CAT SHIFTERS OF AAIDAR: ENDINGS Read online

  Fen’s cup slopped contents onto the table, the room silent as we all grappled with sudden hope. “Fear? What fear?” he barked.

  Khal leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the table for a moment, apparently ordering his thoughts. Our combat specialist, he had a remarkable ability to tackle our strategies from a different perspective. “Hartlin was shitting himself that the Aaidarian government would discover the Regime’s DNA project. Acquiring shifter genes—by any means—to create a mutant army is clearly in contravention of the Galaxy Living and Welfare Agreements Treaty.” He lifted both arms in a shrug. “But how does that help us, Lyrie? We have no way to contact Aaidar, we’ll be repatriated at the conclusion of the mission.”

  “Yet obviously the Regime were in contact with your officials to have you posted here, right?” Lyrie whirled toward Herc. “Right? You were assigned here by your government, so there had to be a communication trail.”

  “Sure,” Herc agreed, scratching at the back of his head. “Our orders always come through official channels, we get sent all over the place. Working for whoever offers the best deal.” He shot a quick grin at Maya, as though they shared a private joke.

  “Leo,” I forced myself to slow my words, despite the surge of excitement. “Can you hack into the Regime’s mainframe and access their communication channels?”

  “Nah, bro,” he rumbled. “Bare minimum I’d need one of their com units equipped with a vid screen. When we ran, I didn’t bring anything like that with me. And we don’t have the tech here. Everything the Regime owns is locked to their own algorithms and frequencies. Even if I could knock something up, I couldn’t access their mainframe.”

  Damn, for a moment, I’d had the gleam of an idea.

  Lyrie spoke into the defeated silence. “But if we could get into the compound and get hold of the tech, you would be able to get into their systems from here?”

  The room went quiet, except for the tick of a centrian making its way slowly across one wall. Leo stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Potentially. Depending on how strong the signal is, which satellites it’s bouncing from. I could crack their codes, that’s not the issue.”

  “The issue is,” Herc dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, turning his attention back to the map, “that we do not have one of the units, nor any way of getting one.”

  “Unless we have Resistance sympathizers on the inside of the compound?” Lyrie swung to Khal. “Neer? Would he do it?”

  Leo shook his head. “Unless this Neer is a techie, he’s not going to know the right kind of equipment to grab. And how would we get hold of it, anyway? They’re not going to let him saunter out of the compound with it, any more than they’ll let us in.”

  Aren moved to stand over the model, her finger tracing tiny outposts that marked the last known locations of her people, the Refugees. “But if someone did have access to the compound, if they could walk in without being questioned, and probably walk out exactly the same way, you could tell them what this equipment looks like, Leo?”

  “I can draw a picture,” Leo scoffed, “but a piece of tech like that won’t be lying around in the open. Plus, the entire compound is locked down tighter than a diseased purchase-mate’s nasty, now. Nobody’s going in or out.”

  “Except for the prodigal daughter.” Aren straightened her back and gathered her robes, her hand moving to the hilt of her Dragarian knife.

  Even the centrian stopped his march across the wall, as everyone’s eyes glued to Aren.

  Lyrie dropped the piece of tallar she was using to sketch the model onto a sheet of paper. “Prodigal daughter? What are you talking about?”

  Aren’s face tightened, pain flashing clear behind her eyes. Her hands fisted, and her words were, for the first time since I’d met her, hesitant. “I know how you all feel about Smithton. And yet none of you have more reason to hate him than I do.” Her gaze fastened on mine, her teeth clenched on her bottom lip for moment as her nostrils flared with the effort to remain composed. “Commander Smithton is my father. He believes I was kidnapped and murdered by the Resistance. If I return, he has no reason not to welcome me with open arms.”

  Maya gasped and Herc’s arm immediately encircled her waist, as though his touch would secure her. She had a history with the man who had been our Commanding Officer. And Herc had an itch to break the C.O.’s neck, one I’d advised him against acting on a number of times.

