Then Trey grabs the Alameeda gun and brings it up to his shoulder. He aims near my head, firing a blue laser strike over my shoulder. I feel a jolt as the soldier behind me is struck in the face. His head snaps back and his arms loosen around me. I slip from his arms, falling toward the bottom of the ship as he flies upward.
In the next instant, I’m caught by Trey. He clutches me to his chest with his arm beneath my legs. The jet pack beneath the dead soldier at his feet makes a turn, and we surf back to the railing of the catwalk, navigated by the helmet on Trey’s head. Once we’re there, Trey lifts me over the railing, placing me on the grated metal pathway. After he lets me go, he pulls himself over the railing as well to join me.
Peeling the helmet from his head, he tosses it over the side. Striding to me, his large, rough hand grasps mine once more, before he gazes down into my stunned eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks urgently.
I nod my head, unsure of my ability to speak. All at once, the walls of the cells surrounding us evaporate. Trey looks around, “They did it, Kricket. It’s time to go.” He pulls me back in the direction of the silver transport orb.
Coming around the arch of the catwalk, we run into a battle between more jet-pack-clad Strikers and a recently liberated contingent of Rafe’s most wanted, whom the Cavars have freed from another section of the detention center. The Alameeda birds with blue, fiery OMS tails rise above our catwalk, diving and firing upon the hive dwellers, scattering them. Swarms of freed prisoners rush about, mingling with the Cavars that were once my bodyguards.
I spot Jax fending off an inauspicious Alameeda birdman. Trey drops my hand. With the gun he took from the soldier he killed, he takes aim and shoots the Alameeda Striker harassing Jax. He doesn’t stop shooting but picks off several more Alameeda; their jet packs go berserk, flying off in every direction as their navigation is skewed.
“Stay behind me,” Trey orders. He moves along the catwalk, killing enemy soldiers with exacting accuracy; he never misses. I keep my hand on his strong back; his muscles bunch and strain beneath my palm.
Without warning, Kyon drops down behind me, forcing me out of his way. I fall against the metal railing, my ribs aching as I hurt that tender spot once again. Trey glances at us over his shoulder, but before he can react, Kyon lifts him up off his feet and throws him over the side of the catwalk. I scream as Trey falls from sight. My knees buckle and I kneel before Kyon on the catwalk in stunned agony with my hand clutched to my side.
“My little savage,” Kyon murmurs, raising his mirrored visor so that I see the wicked gleam in his eyes, “have I finally brought you to heel?”
CHAPTER 8
BENEATH THE CLOUDS
Kyon lifts me from my knees, pulling me to him. I look up; the dark tattoo circles on his neck wink at me, watching me like a many-eyed beast within. I can’t answer him; I’m incapable of speech. His eyes darken at my expression. I must be very pale; my heart hardly beats. He clutches me tighter. “If you’d learn to obey me, you wouldn’t have to witness this. I’d have protected you from it.” I don’t respond—nothing works in me at the moment. After a few seconds, Kyon picks up on my unhinged state. He frowns and growls, “You shouldn’t be here at all. I’ll see you home.”
Home? Who’s home? What home? I think, but it’s all a jumble in my mind. My worst thoughts were just realized. Trey’s gone—over the edge—I never saw it coming.
Kyon doesn’t release me. He drops his visor over his eyes before he bends and leans toward me. He activates the harness of his jet pack, and belts snake out of it like sidewinders, wrapping around me and securing me to him. As he straightens, my feet leave the ground. I can’t see anything; I’m pinned to him, facing his chest. His scent is everywhere—it wouldn’t be an unpleasant smell, except I associate it with him, so now it’s like I’m smelling raw fear. It makes my stomach ache. Trey’s dead.
I turn my face, attempting to breathe in deep gulps of air to the side of us, but instead, I retch. I heave again, but nothing comes up; there’s nothing in me to expel. I try to hold back my choking gags, but I can’t. Kyon notices that I’m ill. He reaches down and extracts a sharp dagger from the outer sheath on his black boot. Quickly using it, he slices off my hair below the base of my skull. Instantly, my hair regrows and my queasiness lessens. He strokes the blond waves of my hair gently, murmuring, “Better?”
I stop trembling and my nausea ebbs a little, but I shake my head with a grim expression, denying that anything can ever be better again. He says nothing more but replaces his dagger in his boot before straightening. He signals to a few Strikers near him. They snap to his command, coming nearer to us. Kyon’s eyes are fixed upward.
I turn my face to the side again, needing to breathe. From underneath Kyon’s arm, I spy an Alameeda Striker rise from the level below our catwalk. His head lolls forward, arterial blood pumping down from his slit throat. I recognize Trey, latched onto the Striker; he’s piggybacking the dead Alameeda soldier. A navigation helmet covers Trey’s head; the mirrored visor denies me a glimpse of his beautiful eyes. With one hand, he aims the confiscated Alameeda gun at Kyon and pulls the trigger.
A blue bubble-shield activates as the laser strikes nears Kyon’s head; the bubble-shield repels the shot, causing it to bounce off. Kyon turns so that I have to move my head again to see Trey. With a gesture, Kyon orders his escorts to move on Trey.
In the very next instant, my hair slicks back from my face as Kyon and I launch straight up from the catwalk. Passing thousands of empty cells on our way to the surface of the ship, they become a blur as I struggle to focus. Casting my eyes downward, Trey and the Strikers become smaller and smaller until we pass through a connecting tunnel, leaving them behind.
I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I know I’m being jostled from the jet pack harness and caught up in Kyon’s arms. He holds me to the black Kevlar-like armor that covers his chest. He calls out, “Curer! I need a curer!”
He lays me down on a cool floor. The sound of running feet and the buzz of voices sway around me. Kyon takes off the jet pack from his back; he bends again to pick me up in his arms. Someone leans near my face, shining light into my eye. “She has violet eyes,” a male voice murmurs above me. I try focusing on him, but I just see flares of light.
Kyon ignores his observation. “Where’s the med-station? She’s ill.”
“This way—I’m a curer,” he says. We move at a clipped pace, my head lolling against Kyon’s broad chest. I open my eyes, trying to regain my wits; I can’t keep them open. Shapes and colors move around me until I feel myself being lowered onto a soft cushion. My cheek lies close to the edge; I’m on some kind of hover cot in a partitioned area. Next to me, a bandaged Alameeda soldier lies unconscious and still on his floating bullet-shaped bed.