The studded floor of this metal walkway shone with moisture, and a small waterfall cascaded over the side of the scraper they approached. It must come all the way from above. Funny to imagine weather above. Where had she lived for those five years?
“Your head clear now?”
“Yes. Very. I bet you think I should thank you.”
“For fucking you?” He managed to smirk despite them running.
“Yeaaah, not happening. For all I know it would disappear at night anyway, and don’t think you own me just because of that bit of paper, or your unscientific bond-mating idea.”
The smirk morphed into a grin. “Hah. Neither of us will find it easy to separate for long. The pull draws you back. I’ve seen it.”
She’d seen something else.
This gap was large, and the footbridge long, and they were well over halfway. The muffled bang of their feet hadn’t drawn any shots from above, but now they neared the end, and she could see what deep shadows had concealed—a raw gash to the right that rent the side of the building then continued downward for many stories. Rooms had been smashed and peeled open, and far below she spotted the wing of a plane. Shrouded in night mist it hung from a cavernous hole by twisted shreds of metal.
“From one of the attacks on the Ghoul Lords, probably.” Vargr had noticed where she looked. “In sunlight you can see where the flames from spilled jet fuel burned down the side. The plane took out a couple of lanes of a motorway lower down, missed the trainline though.”
“A train?” She frowned, finding it difficult to imagine a train below her, running across this gap.
They reached the end of the footway. Vargr halted in the foyer so he could rummage in his pack.
Plastic screwed-down chairs, a few suitcases, and a bunch of plastic plants remained as mute memories of the people who once sat here. Someone’s coat had been laid over the back of a seat. Ad posters on the walls told of coming movies and concerts.
“Yes. Trains. You forget those?” He fished out a can, peeled back the ring pull to open it. The aroma of beef stew wafted up. He poured it out, carefully, letting it pool. “You’re lucky, Dog, I don’t normally tote cans around.”
After a single whine and a suspicious but hopeful stare at her man-beast, the dog began to lap then gulp at the food.
“I wish my memory would come back,” she said softly.
“It will.” He leaned against the nearby wall to watch the dog eat. “Funny how good it makes me feel doing this stuff. Not sure it makes a difference. Not sure what this guy has been finding to eat by himself. Rats? Cockroaches? Five years must make the pickings slim. Though someone said they spotted a rabbit recently in the lower ten. Lower ten stories that means.” He glanced at her. “And rabbits eat plants.”
“Hmmm.” She was busy appreciating the view—him.
No matter what she thought of his attitude, Vargr leaning against a wall with his wings in disarray and his arms folded, no shirt as always because he said wings didn’t co-ordinate well with shirts—it left her tongue-tied. Magnificence incarnate. More men should have wings. She’d have happily paid for a sculpture of him if the real thing wasn’t here.
Fancy looking but a tad dumb, her head told her. He thinks he owns you.
She still wore a collar with steel inside the leather that he refused to unlock, even if the wrist cuffs were gone.
Maybe if she kneed him, hard, he’d unlock it?
A raspberry would be her response next time he asserted his ownership. Loud and clear raspberry. Check. Exchange of fluids did not mean zip. Neither did a paper with her name at the bottom.
However… his it will when she moped about her memory loss, that was typical of him, as was his treatment of Dog. Always looking for the bright side.
He still thought his sister alive. Her last, terrible memory of people being eaten, and the horrific piles of leftover bits, meant his sister’s chances were slim.
“You, okay?”
Cyn exhaled slowly then smiled at Vargr, nodded. Nobody was perfect, and he did fuck nicely…
He’d held her down as he fucked her. For that small portion of time she had indeed let him own her. His hand on the back of her neck, warm, rough calluses pressing on her, so unyielding… Her pussy squeezed in and she shut her eyes.
Maybe temporary ownership got a pass?
Hell, yeah. It does.
She wasn’t telling him those gory details of above. Not today anyway. Maybe not ever.
