Jump Zone: Cleo Falls Read online

  Libra strolled into the campsite wearing only a pair of shorts. His wet hair, so fair by the light of day, was dark and slicked back, making the angular planes of his face appear leaner, harsher. Or maybe it was the grim set of his jaw…

  Heart racing, she tracked him across the clearing and watched out of the corner of her eye as he bent down to stow his things. Cleo held her breath as he opened the flap. He pushed the tight bundle of clothes into his pack without looking inside—so unlike him to not roll them neatly. She exhaled a prayer of thanks to the heavens.

  As he pivoted toward her, she masked her face and stared into the fire, afraid he’d see the deviousness in eyes.

  “I filled the canteen,” he said.

  “Ah, no thanks.” Her eyes flicked toward him before settling back on the fire. It was now or never. Cleo took a deep breath and blurted, “I’ll take you to the Cut.”

  Do not trust outsiders.

  Libra froze, the canteen halfway to his lips, and looked at her through half-mast lids.

  DO NOT TRUST OUTSIDERS!!

  She ignored the voice in her head—her father’s voice, so clear, he could have been shouting in her ear.

  No, Daddy. I’ve got to get to Jaegar, and this is the quickest way.

  Blue letters flashed in her mind’s eye. She blinked them away. The black disk couldn’t be a weapon… It wasn’t even heavy enough to throw at someone.

  “That’s where you’re headed, right?” she said, watching while he recapped the water without taking a drink. “I know which paths are the quickest.”

  He shrugged and looked away. “Sure.”

  “I’m going that way anyway. We might as well travel together.” But the look on his face—startled, perplexed—almost made her wish she’d stuck to her original plan. Had she completely misread their friendly banter? Did he think she’d slow him down because of her bum leg, which wasn’t as bum as she’d let him believe? “If you’d prefer to go it alone—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “That would be great. In fact, it’s a big relief.”

  “A relief?”

  He closed his eyes and forced a laugh. “Oh man, this is horrible to admit, but aside from ‘go south,’ I have no idea how to get back. And I didn’t want to beg, so I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure out how to lure you away. I hadn’t ruled out kidnapping.”

  “Like you’d have a half a chance,” she said, imitating his half-smile. “We go at dawn. Better get some sleep.”

  He let her crawl into the air cushion first.

  She moved as close to the edge as possible. He did the same on his side.

  She felt winded, as if she’d been running. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Could he hear it? She needed to shift his attention.

  Cleo pointed skyward. “Orion, the warrior.”

  “All I see are stars.”

  “No kidding. But the three brightest stars in a line, there, there, and there? That’s his belt. And those two hovering above the line mark his shoulders, the one below marks the tip of his sword.”

  “Oh yeah, I can see him now,” he said thoughtfully. “We don’t see stars over the city. There’s too much light and too many turbs to obstruct our view.”

  “What are those?”

  “Lights? They’re an ancient invention credited to Thomas Edison.”

  A sharp elbow to the ribs said she didn’t appreciate his lame humor.

  “Wind turbines. They feed the power grid. The blades make annoying flicking shadows that make my head throb. There’s not enough wind to make them go fast—not like there used to be—and the slow rotations are the worst. Like a dying man’s pulse.”

  Cleo turned to ask him a question, but he’d rolled his head toward her at the same moment, bringing their noses only inches apart. The words caught in her throat. She looked back toward Orion and prayed her fellow warrior would give her the strength to get through the night.

  She felt jittery—nerves probably—and longed to stretch, to move, but kept her arms rigid at her sides so she wouldn’t bump him by accident. The paper-thin solar blanket suddenly felt too hot, too constricting.

  “Hey, is that the North Star?” he asked, pointing.

  “No,” she said craning her neck for a better angle. “That one, behind and to the right.”

  He “mmm’d” and lowered his arm. The back of his hand brushed hers as he settled, and he left it there. She never imagined that there could be so many nerve endings on the side of her pinky finger, but for the love of all things furry, she could feel charged ions popping in every single molecule. And if the most un-sexual part of her body could be so affected, how would it feel to roll over and press her mouth against his? To kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until her lips throbbed.

  “So, you have a birthday coming up?” she said, doing her best to dislodge kissing from her brain.

  “Not for long time, no.”

  “But October is only days away.”

  “I wasn’t born in October,” he said. “My birthday is the thirteenth of December.”

  “But that makes you a Sagittarius.”

  “That’s what my astrologist tells me.”

  “So Libra is your nickname?”

  “Nope. It’s the name my parents gave me.”

  “Why would someone name a child Libra when they’re a Sagittarian?” she asked before her manners could stop her.

  He shrugged, his shoulder bumping up against hers. “Nothing to do with my birth month. It actually means fair and impartial. Balanced,” he explained.

  “And are you?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Not always. How ‘bout you? What’s Cleo all about?”

  “Short for Cleopatra,” she said, suddenly sorry she started this topic. She waited for the jokes.

  “No kidding?” he said with no trace of mockery. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Gee, you think? Maybe an Egyptian Pharaoh? Mark Antony’s main squeeze?”

