Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Hunger's Harmattan

by Unknown

  “I am dying, Colonel,” the vice-counselor’s wife cut in. “I have only a few short months to live. It would comfort me greatly to know my eldest child—the goddess help me, my favorite son—is alive and well. I ache to see him just once more before I leave this world.” She took a white linen handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and blotted her upper lip. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “This doesn’t seem to me to be a matter for the Guardians,” Shanee said. “Wouldn’t it be better to turn the request over to Fleet Command? They have the resources to…”

  “We want the best,” Vice-Counselor Jost said. “The Guardians are the best. No expense is to be spared. My lady-wife and I will foot the entire bill from the leasing of an adequately prepared LRC to whatever other provisions you might need in the undertaking of your mission, Colonel.” He raised his chin. “We have the blessing of the arch-counselor himself to undertake this rescue.”

  “Rescue?” Shanee questioned. “You are suggesting the target is being held against his will on Theristes.”

  “The target—as you so blithely call him—may be my son,” the older woman sneered. “I want him home!”

  Shanee and Strom watched the wife of the vice-counselor breakdown, putting her trembling hands over her eyes and sobbing wretchedly, her loud keening sharp and painful to the ear.

  “Look what you have done!” the vice-counselor barked. “I shall report this to your superiors, General, I assure you!” He had gotten to his feet and was hovering over his wife, patting her back, speaking to her as though she were a distraught child instead of a grown woman.

  Shanee’s attention shifted to the general. Strom was frowning sharply, his jaw tense, his eyes hard as ice.

  “Come, my love,” Vice-Counselor Jost said, helping his lady-wife to her feet. “Let me take you back to our quarters so you may rest. I will deal with this in your stead.”

  “I need my boy home, Laverne,” Elspeth Harmattan-Jost whimpered. “Please bring my boy home to me.”

  “Now, now, sweeting,” the little man consoled her. “Please don’t fret. They’ll bring Ailyn home.” He turned at the door and gave Strom a fierce look. “I promise you they will bring your son home to Riezell.”

  After the vice-counselor and his sobbing wife had left his office, Miriam came over to the general’s door and eased it shut, giving her boss a pursed lip, rolling eye grimace as she did.

  “So,” Strom said, relaxing in his chair. “What do you think, Colonel?”

  “I believe the woman missed her calling,” Shanee replied. “She should have been an actress.”

  Strom smiled slightly. “You didn’t buy her tears?”

  “Those were crocodile tears, Sir,” Shanee said with a snort. “Shed to impress us with a sorrow I seriously doubt she feels toward her missing son.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Strom agreed. “My guess is she wants him home in order to gain access to the rather hefty inheritance the duke of Kentsington would receive from the Harmattan estate.” He scratched his cheek. “Since no body was ever found, the bulk of the estate reserved for the primary heir still sits in an Éilvéiseach numbered account, the password to which is known only by Ailyn Harmattan.”

  “Since she is not long for this life, she might not need or want her missing son’s money but I would lay odds the vice-counselor does and has been nudging her through this,” Shanee said.

  “Or her youngest son does,” Strom injected.

  “True.”

  “All right, here’s the deal,” the general said. “I have requisitioned an LRC for your use to Theristes. It’s about a month’s flight out there, another month back. Since you were injured in the line of duty and Command Central owes you some R&R, take it on Theristes. I won’t expect you back for at least three months.”

  Shanee’s white eyebrows shifted upward. “With or without the heir-apparent?”

  “My guess is he’s like the rest of those poor wretches who were experimented on at R-9. From what I’ve been able to gather, most of them fear what they have become and don’t want their families to know they’re still alive. I’ll bet you Ailyn Harmattan has no desire to return to this world. So—to answer your question—if he wants to return, fine. If he doesn’t, that’s okay too. We’ll leave it entirely up to him. If he wants to send the password back with you for that numbered account, that will be his decision to make. If he wants to see his mother one last time before she kicks the bucket, that’s his choice. My feeling is the man’s gone through enough as it is. He doesn’t need to be put through the wringer with that barracuda of a mother cracking the whip over his head.” He unfolded his tall length from the chair and stood.

