Cinque smiled in the darkness. “What does in the Taglioni lineage mean?”

Talina stared south, trying to see past the fence, past the moat to the Sczui farmstead. The house was more like a fortified blockhouse, complete with loopholes, reinforced door, and sensors. If Szong and “Mother,” as his wife was called, had holed up, no quetzal was breaking in. And there would have been the sound of gunfire.

Kylee told him, “Talina and Dek live together when he’s in town. They have what’s called a monogamous sexual union.”

“Think you can make it sound any less romantic, Kylee?”

The girl shrugged. “Probably. How about a mutual companionship including non-productive copulation that—”

“Give it a break, kid!”

Cinque was studying her with a new intensity. “So, are you Taglioni assets?”

“Just the opposite,” Talina told him. “Taglioni? Suharto? Grunnel? I could give a clap-trapping slug’s ass. My loyalty is to the people on Donovan. As to what that means for Corporate plans for our future? You’re welcome to tag along, Cinque. And hope I don’t get you killed in the process.”

They froze as fusillade of shots could be heard from over by the shuttle field gate. Then screams.

Which was when the siren went off. That long and dreaded wail that meant quetzal in the compound.

“Steaks and leather,” Talina called. “Load your weapons. Let’s go.” And she started up the avenue at a run.

Chapter 40

  40  

Something warm and wet was being sponged across Falise’s eyes and forehead. For the moment, she lay quietly, thinking the sensation was most pleasant. But her reeling senses insisted on wailing that this wasn’t right.

Opening her eyes, Falise blinked, reached up to rub the moisture away. A woman—dark brown hair and amusement behind brown eyes—pulled the warm washcloth away. “You back with us?”

“What happened. I was on the street. Something . . .”

She clamped her eyes again, seeing Ednund lifted up and twisted, shaken back and forth as if he’d been a toy. The legs . . . Oh, fucking God, the legs . . . How they flipped away into the night to slap soddenly on the wet gravel.

“That didn’t really happen, did it?” she asked. “That . . . thing appearing in the night. That’s not real. It’s the whiskey, right? I was drunk. Imagining—”

“Yeah, Falise. He’s dead.” The woman’s expression reflected simple fact. “Tal and that girl Kylee got the quetzal. The fucker’s lying out there on the street. Steaks and leather. Sorry about your slave.”

“He’s not a slave.” How could she say it so callously? “He’s . . . He’s . . .”

She swallowed hard, looked to the side. Couldn’t think about Ednund. Not now.

She lay in a bed, in a small room. Weird knickknacks on a shelf, a quaint dresser, a small sink with folded towels to the side. The coverlet looked like something out of a history book, homemade, with embroidery. Local designs.

“Where am I?”