{Earth}

“Sagan, are you all right?”

Tameka’s voice finally cut through the white noise in Sagan’s brain. Fury’s green eyes filled with enough genuine affectionate that it nearly filled the void inside the Seamswalker.

Nearly.

“Sorry, I drifted off into space. Not literally this time.” Sagan winked at her best friend with a half smile.

Said best friend—her Progeny sister—looked concerned. And with the news Lynn and Pablo just delivered, how could she not? Imminent wove enough threads into the Shadow’s super-secret, worlds-saving operations that the unraveling of it left them all exposed to raw danger.

Under the Iona umbrella, the Medical Ecology and Arsenal represented a collaborative effort to protect the worlds. The idea of the clandestine organization infiltrating those efforts would normally enrage Sagan.

But she couldn’t feel it. A sting. A needle. But no spark, and certainly not a fire.

Kyle caught her eye across the group. He raised an eyebrow at her while withdrawing a baggie partly out of his pocket.

She shook her head at the offer and noticed for the first time in two years that he wasn’t actively smoking anything. His eyes, a darker green than Tameka’s, glowed with absolute acuity. No general haze. It looked uncomfortable.

“Thanks. Anyway,” she mouthed.

He nodded and looked back to the Doc.

“So, we’ve been keeping him sedated. He’s struggling. I’m hoping a visit from you three will ground him.” Pablo opened the door to Andrew’s padded cell.

They entered, and Tameka immediately went to him. Sagan and Kyle lingered near the door with no sudden movements.

“Andrew. Do you know it’s me?”

Their Shadow brother groaned and jerked away. The restraints wouldn’t let him fall off the bed. If they were made of anything other than nacre…

Sagan stepped closer and called out to him, “Hey, Golden God. Remember back in Australia? You got along with me just fine.”

“Sagan. Tam-Tameka. Help. Me.”

Tameka looked sharply away, but Sagan caught the forlorn expression. It proved a more formidable task than they first assumed to reach him. Kyle stopped behind her.

Fuck it. Sagan took Andrew’s hand as he clutched the air. “I am Sagan Sterling. General of the Two Armies. The Seamswalker. I’m desperately, hopelessly in love with former Icarean General, Korac. I’m your sister. Together, we saved the worlds, and we watch over Rayne.”

Tameka rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue at the romantic confession, and Sagan shot her a mischievous grin with a casual shrug.

Kyle touched Andrew’s shoulder. “Kyle Roberts. Story Taker. I guard the conduit between our worlds by searching memories. I have two sisters, Ross and… and Bethany. Ross is with Jack. I’m a traitor, and I’m not proud of it. But if it helps you to calibrate who I am, then I’m glad I said it.” He ducked his eyes, but kept his hand on Andrew.

Conscience looked between them with tears spilling from his blue eyes. He set them on Tameka, who started her introduction, “I’m Tameka Phillips. Fury. I can do some really freaky shit with nacre energy. I was stuck on Enki, and I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this for my first trip home in two years.”

They all sniffle-giggled.

“My son is Pax. You haven’t met him, yet. But if you feel up to it, he’s here. I know he’d like to see his Uncle Andrew.”

While they spoke, Andrew’s demeanor shifted. His hands warmed and squeezed back. His eyes focused rather than flitted around. More even breathing calmed the rise and fall of his chest. Even his tears seemed less from pain and more from relief.

He gave Tameka’s hand a single shake and roughly said, “I’d love to.”

So, why was Sagan—not even an hour later—outside of the Emporium rather than standing witness to the beautiful moment? Curiosity? FOMO? An itch to scratch, maybe?

No.

Sagan stared into the Emporium and calculated the odds of Imminent fucking shit up back home around the same time she met its Pain Curator.

And yea, maybe a peek inside a booth and a stop at Korac’s cell wouldn’t hurt. She was only twenty. What was life but making a few less than savory decisions while young? Regrets came later.

Convinced, Sagan straightened her coat against the snowy night and sauntered across the street. She stared at her boots connecting with the wet pavement. Some part of her feared looking up. To catch bizarre orange and green eyes on her. Which was stupid. She planned to face Razor anyway, but it bothered her that he sensed her arrival every time.

The Seamswalker raised her gaze. The Pain Curator stood on the mezzanine, but with his back to her. Did it bother her more that he might suspect her discomfort and attempted to assuage it by turning around?

