Aberrant

Chapter 46

Flight announcements. Hundreds of milling bodies. The noise and bright lights of the departure terminal fed the pounding ache in Jinx's skull.

As did fury.

When she got to the surface, Cryver was a dead man.

She shot a hard look sideways to her escort, Ship Security Officer Jon T. Ames, a washed-out blond with an anally trimmed goatee and unfriendly eyes. Going by his unforgiving stride, he wanted her off his to do list pronto. But according to what he'd said when he'd released her from holding, her transport had only just docked. At standard turnaround, that meant a half hour wait at least before boarding.

An eternity with what was chewing on her arse right now.

She didn't ask for permission; didn't give Ames warning. She simply ducked into a public coms booth and slammed the door shut.

Ignoring Ames as he hammered on the tinted plex, she placed a local call request. The booth's link hung as 'pending' for one heartbeat, two—then kicked straight to Kaplan's message service.

"Damn it." She repressed the urge to kick the booth. Kaplan was still offline. Still dealing with whatever shit he'd failed to tell her about.

She left a terse message, telling him to liaise with Channing ASAP, then ditched the link.

A loud bang: Ames' fist hitting the booth's door.

Holding up an index finger, Jinx signalled she needed another minute. When Ames snarled and placed a hand on his holstered weapon, she changed the finger she held up. The arsehole might not be happy about her making another call, but breaking fucking news, nor was she.

Not this call.

She accessed her wrist com's contacts list, then punched in a ship-to-surface call request for the fake business site Cryver had given her. The link routed to a planetary coms hub, then hung pending local connection.

She paced the small booth, glowering at Ames as he rattled the door. "Pick up, Cryver, you lowlife son of a—"

A hiss of static. Then a familiar voice rasped out of the com unit: "Benelli's Burgers and Sushi. State your order."

"You, battered and gutted like your fish special, you Guodoan ball sack." Jinx glared at the fake food advert that had popped on screen instead of Cryver's less than tasty face. "What the hell are you playing at, Cryver?"

A wheezy chuckle sounded on the link. "Pu'ta, you finally opened that second file. Took you long enough."

"Maybe you should have labelled it differently. Like 'lame-arse extortion attempt' maybe, or 'delusional shit'."

"I ain't the one who's deluded. Now, that arsehole you call daddy ... that's another matter."

"Fuck you, Cryver." How had the twisted shit got her parents' DNA profiles so quickly? He either had serious contacts or had been planning to piss her off for a while. "Why are you going to such moronic lengths to irritate me?"

"Just business, Slim. Person gets their DNA analysed, lucrative opportunities crop up. Right along with dirty family secrets."

"You mean like your fucked-up suggestion that—how'd you put it?—'Ollyus Drune is not a paternal match'?" Her heart tripped at the idea. Just as goddamn Cryver had known it would. He'd thoughtfully attached a page of notes on hereditary neurodegeneration. And he hadn't stopped the fun and games there. "Or do you mean your twisted little teaser about my mother potentially being my aunt? I knew you were a sick fuck, Cryver, that you took too many home-cooked pain meds, but what the hell are you trying to achieve sending me this crap?"

A pause. A few seconds of distant music: something raunchy—a strip club beat. Then another husky chuckle scraped out of the booth's com, making her want to stab the dancing prawn on screen. "You really have no idea, do you, pu'ta? That's fucking priceless. I suggest you pay up, get all the sordid details—on more than just them arseholes who've been calling themselves your parents. Believe me, it'll be worth every credit. You got some 'interesting' shit going on, Slim."

A loud thump behind her. Jinx swung about, caught the slashing end-your-call movement Ames was making outside the booth then the stabbing motion he directed at his com's chrono settings. Ah—shit. Her transport had to have a priority turnaround. She'd have to deal with Cryver's bullshit on the surface. "Start running, arsehole. I'm coming for your fragged hide."

"Looky Lou's. Eastern Quarter. Bring the credits—I got me some arse to rent." A female giggle sounded before Cryver cut the link.

Jinx stared at the booth's com, her breath short and harsh. Frigging lowlife.

Frigging clever lowlife.

Cryver was capable of manipulating results to con a mark. She couldn't trust a thing he told her.

But what if there was even a nanoparticle of truth to his claims?

Her stomach rolled, conflicting emotions rising. It was theoretically possible Ollyus Drune hadn't fathered her. She'd been four months old when he'd learned about her. He'd been away on a year-long trip. Her mother could've been wrong about who'd knocked her up. Or lied. Long-haul pilots made good wages. And Drune wouldn't have demanded a paternity test. He wouldn't have risked exposing what lurked in his genetics, not while he was still fit to fly.

Another thump against the booth's door. Jinx jolted out of her thoughts. Ames stabbed a finger towards a dock checkpoint. Her transport was waiting.

She jerked up a hand to hold him off a moment longer. She'd had enough bullshit. With all the crap she was dealing with and her brain about to implode, she needed facts, not Cryver's warped creativity.

Using the booth's video input, she copied his highly questionable reports and added quick, oral instructions for their verification. Then she found Channing's contact details on local coms.

The booth jolted under yet another impatient blow.

She hit 'send' on reflex.

And immediately felt ill.

Twenty-eight years. That's how long she'd avoided the truth. And she'd just requested a med analysis of her screwed-up genetics. Fuck.

She pushed out of the booth before she could countermand the instructions or be sick. It was done. For better or worse.

God, who was she kidding? There'd be no 'better'.

Ames shoved her forward, then through the dock security checkpoint. Her thoughts a haze, she ignored the rough handling, couldn't even summon a snarl when he snatched up her belongings from the scanner and strode off ahead of her. Stomach churning, she followed him down the plex tunnel to the relevant dock. She'd asked for the truth. Finally.

And she didn't want it.

Because no matter how tempting Cryver's lies were, none of what he'd claimed could explain what had happened to her earlier.

Phantom claws ripping into her brain.

A demon out to get her.

She didn't need a med analysis to confirm she was her father's daughter.

Feeling her lungs lock, she pushed panic back. Screw it. Nothing had changed. She needed to focus on something else. Anything else.

Pulling in a breath, she joined Ames at the dock's airlock gate and held out a hand for her belongings. "What's the ETA—?"

Ames shoved her through the gate.

"Jee-zus." She swung about to face him. "Okay. You need to rein it the hell in, you uptight son of a—"

A gloved hand clamped around the back of her neck. The cool kiss of a plastic disk against her spine warned her the person behind her had a micro shock weapon palmed. She turned her head—slowly—and looked up.

A twist of scarred lips. Lethal, ice-green eyes.

"Fuck." She clenched her teeth. "You've got to be kidding me."

Tras' smile grew. "We're going for a ride, pu'ta."