was Davordian.”
That explained the eyes, but not much else. “That orange streak in your hair… It reminds me of someone I know. His hair is exactly the same as yours—black with an orange streak near the temple. It’s even on the same side as his.”
Her eyes narrowed with disdain. “You don’t say.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I do say. His name is Trag Vladatonsk, and I’ve known him all my life.” Moe had never been quite sure how to refer to the men who’d once been his father’s comrades in arms before their unit had been captured and sold into slavery. Despite the lack of blood ties, Trag and the others were like uncles to him.
“I’ve heard the name before,” she said. “Which isn’t too surprising. He is, after all, the one who sired me.”
Chapter 2
This woman appeared to be about the same age as Moe, or perhaps a year or two younger. Moe had certainly never heard of Trag having any children aside from those borne by his Zetithian wife, Micayla.
“Does Trag know about you?”
Another disgusted snort presaged her reply. “I doubt it. Not that he would ever acknowledge me.”
In Moe’s opinion, once Trag had seen her, denying her would be impossible. A youthful version of her father, about the only differences Moe could detect were her gender and eye color. Trag’s other children—all of whom were considerably younger than this woman—had inherited his green eyes. “Davordian, you said?”
Her nod of assent brought back one of his “uncle’s” more interesting quirks—blue being his least favorite color, a dislike Trag had never bothered to keep to himself. Moe was pretty sure he didn’t like Davordians, either. There was a story in there somewhere.
He shifted his weight slightly. She wasn’t complaining, but being sat upon was bound to be causing her some discomfort.
“Mind telling me how that happened?” he asked.
“I might if you’ll get off of me.”
He shook his head. “Nice try. Don’t want to lose the upper hand just yet.” He aimed the pistol at her pretty little nose. “So tell me…was her pregnancy accidental or intentional?”
“How the hell would I know?”
He shrugged. “She must’ve told you more than his name.”
“Not really.”
“I see.” He studied her for a moment, but her face gave nothing away. “She must’ve really liked him to want to have his children.”
“Who said she wanted to?” the woman snapped.
“Nobody. But since rumor has it he only consorted with spaceport hookers back in those days, I’m guessing the pregnancy was planned. Hookers rarely conceive unless they want to—there are too many ways to prevent conception. What I can’t figure out is why none of us ever heard about you.”
“You never heard about me because she never told him,” she said with unrestrained anger. “She was a slut, like every other Davordian I’ve ever run across. She was jealous of the others who raved about the snard and what a good fuck he was. As you may know, he has an aversion to the color blue. Wouldn’t do a Davordian or an Edraitian. My mother had to pretend to be Terran by disguising her eye color. I’m surprised he couldn’t tell what she was by her scent. But then, I’ve been told he had a lousy sense of smell.”
“I’ve never heard that about him, but you may be right.” He frowned. “Trag’s a hero, you know. He’s the one who killed Rutger Grekkor—the guy who destroyed Zetith and paid the bounty on us.”
“Never heard of anyone named Grekkor.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “But dear old Dad killed him too late to save my brothers. The Nedwuts shot me, too, but since there was no bounty on females, they left me lying in the street without making sure I was dead. My mother found me. Not sure how I survived, but I did.” She shrugged. “I’ve always assumed they didn’t see the need to waste the kill setting on me and only hit me with a heavy stun.”
Moe was horrified, although not terribly surprised. Nedwuts were notoriously hard to stun, with the result that the stun setting on their weapons would kill just about anyone else. “How old were you?”
Her only reaction was a brief dilation of her glowing pupils. “Three.”
“Mother of the gods,” Moe whispered. “That’s–that’s terrible!”
“You think?”
Moe was leaning toward letting her go, but he was starting to enjoy the feel of her body between his legs. Then he remembered she was the one who’d shot him. “Next question: why am I here?”
Her lips stretched into a wicked