The Skypirate Page 9

  She told herself to turn back, to leave, but the song wouldn’t release her. It was an old Triotian air, one that she had heard in what seemed like a hundred variations on different worlds, adopted as so much from Trios had been adopted throughout the system.

  She came to a halt outside his door, knowing she should leave. But it couldn’t hurt to listen, just for a moment, could it?

  That moment of indecision cost her. The music stopped, and the door slid open. Her breath caught, then released as she realized it was Rina who stood there. For some reason she felt relieved, oddly safe somehow; it must have been she who’d been playing.

  “I thought I heard someone out here,” the girl said.

  “I heard your music,” Califa said.

  “Dax’s, you mean,” Rina said with a smile. “Isn’t he wonderful on the dulcetpipe?”

  Califa’s sensation of safety vanished. “I . . . yes. Yes, he is.”

  Eos, why did this knowledge alarm her so? Why was she fearful because the skypirate was a musician? And obviously a good one, on a delicate, ethereal instrument rarely seen, let alone played. And even more rarely played so well.

  “Come in and listen,” Rina said.

  Califa shook her head, taking a step back.

  “Please. Dax won’t mind.”

  Califa doubted that, but Rina reached out and tugged on her hand, pulling her forward. She looked over her shoulder. “Dax, you don’t mind, do you?”

  She was inside and the door shut behind her before she could think of a way to deny the enthusiastic girl. Once inside, she instinctively glanced around the room, eyes searching. She found what she was looking for quickly; the controller was visible on an upper shelf, as if he wanted it well out of sight and reach.

  His quarters were smaller than she might have expected, certainly smaller than any captain’s on a Coalition vessel. The wide bunk, comfortably long enough for Dax’s height, was beneath a viewport. A table that took up a sizable portion of space was cluttered with the remains of a meal for two.

  Dax sat leaning back in a chair, his long legs, still encased in his boots, atop the table. He had stiffened slightly when she had come in, but he didn’t move or speak as Rina dragged her further inside. And he was looking at her now as if he knew exactly what her hurried visual search of his quarters had been for.

  He seemed well enough; if there was any lingering pain or stiffness in his shoulder from the disrupter strike, it didn’t show. In his hands was a thin, long, silver tube, festooned with an intricate arrangement of levers, and with a mouthpiece at one tip. Califa had seen a dulcetpipe before, but had never heard its ethereal, haunting sound until now.

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll go.”

  “You’re not intruding,” Rina insisted. “And stop apologizing all the time. I hate that submissive act, don’t you, Dax?”

  “That depends,” he said, his gaze fastened then on Califa as he still sat unmoving in the tilted chair. “Is it an act?”

  “Of course it is,” Rina said. “She’s had to do it, but it’s not really her.”

  Califa blinked, startled at the astuteness of the girl’s words. Rina truly was wise beyond her years.

  “I think you’re right,” Dax agreed, his voice oddly soft. “She’s like a Triotian snowfox, pale as the snow she’s named for, eyes the color of purest ice against the sky, and who bluffs when she has to, merely to survive.”

  Califa stared at him, then swallowed tightly; she hadn’t expected such gentle understanding.

  “Here,” Rina said, pulling out a chair from the table. “Sit down. Dax was just going to play—”

  “Rina,” Califa interrupted, “I am intruding. I’m sure Dax would prefer—”

  “Sit down,” Dax said. He sounded like he thought he would regret it, but he indicated the chair Rina had provided. Reluctantly—these quarters were far too small, she thought, when they were filled with a man as big as Dax—she sat.

  She looked at her hands, then laced her fingers primly together. She looked at the table, noting that the leader of this crew ate the same meal as his men—no special cuisine such as was demanded by the captains of Coalition ships. She looked at the boots propped on the table, noticing that even now, in the relative security of his quarters, the knife was there. She did everything but look at his face, although the urge to do just that was compelling. She didn’t dare; her mind became too snarled when confronted with those jade eyes.

  In her effort to avoid giving in to that urge, she shifted her gaze to the silver instrument he held, trying to ignore the long, muscled length of leg above the boots, and the expanse of golden skin visible beneath the loosened laces at the throat of his shirt.

  “I’ve seen a dulcetpipe, once,” she said hastily, hating the way her composure, hardened to what she had once thought an impenetrable shell by a year with the collar, seemed to disintegrate around him.

  “Oh?” he said unhelpfully.

  “Where?” Rina asked. “They’re rare, outside of—”

  “Yes, where?” Dax said, cutting sharply across the girl’s words.

  Rina’s eyes widened, as if in realization of some mistake almost made, and when Califa glanced at her, she could have sworn fear flashed across the girl’s face before she subsided into silence. Fear of Dax? Califa wondered, but then dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. Whatever Rina feared, it wasn’t Dax.

  “In a museum. There was a carving there, too. I think it must have been of your snowfox. In that incredibly white stone. It was quite . . . wonderful.”

  “Triotian white marble,” Dax said softly.

  She nodded. “It was an exhibit of recovered Triotian artifacts in the Archives on Alpha Two.”

