No Such Thing Read online

  As she passed his table, Declan had to fight not to reach out and touch her, to make her real. One pilot at the next table didn’t fight the urge. Standing, he caught her wrist and tugged her to a halt. "Hey little mims, want comp’ny?"

  Declan exploded to his feet, outrage burning past his reticence and easy-going nature. "Gantry, are you nuts?" he snarled. "You don’t touch a telenetic."

  The telenetic turned, facing the man holding her wrist. She said nothing.

  Gantry shrugged, grinning down at the young woman. "Why not? It ain’t like she’s…got…" His voice trailed away and his grin faded as the air hummed with rising electricity.

  The telenetic continued to look at the pilot, her expression calm, but her eyes seethed with darkness. Declan gulped when he realized that the hair on his arms was standing straight up. The stuff on his head was trying to do the same. His skin tingled as though he’d brushed a proton stream and he looked at the pilot with alarm. Gantry blanched, dropped his grip on her arm, and took a large step backward.

  Without a word, she turned and moved away.

  Gantry watched her go, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  "You okay, G?" Keesha asked in a loud whisper, edging close to her fellow pilot.

  "Damn," the man muttered in a shaky voice. "It was like stickin’ my hand in a jack. Didn’t think they had that much juice in ‘em."

  "Sit down and finish lunch ‘fore you get your ass in trouble," Keesha admonished, yanking him back to the table.

  Declan sank down into his seat, his legs wobbly. A bone-deep tremor worked its way through his body and he let out a shuddering sigh. She was not what he had expected. She was—more. So much more. Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He searched the room and saw her approach the wall of food dispensers. She made her slow way down the wall, inspecting the contents, seemingly unaware that she had a large, captive audience. Making a decisive choice, she removed a bowl and turned from the dispensers without a second glance.

  She walked back across the mess and Declan contented himself with just watching her. It was rude to stare, but everyone was. She moved like silk. He suddenly realized that he didn’t know her first name and this seemed a grievous oversight. He was plotting ways to extract that information from the Chief when she stopped.

  At his table.

  Her dark gaze sent a shock clear down to his toes. "May I join you?" she asked.

  He gaped at her. No, she couldn’t have asked to sit with him. He must have heard her wrong. He could hardly think with her looking at him.

  Her eyebrows lifted. "Mer? May I sit?"

  "Sh-sure," he croaked, waving at the seat opposite him and nearly overturning his cup. He made a grab for it and held onto the thing for dear life, as she set her bowl down and settled into the seat across the table with simple economy.

  "Thank you. This dining room is much fuller than the officer’s."

  "It’s lunch time," he said inanely, drowning in the infinite darkness of her eyes. He was both relieved and disappointed when she looked down. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he watched as she uncovered her salad and picked up the fork. When she hesitated, he asked with dismal certainty, "Is it bad?"

  "It’s…unusual," she said in a cautious tone, staring into the bowl with a blank expression. "The greens I recognize, but—could you tell me what this is?" She speared a thin, dark object and held it up for his inspection.

  He grimaced. "I think that’s supposed to be meat."

  "Really?" She cocked her head to one side, studying the shriveled substance at the end of her fork. "Hmm. I don’t think I’m brave enough to find out." With delicate precision, she sorted out the offending bits and piled them on the lid of the bowl.

  Declan watched with a sense of dislocation. Was he really sitting across from a telenetic while she picked apart her salad? He took a furtive look around the room, his neck turning hot as he realized they were the center of attention. Keesha caught his eye and made a gesture that was eloquent in its incredulous inquiry—what the hell is she doing at your table? Declan gave a little, baffled shrug in response.

  "The commander suggested I get to know the crew. I couldn’t think of a better way to do that than to come here. He seemed to think I would not like the cook, though." She speared some salad and bit it neatly off her fork, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before tipping her head in an accepting gesture. After she swallowed, she said, "This isn’t bad."

  "Just don’t eat the meatloaf," Declan muttered, watching her with fascination.

