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Merrick
“Must you touch me?”
Jeb tips his eyes skyward at the same time he grabs the back of Slade's grimy tunic, fisting the tough leather material just enough to maintain contact.
“Yes,” Jeb answers in a clipped voice.
Slade crosses his arms. “I can't abide jumping.”
Jeb's lips quirk. “Yet you must.”
Slade straightens his shoulders and nods. “For Tiny Frog.”
Jeb scowls, gripping Slade's tunic tighter.
The heat of the jump washes over him, the cold lake water lapping at the toes of his boots—reflecting—as does the entire lake. The two suns, weak by Papilio or Three standards, are low in the sky, and Slade winces from the exposure.
The soft sunlight of this world is perfect for Bloodlings. True vampires could not survive any degree of daylight. But as Jeb understands it all, vampire is only one part of the Bloodling ancestry. The other? That is yet undetermined. If ever there is a time in the future when Papilio is righted back to its noble Cause, perhaps visiting the unexplored sectors is a good place to begin.
Flames of ice and heat drive up from Jeb's feet, bursting at his core and shooting sparks of popping current to his fingertips. The fine hairs on his head lift slightly, and he zeroes in on a break of waves coming toward them.
Sunlight bleeds across the peaks as the late afternoon sun dies against the water.
Jeb tracks.
A moment later, a tense Slade and he slam into the tip of one sparkling chunk of water and are through.
Once in a jump, Jeb immediately senses Beth's tail and hurtles them through the molecular dust of her leap.
As he readies for landing, simultaneous thoughts crowd his brain.
Why this sector—and what other tail is he sensing?
*
Jeb releases Slade so he doesn't drag him, and when the big Bloodling lands, it's palms first, in a slide very much like the game the Threes play. Basebat? Basketbat? Jeb doesn't remember.
Slade rolls over, spitting grass and dirt from his mouth and gifting Jeb with a foul expression.
Jeb's mood immediately improves.
“It will never get better. You don't have a bit of Reflective in your veins.”
Slade groans, rolling over and sitting on his ass, breathing deeply.
The Bloodling does look very bad, positively green.
“Throw up and get it over with.”
Slade scowls.
Stubborn male.
They stare at each other, and when it appears Slade is working through the agony of the jump, Jeb turns his attention elsewhere.
He surveys their surroundings. Mercifully, night has fallen, and though Jeb has a lot of hate for the Bloodling, as Jacky would phrase it, he needs him. And if the Bloodling doesn't get over this jumping sickness, he's of no use to Jeb. Nighttime will be easier for Slade.
Because right now, they've landed in Sector Thirteen. Dangerous and primitive in the extreme, the criminal remnant from Three has been unceremoniously tossed onto this world and perfectly named as Fragment.
The Band, and the people housed inside the decaying biospheres are somewhat protected from this middle criminal element who roam between the great forests of pine where the Band reside and the biospheres that hold the remnants of humans who once lived Outside.
However, Jeb knows the protection of the spheres is coming to an end. Before this debacle of dissent happened when Rachett was overthrown, it had come before the council of Reflectives that Sector Thirteen would need assistance in its transition to the Outside. Or the people who lived within the spheres would be decimated by the ones who maundered outside of it.
The Fragment would need to be subdued, or permanently contained, in a prison of the Reflectivesʼ making.
For now, Papilio needed to be put back to order, then Reflectives could get back to soldiering.
Well, no longer for Jeb. His timepiece had ceased. Technically, that meant that he was no longer under the dictates of The Cause.
As though sensing Jeb’s thoughts, Slade finally speaks. “Why are you still policing? Beth has explained that your commitment to The Cause is no more once you find your”—he pauses over his next words, making the break in his sentence awkward—“soul mate.”
“I was just considering that. Here I am, trying to locate Beth while concerns of this world suffocate me.”
Slade smirks. “Looks as though you can take the male out of the Reflective but not the Reflective out of the male.”
Jeb doesn't comment, nonplussed at the other male's insights.
“Where are we, Reflective Merrick?” Slade asks after a protracted silence. He stands, brushing off his clothes.
“Sector Thirteen.”
Slade's black eyebrows rise.
Jeb's exhale is exhausted. He has been more tired, more thin on patience during his lifetime.
But not by a good measure.
“Is this a good world?” Slade tilts his head, giving Jeb critical study, and after a moment, he adds, “Your silence tells me no.”
Jeb's exhale is long. “You would be correct.”
“Tell me.”
Jeb does.
Slade shifts his weight, folding his arms. “So these derelict humanoids maunder between these globe houses—” He sweeps his palm toward the spheres.
“—spheres.”
Slade inclines his head. “Yes, yes. Spheres.” Slade looks out over the windswept pastureland. And though both males are impervious to anything but true cold, the wind bites—the promise of autumn near. “And they take the women and breed them, kill whatever males who roam. What of this Band?”
“They are the result of a genetic tampering. When there wasn't enough clean air to breathe after the natural disaster of the asteroid’s impact, they evolved with breathing slits.” Jeb indicates both sides of his own throat.
