Tor (Women of Earth Book 2) (10 page)

There was nothing in the cell that Wynne could see, but when Posy bent his body toward the darkened corner, Truca erupted in a fury of attacking legs and arms. Screaming unintelligible words of hatred and fear, the woman fought the much larger man with surprising strength. Undaunted and clearly attempting to do as little damage as possible, he managed to get her to the door before she broke away and turned on him, snarling like an animal. Hair, more filthy and matted than Posy's, covered her face and fell to her breasts, leaving only lips curled back from white and evenly set teeth. She was crouched low, but in the dim light offered by the windows, Wynne could see she was naked.

And human.

"Posy, leave her," Ish ordered. "We need to go before she brings the house down on us. Lock her up and we'll come back for her."

When she escaped his grasp, Posy had stood back to reposition himself for his next attempt to corral the crazed woman. Wynne ducked under his wide spread arms and sank to her knees in front of the distraught creature.

"Shh." The soft shushing sound was barely heard. She repeated it over and over. "Shhh, Wynne's here and you're safe." They were the same words she'd used so many times before when the nightmares of the horrors they'd witnessed visited one of the children. "Open your eyes now and see who's sitting here beside you. It's Wynne, only Wynne, and she'd never hurt you, never in a million bazillion years. There you go," she said when she saw the tension leave the woman's body. "See? It's only Wynne, and you know her." She lightened her voice with just a hint of humor. "She wouldn't hurt a fly."

Behind her, Ish shuffled her feet in growing impatience. Wynne understood the unspoken urgency, but she would not see this young woman left behind and locked in a cage. Wynne knew who she was; the woman Mohawk's 'maggots' had laughed about.

"Ish," she asked, keeping her voice in the same level tone, "Would you get us that shirt we found by the door? The one on the floor," she added.

"Got it," Ish said and a minute later returned with the blood stained garment.

Wynne took it from her and carefully moved closer. "Let's get you dressed, sweetheart."

Like a doll, the woman allowed Wynne to slip the shirt over her head and lift her to her feet. Truca was small, not much bigger than Wynne, but she was packed with muscle. If she flew into a rage as she had with Posy, she would hurt Wynne and badly, but Truca made no attempt.

"You can do this," she whispered when the woman hesitated at the door. "We can do this," she amended, "No matter how frightened we are."

For the first time, Truca spoke. "I'm not afraid." It wasn't in English, but it also wasn't the time to question.

Wynne wrapped her arm around the sagging shoulders and gave them an encouraging squeeze. "I think you're one of the bravest women I've ever met. You can do this."

"Of course she can do this," Ish said. "She's one of ours."

"She can and she will," Wynne agreed and then added firmly, "But for now, Truca is one of mine." She nodded at a smiling Posy. "My job is to take care of her. Your jobs are to get us to the dome. And be careful. The carnars are out."

He saluted her with what looked like a human handgun. "I live to obey."

Ish was already moving toward the door. "Then why don't you obey when I tell you to leave me alone?"

"Ah, my dear Ish, one cannot disobey the heart."

A wave of air hit them as Ish opened the door. The gale force wind hit them, driving them back, and the roar that accompanied it was deafening. Ish swore while Posy pushed past her into the doorway. He looked up.

"Well that wasn't wise," he said. "The fool's overtaxing the engine." He grinned at Ish. "They'll have to stop at Celos for repairs."

Ish swore again, but she was smiling, too.

Wynne followed the sightline of their eyes. Far above them, impossibly high, a dark object soared through the sky like a meteor in reverse.

Tor wouldn't leave without his crew, and Mohawk would not leave without her. She was supposed to meet him in the dome.

"Hurry," she begged, "Please, please hurry. We have to get to the dome."

Chapter 11

"I hope that boyfriend of yours is a miracle worker, because that's what it's going to take to get that bucket of horse piss off the ground. Where the hell have you been?" Mohawk rolled to his knees and tried to pick himself up off the floor. His hand went to the back of his bloodied head.

"You're hurt." Wynne left Truca propped against a wooden container and ran to him.

"I'd better be. I let them get away. Two of 'em anyway." He pointed to a small, dilapidated looking vehicle that must be the Hopper. It had been mounted in what she assumed was the sling, but was now canted to the side. One small wing touched the ground. It was broken. A leg with a booted foot stuck out from beneath it.

Overhead, a section of the dome was open to the sky.

"It isn't your fault." She looked around for something to staunch the blood flowing from the wound. Posy handed her a cloth he swept from a nearby shelf. It was grease stained, but would have to do.

"You always say that, but it always is," Mohawk complained. He tried to brush her hand away. "I'm too old for this shit."

"Stop it." She slapped at his interfering hand and pressed the cloth to the wound. "Everyone's too old for this shit."

There was a groan from beneath the Hopper. The booted foot twitched.

Ish walked over to it and looked beneath. She raised the blazer. Arm. Aim. Activate.

The twitching stopped.

Wynne was the only one who flinched. "Was that necessary?"

"Yeah, it was."

"I think I'm in love," Mohawk said.

