Page 98 of The Space Between Stars

Did it?

“I-I want to stop thinking about Calver. I want it more than anything. But there are some kinds of love where it doesn’t matter how long you hold that fucker underwater, they just can’t seem to die.”

Mitek didn’t sympathize with her. He didn’t placate her or hold her or tell her it would all be alright. She was glad for that. He screwed the lid back onto the tin of salve, curled her fingers around it, and moved on.

“You, heal.” His jaw worked in circles. “I’ll deal with Thyatira’s emissaries in a way that’ll have Keane laughing so hard, you’ll hear him from Fate’s realm.”

TWENTY-THREE

NIKLAUS

Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day

Location: Jiradesh Desert

Another day passed moss-free. Niklaus knew he should feel fortunate that he hadn’t joined an overwhelming statistic, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether those who succumbed were the lucky ones. Calver might have gotten him through the deadliest symptoms, but the desire remained, strong as it ever was. Niklaus shifted a stack of trays sideways, groping for a bottle stashed in the wagon’s corner. He tipped his head back for a drink that burned the whole way down. This vice was nearly enough to lessen the want for the other. Nearly.

“Are you still going to the rally tonight?” he asked the mute, who’d assumed his usual space on the wagon floor, tinkering.

“Do you feel inclined to?”

Niklaus swirled the dwindling drink. It nearly made his headache manageable, but it wasn’t going to last much longer either. “We didn’t agree to that.”

“When?”

Niklaus still wasn’t sure about all that. The day was growing hot. He sipped anew. “Will there be anything left over?”

The mute stared at him for too long for comfort, and he was silently glad for the man’s lack of expression. Better to not know how he felt.

Niklaus held a hand over his heart in mock insult. “Are you saying you don’t want to spend another four days locked with me in the mess storage wagon?”

A vein in the man’s face twitched.

What struck Niklaus was that there was only one answer which would not result in his being struck. “I promise to behave. But it would be nice to have something to help me tolerate the headache.” Something being more whiskey.

the mute signaled from beneath his workstation, the plate above him disassembled a different way for the twentieth time.

“Water,” Niklaus rasped in agreement.

The mute kicked his canteen across the floor.

The request was not lost on Niklaus as he stumbled from the wagon, wincing against the valiant sun. He hadn’t seen the man drink anything he hadn’t prepared himself. He had even used Niklaus’s winnings to purchase simple poison detectors to use on the communal gruel he ate in the mess.

The walk to the central water wagon took only minutes. No one was there—the recruits were in scheduled morning training. Commands and responses sounded in the distance, carried by the incessant breeze that tousled Niklaus’s hair, stiff with sweat from sitting beneath that sweltering canvas. He didn’t notice the water had overflowed his canteen until the pattering of fluid against sand made him stop. He took a long sip, letting the lukewarm liquid slide down his raw throat. Then he leaned his head against the water wagon. Please let this day pass quickly. And the next. And the next. Perhaps thwart the Tera’thian ambush, while you’re at it.

They had the rally to look forward to that night, but with the need for moss removed from the equation, the stakes had decreased.

“Psst. Aaay.”

Niklaus whirled, spilling water as he went. His eyes focused on a tiny figure shrouded in white, blending into the canvas of the wagons. It darted beneath a wagon. Then a warm brown hand beckoned him. The form was feminine—not distinctly curvaceous, but after spending nearly two moons bombarded by testosterone from every angle… Niklaus’s face drew long.