Despite her spins and twirls, despite her ceaseless motion, the female’s eyes snapped back to Tenthil’s time and again, darkening as the dance continued. Soon, the new steps were almost instinctual to him. Her unspoken desire became his command; he was a slave to her dance, to her body, and he yearned for more, more, more.
He dipped her backward and ran his free palm down her abdomen toward her belt, eyes never leaving her face. She laughed, her smile widening. When she came back up, she cupped his jaw between her hands and leaned close, their noses only centimeters apart. Her breath was his, and his was hers. He tightened his hold on the terran and drew her closer.
Tenthil held her gaze for another moment before lowering his lips and pressing them over hers.
She tensed in his hold for an instant, eyes rounding, before her mouth softened and yielded to his kiss. Her hands settled on his shoulders as she closed her eyes, and Tenthil slipped his fingers into her silky hair. His heart pounded against his ribs as fresh venom flowed over his tongue—spicy, woody, saccharine, but bland compared to the tiny sample of her taste he received while their lips were together.
She tasted rich, alluring, and pure, impossibly sweet. She was…
Mine.
Tenthil broke the kiss and drew back from her. She stared up at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. He couldn’t help but kiss her again more firmly. His muscles tensed as a deep, primal urge to bite her built within him. He swallowed it down; his venom was deadly to most species in Arthos, and he doubted hers would react any differently.
He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to hold her. To protect her. To—
“Hey! Get your hands off her!”
The world burst back into Tenthil’s awareness. The lights were on again, bathing the stage in an intense white glow, and the music had stopped. Powerful silence gripped the club. A quick scan of Tenthil’s surroundings confirmed the crowd was staring at him, many wearing stunned expressions. The guards were on the stage, quickly approaching—one of them had barked the order—but neither had drawn his weapon yet.
A commotion at the main stairs caught Tenthil’s attention; Drok, Cullion, and several more guards, including the ertraxxan’s bodyguards, were hurrying toward the lower level. The crowd parted again, this time with a fearful urgency. Anyone who wasn’t quick enough was thrust aside by the burly guards or the massive tralix.
The female shoved away from Tenthil and stepped back. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head, pressing her forehead and palms to the floor.
Even now, Tenthil longed only to pull her against him, to get her off her knees, but the situation was escalating too rapidly. Drok wasn’t likely to have him murdered here, in front of his patrons, but there were a lot of alleys and rarely-accessed tunnels around the building.
Tenthil had botched his mission, had placed his own wellbeing in immediate danger, and still found himself concerned only about the terran.
“What is the meaning of this?” Cullion shouted, voice high and thin, as his retinue reached the stage.
“I’m sorry, Master,” the female replied quickly. “I asked him to join me. We were only dancing.”
Tenthil’s brow knitted. Why was she taking responsibility for his presence?
Drok pounded a fist on the edge of the stage’s walkway. A set of steps rose from the floor.
Cullion did not hesitate to mount them, his bodyguards immediately behind. “That was far more than dancing. His hands were on you. His mouth. I should have you incinerated just to ensure your cleanliness, you gutter slug!”
The female’s fingers curled, her blunt nails scraping the floor, and a shiver wracked her thin frame. Tenthil’s legs flexed with need to carry him closer to her, but he dared not approach. Not while she was at risk.
“You two sleeping down here, or what?” Drok asked.
The guards who’d been beside the stage exchanged a glance; Tenthil imagined their eyes rounding in alarm behind their goggles.
While everyone’s attention was diverted, Tenthil dipped a hand into his pocket, took out the Ergoth pin, and clasped it to his jacket. It was his only chance of deflecting some the hostility that would undoubtedly be unleashed upon him.
“No, sir. We thought he was part of the show,” one of the guards replied.
“Part of the show?” Cullion whirled toward the guard, his thin lips falling into a frown so deep it seemed likely that the upper half of his head would fall off. “All of you know this creature,” he jabbed a long, slender finger at the terran female, “belongs to me. She is mine.”
