Page 6 of Alliance
Scrubbing his ears to make them stand straight, Fásach bought himself some time to think.
Aural magnetism, the sense that ensured all yiwreni knew magnetic north from birth, had been the driving force behind not just the great winter migrations but also one’s path through life. It had evolved beyond a knack for geomagnetic fields, and as a result, was ascribed a sort of mysticism or godly touch. It was a direct connection between their consciousness and their gut instinct. They were like living lie detectors, sniffing out the sour chords of deception and foreboding or the sweet harmonies of love and trust.
But after the death of Byd Farrwell, most yiwreni just felt… directionless. Their senses weren’t yet attuned to their new homes, and their symphonies were unpredictable at best.
Disappearing at worst.
Fásach didn’t like talking about his symphony—a few reedy notes centered around two little girls and nothing else.
It had once been so strong, a constant, comforting hum that oriented him to his life’s path. Now it was little more than a phantom that rattled its chains in the halls of his mind. Soft wisps that he could barely grasp hold of. It was as if his spirit was made of lead and he’d fallen too far from grace to hear the music anymore.
But even if he felt like he was fading, the motions of day-to-day life were important for Quiopha’s daughters. He would save up money, get them enough for the first term’s tuition at a boarding school on Aescipoli, and find their clan so they could be raised by family. It was what his partner was owed. What her children deserved.
And making sure that Vin’svirawas going to watch his back is what his old friend deserved.
Fás thought back to meeting Imani James, to the notes of her voice and the baseline chime of his symphony. Did any of the notes turn sour? Did that telltale dissonance ever ghost across her tone?
No, he was certain. When she’d spoken, her conviction had been strong and melodic. The smooth cadence of her voice had been peppered with rare notes of harmony, even. Trust, he decided. Not the sweeping chords of love, but a mutual, practical respect that had the potential to grow.
Being prey-fluid might have made Fásach thin and narrow, but he was still tall and stood up straight to look down at Xata with indignation. “Like I said. Imani chooses her people. She’ll make the choice that protects them.”
“That protects Vin, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Thank fuck they converged then.” Xata nodded once, satisfied, then adjusted his collar, her gritty sharkskin fingersbrushing against his jaw. “Now, I’ve got a chain-skip to catch. Care to loosen me up before I have to deal with Vin’s bubblegum ankle shark?”
“You mean Pom Pom?”
“That’s the one.”
“No.”
Xata gave him an insincere pout. “Pity.”
Now that he’d opened himself up to his symphony, Fásach knew that the single word had been meant to reinforce everyone’s view of the shilpakaari commander: a cold-hearted bitch that enjoyed being put on that tempestuous pedestal, stirring up shit in the water below her perch.
Whether it was sincere, he couldn’t say, but the tone soured in his ear as she disappeared into the crush of dancing bodies, drawing a couple of shils into her wake.
It was then that Fásach’s eyes slid back to the DJ dais. Turj was gone, a strobe drone now filling the space with pulses of red and orange light.
“Fuck,” he snarled.
His attention snapped to the exits.
Clear.
He broke for the main entrance rather than one of the side doors, hoping the bouncers would keep the other movers from jumping him. It was the safest, albeit exposed path, and as he walked, he readied a comm with the guild operator, Zivi, in case he needed to ask for backup out on the street.
But two sets of hands gripped his thermophobic coat by the crux of his elbow while he was looking down at the tab’s interface, and the heavy music drowned out his yelp of surprise. His head hit a wall as he lost balance in the struggle. One of those hands lifted his head by the ear, then slammed it down again.
“Hot shit turns soft and look at you now. The Beast of Gaul is a fuckin’ baby!” Turj guffawed, kicking Fásach in theribs. He curled over himself with his knees up and coughed. “My little sister could kick the tar outta you now, boy. Hold him up, Mez?a!”
The hand holding his head to the ground gripped the nape of his neck and dragged Fás to his knees while he breathed through the pain of a concussion and at least one broken rib, maybe a fractured cheekbone... It hurt, but he’d been roughed up worse.
Fásach was prey-fluid, yes, but he was neither a quivering coward nor an inexperienced pup. He knew how to wait for an opening. And like many predatory mammals, his skin was loose around his neck, detached from the muscle tissue below.So when Mez?a grabbed him by the scruff like a pup, Fásach twisted beneath the yog’s hand, stretched his maw open, and clamped his jaws down on Mez?a’s wrist.
The crunch was immediate and satisfying as bones crumbled like dry crackers. The mover tried to pull away, but once in a yiwren’s jaws, there was no getting out. Fásach snarled, aggressive creases forming along the top of his wide nose, hoping the others would run.