"Stand in line, old man," Posy told him.

"Fuck you both," Ish snarled.

In the gloom of the lab, Wynne thought Posy's skin was dark brown as was the skin of many on Earth, or perhaps true black like the Katarin healer she knew. It was neither. Posy's skin was blue, so deep and dark it appeared black until the light hit him. With his bright blue eyes, it was a strange, but striking combination made more so by his killer smile which he now directed at Mohawk.

"She makes an interesting offer, don't you think?"

Mohawk returned the smile with his own sharp toothed grin. He'd found a kindred spirit.

Ish took a step toward them. "Try it and I'll..."

"Stop it," Wynne ordered. "Where's Tor?"

"Last I saw, he was headed into the barracks. He's taking care of business."

With Posy's aid she brought Mohawk to his feet. "Can you walk? We need to go find him. What about the carnars?"

"What about them?"

Wynne closed her eyes and prayed for patience. The blow to the old man's head had been a bad one. "They're loose. I heard the screams and they didn't come from animals."

"Oh, that. The carnars are still in the pen. I fed them."

Wynne looked at him in horror.

"What? They were hungry." He limped toward the door. "It's called psychwar. Are you coming?"

"And to think I let him have tea parties with Bitsy," she muttered to Truca as she slid her shoulder beneath the woman's arm.

"He's a good man," Truca said quietly. "A sinner, but a good man."

It sounded like something Wynne's grandmother would say, and she was surprised to hear it from the young alien girl. So though her stomach was knotted with concern for Tor, she decided to try to keep the conversation casual and light. Truca needed normal, or whatever served as normal in a place like this. Wynne nodded her agreement.

"I know. It's unfortunate, isn't it? If he wasn't, I could hate him. I think my grandmother would like him, though."

"The All Knowing teaches we should not hate. It is a duty."

Another surprise. "All Knowing? Is that one of your gods?" There seemed to be a plethora of gods out there in the universe.

"There is only one," Truca replied, "And I have failed in my duty to Him."

Guilt. This was something Wynne could relate to.

"Not according to Nona Donazetto," she assured the girl. "That's my grandmother, my father's mother. She was a wise woman and she would say that if He is the All Knowing, then He would understand. He would forgive."

"Your grandmother was a follower, too?"

Wynne smiled her reassurance. "Among His followers, Nona was first in line."

"And she was a wise woman?"

The way Truca asked, Wynne thought they might be talking about two different things, but the woman needed comfort, and so Wynne gave it. "Yes, a wise woman, a very wise woman." She shrugged and sighed. "Except when it came to wearing your skirts too high above your knees and kissing a boy on the first date."

"She sounds like my Auntie Mock." The young woman smiled, then winced, and touched her lip where a cut had reopened.

Truca was another surprise. She wasn't human. With her matted hair pulled away from her face and tucked behind her ears, the difference became obvious. Dark spots like over large freckles dotted her skin beginning at the pronounced widow's peak in the center of her forehead. They continued to either side along her hairline, the band becoming a bit wider by the lobes of her ears. Rather than detract from her appearance, they emphasized the heart shape of her face, the center of which was clear and pale. Her nose had fine ridges across the bridge. It was a pretty face, or would have been if not for the bruises and scabbed over cuts. One eye was swollen shut, but the other was clear and bright and as dark as Wynne's.

They brightened further when Wynne asked what she did on the Sky Hawk.

"I'm the mechanic, the almost licensed mechanic. I keep the old tub from falling apart. Tor was the only Captain who believed I could do the job." She gave a soft giggle and confided, "Auntie Mock thought he was handsome." Truca's voice faded away. "She liked him."

Light and casual disappeared when they reached the dormitory. Wynne couldn't keep the pretense up. There was no sound from within and all her thoughts were on Tor.

Posy and Ish kept their weapons drawn as they entered the building ahead of the others. Mohawk limped behind them. Wynne didn't realize she'd paused outside the door until she heard Ish speak.

"Fair greetings, Captain. We were wondering when you'd show up."

If Truca didn't need her support, Wynne would have run inside. In her relief, she might have leapt into his arms. It was a good thing she didn't, because Tor's reaction when he saw her wasn't relieved at all.

"What the fuck is she still doing here?" he snarled at Mohawk.

"And there she is, doxie on the dock," Ish snickered. "Some friend, eh?"

"Bottle it, Ish." Tor snapped his head back to Mohawk. "I heard you leave."

"Obviously, you didn't," Posy interjected. "It seems our friend here was outnumbered and overcome by superior forces. Two survived to escape, one of whom was Honarie I assume, since I don't see his body lying about."

Three other bodies were, however. Two were alive and tied.

"We were discussing his whereabouts." Tor tilted his head in the prisoner's direction.

"I told you we didn't know anything," said a woman who looked very much like Ish. Her skin was a darker grey and the scaly texture more pronounced. She had the same yellow eyes, those hers had a slight and downward tilt at the corners. She was dressed in black and carried her arm in a sling.

Ish nudged the woman disdainfully with her toe. "Then the loss is yours, sister."

The woman's lip curled. "We're not sisters."