  “When do I leave?” Shanee asked as she got to her feet.

  “Do you have anything on the burner that needs turning off?” he asked.

  “I’ve no living pets, no plants and no pals to wonder where I’ve gone. My twin babies are powered down and can stay so indefinitely until I return. I can leave as soon as I pack a bag,” she said, making reference to her two Class 10 titanium construct cybots that were her pride and joy.

  “That’s the way to travel,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Good luck, Colonel, and enjoy your stay in paradise.”

  Chapter Two

  Coming off Transition had to be worse than going into it, the Reaper thought as he hunkered down at the stream and looked at his naked reflection in the water. Why he’d felt the need to shift and run about the forest like one of its natural denizens, he couldn’t explain. But now and again he would do so out of cycle just to feel the rush of the wind through his fur, the freedom of movement, the power. Staring at himself, he supposed one reason was because he had some control over the Transition at such times whereas with his regular cycle, he did not. What irritated him more than that lack of control was the fact that no matter how close to his cycle he was when he forced himself to shift, he’d shift again when his system said he should. Two months, two weeks, two days—it didn’t matter. His normal cycle would come whether he wanted it to or not. The only thing that could completely throw it off—or so Tariq once told him—was illness or a serious injury.

  “Either way, my fucking hair will continue to sprout like a weed!” he grumbled.

  His hair hadn’t been cut since he’d arrived on Theristes and now hung halfway down his back. Each time he reverted back to human form from the wolflike creature he had been turned into, it was his hair that annoyed him the most. It was wild—frizzing around his head with matted tangles clinging to its long tendrils.

  “You need to cut the gods-be-damned shit,” he mumbled to his wavering image in the water.

  Snarling, he ducked his head beneath the water to soak his hair then straightened up, flinging the thick, wet mass over his head, spraying water droplets in an arc above and behind him as it fell heavily to slap against his bare back. Wincing at the feel, he tugged it over his right shoulder, sat down cross-legged on the stream bank and began combing his fingers through the tangles then making quick work of braiding it.

  For the longest time he just sat there. His body twitched—needing the tenerse that would calm it and the Sustenance that would ease his hunger. He longed to dive into the stream but there was still the residual fear that he’d drown and the nagging prickle of pain in his back from the hellion who dared him to test Tariq’s words.

  “You won’t drown, men,” the Prime Reaper had patiently explained. “It was a lie told to you by the scientists on Riezell-Nine. Let me show you.”

  Despite watching Tariq jackknife down the three-hundred-foot-high waterfall beside the Reaper village and—with sure strokes—glide over the bubbling waters of Lake Briza, few men rescued from R-9 had dared to venture into the water. Those who did practically lived in the lake, spending much of their time crisscrossing the silver surface and striving to bring back the many years they’d lost in the cages on Cell Block Four.

  “Reapers love water,” Tariq had insisted. “Try it and see!”
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br />   As yet, he had not dredged up the courage to investigate Tariq’s claims but the water beckoned to him with its coolness and beauty. As a child, he had lived on his grandfather’s estate and every summer day would find him out on the diving platform in the middle of Lake Taku, nearly half a mile from shore. There wasn’t a single foot of the lake’s bottom he had not explored, holding his breath longer than any of his friends as he shot beneath the rippling waves.

  “You are our water baby,” his grandmother had joked.

  At Fleet Academy he had been the captain of the swim team and had won every medal offered many times over. His senior year he had represented his country in the Coalition of Federated Worlds Universal Games held in Bhreatain and had come away with fourteen gold medals—the most any swimmer had ever won.

  Now, he thought as he sat looking at his rippling reflection, all he could do was stare hungrily at the water, trying day by day to find the courage needed to dive into the water.

  A sharp, agonizing pain stabbed into his right kidney and he bent forward over it.

  “Leave me alone. I’m not going to jump in,” he whispered to his queen. Her jagged bite pierced him once more then faded away.

