Page 3 of Adtovar
Cristox blew out a deep breath, belying his aggravation. “Tarrick, Siemba’s younger brother, was supposed to rendezvous with theHistoriato help us gain an audience with the pit owner Bozzo. We were going to use him to negotiate the release of the human female.”
“The playboy?” Tarrick’s reputation was well known and a perfect cover for his role as an operative in his brother’s spy organization.
“Not anymore.” The leonine face twisted with a mix of irritation and amusement. “He recently took a human mate and had to blow his cover to save her from her previous owner.”
“What’s the new plan?” Xabat crossed his enormous arms over his chest, ideas spinning behind his dark purple eyes.
All eyes turned to me, and the hair on the back of my neck rose forebodingly.
“I have an idea,” Ako said slowly, letting each word sink in. “Before we entered orbit, I changed theHistoria’scall sign to mimic a wealthy merchant vessel and sent a comm requesting a meeting with Bozzo.”
“Do you think he will respond?” Intel suggested Bozzo was a bit paranoid and limited visitors to his planet to only those criminals he knew or admired.
“I think so.” Ako’s pale gaze found mine, his expression apologetic. “Old friend. I would like for you to approach Bozzo as alanista.”
I stiffened, and while I trusted the males around me, I couldn’t help but feel blindsided.
“With your past, posing as a trainer wouldn’t be hard to believe,” Cristox added.
It seemed like a good plan, though I hated to admit it. Many gladiators found themselves in the role of trainer and mentor when they became too old or injured to fight.
“You will claim to be employed by a wealthy merchant wanting to build his own gladiator stables,” Ako explained the rest of the ruse. “I’ve already taken the steps to create your cover and have funded an account with unlimited credits for your use.”
“Intel suggests the pit owner is exceptionally greedy,” Cristox chuckled.
Of course, he was greedy. All pit owners were greedy. It’s how they got into the business of trading blood and suffering for sport in the first place.
“If I’m there to build a stable of fighters. How do I get my hands on the human female?” It was the one part of the plan that still needed explanation.
“Purchase her as well,” Ako said, his pale features twisting with regret. He ran a hand over one of the pearlescent horns sprouting from high on his forehead, an echo of my own. “Siemba’s information suggests she has been with Bozzo for at least six months.” He swallowed hard. “She will most likely be in bad shape and can be purchased easily.”
No one said anything for a long few minutes. While for different reasons, human females had become precious to each of us, and the idea of one being brutalized was hard to stomach.
“I will put together a medi-kit for you.” Zahavi, the yellow-scaled, purple-haired Irvikuva who acted as the ship’s healer, spoke slowly, his deep red eyes holding unfathomable worry. “You can use it to treat the female of wounds or disease.” He drew a deep breath and muttered what the rest of us werethinking. “Hopefully, it will keep her alive until we can get her aboard for further healing.”
Every fiber of my being recoiled at the thought of returning to the pits of Burdak. The memories of the arena, with the brutal battles and degrading treatment, still caused equal parts shame and ire to burn through me like lava. I longed to bury those moments deeply in the past and move on from them. Going to Burdak would thrust me back into the middle of some of the most shameful parts of my history. Yet, I could not say no. Save for a twist of fate, it could be Willa down on that planet right now, trying to survive. That thought alone made my decision easy.
“When do I leave?”
Chapter 2 - Maddie
Mornings were my favorite time of day. Not that I was a morning person... far from it. The lack of coffee in the alien landscape was both ridiculous and maddening. Really? Aliens figured out how to do manned space flight and abduct humans, but they couldn’t make a cup of coffee?
Even without the creamy, bitter liquid that had been my addiction since practically birth, the first moment of the morning... the moment right before I opened my eyes when there was a split second where I could pretend all this horror was just a dream, remained my favorite time of time.
Then I opened my eyes.
Four gray stone stalls and a rickety door that a stiff wind would knock down assaulted my vision. Above me, the gladiator arena where men—or males as aliens tended to refer to themselves—fought and killed was a bastion of gleaming metal and technology. Down here, where we slaves lived, harkened back to the Middle Ages. At least there was running water—for the most part.
My cell was one of the nicer ones, holding a table and chair, a cot with a lumpy, feather-stuffed mattress, a threadbare blanket, a stone sink with a rusty faucet that provided a trickle of brown water, and a hole in the floor lined by stones that stood in for a toilet. Everything here, even the water, was dirty.
What I wouldn’t give for one more moment in my aunt’s garden. Granted, it was the site of my now worst memory—I was walking in the garden when the weird cat-looking aliens abducted me. My aunt’s house on Esplanade Avenue in the center of the New Orleans Garden District had always been a comfort to me. No matter what utter shit my life became, just being in the garden behind her house, the air awash with the scents of herbs, gardenia, and bougainvillea, tiny pink, and white pea gravel crunching under my feet as I walked, and every worry melted away. My aunt Juanita claimed it was the magic of New Orleans that made me feel like that. Maybe it was. I know I’d practically kill to have that sense of peace and contentment just one more time.
I certainly wouldn’t find it here on this nasty desert planet.
I kicked the blanket off my feet carefully, so as not to make another hole through the threadbare fabric and climbed to my feet. Getting dressed was more a state of mind than a physical action in this place. The rough linen-like tunic and pants were my only set of clothes. The tunic was sleeveless, splotched with dirt and the occasional drop of blood. My pants were in worse shape. Sheared off about knee length, frayed, worn, and three sizes too big, held around my waist with a strip of cloth I’d salvaged from discarded gladiator gear. At least the temperature in the place stayed around ninety, so there was no need to scrounge up a jacket.
Good grooming habits included visiting the toilet, washing my face and hands with brown water and an equally brown sliver of soap, brushing my teeth with the alien version of a toothbrush, which resembled a tooth-sized toilet brush, and combing my hair.