  Looked like I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  The challar snapped between Lyrie’s fingers, her tone flat and hard. “Smithton’s daughter? Then what the hells are you doing out here, living like some filthy armatote? Why aren’t you ensconced in the luxury he bought with the blood of my people?” She flung the broken challar across the room, narrowly missing the centrian. “You wouldn’t even have to share it with his murdering whore anymore. Spike took care of her.”

  Aren’s gaze never left mine. “I ran because my father was systematically murdering the Dragarians. And he had other plans for me.” Her jaw clenched, as though she bit the inside of her cheek, then she shook her head a fraction. “He killed my friends. Though I’ll never forgive him, I chose to disappear and forget him. However, it seems that his actions continue to hurt my people. People I care about.” She whirled to Lyrie, her eyes spitting sparks. “For them, I will seek vengeance.”

  Herc nodded. “You reckon you can get in there? I guess it could work. Best option—only option—we have, unless someone else has something brilliant up their sleeve?”

  “Smithton’s unhinged. Aren can’t go in alone,” I said. I knew I should’ve taught her how to use the blade. Even then, I’d not have allowed her to go alone.

  Leo waved a hand to call attention. He’d always been the quieter one in our band of brothers, but since he’d bonded with the doc, he’d taken on a new confidence. “I’ll go. I’m the only one who knows what we need to grab.”

  My knuckles shone whiter than the snow-capped Aaidarian mountains. Aren and I’d been working as a team. The job was mine, not his. “No—”

  Aren shook her head. “How would you get past the guard, Leo? You don’t think they’re on the lookout for strangers—particularly your type?” Her eyes ranged back to mine, and her hand worked nervously over the hilt of her knife. “However, my husband could return with me. Though Tracin is Dragarian, he has something Smithton wants. The Commander will pretend we’re welcome while he tries to work out how to obtain it.”

  “What?” Janie blurted. “You said your husband is dead.”

  “He is.” Aren paused a moment, her lips pressed tight. “But I believe there is a way he can be impersonated. By an unbonded male.”

  Again, the look, direct at me. Almost an appeal. I stepped toward her. “I’m unbonded. Always will be.”

  “Then you shall be my husband.” Her back rigid, she strode from the room without waiting for further questions or recriminations.

  Great, I got to play her dead husband? Well, the undead version, at least. Maybe this wouldn’t be all bad. Except I was supposedly in possession of some secret information that I didn’t have a damn inkling about.

  It took me a second to collect my wits enough to dash after Aren.

  She hadn’t gone far. I found her with her back braced against the wall of the tunnel only one turn from the conference room. She stared in fierce despair at the glowing blue blade she held angled toward her stomach.

  As I approached warily, trying not to startle her, she looked up. Her ocean deep eyes fixed on mine as though she was drowning in pain.

  “Jag,” she whispered. “One way or the other, I’m going to die. I need you to fuck me.”

  Chapter Two

  Aren

  I returned my knife to its sheath with trembling fingers, reminding myself I could not use it. Before I could grant myself death, I must fulfill my vow.

  But I’d been close. So close.

  One day soon, I would honor my dead husband, Tracin, with my blood-blade thir
sting.

  “You want me to fuck you now?” Jag asked dryly, scanning the empty hallway. One eyebrow quirked up, and his deep blue eyes gleamed with humor.

  Those eyes were one of the reasons I knew this could work—that we could work. I’d agreed that he could go with me into the Regime camp because I could not do this alone. Someone needed to bring out that communication device, and it would not be me. Retrieving the communicator was vital. I’d soon be gone from this world, but my people needed a chance to survive.

  “You think we should do it right here?” Jag added.

  “As if,” I said snidely.

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll explain.” Pivoting on my booted heel, I strode down the arched, stone corridor, my robes swishing around my legs.

