Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,2

the waist, he reminded Klara of the trolls from the stories her mother had read to her as a child.

“Sure thing, boss.” Nexbit opted for a Terran form this time, duplicating the bouncer right down to his tattoos. Only his head remained unchanged—which was fortunate because the bouncer was even uglier than the Sympaticon.

“That’s a good look for you, Nex,” Temfilk remarked. “You should stick with it.”

“Too much trouble.” Nexbit hefted the unconscious man onto his shoulder with ease. “And besides, Terrans stink.”

Temfilk glanced at Klara. “Going to sell this one or recruit him? He’d be an asset to the team.”

“Haven’t decided,” Klara replied. “No more questions. Let’s get out of here.”

Moe awoke with an ache in every bone in his body, and not only where his Herpatronian opponent had hit him. When he realized he was bound and gagged, his anger flared again, even though that anger had probably been responsible for his current predicament. He didn’t know why he’d been captured, but there were only two options.

Being sold into slavery was one. His father had been a slave for twenty years, and that history appeared to be repeating itself in his son. The fact that he’d been taken by a woman made the slavery issue even more appalling. Lynx, one of six Zetithian prisoners of war who had been sold as slaves in lieu of execution, had been a harem slave for ten years. Cooped up with fifty women at any given time, those women had simply worn him out—physically, mentally, and sexually. That Moe had been captured while in a fight with a Herp was another factor. There were still gladiator-type entertainments on a few backward planets—including Haedus Nine—and those were only the ones he’d heard about.

The other possible option was being turned over to a Nedwut bounty hunter. The bounty on Zetithians hadn’t been paid in twenty years, but that didn’t mean everyone had heard the news that Trag Vladatonsk had killed Rutger Grekkor, thus ending the Terran man’s jealous vendetta against Zetithians. In his zeal for exterminating their species, he’d even destroyed their planet. And all because Grekkor’s wife had taken a Zetithian lover.

Why does it always have to be about sex?

Moe sometimes wished he’d favored his Terran mother instead of appearing to be a clone of his Zetithian father.

Curse those dominant genes.

Finally, his fury had a focus.

That woman.

So what if she had the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen. Clear, electric blue with a startling black rim around the iris. At least, that was what he remembered seeing—right before she shot him.

Whatever she was planning for him couldn’t be good. This wasn’t like any courtship ritual anyone had ever told him about, unless it was a shoot-first-and-have-sex-later approach, which meant he needed to get the heck out of Dodge.

What his captor couldn’t have known was that Moe could escape from almost any form of restraint. Harry Houdini had nothing on him. He could dislocate various joints and then put them back in place with ease. Sure, he might be a little sore afterward, but thanks to his Zetithian blood, a good night’s restorative sleep fixed him right up. The only limiting factor was the width of the space between any bars on the doors and windows with respect to size of his head. However, given enough time and access to the locks, he didn’t have to resort to squeezing between bars. Considering the lack of creativity with which he’d been tied up, he doubted the locks were any better. Getting past a guard was a little tougher, but it could be done. Being conscious was the only requirement.

I should’ve been a thief.

Except he wasn’t a thief—wasn’t even the tiniest bit dishonest. His escape artist routine was more of a hobby than training for his life’s work. Some people played video games or engaged in sports. Others painted or played music. Moe played with locks and handcuffs.

On the other hand, if he’d been imprisoned aboard a starship, there really wasn’t anywhere to go, unless he could find an escape pod. Even if he couldn’t get to a pod, he could tap into a ship’s navigational controls, alter the course to suit his needs, and lock the controls so no one could reset the course.

He set aside his anger for the few minutes it took to extricate himself from his bonds. Given how measly these were, he suspected the windowless cell in which he was being held was where the security lay.

There were two possibilities for