A/N: So right as I go to start a Wood Elves army, Games Workshop pulls them from production... Much sorrow followed.
If anyone wants to check it, I did a minor edit of Chapter 25, during Louk's conversation with Helsing. No implications on this story; made it more for my own benefit. It might come into play in a later book.
Long list of reviewers here I want to give thanks to:
LordGhostStriker- What is this revolutionary concept? I cannot believe such a thing exists.
Kamzil118- I strive for interesting. It wouldn't be Warhammer if it was boring.
AKRuiner- There will be a little bit of an arc in the "modern time." Not too much though, because I don't want to detract from the main story.
OR99- I have no idea what you are referring to... :D
SpecH82- Can't confirm or deny the possibly of any of the options you have hypothetically brought to the table in reference to the existential identity of one person who may or may not belong to the bloodline of a person of interest in the story with which you are guessing of. Hope that clears it up. :D
89- I did indeed have to ponder whether or not I wanted to give Inquisitor Jadus the credit for a scheme like that. Granted, he is clearly supposed to be a 'bad guy,' but he also is an Inquisitor, and one does not become an Inquisitor by being an actual buffoon. I have left it vague for now so I can make a better decision later on, but I am leaning on that idea.
Parzival12- Don't worry, she doesn't have a name. I haven't given it yet.
Roku Molester of Science- kisses are gross. Eldar cooties... yuck!
Disciple of Ember- I sort of used the chapter to reanchor my thoughts since I'd had almost a quarter of a year with little to no writing. Glad it came across well.
BIBOTOT- Haven't ever played through any of the Valkyrie Chronicles games (though I have the newer one on PC and console), but I understand the Darcsen concept. Yeah, everyone's life sucks in my stories. To quote the great Ted Buckland, "Why should they be happy?"
FlavorousOne54- He changes... a little... sort of. I made him specifically to be a not-good person. There is some growth though, don't worry.
KappaPride- Eldar Trickery. Always blame the Eldar Trickery.
Guest Reviewer- All the Feels. Right in the Feelcenter.
OnyxIdol- Gotta have that overwhelming depression of how life sucks somewhere in this story.
Guest Reviewer 2- I'll try.
Happy April Fool's!
Hound's Call
When he came to, the headache was receding. He still had a pounding in his temples, sharp pain in the spine. He still had the lukewarm metal on his cheek, the taste of blood in his mouth. The steel in his spine was cold. Colder than usual. Cold enough to make him uncomfortable. He opened his eyes slowly, careful to not be blinded by the overhead lights. Soft as they were, they stung even with his eyelids barely cracked open. Several seconds of slow breaths and adjustment eased the glare. Facing the wall, just arm's reach from his head. Not his room. Medical equipment to his left. Witch's room. Once he could see, he rolled over onto his other side. The motion caused a small bout of nausea, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment to compensate.
The witch's face lay just inches away. Her posture was limp, exhausted. Like she had just thrown herself onto the floor after a long day's work. Dried blood crusted around her upper lip. Her eyes were closed, face paler than a living being should ever have. Her breathing… shit.
"No." Louk pulled himself up onto his elbows and reached over to her. He put two fingers on her neck, checking for a pulse. Weak. "Oh, feck me. Not this. Not now, dammit."
Movement took more effort than it should have, but he dragged himself to his knees and pulled her off the ground. Her head lolled on his lap, eyes peeling just slightly as gravity took hold. Louk cradled her head, shifted her body closer to more of a sitting position. There was a faint flow of air from her nostrils, that was a good sign. "Wake up. Come on, wake up."
When he got no response from a gentle shake of her head from side to side, he inserted two fingers into her mouth and felt for damage. Nothing on her tongue, no obvious airway restrictions. Just unconscious. And with a worryingly low heartbeat. Her skin felt cold. Louk slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her up. Shuffling over to the bed, he laid her down and started yanking the sheets out from the tight tuck she kept on the mattress. He then wrapped her up, hoping a bit of warmth would help. None of Mullison's medical equipment would be useful. He had to do this the old fashioned way.
