Three
There was something to be said for having the help of an insider who was a great marksman, unless, of course, Diverta was saving him for a particular nasty fate of her own devising.
Bond was almost past caring about the details. Not only was he exhausted, but his shoulder hurt so much that he couldn’t believe mortals endured such pain and survived. The wound burned and it bled. He wanted out of the mortal realm and he wanted out now—but he had to survive almost three more days.
It seemed like an eternity.
An impossibility.
Diverta bound his shoulder with the blue silk in an effort to stop the bleeding—or perhaps to keep him from leaving a trail of blood that anyone could follow—and instructed him to keep pressure on it.
That hurt even more, but he did what he was told.
Surrendering the flesh was definitely sounding ideal.
She led him up the stairs of the central passageway with purpose and he didn’t dare fall back. She wouldn’t be able to carry him and he didn’t want to be a burden. It was bad enough that she’d been in danger because of him. He wished he knew more about her, so he could be certain whether he should trust her or not, but the reality was that he had just about no choice.
Her argument had proven to be right.
By accident or design?
She continued down a side passage, and he was impressed again by how silently she could move. Did she really glimmer or was that a sign that he was losing consciousness? It could have been a side effect from a drug he’d been given, if he’d been given one. Bond couldn’t figure it out. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other instead.
What would the Host do if he didn’t appear at the rendezvous? Forget him, certainly, as a casualty of battle, as he wouldn’t be the first to fail to return. The problem was that they also wouldn’t have the information to complete his mission.
The Gloria Furore would have won. That gave new determination to his steps. He had no doubt that they’d find and reclaim the payload secured in the hold of the Archangel and use it for their nefarious purposes.
They would annihilate at least one system, maybe more.
It would be his fault.
That was a legacy Bond refused to leave.
Outrage gave him the strength to hurry after Diverta, even though he was panting again when she suddenly stopped. He couldn’t see why she’d halted, then discerned the outline of a door in the darkness. Light shone faintly around its edges, doubtless from the other side. He leaned against the wall, relieved that they’re arrived wherever they were going.
Diverta pointed down the passageway they had just used.
Bond nodded in understanding and kept watch.
He also managed to observe her sliding back the protective panel on a keypad and watched her tap in the code without appearing to do so. He committed it to memory, as well as the distinctive rhythm that she quietly tapped on the door.
The light changed from the other side of the door, fading from golden into a pale silver and then nothing at all.
Someone had turned out a light source.
Someone was going to open the door.
Bond braced himself, even though there wasn’t much he could do to defend himself with two spent lazes.
A slit opened in the door first. Bond glanced toward the slight sound and saw an eye framed in the opening. There was a mesh over it, some kind of grill to protect it.
Diverta waved two fingers but said nothing.
The panel was closed and Bond had time to wonder if her request had been declined. Then the door opened silently and only an increment. Diverta grabbed his sleeve and pushed him into the space, following quickly behind him. He stood in place, willing his vision to adjust to the darkness, braced for assault. He smelled herbs and a meat stew, fresh bread, something sweet, and the tang of mortal flesh in close proximity.
A curtain was drawn, then the silver light flared.
Bond spared a glance around himself and recognized that they were in a storeroom. Sacks were stacked on shelves on one wall, and sealed jars lined up on the shelves on the opposite wall. The door to the passageway was behind him, now hidden by a thick curtain that swept the floor, and before him were stairs that led upward.
There was a large man before them, his brow furrowed. He was a handsome man with golden hair and blue eyes, in such excellent condition and of such size that Bond wasn’t certain he’d win against his opponent in a fair fight.
He pulled his laze, not particularly interested in a fair fight, hoping it had charged a little.
The other man glowered at him and Bond realized it was the same man he’d passed in the street, the one who had been taking in a sign.
Were they at the apothecary?
“No!” Diverta said with quiet urgency. She appealed to the stranger, who must own this place, even as she urged Bond to put the laze away.
“Sansor, he needs your help. I need your help.”
Sansor. Bond searched his memory for references and found none. He inhaled again. Were the plants he smelled medicinal? He thought so.
Was that why she’d brought him here?
