Cree smiled at the Amazeen, but his words were for Dorrie. “Don’t think you can keep your hands to yourself, Burkhart?”
Dorrie’s cornflower blue eyes widened. “You son-of-a-bitch!”
“There was a time you would have given yourself to me without a moment’s hesitation,” he interrupted, staring into Kahmal’s embarrassed eyes.
“That was before you tried to do it doggie-”
“Wolf.”
“What?” Dorrie sputtered.
“I’m more wolf than dog.”
Kahmal’s lips twitched and she had to look away from his amused stare.
“Get your ass over here, Dorrie. My ass belongs to Bridget and yours is safe now that I’m me again.”
Dorrie thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “Bastard,” she grumbled but despite her anger scooted to where he and the Amazeen lay. She pressed against his back, threading her left arm around under his and between his and Kahmal’s bodies. “Don’t you turn over. Do you hear me, Cree? You keep that projectile aimed toward the Amazeen’s whatsit.”
With the combined heat of the females’ bodies and his own fever, Kamerone Cree was acutely uncomfortable, made even more so when he felt the weretiger settle at his feet and put its bony head on his ankle. He sighed, knowing he would get no rest as sweat oozed down his face, under his armpits, and down his belly.
“A kamwich,” he heard Dorrie mumble.
“What?” asked Kahmal.
“What we have here is a Kam sandwich,” replied Dorrie. “A kamwich.”
“Go to sleep, Dorrie,” said the Reaper, though his eyes glowed more from humor than the fever that made them so unusually bright.
He lay awake , staring past Kahmal’s shoulder to the frost-rimed walls of the cavern. He knew he would need to wake the women and have them help find firewood. The weretiger, one giant paw on Dorrie’s hip, was straddling the Reaper’s legs, pinning him down, absorbing his warmth as the females were. Cree shifted his legs and the beast opened its eyes.
“Is there prey close by?” Cree asked though he never opened his mouth.
The creature lifted its head and peered down the dark tunnel into which it had fled when the Reaper transitioned.
“How big?”
A visual picture passed from the animal’s mind to Cree’s. Too big for the sickly animal to bring down yet large enough to feed them all: a musklope.
“Water?”
Another picture: an underground lake.
“Get off.”
The weretiger sighed deeply and rolled off the Reaper’s legs with some effort. The creature was very ill, as close to succumbing to its lack of nourishment as it had ever come in its ten years of life.
“I will hunt the ‘lope,” Cree said. “You guard the women. If trouble comes, howl for all you’re worth.”
Kahmal had opened her eyes and was staring at the Reaper’s intense profile. She knew he was communing in some fashion with the werebeast so remained quiet and still. As she studied him, she found she was deeply affected by the handsomeness of his face so close to her own; by the scent of his body odor-wholly masculine, if a bit ripe, from the receding fever. By the movement of the pulse at the side of his throat and the steady rise and fall of his broad chest as he drew breath. She was moved at the feel of his strong arms around her body and the press of his hard length against hers. She found she could draw no other thoughts save those of the man beside her.
“How are your fingers, milady?” he asked softly.
Kahmal was not a woman for pretenses and neither was she ashamed or upset that he had caught her awake and staring at him. She brought her hand up and flexed it. She frowned.
“There is feeling, but the color is still dangerously black, milord.”
“You may lose the tips of your fingers,” he warned, taking her hand and inspecting the discoloration of her flesh.
“It can be no worse than losing a teat to the blade.”
“How ‘bout your toes?” Dorrie asked, yawning.
“I don’t know,” Kahmal answered.
Cree shifted so he could sit up. Kahmal did the same and together they removed her boots.
“Your feet are fine,” he stated, rubbing the cold flesh between his palms.
Kahmal breathed a sigh of relief for when they needed to run, she did not want to slow them down.
Cree’s eyebrows slanted upward in question.
“I will do everything in my power to keep them from taking you to Rysalia, Cree,” she said.
“Why the change of heart?” asked Dorrie.
Kahmal raised her chin. “I have my reasons. You need not be privy to them.”