  Rina’s head came up sharply, but Dax went very still. “Recovered?” he said. She was coming to know that deadly soft tone; it made her wary. “Some might say stolen.”

  Califa was used to that; ever since Trios had been inducted—those same people Dax referred to would no doubt say “forced”—into the Coalition, some had protested the raiding of that world that had given so much to other worlds. Triotian myths, legends, traditions, music, and instruments like that marvelous dulcetpipe, were scattered throughout all sectors, and many had felt they deserved to keep the neutrality they had declared to all.

  Shaylah had been one of those. And although she had teased her friend about her affection for things Triotian, when she heard Shaylah speak of that world, with its beauty of land and water, and the talent and exuberance and beauty of its people, Califa had felt a tug of longing for such a life.

  She had, of course, suppressed it immediately. She had all she needed as a Coalition officer, and besides, most of the stories about Trios were surely fables. But if they weren’t, and the Coalition had indeed looted and destroyed such a world . . .

  “Some might,” she agreed finally. “And perhaps they’re right.”

  Dax seemed to relax slightly, but didn’t speak again. Rina rushed to fill the void.

  “I have an idea. Let her sing to your playing, Dax. You heard her before, she’s wonderful.”

  Califa cursed her pale Arellian complexion as she felt heat rise in her cheeks. The heat intensified when Dax said, “Yes. I heard. She is . . . very good.”

  “Play the song Hurcon was butchering,” Rina said. “I’d love to hear her sing it again.”

  “No,” Califa protested, “I couldn’t.”

  She meant it. Singing was too personal to her, and in the company of this man, far too intimate to be shared.

  “Please?” Rina begged guilelessly. “I don’t get to hear music enough. Dax won’t play very often, even though I love to hear him.”

  Califa’s gaze flicked to his face then, but he was studying the instrument in his hands as if it were n
ew to him. Why, when he was obviously so very good, did he not play? And how on earth had a skypirate learned such an elegant skill in the first place?

  Suddenly his eyes shifted, pinning Califa with his gaze. “It’s up to you,” he said. “If Rina wishes it, and you will sing, I will play.”

  “Please?” Rina said again.

  It was more than Califa could do to say no to the girl’s entreaty. She was beginning to understand why the entire crew of the Evening Star so indulged her; the girl was nigh on to irresistible. Reluctantly, Califa nodded.

  Dax didn’t say another word, but lifted the dulcetpipe to his lips, his hands spaced evenly down the silver tube that extended in front of him. Braced by his thumbs, his fingers came to rest lightly on the levers on the top side of the instrument.

  She had never realized before, Califa thought, how beautiful his hands were. She’d been so stunned by his sheer male presence that she hadn’t noticed the smaller details, the grace of his hands, the fine, strong tendons of his long fingers, the gentle touch those fingers were capable of.

  And then the music started, a bare whisper of sound, like a distant song carried on the wind. It was delicate, fragile sounding, as that old ballad had been meant to sound. It should have seemed incongruous, that light, airy tune played by such a big, powerful man. Yet it didn’t, Califa realized. For what good was power if one could not harness it, to use as one wished?

  That Dax chose to leash his considerable power to produce such beauty moved Califa in a way she could put no name to. Almost without thinking, when the music shifted to the lilting melody, she began to sing. Softly at first, tentatively. And as if he sensed her uncertainty, Dax played the melody alone, only the fingers of his right hand moving on the sweet-toned dulcetpipe. Then, as her confidence and her voice grew stronger, as if he knew she no longer needed his support, he began to play a counterpoint with his left hand, a lower-pitched harmony that made the higher notes—and Califa’s voice—seem all the more clear and dazzling.

  Inspired, she let her voice slip the bonds and run free, caressing each note as his fingers caressed the keys of the pipe. He answered her in kind, his fingers flying over the intricate levers, creating harmonies that made her shiver. She took the words and made them her own, as he took the music and made it his.

  Between them the simple song became a weaving of two elements into a whole that surpassed the sum of both. It became an intricate, and somehow intensely intimate, dance, a duet of more than just voice and instrument. It was more than just a peerless rendition of an old song, it was a joining, a declaration of feeling by the two beings creating it.

  By the time the last notes died away, Califa was staring at Dax, her heart pounding, her blood pulsing through her in hot, heavy beats. Slowly he lowered the pipe, holding her gaze, his lips still parted slightly, as if he, too, was feeling the intensity of it, needing more air than it seemed there was in the room.

  “That was glorious!” Rina cried, clapping loudly. Neither Dax nor Califa looked at her.

  “Rina,” Dax said, his gaze never leaving Califa’s face, “go get me those star charts.”

  “Now?” the girl yelped incredulously.

  “Right now.”

  Muttering a protest, the girl went. The moment the door closed behind her, Dax’s boots hit the floor. He stood up. So did Califa, taking in short breaths as she tried to slow her racing pulse. He set down the dulcetpipe and took a step toward her. She meant to step back, she knew her brain had sent the command, but her legs refused to obey.

  “You sing beautifully,” he said, his voice thick, husky.

  “You play better.” Eos, she sounded like he did.

  She saw him swallow tightly, saw, for a split second, the battle in his eyes. Then he closed them and let out a long breath.

