Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ARTURE
I’m starting to fucking hate plants.
The air of the jungle level of the Games hangs thick with the earthy scent of decay, and the ground beneath our boots almost breathes.
This is worse than any planet I remember, crawling with dangers disguised as plants.
My leg still throbs, but there’s no time for weakness. Not when Nic-coal is out here.
“Ready?” Juran asks us.
“No,” Ezla answers for me. “I shouldn’t be here. I haven’t competed in the other sections.”
“Neither of you have to come with me,” I remind them yet again.
Juran balls his fists. “If there's a female not being protected, or at risk of worse, I won't let that happen.”
I suppose Lautostocks have big hearts as well as being brave.
“And you?” I ask Ezla.
“If there's something amiss, something you're trying to tell us but can't, and it involves a female's safety, then I have to help. Game rules or not.”
These two clones are model citizens. Kind of wish I was as selfless, but I’m only here to save Nic-coal.
Every heartbeat she's in this jungle, she's in danger.
Samara's ultimate orders are to kill a female from another planet so the Prif can point to clones being a danger. The threat of intergalactic reprisal and war means she’ll need to be at the helm.
All that stands in the way is me. I'm glad for Nic-coal's sake that I have some help.
Juran leads the way, his slender Lautostock form sliding through the thick undergrowth. He murmurs about the foliage, pointing out leaves and flowers that look entirely too carnivorous for my liking.
“This,” he says, brushing aside a massive leaf dripping with sap, “is a Venorasis creeper. It can sense vibrations from fifty meters away.”
“Can it also eat us from fifty meters away?” I ask.
“Only if we step on its runners,” Juran says. He looks almost excited by the prospect.
The Selthiastock healer doesn’t look as unnerved as I feel, but his dark eyes are sharp, scanning the path ahead. His hand brushes the small satchel at his side, likely filled with antidotes and tools for healing. We’ll probably need them soon.
Ezla says, “Your enthusiasm for things that want to kill us is impressive, Juran.”
“I study plants,” Juran replies, puffing out his chest. “It’s not my fault they’re misunderstood.”
I shoot him a look. “Misunderstood or not, I’d rather not end up in a plant’s stomach.”
Juran waves a hand dismissively, but even he slows down as we approach a clearing. The plants here hum faintly, their colors vibrant in warning.
Ezla stops suddenly, holding up a hand.
“What is it?” I ask, my mechanical arm twitching, ready to act.
“Heartbeats,” he murmurs.
I frown. “Ours?”
“No.” He shakes his head, his voice barely a whisper. “Too fast. Too erratic. One of those new clones is nearby. Perhaps watching us.”
Juran stiffens, his scales shifting to a darker blue.
I take a deep breath, trying to push back the war inside me—the part of me that still feels the pull of Samara’s influence. I can’t let it win. Not now.
“We need to draw them out,” I say.
Juran sinks back on his heels. “Too dangerous, I'm not letting either of you risk yourselves.” He strokes a venomous-looking tendril. “We need to let the jungle do the work.”
“You want to use the plants?” Ezla muses.
“Why not? They’re already trying to kill us. Let’s make them useful.”
“I like the way you think,” I say, whereas Ezla looks green. Well, more green than he already is.
Face turning serious, Juran deliberately brushes against the edges of a few plants. It sets off subtle vibrations that ripple away into the jungle. “That’ll prime any Swift Bind or Long Reach, or any movement-based predatory plants—”
The clone Ezla heard shrieks before ominous silence closes in.
Ezla shudders, and Juran pats his back. “He'll be fine, as long as he doesn't have any underlying nervous system conditions,” Juran says.
Ezla shakes his head, then looks up sharply. “More racing heartbeats,” he warns.
Three Parthiastocks step out in front of us, glancing at my arm before glaring at me. If they were truly wave brothers, they'd be coordinated, but these ones move independently.
“There you are,” I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists so hard my mechanics hum almost in the same frequency as the plants.
They lunge toward me, but Juran is faster.
He swings a massive branch, knocking one into the path of a Venorasis creeper.
The plant reacts instantly, its vines wrapping around the clone’s legs and dragging him toward its waiting maw.
He struggles, but his shouts cut off as the plant swallows him whole.
“Effective,” Juran says, grinning.
The second false Parthiastock barrels toward me. I dodge, but barely, my leg protesting with every step. Behind me is a patch of Slowgrass, and when he charges me again, I move to the side. He tramples into it and stiffens; within seconds, he’s on the ground convulsing.
The third Samarastock hesitates, looking between us and the jungle around him.
“Which one do you fancy your chances with?” I ask.
He bolts, sprinting into the jungle.
Ezla grunts. “Unwise.”
A moment later, the ground beneath the fleeing Parthiastock shifts, and he falls into a hidden pit lined with thorned vines.
“That’s going to be a mess to clean up,” Juran notes.
“This jungle is truly lethal,” Ezla says.
He's right. I say, “Rather than actual Games, these seem designed to get rid of clones.”
“I can't believe the All-Mother would allow that.” Juran paces over to the pit, then slaps a hand over his mouth.
“So, she has, then?” I check.
“She… she wouldn't…” Juran's protest dies off.
Because this means Nic-coal isn't just scared. She's in real trouble.