Cree and the Amazeen stared at one another for a long time then he took her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed her palm. “My thanks, Lady.”
She withdrew her hand, the flesh tingling from the touch of his mouth. “I owe you my life,” she told him. “Honor dictates I help preserve yours.”
The weretiger butted against Cree’s legs, reminding the Reaper of his promise to provide food. Cree stood.
“The two of you need to find as much firewood as you can. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone but you’ll need at least enough to last until morning. And move further into the cave system. I’ll find you.”
“Where are you going?” Dorrie asked, her eyes worried.
“To get food.”
Kahmal looked at the dwindling fire. “They’ll find us by the smell, Cree.” She looked to the ceiling and shook her head at the small hole that revealed a speckling of stars. “They will see the smoke.”
The Reaper cocked one shoulder to indicate his indifference. “I doubt they’ll come looking in this weather but if they do, he’ll hear them and warn you. Go deeper into the cave system.” He turned to the weretiger. “Lead them to safety then come get me. Be careful you aren’t brought down.”
The werebeast nodded its mangy head then padded weakly to the fire and lay down.
“As hungry as that creature is, don’t you think he’ll attack us once you’re gone?” Kahmal inquired.
“No,” Cree answered. “He knows I’ll provide for him. He’s old and he’s sick and-”
It happened so fast not even the werebeast had time to scramble out of the way. One moment Cree was standing, the next he was on all fours, his body transitioning so quickly he had no time to get out of his clothing. The jumpsuit split apart and fell to the ground.
“By the goddess!” Kahmal shrieked, grabbing Dorrie and pulling her to her feet.
“He won’t attack us,” Dorrie said.
The weretiger eased away from the fire, its tail once more tucked between its spindly legs. It wobbled toward the women as though seeking their protection, but it kept its eyes locked on the Reaper.
Cree threw back his head and howled and the diminishing light from the fire shone on the long fangs protruding from his gaping mouth. He shook his body from head to thick bushy tail, swung his scarlet gaze to the women and growled.
The werebeast whimpered and lay down, rolled to its back, presenting its belly to the superior male.
Dorrie flinched as Cree growled again, the sound as lethal as anything she could have ever imagined in her worst nightmares. She pressed against the Amazeen Major, no longer sure the Reaper would not pounce on them. When he took a step forward, she sucked in her breath.
Cree stilled, cocked his head to one side and studied the females. His gaze lowered to the insignificant male wallowing at their feet then shifted back to the women.
And he grinned.
In the space of a heartbeat, the Reaper turned and loped out of the cave, his bay of triumph resounding along the stone walls.
“He’s going after food,” Kahmal said, annoyed that her voice quivered as she spoke. “Food to provide for his harem.”
Dorrie released her frantic grip on the Amazeen’s arm. “Harem my wide-load ass,” she said in a voice as shaky as Kahmal’s.
The weretiger turned over and l
ooked up at the Amazeen.
“As long as that venom is coursing through his blood, this could happen again,” Kahmal remarked, ignoring the beast. “He must be starving for sustenance. Perhaps when he feeds, the parasite will be content.”
A shudder ran through Dorrie Burkhart’s slender body and she hunkered down before the dying fire, holding her hands over the low flames. She barely moved as the werebeast crawled over to her and lay down at her feet. “I’m starving, too, but there ain’t no way in hell I can eat raw meat. We’d better find that firewood before he gets back.”
“I think he’s probably right,” Kahmal said. “As long as the weather is bad, they won’t come looking for us, but when it breaks, Sejm will come after us.”
“Miserable old bitch. She killed his father and tried to kill him. If she gets the chance, she will.”
Kahmal nodded. “Then we have to make gods-be-damned sure that doesn’t happen.”
Dorrie twisted her head around and stared up at the Major. “What changed your mind?” she asked. “He killed your sister but now you want to keep him from paying for it. I don’t get it.”
Kahmal sighed heavily. “Neither do I,” she replied. “Let’s find that firewood.” She held her hand out to help Dorrie to her feet.
