Havoc (Dred Chronicles 2)

“I believe in fair play. It’s your turn.”

If he had protested, she would’ve stopped. But she glimpsed cognition of her motives in his blue eyes, which made it simultaneously better and worse. Jael settled against the pillows as she went to work with her mouth. He twisted and writhed, just as he was supposed to, but even when he lost control, arched in a perfect bow, hands tangled in her hair, she never lost the sense that he had won this battle—that something had permanently shifted between them.

Afterward, he drew her up into his arms. Shaken, she rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart. Nothing unusual about the sound, no sign he was anything but human.

“Do you think you can sleep?” he asked.

“Probably. The better question is if I should be able to.”

“If I thought it would help, I’d tell you it wasn’t your fault. It was bad timing or luck or some combination of the two. Ike wouldn’t blame you.”

“If I could, I’d ask him,” she said softly.

“I know.”

She sighed, rolling onto her side to face him. “This is so backward.”

“What is?”

“This.” Dred gestured at their proximity. “Everything about us. I need to stay away from you, but I never follow through.”

He flinched, such a fleeting expression that if she hadn’t been so close, she would have missed it. And the words sounded as if they were being dragged out of him with hooks and wires. “If you really think this is a mistake—”

She put two fingers to his mouth. “Against my better judgment, yes, but . . . I’d be lost without you, Jael.”

He kissed her hand, then pulled it away from his mouth, so he could tuck his face against her neck. “I should’ve realized I needed to go all the way to hell to find my soul.”

22

The Past Is Another Country

A day later, they were still mopping vomit off the floor and blood from the walls. Hell of a send-off. Ike might even approve. After Jael left the common room with Dred, the populace apparently ran amok, with the usual results and casualties. People were still sullen, nursing grievances that sprang out of nowhere. Or at least, it seemed that way to Jael.

Maybe it was more accurate to say that liquor gave men the courage to say shit they’d never otherwise admit. As a result, tensions were high today. A number of Queenslanders had only pretended to accept the admission of the aliens, intimidated by the example Dred made of the man who disagreed with her decision. Since nobody wanted to end up like that, their complaints had gone quiet, confined to whispers that stilled as soon as Jael approached.

Good thing they don’t know I can hear them from here.

“I can’t believe we have to share bunk space with those freaks,” a Queenslander was saying.

“They’re eating up our food,” someone else complained.

“If I’d known the Dread Queen was such a sympathizer, I’d have—”

“What?” Brahm stood behind the group, talons splayed.

At his back, there were a number of aliens from the Warren, some of whom Jael knew by name, like Ali. The rest he had no experience with, so he couldn’t be sure how quickly this situation would escalate. And he wasn’t sure of his role anyway. Maybe Dred would be pissed if he stepped in, like he held actual power.

But Cook solved the problem by hurling his knife. It thunked into the table where the xenophobes were sitting. The handle quivered as the man stalked over to retrieve the weapon. He paused for a few seconds in silence before picking it up. Not surprisingly, the malcontents found other places they needed to be. Satisfied, Cook went back to his pot.

“Sorry about that,” Jael said to Brahm.

The Ithtorian still gave him the creeps, but he knew better than to blame Brahm for the shit he’d gone through on Ithiss-Tor. It was a personal bias, one he was struggling with, and he didn’t intend to make a public issue of it. But the alien regarded him for a few seconds out of side-set eyes without speaking.

“You have a problem with me,” he said.

“Not like they do,” he answered, defensive.

The Ithtorian clicked out a laugh. “No, your issue is specific to my kind. I don’t notice it around the rest.” He turned to his companions and waved them away. Ali seemed most reluctant, but she eventually moved off, presumably so Brahm could speak to Jael in private.

Once they were alone, relatively speaking, Jael said, “It doesn’t matter. I won’t move on you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Brahm tilted his head, mandible moving in a way that Jael recognized as being a thoughtful gesture. He’d learned a lot about Bug body language during his long incarceration. He wished the cues didn’t make him want to pull Brahm’s head off.

“I’m not. You seem to have more honor than that.”

“Seem being the operative word.”

“The Dread Queen relies on you. And we’ve noticed that her advisors are a cut above the rest of the population.”

Jael wasn’t sure where this conversation was going. “Thanks. I think.”

“But you’re naïve if you think our assimilation will pass without bloodshed.”

“That’s not something I’ve been accused of before.” The Ithtorian wasn’t wrong, though. He saw the tension growing as the days rolled on. Sooner or later, it would explode.

“I imagine not. The interesting thing about you, downright intriguing, in fact . . . is that I’ve been speaking Ithtorian for the last few minutes.”

Now that Brahm had pointed it out, Jael registered the clicks and chitters that comprised the Ithtorian native tongue. The alien stood there, silently awaiting an explanation, and Jael gave it reluctantly. “I spent some time in the Ithtorian penal system. They chipped me, so I could understand orders the guards gave me.”

Mostly it had consisted of turn around, present your limbs to be shackled, and step out of the cave so we can hose it down. Not exactly scintillating conversation. But limited interaction was better than nothing, better than silence. Yet Brahm went still, his mandible locked in a position Jael identified as tension.

“You’re the one.”

Before he spoke, he suspected. “Pardon me?”

“You’re the man who tried to murder my father.”

Shit. Brahmel Il-Charis. Charis Il-Wan. There had been a reason the name sounded familiar, but it’d been so long. Jael didn’t take a step back even as the Ithtorian moved forward. He blocked when the Ithtorian reached out slowly with razor-sharp talons.