  “I . . . have to,” he murmured, lowering his head.

  She had time to move. She knew she did; she had the reactions of a trained warrior. Yet she didn’t. Rather she lifted her head, waiting, inviting.

  His mouth came down on hers, fiercely. He took her lips with an intimacy that would have been an insult but for what had just passed between them in the guise of a simple song. And her response had nothing to do with the collar that bound her, she knew that; had she wished it, she could have fought this man and he would not turn to the controller. Somehow she was certain of that.

  But she didn’t wish it. Eos, how could she wish it, when the feel of his lips fired her in a way she’d never imagined?

  She swayed, and felt his hands grip her shoulders to steady her. At least, it began that way; in the next instant he was pulling her to him, holding her tightly against his chest. He was broad and solid and strong, and heat radiated from him until she moved her hands, caught between them, to lay flat against his chest to savor the warmth.

  His lips gentled then, the bruising force lessening, becoming a coaxing, cajoling thing. She felt an exciting, wet warmth as his tongue stroked her lower lip, and a dart of white hot sensation rocketed through her. Helplessly, she parted her lips, and moaned when his tongue slid between and traced the even ridge of her teeth.

  She heard a low, faint groan rise up from deep in his chest. It was the echo to her moan, as surely as his hands had played the echo to her voice. The sound compelled her, as his music had compelled her, and she tentatively reached for his tongue with her own.

  At the first touch, flame shot through her in a rush. His grip on her tightened, as if he, too, had felt the shock of it, the heavy jolt of pure sensation as tongues probed and tasted. Then, with another groan, he wrenched his mouth away; Califa almost cried out at the loss.

  For a long moment they stood there, staring at each other. Califa tried to draw in enough air, but she felt so . . . strange. She didn’t know what it was, couldn’t know; she’d never experienced anything like it before.

  What was wrong with her? Eos, it was only a kiss! So why did she want to run as if the jackals of Carelia were after her? Why did she feel as if she’d just discovered the greatest danger to herself that she’d ever faced?

  This couldn’t be happening, she told herself fiercely. Not to cool, composed, and ever indifferent Califa Claxton. She controlled her responses, not whatever male she happened to be with. And certainly not this rogue of a skypirate.

  But that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Others did control her. Whoever held the power unit for the collar controlled her. She had lost her self-dominion; it had been stolen from her by the people she’d once sworn her life to.

  Yet with one kiss, Dax had made her feel more than anyone ever had, more than she had thought herself capable of feeling. And he’d never even touched the controller.

  Somehow, that thought was more frightening than the controller itself. And Dax was staring at her as if he was as scared as she was.

  The opening of the door made them both jump.

  “I don’t know why you needed these now,” Rina groused as she came in, several holograph disks in her hand. “We’re not going to—uh-oh.”

  Rina gaped at them both. Califa knew the tension between them must be unmistakable, although she hoped the reason for it wasn’t, at least to the girl.

  “Er, you want me to leave?” Rina asked Dax uncertainly.

  “No!”

  It came sharply, instantly, and Califa wondered why he wanted the girl to stay, when he’d so obviously sent her away moments ago. The fact that he didn’t want a replay of what had happened moments ago didn’t occur to her for a moment; when it did she had to turn away to hide her face for fear her emotions were showing far too plainly.

  Whatever those emotions were, she thought ruefully. Right now she felt so tangled up and confused she might well have been a bewildered child again, wondering why her mother’s visitors never stayed. And the truth that would follow this foolishness would be as harsh as the truth t
hat had followed that long ago folly, she told herself sternly.

  Rina was looking from one to the other. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

  “Or something,” Califa muttered.

  “Not exactly,” Dax said under his breath.

  Silence spun out as Rina studied them both. At last Dax spoke again to Califa.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” he said formally, “we have some charts to go over.”

  “Gladly,” Califa said, her voice tight.

  She meant it, too. She needed to get out of here, away from this man. She glanced back only once as she walked to the door; Rina had already activated the holograph projector, inserted a disk, and the image of a star sector glowed in the space above the table.

  When she was safely outside in the companionway, she felt a release of tension that reminded her of the aftermath of a battle. She had no idea if she’d won, or lost. What she couldn’t rid herself of was the idea that somehow, she had been forever changed.

  Chapter 7

  “TELL ME ABOUT mating, Califa.”

  Startled, Califa stared at Rina. Eos, had the girl guessed what had passed between her and Dax when she’d been sent from his quarters? Surely not; she was too young, and in a way too sheltered from the ways of male and female to realize what that scene she had walked in on had meant.

  Califa’s mouth twisted wryly: even she wasn’t sure what it had meant.

  The girl was sitting cross-legged on her bunk, apparently intent on cutting down one of the new equipment belts acquired in last night’s raid so that it would fit her slender waist. But not intent enough, Califa thought, if she could ask a question like that.

  “Why ask me?” she said, carefully keeping her own eyes fastened on the tear she was trying to mend in the borrowed flight suit; such work had never been her strong point. She had always had slaves to handle such menial tasks, she thought, the irony of her situation never ceasing to dig at her.