The Thracian soldiers all turned to stare as the hatch slid open. Louk blinked in surprise. It was a different shift. He recognized the faces, of course. But the weren't the same ones. How many hours had passed? Had no one thought to come in and check on him?
"Corporal! Send for Mullison. I need a medicae in here!"
He didn't have a particular soldier in mind. There were plenty of corporals in the Thracian unit. Most of the Privates were all dead by now. As it was, they had this unspoken chain-of-command that functioned quite effectively. It took them a split second to register his command before one of them started off at a jog. Two more moved in towards the hatch, slinging their rifles and removing gloves as they did. Louk held up a hand to halt them.
"Nothing you can help with, boys. Just send Mullison in when he gets here."
They did not argue. If anything, they appeared relieved to not have to go inside the room. Louk shut the hatch again and crossed over to the bed. The witch showed no sign of change. Her body hardly moved even with her little breaths. Checking her pulse again, he counted the same weak beat. Stable, at least. That was good. Stable meant not getting worse. Now he needed to find a way to make her better.
Ducking into the head, he grabbed a cup and filled it with water. She really was small, he thought to himself as he moved back to her side. Her frame was narrow and petite, fragile like one of those ornamental dolls Helsing had shown him in some governor's mansion. It was hard to imagine that she had any power, or strength. Mystery of the Eldar that they contained so much power in such unassuming bodies. Louk eased himself onto her bed and scooped up her blanket-wrapped form. Lifting the cup to her lips, he tipped it just enough to allow a few drops into her half-open mouth. No response for a long second. Then her lips closed and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Taking that as a good sign, Louk gave her more. She swallowed that too. He continued for several minutes, allowing her to sip at the cup. Wasn't sure what sort of good it was doing if any, but it was better than nothing.
"Easy there," he whispered, more for his benefit than hers. "Not too much."
Her breathing gradually became deeper, more regular. As an afterthought he dipped his fingers in the cup to wet them and wiped away the blood on her upper lip. The sensation of her blood on his finger made him pause. It sent a tingle through his arm, filled his gut with a pressing need. He brought the finger to his mouth and tasted it. It was sweet, sweeter than human blood. Rich and… satisfying. Not quite sure why he even did it, he cleaned off her face and licked the blood from his fingers. It tasted wonderful, far better than any wine he had ever drunk. The taste of her was intoxica-
Her eyes slowly opened. Tucking his hand beneath her head, he held her steady in case she toppled off of his lap. She let out a groan, face scrunching in pain. Then she blinked away her sleepiness and stared up at him. He half-expected a furious slap in the face, or a psychic punch to launch him across the room. Her temper had quite a kick to it. He realized belatedly that this was the exact situation he should have been trying to avoid. The position was hardly appropriate.
To his surprise, there was no anger. No icy hoarfrost of psychic power. No mental spear to split his skull in two. Instead, there was calm. The witch gazed up at him, then down to inspect the blankets he had wrapped her up in, then slowly back up to him. She exhaled slowly and deliberately. Her eyes didn't do that fiery-glow thing they usually did when she was summoning hellfire and brimstone. No. She set her head against his arm, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep again.
Sleep.
She'd been fecking sleeping.
"Well… shit." Louk looked around, unsure of what to do next. The witch was sleeping quite comfortably, or so he imagined. He would have felt bad about waking her. But what the feck was he supposed to do with this? If Mullison arrived to find him holding the witch like this, with no apparent issue, he would never hear the end of it. Not only would the medicae have his head for pulling him away from whatever work he had been up to, but Louk was pretty damn sure this could be counted as unbecoming exposure, or whatever stupid term the Inquisition had. He sure as hell wasn't entirely comfortable with it. When he thought she was in trouble, sure. Taking care of his charge was one thing. This… this was different. This was almost intimate.
