Page 2 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

I turn my head, listening. The stone under my boots trembles.

One beat. A gap. Ila goes pale before the next one sounds.

“Quiet,” I say, even though nobody is making a sound.

The third pulse doesn’t come.

For three breaths, no one moves. Then a baby cries behind the second line, and her mother clamps her close, whispering into her hair.

“It was small,” Ila says.

“Small still counts.”

A Zmaj guard at the western arch looks over. As if the look on his face wasn’t enough, the tight fold of his wings screams tension and worry.

“Route check?” he asks.

“Now,” I say.

“Keep the lines moving. No rush orders. No panic. If anyone asks, old stone settles in the morning,” I say, handing Ila the slate.

“That’s a terrible lie.”

“It has tradition on its side,” I say, shrugging.

“If you die, I’m telling Merra this was your idea,” she says, taking the slate.

“If I die, steal Adran’s civil reserve.”

“That was already the plan.”

I leave before she can see me smile.

The west corridor smells of dust, broth, and the bitter metal tang that has haunted the City since the machines woke up under us. The lamps along the wall aren’t electric. We haven’t had electricity since the ship crashed onto Tajss. We burn oil where we can spare it, glow-pod resin where we can’t, and shame when both run low.

The Zmaj guard stays at my side. His name is Renn, and he’s young enough that his horns look too sharp for his face.

“Did you feel direction?” I ask.

“Below,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Maybe above.”

I meet his stare. He flexes his jaw.

“I do not like saying it.”

“Well that’s good because I really don’t like hearing it.”

We move fast, but not too fast. Speed has rules. You don’t thunder down corridors. You don’t send loose stones skittering. You don’t let a crowd hear your fear. Fear spreads better than any signal.

We pass the sealed west stair where Sera almost died. The new brace stones are lighter than the old wall, a pale scar running down the corridor. Someone has set a shallow bowl beside the seal, a few drops of water glimmering at the bottom. Not an offering exactly. Not a prayer either. We don’t have enough water for either. A reminder, maybe. The City remembers in strange little ways.

At the junction, Penr comes skidding around the corner, favoring one leg and pretending he isn’t. He’s all elbows and panic, with dust in his hair and a route-runner sash tied crooked over one shoulder.

“I was coming to you,” he says.

“You found me.”

“Sky-watch saw fire.”