by Alana Khan
The group packs up, stealing everything that isn’t nailed down or already smashed to bits. Our females double-check that the rescued females are comfortable with the plan to lodge them onboard the ship, at least for the time being.
While they’re doing that, I check out the garage and disable every hover and space vessel in the hangar. Khour isn’t going to get off this planet alive. By all the Gods, I vow it.
In all the chaos, with people coming and going, it’s easy for me to hide loaded weapons in every nook and cranny of the main mansion. My mind runs hundreds of scenarios, and I plan for every possible disaster that Zar, Beast, and I could conceive. When they found out Willa hadn’t persuaded me to abort this mission, they stepped up to help me plan. These are males I am proud to know and call friends.
Khour will come out shortly after everyone leaves. I know it. He’s too cocky. Too self-assured. Surreptitiously, I set hidden vid cameras, the humans call them bugs, around the mansion and will see him on my comm the moment the door to his safe room slides open.
Assuming Khour is watching, Willa and I can’t bid each other a proper goodbye. He’d catch in a minute that something is amiss. Why would we be kissing, why would my female be crying if we were both about to board the same vessel?
She knows my feelings—I told her. She knows she owns my heart. And I know my feelings are returned—like a mated pair.
“Willa. When I see you again . . .” I purposely don’t say the word ‘if’. “When I see you again, will you be my mate?” I said this in a husky whisper directly into her ear.
Her eyes catch mine and she tries with all her might to smile at me, but sadness is etched on her features. “I don’t know what that means, Bayne. But if it means I get to have you and perhaps your canine around all the time, then yes. Yes, I’ll be your mate. It would make me happier than just about anything in the galaxy.”
She doesn’t have to say what would make her even happier—for me to leave with her on the Fool’s Errand right now.
We walk in a group to the empty field between the front door and the treeline. In all the chaos, I make my way to the trees as the group board the Devil’s Playground or beam aboard the Fool.
As the sun sets, I realize that although I’m armed with lasers now, if the tarantu-scorps, as Willa calls them, attack me, I’ll either be cut to bits by their sharp pincers or will have to use my laser. If so, my cover will be blown and I might as well beam up to the Fool, Khour will never appear if he knows I’m out here waiting for him.
I climb a tree, lodge my back against the bark, my ass in the crotch between a limb and the trunk, and watch my comm.
I turn my volume all the way up, having placed bugs that transmit audio and video in what was left of his room. If that panel slides open, I’ll hear it and sneak back to the house.
Realistically, I know I might have to wait days. I believe males like Khour, full of power and bluster when they have a phalanx of armed males around them, are often fearful when they’re left to their own devices. He might be cowering in his panic room. But somehow I doubt that.
I’m shocked when I’m awakened in the middle of the night by the screech of metal on metal. My eyes fly open and I watch as the hidden panel in Khour’s room slides open and the lavender male himself strides out.
A picture of him as a younger male flashes into my mind. He may have been younger, but he was full of self-importance even back then. No, self-importance isn't the correct word. He was cocky. Even then his eyes were dead.
But I recall he was handsome. Once I got over my astonishment at seeing an alien for the first time, I could appreciate his looks. Straight nose, compelling yellow eyes, strong physique—females would be attracted until his eyes revealed he had no soul.
He’s nothing like that now, though. Ruined. It’s the only word that can describe what I see on his face. It’s so repulsive I’m fascinated. I watch him from different angles as he walks from one camera’s frame to another. His skin has the consistency of clotted milk in some places and dripping wax in others.
They said the pirate Sextus carved initials into his face then threw acid on it. I can’t read the writing, but I can see someone wrote something there. How that must enrage him every time he looks in the mirror! Although with that face, I doubt he looks into the mirror much.
“I’m going in,” I speak into my comm, then climb to the ground and watch Khour’s vid stream, waiting until he makes his way through the carnage. He travels from room to room, seeing the remains of his males, noticing his precious items either smashed or stolen. I hope he feels the loss of his things as much as I felt the loss of the people I loved.
Don’t worry, dracker, you won't feel miserable for long. You’ll be in hell soon enough.
Kill, WarDog says on a deep growl.
Khour is in his living room now. Although it’s hard to read emotions on his ravaged face, I can tell he’s not happy by the way his lavender skin has turned deep purple. This gives me a shred of satisfaction.
From what I know of this male, I doubt his distress is about the people who used to work for him who are now lying dead on his floor. I imagine it’s more about the destruction of his property, or the fact that no one is left in his compound to clean up his mess.
He’s distracted and near the front door. Now is the perfect time to strike. I bound across the open space between the tree line and the front door. My muscles strain to get there quickly. WarDog is close to the surface, urging me to go faster. He wants this as much as I do.
My laser pistols are in my hand, fully charged. It would be the work of a moment to barge through the front door and slice him in half with a long laser burst, but I can’t force myself to do that. I’ve yearned for revenge for too long. I want to make him hurt, to make him pay for what he did to me and every other being he has killed, enslaved, and tortured without a shred of conscience. Not to mention all the families he has destroyed. I am doing this for all of us.