* * * * *
It took half a day to reach where the Mercantor tribe should be. They were nomadic, Vargr explained, had to be to get enough supplies. Though he’d known the direction the tribe was heading, he hadn’t been sure of their location.
Once they were nearer the approximate location, Cyn became strangely sure he was sniffing his way to them.
Dog accompanied them. She didn’t blame him. Food would be a high priority; besides, he was getting ample pats and attention too. He’d likely had an owner before the Ghoul Lords came.
Silent, abandoned corridors passed by, and it felt as if she and Vargr sank into the red-hued darkness like insects into glue. They were the cockroaches left after humankind had mostly been eliminated; they were the creatures feeding off the remains.
It was not normal to heal as she had, to cling to buildings like a spider, or to see in the dark as well as she could. There, she’d lumped herself in with beasters, as if she were not human.
Did her subconscious know more than it had revealed to her?
Let me know when you want to confess, she told herself, padding onward.
Oddities left by the missing dotted the dreary infinity of corridors with droplets of human: A teddy bear. A pillow. One shoe. A toaster oven. A bicycle. Dozens of cellphones piled into a cone shape as if ready to be lit. Someone’s idea of a joke?
Often, there were reflections that sidled in from open windows, bounced down hallways or from adjacent rooms. Once there was an inexplicably brightly lit room. Five years and it still had power? Magic? Vargr had laughed and said he suspected the owners had paid for some expensive power back-up that recharged through outside panels.
Whatever, passing that apartment had made her think of ghosts.
Light had become the enemy, the boogie man.
Wrong, so wrong.
They found Mercantor camped in what was left of a luxury hotel. Why would you choose to occupy a hovel when there was no one left to protest?
Rectangular granite-surfaced columns supported the two-story-high ceiling. As she, Vargr, and Dog walked through the wide foyer, people turned to stare. They lounged in groups on the vibrant-hued upholstered chairs playing some sort of card game, or they talked, or drank from opened bottles of liquor no doubt souvenired from a bar. Women perched on chairs, laps, knees and even the floor. A few of the beasters hailed Vargr and he waved back or said a few cheerful words. By people she meant beaster males. These men were clearly not pure human. None of the beasters she could see were female.
The beasters glowed, as did Vargr, their beaster attributes embellished with motes drifting on the surface and lines of swirling blue. Horns shimmered azure and curled above heads, where bone had clearly thickened to support the added weight. The horned ones had heavy foreheads, as well as overly thick cheekbones and jaws. Some of them had clawed hands, wings, or scales, and all had striking blue eyes.
Or call it eerie blue—she guessed it depended on taste whether they were pretty or weird.
I love weird, she decided, ticking off another box on her newly unearthed personality.
They stared at her, or her ass. Men.
She would be the first new woman they’d seen for ages. Maybe for five years. Relationships would be well established. Perhaps some feared she would rock the status quo or thought they could fuck her. They’d soon learn otherwise.
Cyn resisted poking out her tongue or raspberrying them. Tempting, though. Instead, she pursed her lips then swayed her ass even more.
�
��I see what you do,” Vargr said from out the corner of his mouth. “Desist. I have enough to worry about with getting them to accept you.”
She smirked and raised an eyebrow. If wanting to screw her wasn’t acceptance she had definitely lost touch with her human side.
Arrayed along the walls were shopping carts full of supplies. Food mostly, though some carts were stacked with guns or clothes. Though imagining these aggressively male beasters pushing shopping carts almost wrecked her imagination; it would be a most convenient method, except when it came to stairs.
“How do you transport those when you go up or down a story?” She gestured.
“We carry them mostly. Though maybe I will get you to carry mine.”
“So romantic,” she said quietly.
“That’s me.”
Sitting atop the long, glossy black reception desk was a beaster with a bald scaled head, stubs of horns, and arms she decided were thick enough to tear apart a truck. Those too had scales with small horns sprouting at the shoulders. At least he wore a shirt along with his dark leather pants. The shirt was ivory colored with a fabric and cut that screamed money, or good looting abilities.
