Wicked Harvest

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  She kissed his forehead. “You do have a mind for intrigues.”

  “I’m quite astute at grasping the obvious.” Before she could reprimand him, he continued, “Clathia wants me to poison Arianda’s drink.”

  “That’s all?” Enovese scowled.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I find it very odd, for anyone could slip poison into her drink.”

  “Have we not already determined that Clathia picked me because either way I am silenced?”

  “Yes, but still.” Enovese left off the new questions swirling in her mind. “Where are you to get this poison?”

  “Clathia will give it to me before the party.”

  “That is unfortunate. I will have no chance to analyze it and perhaps determine exactly what it is.” Not an expert by any means, Enovese still knew enough about herbs and oils that she could probably make an educated guess.

  “Does it matter? As long as it’s deadly, Clathia has met her objective.”

  “What if it isn’t poison?” Enovese arched her brow. “What if the substance doesn’t kill Arianda but causes some other harm?”

  “You ask too many questions.” Chur growled and hugged her hard. “Touching your mind gives me a headache.”

  Enovese decided to leave off any further pondering and turned her attention to the delicious man below her. All wonderfully hard and masculine.

  A bright smile lifted Chur’s face for he had read her thoughts. “Oh, I absolutely agree that we should turn our attention away from intrigues and focus on the lewd arts.” Cupping his hands to her bottom, he pulled her up and teased his sex against hers.

  “I believe this explains why men do not make good spies.” She nestled down until she felt his tip press against her passage. “Men are too easily distracted by pleasures of the flesh.”

  “Then don’t let me distract you.” With a devious grin, Chur thrust up, penetrating her in one smooth motion. “Please continue with your questions.”

  His sudden possession stole her breath along with her thoughts. Chur deliberately flashed erotic images directly into her mind. She shivered. Each position, each lusty montage, caused a profound reaction. Her sex gushed and clenched. Her nipples tightened. Despite her efforts to control her breathing, she could not. Gasping, she clutched his shoulders as he rocked into her with lazy grace.

  Twining his hands into her hair, he pulled her head back and bit along her neck. Chuckling, he placed his mouth to her ear and asked, “What, no more questions?”

  Rising up by placing her hands against his chest, Enovese looked directly into his eyes. “Two can play this game.” Deliberately, she flashed her own erotic images into his mind.

  Chur twitched within her.

  Rolling her hips as she rode atop him, Enovese trailed her fingers along his chest and tweaked his nipples.

  He lost his carefully controlled breathing. Before she knew what he was up to, he lifted her off him and placed her face down on the bed. Her unbound hair spilled around her body. He yanked her hips up, lifting her to her knees, exposing her bottom.

  “Naughty woman.” Playfully, he smacked her buttocks.

  Heat spread along her flesh, exacerbating the heat within her sex. Without thought, she arched her back, lifting her backside to receive his slaps. Excitement grew for she had read his musings earlier where he wondered if the empress played such games with her consort.

  Each clap of his hand to her bottom sent her senses reeling, increasing the fire building within. Damp tresses flicked along her flesh, cooling her flashes of warmth.

  Kneeling beside her on the bed, Chur continued to smack her bottom with carefully timed and delivered strokes.

  Blazing desire surged along her nerves. This time he did not punish her in the truest sense of the word but used the actions to enhance her pleasure. Enovese loved him more for understanding her odd arousal in this most wicked act. Spankings in the tanist house were horribly brutal. No pleasure manifested during those beatings. With Chur, it was playful, erotic, delicious, and above all welcomed. For if he thought for a moment he hurt her or she was afraid, he would stop. What excited her was the heat generated by his gentle slaps. Chur tapped her bottom until a rosy glow infused her flesh. He parted her trembling legs and centered himself.

  Thick, hard, insistent, he pressed against her quivering core. She moaned and lowered her head while lifting her bottom. A grander invitation she could not give. Chur accepted and plunged swiftly into her. His moan mingled with hers. He punctuated each full thrust with a lovely slap when he withdrew.

  “Ah, Enovese, you possess me fully.”