Bond steeled himself, knowing he had little strength left, and stole a peek into this man’s soul.
It was mostly bright, but there were a few shadows. Were they truly there, or was this the mark of his gifts fading. Bond didn’t know and didn’t like it.
The giant inhaled and his eyes narrowed. “He’s not one of us,” he said softly.
“No.” Diverta’s lips thinned, then she stepped close to Sansor, placing her hand upon his shoulder with an intimacy that revealed there was much history between these two.
Were they friends or lovers? Bond felt a surge of jealousy, which was completely unjustified.
Diverta whispered in the other man’s ear, and Bond strained to hear her words.
It sounded like she said he was the Carrier of the Seed, although Bond had no idea what that meant.
It meant something to Sansor, because his manner changed immediately.
Maybe it had been a lie to gain the other man’s help.
Either way, his suspicion was replaced by confidence and resolve. He placed a hand on Bond’s back, urging him to the stairs at the far end of the small chamber. As soon as all three of them were out of the storeroom, he sealed that door behind them and touched a panel on the wall. Golden light suffused the stairs. They climbed up to a room that could have been a kitchen, if not for the array of roots and leaves along one wall. It was austere and white, brightly lit, but warm. Several large mortar and pestles sat on a heavy table, and small pieces of paper were pinned to a line that stretched the length of the room. Something brewed over a fire, the steam making Bond feel revitalized.
Sansor gestured to a bench and Bond sat. He closed his eyes briefly, believing that he was momentarily safe.
That wouldn’t last. He forced his eyes open to learn more of his location. Beyond the kitchen, he could see a passageway, another flight of darkened stairs leading upward, and another shadowed chamber at the far end of the corridor.
If the underground passageway allowed merchants to move goods from the port to their shops, the fact that this building had access to it probably meant it was a shop.
The apothecary, then.
Bond allowed himself to be reassured.
Diverta unwrapped his wound, and he winced when she gently pulled the cloth free where it had stuck. “Sorry,” she whispered and sounded it.
“It’s got to be done,” he acknowledged.
Sansor grimaced at the sight of the burn. “Laze?” he asked and Bond nodded. The other man bent closer, his expression grim.
“Heat seeking,” Diverta supplied.
Sansor wasn’t surprised. “There will be residue,” he concluded, then flicked his finger to indicate that Bond should remove the top of his uniform.
He hesitated, but then reasoned his back was to the wall.
“The magneta?” Diverta asked.
Sansor nodded and reached for a jar. “With some painkiller.”
Bond began to protest but Diverta touched his hand. “The magneta is potent. It works but it will be painful.”
“The particles will continue to seek heat,” Sansor supplied.
“Until they slice your innards to ribbons,” Diverta concluded. Sansor frowned, but Bond was glad to know this detail.
“Not too much painkiller,” he said. “I need to stay alert.”
Sansor considered the jars. “Sleep is the best healer.”
“I don’t have time to sleep.” Bond took a deep breath. “I’ll sleep when I get to where I’m going. I promise.”
Sansor considered him, then took down two more jars. He opened them and began to put some of their contents into a large mortar and pestle.
Diverta went to his side to examine them, then flashed a smile at Bond that reassured him as to their powers. Then she sat beside him with a cloth and hot water and began to clean the wound.
“How do you know about healing?” he asked.
“Sansor taught me.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked.” Sansor mixed something in a bowl that was dark blue in color, humming to himself as he prepared a poultice. Diverta obviously anticipated his choice because she moved out of the way for him once Bond’s wound was clean. At least the bleeding had slowed to a trickle and the blood was clear.
That man prepared a poultice, then gave Bond an intent look. “This will hurt.”
Bond nodded understanding and braced himself.
Sansor placed the poultice on the wound and Bond hadn’t felt such excruciating pain since losing his wings. He tipped his head back and bared his teeth, fighting his urge to scream in anguish. Whatever was in the poultice seared his skin, then surged into the wound. He felt as if a cloud of ice emanated from the poultice, then, a thousand times worse, as if shreds and shards throughout his body began working their way back toward the wound. They cut and burned as they progressed and he heard them tinkle as they entered the poultice.
