Wasteland: The Wanderer

by Crystal Jordan

  Love is the most dangerous experiment of all.

  There is only one rule in the Wasteland: survive.

  The few remaining women are as reviled as they are worshipped, a commodity any man must pay to touch. And to touch a Wanderer, he may pay with his life.

  For Ezra, the risk is worth the reward. People speak his name with the same reverent terror reserved for ancient wrathful gods, but he must always be ready to fend off those who would take what’s his. And what he wants to be his is Kadira.

  Kadira, adopted after she witnessed the slaughter of her devoted parents, has vowed never to love or need anyone. It seems only fitting that she, an outsider, accept Ezra’s demand in trade for the fuel technology her clan needs—but her deep, unexpected need for him is the torture she’s fought all her life to avoid. Worse, the greater her wrath, the more he seems to like it.

  Ezra’s mercenary half delights at having the warrior woman in his arms. His scientist half can’t resist the urge to see what makes her react—and what makes her explode.

  The real experiment: if the bond they forge is strong enough to make her want to stay.

  Warning: Threesomes, foursomes, boy on boy, girl on girl, boy on boy on girl, voyeurism, exhibitionism, sex at knifepoint, anal sex, ritual orgies, and, well…it’s just a really dirty book.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Wasteland: The Wanderer

  Copyright © 2010 by Crystal Jordan

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-031-4

  Edited by Bethany Morgan

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Wanderer

  Crystal Jordan

  Dedication

  For my girls. You know who you are.

  Prologue

  In 2012, the world came to a grinding halt as radiation hit from a massive solar storm. Crops died, animals perished, cities fell and humans became little more than beasts themselves. Under the threat of starvation, civility was reduced to mere memory. Only the strongest men survived, and physically weaker women and children wasted to nothingness.

  More than a century later, humanity struggles in the desert Wasteland. The solar radiation rendered most women infertile, and the population dwindles more with each year that passes. Scattered up and down coasts, isolated cities eke out an existence from fishing, foraging and hunting for what little game is left. Outside the city walls, men face the threat of pirates and raiders.

  Few women remain, divided into four classes—Whores, Breeders, Priestesses and Wanderers. They are as reviled as they are worshipped, a commodity any man must pay to touch. To touch a Whore, a man must sacrifice his riches. To touch a Breeder, a man must sacrifice his freedom. To touch a Priestess, a man must be chosen by the gods. And to touch a Wanderer may end up costing him his life.

  There is only one rule in the Wasteland—survive.

  Chapter One

  The drums pounded through her like a second heartbeat.

  Kadira sat cross-legged before the great bonfire, her palm slapping against the tight skin of the drum cradled between her thighs as others beside her did the same. The Rites of Spring unfolded before her, the month of celebration where the goddess Ela ascended and took control of the seasons from her consort, the god El.

  The days would be filled with peace and prosperity, where Clan Mutairi traded with Clan Duaij, Clan Tayi drank with Clan Jassim, and the nights would be filled with feasting and carnal worship, where fertility was rejoiced and all Wanderer clans set aside the pleasures of their feuds for a deeper ecstasy.

  Naked bodies danced before the huge blaze, others twined together in the sand, the heat they created more than enough to stave off the cold desert night. A rough shout captured Kadira’s attention.

  Two men and a woman writhed together not far from where she drummed, caught in the flickering amber light. The woman lay on her back, her legs braced against a man’s heavy shoulders as he sank his cock deep inside her pussy. Kadira recognized the other woman. Fatin, whom Kadira had faced over crossed blades before. A fierce warrior, and even fiercer in her passions now. Fatin caressed her breasts, plucked at the stiff nipples, a smile playing over her lips. The man impaling her groaned as the second man pounded hard into his ass, their flesh slapping together in counterpoint to the drums. The family tattoo on the back of the second man’s neck declared him a Jassim, son of the clan chieftain. Bachir was his name, though Kadira knew him only by his reputation in battle. Bachir’s long cock slid out, the shaft glistening in the firelight, and his teeth bared as he shoved back into his lover’s anus. The muscular buttocks of both men flexed as they moved, like a horse and rider in fluid gallop.

  It was erotic to watch, mesmerizing, and heat suffused Kadira’s body, her pussy flooding with juices. Her thighs unconsciously clenched on the drum between them.

  “Ezra, yes!” Fatin moaned, lifting her hips into every thrust.

  Kadira shuddered at the sound of his name. The man in the middle, the eye of the storm. Ezra. Inventor, mercenary, warrior. Chieftain of Clan Haroun. People spoke of him with the kind of reverence reserved for ancient, wrathful gods. The woman beneath him screamed, clawed at his chest, arching as she came. He rode her through her orgasm, jutting into her with harsh precision until she was twisting against him, demanding he fuck her harder, make her come again. All the while Bachir rode him with just as much violent ardor. Kadira felt her nipples harden to tight buds, and it was all she could do not to stimulate her clit against the base of the drum. She wanted to come so badly she ached. Her skin was aflame with her longing, her heart thundering in her chest, her breath speeding to a quick pant.

