Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

“What happened?”

  “We couldn’t get anybody else at that late date, of course.” Her stomach twisted like a washrag, remembering all the people who’d been laid off and dreams scattered like dust in a rehearsal hall. “We threw a private party much later when his new darling died.”

  “Chaos spawn.” When Alekhsiy spoke again, his voice was calmer and louder. “Is that Larissa who is signaling from ahead of us?”

  Danae glanced up and waved frantically back at her friend.

  The room was a typical, albeit very large, hotel meeting room, decorated in gold with a spectacular carpet. Most of the panelists were seated at the head table atop a dais. The moderator, a famous female science fiction author, was pacing across the front, narrowly watching the aisles.

  “Third row, Larissa?” Danae asked, kicking her Torhtremer backpack out of sight under her chair. Larissa was on her right, with Nora, then Colin beyond that. All of the panelists could clearly seen anybody in these seats, especially with the lights this bright.

  “Sorry! I know you don’t like to be filmed but Nora bribed Colin to save us seats. It’s Jacobsen’s first panel here and he might have some stills or footage from the new movie.”

  “Jacobsen?” Alekhsiy queried, solid as a rock on Danae’s other side, beside the aisle. Good, she’d finally be able to just sit and enjoy his delicious masculinity in public. All solid, muscular shoulders, massive arms, deep chest breathing steadily, and strong legs.

  “Peter Jacobsen, the movie producer from New Zealand. He and his wife wrote all the scripts,” Larissa answered.

  “And co-produced,” added Nora, between gulps of water.

  “Corinne Carson coauthored the first one and has story credits for the second,” Danae corrected and snuck another look at Alekhsiy’s hands. Those beautiful, long-fingered hands clearly visible under the bright lights. How could they have so many calluses and still be so graceful?

  “Oh, that’s right. Of course, you’re the fanfic author; you’re always careful about giving credit.”

  Danae bit back a grimace. Crap, she never talked about that in public. Fandom was the one place where she was just Danae Livingston, not any kind of celebrity.

  “Dammit, Larissa!” Nora muttered.

  Turner swept down the aisle next to them, followed by a pair of bodyguards. The moderator stilled, but quickly pasted a plastic smile on her face.

  “What?” asked Larissa absently, her attention completely focused on the billionaire who’d made his first fortune selling fast access to celebrity gossip from around the world.

  “Hush.” Nora squeezed her hand.

  Larissa’s head swung around. “Not until you tell me . . .” she demanded, her voice rising.

  Turner stepped onto the dais without pausing to acknowledge the moderator.

  “Oh crap, it’s about Danae the author, isn’t it?” Larissa gasped in an all-too-carrying stage whisper. People across the aisle and two rows down turned to listen.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Nora hissed. She spiraled a fingernail deep into Larissa’s wrist, her usual brutally direct technique for dealing with her friend’s loose tongue.

  Larissa whimpered under her breath and fell blessedly quiet.

  Turner’s cold gaze swept over the hall, assessing then dismissing its inhabitants. His eyes lingered on Danae a little too long.

  She stared straight ahead, maintaining a serenely impersonal expression of reluctant attention. She’d used the same attitude while a thousand auditions dismembered her.

  Alekhsiy linked his arm with hers, silently offering her his strength.

  She threaded her fingers into his and managed a more genuine smile. After all, she had much more exciting activities to look forward to, thanks to him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll get started now with Torhtremer’s first panel discussion,” the moderator called cheerily. The excellent sound system made her words crystal clear, while both video and still photographers shadowed the proceedings. The entire room was brilliantly lit, showing that almost every seat was occupied, with more people standing along the sides. It was a gaudy space, designed to hold fancy parties, and many of its inhabitants’ costumes lived up to that invitation. But most simply wore everyday jeans and T-shirts for comfort, especially given such an extremely hot Atlanta July.

  The audience eagerly fell silent, watching the graying woman with the rapt attention others would pay the latest alt-rock band.

  “I’m H. S. McCain, author of twenty published novels and fourteen short stories, for which I’ve won a few awards.”

