Ren: Warlord Brides: Warriors of Sangrin #11 Page 5

  “Mahdfel mates,” Emry said, pinning Dovak with a glare.

  “Oh, it is sad that one so young lost her mate. I miss my Kullar every day.” She placed a hand over her heart and sighed.

  “The mortality rate is too high,” Dovak agreed. “Were you matched to a Sangrin Mahdfel?”

  “Rolusdreus,” she answered. A warning itched in the back of her mind that this guy would dig up dirt about Ren and use that against her. In fact, him poking around about hydroponic gardens was questionable.

  Ugh. Emry rolled her eyes. Spies and espionage and Council politics. She hated it. In fact—

  “Do you have an interest in horticulture or botany? Is that why you were asking about the hydroponic garden?” Emry kept her voice sweet as she asked, all the while throwing daggers with her eyes because fuck this guy.

  “I’ve never known you to be interested in horticulture,” Pashaal said, maintaining a friendly tone, but her words had an edge.

  Emry recognized that tone. It was the exact tone Pashaal used just as she was about to screw someone on a business deal. It was the sound of sharks circling in the water. Well, if sound traveled through water, which it did, only distorted. Okay, bad analogy, but the point remained. It was Pashaal’s danger tone, and it was directed at Dovak.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Emry filled the coffee carafes and finished prepping the trays. Whatever Dovak had been planning—sneaking around to get blackmail material or bringing down trouble with customs—Pashaal was on top of it.

  “No, I—” Dovak sputtered.

  “I am extremely interested in the farm-to-table movement myself. I will give you a tour after coffee. Yes? Yes. Locally sourced and all that. I’ve always said food tastes better when it’s grown in your own dirt. All my hydroponics use soil from the estate, even the ones on my ship.”

  Dovak nodded, unable to resist the pull of Pashaal’s chatter.

  “We only raise Sangrin crops on the estate. If you want an authentic Earth meal, it will have to be on the ship.” Pashaal took a carafe from Emry and handed it to a stunned-looking Dovak. “Be a dear and bring that to the table. Emry worked hard this evening.” She gave a nod to Emry. “Dovak will help me serve, and we’ll handle the cleanup.”

  Emry knew from experience that she’d find a stack of dirty coffee cups on the counter and the cream left out all night. Still, she accepted an early dismissal. “Thank you. I used the new roast. Tell me what you think.”

  “It smells wonderful,” Pashaal said, and then she waved Emry out of the kitchen.

  In her room, Emry trawled through Gemma’s social media for any updates or clues as to what her sister had been doing before she disappeared.

  Chapter 4

  Emry

  Emry took a breath, clutching the tablet to her chest. Pashaal was reasonable, but most importantly, she enjoyed tooting her own horn. Give her a chance to be a hero, or look like a hero, and she’d grab it.

  Two days ago, Emry received another anonymous message. No audio and no video, but she knew it was Gemma. She knew it. Call it a creepy twin thing, but she knew Gemma was in trouble. Calls to Earth had been pointless so far. The police weren’t interested in a grown-ass woman vanishing from her own life, and their mutual friends seemed to think it was a “Gemma thing” to pick up and leave without a word.

  Emry felt so helpless and frustrated. She kept screaming that Gemma was in trouble, and no one cared. How could no one care? Emry readily acknowledged that she wasn’t an easy person to get along with, but Gemma was personable. She had friends and a social life.

  “Find the girl. Be a hero. You have to do this,” Emry told herself. There was no alternative.

  Emry knocked on the office door.

  “Come! Ah, Emmarae,” Pashaal said. She removed her tech specs and set them down on the desk. Her office was a sumptuous retreat of rich leathers, hard wood furnishings, and sound-dampening fabric. The carpet was thick enough to absorb the constant hum of the ship’s engines. If it weren’t for the enormous window that looked out onto a field of stars, Emry wouldn’t know they were on a starship at all.

