CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SYREK

Daves stood in front, with the rest of the mercenaries from her team clustered behind her. She wore a rough bandage looped around her head, and her greenish blood already marred the fabric.

“It was an ambush, boss,” Daves said. She kept her head upright, but her spiracles bellowed as she tried to breathe. “They hit us hard.”

Syrek rubbed the back of his neck, forcing back his irritation at the team he had sent out on a mission just a few days earlier. “What happened?”

“We got them, boss,” Daves said. “But we took heavy fire. Three ships to their one.” Daves puffed out her bony chest. “But we won.”

“Excellent. And the cargo?” Ancain asked, tapping at his hand-held computer.

“Damaged,” Daves replied. “We beat back the pirates, but they damaged the crates. Client got a bug in his underwear about it. Says he won’t pay now.”

Syrek growled, a sound low in his throat that made the mercenaries shift their feet. A few crept their hands toward their weapons, but at Syrek’s glare, they froze.

“Get back out there,” Syrek hissed.

Daves paled. “Sir?”

Ancain shook his head. “We were paid to protect the freight. We failed to do so. We aren’t getting paid, Syrek. Not the whole amount, but I might be able to negotiate fifty percent, since we saved his life.”

“Get back out there,” Syrek replied, through a clenched jaw. “Find those pirates.”

Ancain frowned. “They’ve only just returned. We have a second team…”

“They messed up when they let that pirate crew best them.” Syrek snarled. “They need to regain their honor.”

“They are not Ennoi, Syrek,” Ancain said, his voice low. “They did what they could. They came back alive.”

“They came back without pay!”

“Syrek.”

Syrek ignored Ancain, turning instead to turn on the mercenaries. “You are not welcome back until you bring me the head of the enemy’s captain. Total annihilation is the only victory that counts. Destroy them, and let history forget their names!”

His words sent a ripple through the mercenaries, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. Daves reeled back, a scowl across her fish-like face. “Sir, with all respect, this team is exhausted.”

Ancain stepped forward, placing himself between Syrek and the mercenaries. “Of course you are. Why don’t you get some food and some rest? See the medics about that cut, Daves.”

She nodded, and, shooting one last curious look at Syrek, she limped away with the rest of the mercenaries.

“You interfered, Ancain.” Syrek’s tone held ice.

“Syrek, we cannot afford to lose these people, or the ship.”

“What do you propose, then? We let them take our clan’s honor?”

“We have no honor. We are hired hands. We do as we are told, and if we are lucky, we get paid.”

“And if we are unlucky?”

“If we are unlucky, we get mutiny.”

The man had a point. “I hate when you are reasonable, Ancain.”

“It’s why I do it so often, my friend.”

Syrek stormed out of the docking bay with Ancain hurrying after him. Syrek ran a hand over his smoothly shaved head. His fingers bumped into the horns and ridges on his skull. Even days later, he struggled to come to terms with his new form. His Virtue of the Avowed, as the Ennoi called it.

Virtue.

He snorted.

Nothing of the kind. Just a greedy bastard dying in a desert who tried to clench a fist around the only water available. He stared down at his fist, now the same size as his father’s, though not the same color. And like that greedy bastard, he’d lost the only thing that mattered.

No, nothing matters more than Haven.

Mara, and her humans, were a temporary issue. He needed to keep his eye on the prize. The long-term goals mattered more than the short-term ones, and one way or another, his relationship with Mara would sort itself out.

She could be his Avowed from any point in the universe.

There is only one Haven.

“Syrek!” Ancain’s legs were long, typical of his species, but Syrek’s new height meant he ate up the ground faster. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Syrek replied.

“We should at least address the physical changes.”

Syrek stopped and Ancain bumped into his back. “What do you know about my changes, Ancain?”

“Your species is rare this far out from your territories. I am the only one on this crew familiar with the Ennoi. I know what those horns on your head mean.” In Ancain’s shiny black eyes, Syrek saw the reflection of his own face. His new face. “The others are asking about it.”

“What have you told them?”

Ancain executed a graceful shrug. “I have said it is a normal part of Ennoi life. Nobody asked further questions. It is your business to reveal or not. Not mine.”

Syrek nodded. The tension in his chest seemed to ease. If his crew didn’t pester him about his appearance, he wouldn’t have to dwell on it himself. “You are correct on that matter.”

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to talk about.” Syrek started walking again.

“Nothing?” Ancain sighed and followed, his legs working double time to keep up. “I don’t even know which of us is your mate, Syrek. Is it Clez?”

“No!”

“Then who? The human? Mara?”

Syrek ground his teeth together at her name. “I do not wish to speak of this matter.”

“Slow down!”

