{Gait}

Matt ate his sandwich in peace. Razor’s Emporium of Exotic Experiences blazed against the starless, violet sky above him. Like a sleazy bat signal, it summoned clients from all over the Vast Collective to revel in their vice. The human with auburn hair and freckles let his feet dangle from the Emporium’s glass front. Overseers trundled overhead, scanning and cataloging the Prisonborne from actual prisoners.

Gait was a strange planet.

The ginger didn’t mind it so much. Except… well, why did a prison planet need an actual prison? He stared down Mercy’s Row to the ziggurat containing the Vast Collective’s worst, including war criminals from the battle between Cinder and Earth. Volcano Day.

Lucy had worn all black. By the end of the night, her victims’ blood shaded it in blues and reds. Matt covered it later in other bodily fluids. Damn, he missed her—

Whoa, hello.

Through the glass ceiling, Matt spotted Razor, his blue-skinned, gray-eyed boss, emerging from his suites flanked by the entire Lyriki guard. Something was up. Puk, another employee from Monarch 3, responded to the boss by pointing up through the glass. They spotted Matt.

Hailed by the Pain Curator’s amused expression and the crook of his finger, the ginger stuffed the last of his sandwich in his face and hopped to it. Important to never keep Razor waiting.

Matt met them at the mezzanine’s stairs. Razor was in a fancy white suit, tailored as always. With a glance to the sixteen-female parade, Matt greeted him with a raised eyebrow and a placating, “Boss?” Beyond him, Pehton looked utterly subdued. Despair hollowed out those red eyes of hers with defeat.

What happened now?

Razor took from Triss one of Sagan’s axes and hid it discretely in his white coat. Casually, he explained, “The Executive Warden is gracing us with a tour of the prison’s most exclusive level. You’re joining us.” Not a question.

“Yes, sir.”

The Pain Curator rewarded Matt with a slight smirk. He wondered if the Arkansan accent hit hard on that one. Lucy always said stress brought it out in him. And, yeah. Ever since Matt threw Sagan into the monochromatic wasteland of the Seam, he experienced some stress. The boss ascended that night to some new status. As if killing a Progeny elevated him. Bombastic. That’s the word Matt wanted to use. It made him keep to himself and focus on the mission. But as long as Pehton looked like that, maybe Razor’s new lease on life threatened the mission that relied on both of them to achieve it.

His thoughts preoccupied him from the Emporium’s revolving doors all the way down the lonesome street to the prison’s high-tech entrance. Triss, the only woman Matt ever heard Razor refer to as “his,” sang into the lock. It let them in.

As they entered and followed the hall to a lift, the single chain around the only human’s neck imprinted his skin under his black t-shirt. The Shadow. The family built around the Progeny. Matt glanced over at Pehton, who pressed her hand to the lift’s scanner. Always adopting more. People with a story. People with their hearts in the right place. She needed a chain.

The Executive Warden issued the lift command, “Beneath Infernus.” As they lowered, the orange-feathered woman refused to meet Razor’s punishing smile. It bothered Matt.

When Lucy disappeared six months ago, she left him a hint on how to find her. Seek men like Justice Lee of the Cult of Night compound, their first mission together. Men like Justice Lee aspired for the Pain Curator’s well-earned reputation. No. After all this time searching, Matt was sure Lucy wasn’t here. But she’d do something about it all the same. She was averse to men with punishing smiles.

The high-speed lift slowed before stopping in a pitch-black pit. It was nearly suffocating—

“Executive Warden, you’ve brought visitors.” The voice from the dark sounded dehydrated, yet elegant. Male. And slightly familiar.

Pehton called into the chilly cell, “Lights.”

The units hesitated with a hum, as if warming up. As if not used in a long while. When they illuminated the blackened space, Matt noticed the Lyriks took an instinctive step back. He wondered if he should do the same. But if he wanted to put a name to what he felt in that moment, he’d say impressed rather than frightened.

The naked Icarus glared coolly at them while chained to the floor. Like he expected Razor sooner.

The boss’s good humor never wavered. He turned and handed a device to Matt. “Use this to unchain the contaminant. Just his wrists. And…” Triss turned to Matt and handed him a mauve button-down. He also took it.

He crossed the space. The only other object in the room was a strange device similar to the Martyr Complex. Nacre-glass. Various cables and hoses. Big enough to house a man. A lone nacre sat inside.

It was so cold in the cell that the ginger human couldn’t see the black tiles for the frosted fog swirling around the man he recognized from Volcano Day. The Icarean General, if Matt’s nacre-perfect memory served him correctly. The Icarus recently caused an uproar at the Emporium. Sagan’s lover. How did the General of the human army fall in love with the General of the Icarean army before unification? Well, that’s a long story. And none of Matt’s business.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

All he needed to worry about right now was keeping his composure around the boss to complete the mission. As he approached, the Icarus’ eyes flared with recognition. Matt tried to give the most undetectable of nods. Offering reassurance? Or maybe preventing complications? Either way, the man let Matt perform the task with no trouble.

Korac, if Matt correctly recalled the name, sniffed Razor’s shirt and glared poignantly at the Pain Curator. Why the smell? Oh. Oh, of course. Earlier in the week, Sagan slept off her nacre port surgery in a shirt like this one. Even Matt glared at Razor as he returned to the group.

Petty.

Mostly dressed now, the Icarus folded onto his knees and sat straight. When his white gaze met Razor’s stare, the air in the room thickened. Chilled even more. This man’s fury wasn’t wrathful rage or hellish scorn. His anger was older than Hell and deeper still.

Pehton took a step toward him, almost as if involuntarily. Triss held her aloft with a sharp gesture.

