Tenthil wrapped his fingers around his shaft and growled. Pleasure like he’d never known filled him, enhanced by his desperate, driving need for release. He stroked his fist down the pronounced ridges of his cock and shuddered. The female danced alongside him in his memory, her eyes locked with his. He slid his calloused hand back up as the music to which they’d moved joined in his recollection, setting the pace for his pumping fist.
How would it feel to have her hand on his shaft, to breathe in her aroma as she touched him? How would her skin feel beneath his fingertips, how would it respond to his attentions?
Breath ragged, he shut his eyes and pictured her in the room with him, pictured her hand—with its slender, delicate fingers—wrapping around his cock. He imagined her leaning forward without missing a stroke and pressing her lips against his; the phantom sensation of her soft, yielding flesh sculpting to his mouth tingled across his face.
His body tensed, his fist tightened, and his hips jerked forward as he came with another low, guttural growl. Pleasure spiraled through him in a rush as the pressure in his cock released, spraying his seed onto the floor in great spurts. He gritted his teeth and pumped faster, harder, until there was nothing left—not even breath in his lungs.
The need raging within him did not ease.
Three
The next day, Tenthil was agitated during his morning exercises. He’d dealt with similar frustration in the past. Beneath the Master’s watchful gaze, it was best to find quick, productive ways to vent such emotions—they could not long go unnoticed. He chose the sparring ring, where he could channel his anger into combat under the pretense of further honing his skills. Several acolytes were willing to test their prowess against him. Because of their vows of silence and the Master’s tendency toward secrecy, none of them shared what happened on their missions—which were almost always carried out alone—and none truly knew what their fellows were capable of outside training, but many seemed eager to prove themselves against Tenthil.
His first two opponents fell within ten seconds of their bouts commencing, each knocked unconscious. The third was a little more skilled, but his skill wasn’t enough, even had Tenthil’s frustration not continued to build. After the third match was over and a group of silent attendants had carted the writhing vorgal acolyte away to tend to his broken leg, Tenthil left the ring in disgust.
What he sought would not be found there.
He prowled the temple halls, restless and angry, for what must’ve been hours. He knew the exact cause of his dark mood, but he refused to think about her. So long as he was inside the temple, his thoughts were not safe.
And yet he found himself in the Hall of Records that evening—a large, dark chamber filled with data storage cores, holo-projectors, and access terminals.
This is foolish, he thought as he stalked toward one of the secluded rear terminals. The Master will know, and he will fulfill his threat.
Tenthil’s legs moved despite his misgivings. He stopped at the terminal and allowed himself no further inner debate; his fingers flicked through the projected controls, following the directive running just beneath the surface of his conscious mind.
To ensure I can track any loose ends created by my foolishness…
That motivation wasn’t true, but his survival hinged on convincing himself it was. When the Master asked why he’d searched for information on Cullion, Tenthil’s false reasoning would need to ring true—it had to become his truth.
Despite redundant layers of security, encryption, and obfuscation, Tenthil had uncovered a trove of information on Cullion within half an hour. Financial records, business ties and contacts, medical records, daily schedules; little could be hidden from the Master’s networks.
Cullion—full name Traxes Cullion Orgathe—was a native of the Infinite City, a tenth-generation ertraxxan importer who’d inherited significant wealth. Numerous investigations had been opened regarding his suspected involvement in the smuggling of illegal goods, but each had been quashed before collecting sufficient evidence for charges to be filed. It seemed Cullion’s connections went far beyond his senior position in the Union of Intergalactic Cargo Movers and his deals with criminals like Drok.
Once he’d gathered the information he desired on Cullion—no records, legal or otherwise, seemed to exist regarding the ertraxxan’s ownership of the terran—Tenthil forced himself to remain at the terminal to search out other known associates of Drok. He absorbed little of the data; his mind was abuzz with the single most important discovery his search had turned up—the location of Traxes Cullion Orgathe’s manor in the Undercity, sector ninety-three, often called the Gilded Sector.
His legs were restless by the time he decided he’d maintained the charade for long enough. His body, his instincts, demanded action. He knew where the terran was. He would find her again.
But his frustration and impatience were not enough to overpower his rationality, at least not yet. The Master would be monitoring Tenthil’s movements closer than ever now. As much as Tenthil wanted the female—his female—to go for her would mean his doom. The dead could hold no claim on the living.
Even knowing that, even with his life at risk, logic won by only a hair’s breadth.
He stroked himself to climax as he lay in bed that night, breathing in her scent from his jacket, but it only sharpened his hunger.
As the days passed, Tenthil sought ways to distract himself, to keep his thoughts from returning to the terran. A small voice in the back of his mind—the only voice he heard over that time in the temple’s silent halls—insisted he already knew what to do, where to go. All his efforts to silence that voice failed; that failure heightened his agitation. His balls ached with the constant need for release, and the terran’s scent randomly returned to him, washing over his senses and stiffening his cock. He stole away more frequently to attempt to assuage his body’s demands. Each time, he thought of her. Each time, his imagination took things a little further. And each time, despite the easing of physical pressure, his craving for her strengthened.
