Wicked Harvest

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  She stroked her hands up through the thick, dark hair of his chest, now wet with sweat, to cup his shoulders. Sweat plastered his hair to his face, and he flicked it back impatiently without missing a beat. He kept his eyes closed, perhaps to guard against what had happened last night. An animalistic snarl darted across his lips. In the ancient tongue, he ordered her to climax, surprising her with his command of the language.

  His wicked thrusts rubbed his pubic hair hard against her clit, causing a delicious orgasm to tighten her around him, her cunt gripping his cock, compelling his orgasm to shudder his body against her. With one last lunge and a snarled cry, he collapsed on her for a brief second. His weight was such she could not breathe, but she wrapped her arms around him, holding him, reveling in the brief moment of fusing flesh and her utter and willing submission to him.

  Angling up on his elbows, he took his weight from her. He chuckled at her gasping indrawn breath. Kissing her softly, he said, “I didn’t mean to crush you.”

  “Your weight felt wonderful but longer than that…” Her voice trailed off when she locked her gaze on his. That tingling awareness, weak threads of the full connection, simmered between them and his eyes went wide.

  She thought he would look away, but he simply held her gaze, exploring the sensation, as did she. This wasn’t as deep as last night; a weaker connection, but still she could feel fringes of his physical body and lightly touch his mind. She knew his satisfaction at having pleased her and the relief of his release, but then his pain that no matter how many times he found his release within her, he could never impregnate her. As this last darted into her awareness her eyes went wide, causing him to frown, but still, he didn’t break the fragile connection.

  Softly, he said, “I am sorry. That is not something I would have told you, but this, this phenomena as you called it, doesn’t give me much choice.”

  Enovese touched his face. “I am not angry, it’s how you feel, and I understand.” For just as she knew this truth from him, he could now feel how much she wished for the same thing, that she too believed it was the only issue holding them away from each other.

  Bit by bit the connection fell apart until they were simply gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Chur rolled to his side, snuggling her against him as he drew the covers over their cooling bodies.

  Toying with his chest hair, tracing her finger along the shaved scar, Enovese said, “If we linger much longer, I’m afraid you will be late for training.”

  Chur laughed. “I think I’ve already had my workout for the day.”

  Nibbling his ear, she said, “I humbly suggest, Harvester, that you do not tell that to your handler.”

  “That would not do.” Chur kissed the tip of her nose and rolled out of bed.

  She followed him to the table. Once she served him from the warming platters she stood at his side.

  Chur frowned. “No more of that, Enovese. If we are to play at bondmates, I expect you to share my table as well as my bed.”

  Delighted, Enovese joined him and they ate in silence. Afterward she moved to the bathing unit, but he declined saying he did not have time. She helped him don his gear.

  At the door, he cupped her chin, placed a kiss to her lips, and murmured, “I will not be late.”

  Before he could move away, she captured his face with both her hands, kissed him deeply, then asked, “Is there anything you would like me to have ready for you?”

  Chur considered her for a moment, then whispered against her lips, “Surprise me.”

  As she cleaned and set his rooms to rights, she considered how she could surprise him tonight. A giddy thrill caused her skin to tingle, and a cool shower didn’t quash her wayward thoughts.

  What Chur had said about his place of birth, Ampir, and the particulars of the selection of female Harvesters set her mind to a new path of research: Who set the values of beauty, and by whom were the candidates judged?

  Donning her robe, Enovese went to the library and delved into the stacks. Since her entire training focused on serving the male Harvester, she’d never bothered to read anything about the female Harvester prophecy. Now, to her surprise, she discovered major differences, in not only the selection but also the preparation.

  Recruiters scoured the regions hunting for women of surpassing beauty, but they also culled women who had competed in a local contest based wholly on their physical allure. From these regional contests, or the recruiters’ own whimsical selection, those chosen would be taken to the palace to compete in another contest where they were expected to display not only beauty but skills such as singing, playing an instrument, composing poetry, or dance. From this contest, a panel of judges, composed of the magistrate and others in high authority, would select a winner to harvest the males who came of age.

  A female Harvester must compete in the palace contest every ninth cycle to retain her title. Rarely did a female Harvester serve more than two seasons before another replaced her, for the peculiars and particulars of beauty were ever changing. Since recorded history, only one female Harvester had kept her title for five seasons. Arianda Rostvaika had done so by reinventing herself for each contest and displaying a wealth of skills in music, dance, and poetry. Her reign had come to end when she abruptly withdrew from the palace contest during what would have been her sixth season. Despite her diligent search, Enovese could find no explanation for Arianda’s hasty abandonment of her role or what had happened to her afterward.

  Where Chur must compete in the challenge, a contest based solely on physical prowess, this woman had held her own against those younger than she by possessing surpassing beauty, grace, and a multitude of skills.

  As Enovese read further, she agreed with Chur that a male Harvester had things much easier in that his skills could be quantified and measured. How exactly did one distill beauty and the comely arts into a definable measurement? For the first time, Enovese found comfort in her misery at her position; yes, the male and female Harvesters vied for their role of their own free will, but that didn’t mean the rules were more pleasant or agreeable.

