Instructing the Novice

by Evangeline Anderson

  Feeling Lizabeth’s abject terror without being able to get to her and save her was tearing Lone apart. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth, willing the damn train to go faster.

  “No, you damn well don’t understand,” he growled at Joren. “She’s terrified. I can feel her fear but I can’t get to her. Hurry, damn you!”

  “You can feel your lady’s fear?” Joren frowned. “Is that a Kindred trait?”

  “It is when you’re bonded,” Lone said tersely. He felt Lizabeth’s fear spike even higher and nearly shouted with frustration. “Gods, are we almost there?”

  “Be easy, lad. We’re here right…now.”

  As Joren spoke, the train car at last came to a jolting stop at the far station. Lone was out almost before the doors slid open to let in a freezing wind. The frozen ball of pale yellow that was the sun on this Godless rock was nearing the horizon, he noticed. He wouldn’t have much daylight left to do his killing in.

  For it was killing he intended. He would slaughter the whole damn tribe of Friezens and if they had hurt Lizabeth in any way, well, he would do it slowly.

  That was when he heard her screaming.

  “Lad, wait!” Joren was calling behind him. “There’s too many of them—wait for the rest of us!”

  But the protective Rage was on Lone—his vision was blood-red and the killing fury filled him. All he knew was that his female was in danger—was being hurt—and he had to kill the ones who were hurting her. Dimly he heard the other males calling for him to come back as he raced down the cold metal ladder and across the icy, barren landscape. He didn’t even turn his head to answer them.

  He had to get to Lizabeth before it was too late or die trying.

  Lizabeth’s vocal cords felt as though someone had taken a rusty razor blade to them. Every scream hurt so badly she could barely stand it and yet, she couldn’t stop screaming.

  The Shaman had finished carving and burning the words of whatever invocation or incantation to the Father Gods he thought were necessary into both her inner thighs and the pain was so bad Lizabeth felt as though she’d been branded. But the worst was yet to come.

  She watched, unable to look away, as he picked up the third knife—the one with the longest, thinnest blade. It narrowed to a point no bigger than a needle—a red-hot glowing needle.

  And he’s about to use that on my clit!

  Lizabeth drew another ragged breath, knowing she was going to scream again.

  “Here we are now—the final cut to honor the Father Gods,” Terg’s voice was self-satisfied—the voice of a man congratulating himself on a job well done.

  As the glowing point of the knife touched the tender bundle of nerves at her center, another screame ripped through Lizabeth’s shredded throat.

  Oh God, the pain was unbearable. Why couldn’t she just faint? Why couldn’t she lose consciousness? Why—

  There was a sound outside the tent—a low, guttural growling that rose above the howling of the storm. Then the shouting began.

  Terg pulled the knife back and away from her without completing the cut.

  “What’s that?”

  “What in the name of the Father Gods?” Brut growled. He had been watching with a kind of gleeful anticipation as the Shaman carved up Lizabeth’s inner thighs with the red-hot knives and then went after her clit, but now he looked up, frowning.

  “Did a Garn-beast come out of its deep sleep early?” The Shaman’s assistant looked uneasily at the fur-covered flap that served as the tent’s door.

  “Go and check, will you, Brut?” Terg spoke with the air of a man preoccupied by a difficult but enjoyable task. “If the men are getting impatient for a taste of the Snow Queen, tell them I’m almost done here. They can have her soon enough.”

  “Not before I do! And anyway, I want to see you finish carving out her impure parts first.” The Friezen leader leered at Lizabeth’s exposed sex. “That’s always the best part of the ceremony.”

  “True. Well then—Lurx, you go. Let them know we’re almost done here.”

  “All right.” The Shaman’s assistant looked uneasy but he headed obediently towards the tent flap. “I’ll just—”

  Suddenly the flap slapped open and a big hand caught the hapless Lurx by the throat. The Shaman’s assistant gurgled, his eyes popping wide with surprise. He had no time to say anything before the hand tightened and his throat was ripped completely out. He dropped to the floor, gasping and choking, clutching at the bloody hole where the front part of his neck had been as crimson streams poured over the dirty fur that carpeted the floor of the tent.