  Chur dug his fingertips into the meat of her hips. Plunging deep, he rode her until she collapsed against the bed. Following her down, he continued to stroke, filling her mind with lusty images as his body acted them out. Enovese made no effort to resist. When her orgasm rippled her around him, encompassing him, he bayed and parted her legs wider, to thrust deeper. Chur lost control and the last of the images faded away when he climaxed. He dropped his full weight on her for only a moment. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled over onto his back, taking her with him.

  As he fell asleep, cradling her in his embrace, Enovese kept her thoughts positive. Once sleep claimed him, she couldn’t escape pressing fears that their time together drew short. Outside forces would pull him away from her no matter how she struggled to keep him near.

  26

  Clathia held to her word that her daughter’s pre-Harvest party would rival the Festival of Temptation. Frankly, Chur thought it surpassed the Harvest itself. He had never witnessed such decadence. Huge tables were laden with exotic foods from all over the Onic Empire. On closer inspection, he realized some of the serving platters were men or women covered with treats. As the guests ate, they revealed more of their nude bodies. Servants had decorated every nook and cranny of the great hall with gleaming fruits, vegetables, and bundles of ripening grain. What he thought at first were statues turned out to be painted servants who carefully held their poses. He wasn’t sure but he thought they were supposed to be a depiction of Clathia’s family line. Against one wall, Clathia had arranged a miniature tableau of the sacrifice table complete with several virgins. Chur kept his distance. No matter what the empress might want, he refused to demonstrate for her guests. Just the thought turned his stomach.

  A servant approached, offering him a tray of drinks, which he declined. After his discussions with Enovese, he decided not to eat or drink anything. If Clathia sought to poison a guest, she might also try to impart euphoric feelings to her guests by drugging the food. Enovese filled his belly before he left his rooms. Mentally, he reached out to connect to her but couldn’t. They had been testing their conduit but couldn’t decide if distance impeded the link or if some other factor did.

  Dancers moved about the hall, displaying their acrobatic skills and entertaining the attendees. Chur was surprised at not only their abilities but also their mode of dress. Most were nude, or near nude, and several dancers engaged in simulated sex acts as they danced. The entire theme of the celebration was inherently erotic. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. When he looked back at the mock sacrifice table, he discovered several guests “playing” at Harvester. They would approach a sacrifice, lower their trousers, and then plow away. He noticed several women trading places with the virgins so they could “play” at sacrifice. Not only were they doing it wrong but also they mocked a sacred ritual. When he checked around, he was relieved to discover he wasn’t the only one who thought the display unseemly. Several other guests, male and female, shook their heads and moved away.

  Chur considered the people around him. Now that he understood how colors designated rank, he noticed far more intense shades at this party than at the Festival of Temptation. Deep jewel tones of blue, green, yellow, orange, indigo, and purple swirled before his eyes. Men and women wore their family colors with pride and sought to outdo one another in design and decoration. One woman in blinding yellow had a j
ewel-encrusted hat that was so heavy she had difficulty keeping her head up. So far, she hadn’t moved from one of the reclining couches scattered about the hall. Other members of the elite wore see-through outfits that boldly displayed their breasts, buttocks, or genitals. Quickly, he realized there were two distinctly different types of attendees: those who willingly embraced the lewd decadence, and those who tolerated but refused to participate.

  Clathia darted about her guests, smiling, laughing, touching a shoulder here and straightening a lapel there. She seemed utterly within her element, for despite the party’s purported purpose, clearly Clathia sought to show off herself. Her blaring crimson dress drew every eye, for she was the only one wearing red. The jewel-encrusted garment dipped dangerously low across her shoulders, nipped in at her waist, hugged her hips, and then flared out and down to the floor. So long was the skirt that guests had to take great care not to step on the train. As Clathia maneuvered toward him, Chur struggled to keep a scowl off his face. Again, her beauty struck him, but the calculating coldness in her eyes chilled him to the bone.