  Recognizing the duality of the male and female Harvester roles, Enovese searched for the female equivalent to the ceremonial chalice. She found the answer but also found it perplexing, raising far more questions than it answered. After the Harvest, a female Harvester retired to her rooms where her paratanist inserted a thick cylinder into her passage, pleasured her to climax, then she slept with the device buried deep within. Come morning, her paratanist would pleasure her again, remove the device, and then deliver it to the magistrate. There was no information on what happened to it at that point. Again, she wondered why they would want such samples from the Harvesters? And what exactly was the sample from the female Harvester? If they took the male Harvester’s sperm, then they would take the female Harvester’s…

  “Eggs.”

  When Enovese realized she spoke aloud, she darted a quick gaze about the stacks. Relief washed over her when none noticed. Relaxing the rules around Chur was beginning to affect her in public, and that simply wouldn’t do. One mistake could bring a multitude of troubles down on her head.

  Enovese replaced the books and exited the library but doubled back and headed in the direction of the female Harvester’s suite of rooms. She didn’t think the guards, if there were any stationed, would notice she did not belong there, for the only difference between her robe and a male paratanist’s robe was a notch cut into the hood. The V was the only mark that indicated she was female. As she worked her way down the halls, she noticed the same golden filigree paint slowly resolving into the twined figures that graced Chur’s door and the chalice box.

  The door to the Harvest room was closed. Darting her gaze up and down the hall, Enovese didn’t see anyone, so she reached out and pushed on one of the double swinging doors. She had only a brief glimpse inside before a guard turned the corner and strode in her direction. Enovese turned away from the Harvest room and moved toward the guard, hoping the
door would swing closed before the guard noticed.

  Behind her, she heard him mumble something; then she heard a bang and a loud click. He’d just locked the door. Disappointed, Enovese continued up the hallway away from him. Once she rounded the corner she looked back and discovered the guard stood in front of the Harvest room doors. She wondered why. What was in there that needed to be guarded?

  As she returned to Chur’s suite of rooms, she passed by his Harvest room. No guard but the door was firmly locked. What needed to be protected in there? She mentally compared the male and female rooms, and realized the only difference was that where Chur’s had a massive table for the sacrifices, the female room had pallets on the floor, which made sense for the ease of the Harvest. Each male sacrifice would lay supine on a pallet with umer keeping him erect so the female Harvester could lower herself upon his shaft.

  Paintings of the previous Harvesters lined both rooms, but Enovese didn’t have enough time to study those in the female’s room. She desperately wanted to see the paintings of Arianda Rostvaika. What would such a compelling woman look like? And what happened to her after she abandoned her role? Had she left for a bondmate? From what Enovese had read in the stacks, female Harvesters rarely selected their mates from the sacrifices. Most ended up bonded to men in high authority. Ambo Votny had bonded to a female Harvester named Litha Emmel. She remembered this for Chur had attended the mourning rites for Litha during his first season as Harvester. Enovese had never seen Litha but heard she was a delicate beauty from the Gant region. Litha had died in her sleep at a bare forty-six seasons of age. Enovese remembered the event for it was the first time Ambo had spilled something on Chur’s dress uniform. From that moment on, Chur had a strong dislike for Ambo. For not only the stain but also that Ambo had seemed oddly jocular at his bondmate’s mourning rites. Chur said Ambo had not been outright jolly, but he drank as if it were a celebration and not a time for bereavement.

  A million questions swirled in her mind as Enovese entered Chur’s rooms. Chur sat at the table hunched over the tome. His face was a mask of annoyance as he squinted at the text. When he heard her enter, he looked up and the frustration fell away into genuine pleasure as he smiled.

  “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you.” Wet black hair clung to his head, and a few drops of water traced down his chest. Drops caught in his chest hair and sparkled like crystals.

  Enovese pushed her hood back and echoed his smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you wash.”

  “As am I.” His grin turned deliciously wicked. “However, I did notice cleaning up is far faster without you but not nearly as enjoyable.” Chur pushed the chair back, stood, and opened his arms to her.

  Touched by his welcome, Enovese practically ran into his embrace. As she pressed her cheek to his chest, she smelled lingering traces of soap. All her questions and concerns melted away in his arms. For a long moment, they simply clung to each other until a rumble from Chur’s belly caused both of them to laugh.

  “Clearly my stomach has missed you as well.”

  Enovese moved to start the evening meal. Chur surprised her by following and insisting he wanted to help.

  “Bondmates share the chores, do they not?”

  She nodded and fought to suppress her joy. Despite how strange it felt to have him working beside her, it also pleased her that he had every intention of holding to the agreement to live as bondmates. However, his culinary skills left much to be desired. He handled the slim knives like weapons, attacking the food rather than preparing it.

  She stilled his hand. “Cut even pieces so the meat will cook evenly.” She moved his hand over the raw aket showing him how to cube it rather than shred it. “Aket is very tender and easily ripped apart. See how a slow, smooth stroke of the blade keeps the chunks intact?”

  Chur nodded. “I guess too many years of training have ruined me for the kitchen. Or perhaps I am thinking of Loban while I work.”

  “Did something happen during training?” Enovese readied the vacsear.