  Somebody cheered and she flashed him a grin, briefly looking decades younger.

  “But today, I’m here strictly as a fan. I read The Leopard and The Lily when it first came out, plus all of the sequels. I’ve seen every one of the movies at least four times.”

  “For which my accountant says thank you very much,” came a Kiwi-accented voice over the PA system.

  She snapped off a quasi-military salute, which triggered a few laughs.

  “Our topic today is ‘Who Needs Torhtremer’s Seventh Book, Anyway?’ Given that Azherbhai was defeated at Tajzyk’s Gorge to end The Raven and The Rose, what plot remains to be told? Since Corinne Carson tragically died in a fire, who could possibly complete her unique vision?”

  She paused dramatically but the audience didn’t answer.

  “We have brought together four panelists who know more about the Torhtremer canon than anybody else. I’d like each one to introduce themself and give a brief answer to whether they think we need the seventh Torhtremer book. After that, we’ll take questions, which I can see you’re already lining up to ask. Peter?”

  A strong masculine hand captured the mike.

  “Hi, I’m Peter Jacobsen, the token movie producer.” He waggled his free hand and the crowd waved back happily.

  He was ex-army—some said ex-SAS—and was still addicted to military-style workouts and marathon running. He was also a devoted family man and science fiction fanatic, with a knack for making money. His five Torhtremer movies had only solidified that reputation, gained from his previous military-style action adventures.

  “I was lucky enough to have Corinne Carson give me a story outline of the first six books—but not the seventh. I don’t know anything more about it than you do.”

  A mass groan went up from the crowd.

  Alekhsiy sighed softly beside her and Danae looked at him sharply. His expression was immovably polite, though, and she snuggled back against his wonderfully comfortable shoulder.

  “I assume everybody here has read the book and thinks they know all about that final battle, where Azherbhai, the Imperial Terrapin, and the Dark Warrior are defeated. Well, Ms. Carson gave us a few extra details for you.” He smirked. “You’ll have a small taste tomorrow night.”

  The crowd’s roar was quickly contained.

  “Other than that, I can only say that if there was a seventh book, I’d buy it in a minute. I, too, want to read it and, legally, I alone have the right to make any movie from it. That’s all.”

  He passed the mike during a loud round of applause.

  “Hi, I’m T. Sanderson and I write fanfic, some of which is about Torhtremer. I also just had my first novel published, which I’ll be signing tomorrow.” The youngest panelist grinned and double-checked the microphone again. Too many authors shouldn’t be allowed out in public but his day job was something to do with selling insurance. It had at least given him fairly flexible hours and regular people contact, so he could manage coherent sentences in front of a crowd. Unfortunately, it had also made his pudgy features into the face of fanfic for far too many people.

  “A lot of you seem to think that the Torhtremer novels are mostly romance.”

  Larissa bristled. Danae gaped at the cocky newcomer.

  “But they’re really military sci-fi, with all those battles and so on. I’ve had a ton of positive feedback, writing fanfic like that.”

  “Truly?” muttered Ale
khsiy. “Have you read any of them, Danae?”

  She elbowed him in mock dudgeon.

  “The sixth book ended with King Mykhayl not having a queen, just those hundred concubines. Well, I say nobody needs the seventh book. He can have a great time with all those women and fighting the occasional bad guy, now that he’s kicked Azherbhai’s butt.”

  He glanced around at his stupefied audience and snickered.

  The next speaker clicked on the high table’s second mike, causing everyone present to automatically sit up straight.

  “Hello, I’m Xenia Murphy, author of The Torhtremer Lexicon .” The five-foot-three, café-au-lait-skinned and magnolia-voiced terror of Torhtremer fandom was the Savannah librarian who’d helped Corinne Carson perform the original research. She’d later become her full-time research assistant and been left a very nice legacy in her will. What she didn’t know about Torhtremer wasn’t worth writing down. She’d spent time on the movie sets after Ms. Carson’s tragic death, helping the entire cast and crew get it right. And if she thought anybody anywhere was trying to stray from Ms. Carson’s intentions, she’d take them apart in a heartbeat.

