Shadower (2 page)

The first option was unthinkable. A shudder wracked her, and she clamped a mental lid on the dark images clamoring too close to the surface.

The second option terrified her almost as much as the first. She hated games of chance. They were games with stakes higher than mere gold or even entire ships. Sometimes it was souls that exchanged hands.

Wiping her palms down her cape, Moriah turned toward the gaming tables. She was well versed in most of the most popular ways to gamble; she'd had years of exposure. Yet, despite her competence, every time she approached a gaming table, she battled an army of demons. She'd long ago accepted that most of her life memories were best forgotten, but that didn't make them go away, especially in situations like the one she now faced.

She chose a table where a new game of Fool's Quest was starting. Players had already taken three of the seats—a renegade Antek, a Shen, and a Jaccian; a highly unlikely combination anywhere in the quadrant but Calt. But then, the long reach of the Controllers—the evil race that ruled most of the quadrant—didn't extend here. Their Antek henchmen couldn't patrol every sector of their huge domain.

Nor could the Controllers maintain mind domination on every planet, moon, or meteorite. That was why rebel groups, such as Shielders, had managed to survive, despite Controller determination to decimate all opposition. Calt, having no natural resources, no value whatsoever, held no interest for the Controllers. Over the years, it had become a hotbed of the lowest life forms in the quadrant.

Moriah stopped behind the empty chair at the gaming table. She tossed her pouch of miterons on the table. "I'm in."

The Antek grunted, his beady eyes glazed from too much drink. Good. He'd be easy to outmaneuver in the game. She angled her face away to avoid inhaling his foul odor.

"Lookee, lookee, a lady!" the Jaccian chanted in his sing-song voice. He assessed her with a cunning, lascivious look and waved a tentacle for her to sit. "Join us."

The Shen, his face shrouded by the deep hood attached to his tunic, reached out graceful, slender fingers to swoop up her pouch of miterons. He balanced them on his palm as if measuring their weight. "One hundred fifty miterons is the required wager, mistress," he said, his voice calm and melodic.

It was a standard wager, and one that would enable her to win the entire amount she needed in one match. And Moriah fully expected to win, having chosen a game that required intelligence and strategy rather than just pure chance. She would never again allow her life to be controlled by luck. “There are one hundred and fifty miterons there,” she answered.

The Shen returned the pouch to the table. “Have a seat, mistress.”

Sliding into the chair, she mentally forced away her demons. She pulled out the keypad and activated it, then rapidly selected from various options of the three components—power source, armaments, strategy—she wished to employ in the game. She made her choices carefully, basing them upon her experience with the beings with whom she was gaming. She hoped these gamers were like others of their kinds.

A hologram of the three-dimensional, five-tiered battle arena appeared at the center of the table, followed by images of the players, randomly placed. During the thirty-second countdown before the game began, Moriah studied the holographic arena, and her foes' strategies.

She had drawn fair positioning, with all three of her components on mid-levels below her. The Antek and Jaccian had chosen as she expected, and could be defeated. The Antek had gone for brute force, while the Jaccian had selected for mental control. She'd expected the Shen to go for power, but he surprised her, choosing a blend of game components that closely matched her own choices. He was the opponent to beat.

The game progressed rapidly, demanding all of Moriah's concentration and skill. As expected, she and the Shen hurriedly dispatched the Antek and Jaccian components, turning the game into a grueling two-way battle of wits. As Giza's patrons realized this was a truly challenging match, they gathered around the table, placing bets on the outcome and offering their own battle tactics. She tuned out the shouts, her focus absolute.

At last she defeated the Shen—just barely. She sank back in her chair, some of her tension easing. Murmurs of disapproval swept through the crowd. They didn't see many women on Calt, and the vast majority of those earned their wages on their backs, not at gaming tables. Most of the bets had been against her.

The Shen nodded in acceptance. "Well played," was all he said, pushing back his chair. Taunts and jeers followed him as he faded into the crowd.

Moriah wasted no time collecting her opponents' money pouches and stuffing them into her cloak pocket. The sooner out of this pit, the better. As she turned to leave, a feeling of being watched drew her attention toward the bar.