“Heat seek residue,” Sansor said, watching him closely. He removed the poultice and wrung it out in the sink. Bond heard bits of residue fall there and shivered. Then Sansor took a second cloth, soaked it and reapplied the poultice.
This time, Bond did moan at the pain. He felt as if he was being sliced to ribbons from the inside, shredded and torn. Deeper shards began to move, and he supposed they had been able to ignore the initial summons. If this was the sensation when there were painkillers added to the poultice, he couldn’t imagine the pain without. A tear broke from the corner of his eye and he gripped the bench with both hands, nearly collapsing in relief when Sansor took the poultice away.
There were fewer tinkles when he rinsed it out, but they were louder, as if the shards were bigger.
“Still too many,” Sansor murmured, studying the sink. “How long ago did this happen?” he asked Diverta.
“Just moments.”
“High grade, then. It works faster.” He almost smiled at Bond. “Twice more. Maybe three times.”
Bond nodded. Any pain was better than death.
Any pain was better than failing in his mission so close to its completion.
“Just do it,” he said through his teeth.
Sansor got a third cloth and soaked it in the blue liquid. Dread rose within Bond when he saw that the mixture was of a deeper hue. Stronger. He braced himself as Sansor filled the cloth and tried not to flinch when the poultice was applied.
The pain was scorching, but he could feel the shards of residue moving with greater speed. They were compelled to the surface of the wound thanks to Sansor’s poultice, which Bond knew was imperative. All the same, he felt light-headed at the speed of their movement and almost overwhelmed by the agony of the treatment.
He was shaking when Sansor wrung out the cloth. He closed his eyes at the sound of the tinkling residue and leaned his head back against the wall, bracing himself for another application.
He felt Diverta take his hand and a welcome warmth spread into him from her touch.
Then there was only the sear of pain and he bared his teeth again, feeling the torment spread into his old scars. He gasped at the power of the sensation, remembering how much his sacrifice had hurt, then Bond cried out.
And fainted.
He just barely had time to curse his mortal vessel first.
“It’s easier this way,” Sansor said, apparently not surprised in the least when Bond collapsed on the bench. “It’s remarkable that he resisted for so long.”
“Yes,” Percipia agreed, shaken by her own reaction to seeing Bond in pain. She felt great tenderness for him in this moment, which confused her. They barely knew each other, and she knew they had no future together, but she was relieved to see the wound already looking more healthy. “Thank you for helping him.”
Sansor gave her an assessing glance. “I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t said he was the Carrier of the Seed.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure that he is?”
Percipia nodded. She took a deep breath of the scent of the Seed, letting Sansor witness its effect upon her. The signs would be unmistakable to one who observed as closely as he did. The heat rolled through her, rekindling her desire and heightening her senses. She knew she flushed and smelled her own arousal. Percipia savored the sensation, understanding why dragon shifters remembered the scent of the Seed for their entire lives.
It was wonderful and unique.
When she opened her eyes, Sansor had turned away, intent on treating Bond’s wound. She felt a chill between them, though, one that had started when she’d declined his advances.
“Have you claimed the Seed?” he asked tersely.
“Not yet.”
Sansor nodded. “And once you do?”
“We’ll part. He’s not my HeartKeeper, Sansor.”
Her friend nodded although she wasn’t sure if he was just acknowledging her opinion or whether he agreed with her. He finished binding the wound, then picked up Bond, carrying him to a small bedchamber adjacent to the room used to prepare the apothecary’s potions. Percipia supposed it had once been used by a servant, but there hadn’t been one at the apothecary since Sansor apprenticed to his father.
“Where’s your father?” she asked, fearing they might be inadvertently revealed.
“Asleep.” Sansor placed Bond in the bed, then rolled him to his side, so that the injured shoulder had no weight upon it. Percipia knew the moment that he saw Bond’s scars, but he didn’t hesitate in covering the other man.
“You know what caused his scars,” she guessed.
“I saw similar ones once, in an old book.” Sansor met his gaze. “Are you sure that he’s the Carrier of the Seed?”