That was too much deep thinking, and Sagan felt too empty to care appropriately.

Skipping the rest of the walk, she stepped in front of him on the mezzanine. The crowd below reacted less interested. The regulars must be used to her by now, and what did that say about the frequency of her visits?

“I’m ill-prepared for you, tonight. You must wait a few more days, if that’s all right?” He smiled congenially at her. Those bizarre eyes sparkled. He freshly shaved his red beard. The hair… looked JBF as fuck. Red spikes ruffled everywhere. Black slacks with the suspenders down. White button down with the first two buttons undone and cuffs rolled up on his hairless arms. He tossed back a tumbler filled with a green viscous liquid.

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“You look a little rough.”

“Hah! That’s one way to put it.” He toasted her before draining the dregs. After which, Razor pressed the perspiring glass against his temple and winced. He caught her watching the gesture and offered, “Unfortunate encounter with some associates. They were displeased with the outcome of a joint venture.”

Interesting. Was there blood in his hairline? Sagan stepped into his personal space, scrutinizing the swelling.

He stiffened but allowed the proximity.

No blood. Disappointment flooded Sagan. Nox’s Verse and the war taught her to discern various races by blood color and scent. She hoped for a clue as to Razor’s species. To cover the intimate search, she took his glass from him and positioned it better to reduce the swelling.

Leaned against the banister, the Pain Curator met Sagan’s eyes at level. As if his throat hurt, he croaked, “Thank you. Korac’s a lucky Icarus.”

She shook her head. “I’m only twenty years old, and I know how to triage battle wounds on various galactic species. I don’t think he’d call that lucky.”

He leaned forward. Too close. How can a man rake his gaze over a woman without ever breaking eye contact? That’s what it felt like as Razor admitted, “I’m sure he knows how lucky he is.”

“Is creepy your default setting?”

Laughter burst from him. It wavered in depth, but it never sounded unpleasant. “C’mon. I’m sure you’re hungry, and I could use a change of scenery tonight.” He headed down the stairs and waved over his shoulder. “Bar down the street. You know the one.” The crowd parted for him.

Razor stepped outside before Sagan decided if she wanted to join him or not. His presence got to her, but he served his purpose.

Not to mention, she needed something to distract her from the creeping disappointment that the next experience wasn’t prepared yet. It hit her harder than expected. And that scared her.

She Seamswalked to the Martyr Complex Bar & Lounge.

The glass restaurant looked unchanged since her last visit. It filled up after dark. All the booths looked occupied, and the place smelled of rich food. Sagan’s stomach disrespected her with a conveniently timed growl.

“Whose side are you on?” she whisper-groaned to her belly.

“Don’t worry, Seamswalker. There are no forbidden delicacies here.” Razor stealth-bombed her from behind in the crowded space. “Our booth is above the bar—”

Sagan booked it upstairs. A server waited near a wet bar in the private space overlooking the lounge. Music videos played on the projectors with the occasional pain experience ad. The lack of Rayne promotions offered some relief, but Sagan refused to let it blind her.

No. Razor wanted her comfortable. Speaking of…

“Is this acceptable?” He gestured to the wide booth with a view of the floor.

Sagan scooted in, careful not to flash him as the coat rode up. He sat opposite her with a respectable distance between them. They looked like friends at a meal rather than foes.

“Do you mind if I play host and select the dishes?”

Sagan’s stomach loudly agreed for her. “Sure.”

Humor glittered in his bizarre eyes as he called the server over and ordered. Distracted, she took in the restaurant and scanned the crowd. So many aliens below all grinding, eating, possibly fucking if that Pil Dwarf and Lyrik were any indication.

“Are all of them Prisonborne?” Even she thought her voice sounded lost.

Razor watched her. Not the people. “Mostly. Some are Tritan guests permitted to visit Gait for establishments such as mine. But the Lyriks are wardens.”

She turned to him, frowning. “All of them?”

“Lyriks are without a homeworld.” He paused as the server approached with a million small plates. “The Tritans breed them for protection. That’s why they’re all females.”

That’s definitely noteworthy. And also… Sagan practically salivated. Food of all colors, textures, and smells scattered across the table in servings petite enough to sample everything. Delighted, she looked up at him, unable to hide the grateful smile.

