Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Page 21

  Although, now that she had spoken of Geoff, she felt…odd. Like she was trying to keep a blistering fire at bay with a pitcher of water. And she was burning up. Somehow, she had to starve the flame of fuel, make it sputter out and die before it ruined the bliss that hummed through her body.

  The dark-haired officer said nothing. He reached up and took the cloth from her forehead, dabbing her cheeks, her chin, and her neck. “I…admit I wouldn’t mind that, Deja. But—”

  “But what? Oh, is it the disguise? I’m not nearly as old as I look, you know, if you prefer younger women. My—”

  His eyebrows rose a notch or two. “However,” he interrupted, “although you are safe now, he is not.”

  She snorted. “How could he not be safe? What a joker you are, officer.”

  “Just pretend, then. You don’t want anyone to hurt him, right?”

  “You are silly, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes at him. “No, of course I don’t.”

  “And you wouldn’t want him to lose his job, would you?”

  “No,” she sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Why would the Coalition want to dump an officer like him?” All this talk was confusing. And boring. She wanted some action, preferably involving the interesting man and those charming lips of his.

  “Just listen. What if, to keep him safe, you had to stay away from him?”

  “Stay away? Can I…say goodbye?”

  He shook his head. “No. No goodbyes. Understand?”

  Puzzling through the question, Deja shut her eyes. She rocked her head back and forth. Thinking of Geoff made Deja feel…so many sensations. Thinking that he might get hurt made her stomach roil and her chest tighten. She opened her eyes, breathing fast. “So…to keep him safe,” Deja ventured, “I couldn’t get near him. Couldn’t talk to him. Ever.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then, yes. I’d stay away.”

  “Good. He will be safe then.” Her questioner pressed the cool cloth against Deja’s face again, absorbing her tears. The heat receded. A little. The officer had made a promise; everything would work out. Relieved, she nodded. A wave of fatigue pressed down on Deja. “Can I sleep now?”

  Kellch did something, and she heard a beep. A tide of wakefulness and renewed giddiness rolled over her.

  “Not yet. First tell me why you are an oddsbreaker.”

  Two words reached her lips immediately. “My papá.”

  “Why? What did he do to you?”

  The sharpness of the question made Deja shrink back into the pillow. “I—what do you mean? Please don’t be mad.”

  “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe and think hard.” The cloth caressed Deja’s forehead. Then the questions continued. On and on. At length, the handsome man let her sleep. As the unconsciousness began to swallow her, she remembered who he was: Chef Glass’s sous chef. But why was he wearing a Coalition uniform? The question remained unanswered as she faded into sleep.

  Dull pain buzzed inside Deja’s head. Harsh light pressed on her eyelids. Something gripped her shoulders, and her nerve endings jangled. Honestly, she wished she were out cold again. “Ohhh, stop.”

  “Drink. You need to drink,” said a low, male voice. Deja’s eyes snapped open. An unknown enemy kneeled before her, holding a canteen. The lean but muscular man wore his dark hair long and tied back. A birthmark looking sort of like a sun adorned one cheek. What’s more, he was decked out in a Coalition uniform. His pale gray eyes watched Deja from an old, but strong, face. The oddsbreaker knew him at last: He was Famous’s sous chef.

  “No,” Deja refused, coughing. Her dry mouth was coated with a coppery taste laced with something else. Licking her lips, she found the bleeding had stopped. Someone had even applied a flesh sealant. Stranger still, she was on a mattress, not the floor. And she didn’t recognize the room at all. Finding herself dressed in a long, loose shirt that hung to her knees, Deja tried to assess her injuries. Her bruises hurt, yet only a little. Her arms and legs were still bound but with manacles rather than skin-punishing cords. A chain had been secured from the restraints on her feet to a ring bolted into the floor, though. Oh, excellent.

  Her head pounded; she couldn’t ignore that. How long had she been asleep? She shifted her legs and discovered that they bore at least a few days’ worth of stubble. Where was she? The last Deja remembered was… Oh, right. Trying to convince Famous that she didn’t care that much about Geoff. Whatever else had happened after that, she had no slagging idea. Holding back a shudder, she hoped she’d been unconscious the whole time. Whatever had or hadn’t happened, however, she was still breathing.