The witch's face bore no sign of tension or discomfort. She appeared to be quite relaxed, something he never would have thought possible in this sort of scenario. Resting in the arms of an enemy. It wasn't supposed to go like this. He found himself wondering what had happened to the fire-breathing temper. Maybe she was hurt. Maybe her fall had knocked her head about and loosened a few screws.
One of her hands had slipped up to her chin, delicate fingers poking out from beneath the blanket. They rested against her lips, giving a slight childish tone to her expression. Almost like a child sucking on its thumb. He grinned at the thought. Comparing an ancient being to that of a young human. The two could be no further apart. Carefully shifting his grip under her, her freed a hand and gently wiped her hair free of her face. Her hair was soft, full, tickled his calloused hand. Skin smoother than silk teased him. Her breath hitched at his touch, drawing one sharp breath before resuming its easy rhythm.
There was something entrancing about her. He watched her sleep, memorizing the lines of her eyes, the contours of her cheeks. Sharp cheeks, pointed chin, long ears tapered to a knife-point. His curiosity got the better of him. Moving ever so slowly, careful to not wake her, he brought a thumb up to her ear. A careful stroke along its length confirmed that there was nothing inherently unusual about it. Cartilage, not bone or some other inhuman aberration. Sensitive, too. A grimace darted across her face. Not one of pain, merely irritation. He stroked it again. Her head pulled slightly away. A faint growl built in her chest, then faded.
"Don't like it when your ears get touched, huh?" He brought his fingers together, pinching the tip of her ear. A near silent groan slipped from her lips and her head twitched away from him, hand rising sleepily to swipe at his offending fingers. He removed them, grinned at the irritated grimace on her face. This was perhaps the time he would ever see that without fearing for his health. Were the Eldar really not that different? Did they have the same petty aggravations, the same little peeves? A small sliver of thought wondered what she would do if he touched her ears while awake. The logical answer was that she would Warpslap him halfway across the ship.
So he would have to enjoy this for now, he decided. Enjoy being able to tease her, irritate her. It would hardly make up for the things she had done to him, but there was something enchanting about the way her lips pursed, her eyebrows scrunched. He used to do this to Mouline. Tease her when she wasn't paying attention. Rile her up just to see what she would do. Returning his thumb and index finger to her ear, he began to stroke ever so slowly. The witch squirmed, hand swiping almost like a dog trying to scratch its ear.
She smelled like flowers. Not that overpowering, musky scent one encountered in the rare floral shops in the rich districts of hives. Like that open field on an agriworld, unsullied by man's touch, with clean air and endless plains for kilometers on end. It felt out of place, on a ship like this. Just like she was. A delicate xenos creature on a boxy, brutish, human vessel. He still did not know what Helsing's plan for them was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Studying her face, he decided that he hoped Helsing was planning to release them. He couldn't stand to think of this one being put in an Inquisitorial laboratory. He would fight that. She didn't belong in human hands.
The witch moaned, her voice husky and sensual. Louk's heart skipped a beat. He stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking. A redness began to seep into her cheeks; her fingers found his and curled around them, capturing them as surely as if she had locked an iron chain around them. He didn't dare to move. The faintest pressure tickled his thumb as her head began to rub against his touch. A pit formed in his stomach, and he realized with a sweeping sense of nausea that the witch was enjoying his… teasing. Throne! That wasn't what he had intended. Her sleeping form shifted, nestling against him, a small smile forming on her perfect lips. The silence was rent by a series of urgent little moans as she tried to coax his hand against her ear.
This wasn't… not what he had… he felt sick. Moving with caution, he eased her back down onto the bed and freed himself from her entangling hand. A disappointed sigh followed his retreat. Louk set her down, moved a pillow over for her head, and retreated to the far side of the room. His head was pounding. His guts pushed at his throat. He was one wrong breath away from vomiting.