“Why? What do the scars have to do with that?”
“I wouldn’t think his kind would have Seed,” Sansor said, which made no sense to Percipia.
“I don’t understand.”
Sansor passed her, drawing a curtain across the space where Bond slept. “Have you eaten?”
Percipia was impatient with his change of subject. “It doesn’t matter. What do you mean, Sansor? What do you know about him or his kind?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Only one thing, and that’s all that matters.”
Sansor considered her for a long moment. “Maybe not,” he said and moved to a shelf of old bound books at the end of the room.
“I could look it up,” Percipia said, awakening her computing device with a swipe of her fingertips. There was a message for her, from Enigma, but she didn’t read it immediately.
Sansor was shaking his head. “You won’t find it. This is arcane knowledge.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave her a very bright glance. “A secret. It’s not in the database of any society.”
Percipia frowned, skeptical of that.
But then, the results of experiments that she recorded in her notebooks weren’t in any database either, for exactly that reason.
Sansor lifted down a book and came to sit opposite her at the table. He placed the book between them but kept his hand on it. His gaze was steady and she knew he would note every nuance of her reaction. Sansor could be almost as perceptive as a dragon but Percipia schooled herself to hide her thoughts. “Is there anything that could change your opinion about him?”
“It’s not an opinion, Sansor. It’s biology. It’s fact.” She lifted a hand. “The presence of the Seed creates an obligation to be fulfilled. There’s no romance to this. It’s not love or kismet or anything more than pure biological imperative. It’s breeding and perpetuation of my kind and nothing more.”
He lifted a brow, as if she’d been too vehement, Percipia wondered if she had been. “It could be, though. Some Carriers are HeartKeepers.”
“Not this one. We understand each other. It’s a single transaction, and if he hadn’t been attacked, our paths would have parted by now.”
“But they haven’t.”
“They will soon.” As soon as Percipia could claim the Seed.
Sansor nodded, seeming dissatisfied with her response even so. “You look different,” he said, accusation in his tone.
“I’m not usually being shot at.”
He gestured to the mirror and she went to look. Percipia saw the difference immediately. She looked alert and excited as she seldom did, and that there was a flush on her cheeks. Her eyes were shining, possibly from the adventure of being hunted.
No. From the Seed.
Sansor had noticed.
Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Her appearance verified what she’d told him.
When she sat down at the table again, Sansor opened the book. He looked up something in the index, then turned to the page. Even upside down, Percipia saw that there was a drawing of a man’s back on the page, one with scars similar to Bond’s. She leaned forward, curious, as Sansor ran a fingertip down the old page. The paper was yellowed and the script looked to have been written by hand. It reminded Percipia of a notebook more than a reference volume. Sansor spun the book to her and she read the caption.
“Angels?” she said, incredulous. “I thought there is no such thing.”
Sansor smiled. “Some might say that about dragons.”
That was true enough. “But not on Incendium.”
Angels. Percipia vaguely recalled stories of beings made of light with large white wings. Bond was a lot more substantial than that.
“But I thought angels were pure spirit,” she said. “He’s not.”
“Maybe they can take flesh if they choose, just the way you can change your form.”
She eyed him. “But aren’t they supposed to be sweet and innocent, like small children?”
“Maybe wiser than small children, since they’re said to be immortal.”
Percipia couldn’t reconcile that with Bond’s sexy swagger or the gleam of invitation in his dark eyes. She’d call that knowing, not wise, much less innocent. She didn’t say as much, though, as she guessed Sansor wouldn’t take well to that detail.
“It seems unlikely that an angel would be the Carrier of the Seed,” she said, almost to herself.
“It does.” Sansor put water on to boil. “Unless he’s a fallen angel. That would explain the scars, too.” At Percipia’s questioning glance, he continued. “He’s lost his wings.”
It made such perfect sense that Percipia wondered that she hadn’t thought of that herself.
She wondered what else Bond had lost, if he’d fallen. And those scars were deep. Were the wings amputated from angels who fell? Before or after their tumble from grace? Percipia shivered, unable to even consider the loss of her dragon wings.
