Skhye Moncrief - [Feral 01]

by Feral Fascinations (lit)

  Whatever she implied had to be crap. “Werewolves, burning umbilical cords, blood fuckers? My head’s spinning. Take pity on a man who doesn’t even have a pair of pants. Can you just lay everything on the line?”

  One of her brown eyebrows arched. “The blood. You need the blood to keep your sanity. If you can’t have your mate’s blood, then the only alternative is the blood of your people. That’s why umbilical cord blood was an option in early Christian history. Until the Church outlawed the practice.”

  The Church plus monster movies weren’t a cup of Joe worth chugging. “You’re not making sense.”

  She sighed. “The blood of these more-evolved psychics is too strong for us. Chemically different. That’s why there haven’t been any children from blood-fucker marriages. The extraterrestrials tried to breed a partially-psychic generation two millennia ago to fight the Blood Wars. Their efforts failed. We’ve got some interesting variation in earth blood types now. But nothing else to show of the hybridization attempts.”

  This chick was whacko. “So, I’m a were-wolf?” Better to get pants than chat with Ditzy. He turned back the way he came through the trees.

  “It’s a conspiracy. Dare to trust those who share information with you. For what is hidden will bite you in the ass. Literally. You can’t shape shift back until you’ve champed on a few bites of earthling or your soul mate.”

  A limb slapped his buttock.

  Fire burned his skin.

  He rubbed the sting.

  “Mark my words, blood fucker, the sons of God took unto themselves the daughters of man. And Ezekiel saw the wheel!”

  Adios Sunday school. Hello pants.

  The broken foliage wasn’t hard to follow back to The Chamber’s entrance. One would have thought his permanent woody would have given up the ghost with each step of the long hike. Not likely. They must have injected me with some kind of liquid stimulator. Even worse, the whore spy was waiting beside his blue jeans, shirt, and combat boots, all piled atop the single plain bench.

  Her stance spoke of anything but seduction. She stood at ease, hands on her sexy curvaceous hips as if she were about to whip out a pistol to win a duel for the right to own him. The dominatrix. Wasn’t she even slightly in the need to bump uglies? This damned blood-fucker thing had to be one-sided. She probably expected him to drop and give her twenty at a moment’s notice. Or everything was some grand farce to mess with his mind. Or body. Babies. Was this about hybrids? God, he was a freaking stag, bull, or stud. There was no way he was giving into his body’s fascination. Or their expectations.

  His skin prickled and crawled.

  Like something feral lurked under his skin. Or was that his dependable gut talking? This woman bearing clothing couldn’t be trusted. Time to covet the nut-case’s warning.

  Red Kindrist studied him with a blank expression.

  She was good. Ruthless. And holding his broke-in jeans. A fool would let those pants get away. He strode to his clothes beside her high-heeled black boot, grabbed his favorite pants, and thrust a foot into one squirming leg.

  Silence toyed with The Chamber.

  Not good given his little friend wouldn’t just shove into his pants. The bastards were certainly having a good laugh watching him struggle to hide his affliction. They wouldn’t get to see anything else. For damned sure. He shimmied everything into place, silently thanked his old friend zipper, and worked on the boot’s lacings until he was fully dressed.

  “I’ll show you to your personal quarters if you’re ready to go,” she stated.

  Personal space? Or solitary confinement? Who knew what waited given this bizarre natural containment area. Some free time to think all this crap out might be good. He unfolded to look down where her black hair split neatly down one side of the crown of her head. “Lead the way.”

  She stepped off toward the door and led him through a spaghetti tousle of identical sterile corridors until a side door whisked open to reveal a dimly-lit empty room with one simple bench in front of a small closed portal that had to be a window.

  Red Kindrist sashayed across the space, shaking her hips like a streetwalker, and reached for some almost invisible buttons. A table unfolded from the wall. Some sort of rectangular platform opened as well.

  She turned to him, assuming that at-ease stance of a mercenary cloaked in skin-tight black leather. “A table and bed. That’s it for deep-space life.”

