pulse rifle.
A quick movement froze her in place. He took a step forward, over the clothes and boots she’d thrown at him, then took another.
She dropped the rifle in her haste to back away, her gaze riveted to those reflective eyes.
Don’t let him touch you.
That was how they did it, wasn’t it? They touched a person and changed them into Calypson too. No one really knew. Maybe Calypsons ate the pilgrims, because most weren’t seen or heard from again.
But she’d helped him inside yesterday, skin to skin. She’d touched him many times while bandaging his wounds. And she was still… Wynn.
He stopped beside the clean compartment and stared down at its contents. She shuffled backward, then paused in her retreat, startled by the confusion on his face. He reached inside.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Why had she dropped the pulse rifle? Why was she such an idiot?
All her muscles bunched to run, then she froze. It wasn’t the rifle he held in his hand, but the white fabric of her UV-suit. It hung from his fingertips like he’d never seen one before.
Hadn’t he? His trip across Earth’s terrain had been UV-suit-free. Maybe he hadn’t known he should wear one.
“What do you want?” Fear and frustration laced her words. What could a Calypson possibly want with her outpost? The only thing they did here was try to get plants to grow on this dying planet.
She took another step back, then stopped when he let the UV-suit fall into the compartment and turned his attention back to her.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her hands clenching on nothing at her sides.
Maybe she’d been misinformed. Maybe everything she’d ever heard about Calypsons had been a lie. Maybe they traveled freely throughout the system, but the CORE government thought it prudent to keep it hidden. She wouldn’t put it past them.
Her blood froze in her veins when he finally spoke, his voice a raspy, unused sound.
“I have come to collect you.”