  Unwillingly, her thoughts focused on Geoff. She swallowed a mournful sound. He could not, would not, help her now. She remembered what Famous had done, filling her accounts with supposed payoffs for the murder. Geoff and his Coalition backup must’ve found the deposits in her accounts already. Blood money, all funneled in as though Deja herself had accepted the transfers. No doubt they’d also discovered at least some of the transports she’d supposedly booked. She didn’t want to imagine how much her seeming betrayal would hurt Geoff. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm herself.

  He’s better off without me.

  Grimly, she wondered what the Coalition would do about her father. They might ship him back to the prison’s rotten infirmary where he could die. Worse, no matter what they did with him, if she tried to find or contact him, the GJC would use that to track her down. And yet, somehow, she couldn’t imagine the lieutenant colonel, the decent man she’d fallen for, just sitting by and letting the Coalition punish her father for her own screw up. Or would he?

  Well, she couldn’t do anything about that now. First, she just had to survive. Revenge would come later. If she managed to accomplish the survival thing. Fully awake now, she scowled at the man. “Who are you really?” she croaked.

  “I’m the one bringing you water,” the other replied, holding out the container again.

  “Oh, the water boy. I just thought you were one of Famous Foodie’s stooges. My mistake.”

  The older fellow’s lips quirked in a smile, much to Deja’s surprise. “Whitley,” he supplied. “And I’m not her stooge; I’m her younger brother.” Her what? Before Deja could do more than widen her eyes at the revelation, this Whitley person put the canteen to his own mouth and took a few swallows. “There, you see. Just water.”

  Well, so now her captor had an accomplice who also happened to be a brother—a kindhearted one at that. Okay, interesting. All things considered, Deja really was thirsty, and the water probably wasn’t drugged given the man’s demonstration. Experimentally, she used her elbows and stomach muscles to lever her body into a sitting position.

  Taking the canteen with her shackled, awkward hands, Deja gave the man a distrustful stare anyhow, just on principle. Her body felt weak and her tongue felt half again as big as it had any right to be. Her head wouldn’t quit aching. Likely because she hadn’t had a stiff drink in a while. Besides, who knew what they had done to her.

  One of her hands drifted to her throat where the iDose still encircled her neck. Drugged; she must’ve been drugged with a tranquilizer at the very least. The aging cream on her skin had started to wear off, from what she could see of her arms and legs. But that was the least of her concerns.

  Her mind whirled as she looked at the thin man crouched nearby. If Whitley was her abductor’s levelheaded counterpart, well, that could tilt the odds back in her favor. Deja would therefore collect what information she could and make the best of it.

  As Deja drank steady sips, she looked around the room. No obvious door. And no natural light. No windows, period. Just glow panels on the ceiling to light the place. And what a boring place it was. Walls and ceiling were of a dark-looking, lacquered wood substitute, and the floor was some kind of gray material. An average-sized commode and a shallow sink stood in one corner. And, of course, she sat on a low-tech mattress. A few springs were digging into her butt at the moment. She could be ju
st about anywhere on Vinadro or any other planet. Or even on a ship traveling through space, for that matter. Super.

  Wiping her chin with the back of one hand, she tossed the empty canteen over her shoulder. Clangity, bang, tang. This earned her a dismissive shrug from Whitley. But not a whack on the head. Well, that was interesting too.

  “Uh, is this the part where you apologize for your sister’s atrocious manners and nurse me back to health as the ‘good’ sibling?” Deja asked.

  Shaking his head, Whitley sighed. “I—my sister and I didn’t pay you to bring the Coalition into this. We didn’t dare you to go digging around in the judge’s quarters either.”

  “Right,” Deja said, rolling her eyes. “But your big sis forgot to mention that the dare would end up making me an accomplice to murder by dirt.”

  Her captor shook his head again. “I don’t like this. If you had kept to your own business—” He stopped, unwilling or unsure how to go on. He rose and walked behind her to retrieve the canteen. She pivoted as best she could, tracking his movement.

