Indentured (Book 2 of the Dana Halliday series)

ROSWELL STYLE. THE DET GE LER. KEZ KOLBEM.

The interior of the hovercraft was as organic-looking as the outside, as though the seats had been carved out of a brown gourd. Wys sat in the center of its circular space and guided it into the air. Her two companions stood to either side, rocking slightly with the motion of the craft, and pointed their weapons in our general direction. We sat, disgraced, on a low, curved bench at the back of the room.

I looked out the thin seam of window that ran round the walls of the craft. Relury still sat outside his dwelling, all his eyes following us into the sky. Strangely, I felt sorry for the Eisk, and I hoped Adrian wouldn't be too hard on him.

"Dana?"

I felt Flynt shivering beside me, and turned to him. His sleeve was wet with his maroon blood, and I started rolling it up so I could see the wound. The projectile-bullet or whatever-had torn a wide gash in his arm just above his elbow. His pale skin made the bleeding look worse than it probably was. Some of the muscle beneath was exposed, but it wasn't as deep as I'd thought at first.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I let out a shaky laugh. "I'm not the one who was shot." I found the pulse in his wrist; it was rapid but strong, normal enough for him. I palpated his upper arm gently, but I was sure there weren't any fractures. "Can you move your fingers all right?"

"Yes. Is there any water left?" He wiped his mouth on his other arm, his good arm at the moment. "All I can taste is slime."

Wys looked over her shoulder, then offered me a green plastic bottle. I took a swallow myself before holding it to Flynt's lips, so he could drink without moving his injured arm. "Could I have my bag, please?" My voice came out polite but cold. One of the goons had taken my backpack before we'd entered the craft. "I'd like to bandage this."

"We haven't searched it yet.  I don't know what you have in there."

"I'm a doctor, not a ninja," I snapped, in true McCoy fashion. "Just toss me some damn gauze or something."

Wys blinked her huge eyes, unmoved. "He's not going to die from that wound."

"Oh, now you're a doctor?"

"It's all right, Dana." Flynt's voice was muffled, and I looked over to see him licking the wound on his arm. "It's not so deep that this won't work."

"Ugh." All my veterinary instincts screamed in protest. In my previous job, the words "now, don't let him lick that!" had passed my lips at least once a day. It's a common misconception that dog tongues have healing powers. "That's disgusting. You want the cone of shame?"

"Water, please."  He rinsed his mouth again and gave me a weary smile. "My saliva will clot the blood and stop infection. Basic first aid." He sighed and went back to cleaning the wound, speaking intermittently. "If you were a Fenn healer, you'd get to do this to other people."

"Bleh." I tried not to think of human blood and all its potential cooties.

"The Fenn are so amusingly primitive," Wys remarked.

I started to say something, probably ill-advised, and Flynt nudged me with his foot. "Don't." He slid a little lower in his seat and let his cheek rest against my shoulder. "There's some truth to that. Do you mind if I lean?"

"Of course not. Lean all you want." 

He curled into a resting position and settled himself more comfortably against my side and the back of the seat. The Fenn have very formal body language with strangers; once they consider you a friend, however, their personal bubbles shrink to an imaginary layer of plastic wrap.