Hotter on the Edge (3 page)

Their ultimate target, for which they needed this flyer, was Pilar's dowry, now on ostentatious display in the palace plaza. Her dowry was five hundred books of the glittering mineral that gave the Sol family their wealth, and after which they'd named their firstborn. Mica. The mineral, particularly the large uniform sheets of muscovite, was used in interstellar engines. Paper thin, flexible, resistant to heat, chemicals, and gases, mechanically stable; a stock that large was worth a fortune. And this particular stash—red mica, also known as solyite—was the most sought after variety for deep space travel.

All that glitter was going to right a wrong, and then get him off this world—far away from the mines, this planet, and this trap of a life. Drum Sol had stolen his stake—earned in sweat and blood and lives—and Simon was going to take it back in the spoils they flaunted to the sector. He'd distribute it appropriately to the others who had been cheated, whom he could never fully repay, not remotely, and then he'd get out.

"Found a footprint somewhat north of here, heading toward the wall," Simon said.

"No way she'd make it." Jace dropped down from the tree and approached. "Pampered woman."

"Mica Sol is a trained xenobioform engineer," Simon told them, lifting the tag. "She's got the skills. But I don't think she'd make it to the wall, either. It has to be at least four days on foot." Only one day to the Way Station, though. "And she's worth nothing to us dead. Do you think you two can get the flyer ready?"

"What, so you can go off and enjoy a soft woman?" Jace spit on the ground, and immediately small insects emerged to feed on the warm moisture.

"Okay, I'll sleep in the bug-tight, predator-free dragon tonight. I'll eat what's sure to be generous rations, or maybe even real food, while you go after her." Simon looked at the whitening sky. "The night freeze is coming on. O and I will save you some drink."

O licked his lips and glanced up the flyer. "She's bound to have the good stuff."

Simon picked up Mica's bag and dumped the clothes on the ground. He had the wild urge to pick up a wrinkled undershirt, put it to his face, and draw deep. Take her scent inside him where it could torture or heal—he didn't care which one. At least it was her. "Let's see if we can't pack you some supplies for the trek," he continued.

"She took the survival kit," Jace said.

Simon dropped her bag back on the ground. "Okay, well, you'll have what's left of that when you find her. She went north." He pointed toward the wall. Jace could trek all he wanted in that direction. Simon would be gearing up to head to the Way Station.

"Well, why are
you
so bent on going after her, then?" Jace asked.

"I met her once," Simon replied. "And it didn't end well."

Mica. Mia. His.

Simon set his jaw. "Selling her back to her family will be well worth a day or two in hell."

***

A night in wombat dung and a daylong, breathless hike through a sleeping jungle, and Mica's smell offended herself. Something about the acidity of the dung had relaxed the cinch in the waist of her sleep pants. A strip of bark acted as a belt. Her improvised footwear—moss-padded booties—were made out of her emergency blanket, impervious to tears. Luckily, her survival pack had come with a laser knife to cut what pieces she'd needed. She'd eaten the last energy bar, slurped the last of the water, and had downed the emergency antibiotics, too. She wasn't feeling so well.

The sense of lonely exposure had been wearing on her confidence. She'd feel eyes on her back, but when she'd whip around to fight, the jungle behind her would be silent and cold. The quiet was playing tricks on her mind. Deep breath. Move on. Another hour or two, and she'd be at the Way Station. A shower, fresh clothes, a call to the keepers, and she'd be home.

"Well, if it isn't Mica Sol," came a familiar, low voice. She didn't know if it came from inside her head or outside. But she halted mid-stride, heart twisting in her chest. She scanned the trees around her again. No one there.

Auditory hallucinations. The dung must have been toxic, affecting her nervous system; the stimuli of the environment must have elicited memories of her last visit to the Way, and the man who'd accompanied her.

Either that, or she was finally losing her mind.

She started walking again. Only a little bit farther, and she could go insane in safety. She didn't mind being haunted by
him.
Not at all. His voice made her want to give in.

"Rough night?"

