Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)

by McGill, Brie

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  The part of the facility reserved for royalty was made of gold. The bricks in the floor, the paint on the walls, the tracts of fitted metal that trimmed the walls, everything was gold. The lights in the ceiling twinkled with a molten orange color; the servants wore gold-spun clothing and gold masks.

  She wore a ruffled black taffeta dress, dripping with black pearls and black lace, rendering the pallor of her face striking. It was expected that she wear black to the ceremony, her funeral, her sacrifice. Her face was white with terror.

  “It’s almost time.” She rested her head on his shoulder, face glistening with a cold, nervous sweat. Her black hair was swept into a coil of a million tiny braids, pinned together with jeweled onyx barrettes.

  He took her in his arms, feeling her huge belly press against him. “There’s still time. We’ll leave together.”

  “I won’t survive.” She shuddered. “I can feel it.”

  “Don’t say that.” He held her tightly. “You don’t have to do this. We can leave.”

  “I can’t leave.” She lifted her head, looking into his eyes. “I can’t run. You know it.”

  “I’ll protect you.” He dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Trust me.”

  “You must go.” She broke away from his embrace and collapsed against the wall, sinking to her feet.

  He sat beside her, and crossed his arms. “I won’t leave without you.”

  She shook her head. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll never have the chance to leave again.” Shutting her eyes, she rested her head against the wall. “I can’t intercede on your behalf if I’m dead.”

  He took her hand. “Stop saying that.” He smelled the sweet fragrance of her perfume again, roses and sandalwood.

  She stared at the floor, pressing her lips together, tears welling in her eyes.

  He knelt beside her.

  She vocalized disgust in the back of her throat. “Mother thinks you’re responsible.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

  Her hand tightened into a trembling fist.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “For what?”

  She turned her head away. “For the death of Andrealphus.”

  The boy grabbed her by the shoulders. “I thought they had no idea who killed him.”

  “There was no evidence.” She glanced at him, then averted her eyes. “But Mother is convinced it was you.”

  “He’s twice my size!” The boy threw his hands in the air. “Does she really think someone like me could—”

  She shrugged. “He was murdered in his sleep. Anyone could have done it.” She put her hands against the wall and shakily climbed to her feet.

  The boy stood up. “What are you saying?”

  She studied him with fierce eyes. “I’m not sure.”

  He beat a hand against his chest. “You think I did it?”

  Her lips remained sealed, and she swallowed.

  He seized her arm. “You think I’m capable of doing something like that?!”

  “No, I always thought you were my little—” She choked on a sob. “You did do it, didn’t you?”

  He froze. He wanted to be her happiness, her rescuer, the only person she could trust—but after throwing his soul away to help her, he became the opposite, powerless before her waterfall of tears.

  “I thought you were different.” She sniffled. “I thought I could trust you—”

  “You can trust me!” He shook her.

  She pulled away from him. “Instead, you turned out to be just like them.”

  He stepped back, horrified.

  “You mixed yourself up in their evil.” She supported herself against the wall, quaking. “You sank to their level. You solved the problem their way—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved her against the wall. “To stand by and do nothing would have been twice as evil!” Hands trembling, he dug his fingers into her skin.

  Her soft skin.

  She stared at him, eyes wide, afraid and disgusted.

  Shoulders heaving, he held her, pinned her against the wall with the strength of a man, so she couldn’t escape. He noticed, for the first time in his life, he stood taller than her, albeit an inch.

  Her body was rigid with fear.

  He softened his grip. “I know. . . what he did to you.”

  A flood of tears erupted from her eyes and she fell against him. She grabbed his shirt with her fists and buried her face in his chest, sobbing hysterically.

  He swept her into his arms. “I’m sorry.” He rested his head against her head. “I couldn’t let him do it again.”

  Her whole body shuddered in an explosion of tears.