She also couldn’t understand where he’d fallen from, much less why. Creatures didn’t fall out of the sky, like birds that had forgotten how to fly. Any being from another realm would arrive by starpod, at least.
She scanned the text. “But where do angels come from?”
“The celestial realm, I suppose.”
“Where’s that?”
Sansor shrugged. “Some cultures think it’s in the sky.”
“Cultures without space travel,” she guessed. “We know there’s a lot of other stuff out there.”
“It’s also said to be everywhere and nowhere.”
That was the kind of nonsensical riddle that annoyed Percipia. Things were here or there, not both and neither at the same time. She frowned, unable to accept any creature not being from a documented system, planet, or quadrant.
Then she understood: these angels must just want to hide their origins. “But why is he here?”
“That, I expect, you will have to ask him.”
Percipia shook her head, reading the chronicler’s notes as Sansor made herbal tea. He always had some brew or another, either a new blend being tested or one he thought was ideal for the moment. Percipia just drank whatever he poured and complimented him on it.
“This will soothe your agitation,” he said, putting a steaming cup in front of her.
Percipia sipped without really tasting it. “Thanks. This says that they found a corpse with these marks,” she said. “Couldn’t the scars have killed him?”
“But the wounds were healed. That would be a long slow death from an injury.”
She nodded agreement. “Why would his wings be amputated?” The scars were both horrifying and fascinating and her gaze returned repeatedly to the drawing.
Sansor shrugged. “Maybe it was punishment.”
“For what?”
“Breaking rules?”
That was an act Percipia could associate with Bond, even how little she knew of him. There was something rebellious about his manner.
There was a list of angelic names at the end of the description of the corpse and his scars, as well as a drawing of an angel in flight with the kind of wings Percipia recalled. “They have jobs,” she said with surprise. “And ranks, like an army.”
She checked the list for an angel named Bond but didn’t find one.
The closest match was one named Boel, custodian of the four keys to the four corners of the earth, the one who could admit the others to some place called Eden.
“Heaven on earth,” Sansor supplied, clearly reading the same passage upside down. That was a habit of his, following Percipia’s finger and answering her question before she even uttered it aloud. She looked up to meet his gaze. “Paradise in the mortal realm, or as close to it as possible.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I read the books.” His tone turned chiding. “You know that.”
“It’s true. You’re always reading.” Sansor read even more than Percipia did.
“I don’t have as much time as you to get to everything,” Sansor said with an unexpected twinge of bitterness. Percipia considered him again. “We get decades, while you get centuries.” He sighed. “There are so many books. So much wisdom to be studied and put into practice.” Then he shook his head and drank his tea, as if the subject was forgotten. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling my years today.”
Percipia laughed at him. “You’re young yet!”
“My knee hurts.” He grimaced. “I don’t have to like aging.”
Percipia thought he was making too much of too little. He was probably just grumpy because she’d brought Bond to the apothecary. She closed the volume and eyed Bond’s sleeping figure. “Who would want to kill him?”
“Maybe they wanted to kill you and he was in the way.”
Percipia was dismissive. “No one wants to kill me. I’m fifth daughter, but at least sixth in line for the throne. Maybe eighth or ninth.”
“How so?”
“Drakina and Troy have Gravitas, the heir apparent, so he steps into the line of succession after Drakina. Gemma and Venero are expecting, so their child will take fourth place, assuming all goes well.”
“That bumps you to seventh.”
“But Thalina fled with the Carrier of her Seed today. If she’s not pregnant now, she will be soon. I don’t have high expectations of moving into the royal chambers.”
Sansor turned his cup in a circle on the table. “Does it bother you?”
“I never thought I would be heiress, so no.” She watched him, wondering at his curiosity. “My sisters are healthy, after all. And really, I’d do something more practical than ruling the realm.”
“Ruling the realm is a practical responsibility.” He raised his brows. “Probably more practical than planning fireworks displays to entertain the masses.”
Percipia ignored that comment. She knew that Sansor didn’t approve of her using her knowledge of chemicals for entertainment. “But ruling requires a patience, never mind a diplomacy, that I don’t possess.”
