The Soul Eaters (The Thin Hex Line Book 1) by Gwyndolyn Russell (e reader txt) 📕

and he never seemed to care. The nerve of that guy. A pistol? He insisted I didn’t bring a weapon. “It will be peaceful,” he said! Pretty peaceful trip so far, if I say so myself!

Reaper kept an eye out in case that guy changed his mind. Sparrow and Mjolnir knelt down next to me.

Sparrow was an average sized woman. Built like a runner. Cute face. Caramel hair tied into a neat bun at the back of her head. Green eyes dark enough to be black. We called her Sparrow because of how she fought. She looked young and innocent, but when shit hit the fan, that was the woman to have watching your back.

Mjolnir was pretty far from human. An ardrizi. Basically a bipedal, highly advanced cat man. I never cared much for cats. Devil incarnates those damned balls of fur that really enjoyed sticking their butts in human faces. Mjolnir wasn’t like that, though. White, gray fur with black stripes and spots. He liked to put blue war paint on his face. Pierced ears, tight braids and loose hair. Canines like tusks, well decorated and surreal cyan eyes. He got his name because of the big ass hammer he carried with him everywhere. He wasn’t small and agile either. Around twelve feet tall, big as a rhino. He could kill a man without thinking about it.

They helped me up to my feet. Sparrow touched my nose. She whistled, then laughed.

“Damn! He got you good, LT!” She put her hands on her hips. “Can’t believe you let him get away with it.”

Copper filled my mouth, so I spat it out. I never cared for the taste of blood, even if it was rare. Most people who put blood in my mouth ended up on life support, if not dead. This guy, though... I was going to have to let it slide just this once.

“I’ll kick his ass next time.”

TWO

On the Syndicate, no one actually knew of the slaughter planet side. They lived in their own little worlds. Children went to class. Adults went to work and the stay-at-home spouses went shopping or simply sat at home. No one would have guessed it was a warship. Uniforms were loose for the employed. Everyone got to wear generally what they pleased as long as they followed the rules of conduct. Engineers primarily stayed in orange and yellow jumpsuits with hard hats and tool belts. They ran around the inner halls, spaces between the main corridors, running checks and basic maintenance. Plenty of them were human, but surprisingly, most were kotoli.

Kotoli were only about a meter tall at most. Furry rodents with a natural knack for mechanics. They were intelligent, resourceful, and loved inventing things. They had actually built their own tunnel system within the Syndicate that only they could fit in. When it was quiet enough, the pitter-patter of them running back and forth could be heard.

Logistics wore a jumpsuit similar to the engineers, only more suited to the vacuum of space. They were around cargo bays all day and night, and their safety was top priority. They managed the cargo and with a small team of mechanics, all the vehicles. Trucks and shuttles were neatly lined up, always ready to go.

The soldiers on board acted as security, posted up at key locations on the ship. Patrolling wider areas. They were the police and kept the peace when the unruly got out of hand. There were also just soldiers, training and waiting for their chance to fight. They had their own barracks, armory, and simulation rooms. They were in a relaxed variant of uniform, though still the most professional out of all the uniforms. Everyone knew who they were on the ship.

Captain Arturo “Reaper” Phillips looked just like a retired soldier. He was still actively serving the Federation, but the pain of war was etched into the lines on his face. The scars that littered his body. A canvas jacket comprising mostly of matte black, with moss green edging and straps along with coyote tan patches. The right half of the jacket was a mesh like chain mail that reinforced some parts; on the torso the matte black left side, which came to a point across the breast, overlapped it. A high collar, thin and snug against his neck. One of two survivors of his unit. His leadership skills were acknowledged throughout the whole Federation. It was why he was promoted and put in charge of a ship. People requested to be part of the Syndicate, accepting demotions just to be led by him.

Reaper ran his fingers through his hair, straightening the locks out into a backward sweep. He leaned over his desk, scruffy chin in his palm. His other hand held onto a glass of whiskey, neat. He had his boots tucked underneath a bar to keep him grounded in the chair.

Jackal was sat across from him, feet kicked up on the edge of the desk. One hand gripped a bar on the side of the chair. A bottle of strong beer rested against his stomach, loosely held. He groaned, throwing his head back. Jackal was usually just as well dressed, only right now his leather jacket was slung over the back of the chair, a tight tank top rippled by a well-toned body. He was much bigger than Reaper. As a Martian, they genetically engineered him when he was still a baby to be bigger and stronger than your average Terran. He was nearly seven feet tall, a middleweight, and his body was covered in tattoos.

“I just don’t get it!” Jackal sighed. “Why would that guy choose not to fight us when we were right there? We’re witnesses! We know what he looks like. We know what he did and when!”

“We don’t know who he is, Jack.” Reaper’s lips pursed. “We have no name. No face identification. Not even a voice sample. That guy is a ghost.”

“Why attack that place, anyway?” Jackal gulped down some of his