  “And I’m so sorry” —he squeezed her tightly— “that I couldn’t stop him sooner.” He kissed the top of her head. “I tried.”

  She tilted her head back and stared up at him with round eyes, perplexed.

  He opened his mouth to speak and faltered, swept with her beauty. Impulsively, he ran his hands along her face, her neck. Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  It was an open-mouthed kiss, hot, wanton, forbidden, the taste of her mouth making him blaze inside. He felt her soft skin, the contours of her delicate body, the jewels wound into her hair, the lace of her dress.

  He coveted her. He would take her with him, defend her, forever. He would save her, break her free from this mess.

  She pulled away from him, eyes downcast. “You need to leave. Now.”

  “Come with me.” He took her hand.

  She tore her hand away. “Don’t argue with me.”

  He placed his hand on her stomach and felt it move, the nightmare inside her.

  “They will take what belongs to them, one way or another.” She glanced at him. “I don’t have it in me to fight. My body won’t withstand this, anyway. I’m shocked I’ve lasted as long as I have.” She turned to face him, features softening. “That’s why you have to go now. When it happens, everyone will be distracted.”

  He wanted to speak, but had no words, only pain.

  “I went to great lengths to plan your escape.” She placed a finger over his lips. “I want to know you’ll be somewhere safe, somewhere far away from here. Please, don’t rob me of that.”

  He buried his head in the crook of her neck, and became acutely aware of his lips against her skin. They hugged tightly, inseparably, for what felt like an eternity.

  He loved her madly, too madly. He didn’t care what the monster had planted inside her; he wanted only to take her away, to keep her for himself.

  It drove him mad to think that whatever revenge he did extract was too late and ineffectual. He wanted her freedom, her peace.

  His cheek pressed against her cheek. He knew the second he released her from this embrace, he released her forever. “You won’t come with me?”

  She pulled back, gripping his shoulders.

  He felt the pain of severance. He wanted to fall into her, to hold her forever, to make this entire world disappear.

  She squeezed him. “I want what’s best for you. I want you to survive.”

  There were no words for all the things he wanted to scream. No words.

  “You must go.” She released him, taking a step back.

  Declaration of War :: Nightmare 2

  VIII.

  Ninkasi closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the bathtub. She surrendered to the invasive pampering rituals with begrudging acceptance. It had become a normal daily affair for two strangers to waltz into her room, strip her clothes and run their fingers intimately across her body.

  She never asked for this.

  They were doing what was asked of them.

  Best to get it over with.

  She craved the contact of a man. It frustrated her, every day feeling hands and fingers rush across her body, rake through her hair, squeezing her, kneading her, caressing her, penetrating her—she burned for a real pair of hands that would bring her to satisfacti
on, a pair of hands more capable than her own.

  It was a terrible tease, the dainty fingers, the lukewarm touches, probing enough to provide intense violation without the delivery of pleasure. Some days, she didn’t care whose hands they were. The more she was starved, the more she was stroked, the more her entire body screamed to be brought to a raging climax.

  She let her thoughts claim her in the blackness behind closed eyes. While each hand was different, every hand followed the same predictable path, starting with her face, her neck, her shoulders, working its way down to the increasingly sensitive areas of her body.

  Then, she imagined it: Orion’s hand. Orion’s hand sweeping over her stomach, cresting over her thighs, finding its way inside her, his touch confident, powerful, but tender.

  She felt a throb between her legs. She tilted her head back, hips arching unconsciously, and moaned when the finger entered her. It slipped inside, welcomed by slick evidence of her excitement.

  Ninkasi sat up, eyes wide, horrified that she had made such a sound. These were strangers, women, touching her body, bathing her.

  She blushed, mortified.

  But her thoughts were of Orion.

  Was this why he sent her here? Could he have possibly predicted the effect this would have on her?

  Or was the isolation driving her crazy, locked alone with her unsatisfied desires and silence?

  Ninkasi trailed behind the servants, returning to her chamber.

