by Anna Carven
“Uh, that might be a bit of a problem.”
“Problem?” I raise an eyebrow.
“There are those slaves who seem to have formed deeper relationships with their masters. They have no wish to leave.”
“Hm.” My ears twitch in irritation. I do not understand such concepts, nor do I wish to waste time trying to fathom the bizarre whims of Kythians and their slaves. “Whatever it is, sort it out. Those who wish to leave should leave as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Sir.” Xalikian does a mock-salute. His response is full of good-humored irony, and he seems to be unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face. He’s enjoying this, and so he should. This is the reformation of our society that he always wanted, and his mate is pregnant with twins.
Soon, there will be three little Kordolian-Human hybrids running around. Goddess help us all.
“You had better go and attend to your mate, Xalikian. I hear she is struggling with the sickness of pregnancy.”
“She’s suffering with all the dignity of a wounded marmek.”
“Peppermint tea,” I inform him. “Dry biscuits. Warm showers. Massage. And then… you go further, if she is up to it. Otherwise, just hold her and console her. Go.”
“Yes, Sir!” With a sense of exuberance and a slightly ironic curl of his lips, the Wild Prince takes his leave.
I am left with my trusted warrior, Torin the Learned. It is a tongue-in-cheek nickname. They call him that because like Xalikian, he likes to read. He is softly spoken but articulate, and particular with his habits. He is obsessively neat and has refined tastes. He collects rare Veronian picture-weavings, of all things. Although I have not seen it myself, I have heard he carves intricate things from pieces of Jentian stone.
If I had to make a wager, I would bet that he was once the son of a Noble House, which makes it strange that he ended up as experiment-fodder with the rest of us.
Not that it matters. He is as brutal and efficient a killer as the rest of the First Division.
“Any word on Zharek al Sirian?” I lower my voice as we round the corner and enter the residential section. We are alone now, and free to discuss the most important matters.
“He wasn’t hard to locate,” Torin says, much to my surprise. “After a few tip-offs, we found him sitting in the basement of a sensi bar in the Pleasure District, half-stoned and smoking a fucking tariss pipe while the military secured the streets above. For some reason, the bar was still open for business despite the recent fighting.”
“There are those who will do anything to capture a few credits, even if it means trading in a conflict zone.”
“That’s true. Omaron-Ra was like that. On every second street in Rhatha there seemed to be some cursed tariss den open for business, even while the place was taking heavy plasma-fire and shelling.”
“Business goes on, even if your planet is being invaded by Kordolians,” I say dryly as we come to a halt beside a wide qualum entrance. In truth, I’m somewhat surprised that Torin’s been able to find his quarry so quickly.
Beyond those doors is the mysterious space that Abbey has always insisted is off-limits to Kordolians.
“I threw Zharek into a holding cell. It’ll be a little while before he’s sober. He’s completely off his nut. Kept saying he wishes to thank you for his brother’s head.”
“Tch.” House Sirian fell with the rest of the Noble Houses. It was not difficult to arm their servants and incite rebellion inside the Palace of Sirian. As their wealth and influence increased, the Noble Houses became soft and complacent. They were arrogant and extravagant, more concerned with maintaining their indulgent lifestyles than keeping close watch on those who would eventually bring about their downfall. When our soldiers stormed the Palace of Sirian, it had already descended into chaos.
If Zharek takes any issue with what I have done, he will answer to me.
“Alert me as soon as he is coherent. I will deal with him myself.”
“Got it.” Torin narrows his eyes as a faint high-pitched sound penetrates through the mostly sound-proof qualum doors.
I know. I can hear it too. It’s the sound of screaming.
It’s a very familiar sound. I suppress the urge to smile. Torin’s brow creases in an expression of mild confusion. The screaming becomes louder.
The Little Monster is having one of her infamous meltdowns. “I had better attend to this. It appears to be… urgent.”
Torin nods. “An emergency of epic proportions, it seems. I will monitor Sirian and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
He discreetly takes his leave as I step forward, the qualum doors unravelling to reveal a scene of utter chaos.