  “Mighty Harvester, how good of you to attend.” Clathia leaned close as if to speak privately, but instead she slipped a vial into his hand. Like mother like daughter, he thought. Kasmiri used the same move to swipe his sword. Flashing him an arch smile, Clathia turned on her heel and swept away, swirling night-blooming flowers in her wake. His gaze followed her through the crowd, then turned to the liquid-filled vial. Small, slender, crafted of delicate blue glass, the tiny thing felt weighty and chilly in his palm. He shivered. Scanning the crowd for Arianda, he didn’t see her. For that matter, he had not spied Kasmiri either. Perhaps the subject of the party wished to make an entrance.

  After a discussion with Enovese, Chur decided not to keep the poison on his person just in case Clathia had some other vicious plot in mind, like accusing him of trying to murder her. He placed it at the base of a lush plant, tucking it into a corner where few guests ventured. A few swipes with his fingers covered the vial with moss. Looking without being obvious, he didn’t think anyone paid him any notice. Too many other bizarre entertainments held their attention.

  When he moved back into the throng of people, an older, slender, and slightly tipsy man dressed in crisp orange approached him. Bright orange clashed with his yellowish skin tone and oddly ginger hair.

  Enovese educated him with a basic understanding of the rank associated with colors. He knew the intensity of the orange indicated this man was a high member of his family line. Those below him, his brothers and sisters, for example, would wear increasingly softer shades of orange. His children would wear the same shade as he. The man bowed in a modified military greeting, which Chur returned. He introduced himself as Rier Dalep and then went on at length about his daughter, who would be among the sacrifices at the Harvest.

  Rier’s praise crafted his daughter a paragon of all things feminine. Chur nodded politely. Thinking back to the Festival of Temptation, he remembered a sallow-faced girl in orange with big brown eyes and a mouth that never closed once during their dance. The girl had babbled incessantly about her father and that if Chur were to select her, he would have an excellent life among the nobles. “Why, you would not even have to lift a finger for we have many servants,” the girl gushed. Simpering her face up, she added, “And I would be a most willing partner in your bed.” Chur forced a smile at the girl, refraining from comment, and then moved on to his next dance. He couldn’t remember exactly what she had said her father did, not that such information mattered. He asked Rier a few inane questions to fain interest, then disengaged himself from the conversation, citing the many other guests he must meet.

  Repeatedly, he had similar conversations with other nobles hoping to inveigle his interest in their daughters. He’d had a slew of such discussions during the Festival, but apparently they were eager to have a second chance. Oddly, this time, they were far more discreet. He surmised it was because they suspected the party was to push Chur into choosing the daughter of the empress. Since the nobles could not compete with the riches of the empress, this time they focused on the pliable nature of their daughters. More than once he heard, “My daughter’s temperament is sweet and demure, not fiery and headstrong.” Honestly, Chur thought they did their children no favors. Describing them as doormats for his mighty feet was not as attractive as they might think. What man wanted a spineless child for his bondmate? Luckily, though, only a handful of the elite had daughters who were ready for this Harvest.

  A series of tiny bells began to ring, growing in volume as ever-larger bells chimed. The crystals dimmed. A spotlight fell on the entry to the great hall. Red carpet rolled into the room like a giant tongue. A flutter of wings filled the doorway as several bird handlers released a mass of tiny red birds. Streamers of red floated down from the ceiling with crimson flower petals. A powerful blast of perfumed fog wafted through the door and over the crowd. Chur tried desperately not to laugh. Kasmiri was making the epitome of a grand entrance. A booming processional replaced the tinkling bells.

  Once the fog swirled away, several gasps filled the air, his among them. They gasped not at the production but at what the daughter of the empress wore. From her jaunty hat, to her jacket and trousers, to the delicate boots on her feet, velvet black trimmed with crimson covered Kasmiri—colors relegated to the current Harvester. Chur’s heart slammed painfully in his chest. Was Kasmiri laying claim to him by wearing his colors? She had no right to do so. Furious at this trick, he whipped his head about for the empress.

