The Ophelia Prophecy Page 2

  Iris rose, wings nestling close against her clothespin form. She held out a hand and pulled Paxton to his feet. The siblings were nearly the same height, and both taller than Asha.

  “I need to find out what she knows.”

  Iris started for the ship, resigned. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “I want you to lock her in your quarters.”

  Iris stopped, turning slowly. “You better be joking.”

  “Just do it, Iris,” he grumbled.

  Her frown deepened and she gave a curt nod. “My lord.”

  He rolled his eyes at her servile tone and glanced at Asha. “Go with Iris,” he ordered.

  “Don’t do this,” Asha pleaded, her voice choked with fear. “I don’t know anything.”

  But she did know something. She knew if she got on that ship she’d never see her home again.

  BANSHEE

  When Iris turned her scowl Asha’s direction, Asha rose to her feet before anyone else could lay hands on her. She was no match for Paxton alone, and she was certainly no match for the pair of them.

  She started toward the loading ramp, her enemies trailing behind her, and ascended into the mouth of the monster. The Manti had learned from and quickly surpassed their human creators, using extreme biomimicry techniques to develop technologies that were both functional and fantastic. The ship was a perfect example.

  Inside it was cool and dark, like a cave in the desert. Chill-bumps rose on her arms, creeping up between her shoulder blades to her neck.

  After a few steps she stopped, forward momentum arrested by her instincts shouting that she should not be here.

  “Keep moving,” called Paxton from the ramp.

  “She needs more light,” muttered Iris. “Banshee?”

  A pair of luminescent bursts brightened the corridor on either side of Asha, startling her. The light gave her skin a greenish cast, like Iris’s.

  Paxton drew up even with his sister. “Give her some clothes and confine her. I’ll get us out of here.”

  Iris lifted an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting she should wear mine?” Her form-hugging crepe dress was completely open at the back to accommodate the unique aspects of her physique.

  Paxton simply frowned and motioned for them to follow.

  Asha kept close to Iris as they continued down the corridor, ship vibrating rhythmically beneath her feet like a contented cat. The light circles traveled alongside her, revealing the green, veined pattern of the membrane that covered every surface.

  Paxton stopped in front of a more rigid-looking plate, running his palm along the surface. A watery pulse sounded, and the plate swung in an upward arc away from a doorway.

  Asha hovered just inside while he crossed the room to a trunk at the foot of what seemed an overlarge bed for such a small ship. She marveled at how unruffled he seemed by the fact he was naked. She felt completely exposed even in the flimsy white dress.

  He rummaged a pair of dark, form-fitting pants from the trunk and pulled them over his hips, then tugged a green mesh shirt over his head. The fabric of the shirt had a pattern of alternating solid and transparent leaves that revealed ribbons of chest and abdomen—and somehow managed to be more suggestive than his nakedness.

  He finished by shoving his feet into boots and sticking his fingers in his eyes.

  “I hate these damn things,” he grumbled, pitching something into a bin on the floor.

  Paxton looked up at Iris, and Asha gasped. His eyes were no longer brown, but the same pearlescent green of his sister’s, though more human-sized and deeply set. The light eyes—contrasted against olive flesh and heavy, dark brows—blended an alien quality with his intense good looks.

  It occurred to Asha that he’d gone to some trouble to pass as human—the colored lenses, the symmetrical scarring on his torso hinting at the possibility some part of him had been removed. But why?

  Paxton ran a hand through his hair. “How long was I gone?”

  “Let’s talk later,” Iris replied. She crossed her arms and studied his face. “I was worried.”

  The softness in the look he gave his sister was hard to reconcile with the dark, desperate hunger of the man who’d attacked Asha. Even as the thought crossed her mind his gaze shifted to her, and the predatory intensity returned. She pressed her back against the wall, hoping Iris’s maternal attitude toward her brother would continue to shield her as well.