  Her lips curled a bit at the edges. She flicked him a look that stopped his heart before she glanced down at the little pile of discarded leavings. "I may become a vegetarian."

  "I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to." He thought with despair that she would never return to the enlisted mess.

  She shrugged, spearing another forkful. "It’s food. I’m Ryelle Soliere. And you are?" She paused, raising her fantastic lashes to drive the air from his lungs with those dark, dark eyes.

  "Declan," he managed. "Declan McCrae."

  "Mer McCrae," she repeated with a solemn nod. "It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for your defense earlier."

  "N-no problem. Just call me Declan," he mumbled, sending an uneasy glance at Gantry. Some of the distant tables had begun talking again in low, fervent conversations. The crewmembers closest to them were still struck dumb. He knew just how they felt.

  She took another bite of salad and Declan stared some more. She was such a little thing, so contained, but he could feel her energy like a warm pressure on his skin. He loved the graceful curve of her throat and the way her lashes swept like dark fans against her skin. The thing she wore on her head was a pretty bauble, but it definitely was not just for show. Bags had been right about that. Something about the way it pressed into her temples disturbed him. The intricate points across her forehead resembled a telenetic’s band, but not enough to give him a hint as to her rating. He was curious but couldn’t pluck up the courage to ask.

  She paused with her fork in the bowl, glancing at him. "I’m sorry, am I making you too uncomfortable to eat?"

  Declan felt a flush work it’s way up his neck and over his cheeks. "No, I’m done. I’m just, ah…" He stared at the cup in his hand, desperate for inspiration. "Do you—do you want something to drink?"

  "Oh." She looked down at the bowl in front of her. "Yes, actually. Where did they—?" She turned in her seat to look at the wall of dispensers.

  "I can get it for you," Declan said, lurching to his feet so fast that he knocked the table askew. "Sorry," he muttered, grabbing the piece of furniture. "What would you like?"

  "Thank you, that’s very kind. Lemon water or tea, if they have it."

  "Sure. I’ll be right back." Declan moved away with a giddy sense of relief and anticipation. Relief because being in her presence was unsettling as hell and he could use the recovery time. Anticipation because he couldn’t wait to return to her. Returning took some doing, though, because he was waylaid no less than seven times by curious crewmembers. He started to worry that she’d leave before he got back and his response to questions grew shorter and more abrupt.

  When he finally returned to the table, he was almost as flustered as when he’d left it. "Sorry I took so long," he hurried to say, grimacing to see that her bowl was empty. "Wouldn’t leave me alone, the rotters—begging your pardon, Mem."

  There was a faint smile on her face as she took the glass from him. "I’m not old enough to be called Mem, but thank you for the courtesy. Please just call me Ryelle. And thank you for the drink. Are they really so curious about me?"

  He stared at her. "Sure they are."

  "But haven’t there been telenetics on board before?"

  "Not one like you," he said and could have bitten his tongue off. Her lashes lowered and she focused with deliberate intent on the fluid in her glass. Declan fidgeted, trying to think of something to say, but his mind was utterly blank.

  Rye
lle tried not to resent him. He was only telling her what she didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been hoping the crew wouldn’t find out how different she was until after she’d made some kind of connection with them. But she’d been taught strategy and diplomacy, not everyday social skills—connecting with the crew turned out to be a lot harder than she’d thought.

  But how had they found out about her? She wondered if the commander had talked about her demonstration with the asteroid or if someone had witnessed it, spreading the news among the crew. Either way, she was likely doomed to fail, if Declan’s reaction was anything to go by. With one exception, she’d been without companions her whole life. Why had she thought this ship and its crew would be any different?

  Swallowing an unexpectedly bitter lump in her throat, she flicked a glance through her lashes at Declan. He looked deeply uncomfortable. His lanky body squirmed on the seat as if it had sprouted a heat-coil under his rear. One long-fingered hand clutched his glass with white-knuckled force while the other moved in a ceaseless dance, tapping at the table, tugging at his collar, running through his wavy brown hair, and rubbing the back of his neck. The only motionless things about him were his eyes, which were fixed on her with wary intensity. He had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen on a human being—bright, brightest blue spiked with indigo and framed by ridiculously long, dark lashes.