Xenos contamination. He had heard the stories. They all had. The rumors about heathenous men or women who had laid with xenos. Louk didn't have too many rules in life, but that was one that he could never picture himself breaking. Xenos were… not human. Even if they weren't evil, they were different. Eldar were manipulative. Sorcerers. Liars. Helsing had respect for them, but that was out of professional courtesy from one sneaky bastard to a whole race of the same. Louk could handle being around them. That wasn't so bad. But this was different. Getting one off was… wrong. He hadn't even meant to. Its… its fecking ears? What fecked up kind of species had…
The thought of it made his stomach lurch. Staggering into the washroom, he threw himself onto the toilet and puked. A ringing sensation filled his ears. His vision swam. A trembling hand reached into his pocket and drew the small leather wallet he had taken to keeping around. Pulling a syringe out of it, he injected the dose of stimm and let chemistry do the rest. The overpowering rush of adrenaline bashed the sickness away, cleared his head like fire, emptied his stomach into the bowl. His throat screamed in pain, but he was fine then. He could breathe. Louk sat there next to the toilet for several minutes, working on his breathing, trying desperately to block out the feeling of her skin on his hand.
"Stupid. Stupid. Fecking idiot" he muttered, smacking his head against the wall. That had been colossally stupid. Don't dick around with the prisoners. The Eldar didn't have the same thoughts and feelings that humans did. He was already in over his head, and he was teetering on a precipice. Maybe. Or whatever it was called. Helsing had some fancy word for straddling the line of success and ruin. Whatever it was, he was on it. And it didn't feel good.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, going to the sink to clean the taste of scum from his tastebuds. His heart drummed like a squad of Orks banging on their helmets. Concentrating on his breathing, he waited for his heartrate to settle. The stimm was burning through his veins, had him on edge more than he would have been otherwise. It also sharpened his senses. His thumb twitched, mimicking the motion of stroking. He shivered. He hadn't thought about it before, but now the whole thing struck him as wrong. Why in hell had he thought that would be a good idea?
"Don't be a dumbass" he muttered to himself. Rule number one of life in a hive. He couldn't count how often he had broken that rule. This certainly applied.
The outer hatch opened, drawing his attention. Splashing a touch of water on his face, he brushed himself down and stepped back into the room. He looked like hell. His face was pale and his eyes were red. He didn't really care. It wasn't as if his crew expected to see him looking in good shape.
Mullison offered an uninterested nod in his direction. The medicae had an official-looking medical satchel on his shoulder, but other than that he lacked the usual surplus of gear. Perhaps they had caught him during one of his rare moments away from his work. Yes, Louk was going to get hell for that. Right now, the medicae stood next to the witch's bed, inspecting her at arm's length, digging through his pack for one of his specialized handheld auspexes.
"What is the situation" he demanded, addressing Louk without wasting a single glance in his direction.
"It's… uh, I'm not really sure. I think she's okay now."
"Did you call me out here on a false alarm?" Mullison's huff of disappointment grated against his ears. The medicae turned to give him that withering stare he kept in his repertoire. His next words were lost when he caught sight of Louk's condition. "What happened to you?"
"Had a disagreement with my supper." His attempt at an indifferent shrug did not fool the medicae. Mullison stepped closer, peering into his eyes with that clinical detachment he slipped into when in work mode. His disapproving frown deepened. Nothing needed to be said. Louk held his gaze without a hint of shame.
"Need a lookover?"
"No."
"Does she?"
"Not anymore." Louk shrugged. Stepping past the medicae, he skirted around the bed, keeping a good distance between them. "Guess she's sleeping now."
"Yes. Her vital signs are aggravated." Mullison tapped a few buttons on his handheld. "Did something happen?"
