Destiny's Blood by Marie Bilodeau (superbooks4u txt) 📕

place for a thief to breathe, she had always said. The safest place to hide, to dwell, to wait. The safest place to sleep, with her sister’s troubled breath by her side. And it was in this darkness that Layela sought her sister, the feeling of her sister, to let go of her and grieve. She wondered if Ardin had noticed the lack of grief in her eyes. She knew part of her needed to scream and break, but another, stronger part refused to let her do so. It held her captive in this battlefield, where every emotion cancelled the other, leaving her cold and numb.

She took another deep breath, trying to recall the good times with Yoma, and the bad, and found that the ghosts before her eyes refused to take the shape of memories. They stagnated in her mind instead, half-formed whispers of what had once been.

Layela felt her sister near, as she always had when she was most frightened, but the essence of her seemed lost forever: her loyalty, her laughter, her stubbornness…and the last chance to hold her that had been taken from her.

A small sob escaped her lips as she remembered the feel of the hot shuttle engines, the relief of the Malavants’ rescue, and the sight of her sister vanishing through another door. Drops of blood had been the only sign that she had even been there; blood she had shed for Layela’s safety.

Now she remembered the smell of burnt rubber that pumped through the Destiny as she lost power, and the sight of Avienne’s long finger about to fire on the small ship, Cailan’s stern order to destroy them quickly before they destroyed the Meltor…And feeling Avienne buckling, falling; her accusing eyes, the ship dancing in the wake of the Meltor’s destruction…

Numb. She felt numb again. She frowned. She could not feel her sister, and could not grieve her. Her legs hurt and needed to stretch, and that was a greater reality than her sister’s death.

She heard a knock at the door and a low voice telling her the hour was up, but still she did not move.

 Maybe I’m the selfish sister, she thought with regret. Hot breath tickled her ear with a whisper of sound. “What is it with you and darkness, Layl?”

Her eyes grew wide as she recognized the voice. She returned the fierce hug with vigour, wishing there was light so that she could see and know she was not dreaming.

She had just shed her first tear of relief when she thought she heard the word “sorry,” and the darkness conquered her mind.

CHAPTER 24

I grow weary of this, Romero.” Seela leaned back against the cushioned chair, letting herself sink into the feather-stuffed padding. Despite her words, she sighed. A smile graced her green lips, and they entertained a deep cup, the colour of human blood. She closed her eyes as she swallowed the nutrient-seeded lukewarm water. Her body’s response to the liquid coursing through her was immediate, from the tip of her toes to the ends of her hair — which, unlike human hair, was still alive. She remembered her family, and how alike they all were: all females, all nature-coloured, all long-haired. Never aging.

But never aging did not mean never dying.

Romero shifted in the chair beside hers, uncomfortable with what he called the unnecessary opulence of the shuttle. He pushed himself forward and tried to sit perfectly erect, but the cushioned seat swallowed his backside and pulled him back again.

Seela took another drink and watched the graceful movement of his fingers on the console, the strong hands freed from the constricting gloves. She watched the short fingers, built for power, the tips of each extremity vivid orange. The colour accentuated the dark, thick nails, which his race had once sharpened into weapons. His were perfectly groomed, every nail carefully filed to the same short length, so that the gloves would not prove more uncomfortable than necessary.

She felt the cool ceramic in her own uncovered hands. Her slender, long fingers, so different from Romero’s, wrapped loosely around the large cup.

“I think the colonel’s troops found something,” Romero reported, tearing Seela from her reverie. She unlocked her chair and turned. Her crossed legs rested against his chair, the loose fabric of his pants lightly touching the tight material of hers. She leaned forward. Her gaze devoured the sight of his bare, forbidden hands as they slowed to a halt, the orange lit by a life of its own.

“They’re not far,” he whispered, his voice quaking slightly. “We can reach them within a few minutes.”

She didn’t bother responding, staring instead at his hands. She knew he stared at her long, green fingers, wondering as she was what they could discover if they dared lock them — whether it would be ecstasy or death.

Romero cleared his throat and she forced her eyes to meet his. The deep orange surrounding his dark pupils reminded her of his fingertips and their hard nails.

“I fear the Berganda may get in our way,” he whispered again, as though he too feared breaking the spell. Seela brought the cup to her mouth so that she could watch his eyes drop, as she knew they would, to her long, naked fingers. Her fingernails were crisp and white. Blooms had once dwelt there, before the gloves had been imposed on her people. She saw his brow glisten, and smiled impishly over her cup.

“She’s of no value, and can be killed.” Romero was so intent on her hands that the words did not even seem to register. Slowly, so as to not lose her power over him — or his over her — she extended her arms to her sides, putting the cup down on the console. Romero gave no warning, nor did he protest, as she reached down and unlocked his chair, and swivelled him to face her. Their legs entangled in the small space, their fingers but inches apart. Hers trembled slightly.

“The only Berganda you need to worry about for the next few minutes is right here,