Free Arena by Karen Hancock

unexpectedly—and so close—that she flinched and sucked in an involuntary gasp.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t shoot.” A round shadow moved by her knee, and she dangled her legs down the rock face. His hand touched her thigh, moved to her waist, and then to her arm to steady her as she slid down beside him. He didn’t let go when she was down, and she didn’t pull away.
    “Where’s the shelter?” he asked. The familiar musky tang of his body odor was unexpectedly comforting.
    “Here.” She groped for the opening, his hand on her shoulder, and then crawled under the branches. The pungent scent of juniper filled her nostrils, and spiny leaves pricked her palms and knees. Pierce eased in beside her, pulling the last branch across the opening.
    His pack and leather vest were gone, but it was a close fit, nonetheless, pressing them shoulder, arm, and thigh against each other. He was hot and sweaty, and she could hear the rush of his breathing, his face only inches from her own. Normally she would have found such closeness intolerable. Now she had to fight to keep from pressing against him like a lost child.
    “What if they come?” she whispered. “We’ll be trapped.”
    He shuddered, but his voice was firm. “Trogs’ night vision is way better than ours. After dark, we’re better off going to ground. I’ve laid a false track in case they come by.”
    “And if it doesn’t work?”
    “That’s what the weapons are for. Now we’d best keep quiet. Voices carry a long way out here.”
    He fell silent, and from the rigidity of his body, Callie guessed he was searching again with that inner sense of his. She sat equally rigid at first, adrenaline surging with each new rustle or crackling twig. But as time passed and nothing happened, exhaustion overpowered her fear, and soon she was dozing off, dream images mingling with reality—Meg pointing a TV camera through the branches, her father standing in her kitchen doorway, backlit by the bright afternoon outside, Pierce shuddering beside her, warning her not to let them smell—
    Her body jerked, startling her awake, and the SLuB shifted. Something was pulling it from her grasp. She grabbed for it—
    “It’s all right, Miss Hayes,” Pierce whispered. His fingers had closed around her hand and the SLuB at her first movement. “I’ll keep watch.”
    “But you did it last night.” Her voice was slurred. “And don’t call me Miss Hayes.”
    “Okay, Callie.” He tugged at the SLuB. “But I’d rather not be shot in the knee, if you don’t mind.”
    As he slipped the weapon free she relaxed against him, her head falling onto his shoulder.
    Her sleep was plagued by horrible howlings as unseen monsters chased her down an endless red-walled canyon. She woke once, disturbed when Pierce moved his arm from under her head. Cold air rushed against her, and she shifted closer, seeking his warmth and the comforting contact of his body. He did not pull away and, after a few moments, dropped his arm around her shoulder. The next time she woke, dawn light filtered into their juniper-bough shelter. Pierce was sound asleep with Callie curled securely in his embrace, one arm draped across his chest.
    Realization stiffened her, and she pushed away—
    Which startled him awake. Mortified, she leaned forward and pretended to listen for sounds from outside the shelter. It was a few moments before she heard anything but the rush of her own blood.
    An innocent quiet, punctuated by birdsong and insect whirs, pressed around them. Pierce said nothing and, to her intense relief, presently eased away the bough at the opening and crawled out.
    Dismayed by how stiff and sore she was, Callie reached back to brush the prickling leaves from her side and struck the hard carapace of a sand mite clinging to the back of her shirt. With a cry of revulsion, she lurched out of the lair, jittering around as she tried to slap it loose. Pierce jumped down from the rock, seized her shoulders,