"She... I thought she had passed out." The truth did not need to come out. Mullison would report anything he said to Helsing, and he did not need Helsing knowing about this… thing that had happened to him. His skin tingled as he looked around the room. He could see the runes carved into the walls. Though he had been in the room numerous times before, he could not recall having ever noticed them. A slight pressure built behind his eyes as he studied them. It hurt to look for more than a few seconds.
The medicae asked him several more questions, interrupted only by occasional scans from his auspex as he checked the witch for ailments. Eventually he concluded that the witch had nothing wrong with her, that Louk had cried Ork, and that he had better things to do than study the sleeping xenos. Departing with a curt order to never bother him again excepting on life-threatening circumstances, the medicae headed back in the direction of Glory Road. Louk followed, eager to be rid of the room. He paused long enough to deliver the Eldar rations, spending as little time in the communal room as possible. The room felt abnormally stuffy and claustrophobic. The Eldar seemed more aware of him, paid him more attention. The wary stares that transfixed him from a dozen directions made his nerves crawl.
His queasiness faded as he put passage behind him. Taking a meandering route in the direction of Glory Road, he allowed himself an hour to collect his thoughts. The one thought kept repeating in his mind. A mantra Helsing had taught him early on in his days serving the Inquisitor: People are stupid. They believe things mainly because they either want them to be true or fear them to be true. He did not know why it stuck now. Helsing had explained it well enough in his endless lessons. It was not that great of a secret. A pretty ordinary explanation of how mankind functioned. Fear and hope were powerful motivators. If someone had benefit to a thing's validity, it was easier to find it credible. Helsing had always told him it was a cautionary proverb. Maybe he also meant it as something else.
The general Imperial citizen knew next to nothing about the galaxy save for the immediate world in front of them. They knew only what the Ecclesiarchy told them, and those were hardly the words of truth and impartiality. Louk considered what he had known of the xenos races. Eldar: vile spirits that stole the soul and kidnapped the innocent to put them to torture. That was all they had been to him. He had wanted them to be that. He had wanted them to to be the bad guys. Because if the xenos were that bad… maybe humanity was worth saving?
If anyone asked, he acknowledged that he had the shit end of the stick when it came to life. Everything had been terrible, unfair, wretched. Life as an orphan in the underhive. One friend he abandoned and left to die. Fallen prey to the worst of the bad, ensnared by the promise of power. People murdered, children left on the streets to rot. Humanity was awful. It did not care, it did not feel. It was a septic pile of shit in a festering galaxy of hell. No one wanted to admit it. Everyone feared the truth. So they picked their enemies. They made out the other races to be the worst they could possible be, so that way they could feel better about themselves. It was easier to kick a begging orphan on the street when you knew that the dreaded xenos were willing to swoop down and eviscerate your children with spiked phalluses and drills.
Handling the Eldar was a test. That much he knew. But what sort of test was it? Was it simply a test of his ability to manage an operation? Or was Helsing trying to show him something? Louk's Inquisitor had a fondness for xenos races. Not in that he thought they were wonderful, peace-loving, likable sorts. It was more that he found they had a lot to teach. Maybe Helsing wanted Louk to see this. To see the culture of a different people. Not to acclimate, but to understand. Louk more or less bought into the preaching that most xenos races were terrible and wanted humanity dead. He doubted the civilized ones considered that the priority of their existence, but millennia of war could not be ignored. Then again, what else were they doing? He doubted the entire military of humanity made up more than a hundredth of a percent of man's population. And that was being incredibly generous and counting everyone remotely involved, from the frontline soldiers to the Administratum clerks of Imperial worlds.
He wanted to believe that the xenos had nothing to give him. He wanted to believe that they were uninteresting and had no real purpose other than in the sights of his guns. It was simpler that way. Life was easier. When he had landed on Iora the only thing about Eldar that mattered was that they needed to be made gone. Now he lived alongside them. Brought them food. Protected them from a ship that would want them dead. Monitored their health. Stroked their hair.
