by Alix Nichols
Unless Areg didn’t recover, after all.
In that case, telling Nyssa he was alive, only to have her lose him again would be even more cruel than keeping her in the dark.
As soon as he got home, Mother told him Areg was still slipping in and out of consciousness. His condition was stable, but he just wouldn’t get better. Reverend Goyyem was at her wit’s end.
After washing and changing into civilian clothes, Jancel headed to Nyssa’s room. It was a little late for a polite visit, but he decided he didn’t care.
She opened the door immediately.
Goodness, I’ve missed her!
He brushed that thought away. She wasn’t his to miss.
Sitting down at her desk, he pointed to the second chair. “We’re going to test the serum and the vaccine.”
He placed the vials on the desk. “I was told just a small sip should be enough.”
Nyssa looked back and forth between the vials and his face before she took a seat.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I propose we start with the serum alone first.” He moved his chair closer to her. “Just to be sure it’s the real thing before you take the vaccine.”
“Makes sense. Which one?”
He pointed to the serum vial.
She drank from it.
They waited a few minutes with Nyssa asking innocuous questions about the summit and Jancel struggling not to stare at her mouth, neck, breasts.
Finally, he decided they’d given the serum enough time to kick in. “What’s your name?”
“Nyssa.”
“Your full name.”
“Nyssa Sebi.”
“Did you feel compelled to answer honestly?”
“Hmm… I didn’t feel any inner struggle.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I had no reason to want to hide my name from you.”
“Right.”
She sat back, waiting for his next move.
He frowned, thinking. “I’ll ask you trickier questions, all right? Questions that should make you struggle.”
“Ask away.”
Jancel squinted at her. Was she enjoying herself?
No—why would she?
He cocked his head. “What do you think of Lord Boggond?”
“I think he’s a big stinky piece of manure,” she answered immediately.
“Nyssa, are you even trying to lie?”
“On that one, I refuse to.”
All right, let’s try something different. “How many lovers have you had?”
Women didn’t like to appear too promiscuous, too wanton. Even free-living women like Nyssa.
She counted on her fingers. “Six.”
Was that an honest answer?
Six seemed like what he’d reasonably expect of an adventurous young lady of Nyssa’s age.
Or had she lied? Had she had twice as many lovers? Three times as many?
Jancel found himself rattled by the idea.
“So?” He arched an eyebrow, annoyed at his reaction.
“So what?”
“Did you resent divulging the number? Were you compelled to do it?”
“No compulsion.” She shrugged. “Why would I resent admitting I’ve had six lovers?”
He lifted his eyes upward. When he glanced at her again, her expression was gleeful.
She was enjoying herself.
“This drill is about your safety,” he said. “It isn’t a game.”
Her face grew sober. “You’re right. Of course. I’m sorry.”
He stared at her mouth, forgetting himself.
“Let’s try again,” she offered. “I promise I’ll take your next question seriously.”
“Are you drawn to me?”
Where the hell did that come from?
She looked away, then back at him, frowning. “Yes.”
Sweet Aheya above. “Did you miss me when I was gone?”
She nodded.
He should stop now, he thought, and test the vaccine. The serum was working. It was clear. She’d have never made these admissions if it weren’t. It was unnecessary to ask additional questions. But the need to know was stronger than his qualms.
“Tell me more,” he whispered, his voice coarse. “How exactly did you miss me?”
“Throughout the day, I pictured you looking at me with those dark, intense eyes of yours… your hands stroking me… At night, I imagined you coming to my bed. Undressing. Lying atop me.” Her gaze bore into his. “I touched myself to find relief.”
Jancel’s heart thundered in his chest with a power matched only by his raging erection.
He had to swallow and clear his throat before he was able to ask the next question. “Would you like me to be your next lover?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, very much.”
It was Jancel’s turn to sit back and beam with glee.
The crease between Nyssa’s brows deepened. “You look awfully pleased.”
“Only because the truth serum appears to be working.”
Good thing they weren’t testing it on him!
“It’s working just fine.” She pulled a face. “Can I take the vaccine now?”
He nodded.
She drank from the second vial.
They waited, staring at each other, Nyssa’s face tight and flushed at the same time, her pupils dilated.
She wants me, was the only thought in Jancel’s head.
No matter what names she called him, no matter how much she said she hated him, from now on he’d always know that truth about her. It shed new light on so many things! Her slow, lingering touch when she gave him a massage. He’d struggled to convince himself she hadn’t been caressing him. Then there’d been her letting him see her naked in the bathhouse… The way she’d held his gaze, her slightly parted lips and her erect nipples…
He’d thought she’d been teasing him deliberately, letting him see what he’d never have. Perhaps she was. But it had been more than that. She lusted after him as much as he lusted after her. He knew that now. He cherished that knowledge.
“Will you kiss me?” he asked.
“No.”
Ah. The vaccine. “Would you like me to stay tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave now?”
“Yes.”
Jancel nodded. He should be pleased. The vaccine was working. Nyssa was immune to the truth serum now, just as he would become when he took it. Really, their little test session couldn’t’ve had a better outcome.