He chuckled and waved. “Go ahead. Don’t let manners—Wow, you can really eat. I never thought I’d consider that an attractive quality. But it works for you.”

Sagan’s place setting collected a slew of empty plates like a graveyard of fallen foodgasms. She swallowed the flambéd canapé in her mouth before responding, “Needed to refuel. Everything is so delicious. Oh, my—Can you pass me that?”

She ate. He watched. Admittedly, it wasn’t the strangest interaction she had with a “guide” from an alien planet. With calories restored, she jumped right to it, “How are you involved with Imminent?”

Why did the men in Sagan’s life smirk so much? Korac’s signature smirk defied appropriate timing with pure sex in a promise. Razor’s smirk pronounced the extreme affluence of his life experiences compared to hers. It alienated him and left her with the irresistible urge to shift uncomfortably in his presence.

He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop before leaning forward with his arms folded. “I’m attending a gala on Reipon. Required attendance, mind you. Why don’t you join me as my guest, and I’ll introduce you to a few people of interest regarding your inquiry?”

Sagan mirrored him and leaned forward in a power move to close the distance this time. “What are the terms?”

“A dress. A dance. And potentially… a kiss.”

“To make it convincing?”

He shrugged one shoulder and widened his smirk into a smile. “Maybe for fun, too.”

Sagan Seamswalked out of the booth and headed for the stairs. Clearly, she could Seamswalk out, but she wanted Razor to stop her. To reconsider his terms.

“I wouldn’t ask you to betray him,” the Pain Curator called after her. “My sense of humor isn’t for everyone. I apologize.”

She turned, folded her arms over her chest, and raised a brow. Her honor demanded more groveling.

With the grace to look ashamed, he shook his head and spread his hands out in a shrug. “What can I say? I’ve apologized more to you than anyone in the last two million years. You challenge me, and I’m unaccustomed to it. If I reduce the terms to a dress and a dance, can we return to our discussion?”

“I select the dress. And your hands don’t roam during the dance.”

“I accept.” Razor walked over to her with hands and legs loose, looking harmless. “Wear whatever you like, but we arrive by car. No Seamswalking to reduce unwanted attention. In six days, arrive at the Emporium after Gait nightfall. The location on Reipon shares the same day and night cycle.”

Sagan lost the aggressive posture and nodded. Changing the subject, she commented, “I don’t see Matt here. Didn’t see him at the Emporium either.”

“I’ve promoted him to backstage work. I eagerly await the day you’re primed to see it.” Razor searched her eyes with the orange and green halves dancing in his. “Won’t be long now.”

“Razor, what are your motivations for taking me to this gala?”

He gave a rich chuckle. “Well, to be candid, I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when you arrive on my arm.” Gingerly, touching the swelling, he continued, “I wonder how they’ll punish me afterward.”

Sagan quit listening. A projection behind him stole her attention. Security footage of an Iona. And Rayne ripping bodies apart inside it.

“How?”

Razor turned to the scene right as the King of Earth and Cinder slammed two bodies together in a graphic wash of blood and bone.

Sagan cupped a hand to her mouth and turned away. Deep breaths. In through the nose and out the mouth.

“It’s security footage. I don’t have anyone’s pain. I use it to advertise the experiences. I thought you’d consider it a fair compromise as to the other footage.” His voice went remote, as if unsure which tone to use. He made no move to touch her and respected her space.

But something needled Sagan. These attempts on her boundaries weighed on her old anxiety habits. Necessary tests to see where the other stood. Diplomacy and all that. But…

“Korac gave me that footage, and I gave it to someone—” Andrew “—for safekeeping. How did you get it?”

“Sagan.”

Oh, she really didn’t want to turn around. His voice sounded sincere and cold at the same time. It was fucking bizarre and sent a chill down her spine.

She Seamswalked behind him. “How?”

Razor held up his hands in surrender. “An engineer provided it. CCTV footage is easy to retrieve. I’ll try another avenue of advertisement.”

From one second to the next, the Pain Curator deflated and sagged in his tall bones. He looked exhausted and concussed. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he gave an incredulous laugh. “Nothing ever goes as I expect with you, Seamswalker. Please, pass on my regards to our good General. I’m retiring for the evening.”

This was the first time Razor walked away from Sagan.

And Elden, did it bother her.