He slid off and vaguely saluted them, stomping over to stand with his legs well spread.
“Vargr.” He nodded then his mouth pinched in. “She’s new. Trust you to find the last stray human. How is this possible? Not Lure-affected, and so…”
“Ahhh. Boaz meet Cyn.” Vargr looked from one to the other.
She nodded. Boaz nodded. The tension in the air made her ever so wary.
“Cyn is not exactly human, but I’m not explaining here. When is the next meeting?”
“You feel she’s worth discussing at a meeting?” Again Boaz appraised her, only this time his gaze roamed her full length. She returned the appraisal, made sure to look as skeptical as he did.
“I do feel so. It’s complicated. I want to keep her free, not chained or hobbled.”
Boaz snorted. “I’ll call one now. It’s due. That Worshipper foot-soldier is here still and wants to talk. Afterward, you chain her up with the others until we make a decision.” When her smile slipped, his broadened. “I can see her appeal. She has fire.”
“Oh, definitely that.” Amusement sparked in Vargr’s eyes.
Fire? It seemed insulting. “Chained, Vargr? Is this not contrary to our… agreement?”
“It’s only until I sort this out.”
Boaz frowned, and she was sure she saw concern there. “It’s for everyone’s protection. I’m sorry, but it is necessary.” Then he added to Vargr. “She is very clear-minded.”
“Yes. As I said, not quite human.”
“Uh-huh. If you want to clean up, go up the big staircase to the first room on the right or left. The water supply is good. We found a new reservoir. Don’t be long. Meet us in the boardroom. There.” He pointed at a hallway that led past elevator doors and ended at double doors.
Despite Boaz’s apology, she fumed.
This was why she’d refused to come here, only she was here, and guessed she must endure until she left them. This bond Vargr was so certain of, she would stretch it, and break it, if it even existed as soon as she figured out how much the Lure still affected her. Leaving before she understood that would be stupid or crazy, or both.
“Come.” Vargr beckoned.
Following him violated her sense of being herself and not his. Still she followed, up the sweeping carpeted stairs to a hotel room with an equally grand bathtub and glassed-in shower. A huge selection of clothes was piled on the king-size bed, mostly women’s clothing. He gestured.
“Choose something, if you wish to. We’re both dirty as hell.”
Cyn hesitated. Sexy? Flirting outrageously was power of a sort, whether he wanted her to or not.
She showered, dried herself on the softest, fluffiest white towel ever. A floor-length mirror reflected her in shades of red, as if she were demon not human, then the lights flickered on, and she heard the hum of machinery.
“Don’t worry! It’s just someone’s cranked up a generator, Cyn.”
Nice of him to say. She frowned at this new pink-skinned woman with the wet hair curling over and sticking to her front, at the water rivulets running from them and over her breasts. She turned, checking out her figure, her ample if muscular rear, and decided she’d done well, considering she should be dead.
She would definitely dress sexy.
Red sparks caught her attention.
The glints drifting to the surface in her irises startled her more than the power coming on. This was not the her she’d been born as, that much she was sure of.
Cyn used her forefinger to drag down the lower lid of her right eye.
Those spots were not accidental, or the doing of a Ghoul Lord. She had nanomachines too. Even Eeyore of little brain would know this. Or was that Bear of little brain?
It shouldn’t be difficult to convince this council she was like them.
Unless they feared her too much? What could possibly do that? The Ghoul Lords, of course. It was why Vargr wanted to conceal her origins… her recent dangerous origins.
The lying didn’t bother her. That was practical. Something else did, but she couldn’t quite decide what it was.
“Get a move on in there!” Vargr yelled.
She raised her chin, thinking.
In a way, she was proud of being the only escapee in five years. Hiding herself was the act of a pussy.
A rush of heat flushed her system, made her heart thud, made her bare her teeth at herself. She planted her palm and splayed fingers on the cool glass.
“I am a fucking tiger.”
