Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(56)

“Zero’s right,” I say quietly, looking around. “This is spooky shit, Goldenboy.”

At the sound of my voice, our stowaway stirs in the bunk where she slept with Zila. She sits up to dangle her legs over the edge of the bunk, yawning, squinting at the light in Cat’s hand. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she blinks around the room, finally twigs we’re all staring at her.

“What?” she asks. “Was I snoring or something?”

Her fingers are smudged with luminescent white.

There’s a smear of paint across her cheek.

She looks at the pictograms on the wall. Down at the paint on her fingertips. The look on her face when she realizes this was her—or at any rate, that she did it, even if it wasn’t her—kind of breaks my heart. At least, I assume that’s what the ache and contraction in the center of my chest is.

Doesn’t happen too often.

“I don’t …” Her whisper trails off.

Kal drops down silently from the topmost bunk to peer at the design. He turns his eyes on Aurora, a small frown between his brows.

“Why do you fear?” he asks, his voice cool. “This is a sign. We are in the place we are supposed to be. And now we know something of what we seek.”

It’s definitely the most practical thing anyone’s said so far, but his tone doesn’t help calm Auri down any. She’s got her jaw clenched, eyes wide, and I can see her fighting the urge to scream. Cry. Break. Which is exactly when Dariel opens the door. Without knocking.

He pauses halfway in, blinking slowly. “I see you’ve redecorated,” he says eventually. “I’ll put the cost of that paint on your tab.”

Nobody says a word, because really, what are we going to say? But my cousin doesn’t seem to understand he’s walked into the middle of an awkward situation. He blinks again, then squints at the biggest of the designs, painted on the floor by Scarlett’s feet.

“You people art buffs or something?” he says slowly. “What you painting that old chakk on my floors for anyway?”

The room comes alive.

“You recognize this?” Tyler says, immediately on his feet.

“What the bloody hells is it?” Cat, less delicate.

Scarlett stands in one smooth movement, the groaning of a moment before, the night on the floor, all forgotten. She shoots Cat a shut up smile, turns the high beams on my cousin.

“You really do know this place inside and out. Color me impressed.” She smiles a little wider, leans a little closer. “This … chakk … is something we’re looking for. If you could help us out … ?”

A lot of people assume all Betraskans are traders—which is kind of hilarious, if you think about it. I mean, a whole society made up of nothing but? Who’d manufacture anything? Who’d plumb your house, design your latest comms gear? Betraskans are as many and as varied as any other species.

But every Betraskan likes a deal, no question of that. And we know how to get one. Which is where the universal rep came from, I guess.

We know how to bargain, and the de Seel clan is famous for it.

“Mmmmaybe,” says Dariel slowly, with the air of a man realizing he has valuable information to hand. “Yeah, I think maybe I can do that.”

“For a favor, maybe?” I ask.

Daniel smiles at me. “You catch on quick, Cuz.”

I glance at Aurora. At Goldenboy. Hoping Tyler knows what the hells he’s doing and how deep we’re sinking. But it’s not like we’ve got much choice here.

“Fine,” I sigh. “Deal.”

We follow him out into the main room, cluster around him as he sits at his console. Scarlett’s leaning close, one hand on his shoulder, watching the screen as he logs into the Sempiternity network. I pick a dry spot and lean against the cool of the stone wall, easing a glowing vine out of my way.

“It was an exhibition,” he’s saying, one hand flipping through the air to alter the holographic display. “About a year ago. I made some quick creds putting up the posters. Casseldon Bianchi, art connoisseur and resident of the one and only World Ship, Sempiternity, put it in his museum. … Here it is.”

Dariel’s console projects an advertisement he’s found in 3-D. He swipes again, and the display spins, showing off vases and paintings, necklaces and bowls and sculptures and things I’m not civilized enough to appreciate.

Beside me, Auri abruptly leans in at the sight of a glazed ceramic bowl. “That’s Chinese. How did it get all the way out here?”

Dariel stops the spinning with one lifted finger, looking over his shoulder with immediate interest. “You a ceramics expert or something? Because I got—”

“No,” she replies. “My dad is— I mean, my dad was Chinese.”

The reminder of the past tense is clearly a kick in the gut for her. Her gaze drops and she presses her lips together, swallowing hard. Dariel notes the drop in mood, but Scarlett’s quick to distract him.

“So he’s a collector?” she asks, leaning closer. “This Casseldon Bianchi?”

“He’s the collector,” Dariel replies, turning back to her. “The man on the World Ship. If you’ve got something exquisite and you want to move it, that is. He deals in exotics. Artifacts. Tech. Life-forms, especially. If it’s hard to find, he’s the guy to find it. And if it’s expensive, he’s probably the guy who owns it.”