A Warlord's Lady

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  It was as if some peculiar force came over her. Instead of choking and being horrified she felt calm; her heart ceased to hammer in her chest and her mind grew clear. She searched down deep for some sort of well of strength, and unexpectedly found one. With a triumphal grunt she pushed Elka with all her might. Elka released a startled scream, and the force of Sabra’s push sent her careering into the other sofa on the opposite side of the room.

  Sabra lurched away.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she screamed, surprised by how angry she felt. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

  ‘I am your friend,’ Elka snarled in return. ‘This is better than what the government wants to do with you, trust me.’

  ‘But why? You don’t have to kill me, Elka, really, you don’t.’ Sabra backed away, her bravado failing, and for a horrible moment she just stared at Elka, realising she looked familiar — oddly familiar.

  Elka ruined the moment. ‘I can’t let Cain Dath have you, I just can’t.’

  ‘Then help me, like you helped me before.’

  Elka seemed to pause and consider the option, and at her hesitation Sabra continued.

  ‘There has to be another way, a way which doesn’t include killing me.’

  Elka’s head fell to the side like a sparrow considering an interesting-looking crumb. Sabra held her breath.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  Blood exploded around the room and Sabra shrieked.

  Elka fell forward to the floor and landed with a horrible crunch on her face, the back of her head a scramble of short blonde hair, fragments of skull and brain.

  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ Sabra cried, and her eyes darted to the window where a black-clad man was finishing the job of clearing out the broken glass. The man was big and blond.

  Jürgen.

  Sabra’s horror magnified. It was one thing to have someone’s brains blown out in front of you — in fact, after the first time, the second was a breeze — but a big blond Aryan crawling through your window and bristling with guns was just too much. Without waiting to see what Jürgen would do next, Sabra jumped to her feet, unaware she’d even fallen. She staggered for a moment under her own unexpected weight then flew from the room. The familiar surroundings were a blur as Sabra hurtled past, scattering paraphernalia as she did.

  She began pounding towards the front door where Hollis might be able to intercept, when the sounds of almighty gunshots rang loud throughout the house. She cringed and flinched instinctively.

  From the other end of the house, Sabra heard curses and a few grunts, more shots and the high-pitched shattering of glass. She turned her head in the direction of more breaking glass, where the yells of startled and angry men interrupted the staccato snapping of gunfire.

  What the hell was going on? She was about to open the front door and race out towards Hollis, when yelling from the front of the house sounded. Through her front door she could hear angry voices, and Hollis’s Australian twang was amongst them.

  ‘Stop where you are!’ Hollis barked.

  ‘I suggest you move, sergeant,’ came an undeniably familiar voice. Smooth as hot chocolate, his voice sent tremors of anticipation clamouring for her attention. It was the Warlord.

  Here. In suburban Perth, to get…me?

  ‘Over my dead body!’ Hollis snarled, and Sabra thought she could hear the click of a weapon being adjusted.

  ‘If needs must…’ Cain’s voice replied, and Sabra could almost imagine him giving an unperturbed shrug.

  Hollis began to bark something, but the sound of an automatic weapon going off nearly deafened her.

  There was a thud on her verandah. A terrified wail threatened to march its way up Sabra’s throat, but she stopped it just in time. He’d killed someone else! Someone who was only trying to protect her. Again. Terror galloped through her body. Though her Stockholm-syndrome brain may think he was sexy, Cain Dath was a cold-blooded killer. She couldn’t ignore that fact. Taking a steadying breath, she glanced at the shape moving behind the leadlight glass of her front door. There was more shattering of glass and Sabra knew someone else was climbing through her living room window. Not waiting any longer, Sabra scuttled up the stairwell and struggled to think of a plan.

  Being a Chameleon without any magical powers, there was only one obvious way to escape: to camouflage then seek help. She ran onto the upstairs landing, and crouched below the mezzanine wall that looked down over the entrance hall, and peeked warily. She could hear male voices, and some were speaking Lao.

  Where can I get help? Who could help me? she kept thinking wildly. Yet, it was a depressing reality that dawned on her.