  He heard the ship before he saw it. It was a low drone that shook the ground beneath his bare rump and when he looked up at the sleek silver belly of the Class 7 LRC as it sailed past overhead, he felt strong vibrations coming from it that made his testicles tighten.

  Getting to his feet, he watched the ship, tracked it with his amber gaze, until it disappeared momentarily behind the tall canopy of the trees. With his eyes trained on the high summit of Mount Korak, the LRC came back into view and soared over what the inhabitants of Theristes called the Wings of the Raven—the two-mountain range that had formed in the shape of a giant flying bird, its wings arched gracefully from a tall central peak that resembled a bird’s beak in profile. The striations down the two mountains caused by the winds looked like feathers carved in rock.

  As the long-range cruiser glided down behind Mount Korak, the Reaper stood there for a moment longer. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest. He knew whoever was on that ship had come to Theristes for him. His fate awaited there. For good or bad, his knew his life was about to be disrupted still again.

  * * * * *

  Shanee was stunned at the beauty of the people gathering on the grassy veldt to welcome them to Theristes. Not a stitch of clothing in sight, these gorgeous humanoids seemed unconcerned with their nakedness and genuinely pleased they had visitors. They were smiling, waving—long limbs gleaming in the sun, lush breasts jiggling, heavy genitals bobbing…

  “Stop!” Shanee ordered her imagination as she stared in openmouthed wonder at the tall man who had stepped forward to greet them.

  “That is Tariq,” the captain of the LRC Midian told her. “He is the Prime Reaper, the leader of his people.” He lowered his voice. “And a captive on R-9 for…”

  “Over fifty years,” Shanee said. She’d done her homework and she knew all about the man the Alliance scientists had called the djinn. She also knew the statuesque white-haired beauty at his side was his lady-wife Bahiya.

  It was Bahiya who held Shanee’s attention. Though she’d seen other women with white hair like her own, those women had been well past their prime, into their golden years. Never had she seen another of her thirty-odd years with such hair. And the Reaper’s woman was tall and lithe and perfectly proportioned. Standing beside her husband, they were the most beautiful people Shanee had ever seen. Not even Rory Quinn could hold a candle to Tariq. The Reaper was prime indeed.

  Shanee saw the Prime Reaper grin and his gaze met hers. She blushed—knowing he had intercepted her wayward thought. Her face felt as though she had opened the door to a fiery furnace and stuck her head inside.

  “Welcome, Captain Bartlett,” Tariq said, coming toward them with his hand out. As he grasped the captain’s forearm in a strong grip, his eyes slid playfully to Shanee. “And a most gracious welcome to you, Lieutenant Colonel Iphito.”

  As soon as his hand gripped her arm, Shanee could feel the strength of power that ran through this man. He was intensely sensual with his handsome features and all-seeing eyes, but it was the undercurrent of authority that passed from his body to hers. She knew this man would make a formidable opponent.

  “There is no conflict here, Colonel,” Tariq said. “You and I will become good friends.”

  Shanee blinked. “You believe so?” she asked, casting a quick look to the stunning woman at the Prime Reaper’s side.

  “I know so,” he said. “Your fate lies here on Theristes.” He looked down at his wife. “Doesn’t it, beloved?”

  Bahiya nodded. “It does.” She stepped forward and stunned Shanee by embracing her as a sister or mother would. “Welcome, sister.”

  Shanee had never been hugged by anyone except in a moment of careless passion. Her own ken did not behave in such a fashion and it embarrassed her for a moment before she realized that the friendship offered by Bahiya and her mate was genuine and extended without expectation of anything but its return in kind.

  “You have come to speak to Ailyn,” Tariq said.

  Once more Shanee was taken aback. She hadn’t known word had been sent to Theristes in preparation for her arrival.

  “Reapers know these things, Shanee,” Tariq declared then lifted an eyebrow. “May I call you by your given name?”

  “Aye,” Shanee said, lost in the golden sparkles flashing in his kind eyes.

  “I am Tariq and this is Bahiya, as you know, and these are our people.”

  Shanee nodded to the beautiful crowd who was gathered around them.