“Speed up,” Syrek snapped back. “It is not my fault you are getting fat.” He regretted the words when Ancain’s face fell. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. His pride rankled. Ancain had chosen the enemy when he had chosen a wife and children. All that talk of leaving Haven to raise children meant Ancain’s values no longer aligned with Syrek’s.

Only I can ensure Haven’s survival.

“Syrek,” Ancain said, his voice soft. “Your disregard for the away team? That line about total annihilation? This is not you. These are not your words.”

“Did you hear them come from my lips?”

“I heard them come from your lips—”

“Then they are my words.”

“—but I heard them in your father’s voice.” The sympathetic expression on Ancain’s face cut deeper than the words. “Syrek, don’t become this person. It is not who you are.”

Syrek stepped closer to his second-in-command, until his chest brushed Ancain’s. He glared down at his friend until Ancain averted his eyes. “I am your leader. Do as I say.”

“Yes, sir,” Ancain muttered. “At once, Lord Ar’Zathris.” With a thump of his fist on his chest, he strode back to the docking bay.

Syrek sent a stream of curse words after Ancain, but only under his breath. The reference to his father — because Syrek had never been, nor would ever be Lord Ar’Zathris — stung him. His whole adult life he had worked toward shedding that mantle. Then one little disagreement, and Ancain threw it back in his face.

While heading back to the bridge, his personal comm buzzed. The jaunty sound of troeben music filled the air, and Syrek groaned. Cyndrae. Absolutely the last person to whom he wished to speak. She would pepper him with endless questions about his altered form. She would demand he bring the woman back to Ennoi territory so she could meet her.

For an idle moment, he let himself imagine that meeting. Mara would wear a gown of yellow, to enhance her skin. She would sit with her hands clasped demurely on her knees, while Cyn would pace the room. Cyndrae would grill her until Mara snapped back, and then the two of them would become fast friends. Cyn respected women with a backbone and a strong heart.

The melody continued playing, but Syrek couldn’t bring himself to answer. It was a pretty dream, but it would not match reality. In reality, Cyndrae would face censure from the Ennoi around her for associating with Syrek and the Ar’Zathris. She had worked hard, harder even than him, to expunge the details of her past. To all the Ennoi she faced on a daily basis as a lady’s maid, she was merely Cyndrae Il'Paihel, widowed and raising a young child.

Even with his new colors, he was unmistakable. His face announced his heritage to any who was familiar with Ennoi history. If Syrek showed up in Ennoi territory, Cyndrae would regain her label. The Butcher’s Daughter. His fingers tightened on the comm unit, and he tucked the device back into his pocket, ignoring the music.

Better to stay out of her life.

He needed to focus on finding quick, high-paying missions to rebuild Haven’s resources. He would have to call Jrak about work. Not the standard jobs, but the riskier ones. Escorting merchant fleets from one planet to another was tedious work with steady pay. What Syrek and Haven needed were the jobs paid under the table. The ones where shipping logs went missing, and sometimes bodies, too.

The crew wouldn’t like it.

Risky jobs meant risky pay and loss of life and limb. Hazard pay only went so far. He would have to negotiate. Syrek wiped his face in a fierce gesture. He hated negotiating with subordinates. It felt too much like begging.

The Ar’Zathris never begged.

On that, both he and his father agreed.

Syrek threw open his door and ignored the tousled sheets. Ignored the aroma of sweat and sex that made his balls tight and focused on the pile of papers on his desk. He flung himself into his chair and scowled at the numbers in front of him. Nothing killed one’s libido faster than bills.

Even there, he could not escape Mara.

A ribbon lay coiled around the foot of the desk. He bent down and retrieved it. He was weak, weak, weak because he brought it to his nose and inhaled. Just the faintest whiff of her.

With a curse, he pushed away from the desk. The ribbon fluttered around his wrist, and he stared at it, waiting for it to coil up and strike him right through the traitorous heart. When it did nothing buy lay in his hand, he stuffed it into his pocket, and paced.

He would call Jrak. Maybe he would even take on some of the missions personally. His new claws curled around the comm unit. It would be a chance to exert his new body, test his new strength and maybe try out his Virtue of the Avowed. A thrill ran through his body at the thought of unleashing his full potential, but he couldn’t ignore how he had been blessed with the Virtue.

Mara.

Yes, a short jaunt off Haven would help clear his mood.

He was still pacing, waiting for Jrak to pick up, when he spotted the spots of darkness creeping across the blooms in his habitat wall. With a frown, he leaned forward. Rot tinged the leaves of the Ibure Orchid, marring its rich colors. The Rift Iris’s petals drooped as it withered.

What is happening?

As he watched, a single petal dropped from the orchid and drifted down to rest on the dirt.