Page 27 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

Nobody likes that. Even Adran has the sense not to look triumphant.

Rosalind’s eyes stay on the map. “Can it reach?”

“The loud beacon cannot,” Rhazek says. “The fragments should not.”

“Should not is a coward’s cousin,” Syin says.

“Yes,” Rhazek agrees. He does not sound amused.

The agreement does more to unsettle Syin than argument would have. I tuck that away. Worth remembering. Dangerous males hate being agreed with by other dangerous males, especially when the agreement admits the floor is on fire.

Merra steps closer to Rhazek, her healer’s glare so sharp it should count as a weapon.

“How long before that wound opens again?” she asks.

“I am standing.”

“That was not the question.”

“It was my answer.”

“It’s a bad one.”

I laugh under my breath. The world is cracking open under us, and Merra still sounds one breath away from prescribing broth and insults. Maybe civilization is not stone walls or laws or Adran’s beloved signatures. Maybe it’s one exhausted healer refusing to let an alien die until she has personally told him he’s an idiot.

The sphere pulses. The bright point blazes again, then dims. The second point flickers as if waking reluctantly.

My good mood dies before it gets comfortable.

“There,” I say.

Rhazek’s head turns to me. “You felt it?”

“I saw it.”

“You felt it before it brightened.”

I don’t like his certainty. I like it even less that he’s right.

Adran steps forward. “Then we cannot ignore what she is.”

My shoulders tighten. “Again, I’m right here. Conveniently with ears and everything.”

“What you can sense may be the difference between interception and exposure,” Adran says.

“And there it is. Same cage. Nicer word.”

“This is not the time for pride.”

“No, it’s apparently the time for everyone to decide my bones are public equipment.”

Rosalind turns. “Enough.”

The word fills the cistern without getting loud. Then the reason people listen to her, even when they don’t want to, becomes painfully clear. Syin commands like a wall. Adran commands like a lock. Rosalind commands like she remembers the price of every order she has ever given and will still pay the next one if she must.

“Kessa, no one is making you a tool,” Rosalind says, looking at me first.

“Good. I’m a terrible tool. Too opinionated.”