  “Take what you need,” Paxton said, waving at the trunk. “Secure her out of my sight and meet me on the bridge.”

  He started for the door, and Asha slid along the wall, out of his path.

  “Last chance, Pax,” called Iris, and he stopped and turned. “This decision has consequences.”

  Paxton fixed his eyes on Asha. “I know it does. But it’s too late to second-guess now.”

  Asha shivered and pressed harder against the wall, preparing to spring to Iris’s side. Another watery pulse sounded, very near her ear, and she did just that. But Iris—startled by the sudden movement—gave a sharp hiss, and her wings rose perpendicular from her body.

  Asha hung between the siblings. She clenched her fists at her sides, bemoaning the lack of defensive positions in this house of horrors. Noticing Paxton’s attention focused on the wall, she followed his gaze and saw several lines of text had materialized where her body had rested.

  INJURY ANALYSIS

  Left wrist: Stress fracture with contusion

  ALERTS: Elevated adrenaline and progesterone levels

  Asha touched her throbbing wrist—the pain had been no more than a peripheral distraction until now. A pale blue smudge spread over the flesh at her pulse point.

  Hurt me and I’ll hurt you back—a flag for the file her brain was compiling on Paxton. He didn’t make idle threats.

  Though the Manti’s grip could certainly have caused the bruising, the break had probably happened when she levered his much larger form off her back. How had she managed that? Probably had something to do with “elevated adrenaline.”

  Paxton’s frown deepened. “Do you think you could—?”

  “I’ll look at it,” Iris sighed. “You know you’re bleeding, Brother?”

  “And someone’s taken a hammer to the back of my skull.” He rubbed the spot again as he turned for the door. “I’ll be on the bridge.”

  When he was gone, Iris reached for a clasp at her neck, and Asha watched her lift the rigid hood from her shoulders, placing it on the bed. Then she removed two leather sleeves from her belt, and she fitted one to each forearm, strapping them into place to cover the spikes. The fact that the spikes were part of her physiology erased any relief Asha felt about the hood.

  Iris knelt next to the chest, sifting through Pax’s clothing with her long, delicate hands. She was an amalgamation of two vastly different life-forms, and yet her movements were controlled and graceful. Harmonious. It was easier to imagine her a displaced member of some ancient, highly advanced civilization—only Asha was the one who had been displaced.

  Maybe the damage was all inside. Many had speculated about the long-term psychological effects of transgenic experimentation, but there’d been no new research since the Bio Holocaust. There was no one left to do the research.

  If there was such a thing as a Manti expert, Asha was it—the only archivist who focused almost exclusively on the genesis of the Manti, and the Bio Holocaust that eventually wiped out their creators.

  “This will have to do,” said Iris, handing Asha a shirt and pants.

  The shirt was made of a stretchy black fabric and fit well enough. The pants were lightweight and loose, barely clinging to her pelvic bones. She cinched them tighter with the drawstring, groaning at the pain the effort caused her, and rolled the legs to keep from walking on them. She breathed a little easier now that she wasn’t so exposed.

  Iris picked up a box from the nightstand, examining rows of amber jars before plucking one out. She motioned for Asha to sit down on the bed.

  Asha hung b
ack. Iris had given Asha little reason to fear her. But there was a disturbing lack of emotion in those alien eyes, and she looked like she could be lethal if she chose.

  “I don’t need to trick you to hurt you,” said the bug woman.

  That was true enough. Asha moved to the bed and sat down, sucking in a breath as Iris took hold of her left hand.

  “Ah, Pax,” Iris murmured, running a fingertip over the bruise.

  Iris dabbed ointment from the jar and gently smeared it over Asha’s wrist.

  “There are microorganisms in this salve. They’ll penetrate your skin and heal the bone faster. There’s a numbing agent as well.”

  Asha stared at her, thinking about humanity’s most recent brush with Manti microorganisms.

