Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(49)

A large bar sits like an island in the middle of a room, wreathed in light pink smoke. A row of screens rotates around it, showing a dozen fast-moving games. I might not recognize the sports they’re playing, but I know that’s what I’m seeing.

“Grab a table, Kal,” Tyler says. “I’ll scope out something to drink.”

I guess I’m not part of the team in Ty’s head when it comes to decision making, which ticks me off me a little. I know I’m a newbie in all this, but I don’t like being treated like baggage, either. So instead of waiting to be led, I head off in a circuit of the room, Kal stalking along behind me.

When I find an empty booth with a good view of the whole bar, I slide in among the empty glasses and look up at the Syldrathi boy.

“Good enough?”

Kal glances around, and apparently happy with my choice, sits on the opposite side without a word. He presses a button on the table, killing the display of tiny 3-D figures playing space sportsball across it. I push myself into the corner, but he stays on the edge, watching the room rotate. The aliens here are all different shapes and colors, wearing everything from grungy mechanics’ jumpsuits to iridescent robes, and every level of formality in between.

I feel like I’m dreaming.

I feel like maybe I’m going insane.

My brain’s not hurting anymore at least, but my aching muscles still remind me of what happened on the Longbow’s bridge. In my head, I can still see the image of myself on the vid screen, throwing Scarlett into the wall without ever touching her. I can still hear the words I spoke with the voice that wasn’t my own. I force myself to look around the bar again. Is there some hint here I can find, something to help me guess why I—or whatever possessed me—insisted we come here?

“He will not be long.” Kal’s voice startles me.

“Huh?”

He nods at Tyler. “Do not worry. He will not be long.”

I hadn’t been worrying about that in particular. If anything, Kal looks more concerned than I do. I realize he’s not watching Tyler anyway—he’s got his eyes on a group of Syldrathi at the bar, all of them dressed in black.

“Friends of yours?” I ask, peering at the group.

“No.”

The word is heavy, and lands between us like a weight.

“… Well, who are they?” I ask.

Kal just ignores me, his eyes never leaving the other Syldrathi. I find myself getting ticked off again. Tired of the way he speaks to me, or doesn’t speak to me at all. He might be six and a half feet of va-voom, but son of a biscuit, he’s infuriating.

“Let me guess,” I say. “I’m beneath their concern?”

“Almost certainly,” he replies, still not looking at me.

“So don’t worry my pretty little head about it, basically?”

“Correct.”

I breathe deep, my temper finally getting the better of me. “Are all Syldrathi as full of themselves as you are?”

He blinks, finally deigns to look in my direction.

“I am not full of myself.”

“If your nose were turned up any higher, it’d be in orbit,” I scoff. “What’s your problem with me? I didn’t ask to be here. I was supposed to wake up on Octavia III with my dad, and instead I’m in hiding on a pirate space station with a messed-up eye and stupid hair and a condescending jackass.”

A slow frown creases his tattooed brow. “What is a jackass?”

“Check a mirror, Elrond.”

The frown grows more quizzical. “My name is Kal.”

“You. Are. Insufferable.”

I fold my arms and glare. He stares at me, tilting his head.

“Are you … angry with me?” he asks.

I just stare at him, gobsmacked.

“Why are you angry?” he asks. “I have been protecting you.”

“No, you’ve been treating me like a little kid,” I say. “I’m not stupid. You haven’t taken your eyes off those other Syldrathi since we sat down, and your hand’s never left your pistol. So if you want to protect me so much, maybe help me understand why you’re on edge instead of ignoring me?”

He stares at me for a long, silent moment. I wonder if he’ll even answer. This boy’s lukewarm one minute, ice-cold the next, and I don’t understand him at all.

But finally, he speaks.

“My people are divided into what we call cabals. Weavers. Workers. Watchers. The Syldrathi you met on Sagan station were Waywalkers. The most mystical of our number, devoted to the study of the Fold.” He taps the tattoo etched on his forehead. “We all wear a glyf here. The sigil of our cabal.”

I feel my temper calm a little. He’s still talking like Lord Snooty McSnootface, but at least he’s talking. That’s a point in his favor.

“Your glyf was different than the others on Sagan,” I say.

“Yes.” The word is heavy once again. “I am Warbreed. We are warriors.”

I consider him. Yes. That’s exactly what he is. Looking him over, I realize Kal was built for violence. The way he walks, the way he talks—every move he makes communicates it in subtle ways. There’s an anger in this boy, smoldering just below the cold, composed surface. He keeps a leash on it, but I could sense it when he squared off against Aedra on Sagan station. And I can sense it again now as he turns back to look at the other Syldrathi.