Destiny's Blood (28 page)

“Captain,” Loran whispered as the first wisps of the purple beast stroked the
Victory’s
hull. The metal of the ship shuddered in response.
“Other ships arriving on the starboard side. Solarian, sir. About thirty more.”

Yoma sat up in her chair and Kipso exhaled loudly.

“Just take us through, Loran. Where we go, they won’t be able to follow.”

“Sir, the
Destiny
is badly damaged. She looks dead in the water.”

Kipso hesitated for a second. “Keep us on course, Loran.”

Yoma tried to jump to her feet, the belt pulling her back. “Bloody Rankok Rot!” She swore as she unclasped it, her eyes locked on Gobran. He whirled around, wide-eyed at the profanity.

“You can’t leave them!” Yoma jumped up and approached Gobran, her abdomen almost touching his. She looked up at him, squaring her shoulders, placing her right foot back. Her fists clenched. She prepared to do whatever was necessary to stop them.

Without revealing that her sister still lived.

“You can’t leave the
Destiny
and the others!” Yoma continued when no answer came. “Those are too many ships for them to handle! They’re already being slaughtered!”

Kipso’s dark eyes looked back into hers without flinching. They narrowed
 
—
 
not with anger, but with deep sadness. “I have no choice, Lady Layela.”

Layela
! Everything she had done was to spare her. Everything. And now she had left her to die on a ship.

“You can’t.” To her surprise, her voice cracked.

“Entering the nebula,” Loran whispered. The ship rocked and Yoma took a deep breath.
Layela!

Fresh air pummelled into her and she fell to her knees, blades of grass prickling her hands.

“Yoma,” she heard the voice beside her say, and she was standing again. Layela smiled beside her as they walked on a bridge.

Blood
.

“Layela! Lady Layela!” Yoma’s consciousness flew back to her body, to the present, but still she could not shake the feeling of the warm blood on her hands, and the sight of her sister’s eyes.

She opened her own, the last of her vision washed away by the worry in Gobran’s eyes. He cradled her in his arms.

Great.
She struggled to sit up on her own, a few other crewmembers looking wide-eyed at her. Her visions had picked the worst possible time to re-surface.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled.

“Was it a vision, Lady?” Gobran asked, his voice filled with awe and a hint of joy. Yoma raised her eyes and looked at him. Before she could answer, he filled the silence. “The queen has always had visions and powers. Now that we come closer to Mirial, now that we are within her great shields, your powers should become full.”

“Great,” Yoma muttered. Gobran helped her to stand and led her to his captain’s chair. “I already have enough problems with this power,” she joked as she sat gratefully. This was much better than having to keep going through the visions while out on a caper.

“Tell me, Lady,” Gobran kneeled beside her, his eyes hungry for answers. Everyone on the bridge held their breath as he voiced the question on all of their minds. “Will Mirial be saved?”

Yoma looked towards the sky and its thickness. She felt drawn towards its centre, where she now knew her true home dwelt. She felt Mirial calling to her and she yearned to respond, her hands wanting to reach out and grab the star, her feet wanting to run towards it, her soul yearning to break free of her body to join it.

She held the arms of the captain’s chair, pressing her hands hard against them until the edges bit into her flesh and the pain interrupted the longings.

“She will live, Gobran Kipso,” Yoma replied in a voice that didn’t even feel like hers, that sounded older to her than her own. “She will live,” she continued. His eyes were wide with relief that came at the expense of her sister’s blood, “but at a greater price than you could ever understand.”

She broke her gaze from his, not caring to see the effect of her words. Looking out toward where she knew Mirial waited, her sight was haunted by her darker half. The vision confirmed one thing, at least. That Layela would live at least long enough to see the day when one of them would die before the other, to save a home they had never seen. She leaned back into the chair, the old leather creaking in greeting.

She had simply been arrogant to believe she could stop what a large fleet, a purple nebula and professional assassins couldn’t. Mirial would have her way, no matter what Yoma craved and desired.