The black-clad man leaned nonchalantly against the counter. His dark gaze locked with hers and an odd fission of awareness sizzled between them. He raised his drink in a mocking salute.

He was an arrogant, obnoxious man who obviously expected every female to swoon at his feet. Not her. She whirled and strode toward the exit. A loud bellow and a jerk on her cloak brought her to a halt. She turned to face the Antek she'd just defeated.

His face and snout were blotched red from too much liquor, and drool oozed from his mouth. "No female beats me," he growled. "You cheat."

She tried to yank her cloak free. "Let me go."

He snarled, showing razor-sharp teeth. "You cheat, female. Give back the money."

Moriah employed a quick hand chop to the Antek's arm, following with a punch to his snout. Staggering back, he smashed into a table. He slid to the floor, too drunk to get up. The patrons cheered, hoping for more. No one could expect help here, only bloodlust.

Disgusted, she headed for the exit. She'd only gone a meter when a tentacle wrapped around her waist and spun her around. She found herself face to chest with the seven-foot Jaccian. "Lady, lady! Cheat, cheat!" he sing-songed.

Great, just great
.
Jaccians were even stupider than Anteks. And tougher.

"Get your hands off me, alien!" she snarled, shoving hard against the creature's chest and kicking one spindly leg from under him.

He crashed to his knees as she reached for her gun. He snapped out a second tentacle to stop her, but her weapon was already drawn. A few shots amputated the tentacles in a spray of slime. She was free.

She spun toward the exit, but more tentacles wrapped around her, squeezing tightly. Caught off guard, she dropped her gun. How could the Jaccian have recovered so quickly? "No do that," sing-songed a different voice.

By the Abyss! Two of them! She could readily handle one, but not two. She kicked and thrashed, battling for breath as the tentacles tightened even more.

"Let me go!" she gasped, crunching her boot heel into her assailant's shin.  He jerked, his hold loosening. She rammed her elbow into his abdomen. He squealed, and she slid free of one tentacle.

The first Jaccian staggered to his feet, waving his two remaining tentacles. He ripped off her cape. Moriah landed a high kick to his midriff, and he stumbled back again.

"Need some help?"

She looked over to see the black-clad man standing nearby. While most of Giza's patrons were busy betting on the outcome of the fight,
he
wanted to play hero. She could just guess what he'd expect in payment.

"I already told you to stay away from me," she snarled, wrestling with a tentacle. "I can take care of myself."

The first Jaccian approached again. The man cocked his head. "Appears to me you're outnumbered."

She didn't need this distraction. Twisting sideways, trying to free herself, she gasped, "I can…handle…this. Go away."

"Think I'll hang around, just in case."

Obnoxious
and
obstinate. "If you really want to help, get me my gun." Moriah heaved herself backward, crashing the second Jaccian into a table. He grunted. She jolted forward and then rammed him again.

One more time, and she'd be—the first Jaccian lunged against her, pinning her between him and his cohort. "Money and weapons good," he chanted, ripping at the seam of her flightsuit. "Having woman good, too."

Black, insidious fear flooded through her, robbing her of coherent thought. "Let me go!" she yelled, frantically slugging at her assailant.

The Jaccian dug the jagged edge of his tentacle into her shoulder. She felt blood welling. Another tentacle wrapped around her breast and the familiar terror threatened to overcome her. A scraping noise drew her back from the edge of hysteria. Looking down, she saw her gun sliding toward her feet.

She glanced toward the dark-haired man. Even through the panicked, nightmarish haze, she noted the shift in his bearing. His eyes glittered dangerously as his hands moved to rest on his guns. "Let the lady go." Steel edged his voice.

The Jaccian in front of her let loose a string of obscenities. "Female is mine," he insisted shrilly. "I keep."

"Let her go.
Now
."

"No!" the Jaccian screeched. "I mate with her!"

"Final warning. Release her."

"You die!" shrilled the Jaccian, jerking her toward him and drawing his weapon.

If he thought to use her body for a shield, he was sadly mistaken. Moriah made herself go limp. Falling back against the Jaccian behind her, she yanked the first one forward against his partner. A quick grasp and squeeze of his testicles finished the job. He screamed and her go.  She dropped to the floor and grabbed her gun.

