The Beasts of Barakhai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Quinton dismissed the comment with a wave. She descended a step and offered her hand. “Come on, you goof. You’re royalty.”

  “I am?” Collins accepted Quinton’s smooth, soft hand.

  “For all intents and purposes.” Quinton started back upward, Collins now walking at her side. He studied her in the light of the bracketed torches, scarcely daring to believe a woman so beautiful would allow him to keep her hand so long. Too much protestation would raise suspicions, and it did not seem so dangerous to enter the warded areas with only Carrie Quinton. “You’ve heard ‘it’s good to be the king?’ Well, it’s even better to be the king’s adviser. Same good food, same comforts, same deferences—none of the responsibilities. They don’t even expect you to be right all that often.”

  They reached the next landing and continued upward. Collins digested the explanation. “But don’t you miss chocolate?” His own craving for something sweet tainted the question.

  “They have chocolate.”

  “They do?”

  “The royals do. I’ll get you some.”

  Nearly distracted from his point, Collins continued as they walked. “What about fast food?”

  Quinton turned him a searching look. “You mean lumps of grease doused in ketchup?”

  Collins felt his cheeks grow warm. “Well, yeah. Stuff like that.”

  “No.” Quinton winked. “But I can get the cook to fry you up some salted lard and slap it between two hunks of white bread.” She clapped her free hand down on their joined grip to simulate a sandwich. “Primitive Whopper.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Seriously, most of the fun of fast food is speed and not having to cook it yourself. Here, I don’t ever have to cook again, or I can if I want to. I get what I want when I want it. And I still get things ‘my way’ if I request them.”

  They paused on the next landing, and Collins noticed that the stairs continued upward for at least two more stories. Thinking back, the extension had been there the last time Quinton and King Terrin had brought him here, but he had not thought to question. He could not recall Zylas’ explanation; their lessons on the layout of the castle seemed like a year ago, and he had taken more than one blow to the head since then.

  Hand on the door latch, Quinton waited. “You’re not expecting to sleep on the roof, are you?”

  Torn from his scrutiny, Collins glanced at Quinton. “What?”

  “Next stop’s the roof ramparts, for the lookout guards. Then the top of the tower.”

  Now, Collins remembered discussing the fact that some guards might climb the stairs past the royal areas to access their positions. Zylas had even mentioned the steps ending in a trapdoor that led to the top of one tower. “Oh.” Duh.

  Quinton tripped the latch and pushed the door open to reveal a large bedroom. Tapestries hung from every wall. The first depicted a forest, with deer grazing placidly among a vast variety of trees, birds and squirrels cavorting in the branches, a rabbit peering timidly around a weathered oak. Another showed a pasture full of a mixed herd of animals. Horses raced regally through the background, a cow lumbering behind them. Sheep and goats filled most of the foreground. The third wall contained a picture of a young boy herding a flock of geese, ducks, and chickens. The last held a portrait of a ginger tabby cat stretched luxuriously on a canopied bed. A real bed, looking very much like the one in the picture, took up most of the middle of the room. Tied back with golden tassels, emerald-colored curtains surrounded a mattress clotted with woolen blankets. A blue ceiling harbored a realistic arrangement of painted stars. A beautifully carved wardrobe and a matching wooden chest completed the furnishings.

  While Collins admired the bedroom, Quinton borrowed a torch from the stairwell to light the ones on either side of the room. She replaced the torch, closed the door, and sat on the bed. Shoving aside the bunched blankets, she patted a spot next to her. “Welcome to my room.”

  Collins approached. “It’s wonderful.” Wanting to remind her of their similar backgrounds, and his own sense of observation, he said, “I particularly like the night sky. I see Orion, so it must be fall.”

  “Yup.”

  Collins continued to stare. “You know, the pattern’s a bit different here. How’d you get it so close to ours?”

  “Kept making the artist do it till he got it right.” Quinton pushed the covers to the floor and tapped the mattress again. “Went from memory, but I know it’s not exactly right.”