I can’t stop it.
She swallowed hard as peace descended on her.

I can’t stop it, but I can make sure it is my blood that is shed, not Layela’s.

i

The green blood, lifeless and growing thicker under the cold lights, caught Romero’s eyes and held them before he dared look further. He took another step forward, focused on the green liquid. His brow was covered with sweat, his mouth dry.

He had smelled death before, but never like this. He had inflicted it on others, had even felt their last moments. He had followed them with his powers until he could no longer do so, the connection broken as the flesh grew cold.

His eyes strayed upwards. The green blood gave way to a long, yellowing leg. The skin, perfectly smooth and enticing but hours ago, was already drying.

Despite his explorations, he knew very little about death.

Her ripped pants, soaked in green blood, revealed a tease of green thigh. Romero remembered the feel of his bare hand on the fabric. How soft and warm it had been.

After years of searching for an afterlife, both through his powers and Layela’s, he doubted much existed beyond the fear and the final breath. And never before had he really cared.

The wound was in the chest. The shirt ripped, the hole hardened and crusted over where ether had failed to heal her before the last breath was drawn.

It smelled fresh, like a lawn being cut. Romero’s stomach turned. Death was not supposed to smell good, not like this. He forced himself to look at her. Her face was still recognizable, but it was beginning to sink in where sap no longer pushed on her skin, and the skin itself was hardening without its constant feed. Her hair had yellowed and had mostly fallen out. He looked away for a moment, and in so doing, saw her hands.

She had died with her hands covered. Romero’s vision blurred. He knelt, not caring about the blood, and reached down to take her right hand in his own. He remembered her hand’s vitality and the joys and ether they had shared. So different, yet so alike.

He turned the hand over and gently pulled at the glove, working it around the pommel of her slim hand, over her thumb and four delicate fingers. It slipped off, a lifetime of wear on it. A lifetime of oppression.

The green hand seemed untouched by death. The fingernails were still perfect, their tips white, clinging to their colour as though in hope that one day they would be allowed to see sun again.

He turned the hand over. It was perfectly smooth and without prints, as smooth as the rest of her had once been. He swallowed hard, shifted a bit as the sap stuck to his knees, and pulled his own glove off with his teeth.

His dark fingernails, outlined by his orange skin, were trimmed painfully each day to keep them as comfortable in the gloves as possible. The glove fell in the sap and he didn’t care. He closed his hand around hers, her slenderness vanishing in his thick fist. But where his mind had exploded in light before, where the two had connected more deeply than he had ever believed possible, all that he felt now was her cold, withering hand, and no spark of life.

He clutched her hand and feared letting go, his instincts repulsed by her lack of reaction, as though it was his own heart that no longer pumped blood. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of freshly cut flowers and dead legacies.

A howl ripped from deep within his throat, its echo only adding to his grief.

i

“I’m fine.” Josmere clenched her teeth, refusing Layela’s help.

“Why must you always be so bloody stubborn?”

“Because I’m a Berganda!” Josmere forced herself to grin sideways at her, flicking loose strands of green hair to her back. Layela did not look impressed. Josmere shrugged, wishing she could tell Layela she just didn’t care if she lived or died now. There had been little left for her before, and now there was nothing at all. “Seriously. I am healing my wound. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Layela sighed in frustration. As the two of them reached the ladder, a howl sounded through the
Destiny.
The friends’ eyes met briefly, and Layela looked towards the ladder with newfound urgency.

“And I suppose you’re fine enough to climb this to the deck?” she asked Josmere, who nodded.

“I need my hands. One leg will do.”

Josmere grasped the rungs, but ducked instinctively when a shot ricocheted off the wall beside her. Layela, crouched, felt her blood turn cold. The Kilita’s gun was trained on them. His orange eyes were slit and
threatening, the pupils clenched like a snake’s.

“Why?” he hissed as he advanced. His ungloved hands and shirt were covered in green blood. Layela was surprised that it was Josmere at whom he aimed his gun, and even more surprised that her friend didn’t seem to care.

