The Alien’s Claim by Zoey Draven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jaxor sat on the soft bed, his head hanging between his shackled wrists. His claws—his dulled claws, since he kept them short for Erin—were curled into his shorn hair.
Vaxa’an had left him hours before. Jaxor couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face after he’d told him everything. From the beginning. He’d told him only the facts, however brutal they might have been. About seeking out the Mevirax, about Tavar, about the crystals. About leaving the Mevirax, and returning when Tavar sought him out with a proposition. He told him what he knew of the traitor in the command center—though he had no name—about how the male would make sure to be on duty whenever the Jetutians met with the Mevirax so he could shield their vessel’s signal as they entered the atmosphere.
Finally, he told his brother about Kossira—Tavar’s mate. The only pregnant Luxirian female in existence on their planet. He told him about the deal Tavar had made with Jaxor—that he would bring human females to the Caves of Pevrallix and in exchange, Jaxor would be the one to confront Po’grak, that he would have his chance at revenge.
“Why would Tavar betray Po’grak?” Vaxa’an had asked when Jaxor had first spoken of it. “It seems foolish.”
That was when Jaxor told him of the cure for the virus. Kossira had told them that the Jetutians only gave her a small vial—black in color and thick—injected into her bloodstream. Nothing more. The realization that the cure for their females was so simple was…rocking.
Vaxa’an had seemed dumbstruck by it as well. He’d shaken his head at first. “Privanax has worked tirelessly on a treatment. I cannot imagine that—”
“The Jetutians have one. One that works.”
“You have seen Kossira?” Vaxa’an had demanded, standing to pace.
“Tev,” Jaxor said. “Before I left for the Golden City, before I came for Erin and Crystal, she looked as if she was just two lunar cycles away from giving birth.”
“This vaccine…you were planning to steal it?” Vaxa’an had asked him, cutting him with a sharp look. “That is what you and Tavar plotted?”
“Tavar believed that you would bend your power to him if he brought you the cure for our females,” Jaxor had said quietly. “He seeks power. He still hates the Jetutians, but he was willing to work with them for one purpose only.”
“He wants to be Prime Leader,” Vaxa’an had said, his expression grim.
“He would have demanded nothing less once he had the vaccine,” Jaxor had said. “He would have made you choose between your position and your people. And I know you would have relinquished the title to him.”
“All while plotting to get it back,” Vaxa’an had finished for him. “And be assured, brother, I would get it back.”
Jaxor had looked at his brother in that moment and realized that there were some aspects of Vaxa’an that Jaxor saw in himself. All of the bad of Vaxa’an, Jaxor saw in himself.
“I was going to bring it to you,” Jaxor had admitted softly. “I was going to take the vaccine and bring it to you instead.”
“Rebax?” Vaxa’an had asked quietly, stilling in his pacing.
“Tavar is dangerous,” Jaxor told him. “In some ways, he is worse than the Jetutians and I would not allow him near the throne our family’s blood has built.”
Vaxa’an had blown out a breath, but had asked, unflinchingly, “And what of the human females? In all of your plans, what of them?”
Jaxor had looked away from his brother’s gaze then. “I knew that it was always a possibility I would not be able to get them back after I killed Po’grak. The exchange was to take place on their vessel. We were to bring the Luxirian female of our choosing along with the human females we had taken so they could administer the treatment. There were many variables, many things that could go wrong.” His gaze had connected with Vaxa’an’s then. He’d forced himself to look him straight in the eye and say, “My priority was the cure, not the human females.”
“Not even Po’grak?” Vaxa’an had asked quietly.
Jaxor’s revenge had weighed heavily in his mind for ten rotations. But as he was looking into his brother’s identical eyes, Jaxor felt relief when he said, “I would have chosen the vaccine,” because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, it was the truth.
Vaxa’an seemed to realize the same thing in that moment. Vaxa’an had then asked, “And how does Erin fit into all this?”
And that question was the one haunting him presently. Vaxa’an was gone now, left to speak with the council, and all Jaxor had was his thoughts, his regrets, and his dread.
Jaxor couldn’t stand the soft cot he sat on, so he rose, pacing the floor just as his brother had done during their conversation. His wrists were still shackled, but at least Jaxor wasn’t being kept in the dungeons below the command center. Instead, Vaxa’an had led him into one of the empty quarters—warrior barracks—and locked him in. The space was bare. There was a small washroom attached. But nothing that Jaxor could use to get the shackles off, which Vaxa’an had probably already thought of.
I should get used to them, Jaxor thought. Because after this, it was very likely he would be wearing them until his death.
Before Vaxa’an had left to meet with the council, he’d looked at Jaxor and said, “Even if we manage to get to Erin in time, even if we manage to take Tavar into our custody and kill Po’grak and get the vaccine…even if everything goes perfectly right,” Jaxor had closed his eyes, imagining that very situation, knowing that it was too good to be true, “you will still go to trial before the council and the elders. Even I will not be able to pardon you.”