Ish returned the look. "How fortunate for you. My father wouldn't tolerate something so weak and worthless. He would have strangled you before you could walk. Perhaps I can remedy what your father hadn't the courage to do."

Wynne hoped that wasn't literal, but her short acquaintance with Ish made her doubt the likelihood.

"I have a right to die with honor," the woman spit back.

"You have no honor and therefore no right."

Tor's anger was gone. He looked tired and defeated. "That's enough, Ish. We've all had enough."

But apparently Ish hadn't. "Gisela won't talk, but that one will," she said of the tied and quivering mass of man that shared the floor.

"He already did, and what he knows is worthless," Tor told her. "Get them out of here. Find a place to lock them up."

"Come along, Ish my love. We know exactly what to do with them." Posy pushed Ish aside when she reached for the woman at her feet. "I'll escort the lady."

Mohawk had taken a seat at one of the tables that still had four legs. His head was bent forward. His hand covered the wound. It was bleeding again.

"Truca, I have to see to Mohawk's head," Wynne told the girl gently. "Let's find you a seat. I'll be right back."

Since entering the building, Truca had reverted to silence. After her first terrified glance at the prisoners, she'd pulled her hair forward again and stared at the floor. Her hand on Wynne's bicep clenched in a death grip. Wynne had to peel her fingers off to escape it.

"They're gone, Truca," she said, guessing rightly that it was the sight of the man on the floor that had sent the girl back into fear. "You'll never see him again. I promise you. They can't hurt you. Not now. I tell you what, why don't you come with me. Sit with Mohawk while I find something to dress his wound. There's no need to be frightened. He's a good man. You said so yourself."

"I'll take care of her." Tor held out his hand. The girl flinched and shrank back. "Truca, it's me, Tor. You know me. I would never hurt you."

The girl shrank back another step until she stood behind Wynne, her hand on Wynne's arm a death grip again. "You promised," she whispered.

Her reaction was an about face from the girl who beamed when she'd spoken of him. It was so unexpected Wynne didn't know what to do or say. She wasn't the only one who was surprised.

If Truca had struck him with a knife, Tor could not have looked more pained. His outstretched hand fell. He stepped away and nodded awkwardly. "Stay with Wynne. She'll take care of you."

"Come on, then, Truca," Wynne said and hoped the girl didn't hear her hesitation or notice that she never took her eyes from Tor's retreating back. "You'll have to hold Mohawk's hand while I work on his head. He looks fierce, but it's an act. He's really a big baby. When I'm finished with him, we'll see if we can find ourselves a cleanser and clean clothes."

Wynne took care of Mohawk. She took care of Truca. She found the cleanser; the waterless, but effective version of a shower. She rummaged through the rooms until she found clean clothes that almost fit. She cleansed the sheets on the beds and scoured the kitchen. She found strange foods, cooked, and served them.

This was where Wynne was comfortable. This, she knew how to do. In an Italian family, food was comfort, and the kitchen was the heart of the home. When it came to cooking, making something out of nothing was her specialty.

Posy thanked her graciously. Mohawk saluted her with his spoon. Tor offered her a nod of thanks, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. Truca needed to be coaxed to eat, but eventually she cleaned her plate. Ish said nothing, but she came back for a second helping and then scrapped the pot of all that remained.

Truca didn't speak at all, and when her head began to nod, it was Wynne who led her to the room nearest the communal living area to sleep.

"Someone will hear if you cry out," Wynne told the girl. "This is the safest room in the place."

She'd found clean shirts to use as nightwear and helped Truca into hers. As she had in the cleanser, Wynne covertly eyed the cuts and contusions that marred the young woman's body. Most were superficial and would heal much faster than the emotional wounds that came with them. Her anger seethed beneath her gentle smiles and comforting words.

Truca was clean, fed, and tucked in for the night. She fell asleep holding Wynne's hand, but not before she asked a favor. A bond had formed between the two, perhaps by a grandmother and an old aunt who were as alien to the modern world as Truca and Wynne were to each other. Distance wasn't always measured in miles.

"Would you pray for me?" Truca asked.

There was no church left in which to pray in Wynne's small town. Their priest, like her parents, had perished in the bombing. It had been a long time since she had fallen to her knees in formal prayer. Oh, she prayed, but most of her prayers came in the form of begging or thanks for things that had nothing to do with the spirit. Please, God, let the children come home safe. Please, God, don't let Mira get herself killed. Please, God, keep my brother out of the local bar. Thank you, God, for this working shower. She hadn't thought much beyond that.

"I'll pray with you," she offered, but Truca shook her head.

"I can't. I hate. I can't forgive. I can't ask Him to help me when I know those things won't change. The All Knowing won't listen to false prayers."

Wynne wasn't sure what she should say since she, too, hated the men who'd brutalized the girl, but what mattered was Truca's belief and not her own. She stroked the hair from the young woman's forehead in the same gesture she used when listening to the children's nighttime fears. "He'll listen, Truca. Maybe you should start by asking for His help in forgiving something smaller, someone you can find in your heart to forgive."