  At the back of the hall, Clathia stood on a dais, clearly having launched herself from her throne. Her mouth was agape and her eyes wide. She strained forward as if she wanted to launch herself across the room. When her shocked face resolved into twisted fury, Chur turned his attention back to the doorway.

  Arianda entered right behind Kasmiri. As a prior Harvester, Arianda wore black without the crimson trim, but her dress matched Kasmiri’s suit in cut and style, almost as if they wished to present themselves as a couple. When Kasmiri clasped Arianda’s hand, she confirmed his thoughts. Kasmiri wasn’t wearing his colors but Arianda’s color mixed with her own crimson. Kasmiri’s eyes glowed with triumph where Arianda’s twinkled with a malicious kind of satisfaction.

  Speculative murmurs burbled through the crowd. Heads turned from the spectacle in the doorway to Clathia and back again. Snatches of conversation filled his ears. They labeled Kasmiri rebellious, willful, perverted, and Arianda faired no better. People were most vicious about her age as compared to Kasmiri’s for over forty seasons separated them. Now he understood why the empress wanted Arianda dead. The woman had an unnatural relationship with her daughter.

  Head high and her whole body prepared for a confrontation, Kasmiri strode into the room, dragging Arianda with her. Where Kasmiri seemed not only ready for an altercation but welcomed it, Arianda’s bravado evaporated under the blistering glare of many condemning eyes, but with a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and entered. To the casual observer it would appear that Kasmiri was leading this charge, but Chur saw beneath what Arianda hoped to project; all her hesitancy was an act. Clearly, Arianda was pulling Kasmiri’s strings.

  Same-sex liaisons were not unheard of or strictly prohibited, but everyone in the Onic Empire knew how Clathia felt about such relationships. Chur’s understanding was clarified by Clathia’s nasty comment, that her hand was too soft as compared to the recruits, and the repulsed look on her face when she accused him of being more interested in men than women. The fact that her daughter sought out a woman rather than a man devastated Clathia and prompted her murder plot. If Kasmiri held to her preference for women, the line of empress ended with her, for Clathia had no other daughters. Power in the Onic Empire was matriarchal, from mother to daughter. If Kasmiri refused to breed, the line ended with her. A problem that weighed so heavily on Clathia she would kill to change what she couldn’t discuss away. Chur now understood Clathia’s reasons, but eliminating Ar
ianda wouldn’t solve the problem. Such a vile act would only drive a wedge between them and prompt Kasmiri to select another woman.

  After the initial shock faded away, guests returned to eating, drinking, and making a more subdued merry. Several people cast surreptitious glances to the empress, as if seeking permission to return to the unfettered joviality.

  Clathia wore serenity like a mask upon her face, but fury sparkled in her golden brown eyes. She regally descended the steps of the dais. Her even pace reminded him of a hunter with prey in its sight. As if grain parted by the wind, guests drifted aside, leaving a path from mother to daughter. Anticipation hung in the air with the last traces of perfumed fog.

  With perfect form, Clathia approached, then embraced her daughter, careful not to disturb the jeweled hat upon her head. Confusion narrowed Kasmiri’s gaze as she let go of Arianda’s hand to return the hug. For all her pretentiousness, Kasmiri was terribly young, playing an adult game well but not with as much skill as her mother. Kasmiri had anticipated a scene with screaming and recriminations, but Clathia would not fuel the mouths of the gossipmongers.

  Clathia stepped back. “How daring of you to wear such an imaginative outfit.” She smiled broadly, giving life to the lines in her tawny face, but mirth never touched her eyes. “Did you design it yourself?”

  “Arianda helped me,” Kasmiri offered churlishly, still hoping to provoke her mother’s wrath.

  Silky smooth, Clathia swiveled her head to face Arianda. “You have excellent taste. How charming of you to suggest my daughter break with boring old tradition.” Despite the jovial tone, there was no escaping the pointed jab behind her words.

  Arianda swallowed hard but lifted her truculent nose, reminding him of Enovese. “Some traditions serve no purpose but to enforce conformity.” Arianda bowed politely to the empress but under her breath added, “While others have their roots in evil.”