Sansor sipped his tea, his gaze straying to Bond. He seemed inscrutable to Percipia, as he’d never been before. She’d always felt that they shared an understanding but on this night, he could have been a stranger.
This was the price of bringing Bond to the apothecary.
But if she hadn’t, Bond might have died, and she still had to claim the Seed.
Surely Sansor understood? Percipia hoped so, but as she watched him—and he didn’t even glance at her—she wondered.
“How long will he sleep?” she asked finally.
“There’s no telling. I don’t know much of his kind and their responsiveness to our herbs.”
“Is every kind different?”
“To some extent. The carbon-based oxygen-breathing life forms do have significant metabolic similarities.” They sat in silence for another long moment. “Did you want me to sedate him?”
“No, that’s not fair, not if he’s running for his life. And he asked not to be sedated. We have to respect that.”
Sansor nodded but still didn’t look at her. “Do you want more tea?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Percipia yawned, feeling tired now that the excitement of running was over. Even the power of the Seed’s scent seemed to be a little diminished, maybe because Bond was sleeping. She smiled at her watchful friend. “Thank you for helping him, Sansor.”
Sansor stood up. “You must know that I’ll never refuse you.”
His implication was clear to Percipia, a reminder that she’d refused him.
She didn’t know what to say, so she kept quiet but she felt herself flushing. His implication that he was a better friend than she was stung, although she doubted he’d meant it that way.
“Will this change anything for us?” he asked finally.
“What do you mean?”
“Once you’ve claimed the Seed?” He glanced back at her, his eyes bright, and her heart squeezed at his implication.
“You’re a good friend, Sansor,” she said gently, knowing it wasn’t enough for him but also aware that it was all she could offer.
He forced a smile and she felt dismissed. “Of course,” he said. “You’re welcome to use the attic for as long as you like. No one will notice you there.”
“Thank you.”
Sansor’s gaze clung to hers. “Even if you claim the Seed there.”
Percipia felt her blush deepen at the reminder that she should see the deed accomplished. “Thank you, Sansor.”
Sansor drained his cup. “I should check on Father.”
He left without a backward glance and Percipia wondered if she should try to claim the Seed in the attic room. Was that really what Sansor expected? If she did, her commitment to Bond would be completed. She could guide him to the outskirts of the city and their ways could part.
Maybe that was what Sansor wanted.
She glanced at Bond, but his breathing was still slow and deep. She was surprised that he’d been out for so long, but the pain had probably been extreme. Maybe he wasn’t accustomed to bearing pain. Maybe he had already been exhausted.
She opened the message from Enigma when Sansor was gone and her eyes widened.
Bond had been identified as the co-pilot of her sister Anguissa’s ship, the Archangel, and was wanted by the authorities in connection with that vessel’s abrupt departure from port. Her suspicion was right.
Enigma was warning her.
Had it been the authorities of Incendium in pursuit earlier? No, it couldn’t have been. Percipia knew they would have declared themselves if making an arrest, not tried to ambush Bond.
Much less kill him.
No, it had been someone else and Bond knew who.
Which meant he knew why.
Percipia filed the message and changed the security code on her device. She turned to look toward Bond, a thousand questions in her mind, and realized that his eyes were open. He was watching her, through the gap between the curtain and the wall, his eyes shining in the darkness.
How much had he overheard?
Bond awakened to the gentle rhythm of a woman’s voice and recognized Diverta’s low tones. Her voice was musical to him, alluring and soothing. He kept his eyes closed and listened to her discussion with her friend, telling himself that it wasn’t eavesdropping when he was gathering information about his own chances of survival.
What he heard was astonishing.
“Did you want me to sedate him?” Sansor asked.
Bond was convinced then that he’d been led to this place to be ambushed, or even to ensure the failure of his mission. He almost bolted to his feet and ran at that question, but Diverta’s reply reassured him.
“No, that’s not fair, not if he’s running for his life. And he asked not to be sedated. We have to respect that.”
She was intent upon saving him. Why? A customary suspicion rose within Bond, then he wondered. What if she was helping him?
What if she hadn’t imperiled him?