  With his back to her, he spoke again. “My sister is—well, we have our reasons. But I…wish you hadn’t figured out what happened.”

  “Really? Me too,” Deja said as he turned around.

  He attached the canteen to his belt, looked at her, then glanced away.

  Ahh. Feeling guilty, are you? Good.

  “Because of your actions, we had to switch plans.”

  “Yeah, so sorry about that.” Deja laughed, rattling her manacles for effect. “So what do those plans have in store for me?”

  The guy flinched, just a little twitch in one eyelid. “I’ll share that with you as soon as I can.”

  “And food? How about some of that?” Deja asked, patting her stomach. “Or do I get to starve some more?”

  Another shake of the head from Whitley. “You’ve received sufficient nutrients while in our care.” Deja snorted at the word “care.”

  “What about a stiff drink,” she ventured. “I could certainly use one of those.”

  “Maybe later,” he said with an odd look. “First, I think you should see what’s happened while you slept. Then my sister and I will tell you what we know about you and let you have a say in your fate.” Whitley turned to the wall nearest Deja’s feet and said, “Viewscreen reveal. Local newsbeat, live stream.” A large square of the dark wall went translucent and a holopanel lit up.

  A male Vinadroan with peacock-blue fur stood reporting from the very kitchen where Deja had prepared her food. “…interviews in just a moment. As of today, we know this much: In the shocking attack on the renowned chef, author, and judge, Lukas Inciardi, the Coalition has identified the lead suspects as Riva Glass and EvaLynn Dubois, two assassins disguised as chefs in the Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy Contest.” Contest footage of Deja began rolling in one corner of the screen. She watched herself shopping for ingredients, preparing food, yelling at Geoff in his sous chef disguise, and addressing the judges. Promises for a tidy reward in return for information scrolled across the screen’s bottom.

  Sitting stock still, Deja waited for a sketch of her real face to appear. Geoff knew what her real face looked like. Her own stupid fault, that. He could give a description to a Coalition sketcher. But no images of her true face ever appeared, and Deja could scarcely fathom it. Maybe Geoff hadn’t given up on her completely. Despite her better judgment, Deja cradled the blaze of hope ignited by this thought. Yet a darker explanation popped into her mind seconds later. He could still think she was guilty and yet want to give her a pass because of his misguided love. Yes, that could be it. Brilliant. The idiot could be risking his job for me. Like she needed more guilt. Deja eyed Whitley, who was now leaning in the corner to the right of the holopanel.

  The news commentary droned on. “For all those watching and listening out there, we ask that those with pertinent information on the fugitives’ whereabouts come forward. The stain this atrocity has left upon our world’s most beloved food contest cannot be allowed to go unpunished. Food is life, my friends. And one who threatens that, threatens us all.” The reporter emphasized the last three words with an irritated twitch of his ears and then railed some more about the sanctity of food. “And now,” he went on, “let’s speak with some of the suspects’ competitors.” Footage showing Chef Glass now rolled in one corner, but the majority of the viewscreen shifted to a pre-recorded interview from none other than Chef Gaskón.

  What? Well this ought to be good.

  “What can you tell us about EvaLynn Dubois, the lead suspect in this case, Chef Gaskón. Did you notice any warning signs?”

  The pink-skinned chef bobbed his head a little. “Goodness, yes, now that I think on it. The woman had such shifty eyes and a sneaky manner. But none of us had any idea she was feeding the judges dirt—”

  Whitley ordered the viewscreen to mute the sound. Captions in several languages appeared on the screen instead, but Deja didn’t pay them much attention anymore.

  “This,” the other gestured at the screen, “isn’t what we’d planned.”

  Deja’s anger flared again. “Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. It’s so hard to find real trouble these days.”

  Whitley paused with a look of impatience—or worry?—creasing his forehead. “Look, Deja, if you keep…pushing like this, my sister will simply choose your fate. I doubt you’ll like it.”

  Switching tactics, Deja put a touch of pleading in her voice. “Then why not let me go? You don’t seem like a killer, Whitley. You’re not like your sister. Your sister worked me over. You didn’t. At least, I don’t think you did.”

