Silent Lucidity

by Tiffany Roberts

  Silent Lucidity

  The Infinite City #1

  Tiffany Roberts

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Tiffany Roberts

  About the Author

  She didn’t ask to be abducted.

  She didn’t ask to be torn away from her simple, happy life on Earth.

  She didn’t ask to become a pet to a powerful alien merchant.

  Abella hasn’t allowed four years of slavery to break her spirit, but after numerous failed escape attempts, the chances of making it home to her family seem bleak. That is until she shares a passionate, forbidden dance with a silent stranger. His piercing silvery eyes haunt her with a taste of hope.

  Intense, mysterious, and deadly, Tenthil may be the key to Abella’s freedom. But as she finds herself increasingly drawn to him, she realizes the truth—Tenthil has no intention of taking her home.

  Will he be her salvation, or will she trade one master for another?

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  **Warning: This book contains sexual content and violence.**

  Copyright © 2019 by Tiffany Freund and Robert Freund Jr.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including scanning, photocopying, uploading, and distribution of this book via any other electronic means without the permission of the author and is illegal, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publishers at the address below.

  Tiffany Roberts

  authortiffanyroberts@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration © 2019 by Cameron Kamenicky

  Proofread by Cissell Ink and Tammy Simmons

  Created with Vellum

  To our readers—we love you.

  Special thanks to our cover artists Cameron Kamenicky and Naomi Lucas—we can’t ever thank you enough for the amazing covers you both create for us.

  And thank you Tammy Simmons and Cissell Ink for helping to make our book the best is can be.

  One

  Arthos, the Infinite City

  Terran Year 2105

  Even amidst the glow of countless signs, colorful, glow-in-the-dark storefronts, and holographically projected advertisements along the street, Twisted Nethers stood apart. There was something more vibrant about its less-than-subtle signage, something warmer in the pulsing lights that accented the building’s edges, something more imposing about the spotlights on its roof that cut through the gloom to illuminate the metal framework and ceiling high overhead.

  The massive, ever-changing holographic genitalia out front undoubtedly contributed to its eye-catching nature.

  Despite the blatant outward display, the denizens of the Undercity considered Twisted Nethers an exclusive club—it was a place where anyone with enough credits could satisfy their exotic tastes, whether for drinks, drugs, or writhing, naked bodies.

  For Tenthil, it was just another stop on a long, blood-soaked path.

  He strode toward the club’s entrance, weaving through the crowd of diverse beings who’d gathered outside to await admittance. Their features—as varied and colorful as the Undercity signs—blurred together in the shadows cast by the surrounding neon lights. He walked as though he belonged here, as though he’d frequented the place for years, as though everyone else should’ve felt honored by his presence.

  Many of the aliens waiting in line turned their gazes toward Tenthil as he passed. Facial appendages quivered, brows fell low, and mouths opened to voice protest, but all the onlookers kept their opinions to themselves when their eyes dipped to the pin on his jacket.

  A street gang calling themselves the Ergoths had claimed this sector as their territory years ago. Drok, the owner of Twisted Nethers and Tenthil’s current target, had close ties to the gang, though the true nature of his relationship with them was unknown.

  Tenthil’s pin—a stylized red sun with the white silhouette of an ancient axe at its center—marked him as an Ergoth.

  The doorman, a burly vorgal with scars crisscrossing the drab green skin of his face, glanced at the pin as Tenthil approached. He stepped aside and waved Tenthil in. His mouth, from which jutted double pairs of upward-pointing tusks, remained an expressionless flat line throughout.

  The beings waiting for admittance voiced no objections to Tenthil’s entry; though some might’ve been standing out there for hours, they knew better than to question an Ergoth in this part of the city.

  Tenthil walked through the door and entered the dark corridor beyond. His eyes rapidly adjusted to the gloom. The black strips of rounded, bulging glass to either side suggested a scanning system—not unexpected for a place like this—and the pair of guards in front of the door at the end of the hallway held auto-blaster rifles that could fill the air with enough heated plasma bolts to melt the surrounding walls within a few seconds. There was no cover here should either guard decide to open fire.

  Just a few more obstacles for Tenthil to overcome when he finally decided to make his move.

  He drew in a deep breath as he stepped forward and released the amplified bioelectrical field he usually generated around himself; it would disrupt the scanners and arouse immediate suspicion otherwise. Maintaining the disruption field had become second nature over the years, and he felt strange without it in place.

  Pulsing bass rumbled along the walls and floor; Tenthil perceived it more as a feeling than a sound, a vibration running up through his boots and into his bones.

  As Tenthil drew within a few paces of the door, the guard to his right—a pale-scaled groalthuun with four bone nubs sweeping back from the top of his head and glowing green tattoos on his face—held up a hand. Faint light shone behind the groalthuun’s dark goggles—likely a readout from the scanners on the walls.