  “So he is here?” she asked to hide her embarrassment for her recalcitrant glance had dipped to Tariq’s very well-endowed package.

  “He is and he knows you have come to see him. His abode is beyond Mount Korak and the way is perilous after nightfall. I suggest you stay here for the remainder of the day, meet our people and eat with us. Tomorrow I will have someone lead you to Ailyn.”

  She turned to the yeoman who had accompanied her from the ship. “Tell the captain to let General Strom know Lieutenant Harmattan is here and that I will be speaking to him tomorrow.”

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am,” the yeoman said. He turned to head back to the ship.

  “You will be spending time with us, Shanee?” Tariq asked. “A month of rest?”

  “Aye,” she said, staring into his eyes.

  “You will call to that man and tell him to bid the captain return in one month’s time. Tell him you will send a report on Ailyn then.”

  Shanee found herself nodding, agreeing with Tariq, intrigued by the golden glints in his amber eyes, and did as he said. His voice was soothing, mellow, sensual, and what he said made perfect sense. There was no disagreeing with his words. It would only be later as she lay upon the soft mattress in his and Bahiya’s hut that she would realize he had been using subliminals on her as easily as taking a breath. By then it was too late for the LRC had left and she realized with shock that she was stranded on Theristes without a vid-com link.

  “How did you do that?” she snapped at Tariq. “You made me forget about all contact with my superiors and…”

  “All Reapers know how to do these things, Shanee,” he told her that next morning.

  Be careful when you meet Ailyn Harmattan then, she warned herself as she trekked through the jungle behind her guide, a very shy and gangly youth named Barat. Out of consideration for her, Tariq had bid the young man to clothe himself and it was evident with every step he took that Barat was chafing under the fabric he was unaccustomed to wearing. He was carrying her compact travel bag and for that she was very grateful.

  The jungle was lush and green and smelled—not of fecund earth—but of exotic flowers and fresh spring waters. Extraordinary birds of every hue under the rainbow flitted through the overhanging branches of the tallest trees Shanee had ever seen. Unusual animals swung from vine to vine or l
eapt from branch to branch, keeping pace with the two humans walking through this striking domain. Strange sounds wafted through the air—some comical, some unsettling.

  “How much farther?” she asked.

  “Less than one hour,” Barat replied.

  They were skirting a meandering stream into which a fan-shaped waterfall cascaded. Large white flowers grew in lush abundance on the banks of the stream and lent a heavenly scent to the already sweet, intoxicating air. Thick grass covered the banks and with the rippling of the stream over sparkling boulders in the water, it was a serene place, an astonishing little piece of heaven set down in the midst of the jungle.

  Shanee was not used to the intense heat and humidity. No wonder the people of Theristes preferred to go “sky clad” as Bahiya called it. Already perspiring heavily in this tropical climate, she armed the sweat from her forehead and stopped long enough to take out her bottle of water. Tipping it up, she drank deeply.

  “I will take it from here, Barat.”

  It was not the softness of the voice speaking but the sultry quality of it that washed through Shanee as though the water she was consuming were iced and not tepid. She slowly lowered the bottle and turned her head to take in the speaker.

  Rory Quinn had not been Shanee’s first man nor had he been her last when their brief interlude ended. She had lain with enough males, enjoyed her romps with them, but not even Quinn had ever made her womb clench and her juices flow as did the man who had suddenly appeared there in the jungle.

  Handsome did not adequately describe the tall, muscular male who wore only an abbreviated breechclout over his hips. His long legs—like the rest of his spectacular body—were deeply tanned and so perfectly formed his creation had to be at the hands of the goddess Herself. Gleaming black hair in the form of a thick braid lay over his shoulder but tendrils had escaped the careless plaiting to curl gently around his face. Eyes the color of topaz gems were framed behind long, sooty eyelashes and sexily arched thick brows. His lips were full, perfectly shaped, and his nose was in perfect proportion and size for his face. With high cheekbones, a deep cleft in his chin and—by the goddess!—dimples when he smiled, he was a living, breathing god himself come to earth.