By the fourth night, he was dreaming of her as he slept. The dreams always began with the dance they’d shared, but grew more wrong with each passing moment, often culminating in shadowy figures tearing Tenthil away from her and enveloping him in impenetrable, viscous darkness that slowly broke him down into nothing.
Her lingering scent on the jacket weakened each day; that realization triggered an odd sort of panic within him. Before long, he’d only have the memory of her smell. How could that ever be enough?
He’d not received a new assignment by the seventh day after the encounter in Twisted Nethers. Many of the other acolytes gave him a wide berth as he strode through the halls; word of his performance in the sparring ring had spread amongst them, conveyed through brief exchanges in sign language. Tenthil paid no mind to their faces as he passed them.
What were they to him? The Master’s love of secrets and silence meant most acolytes, even those who communicated with one another, didn’t even know each other’s names. They belonged to the Void. Only Corelthi caught Tenthil’s attention with her bold, openly disapproving glares. He spent little time staring back at her; his frustration was great enough that he could not trust himself to maintain restraint in the face of her judgment.
The voice in the back of his mind had grown from a whisper to a roar, but he didn’t understand what it truly was until the eighth day. When he woke, the sight of his chamber’s walls and door ignited blistering fury in him, spawning a wave of fire that swept up from his gut to fill his chest and crash through his limbs. His fingers tensed, lengthening his claws. He could not bear another night in the temple. His place was elsewhere, Void take the Master.
He knew then what that voice had been all along—not a thought, or a desire, or a rage-fueled compulsion, but an instinct. A primal drive embedded deep within him that he could no longer ignore.
Tenthil dressed and donned his combat armor; it was lightweight and flexible enough to offer prote
ction without hindering his speed and maneuverability. Its built-in sheaths allowed him to carry several knives and energy blades in addition to the custom-built blaster on his hip. Such attire was common throughout the Undercity and the Bowels—a well-armed individual was less likely to encounter trouble—but only the wealthy and well-funded possessed equipment on par with the Order’s.
This was how acolytes equipped themselves when trouble was likely. Private security forces often necessitated such measures—and Cullion’s financial transactions suggested he kept at least a dozen bodyguards on his payroll through Starforge, an elite private security organization.
Anticipation thrummed through Tenthil as he walked to the garage. Taking action was a small relief in itself, but his impatience would not subside until he had the terran in his possession. He shouldn’t have wasted seven days; he should’ve acted sooner. His body brimmed with pent-up energy, and his heart beat at an elevated pace. His excitement mingled with his simmering anger and frustration to create something new, something dangerous, for which he had no name. One way or another, he would have his female.
He would have her tonight.
Tenthil climbed onto a hoverbike, engaged the engine, and drove toward the entrance. The garage was quiet—like every other room in the temple—save for the low, steady hum of antigrav engines. It seemed too quiet.
Something heavy sank in his stomach, and the ever-present ache in his throat intensified. Did the Master already know of his intentions? Was there a group of acolytes waiting behind the parked vehicles or on the other side of the garage door, charged to bring Tenthil to justice for betraying the Master, for abandoning the Order?
His brows fell low. Whether or not the Master already knew, Tenthil had made his choice, and he would see it through to the end. Whenever the Order came for him, the physical enhancements and skills with which he’d been imbued by the Master would allow him to exact a heavy toll upon his former comrades.
The blast door slid upward, revealing only the empty, circular tunnel beyond. Once the opening was wide enough, he cranked the throttle, and the hoverbike darted forward. Everything in Tenthil’s peripheral vision was reduced to a blur by speed. Within a minute, he’d emerged from the smaller maintenance passages and was hurtling through the express tunnels, weaving amidst increasingly thick traffic as he climbed from the Bowels toward the Undercity. The bike’s protective field blocked the wind and diminished the surrounding noise; a strange urge drove him to deactivate the field.
Roaring air rushed around him, sweeping his hair back and threatening to blow him off the bike, but he tightened his hold against the force.
For an instant, a faded, distant memory rose to the forefront of his mind—he was riding a strange beast beneath an endless, starry sky as it raced across a field of tall, fragrant grass. The wind brushed over his face, tousled his hair…
Tenthil growled. That life had been taken from him forever; he would not allow his female to be taken, too. He reactivated the protective field and pushed his vehicle faster.
Not long after entering the Undercity, he pulled into a narrow, secluded alleyway, and turned off the hoverbike. He pried open the compartment to access the bike’s electronic components and ripped out the navigation and tracking system, tossing the parts to the ground. The gap he left in the compartment wasn’t pretty, but the bike started when he pressed the ignition; that was all he needed.
He continued his journey, finally parking a full sector away from his destination; even with the tracking components removed, he was wary of the Master having some way to track the vehicle. The day was young, and he had time enough to reach Cullion’s manor on foot, but the decision rekindled his impatience. He wanted his female now, wanted to renew the strength of her scent in his nostrils, wanted to know anew the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips and lips. It took a startling amount of willpower to keep himself from climbing onto the bike again and piloting it directly to Cullion’s front door.