  Her great gift to fandom was The Torhtremer Lexicon, first an official website and later a published book, which contained information from both the books and the movies.

  “Miss Xenia,” the cowed audience murmured, addressing her by her handle.

  “I’d like to remind y’all of the basic magic in Torhtremer.” She gathered them with a glare, not sparing her fellow panelists. Alekhsiy was absolutely still beside Danae.

  “Azherbhai is an imperial beast, just like Khyber, the Imperial Dragon. As we all know, it takes three things to summon them into being so they can fight: their unique magical weapon, the words of power, and most important, their catalyst or avatar.”

  “So what?” a man shouted from the back.

  “The sixth book ends with Azherbhai, the Imperial Terrapin, still in possession of all three. He has the spear and his great ally, the Dark Warrior, who knows the words to summon him into battle. Together, the two of them can do battle at any time against Mykhayl and the forces of Torhtremer.”

  She glanced around the now quiet room and raised a superior eyebrow.

  “Azherbhai may have lost a few monsters but they’re nothing he can’t replace, given time. The series, my friends, is incomplete—until the Dark Warrior is dead.”

  She clicked off the mike, having won yet another argument.

  “Mr. Turner?” prompted H. S. McCain.

  He captured the mike with the speed and swiftness of a striking cottonmouth, surprising for somebody who must be used to higher-tech audiovisual equipment and minions to assist him.

  “I’m Boris Turner, proprietor of the Dark Warrior’s Iceberg, the web’s home for Hollywood and fiction’s greatest villains. I’d like to offer a different viewpoint from that of my esteemed colleagues—Azherbhai, the Imperial Terrapin, as the great underdog.”

  “What?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “What kind of stupid idea is that?”

  “Please hear me out.” Turner remained unruffled and much more polite than Danae had ever seen him before at a Con.

  The audience muttered unhappily but settled down.

  “We are familiar with Corinne Carson’s biography, of her difficult childhood and traumatic marriage. Of how she only got the first Torhtremer novel published with her beloved sister’s help. She was an underdog, who sympathized with our kind.”

  The third-richest man in the world, speaking of our kind? Well, he had started out dirt poor.

  Danae glanced up at Alekhsiy, who was observing Turner with the narrow-eyed curiosity he’d give a poisonous scorpion.

  “I agree that the sixth book ends with a perfect, albeit temporary, balance between the two sides. I propose that she was setting up for the world’s greatest surprise ending, in which the ultimate underdog, the Dark Warrior, wins it all. Torhtremer, the Dragon’s Hoard, everything!”

  “You’re crazy, dude!” The audience erupted into objections. Even H. S. McCain forgot her moderator’s impartiality and stepped forward to argue with him.

  “Proof . . . pay . . .” Turner was shouting into the mike.

  “Let him finish!” Jacobsen roared and pounded on the table.

  It took five minutes to reestablish order and get everyone to sit down.

  “Mr. Turner? Please complete your statement,” H. S. McCain commanded.

  Turner smoothed down his black polo shirt, with its Northern Wastes logo in the shape of an alligator snapping turtle. His cold eyes scrutinized the room.

  “Corinne Carson is no longer here to complete the Torhtremer Saga. However, some here are skilled authors who have also explored the Torhtremer Universe. Surely one of you can write the seventh book and give us an answer.”

  “It’s already been tried—and failed.” Miss Xenia sniffed loudly and folded her arms.

  “Turner, you know Carson’s will says no seventh book unless she writes it.” Jacobsen snatched up the other mike. “Can’t even complete it from her notes, not that she left any.”

  “Her publisher paid a million-dollar advance to an unnamed New York Times bestseller to finish the series. That tells me what they thought of the prohibition.” Turner stayed in the fight, completely unruffled.

  “Yeah—and his house burned down, taking the manuscript with it. Author returned the advance and said no deal,” a man shouted from the back.

  Alekhsiy snickered softly.

  “There have been other authors and other deals.” Turner shrugged the incident off.