  Just then, Ezra turned his head and met her gaze, smiling as if he’d known she’d been watching and was pleased. She shivered, her nipples beading tighter. The way he stared at her made her uncomfortable, with an intensity in his golden eyes that caused her insides to clench in utter want. Always it had been so, since her first Rite when she had reached maturity, years ago. His grin turned wicked and he held a hand out, flicked his fingers in invitation.

  Her body urged her to accept, to ease the need that built higher and hotter than the great bonfire itself. Her muscles shook with the effort it took to keep her seat, to keep her hands moving in smooth rhythm on the drum. Even if she had wanted to fuck him, she could not. As a kabu shaman, she had to remain purified until the end of the first week of Spring Rites, a time when it was her duty to mark those who had come to sexual maturity since the previous Rites, last fall.

  But she was tempted beyond anything she had ever known.

  Why Ezra should fascinate her, she didn’t know. She deliberately looked away, as though he were no more interesting than any of the other people coupling wildly in the night. She caught his frown out of the corner of her eye, but she refused to give in to the temptation he presented. He knew she was a shaman, knew she could not indulge in her desires yet. Did he think because she was not born a Wanderer, because
she had trader blood in her veins, that she was not dedicated to her shamanic training? Anger sliced through her. How long would she fight the stigma of her birth? How many would she have to kill in battle, how many times must she prove her skill as a kabu practitioner before she was accepted? It was a blow to the soul to recognize that the answer was forever. The mark on the nape of her neck would always show she was born an outsider, that she had only been adopted into the Badawi clan.

  She would never fully belong, and at the moment, she hated Ezra for pointing it out to her, for questioning her honor, for assuming she would break her vows for an orgiastic fuck with him.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, and the drummer beside her startled and cast her a wary glance. There was no greater insult among the Wanderers. To be a bastard was to have no family, no clan, no honor. To be a bastard was to be nothing.

  Rage made her jaw tighten, and she looked back at Ezra, more than ready to take her blade to his flesh and peel it away a strip at a time. She allowed herself the satisfaction of that fantasy for a few moments, knowing it would not happen. At least, not at a Rites gathering, and not while Clan Badawi was on good terms with Clan Haroun. But loyalties among the constantly warring Wanderers could change from one day to the next. She could only hope to let her dagger kiss his skin…soon.

  Blinking, she was once again enraptured by the scene unfolding. She cursed herself under her breath, slamming her fist down on the drum, taking her frustration—sexual and otherwise—out on the defenseless instrument. Still, she was unable to turn away, was only thankful Ezra’s attention was focused on his lovers.

  Bachir’s hips hunched forward, powering his thrusts. His groan was long and loud, his face flushing in the firelight, his eyes closing as an agonized ecstasy reflected on his features. He shuddered, arching once more, digging his cock even deeper into Ezra’s backside. Ezra reached over his shoulder, grabbing a fistful of the other man’s hair and held on while Bachir came. It was rough and wild, two ferocious animals mating.

  Wrapping an arm around Bachir’s waist, Ezra flipped him neatly over his shoulder and tossed him onto his back beside Fatin. Quick as a striking snake, Ezra snapped his hands around Fatin’s slim waist and set her atop Bachir’s face. The woman arched, crying out as Bachir’s mouth opened on her sex. She ground her pelvis downward, pumping her hips in hurried desperation.

  Ezra laughed, the rich sound floating through the air. Shoving Bachir’s thighs open, Ezra pierced the other man’s ass in a swift thrust. The thick muscles of Bachir’s body tightened, and he bowed in a hard arc at the forceful penetration. Ezra’s haunches flexed with every movement, battle scars and kabu markings carved into his flesh, his auburn hair burnished to dark flames by the dancing light. He withdrew from Bachir’s anus with slow relish, his features taut with unspent lust. Then he drove forward, between Bachir’s buttocks, and both men groaned. Fatin cried out, falling forward, but Ezra caught the back of her neck and pulled her toward him roughly, claiming her mouth as he fucked the other man into the sand.

  They twined together, their bodies twisting, harsh groans echoed by the other people copulating around them. Ezra thrust deeper and deeper into Bachir’s ass until he froze, his big form heaving as he reached orgasm. Fatin broke her mouth from his, throwing her head back to scream her release to the night sky.

  A shudder passed through Kadira. She swallowed, her sex so alive with cravings she knew a single touch, the brush of a finger over her clit, would make her come. Biting back a helpless whimper of frustration, she jerked her chin at a nearby Badawi clanswoman, Akilah, who rose with the contained grace of a warrior and strode over to take her place at the drum. Kadira brushed the sand from her legs with an impatient hand.

  “Thank you.” If her voice came out too gruff, she hoped her clanswoman wouldn’t take offense. If she did, they could work it out on the practice field. A feral smile curved Kadira’s lips. She would welcome the challenge, the chance to burn away some of this unsettling, unwelcomed longing. It would be days longer before she could throw herself into the nightly festivities.

  Akilah caught her arm, her grip almost painful. “Soon, my friend. I am relieved I don’t have to share in the sacrifice you make as a kabu shaman, that the El and Ela do not require it of me.” Her grasp gentled into a caress. “When you can partake of the Rites, I would be more than pleased to ease your suffering.”

