Page 29 of Shadows of Stardust

With Zandrel looming above me—scowling even more fiercely, every inch of him radiating threat and authority—some part of me knows I should be cowering in fear.

And I might, if my anger didn’t spark right back to life in the face of all that imperious arrogance.

Who the hell is he to stand between me and Savvie?

Beneath his hand, my skin burns, the outline of every scar and every tattoo clearly defined and stinging.

I fucking hate people touching my shoulder.

“Take your hand off me,” I hiss and, gratifyingly, he complies.

I take one step away, walking backward, eyes fixed on him. Then another. And one more.

Zandrel traces my retreat step-for-step, solar storms brewing in his black eyes.

“Roslyn.”

It’s got a different edge to it, the way he says my name this time. Softer, deadlier, deeper.

A chill runs down my spine.

“You’re going to miss your boat if you just keep standing there,” I murmur, letting the edge of rage and desperation that’s clawing its way up from my gut turn the words into a threat. “Have a good night, Zandrel.”

Without waiting for him to say anything further, without looking back to see if he’s going to follow, I turn to go. I don’t hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind me, and the anger in my chest twists into something else with each meter of distance I put between us.

Sharper, more determined. A certainty pounding through me with each beat of my heart. My mind races with plans, possibilities, months of study and research and preparation leading right to this moment.

Looks like I might have just found my one best chance.

8

Roslyn

The Eritin night presses close as I make my way down the shadowed path toward the pool. Above, the reaching canopy almost completely blocks the light of the planet’s two moons, and I’m grateful for the protection it affords.

Just like I’m grateful for the absence of cameras.

Something about that—about the stillness of the forest devoid of the constant hum of the hovers—nags insistently at the back of my mind as unlikely, as suspicious, as strange.

But I’m not about to question it.

My plan hinges on getting outside the production zone, and I’m prepared to do that whether or not I’m pursued. Not having cameras on me makes it all that much easier, even if the pit of dread in the bottom of my gut grows heavier with each passing, silent second.

The light from the pool's blue-green bioluminescence shines through the underbrush ahead. I slow my step as I approach, stopping just at the edge of the shadows’ protection to scope the space out.

There’s no one here. No contestants, no producers, no guards.

It’s earlier than I would have preferred, just after midnight, but with no telling how long Zandrel will be away on assignment, I didn’t want to risk waiting any longer. It’s still far too early for all the night’s activity to be done. At any moment, some couple might decide this is a great place for a rendezvous, so I make a beeline for the fence.

Here it is, my one best chance.

I haven’t gotten the opportunity to test the fence’s strength. I haven’t been able to prove my theory that it’ll be strong enough to hold my weight, thatI’llbe strong enough to get myself up and over, but there’s no more time to second guess.

There’s no time to do anything but adjust the straps of the pack I’m wearing. It’s small, because bringing full-on survival gear here might have raised some eyebrows, and stuffed to the gills with anything from my luggage and the bungalow that seemed like it might be even remotely helpful in keeping me alive in the Eritin wilderness. Once it’s secure, I take one last deep breath and reach for the fence.

It holds. Hand over hand, feet perched precariously in the metal links, I pull myself up one foot, then two, then three.

The fence is only about eight or nine feet high, and with each foot gained I get a little bolder, move a little faster.

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