  “I wanted to discuss the menu. This is a short voyage, but my guest is very particular. Allergies. How disappointing.” Pashaal’s tone sounded mournful, like a food allergy was the worst thing she could imagine.

  “Send me a list and I’ll make sure there’s no cross-contamination,” Emry said.

  “Excellent, excellent. I see the invoice from the supply depot. I am intrigued by the spices. That is all,” Pashaal said, dismissing her.

  Emry hesitated in the doorway. She had to ask, if only to say she tried everything. Gemma would do it for her. She’d swoop in, riding fiery dragons, bringing hellfire and a reckoning to those who wrong her twin.

  Emry would have done the same, but having so many doors slammed in her face had worn her down.

  How many burdens could a person carry before they break from the strain? Emry had a feeling she was about to find out.

  Pashaal noticed Emry lingering in the door. “Yes? Is there something else?”

  “It’s my sister. My twin, Gemma. I’m worried. She’s gone missing. No one has seen her, and the authorities on Earth don’t seem to think it’s weird for someone to walk away from their life.” The story spilled out of her, the last message from Gemma, the empty messages that had to be from Gemma, and the way the police on Earth kept ignoring her calls.

  “But surely you walked away from your old life when you came to work for me,” Pashaal said.

  “That’s different. We have a contract, and people knew I was leaving.”

  After signing a two-year contract with Pashaal, Emry took two weeks to pack up her apartment for storage, leave her houseplants to Gemma’s care, hire a replacement for the bakery, and tie up financial stuff. She may have left Earth, but she didn’t vanish. The bank had her contact info, and her ID chip hadn’t changed.

  “My dear, Earth is quite the frontier. The network connections are shockingly primitive. I’m sure people go missing all the time with network outages. They’re perfectly safe but in some pocket or gap that the network doesn’t reach.” Pashaal left her desk and floated across the room. Silken robes whispered as they brushed along the plush carpeting.

  “This isn’t a malfunctioning chip. We live in a major city, not the middle of nowhere,” Emry said. “And none of her friends have seen her for weeks.”

  Pashaal patted Emry’s hand. “Perhaps she took another position on a star cruise. She will turn up. Do not worry.”

  “Couldn’t you make inquiries?” Was that the correct word? Emry struggled to avoid sounding like a character stuck in a melodrama. “A call from a Council member’s office will get more attention than a call from a nobody.”

  “You are not a nobody,” Pashaal said.

  “They take messages and never return my call. If I actually catch them, they hang up on me.” If she were there in person, haunting the police department’s front desk, hounding detectives, they wouldn’t have been able to ignore her. But ignoring her from Sangrin was all too easy. Emry added, “They wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Pashaal folded her hands on her lap in a pose that Emry recognized as the bad news pose. “And that is precisely the problem. There’s no way for my office to be involved without it looking like I’m abusing the power of my office. I cannot risk that kind of scrutiny with Dovak sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “To find a missing person! That’s precisely how you should abuse your office.” That came out louder than Emry intended. She gave a nervous cough and blushed. “Sorry about that. Gemma is the most important person in the world to me.”

  “Understandably, your emotions are running high. That kind of loyalty is admirable.”

  As the silence stretched out between them, Emry understood that while Pashaal might admire her loyalty to her sister, Pashaal would not risk endangering her reputation.

  “I understand,” Emry said. Her
options kept dwindling, and she feared her only choice would be to contact Caldar.

  This was his fault. She should have known better than to trust an alien who magically appeared out of nowhere, offering the solution to all their problems. She told Gemma his deal was too good to be true. Sure, things were grim before he showed up, but if Emry had never taken his job, she’d be on Earth. She’d hound the police department every waking moment until they took her seriously.

  “I am sorry, Emmarae. I know how it is to fear for those we love. When my Kullar left for missions, I swore I never breathed.” Another affectionate hand pat. Pashaal had all the moves down for a caring, compassionate boss, but her eyes were cold and flat.

  Emry nodded. Appealing to her employer’s empathy wouldn’t get her anywhere. Pashaal only helped Pashaal. “I’ve never been away from Gemma for this long. Nine months is a long time.”