  Tenthil halted.

  The groalthuun twisted and pressed an unseen button on the wall. A small drawer slid out beneath his hand.

  “Put your piece inside,” said the groalthuun.

  His companion, a craggy-faced bokkan with gray, rock-like skin, remained unmoving, but Tenthil felt the bokkan’s eyes—also hidden by goggles—locked on him. Both guards wore tailored, high-quality coats left open at their collars to display a bit of the combat armor beneath.

  “Come on.” The groalthuun waved his hand. “Boss appreciates all the business you Ergoths bring in, but the rules ain’t changing. No one goes in packing but pre-approved private security.”

  Moving with deliberate care, Tenthil unfasted his jacket and raised his left arm, revealing the flechette pistol holstered under his armpit. Such weapons were devastating at close range, but they were messy—as the Ergoth Tenthil had taken the pistol and pin from a few hours before might’ve attested, were the pulverized remains of his head not splattered across an alley wall. It would have been preferable to take the pin through less violent
means, but the Master was unwavering when it came to the tenets of the Order.

  No witnesses.

  The Ergoth leadership would assume it had been a hit from a rival gang. Many of the thugs and criminals in the Undercity and the Bowels carried weapons with flechette ammunition because they were intimidating—few species could survive a blast from one. Superheated tristeel darts only yielded to higher-end combat armors at close range.

  Keeping his movements slow, Tenthil removed the pistol from its holster and laid it in the open drawer.

  The groalthuun spread his lips, revealing wide, flat teeth in what he must’ve considered a smile. Tenthil’s people would’ve called any creature with such teeth prey.

  The drawer slid shut, vanishing into the wall; even Tenthil’s keen eyesight couldn’t pick out any trace of a gap or a seam.

  For most individuals, entering a potential hostile space while unarmed was a frightening prospect, but Tenthil was unconcerned. He’d been trained as a living weapon—and he knew how to improvise. Both essential skills for a successful assassin.

  He wasn’t here to cause trouble, anyway—at least not tonight. This was a reconnaissance mission. Once he was familiar with the club’s layout and Drok’s movements within it, Tenthil could formulate and execute a plan of attack.

  “Pick it up on the way out,” said the bokkan in a deep, rough voice. “It’ll be tied to your body scan.” His expression hadn’t changed, but his stance shifted to subtly direct the barrel of his auto-blaster toward Tenthil.

  The guards shifted closer to the walls, revealing a rugged blast door behind them. Whether the rest of Twisted Nethers’ security held up to this standard, Drok wanted his patrons to at least feel safe inside. It wasn’t surprising given the wealth of some of the regulars—several of the Undercity’s most prominent business people, legitimate and illicit alike, frequented this establishment.

  Perhaps this contract would provide Tenthil a challenge. Perhaps it would provide some meaning, however shallow, to his work. For too long, it had merely been a matter of following orders, of being wielded as the Master’s sword. Despite spending most of his time outside the temple to fulfill contracts, Tenthil felt caged by his obligations—and that was enough to drive him to madness.

  The groalthuun pressed another hidden button—Tenthil carefully noted its position—and the blast door rumbled open.

  Music swept over Tenthil, loud enough to hurt his ears. Strobing lights and slithering neon crawls mingled with holographic projections to make it difficult for his eyes to focus properly. The smell—alcohol, food, and drugs from dozens of worlds, hundreds of bodies dancing, and sex—crashed into his nostrils. The air itself pulsed with vibrations from the music and dancers.

  Despite his discomfort, he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold. Once the door had closed behind him, he restored his bioelectric field to full force, finding a hint of comfort in the brief tingling that spread across the surface of his skin.

  The interior of Twisted Nethers was larger than he’d anticipated. The place was tiered like a stadium; he stood on the middle of three levels, which ran around the main floor in a ring. Several stages along the ring boasted beings of diverse species dancing in varying states of undress, each performing for their own crowd. Each stage had its own audience space with tables and chairs, no two of which were quite alike in either furniture or arrangement.

  Straight ahead, a wide set of steps led down to the bottom tier, from which the music originated. The lower level was dominated by a crowded dance floor, but also possessed a wide stage, at least thirty tables, and a huge bar running nearly half the circumference of the space with more than a dozen beings stationed behind it, furiously mixing and serving drinks. Projected lights and images rained down from overhead, filling the air with motion and color—fearsome alien beasts, naked males and females, sleek vehicles, and abstract shapes, all moving, flashing, and fading in an endless holographic dance above the mass of writhing dancers.

