Susan Krinard - Shadowmaster

His crew laughed, all guttural male voices, since female followers were considered property of the crew, not full members. Drakon kept his mouth closed, remembering again not to show his teeth. Though he wore caps to conceal his incisors, he never took unnecessary risks. Whatever Brita might believe.

In spite of his contempt for his fellow smuggler—whose specialty was reselling Drakon’s items at a very marked-up price to “middle class” citizens north of the Fringe—Drakon made the traditional offer of his hand. The Preacher made no attempt to reciprocate.

Brita opened her mouth to say something inadvisable when a woman came running out of the darkness. She halted suddenly when she saw the Fringe crews, looking about wildly as if to seek escape.

The first thing Drakon noticed about her was the cloud of dark hair flying around her panicked face. The second was that she was quite beautiful. And clearly not of the Fringe.

“Shit,” Brita said, pulling her illegal sidearm. “A raid?”

“I don’t know,” Drakon said, gesturing toward the rest of his crew, who had automatically begun to take up defensive positions. “Get everyone back to the Hold. If there are Enforcers on the way, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, Copperhead went straight for the young woman and grabbed her arm before she could dash off into the darkness. Acting purely on instinct, Drakon moved in, shoved the man out of the way and took the woman from him none too gently.

She gasped as he gripped her arm, and he eased up a little. Her hair obscured her face, but he could see her parted lips, hear her gasping for breath. She’d been running hard for some time.

“Are you—” She swept her hair out of her face with a trembling hand. “Are you The Preacher?”

“That would be me,” the other Boss said, stepping around the fire. “What do you need, my dear?”

Drakon stepped between him and the woman. “I don’t know who you are,” he said close to her ear, “why you’re running, or what you want with him. But you’re not from the Fringe, or you wouldn’t be asking for a Boss who’ll keep you on your back for the rest of your life.”

She stared from him to The Preacher, who smiled enticingly.

“Whatever you need,” The Preacher said, “I’ll gladly provide it, pretty thing.”

“Your choice,” Drakon said, his tone indifferent but the rest of him far from it. Touching her was like making contact with a live wire. His whole body seemed to catch fire, and he could not only feel the blood pumping through her body but smell it, as well. As he could smell the woman’s hair, the clean scent of it, though her clothes were torn and her face splotched with dirt. Her body held the faint musk of perspiration and that indescribable scent unique to women of both species. His cock stiffened, though the time for arousal couldn’t be worse.

Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d felt the physical change in him. For a moment he wasn’t sure if she’d bolt right into The Preacher’s willing arms. Drakon was inexplicably tempted to drag her away, willing or not.

“What’s your name?” she asked, astonishing him with the clarity of her voice and the sudden, fearless intensity in her eyes.

“We need to get out of here,” Brita said, cutting off his answer. “If she’s running from Enforcers....”

“I told you what to do,” Drakon snapped. “Get them home.”

With an openly hostile glance at the woman, Brita signaled to the others. As they melted into the darkness, The Preacher stamped the fire out with one heavy boot.

“I’ll give you five hundred A-dollars for her,” he said.

The woman reached down and gripped Drakon’s hand as if for dear life, and he understood the unspoken message in her eyes. He knew he was acting against sense, against reason, against the dictates of his mission, but he couldn’t let her go. He ran, pulling her with him, making his way easily in darkness that would confound his rivals. “Who’s after you?” he said, not even slightly winded.

“I...” The woman gasped, and it was clear she wasn’t in any state to explain.

“You’re leading Enforcers into the Fringe,” he said.

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t stop until they were far enough into the Fringe that the only illumination came from the scant light of false dawn in the west. He was running out of time.

But he still needed a few answers before he took her into the very heart of his hard-won turf.

As he came to a stop, she bent over, hands on knees, to catch her breath. He saw that her clothing was some kind of uniform, though a very generic one, the kind of standard issue that would be given a city or Enclave employee—known in the Fringe as a govrat, a citizen with a clearance rating high enough for government work.

As she straightened, he studied her face, making a rapid assessment: features somehow delicate and strong at the same time, stubborn jaw, smudges and scratches on her face that did nothing to lessen her beauty. Her body was slender and fit, that of a woman able to handle herself in a fight.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Lark,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

“Who’s after you?”

She met his gaze, half-defiant and half-afraid. “The Enforcers.”

Exactly what he and Brita had suspected. “Why?” he asked.

“If we don’t move soon, it won’t matter.”

He almost laughed at her bravado. “Why did you come with me?”

“I don’t know. I was told to find The Preacher.”

“Why?”

“They said he could get me out of the city.”

“He wouldn’t,” Drakon said. “You were given very bad advice.”

“Can you help me?”

“If you’re running from Aegis or the Enforcers,” he said, “you’re not my enemy. If this is a trick, you won’t get out of this alive.”

“A trick?” she said with a burble of choked laughter. “What kind of trick?”

Drakon considered that he might have jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. Something about this woman almost convinced him that her fear was real.

“What can you pay for my help in getting out?” he asked.

“Information. But you won’t get it until I know I’m safe and none of your Fringer friends are going to hurt me.”

The sound of fast-moving vehicles thrummed from less than a quarter mile away. Whether she was leading them or running from them didn’t matter now. Drakon seized her wrist again, and they ran until Lark—if that was really her name—was panting hoarsely and beginning to stumble. Drakon turned a sharp corner into an alley. She leaned against him as if she might fall without his support. He wasn’t thinking at all when he put his arm around her.

He could still smell her blood. Almost feel it inside him.

He reached inside his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulled out one of the blindfolds he and the crew had used on the emigrants. “Turn around,” he said.

Her gaze fell to the cloth in his hand. “You’re kidding. If you think I’d ever—”

“I’m not letting you into my Hold without this. I give you my word that you’ll come to no harm.”

“The word of a—”

“Criminal, a fugitive from justice? Enclave justice?” Drakon turned her and tied the blindfold around her head before she could even think of struggling.

“I must be crazy,” she said, her voice rasping with exhaustion.

“No,” he said. “You’ve made the only possible choice.” Taking her arm again, he led her alongside the building, constantly listening, and took a very circuitous course toward the Hold, dodging the sounds of approaching troops. They didn’t seem to be gaining ground, perhaps more concerned about ambush than moving too recklessly.