  “Goodness, has it been that long? I feel as if you’ve just arrived with your charming Earth dishes. Every meal is a delight.”

  “Yes. I’m worried, though. If I’m sad, then my food will be sad.”

  “Sad?” Pashaal dropped the faux-comforting tone.

  “Which tastes terrible. You know how us creative types are. We put our heart and soul into our work. And if my heart is grieving, then everything will be off.” Emry blinked, willing herself to cry on command, but all she got was some dust in her eye. Good enough. Her eyes watered.

  Pashaal blanched, as if in panic. “Do not cry. She is well. You will see.”

  “I’m so worried.” Emry sniffled and rubbed at her nose. She was a terrible actress, but her emotions weren’t an act. Worry for Gemma had been gnawing away in the pit of her stomach, giving her heartburn, and keeping her awake at night.

  “You do not look well. Have a rest. Everything will look better after a rest.” Pashaal practically shoved Emry and frog-marched her down to her cabin.

  Once settled under a quilt, Emry realized that Pashaal never agreed to help. She made vague promises and reassuring noises, but nothing that was an actual promise.

  That left one option.

  Ren

  “How will you approach your target?”

  “I have a plan,” Ren said, indirectly answering the question. In recent years, he found he had a disturbing talent for lying and enjoyed honing the skill.

  The male on the other side of the screen narrowed his eyes, detecting the mistruth. “A plan regarding the target or a plan in general?”

  “You are too perceptive. This is why no one likes you.”

  Havik scoffed. “Everyone likes me. I am extremely likable. Do not let your overwhelming jealousy make you lose sight of your mission.”

  “You are only concerned that I will damage our ship.”

  “Last time, you failed to return the pilot’s chair to the correct position.”

  “It is not my fault that your legs are freakishly long. Do not forget, I am not the one who broke my chair.”

  “I do not know how that occurred.” Havik ran a hand along his braid, a nervous tell.

  Ren puffed with amusement. His friend was not nearly as skilled at deceit as himself. “Yes, it is a mystery,” he said dryly.

  Murder Mittens, his Terran feline, jumped into his lap. She sank claws into his trousers for better traction, the sharp prick of pain bursting and vanishing at once. She butted her head against his hand until he stroked her fur.

  “Is that Ren? Move.” A Terran female’s face appeared on the screen. Thalia, his friend, and Havik’s mate. Her hair was a riot of unnatural pastels.

  “What is that color?”

  “It’s called mermaid hair, and it’s delightful.” She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “What’s your plan?”

  “To blunder around Sangrin Station until I locate my target. I will not discuss details over an unsecured channel,” he snapped. In truth, Havik had blundered around Sangrin Station. The first time had led him to his missing ex-mate, and the second brought him his current mate, Thalia.

  The only conclusion Ren could draw was that fortune must favor fools. He might as well try the same methods.

  “Is it the mechanic plan?”

  “No,” Ren answered, even though disguising himself as a civilian mechanic was a good plan. He was a mechanic, after all.

  “Don’t do the mechanic plan. You’re not a mechanic.”

  “I am. I rebuilt this ship.”

  “Those aren’t the laurels you want to rest on.”

  He had no idea what that idiom meant, but he knew an insult when he heard one.

  “Do not listen to her, my desert blossom,” he said, stroking the console as if soothing an irritated beast. The ship was far from perfect, but it was his—and Havik’s. Partly. It was the first thing that had been his entirely—if he overlooked Havik’s half—and had not belonged to the clan, the warlord, or his father.

  Murder Mittens sank her claws into his lap, snagging his attention back to where it rightfully belonged. He scratched behind her ears, eliciting a satisfied rumble. Her tail thumped and her paws kneaded his lap, only puncturing his skin occasionally.

  “Ugh, we are not calling the ship that.” Thalia rolled her eyes until the white showed. It was… disturbing, like she was possessed by a spirit.

  “My ship, my decision. It is already in motion.”

