His narrow lips curved with a smile. The Syranians had adopted the habit since their arrival, and Cym was by far the most adept at it. ‘Correct. And I’ll admit it seems odd to not have been with you for almost a day, after working so closely for so long.’
He moved close and cupped her hand with his own, dwarfing hers, then placed a small velvet pouch in her open palm. ‘Intravenous, I’m afraid. But with your stomach already experiencing duress, this mixture may prove too harsh in tablet form.’
‘I’m fine with needles.’
Cym withdrew his grip, but her assurance was contradicted by the shaking of her hand.
‘Allow me, Blake.’
She didn’t protest as he withdrew the vial and narrow syringe from the pouch. They seated themselves on the couch, and she watched his narrow fingers work to fill the syringe with grey-tinted fluid.
‘We will commence with a very limited dose. Ascertain side effects.’ Cym pressed the needle to the crux of her arm, her veins blue-green against her pale skin. Blake bit down on her lip. ‘I apologise.’
She shook her head. ‘No need. It’s fine. I’m fine.’ A pinch, a sting, nothing horrendous, but uncomfortable all the same.
Brown eyes lifted and fixed on her. ‘Of course.’
The fluid made its way through her system, warm and unexpectedly soothing. The sigh escaped her before she could stop it. Cym withdrew the needle, heading into the kitchen to dispose of it. She realised that, aside from Rossiter, Cym was likely the only other visitor who had crossed her threshold in months. The Syranian displayed a curiosity about human invention and ingenuity that was impossible to dismiss. He wondered over the simplest things: toasters, microwaves. Electric toothbrushes. Around him, Blake enjoyed some taste of what it must feel like to be the advanced race.
The shaking in her hands lessened, not disappearing entirely but becoming far easier to conceal. Knots she didn’t realise she held began to unwind. In her belly, her shoulders. Blake relaxed against the leather couch, sinking into its softness. She must have dozed off, because when the banging at the door commenced, the shock of the sound almost caused her to lurch from the seat. Cym rose from the armchair to her left with all his usual grace and calm.
‘Who is that?’ Blake demanded, rising to her feet. She noted with relief that the world did not spin.
‘I have no idea.’ Cym frowned. ‘I remained to ensure nothing untoward happened. You have been sleeping, and I was about to return to prepare for Service.’
Blake glanced at her watch. Five-thirty in the morning. She’d lost an hour and a half. With no call from Rossiter. The tension began to curl back into her tired muscles.
The person demanding entry hammered at the front door. ‘Blake, open up, or I’ll open it up for you.’
Blake crossed the lounge room, walking in a straight line, her breath coming easily. Short-term at least, Cym’s treatment was working. She swung the door open, coming face to face with Nari and Reuben, Tamas’s shadows.
‘You need to come with me, Blake. The boss has a few questions for you.’ Nari’s hand hung casually, but pointedly, by her sidearm. She glanced over Blake’s shoulder. ‘Well, I didn’t realise the exotic taste extended to you too, Blake. Good morning, Cym.’
‘Nari,’ came the stilted reply.
‘Tamas has questions about what, Nari?’ Blake tucked her trembling hands into her pant pockets, remaining outwardly calm.
Reuben spoke up, his blank expression betraying little. ‘About what you have done with Azrael.’
‘What are you talking about? The gallu is contained underground.’
‘You already know that is not the case.’ Blake’s heart raced with sudden, violent palpitations. Reuben stared at her like she’d grown a secondary head, while Nari’s lips pressed with a disapproving frown.
‘Miss Beckworth?’ Reuben took a step towards her.
It would have been an ideal way to ensure questioning of any sort was delayed, faking a sudden illness. But there was nothing fake about her display. Blake opened her mouth to reply, but her crazed pulse filled every vein to bursting. Her throat tightened, contracted in on itself. As did her vision. Until all that remained was a fuzzy image of three faces huddled over her.
Eron - 13
Eron’s tongue curved through the holy words of service. His voice dipped low with the guttural sounds of the homage to Lahar. There had been no slumber for him the evening before, after the captain advised Eron he would be allowed to attend this morning’s service. Bel led the prayers, kneeling beneath the Precon beast carved into the ceiling of Lahar’s Shrine. His usual passion was amplified on this morning. Gren, to his right, was equally vocal, his thin voice echoing Bel’s enthusiasm. Seder and Parator knelt just in front of Eron. Their adorations were less vociferous, but their faces held an uncharacteristic brightness.
Eron was not deemed worthy to enter the circle formed around the petrified trunk at the heart of the shrine, and so crouched behind his brothers. But the continued slight did not dampen his fervour this morning. He was in attendance on this momentous day. It was enough.
Eron lifted his head. The goddess’s totem was carved into the far wall in such a way that the wolf’s enormous eyes followed wherever one might stand in the shrine. The glass creature’s stare did not suggest the goddess wished to disembowel him, as it had a week ago when he’d fallen asleep beneath her.
Much had changed this week. Azrael’s successful Meld had lifted spirits. The approach of their end goal after so much time spent waiting had buoyed Captain Nex into gracing Eron with a brief, but very discernible, nod when they passed in the halls now. And of far greater significance, the captain had ordered Eron’s immediate inclusion in group training sessions with Azrael and the mea stones. Not that he’d been fully excluded to begin with. With only seven Syranians surviving the journey across the vastness of space, there had been