Weapon fire exploded through the room. She managed to shoot a tentacle and weapon from one Jaccian. Slime splattered the top of her head. Before she could move, a heavy weight collapsed on her, slamming her against the floor. More slime oozed over her face and chest. She tried to claw her way free of the heavy Jaccians, or what was left of them.

She heard a thud, and the suffocating weight eased. Then the weight was gone completely, as a strong hand clasped hers and pulled her to her feet. Chest heaving, legs wobbling, she stared at the carnage around her.

There was a fire near the end of the bar, where a stray bullet had hit a fueled generator, and Thorne was climbing over the bar with an extinguisher. Smoke clogged the room and drifted around the black-clad man standing there. He had blood on his upper arm, but it appeared to be a surface wound. He'd survive.

He looked at her and shrugged. "Fortunately, they had poor aim."

It galled her that she'd needed his help to extricate herself. "If you're expecting some sort of reward, you can forget it," she snapped. "In fact, you should be thanking
me.
They missed disintegrating you only because of my quick action. Which, by the way, probably saved my life as well, since you showed no reluctance about firing with me trapped between those two cretins. You could have hit me!"

His eyes narrowing, he slid his guns back into their holsters. "Maybe I should have. It would have simplified things considerably." He probed his wounded arm and winced.

"I didn't ask you to get involved. All I needed was my gun. I had the situation under control. You didn't have to get hurt."

His eyes sparked with anger. "Oh, right. You were only pinned between two seven-foot Jaccians, had three tentacles wrapped around you, no weapons, and your clothing being torn off. You didn't need any help. Pardon my interference, but I love getting laser burns. I live for them."

Opening her mouth to retort, Moriah inhaled smoke and went into a paroxysm of coughing. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She grabbed a table for support.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yes," she choked out, just as her legs buckled.

He caught her before she hit the ground, his arms encircling her and pulling her flush against his hard body. "Sure you are."

Alarm resurfaced, lending strength to her legs. She'd sworn no man would ever hold her like this again. "I told you I'm fine. Let go of me!" More coughing interrupted her protest.

He eased her onto a chair. "Take shallow breaths."

She gasped and wheezed, her eyes stinging. The man seemed unaffected by the smoke from the smoldering generator. He retrieved her cape from where the Jaccian had thrown it. Prying her gun from her hand, he shoved it through his belt. Then he tossed the cape around her.

"You need some air. Let's get out of here." Taking her arm, he pulled her out of the chair and to the exit. All those who had gathered to watch the action stepped back, giving them a wide berth. Hoots and lewd suggestions followed behind them.

Shivering violently, Moriah stumbled after the man. She didn't know if her physical reaction was shock from the narrow escape, or from the ugly memories that surfaced every time a man touched her.

Outside, the humid, stale air offered little relief to her burning lungs. Twin full moons illuminated the barren surroundings and the litter scattered on the hard-packed sand.

"Ugh. There's nothing worse than Jaccian slime." The man helped himself to the edge of her cape to wipe his flightsuit.

"Hey! That's mine." She snatched the cape away, but he immediately retrieved it and raised it to her face.

Strangely lightheaded, she made no protest as he wiped the ooze from her cheeks and chin with surprising gentleness. It felt so good, she closed her eyes, swaying a little, forgetting for a moment that a man was touching her. Until his ministrations moved to the front of her flightsuit, jolting her to full alert.

She smacked his arm away. "Stop that!"

"Just trying to help." He flashed a devilish grin, and her heart missed a beat.

There was no denying his physical appeal. The moonlight illuminated a face most women would call devastating: high cheekbones, deep-set black eyes, an arrogant nose, a sensual mouth. The shadow of a beard only served to emphasize a stubborn jaw, to enhance his overwhelming masculinity.

He was just the type of man Moriah found the most threatening.

Needing to put some space between them, she stumbled away and headed toward the settlement, ignoring the shakiness in her legs and the throbbing in her shoulder. The footfalls behind her told her this man wouldn't be so easily brushed off.