Fire flared in Tenthil’s chest; the female belonged to him, not the ertraxxan.
Cullion stalked across the stage toward the terran. He tugged a thin metal line from his pocket and held it up. The free end lashed out on its own, hitting the heavy necklace around the female’s throat, and connected to it with a click. Looping his end of the line around his hand, Cullion gave it a vicious yank. The terran grunted as she was dragged to her feet.
Tenthil’s claws lengthened. He curled his fingers into his palms. Stinging, bitter venom replaced the formerly sweet flow from his fangs.
The ertraxxan led the female toward the steps. “You will pay dearly for this. Perhaps it is my folly for expecting better from so primitive a creature, but you will learn your place.” He brandished his extend finger at Drok. “Should anything like this happen here again, it will be the end of you and your business.”
Surprisingly, the tralix lifted his huge, blunt-fingered hands, palms out. “A mistake, Cullion. Honest mistake. I’ll make sure they all learn their lessons.”
Cullion cast a scathing glare at Tenthil. “See to it, Drok. My trust in you cannot withstand another such blow.”
The ertraxxan tugged the terran down the stairs and across the dance floor. Struggling to keep up with his hurried pace, she stumbled along behind him. The vorgal bodyguards flanked her.
Tenthil clenched his jaw; it took all his willpower to remain in place and watch her go. Whatever awaited her wasn’t good, but it wasn’t his fight. He’d done enough damage to his mission already. The contract would be even more difficult to complete after this, and he would undoubtedly face admonishment from the Master for it. He hated the sense of dread that spawned in his gut.
When Cullion’s group reached the top of the steps on the middle floor, the female looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes met Tenthil’s for an instant; they shimmered with fear, longing, and sorrow.
Tenthil stepped forward.
Drok stepped into his path and slammed a palm into Tenthil’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The tralix’s blow had been solid, but Tenthil didn’t feel any pain. He leaned to the side for a glimpse at the stairs. The terran was gone, along with Cullion and his guards.
“Seems like maybe you’re not understanding the shit you’re in,” Drok said, reclaiming Tenthil’s attention. “You got problems, and they’re standing right here.”
Several of Drok’s security guards—six in all, each either a vorgal or a borian—moved closer to Tenthil, three to each side of the tralix. Tenthil gave them no ground.
None of the guards had drawn their weapons; they likely saw no need, given they outnumbered Tenthil seven-to-one, and there were more security personnel stationed around the club.
“I got all kinds of women in this place.” Drok gestured vaguely around him as the valzin began the music again. “Most of them, you can touch—or fuck—for the right price. But that one? That one’s not for touching. I understand the desire to, but she’s off-limits. And you…you almost cost me a lot of money by being stupid.”
Tenthil’s foes had moved into a semi-circle to his front and sides, standing only a couple paces away. Their postures were confident—too confident. After all, what sane being would resist in Tenthil’s position? Tralix were large and strong enough to snap many smaller species in half with their bare hands, and vorgals and borians had reputations as fierce, powerful warriors.
>
Drok grinned, dark eyes gleaming beneath the bone crest on his forehead. “There’s a nice, quiet room in the back. You’re going to walk to it with us all on your own. You’re going to sit in the chair. And we’re going to beat you into a pasty gray pulp. But we’re not going to kill you. Hell, I’ll even let you come back—at least on nights the ertraxxan isn’t coming.”
The tralix took a step closer, eliminating the distance between himself and Tenthil. He extended a finger and tapped the Ergoth pin on Tenthil’s chest. “Consider it a favor, okay? Your boys are usually well-behaved in here. I’m willing to call all this an unfortunate misunderstanding. I just need to make an example. What do you say?”
Keeping his head tilted back, Tenthil held the tralix’s gaze.
Drok’s grin faded. “Not much of a talker? Guess we’ll have to make you scream, instead.”
“Maybe we ought to open up those scars on his cheeks. See how far we can pry his jaw open before it breaks off,” one of the guards said.