Dorrie echoed the Major’s sigh then gripped the other woman’s hand. “He’s a good man.”
“So it seems,” was Kahmal’s reply.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hael Sejm was as furious as she could ever remember being in her lifetime. She paced the containment cell where the Reaper had been confined and gnashed her teeth, her fingers nails forming bloody half-moons in her palms.
“There is a whiteout beyond the plateau, Dr. Sejm. To trek into that sector would be madness,” said Captain Chakai.
“So we allow him to get away?”
“No, Dr. Sejm. We will capture him and his treacherous accomplices and while we can not execute him, we will make him watch their deaths,” said the captain grated. “And I promise you the deaths will not be easy ones!”
“We don’t know they helped him,” said Lt. Melankhoia Chanz, Akkadia Kahmal’s friend.
“You know how proficient Reapers are at mental suggestions,” Ciorlia Sern put in. “He could have...”
“They helped him!” screeched Sejm at the Amazeen warrioresses. “They allowed their hormones to dictate their actions and they helped that evil monster escape!”
Sern and Chanz exchanged knowing glances but remained silent.
“As soon as the weather clears, we’ll go after them and bring all three back,” Captain Chakai said. She turned to the warrioress beside her. “Go out to the ship and scan that sector of the Vex. See if you can locate our missing trio.”
Lt. Augeania Deon saluted and left to do her commanding officer’s bidding.
Sejm was staring at the telltale blotches of fluorescent blue venom splattered on the rocks where the ghoret was killed. “He will more than likely transition several times over the next few hours,” she predicted.
“How so?” asked Chakai.
“The ghoret bite will have thrown the cycle off and he will need to feed many times and in large amounts to satisfy the parasite.”
“Then perhaps he will make his meal of the mutinous Akkadia Kahmal.”
“Such a death for her would be easier than the one I plan to give her,” said Sejm.
Melankhoia Chanz reached out furtively to touch Cirolia Sern’s arm then looked at their captain. “Sern and I spent tours of duty in Virago, Ma’am. We are accustomed to the frigid winds of that planet. Perhaps she and I could reconnoiter near the ice plains?”
Chakai thought about the suggestion for a moment then shrugged. “If you don’t mind the cold, then go.”
Cirolia Sern bit her lip, not wanting to venture into the icelands to the north. Her gaze pleaded with Chanz, but Melankhoia looked away.
“Make sure your laser pikes are fully charged and set on incineration,” ordered Sejm. “If you encounter the Reaper, take no chances. Burn him.”
“We can not do that, Doctor,” Sern told the Chalean scientist. “He has been given-”
“Do as she says,” snapped Chakai.
“But the Attribution,” Sern protested.
“He is not an Amazeen and deserves no such honor from us,” Chakia said.
Chanz took her friend’s arm and dug her nails into Sern’s flesh. “We will do as the Captain has ordered,” she stressed, her green eyes locked on Sern’s.
“But the law states...” Sern began, but Chanz slapped her, cutting off the other woman’s words.
“The Captain said we will not honor the Attribution and that will be the way of it!” Chanz snarled. “Do you question our commanding officer’s orders, Sern?”
Cirolia Sern lifted her chin. “No, I do not.”
“Then let us be about our reconnaissance of the ice fields!” Chanz said.
Walking beside her childhood friend and fellow academy graduate, Cirolia Sern was quiet as they left the comfort of the cave and ventured out onto the plateau where the heat was worse than it had been when they’d entered the underground system.
“How can it be this gods-be-damned of an inferno and yet five miles away there is a snowstorm?” asked Chanz.
“I will not kill him,” Sern said from between clenched teeth.
“That goes without saying,” Chanz replied.
Sern stopped, putting out a hand to stay her friend’s descent down the plateau’s steppes. “Then why in the name of Alluvia did you slap me?”