  “What in the names of the Father Gods?” Brut was on his feet, a long, wicked-looking dagger in his hand when the bloody hand followed by a long muscular arm entered the tent. The arm was followed by a seven-foot tall Kindred warrior with his eyes blazing blood-red.

  “Lone,” Lizabeth cried—or tried to. His name came out in a dull croak. His eyes flicked to her direction anyway and Brut chose that moment to lunge at him.

  “Watch out, Brut! He may have a blaster!” Terg exclaimed. He was also on his feet now, the long, needle-sharp knife still clutched in his grimy fist.

  “I do have a blaster.” Lone’s voice was almost unrecognizable, Lizabeth thought, so low and guttural and full of rage as it was. “But you don’t fucking deserve a quick death.”

  Fast as lightning he reached forward and gripped Brut’s knife-hand by the wrist. The Friezen leader tried to lunge towards him but Lone’s hand tightened and he made a decisive, brutal movement faster than Lizabeth’s eyes could follow.

  There was a low crack, like a tree-branch snapping, and suddenly Brut’s hand and wrist were bent at a right angle to the rest of his arm. His gray face turned even paler and a gasping howl came from his lips.

  “Not so brave when you’re the one who has to bear the pain, are you?” Lone snarled. “You bastard—this is the least of what you deserve for hurting my mate! I’ll tear you apart piece by fucking piece!”

  As he spoke, he grabbed the other male’s head and began to squeeze—pressing Brut’s cranium between his powerful palms.

  “Father Gods!” The Friezen leader flailed wildly but his right arm was useless and it didn’t matter how he beat and kicked at Lone, the big Kindred wouldn’t let go. Lizabeth saw his eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth open wide in a hoarse scream.

  My God, she thought numbly. He’s really going to do it—Lone is going to crush his skull like a grape!

  Her gaze was glued to the scene playing out in front of her but now another movement caught her eye.

  “Lone!” she tried to shout. “Behind you—look behind you!”

  But her voice was nothing but ragged shreds and she couldn’t give more than a hoarse whisper.

  As the Friezen leader’s skull gave way with a cracking sound and gouts of blood poured from his eyes and nose, Lone turned anyway. But too late—Terg was already plunging the long, sharp knife to the hilt in the big Kindred’s back.

  Lizabeth gasped when she saw the bloody tip come out the front of Lone’s chest.

  Oh God, he killed him! No—oh, no! Lone—no!

  She expected to see the big Kindred crumple to the floor and he did stagger and gasp, his blood-red eyes going wide with pain. He dropped the limp body of the Friezen leader and it seemed he would soon follow himself.

  But to Lizabeth’s amazement, the big Kindred didn’t fall. Instead, he turned towards the Shaman. Glaring at Terg, he pushed the point of the knife decisively back through his body. As the Friezen Shaman watched, stunned, Lone reached one long arm around behind him and pulled the knife free. Letting it fall to the dirty fur carpet by Brut’s crumpled form, he grabbed Terg, who was still staring in amazement, by the neck.

  The Shaman’s muddy brown eyes grew wide in his gray, bearded face.

  “You…should…should be…dead,” he gasped as Lone tightened his grip.

  “So should you,” Lone growled, his eyes flashing.

&
nbsp; Dragging the struggling Shaman over to the place where Lizabeth was lying, still strapped to the sacrificial table, he grabbed one of the red-hot knives still lying on the smoking black rectangular stone. He picked it up by the hilt and brought the point right to Terg’s left eye.

  “You’re the one who hurt her, aren’t you?” he snarled, bringing the point closer and closer. “You used this very blade on her—the very blade that’s going to cut out your eyes. And then your tongue…and then your fucking heart.”

  “No—no!” The Shaman struggled, fighting to be free. “You can’t…can’t do this! I was only…the ceremony…”

  “You hurt my mate,” Lone growled at the other male. “You carved into her flesh and now I’m going to carve into yours. But you’re right, friend—your eyes aren’t the place to start.”