  It was his eyes that had made her choose his table. His eyes and the way he’d leapt to his feet, outrage vibrating through his long body and his voice, when that man had grabbed her. She’d been so astonished by the physical touch that she hadn’t been able to say a word. Declan had spoken the truth—it was an unwritten rule that no one touched a telenetic unless invited. Whether the rule was formed out of respect or revulsion, Ryelle couldn’t say. She only knew that Declan’s defense meant more to her than she could express. And his discomfort at being in her presence hurt more than she would have guessed.

  So walk away. The thought was tempting—solitude was like an old friend. Easier. Safer. Static. Cowardly. With an inner grimace, she lifted the glass to her lips and sipped the tart water. They were going into a war zone. If she couldn’t survive a little awkward social interaction, what good would she be in a battle?

  With her eyes fixed on her glass, she asked, "So what do you do on the ship, Declan?"

  "I’m an engineer. Er, well, an engineer in training. I’ve only been on board a couple months."

  She liked his voice. He had a soft burr running through his words, an accent that tried to melt his speech into warm honey despite the tension running through him.

  "Do you like it?"

  "I love it," he responded without hesitation, a faint note of surprise in his voice. "It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever worked on, but it’s a fantastic system. I was raised on this stuff—my mom ran a mechanic’s dock on a moon in the Nine Rings. I’ve seen lots of ships, but this one’s a real pretty piece of work."

  Ryelle looked up with a smile tugging at her lips, enjoying the fervor in his honey voice. "The Nine Rings—that explains the accent."

  A dark red stain rose up his neck and across his cheekbones, his eyes sliding away from hers as if she’d revealed a dirty secret. He took a furtive glance around at their still watching audience and said nothing.

  Ryelle felt a twinge of dismay and scrambled to rescue the conversation. "So—so Commander Task asked me to become familiar with the Odyssey. Since you’re an engineer, would you be willing to show me the engineering section?"

  Declan turned wide eyes to her and Ryelle held her breath, waiting to see if he’d run screaming the other way. He opened his mouth, shut it again, swallowed hard, and said, "Sure," in a voice that sounded dreadfully squeezed. Not what she would call the picture of enthusiasm.

  "When you have time, of course. I didn’t mean now," she tried to reassure him. "I’m sure you have duties you need to—"

  "Anytime," he interrupted, his voice stronger. A faint stain still darkened his cheekbones and he ducked his head a little as if uncertain of his reception, but his eyes were steady on hers and one corner of his mouth curled upward. "I’ll show you anything you want to see."

  Her heart did something strange in her chest at that suggestion of a smile. Ryelle stared at him for a moment, puzzled. Then she blinked and sat back in her seat, trying to dispel the peculiar sensation. "Thank you," she said more abruptly than she’d intended. "I’m—I have to report now, but perhaps later."

  His smile faded, but his gaze remained fixed on her. "Whenever you’re ready. Just call down."

  Ryelle nodded and stood, keeping her expression smooth with an effort when he scrambled to his feet also. She wasn’t used to such treatment—his earnest courtesies were almost as compelling as his eyes. "It was nice to meet you, Declan McCrae," she said with a formal tip of her head.

  He nodded solemnly in return. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, too, Mims Soliere."

  His seriousness made her want to smile. Another thing she wasn’t used to. "Ryelle, please."

  His mouth curled at the corner again as he repeated, "Ryelle."

  As she watched the return of his almost-smile and heard his warm honey accent wrap around her name, her heart did that odd thing again while her stomach executed a funny little flip. She touched her abdomen, wondering if she was getting ill. Giving him a distracted nod, she stepped around him and headed for the exit.

  Declan watched her go and listened to the thunder of blood in his ears. When she left the mess and the door cut off his view of her, the strength ran out of his legs. He dropped back into his seat with a whoosh of escaping air, his mind a stunned, empty landscape.