  “No, no. Besides her,” he replied. “It’s a lovely name, anyway. Is it your mother’s?”

  “No, my mother was called Rose. That’s my middle name.” Cleo reached for the stone that lay warm against her skin. It made her feel connected to the woman she knew only from stories and pictures.

  “You said ‘was.’ Is your mother—”

  “Dead.” Please don’t ask, please don’t ask.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “It was a long time ago. I never even knew her.” Before he could press, she asked, “How about your mom?”

  “Alive. But we don’t see each other much.”

  She wanted to ask him why—it was inconceivable to her that someone with a mother would not embrace the relationship—but he seemed just as eager to change the subject. “So, Cleopatra. Where you really named for the Pharaoh?”

  “No, but it’s kind of a long story. The short version is, I’m named after my father’s friend’s wife.” Cleo sighed. “He’s dead, too.”

  “Your father?”

  “No. My father’s alive, but his friend was killed. Which is why, I suppose, I was named after his wife. Like a tribute.”

  Just thinking about the tragedy that colored her family’s past left an ache in her heart. She often wondered what her life would have been like if her mother hadn’t died. Lewin Rush wasn’t the kind of dad she longed for, but he was the kind of man that Taiga history books would someday revere as a great tribesman: a warrior and pioneer. His ancestry was renowned; both sets of grandparents had been instrumental in penning the Charter of Tribal Nations. At some point in their history, the leader of the wolverine clan, the most powerful and politically active of all the clans, became de facto leader of the Shield.

  Her father, who embodied the
tribal principals of peace, community, solidarity, even served as advisor to the Prarie and Acadian Tribes, and sometime the UWC.

  But he was emotionally lost. Never to the outside world—oh no—he had always kept a pleasant but tough demeanour. Around his children, however, he let his mask drop. Underneath the façade was an empty soul. Witnessing the slaughter of your pregnant wife and your best friend could do that to an individual, no matter how tough.

  Yet despite his unfortunate encounters with urbanites that cost him the lives of the people he loved, he still supported a cross-border system of trade, the ultimate example of generosity. Gomedans could outright purchase or trade for agricultural products like fruit preserves, grain flour, fresh meats, and whatever else the Taigans had.

  Taiga citizens who were either too young or too old to work in the fields or hunt, spent their days making clothes, rugs, and blankets from animal skins and natural fibers, and crafting beautiful wooden furniture, figurines, and toys.

  Despite their seemingly peaceful existence, Libra wasn’t entirely incorrect when he said… how did he put it? “You don’t fuck with the Shield Tribes.”

  At the age of sixteen, all tribe members, with few exceptions, went through Passage, a rite by which the individual reached maturity in the eyes of the tribe. If the trial was passed, the new adult was given voting privileges, independence, the right to choose a path of learning, the right to travel, the right to marry and bear children, the right to be a soldier of the Taiga.

  Cleo’s Passage took place in the winter, but she survived the week of isolation, sent out into the wilds of the Taiga to shelter and feed herself, with ease. In fact, she’d completely embraced the experience, repeating it many times for no other reason than the challenge. Some of her peers weren’t so lucky. Some never came back. But those who did came back stronger. And strength was necessary for survival, especially in these times.

  The climate heave, President Zhang’s wrath, the Polar Wars, hunger, disease—none of it changed human nature. If one group of people achieved health and happiness, they were envied, brought down, even if they tried to be good and help the less fortunate. The past century saw humans, animals, and plants die, but not greed. Greed flourished.

  So every member of the Shield Tribe wore a weapons harness when they left the community, and there wasn’t one who made it through Passage that couldn’t wield a knife or strike a bull’s-eye with an arrow. They would, they did, attack if threatened. They were warriors. Their survival depended on it.

  Libra’s heavy sigh broke into her thoughts. “Who was this man who killed, this best friend of your father’s?” His voice was hoarse and strangely accusitory. “Another tribe member?”

  “No, one of your people, an urbanite,” she said. “He was a doctor, a scientist, I think. He came to do research in the Shield but liked it so much, he decided to stay.”

  Libra’s hand jerked away. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see him rake back his already raked-back hair. She could sense his muscles tense, his body become rigid. His hand came to rest over his eyes. The air around them thickened perceptively.

  Had she insulted him by implying an urbanite would choose life in the Taiga over the city?

  “His name, Cleo. What was his name?”

  Libra’s harsh, impatient tone unnerved her. “I-I really don’t remember.”

  “Try.”

  “Why? What do you care about the name of a guy who’s been dead a really long time?”

  There was a cottage at the outer edges of their settlement, away from the other homes. She knew it was where her mother was killed. Her father went to the cabin practically every day. They called it Dogby’s place for the man for whom it was built.

  “Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important,” he said. His exasperated sigh said otherwise.

  “Well, it sure seems important.”

  “Never. Mind.”

  Cleo didn’t want to never mind.

  Dogby. Dogby’s place, Dogby’s cabin. No, not Dogby but Doc Bee.