The door was decimated upon our entry earlier; Justus’s explosive charge did its job. I slow my pace so Khour doesn't hear my approach, sneak onto the front porch, and burst through the opening, weapons drawn.
Khour was stooped over and now rises with half a white porcelain statue in his hand. He doesn’t seem especially surprised to see me. Has he set a trap? Why would he be so casual when a huge armed male burst into his house?
“I’m a wealthy male,” he says, barely giving me a glance. “I’ll make it worth your while to spare my life.”
This is so odd, not at all what I expected. Where is his fear? The begging and pleading I’ve imagined every day I’ve walked on two feet since he killed everyone in my village? Is he so used to buying every being he comes in contact with?
“I care nothing for your credits, nor your trinkets,” I scoff and brandish my guns.
“A job?” he asks as he stoops to retrieve something.
“Stand!” I order.
He shrugs, then points to the jagged piece of statue he holds in his hand. It’s the top half of a white porcelain female. “What are tits without a cunt?” he asks, his thoughts as coarse as I imagined they’d be.
“You’re broken.” The thought flew out of my mouth before I knew it.
“Oh, this?” he casually waves at his face. “From an enemy. A little gift to remember him by.”
“Your brain,” I answer. “Your brain is dracked.” Why am I talking to him? Why are we talking at all? Why isn’t he either drawing a weapon if he has one or trying to talk his way out of his imminent death?
“Go ahead then.” He shrugs. “Put me out of my misery.”
He bends to retrieve the bottom half of the statue, and I shoot, aiming for his heart. He’s right. I should end this.
After firing my laser I somehow wind up feeling the searing pain of the shot myself. It throws me back five fiertos and I land painfully on my ass. The scorching agony fries my brain’s circuits for a moment before I can think clearly.
Khour is still sifting through
the remains of his artwork in shards on the floor. I shake my head, trying to make sense of what just happened.
I shot Khour and the laser burst arced back at me, hitting me in my chest just below my shoulder. Thank the Gods the power of the shot somehow reduced on the return trip. The ricochet of what would have been a killing shot to Khour only wounded me. There is a burn mark with the smell of singed fur and skin but little blood. I stand, sway a bit, then shake my head to bring myself back to the moment.
Let me help, WarDog offers. I can kill him.
I need to do this.
“Surprise!” he goads, still giving more attention to the rubble on the floor than to me. “My panic room was well equipped. I have to say, I didn’t expect you to come barging through my front door, but I was distracted and forgot to remove my body armor, so I’m well protected.”
My fingers tighten around the handle of both pistols as I parse through the facts. I want to shoot the dracker again, but am pretty sure the next shot will ricochet back at me too. One or two more shots like that and I’ll be lying in a smoldering pile of ash and Khour will still be standing amid the debris.
“Weapons won’t work against me,” he says with a shrug. “Very fancy body armor made by artisans on Abachae. Designed so lasers bounce back to their point of origin. I’m a big male and would be happy to go hand-to-hand with you. I practice daily with the best trainer money can buy. I’ll win.”
His taunts make me more determined to make him suffer. I consider hitting him with a headshot because I’m fairly certain no protective armor protects his head. I immediately discard the thought of a swift death for the monster standing smug and confident in front of me.
I toss my weapons to the ground. What was it one of the females said when we were planning this in the ludus? ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold’? She was right. Killing him up close will be much more satisfying than at the unfeeling barrel of a gun.
Now, WarDog growls, his lips are pulled back in a display of savagery, his deadly incisors dripping in anticipation. Let me at him.
The depth of his hatred seeps through to me, magnifying my own.
I only feel a small percentage of the desire he feels to attack. It’s powerful.
Keep the element of surprise for a moment longer, I urge, wanting to prolong the joy of finally achieving my long-awaited revenge.
I rush Khour with a yell. Bridging the distance between us in a few steps and a leap, I’m relieved to realize that whatever his body armor is capable of, it doesn’t repel me. I should have been smart enough to anticipate the stab of the sharp shard of the statue, though. It was still in his grip. He’s used it to punch into my stomach, piercing a gouge into me at least three inces deep.
I scream in agony and take a step back, indicating I’m in even more pain than I am. I’m less than two fiertos from him, able to see every emotion that crosses his evil face. He planned this. He wanted me to think he was distraught and defenseless, he drew me in all the while keeping the deadly, jagged piece of statuary that he could use as a weapon. He’s a smart male. I curse myself that I fell for his ploy.
Look at his smug face. He’s not even breathing hard and I’m spilling blood all over his formerly fine carpet. If I was a regular humanoid I believe he’d have dealt me a mortal blow. Or, if not this slash, then the next.
I’m not a normal humanoid. I carry a secret, too.
