Doran couldn’t run forever—or at all, really—so he decided to hold his ground. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well go down fighting. He didn’t have a utility belt stocked with gadgets, but fate had gifted him a quarterback arm and all the rocks within reach.
They would have to do.
He palmed a stone and stood tall as the bullish man approached. After testing the rock’s weight in his hand, he drew back and hurled it at the Daeva’s face, where it dinged off the side of his helmet and disappeared into the night.
Unaffected, the man marched slowly forward until Doran could see his eyes, cold and hemorrhaged into a webbing of red where the whites belonged. With a slight tilt of his head, the Daeva fixed his crimson gaze on Doran and held it there for a few moments as if scanning him through a database, which was a very real possibility.
The man tapped his com’s external speaker. “Doran Spaulding,” he said in a flat, robotic distortion that chilled the blood. “Where is your shipmate? The girl called Cassia Rose.”
Doran snatched another frozen stone from the ground and swung it at the man’s knee, but the Daeva was twice as fast, grabbing Doran’s wrist and squeezing until the rock fell from his fingers.
“Where is she?” the Daeva repeated.
“Gone,” Doran yelled, wincing in pain as the vise on his wrist tightened. “She changed ships at the last outpost.”
“You’re lying.”
“I swear! She took a medic job on a luxury liner. I think it was called the Zeni—”
Quick as a cobra strike, the man clutched the base of Doran’s throat and lifted him up until both boots dangled in the air. Doran’s windpipe constricted under the pressure. Hungry for breath, he clawed at the fingers gripping his neck. His face tingled and swelled, eyes throbbing as they met the bloody gaze in front of him.
“Let’s try again,” the Daeva said. He turned and dragged Doran toward the shuttle. Once there, he set Doran on his feet and allowed him to breathe right before slamming his helmet into the steel hull. “Where is the princess?” the Daeva said.
He pounded Doran’s head against the shuttle until his face shield cracked wide open. Steam poured from the gap, and Doran fell to the ground, disoriented. To compensate for the breach, his helmet released a burst of heated air in a steady hiss that ate through his tank’s reserves. With his helmet spewing oxygen, he had a few minutes left—at best.
“Suffocation is a horrible death,” the man said, and swept a gloved hand toward his shuttle. “I can fill my craft with warm air for you—if you take me to the girl.”
Against Doran’s will, his eyes turned to the cushioned pilot’s seat, visible through the open hatch. He was tempted to say yes, and then sabotage the man during flight or lead him in the wrong direction. But if Kane’s shuttle had crashed half a mile away, it was only a matter of time before the Daeva spotted the Banshee on his own.
Doran had to keep the man on the ground. “You can take that warm air,” he growled, “and blow it up your ass.”
The Daeva bent down, tracing a finger along the edge of his blade. “Once your lungs are flat and screaming, you’ll change your mind. Or maybe I should carve the information out of you. That would be faster.”
“So arrogant,” Doran muttered. “Guys like you never learn.” He kicked the man squarely between the legs, but his boot met the resistance of a plastic cup.
For the first time, the Daeva smiled—a mechanical curve of lips revealing two rows of dull, metal teeth. “You’ve never met anyone like me,” he said, and unsheathed his blade. With one hand pressing Doran’s helmet into the ice, he used the other to slash through the open face shield.
Doran cried out in pain, his cheekbone burning as warmth oozed over his skin. The Daeva drew back to make another cut, but he halted when pulse fire sounded from behind them. His head whipped around, and in a flash, he sprang to his feet and ran to the open door, leaving Doran bleeding on the ground.
Doran pushed to his elbows and found Solara aiming a pistol at the shuttle. She fired two warning shots, which struck the hull on either side of the Daeva.
“Shoot him,” Doran told her. “Don’t hold back!”
“I’m trying,” she yelled.
When another round of fire failed to strike him, the Daeva leaped onto the pilot’s seat and closed the side hatch. Soon the engine rumbled to life. The craft lifted off the ground, its thrusters sending gusts of heat that scattered pebbles in every direction.
Solara ran over to protect Doran from the debris, but he shook his head and pointed at the shuttle. “It’s the Daeva. He’s going after the crew; we have to stop him.”
“What about the explosive rocks?” she asked, pulling a bag from her pocket. “I still have some left.”