I know your last name isn’t Delamores. How had the colonel known? Did he have Yoma, too? Was she near, in a windowless metal room, hurt and alone? She tried to sense her, but her head only throbbed and her heart felt nothing beyond its own fatigue.
Layela looked up at the door again, at the handle that kept it closed. It seemed a long shot, but what if they had believed it unnecessary to lock it?
Ridiculous. But still... She imagined her sister scolding her for being a pessimist and not believing that the easy way out was actually possible. Layela felt both strength and bitterness at the words, wondering if that was what Yoma had done, leaving just when everything was finally settling down for the first time in their life. A vision that the Kilita had half managed to unlock from her mind teased her then. She had seen her sister’s face. But something had been wrong. Could that have been the vision that had kept her from sleeping soundly of late? And had the Kilita seen it as well? Had he managed to rape her mind again?
Like wildfire, her fury consumed her and she was at the door before her body realized she was moving. Her hand grabbed the cold handle, she held her breath and slit her eyes and pulled. Nothing. The latch was tightly locked, and the door wouldn’t open from this side. Not without more of her instruments, anyway, and there was little in this room to work with.
Her anger dissipated, replaced by exploding pain in her head. She backed up slowly for a few paces, her hand behind her touching the cool metal, and she let herself slide against it, feeling her anger and frustration dissipate into hopelessness. She had hoped to find Yoma, possibly save her, and save her flower shop at the same time, but now...
Now she was alone and desperately afraid, and wishing Yoma had never left her side, and that both of them could be sitting in Sunrise Flowers, enjoying their success and the sheer comfort and security that everything was going to be all right, and that all battles had been fought and won.
She closed her eyes and let the tears come, moaning softly as every muscle ached and cried for relief. That was a dream for another life, it seemed.
i
The overhead lights flickered at regular intervals, shutting every fifteen seconds for barely a breath, by Ardin’s count. The stale air, laced with the smells of sweat and urine, pointed to an equally faulty ventilation system.
Wonderful.
Ardin almost turned around at the sight of the excretion-decorated wall. Only the wrath he would have to face from Avienne stayed him. It was only fair. She had kept up her side of the bargain.
He checked himself as he was approached by a high-ranking officer and saluted as he recognized the insignia of a colonel. Sweat lined his stiff collar as the colonel scrutinized his long auburn hair.
The colonel’s eyes darkened with barely a pause in his stride. Ardin released his breath in relief and continued on his way while debating the proper mix of soldierly conduct and guard ease to inject into his walk.
That there was a colonel here wasn’t good. It more than likely meant that a complement of higher ranking officers, the colonel’s entourage, milled somewhere within these walls, as well. Ardin gritted his teeth, wishing he could justify leaving Destiny’s drunken navigator behind.
The lights kept flickering as he entered another cell block, the acrid smell of vomit alerting him that he was probably in the right area: the all-night drunken rampage zone.
He carefully stared into each cell for the all-too-familiar lump, grateful at least that this section wasn’t currently being patrolled. Of course, considering how easily he had fooled the guards into believing he was a replacement guard and giving him the jail keys, this likely wasn’t the most well-guarded place from which he had ever had to break Lang out.
He heard the navigator’s snores as Captain Cailan’s mantra, “Our duty is to our own,” collided with every excuse he pondered giving for leaving Lang to rot in this stinking hole. There was never any doubt that “our own” was the small crew of the Destiny, which had travelled the stars for almost as long as Ardin could remember, only making berth when supplies or bounty demanded it. But time, sickness and ill luck had left them with too few qualified to run the ship, so the captain had recruited a cocky middle-aged navigator by the name of Lang Locks. Of course, by the time they learned he was a drunk and a derelict, he knew too much about their illegal activities to be let go. And even though he was difficult to deal with whenever they made port, Ardin had to admit that the man was bloody good at what he did.
Which, of course, is only proving to be more annoying, Ardin thought as he spotted the familiar lump on a cot. Ardin cast a wary glance down both ends of the deserted hallway. The other cells were mercifully empty.
He pulled the metal key from his belt, the outdated system a blessing: no monitor would advise the guards that someone was opening a cell out of schedule. The door groaned and creaked as he pushed it aside, and Ardin cringed as he listened for incoming soldiers. Thankfully, none of them seemed to believe an opening cell door worthy of attention, and Ardin felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the disgruntled colonel.
“Come on, you lousy lump of liquor,” Ardin hissed. He grabbed Lang’s shoulder and flipped him over. Lang’s eyes widened as he slowly blinked away the heaviness of sleep, and on the third blink his brain kicked into action.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhh!” he screamed. Ardin jumped back in surprise, then approached him again, fist drawn back and eyes intent on the thick jowl.
Lang’s screams stopped, but their echoes continued down the metal halls. His groggy, bloodshot eyes took in