  Elka had been Sabra’s only friend since this disaster, and even she wanted to kill her. Now, however, Elka was dead, as dead as Mags — and the least of her problems.

  Sabra gnawed her lip, tearing off a dry patch of skin that stung cruelly.

  If she presumed Hollis’s guards were still alive and she somehow managed to find one, they were likely to take her to Cerebral Management. There was no way Sabra was planning on consenting to that. She’d heard what happens behind the magically-warded gates of the Cerebral Management Facility and none of it was good.

  Throwing a futile and anxious gaze around her upstairs landing, the sounds of movement and male voices urged her to move and she scurried like a demented crab towards her bedroom.

  ‘Upstairs.’ She could hear Cain’s voice echo in her corridor. ‘I can feel her up there.’

  It was almost like déjà vu.

  His words made her body ache, but her heart pound. Without another moment’s hesitation she quietly pushed the door closed, but didn’t let it latch, not wanting to risk drawing attention to her location. She then proceeded to remove her clothes.

  ***

  Cain’s heart was beating fast as he looked around the neat surburban home.

  Her home.

  The thought made his shoulders tighten. Was this where she’d been living since she left him? Feelings of betrayal and frustration stole through him, distracting and dangerous.

  There was a bang and a curse from the living room and he turned and stared through the open doorway.

  Sabra’s book lay discarded on the floor near the overturned coffee table. Heat crept through his body remembering the admissions she’d made in it and the explicit details of their time together.

  I’ll ask her about that, when we are next alone, he decided.

  He turned away from the living room and glanced up the stairwell.

  I have to get her back, first, he thought.

  Jürgen stood waiting, one foot on the first stair. Sabra was up there, they knew it. Cain gave a curt nod and watched Jürgen climb the stairs before swiftly following.

  ***

  Sabra tugged her grotty tracksuit pants down over her hips and they fell to the ground, puddling around her feet like hair around a drain. Due to her state of anxiety the skin on her legs swiftly changed colour to match the beige and brown striped rug that she stood on.

  There was heavy footfall on her stairwell; she knew the beat, rhythm and tempo of the steps like she knew herself. She’d listened to them often come and go from her rooms, on hot, steamy, sensual Laotian nights. Struggling to cast off the unwanted erotic memories that plagued her just as much as the flashbacks, she pulled her tee-shirt over her head. She’d get out of here, and figure out a plan later. It was just as the cloth of her soiled tee-shirt obscured her head and vision that she heard the telltale creak of her door. She froze, knowing how ridiculous and completely useless she must appear.

  ‘In here!’ came a gritty, all too familiar German accent.

  Jürgen.

  Sabra released a small groan of dismay and struggled to pull the tee-shirt back down. She hated Jürgen and his licentious Aryan gaze. Yet as she tried again to pull the shirt down, she met with failure. Somehow the tee-shirt, which was unfortunately a few sizes too small, had twisted around her arms and head, and she was momentarily stuck, writhing pat
hetically like a puppy in a pillow case.

  She sighed and wilted, knowing her rub-a-dub tummy and greying bra were nicely on view to Jürgen and any other male guard Cain had thought to bring on the raid.

  Frozen with as much mortification as terror, Sabra heard another person enter the room.

  ‘Out!’ came Cain’s growl, somewhere to her left. ‘Secure the perimeter.’

  Sabra yelped and renewed her tangled struggle as Jürgen’s heavy footfall receded from the room, and Cain’s came closer.

  ‘Not the welcome I expected,’ Cain’s voice purred. Goosebumps erupted in a rash all over her exposed body, and suddenly a warm hand heated the bare skin on her waist. Sabra couldn’t help the gasp of utter longing and desire that escaped her. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ he murmured, and still tangled with her tee-shirt over her face, Sabra could feel his breath warm on her skin.

  With gentle hands, Cain reached up, untangled her shirt and pulled it back down. His hand slipped down the length of her sides, his touch scorched her and she wanted to weep with need. Unable to speak, she watched with growing shame as his dark, exotic eyes drank in her appearance — the stained shirt, the lank hair, the crazily fluctuating colour of her skin.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why did you write it?’ His voice was soft, and casual, as if they had all the time in the world.

