“And now she has a knife,” Zane muttered. “Why does a conscript always manage to find a knife? And I just got a new jacket.”
He ran his hands down his jacket, which matched his ice-blue eyes. Such a ridiculous color for anyone to wear, but especially an Arrow. The pale, pristine fabric would be stained with blood, gore, smoke, and ash within seconds of Zane stepping off the cruiser. Then again, I had always found Zane Zimmer to be ridiculous. Dangerous but still ridiculous, especially given his unwavering loyalty and devotion to his House and family above all else.
Julieta nudged my elbow. “Actually, it’s Kyrion’s turn to deal with the conscripts.”
Arrows didn’t have any authority over the conscripts, so I couldn’t have freed or saved any of them, even if I had wanted to, but we were supposed to help the guards keep them in line. Which Julieta knew was one of my least favorite tasks, since it made me feel far too much useless sympathy when all I should be feeling—all I wanted to feel—was the icy acceptance that helped me survive.
I glared down at Julieta, but a knowing smile spread across her face.
“We haven’t even left the ship yet, and I’ve already made Kyrion glower at me. Excellent,” she purred. “You know I’m a seer. I can sense your glare even through the helmet covering your face.”
“Helmet or not, most people would be pissing themselves if I glowered at them,” I grumbled.
“I am made of sterner stuff than most people.” Her smile widened. “So go take your fearsome wrath out on the conscript. It will be a good warm-up for the battle.”
Zane snickered and made a shooing motion with his hand. This time, my glower was genuine. Even if he could have seen it, he was no more afraid of me than Julieta was. Arrogant fool. The two of us barely tolerated each other, and I would be more than happy to kill him the first chance I got. Zane felt the same way about me, although we had managed to coexist as Arrows for the last several years.
A reckoning was coming soon, though, one he wouldn’t survive.
Still, Julieta was right. Like it or not, it was my turn to deal with the conscripts, so I stalked away, my long, quick strides eating up the distance between me and the woman.
The woman was so absorbed in whatever she was doing with the dagger that she didn’t sense my approach. I eyed the weapon—a Zimmer dagger, given the short, thin design and lunarium blade. Zane came from a family of spelltechs who were known for making old-fashioned weapons, which they often imbued with psionic power. How had such a quality blade gotten mixed in with the rest of the junk on the table?
I stood there, waiting for the woman to notice me, but she bent her head a little more, singularly focused on whatever she was trying to accomplish. I sighed. I would have to stop her if she tried to cut her wrist or otherwise injure herself.
Oh, I didn’t particularly care what happened to her, especially since she would probably be killed as soon as the battle started. I simply didn’t want to deal with whatever mess she might make of herself in the meantime. There would be plenty of blood, death, and screaming during the battle, and I selfishly wanted a few more minutes of peace and quiet. I reached for my power to rip the dagger out of her hand—
The woman’s head snapped up, and she looked at me. I hadn’t been able to see much of her features from across the docking bay, but her wild, wavy hair was a deep, dark brown shot through with a few russet highlights. A large, ugly bruise adorned her left cheekbone like a blue-black flower had bloomed in her pale skin.
She blinked a few times in surprise, and then recognition spread across her face. She probably knew exactly who I was, thanks to all the bloody gossipcasts about the spring ball and my supposed marriage prospects. But she didn’t scream, shrink down, or try to run away as many people did when confronted by an Arrow. Instead, her face brightened, as though she was actually happy to see me. And then she did the last thing I expected: she held the dagger out to me.
Even though she couldn’t see my face through my helmet, I still frowned. The woman was thrusting the dagger at me as though she was begging me to slit her throat with it. For a moment, I considered doing just that. On rare occasions, I was still capable of mercy.
I reached for the dagger, but the woman yanked it back and shook her head. Then she held the dagger out again and tapped the blade against the inside of her left wrist, as if she wanted me to slice it open. My frown deepened. Why would she want me to do that?
The woman’s lips parted. No sound came out, although I got the sense she was huffing in frustration. Curious. People usually regarded me with fear, wariness, and either abject terror or excessive greed—not frustration.
She gave me an annoyed look, as though I should have known exactly what she was demanding. And she was demanding something. I could still feel the rage blasting off her. Before, the sensation had been as hot and oozing as the lava bubbling on the Magma planet below, but now the emotion was as cold and hard as a Frozon moon.
The woman’s lips opened, and she let out another one of those silent, annoyed huffs. Then she strode around the table and planted herself in front of me. She held her arm up where I could see it, then slowly, deliberately tapped the flat side of the dagger against her wrist a couple of times.
I finally spotted the small round disk creating an odd bulge against her skin. Someone had injected her with a husher, then conscripted her into an Imperium army unit bound for battle. Someone wanted her very, very dead, very, very quickly, although they wanted her to suffer a bit first.
Unwanted sympathy spattered over me like an icy rain. I knew what it was like to have to suffer through something horrible first and then still not be able to escape a terrible end.
So I plucked the dagger out of her hand, then grabbed her wrist. I yanked the woman toward me, and her body bumped up against mine. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she tensed, as though she was going to wrench away. I stifled a laugh. I could shove the dagger into her heart before she could blink.
Once again, I considered doing just that, but the woman had roused my curiosity. Instead of panicking, she had tried to solve the problem of the husher in her wrist. If nothing else, she deserved to live a few more minutes for showing that much spine.
I held her wrist up and dug the dagger into her skin. She tensed again, and I got the impression she was hissing with pain, but I kept going, making a shallow, curving cut. Then I slid the tip of the dagger underneath the husher, pried the disk up, and fished it out of her. I tossed the device onto the table, then released her wrist, wondering what she would do next.
First, she picked up a rag from the table and wrapped it around her wrist to stem the bleeding. Then she leaned past me, plucked the husher off the table, and held it up to the light, studying it. Even more rage blasted off her, burning hot, then cold, and tickling my telempathy in equal measure. Curious. People were usually one or the other, not both, and especially not within a matter of seconds.
The woman shoved the husher into the pocket of her stolen coveralls. I had no idea why she would want to keep such a thing, but I didn’t bother taking it away, since the device was harmless now that it was out of her body.
The woman tipped her head up, looking at me. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Frustration flickered across her face, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you.”