His voice was always warm. It seeped into her skin, and for a second she didn't feel the harsh shiver that had kept her tense and achy for the last day and a half.

"You have no idea," she answered the memory ghost.

"I think I can imagine. I had a rough one myself," he drawled. "I'm better, now that I've seen you."

"Oh, yeah," she snorted. "I'm a sight, all right."

She stumbled forward on clumsy, tired feet. Caught herself on the ground with her palms.

And felt strong hands take her under her arms from behind and lift.

Scavengers.

She reached upward, and simultaneously dropped her weight to slip through a tight grasp. Planted an elbow in a man's gut, before scrabbling away to face her attackers.

Or rather, attacker.

He huffed for breath, his hands braced on his knees. The eyes were the same. Hair longer. Beard coming in.

Homo sapiens simonus,
aka Simon Miner. Only one of his kind. Male. Predatory. Highly adaptable. Dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. 6' 3". His well-muscled frame was agile and strong. His deadly smile incapacitated his victims. Voice promised safety. Sexual prowess compromised victim's intellect (temporarily). Yet he was intent on one vital organ—the heart.

He grinned, his mouth pulling into a half smile. That mouth knew every inch of her skin.

Which made her face burn. She was covered in wombat shit. Her matted hair was in a sweaty and greasy knot. Who knew what was on her face? Well, Simon did. Later, she would cry about this. Bitterly, and at great length.

"What in Sol hell are you doing out here?" The humor went out of his voice.

He was dressed as any intelligent person in the jungle should be: a full-gear second skin, which muted all life signs, including body heat, while maintaining body temperature in any environment. Its fibers mimicked the surroundings, which was why she hadn't spotted him a moment ago. Camouflage.

"Scavengers, Simon," she said, wheezing with panic, relief, embarrassment, and some emotion that made her heart leap in her chest. "They shot my flyer down."

What was he doing in the jungle? She'd have thought he'd be working his stake in the mines.

He straightened, looking over his shoulder in the direction she'd come from. "Are they following you?"

"I don't know." The unrelenting jungle and constant fear of capture had made her jumpy. "They have to know by now who I am." So it stood to reason that they'd follow. She trusted her reason. "And with the wedding, it makes sense that they'd move in and cause trouble."

Her heart stalled as Simon strode toward her, as if remembering its previous Simon-inflicted injuries.

A tap to her chin brought her face up to his. He'd raised an eyebrow. "No one would hurt you. Pica, maybe. But not you."

Pica, his nickname for overly demanding Pilar based on an appetite disorder common on Sol, compelling humans to eat dirt, chalk, or the like for extra minerals not readily absorbed via engineered foodstuffs. The name rhymed with Mica, and it took Pilar's pride down a notch.

Mica gave a shaky laugh. "I'm pretty sure the scavengers wouldn't discriminate. For them, one dead Sol is just as good as another."

In fact, they'd better get moving again. She looked back—by now a compulsive twist—searching for movement.

"You're safe now." Simon stroked the line of her jaw before dropping his hand. "No one else is near. Just me."

She looked back at him. Smiled tremulously.

Looked like she'd made it, after all. She was still trembling all over—so the "safe" message hadn't quite made it through her system. But she was ready for some Sol-styled comforts. A little pampering never killed anyone. She couldn't fathom why she'd objected to it so much before she'd left for the survey on Encantada.

"We're an easy hike to the Way Station," he said. "We've done it many times before, you and I."

The thought of which wound her tight inside. They'd engaged in one primary activity at the Way. She'd had sex since then, some of it good, but nothing that made her feel so easy and happy in her skin.

"I could use the shower," she said wryly. She wrapped her arms around herself to get her tremors under control. The cold? No. Something still not quite right.

"You're perfect in any state." Simon's eyes going as dark as her father's rare Iluvian whiskey.

The winch in her belly twisted even tighter, while the rest of her flooded with heat. Was this really happening? Together again, as if nothing had ever happened? No. Couldn't be that easy. Something was definitely wrong.

"Are you staying at the Way?" She went for a light tone, but it came out a little too high. What could he possibly be doing there? Unless…"I don't blame anyone for wanting to get out of the city and far from the wedding chaos."

