Immunity (Book 3 of the Dana Halliday series)

EDDY OF LOOKY-LOOS. NEMESI. HONORARY CHAMPION.

It wasn't just the Fenn.

Emhallet, the Pemlo'hban priest, had accompanied Wys. Although smaller than his planetmate in the shop, he was still an imposing figure, clad in grizzled dark hair, bulging muscles, assorted weapons, and very little else.

I couldn't have told you the exact relationship between Wys—or maybe it was both her and Kez—and the old Champion. While some members of the warrior sect on Tirza 50 had been there to pay off debts, most seemed to be there of their own demented accord, free agents who happily took the cruel son-of-an-ivrew's money. They seemed, almost gleefully, to ignore the obvious condescension Kez felt toward them.

Mennu, the leader of the Champions, had come after Flynt with the intention of killing him "honorably"—a word which did a lot of heavy lifting in that scenario—in battle. Emhallet, on the other hand, I suspected of participating in Adrian's not-so-successful extraction plan, and he had comforted me, sort of, when I'd been injured.

And now here he was again, blocking the door from the snarling Fenn.

Flynt paced back and forth on the street, antennae flattened, displaying all of his twelve fangs, and with all dozen claws out. A little bottleneck had formed in the stream of passersby, an eddy of looky-loos. The Fenn's ominous drone of a growl announced imminent entertainment.

Emhallet, totally unfazed, kept my friend at bay with a long pole of aluminum. At the end of the pole dangled a loop of stiff wire cable. It looked like a biped-sized version of a rabies pole—the thing vets and others in the doggy biz employ to control a dangerous canine. They can be difficult to use, and stressful for everyone involved, and I couldn't imagine what might happen if the giant somehow got ahold of Flynt with it.

Then the priest whipped the loop against the metal bars on the shop's window, and sparks flew, snapping and buzzing. I saw a row of tiny red lights at the pole's base. Oh joy, it had a taser setting.

Wys muttered something, probably not the Sturv equivalent of namaste, and said, "Call him off, would you, Dana?" She had a bad habit of speaking about the Fenn as though they were intelligent, trainable beasts.

"He's not—" I cut off my own self and called, "Flynt, honey, it's okay. At least, I think so. At the moment."

"Maybe." Flynt spoke through his teeth. "It would be surprisingly brave of Wys to abduct us in public this time."

I glanced at Wys, who gave a blink of her colossal eyes. I noted that, indeed, she didn't seem eager to engage the Fenn where she didn't have an advantage.

Emhallet threw back his head and roared a laugh at the orange sky, then looked back at Wys and said, "Vol zarra." I'm very sorry.

This seemed to dial down the collective thermostat. Flynt straightened, antennae rising and waving at the air. He tilted his head in a humorous manner at the priest, though his eyes were still saucers, and locked on Wys.

"If everyone will be calm," the Sturv said, "this will not take long."

Emhallet folded the pole—it telescoped into a neat little baton—and hung it on the leather harness he wore as his only garment. He waved at the pub next door. "Perhaps you will buy them drinks?"

Wys closed her eyes for a moment. "Okey...dokey. Dana?"

"Fine by me."

* * *

The standers-by quickly lost interest in our mismatched group. The pub next door was busy enough that we blended in, but could still hear each other.

True to her word, Wys paid for two pitchers of a dark, cloudy, very hoppy brew. It wasn't frosty enough for my American taste, but I took a long, grateful pull from my first glass. Flynt sat next to me, legs curled beneath him in the wooden chair, while our two nemesises—nemesi? nemeses?—shared a bench across from us.