  He lowered the point of the knife and made two quick movements. Terg’s furry trousers fell down around his ankles, revealing skinny, white legs and a pair of dangling balls, like hairy eggs.

  “Now…” Lone’s eyes glowed as red as the knife blade and his voice was still that low, inhuman growl. “Let’s see how you like the taste of your own knife.”

  Twenty-One

  Later, much later it seemed to Lizabeth although she thought it was probably only a matter of minutes, the bloody business was done. Terg stopped howling after Lone cut his tongue out but he continued to make choked, bloody gurgles deep in his throat even as the big Kindred continued his knife-work.

  She had turned her head, unable to watch, when the butchery first began. It was horrible—unthinkable—and yet a part of her wished desperately that she was wielding the knife herself. That she was extracting the revenge that Lone was taking for her with her own hands.

  The thought made her sick—made her wonder what the hell was wrong with her? The fiery pain between her thighs had subsided to a dull, aching throb—the wounded flesh still sobbing softly in a way she couldn’t ignore though she desperately wished she could. Her throat felt torn wide open and her skin was cold and covered in goosebumps because the tent flap was still open and a chilly wind was whipping through the tent.

  Oh God, she thought dully, closing her eyes and shivering with pain and shame and cold. Oh God, it’s over…it’s over and I just want to die…

  But was it over? Would it ever be? Somehow she felt like even if Lone finished his bloody business and let her loose, a part of her would always be traumatized—a part of her would always be strapped naked to this table with the wind howling and a line of men standing outside waiting to rape her while inside a fiery knife bit into her flesh…

  “Gods, man! What have you done?”

  The new voice in the tent drew Lizabeth’s eyes towards the flap. Joren was standing there, his face a mask of horror as he surveyed the carnage.

  “What have you done?” he asked again, staring at Lone.

  Lone blinked, seeming to come back to himself a little. His eyes lost some of their blazing red and he looked at the knife he held in one hand…and what remained of Terg and the others.

  “I…they were—he was hurting Lizabeth,” he said, his voice sounding more normal. Though it was still deep, at least it was in a human register this time, she thought.

  “So you left her strapped naked to the table to freeze while you took revenge?” Joren demanded. “Gods, man—your lady should come first!”

  Guilt and understanding flooded Lone’s face.

  “You’re right—of course you’re right.” He dropped the knife and Terg and turned towards the table, where Lizabeth was still shivering spread-eagle on the table. “Lizabeth, forgive me.”

  “Please…” She was crying now—the hot tears which hadn’t come earlier felt scalding on her frozen cheeks. “Please, Lone,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please…just take me home.”

  “Of course!” Lone unwrapped one of the purple furs he was wearing and draped it over her—covering her nakedness and warming her at the same time. Then, wiping his hands on another fur, he started to work on the leather straps that held her down.

  Lizabeth wanted to thank him…wanted to ask him how he’d known where to find her…wanted to tell him how wrong she had been earlier. But her throat was ruined and the words wouldn’t come—only more tears. And then finally…blessedly…the darkness she had wished for so desperately came too.

  As Lone gathered her into his arms, the world faded to gray and she flew gratefully into oblivion.

  “She’s out, lad but she’s not dead.” Joren’s voice was gentle as he took his fingers away from Lizabeth’s neck. “Her pulse is steady and true. My guess is she’s just in shock. Best you should bring her back up the mountain to the Tower so we can treat her there.”

  “No.” Lone’s voice was harsh in his own ears. He was still trying to come to terms with the things he’d done in the dirty fur hut in this frozen, barren wilderness. He looked around at the bodies littering the floor, at the furs sodden with crimson, and knew it was all his work, but he couldn’t understand how.

  He kept getting flashes. The knife in his back—thank goodness Twin Kindred had self-sealing organs—the pain and terror he’d seen in Lizabeth’s eyes and the rage he’d felt at seeing the bloody burns on her thighs…

  Then he saw himself breaking one man’s wrist and squeezing his skull until it gave way like a rotten pumpkin between his palms…tearing the throat out of another…and then there was the last—the one with the knife…

  No, he told himself. No, don’t think about it—I was in Rage. They hurt Lizabeth—I had to do it.