It had been so long since anyone had helped him that Bond had trouble giving any merit to the idea. He’d worked alone since sacrificing his wings, and knew it was better that way.
He stole a glance at Diverta and caught his breath. Her beauty was so radiant that he was awed once more. She was watching Sansor with an intensity that convinced Bond that they were close.
“Do you want more tea?” There was resignation in Sansor’s tone that was at odds with Diverta’s watchfulness.
Was he a brother? A friend? A former lover? Bond wanted to know more badly than could be healthy.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Diverta’s voice dropped low, her tone turning intimate. “Thank you for helping him, Sansor.”
The other man stood, his back to Diverta and his expression grim. “You must know that I’ll never refuse you.” There was an ache of yearning in the man’s reply, one that told Bond their relationship was more than friendly—or had once been. “Will this change anything for us?” Sansor asked, his hope almost tangible.
“What do you mean?”
“Once you’ve claimed the Seed?”
The Seed? Bond didn’t understand. Diverta looked thoughtful, as if she chose her words with care to avoid injuring a man she cared about.
Maybe she didn’t care enough to suit Sansor.
“You’re a good friend, Sansor.” There was regret in her tone.
Bond saw how Sansor stiffened and heard the change in his tone. “Of course. You’re welcome to use the attic for as long as you like. No one will notice you there.”
“Thank you.”
“Even if you claim the Seed there.”
Diverta blushed, rosy color blossoming over her cheeks in a way that Bond found enticing. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Sansor drained his cup. “I should check on Father.”
He left, his footsteps echoing loudly as they faded, then sounding overhead. Bond considered what he’d heard and seen.
Sansor loved Diverta.
She didn’t love him.
Yet Sansor loved her enough to let her practice her siren’s trade in his home. That was remarkable to Bond. If he’d loved a woman, he liked to believe he would have been able to accept her choices, even if they didn’t favor him, but he doubted he’d be able to facilitate her occupation if she was a siren.
He guessed that Diverta would check on him and did his best to feign sleep. He felt as if he’d heard something he shouldn’t have known. He heard light tapping and peeked to find her checking her screen. Her consternation at what she read there was clear and her eyes flew to him so abruptly that he had no chance to pretend to be asleep.
Their gazes locked in the shadows and Bond felt his mouth go dry. He lay injured and exhausted, yet still he wanted this beauty with her clear gaze and her fearless manner.
“The Archangel abruptly left port,” she whispered to him. “They think you know why.”
It was evident that he’d been identified and Bond saw no reason to deceive her. In fact, he was more concerned that Anguissa had left with the Archangel again. No one else could have taken the vessel, yet it had been scheduled to remain at Incendium’s Star Station for a few weeks. Had his unpredictable captain made a bargain for the cargo he sought to destroy and gone to deliver it alone?
He’d been so glad to get the starship back to Incendium without triggering the worm in the nav system, the one that would return the Archangel to the quadrant where Hellemut would destroy Anguissa and her ship. He’d been sure the Archangel was safe. But now Anguissa had left port and there was no telling where she’d gone.
Or when the worm would activate.
Bond’s plan was unraveling before his eyes and there was nothing he could do, not with the Archangel gone.
Would Anguissa bring the vessel back to Incendium?
Would she be able to?
Or had the Gloria Furore triumphed?
“I don’t,” he replied curtly, which was technically true. The worm in the nav system might not have been triggered yet. “It was docked with every intention of remaining for a few weeks when I disembarked.”
“Why did you come to Incendium city?”
“The captain gave us leave.”
“But you could have stayed on the Star Station.”
“I had something to do on Incendium.” He sat up carefully, uncertain of what his body would do, then nodded with relief. Sansor was a competent healer, which was a blessing. He decided then to keep his appointment with the Host, so that he could share what he knew. In the meantime, he’d hope for Anguissa’s return. He couldn’t influence it, not now.
“Still do,” he added when Diverta didn’t reply.
Bond got to his feet, holding the wall for a moment as he assessed his own condition. Not perfect but better than might have been expected. He would be able to run, if not as quickly as Diverta could. “Maybe you could thank your friend for me.”