  Jag followed. I hadn’t been sure he’d seriously consider my request, but it was the only way the Resistance’s plan would succeed. I—we—had to complete the pair-blade ceremony, which meant Jag would have to accept…changes. Otherwise, Smithton would not only see through our ruse in seconds, he’d return to his plan from two years ago and force me to marry General Tennant.

  I’d rather be dead than allow that to happen.

  Jag caught up and walked beside me.

  As we strode through the tunnel, equally spaced halolights lit our way. A few stingers buzzed around my face, hoping to land for a bite, but I swatted them away.

  The dirt underfoot was well packed, our footsteps giving off just a bare whisper. The only true sound outside of people speaking farther ahead of us was that of water trickling down the encroaching stone tunnel walls. At the bottom of the curved wall on either side of us, the water met fine gravel the Resistance had placed there for this very purpose. The sandy filter underneath the gravel sucked up the liquid slurry into non-permeable channels beneath, that sloped slowly downhill. After joining up with more water along the way, the cultivated stream reached a jury-rigged treatment plant far below.

  In the desert, a few drops of water could mean the difference between life and an agonizing death, and the Resistance had cleverly found a way to tap each drop.

  This glistening treasure sliding down the stone surface might be destined for the vast herds of beetric and turgurken flocks the Resistance raised, for drinking, or for simple bathing. The latter was restricted to one scant shower a week, and the run-off was promptly collected and used to feed a network of gardens that provided enough food to sustain a population made up of hundreds of displaced Glian city dwellers and the remnants of a few scattered Refugee clans. Even with an aquifer, they had to be cautious.

  Other than the single shower, we were allowed enough for daily cat washes—a term my mother used when I was a kid. Before she died.

  Jag ought to know what cat washes were, being Jaguarkin. Did he lick himself clean while in cat form?

  Not that it mattered.

  We exited the tunnel, striding out into a large open cavern with interconnected crushed-stone paths leading to cave openings that channeled people in various directions. Some led to long passages with excavated, small caves that had been designed as living quarters, while some took troops to the surface. Yet others sloped toward the center of the planet, eventually taking people to the livestock or garden areas, a small prison, and even weapon’s production and military training areas. And this was just a fraction of this enormous cave system hidden under the small mountain range in this part of the Moade Desert.

  There were numerous caverns and tunnels stretching away from here, some traveling for tens of clicks underneath the desert floor. The Resistance had explored all of them, even if only to make sure they didn’t miss anything useful. They’d also blocked off any possible underground access to the main compound.

  “Do you know much about the Dragarian culture?” I asked, standing to the side of the path to allow a small troop of soldiers to march by, their stiff uniforms rustling, their rifles clanking on their backs.

  “A bit,” Jag said, staring after the men and women who must be heading to the surface for patrol.

  I entered the tunnel leading toward my shared quarters, with Jag on my heels.

  “From Harang, aren’t they?” he said.

  “The Dragarians are a tribal society,” I said. “They lived on a small, isolated continent made up mostly of ice. Migratory, they collected food, goods as they moved from the southern shores in winter to the harsh, frozen blue floes far north in the summer.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the Regime essentially exterminated them.”

  “They did, and the survivors divided up, taking ships into space, hoping to find shelter in distant worlds. A few came here to Glia.” My heart ached for the people I’d met at the compound and who’d taken me in after I fled. My father—and General Tennant—had been willing to eliminate an entire race. I scowled. “The Regime tried to kill people who’d come here requesting sanctuary, all in a quest for a few hunks of stone.”

  And there was the mystery. Why had the Regime been so desperate to get their hands on dragonstone—the petrified bones of Dragarian ancestors? Their only value that I could see was in the creation of the pair-blades.

  Jag nudged his chin toward where my knife shifted on my hip as we strode past numerous small, cramped caves, where residents stacked themselves inside like an overgrown wint colony before a cluster flocked to establish a new shelter. I shared mine with four other women, including Terra, who’d been my friend since I met her and Tracin.

