Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(57)

“I could’ve told you that,” says a chirpy voice inside Auri’s breast pocket.

“Magellan, hush,” she whispers, lifting a hand to smother it. “Later.”

“Seriously,” the uniglass says. “I’m seventeen times smarter than any—”

“Silent mode,” Tyler snaps.

I look at Aurora, eyebrow raised. “You named your uniglass?”

Auri shoots me a quick glance. “It said ‘name your device’ when I turned it on.”

“Sure, like ‘Fin’s uniglass’ or something.”

“I’m original,” she says.

“Got that right,” Cat snorts.

Dariel’s display stops moving again, and suddenly there it is on his screen—our mystery shape. It’s a sculpture made out of a strange metal. And it’s shaped like our three-fingered friend painted all over the walls of our room. The statue has gemstones for eyes, the left one polished black onyx, the right one gleaming pearl. There’s a diamond embedded deeply in its chest, right where its heart would be.

“What is it?” Tyler asks, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Says here it’s a religious artifact from the … Eshvaren Empire?” Scarlett leans in to read the subtitle, whistling softly. “Supposed to be a million years old.”

“What a load of crap.” Cat chuckles.

But Auri’s mismatched eyes have gone wide, and she’s staring at Dariel’s screen like it punched her in the mouth. Her voice is just a whisper.

“Eshvaren?”

“It’s a scam,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean?” Kal asks, scowling at me.

“I mean the Eshvaren. They’re a ghost story, Pixieboy.”

“Load of bollocks.” Cat nods, and I make a note to mark my calendar because this is the first time I ever remember her agreeing with me on— “Who,” Auri says, her tone growing more strident, “or what, are the Eshvaren?”

“An old grandmother’s tale,” Dariel says.

“Ghost story.” I nod. “Supposed to be a race that lived a million years ago. Except there’s no evidence they existed.”

“Other than the relics they left behind,” Kal says, pointing to the screen.

“They’re a scam, Kal.” I smirk. “A way for curio dealers to part rich and stupid people from their creds. Parents tell their kids about the Eshvaren when they want them to grow up to be stellar archeologists.”

Kal glowers at me with those big pretty eyes in a way that makes it hard to focus on what he’s saying. “The Syldrathi are the oldest race in the galaxy. Older than Terrans. Older than Betraskans. And we keep tales of the Eshvaren. They were the first beings to ever cross interstellar distances. The first to find the Fold.”

“And Terrans still tell stories about the tooth fairy and Santa Claus,” Cat leans on the door frame, folding her arms. “Doesn’t mean they exist.”

Aurora licks her lips, swallows hard.

“Does the word … ‘Ra’haam’ mean anything to anyone?”

We exchange a series of blank looks. Shake our heads or shrug.

“It’s just … I’ve heard the word ‘Eshvaren’ before,” Auri murmurs. “ ‘Ra’haam,’ too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like on that busted uniglass of yours, or—”

She shakes her head.

“In my dreams …”

Uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Cat looks at Tyler and shakes her head. Tyler’s looking at Auri, fingertips brushing the Maker’s mark at his collar. Auri’s eyes are locked on Dariel’s screen, on the image of that sculpture rotating on the display. She looks halfway between terrified and exhilarated.

“So Casseldon Bianchi owns this thing?” Scarlett says, breaking the silence.

Dariel comes to his senses, nods. “This and half the sector, yeah.”

My cousin taps his keyboard, and the image of an alien appears on a second monitor. He’s Chellerian—tall and bipedal and broad shouldered. His skin is smooth and pale blue, his jaw heavy, his head hairless. He has four eyes, perfectly circular, bright red. The muscles in each of his four arms strain the fabric of his blindingly expensive suit. His grin is white and wide and full of razor-sharp teeth.

“That’s Bianchi?” Scarlett asks.

“The one and only.” My cousin nods. “Thank the Maker.”

“Tell me about him.”

Dariel finds his smirk again, and shakes his head. “Oh, sweetheart, fairy stories aside, ain’t none of you doing a deal with him. He practically runs this place. He lives inside a reconditioned luxury liner—one of those old-time cruise ships that Tesellon Inc. used to run through the Thiidan Nebula. Nobody gets into that joint without an invitation, and most people who get invited never come out again. He runs the security force on the whole World Ship. Keeps holding cells underneath his ‘estate,’ where people go to disappear. If your business is bringing you into Bianchi’s orbit, then I recommend you either alter course, or settle up with me before you get yourselves cadaverous.”

“He’s that dangerous?”

“He’s worse than the Lysergia plague and the Selmis pox put together.”