to it. That…and stepping off the edge.”
“Is that all?” I ask.
Trey nods. “Jax will go first. Then you and I will follow. Wayra, you cover our eight,” Trey orders, stepping into his harness.
“You mean our six?” I ask, giving him a funny look.
“What?” Trey asks, not looking at me.
“Wouldn’t it be our six? If Wayra is covering our back…our rear, then it’s our six,” I say, seeing him grin. I blink, completely distracted by the way his eyes tilt up appealingly when he smiles.
“On a human clock, it would be six. On an Etharian timetable, it’s eight,” he answers, and my mind whirls with the implications of what he just said.
“Thirty-two? Are there thirty-two hours in a day there?” I ask, “Or, do you just have cycles of sixteen? Is it even hours? When you say eight, what do you mean?”
“Those sound like more questions,” Trey murmurs, looking at me smugly. “Did you misplace your anthropologist’s hat?”
Narrowing my eyes at him, he just grins wider. Jax cuts in then, saying, “See ya at the bottom. Baw-da-baw,” before he steps off the edge of the precipice.
“Can I at least ask what ‘Baw-da-baw’ means?” I ask Wayra, seeing him grinning, too.
“It’s military…Cavars say it before going into battle—it’s a war cry,” Wayra answers. I nod to him, feeling my knees go weak as Wayra guides me to the edge of the crag.
Placing my heels over the edge, my stomach twists as my hands tighten on the line strapped to my harness. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and say, “Well then…Baw-da-baw…”
Several moments pass before Trey clears his throat. I open my eyes again. “You can go now, Kricket,” Trey says, looking like he’s trying really hard not to smile.
“I know,” I shoot back. “I’m going.”
“Do you need me to hold you?” Trey asks with a smirk. Seeing that he’s making fun of me, my spine straightens.
“Baw-da-baw,” I bite out, stepping off the edge. I immediately begin to rocket towards the bottom of the abyss, because the ratchet on my harness is failing to tension the rope; it’s sliding through too quickly.
Sliding past Jax on his rope, I try desperately to hold onto my line as it pulls through my fingers, burning them through my gloves. Looking up, light blinds me again as Trey reaches out, clasping me to his huge body and squeezing out what little air is left in my lungs.
Wrapping my arms around his chest, I almost lose my grasp on him when the tension in his line catches, slowing us down. “Don’t let me go!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a raspy whisper.
“I won’t,” Trey promises in a low tone by my ear, squeezing me tighter. “Hold tight. We’re almost to the bottom.”
Hitting the ground softly at the bottom, Trey doesn’t let me go right away, but continues to hug me to him as I shake in his arms. “Are you hurt?” he asks as my cheek rests against his neck.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen, right?” I ask, hearing the quiver in my own voice.
“No,” he admits grimly, setting me on my feet and checking my harness. “You’re too light. This harness is designed for someone with more weight than you. I should’ve checked this myself. You need a smaller ratchet…how many turks do you weigh?” he asks me seriously.
“What’s a turk?” I ask, hearing Jax touch down behind us.
“You trying to stop her heart, sir?” Jax asks in a concerned tone, coming to me and checking me for injuries.
“No, she’s stopping mine,” Trey replies softly, watching Jax examine me.
Swatting Jax’s hands away, I say, “I’m fine. Just my hands hurt.”
Trey reaches out, taking my hands in his. He pulls off my gloves gingerly and turns my hands over. His face darkens at the bloody marks left on my palms from trying to hold the rope.
Wayra hits the ground hard behind us, releasing his clamps and running to me. He stops when he sees my hands. His mouth goes slack jaw for a moment and I try to pull
“Is that all?” I ask.
Trey nods. “Jax will go first. Then you and I will follow. Wayra, you cover our eight,” Trey orders, stepping into his harness.
“You mean our six?” I ask, giving him a funny look.
“What?” Trey asks, not looking at me.
“Wouldn’t it be our six? If Wayra is covering our back…our rear, then it’s our six,” I say, seeing him grin. I blink, completely distracted by the way his eyes tilt up appealingly when he smiles.
“On a human clock, it would be six. On an Etharian timetable, it’s eight,” he answers, and my mind whirls with the implications of what he just said.
“Thirty-two? Are there thirty-two hours in a day there?” I ask, “Or, do you just have cycles of sixteen? Is it even hours? When you say eight, what do you mean?”
“Those sound like more questions,” Trey murmurs, looking at me smugly. “Did you misplace your anthropologist’s hat?”
Narrowing my eyes at him, he just grins wider. Jax cuts in then, saying, “See ya at the bottom. Baw-da-baw,” before he steps off the edge of the precipice.
“Can I at least ask what ‘Baw-da-baw’ means?” I ask Wayra, seeing him grinning, too.
“It’s military…Cavars say it before going into battle—it’s a war cry,” Wayra answers. I nod to him, feeling my knees go weak as Wayra guides me to the edge of the crag.
Placing my heels over the edge, my stomach twists as my hands tighten on the line strapped to my harness. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and say, “Well then…Baw-da-baw…”
Several moments pass before Trey clears his throat. I open my eyes again. “You can go now, Kricket,” Trey says, looking like he’s trying really hard not to smile.
“I know,” I shoot back. “I’m going.”
“Do you need me to hold you?” Trey asks with a smirk. Seeing that he’s making fun of me, my spine straightens.
“Baw-da-baw,” I bite out, stepping off the edge. I immediately begin to rocket towards the bottom of the abyss, because the ratchet on my harness is failing to tension the rope; it’s sliding through too quickly.
Sliding past Jax on his rope, I try desperately to hold onto my line as it pulls through my fingers, burning them through my gloves. Looking up, light blinds me again as Trey reaches out, clasping me to his huge body and squeezing out what little air is left in my lungs.
Wrapping my arms around his chest, I almost lose my grasp on him when the tension in his line catches, slowing us down. “Don’t let me go!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a raspy whisper.
“I won’t,” Trey promises in a low tone by my ear, squeezing me tighter. “Hold tight. We’re almost to the bottom.”
Hitting the ground softly at the bottom, Trey doesn’t let me go right away, but continues to hug me to him as I shake in his arms. “Are you hurt?” he asks as my cheek rests against his neck.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen, right?” I ask, hearing the quiver in my own voice.
“No,” he admits grimly, setting me on my feet and checking my harness. “You’re too light. This harness is designed for someone with more weight than you. I should’ve checked this myself. You need a smaller ratchet…how many turks do you weigh?” he asks me seriously.
“What’s a turk?” I ask, hearing Jax touch down behind us.
“You trying to stop her heart, sir?” Jax asks in a concerned tone, coming to me and checking me for injuries.
“No, she’s stopping mine,” Trey replies softly, watching Jax examine me.
Swatting Jax’s hands away, I say, “I’m fine. Just my hands hurt.”
Trey reaches out, taking my hands in his. He pulls off my gloves gingerly and turns my hands over. His face darkens at the bloody marks left on my palms from trying to hold the rope.
Wayra hits the ground hard behind us, releasing his clamps and running to me. He stops when he sees my hands. His mouth goes slack jaw for a moment and I try to pull
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