Three Humans stare up at me in shock. “G-general!” Jia is sitting on the floor beside my daughter, who is on her back kicking and screaming. Her tiny fists are clenched, and her pale face has turned an unholy shade of violet.
The throbbing pain in my head surges again. I close my eyes and rub my temples. “What is the matter now?”
At the sound of my voice, Ami pauses. One of her eyes opens slightly, and she looks at me. Jia, Arin, and Riana glance at me uncertainly. This place is supposed to be off-limits to Kordolians, but none of them dare protest against my intrusion.
Suddenly, all of Kaiin’s Nine Hells break loose. Ami turns away, kicking violently and slamming her fists down on the floor. Her scream alone is piercing enough to shatter the thick ice sheets of the Vaal itself.
I stride across the floor and squat down on my haunches beside her. “Ami. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The crying stops. Shimmering violet eyes turn towards me. She whimpers softly, indecision crossing her face. Her breathing becomes faster. Her voice starts to rise again, crescendoing into a wail, and she opens her mouth wide.
“No, Ami.” I raise my finger in stern warning. “Do not even think about it. No more screaming. Is this how you greet your father?”
Caught in a moment of indecision, she blinks. Her mouth closes. Her whimpering dies down. Slowly, she rolls onto her side and pulls herself into a sitting position. “Babda?”
She lifts both arms and reaches for me. “No more screaming,” I growl.
She pushes out her lower lip. Her chin trembles.
Ah. How am I supposed to discipline this child when she looks at me like this? Her round little face is as luminous and serene as Earth’s pale moon. Her eyes are twin mirrors, reflecting only the worthy parts of my soul.
Her radiance momentarily drowns out the darkness within.
“Come here,” I say gruffly. She crawls towards me, the tears on her cheeks drying rapidly.
“General Tarak.” Jia awkwardly backs away, giving us some space. She stares at me in open-mouthed shock. I get the sense she doesn’t quite know how to behave around me. “Th-thank you for coming. How is Abbey?”
“Stable,” I respond curtly. I am not in the mood to go into detail, but it’s obvious the women are anxious for news of Abbey’s condition, so I give them reassurance. “She is strong, and she will survive. Now what is all this ruckus about?” I intentionally change the subject.
“She wants crocro, apparently.”
I nod in understanding. “Is that what all this ridiculous commotion was about, Ami?” I lift her into my arms and rise to my feet. She wraps her arms around my neck and rests her cheek against my chest. “We can find this so-called crocodile, if that is what it will take to keep the peace. Tantrums do not solve anything, my child.”
“She’s dealing with a bit of separation anxiety.” Arin is standing in the food preparation area, fixing a feeding bottle. “She wants mommy.” Rykal’s golden-haired mate turns and approaches me. “She’s already had her dinner, but Abbey always offers her the boob before bedtime.” Arin offers me the bottle. “Lucky for us, she’s stored enough of her milk to last for weeks. You going to do the honors, General?”
Ah yes, the miraculous boob. I, too, have great appreciation for it. I am dying to treat my wi
fe’s luscious body with the reverence it deserves, but first I must deal with this infernal illness.
Abbey should not suffer from my curse. I will not rest until I make things right.
But more immediately, I must deal with this noisy-and-demanding daughter of mine. The girl knows what she wants, just like her mother. I take the bottle from Arin and regard each of the three women in turn. “She is to be put to bed by eight pi-emm on the Earth clock. Use the night-holo to illuminate her room. One of you needs to keep the sleep-monitor with you at all times. If she wakes, you go to her.”
The three women stare at me as if I have grown a third set of horns. I do not understand what is so astonishing.
We have been trying to transition Ami to her own sleeping pod at night, but she still wakes and cries on occasion. As a result, Abbey allows her to sleep in our quarters from time-to-time. I am indulgent and permit this behavior, even though it leaves less opportunity for us to make love. We have taken to stealing moments at the most opportune of times; in the shower, in my personal office, in the observation deck when no-one is around.
Who would have ever imagined that I, a former general of the Kordolian Empire, would end up beholden to the needs of a beguiling female and her child?
