Page 21 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

She leaves, leading with irritation and checking the floor before every threshold. Because she does not trust me. Because she should not. Syin comes to my side with two guards and a blade angled toward my ribs.

“If you endanger this City, I will cut you apart slowly.”

I look at him. “Take a number.”

He does not understand the phrase. Kessa does. A sound escapes her before she kills it. Not quite a laugh.

The floor trembles again, and her almost-laughter vanishes.

Syin angles his blade closer. His voice drops low enough that only I, Kessa, and the nearest guards hear.

“Krix does not send warnings without hooks buried in them.”

I meet his eyes. I give him the truth.

“No,” I say. “It does not.”

Rosalind lifts the wrapped sphere. “Move.”

We leave the council chamber through the east passage, descending into colder stone and worse air. Behind us, the City holds its breath. Ahead of us, the copper sphere hums against Rosalind’s hands, and everyone around me wonders where the hook is buried.

5

Kessa

The east passage breathes cool air.

That’s how the old parts of the City always feel to me. Like they’re not empty so much as waiting with their mouth open. The air slips over my skin damp and stale, tasting of old stone, dead water, and the bitter metal tang that has become the City’s least charming new odor. Somewhere above us, people are pretending not to panic because I told them not to. Somewhere behind us, Adran is being productive, which is a phrase that should make any sensible person check the locks twice.

Rosalind carries the wrapped copper sphere against her chest with both hands. Visidion walks close beside her, silent and protective. Syin and Virn take the lead in the way Zmaj always do when danger shows itself, but neither of them knows this route the way I do. They know the City as territory. I know it as consequence.

Two steps too far left and a weak tile can drop a runner into a drainage crawl. Three turns too high and sound carries into the lower heat rooms, where Ila should be moving families out with broth-line lies and a face that can bully panic into sitting down. One bad decision here and the City doesn’t need off-world hunters to break it. We can do that ourselves, with excellent efficiency and very poor lighting.

Rhazek walks behind me with a guard on either side and Merra swearing softly at his back like profanity might stitch him closed. His breathing is too even. Nobody losing that much blood should breathe as if he’s chosen a rhythm and expects obedience from every wounded part. One torn wing drags close to the wall, the damaged edge scraping stone every few paces before he locks it tighter.

I don’t look back every time it happens. Only most times.

“You’re going to tear it worse,” I say.

“You are concerned.”

“I’m annoyed by waste. Different emotion.”

“Wings do heal poorly when dragged.”

“Then stop dragging it.”

His good eye slides to me. In the dim light, the gold ring around the black looks almost molten, which is rude. A person should not be allowed to look like a warning carved into treasure while bleeding down a corridor I have to inventory later.

“I would need room,” he says.

I glance at the narrow passage, then at the wing he’s holding too tight against himself. The wall on his side is rough, patched after an old collapse. I should have put him on the inner edge. I should have thought of that before we started, but apparently falling alien problems come with a learning curve.

“Switch with me,” I say.

Syin’s head turns. “No.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”