The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(65)

I sat alone again for some time, wrestling with my problem.

I still hadn’t come up with a clear answer when Ashabee entered, his right eye, already a garish shade of purple, almost sealed shut. I stared at him—at his upturned nose and the defiant expression in his gaze.

“Sit down, Colin,” I said, gesturing to a chair. I’d chosen to use his first name. For one, I felt it would help convey to him the gravity of the situation. For two, I wanted to show him I was not afraid of him, and felt like his equal, if not superior. And for three, it would certainly throw him off balance. I wasn’t sure why—but my instincts were telling me to keep this man off balance.

It seemed to work, because after a considerable pause, he limped over and sat down, a flash of nervousness crossing his face. I stared at him for a long time—long enough for that nervousness to take root and grow. His eyes darted between me, the gun on the desk, the wall behind me, and the floor, then back to me again, over and over again.

I broke the silence first. “I’m having a hard time deciding what to do with you, Colin,” I said softly, keeping my voice low so that I knew he was hanging on every word—he would have to. I looked away, at the monitors, seeing the freshly dug graves holding eight people.

“To do with me?” Ashabee protested, his eyes wide in genuine alarm. “I was trying to save us! To help—!”

His words faltered as my head whipped around and I speared him with a seething glare. “You had no authority to activate those guns,” I hissed. “We made it perfectly clear that we were in charge, not you.”

“But… but… this is my home!” he pleaded.

I scowled at him, unable to keep the disgust off my face. “You killed eight people tonight,” I whispered. “Eight human beings who were afraid and looking for help.”

He said nothing, but the defiance was back, and it was strong enough to make me almost want to pick up the gun and pull the trigger. I shook my head at him, feeling my heart start to ice over.

“You’re a coward,” I said a little more loudly. “You’re a coward and a murderer.” I reached for the gun, but had barely placed a hand on it when Ashabee threw himself to the ground.

“I’m sorry!” he cried from his knees, his hands clasped together. “Please, I’m unarmed, and I haven’t done anything to hurt you, not even when my daughter shot me. Please—I promise—I’ll never do anything without permission. I promise. I promise. Please.”

I gritted my teeth together, all my disgust for the man changing tone. I looked away, staring at a painting depicting a man in a rowboat, escaping from poisoned earth and river toward green fields and forests. The sound of Ashabee’s begging filled the room. After a few moments I slowly pulled my hand away from the gun.

“Now I can see why Amber didn’t want to say goodbye to you,” I said.

“A-Amberlynn?” the man sobbed. “She left? Without even…”

“You wouldn’t even have noticed if I hadn’t told you, would you? And she said to tell you to go to hell, actually,” I snapped, wanting this whole thing to be over. “Enough. Get up. Stop crying.”

Ashabee obediently rose to his feet and sat down, quivering in fear, tears sliding down his cheeks. Rolling my eyes, I tossed him a box of tissues from the desk, and he caught it, snatching several pieces to dry his tears and blow his nose.

I waited until he was done, and then leaned forward, clasping my hands together and resting them and my forearms on the desk. “I’m letting you stay, but you will be confined to your quarters. If you ever find yourself alone in a room with Jay or Viggo, then you shout for help—hopefully one of us can get there in time to keep them from ripping you apart. When we leave, we will leave you here, to continue your life in your home as you see fit. And that’s a lot more than you deserve, because between you and those eight people buried underneath the wall... I would much rather it have been you who died. Do you understand?”

“I… I understand,” he stuttered after a long moment.

I leaned back in my chair and watched as he picked himself up to leave, his eyes still watery.

Suddenly a beeping sound sang out from the computer, and I turned, staring at the screen. Any small sense of accomplishment I’d felt at subduing Ashabee turned into abject horror as a heloship appeared on the monitor, just as it was touching down, the crest of Matrus emblazoned boldly on its side.





24





Viggo





Henrik’s voice was low, but urgent, and the urgency was what jerked me from sleep. I looked over to see him standing at the door. It was midmorning. “Matrians,” he said—possibly repeated. “Now!”

I was out of bed, gun in my hand, within ten seconds, following him down the stairs and through the hall. Violet was already at the front door, Ashabee next to her, and I felt a stab of fury when I saw him. The two were in some sort of stand-off, and I prayed he hadn’t said one cross word to Violet, because it would be the final straw. As far as I was concerned, that man didn’t have the right to live, let alone speak to Violet.

“I can’t trust a thing you say,” Violet said to the man, and I silently cheered her on.

“I’m just saying they might not be here for you,” Ashabee whispered insistently, and Violet ground her teeth in annoyance. Ashabee’s eyes flicked over to me, his alarm intensifying, but he kept talking. “You’ve heard the news! They’re taking the ‘wealthy and influential’ back to the palace for protection. They’re here for me—they might not even know you are here!”