Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
A walk down a ramp had never felt so long. For Cali, leaving the transport shuttle felt like the longest journey ever.
She had endured sitting on that ship, packed in with her cousins, a dozen armed Virilian guards, and the senior crew, which included Niir. Someone had provided her with a cloak to wear until they arrived.
She’d hated to leave it on the transport shuttle. The gold thing she wore was not only miserably uncomfortable, but profoundly revealing. If there was any doubt what the warlord had planned for her, it was erased by the donning of this “dress.” This was not the garment of a respectable bride.
The one thing that made it bearable was the fact that Yanc, the chief engineer, had retrofitted it with tiny devices that exploded terti powder.
She wore one addition to the gold body piece—a thick matching bracelet in which a button was disguised as a jewel.
Pressing it would release the powder, followed by small powder bombs attached to other guards’ suits.
The idea was to disable his forces and make him officially release the females.
She had to be close enough to Warlord Mek-la for the powder to take him down.
She was barefoot as she walked down the metal ramp—no shoes for Warlord Mek-la’s wives.
They had landed in a private hangar for the tradeoff of females for credits.
The Sintra-1 station was so new, few species had purchased designated sectors of it.
The Sislus, apparently, were one of the few who had. This was their hangar. Their sector.
Nerves made tiny bumps all over her skin, sending the hair on her neck standing up.
It took all her will to stand straight and tall—and utterly exposed without her cloak—and appear eager to be reunited with her “betrothed.” The document Anna had sent to her room, which Cali had memorized, had given strict instructions on how to behave, how to appear, what to say.
She forced her face to relax and pulled her mouth into a smile.
The effort those actions took nearly made her forget to keep her shoulders back.
So many things to remember, when all she wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.
She took comfort in the bracelet and its button, ready to be pressed. It was the only weapon she had.
Her bare feet hit the cold floor. She looked around. Her cousins were clustered silently behind her, as they had been directed. They wore identical, slender white gowns with matching slippers.
There were so many ahead of her. Guards—both the Virilians on her side and the warlord’s.
All of Trak’s guards wore full suits, including helmets, but not the Sislus, thankfully.
Mek-la had employed a variety of species, including some she’d never seen before.
Only a few were Sislus, which she thought was odd.
Whenever the warlord had visited her settlement, he’d been accompanied by a contingent of Sislus warriors.
Everyone was heavily laden with all manner of weaponry. There were no illusions here of a civilized meeting. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Niir. He stood off to the side, dressed in full battle gear.
Curved blades were strapped to each of Niir’s thighs, just below the twin blasters at his hips.
He was as still as a statue, except for the twitching tip of his tail by his shins, but she knew he watched her.
He wore a sleek helmet with lowered visor.
She wondered how long he had before the change consumed him.
Her gaze slid ahead. There, among the throngs of guards, stood Warlord Mek-la.
He was as she recalled. Light blue skin, covered in fine scales that gleamed in the light.
He was tall, muscled, but not nearly as large as the Virilians.
His face was handsome: straight, narrow nose, wide, firm mouth, wide-spaced eyes that were the same golden as hers.
Long, white hair fell down his back, where a ridge of bone pressed out along his spine.
His arms were crossed over a bare chest. Eight nipples dotted a line down each side of his ribs, each pierced with a small silver ring.
He wore the long, plaited skirt of the Sislus, made of the hides of his kills.
It was hard to believe there was a time when she thought she’d found him attractive. Then, she hadn’t known that she could choose who she loved. Her fate had seemed immovable, inevitable. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Now, she looked at the male who sought to possess her and her stomach rolled in revulsion. Nevertheless, she smiled as she approached him.
Her eyes narrowed as she came closer. Again, she had to consciously relax her expression. Something was off about the warlord. She couldn’t put her finger on it. There was an odd, wavering quality to his appearance. It made her want to blink her eyes to determine if she was seeing things.
Her pace slowed, just a little, but enough to earn a frown from him, but it didn’t take long before she stood before him. This male who had loomed large in her life was now the one who stood between her and the one she loved. Her and freedom.
He looked past her, to the Virilian group. “You took an overlong time to deliver my property,” said Warlord Mek-la. “I do not like to be kept waiting.”
Overlong? That was not a word she would have ever imagined the warlord uttering.
“This mission was harder than you advertised,” drawled Trak. “We had to stop for repairs.”
“We both know that is not true.”
She could almost hear Trak’s crooked smile. “You’re too perceptive to be fooled, my lord. We feel we deserve a higher fee, given our trouble on the Yerkin moon. This is business, you know.”
Finally, the warlord lowered his gaze to her. Not a flicker of recognition passed over his eyes, nor a spark of warmth.