I saved you, Josmere! You won’t die here, like this. You’re not meant to!
No mists assailed her vision, and she wondered if they would leave her alone now
 
—
 
if she had somehow beaten them back by fighting against their predicted outcome.

“You shouldn’t have let her die. You couldn’t have let her die,” the Kilita’s voice remained as calm and as steady as his hands, only his unblinking eyes betraying his intensity.

Josmere’s green hair flicked her arms as she shook her head, as though at a loss for words.

“She would have killed us,” Layela said.

“She would have killed you,” the Kilita answered, his eyes still on Josmere. Layela dared to lower her hands, which the intent Kilita appeared not to notice. She held her breath. With or without mists, she was certain he meant to kill them.

“She would have killed you, but you would have lived!” He hissed, as though only breath was left to him, his voice as lost as the look in his eyes.

Josmere kept shaking her head and Layela didn’t bother wondering what he meant. She reached for her gun and fired it, striking the Kilita in the shoulder. Orange blood oozed out and mixed with the green. He returned fire from his wounded arm, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly on the wall beside them. Even with his shoulder wounded, he was fast. He switched his gun to his other hand and fired again. The bullet struck Layela’s gun and grazed her flesh as she fell back against the wall.

“Run!” Josmere screamed. She grabbed Layela and pushed her, first down one corridor and then another. Bullets followed them closely.

“He’s slow but determined,” Josmere whispered through gasps. She hobbled behind Layela at an amazing speed. “Just keep running!”

Layela didn’t bother replying, her ragged breath echoing in her ears. She turned down several corridors, passed by what she thought might be her room, and kept running. Soon, she was hopelessly lost on the big ship.

Turning down another corridor, she realized the gunshots had stopped. She chanced a glance back as the main lights flickered, and then they died, leaving only the eerie flash of red lights. Her blood turned cold.

Somewhere along the way, Josmere had stopped following her.

Her heartbeat quickened further as she turned around and ran back, fearing her wounded, foolish friend had decided to take on their foe alone.

i

A few corridors and some minutes back, Josmere had ducked into an entryway and watched Layela vanish around a corner. Her own footsteps and ragged breathing would be enough to fool her into thinking the two were still together.

She pressed herself heavily against the cold metal wall as the
Destiny
lurched again. The main lights flickered twice before dying completely. Only the eerie glow of the flashing red lights remained. She was Berganda, and her sight depended greatly on daylight. She wished she knew if the Kilita, being an ether race like hers, faced the same limitations. Still, she could see well enough to battle, and the darkness might yet be to her advantage.

A grunt around the last corner alerted her that he was coming and she pulled her gloves free.

Cover all exits.
Yoma had often repeated as the two snuck through the shadows, wraiths rarely seen but with great consequence. And success. The memories of her oldest ally made her grin and feel stronger as she pulled her knife from her boot.

In her grief for the family she could now never have, Josmere had almost forgotten about the family she did have: the Delamores. Josmere’s hesitation could have cost Layela her life. She was all she had left right now, and she didn’t intend to lose her, too.

She clutched her knife tighter. She wasn’t certain her powers would work, but her long blade always did.

The smell of sap overpowered her senses, and a second later he passed without noticing her in the shadows, his gun trained forward on Layela’s path of escape.

I hate heroics,
Josmere thought. She jumped out and slashed down toward his neck. The Kilita moved sideways swiftly, the failed blow sending her forward and throwing her off balance. He turned around, victory flashing in his eyes. He had set a trap of his own.

And she had leapt right into it.

C
HAPTER
27

L
ayela ran towards t
he Kilita harder than she had run away from him. Her chest throbbed and her breath burned, but still she ran. Her footsteps echoed on the metal, and she did not care.

She tried to figure out how long it had been since she had heard Josmere behind her. The answer frightened her and she pushed herself even harder. She had no weapon, but the sight of Josmere’s wounded leg and the flash of her grin was all she could think about.