Unbound (28 page)

Wishful thinking, of course.

Here the security cams were more conspicuous—white, waving blobs that dotted the overhead like oversize Cyrian optic hair bleached of all color—and likely still online since they were in constant motion.

A heavy gate rose just long enough to admit a laden cargo bot. A different gate allowed the empty ones to leave the dock.

Leaning over the rail, Romir stared at the second gate. “I can get you through.” It looked simple enough, but the walkway was higher than she could safely drop; he’d have to carry her down to the dock floor first.

She grabbed the rail with both hands, afraid he would lift her right then and there. “Don’t! You mustn’t.”

He’d done more than enough. If he tapped more of his djinn powers, the Dareh would know what Romir was. She couldn’t risk it. They had to find another exit.

“Why?”

Asrial drew him away from the rail and jerked her chin at one of the cams dangling from the wall below the walkway. “We can’t take the risk. You can’t be sure you got all of them. What we need is one of the personnel exits.”

There was still no sign of pursuit, though surely the muscle would get their act together and catch up soon. The Dareh would be out for blood after the shambles she and Romir had made of that meeting room on the topmost level. It was imperative they get out of the complex.

The corner of Romir’s jaw twitched, but if he wanted to argue, he didn’t act on the urge. He swept the doors leading off the walkway with a searching glance, his gaze distant as if seeing something beneath the surface.

His head jerked, one hand slashing up to point. “There. That way. Hurry, they are coming.” He propelled her forward with an arm on her waist.

Abandoning stealth, she sprinted for the door he indicated, the walkway jangling underfoot. Just as they made it through, a barrage of pounding feet erupted on the dock floor, accompanied by terse exclamations and the rattle of shock sticks.

Romir plucked
at the strands of power and gave them a slight twist, sealing the door to slow the enemy. Anyone chasing them on the walkway would have to break down the door to get through.

Imprison Asrial, would they? Pursue her like some discarded pleasure slave to be hunted down, would they? They would pay for this outrage. He would make sure of it.

Fury rampaged in his heart, the confrontation resurrecting memories of desperate battles, of friends and family dying beside him, of his rage and helplessness in the hands of the Mughelis. His hands moved of their own accord, adding a special knot to the gleaming threads of the door, a nasty shock for those who would threaten Asrial.

She ran ahead, keeping her head down and her stunner at the ready, wary as ever. She was a strong woman, yet one who flinched at using his djinn abilities to their fullest.

No matter. He chose to put those abilities to use, searching the threads of power for the exit she sought. The strands glimmered in his weaver’s sight, denser around solid matter, brighter around electronics, pulsing with the heartbeat of the universe.

Stretching out his will, Romir tweaked the threads he needed, and a small door slid aside.

The door gave onto an unassuming alley devoid of any touches of beauty: blank walls gray with paint and brown from dust, lacking even the most utilitarian of signs. A side entrance for the insignificant and anonymous. The alley was almost as bad as the mists of his prison. Squeezed between two complexes, it was shadowed by the spires, a steady wind whistling through it and rattling random pieces of trash in dizzy swirls. It was good they would not remain there for long. But more importantly, there was no one else in the alley.

He secured the door behind them.

Asrial staggered to a halt and raised her head to inhale deeply. He could almost see her tension escaping on the puff of air she expelled. She straightened immediately, allowing herself only a moment of weakness.

Romir had eyes only for her. She did not seem to have suffered from that cowardly attack. He must have succeeded in keeping the energies of the stunner blasts from touching her. Her apparent well-being did little to soothe his fury. He could still hear the crackle of power singeing the air, could still see the violent blue white streaks reaching for Asrial, could still taste the eternity of horror at the attack upon her. If his form had allowed it, he likely would have thrown up in the aftermath of relief.

He struggled for control. He had to hoard his strength for her time of need. He could feel his prison tugging at him, its pull much stronger than when they left the
Castel
.

“How’re you doing?” She plucked at his sleeve, a slight tug to get his attention that contradicted the long, searching look she gave him, her brown eyes so full of solicitude. Again she wasted her concern on him when she should be worrying about herself.

“That was nothing. There is no need to worry.” Romir took her hand and pressed a grateful kiss into her palm.

 

 

Nothing?
He’d stopped
stunner blasts without twitching a finger. Not satisfied with stopping them, he’d somehow gathered them up and sent the whole ball of blazing energy back with interest. What was he capable of that he dismissed what he’d done so casually? The other times he’d flexed his power, he’d only defended her, not attacked.

The thought of what might happen if the Dareh got their hands on his prison chilled Asrial. Now, more than ever, it was imperative they not learn what Romir was.

She curled her fingers around the warm thrill of his kiss, promising herself a leisurely resumption once they were somewhere more secure. They had to get moving.

A stronger, downward gust of wind blew through the alley, heavy with metallic fumes and the hot exhalations of the city. Warned by the change in pressure, Asrial looked up.

An aircar swooped into the narrow space to land beside them, a small, gray craft, nondescript and unpretentious, nothing like the hover limo of the Dareh. Romir stepped forward, shielding her again. A window hummed open, sliding aside to reveal a long-faced Lomidari, a grounder by the brownness of his skin and not Dareh muscle by the lack of outrage in his expression. “
Sraya
Dilaryn.”

Not again.
“Who are you?” She held her stunner pointed down by her thigh, hiding its presence.

“A friend.”

A
friend?
Asrial rather doubted that, but she didn’t bother arguing the point. The sooner he left, the sooner they could get off the streets. Standing here was just an invitation for the Dareh to scoop them up again. And if there was a next time, she’d bet good creds they wouldn’t be polite.

