Cress

The docking clamp engaged on Thorne’s second attempt, which he thought was pretty good for never having docked with a satellite before. He hoped Scarlet was watching, after she’d so brazenly doubted his abilities. He checked the connection before putting the podship into standby mode and unlatching his harness. Through the window he could see the curving side of the satellite and one of its circular gyrodines whirling lazily overhead, propelling the satellite through space. He could see only the edge of the docking hatch through the ship’s windows, but it appeared secure, and his instruments were telling him that the pressure and oxygen levels made it safe to exit his ship.

He tugged his collar away from his throat. He was not, by nature, a paranoid man, but dealing with Lunars gave him more hesitation that he was accustomed to, even young, semi-cute ones. Young, semi-cute ones who had probably been driven insane by years of solitude.

Thorne unlatched the podship door and it swung upward, revealing two steps up to a ramp edged with a rail, and beyond it a narrow corridor. His ears popped with the change in pressure. The entrance into the main satellite was still shut tight, but as he approached he heard a hissing noise and the doors parted, sliding seamlessly into the walls.

He recognized the room from the D-COMM connection—dozens of flat, clear screens, some overhead storage cabinets, a mussed-up bed with worn blankets, a wash of bluish white light coming from built-in fixtures. A door to the left led to what he assumed was a washroom, and directly opposite him, there was the door to the second podship hatch.

The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap, her hair pooling over both shoulders and ending in a bundle of knotted frizz by her shins.

She was smiling, a close-lipped, polite look that was entirely at odds with the nerve-bundled reaction she’d had over the D-COMM.

But that smile faltered when she saw him.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “I was expecting the cyborg.”

“No need to look so disappointed.” Thorne thrust his hands into his pockets. “Cinder can fix ships, but she’s useless at flying them. I’ll be your escort today. Captain Carswell Thorne, at your service.” He tipped his head toward her.

Rather than swoon or flutter her lashes, as was duly expected of her, the girl looked away and glowered at one of the screens.

Coughing, Thorne rocked back on his heels. Somehow he’d expected that a girl with no prior human interaction would be a lot easier to impress.

“Are you all packed up? We don’t like to loiter in one spot for long.”

Her eyes flickered to him, hinting at annoyance. “No matter,” she murmured to herself. “Jacin and I will go to her then.”

Thorne frowned, feeling a twist of regret at his previous mocking, even if it had only been in his own head. What if the solitude really had driven her crazy? “Jacin?”

She stood up, her hair swinging against her ankles. He hadn’t been able to tell how tall she was before, but now seeing that she couldn’t have been much more than five feet, he felt comforted. Crazy or not, she was harmless.

Probably.

“Jacin, my guard.”

“Right. Well, why don’t you invite your friend Jacin to join us, and let’s get going?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be getting far.”

She stepped toward him, and in that movement, she changed. The nest of hair grew dark and silky as a raven’s wing. Her eyes changed from sky blue to slate gray, her pale skin turned golden, and her body stretched upward, becoming tall and graceful. Even her clothes changed, from the plain, worn day dress to a dove-white coat with long sleeves.

Thorne was quick to bury his surprise.

A thaumaturge. Figured.

Not one for denial, he accepted the immediate resignation with a stiffening of his shoulders. It had all been a trap then. The girl had been bait, or perhaps she’d been in on it all along. Funny—he usually had better instincts when it came to these sorts of things.

He stole another glance around the room, but there was no sign of the girl.

Something clanged outside the second entry hatch, shaking the satellite. Hope. His crew must have noticed something was wrong. That would be them now, aboard the second podship.

He called up his most practiced, most charming grin, and reached for his gun. He even felt a sting of pride when he managed to get it all the way out of its holster before his arm froze of its own accord.

Thorne shrugged with the one uncontrolled shoulder. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

The thaumaturge smirked and Thorne’s fingers loosened. The gun clattered to the ground.

“Captain Carswell Thorne, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have claim to the title for long. I’m about to commandeer your Rampion for the queen.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Additionally, I assume you are aware that assisting a wanted fugitive, such as Linh Cinder, is a crime punishable by death on Luna. Your sentence is to be carried out immediately.”

“Efficiency. I respect that.”