Up close, Tor could make out sculptures standing in the roofline, men and women wearing what looked an awful lot like the togatas they wore back home, a somber reminder that somewhere in their history, they’d been the same, the Vestige and the Argenti.
Franno pulled down a steep drive, and glass doors, backlit with blue light whispered open. He parked the vehicle in an underground lot beside three others. In the dark, in the shadows, Tor could easily imagine any number of Guarda hiding.
He leaned back in his comfortable seat. It would be a few hours before he’d be comfortable again. But when it was done, he’d have Klym back.
Franno squared his shoulders. “This will probably hurt,” he said, and hopped down from his seat.
Franno hadn’t even gotten two feet on the ground before the men came out, Guarda with their rezals leveled, walking with bent knees, night-vision helmets reflecting back those cold blue lights.
“Hands up,” said a voice Tor knew all too well. Merona. Klym’s father. Right on cue.
Without moving in his seat, Tor held up his hands, just as he and Franno had discussed. “I surrender.”
A faint whisper cut across the air, and something hit his abdomen, faster than he could see.
Cold spread outward like a spider web. His fingers tingled. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t open his mouth. He tried to lift his rezal, but his hand wouldn’t function. When he tried to move his foot, he collapsed forward to land face-first against the broad dashboard of Franno’s vehicle.
This they hadn’t expected. Drugs. Fuck.
None of his limbs worked. He rolled his eyes around, the only part of him that moved, and found Franno chatting chummily with Merona.
“Did you honestly think it would be so easy?” Merona said, and with a sigh, gestured at the soldier, who lowered his weapon and stowed it cleanly in its holster.
Franno smacked Merona on the back and sent Tor a half smile.
If Tor’s face could move, he’d be laughing.
More soldiers moved forward. It took three of them to lift him, which he found deeply gratifying.
40
Balls are boring
KLYM SET HER WINE glass down on a mirrored table in the gilded hall of the Chief of the Education Committee’s river house, and watched as Staria chattered with an entire army. She’d come alive under the attention, her dark eyes glittering with laughter. She managed to simultaneously tease and shock the men, yet still remain somewhat aloof. She handled herself well, reminding Klym a bit of the worldly dominesses who were forbidden access to these sorts of high-society functions.
The house was beautiful in the same way her father’s house was beautiful. Opulently carved and elegantly furnished with crystal chandeliers the size of an escape pod, and stiff-backed soldiers in formal wear stood in clusters, and very few women, almost all of whom were Bonded.
This was her first ball. Girls still enrolled in The Merentide Ladies Institute of the Galactic Future had not been permitted to attend balls.
It was boring.
No one shouted or laughed, there were no drums or bare-chested dancing, no spicy food or toasts of yikseh. No dimpled regio toying with her hair.
Through the window, the Meren Sound passed by, glittering with the city lights across the water.
Argentus no longer felt like home. Here, she was useless. Here she had no one but her father—and Staria, until he figured out how to sell her too. She had no delusions about that. Her father saw Staria as one more way to control her and curry favor.
She let her eyes roam the room. People stared at her. She knew they were whispering. The men seemed uniformly curious and titillated by the errant Argenti kidnapped by the Vestige. She’d avoided conversing with all of them.
When she saw Spiro walking toward her, she had to squeeze her shaking hands. It was all wrong. All of this.
He was undeniably handsome, but he was also undeniably not Tor.
He wore the broad blue coat of a colonel, with black metal epaulets and crossing knife holsters, and a snowy cravat around his throat, eyes blazing that same old true blue.
He took a low bow and held out his hand for hers.
“Miss Merona, or is it Selissa TaKarian now?” he asked so softly she could barely hear him, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Hoarse, raspy. She sucked in a long breath. Her fault. His voice box must have been damaged by the knife. Consequences, Klymeni.
“Miss Merona.”
His lips curved, and she let herself imagine a life with him. Waking beside him, kissing those lips, trailing her hand along the smile lines that bracketed his mouth, raising a family, walking by his side. Her fingers fisted in her skirts.
All she wanted to do was run. Run from the house, across the city, across the whole planet, across space itself, and go back to the man she’d left to save. She still had some yenna left. Maybe Spiro would accept Staria instead.
“Walk with me?” he said in that low rasp that drew so much confusion from her. The guilt was there, but not regret. He’d paid for her escape with his voice, and though she felt bad for that, she couldn’t bring herself to regret her time with Tor.
“You’ll have to pull me up.”
“Pardon?”
She gestured at the voluminous skirts and the binding stays. “I don’t think I can do it alone.”
“Oh? Of course.” His grip on her hand tightened, and he tugged, then tugged harder.
The sky outside shifted from dark gray to nearly black. Night had come to Meren. Lights twinkled on across the city.
They walked past the sad pianist, and the crowded bar, the clusters of men in deep conversation. Her hand rested lightly on his arm. He was an imposing man, and he moved like Tor. That thought sent a slice of pain stabbing through her chest, as every thought of him did. If only they’d had one last night together.
“The Bonding would make it so we’d love each other,” Spiro rasped.
She glanced
