“Where is she? I want to see her!” Trey demands with a half-panicked, half-bewildered look in his violet eyes. In the distance, doors slam, feet are running. More grim-faced soldiers crowd around in the hallway outside, watching, waiting.
Sunlight shines into the room from the high dormer-style windows above, putting Astrid and Trey in a golden spotlight. Their hair is a similar color: raven’s wings in this light, blue-black with the hint of night. Raspin prowls closer to Astrid. He touches her arm, intending to guide her away from Trey, but she won’t let him. She shakes him off. Her focus is on my Rafe soldier. “Do you know who I am?” she asks.
Trey grasps his forehead as if he has a massive headache. “No—but you’re part Rafian.”
“And I’m part Alameedan. You probably noticed my blue eyes already,” Astrid replies gently.
“Should I know you?”
“Yes . . . and no,” Astrid stammers, “that is to say, we’ve met—briefly—you were barely conscious, though.”
“Are you the medic?” Trey asks, straightening and dropping his hand from his forehead.
“I’ve been assisting with your care, Trey,” Astrid replies, using his name.
Trey touches her upper arm, and says in a rush, “There’s a girl. Her name is Kricket. She—”
“You should get back in bed so I can tell you—”
“—she was with me at my house in Rafe territory—we were attacked—” He tries to get closer to Astrid, but the wires attached to his chest get in his way, snapping him back. He grabs them all with his other hand and tears them off his chest without flinching. A myriad of beeping and alarms ring out on the hovercot. Astrid goes to the hovercot and turns off the offending noise by pressing buttons on its console. Trey faces her, ignoring the men behind him. “She’s short”—he holds up his hand, measuring my height on his chest—“blonde, looks like a priestess, but she’s not one of them, she’s one of us. Do you know where she is? Was she brought here too?”
Astrid straightens to face Trey again, but she has deflated a bit from her statuesque posture. She tucks her long, black hair behind her ear. “My name is Astrid. Do you know who I am?”
“No . . . I . . .” Trey pauses. “Did you say Astrid?”
She nods, “I did.”
He looks at her then—really looks at her. “Who are you?”
“I’m Kricket’s sister—her younger sister.”
He’s hardly fazed by her answer, which attests to either his brain injury or the fact that he’s singularly focused on me. “Kricket’s here?” He nods his head as if to make it so.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s complicated. Sit down and I’ll explain it to you.”
“I don’t need to sit down. Where is she? Is she alive?”
“She’s alive,” Astrid replies, “we think—”
“You think? You don’t know if she’s alive?”
“We believe she’s alive. We think we may know where she is now, but it’s unconfirmed. Giffen hasn’t reported back yet—”
“Giffen? Is he a Comantre soldier—was he on the Ship of Skye before it was destroyed?”
“He was there,” Astrid affirms. “He’s one of us, though, not Comantre.”
“He’s part of this?” Trey waves his hand around, indicating the other soldiers.
“He’s part of the reconstruction of New Amster.”
“Does he have Kricket?” Trey asks.
“No. He believes he has located her. We’re waiting for his confirmation—”
“Where?”
“The Sea of Stars.” She all but chokes on the words.
“The Sea of—that’s Alameeda—” His face contorts as if she’s thrown ice water on him. “That’s Kyon’s family seat. Does he have her?”
“We’re trying to locate her.”
Frustration makes him snarl, “Does Kyon have her?”
Astrid makes a slow retreat from him. Backing away, she answers, “Yes.”
Wayra’s voice interrupts them then. “Giffen and that tall, dopey-looking one over there”—he points to Raspin—“gave Kricket to Kyon in exchange for her sister, Astrid.” Wayra’s contemptuous words resound in the room as he shoves his way in past soldiers who are almost as big as he is. Someone has given him a coal-black Amster uniform, but he has modified it. It no longer sports a collar, having been ripped off so that more of the swirling, black military tattoos on the side of his throat are visible. Jax is behind him, sidestepping the other soldiers with a bit more tact than Wayra displayed.
“You’re her sister?” Trey asks Astrid in confusion, like she hadn’t already told him that.
“That’s correct,” she replies as she wrings her hands.
“Why would you do that? Why would you give her to him?” Trey can’t understand that kind of disloyalty. It’s not in him.