  Sabra couldn’t speak. Her throat felt constricted and her breathing limited.

  ‘I’m flattered, of course, that you enjoyed my…prowess so greatly. But still, a lady should not divulge…such…secrets.’ A smile tugged at the corner of his arched lips, flashing a hint of white teeth in a way Sabra had secretly thought was beyond sexy. Still she couldn’t form words, so dry was her throat, so wet were her loins and so bewildered was her mind.

  For another long drawn-out moment, Sabra stared at Cain; it was like standing next to a god he was so unutterably perfect. Yet, as she looked closer, there were slight dark shadows marring the smooth, brown skin of his face, and lines of tiredness she’d not seen before.

  ‘Do I pass your muster, Sabra?’ he asked coolly, but it was the sound of her name coming from his lips that made her wince.

  ‘You…look…tired,’ Sabra croaked.

  He inclined his head very gently so that his hair tumbled slightly forward, and he brushed it behind his ear. For another moment they said nothing.

  ‘Boss!’ Jürgen’s voice boomed, making Sabra jump. ‘Government back-up is arriving. Looks like 10 squad cars.’ As a warning, a round of machine gun fire perforated the quiet.

  ‘Why the guns?’ Sabra asked.

  ‘Magic is traceable, and we wanted to take them by surprise.’ Cain shrugged, glancing up the Magical Ion Sensing Device that marred the smooth white of her ceiling.

  Another moment dragged by as Sabra struggled to come up with something to say, or do.

  ‘Boss. We must go,’ Jürgen bellowed again, making Sabra jump.

  ‘I’m not coming with you,’ Sabra said quietly. ‘I’m not living like that again.’

  ‘Living like what?’ Cain asked sharply and something flashed across his face.

  ‘Like your slave.’ She choked, memories both bad and good swamping her heavily.

  ‘I’ve never called you that. Slave is a label you gave yourself, in that…book’ he replied, eyes unreadable, but just the slightest tightening around his mouth.

  Sabra shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not going with you.’

  She heard Cain sigh heavily. ‘Don’t do this, Sabra.’

  Her name flowed from his mouth like liquid gold and she stifled a shiver.

  ‘Do what?’ she asked, holding his gaze as steadily as her body would allow, ‘Make you force me?’

  The accusation hung like fart in the air between them — smelly, dirty and embarrassing.

  ***

  [Excerpt from Memoirs of a Warlord’s Love Slave, Chapter 2]

  After Mags was killed I think I went wild, but in truth, I don’t clearly remember what happened. It’s still an evil jumble of scary memories. I remember the Warlord’s disbelieving expression, the faces of his men, startled and outraged. I remember the hot biting of their fingers on my exposed body as I writhed, desperate to escape. Don’t mistake me, they didn’t interfere with me sexually, but angry male hands on my reluctant body is a memory I’m not likely to forget or forgive. I remember crying out ’Leave me alone!’ repeatedly, and glimpses of the Warlord. His face had grown closed and I couldn’t read his impenetrable eyes. ‘Don’t make me force you,’ he said softly, and then it was calm.

  I think I must have fainted then because the next thing I remember was laying on a large, ornately carved four-poster bed. Mosquito nets were draped romantically around it, giving the room outside a misty, magical feel. For a long while I just lay there, feeling a new shot of adrenaline squirt through me, and my heart hammered once again. Where was I?

  I was a captive, I knew that, but it was the most unlikely prison I’d ever seen. On closer inspection it was more like a lavishly-appointed resort hotel. The loud thrumming of insects rang from outside an open bay window and I rose unsteadily to get a better look. Glancing down, I saw I was still naked, though my body had changed colour to match the pale mauve linens of the bed. There were darker patches all over my body. These marks spoke of brutal hands. At this stage I didn’t know if I’d been raped, beaten or simply bruised in the process of my capture. I presumed the latter. Hesitating to ensure I was still camouflaging, I walked to the bay doors and stepped out onto a balcony. My first thought was ‘Wow’. The balcony was several floors high, and looked over a valley of dense jungle. Clouds rippled down the mountains and hills around me. I turned and looked at the building. Made of stone, and liberally dressed with vines and ferns, it camouflaged into the jungle as well as I could. Impossible to see from the air, or land, the building was massive and absolutely beautiful. I stepped closer to the balustrade of the balcony; it was cloaked in moss and ferns, a small ecosystem existing on rain and sunlight. I looked down a dizzying drop to the jungle floor where small paths were woven through the thick undergrowth, and monkeys swung on the upper branches of the canopy.