Diverta was at his side immediately. “You can’t go alone. We have a deal.”
Had she led the attackers to him? He wasn’t sure. “Whenever someone tries to kill me, I consider all deals to be open for renegotiation, Diverta.”
“Does it happen that often, then?” she asked, curiosity bright in her eyes. “Are people always trying to kill you?”
Bond found himself smiling, though it was a rueful expression. “It’s not a new experience.”
“Why?”
“Because life is a dangerous game.” He spotted the top of his uniform on the bench and grabbed it, wincing as he shrugged it on. He fastened the front and checked the charge on both lazes, satisfied that they’d recharged more quickly than he’d expected.
Or maybe he’d been out longer than he realized.
He couldn’t have lost an entire day, could he?
That possibility made him want to move quickly.
“How long was I out?”
She shrugged. “Moments.”
Bond was relieved. “What other ways are there to leave this place?” he asked her, not wanting to return to the underground passage. It would have been too easy for his attackers to watch it.
She pointed down the corridor. “Just the front door of the shop.” At his glance, she clarified. “Sansor and his father are the apothecaries.”
Bond already knew that but she didn’t realize as much. Her words reminded him of his obligation, though. “I’ll pay,” he said, reaching for credits.
She stopped him with a touch. “Sansor helped you for me, because I asked. I’m the one who owes him for that, not you.”
Bond eyed her for a moment, wondering whether she realized the reason Sansor had acted as he did. He decided to tell her, because maybe it would make a difference.
Maybe there was one thing he could accomplish before he left this realm.
“He loves you, you know.”
She winced and looked away. “Yes, I know.”
“But it’s not reciprocal?”
Diverta met his gaze, her own smile a little sad. “I am what I am and I know my own heart. I might want to change that, but I can’t.”
Bond understood. Her trade as a siren was one she didn’t want to surrender. He supposed that it gave her some financial freedom. Maybe she had signed a contract or owed a debt, one that could only be paid by continuing with her trade. It wasn’t Bond’s concern, even if he did want to know.
Had she led the Gloria Furore to him for credit? He couldn’t see how it could have been done, but had learned to respect the resources of that band of space pirates.
Either way, their paths should part immediately.
Bond nodded crisply, regretting that there wouldn’t be more between them. “Thank you and thanks to your friend, as well.”
Her hand landed on his arm. “You can’t leave now!”
“I must leave now.”
She shook her head, stepping closer. Her breasts pressed against his arm and Bond felt a surge of desire that startled him with its power. He looked into her eyes and saw her concern. His need to run faded fast as temptation surged through him once more. “You’ll be noticed in the streets at this hour,” she warned. “Incendium city is quiet at night, except near the ports.” She leaned closer, backing him into the wall. “I said I’d get you out of the city safely, and I’m not done.”
“They’ll follow us here. It’s only a matter of time.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I should go,” he said, hearing the lack of conviction in his own voice.
She studied him and he wondered if she knew that her fingers were stroking him. “Who are they?”
“They want me dead. The details are unimportant.”
“Sansor said we can use the attic. I’ll get you out of the city in the morning.”
“So you have time to claim the Seed?” he asked, repeating what he’d overheard even though he didn’t fully understand it.
Her smile was so brilliant that it left Bond blinking. “I’d like that,” she whispered, her voice sultry. “I’d like that a lot.” Then she eased her lips across his, kindling that need within him that he’d hoped he could forget. There was something about this woman and her touch that was irresistible, and Bond found himself accepting her rationalization.
However many of the attackers had survived, they were seeking him in the streets. It would be best to remain hidden, and to leave the city disguised in a crowd. He would heal better if he rested.
But then, when Diverta sealed her lips to his, the last thing Bond wanted to do was rest.
She had helped him escape and survive.
Paying his debt by keeping his promise was the only honorable thing to do.
Bond slanted his mouth over Diverta’s, deepening their kiss and locking his arms around her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, responding with a passion that he found irresistible, and he realized something.
He would forget his experiences in the mortal realm, but she might remember him. He could live on, so to speak, in this siren’s memories.
If he gave her an experience worth remembering.
Bond chose to take that as a challenge.