Romani Armada Read Free

for Brenden.
    Even in the low light in the cave, Nayara’s hair glowed a burnished, luxurious red, but she looked worn and tired. She wore plain black. Black boots, black trousers and a black shirt.
    “You need to rest,” Ophelia told her judiciously.
    “So do us all,” Nayara assured her. “In a week, you will feel the same.”
    “Rob tried to tell me some of it.” Ophelia nodded toward the highlander, who was on his feet now. “Thank you, by the way.”
    He thrust his sword back into its scabbard. “When you turned and ran towards the Northmen, that was true courage and the only reason the jump was a success.” He nodded his head in what was almost a formal bow. “It has been a pleasure, Ophelia. But I have a grieving wife to return to. Would you excuse me?”
    “Of course,” Ophelia responded automatically. She watched the highlander step over the rope and head toward a split in the wall that was the only exit from the cave. He removed his cloak and folded it over his arm as he went.
    She processed his parting words with something close to shock. Her eyes widened and she swiveled to look at Nayara. “Not baby Jack?” she asked. “And he still came to see me home?”
    Nayara sighed. “It’s complicated,” she said, taking Ophelia’s arm. “You have some catching up to do.”
    * * * * *
    The Agency Home Base – 2264 A.D.: It took a while for his thoughts to collate. He was content to linger in the peaceful void as sense returned to him. It look a long while for him to notice the missing pieces and even then there was no urgency to find out why they were missing...until he tried to trace back in his mind to the last coherent moment he could remember. Then it returned to him with a jolt of almost pure fear.
    “Nayara!” Ryan sat up almost before his eyes opened, reaching for his sword. He blinked, trying to pull everything into focus. It was very dark where he was.
    A fluttering shadow to his right coalesced into the wan shape of Fahmido. She bent over him, her hand on his shoulder, pressing him down again. “Rest, Ryan. Rest.”
    “What happened?”
    “You fell asleep again,” Fahmido said.
    “Again?” He cleared his throat. “Asleep? Vampires don’t sleep.” He tried to sit up despite the pressure Fahmido was exerting on his shoulder, but she seemed to be impossibly strong.
    “You’re not ready.”
    “Who are you to tell me what I can do?”
    Fahmido stepped back, letting him go. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
    “Thank you.” He thrust his legs off the narrow cot he had been lying on, onto the rock floor beneath. Cold registered on his bare feet, along with sharp edges of the shale-splintered floor. He stood up, then waivered as weakness spread through him in a hot wave.
    He fell back onto the cot, looking at his hands and legs, as if they were strange limbs grafted to him. “How long have I been...what happened to me?” he asked Fahmido.
    She had her back to him, working at something on a mobile cart. When she turned to face him, she held a thick positive-pressure syringe of blood. Real blood. The sight of it set up a keening need in him. It was so strong that his fangs descended and his senses swam as the symbiot fought for control of him in a mindless bid for survival.
    “I’ll inject straight into your artery,” she told him. “It’ll quiet the symbiot.”
    “Hurry,” he croaked, clutching the rough material folded over the frame of the cot with both hands and willing himself to stay focused. To stay in control.
    As the fresh blood circled, the symbiot quietened. Gradually, he could feel its frantic grip ease.
    “Can you hear me now?” Fahmido asked.
    “Yes.” He was shocked at the weaknesses in his voice.
    “Can you stand, now?”
    He got to his feet, moving slowly. His weakness was alarming but he managed to stay on his feet. He swallowed. “I suppose I can,” he announced.
    Fahmido studied him with an intense stare, then nodded. “You should rest...but so should we