  A humid wind blew past me, cloaking my grimy skin in moisture.

  I wanted a shower. I knew I’d feel stronger once the dirt and filth from the streets of Vientiane were washed from my skin.

  I waited for a moment, to see if anyone was going to enter my room. Everything was quiet, except for the rattle of insects in the jungle.

  I turned and surveyed the room; it was lovely, made for the likes of a princess, or the concubine I would become.

  To my left was a stone alcove and there a golden shower and plunge bath were nestled gently in the corner. Tentatively, I walked towards it, expecting someone to burst in upon me at any moment, but no one did.

  Without waiting any longer, I turned on the golden taps, climbed into the shower well, and huge heavy droplets of water began to drench me. I sighed with pleasure as they eased the purpling bruises that marred my body. To my right was a small table, hewn from the same stone on which shampoos, soaps and cleansers stood, awaiting my attention.

  I washed lavishly, closing my eyes and quelling the worry by soaping my body and scrubbing with a mauve flannel until my skin practically shone.

  Eventually, I’d had enough and turned off the golden taps, searching around for a towel.

  There were three small towels neatly folded on a dresser and I approached them, leaving a trail of water on the cool stone floor. I was used to big bath sheets, not puny towels and I felt somewhat annoyed that my captor had not provided me with adequate drying equipment. Yet, with no one to complain to, I dried myself, towelling my hair dry and sponging up the droplets from my body.

  When I was dry, I looked around for something to wear. There was nothing immediately visible. I walked cautiously to a cupboard on my right, but it was empty.

  Sighing, I walked towards the balcony again, carefully camouflaging
myself to preserve my modesty should anyone see me.

  I walked through the bay doors and leaned my hands against the spongy, moist moss of the balustrade and looked down.

  ‘I hope you don’t intend to jump.’ A voice came from behind me.

  My stomach lurched into my throat and my heart constricted as if garrotted. I turned, and there he was, the Warlord, Cain Dath. He stood in loose, faded blue jeans, bare feet, and another snug white tee-shirt. The dark tan of his skin contrasted with stark beauty against the cloth, and I noticed the muscles in his neck tense as he obviously waited for my response.

  ‘No,’ I croaked, all too aware that I was naked and, due to my nervousness, was camouflaging badly.

  A smile eased the line of his lips and he let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding on to one. Like a gentleman, his gaze stayed locked on my eyes, not once flickering to my breasts and lower body that were randomly fluctuating in colour.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I asked, raising one hand to try and cover at least my nipples, and lowering the other to cover my shamefully bushy and colourful pubes.

  Without answering, the Warlord uttered a spell and a loose silken wrap appeared in a shimmer of magical ions in his hands. It was as rainbow-hued as me, and as light as air. ‘Here,’ he murmured, and stepped toward me. The silk loosened and he extended it to me, as if expecting me to step into it and allow him to wrap it around me, like a lover might. Instead, I snatched it from him and wrapped it around myself, cinching the ribbon tight around my waist to hold it closed.

  He didn’t seem perturbed by my rudeness, if anything there was a slight movement in his eyebrow and a hint of amusement in his eye.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I repeated, feeling a little stronger now that I was somewhat covered. Yet his presence was so unsettling. Just as in the bar, my body seemed to react to his. Horny, traitorous, lustful and dirty thoughts cart-wheeled through my brain.

  The Warlord stepped closer, and at this new proximity I could smell him. His scent was an olfactory assault of magnificently sensual proportions. He was spicy and exotic, less like perfumed cigarettes and more like pure magic. There was power in his scent, and Lord it was delectable.