  She heard the squeal of the metal grate, the patter of the servants’ light footsteps down the stairwell, exiting, leaving her. The final woman locked the gate.

  Ninkasi observed in horror: she clicked together the metal hook of a padlock.

  There would be no more bobby pins, no more hope of escape.

  She ran to the metal fence, hooked her fingers around the bars and shook the gate.

  The servants ignored her and disappeared.

  She sank to her knees, hearing the whine of metal as she leaned against the gate.

  “This one, I suspect, you will find most enjoyable, more than the first.” Orion leaned over the table, pouring an ounce of wine into a new chalice, pushing it toward Ninkasi. “It’s a cabernet-sauvignon, aged for longer than I’ve lived at this chateau.”

  Ninkasi lurched forward, lifting the chalice, observing the wine. “And how long is that?”

  Orion folded his hands at the table, black opera gloves exposed beneath the lace cuffs of a billowing white shirt. He wore a pinstriped blazer with scarlet silk brocade, glittering rubies pinning back the lapel. A vest beneath the jacket matched the cuffs; his white shirt buttoned up to his neck with onyx buttons, gathering in lacy frills around his neck. “There are fragrances of cherry, blackberry, vanilla, peppercorn—”

  Ninkasi swirled the goblet, sniffing the wine, face cracked with a twisted smile. “And tobacco, mixed with. . . leather shoes.” She took a sip. “No wonder you like it.” She slammed the goblet on the table and leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “How old are you?”

  He poured her a generous glass. “Younger than this wine.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He poured himself a glass, and glanced out the window. “Older than you.”

  She took a swig, and banged the goblet against the table. “But how old?!”

  Orion picked up a jeweled fork and steak knife, and resumed cutting into a tender plate of braised beef. “The best part about this wine is that it pairs perfectly with the meat.”

  Ninkasi swirled her fork through a mountain of garlic mashed potatoes and rosemary gravy. She ignored him. She felt her cheeks getting hot.

  He finished chewing his food, and then spoke. “This was Aleister’s cow.”

  She ran her hands along her face. Like she needed any reminders of insane this place was! Of course there were plenty of cows, and they all belonged to Aleister.

  What kind of sick bastard ate his own pet cows?

  “I’m thirty-seven.” He met her gaze behind an iridescent butterfly ballroom mask. It was as if the giant insect landed on his nose and perched over his face, shielding him from scrutiny. Wings poking out above his head, the mask accentuated the angle of his jaw, his neck, with his hair swept into a low ponytail.

  “Well.” She took another sip of wine, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. “As long as we’re both younger than the wine.” He was fourteen years her elder. She hung her head and burst out laughing. “And as long as I don’t smell like leather shoes—”

  Yes, she was drunk.

  Orion held the goblet before his lips. “I can wear different shoes, if it pleases you.”

  She clanked cutlery against the plate, and nibbled her dinner. “Why should you care why I care what shoes you wear?” Food would absorb the alcohol. Wouldn’t it?

  “There exists a vast array of old cobbled shoes in the chateau from which to choose.” Orion returned to his meal.

  “Of course there does.” Ninkasi dumped the bottle over his glass, filling it to the brim.

  “However, these particular shoes have been kind to me.” He grinned. "I rather like them."

  “If you can get as drunk as I am, we’ll both go and try on all the shoes.” She hiccupped, and lifted a hand to her chest. “What were you saying before, about The Brotherhood?”

  “That I will have no part in it.” Orion shook his head. “Everyone who serves Aleister descended from families enmeshed in The Brotherhood. I suppose they grew weary of appeasing bloodthirsty gods that demand child sacrifice—”

  “Child sacrifice?” She squeezed her chalice. “You’re joking, right? I think Merve Sterling joined the order.”