  His eye twitched again, and Deja took heart. “I’m sorry to be so ‘disagreeable’ and all. But can you blame me? I can’t help but wonder why you’re doing all this. What in the galaxy could bring you, not just your sister, to plot the death of that judge?”

  “That’s simple,” a resonant voice piped into the room. A second later, an entry panel slid aside and Famous Foodie entered, her face bearing a brief smile.

  Deja grumbled to herself. Just when she’d been making progress with Whitley, the older, meaner sibling had to show up.

  “Let me explain,” the zealous foodie said, waving her younger brother to silence. “All three of us have pathetic excuses for a father. Inciardi is our father.”

  Deja’s face went slack. The judge was their father? And they tried to kill him? Wait. How did they know she and her papá had a few problems? “My father is not your business,” she said, alarm rising.

  “What, you enjoyed cleaning up after your father’s gambling escapades, did you? Bailing him out on world after world, making excuses to your mother. That was enjoyable? Or how about his love for smuggling illegal foods? Didn’t this habit, combined with his gambling, get you and your mother’s entire crew of performers banned from several planets?”

  Something inside her shriveled. They knew far, far too much. Professional oddsbreaker though she was, Deja hadn’t expected this dare to get so personal. With fire in her voice, she said, “Don’t project your own daddy issues on me, chef. None of that makes me want to kill him.”

  “Indeed, which is interesting in and of itself. Especially because he ruined your life.”

  “What?”

  Famous moved a few paces closer to Deja. “You said as much yourself not long ago. Didn’t she, Whitley?”

  Whitley, nervous, shifted on his feet but nodded.

  “You told my brother that you took up the high-risk life of an oddsbreaker all because of your father. He got himself locked up, and you felt obligated to play dangerous odds just for his pathetic benefit.”

  Fury and disbelief boiled within Deja as she spoke through clenched teeth. “Listen, I don’t know what your father did to you two ‘charming’ kids. But my papá is none of your slaggin’ concern. We both have flaws, but we love each other. He’d do the same for me.”

  Snorting, Famous crossed her arms. Whitley opened his mouth to speak until Famous glared at him
then said, “Deja, Deja. True love, true loyalty, is so incredibly rare. Why, didn’t you learn your lesson when that lieutenant colonel of yours commandeered your dare? How about when he gave you up to his beloved Coalition? Now he’s hunting you down.” Her slim fingers motioned to the news show. “And this is how he thanks you for saving his life during that religious coup on planet Be’Voya? He may not have released a sketch of your real face yet, but he will. Besides, our father deserved his fate.”

  Cursing herself, Deja knew that the siblings must have dosed her with a truth-speaking cocktail. They knew too much. But she wasn’t about to let these crazies get the best of her in this verbal sparring. Once she found an opening, she would drive home one sharp barb deep into their psyches. For now, she had to be somewhat cautious. The iDose around her neck could be loaded with just about anything.

  “Okay,” Deja admitted, “so you set up the toothpick as part of a bribe; and he took it, yes. But why did he deserve to suffer so horribly?”

  Famous’s eyes gleamed like a predator’s eyes at night. Whitley, however, frowned for a fraction of a second then looked at the floor.

  “His real name is Phil Torrens. Our mother was a migrant worker in the yamallow fields on Citron Four. It was a newly settled, low-tech planet. Small. He and his younger brother were the sons of the colony’s lordly founder. Like most overlords, he—and his brother—lusted for profits, good food, and pretty women above all other things. My mother had the misfortune of catching our father’s eye.

  “Torrens hired her to cook his meals. When she resisted, he threatened to imprison her for plotting to form a strike among the field workers. As a result, she went along with his demands, even teaching him all she knew of cooking. But,”—and here Famous seemed to look proud, her shoulders straightening—“he did not know that she began ‘redistributing’ his wealth as soon as he ‘invited’ her into his bed and gave her his trust in other matters. She helped organize the workers for protests against poor conditions and wages. But when I was fourteen and Whitley was five, Torren’s father pressured him to marry a rich heiress from a neighboring colony. So he did. Then he sent me to the fields to work, and Mother was incensed.”