Beyond the Shadows (27 page)

The shock on his face slowly faded to contempt as he turned his green eyes to her.

“How could you?” he growled. “You will kill us all.”

Like rats crawling out of their nests, a crowd of people peered out from the rubble, cautious and fearful. The Elite lift had the capability of releasing a sonic discharge that could make all of their ears bleed. Usually it was enough to keep them away from Elite business, but Yara was taking their hero, their leader. As soon as they realized what was going on, they wouldn’t stand for it without a fight.

She had to get out of there.

Grabbing Cyn by the arm, she pushed him forward. Tuz leapt into the lift.

“Move,” she commanded.

He stiffened and stopped. The voices of the crowd rose as they filtered out of the heaps of refuse and into the streets. They pointed, savage expressions of rage and confusion on their muddy faces.

“Damn it, Cyn. Move.” He was her prisoner now. She pushed the edge of one of the rusted blades against his side, knowing how deadly a flesh wound could be in this sludge. She didn’t want to threaten him but knew he didn’t want to die yet. He took a step forward, enough for Onali to jab him in the shoulder with a numbing spike.

The shouts from the angry crowd overpowered the engines. They waved their arms, picked up rocks and chunks of metal, and flung them at the circular lift. Yara shoved Cyn forward, and Onali pulled him onto the center platform. Yara collapsed on top of him.

With a surge that forced Yara’s body down, pressing it hard against the strong heat of Cyn, the lift shot up through the canopy, leaving the angry swell of people below.

Cyn looked at her, helpless and drugged. Even through his glassy expression, his eyes burned with his betrayal.

“I trusted you,” he whispered, his voice weak and hoarse with the drug flowing in his system.

“I’m sorry,” she offered one last time as her palm smoothed over the scar on his chest.

CYN SEARCHED THROUGH EVERY WORD OF EVERY LANGUAGE HE HAD EVER heard and still couldn’t find the words strong enough to equal his rage. He fought the effect of the numbing agent as the lift rocketed toward the canopy. If he took the five worst binges of his life, shoved them together, and suspended himself underwater, it wouldn’t have equaled the slow, muddled feeling of his body. But his mind wasn’t as affected. His mind never lost focus. The fetor and darkness faded away as the mid-cities passed in a blur, and the bright light of the canopy stabbed at his eyes.

He knew he shouldn’t have trusted her. The Elite always turned back to their training. She was brainwashed, and he should have seen it. He had shocked her, frightened her, and like an animal running into the fire destroying its home, she’d embraced her training instead of him.

The look in her eyes back in the shack had seemed so real, so honest. He wasn’t an easy man to fool, and yet she’d played him like a string of nines in ralok.

He shoved her with his shoulder to try to force her off of him as the lift slowed and came to a stop. He didn’t want her touch. He couldn’t even look at her.

One of the other Elite warriors yanked him to his feet while Yara fixed immobilizers to his wrists behind his back.

He stumbled and almost fell to the side, but the drug was wearing off quickly.

“Strip his weapons and toss him in the sterilizer,” the tall woman commanded.

Yara stood in front of him, her expression hard, her eyes cold and dead. This wasn’t the woman he knew.

It wasn’t the woman he
loved.

“Aw, shit,” he grumbled. He loved her.

Yara glanced up, just enough to catch his eye. The Elite never permitted a man to look them in the eye. He studied her face. There was a tension there, something driving her. He’d seen the subtleties of her expression before, right before she made a move on the lattice back on the Touscari pier.

His rage burned deep in his heart, yet that ever-present bastard, hope, whispered in his mind.

What game was she playing? Or did she simply forget where they were for a moment?

She unbuckled his belt. A shot of pleasure lanced through his abdomen as he thought about the last time she had touched the waist of his pants.

With efficient speed, she stripped his belt, took Bug, who remained in stasis, and tucked him into a pocket of the clinging black pants he had given her.

What was she up to?