  Only an amateur astronomer himself, Collins could not tell her how to fix it. He walked to the bed, not certain what Quinton wanted from him.

  Quinton stood, gently straightened Collins’ collar, then pressed her lips against his. Her large breasts conformed to his chest, and he thought he could feel the nipples against him. Instantly excited, he returned the kiss, thrusting his tongue between her lips. She wants me. Oh, my God, this beautiful woman wants me.

  Quinton arched her body against Collins’ and whispered in his ear. “I want you.” Her warm breath stirred something so primal, he groaned. His legs felt rubbery, unable to hold his weight.

  Together, they sank onto her bed.

  Chapter 20

  Benton Collins lay flopped across Carrie Quinton’s bed, basking in the afterglow and the wonder of the whole situation. A smart, beautiful woman wanted me. He stared around the canopy at the painted stars ignited by the faint light the torches provided. Hours ago, he would never have believed such a thing could happen. Now, the whole world seemed to have changed.

  Quinton made a sound of contentment, which sent a wave of joy thrilling through Collins. He could count the number of times he had made love, now no longer on just one hand; but he still considered himself inexperienced. He had done his best with Quinton, holding out as long as he could, but the whole session had still lasted less than fifteen minutes. It delighted him to think he had satisfied her, too.

  A trickle of guilt disrupted his joy, its source uncertain. Marlys remained far from his thoughts. He had assumed their relationship was over before he had even come to Barakhai. The fact that they had not officially broken up had to do only with his inability to contact her. The true wonder was that the relationship had lasted as long as it did. Once he realized that Marlys had nothing to do with the sensation pressing against his conscience, he puzzled over it. Some frail corner of his mind told him he had found his soul mate, and it was not Carrie Quinton.

  The thought seemed madness. He and Quinton had everything in common: background, interests, sexual attraction. It seemed almost as if the world had conspired to bring them together.

  Quinton sat up, reaching for her clothes. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Collins studied her, the torchlight just right to capture proper details and hide the flaws. Her face held a natural radiance that required no cosmetics. The curls, disheveled from their lovemaking, looked even more attractive tousled. Pale as blue-tinted pearls, her eyes remained striking. Her large breasts, perky with youth, still excited him, even with his manhood freshly spent. Even the antiquated phrasing of her question did not seem strange or nerdish. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  Quinton pulled on her dresslike undergarments, then the actual dress, smoothing the skirting around her hips and thighs. “I’m intelligent, too.”

  Collins swallowed, afraid he had just made a fatal mistake. “Well, of course. But that goes without saying.” Uncertain whether he had rescued himself yet, he added, “Ol’ D-Mark insists on the brightest.”

  “Including you?”

  Choosing humor over modesty, Collins simply said. “Well, of course.” Then, finding a way to use both, he added, “Though he couldn’t be quite as picky after you disappeared. Everyone thought he’d driven you to run.”

  “So that’s what happened.” Quinton laughed. “At least no one’s worried about me.” She pulled on the gold chain with the dragon stone.

  Collins’ gaze latched onto the crystal, and sudden shame slapped him. He had allowed a tryst to di
stract him from his mission. “I’d venture to guess your mother’s worried.”

  Quinton’s lips pursed tightly. “I don’t have a mother.”

  The words seemed nonsensical. “Everyone has a mother.” Collins reached for his own clothing.

  Quinton grunted. “Squeezing a child out the birth canal doesn’t make a woman a mother.”

  Collins pulled on his loose-fitting trousers and tied them without bothering to look at his hands. “My biology training says you’re wrong.”

  “Well my sixteen years in seven foster homes trumps your biology training.”

  All humor disappeared. “Oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t know.” Properly chastised, Collins reached for his tunic. “I’m sorry.”

  “For the first two years of my life, the woman who claimed to be my mother left me crying in a crib for hours while she went out and partied.” A shadow fell over Quinton’s face. “They gave her four years to straighten out her life enough to get me back. Four years. An eternity for a kid. By the time they realized she wouldn’t, I was too old for an adoptive family. In those days, they only wanted babies.”