The Eldar were prisoners. They had nothing to look forward to. At best they could expected basic imprisonment and some hands-off observation. At worst… laboratories, torture, experimentation. The kind of things the Ecclesiarchy told them the xenos did with human prisoners. Dissection on a white table with fiendish Tech Priests studying every spurt of agony, every reflex of pain. Psychic interrogation, mind breaking, being reduced to animals as test subjects for diseases and weapons. Throne only knew what sort of unholy devices and plans lurked in the dark corners of mankind? Louk doubted any xenos race could ever compete with the depravity of mankind. And that wasn't even including the Moral Threat.
He need a drink. Or five. Enough to clean the shit out from between his ears. First order was to clean himself up. His clothes were dirty and he smelled like sick. A quick shower and a He picked the bar least likely to have any of his comrades in it, a joint referred to as Void Leave. It served a wide variety of customers, mostly the naval officers and upper class youth. It had a very aggressive vibe, with plenty of lights and sound, live bands, a dance floor, and all the sort of things that young people needed to have a wonderful and utterly regrettable night. He skipped the floor and went straight to the bar.
Four drinks in, a slim brunette with a mischievous smile and military bearing slid into the seat next to his. The bolt pistol and badge on her hip told him she was armsmen crew. The buzzed glow in her eyes told him she was off duty. The nervous blonde at her side told him they were looking for a wild night. Just the kind of thing he needed to take his mind off the Eldar.
One benefit to working for Captain Miracu: he ensured his officers were well cared for. Their quarters were spacious and well-furnished, with personal washrooms and space for storage. A personal cogitator on a small desk, a closet for clothes. And a comfortable bed large enough to hold three people tucked in nice and close.
That was how Louk found himself the next morning, with a dishevelled bun of of platinum blonde hair in his face and a warm body on either side of him. He expected that pleasant weariness that followed after a ferocious night of rutting. The two crewmembers had plied him with drinks for a good two hours, throwing alcohol at him and flirting so shamelessly that he almost worried that they were attempting to shanghai him into a work crew. The night had taken a much better turn, resulting in a drunken scramble into wherever the hell in this ship it was, and Throne only knew how long they stayed up. The pair had been quite good. What the one lacked in experience the other made up for in enthusiasm.
The brunette was named Carli. Warrant Delta, Penitentiary Wing. Limber and feisty, with a strong arm and a weak alcohol tolerance. She was the pusher of the two, the one ordering drinks and stripping down halfway into the room. The other was Adderly. Lieutenant Junior Grade, Primary Auspex Station 3. Young, inexperienced, extremely low tolerance for alcohol. Nervous as a lark in a fire zone. Screamed like one too. That combination of energy and sweetness should have left him satisfied. It didn't.
He felt like shit.
That overpowering sense of wrongness in his gut soured the air he breathed, the saliva in his mouth. One of the girls began to stretch and groan, writhing against him as she came to wakefulness. Her touch repulsed him. Extricating himself from the mess, he took in the sight of the room. Simple unadorned bulkheads. Faux-wood furniture. Clothes strewn all over the floor between the hatch and the bed. Empty bottles on the nightstand.
"G'morning, hanshum." Carli gripped his shoulder and used it as leverage to pull herself up beside him. She made to rest her chin on his shoulder. Louk pulled away just slightly. It was instinctive, reflexive. If she noticed, she made no show of it. Instead she rolled out of bed, one hand on the nightstand for support. Stumbling across the room, she entered the washroom. Louk stayed in bed, breathing slowly, trying to soothe the aching that plagued his mind. This all felt… dishonest. He couldn't understand it. Why did each breath strain through his lungs as if being squeezed?
Was this guilt? Maybe. It felt the same. He had experienced guilt a few times. The tightness in his chest that choked his heart. The pounding of blood hammering in his ears, the back of his skull. Short, half-formed thoughts rising to his mind, then fading away into a haze. Simple focus of a single concept. The thing that sent echoes of pain rippling through his senses. Except there was no one concept. There were several. Vague ideas. Red. Pale. Blood.
