Unbound (21 page)

Asrial rolled her eyes to the source of the voice: Romir, once again wearing only those loose pants. She was curled up around him, her head on his lap, facing his bare belly, an arm around his waist. She blinked at the sight.

His hand lay on her shoulder, resting lightly, an easy weight. It hadn’t been a dream. He’d been stroking her hair.

“You were . . . agitated. I thought to ease your sleep.” His thumb wiped away some dampness on her cheek.

Dampness?
She’d cried in her sleep? She must have had that nightmare again. Gory scenes came trickling back to haunt her. Definitely the nightmare.

She checked Romir’s reaction, but he was looking away, staring at—she glanced over her shoulder—nothing in particular, discreetly ignoring her distress. Uncommon insight, or was he merely treating her the way he would wish to be treated? It was not for lack of sympathy; otherwise he wouldn’t have been trying to soothe her.

“I was dreaming.” She swiped at her wet lashes and blinked her eyes dry. “Dreaming of pirates.”

Romir made a noncommittal sound, stroking her hair with a light hand that said she didn’t have to continue. He wouldn’t press her for details.

“They caught the
Castel
in Nikralian space.” Her heart skipped then picked up speed at the memory. They’d been outsystem, far from the major trade routes, beyond comm range of the Patrol.

Back then, the
Castel
had been a tramp trader, supplying small colonies struggling to get on their feet and systems that couldn’t afford a starport. Asrial’s parents had brought her up shuttling around the Wainek and Brauten sectors with Lyrel 9 as their home station. She’d learned her piloting skills on the
Castel
’s board.

Their profits had been modest, but her father hadn’t minded. Jamyl had had no wish to compete with larger traders; there was safety in avoiding conglomerate scrutiny.

“They forced their way aboard. We tried to fight them off.” It sounded so simple when she said it, so clean and clear-cut, but it wasn’t. She’d been at the board as usual; that had been her duty ever since she earned her pilot’s license. Jamyl had sealed the pilot chamber as he left. An explosion damaged the pirates’ ship and its grab net and broke loose the boarding tube so she could fly the
Castel
free. But in the aftermath, she’d found her mother dead, her throat ripped open, and strangers lying around her just as dead. Nasri had fought to the very end. Her father had been killed in the explosion that allowed Asrial to escape.

“My parents died protecting me.”

Useless. She’d been useless, unable to do anything until it was too late.

Nightmare scenes appeared before her mind’s eye like projections on a holotube, though nothing so pretty as a standard avatar, nothing so easily dismissed. She couldn’t forget; it had been too real.

Flushed with heat, then a sudden chill, Asrial panted. Her head swam, her thoughts disconnected. A roaring filled her ears, her heart pounding like it would leap out of her chest. Her body felt like it would float away.

“Hey!”

Arms embraced her—Romir’s. His heat seeped into her, driving away the cold. The press of his body anchored her, drawing her back from the unchangeable past and failure. “Be at ease. There are no pirates. There is no danger without. No one has entered the bay. Your ship is safe. Go back to sleep.”

The statement was filled with such certainty that Asrial could not doubt its veracity. Her body was heavy, fatigue a grab net dragging her back to sleep. Closing her eyes, she gave up the fight, equally certain she was safe in his care.

The next time
Asrial woke she was facing the familiar bulkhead of her cabin. No disorienting brown wall this time. She suppressed a twinge of disappointment. Right then, she felt fine. But give her a few ticks in Romir’s arms, and she was bound to feel even better.

Then what happened yesterday—was it only yesterday?—came tumbling back, and she realized she hadn’t commed Amin about Volsung!

Asrial lunged upright—or tried to. All she managed was a breathless jerk and had to claw her way into sitting up. It looked like her stunner hangover wasn’t quite as gone as she’d thought. Just as she achieved vertical, the door of her cabin hissed aside to reveal Romir carrying a tray laden with a bowl and sip tube. No doubt he wanted to feed her up again.

His tight smile contained more than a splash of relief around the eyes. He’d been worried about her. She couldn’t fault him, since she’d been worried, too.

She put him off to comm Lyrel 9’s admin to lodge a complaint against Volsung. Nothing much was likely to come of it, since station peace hadn’t been disrupted. Even if the station admin questioned the Cyrian, it would be his word against hers.

When she cut the link to Lyrel 9, Romir set the tray on the table with a distinct
click
that insisted on her attention. “Eat.”

“I have to comm Amin next.” Clinging to the edge of the table to steady herself, she started to key in his comm link.

“Eat first. You missed last meal.” He thrust a spoon in her direction. The message was clear: food first, comm later.

Asrial complied with ill grace, in no mood to pretend just yet. Her body continued to ache from stunner hangover, but at least now she could sit up on her own—if a shade unsteadily. Her stomach welcomed his offering, finding the normally bland veg noodles surprisingly savory.

As she expected, Amin insisted on seeing her in the flesh, with his own eyes, before accepting that she was safe. Seeing her over the comm wouldn’t suffice, since the vid could just as easily use an avatar. Which meant dragging herself down to Lyrel 9’s residential levels.

Walking took conscious effort, requiring force of will to pick up her heels. Her muscles protested every step. Her head swam. Blood pounded in her ears as loud and insistent as a station’s seal breach alarm; she wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been flashing lights behind her eyes. Frigging crap. She really hated stunner hangover.

The effort was necessary. She just had to remind herself of that. Right then, however, death seemed the better choice, preferably soon.

Romir kept a firm grip on her forearm, quietly insistent in his support. She didn’t refuse, hoarding her strength for Amin.