She dropped into a low bow, smiling in a—hopefully—adoring manner. “It is wonderful to see you, my beloved.” Hopefully, she didn’t show too many teeth in this farce of a smile. “I have been eagerly anticipating our reunion.”
He continued gazing down at her, coldly observing.
Her previous meetings with the warlord were not like this.
Mek-la was, well, not jovial, but expressive.
He laughed, made crude jokes, and he was also quick to anger or criticize.
Never had she seen him reserved, like he was now.
“Were you touched by this rabble?” he demanded. “Were you harmed in any way?”
“No,” she replied. “I was treated with respect.” Not a lie, since she only focused on the second question.
“Good. I may spare their lives.”
She said nothing, focused instead on the warlord’s face and words.
Her fingers passed over the jewel on her bracelet, but she didn’t press it.
Something about Mek-la was off. It looked like there was a slight delay between his mouth moving and the sound of his words.
But that wasn’t possible, was it? It had to be her own fear and heightened nerves making her paranoid.
She dropped into another bow. “You are indeed as kind as you are powerful, my lord.” Act submissive, she’d been told.
Flatter him. Indeed, these had always been words to live by around Warlord Mek-la.
But instead of a look of approval, she received more of that cool perusal.
It was as if someone else was controlling him. Like it wasn’t him at all…
“Come. You and the other females will go with my guards. A medic will examine you all and verify that you have not been mistreated by these criminals.” He raised a hand to beckon her to go with the armed males standing behind him.
She swallowed hard, knowing that this was the tricky part.
She could be swallowed up by the warlord’s people and never see the outside world again.
She didn’t want to release the terti powder if this was a trick.
It was then that she noticed it. His outstretched right hand with five fingers, curling into a fist.
Except, the real Warlord Mek-la only had four fingers on his right hand. He had lost one at the hand of his father for failing a hunting trial in his youth. He’d told the story with pride on one of his visits. But here he was, with all his fingers.
Cali stared at it, blinking, trying to understand what she was seeing. “Your hand…” she said. “What happened?”
She could hear the nervous twitters of her cousins and feel the palpable unease ripple through the guards. This was not the plan. She was supposed to get close to him, then release the powder, but this wasn’t Warlord Mek-la. She was sure of it now.
“Nothing.” He made a fist. “It will be striking your face if you disobey me, female,” he snapped, brows low.
“Female?” He never called her “female,” and he never spoke to her in such a way. Her breath came faster, shallower. “Have you forgotten my name, my lord?”
His teeth bared. “Your name is of no importance.”
She wasn’t paying attention to his words any longer. There was no mistaking the waver in his appearance. It looked like a wave sliding over his form, and the speech delay was unmistakable. She wasn’t imagining it. No doubt remained—this was a hologram.
“Warlord Mek-la,” Trak called out behind her in what was clearly a distraction. “Does your female not meet your approval? Perhaps she turned out a little taller than you designed?”
A look of panic swept over the hologram’s face, only to disappear back into the impassive mask he wore. “Ah. This is why you think you can negotiate a higher price.” A smile spread on his thin lips. “You think you know a secret.”
“Not much of a secret, mate,” said Trak. “Seems a lot of wealthy males know about it and have paid a lot of money for a piece of it.”
“Let me tell you—”
“Stop!” Cali didn’t let him finish his sentence.
She wasn’t typically the impulsive sort, but she couldn’t let the Virilians continue on with this, thinking they were dealing with the real Warlord Mek-la, when it definitely wasn’t.
“He’s a hologram.” With a forceful move, she lunged forward and shoved, expecting to put her hand right through the image of him.
Instead, she connected with solid muscle and skin.
He stumbled back a few paces, looking stunned, but in the place where Cali’s hands had touched, a strange, choppy discoloration appeared, looking for a moment like a ragged hole torn through him. But there was no blood, only a distortion in the air, like a screen that was burning out.
She held her breath as the abnormality grew to encompass the warlord’s entire body. Then, suddenly, the hologram of Warlord Mek-la became pixelated, degraded, then blinked off like a light.
A different male stood there—a Virilian, to her surprise. This one had light blond hair and eyes as dark as empty space. His lips curved, revealing the coldest, most terrifying smile Cali had ever seen.
The warlord had been a sophisticated hologram, she realized, designed to hide another being within.
All at once, every weapon in the hangar raised in unison. She winced at the simultaneous hum of blasters powering on and the scrape of blades being pulled from sheaths. The air was charged, explosive.
Cali’s finger found the jewel on her bracelet.
She didn’t recognize the male who had been masquerading as the warlord, but Trak clearly did. “Well, well.” His voice was pure ice, and something in it told her to wait before releasing the powder. “It seems we finally caught up to the elusive Pella Rin.”