Rebel Heat (16 page)

He paused and faced her, his expression unreadable. “I thought humans were fascinated by the unknown in general and aliens in particular. Have you ever been off-world before?”

“No, but—”

“You would squander the opportunity to experience things few on your planet will ever imagine simply because you were reluctant to begin the journey? That seems wasteful to me.”

Though politely worded, the message was clear. He didn’t give a damn that she was a prisoner. “I understand, General Nox. I’ll endeavor to make the most of
each
opportunity.” Hopefully, her message was just as clear. She had no intention of casually accepting her captivity.

He continued across the room, drawing her with him. “Morgan is an unusual name for a female, even on Earth.”

Did he really know enough about Earth to make that assessment? “I’m aware.” And she was tired of hearing about it.

One corner of his mouth turned up in the subtlest hint of a smile. “Now I’ve annoyed you.” His gaze barely left her face even as they reached the table. “That wasn’t my intention.”

He seated her in the first chair on the near side of the rectangular table then took his place at the head, which put Morgan on his right. Her back was to much of the room, so she’d only gotten an overall impression of understated elegance and the Rodyte obsession with gray and black. There was a siting area to her right and a large desk to her left. The general’s bedroom must be behind one of two doors adjacent to the dining area.

“When Rodyte children come of age they’re encouraged to choose their adult name, something more suited to their personality and aspirations. Do humans have a similar custom?”

Garin shook out his napkin and spread it on his lap, so Morgan did the same. Still, it all felt a bit absurd. “There are many cultures on Earth. I’m from America and we don’t have that sort of custom. We’re stuck with the names our parents choose for us. I hated my name when I was a child, but it has become an asset in recent years.”

“Really?” His gaze drifted no lower than her mouth and still he made her feel more vulnerable than Zilor had with his open appraisal. “Please explain.”

“I chose a profession dominated by men. Often people judge my actions while under the impression that I’m male. It tends to lead to a fairer assessment.”

Zilor sat down across from her and Nazerel took the chair to her right. Zilor had been worried that Garin would ignore her. The general’s unwavering attention was even more disconcerting.

“Why did you choose a profession dominated by men?” He motioned to the young crewman standing stiffly by a beverage station. The crewman came alive and circled the table, filling the men’s glasses with a murky blue liquid. When he reached her, however, he switched hands and filled her glass with a ruby-red drink. “It’s Bilarrian blood wine. Most females find the taste pleasant.”

She let the chauvinistic comment slide and motioned to his glass. “And what are you drinking?”

“It’s called
g’haut.
There is no human equivalent.”

“Is it harmful to humans?” She offered him her most angelic smile.

Garin chuckled and Nazerel began to fidget beside her. “It’s really strong,” Nazerel warned.

Drinking her coworkers—most of them men—under the table had become a matter of pride down through the years. Men were convinced that anyone who couldn’t stand up to pee and devour massive quantities of alcohol was inferior. Even though she considered the attitude infantile, she loved proving the idiots wrong. “If General Nox has no objections, I’d like to at least try it.”

Garin signaled the drink steward with a stiff nod and the young man presented her with a small amount of the blue beverage. Bracing herself for the worst, she tossed back half of the serving. She swallowed fast enough to prevent herself from gasping, but her chest burned and her stomach cramped as the liquor sank like liquid fire through her body.

“Would you like some more?” Garin was grinning now, and the smile softened his features, made him look more approachable.

She forced herself to inhale slowly even though her lungs were screaming for air. “No thank you.” Blinking back the excess moisture from her eyes, she admitted, “I was just curious.”

“I think you will find the blood wine more enjoyable.”

She picked up the original glass and hesitated again. It really did look like blood.

Zilor winked at her. “The name refers to the color. There’s no blood in it.”

The taste was fruity like human wine, yet there was also a spicy heat. Still, it was far less abrasive than the
g’haut
. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s still very potent, so sip it.” The tension in Nazerel’s jaw revealed his displeasure with Garin’s fixation.

“Your occupation,” Garin prompted.

“She’s Morgan Hoyt director of the human taskforce assisting the Mystic Militia,” Nazerel answered for her. “I explained about the taskforce in my last message. But as Morgan indicated, I thought she was male at the time.”

“That wasn’t the question.” Impatience narrowed Garin’s gaze, but he merely glanced at Nazerel then returned his attention to Morgan. “What made a woman like you join the FBI?”

Rather than starting a fight by asking him to define “a woman like you”, she smoothly shifted the focus of the conversation. “Actually they recruited me, so you’d have to ask them about motivation. I am curious, however, how do you know about the FBI? Have you been to Earth?”

Though his smile failed to part his lips the expression was almost mischievous. “You would be horrified if you knew how many Rodytes had been to Earth.” His penetrating gaze lingered for another moment, then he took a deep breath and looked at Nazerel. “So, is this another visit or are you finally home to stay?”

“That depends on you.”

“Well, I want to hear all about your adventures on Earth, but not until we’ve eaten.”

Summoned by the simple statement or some silent signal, a parade of young men filed into the room. They all wore a variation of the adult uniforms, black pants and fitted shirts, though the shirts were solid gray rather than color blocked like the men’s. Not only was Morgan surprised by their silent efficiency, she was shocked by how young some of them were. “Are these boys members of the crew?” Afraid of insulting Garin she looked at Nazerel for the answer.

“In a manner of speaking,” Zilor replied. “Most are battle born sons who have been discarded by their fathers. It’s the military or a factory. They’re not allowed into battle. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

That was part of it, but she had many other questions. Were they educated? Who took care of them? Were they ever allowed to be children or were they treated like servants? She wisely kept her concerns to herself and focused on the food.

