Bought By The Zandians (Zandian Brides 2)

Benn pulls up his comm. “All we need is both of our digisigs and it’s done. Assuming we exit with our appropriate cargo, of course.”

“Of course.” The guard affixes his thumb to the tablet. Then he raises his hand and the door slides open and lights come on.

I catch my breath. Blinking in the back corner of the cell, dirty and bloody, is a Zandian. My heart fills with anger to see one of my own in such condition, and the red that fills my eyes clouds my vision.

“He was…uncooperative.” The guard smirks, goes up to the Zandian, and kicks him in the ribs, evoking a painful sigh. The male’s mouth is so battered he can’t talk. His eyes are swollen shut. “But we have ways of ensuring that our prisoners go where we tell them.” He removes a shock stick from his waist and readies it. “Get up.”

I clench my fists, ready to roar, to rip off this guard’s head. Benn steps forward. “If he’s not in condition to fly, the deal is off. We need him alive.”

The guard steps back, puts up his hands. “Of course.” He looks at us. “Wanted for theft and smuggling, level H. Carries a death sentence, or so his file reads.” He turns to the prisoner. “Happy travels. He’s all yours.”

Our headgear hides our horns, and the SkinSan masks our color, but the Zandian recognizes us as brothers; I can see it in the way he tilts his head, looking at us through swollen slits, the way he gasps when our hands grasp his arms. I’m enraged that they coded him like a slave.

I want to be gentle, but we’re bounty hunters, so I keep my expression and movements impersonal. “Come with us now or it won’t end well for you,” I snap to him, roughly hoisting him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

He licks his lips and croaks. “I…need…”

He needs crystals, or he’ll die. But just being near us is having a restorative effect, because his breathing evens out and he blinks.

‘You’ll get water on the transport ship,” I say, frowning at him, shaking my head. We walk him down the hallway, and my pulse races as we reach the final door, because what I see makes my adrenaline surge.

Two Ocretion guards stand in front of the door, hands on their weapons. Two more stand to the side, one of them talking into a com. They all turn slowly to look at us, as if watching a holo vid. Entertainment. One of them smirks and rubs his hands together.

Our guard stops in front of the door, but doesn’t open it. He steps back. “Our journey together ends here.” He raises his shock stick and the others draw weapons. “I think that having three Zandians could be a wonderful bargaining chip. More important to me than your steins. I imagine King Zander would give a fair amount of crystals to get you three back, with most of your limbs intact.” He eyes the bag at Benn’s side. “Although we’ll take that, too. I’ll miss the luxury items, but oh, well.” He laughs. “New facial recognition tech with deep-IR. You can’t fool Ocretions. Not anymore.” He smirks and lunges, and so do the others.

Benn and I drop the rescued Zandian, and whirl to face our opponents. I leap and kick, using the heel of my boot to smash into the Ocretion’s sturdy jaw. The crack of his bone and his high scream echo off the polished corridor walls, and his shock stick flashes as it flies from his hand. Benn grunts as one of the Zandians hits him with the stunner, but his protective garb prevents damage. Still, he stumbles, and I grab him, keeping him on his feet, before turning. “You got this,” I mutter, turning to the next guard.

“This is what you can do” —I kick— “with your”—a powerful punch sends one of them flying into the smooth wall, his skull hitting with a satisfying crack, his neck shooting forward and then going slack, his eyes draining of color as he slumps down the wall to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth— “deep. IR.”

I elbow the Ocretion in front of me with all of my force, right into his nasal bone, and feel it give. Benn drops the last one and the two of us pant, Benn bending over, hands on knees. My eye stings and when I wipe, my hand comes away purple with blood. Mine, because it doesn’t have the sulphur-like stench of Ocretion blood and innards, although their stink is on us now, all around.

Benn’s gaze is wild, his eyes fierce. “We need to get out. Now.”

I take a deep breath and grab the fallen Zandian, who’s

breathing shallowly, his face pale, his horns shriveled. “He’s dying. We need to get him to the ship.” I hoist him to his feet, ignoring the pain in my left side from the blaster blow.

Benn wipes his mouth and grabs the Zandian’s arm. “Let’s go.”

We’re already out of the prison, and our transport is still there in the lot. Nobody pays us much attention; bloody beings dragged off are clearly not out of the norm here. As we get in, I scan the prison behind us. “It’s a matter of time before the entire local force of Ocretions comes after us.”

“Ocretions love a good hunt.” Benn grimaces. “And torture before killing their prey.”

I grunt, setting the coordinates for our ship. “Once we get him on board, we take off immediately and get out of this sovereign airspace. You set the pilot details and I’ll get him into the med pod.”

But when we reach our ship and board, not without difficulty, I curse to myself, because our problems have just magnified. The magnet cuff dangles from the wall, empty. Danica is gone.

Danica

The boots are too big, but they protect my feet from the baking hot ground. This planet is dry and dusty, and my forehead breaks out in sweat immediately as I leave the craft. I cough, and grab my mouth—I need to be quiet, no matter how fetid and polluted the air. My lungs sting as I breathe, short shallow breaths, and I cough again as I dart from behind our craft to the next one.

“Our” craft—no. My captors’ craft.

I push back the memories of our night together, the surprising passion, and scan the area. I won’t be safe until I’m a free woman. I’m definitely not going to Zandia to be a breeder, and have my secret found out. No, I’m going to take my chances out here, because in this vast galactic parking lot, I know I can find a craft that’s headed to the place I need to go. Jesel.

I pull the thick, hanging jacket closer around me, glad that the clothing bin included headgear, which I used to tie up and hide my hair. With my baggy, rough garments and the dirt I’ve put onto my face, I can pass for a male. On this way station, beings of all species intermingle, albeit for a short while, just here to refuel or stock their craft. They’re technically no-aggression zones, these outposts, and that weighs in my favor.

I suck air and walk fast to the next craft, hover in the shadows created by the vast wing, peering into the distance. Yes! About 800 yards from me I recognize the logo of the InterTrack passenger shuttle. Other slaves whispered about this being the transport that takes anyone, no questions asked, no need for pesky paperwork.