She stepped behind him, her fingers trailing over the edge of his bracers. He felt each quick tug as she unhooked the buckles. They cracked open and peeled away from his skin. The air touched his forearms, and it felt cold, much colder than it should have. That skin was never exposed, and now his arms were laid bare for all to see.

“By Fima, he’s the blood of Cyrila?” One of the other guards exclaimed. “He’s Cyani’s brother, isn’t he?”

“I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it really isn’t,” he grumbled. Yara took one of his knives. She inspected the pristine blade before drawing it under his sleeve at the elbow and pulling it up toward his ear. The fabric split over the razor sharp blade, rending the shirt. He waited for the sting of a nick, a slice from the opposite edge, but she was careful not to cut him. The shirt fell from his shoulder, hanging down toward his waist, exposing the scar on his chest. She quickly slit the other sleeve, then pulled the torn garment away from his body, popping off the clasps in the front.

The tall one with the harshly controlled hair gasped. Her eyes went wide and a blush tinged her cheeks.

Cyn grimaced as Yara grasped his upper arm and shoved him into the sterilizer. It didn’t take long for the pulses to cleanse him. They were set to such a severe level they stripped his hair of the last of the color he’d used to hide the iridescent sheen.

Completely exposed, he stepped out of the sterilizer. What was he going to do now? He had to escape custody. Once free, he could focus on gaining access to the com array.

He still needed a way to hack past the com security, but he’d figure something out. At least he was in the high cities, and within the Elite compound. Gaining entrance into the compound had always been a catching point in their plans.

“Take off your boots,” Yara commanded. In the short time they had both gone through the sterilizers, she had transformed. The pure white garments of the Elite clung to her athletic frame. The high neck on the embroidered bodice gave her the air of stiff formality, leaving only her arms exposed to display her tattoos. He watched her hands as she fastened the last magnetic clasp under her chin. Her fingertips trembled.

He kicked off his boots. “You going to take my pants, too?” he challenged.

She glared at him. “Get over it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” He had to steel himself. The revolution was on the brink. He had hoped Yara would see his side, help him prevent the bloodshed from within the Elite, but he had let his affection cloud reality. Dressed in her robes, he could see the truth. She was completely one of them.

He was on his own, and the people of Azra needed him.

Now all he had to do was survive long enough to start a war.

Tuz jumped out of the sanitizer, his thick fur standing on end. He fell into stride beside his master as they walked down a side corridor and entered the Halls of Honor.

A crowd had begun to gather at the feet of the towering statues of the Matriarchs. The sun lit the canvas awnings stretched above the corridor, casting the pure white monuments to Azra’s finest Elite in an ethereal glow.

Cyn didn’t bother to look at them. He knew their faces. He didn’t glance at the crowds in his peripheral vision either. He let them fade into blurs, curious eyes, and the occasional pointing finger.

He could hear them well enough as their strange little parade marched over the shining white floor. His name whispered through their ranks like the slow hiss of the snake.

They passed the statue of Yarini, and Yara squeezed his arm tighter. He watched her as she looked up at her great ancestor. The statue bore a sad expression with softly closed eyes. Yara was the spitting image of the once-powerful ruler.

He kept his head held high as they continued through the hall. The crowds grew louder and more animated. He could hear their calls for an execution.

“God, these people need a new form of entertainment,” he grumbled.

Yara flinched.

He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the hall. He glanced up at the statue of Cyrila, and the statue offered him a subtle yet encouraging smirk.

They entered the throne room through one of the great archways circling the cathedral-like chamber. The Grand Bitch’s throne rose above the milling people, suspended in the air by a carved branch that spiraled up from the center of the floor.

She descended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. Cyn noticed a hitch each time she put her left foot forward. It seemed her crippling arthritis was getting the best of her. He wondered if she would recognize him as the Union liaison, Cyrus Smith, who had stood in this room and stolen her precious heir out from under her nose.

That conversation could be interesting.