“Would you, though?” Jaxor had asked quietly. “Pardon me if you could?”
“You are my brother,” Vaxa’an had said, his tone final. And then he’d left, but Jaxor still wasn’t quite sure what he’d meant.
Did he mean that Jaxor, who shared the Prime Leader’s blood, was not above their laws? Or that Vaxa’an would undoubtedly do anything he could to save him?
On top of it all, Jaxor kept trying to search for Erin. As if they had blood bonded, as if they had performed the fellixix. Jaxor cursed himself for it now. If they had performed their ravraxia, their mating ceremony, under the eyes of the Fates, he would be able to feel her. To sense her.
But all he felt was a dark emptiness, as if she should have been in his mind, but had already gone.
He punched the wall of his prison at the thought, wondering for the thousandth time whether he’d made the right decision in coming to the Golden City instead of straight to the Caves of the Pevrallix.
Jaxor could’ve reached her by now. His brother, on the other hand, was chained by responsibilities, by plans. He had the lives of his warriors to think of, whereas Jaxor only had his own. And he would undoubtedly give it up, if it only meant Erin was safe.
He punched the wall again, cursing softly at the agony coursing its way through his body. His Instinct was restless. He felt all wrong, not having her close, not knowing that she was safe. They were wasting time. They should have already started their journey towards the Caves—
The door to his quarters opened and his brother stepped back inside, followed by Kirov. Seeing him, Jaxor paused, his brow furrowing. How long had it been already? Kirov wasn’t supposed to be in the Golden City until later that night.
Had the hours passed without Jaxor knowing?
Immediately, Jaxor asked him, “You checked that there were no Jetutian vessels on the planet’s surface? You ran your scans?”
“Tev,” Kirov replied, inclining his head, though he never took his gaze away. “The surface is clear.”
Relief, however brief.
Vaxa’an said, “We need you to come to the war room.”
Jaxor was already approaching the door. Vaxa’an stopped him with a firm grip on his upper arm. He had something in his hand and when he held it up, Jaxor knew it was the key for the shackles.
He knew what Vaxa’an asked. Gaze narrowed, Jaxor said, “You think I would risk her life and try to flee now?”
Vaxa’an studied him. Kirov studied him. Jaxor could feel those eyes sizing him up, trying to see something that even Jaxor couldn’t. Kirov had always been that way. Too intelligent, too observant, too knowing, perhaps even for his own good.
“The council wishes to speak with you. We need information on the Mevirax base, information only you can give,” Vaxa’an told him, unclasping the shackles that bound his wrists. Jaxor rubbed them, the skin raw, but when he tried to step past his brother, Vaxa’an squeezed his shoulder, keeping him in the quarters. “You should wash first. And eat something.”
Jaxor paused, cutting his brother a look. Did Jaxor look as terrible as he felt? Shame bit into his chest. He must look like one of the Mevirax in his brother’s eyes, untamed, unpredictable, uncivilized with his well-used clothes and shorn hair. He hadn’t bathed in two spans, hadn’t eaten in just as long.
What would the council think? That was what Vaxa’an was asking him. Because sometimes, appearance was everything, especially in the Golden City. If he looked like an untamed barbarian, then that was the only thing the council would see. But if he looked like a son of the Luxirian throne…
Was Vaxa’an already anticipating the council’s verdict in his trial? Was he already trying to sway their opinions of Jaxor?
Something lodged in his chest at the thought and he reached out, clasping his hand around his brother’s wrist. Understanding was dawning, now that he was thinking about it. He only wished he hadn’t wasted time, that he had thought of it before.
He had to play the part of the Prime Leader’s brother. Not Jaxor, the traitor who’d left to seek out the Mevirax, who had their ink on his skin, but rather, Jaxor’an, son of Kirax’an.
Jaxor made for the washroom quickly. He turned on the bathing tube, marveling at the steady, warm stream that poured out. He’d forgotten about the tubes, so used to the iciness of the waterfall back at his base. He washed quickly, scrubbing at his dirty skin and unwashed hair. The water went cloudy before it ran clear and the moment Jaxor felt clean, he stepped out and dried himself off.
When he stepped from the washroom nude, Kirov was sitting on the sleeping platform. Vaxa’an had been speaking with him, but they ceased whatever conversation they’d been having when he reappeared. Next to Kirov on the cot were clean clothes—a dark tunic with long sleeves and hide pants, along with sturdy boots.
Jaxor pulled them on quickly, lacing the pants in a tight knot, his fingers remembering the pattern he’d always used, the same pattern of knot his mother had taught him before warrior training, the same pattern Vaxa’an no doubt still used.
Alongside the clothes was a tray of fresh, braised meat, still steaming, with fatty broth and a goblet of watered Brew. Jaxor made quick work of the food. Though it was delicious—he’d almost forgotten the skill of Luxirians when it came to braised meats—the moment he swallowed the last of it down, he nodded at his brother.
“I am ready.”