  "Dec? You okay?" Keesha leaned over him, her gorgeous brow creased with concern. Even an hour ago, he would have been thrilled by the attention from her, but now he just stared at her blankly.

  "I don’t know," he mumbled. Then he winced as Gantry gave him a solid punch to the shoulder.

  "You lucky sarkin’ bastard! How’d you do it?"

  "Do what?" he asked with an irritable roll of his injured shoulder.

  "Man, you got a date with our pretty little netter! She ‘bout fries me then asks you to show her the ship. Hell, I got plenty a’ things I’d like to show her—"

  Declan was on his feet without any idea how he’d gotten there, standing toe to toe with the grinning pilot. "Shut up, Gantry," he said, low and fierce. Anger ran through him like fire, charging his muscles with flaming energy. "What’d you have to go and touch her for?"

  "You gotta ask? Sweet little piece like—"

  Keesha elbowed between them and gave Gantry a hard shove. "You’re pissin’ me off, G. Go sit down before I hurt you."

  Gantry’s insolent grin didn’t waver, but he backed away, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Key, baby, you’re just tryin’ to get me hot."

  She ignored him, turning to look up at Declan. He could see by her expression that she knew just how close he’d come to planting his fist in Gantry’s face. He let out a harsh breath, amazed and alarmed by his unruly reactions.

  "Let it go, Dec," she said softly. "You know how he is, all mouth, empty bucket for a head. He don’t mean harm."

  He nodded, grateful and resentful in equal measure for her interference.

  "Makes you feel better, I’ll whomp on ‘im later," she murmured with a wink.

  He grinned, relaxing a bit. "Thanks."

  "That’s better." She studied him with that crease forming between her eyes again. "You still look a little peaky ‘round the peepers. She do you funny? Y’know, like she did G?"

  Declan stiffened again. "She didn’t do a damn thing to me except talk," he said through his teeth. "Gantry deserved whatever he got for putting his hands on her, so don’t you—"

  "Okay, okay," Keesha said, backing away from him. "Just worried ‘bout you, kiddo. Don’t get all blasty with me."

  Declan ground his teeth and thought of all the things he should be saying, like apologizing for hi
s strange behavior and reasoning with them about the telenetic, but he couldn’t unclench his jaw to speak. Turning on his heel, he headed for the exit.

  He fumed all the way down to the engineering level. The unfairness of Keesha’s implication gnawed at him. Ryelle had only been protecting herself. He wasn’t sure exactly what she’d done, but as far as he could tell, it hadn’t harmed Gantry. Hadn’t even deterred him much, if his last comments were any indication. And she was a telenetic, for god’s sake. They didn’t just go around using their talent on anybody—the Institute would have their heads. The only reason the Institute had been allowed to cultivate telenetics in the first place was their guarantee of good behavior. Keesha was just being prejudiced.

  His fierce response to that prejudice also gnawed at him. He’d had a few minor brawls in his life, usually with his mother’s gritty hired hands or their equally gritty offspring, but he’d never been so close to starting one himself. And with very little provocation. Gantry was known for his big mouth and fast hands—his comments about Ryelle had actually been as close to respectful as he could get. So why did he have this overwhelming urge to throw Gantry on the floor and stomp on him?

  Trying to get his mind off this strange new violent streak, he focused on Ryelle’s request to visit the engineering section. Just thinking about seeing her again made his steps lighter and his mouth curve in helpless delight. She was amazing; he couldn’t believe his good fortune. Bags was going to blow when Declan told him that not only had he seen the telenetic, but he’d had lunch with her. And he was going to see her again.

  He was grinning like an idiot when he bounced his way into the engine rooms, but his steps slowed and his smile faded when he saw the rapid pulse and fiery quality of the light. They were running hot. That meant one of two things—either they were trying to get somewhere fast or the weapons were on standby.

  "Declan. Did you have a good lunch?" The Chief came to stand at his side, a serene smile matching the calm tone of his voice. But that didn’t tell him anything—the Chief was always serene and calm.