  Yes, but did he have to do it quite so thoroughly? So…brutally?

  An eye for an eye, whispered a low, growling voice in his head. The voice of his dark side—the Dark Twin—he supposed. The male hurt your mate—you gave him pain for pain. It’s fair.

  Fair it might be but his actions still sickened Lone and he could only imagine what Lizabeth had thought. No wonder she had fainted!

  “Lad, if you’ll just bring her back to the Tower,” Joren began again.

  Lone shook his head.

  “No! She asked me to bring her home and that’s what I’m going to do.” He had wrapped Lizabeth well in the extra furs he’d been wearing. Now he lifted her gently into his arms, cradling her small form against his chest. “I’m taking her home,” he repeated.

  Joren sighed.

  “Well, you know best I suppose and I can see I’ll not change your mind. Let me and some of the other boys escort you to your ship, then. Just in case there are any other Friezen men left in the tribe you didn’t kill.”

  Lone winced at his words. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of the line of males he’d mowed down outside the tent. They hadn’t even had time to fight back—he’d been so intent on getting to Lizabeth that he’d killed every last one of them in a blur of violence he couldn’t completely remember.

  Not that he wanted to.

  He’d never been this person—never acted this way before. It confused and bewildered and sickened him and yet he also felt justified. These males had tried to hurt his bonded mate and it didn’t matter that they were only partially bonded. Lone still felt Lizabeth’s fear and terror, still felt the knife biting into her tender flesh. He knew that no matter how bloody this night’s work had been, he would do it again in a heartbeat to save her.

  He just wished he’d gotten to her sooner—before they had started cutting.

  How much did they hurt her? How far did they get before I got here?

  It was a question he scarcely dared to ask. He would have to ask Commander Sylvan to examine Lizabeth when they got back to the Mother Ship. Until then, all he could do was keep her warm and comfortable and pray that she stayed unconscious until he could get her some pain medication.

  “Come on, lad—this way.” Joren led the way out of the tent and some of the other guards from the Tower of the Higher Mind joined them. “All clear?” Joren asked them, frowning cautiously.

  “All clear,” echoed one of t
he guards. “All the males are dead or fled. Fucking incredible.” He shot an awed glance at Lone who stared stonily ahead, pretending not to notice.

  “I need to get my lady back to our ship quickly,” he reminded Joren. “She needs medical attention.”

  “Yuh, of course, lad. This way to the landing area.”

  Joren led the way through the icy night and no one else bothered them, much to Lone’s relief. Almost before he knew it, he was strapping Lizabeth’s inert form carefully into the reclined passenger seat and then taking his own place behind the pilot’s yoke. He bid a quick farewell to Joren and the rest of the Tower guards and then turned to his pre-flight sequence.

  As they lifted off into the blackness of space, Lone felt only relief as they cleared the atmosphere of Yonnie Two. They would be home soon—in the blink of an eye. He would have Lizabeth to the med center before she could even wake up and they would help her…heal her…

  But just as he was about to open a com-link channel and call for the Mother Ship to open a fold in space for them, the ship's cabin filled with a presence.

  Lone stilled at once—his hands frozen on the controls. What was this? What was happening?

  The presence, which was most definitely female, grew and grew, seeming for a moment almost to push all the air out of the small space so that Lone could scarcely breathe.

  “Please,” he gasped, feeling overwhelmed and overcome. “Please, who are you?”

  “Do you not know me, Warrior?” a powerful female voice which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere asked. “You prayed to me to give you strength to save your female and so I did.”

  “Goddess?” Lone looked about him, as though he might see her standing there but of course he saw nothing. He didn’t need to see anything—the overwhelming presence proclaimed the Goddess’s existence much better than anything his eyes could have shown him. In that moment he thought that he had never felt anything more real in his life.

  “Yes, it is I, the Mother of All Life, Warrior,” the Goddess said. “I have come to tell you two things. First—that which was broken may be healed with love, patience and devotion. Second, you are NOT to fold space on the way home.”