Page 42 of Under the Iron Sky

“Do you know their rendezvous point?”

At this, Twiigs came out of hiding to say, “I do.”

That evening, Theron was standing in the old observatory in Endoril, fingers tapping against the handle of his gun.

Patience had never been one of his strengths. He tried his best to find a distraction, first by counting the cracked panels in the ceiling (twelve and a half, because that tiny splintering thing over there next to the spyglass hardly counted) then the weapons strapped against his back, to each of his thighs (seven in total).

He’d been here for the better part of half an hour, and still no sign of this Ma’varea, this apparent Dar’rak scum turned spy that Soraya had been meeting for years.

Theron checked the time on his bracer again. Thirty-two minutes late.

He couldn’t see her, but he felt slightly better knowing that Jinx was lurking somewhere in the shadowed lower deck, prowling through the darkness on silent feet. Her back leg was still giving her quite a bit of trouble, but she’d insisted on coming with him.

Twiigs hopped across his shoulder. “You must be calm.”

“I am calm.”

“Liar. My scanners indicate an accelerated heart rate. This spy is quite reactive and the Dar’rak can sense nerves. If he believes you are nervous, he may attack. Be calm. That is not a request.”

Theron huffed. “You’re mighty bossy for such a small thing.”

“I know. Soraya told me.”

And there was no doubt in Theron’s mind that those scanners were now picking up another jump in his heartbeat.

He would continue this for her.

“So, you’re her replacement.”

Theron whirled toward that deep voice, aiming his gun.

“Put that away, human, before you hurt yourself,” the voice purred, right before the darkness seemed to warp in on itself and a broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the shadows.

Theron had expected more. The spy was certainly tall and muscular, but not the monster he’d envisioned.

“Where’s Soraya?” Theron demanded without lowering his gun. “Is she still alive? Is she being kept somewhere?”

The spy scoffed. “Darkness below, you’re as impatient as she was.”

“Don’t you dare speak about her like that,” Theron spat. “She was captured because of a mission you sent her on!” Spy or not, he saw red, and the next thing he knew his gun was pressed under Ma’varea’s helmet, just like what’d been drilled into him and Soraya and so many others since they were children, right on the exposed patch of skin where armor and iron didn’t quite meet. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off right now.”

Ma’varea didn’t back away. Unwavering, he stared at Theron, slowly cocking his head to the side, and even though it was Theron who had a gun, he found it nearly impossible not to shrivel beneath that gaze.

The eyes inside that helmet no doubt still glaring forward, Ma’varea brushed the barrel of Theron’s gun away with a hand. “She’s alive.”

It took Theron’s brain a moment to catch up. “What did you say?”

“Commander Tollmere’s daughter,” the Dar’rak said slowly. “Soraya. Not dead.”

Theron’s heart threatened to explode out of his chest. “Where is she? Is she hurt? I swear, if you’ve done anything to her—”

Ma’varea held up a hand. The temperature dropped several degrees as his power hummed through the air—and it was then that Theron realized the only reason he’d been able to place that gun beneath Ma’varea’s throat at all was because the Dar’rak had allowed it. What kind of sick mind games was he playing here? It was no wonder Noreen had entrusted only Soraya with this mission. He doubted there was anyone else who’d have the balls to meet with this creature week in, week out, and return to base unruffled.

“She’s fine,” Ma’varea said when Theron eventually lowered his weapon. “A pain in the arse, and she’s got a hell of a slap on her, mind you, but she’s alive.”

A smile he had no desire to stop tugged at the corner of Theron’s lips. That sounded like Soraya, all right. “Where is she?”

“I can’t tell you that.”