His cock begged to disagree.
“If you kiss me,” Jancel said, “I’ll let one of your friends—someone trustworthy—visit you.”
Goodness, that was cheap! Indecent, unfair, unwise. Beneath him.
Yes, even him.
But the words she’d said under the influence of the serum still rang in his ears. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. That was the truth. The bare, raw truth underneath her anger and her disdain for the kind of man he’d become.
Nyssa eyed him up and down. “I’ll kiss you. But don’t read too much into that. It’s just payment.”
He nodded and leaned into her, rooting her where she sat. His mouth skimmed hers, his lips brushing hers softly, tenderly. She was stiff. Pulling her closer, he held her tighter, kissed her harder.
The change was barely perceptible at first, but Nyssa’s muscles began to relax. Her whole body softened and sagged into his, and her cheeks felt warmer against his skin.
Emboldened, Jancel swept his tongue over her lower lip before sliding the tip in, coaxing her to open for him. And she did. On a happy little moan—the sweetest thing he’d heard in a long, long time—Nyssa parted her lips for his tongue.
He pushed in, taking her mouth in a hard, savage kiss. Blood surging, pounding in his ears, he pinned her to the back of her chair. His hands stroked and caressed her, plunging into her springy locks. Thank Aheya she wore her hair like this—on the short side, unrestrained with pins or ribb
ons, a delight to delve his hands into.
She moaned again. Her hands flew to his neck. She clutched it and kissed him back, tangling her tongue with his, matching his ardor. It was more than he’d hoped for. Yet, he wanted more from her.
He wanted all of her.
He released her mouth to kiss her cheeks, her jawline and chin, and then he trailed his lips down her throat. Nyssa tilted her head back, to give him better access. He cupped her left breast. Her eyelids drifted shut and she arched into his caress.
“So sweet, so beautiful,” he murmured, watching her expression grow dazed, alight with desire.
He claimed her lips again.
Nyssa gasped against his mouth when he pressed the pad of his thumb to her nipple and rubbed. He rubbed a little harder, scooping her breast with his palm, pressing, fondling gently.
“Mmm,” she groaned. “Oh, yes.”
Jancel caged her with his body and slid his hand down to her mound. Not daring to push his fingers inside the waistband of her pants, he cradled her through the fabric instead.
Nyssa’s knees fell open on a quiver. “Sweet Goddess above!”
She was wet for him, so wet he could feel her silky slickness through the double layer of her underwear and trousers.
Suddenly without warning, she pushed him away and stood.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Nyssa—”
“I can’t.” She shuffled backward. “You’re still the man who didn’t move a finger to save my brother. You’re still Boggond’s man. If I slept with you, what would that make me?”
“Nyssa, please—”
Her face tightened. “A whore. That would make me a whore.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Go away, Jancel.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now.”
His mouth compressing into a hard line, he spun around and strode out the door.
11
Transfixed with horror and fear, Lord Boggond watched another spire of orange flame blaze against the night sky.
The Governor’s Palace burned. Its many windows blew open, their magnificent stained-glass shattering. The wooden structures inside cracked and crumpled, and the roof began to collapse.
His mother appeared in one of the windows on the third floor. She leaned out with her arms outstretched. “Molm, my boy, help me! Get me out of here!”
What was she doing in his palace? Why wasn’t she with Father at the estate? What was going on?
There was nothing Lord Boggond could do for her. The fire was too powerful, too out of control. The wind kept stoking it, spreading the flames. The building screeched and sputtered as the raging inferno engulfed wing after wing and floor after floor.
Lord Boggond couldn’t protect his mother from it, just as she’d been unable to protect her teenage son from whoever had poisoned him.
Wait! He wasn’t fourteen anymore—he was fifty-four now.
His parents were dead.
And this… this was a nightmare.
He woke up drenched in cold sweat, panting, and dazed from his vivid dream. As a result, he’d spend the rest of the day, and maybe even the next, feeling like his brain had been spun in a drum and wrung out. That’s what happened when he awoke from the dreaded nightmare—the same since he was fourteen—before the voice.
He sat up in his bed and rang for his manservant.
When he was younger, the dream would be slightly different. The family mansion would explode and go up in flames, and his parents would scream and writhe as fire consumed them. He’d howl, angry, helpless, and scared.
And unless he woke up at that point, he’d hear the voice. Mild and soothing, it would talk to him from inside his head, tell him he shouldn’t be afraid, that no harm would come to him, and everything would be fine.
Lord Boggond would calm down, listen.
The voice would speak to him of his future and his destiny. Of how he, Lord Molm Boggond, an heir to one of Xereill’s oldest and purest lines, was special. It would tell him he was fated to become a great leader and to ally himself with another great leader—his would-be mentor. Together, they would tame the chaotic galaxy and change it forevermore. During their exceptionally long rule, they’d mold and shape Xereill in a way that would be immutable. No one would ever erase their legacy.
His mouth dry, Lord Boggond fumbled for the switch of his bedside power candle. He couldn’t find it.
Where the hell is Shollin? What’s taking him so long?