  “One author whose car crashed on the way to the post office with an outline, another who broke her hand, an agent whose office computer system shorted out when asked to review the deal . . .” The middle-aged moderator almost spat. “Face it, Turner, by now there are no reputable authors or agents willing to touch this project because it reeks of bad karma.”

  “Were you asked?” Miss Xenia inquired softly.

  “I’ve got a better agent than that.”

  “There are other authors,” Turner insisted softly and looked at T. Sanderson.

  “Me? Are you kidding?” The debut novelist almost dropped his water glass on the floor. “I would never . . .” He tried again more slowly.

  “Corinne Carson was very cool about fanfic, which is pretty unusual for a big author. Oh, she didn’t read any of the Torhtremer stuff. But she was okay with it, as long as you followed the special rules she laid down. Isn’t that right, Miss Xenia?”

  “Correct, Mr. Sanderson.” She nodded approvingly at him. “No underage sexual content, no intimate contact ever between Mykhayl and any of his siblings . . .”

  “Blessed Mother of All Life . . .” The breath wheezed out of Alekhsiy’s lungs and he closed his eyes. He was very pale.

  Danae patted his leg comfortingly. She’d never considered writing anything between him and Mykhayl.

  He locked his hand in hers.

  “The biggest one for me is no—none, nada, zip—stories set after the latest thing she’d published.” Sanderson sat erect, looking completely respectable for once. “I have never, and will never, write anything that occurred after the sixth book.”

  “Even for five million dollars?” Turner inquired silkily.

  The room was stunned into complete silence.

  “Five million?” Sanderson looked off into the distance, then shook his head. “Nope, won’t do it. Nasty things happen when you break the Torhtremer rules, like what happened to those other authors.”

  “Ten million?”

  Sanderson’s eyes grew rounder below his spiky hair but he shook his head. “Dude, nobody has ever successfully broken any of the Torhtremer rules. You can’t even post your story on a board. Your hard drive will fail first or your ISP will lose your payment and kill your domain. Something, anything, but you’ll be dead out there in cyberspace.”

  Danae’s throat was very tight and Alekhsiy bru
shed his cheek against the top of her head.

  “Hey, CrystalTiger has pulled it off!” somebody shouted in the next section.

  Larissa started to say something but squeaked instead when Nora bent one of her fingers back.

  Turner’s dark gaze snapped to her.

  “She’s a damn good writer, too!” Somebody else added—but not Larissa.

  Danae folded her lips together and prayed for the floor to swallow her group up. Instead the proprietor of the Dark Warrior’s Iceberg winked at her. Her, not Larissa.

  How much did he really know?

  Needing privacy as a writer to be herself and escape from celebrity—and spend time with Alekhsiy—was one thing. Losing it under these conditions felt like losing her only coat in a blizzard.

  She stared stonily ahead, refusing to acknowledge any reason for his interest. Damned if she’d admit to him she’d written a short story set immediately after Tajzyk’s Gorge.

  Alekhsiy growled softly.

  FIVE

  The crowd surged forward the minute the panel officially ended, eager to question Jacobsen and Turner. They spilled into the aisles and blocked the gap in front of the panelists’ table.

  “Come on.” Alekhsiy pulled Danae to her feet in a single smooth lunge.

  “I’m so sorry,” Larissa began in the same instant.

  “Save it for later, stupid.” Nora yanked her up and into the opposite direction. “Can’t you tell when you’ve said enough?”

  “But—”

  Nora lifted a few fingers in good-bye. Alekhsiy tightened his grip on Danae’s hand and sauntered into the aisle, slipping into the flow of traffic as if he’d been attending conventions for years. How could such a big man blend in so smoothly?

  They’d reached the back of the room before they heard the man shoving his way forward and the people grumbling about his tactics. “Excuse me? May I please have a few words with you, ma’am?”

  Oh, Lord, that clipped British accent. Had Turner sent one of his bodyguards after them? She really didn’t want to talk to them.

  She didn’t look back. Any man willing to pay ten million dollars to dictate a book’s ending or pay the millions it took to cancel a show at the last minute was nobody she wanted to do business with. Far better not to start negotiations with him than to balk at his demands and be ruined, the way her friends had been.