The crowds hushed as the Grand Sister threw the edge of the mantle of power back over her bony shoulder. Her thinning white hair stuck up in short tufts, while her ice blue eyes glared at him.

“Cyn of Cyori,” she announced, coming face-to-face with him. “The crimes of your family run deep.”

“You’d know,” he countered.

She whipped a blow across his face. Her sharp nails clawed into the skin of his cheek, scorching him. The crowd cheered.

He recovered from the blow and smiled at her, even as he felt the trickle of blood slide over the edge of his jaw.

“Do not dare defile me with your words, traitor.” She placed a bony hand on the whip she always carried. “I will flay you thrice for every word you speak to me, and I will take flesh.”

She turned her attention to Yara. “You have done well.” Her hoarse voice didn’t offer any love or even admiration for Yara, and yet Yara bowed her head in submission to the monster before her.

How could she be so blind?

“It is my honor and holy purpose to please the great and powerful leader of our noble planet,” Yara droned.

Cyn wanted to reach out and shake her, kiss her, do something to find the woman he knew—the woman he loved. This machine beside him wasn’t even a person. His anger returned, along with a very deep sense of loss.

He knew what he’d had in her. But that person was dead. The warrior beside him was as lifeless as the statue in the hall.

The Grand Bitch held her skinny arms aloft, silencing the crowd. Oh great, a speech.

“Today is a glorious day for the people of Azra,” she began. Cyn rolled his eyes. “The kidnapper who imprisoned Cyani, our own Elite sister, has been brought here to face justice.” Her rasping voice echoed in the cavernous throne room.

If he didn’t survive this ordeal, at least he could be proud and satisfied that he had freed his sister from this bullshit. How had she survived this hypocrisy for fourteen years?

The chants calling for his death grew louder. He ignored them. The Grand Sister wasn’t going to kill him yet. She wanted Cyani. And there was no way she’d ever find her without him.

He wasn’t going to give up the location of his sister, not for anything. No pain, no torture would ever surmount the peace in his heart when he thought of her happy and safe with the man she so clearly loved.

“Patience,” the Grand Bitch called out over the crowd. “The prisoner must be interrogated, and I, with the power and strength, the holy honor of Azra, will make him reveal the location of our lost sister.”

Yara slipped him a sidelong glance, but he knew what it meant when the corner of her eye narrowed, even though the change in her expression was so subtle he barely caught it. She was up to something.

The tendrils of hope hooked in his heart, pulling at it.

“Follow me,” the Grand Bitch insisted. She marched out of the throne room through one of the eastern corridors, the ones that lead to the holding cells for prisoners awaiting execution.

Yara pulled him by the arm, but the other two Elite warriors had remained behind in the throne room to prevent the crowds from entering the passage.

“You’re an arrogant bastard,” the Grand Bitch insisted as she strode down the hall, trying to hide that hitch in her step.

“Well, we know where I get it,” he countered.

The old woman turned on her heel, and with a speed unnatural for someone in her condition, she unfurled her whip and snapped it across the front of his bare chest.

Yara pulled him back as the lash struck, but the pain of it shot through his nervous system, turning his body to fire. Yara had prevented the strike from tearing his flesh.

He glanced at her, but her face remained impassive.

The Grand Sister looped the whip in a coil and struck him across the cheek with it, a warning blow.

“The next time, I take flesh. I’ll bleed that scar.” The old woman let the whip slide on the smooth floor as she turned the corner and entered the long hall.

Four Elite guards stood sentinel at the arch, though no prisoners remained in this section of the complex. His aunt didn’t keep prisoners very long before she either killed them or banished them.

Yara pushed him into the back half of a small room, and an energy shield immediately activated, slicing the room in half.

“Leave us,” the Grand Bitch insisted.

“In my experience, he’s a crafty fighter. I wouldn’t lower the shield . . .”

“Do not presume to tell me, holy leader of Azra, what to do,” the crone screeched.

Yara bowed her head in submission. “I seek forgiveness for my failings,” she chanted.