Daughter of Nox

Chapter Twelve

If someone had asked Freya how likely it would be that she'd spend any part of the First Emissary's reception staring down the barrel of not one, but two Separatist plasma weapons, "not very, you idiot" would have been her answer. And yet there she was, eyes pinned to the dark hole that might be the last thing she ever saw.

The woman held the gun stone still as she stepped toward Freya.

"If you try to run, or scream, I'll kill you."

The words came out flat and cool, more a statement of fact than a threat. Everything in the woman's tone made Freya believe she'd do it.

"What did you do to the others?" the woman said over the music blaring throughout the reception hall.

Freya felt herself frown at that. "I didn't do anything to anyone."

"Liar." Anger shimmered in the Separatist's eyes. "I heard a weapon discharge, then you come running out." She shoved the gun toward Freya's face until the muzzle threatened to bump against her forehead. "So tell me what you did."

Freya started to speak, but was cut off by a shouted order from behind her. She started to turn, gun in hand, just as a plasma bolt ripped through the air and slammed into the side of her head. The force of the blast cranked her head in the opposite direction and Freya heard a sickening snap before the woman dropped into a still heap on the floor.

Freya wanted to scream as she stared down at the smoking ruin that had been the Separatist's face. Her rational mind demanded she look away, demanded she stare anywhere else but at the lifeless object that had been a person just seconds ago, but the ability to move her eyes seemed beyond her control. Neither could she move her legs, her feet seeming to have sprouted roots that would keep her in that spot for some untold years. Maybe for eternity even. It seemed likely as not. Because time seemed to have lost its meaning for her in those halves, and quarters of seconds. Time meant nothing in the face of such violent, savage theft of life.

"Mistress Airm!" someone called out to her.

The sound of her name felt like a slap to the cheek, and a breath she hadn't realized she was holding washed over her lips. She turned her attention from the corpse to the speaker.

A soldier in the glossy black armor of a Caretaker stood not ten feet away from her, his plasma rifle at the ready. She blinked at the soldier, wondering how he could know her name, until her eyes found the winged, golden rapier of Father's regiments emblazoned on his chest.

Something clicked into place in her brain. Of course he knew who she was. As the Ascending First Marshal of Nox, it was only a matter of time until she became this soldier's commander.

"Mistress!" he called again, and took a hand from his rifle to beckon to her.

Something in the soldier's voice broke the floor's grip on her feet. She moved around the corpse, keeping her eyes pinned to the Caretaker and off the dead woman. Behind the Caretaker, Freya could see a handful of the guests gaping at the scene. Others further away from the kitchen still chattered amongst themselves as though nothing had happened, the blaring music having covered the sound of the shot.

Sudden clarity of purpose washed the lingering fear from her mind. These people were in danger, and not a single one of them knew it. That meant it was up to her to rally whatever Ministry forces she could to make sure they got out before the Separatists could carry out their plan.

Freya snatched up dead Separatist's rifle. "Wave your commanding officer." She struggled to edge the urge to panic from her voice as she neared the soldier. "We need to start clearing the guests out now."