  “It—” Asha swallowed, giving her wrist an involuntary tug. “Will it work on me?”

  Iris smiled dryly. “We’re not as different as you like to believe.”

  Next Iris drew a roll of gauze from the box and wrapped her wrist and hand. The wrapping felt cold and damp, and soothed the ache. Moments later it had dried and hardened to a flesh-colored, protective cast.

  “Thank you,” said Asha, flexing her fingers. She heard the scrape of the lid closing back over the jar, and glanced at Iris. “And thank you for trying to—to help me, earlier.”

  Iris replaced the box on the nightstand. “I did that for Pax.” Her tone flung cold water over Asha’s gratitude. “My brother was not himself.”

  Asha closed her mouth in time to stop the retort on her lips: Then what exactly was he? She recalled her earlier thought: Maybe the damage is all inside. The exchange between the siblings on the beach had indicated the brother was at least to some degree in conflict with his impulses.

  “Come with me.” Iris crossed to the door. “Pax wants you to wait in my quarters until he’s ready to question you.”

  Unfortunately he’d not been conflicted about his decision to take her from Sanctuary. There appeared to be no likelihood of escape through Iris. And no sign of her missing memories. All of which left her feeling close to hopeless about the final outcome of this encounter with her enemy.

  * * *

  “Banshee,” said Pax, sinking against the back of his chair with a hard sigh, “search your image database for the woman on board. Report any matches.”

  “Yes, Captain,” trilled the ship.

  While Banshee scanned image banks, Pax squeezed his eyes closed against the images in his own brain. The lithe, athletic body exposed by the gauzy wet dress. The full lips and warm, round eyes. The way she carried herself—like she was both frightened of him and not.

  He shook his head. Iris had been right; what he was doing was dangerous. His body was effective at countering most kinds of attack, but like his father he was vulnerable to this one. Unlike his father, he’d root that part out of himself if he could.

  “Banshee.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  How to make all this understandable to a machine? A partly alive machine, granted, but hardly sophisticated enough to accurately process the command he was about to give.

  “Banshee, I want you to protect the human woman from attack while she is on board.”

  Seconds ticked by as the ship conducted its version of thinking.

  “Does this order include yourself, Captain?”

  Pax understood the AI’s confusion. If he didn’t want Asha attacked, why not refrain from attacking her?

  “Yes, especially me, Banshee. The chemicals in my body, and the ones in hers … they may cause me to…”

  He groaned, rubbing his temples. Would he really do it? If his senses were flooded with her, would he be blind to her resistance? Deaf to pleas for mercy? He thought of his mother. How frightened she must have been, attacked by her enemy. Bearing his child in a strange city.

  “You don’t wish to mate with the human woman,” replied Banshee, understanding the situation more accurately than Pax had expected.

  “That’s right, I don’t.” If only that were true. “But I may try. I want you to prevent it. Do you understand? If that happens, Iris is in charge. Until I’m … myself again.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  It was the best he could do for now. And it would get easier. He’d caught the woman at an unfortunate time of her cycle. Her body was firing all sorts of signals she most likely wasn’t even aware of—it was a difference between human and Manti women. In a day or so she’d be safe from him.

  But would he be safe from her? He tried not to think about what else had happened on the beach. Something more than his mating drive, which he’d felt before. The new sensation had taken him over completely, increasing his desire to mate with her, yet also arousing his empathy. Triggering a protective instinct. Other Manti had experienced this type of connection—it had come to be referred to as tuning. Pax had always viewed it as a romanticizing of complicated hybrid mating drives. Now he understood that it was very real.

  But he was pragmatic, and she was his enemy.

  “No matches, Captain,” said Banshee.

  “What?”

  “No matches for the woman in the image database.”

  If the ship couldn’t give him answers, he’d have to get them from her.

  He leaned against the console, pressing his hands to his forehead.

  “Try to think about something else.” Iris joined him in the cockpit.

