Page 72 of Phoenix's Last Heist
I’m sitting against the back wall of my cell, stark naked minus the scratchy blanket I’ve got wrapped around my shoulders. His beady yellow eyes narrow as I giggle manically, then start humming David Bowie. I let my head roll to the side, eyes half-lidded, limbs loose.
“You took thehaggra,” he says, more to himself than to me. His fingers dance over the scanner again, twitchy and impatient. “But your blood levels aren’t consistent with a double dose.”
Because I didn’t take a double dose. I palmed the second pill and flushed it the moment I had the chance. One was already a risk, and it’s already doing its job, softening the edges of my reality. Two would’ve put me face-down on the floor, drooling while he took notes.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I smile—lazy, hazy, and a little too wide.
“Oh, I took it,” I purr, trying to sell it with everything I have. “And it’s like…stars, like I’m melting. Like everything’s wrapped in velvet and my bones are singing.”
I lift my hand and trace slow spirals in the air, watching the way his eyes flick to my fingers. I add a little tremor, just enough to make him see what he wants to see.
He looks back at the scanner, jaw tight. “Your neurochemistry isn’t responding the way it should.”
“Maybe your scanner’s broken.” I giggle again. Stars, I hate giggling. “Or maybe I’m just special.”
Kraxis doesn’t like that. As much as I despise the reptilian asshole, he’s actually decent at his job. If he wasn’t, Brill would’ve shot him out an airlock long ago. Of course, as good as he is as Brill’s second-in-command enforcer, that makes his dogged pursuit of me that much more annoying. Kraxis doesn’t stand for anomalies, or guesswork, or subjects that smile when they’re supposed to drool. But I can feel the shift—he wants the data to be wrong more than he wants to believe I tricked him.
Perfect.
I settle back against the wall, heartbeat steady under the haze, letting the one pill ride just enough to keep the act smooth. He walks a step away, muttering, distracted.
Good. That’s how I want him, the big scaly butthole.Distracted.
One pill soothes some of the visceral rage that’s making myvelliasimmer beneath my skin. Two would’ve buried me, and I’m not quite ready to be buried.
“Gag her,” he snaps. “And search her. No sudden movements. She’s still dangerous.”
Two Void Stalkers—Thall and Borric, the dumb and dumber of Brill’s bootlicking buddies—follow orders without hesitation. My blanket is snatched away, and it takes a gargantuan amountof effort not to plant a fist in Thall’s vulnerable temple when he smirks at my nudity.
Borric holds a small metal ball in front of my face, which scans my mouth and shoots out robotic fingers that promptly wrap around the lower half of my face. The gag tastes like steel drenched in engine coolant. They shove me into a silk robe—because Brill’s nothing if not theatrical—and bind my wrists in front of me with shimmering cable coded with a fingerprint lock.
The robe’s too long. The fabric drags behind me as they march me through the lower decks of theEdax Deorumlike a sacrificial goat on a leash. Thanks to the small amount ofhaggraI’ve already ingested, my limbs feel like jelly. I trip—twice. The second time, Kraxis grabs my elbow and hauls me upright with enough force to pop a joint. My vision whites out.
Welcome back to Ooneryx, Lyra.
The ascent from the ship’s shuttle bay to Brill’s compound is a blur. I only remember flickers: the taste of copper in my mouth. The wail of distant sirens. The distinct scent of Ooneryx’s desert air—metallic, dry, a little like singed circuitry and rotting ambition. Then, Brill’s private study.
Somewhere in my snarky, warped little mind, I hear a sardonic chorus ofdun dun dunnn.
For all my pathetic attempts at sneaking into this place, I expected something a bit grander—lavish in its ugliness. Filled with ancient torture devices and the heads of exotic, extinct animals lining the walls, or something. Something in line with Brill’s character—which I’m certain I understand better than a lot of the people who live and work at the compound.
Imagine my stoned surprise when I see that it’s not.
The room is...silent. There’s nothing on the matte obsidian walls. For all his greed when it comes to buying—and stealing—millions of credits worth of art, artifacts, and cultural treasures from across the galaxy, there’s nothing on display in this private,secret space. I knew he didn’t do it for love of beauty, but it still throws me for a loop that in this place that’s meant to be his refuge and inner sanctum, it’s as devoid of pleasure and joy as the cell I just vacated on Kraxis’s ship.
One wall-length window filters orange light from the burning horizon outside, casting the dark tiled floor in a muted gold. The only furniture is a large black stone desk and a pair of antique Martian-style armchairs. There are a few books on the desk, two large screens that I’m unable to read, and a solitary glass decanter half full of glowing blue liquid, which I’m sure is a potent Neptunian liquor that I can’t remember the name of.
That’s it. No guards, no weapons, no servants, no audience. Dopey, latent fear percolates through my body, blessedly unable to take root.
It’s just Brill, sitting behind the desk, staring at me like he’s about to interrogate me for a crime we both know I didn’t commit.
It’s been several months since I’ve seen him in person, and even though it’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, he looks older—sharper. Bones press against skin like he’s been carved from disdain itself. His orange eyes gleam like a predator’s and he smiles when I’m pushed through the door. It’snota good smile.
"Leave us."
Kraxis hesitates, probably ready to recite the full list of my sins and transgressions to ensure I’ll be appropriately punished. "She?—"
"I said, leave us."