  “I’m sorry,” Collins repeated, wishing he had never raised the subject. It clearly hurt her. “You’ve done amazingly well on your own, given the circumstances you came from.” Suddenly, his own problems did not seem significant at all.

  “I realized she was rotten by the time I was three, but it took an army of social workers four years to figure out the same thing.” Quinton finger-combed her tangled locks. “That convinced me I was smart. I always knew I’d make it through college, though without scholarships, jobs, loans, and lab assistanceships, I’d never have made it.”

  “You’re incredible,” Collins said as he put on his glasses, meaning it. “Resourceful, determined, intelligent, and beautiful.” He smiled. “And damned good in bed.”

  Quinton winced. “I don’t know why I told you that. Since I got off on my own at eighteen, I’ve never told anyone.”

  Her confession made Collins feel even closer than their lovemaking had. “I have a confession to make, too.”

  Quinton turned him a look of innocent questioning. “What?”

  “I can get us home.”

  “You can?” Quinton’s tone sounded guarded, not the pure excitement Collins expected.

  Nevertheless, he continued. “All I need is the crystal.” He reached out a finger and stroked the smooth stone around her neck.

  Quinton did not flinch. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand?” Collins’ voice gained all the excitement Quinton’s lacked. “With the crystal, I can get us back to our own world.”

  Quinton shook her head slightly. “Ben, this is my world.”

  “This . . . ?” Collins’ grin vanished. “This—don’t be ridiculous. I can get us home. To Earth.” Doubting they had actually left the planet, he amended, “Back to civilization.”

  Quinton clenched her hands in her lap.

  Collins studied her in silence for several moments.

  Quinton stared at her intertwined hands. “I don’t want to leave”

  “But, Carrie—”

  “I feel more at home here than I ever did there.” Collins wanted to say something, anything, to rouse Quinton. The idea that she would like Barakhai better than home had never occurred to him. “What if you got appendicitis?”

  Carrie pointed to her right hip. “Appendectomy. Age nine.”

  “All right. Needed your tonsils out.”

  Quinton’s hand went to her throat. “Tonsillectomy. Age six.”

  Frustrated, Collins tried something that could happen more than once. “What if you broke your leg?”

  Finally, Quinton looked directly at Collins. “They do have healers here, you know. They handle broken bones all the time.”

  Collins huffed out a sigh. “Do they handle cancer?”

  “No,” Quinton admitted. “But I’d rather take my chances raising the dragons until they can heal me than getting poisoned with chemotherapy and radiation.”

  The dragons. Collins had almost forgotten them. Once the king’s adviser/geneticist raised and trained them, King Terrin might as well be invincible.

  “Carrie, please. I do want to go home. Can’t you just let me have the stone for me?”

  The pallid eyes narrowed to slits, then she dropped her head wearily. “Ben, I have another confession.”

  Collins fell silent, not certain he wanted to hear it.

  Quinton’s fingers twined like snakes in her lap. “When I first brought you up here, I just wanted to get some information out of you.”

  Collins closed his eyes, dreading the rest.

  “But I found myself really attracted to you. Then, one thing led to another, and I never did ask any questions and . . .” She broke off suddenly. “Please look at me.”

  Liking the turn her admission seemed to be taking, Collins obeyed.

  “I want you to stay,” Quinton said with raw sincerity. “King Terrin wants you to stay and advise him. You’d have a life of luxury, the life of a prince.”

  Collins shook his head. “I—”

  Quinton seized his hand. “I do want you to stay, too. I want to sleep with you every night. I want to bear your babies. I want to be . . . a real mother.”

  My babies. This was too much for twenty-three-year-old Benton Collins. From one session of sex to this? Terror ground through him, and the urge to put some physical distance between them became nearly unbearable. He suspected her swift bond with him had something to do with those she’d lacked as a child, yet the understanding did him little good. He found himself hyperventilating. He needed air. Too much too fast. Worried about upsetting her, he reached for the crystal again. “Please, Carrie. Just let me have the stone. I’ll only go to settle some things. To gather some comforts. Then I’ll come back.”

