Page 24 of Kiss of Fury

Now, mealtimes were enjoyed, not endured.

The adult fare turned out to be roasted egger—the indigenous fowl of Refuge—a side of seasoned grains, and a mystery vegetable medley. The kid’s plate of alien fingers (fried egger), space dust (grains), and a star cluster (mystery vegetables) was basically the same meal the adults received but a smaller portion with a more exciting name.

Throughout the meal, the kid maintained a steady stream of chatter about his day, jumping from kangaroos to aliens to hornigers to fur balls. Verity commented at all the right times, but Fury only half listened until the kid mentioned cyborgs.

“They’re all dead now, so I’ll never get to meet one.” He bit into an alien finger.

Little do you know.

How would the kid react if he learned he sat across from one? And the others were still alive. Solutions had only deactivated them, and, by now, the company might have put them back into service—minus two. He was curious about what the kid thought, but this discussion posed danger, and it would be prudent to avoid it.

“Tell me more about fur balls,” he urged.

“There’s only one.”

“Firbol is an alien kid in his class,” she explained.

“The furry one from dinner last night?”

“You remember?” Her eyebrows arched. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I have a good memory for faces.” He never forgot a face, a helpful trait in an assassin. He could see through most disguises. “Appropriate name—Firbol.” His gaze met Verity’s, and they smiled.

“Onomatopoeia,” she said.

“What’s that?” Fury and Brody said together.

“It’s a word that sounds like what it means. Like meow, bark, boom.”

That triggered the boy to come up with as many words as he could, complete with sound effects.

“Sorry.” Verity hunched her shoulders. “Brody, that’s enough right now.”

“It’s okay.” Surprisingly, he meant it. The kid didn’t annoy him like he’d thought he would. He felt a sense of comfort and belonging sitting at the table with his wife and her son. He glanced around the mess and saw other family units eating together and talking. Like they were.

“He had a busy day,” she said. “He’ll fall asleep as soon as we reach the cabin.”

“No, I won’t.”

“We’ll see,” she replied.

After dessert—a sweet, frothy concoction—they headed for the cabin. Night enveloped the quad and everybody in it.

“Brody, where are you?” she asked, an edge of panic in her voice.

“Right here.” The kid stood behind her, but she couldn’t see. It was that dark.

“I got him. How about a ride?” He lifted the boy onto his shoulders. “Give me your hand,” he said to Verity.

She fumbled in the darkness, waving her arm, trying to connect. He snagged her hand and led them across the square, through the passage, and into the neighborhood. By the time they got to their cabin, the boy had fallen asleep, slumped over Fury’s head, his arms dangling.

“You called that one.” He ducked to avoid smacking the kid’s head on the doorframe as he carried him inside.

“Experience. When he’s had enough, he goes out like a light.”

“Should I put him in his room?”

“Yes, please. I’m not going to wake him to take a bath; he’ll have to do that in the morning.”

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