  He wasn’t sure whether she referred to his headache or Asha. But he wasn’t likely to forget either anytime soon.

  “Get us out of here,” he grumbled. “I can’t even see straight.”

  Iris pressed her hands against the console, fingers sinking into the pliable, living resin, and the ship hummed to wakefulness. “Home?” she asked.

  Good question. He hadn’t thought at all beyond his decision to bring Asha on board.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I don’t want to see Father until I have some answers. I need to know whether we’ve been exposed.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s get closer to home and find a place to park for a while. Check in with the fleet and find a spot where we’re not likely to encounter other ships.”

  Iris studied him. “Where are you going?”

  “To do something about my headache.”

  Iris’s eyes followed him as he left the cockpit. He headed for the Scarab’s small galley, where they stored medical supplies. He knew he should have the ship’s AI check him out and make a treatment recommendation. Instead he fished out a bottle of painkillers and swallowed one of the green tabs dry. Then he swiped an antiseptic pad over the bite wound.

  He left the galley and found himself turning toward the crew quarters rather than back to the bridge.

  The mystery of the situation gnawed at him. A hole in his memory—caused by an unexplained knot on his head—after a visit to Sanctuary was dangerous. And he didn’t like not knowing how the human woman was involved. No theory he had formed came even close to answering his questions.

  He stopped outside his sister’s quarters, pausing only a moment before sliding his hand over the door panel to open it. But the panel didn’t respond.

  “Open the door, Banshee,” he ordered.

  “Iris ordered me to secure the door, Captain,” replied the ship. “Shall I request her authorization to override?”

  His heart pounded, and he wiped his palms on his pants. Even from the other side of the door he felt the pull of her biology—the ripeness of her body, compounded by an inexplicable need to keep her close—as it twined around him like a vine.

  Which is exactly why I ordered Iris to lock her away.

  “Emergency override, Banshee.”

  The long pause that followed—along with his second-guessing of his own judgment—triggered impatience. “Banshee, I gave you an order.”

  “My systems detect no threats to ship or occupants, Captain.”

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Pax. He turned and called down the corridor, “Iris! Meet me outside your quarters.”

  �
�On my way,” she replied over the com.

  He heard the cockpit door slide open, and she greeted him with a deep frown. “What are you doing?”

  “Open the door, Iris. I’m going to question her.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “Haven’t we been through this? Why do this to yourself right now?”

  “I told you I can handle it,” he said, the continued contradiction hardening his resolve. “I’m not asking, Iris. Open the door.”

  The dark tips of her brows knitted together, but she said, “Open the door, Banshee.”

  Before he could step inside she added, “I won’t be a part of this. When you regret it, don’t come to me for comforting.” She turned sharply and headed back to the galley.

  * * *

  Asha hadn’t been in Iris’s quarters more than five minutes when she heard Paxton shout in the corridor. She cast about her, looking for something she could use as a weapon. The chamber was much the same as Paxton’s—sparse furnishings, ornately carved, with rich, bright fabrics adorning the bed.

  She fled through a doorway into a bathroom, eyes moving over the horizontal surfaces. Snatching up a comb with a pointed handle, she jumped into the shower stall.

  “Lights out, Banshee,” she murmured, crouching in a corner. To her surprise the ship complied.

  “Asha?” Paxton’s voice rang in the chamber. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor, pausing near the bathroom.

  She squeezed the comb and raised it.

  “Put that down,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She gave a silent groan. The low light had only disadvantaged her.

  “Stay away from me,” she warned.

  “I need to ask you some questions, and it’s best for both of us that it doesn’t happen in this tiny dark room. I’ll ask you once more to drop that and come out.”

  She rose unsteadily. She believed he didn’t want to hurt her, but she didn’t trust him not to. When she heard him moving closer, she launched out of the shower stall, stabbing with her makeshift weapon.

  Paxton caught her wrist, easily twisting the comb free as his arm snaked around her waist.