Though none of the dishes looked familiar, many were surprisingly tasty. There was an ornate knife and a combo utensil that looked like a fancy spork. Short prongs extended from the end of the spoon, which was turned sideways for use. Nazerel warned her each time something was particularly spicy. Zilor kept the conversation moving, which allowed her a few minutes to look at the brothers more closely. Their coloring and sculpted physics were similar, but that was true with every man she’d seen on board this ship. Garin’s eyes were ringed in blue, while Zilor’s were silver. And now that she could see them side by side, Zilor’s features were much more angular, more exotic. Garin’s jawline was imperiously square, yet his cheekbones weren’t nearly as sharp.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” Garin pointed out. “If our fare doesn’t agree with you, I can have them bring whatever you like.”

“No. This is delicious. I’m just distracted.” She speared a piece of some sort of meat with the eating utensil, but the bite didn’t make it to her mouth.

“Females are frequently distracted by Zilor’s pretty face, but you’ve been staring at me as well. Tell me why.”

It wasn’t a request. She set down her spork. Nazerel reached over and lightly squeezed her leg, the warning unmistakable. “I didn’t mean to offend. I’m curious by nature and it frequently gets me into trouble.”

One of Garin’s dark brows arched and his tense expression softened. “What were you wondering? I’m not easily offended.”

Nazerel squeezed again. Apparently, he disagreed.

Entertained by the undercurrent, Morgan chose honesty over caution. “There’s a resemblance between you and Zilor, yet not as much as I’d first thought. I was wondering if you shared both parents.”

All of a sudden Zilor looked extremely uncomfortable. Garin must have assured him telepathically. After a tense nod in the general’s direction, Zilor relaxed.

“The specifics of family connections are considered quite personal,” Garin explained. “You’re foreign, so I’ll make an exception. But in the future avoid such questions.”

“I apologize.”

“We were born to the same father of different females,” Garin told her.

“Garin was born to Father’s
morautu
, his chosen mate,” Zilor clarified. “Both Bandar and I were born to war brides.” His brow creased and he glanced at Nazerel before asking, “Do you know what that means?”

“I do. You and Bandar are battle born.” Her reply eased the tension twisting through the room, so she let the topic drop. Zilor had said brides plural, which indicated that he and Bandar had different mothers as well. She’d ask Nazerel later if her assumption was correct rather than continue the awkward conversation. “Thank you for indulging me. I really didn’t mean to insult you.”

So
morautu
meant chosen mate. Nazerel was right. She wasn’t ready to think about all that might mean if she explored the concept.

They lapsed into silence as the boys cleared the table of everything but their glasses. Soon only the drink steward remained. Garin relaxed against the back of his chair and placed his hands on the padded armrests. He looked like an indolent king presiding over his court and finally his assessing gaze shifted to Nazerel. “So, what finally lured you away from the tender mercies of Ontariese?” No one could have missed the sarcasm in his tone. “I’d just about given up on ever having you among the members of my crew.” A rhythmic tone drew Garin’s attention toward the door. “You’re late.”

“It was unavoidable.” The would-be visitor sounded even more impatient than Garin.

“Admission authorized.”

The door slid open and Bandar stalked into the room. At least Morgan presumed the man was Bandar. He had the same dark, wavy hair as Zilor though his had been pulled back and bound at the nape of his neck. His firm jaw and square chin were nearly identical to Garin’s, but Bandar’s eyes were ringed in gold, the effect mesmerizing.

“Quadrant leader Lizten has finally seen the error of…” Bandar’s gaze landed on Morgan and his steps slowed considerable. He skirted the table and sat beside Zilor, but he never completed his thought.

“Morgan meet my brother Bandar. Bandar this is Morgan Hoyt. She arrived with Nazerel.” Garin paused for a drink before he looked at Bandar. “Update me later. We don’t need to bore our guests with business.”

Guests? Everyone was being polite and attentive, which only made their hypocrisy even more frustrating. This wasn’t a social call. She was Nazerel’s prisoner!

The drink steward placed a glass of
g’haut
in front of Bandar then hurried back to his station. Garin didn’t ask his brother if he wanted anything to eat. Apparently, if someone was late for dinner on this ship, he went without.

“Nazerel was just about to update us on the developments since our last correspondence.” He motioned toward Nazerel then resumed his relaxed pose. “Proceed.”

Morgan sat silently steaming. Garin’s politeness had made it obvious from the start that he wouldn’t help her, but referring to her as a guest brought her frustration back to the surface. Enlisting the general’s assistance had been the only reason she’d gone along with any of this. She was tempted to stand up and storm from the room, if the door would open and if she could find her way back to Nazerel’s quarters. All the ifs kept her from indulging the impulse.

“I’m glad you’re here, Bandar.” Nazerel offered his cousin a quick smile. “This concerns all of us. In fact it concerns almost every man on this ship.” He pulled in a deep breath before he began the explanation. “Shadow Assassins and battle born sons face the same long-term challenges. We’re both considered inferior and are treated with distain by the societies responsible for our existence.”

“I don’t have all night, Nazerel. Get to the point. Did the bitch succeed or not?”

The bitch? Did he mean Sevrin? Of course he did. But how had a Rodyte general learned of experiments Sevrin was conducting on Earth? The Shadow Assassins had come from Ontariese.

Dread spread through Morgan with paralyzing force.

“According to Flynn much was accomplished in the past few weeks. Unfortunately, I recently learned that Flynn was a less reliable source than I’d first presumed.” Nazerel shot her a sidelong glance, the brief connection filled with meaning.

“Why do you doubt what Flynn told you?” Zilor had seemed easygoing, almost playful since Morgan met him, but he was all business now.

“He was working with the Mystic Militia.”