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Chapter One
Oliver Turner jerked awake with a gasp and remembered terror, his own screams and the disappointed tone of his father echoing in his head. It took just a moment for his heart rate to slow back down, and then he curled his lip in disgust.
Typical.
He would have a damn dream tonight, of all nights.
He threw off his sheets, and his stomach rolled at the cold sweat-soaked fabric sticking to his skin. He tore himself out with a grunt, then made for his bathroom. His shirt and underwear fell onto the floor with a squelch that made him cringe as he peeled them off on his way, leaving a trail of damp clothes behind him.
Stepping onto the cold tile of the shower, he slammed his hand on the button. Sweet relief finally shuddered through him as the hot water sprayed onto him and sluiced away the slick remnants of his nightmare.
Calmed by the water beating down on his shoulders, Oliver leaned his head against the wall of the shower and sighed. So much for nine hours of sleep before the big day. He could see Dominic’s eager sneer already—the one he tried to hide, but that always peeked through when he thought he was going to win. But only ever when their father’s back was turned.
Oliver scoffed to himself. It wasn’t a big day—it was the first day. First days were all about first impressions, and he could make a striking first impression in his sleep. That’s why he’d been chosen for this job and why Dominic had never had a shot at it, even if he had been enjoying Oliver’s pedestal for the last several years.
With that thought, Oliver straightened and stretched, truly awake now and resigned to staying that way. He’d use the extra time to deeply consider what to wear.
He lathered some of his soap onto his silk washcloth and paused when the characteristic smell of earth lavender and pure wealth didn’t hit as clearly as it usually did. Then he sighed as he remembered. He’d had his favorite soap reformulated to suit klah’eel olfactory senses. The manufacturer had assured him it still smelled exactly the same—and when Oliver pressed his nose close to the washcloth, he could confirm that it did—but it was barely detectable to a human and wouldn’t overpower a klah’eel.
It wouldn’t do to go into serious contract negotiations smelling like potpourri, but it was still a little disappointing.
After showering, he dried and toweled his blond hair and then styled it into something sleek and refined while it was still damp. Returning to the room, he steeled himself before stripping off the wet sheets, then threw them into the hamper in the corner.
That done, Oliver threw open the doors of his closet and smiled at the contents with his hands on his bare hips. Now to decide what of his obscenely expensive and perfectly tailored wardrobe would be best suited to making an entrance into the Klah’Eel empire and the state of Northern Tava.
* * *
Captain Mal’ik opened his eyes, perfectly awake and perfectly aware. No threats. Not an item out of place. He sat up, put his feet on the ground, and rolled his shoulders—his joints creaking more than they used to but not feeling any stiffer.
The Turner ship landed in three hours. He expected their arrival and even the welcoming banquet to be a quiet affair from a security standpoint. The humans’ own security force would still be present, as they had insisted—correctly—that without extra precautions, it would be the most obvious time to strike. The job would get more interesting after they left, entrusting the security of their VIP to the Klah’Eel as a show of goodwill.
But expectations for quiet were not excuses for laziness. Mal’ik picked up the tablet from his nightstand and scrolled through last night’s reports. Nothing. Good.
He set the tablet aside and moved through his morning routine. Shower. Polish his teeth and his tusks. Rub lotion on the stump of his right shoulder and around the prosthetic input ports. Wipe the night’s dust off his right arm, and then click it into place. Allow the hiss of pain to escape, since there was no one around to hear, as the artificial nerves connected with the remaining ones in his shoulder. Tighten the harness that kept his arm in place around his chest.
Make his bed. Dress in uniform. Check his gatlung. Grab his bags. Leave.
The population of the political compound on which he and dozens of other security and service personnel lived had swelled to the low hundreds for these negotiations with and about the Turner family, and the halls and arcades bustled with people. Mal’ik passed rooms in the guest quarters still being turned out and meeting rooms being aired. The estate hadn’t been so busy since the war, and not for as long as Mal’ik had been posted at it.
He found his temporary accommodations in the guest wing—so much nicer than his living accommodations in the security wing—dropped off his bags, then made for the dining hall to meet with his security team.
When Mal’ik arrived, a familiar, muscular klah’eel woman was chewing on a roll.
He smiled. “Lar’a.”
Lar’a swallowed her mouthful and grinned. She stood up and spread her arms. “Old man!”
Mal’ik let himself be pulled into a hug and returned it, inhaling deeply. The younger woman smelled calm, confident, content. “You smell well.”
Lar’a let him go and leaned against the table with her mug of klak. “I am well. Still with Serihk.”
Mal’ik poured himself a mug. “He’s still a good employer?”
Lar’a had left Mal’ik’s Gat’Raph unit almost fifteen years ago to take a position as the Qeshian Emissary’s personal bodyguard. She had never looked back.
“The very best, as usual.” Lar’a took a swig of her klak and tilted her mug at him. “On that topic, we’ve got a new human consultant staying with us, and he needs his own bodyguard. I was hoping you could refer someone.”
Mal’ik nodded. “Send me some information. I’ll send you some names.”