  Water glazed Quinton’s blue-white eyes.

  “I will. I promise.” The words came out without conscious thought. Collins could not even convince himself he would keep that vow. Spitting on his hand and sugar on top would not work for Carrie Quinton.

  She spoke softly, her voice strained and hesitant. “Once we’ve established a life here. A baby. Things I know you won’t abandon. Then, then, you can go back.”

  “Carrie.” Collins cupped the crystal in one hand. “I can’t wait that long.”

  Quinton jerked backward, then hissed in pain. Clearly the gold chain cut into the back of her neck.

  Now that he had a hold on it, Collins closed his hand, unable to let go. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just let me have it.”

  “No,” Carrie said, then shouted. “No! Help! Help! I need help!”

  Collins knew he had to escape and fast, but he would not leave without the crystal. He wrapped both hands around it and pulled.

  Carrie screamed.

  The door that led to the other chambers burst open. Three men with swords charged into the room, directly at Collins.

  “Shit!” Collins gave one last desperate heave that snapped the links. Momentum hurled him to the floor, the stone clamped in his hands, the broken ends of the chain whipping his fingers. His buttocks struck stone, and agony howled through his spine. Blood splashed his face, and Carrie shrieked again.

  Two swords jabbed toward Collins. He recognized their wielders as men who’d been seated at the head table on his first visit to the dining hall. Now, he noticed only that they looked well-muscled and competent with their weapons.

  Collins scuttled into retreat as the blades jabbed forward. His back jarred suddenly against cold stone, and he scrambled to a stand, smacking his head on something affixed to the wall. A wash of black-and-white spots swam down on him, stealing his vision. He bulled through it, only to find himself pinned to the wall by two swords at his chest.

  “Be still,” said a silk-clad blond who could have been, and probably was, the king’s brother. “We don’t want to kill you.”

  Mena
ced by swords, Collins was not sure he believed the man. The one beside him remained quiet. He stood half a head taller, skin and hair a shade darker than his companion’s. He wore a beard while the other was clean-shaven, and his hairline was receding.

  Collins tightened his hold on the crystal. He had come too far to give it up now, yet he saw no way out of this situation. His only advantage came if he believed Carrie Quinton’s claim that the king wanted him alive. He glanced at the geneticist, who returned his look with hate-filled eyes. Her hands clutched at the back of her neck. It surprised Collins to find himself thinking clearly in a life-or-death situation after his utter panic at the gallows. If nothing else had come out of his trip to Barakhai, he had gained composure. Fat lot of good that’ll do me dead.

  Sweat dripped down Collins’ forehead, out of proportion to the rest of his body. His scalp felt uncomfortably hot. “Carrie and I were just—” He flushed, finishing lamely. “—talking and . . . and . . . stuff.” Stuff. The new popular euphemism for sex. Abruptly, Collins realized what he must have crashed against that now heated his head. Torch bracket. He needed a distraction. “Tell ’em, Carrie.”

  “He stole my necklace,” Quinton hissed. “A traitor.”

  The men’s heads swiveled toward her. Seizing the moment, Collins lunged for the torch with his free hand. The bracket tore a line of skin from his thumb, sending pain howling through his hand, but he managed to complete the movement. His fingers wrapped around the warmed wood, and he swung wildly for his captors.

  The two men leaped backward, sparing themselves a burning but opening the way for Collins’ escape. The fire flickered dangerously low, then steadied. Collins raced for the door to the stairwell.

  “Guards! Guards!” the shorter man shouted.

  Collins jerked the panel open, only to find the way down blocked by a seething mass of warriors. “Shit!” Clearly, the king had anticipated that Collins’ allegiances might have shifted. Quinton had known from the start that she had formidable backup. “Shit!” he repeated, louder. He needed a distraction, anything to delay the mob below him. “Storm!” he shrieked the code word to any rebel in earshot. “Storm! Storm!”