  When she stroked her thumb over the pounding pulse at Kadira’s wrist, Kadira almost broke. Many a night had been kept warm by this woman, and the hot throbbing of her pussy urged her to take advantage of so talented a lover.

  No.

  Trader born or not, Kadira had been a Wanderer since she was eight summers old. She would not break her vows. She didn’t even want to imagine how the Badawi chieftain would react if she did. The Badawi had taken her in, but they didn’t have to keep her. She wasn’t born to their clan, and a part of her that she knew was foolish always doubted her right to stay, always gnawed at her with worry that if she wasn’t useful enough to them, then she was one wrong step away from losing everything she’d ever worked for. Being a woman—one who might produce more members for their clan one day—made it unlikely she’d be disavowed. But unlikely didn’t mean impossible, and she wondered if she’d ever feel secure enough to relax her guard around anyone. Even more unlikely. She clenched her jaw. It didn’t matter what her chieftain would do, because Kadira would never break her word or sacrifice her honor. When she made a vow, she kept it. She would prove as many times as she had to that she was as expert a warrior, as devoted a shaman, as any who had Wanderer blood coursing through their veins. With that thought, she sheathed her broadsword, adjusted her belt and spun away. She disappeared into the darkness and refused to look back to see if Ezra noticed her departure.

  He loved watching her work.

  On the battlefield, with a sword in her hand, she was intense, fierce. A dangerous adversary that kept her skills sharpened to a fine edge. Many liked to test their strength against hers, and more often than not, they fell before her. At the Rites, it was for practice, as the feuds would resume once the month had passed. No one wanted to let his or her swordsmanship slip. To do so could mean disaster for a clan. Kadira pushed herself harder than most, and Ezra loved the way her slender body moved, as graceful as any dance, and twice as deadly.

  But now, when she set aside her blade and plied her other trade, he could gaze on her with the unguarded zeal of everyone else who gathered about the large woven mat upon which a young woman lay, receiving her mark of adulthood that would allow her to participate in the Rites.

  It wasn’t the girl that interested him. It was Kadira. Always Kadira.

  The crescent moon engraved between the dark wings of her eyebrows marked her as a kabu shaman, a master in the sacred art of tattooing. Unusual for a woman to choose to train as a shaman—but, then, women were unusual, outnumbered five to one, even among the Wanderers, and it was worse in the cities. Kadira leaned closer to the girl’s arm. Ezra had never seen her face so unguarded, so serene. She’d lost herself in the kabu ritual, the god and goddess moving through her and her tools to shape the designs she carved into the flesh. It was beautiful to watch. She was beautiful to watch.

  Her waist-length ebony hair was separated into dozens of slender braids, the top half pulled away from her face so she could work for hours without the desert wind blowing the plaits in her eyes. Amulets and beads hung from her neck, etched with blessed symbols. A black leather band covered her breasts and a loincloth stretched around her narrow hips. Rich white pelts dangled from her belt, concealing pouches that held her shamanic tools. Her legs were bare to the knee, where boots encased them like a second skin.

  He’d wanted those long legs wrapped around his waist for years.

  An apprentice held the skin taut while Kadira dipped a serrated chisel attached to the end of a stick into a jar of black ink. She pressed the blade to the girl’s skin and used another stick to tap the chisel and ink into the
flesh. The rapid sound of wood smacking against wood was hypnotic, and more Wanderers gathered, entranced, to observe the kabu ritual performed.

  Kadira pulled in a deep breath, her breasts threatening to spill from the leather containing them. Biting back a groan, Ezra was unsurprised by his body’s reaction, his cock hardening to a painful degree. Always it was so with her, but she had never allowed him to touch her, even in the orgiastic indulgence of Spring and Fall Rites. Not once. It made him burn with frustration. He knew she was aware of him, had seen the keenness of her interest the night before. The lust shimmering in those midnight eyes had nearly driven him past his endurance. He’d beckoned to her before he’d recalled her vows required a time of sexual purification. Only that recollection had kept him away from her. He wanted to take, to claim.

  This Rite, he would have her. In any way he could. She would be his and his alone. A shudder rippled through him as the thought made his cock throb. Yes. He refused to hold back any longer, refused to wait. Why he’d delayed this long, he didn’t know, but the time had come for action.

  Soon he would have that graceful body beneath him. Soon he’d sheathe his cock in her tight, wet pussy. Soon he’d taste the sweetness of her juices, hear her scream his name as he made her come for him. Soon he’d have all that wildness in his arms.

  Soon.

  Chapter Two

  Kadira stretched, feeling the kinks work themselves out. Satisfaction rolled through her as she watched the boy admire the kabu mark on his arm. He tested the muscles and flinched, but nodded solemnly. “Your work is the finest there is, Kadira. The god and goddess blessed me when I was able to place myself in your schedule.”

  Pride suffused her heart, and she allowed a rare smile to curve her lips. It was the last day of her purification time, and this young man had elected to wait until she was available, delaying his entry into the Rites so that he could be marked by her. She bowed her head, one warrior to another. “I am pleased you think so.”