  She swivelled her head to tell him, but he’d rolled over, leaving Cleo to stare at his back.

  For the love of ducks, what the hell got into him?

  Thirteen

  The sky remained starry and cloudless, but Trevayne could feel a storm coming, deep in the marrow of his bones. He steadied himself on the low ceiling of the boat’s cabin as choppy waves slapped the hull, and used the toe of his boot to awaken the bunch of sorry slugs that made up his mobile unit.

  He considered contacting Cade, but the old man would want answers he didn’t have.

  “Our boy has been compromised,” the Colonel said, once he had their attention. He flipped his satcom in the air, the green line of text flashing in the dark bunker. Three UNAUTHORIZED BIORHYTHM messages meant someone other than the pup was tampering with the device.

  “Savages probably got him,” one of his men grumbled.

  Trevayne’s lips peeled back across his teeth in anticipation. Finally, some action. “Suit up, pussies. We’re going flower picking.”

  Fourteen

  He was Orion, standing atop Mount Olympus. He pushed his broad, star-tipped shoulders back, adjusted the sword sheathed at his belt, and took chase after the elusive Goddess of Light. He had to catch her, and though he didn’t know why, he felt an urgency about it, as if his life hinged upon her capture.

  Made entirely out of the golden pink clouds, the goddess flitted in and out of his vision. When he finally caught up to her, he buried himself in her vaporous wisps and inhaled deeply. The fresh scent of heaven filled his nose, his lungs, his soul. He wanted to stay wrapped in the goddess’s entrancement forever…but he had an annoying tickle deep within his sinuses. Water filled his eyes and he blinked away a sneeze.

  The morning light filtered through Libra’s dream-lust haze, bringing him fully awake. With it came the realization that his body spooned Cleo’s in a most intimate fashion. His face was buried in the silky tangle of her hair, and his arm was snugly wrapped around her midsection. Hers was on top, as if holding his limb in place.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  Libra’s fingers rested against her breast, separated from her flesh only by the soft leather of her halter. His thumb lay on the bare skin at the curve of her cleavage and her pendant draped over the back of his hand, trapping him. The stone felt uncomfortably hot against his skin, burning him for his transgression.

  That still wasn’t the worst part.

  Cleo’s bottom was snuggled tightly against his rock-solid erection. The minutes that followed Libra into full wakefulness turned into a disturbing combination of discomfort and desire. Hell on earth.

  He managed to breathe through the worst of it and was preparing to move when Cleo’s derriere wriggled against him. Libra swallowed a gasp. It took every ounce of willpower to still his hips, fight the urge to grind. Sweat erupted on his brow as he concentrated on lying still. The pain was physical: sharp and urgent. It hurt to want something so bad. So zhanging bad.

  How would she react if he slipped his fingers under the leather and rolled a delicate nipple between his fingers? Would she fight him, or give in? She couldn’t deny that something hot and alive zinged between them when their eyes met. Last night, around the fire, their connection had gotten so intimate that simply looking at each other was practically fucking.

  His thumb twitched, the tiniest movement against the skin of her breast, but it was enough to send another jolt of need straight to his groin.

  This is wrong.

  She was his prisoner, not his lover. He tried to dislike her, distrust her, but she was making his task very difficult. Zhang hell, it didn’t help that she was beautiful, vulnerable, and so fucking hot. He should have used the ampoule.

  In her sleep, Cleo released a breathy, contended sigh. The
simple act of her lungs filling with air pushed her chest against his palm. Libra closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The ache was exquisitely unbearable.

  It would be so easy to nuzzle her neck, caress her, knead her warm flesh. She would murmur mmm, don’t stop, urge him to untie the laces of her pants so he could slip his fingers into her sweet slick folds, make her—

  “You awake?” she whispered.

  Whoa, awkward.

  “Hmm? What?” He pretended to rouse.

  “Must have gotten cold during the night,” she said without turning round.

  Trying carefully not to grope her in the process, Libra pulled his arm from around her middle and pulled his hips back, breaking all physical contact. It was like being doused by a bucket of cold water. No, go back, his body screamed, but he kept rolling until he lay flat on his back.

  “Yeah, must have,” he said, his voice sounding as if he’d swallowed a handful of rocks. He lifted his head, tried to sit up, but the sight of the blanket propped up like a tent over his groin had him quickly rolling onto his other side.

  Worse than zhanging grade school!

  They’d followed a path that ran parallel to the river for six hours, mostly in comfortable silence, when her companion asked, “Are we stopping for lunch anytime soon?”

  She spared him a brief glance over her shoulder before looking up at the sun, now at its apex in the blue, cloudless sky.

  Cleo smiled to herself and pushed on. He wasn’t having any trouble keeping up—an unexpected but very pleasant surprise. She didn’t think her urbanite had the stamina to follow, but he seemed as determined to prove himself as she was.

  “Why? Need a break?”

  She’d lost valuable time already, and the need to get to Jaegar as quickly as possible chased her like a pack of rabid wolves.