If I was as badly wounded as I’m feigning, I'd be unable to attack him. As it is, though, I don’t have much time. If I wait much longer, I’ll bleed out before striking my first blow.
We’re close. Because I’m panting in pain, I’m certain he can feel the warm puffs of my breath. I’m not worried. Shifting to my canine form will accelerate my healing. I know the bleeding will stop and the wound will begin to close after the shift.
Yes, WarDog coaxes.
When I was out of control and shifted in the dining room, I resented him. I welcome him now, though. It feels comfortable to be back in his huge body. Maybe it’s because he will feel my wounds as my body becomes his and he will bear the brunt of the pain of the puncture and laser wounds.
Mostly, it’s because we’re a pair, he and I. We work best as a team. As I admit this to myself and feel the soul-deep rightness of this conviction, the anger, resentment, and jealousy I have been harboring toward him melt away leaving me feeling strong. It is with renewed determination I tear down the barriers I put between us and fully reconnect with my inner beast.
I watch Khour closely as my body suddenly morphs painlessly to my other form, my more deadly form. For the first time, I see fear on the purple male’s features. That’s right, drackhole, see these teeth?
WarDog growls, deep and low—sheer four-legged menace. He pulls back his lips just to heighten the effect. These teeth are going to be ripping your disgusting flesh off your face in a moment. But first, let’s teach you there’s a new level of pain you’ve never dreamed of. Welcome to hell.
It feels good to be in this body—full of power and grace. WarDog eases closer to Khour, pressing him toward the corner. Khour still has the bloody shard in his hand and slashes at WarDogs face. My canine champion of the arena moves a huge paw with lightning reflexes and knocks it from his hand, sending it flying across the room. Now weaponless, Khour’s eyes are practically white with panic.
The armor might hurt your teeth, I warn my beast. Exposed areas only until we’re done playing.
Must you take the fun from everything? he asks as he keeps nudging the male until Khour’s back hits the wall.
WarDog places a soft mouth around Khour’s neck, just a little hint at what’s to come. The sharp fangs tease at the male’s tender skin. We feel the carotid pulsing under our tongue. Not only can we hear the high whine escaping Khour’s mouth, we can feel the vibrations. He stands paralyzed with fear.
I wish I could talk. I’d love for him to know the reason for his death, to remember the beautiful female from Skylose who lost her head to his evil sword. But that’s okay. I imagine his mind right now is scrolling through a litany of reasons why he deserves to die today.
I smell blood. Fresh blood, not from the Frains whose body parts are still scattered around the room, but Khour’s blood.
Good job, boy, I tell WarDog, whose fangs have traced two parallel lines deep enough into Khour’s throat that blood is seeping down his neck and staining the fabric of his shirt.
WarDog growls louder as he opens his mouth wide, turns his head, and bites Khour’s face—his top teeth gouging into one cheek, his bottoms into the other.
I feel his jaws tighten, his powerful muscles contracting as they put so much pressure on Khour that his bones crack.
Khour’s hands are gripped in the thick fur around WarDog’s neck, frantically trying to pull free. The male is squealing now. I relish the noise. It’s the noise a young girl might make when being run down by invaders and dragged into her own bed to be hurt and violated. Only this sound is from a grown male. A male who has inflicted pain from one corner of the galaxy to the other. He’s petrified, and WarDog hasn’t really even geared up yet.
Smell that? WarDog asks proudly.
Oh yes. Piss. Someone pissed their pants in fear. I wish I could speak, I would love to rub this in, damage his pride more fully. Make it last, I urge. I waited too long for this to be over so soon.
WarDog releases his hold on our enemy’s face and takes a half-step back. He dips his head, grabs one of Khour’s hands, and bites so hard I hear bones breaking and taste blood. I revel in the sound of my enemy’s anguished cries, then his shallow breathing as he pants in pain.
“Please, change back. I’m a wealthy male,” he’s stammering now, though he can barely talk through his crushed face. His lips barely move as he pleads and blubbers, making the blood pouring from his wounds froth in his mouth.
I recall how the pleas of my people did nothing to move his stone-cold heart.
“I can give you everything. I know you’re in there. Change b
ack and you’ll be one of the richest males in the galaxy.” It’s hard to understand him because of the damage WarDog has inflicted to his face.
Great job, I urge. Do the other hand. Take your time.
I’m not a good male. Perhaps I don’t deserve the love of a fine female like Willa. A good person would not delight in this. A good male would not be pleading with his canine self to prolong this male’s agony. But I am taking joy in it. I will never regret this. Never.
WarDog releases Khour’s hand and looks at it for a moment before he turns his head to grip the other hand. He looked at it for me. A little present from my more animalistic self, although today I think I’m more of an animal than my canine.
Khour’s hand was mangled beyond recognition. It looked like the chopped meat Maddie feeds us. She calls it hamburger.
WarDog grabs the other hand and this time bites more slowly, all the while pricking his ears so we hear the delicious sounds of Khour’s high, anguished screams of pain.