Why did he feel like shit? What the hell was it?
The other patron of the bed groaned, wiping a forearm across her face to clear her eyes. She rolled over to face the washroom and the blinking clock on the wall. A startled curse burst from her lungs and she exploded out of the bed, frantically sprinting to snatch up her clothes and disappear into the washroom. He hardly noticed her flight, save that Carli came sauntering out a moment later, a knowing smirk on her lips.
"Aw, you got us so tuckered out she slept through her alarm" the armsman crooned.
She climbed onto the bed, aiming to snuggle up against him. He slipped out of her reach and started clambering into his clothes. There was a stiffness in his limbs, an unease that numbed the sensation in his actions. A bemused stare followed him as he stepped into his pants.
"Something the matter, handsome?"
"I've got places to be." It was a simple enough answer. Not that she needed one. The armsman had only wanted a fun night. That much had been served. Now they could go their separate ways and forget about it. Pretend it never happened. Not have to deal with any of it ever again. Bed it and forget it.
"That's a shame. I've got… five hours to next shift. Plenty of time for some more fun."
Louk chose to not answer. Buckling his pants up, he offered a gruff nod and retreated to the hatch. It closed behind him with a solid thud. The air outside felt chilled. Quarters near the water tanks. Multiple benefits to that. But a cold passage with a rumbling headache made him feels so much worse that he already did. The chill swept up his spine, setting his nerves alight, putting ghostly sensations across his hands. His fingers curled, grasping for strands that were not there. Strands of hair.
His vision blurred with tears. Where they came from, he didn't know. Like a sudden rush of water bursting from a dam, the hot drops burned down his cheeks, tickled his jaw. The bulkhead collided with his shoulder, and he slid down to the floor. Dropping his head into his hands, he curled up against the bulkhead. The pit in his stomach swirled, tearing at his innards, claws slashing his heart into a thousand pieces. He didn't know how long he sat there, choking down tears. Boot steps approached and receded, passing him by without care. No one approached him. They had no reason to. He was not passed out, so he was not a problem. Only an on-duty armsman would shift him, and they had better things to do than patrol the crew quarters.
Eventually one of the pairs of boots stopped. It clomped forward, steady and surefooted, coming to a halt just in the edge of his view. Black armored combat boots. Smelled like sacred herbs and cleaning oils. Measured, ominous heartbeat.
"Go away" he muttered, not wanting to look up.
"I thought I would find you here" the woman replied, her voice carrying certainty.
"What do you want?"
"He needs to see you."
"Why?"
"Something has happened."
Louk glanced up, easing his head free of his hands, and found the familiar and… comforting… form of Penance in her combat armor. Shock maul strapped to her hip, bolt pistol on the other, shotgun slung over her back. Faded blood smeared on her cheek. A bitter edge to her expression. A hint of blackness coated her armored gloves; powder residue. She had shot something. Or someone.
That alone was enough to yank his thoughts to the present. It only helped that she wore a loaned rosette openly, golden chain interwoven with a crimson sash, leaving the damning "I" dangling against her thigh. Helsing never allowed them to display the rosette except in extreme circumstances. That applied even to Penance, the most level-headed and trustworthy member of their team. Whatever the situation was, it demanded every scrap of his attention.
His mind immediately went to the Praetorian lieutenant. Mullison must have traced the source of her ailment. If he had, then they had a lead. Someone had tried to kill her just in the wake of an attack on Louk himself. Was she still in danger? He knew the answer to be yes. But not from poisoning again, if that was what it had been. They never tried the same thing twice. Fluid and ever-changing. Once one route has been blocked, find another. The assassin on the ship would have to attempt a more direct attack on her. Like the kind of thing that involved shooting. He doubted the assassin would attempt something so rash this early on, but Louk had done worse.