After Lord Boggond’s mysterious poisoning at fourteen, he’d spent a week between life and death, unconscious. The dream and the voice started after that.
The first part was always the same—a fire from hell destroying everything Lord Boggond held dear—but the message the voice delivered varied. Sometimes, it told him what to do. Other times, what not to do. And on those rare occasions he hadn’t heeded the advice, it explained to him why that was wrong.
It was tempting to conclude that Lord Boggond was a rich-blood with a gift of clairvoyance. The first rich-blood on Hente in two centuries! But Lord Boggond didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The voice could also be a form of madness—a malfunction of his brain caused by the poisoning. Until he was sure, he was going to keep those dreams to himself.
Shollin knocked and entered Lord Boggond’s bedroom, rubbing his eyes and apologizing for his informal attire.
Informal, indeed. His manservant had dared to show up in slipper socks and a robe thrown over his nightshirt. Lord Boggond would’ve forgiven him for skipping the livery, but he should’ve made the effort to don his trousers, shoes, and a day shirt.
Shollin turned the lights on and handed him a glass of water.
Emptying it, Lord Boggond glanced at the clock on the wall. It was four in the morning. He might as well get up.
“Run me a bath,” he ordered, his irritation gone. “And tell the cook to prepare a light breakfast.”
Oh well, Shollin had arrived reasonably quickly, though not as quickly as he used to. Lord Boggond was a nobleman. He wasn’t going to harangue his aging manservant for his failings.
He’d just replace him.
Over breakfast, Lord Boggond perused Ultek’s latest report. It was little more than a compilation of hearsay and rumors put together by his spooks. Most of it was about an underground movement formed in the wake of Sebi’s escape and death. They called themselves the “Association.” Their goal was to prevent Lord Boggond from becoming Eia’s plenipotentiary and absolute ruler.
The report contained no names, no places, and nothing concrete.
Those people were careful. And too few to make a difference. Ultek’s secret police and their rats were working to learn more, including who funded the Association, if they were linked to Teteum, and how exactly they planned to fight Lord Boggond.
Will they back an alternative candidate?
Lord Boggond pushed his now-cold fried eggs to the side. A new—warm—plate was served at once.
Good. At least kitchen staff was more awake than Shollin. He took a bite.
If Achlins Ghaw decided to run, and the Association backed him, it would give Ultek a great pretext to arrest the reporter. Unless… unless Lord Boggond chose to do nothing.
Ghaw was widely admired for his courage and unrelenting search for the truth. That much couldn’t be denied. On paper, he sounded like a formidable adversary. But when Lord Boggond first saw him in person at a press conference many months ago, he knew Ghaw wasn’t governor material. Too skinny, too short, too gray-haired and gray-skinned, he dressed like a rural teacher and spoke in a winded, tobacco-ruined voice. He lacked the late Governor Iorasu’s legitimacy, Sebi’s charisma, and Dreggo’s academic influence.
In short, Ghaw wasn’t a serious threat.
Perhaps he should tell Voqras and Ultek to let him be for now. Perhaps he’d even let him run for governor. The move would prove to Lord Boggond’s critics and to the LOR Certified Observers that he wasn’t trying to gag the people’s voic
e or twist their arm.
As if “the people” knew what was good for them!
Finishing his breakfast, Lord Boggond headed to the briefing room where Voqras, Mahabmet, Yemella, Ultek, and Heidd were waiting.
After each of them gave Lord Boggond an update, Ultek raised the matter of the Gokks.
“What about them?” Lord Boggond asked.
“I’d like to question them with the truth serum,” Ultek said.
Lord Boggond frowned. “Why?”
“I suspect them of having helped your enemies, Your Grace—Areg Sebi and Etana Tidryn.”
“May I remind you, Chief Ultek, that Geru Gokk helped us eliminate them?” Voqras said.
Ultek shot him a nasty look. “May I remind you, Captain Voqras, that Geru Gokk had asked Etana for her hand in marriage? He helped us because he was hoping to save her.”
Commander Heidd squared his shoulders. “Whatever you decide, please remember the Gokks are the army’s biggest and most reliable supplier of level-one machinery.”
“So what?” Ultek shrugged. “If I prove they’d supported Sebi, we’ll arrest the lot of them, expropriate their factories and put someone new in charge.”
“It won’t work,” Heidd said.
Yemella shifted her eyes from Voqras to the commander. “Why not?”
“The Gokks’ workers aren’t tenured. Many—especially the most qualified ones—might quit. His business partners might be unwilling to work with the new guy. That would create a disruption, which could prove one disruption too many for the army.”
“The Gokks are a law-abiding family,” Judge Mahabmet said. “They may not be noble-born but their morals are above reproach.”
“So are mine.” Ultek stared into the judge’s eyes daring him to say otherwise.
Mahabmet shut his mouth and looked away.
Coward. Which was a good thing, Lord Boggond reminded himself. He needed cowards around him.
People like Mahabmet—still enjoying certain respect among the populace, but too scared to try anything against Lord Boggond—were perfect for his purposes. Voqras and Ultek were both extremely useful, but their lack of ethics was a double-edged sword.