The Dream Crafter(5)

This time was not normal. This time she needed money – a lot of it in a short period. That tightening around her neck, the noose-rope sensation that always told when she was at the end of safety in a particular place, had been strong these last few days. She needed to run, and to run, she needed the money this job would provide. “I need the details before I commit, but from what Rhaum told me, I think I’m perfect.”

Fallon’s eyes were pure gold under the semi-dim light and as hard as any metal dug from the dirt. Without taking her gaze away from Amana, she said, “Inara, we got this. You can go.”

If any offense was taken at the brusque tone, Inara didn’t show it. Instead she got up and brushed past Amana, her leaving represented by a cloud of flowery perfume and the clack of high heels.

Fallon motioned to the chair at the head of the table, placing her diagonal from both of the women. “Sit, please. We’ll talk.”

…to the fly. “I’m fine standing. I don’t want to take up too much of your time if I don’t like the offer.”

“Trust me, you want to sit.” Fallon’s mouth curved into a semi-smile, but no humor reached her eyes. “You’re going to want to stay and hear the details, and it might take a bit to impart all important information.”

A violent impulse begged Amana to physically wipe that smile off the redhead. No doubt others had that exact same impulse. No doubt others curbed it in milliseconds, the same as she. “And why do you think that?”

Laire was bent forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her palms. The picture was one of detached disinterest, but the downturn of her blue lips, the way her eyes stayed resolute to not look in Amana’s direction, told a different story. Laire was not happy to be here.

All feigned amusement left Fallon’s face. Now she was all hard lines and burning directness. Laire looked at her and her lips parted only a scant inch, only the barest suggestion of opposition, but whatever Laire saw had her lower her head, swallow words not yet formed.

Fallon looped her arm over the back of the chair, relaxed predator, sure her prey was cornered. And in that voice that was one shade darker, one tone lower than expected, Fallon said, “Nakoa.”

With the touch of Amana’s fingertips to the wooden table, as she sat upon the unexpected softness of the cushion, in her head the undeniable clang of iron bars reverberated, against her neck the noose went choke tight, and by the expressions on the faces of the two women who were taking her measure – one clinical, one almost sympathetic – they knew it. “How do you know that name?”

“You’re good,” Fallon said, the tone holding genuine compliment. “It took us a very long time to get to you. Your brother’s protection of you is rather touching as well.”

Get to you. Why? Why?

The slow trail of red liquid down a white wall, splatter of red against white, white, white, absorption of the linen that took just a tiny drop and with it created a large blot, as large as the hole in his head.

Sound penetrated Amana’s consciousness, click, click, click, and at the moment before full awareness she jumped and swatted at what was in front of her, only to find it nothing but the snapping fingers of Laire. “Yep, she’s back,” the tiny woman said.

“Thank you for the update of the obvious.”

There was a glass of water on the table. Amana grabbed it and drank. It was only after she set the glass back down that the trembling of her hand became apparent. Strange, there was no sensation of trembling, only the bone deep cold that convinces you you’ll never be warm again. “What have you done to Nakoa?”

Fallon let her arms fall free and dangle by her sides. It looked casual, inviting, except her hand was curled next to the shaft of her boot, near where a small yet suspicious bump lay higher than elsewhere on the footwear. “Not a damn thing. It’s really the opposite. We’re here to give you good news regarding the possibility of getting him away from his current predicament.”

“No one has ever been interested in helping him go free.” No one but her. It was all on her, and that was fine. That was right. And she would get him free no matter the price.

“Let’s change that then, shall we? Let’s talk about how we’re going to get your brother out of prison.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

The club around them quieted, the way people did when the lights went down in a theatre. Amana turned to the crowd, but all looked normal, people still dancing and clapping each other on the back. “We should have some privacy for this discussion,” said Laire, who had brought out a nail file and was beginning to work on her nails.