Pulling himself to his feet, he smoothed his clothes and gestured to the blood. "You got something on you."
"It is not mine" she replied, voice flat and uninterested. "Come. He has others combing the ship for you. Best alert them you have been found."
They started off at a brisk pace, Penance trodding forward with speed that belied her heavy armor. A few naval personnel were about; they all scattered at the sight of the gleaming "I." The repercussions of this were going to be felt, Louk knew. Throne only knew how long they had been searching, and the rumors and sightings would spread through the ship in hours. Every dealer, deserter, smuggler and con would bundle up tighter than an Ecclesiarch's purse before the day was done. Helsing's cover on this vessel was just about done. It would not take long for pieces to be put together by someone.
"Why me?"
"He did not confide in me" she answered. Her head turned slightly in his direction. Eyes travelled up and down his body, regarding his ragged form with distaste. "We do not have time for you to tidy your appearance. Make do with what you can. I will see about finding you a change of clothes for when you are done."
Ordinarily he would have scoffed at her reaction. The urgency of her tone made him stop and think about his outfit. Not terrible in and of itself, but it had clearly been through some ruckus the night before. A couple missing buttons, a few stains, and only one sock. He had not found the other one. "How long since he sent you out?"
She held her answer as they approached an elevator bank. A few brave souls made to enter the same cabin with them, but a withering glare and not-so-subtle flash of her rosette convinced them to wait for another one. Once the doors closed, she pressed the correct floor and offered Louk an explanation. It came out terse, which was to be expected.
"He contacted me several hours ago. Something attacked Kor'in's place. Killed half the patrons and her thugs. She barely made it out alive."
"You know about her?" He shot her a wounded look. Just how many secrets did Helsing have, and how in Hell's name did the man keep them all so hidden? How much did Penance know?
Penance pointedly did not answer that question. "The...thing… that attacked went straight to your friend's room. By the time we arrived, it had disappeared. The room had been torn apart."
"What was it looking for?"
"We do not know." Penance turned her broad shoulders and fixed him with a piercing stare. "We are hoping that you can shed some light on the situation. The current theory is that she acquired something of value, perhaps the same thing she had meant to tell or give to you the night she was killed."
He bit down the surge of anger that rose inside him. Had that been it? Had she stolen something? Is that why she had died? It certainly made more sense. From a purely objective perspective, Peppe had little value to the ones that had killed her. A street rat with no real attachment to him. No real connection…
"We did recover one thing from her room." Penance unlatched one of the magazine pouches on her hip and picked out something so small it disappeared inside her fist. She held out her hand, and Louk obligingly held out his. A small, bent silver piece landed in his palm. The weight of it struck him like an anchor. He flinched, stepping back away from Penance. One side had been defaced, the profile of whatever important Imperial citizen ruined by a carefully articulated string of acid that turned the strong artistically-drawn nose into a bulbous tumor. Surgical placement of another string had placed absurdly large glasses around his eyes. Very silly graffiti, the kind of thing one could get arrested for but made for entertainment with children.
"Where did you find this" he asked, his voice hoarse and suddenly absent.
"A small jewelry box. As best we can tell, she kept it with her prized possessions." The woman studied him with a predatory gaze, making careful notes of his reaction to the small coin. "What is it?"
His fingers curled around the silver. He never would have thought it had meant so much. A careless flick of his wrist as he had thrown a random coin at a random urchin begging for a lay. A mistake in making eye contact, and then the little thing had followed him across three alleys, hounding him and bothering him until he had rounded on it and demanded a name.
"It's just a coin." He slipped it into a pocket. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he felt a faint rush of warmth against his skin. The anger lapped against his senses, seeping into his veins. He accepted it, embraced it, molded it into focus.
Enough with the hiding. Enough with the being afraid. There was a bastard on the ship, and Louk was going to find him. When he did, there wasn't a power in the galaxy that could save the assassin from the wrath he was going to unleash.