  Only she knew my few remaining secrets. Everyone else had taken them to their graves.

  “The Regime never found the source of the stone,” I said, knowing my adopted people would’ve died rather than reveal where it was hidden. And, when they escaped the compound into the desert, the surviving Dragarians had taken their precious pieces with them.

  “Pretty messed up to die for something as lifeless as stone.”

  Said by someone who seemed to have no allegiance outside that to his mercenary brothers. Why would he find value in something that was excavated from the ground then honed into a ceremonial weapon? Customs would mean nothing to a man who sold himself to the highest bidder.

  “All this is interesting, but when are we going to get back to you and me”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“doing the dirty?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please.” Shaking my head, I continued, “Dragonstone is our key into the Regime camp. If Smithton thinks you can lead him to the hidden stash, he’ll welcome you with open arms.”

  We reached my door, and I typed the code on the keypad. The heavy sirdar panel slid open and I entered.

  Terra rose from where she’d been lying on her bunk, a three-tier on the right wall. I slept on one of the two bunks on the left. Small chests, stacked between the tiny burrows, housed our meager belongings.

  “I’m…going to do it,” I said softly to Terra. “Finally.”

  My destiny awaited me.

  She frowned, but straightened her crippled back as much as she could and lifted her chin. “I be going with you, of course.”

  “No, you must remain here.” I wanted her safe, and there was no safety in going with me.

  Her icy-blue gaze took in Jag slouching against the doorframe, and she snorted. “I be assuming you plan to take—” Her lips tightened. “This with you, then?”

  She knew the only way I could return to the Regime—to my father—was as a woman bonded to a man. Otherwise, he’d see me wedded and bedded with Tennant in seconds. And a Dragarian could be a source for the dragonstone the Regime was so desperate to obtain.

  “Jag’s all we’ve got,” I said.

  “Hey,” Jag said cheerfully. “I’m right here.”

  Terra hobbled closer to him and looked him up and down. Her frown deepened. “I not see how you think this man capable of—”

  “If it’s about the fucking, I’m more than capable.” Jag’s eyes gleamed, and I wanted to smack him for being so flippant about this. To Terra, what we were about to do was
sacred.

  “Jag, allow me to introduce you to Terra,” I said. “My husband’s mother. She’s the only surviving pure Dragarian on Glia.”

  Terra tsked as she strolled around Jag. “You give so little to work with, Ari.”

  Jag grumbled and stared down at the petite woman with long, white hair and distinctive blue eyes.

  “You’ll help me do it?” I asked her. While Tracin had been able to circumvent the usual blade-bonding, there was only one true way to re-ignite his blade.

  Terra crossed her arms on her chest and tapped her foot, still studying Jag, and, for a moment, I thought she’d outright refuse. But she knew we had no choice. Until I sacrificed myself to revenge Tracin’s death, his spirit would never be set free. This might be my only chance. “I prepare him, if you insist. Tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “Much to do, then.” With a huff, she hobbled from the room. The door whisked shut behind her, and I locked it.

  Jag noted the locks’ engagement with a frown that quickly turned into a smirk. “Time to get down and dirty?”

  “We’ll do it when we have to.” No sooner. Except, though I told myself I was in no rush, why couldn’t I get the thought of us entwined in bed together out of my mind?

  “Way to come on to a guy.”

  I huffed out my frustration. Not just with him, but with the part of me I couldn’t control. “It is not my intention to come on to you.”

  “Not the impression I got from your offer out there in the hallway.”

  After tugging off my outer robe and tossing it aside, I crossed the room and stooped down on my heels, lifted the lid of my clothing chest, and started pulling out what I’d need to take with me when we infiltrated the Regime army. The essence of mira wafted from my clothing. A sweet, herbed smell that reminded me of better times. Times that would never come again.

  My things were stuffed into a pillion hide bag my adopted people had made for me. After closing the top, I straightened and glared at Jag. “Do you even have the faintest idea of what you’re being asked to do?”