Drok patted Tenthil’s shoulder with a rough palm; though the gesture was gentle, the weight of the arm would’ve been enough to knock most people down.
“He’s a tough one,” Drok said, stepping backward. “No more wasting time. Grab him.”
The two guards directly to either side of Tenthil advanced, reaching for him.
The situation was far from ideal, but his cover had been compromised. Even if he were allowed back into the club after tonight, security would always keep an eye on him, would watch his movements, and that wasn’t to mention potential problems with the Ergoths when they heard about this incident.
His mind flashed back to the human, back to the fear and sadness on her face. She didn’t have psychic powers, hadn’t bewitched him; Tenthil knew that now with unreasonable certainty. He’d connected with her during their too-brief dance. Something had sparked between them—something powerful that had been buried inside of him. But now she was gone, and he might never learn of her fate, might never learn her name.
He latched on to his boiling rage and attacked.
Tenthil thrust a hand to his right, catching the guard’s wrist and digging his claws into the vorgal’s tough flesh. As the vorgal hissed in pain, Tenthil kicked the left-hand guard in the knee. A cry of pain drowned out the sound of crunching bone.
The other guards were caught in shock as Tenthil tugged the vorgal closer and sank his teeth into his foe’s neck, pumping venom through the wounds. The vorgal’s pained exclamation intensified. Tenthil pulled the blaster from the vorgal’s belt holster and shoved the doomed being aside. The others fumbled to draw their weapons as Tenthil leveled the blaster. He squeezed off three shots, striking two guards in the head and one in the throat before the fourth guard, a dark-haired and broadly-built borian, stepped closer and swung a thrumming energy blade.
Tenthil swayed back from the first swing, dodged a second, and fired the blaster from his hip. The bolt of plasma pierced the borian’s thigh. The hiss of sizzling flesh was quickly swallowed by the screams of the crowd and the thumping music.
As the vorgal with the shattered knee staggered forward, raising a blaster in his trembling hand, Tenthil grabbed the borian’s arm and wrenched it back. Bones cracked, and the motion swung the energy blade through the advancing vorgal’s throat. The vorgal’s head tumbled off his shoulders and landed on the stage with a dull thwap.
Dropping the blaster, Tenthil tore the energy blade from the borian’s grasp and stabbed him through the chest.
Drok released a wordless, enraged cry and charged forward; the stage shuddered under his heavy footfalls.
Tenthil lowered his hand to the gun holstered at the sagging borian’s hip as Drok lifted his massive fists over his head. Tenthil leapt away just before Drok slammed his hands down, using his momentum to draw the gun. The stage floor collapsed inward where Drok had hit it, producing a deafening crack.
Tenthil stabilized himself on one knee and aimed the gun at Drok. The weapon’s short, thick barrel was characteristic of a flechette pistol.
The tralix lifted his gaze to Tenthil, his beady eyes widening. “Who the f—”
Tenthil squeezed the trigger. The flechette pistol roared, spraying fire, and Drok’s face disintegrated in a spray of burning blood and mangled flesh.
Turning his attention away from his foe, Tenthil surveyed the club again. The crowd was fleeing, and the congestion caused by of hundreds of bodies attempting to press through the single door at once had created a backlog on the main staircase and the walkway around the middle floor. Several guards were fighting their way toward the stairs.
Drok’s body dropped to its knees with a heavy thud, dark blood running over its teal and violet skin. Tenthil pushed onto his feet, plucked a blaster from one of the fallen guards, and fired two more plasma bolts into each of the beings on the ground. With the flechette pistol in his left hand and the blaster in his right, he hurried to the side of the stage.
Distant shouts came to him over the music, followed by the high-pitched whine of fast-firing blasters. Several plasma bolts struck the walls around him, melting metal and concrete. He wasted no time in thought—there was only one viable route of escape he was aware of without entering the unknown doors marked STAFF ONLY.
Tucking the guns into his belt, Tenthil leapt onto one of the massive, wall-mounted speakers beside the stage. The frantic beat of the music pounded into him, louder than ever. It was quick enough to match that of his racing heart.
