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Vas couldn’t think of an emotion that went through Terel that she didn’t hum about. Maybe it was a species thing. The question would be which species. Terel was an Exotic, her heritage made up of so many unique species that no single one could be claimed. Tall and elegantly thin, almost human looking, but with long dark orange feather-like hair that never would be found on a human. Even with the odd hair, she still looked like so many others she didn’t stand out in a crowd. She had an eerie ability for balance however—physically, mentally, and maintaining the internal balance of her patients. Came in handy on a ship full of hot heads.
    “You won’t find much, unless you start studying archives.” Deven ran his hand through his hair, then sighed as if weighing something. “I know a fair amount about poisons. No, I won’t talk about it, nor will I develop any for you. But I haven’t seen a Larkerian drell in over two hundred years.” His dark green eyes narrowed as he watched all of them.
    Vas didn’t think Deven was a pure human, not many espers were, and none that were past a level three. However, over two hundred years?
    “How old are you anyway? Your records say you’re thirty.” She wasn’t surprised that his records were wrong. She’d be more surprised if any of her crew had accurate files. But she didn’t like not knowing they were that far off.
    “I lied.” Deven shrugged and flashed an honest grin. Far more unnerving than his glamour grin in Vas’s thinking. “You don’t need to know how old. Take it on faith I’m older than you. And I haven’t seen nor heard of the Larkerian drell in over two hundred years.” His grin vanished and the lines in his face deepened. “And that I almost couldn’t save you.”
    Gosta rose from the computer screen he’d been hunching in front of. “Captain, I’m going to need to use the Victorious Dead’s computer system to find information. This is a rental and is useless for a deep search. Where is the ship docked?”
    “That’s a good question.” Vas watched all three faces as her words hit.
    “You lost our ship?” Deven went pale and a line that hadn’t been there before appeared between his brows. This was why she had hoped to tell him before the others—she knew he wasn’t going to take it well. The other two sat back down and stayed silent but both watched her with eyes found only on kicked puppies.
    “First of all, it’s my ship, not our ship. Secondly, what I would have told you had you not been playing with the deity of baked goods all evening was that Skrankle took the ship apart.” She held up her hands as all three tried to speak at once. “Skrankle says he mistook it and parted out the wrong ship. Considering that no one could mistake the Victorious Dead for our current loaner, I seriously doubt it. Also considering that said loaner is in top shape, and has lots of brand-new state-of-the-art goodies and treats, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to part her out.”
    Vas studied the ceiling; no easy way to say it. “Our current ship is conspicuous.” She frowned but no easier terms came to mind. “And very ill-named.”
    “Well?” Gosta prodded when she waited too long to tell them.
    “We’ve got the Warrior Wench .”
    She closed her eyes, and slid into her pillows as all three shouted at once. None of them said anything that she hadn’t already said to herself. The majority of her negotiating for pay on jobs came out of her reputation and that of her crew. What her clients would think of the fierce merc Captain Vaslisha Tor Dain tooling around in the metal version of a fluffy pink whorehouse was enough to make her sick. She vowed that for every job they didn’t get hired for, Skrankle would also lose another body part. Lucky for her, Ilerians had lots of body parts.
    She finally waved them to be silent. “It sucks. Trust me, I know. But there isn’t anything we can do now. We need to be on Lantaria by this time next week