  Tenthil removed the Ergoth pin from his jacket as he scanned his surroundings, willing his eyes to adjust to the visual chaos. More of Drok’s security team were posted throughout the club, but the only ones openly carrying weapons were those stationed at the staircases leading to the upper tier—undoubtedly the VIP area.

  He slipped the pin into his jacket pocket and walked around the middle level. He kept his eyes on the dancers as he moved but focused his attention on his peripheral vision to drink in the details of the club’s layout and security. The music from below was deafening only when he was near stairs leading down; there were likely sound-dampening fields set up around the stages to allow each its own clean audio. Each time he crossed into a different audience area, the music changed, sometimes drastically.

  Several corridors and doors branched off the lower and middle tiers. Some were marked as restrooms in various alien languages—catering to so many species necessitated a variety of facilities to accommodate patrons—while the rest declared STAFF ONLY in at least a dozen languages beneath bold letters in universal speech.

  The upper level extended over the middle far enough that Tenthil could see into it only from the opposite side of the ring. The few beings visible above were clad in rich attire, seated at tables that doubled as dancing platforms. A naked volturian female writhed atop one of the tables, surrounded by seated volturian males. The males were close enough to her that she must’ve felt their breath on her bare skin.

  Tenthil rounded the tier to stop beneath the volturians. He leaned his arms on the railing, turned his face toward the lower level, and listened.

  Countless sounds assaulted him in a chaotic jumble—the music from the nearest stage was the loudest of them, but the din of numerous conversations and the thumping bass from the dance floor refused to be overpowered. He moved his head, and the qualities of the sound changed as his ears entered the dead space on the edge of the sound dampening field. It was there that he discovered what he’d sought—the lilting, flowing words of the volturians’ native tongue drifting down from above.

  His translator implant granted him understanding of the complex language; the volturian males were arguing over who would get a turn with the female first.

  Despite the numerous dampening fields, sound traveled well enough from the VIP level for Tenthil to overhear nearby conversations. That could prove valuable; the Master always appreciated his acolytes bringing new secrets when they returned to the temple from their work around the city.

  After scanning the upper level again, Tenthil moved on to the mid-level doors marked as restroom access. All three led into long corridors with high ceilings, two of which seemed high enough to overlap the space occupied by the third floor. Those taller halls possessed heavy-duty hatches near the centers of their ceilings. The latching mechanisms on both hatches appeared to be manual wheel cranks. Such mechanisms were common throughout both the Undercity and the Bowels beneath it, but not in places like this, where security and modernity were presented as paramount.

  Either the hatches were fused shut or the owner of the establishment thought them too far out of reach to be vulnerable to intrusion.

  Tenthil stepped aside for a passing group of Ergoths, glad he’d removed the pin; if these thugs had found him impersonating one of their own, it would’ve meant a fight, and Tenthil wasn’t quite done with this place. Getting thrown out by security for bloodying some Ergoths would only make it more difficult for Tenthil when he came back here to close his current contract.

  He assessed the walls and ceiling around the hatch; for the first five meters, the walls were smooth and wide-set, broken only by random pulses of neon that moved like radiant serpents racing through the dark of the Void. Though invisible to the naked eye when not illuminated, Tenthil recognized the lights for what they were—infinitesimal imperfections of which he could take advantage. Beyond the smooth sections, dozens of exposed pipes, ducts, and conduits would make the rest of the climb effortless.

  Best to check the ha
tches before I leave tonight, should an opportunity arise.

  Leaving one of them unlatched would provide an easy entrance for his next visit, when he’d be a bit less inclined to follow the weapon-check policy at the front entrance.

  He exited the corridor and returned to the railing overlooking the lower floor, fixing his gaze on the dancers below. This time, he kept his attention on the uppermost edge of his vision. Drok, if present at all, was most likely behind one of the STAFF ONLY doors or up on the third floor.

  Tenthil had come to accept the simple truth of his work long ago—no amount of training, planning, or skill could completely cancel out the effects of chance. Even the Void—which, according to the Master, touched everything—could not overcome the randomness of the universe.

  Chance was at play when Tenthil lifted his head just as a huge, heavily muscled tralix descended the steps from the third floor and emerged on the middle tier directly across from him. The left prong of the tralix’s forehead crest was broken off, and his mottled teal and violet skin was covered with old scars, including a prominent one on his cheek.

  This was Tenthil’s target. This was Drok.

  Drok turned to face the small retinue that had arrived—a long-necked ertraxxan with skin the color of old bruises clad in upper class attire and four well-dressed, broad-shouldered vorgals who were undoubtedly his personal security—and offered them a wide, tusk-filled smile. He and the ertraxxan clasped hands. Though Drok had to be twice the mass of his guest, the ertraxxan maintained a dignified air, displaying neither intimidation nor subservience. All this happened over the course of a few seconds, and Tenthil paid little mind to the meeting.

 
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