Shift change turned the corridors into a crush, boisterous conversations bouncing off utilitarian walls. The crowds pressed in on her, too many, too close for comfort. Scents she didn’t normally notice assaulted her nostrils: fuel volatiles, cleaning fluids, hydraulics markers, sweat, spices, Jenin signal musk.

The next junction marked the start of a low-grav zone and welcome relief for her body. Progress slowed inevitably as grounders staggered among the spacers to regain their balance after the abrupt change in gravities. Romir made the transition like a spacer, and she practically floated beside him as gravity suddenly released its net.

Normally she didn’t notice the change in grav zones. Every station had them, and spacers got used to them. But in her current state, they made her head reel. By the time they got to Arm 5, Sector 3, Level R-9, where Amin’s quarters were located, only Romir’s sure guidance held her on course. The bland gray door of their destination never looked so good before.

Outrage splashed high color across Amin’s face the moment he saw her and Romir. “What happened to you?”

“Volsung happened. With a stunner at full power.” Asrial tried to avoid going into detail about the rescue, but the screen of half-truths didn’t stand up to Amin’s determined questioning.

“Asri-
ki
, he simply . . . managed to sneak you out?” By this time, Amin had parked his floater on its stand, leaving him free to give her all his attention. “He traced you to Volsung’s ship. Found where you were held. Rescued you. And he did this all by himself. Without anyone noticing.”

She couldn’t blame him for his suspicions. Ordinarily Romir shouldn’t have been able to find and free her so quickly, so quietly, all by himself—unless he’d been in on the abduction in the first place.

Only the truth would put Amin’s concerns to rest. But there was no way she could risk Romir’s secret getting out.

 

 

Romir could not
bear to watch more of this farce. Asrial was twisting herself into knots trying to explain without revealing his enslavement. Her distress at shaving the truth with her kinsman was clear for him to see, and still she tried, hiding his shame to protect him.

And in doing so, she was alienating Amin—and by extension, her much-loved family. The other man’s face was purple with anger, so flushed Romir feared for his health. If this continued, it could lead to a permanent estrangement.

No more. He could not allow Asrial to sacrifice her family for his sake. He could not inflict more pain on one who sought only to help him.

“Asrial, this is not necessary.”

She glanced at him, distress and concern amber bright in that quick look. “I—”

“You!” Amin spun the levitating chair around to glare at him. “This is your doing?”

“I can explain.” Romir bowed his head as he opened his weaver’s sight and sought the glimmers in the walls for wrongness—intrusion, observation, something that did not belong. The room was safe, devoid of watchers, as far as he could tell.

“Nothing you say can excuse your forcing Captain Dilaryn to lie to me.”

“Then perhaps it is just as well that I will not use words.” Frighteningly, it was simpler than he thought it would be. He merely eased the grip he had on the image in his mind, eased his resistance to his prison’s pull, and . . .

... the hand he extended to the furious man turned to mist.

With a gasp of shock, Asrial grabbed his elbow, her short nails digging painfully into him. “Romir!” She leaned into him, her small breasts firm against his back, rising and falling in her alarm.

He reached out to brush his missing hand along the other man’s cheek. “This is what Asrial could not tell you.”

“You—What are you?” Amin stared at him with wild eyes, the whites around his irises widening as he took in Romir’s empty sleeve.

“I am djinn.” Romir concentrated on completing his form, envisioning the hand that was gone, the shapes of his fingers, the nails at their tips, his palm—the reality of a hand. The effort was probably unnecessary, since his form took the shape of his original body, but it helped him resist the call of his prison. And as quickly as his hand turned to mist, it reappeared with fingers curled against Amin’s cheek.

With a hiss, the other man flinched from him. “Ch-children’s tales.”

“No, that’s how he was able to rescue me so easily. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but it wasn’t my secret. I hope you can understand.” Asrial explained the actual sequence of events that she had taken such care to omit. For the most part, Romir kept silent, leaving her to handle her kinsman, speaking only when she sought clarification.

Finally, she leaned into Romir with a sigh, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her forehead on his arm. Even seated, she let him support most of her weight, clearly still recovering from the stunner and determined to hide her weakness from her kinsman. “I’m going to free him. Somehow.”

“Free him?” Amin echoed in a weak voice, his hands trembling on the arms of his levitating chair. His face was now gray and shiny with sweat. “Free a djinn? A
djinn
.”

“There should be a way. I’ll find it.” Her jaw took on that increasingly familiar tightness of determination.

“This is why you plan to sell the Dilaryn jewels.” Amin’s eyes were still wide though no longer panicky as he swallowed deep gulps of air.

Romir stared at the top of Asrial’s bent head, guilt churning anew. He was the reason for her inventory of the Dilaryn jewels? She intended to sell her inheritance to aid him?

 

 

“Only if necessary.”
Pressing her face into the hollow of Romir’s shoulder, Asrial stuffed the twinge of guilt in the back of her heart. That decision could wait.

Amin was taking Romir’s revelation better than she’d expected. His temper ebbed as his agile mind turned to picking holes in her plan to free Romir. She already realized most of them, but she listened politely, knowing he did so out of concern for her, while she drew on Romir’s warmth and steady strength to push back her weariness.

Their discussion was interrupted by a chime announcing someone in the corridor outside: Inuoie, alone and visibly upset. Amin admitted his friend, his concern shifting focus—to Asrial’s short-lived relief.

Bowing his head, the Ruxilian swirled his long fingers through a complex gesture of abject apology, addressing himself to both Amin and her. “We were too late. The slot was empty. According to the records, the
Eikki
undocked at sixth hour and transited as per their revised schedule.”

She’d still been asleep at that time, exhausted from stunner hangover. If Romir hadn’t found her, she would have been on board and now on her way to that client Volsung mentioned.