Page 3 of Thick as Thieves
The leader of the Fever Brothers crew is quiet for a beat too long. “Trunk is protective of our family. And he has... strong feelings about journalists.”
“He doesn’t like my choice of career?”
“The last journalists who came to Timbur for our story turned our family’s tragedy into entertainment.” His clawed hands tighten on the controls. “They called our eldest brother unstable, dangerous. Some even implied he’d killed our own parents. Splashed it across every feed in the Four Sectors. Made our worst nightmare into a spectacle.”
“I know what happened in the past and I want to assure you that I’m not here to do that,” I say quietly. “I want to actually write the story I’m really here to do, the one about the human brides. But I was hoping to help you find the real truth of what happened to your parents. I want to be a help, not a hinderance.”
Chief’s expression doesn’t change. “We’ll see.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Not everyone in my family agreed to your visit, Ms. Vieira. Some of my brothers took... convincing.”
“But you approved it?”
“I believe in taking calculated risks.” His voice is measured. “Grytel signed off on your credentials without hesitation. A case this old, a journalist from a backwater planet—he doesn’t see you as a threat.”
I try my best to not be offended at his description of my home planet.
“His arrogance may be useful to us,” Chief continues, almost to himself. “Or it may not. We’ll see.”
Before I can ask what he means by that statement, I notice we’ve reached the edge of town. Chief turns down a quietresidential street with a dead end and pulls to a stop in front of a large home.
It’s bigger than I expected. Newer sections have been added to the original structure—different materials, different styles, but all connected into one sprawling whole. Not luxurious, but solid. And there are signs of life everywhere. Children’s toys are scattered near the entrance. Pretty plants grow in containers. A half-finished project leans against a wall.
This isn’t what I expected from a mining crew’s quarters.
Chief leads me inside, and the chaotic common area hits me like a wave.
A human woman is chasing two small children across the room—one with a ridged forehead, one without. Another woman laughs in a doorway, talking to someone I can’t see. The smell of cooking food fills the air, something savory and unfamiliar that makes my stomach growl. Deep Xylan voices rumble from somewhere further in the compound, mixed with the higher pitch of children’s shrieks and laughter.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A figure in a doorway, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that’s anything but welcoming. I look away quickly, but I can feel his eyes on my back as we walk.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone at dinner. First, I’ll show you to your room so you can settle in,” Chief says. “Then?—”
He’s cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps from a side hallway. A deep voice, sharp with irritation.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen Xylans. Plenty of them. But something aboutthisone... He’s massive, even for a Xylan. Shoulders that could block a cargo door and built like he was carved from the same rock he mines. His skin is that warm golden-brown I’ve seen on other Xylans on Timbur, but somehow on him it looks different. Harder. Like armor. Same ridged forehead,same clawed hands as every other Xylan I’ve encountered. But his presence. He fills the entire room just by existing in it. His features are sharp. Harsh. A face that looks like it’s never smiled and has no intention of starting now. Long dark hair is pulled back from his face, exposing the full force of his expression. Which is currently aimed directly at me.
His eyes land on mine—hazel, I notice, lighter than I expected—and they’re cold. He’s also wearing green gloves of the unmated. “This is her?” His voice is a low rumble. “The journalist?”
“Trunk.” Chief’s voice holds a note of warning. “This is Ines Vieira. Ines, my brother Texon.”
I step forward, professional smile firmly in place. I’ve perfected this smile over years of difficult interviews. It’s my armor. “Thank you for agreeing to?—”
He crosses his massive arms. “I didn’t agree to anything.” He cuts me off without hesitation. “I was assigned.”
I keep the smile fixed. “Well. I appreciate your time either way.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me like I’m something unpleasant he discovered on the bottom of his boot.
Awkward silence stretches between us.
One of the children runs past, completely oblivious to the tension, shrieking with laughter.
Chief clears his throat. “Trunk will show you to your room and explain the guidelines for your stay.”
“Guidelines?”
“Rules,” Trunk corrects flatly. “Come on. I don’t have all day.” He turns and walks away without bothering to check if I’m following.