  Hell. Both would do with one’s little friend stoked to the max. Throw her down. Get dirty.

  His pants pulled a hair at his crotch.

  Damn them all. Deep space beyond what lay inside the whore was something he never requested. The bitch. His boots snapped up the distance between them in seconds.

  Wasn’t she worried? I’ll show the smug bitch. He grabbed her shoulders and rammed her against the barren gray walls.

  She only stared at him with those clear blue eyes.

  “What gave you the right to suck me into this war?” Would she even answer?

  His gut twisted.

  So much for intuition.

  But it would have been better if she did the talking. He slid his fingers around the soft skin of her white throat and squeezed. “I’m waiting.”

  Blood throbbed in her veins.

  To bite her neck. To suck the soft skin of a woman. To chew it up and eat it.

  The lighting danced a bit on her jet black hair, almost forming a faint red rainbow effect in its reflection. She watched him for a moment, blinked, and mouthed something.

  Useless explanation. He shoved her aside and turned to the closed window.

  “You could never know the danger your planet is in,” she growled.

  “Danger from you and your mobsters.” He saw the button to the portal and pushed the smooth square.

  The flat cover whisked open to a never-ending expanse of stars and multi-colored mist of a nebula.

  “Without the protection from the free-thinking universe, earth would already be enslaved to Voldon.”

  Really? He turned.

  She rubbed her throat and glared at him. Her hair now completely flared a fire-engine red.

  “Look long and hard, Mr. Straightarrow. I’m known as Red Kindrist because, when I get pissed, as you earthlings love to coin the phrase, my hair burns with anger. I may not be able to read your mind. But you’ll certainly read mine when it behooves you.”

  So she was ticked off now. Good. “Then define blood fucker.”

  Her eyes slowly closed and opened in disgust as she stared at him.

  Would she answer with her poker hand? Or hold out for more money?

  “I see you’ve spoken to Darla.” She inhaled and immediately resumed her at-ease stance.

  “You were explaining.”

  She licked her lips.

  Full lips. Red lips. Perfect for….

  His groin throbbed where it was safely hidden inside his pants.

  Freaking hard-on.

  “If you and I don’t share blood and sex, we both will die. Blood fucker is the derogatory term for us. But I am a loyal assassin for the free-thinking universe, and I have given everything, including my virgin ass to The Cause for my people and yours. I ask you to please not use the term when speaking to me or anyone else on sacred mission to protect life everywhere. Because our blood, our unification, is the most sacred thing next to free thought in this existence. We are soul mates.”

  She stood motionless once her mouth closed, her body waiting as if she needed to hear a command.

  Maybe she was being honest. From her side, she could very well believe what she claimed. And intuition was laying low. “Then what of Darla? Is she this ship’s earth freak exhibit?”

  “No.” She stepped sideways and turned to walk toward the empty table. “She’s confused. Very confused. Probably terrified. Every now and then one inductee won’t cooperate.”

  Cooperation is a joke with this blackmail.

  Red Kindrist turned a conspiratorial mask his direction, the red ma
rks from his fingers still red beneath her chin. But her hair was calming back to jet black. “For Darla, she has abandoned her destiny as well as Goro’s. Legend speaks of a man from his planet bonding with new blood. Bringing new hope to the universe with a miracle child. But Darla will have nothing to do with him.” She pushed another button and a bench emerged beneath the table. She sat, her fingers interlaced atop the table.

  What held back the rest of the information? “How do you know Goro is this man?”

  “He’s like me.” She shot him a glance, rose, and strode toward the door. “I have some work to finish. I’ll return shortly.”

  His gut flopped.

  What was she hiding? “How is Goro like you?”

  The door whisked open.

  She turned to him, stepping through the doorway. “He is the only survivor from an attack on his world.”

  The door shut.

  Should he believe the woman who shanghaied him? Rather, pity the worm stuck on the hook? And just who was the worm? Darla could have been one of Kindrist’s decoys to lure him into joining The Cause. All of this may be another level of Kindrist’s game.

