Page 45 of Dustwalker
Reaching up, he grasped the broken pull-string and tugged the hatch open.
The whine of old springs and hinges warned him. He caught the ladder with his free hand before it could strike his head. Above, someone gasped.
Floorboards creaked overhead, and Lara peered over the edge, with cobwebs clinging to her loose, messy hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek and chin. Briefly, Ronin shut out everything but his sensory input.
Lara was here. Safe.
And she wasbeautiful.
“Did you know somebody used to live up here?” she asked.
Her question was so unexpected that he wasn’t sure how to process it.Helloorwhat’s going onwould have been easier to respond to.
“What are you talking about?” Ronin lowered the ladder. The wood groaned as he mounted it, rungs flexing enough beneath his weight that he had to adjust his stabilizers.
Lara backed away, allowing him enough space to climb onto the dusty attic floor. Her footprints were everywhere, in a meandering trail from one side of the attic to the other and back again. It was twenty-three degrees warmer here than in the hallway below. Strands of damphair were plastered to her face, and a sheen of perspiration covered her skin.
But it was the dried blood at her temple that his optics zeroed in on. The flesh around the small cut there was raised, taking on the red and purple coloring of a developing bruise.
His brow plates sank low.
“You’re hurt,” he said, raising a hand to brush her hair away from the cut.
She ducked out of his reach and pulled more hair over the wound. “It’s nothing. The ladder had the upper hand on me.” Lara snickered. “Get it?”
Ronin dropped his hand to his side. Internally, he combed his stored data for information about human head injuries. Were nonsensical ramblings and statements without context signs of deeper trauma?
“I…got everything I intended at the market?” he said.
“Wow. Okay. We’ll add no appreciation for witty humorto the list. Anyway—wait. What happened to your hands?”
She moved to his side, staring at his hands. He lifted them, turning his palms toward the ceiling, and inspected the new skin. It was strange to see them this way after so long. They were undoubtedly his hands, but they seemed somehow foreign to him.
“I went to the Clinic and had them reskinned. Been a long time since I’ve done it. I figured it was overdue.”
“You candothat? Like, grow new skin?”
Ronin turned his face toward her. Did she realize how close her curiosity had brought her to him?
Her scent registered with his olfactory sensors—blood, sweat, dust. But there was also a crisp freshness from the soap she’d used, and a hint of something more, something he’d not detected from anywhere else. A scent that was wholly...Lara.
Resisting the urge to move closer to her, he replied, “It’s synthesized from various materials. Not grown.”
Lara looked into his optics, her brow furrowing. “Why don’t the gearheads do it, then?”
“Because they don’t want to be mistaken for humans.”
“Yeah. Because we’resohorrible.” She rolled her eyes and walked toward the window. “Come look at this.”
Not sure how to respond to her comment, he followed her to thefar end of the attic. As Lara knelt, he took in the scene—the bookcase full of jars, the blankets and clothing on the floor, the table and chair.
She picked up a book with a brown leather cover and held it out to him. “I can’t read it, but someone wrote this.”
“Every book was written by someone.” Ronin took the book, running his fingertips over the textured surface.
“No, smart ass. This one was written by hand. Not like the other ones. And this”—she gestured to the blankets—“was where he slept.”
His optics followed her gesture before returning to the book. Carefully, he opened it. The pages were stiff, but in surprisingly good condition.