“You and I took an oath to uphold the tenets of the Amazeen Council of Warrioresses. We signed that oath with our own blood,” Chanz said. “The law is the law, and Attribution is a law that is among the most sacrosanct. Do you think I would overlook my honor to appease the brutal desires of Chakai and Sejm?” She narrowed her eyes at her friend. “If you do, you do not know me, Cirolia Sern!”
“Then why this charade of looking for ‘Kadia and the Reaper?” Sern asked.
“This is no charade, Cir. I hope we do find them because if we do not, when the team is able to begin a search for them in earnest, we might not be able to save ‘Kadia. You have seen what that Chalean crone is capable of doing. I would spare our friend such a hellish end.”
“If she helped him escaped...”
“She did not. A fool could see what happened back there,” Chanz snapped. “‘Kadia was knocked out and the Terran helped free him. You know how that slut feels about the Reaper! ‘Kadia went after them, but..” She paused, shielding her eyes from the glare of the desert wastelands.
“But?”
“She might well help him allude us.”
“Why would she?”
Chanz frowned. “I know Akkadia Kahmal. I saw the look in her eye when she stared at Kamerone Cree. It was not the look of a warrioress. It was the look of a woman ensnared by the charms of the forbidden.”
“And what could be more forbidden than a Reaper?”
“One that belongs, heart and soul, to another.”
What was left of the musklope’s blood dripped down Cree’s bare back and the greedy parasite inside him shifted wildly, plastering its slit mouth to the flesh of the Reaper and began sucking the dead animal’s congealing blood through the layers of skin. Cree grunted at the pain but continued wading through the thigh-high snow, the beat’s carcass slung over his shoulders. The Reaper stumbled, went down to one knee, but his strength had returned with the consuming of the musklope’s vital organs. With the parasite’s hunger sated, Cree knew there would be no other unplanned Transitions, and he was content.
Or as content as his broken heart would allow.
His thoughts were on Bridget and...oddly enough...Tylan Kahn. He doubted Kahn had been killed by the Amazeen blast, but he feared the Rysalian might have been damaged beyond repair. He hoped not, for it would be to Tylan Bridget would turn and despite the jealous savagery in his heart, he wished them well. He knew he would never se
e his mate again.
He stopped, annoyed by the tears that froze instantly to his cheeks as they fled his eyes. “Reapers do not cry!” he said, then amended it by saying: “This one does.”
Sighing deeply, he shifted the weight of the carcass then trudged on, his thoughts flitting to Troi, the A.I.U. that had been left behind to maintain the long-range cruiser that had taken them to Bridget’s world. An image of the LRC hidden behind the protection of the Terran moon flashed across Cree’s mind. There had barely been enough power to take them to Terra after the firefight over Rysalia Prime. The men on board the LRC had understood there would be no going home for them.
“And no rescue,” Cree said softly.
The love of his life, the keeper of his heart, the savioress of his soul was beyond his reach and would remain so for as long as she lived. Her days...so much shorter than his...were speeding away like a snowflake melting on a hot stone. His would stretch out with unbearable loneliness. Without her, he was no more than the beast Sejm named him.
Ducking beneath the low overhang of the cave, he was glad to be out of the cold. Despite a body temperature as high as his own, the frigid wind on the Vex had turned his naked flesh purple with mottling and he was shivering. He could smell the women, the wood smoke, the fur of the weretiger, long before his keen vision caught the first faint glimmer of light from the fire. As he entered the opening where Dorrie and the Amazeen sat hunched over the fire, he was grateful to be out of the cold.
The werebeast pushed up from the ground, salivating at the scent of the carcass. On weak legs, it trotted forward, whining.
“I saved a treat for you, old one,” said the Reaper as he bent forward and dropped the musklope. Hunkering down beside the stiffening body, he thrust his hand into the gaping hole of the animal’s belly and pulled out its liver.
“Yuck,” Dorrie said, gagging, as Cree threw the organ to the weretiger.
“He needs the iron,” the Reaper said with a chuckle.
Dorrie looked away as the werebeast gobbled the organ, the beast’s slurping sounds making her gorge rise.
DarkWind: 2nd Book, WindDemon Trilogy Page 30