  Orion tilted his head curiously. “Who?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Some stupid boy my father wants me to marry because it would make him rich.” She threw her head back and gulped the wine. “My mother thinks he’s gorgeous.” She slammed her goblet on the table; with the second bottle died her reservations and delicacy. “I think he’s a juvenile idiot. But he joined The Brotherhood in college. I always thought it was a safe way for rich, bi-curious guys to jerk each other off in graveyards and have the occasional barbecue.”

  “Keen women are a liability.” He glanced over his shoulder, and smirked. “Aleister’s uncle inducted him because he wanted Aleister to learn everything he could from The Brotherhood, to learn the secrets of the enemy. It was the same reason Aleister pressured me to join, for years.”

  “Did you try it?” Ninkasi pressed the glass against her lips, staring at him with wide eyes. “Did you let Aleister take you to the graveyard?”

  “I refused.” Orion wagged a finger. “Aleister finally quit, and everyone living under him followed. He started his own order.” He paused to sip his wine. “I’m not sure what they do now. I think he means to repent for the vast history of child sacrifice by ingesting copious amounts of drugs and hosting orgies beneath moon.”

  “Sounds effective.” She slumped against the wall. “Thank goodness you rescued me from an excess of festivity.”

  “Festivity of excess.” He swallowed the last of his glass.

  Ninkasi snatched the bottle, poured herself a splash of wine, and served Orion a generous glass. “You’re sure you’ve never done it?”

  “Done what?” He studied her.

  “Went to the graveyard.” She tasted her wine and grinned. “With Aleister.”

  Orion shook his head, voice cool. “Not once.”

  She leaned toward him. “You’ve never even thought about it?”

  “No.” He focused on his plate.

  Her smile was huge. “Not once?”

  He finished chewing, and covered his mouth with a gloved hand. “Never.”

  She pursed her lips. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I can detect liars.” Orion tipped his glass toward Ninkasi, a wave of red splashing against the table. A disgusted cry of frustration caught in the back of his throat, and he frantically blotted the edge of his glass with a silver
napkin.

  Ninkasi reclined in her seat. “I bet that’s a lie.” She stared at the ceiling.

  “It’s the truth.” His mouth twisted into a tragic, contemptuous snarl, while he patted at the spilled wine with his napkin.

  “But how am I supposed to know it’s true?!” She slammed a hand on the table.

  The wine in Orion’s goblet lurched, threatening to spill again.

  She covered her face with a hand, disguising a giddy laugh.

  “Think about it—”

  "Oh, I'm thinking about it!" Ninkasi grinned a Cheshire grin, pushing the lip of the chalice beneath her nose.

  He defensively cradled his goblet, and took another sip of wine. “For what other reason would Aleister keep me at his side?”

  She swirled the wine in her glass. “You made love in the graveyard?”

  “It’s not only lies, you know.” Orion studied her from behind his glass, ignoring her questions. “Anger, fear, any kind of feeling or emotion that results in a change of physiology. I can detect it.”

  Ninkasi’s heart skipped a beat. She felt a knot in her stomach, but fought to sit still with a neutral face. There was something undeniably frightening about him, something that even Aleister, with all of his power and brute force, lacked.

  “There is a change in you this moment.” He pointed at her.

  “It’s clever guesswork.” Ninkasi shook her head, and drank from her glass, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Channelers and psychics are skilled enough to make a plush living from cold readings, and all they ever spew is pure bullshit.” She curled her fingers around the chalice. “I’m not convinced.”

  He set down his glass. “Anything that makes you sweat.”

  She wished she could pull a curtain over his face.

  “Anything that makes your heart pound.”

  Could he hear her heart pounding?

  “Anything that makes you freeze, makes you tremble, makes you burn up inside, I can feel when you feel it.” He finished his wine. “Any emotion that registers in your body.”

  She sat rigid, drunk, horrified, battling to maintain a nonchalant facade of interest in his conversation, baffled by a smoldering sensation between her legs. She didn’t say a word, make a sound; did he know what she felt? Could he feel it?