Page 16 of Shielded in the Shadows

And the way he’d said my name, in a tone usually reserved for murmuring the name of a deity during worship, elicited a full-body shiver.

I gave myself a mental slap. No matter how sincere he’d sounded, his pretty words and the warmth of his presence on my shoulders changed nothing. Neither did his promises, or the fact he’d let go instantly when I’d told him to. Yes, there’d been a threat behind my words, but he hadn’t hesitated and he hadn’t argued.

And yet, he remained somewhere close, judging by the now-familiar sensation of being watched from above.

A Fortusian male in shadow form. How novel. Most Fortusians were products of genetic engineering that combined human DNA with that of various beings and even plant life from across the galaxy to create a race of unique individuals with a nearly infinite variety of characteristics. I’d met a number of Fortusians since leaving my home planet of Ganai, but to my knowledge none of them could turn into a shadow. Maybe I’d get to see him before I left the station.

Beneath my Gandarian biomask, I scowled. I needed to focus on staying alive, getting Jarrix—if indeed that was even his name—off my tail, and reaching my ship before any more mercs tracked me down. Then I could turn one hundred percent of my attention to finding my sister using the coordinates N’vera had sold me.

If the coordinates were real and accurate and I could evade the bounty hunters fighting to claim the reward on my head…

My conversation with N’vera had scraped me raw inside and out in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I’d walked into Final Chance. Bracing myself for another dead end had in no way prepared me for the revelations I’d faced. And I couldn’t even take solace from N’vera’s claim that Calla was alive because I didn’t know that she was. N’vera could have been lying. The news of Calla’s apparent death plus the uncertainty of her ultimate fate left me in an emotionally gutted limbo.

Physical pain didn’t bother me. This pain was much, much worse. I had to dig deep to put it aside to keep myself alive.

Unlike the service hallways of the promenade, the crowd on Deck 8 offered me the chance to blend in with the hundreds of beings who crammed its walkways. I needed to get down to my ship as soon as possible, but I also had to be smart. When I’d disembarked on Deck 14, I’d noticed how few other vessels had docked there and how relatively deserted it was. I’d stand out every moment I walked its corridors. Here in a crowd, I more easily passed as a Gandarian. But alone, if any mercs were stationed on the various docking rings watching for someone the size and shape of a human, I was an obvious suspect. My biomask and the nanotech in my clothing that could change their color and design couldn’t do anything to disguise my height, build, or number of arms, legs, or heads.

Which was another reason I was following directions provided by my bracer toward an Engaren textile and clothing shop in the middle of Deck 8’s busiest sector.

When I arrived at the shop, a pair of elegant Pallasians in opulent clothes were disembarking from a docked luxury craft nearby, surrounded by armed guards wearing crests on their uniforms. The arrival of royalty caught the attention of most beings in the vicinity. I scanned the crowd to see if anyone was watching me rather than the royals, but I didn’t seem to have attracted any notice. Excellent.

Inside the clothing shop, the employees and customers had all gathered near the wide-open doors. While they murmured and trilled in awe over the royals and their entourage, I browsed a display of blue robes and gold-trimmed satchels suitable for a Gandarian of the merchant class.

Unlike the service corridors on the promenade and the Deck 8 docking ring walkway, this shop was brightly lit so customers could admire the clothing and adornments on display. The light gave me my first opportunity to lay eyes on my shadow.

Jarrix had tucked himself into a corner above my head, presumably so he could keep watch on me, the shop as a whole, and the activity on the walkway outside. The shadow’s shape was vaguely humanoid, with what appeared to be wings. If I hadn’t been looking for him, I might not have noticed there was a shadow there that didn’t belong given the lighting in the shop.

It was an objectively perfect form of disguise, and a stab of highly unreasonable jealousy made me scowl again.

A shop employee finally tore herself away from the scene outside and approached me. The young Engaren female fluttered her hands in greeting. “A pleasant evening to you,” she trilled. “I am Aama. I hope you have found our merchant robes to your liking. Do you wish to take a few robes to a changing room and admire them privately?”

“I do,” I said in Alliance Standard. My biomask converted my human voice to sound Gandarian. I indicated two of the robes with a nod. “I will consider these.”

“Very good.” With an expert eye, Aama selected the correct size and length for my height and build and led me to the back of the shop. I sensed rather than saw Jarrix moving with us and gritted my teeth. I needed to rid myself of this shadow immediately. The question was how to do that without drawing attention.

According to the station schematics, the rear door next to the private changing rooms led to the shop’s workroom and storage area. I went directly to the changing room closest to the workroom door. Aama obligingly opened it for me with a trill and a flourish. “Please go in!”

She followed me into the luxurious little room and displayed my prospective purchases on rotating pedestals illuminated by what looked like a million tiny faceted lights that made the cloth shimmer and sparkle. Engarens were consummate masters of textile-making and clothing, and everything in this shop was designed to impress.

Aama beamed at me. “Will you allow me to help you try on these robes, honored one?”

I’d come into the shop with a certain plan in mind, but after studying the young shop assistant, I changed my ruse.

“I must ask for a different kind of help,” I said quietly, moving closer as if taking refuge next to the much-taller female. “There is a male following me. I do not know his species, but he is a large red male with four arms. He has been following me for two days. I am scared.”

Aama’s eyes widened. She fluttered her hands below her waist in an expression of fear and dismay and moved protectively between me and the changing room door.

“I will give you credits,” I continued, “if you will please let me leave the shop by the back way.”

“No credits, no credits,” she whispered, her long, slim hands waving away my words. “We females must help each other, yes? You would do the same for me?”

“I certainly would,” I said with sincerity.

“Wait one moment.” Aama disappeared briefly, then returned with a simple purple hooded robe. “I intend no disrespect, honored one. I know this garment is for those in the servant class. But perhaps you would like to change your appearance to avoid the notice of this red male?”

I considered her offer. My own cloak could take on the right shade of purple, but the quality of its nanotech-enhanced fabric was similar to a Gandarian merchant’s customary clothing. If I tried to pass as a servant in purple, the difference in textile quality would be immediately noticeable to anyone who paid attention.

“I am very grateful,” I told her. Mindful of my telltale human hands, I said, “Would you assist me with putting the robe on over my cloak?”