Page 31 of Rook
Sasha's fingers dug into the brittle rock as she scaled the side of the canyon. Each handhold felt uncertain, crumbling slightly beneath her grip. Sweat trickled down her back despite the cool night air, her shirt sticking uncomfortably to her skin. A rock skittered loose beneath her boot, tumbling down into darkness.
She froze, holding her breath.
No shouts of alarm came from below. No sudden flare of alien fire lit up the night. Just the soft whisper of wind through the pines and the distant call of a night bird.
Her muscles trembled with the effort of holding herself still. She was used to hiking, to guiding tourists through challenging terrain, but rock climbing had never been her specialty. And she'd certainly never done it while sneaking into an alien dragon slaver camp.
Alone.
Sasha should have been glad to be alone. That had always been her preference, hadn't it? Self-reliance was her religion. But right now, she could really use Rook's steady presence, his warmth at her back, his ridiculous confidence that made impossible things seem manageable.
Instead, she had his absence and the echo of his words.
You're my mate.
She pushed the thought away and resumed climbing, one painful inch at a time.
It was obvious he hadn't wanted her to come. Some facial expressions were universal.
After the alarm had gone off, they'd jumped into action. Rook had stared at her as she pulled on her boots and pulled her gun out of her backpack.
"Why do you have that?" he asked.
"We saw the nice kind of bears the other day. Grizzlies, on the other hand …" She wasn't sure a Glock would be enough to damage a grizzly bear, but it was better than nothing.
And against an alien dragon?
Sasha had no idea. They were shaped like humans. She'd seen Rook get hurt like a human. Bullets probably impacted them like they would a human.
She just didn't know if she could shoot someone person-shaped, no matter how heinous their crimes.
The gun was holstered at her side. And now she had another weapon. Rook's fire. Theoretically. She had no idea how to summon it or use it, and Rook didn't have time to teach her.
The alarm he'd set indicated that some number of the slavers had left camp. Maybe they were going to find more victims, maybe they needed supplies, maybe they were just stretching their legs. Whatever the reason, it meant that there were fewer slavers in the camp guarding Sasha's neighbors.
Now was the perfect time to strike.
The plan was as simple as could be. Rook would cause a distraction at the north end of the camp and summon as many of the slavers to him as he could. Then, when she saw his signal, Sasha would sneak in and find the humans.
She was doing her best to ignore the memory of Erik going up in flames. Sasha was immune to Rook's fire, not anyone else’s.
Sasha finally reached the top of the canyon ridge, her hands raw and scraped from the climb. She flattened herself against the rocky ground, crawling forward on her belly until she could peer down into the depression below.
The slaver camp sprawled beneath her like a nightmarish carnival. Portable lights cast eerie blue-white circles on the packed dirt, illuminating the sleek curves of their ship and the cluster of tents around it. Shadows moved between structures, tall figures with unnaturally fluid grace. She counted one, two, three … eight of them total. Was that fewer than before? She couldn't tell. The shapes kept moving, merging with shadows, then reappearing elsewhere.
Her heart pounded hard. Eight dragon slavers against one human woman. The math wasn't promising.
A sound caught her attention, something between a sob and a whimper. Her eyes found its source: a large tent set apart from the others, guarded by two towering figures in those shiny black uniforms. They stood like sentinels, their posture rigid, hands clasped behind their backs. Even from that distance, she could see the golden gleam of their eyes, scanning the perimeter.
That had to be where they were keeping the captives. Her neighbors. People who'd waved to her in the campground, shared beers around communal fire pits, complained about the shower temperature.
Sasha's hand drifted to her Glock, fingers brushing the grip. The metal was cool against her palm, reassuring in its solid presence. She took a deep breath.
I can handle two, she told herself firmly. I've faced worse.
Though she wasn't sure that was true anymore. Bears didn't throw fireballs.
Then, fire.
