Read Online Hidden Steel by Doranna Durgin - Free Book Online Page A

hand-formed vase in her careful grip, examining its newly fired glaze with a critical eye.
    Badra gave it a dubious look. “It’s lopsided.”
    Naia considered telling her it had been a firing accident, but, flush with her success with the dead-drop, told the truth instead. “I made it that way.”
    “Flawed? On purpose?”
    “No,” Naia said, quite distinctly. “Individual.”
    Badra was silent a moment. Then she said, “The color is pretty.”
    As close to victory as Naia would ever get. “Thank you.” She returned the vase to her project space and hovered over the class schedule and kiln sign-up sheet, then spent a few moments admiring the other projects in process.
    No sign of Anna’s presence. Her quirky vase—a daisy vase with a dozen stem ports and giant, splashy daisies painted in unfired glaze—hadn’t moved since Naia’s last visit to the co-op. It was so Anna, that vase. Even dressed for high society, wrapped in designer gowns with her hair in an up-do and her fingers elegantly be-ringed with her antique jewelry, Anna managed to convey the quirky, impulsive side of her nature. It was something in her smile, Naia had thought from the start. It had been that smile that drew Naia to her friend in the first place. With all the pasted, faked, cultured expressions surrounding her in that party, Anna’s smile had stood out as real—faintly flawed, not quite symmetrical, and genuine.
    Ironic that she, of all people, would eventually recruit Naia to spy on her countrymen.
    Countrymen who are hurting my country, she reminded herself. She signed up for a work time in the next afternoon so she could check the dead-drop. She’d have to come up with a new project concept by then.
    Though if Anna hadn’t picked up her note, faking enthusiasm for a new project would be the least of her worries.

    * * * * *

    Mickey should have known it. Actually, she should have known two things.
    One, that Steve’s lofty apartment would be every bit as neat and organized as the rest of this place. And two—Mickey allowed herself to dance a brief little jig—that he’d pursued his interest in weapons with the same dedicated follow-through. Jackpot. A total glut of weaponry.
    He liked projectile weapons, that was clear enough. Anything but guns. Two competition recurve bows sat in a metal stand with straight-fletch, practice-point arrows. A pistol crossbow in a glass-front corner cabinet along with several braces of throwing knives. To judge from the heavily gouged wood target planks leaning against one painted cinder block wall, Steve really enjoyed the satisfaction of the blade striking home, that feel of metal slipping through fingers, the knowing when the throw was righteous, the sound of it. …
    Mickey looked down at her hand. It twitched, fingers already placed for the throw. I guess he’s not the only one.
    And then she saw the slingshot. A simple thing, really—a folding steel frame with wrist brace and surgical tubing, a box of ammo beside it. Younger sister, acting out at school … surrounded by bullies, coming home with bruises and tears…
    Slingshots were cheap. They were unexpected. And it hadn’t taken much practice. Rotten yewberries, raisins, cat droppings … even those, at short range, went where Mickey sent them; if they didn’t sting, they stunk. And still she’d been able to stay out of sight, to keep her sister’s protection an anonymous thing. An unexpected thing. Until the bullies got the message— mess with this girl, and you never know where, you never know when … and you never know just how disgusting it’s gonna get.
    Memories. True, hard memories. Her memories. No names attached, no locations. Just that feeling of satisfaction … the realization of just how good she was at the game.
    Mickey opened the corner cabinet and gathered up her chosen arsenal. A brace of four small knives, a shoulder harness that looked unused and might even adjust down to fit her, and the slingshot. Both easy