The Pain Curator smiled broadly and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “You can thank Remorse for the clothes. You’re welcome, by the way. Although, I don’t expect a thug like you to have manners.”

The war criminal’s eyes glanced from the forlorn Executive Warden to the jovial boss before demanding, “Where is she?”

Razor’s gray eyes sparkled with that mania they came by as of late. Ever since Sagan fell into the Seam, the Pain Curator rode some ecstatic high with no threat of coming down. He stepped away from the lift and stood over the Icarus, who waited calmly on his knees. “In my home. In my bed. I keep her chained there where she weeps for my return and not only from her eyes—”

“You’re lying. Where. Is. She?” Cold. Flat. Certain.

“Did she mew like a kitten for you, too? Or is it because I twist just right—”

The chained man scoffed, “There’s not one thing you can say that would convince me—”

“Watermelon.” Razor hiked at the knees of his white slacks to kneel in the General’s face for the revelation. He met the man eye-to-eye with an indulgent smirk.

Korac shut down. That’s the only way to describe the frosting of the Icarus’ eyes and the tight line that became of his mouth. Whatever Razor meant to convey by mentioning that fruit, the warrior on his knees got the message loud and clear. And he did not like it.

Petty. Especially considering Matt threw Sagan into the Seam, himself. Petty and utter bullshit. For what?

Pehton cried out, “I haven’t seen her there. Not even once—”

Triss slapped her hard enough to bust her lip. That’s why. They held this show to punish Pehton. A power flex.

Nothing phased Razor. He stepped over to the contraption and leaned against it, reasoning casually, “You know she’s there. You smell her scent on my clothes right now—”

“What is the point of this, Razor? Why am I still alive? What does it have to do with the Atheneum?”

“The Atheneum” sounded familiar, but Matt couldn’t place it. The boss did.

The Pain Curator stiffened. Those gray eyes hardened to steel.

Korac repeated, “Why. Are. You. Doing. This?”

The entire room held a collective breath when Razor went quiet, waiting for him to finish. Triss was likely the only person in the room with intel on the Pain Curator. To everyone else, the alien was a mystery. Like a vortex, he sucked the curious in and spat them out, knowing less than before they met him. Just look at what happened to Sagan.

Razor thrust the point of her axe, one of two, at her lover’s throat. The Icarus maintained eye contact cautiously, glancing occasionally at the emblem of the Pretiosum Cruor in the center. It made Matt reach for the pendant on his chain. Waiting.

The boss lost enough control to speak through gritted teeth. “I don’t give you permission to live. But the others won’t grant me permission to kill you. That is the only reason you’re alive. Consider yourself lucky you survived long enough to see Cinder. Now that you’ve returned home to my planet, I’ll see your former occupation reinstated.” Razor turned on his heel, sheathed the axe, and returned to the group at the lift. Over his shoulder, he assured, “I’ll be certain to spend some extra time with Sagan tonight for your sake. My pain kitten is never sated.”

The lift carried them upward with the former General’s hard eyes on Razor’s back until the lights went out.

Wow. What the fuck was happening here? Matt couldn’t afford to get tangled into this shit, and the boss loved to entangle him. In a brief glimpse, he caught Pehton shaking her head faintly over Razor’s shoulder for Korac. She mentioned to Matt that the very Icarus trapped in this basement wanted to help them with the mission. But who would free him first?

With that in mind, Matt handed his boss the key to the war criminal’s chains and noted which pocket he stored it in. After which, Razor ordered of Triss, “Head back to the Emporium. I want to walk awhile. Peh Peh, report to Tumu. You’ve kept the old Primary waiting long enough. Matt stay with me.”

Like a good soldier, the red-feathered Lyrik nodded to her commander and took Pehton roughly by the arm. In formation, Gait’s wardens headed back to their owner’s Emporium. A bleak sight for the damned on this planet.

Razor turned and stared into Matt’s eyes. Impressed, he gave a single chuckle. “Fascinating. You truly don’t care what I do to them. What do you care about, Matt?”

Lucy.

The young man popped his neck and flexed his jaw. Anything to stop the incessant teeth grinding. Even in his sleep, Matt’s molars filed away at his subconscious. Deflect. “I’ll need to think on that, boss.”

The Pain Curator shot him that smile they shared. It wasn’t pleasant or warm. It was measuring. Who was the bigger sociopath? They could go toe-to-toe and find out. But the game busied Razor. And therefore benefited Matt. He learned from the older man. No denying that. The mysterious alien shifted his personality—and possibly appearance—seamlessly for his target audience. Flawless performances.

Except around Korac. Something about the Icarus unsettled Razor’s careful foundation. Matt filed that away for another day.

Instead, he changed the subject. “Night Rayne’s performance is on the far side of the planet. I’ll need to work with you on the security detail for travel. Will you be staying in the area?” Business. That worked between them.

Razor shot him an approving smile as they strolled down Mercy Row to the smells of street food and refuse. Excitedly, he assured, “After crushing that little imposter’s skull, I imagine I’ll want to return and celebrate with Triss. It’s not safe enough to take her.”

Interesting. “Why not, boss?” Matt couldn’t question him directly without sweetening it.

The alien sighed heavily. “Well, you’ll notice before too long. She’s pregnant.”

How should the ginger react? Shock? Indifference? How would Lucy react to this situation? “I assume congratulations are in order?”

Razor’s neutral expression softened. Saddened. “She’ll die when she delivers. But in the meantime, I want to take every precaution. I am older than you can imagine, and this is my first child. Keep an eye out for her, and I’ll give you a raise.”

If Razor ever found out how Matt spent the money, he’d kill the human. Until then, the arrangement suited Matt just fine.