He scrambled atop the speaker as bolts whizzed around him, grateful for the guards’ poor aim, which was likely worsened by the relatively dim, pulsing lights overhead. Grasping the middle floor railing, he hoisted himself over. Movement flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision.
Landing in a roll, he drew the blaster and fired instinctively. One of the two guards who’d been rushing to intercept him spun aside and fell, an orange hole glowing where the plasma bolt had pierced his groin. The other dove behind an overturned table and fired his auto-blaster blindly around its side.
Fortunately, Tenthil’s memory of the club’s layout had held firm during the chaos; one of the corridors with a ceiling hatch stood directly to his left. He fired two quick shots at the table and scurried into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind him.
The hall was thankfully deserted. Tenthil returned the blaster to his belt and broke into a run, glancing toward the ceiling. Once he deemed himself close enough, he leapt, kicking off the right wall to propel himself higher. He bounded off the left wall once he reached it, thrusting himself high enough to grasp the pipes above the smooth portion of the wall. It took seconds to climb to the hatch from there. Bracing his feet on the ductwork nearby, he grasped the wheel and exerted pressure.
Muffled shouts from beyond the closed door echoed down the hallway. Gritting his teeth, Tenthil threw more strength into trying to open the hatch. The wheel groaned as it moved, its rotation easing with each turn. He shoved the hatch up the second the latching arms had released and hauled himself through the opening.
He emerged on a rooftop about ten meters below the metal framework that comprised the Undercity sky. The nearby spotlights moved of their own accord, casting powerful beams on the metal overhead. The door in the corridor below clanged open and the shouts grew immediately louder. Muscles tensed, Tenthil gently lowered the hatch, holding his breath until it was fully, silently closed. As he’d guessed, there was no locking mechanism on the top side; it opened and sealed only from within.
With luck, they’d never know where he went.
After giving the roof a final scan, he hurried toward the next rooftop. His contract was fulfilled, but he had a feeling it was far from over. The mission had been badly mishandled. He had only himself to blame, and that was exactly how the Master would see it.
The only positive had been the terran female.
At least he could take solace in the fact that he had a strong lead to seek her out—if her owner, Cullion, was as rich and p
owerful as he’d behaved, he would be easy to find.
Two
Large, rough hands bit into Abella’s arm as the vorgal bodyguard dragged her toward the metal box on the back of Cullion’s hovercar. She didn’t resist when he shoved her into the cage—she couldn’t overpower him, and it would only earn her a harsher punishment to try.
She was in deep enough shit as it was.
Abella scooted into the corner, drew her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs. A faint hum permeated the crate as the front force field was activated. She glanced at the indistinct lines of energy sealing off the opening to watch the vorgal coil the loose end of her leash around his hand. He passed the leash to Cullion when the ertraxxan, chin lifted in displeasure, arrived.
“We are ready to depart, sir,” one of the other bodyguards said.
Abella had never bothered to learn their names; Cullion paid them far too well for any of them to show her even a sliver of sympathy, if they were even capable of such to begin with.
Cullion yanked on the leash, tugging Abella forward. Her face hit the thrumming energy bars before she could catch herself. The sting brought immediate tears to her eyes, and she cried out. Flattening her hands on the floor of the cage, she tried to pull her face away, but her owner held the leash taut.
“I do not know which is more insufferable—your continued disobedience, or the tralix’s continued incompetence.” Cullion leaned closer to her. His small, dark eyes gleamed with reflected light from the energy bars. “You will know agony as never before. I have tolerated much from you and have been merciful in your discipline until now, but you’ve proven yourself resistant to good sense with that little act of yours. I’d hoped you knew better.”
Abella glared at him despite her pain. Merciful? Cullion had only shown her mercy unwittingly through his disgust. He thought her little more than an animal, an exotic pet for display and performance—the thought of anyone longing for her sexually was obscene to him. That attitude had been the only thing to keep her from being groped—or worse—by Cullion and his associates.
Silent Lucidity Page 3