Slade snorts. “It doesn't sound plausible.”
“Uh-huh. And nightlopers and Bloodlings are perfectly normal in comparison.”
“Yes,” Slade replies abruptly.
Both males burst out laughing, and Jeb realizes how terribly exhausted they both are to laugh at such things.
“Where is Beth?” Slade suddenly asks.
Jeb can vaguely scent her. But for reasons unknown, her tailwind ends abruptly here.
“Do you sense her?” Slade asks sharply, his eyes narrowing. The black orbs of his gaze reflect like oil in the nearly moonless night. Only the thinnest crescent winks in and out from behind skittish clouds.
Jeb feels the back of his neck heat. “Not very well,” he finally admits.
“Well, what good are you, hopper?” Slade squeezes out from between his lips. “We're half-starved, in the middle of an inhospitable world, with Tiny Frog out here somewhere injured.”
Shame slicks Jeb's insides. “I understand all that. Do you have any suggestions, you arrogant Bloodling prince? Because I have duly briefed you. I don't want the Fragment or Band to have advantages over us because you do not comprehend the inherent danger of this place.”
Slade meets him, their chests butting. “I understand danger, Reflective Merrick. And grief. And sacrifice. Just because you are Reflective does not mean you are the only noble creature in this vast universe.”
They step away from each other, their chests heaving.
“The priority is Beth,” Jeb says, enunciating each word like a punch.
“Agreed.”
Jeb grits his teeth. “You have the better nose between us. You track her.”
“I will track her, Merrick. Just as soon as I can separate the other scents.”
Jeb's jaw slides back and forth, and he grips his hips with his hands, leaning forward. “What other scents?”
Slade dips his head, his nostrils flaring wide. “Lowly. Primate—other. I have not scented this particular fragrance before. But I am afraid.”
Jeb jerks his chin up. “You—afraid?”
Slade nods slowly. “There is a legend, spoken about from my people for eons, about a race that began us all.”
Jeb shakes his head. He doesn't believe this line of conversation. “Oh? And who would these ancient beings be?”
“They inhabit all the worlds.”
Jeb crosses his arms.
“They are called First Species by my people, and others, if rumor and legend hold true.”
“And what makes them a threat?” Jeb is uneasy, for why would Slade unveil an untruth when Beth's whereabouts are at stake? And why had he not heard of this race?
“They hold a piece of all of us within the fabric of their being.”
Jeb stills like a statue, thinking his words through. If what Slade said were true, they would be a very challenging enemy.
Jeb's eyes latch onto the Bloodling.
“Do they have Beth?”
Slade lifts his shoulders. “I am not sure, but assuming they do is better.”
Jeb snorts. “Better for whom?”
Slade looks toward the woods. “Better for Tiny Frog.”
*
“Well, who do we have here?” the giant male asks.
Beth searches him and those who came with him. She can't survive this. And that is fine.
A calmness steals over her. She will not be fodder for rapists or brutes or be tortured for knowledge about Papilio.
Beth will get close to this leader then end her own life.
He somehow reminds her of Slade in a vague way. He is nearly two and a half meters tall, and a fine downy layer of dark brown hair covers his body, with an extreme brow ridge hunching over extraordinarily beautiful slowly revolving amber eyes.
Looking at that gaze dead-on does something to Beth. Calms her.
A chirping sound garners the leader's attention. “She is injured, Alpha.”
The leader turns his attention to her, his brows going low. “I am Ulric.”
Beth blinks. “I am Reflective Jasper.”
He frowns, his massive arms bunching as he folds them. “A traveler?”
Beth is familiar with the misuse of the term. She covertly palms her blade in her hand and slides it along her thigh.
“No—I am a natural-born jumper. A soldier from Sector Ten.”
“You? A soldier.” The corners of his lips pull up, and the males look at one another.
Oh, for the use of my legs. Alas, Beth doesn't have that. She must make do with what she does have—her wits.
And reflection.
A belt of some kind hangs from Ulric's tapered hips. The males wear short tunics that just cover what makes them male, but not much is left to the imagination.
Beth's face heats as Ulric's nostrils flare.
“You desire us?” he asks in a soft voice.
Absolutely not, Beth thinks. “You are not very well covered up. I'm... uncomfortable.”
Ulric smiles. “Modesty. A comely trait.” He lifts his chin. “We'll take you to our clan, heal you.”
“No,” Beth says in a low voice, and Ulric halts from the step he took nearer to her.
Beth sights the hanging blade from his weapons belt. Obsidian.
Perfect.
The Reflection tears through her, undoing some of the partial healing she accomplished to jump so soon after landing.
She hits Ulric soundly, staggering him, and grabs onto his tightly cinched belt with her left hand and lifts the dagger with her right.
Their gaze locks.
“You cannot hurt me, little female.”
She nods, her lower body sagging uselessly behind her. “That is not my intent.”
Beth cuts her own throat.
She thinks of Jeb and Slade, hoping they'll be safe without her in this world.
Ulric's whiskey-colored eyes widen, his hands seizing her by the shoulders.
But Beth is already choking on her own blood.
