She dressed, rolled her shoulders to loosen the muscles, pulled on her boots, and made her way into the bathroom. No way she’d walk barefoot on that kind of filth. As she inspected the floor, she figured that here was a better way for Dek to demonstrate his prowess when it came to cleaning. The place needed to be sprayed with disinfectant followed by a thorough scrubbing, and then to be hosed down.

When she’d finished her morning constitutional, she walked out into the main room. Only to find it empty.

On the rack beside the door, her rifle rested next to Dek’s fancy Holland & Holland. His cloak and hat were hanging on the back of the couch. The door gaped open a crack, allowing easy access for any passing sidewinder, bem, or quetzal.

What the hell? Dek was smarter than this.

“Or is he?” she asked, slinging her utility belt and pistol around her hips before grabbing up her own hat and cloak. Pulling her rifle from the rack, she stepped out, locking the door behind her. The morning was beautiful, crystal clear in Capella’s slanting light. Dew glistened on her aircar and beaded in drops on the large-leafed plants. Mist was rising in a gray haze from the garden, and the morning chime kept rising and falling in half-symphonic regularity.

“Dek!” Talina slowly scoured the area. And in the golden light, she noticed where the dew had been knocked off the leaves by Dek’s passage.

“Dek! Damn it, where are you?”

Nothing came in answer but the mocking sound of the chime.

Slinging her rifle, Talina started off in Dek’s footsteps. As soon as Capella’s implacable rays had a chance to do their thing, any semblance of a dew trail would be gone.

She crossed the garden at a trot, slowing at the edge of the trees. Behind the outlying aquajade and chabacho, the forest rose in an impenetrable mass of vines, branches, and leaves. But Dek’s trail headed straight into the shadowed depths.

“Well, shit, you stupid fool.” Talina unslung her rifle. She’d find him all right. Probably hanging half-devoured from a tooth flower, or maybe wrapped up in a sidewinder’s embrace. Worst would be if a nightmare had caught him and hauled him up into a mundo tree’s dim recesses to digest for a couple of months.

“Please, Dek, if it’s a nightmare, be dead already.” The last time she’d shot anyone in a nightmare’s embrace it had been Clemenceau. She’d hated Clemenceau, and it had still been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Pulling the trigger on Dek? That would break her heart.

“Good,” Demon whispered.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“Can’t. Takes three.”

“Piece of shit.”