  * * * *

  “Jovull’s returned, Kindrist. His mate was killed,” Forty Three said in mindspeak.

  The dark shadow of the operator’s pity hung inside Kindrist’s mind where she stopped dead still and stared at the blank corridor wall. Not my teacher. “No.”

  Her gut sank.

  Warm tears stung her eyes.

  “My deepest sympathies, Kindrist. He’s asked if you’ve returned from earth. He requests to speak with you.”

  She blinked back the wetness. “Where is he?”

  “He refused to go seek refuge in the infirmary. He’s waiting in his quarters.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Kindrist, it’s been two days. I’m sorry, Kindrist. You must hurry.”

  “Curse the Voldon scum who took his mate.” She stretched her legs and ran through The Seeker’s halls.

  When the door opened, she could see the older blond in nothing but his black pants. He’d removed his boots and sat with his back to her, his palms on the bench as if he meditated, looking out at the universe’s dancing stars. As if he waited for Questra to return to him.

  Never again. His wife was dead.

  The door whisked shut behind her. “I’m sorry, dear friend. I hurried,” she said in mindspeak.

  He swung one leg at a time over the bench to face her with a genuine smile and pushed into her mind. “I am not the last of my people. Although, you are like the child I never had. My deepest regrets for that shake of the universe, Red. Questra would hate to be here. Hate to be the one telling you the same thing. She loved you like her own child as well.”

  Her stomach curdled.

  To think another thought would loosen her tears. She stared at his squared jaw.

  “I heard news you took a mate,” he grinned.

  How could he be so serene? Forty-eight hours without soul-mate blood meant he was on the verge of shape shifting. She took a step toward him.

  He held up a palm. “Remain at a distance. When I begin to shift, please leave. I will spare my comrades and end this myself.”

  Blessed stars! Jovull was a warrior to behold. He wouldn’t lower himself to roaming his home planet and harvesting blood from his people. Not even those four planets of peoples on Voldon’s side whose blood would suffice. He knew the risk he took in protecting free thinkers. Only a noble death for him. She nodded. “Straightarrow is in transition.”

  His long blond hair swayed against his muscled shoulders.

  He chuckled softly. “I knew you would choose a man who defied those in power. Give him time. He will come to his senses. Who couldn’t when mated to such a beauty? Add your brains and your heart to the mix and you make old wise men dream of their youth.”

  He was too kind to worry about easing her fears with death at his door. Everything would be lost with Jovull’s death.

  Reason.

  Patience.

  Friendship.

  But that was the way of were-assassin business.

  “I don’t want to hear those thoughts again,” he scolded.

  So he broke free-thinking law in his last moments. Perhaps she would bully into one’s thoughts herself. Her gaze met his.

  Not a twinge of distress danced in his eyes.

  He shrugged. “It may be rude to eavesdrop. But I’m short on time.” He shot her an amazing grin. “Questra took out Voldon’s Quadrant XIV space hopper. It’ll take months for them to set up another wormhole relay in that region. If you can convince this inductee of yours to cooperate, Gameddaron awaits. Disable the neural network. I know you can do it.”

  “For you and Questra.” She nodded. “I shall avenge you both.”

  He reached into his pants’ pocket and tossed something across the floor at her boots.

  Questra’s locket rattled on a chain.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  Memories of the years she studied under her mentor flooded her mind.

  The holidays.

  The three times she beat the couple with weapons.

  The loss of their four stillborns.

  “None is lost when one fights with friends of your caliber,” he mind spoke.

  Blessed Devros, justice proved cruel.

  “Stop staring at it, Red. Our pictures are inside. Every time she left for a mission, she gave it to me. It was her last wish to bequeath it to you.”

  She slid her gaze from the warm bauble to where he sat with whitened knuckles clutching the seat.

  The change clutched at his soul.