  “Nothing beyond the usual.”

  Enovese sensed a hesitance in his tone and then noticed he again attacked the aket. “If you do not wish to discuss your training, then—”

  “It’s not that.” Chur cut her off, then slowed his movements. “I am concerned that Loban will not be the only one to issue a challenge.”

  Enovese considered. Usually the recruits battled amongst themselves to determine who would issue the formal challenge, but that did not prevent several from doing so. “Do you think Loban is compelling these recruits to challenge you?”

  “That is exactly what I think. If I must fight several before Loban, then he will have a distinct advantage when his turn comes.”

  Enovese placed the cubed aket into the vacsear. As the machine drew the air out it seared all sides of the meat simultaneously. “Isn’t Loban generally disliked by the recruits?” she asked, for she wondered why any of them would help Loban in his scheme.

  “That is what I thought.” Chur washed the knife and cutting surface. “It is not to their advantage to issue a formal challenge, for if they lose they will die. To challenge amongst themselves only results in a bit of damaged pride, not death.”

  Enovese turned the food out into the warming platters. Chur helped her carry everything to the table. As they ate, Enovese speculated about what would compel the recruits to do something so foolish. “It is as if they wish to kill themselves by your hand.”

  Chur abruptly stopped chewing and cast her a shrewd glance. He finished his mouthful and thoughtfully said, “Better death than disgrace.”

  It was one of many credos that recruits learned by rote, but it was also one of the most powerful. “But there is no disgrace in being a recruit.”

  Chur sighed. “No disgrace, but for those at the lower end there isn’t anything for them beyond the training room. Only the top recruits become palace guards. For the lower ranks, all that awaits them are menial palace jobs or a position in the palace army. They are discouraged from bonding, and if they do, they are allowed only one child.”

  Enovese had never considered what happened to the recruits who didn’t advance. “Do they not have the option of returning to their homelands?” She always thought they returned to their regions with some glory for having gotten into the Harvester training.

  “No, once they accept the position of recruit, they can never leave the palace, unless they are banished.”

  “With a brand upon their forehead.”

  Chur gave a grim nod.

  “With so little to look forward to, I do not think it would take much persuasion to convince them to challenge you. From their point of view, they have nothing to lose. Death at your hand would carry more honor than a lowly position.”

  Chur lifted his brows. “But who is doing the persuading?”

  Enovese mimicked him. “You already know the answer to that.”

  Chur considered the food on his plate. “The one with the most to gain: Loban Daraspe.”

  20

  Chur entered the training room early and stationed himself in a central location so he could observe without being obvious. Recruits came in small groups and warmed up before engaging in mock battles. He noticed several pushed harder than the others did, almost as if they were desperate to advance. It wasn’t unusual for recruits to train hard, but these men exuded a frantic air. His critical eyes noted their strengths and their weaknesses. None would be a match for him. Some were strong but lacked dexterity. Others were dexterous but lacked raw power. No matter how hard they trained, they simply wouldn’t improve much beyond their current skill level. It was despicable for someone to convince them otherwise.

  Loban entered and Chur watched without drawing attention to himself. At some point during the day, Loban engaged each of the strugglers, as Chur decided to call them, in a sparring event. On the surface, Loban appeared to be helping them improve, but Loban had never shown such generosity before. Loban had always taken pl
easure in defeating the raw recruits, but now he took pains to coach them.

  For his own evil ends, Chur thought, but he knew if he openly accused Loban of treachery, then Chur would again be issuing a minor challenge. Such would only encourage Loban and perhaps give credence to whatever tale he told to motivate the recruits. As Chur watched, he noticed Helton observing Loban as well, and he wondered if Loban merely put on an act to please his handler. Perhaps Helton had instructed Loban to spend more time with the recruits to assess their strengths and weaknesses. Chur refused to jump to any conclusions. He would wait and observe.

  After a brief cooldown, Loban exited the training rooms with Helton at his side. As casually as possible, Chur moved near Phavage Nerys. Phavage was extremely tall and slender, possessing more speed than strength. His hair was stark white, and his eyes were a luminous pink that were indicative of his region of Ries. At one time, the Ries region was famous for supplying female Harvesters, but white hair and pink eyes had fallen out of fashion. Chur knew there wasn’t a single male Harvester from the Ries region. Riesian women were ethereal and lovely, but their men didn’t possess the physical form to rise over the men from harsher regions. Six of the nine cycles plunged Ries into darkness, which gave its residents exceptional eyesight and pale complexions but little else.

  Phavage cast Chur a dubious glance as he grunted his way through a solo practice with the dantaratase. Phavage twisted and thrust the tall staff with marked precision. Droplets of sweat splattered to the floor, but Phavage deftly avoided slipping by planting his long, skinny feet firmly to the aged wood. Chur admired his skill but knew his finesse with one weapon would not help him during a formal challenge.

  “Why do you watch me, Harvester?” Phavage continued to twirl the staff with his slender white hands.

  “I admire your technique.”

  Pink eyes narrowed to angry red slits. “You hope to intimidate me.” With a flick of his wrist, Phavage snapped the staff vertical and tapped the floor with a sharp thunk.