"Ah, no." He dropped his pack on the ground and riffled inside it to draw out a man-sized shirt.

"Thanks." She pulled the shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves. Already she felt warmer. And it smelled like him. "Then what are you doing out here?" He'd be dragged away by the scavengers if he were caught. Anyone city-born was dirt to them. Death was probably a better fate. Why didn't he seem more concerned about them moving into this territory?

"I live inside the Eye now." He handed her a canteen. "Made myself a tight little dig there."

She took a deep swallow of warm water to cover the three seconds she needed to think.

The Eye was right next to the Tear, where she'd almost come down. Where she'd been shot down with a deadly, illegal weapon. Her disquiet found a sticking point there.

No. That was just a coincidence.

He had a sugar bar unwrapped and waiting as she lowered the canteen. She ate it, silence falling between them. A current of energy spread through her system. Her heart might be weak around Simon, but her brain was just fine now, growing sharper, and cutting through the muzzy glow that had descended upon seeing him again.

There's no such thing as coincidence.

Her high dissipated entirely, and the day's cold went straight to her bones. She was shot down near the Eye, where Simon lived. It followed that he had to have seen her go down and was now covering up for the culprit—or that he was involved in some way.

Hurt, that.

But it was an easy, balanced equation in her mind. He'd been there at the beginning. And here he was now. Convenient. She didn't like that word, either.

But why would he do such a thing?

She had no answer for that.

The only thing she understood was that she was good and caught, after all. A couple of hours at most to the Way Station, and then she would've been free. She'd been so close. She'd almost escaped, but as usual, there was no escaping him.

"Hands behind your back, please," he said.

Of course, he would know the moment it all clicked together in her mind. He'd always known her so well. At least he wasn't trying to prolong the charade.

Mica did as he asked, for now, and cursed herself. Her galloping pulse urged her to knee him hard in the groin—where he deserved it—and make a run for it. But Simon was in much better shape at the moment than she was.

She'd sworn never, ever to come back to Sol. She'd threatened herself with dire punishments if she did. Something about being dead and in ashes first. But then Pilar had gotten engaged, and had whined and cajoled, and then her mother had demanded, and her father had done that I'm-disappointed-in-you thing until she'd finally agreed. Just for the wedding. Suicide by immolation could be postponed for the next visit.

Simon bound her hands. And this time, it wasn't a prelude to a spectacular night.

She flushed with the memory and swore again, this time for payback. He had no idea how she'd spent the last five years and just what she could do when pressed. She'd slept in shit because of him.

"Okay," he said, a strong hand at her cocked elbow. "Let's get you to the Way and into that shower. Sweetheart, you stink."

Chapter Three

The two hours of dogged silence was Simon's first clue that he was not dealing with the same Mica who'd left him five years ago. That Mica had spit anger and had told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him. This Mica watched him out of calm, slit eyes.

Growth had climbed up the door to the Way, roots fingering the crack at the jam. A little more time, and this jungle would've found a way to reach inside and bring the whole thing down. Sol didn't like anything alien in its midst. Sol conquered, no, Sol
took back
what was hers to begin with. Simon knew that fact with excruciating intimacy.

Everything he'd worked for…

He glanced at Mica and felt the loss fresh again.

The inside of the single-story structure seemed cold and musty, but intact: a prefab basic unit for a bioform team. She had hired him to put it together, and then worked right alongside to learn how. She'd had impossible, beautiful dreams, and damn if she hadn't gone after them.

Inside, the space was modular, as the needs of its occupants required. Right now, the interior remained divided into four primary areas: a workzone outfitted with specialized equipment for what Mica called her self-imposed internship (she'd never trusted that she'd been granted her position on merit, versus the privileges of her family name); sleeping quarters, which could've been divided into six partitioned bunks, but had been kept as one large sleeping space for them to share (they'd worked in there, mostly); foodstuffs—a galley prep and eating space; and a washroom, with a large shower, perfect for two beneath the streaming heat.