Leaning out the window, the grounder peered at her, taking in her sweaty state, the stunner she had yet to holster, and Romir’s aggressive posture. “I can bring you to the spaceport, if that’s where you want to go.”

Not only did he know who she was, he knew about the
Castel
, which was more than she could say about him. The balance of power favored this nameless “friend,” but they weren’t exactly flush with options if she was to avoid the Dareh.

Asrial glanced at Romir.

“I am here.” The gleam in his silver eyes was a promise of protection, steadfast and confident, inviting her to rely on him. But he’d exerted so much power already. He could fade at any time. His resistance to his prison was getting stronger, but how long could his strength last?

The thought of chasing a blurry Romir through the busy streets of Yasra, always one step too late, made her heart seize. She bit her lip. They had no time to waste on questions and reassurance. Though she loathed to trust in luck to see her safe, given a choice between sure capture by the Dareh and the clutches of a potential enemy, she knew what she preferred—and it wasn’t the yfreet of her childhood. “Very well. To the spaceport.”

The rear panel rose, sliding along the aircar’s roof and giving access inside. Romir entered first, watchful as always. There were two couches along the sides of the aircar, facing each other. The grounder sat on the nearer one, a leg hitched up, so he could look out the window, disturbing the somber elegance of his teal blue suit with its gold trim. Asrial waved Romir to the other couch and joined him there.

At a flick of the grounder’s finger, the door hissed closed. Another flick, and the aircar rose. He programmed their route into the autopilot, then straightened to face them—no, to face her. He barely blinked at Romir after that first long look.

As they sped toward the street, a loud explosion shook the alley, sudden thunder on a clear day. Swearing in a monotone, the grounder tapped the board, and the aircar bucked on a jolt of acceleration.

Several men lurched into sight, bloodied and shaken, one and all. The muscle didn’t look too professional now. Asrial didn’t bother trying to suppress a smirk of glee before turning her attention from this newest development.

Lucky for her this “friend” just happened to be there. Or was it? She didn’t believe in serendipity, not when her freedom was at stake. Her gut said he’d been waiting for her, waiting for a chance to get to her.

The question was, why?

She sat back on the couch, prepared to wait. She probably should be racking her brain for answers, but Romir’s warmth by her side infected her with his calm. Some might think it overconfidence, but she was certain this grounder wanted her alive. It helped that her stunner was in hand, charged and ready. That being the case, she could shoot her way out of this situation; and even if she couldn’t, Romir would be able to handle it.

Though she kept an eye out, there was no further pursuit. The airspace above the parking deck remained calm, with no sudden departures. The muscle didn’t stay in the alley for long, retreating into the complex in some disorder. The lack of pursuit seemed strange, and she said so.

“If the Dareh did that, that would be an open invitation to their enemies. To think two people slipped through their security and escaped Stratos Tower; they must have incompetents in charge.” Their nameless friend glanced at the stunner she still held, the ghost of a smile flitting across his dark face. “There’s no need for that now.”

She set it on her lap, aimed at no one in particular. The feel of its grip in her hand was comforting; if that made her look menacing, then all the better. He might think twice before betraying them. “I think I’m the best judge for that.”

The grounder bent his head, gracefully conceding the point—like a courtier in her mother’s stories. The observation made her arms prickle.

In some ways, he looked like Romir: the brown skin, the long face, something about the shape of his features. But weren’t grounders all dark from UV exposure? Perhaps she was just seeing similarities that weren’t there, looking for proof of the link between Romir’s people and the Lomidari?

Or maybe she just wanted a reason to trust the grounder . . . because he was helping them. Helping her. For now.

If she was, she had to be more cautious, though it went against her nature. That tendency to trust could be used against her. She had to remember what was at stake.

Now that they had leisure, she bypassed a demand for his identity—with her ignorance of local politics, she probably wouldn’t recognize his name, even if he answered her honestly—for the more important question. “Why did you help us?”

He crossed his legs and tapped his fingers on his knee, a quizzical look flashing across his features, as if the answer to her question were obvious. “I thought it would benefit the both of us.”

Not unlike the Bintanan’s original proposition. That would have been mutually “beneficial,” too. It didn’t tell her anything.

Asrial studied the calm face across from her, wondering if he would lie. “Are you with the Dareh?” Would someone among the Dareh whisk her away from their headquarters only to hold her captive for a later date? If he were simply a supporter of the Bintanan, wouldn’t he have held her until Dareh security personnel arrived? But who understood the intricacies of Lomidar politics? Certainly not her.

Brown eyes flared wide with seemingly genuine surprise under heavy, arched brows. “The gods forfend!
I
wouldn’t have let you leave.”

How diplomatic. Such soft words, as though he didn’t suspect they’d fought their way out. He couldn’t have overlooked the muscle chasing them, but little did he know the extent of their resistance. They’d left the Dareh in confusion. Her mouth crooked in an uneven smile. “We didn’t ask for permission.”

The grounder’s eyes narrowed, bright with speculation. “The comm bands are silent, but I imagine the Dareh—or more accurately, the Bintanan—isn’t happy with your refusal. They’re not known for their generosity to those who oppose their will.”

That still didn’t tell her anything about his affiliation. Could she trust him to get her to the
Castel
, or was she leading Romir into another trap? She cursed inwardly, frustration getting the better of her. How simple life would be if she hadn’t been born sovreine. “Refusal? You’re that certain of me?”