It beggars belief, but at the same time it makes perfect sense. Only for my own flesh-and-blood would I do such a thing.
“We’ll take it in shifts,” Riana looks up from her datapad. She offers Ami a gentle smile. “Between the three of us, we should be able to get enough sleep, and hopefully it won’t be for long.” Her dark brown eyes are full of quiet humor. Kail’s female. Who would have thought? In the most unlikely of circumstances, he has claimed this one… or is it the other way around? Like Abbey, like Jia, like Sera, like Arin, like Noali, she has been good for her hard, scarred warrior—in her own unique way.
Humans possess an innate vigor and enthusiasm for life that seems to be the perfect antidote to the Kordolian desire to destroy and conquer.
“Babda,” Ami protests, growing impatient. She tries to grab the bottle in my hand. I hold it firmly.
“Patience, child.” I sweep her out of the room, heading for my quarters. “You will get what you want.” As she always does. As I leave, I glance over my shoulder at the three women, who are still staring at me as if I am a rare specimen in some damned exhibit. What in Kaiin’s Hells is so fucking fascinating? “I will reconfigure our quarters so that you may gain access to Ami’s pod from the outside. Only the three of you and Sera will be permitted to enter. We will return shortly, after we have fed and located this infernal crocodile.”
“Crocro,” Ami murmurs happily, her earlier tantrum all but forgotten.
Child-rearing comes with its own unique challenges. For the sake of everyone onboard Silence, I pray to the Goddess that this ridiculous crocodile creature can be located soon.
Chapter Eleven
Tarak
A rancid stench hits me in the face as I enter the holding cell. It’s the acrid, lingering smell of tariss smoke.
Kaiin’s Hells. Yet another thing that is going to exacerbate my worsening headache. The pain was there when I spent time with Ami. It was there when I left her in the care of the women. It grows worse and worse, and now I am in a foul mood.
I know what this is. Short of knocking me out, there is no medicine that can suppress the mating fever. The only way to relieve the pain is to satisfy my body’s needs, or fight and kill something.
The latter option is looking rather likely right now, although my captive isn’t in any state to put up much of a fight.
Zharek al Sirian is slumped against the wall. His kashkan—an ornate robe of deep red which is embellished with gold-embroidered motifs—is rumpled and torn in places. It is half-open, revealing his bare chest. His long hair, which is secured atop his head in a high, messy knot, is threaded through with black, betraying his age.
His horns are half-grown, a most unusual sight on one of noble descent, but then again, Zharek could hardly be considered a typical Kythian noble.
I walk to his side and deliver a soft kick—more of a tap—to his side with my armor-booted foot. “Get up.”
Zharek’s eyes flutter. “Wha…?” He squints as he looks up at me. Recognition slowly dawns in his amber eyes, and he makes an attempt to sit a little straighter, self-consciously fumbling with the fastenings of his kashkan. “Hello, General. I assume you haven’t just dragged me up here to kill me, otherwise I’d be dead already.”
“Correct.”
“I left the project, you know. I didn’t want anything to do with it after—”
“I know.”
Zharek is one of those rarest of individuals; a Kordolian noble with a semblance of a conscience. He’s brilliant, too, but I would never allow him to hear it from my mouth.
The problem with Zharek al Sirian is that he lacks discipline. In terms of work ethic, he is the polar opposite of his former clan-sister, Zyara. He needs a proverbial ‘kick in the ass,’ as Abbey would say.
And he is batshit crazy, as Abbey would also say.
I cross my arms and glare down at him. My patience is wearing thin. Pressure is building inside my head. My muscles are wound taut with tension. “You look like shit,” I growl. I squat down beside him and grab him by the hair, yanking his face back so that he’s forced to look at me. His pupils are slightly dilated; a residual effect of the tariss. “I do not care why you were getting off your head in a sensi bar in the middle of a war zone, nor do I give a shit about why you have decided to style yourself as if you were some kind of destitute lord. You will clean yourself of this filth and report to me.”