  “Take it, Red.” His jaw began to clench, the muscles tightening with the shifting. “You and your mate are destined to give rise to new legends. The future is in you. And now you take a piece of Questra’s soul to fuel the path to tomorrow.”

  The metal’s cold hardness spoke nothing of vital essence. Only death. She squeezed the rigid oval.

  “I feel it,” he lowered himself to speak with his mouth as if he feared someone might overhear his thoughts. “Ashes to ashes. From dusk to dust. Never to live, love, and laugh. Remember the children on those scorched planets. Love and light, my child.” His shoulder jerked.

  No time remained with a male mercenary shifting before her eyes. She grabbed the locket and met his resolute gaze. “I shall never forget, father.” She spun toward the corridor.

  The door slid shut at her heels.

  “May vengeance warm your heart and soul, my child,” Jovull whispered inside her head. “Tell the child of legend I dreamed of him often. I felt his intelligence. I heard his laughter. I wish I could have seen my grandson. You will be the parent I could never be. Love and—”

  His thoughts were gone. She stared at the silver door.

  He’d shifted or taken his life.

  Her heart sank.

  She squeezed the locket.

  Chapter Five

  Every tap of Kindrist’s footfalls drummed out an unwanted farewell as she walked away down the sterile corridor. Jovull’s wit and patience would never be shared with refugees turned mercenaries again.

  But to hide before I lose my sanity.

  To run.

  To escape. She inhaled deeply and stepped faster.

  Shit. Someone would detect her emotion.

  Where could a person hide from psychics on this death ship? She crammed the locket into her pocket.

  “Kindrist, do you need someone?” Forty-three asked in mindspeak. “I can meet you somewhere.”

  Forget formalities with requesting permission to enter minds. “I’d prefer to be alone.”

  “Everyone has reported to their quarters,” the operator paused, “in reverence,” she added as if she feared stating Jovull’s reality.

  “No one is in docking bay 12, Kindrist.”

  A place to be alone. “Love and light, Forty-three.”

  Something squeezed her throat.

  She couldn�
�t swallow.

  Jovull was almost gone. When would the sun rise again in the darkness of space?

  The silence of sadness echoed off the empty corridor walls, sucking her along to docking bay 12 for the funerary viewing. The soft hushing sound of air flushing through the ventilation ducts insisted all crew members show reverence.

  So much horrid silence. She faced the docking bay’s entrance.

  A loud sucking pop sounded.

  The internal hatch’s popping seal. And Jovull’s looming funeral.

  He would be interred to the sacred ocean of space at the moment of his planet of origin’s sunset. Forget banners. Forget music. Only silence would see him home, his voice lost to those who cherished his friendship and guidance. She stepped through the exterior docking-bay hatch and crossed the empty chamber.

  Each metallic ring of her clicking hills held no promises of the future.

  Hard truth lay in a mercenary’s job.

  Speak of a mercenary’s life to planet-huggers and one rarely heard tales of funerals—the ugly side of the war. Glory. They always sang of The Cause’s exploits and progress. But buried deep inside the cheers rested the undeclared memories of all who gave their life for free thinkers.

  Unspoken.

  Understood.

  Cursed silence. She climbed atop some protruding sheet of metal and stared out at the beckoning stars of deep space.

  From sunrise to sunset. From dusk to dust. The stars called to every mercenary aboard, taunting with the memories of home life warmed by the beloved light of days, romantic sunsets, and laughter. Reminding every crew member of their mortality in the Blood Wars.

  Life, a ludicrous tragedy.

  The night sky moved to the left like a rolling screen as she stared out at the brilliant pinpoints of stars.

  So, the ship was underway. Nobody had announced the ship embarked toward a wormhole relay. Probably because of Jovull.

  Had he taken his life yet? She flicked the locket open.

  A hologram shot up featuring Jovull and Questra.

  Probably made five years ago. Both smiled, arm in arm. Happy. How insane that they had found happiness in such a traumatic existence. If only I can find that same happiness in marriage.