Alien Chronicles 2 - The Crimson Claw by Deborah Chester Read Free Book Online

to meet her eyes. “That is enough for Ylea.”
    “Then she’ll have to get over the problem.”
    Ruar sighed. “No,” he said softly. “You will.”
    He pointed again at the door and Ampris stepped through it. But she paused on the threshold and turned back to him. “Is she the team leader?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then how do I appeal to her good side?” Ampris asked. “I will not apologize, but how can I make friends with her?”
    Ruar stared at her as though his eyes would pop from his skull. “Friends?” he squeaked at last. “Friends? There are no friends in the arena.”
    “But we’re teammates, not competitors,” Ampris said. “We’re supposed to work together.”
    Ruar shook his head vehemently. “No friends. You stay quiet. Cause me no more trouble. Food will come soon, then you be very quiet.”
    “But, Ruar—”
    He gave her a shove, hard enough to push her over the threshold, and swiftly slammed the door.
    Annoyed, Ampris gave the door a kick, and in response the locks engaged.
    She fumed a moment, glaring at the door, then recovered her temper and swung around to see her latest cell.
    It was beautiful. It was spacious. It appeared to be filled with every luxury.
    Astonished, Ampris forgot all about her anger. At first, she could do nothing but stare. She kept thinking this had to be a mistake. She was a slave. She’d come here to be an expendable gladiator, useful until she made a fatal mistake or met her match in combat.
    But to be given such a room . . . it reminded her almost of Israi’s sumptuous apartments in the palace, and for a moment Ampris’s eyes stung with tears of remembrance.
    Dusk closed her window now with shadow, but a trio of lamps burned softly around the room. It was furnished as a sitting room, with hangings of lavender and mauve silk, soft chairs filled with cushions, a slightly worn but handsome rug, and an assortment of small tables, one of which supported a geometric sculpture of Igthia crystal.
    Ampris drew in a breath of wonder and went to examine the sculpture more closely. As soon as she touched it, she discovered it to be fake, merely a reproduction, but still . . . to have artwork of her own . . . she wondered if she had stepped into a dream.
    After the plain, unadorned, utilitarian barracks of Bizsi Mo’ad, this was divine.
    Delight spread through her. Ampris grinned, then rushed to explore further.
    She found a curtained doorway off to one side that contained a tiny bedchamber barely large enough to hold a bed—a real bed and not just a hard bunk—plus a side table with lamp and a vid control, a vid cabinet, and a chest with pegs and drawers for clothing.
    Beyond the bedchamber, Ampris found an equally small bathing room, with a sunken pool fitted with hydroponic jets, a steam cabinet, a massage table that unfolded from the wall, and a washing sink of reproduction crystal surmounted by a mirror that activated to shimmering, reflective life at her approach. In the ceiling, a tiny window showed her the first twinkles of alien stars.
    Overcome, Ampris sank to her knees beside the pool and pressed her palms against the smooth coldness of the floor. All this was hers and hers alone.
    Never, not even when she was a privileged cub inside the Imperial Palace, had she enjoyed private quarters of her very own.
    She could not believe it.
    Oh, much of the magnificence in these quarters was surface only. But Ampris did not mind if the rugs were old or if the materials were synthetic. She had never believed she would live this way, especially after she was cast out of the palace.
    And now, unexpectedly, so much was hers.
    After the harshness at Bizsi Mo’ad, where there was no grace, no comfort, nothing civilized, it was like being given breath again. Hope bloomed inside her for the first time in a long, long while. She could not believe this gift, this kindness, this generosity of her new owner. And to think that she had struggled to remain at Bizsi Mo’ad,