He navigated the Undercity streets and walkways by memory—years of work had left him quite familiar with many of its sectors. The streets were filled with beings of all shapes and sizes conversing in countless languages as they shopped, traded, ate, performed, and traveled. Tenthil was aware of them only in that they were potential obstacles between him and his goal; the mere thought of any further delay in obtaining the terran made his chest constrict.
Large, crowded elevators eventually brought him to the next tier—the Gilded Sector. The difference between it and the prior sector were stark. Everything here was cleaner and more refined. Fewer people walked the streets, and those who did were well-dressed. The hovercars speeding by overhead were of a higher grade.
And numerous Eternal Guard peacekeepers were positioned in plain sight, making their presence clear.
Tenthil knew this area well—he’d worked in it and similar sectors many times. Though the Eternal Guard was run and supported by the city’s overlords, the Consortium, would-be troublemakers were often deterred from entering such areas by the prevalence of private security personnel employed by wealthy residents and businesses. Such security firms were unconcerned with legal process or moral standing—they were licensed to utilize deadly force to protect the interests and lives of their clients.
But hired guns and sophisticated security equipment had never been a deterrent to Tenthil.
Though his fiery emotions did not ease, his instincts shifted in response to the new challenges presented by his surroundings—he became a hunter stalking the shadows rather than a bloodthirsty, rampaging beast.
Despite the pristine shops, offices, and homes the sector displayed outwardly, it was just as riddled with alleys, maintenance tunnels, and discreet catwalks as any other. Tenthil used those secluded pathways to his advantage, keeping out of sight as he moved toward Cullion’s manor. He maintained the faint bioelectrical buzz on his skin that would mask his presence to most electronic devices throughout.
His first glimpse of the building was from a downward angle; he stopped on a maintenance catwalk which ran across the underbelly of the sector’s ceiling and stared down at his intended destination from fifty meters up.
Cullion’s home was emblematic of the people who tended to dwell in these upper-class sectors—it appeared to be constructed of materials that few people could afford, and its exterior lights served only to accent the shining metallic inlays and overly-detailed carvings along its walls. Its dark-tinted windows hid the interior from prying eyes. Cullion wanted the world to know his wealth and to understand it would never be theirs.
A reinforced security wall, outwardly adorned to match the manor, enclosed the grounds. The gap between the wall and the building was largest out front, forming an open space fifteen or twenty meters wide. Along the sides of the building, that separation was reduced only to three or four meters. Even those as wealthy as Cullion couldn’t afford to leave much space unused. The security devices atop the outer wall—sensors, holo-recorders, and shock coils—were in plain view. They only enhanced the building’s message—I have it all, and none of it is for you.
Tenthil counted five guards outside—two at the front door, two patrolling the grounds, and one on the roof. More were undoubtedly stationed inside. The only entrances visible from his vantage point besides the front were a side door and a door on the roof, the latter near an empty pad that could be used to land hover vehicles.
Normally, infiltrating such a place would be the end result of days of surveillance and planning, a step taken only once all potential variables had been identified, understood, and neutralized as possible. But now, restless twinges coursed along his legs, and his fingers repeatedly flexed and relaxed of their own accord, lengthening and retracting his claws.
Tenthil didn’t have days to watch and plan; he had today. He had one chance.
There could be no failure.
He hurried to the nearest ladder and descended to street level two roads away from Cullion’s. No one was nearby when he
emerged from the maintenance door, and he plunged into the back alleys to loop around behind his destination. Many of the homes in the sector dumped their waste in the rear alleys, out of plain sight, to await collection by sanitation drones. In other sectors, such leavings would’ve been picked through daily by scavengers desperate for anything they could eat or sell for a few credits. But the residents of the Gilded Sector deemed even their refuse too good for the unwashed masses, and both private security and the peacekeepers cleared out garbage pickers regularly.
Fortunately, that meant such alleys were typically deserted, making them ideal pathways for people like Tenthil.
He stopped behind Cullion’s manor, checked for onlookers, and pressed himself against the rear wall to concentrate. After several seconds, he heard what he’d sought—the sound of heavy, booted footsteps moving toward the front of the manor. Based on what he’d witnessed of the patrols, he had about thirty seconds before the security guard returned.
That was more than enough time.
Drawing in a deep breath, he strengthened his bioelectric field, turned to face the wall, and hauled himself up. The sensor lights atop it flickered off for a fraction of a second as he broke their detection field—that was all it took for his body to adapt to and mimic the sensor’s signal. For that instant, he felt the invisible field projected all around him, stretching along the wall to either side and continuing upward at an inward curve to form a dome over the manor.
Tenthil braced his boots atop the wall and leapt across the gap between it and the building. He caught himself silently within a recess running from ground to roof, glanced around him, and climbed. The sculptures meant to dazzle onlookers provided numerous handholds to speed his ascent.
Within a few moments, he grasped the edge of the roof and lifted his head peer over it.
The lone rooftop guard paced toward the front of the building, auto-blaster in his hands, swinging his gaze from side to side.
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