Page 23 of Morning Star (Red Rising Saga 3)

“Do you want the eyes back?” Sevro asks, suddenly worried. “I can give them back.”

“No!” I say. “It’s just I forgot how crazy you are.”

“O

h.” He laughs and slaps my shoulder. “Good. I thought it was something serious. So I’m prime keeping them?”

“Finders keepers,” I say with a shrug.

“Deanna of Lykos, may we borrow your son for martial matters?” Ragnar asks my mother. “He has much to do. Many things to know.”

“Only if you return him in one piece. And you take some coffee with you. And bring these socks to the laundry.” My mother pushes a bag of freshly patched socks into Ragnar’s arms.

“As you wish.”

“What about the presents?” one of my nephews asks. “Didn’t you bring any?”

“I’ve got a present for you…” Sevro says.

“Sevro, no!” Dio and my mother shout.

“What?” He pulls out a bag. “It’s just candy this time.”

—

“…and that’s when Ragnar tripped over Pebble and fell out the back of the transport,” Sevro cackles. “Like a dumbass.” He’s eating a candy bar over my head as he pushes my wheelchair recklessly through the stone corridor. He sprints fast again and hops on the back to coast till we swerve into the wall. I wince in pain. “So Ragnar falls straight into the sea. Thing was at full chop, man. Waves the size of torchships. So I dive in too, thinking he needs my help, just in time for this huge…I dunno what the hell you’d call it. Some Carved beasty…”

“Demon,” Ragnar says from behind. I hadn’t noticed him following. “It was a sea demon from the third level of Hel.”

“Sure.” Sevro guides me around a corner, clipping the wall hard enough to make me bite my tongue, and sending a cluster of Sons pilots scattering. They stare after me as we trundle on. “This sea”—he looks back at Ragnar—“demon apparently thinks Ragnar is a tasty-looking morsel, so he gobbles him up almost as soon as he hits the water. So I see this, and I’m laughing my ass off with Screwface, as one would because it’s bloodydamn hilarious, and you know how Screwface loves a good joke. But then the beasty dives. So I follow. And I’m chasing it, shooting my pulseFist at a bloodydamn sea”—he looks at Ragnar again—“demon as it swims to the bottom of the damn Thermic Sea. Pressure’s building. My suit’s wheezing. And I think I’m about to die, when suddenly Ragnar cuts his way out of the scaly bitch.” He leans close. “But guess where he came out? Come on. Guess. Guess!”

“Sevro, did he come out the sea demon’s rectum?” I ask.

Sevro squeals with laughter. “He did! Right out the ass. Shot like a turd—” My chair rolls to a stop. His voice cut short, followed by a thump and sliding sound. My wheelchair rolls forward again. I look back and see Ragnar pushing it innocently along. Sevro isn’t in the hallway behind us. I frown, wondering where he went, till he bursts out of a side passage.

“You! Troll!” Sevro shouts. “I’m a terrorist warlord! Stop throwing me. You made me drop my candy!” Sevro looks at the floor of the hallway. “Wait. Where is it? Dammit, Ragnar. Where is my peanut bar? You know how many people I had to kill to get that. Six! Six!” Ragnar chews quietly above me, and though I’m probably mistaken, I think I see him smile.

“Ragnar, have you been brushing your teeth? They look splendid.”

“Thank you,” he preens as much as a man eight feet tall can preen past a mouthful of peanut butter bar. “The wizard removed my old ones. They pained me greatly. These are new. Are they not fine?”

“Mickey, the wizard,” I confirm.

“Indeed. He also taught me to read before he left Tinos.” Ragnar proves this by reading every single sign and warning we pass in the hall till we enter the hangar bay some ten minutes later. Sevro follows behind, still complaining about his lost candy. The hangar is cramped by Society standards, but is still nearly thirty meters high and sixty wide. It’s been cut into the rock by laser drills. The floor is stone, blasted black from engines. Several dilapidated shuttles sit in berths beside three shining new ripWings. Reds directed by two Oranges service the ships and stare at me as we wheel past. I feel an outsider here.

A motley group of soldiers ambles away from a battered shuttle. Some are still in armor with their wolfcloaks hanging from their shoulders. Others are stripped down to their undersuits or go bare-chested.

“Boss!” Pebble cries from under Clown’s arm. She’s as plump as ever, and she grins at me, hauling Clown along to move faster. His puffy hair is matted with sweat, and he leans on the shorter girl. Both their faces are bright when they approach, as if I were exactly as they remembered. Pebble shoves Clown off her shoulder to give me a hug. Clown, for his part, gives a ludicrous bow.

“Howlers reporting for duty, Primus,” he says. “Sorry about the kerfuffle.”

“Shit got prickly,” Pebble explains before I can speak.

“Exceedingly prickly. Something different about you, Reaper.” Clown puts his hands on his hips. “You look…slender. Did you trim your hair? Don’t tell me. It’s the beard…terribly slimming.”

“Kind of you to notice,” I say. “And to stay, considering everything.”

“What, you mean you lying to us for five years?”