That bold statement had sprung from nowhere. A thought jumped out. She couldn’t have nanomachine tiger bits, could she?
“Nooo. Idiot.” She shook her head, disparaging her own question then shrugged. She was going to find out, with or without the help of these beasters.
And… if she had nanites, which those red spots pretty much shouted she did, then logically she was going to change into something same as all the others, same as Vargr. What though?
Something bad-ass. Yeah.
“Fuck yeah,” she whispered.
Cyn walked out naked to pick something from the pile, chose a short-skirted goth dress that morphed into something else at the back. Red bows and lacing ran down the spine in an imitation of a corset.
The cooler temperature outside, on the building edges, made her pick thin black leggings too. She slipped everything on, then shoved aside the clothes and sat on the bed to lace up her ankle boots with the practical grip on the bottom—if she had to run or kick, she was doing it right.
“You aren’t washing?”
Vargr, shoulder to the wall, had watched her every move. “No. Later, I will.”
He tossed a book he’d been reading onto the bed. The Doors of Stone by Patrick Rothfuss. It bounced on the taut quilt that featured a blue dragon wound around a tower.
“Good book. Thought I’d never find a copy. It was in the bedside drawers.”
Thievery had become a virtue. She rather liked that. People adapting to circumstances was better than waiting to be squashed by the boogie man.
She stood and stomped the heels into place. “What do you plan on telling them?”
“Enough to convince them you might be useful. Nothing that will make you sound unsafe, if possible. Except…” He shook his head slightly. “You’re still going to be too strange. You have to be good, okay? Follow my lead, whatever it is. Trust me.”
That left a lot of vagueness. “Sure.”
Strange? Her? Among this horde of beastlike men? Did he not see how they would look to her, or to anyone not of them?
“I can see you’re already planning on taunting their dicks. Just keep it to that.” He opened the door for her.
She almost snorted. The man had a sense of humor. Always a good sign.
Her happiness lasted until he led her into the boardroom where she hit a wa
ll of testosterone. The euphoria died. Here was a room full of beasters sitting around a long table that stretched most of the length of the room with the head being at the far end. They were all studying her and Vargr, but mostly her. Ten males.
Where were the female beasters he’d spoken of?
Where had her bravado gone? She suddenly wanted to shrink and hide under the table. Maybe it was the nanites making her crazy brave?
The beasters nodded at Vargr. Then their eyes were on her again. Was she truly such a phenomenon?
Boaz stood, his chair scraping back, and she realized they’d brought in sturdier chairs than the usual. “Tell us about her, Vargr.”
“Sit here.” He pulled out the chair near them. It faced Boaz where he presided at the top of the table.
Feeling as if this was more a trial than a council meeting, she did so.
She sat and primly kept her hands on her lap, primly set her lips in a straight line. Not so primly she assessed them one by one, stifling her new fears. Follow my lead, he’d said. Fine.
“I will tell her who you are, first. It is polite to do so.”
He ruffled her hair lightly, squeezed her nape, which made her want to turn and bury herself in his arms. She frowned and clutched her fingers. Her own body betrayed her.
“They can be assholes, Cyn, just ignore them if they are.”
A few laughed, and the tension lessened.
He began to run through names, and she tried to remember who was who, to make mental notes
There was…
Boaz, of course. Bald, scaled, with small horns.
To his left was Thad, shortest beaster she’d seen. Thick hair, wavy brown—actual human hair. Enormous arms with the motes arranged in blue stripes. A voice deep enough to rattle the spoons that lay before him. He was a weaponsmith who could pull apart anything and put it back together.
“Mostly put them back together the right way up,” Vargr said. That brought laughs.
Next to Thad was Orm. Slender and tall for a beaster. The blue on Orm whirled and danced on his eyes and hands. His straight-ish hair would beat Medusa’s serpents for liveliness. It was almost entirely blue.
When Orm’s eyes met hers, she swore she heard whispers, overlapping whispers.
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