. . . Truffles continues

4

MORGAN GREW QUIET, not that we could have spoken aloud over the growing din of what I no longer could call music, but then I didn’t have the auditory nerves of a Blazod. Fortunately, our path wasn’t into the Blazoduncelin Thud Hut. I let my Chosen lead us farther into the night zone.

The beings around us ranged from those intoxicated—or seeking to be, in whatever form suited their biology—to those bewildered by their surroundings, to those seemingly lost but determined to be anywhere but here. And tourists. A servo-towed bubble cart passed by, purple eyes peering out with interest through a cloud of yellow: a non-oxy breather taking a stroll on the wild side.

None would’ve noticed an explosion, let alone the two of us disappearing; however, I’d no trouble resisting the urge to ’port us to Huido’s apartment, filled with a new curiosity.

Dancing. The Human sort.

Clan didn’t dance, but I’d watched vids of Humans with Rael, my sister being fond of ballet, an artistic form claimed to predate the species leaving their homeworld. It required both practice and costume, neither of which either of us had. Safe from ballet, then.

Hopefully, it’d be hopping to a beat. Morgan, however, had that worrisome grace. Doubtless, dancing would be something he did as well as everything else, and he’d expect me to learn some complicated series of steps; I just knew it. The sweeper was hard enough. This was hardly fair—

Sira, I don’t know how to dance, his mindvoice oddly uncertain. I haven’t wanted to before.

It didn’t matter if I’d leaked my insecurity on the issue or if, as usual, Morgan perceived what I’d rather hide. Relieved, I eased close and slipped my arm around his waist. My hair happily curled around his shoulder to caress his smooth cheek, and all was right with the universe. We’ll hop together, I sent smugly. Unless you’d prefer to practice back on the ship? With an undercurrent of heat.

Unfair, Witchling, with flattering HEAT of his own, and I was ready to forget the truffles and concentrate on our cabin on the Fox in that instant—

Except a bundle of shapes exploded through a doorway just ahead, followed by a chanting mob. I couldn’t tell what they were chanting, other than some exhorted one set of combatants against another.

Or rather a set against one, which might have brought up the notion of fairness except the one appeared to be winning.

Morgan muttered something rude under his breath. Louder, in my ear, “We have to help.”

Bodies flew in all directions then regrouped as the struggle tumbled back into what the sign proclaimed, unlikely as it seemed, to be McWhirtle’s Iconic Pub, onlookers pressing eagerly behind. “Why?” I asked sensibly, taking hold of his arm with both hands in case. I’d owned a tavern on Pocular. In my experience, such fights were short-lived and ultimately expensive for those involved—and outsiders were not welcome to participate.

Before he could answer, I spotted a uniformed figure pushing through the spectators toward the pub and relaxed. “There. Let Plexis Security—” my voice trailed away. The uniform wasn’t gray.

It was the red and black of a Trade Pact Enforcer, on a being we knew. Constable P’tr wit ’Whix, on the staff of Assistant Sector Chief Lydis Bowman. Making the individual in the fight most likely to be his Human partner—

“Terk,” Morgan grumbled, finishing my thought. “Brexk for brains.” He lifted his arm and waved.

The Tolian spotted us and hurried over. “Captain Morgan. Fem Morgan. Greetings. Have you seen—” He winced, crest feathers fluttering, at a crash from within McWhirtle’s. “Oh, dear.”

Not for the first time, I wondered how these two ever came to be partners.