He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Report? I no longer serve anyone, and besides, you just had the head of my clan executed. House Sirian is finished. I have no clan, no station, no calling, no fucking life. You might as well just end me now.”
“You can’t fool me, Zharek. You would be the last person on Kythia to mourn over your brother’s death. Do not pretend otherwise.” I twist my hand into his hair as I rise, yanking him to his feet.
He yelps in pain and surprise. “Ow! Kaiin’s balls, go easy on the locks.”
“Shower,” I growl. “And shave those half-grown horns.”
“Hmph.” Zharek lifts his chin disdainfully. “I am following the Wild Prince’s lead and re-discovering my Kordolian roots. Kazharan is quite the revolutionary, and I am beginning to see the beauty of his willful disobedience, beautiful man that he is.” Zharek’s eyes glow with sudden admiration.
I resist the urge to slap some sense into him. “Xalikian is mated. You will not speak of him in such a manner.” Instead, I drag Zharek towards the exit, twisting his hair as he howls in protest. The problem with this wayward noble is that one can never tell whether he is being serious or making a mockery of the entire situation.
For one who is supposed to be a genius-level scientist, he is ridiculous.
I do not have time for ridiculous. My mate is seriously unwell.
“Zharek,” I say quietly as he lets out a gasp of pain, “listen carefully now. There will be no sarcastic quips, cryptic remarks, or passive-aggressive delaying tactics. There will be no bitter recriminations, highbrow lamentations, or subtle manipulations. You will do exactly as I say.”
“Why should I obey you, General? You have repaid your debt to me. We owe nothing to each other.” His legs are quivering. The frayed edges of his once resplendent kashkan flap limply around his bare ankles. He is about to fall to his knees, and yet he fights me.
He fights me with the full knowledge of what I am and what I am capable of.
That’s because Zharek is fucking mad. I am desperate, he is mad, and if he isn’t careful, my hand will soon be around his throat, and I will choke the Kaiin-cursed life out of him. Unholy visions of death flash before my eyes as I struggle to control my temper.
My anger is starting to spiral out of control. My headache is almost intolerable. I am unsated, unfulfilled, and seething w
ith a dark, dangerous emotion that I cannot quite define.
If only he knew how close I am to…
Control yourself. You need to keep it together, for Abbey’s sake.
Curse it all to the black abyss of Kaiin’s deepest, most soul-destroying hell. I release Zharek and he stumbles to the floor.
“You do not fear death, do you, son of Sirian?”
“Not really. There are times when I crave it. I’m just too much of a coward to do the deed myself. You could do it, though.” He laughs bitterly. “That would be rather fitting, don’t you think?”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say a silent prayer to the Goddess. I ask her to grant me the patience to deal with this raving lunatic.
Ordinarily, I would allow my sword to do the talking, but I need Zharek intact. So how does one coerce a man who is not afraid of death? My usual bargaining chip is useless here.
As Zharek unsteadily rises to his feet, I kick them out from under him.
“Oof!”
He lands flat on his back. I place my foot on his chest and grind my it in, just a little. “Why in Kaiin’s Nine Hells are you doing this to me?” Zharek wheezes, his face stretched into a grimace of pain.
“Idiot. Why do you think?” I put a little pressure on his chest again—just enough that he starts to turn violet. “I will never grant the boon of death you ask for, but I can cause you an entire world of pain. I can return the agony you brought to me tenfold, or a hundredfold.”
“The things that were done to you… I tried to make up for that,” he gasps. “Remember our deal?”
“Yes.” I step off and Zharek clutches his chest, breathing heavily. “I honored it. Your former clan-sister is safe, but don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I recruited her out of some misplaced sense of obligation. She has earned her place with us on her own merits.”
“Where is she? Can I see her?” He’s talking about Zyara, of course. At one point in time, my combat medic was pledged to House Sirian until I broke protocol and insisted she be assigned to the First Division. I do not understand the specifics of her relationship with Zharek, but he seems to have some sort of affinity with her, in the way a brother might fondly regard a favorite sister. After all, he was the one who asked me to rescue her from a life of shame and mediocrity.