  “Our ship!” Havik protested from off-screen.

  “Tell Zalis he will have much to do very soon,” Ren said. Zalis was the newest member of the team. Ren liked him, despite not knowing much about the male. He was quiet, which was more than could be said about Lorran.

  “Fine. Give the Murder Mittens extra cuddles from me,” Thalia said, before terminating the connection.

  In truth, his plan was needlessly complicated. Despite Councilor Oran’s insistence that he investigate a male named Nals, Ren dismissed the male as a suspect. In addition to Council responsibilities, Nals was an instructor at the Mahdfel Academy on Sangrin. The male simply did not have the means to misappropriate Council resources.

  Pashaal, a merchant and Mahdfel widow, was a more intriguing target.

  He flipped through the file, searching for leverage with the councilor. His team had compiled a list of Pashaal’s known associates, business and social, family, and staff. Zalis found information on her public appearances, charitable works, and even her favorite brand of soap.

  He also uncovered an extensive list of known gambling associates, debts, the type of establishments that extended credit to her, and those that no longer welcomed her.

  Ren flipped back to the list of staff.

  He paused at the familiar image. Emmarae. Time had not softened her features. Her face seemed harder, more herself.

  He liked it. He wanted to tell her as much, but he doubted the opportunity would arise.

  The plan, as he formulated it, was already in motion. Accessing Councilor Pashaal’s schedule had been simple, as easy as strolling up to a terminal in Sangrin Station. Using a decryption program designed by Zalis, he gained access to the station’s central processing unit and, ultimately, Pashaal’s flight manifest. He knew when she planned to arrive and depart the station.

  He had already located the ship and sabotaged the heat transfer.

  An afternoon’s work.

  He needed only to intercept the call for a mechanic to repair the malfunctioning unit.

  At no point did the plan allow him to contact his mate.

  There. The sands had decided. He could do nothing. The mission came first.

  And yet, Ren read and reread the brief on Emmarae. He had memorized the words despite them telling him nothing he did not already know.

  Emmarae LeBeaux. Mated female to unknown Mahdfel warrior. Separated. Never filed for divorce. Resident of Earth. Employed as private chef for less than a span. Leverage target: sibling on Earth. Complicity in criminal activities: questionable.

  The words never changed.

  Unknown Mahdfel.

  Ren suspected Zalis uncover
ed that piece of information easily, but neglected to put it in the brief for reasons only he understood. To spare Ren the shock of seeing his mate after years of separation? Or to spare him the difficulty of admitting that his mate might be a participant in a criminal conspiracy?

  He had always known the location of his mate. From the moment he forced her off Rolusdreus, he tracked her. Twice he had been to Earth, and twice he had stood outside her place of residence. Not once did he ever find the courage to make his presence known. He knew when she left Earth. He knew when her ID chip pinged in a new port or station.

  Finding her in the employ of a corrupt councilor…

  Now was not the right time for reconciliation. When the right time would be, he could not say. He would know when he found it.

  Until then, he needed to keep his head clear. He needed to focus on the mission.

  Infiltrate the ship.

  Plant the device.

  Avoiding one Terran female would be easy enough.

  Ren nodded, pleased with the soundness of the plan. He would not be distracted.

  The warlord granted Ren a place in his clan because he was useful. If Ren went off-mission, he would no longer be useful and would become a liability.

  He repeated this until he convinced himself it was true.

  The comm unit blinked.

  It was time.

  Emry

  A second option presented itself in a most unexpected manner.

  The red guy. Ren.

  Recognition struck Emry like a bolt of lightning.

  Well, that was one mystery solved. She had wondered if she would even recognize her red alien, considering that she had only known him for two days before he booted her off his planet. His look was unique—a garnet red complexion, tusks like an orc, and a segmented scorpion-like tail—but time made her question her mental image of him. Was his nose that sharp? Did his hair always have a white streak, or was he graying at the temples? Did he resemble a cartoon devil, or had time and hurt feelings morphed him into a caricature?