Starflight (Starflight, #1)(48)

“You can fix it,” Doran pressed, volleying a gaze between the two. “Right?”

“We only have a few basics in the med kit,” Cassia told him. “Painkillers and antibiotics for common wounds. Not the kind of drug that heals internal damage.”

“But there’s a drug like that?” Solara asked.

“Tissue-Bond,” Renny said. “It’s expensive.”

“Then we’ll buy some.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Money makes everything simple,” Solara snapped. “I’ve got tons of fuel chips. I’ll buy it on the black market.”

Cassia nervously twirled a lock of blond hair at the base of her head, too short to fit into her dreads. She glanced at the first mate and said, “You should tell him. If it were me, I’d want to know.”

“That sounds ominous,” Solara said. “It’s Demarkus, isn’t it? He runs the black market, and now he won’t sell to us.”

Renny blew out a long breath and dug inside his trouser pockets to study the odds and ends he’d collected there—a broken necklace, a few liquid-filled capsules, and the small jar of medicated oil she’d just used on Doran’s lips. She held out a hand toward Renny, and he finally spoke as he returned the jar. “He put a price on Doran’s head. Alive, preferably. But that’s not a requirement.”

Doran pushed to his elbows. “How much?”

“Twice what the Solar League is offering.”

“Wonderful,” Solara muttered. Once Kane found out, he’d probably stage a mutiny. Or cash in on the reward. She hated herself for thinking it, but after his tantrum last night, she didn’t know what he was capable of.

Ever the optimist, Renny pointed out, “It’s not personal. Two of Demarkus’s men have challenged him since the fight. I think he’s worried he’ll never have a moment’s peace until he kills you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Doran said. “I was afraid he didn’t love me anymore.”

“Can we be serious for a minute?” Solara asked. She yanked the blanket over Doran’s body and softly karate-chopped it into place. “None of this is funny. Your whereabouts are a golden ticket right now. If I try to buy your medicine from a smuggler, I’ll probably end up tortured until I told him where you are.”

“Maybe I don’t need it,” Doran said with a hopeful glance at Cassia. “The bleeding could stop on its own.”

“Stranger things have happened,” she told him. “But the odds are slim. Do you feel lucky?”

Solara shook her head. “We’re not gambling with your life, Doran.”

“If I could reach my father—”

“But you can’t,” Solara interrupted. Twice over the last few weeks, they’d tried calling his father from the ship’s transmission system, with no success. She looked down at her gloves and knew there was only one solution. “If nobody will sell us the drug, we’ll steal it.”

“Won’t work,” Renny said automatically, as if theft was the first thing he’d considered. “We’d have to put out feelers to see which smugglers have the Tissue-Bond. That alone will tip our hand because everyone knows about the fight.”

“I never said we’d be stealing from smugglers,” Solara told him.

One curious brow lifted above Renny’s eyeglass lens.

“We’re close to Obsidian,” she said. “The beaches are in the tourist circle, which means food and shopping—and shiny medical centers with fully stocked supply rooms.”

“Demarkus has men working in hospitals, too,” Renny said. “That’s where half his narcotics come from.”

“Right,” she agreed. “But people know me as Solara Brooks, a dirty, bruised-up felon from the streets.” She jogged to her supply container and pried off the lid, then pulled out the ball gown she’d purchased, the one she never thought she’d wear. Holding it up, she batted her eyelashes and drawled, “Not Lacy Vanderbilt, a vacationing socialite with a busted ankle.”

“Nice dress,” Cassia observed.

“Thanks. Doran bought it for me.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Doran said, narrowing his eyes at the gown. “How much did that little gift set me back?”

“Not important.” She turned to Renny. “It’s the narcotics they keep under lock and key, not the healing accelerants. With your quick fingers and me to distract the staff, they won’t notice it’s gone until we are.”

The first mate dragged off his glasses as a slow smile uncurled across his lips. “Why, Miss Vanderbilt,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat at her. “I like the way you think.”





Once they were alone, Doran watched his new friend unfasten the single mahogany braid at the base of her spine, then gently shake loose the plaits with her long fingers. The ball gown he’d “bought” for her hung on the wall, and she gazed lovingly at the luminescent waterfalls of fabric, occasionally pausing to glance over her shoulder as if to ensure he was alive.

“I’m still here,” he said. “And I still think this is a terrible plan.”

“I still don’t care, so deal with it,” she answered.