Page 67 of The First Spark
“I’ll pick up two of your shifts.” Wright wrung his hands. “Night shifts, even, if you have any. Or weekends. I don’t care. But I need you to take my perimeter check tomorrow at eight.”
Zane smirked. “Hot date?”
“I wish.” Wright glowered at the screen of his holopad. A vein in his neck jutted out. “I won’t work with him.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“The traitor’s son. Grant.” Wright spat the name like a curse, and his face contorted as if he’d tasted something awful.
Zane frowned. The scrawny guard Hannover had asked him to keep an eye on sat a few tables away, engrossed in a book. As always, Grant was by himself. The rest of the guards gave him a wide berth, shooting him looks of loathing and distrust. Grant didn’t react, but occasionally, his grip on the book’s cover tightened.
“Why are you so desperate to avoid him?”
“My father. He was a lord in Oakwood. Served his father.” Scowling, Wright jerked his head towards Grant. “My father was all I had, but Count Grant forced him to fight. Some Etovian brutes captured him, tortured him for information, and murdered him. I never got a body back.”
Staring at the Wells crest on the memorial for fallen guards, Zane grimaced. Calida had recovered Dad’s body eventually, but he and Mom had already fled for Oppalli. “I get hating his father, but surely Grant isn’t so bad.”
“This one?” Wright scoffed. “He’s nutty as a fruitcake. Convicted for attempting to murder a count’s son. He’s a derelict, I tell you.”
Grant’s book snapped shut.
Wright kept spewing insults, and a muscle in Grant’s jaw popped out as he rose from his seat. Zane glanced at the hallway to the Captain’s office. He’d seen enough brawls in the Marines to know what was coming. It’d be fine as long as the Captain didn’t show up—they’d thrash each other, get the anger out, and move on.
But Grant looked murderous.
“Wright—”
The other guard barreled on, louder and more vehement. “Rumor has it he’s a junkie to boot. Ether addict, they say?—”
Grant’s fist slammed into Wright’s face. Wright recoiled, and Grant was on him again, striking Wright’s nose with a viciouscrack. Wright crashed into a table, scattered cups and plates, and crumpled to the floor.
Grant lunged.
Jumping to his feet, Zane wedged himself between the two men. Wright struggled upright, wiping his bloody nose; Zane thrust out a hand and held him back. Grant’s face reddened, and his eyes burned with murderous fury. Damn. He was about to spring. Zane scanned the room, looking for backup, but no one was moving.
“Bet your daddy’s real happy, isn’t he?” Wright snarled. “His son’s in a prime position to finish what he started. Tell me, have you started planning how you’re going to kill her yet?”
Grant shoved him and leapt at Wright.
Zane caught his footing and grabbed his shoulder, but Grant shook him off. The two men became a blur of flying fists and stifled curses.
Finally, an older guard yanked Wright away.
As Zane grabbed Grant’s arms, pinning them behind his back, Grant thrashed against him. Zane grunted, straining his muscles. Grant was much shorter than him, but the guy was strong.
Shuffling footsteps and hushed murmurs swept through the guards circling them. Vale marched into the ring, looking furious. Grant stopped struggling, but Zane didn’t loosen his grip.
He’d seen how this would go dozens of times before. Hell, he’d lived it before. He’d gone limp, let them think they won, then popped the idiot restraining him and smashed the man’s face in. He smiled, losing himself in those final days of Oppalli. The memory that always followed made his grin slide away.
“Grant! Wright! What’s gotten into you?” Vale barked.
Both men sputtered, a cacophony of rage. Blood dribbled down Wright’s face. Grant was breathing heavily.
“Wright, my office. Grant, don’t go anywhere.”
Wright shot Grant a death glare as he stomped after Vale. The guards parted in their wake, shooting Wright looks of sympathy.
Zane frowned. Maybe Grant had whaled on him harder than necessary, but Wright had started the brawl. He was hardly the victim.
