by Jaid Black
Certain images contained within this e-book have been digitally marked by Digimarc Corp. If you purchased this e-book from a source other than Ellora’s Cave or one of its known affiliates, contact [email protected] immediately. Please note that reading this e-book without first purchasing it through legitimate means is illegal and can result in heavy fines. As always, our authors thank-you for your support and patronage.
Warning:
The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. “No Fear” has been rated NC-17, erotic, by four individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this e-book are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…
Prologue
The Palace of Mirrors
Dominant Red Moon of Morak, Seventh Dimension
6049 Y.Y. (Yessat Years)
“My nieces could be anywhere.” He sighed, his hand running distractedly through his mane of midnight black hair. “Leastways, ‘tis all I ask of you. One last request before I release you from your instruction that you might rule o’er your own sectors.”
High Lord Jek Q’an Ri acknowledged the King of Morak’s words with a barely perceptible nod of the head. “If they have fled into the first dimension, Mighty One, ‘tis a vow I shall find them.”
Kil grunted as he strolled with Jek toward the west wing of the stronghold. ‘Twas only one launching pad within the confines of the palace large enough to host the take-off of a ship so huge as a gastrolight cruiser. “’Tis more like than not that the wenches have remained within this dimension, yet there is also the possibility, slim though it may be, that they would seek refuge in the land their mani heralds from.”
Jek came to a halt before the warring chamber and motioned for an underling to fetch him his weapons. He turned to look at his cousin Kil, the warlord who had been his teacher, whilst a young warrior in training snapped zorgs on either of Jek’s vein-roped forearms. “You will leave with your brothers to scour the seventh dimension, then?”
“Shh!” Kil’s glowing blue eyes darted warily about the black crystal corridor whilst he made certain that his cousin’s words had not been overheard by his ever-wily nee’ka. He frowned. ‘Twas Mari’s contention that his nieces should not be forcibly returned to Tryston, even though such was precisely what he and his brothers planned to do.
So Kil had said nothing further on the subject of his leave-taking to her, preferring as he did to refrain from yet another tiresome lecture on pigs in power and subverting dominant paradigms. Inevitably, he thought as his eyes narrowed and his lips turned down, conversations such as that one ended up in the King of Morak seeing no action in the vesha hides for a moon-rising or two.
He grunted. Definitely not groovy.
“Aye,” Kil whispered, feeling every inch the dunce for fearing the wrath of a wife whose height barely surpassed his navel. “Though Mari believes I am traveling to the planet Meridian in the fourth dimension on a mission of peace and goodwill.”
Jek shook his head slightly, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was not a warrior known for smiling o’er much, so the fact that he was grinning at all was a sign to Kil of how humorous he found his predicament to be. Jek was much more lighthearted than ever Kil was or would be, but he had learned o’er the Yessat years that ‘twas desirable to remain stoic of appearance at all times—leastways, with other warriors. Only with a Sacred Mate was it permissible to let one’s guard down a wee bit.
Kil sighed, exasperated. “What would you have me to say to her? Leastways,” he grumbled, “you know how bedamned irritating she is when she gets on one of her femalist kicks.”
“Feminist,” Jek murmured, his eyes twinkling. “’Tis called a feminist kick.”
“Aye?”
“Aye.”
Kil grunted. His hand waved absently about. “Femalist, feminist…’tis no difference. Leastways, the wench can irritate me as can no other with her bedamned prattling.”
Jek’s eyebrows rose fractionally, but he said nothing as they resumed their stroll toward the launching pad. He merely shook his head again, then fell in step next to his cousin.
A topless bound servant passed them in the corridor, her gaze seeking out Jek’s as she strode by. Jek ignored her, not out of callousness but because he truly hadn’t noticed her presence. Having been raised all his life amongst the most privileged, he was arrogantly accustomed to having bound servants aplenty to see to his every need.
The most favored in his harem he might have noticed had she strolled by with her large breasts bouncing in time with her walk, but even then he might not have. Leastways, it wasn’t as if he could feel emotions for a bound servant—not even for a favored.
He would that he could.
It might make his stark life just a wee bit more tolerable.
Since ‘twas not permissible by law for Jek to forsake his duties to the King of Morak in favor of searching for his Sacred Mate, it would have been welcomed had he been able to feel any emotion at all these past long Yessat years for any of the bound servants. But he was to be released from his bonds the soonest, he reminded himself. Then, finally, could he search the galaxies for the wench that had been born to belong to him.
Yet first there was duty.
Although Jek had been raised with a crystal fork-spoon in his mouth, it had come at a steep price. Because he would one day be a king by virtue of his birth and not by virtue of his own might, he had found it necessary o’er the Yessat years to be harsher, stronger—mightier—than every other warrior, that he might prove his worthiness to command.
‘Twas ironic for a certainty.
His good friend Cam K’al Ra had followed the same life-course as Jek for the opposite reason. Cam had wanted to prove that he, the son of a lowly trelli miner, was worthy of the Emperor’s daughter’s hand in marriage, whilst Jek had wanted to prove that he, the beloved firstborn son of the Emperor’s cousin, was worthy of ruling o’er his own sectors not because he had been born to rule them, but because he was mighty in his own right.
And so at a very young age Jek had pleaded with his sire to allow him to foster under the King of Morak, a warrior so feared ‘twas common for enemies to surrender unto him without any battling at all. Just the mere whisper of his name was enough to make many insurrectionists forsake their illegal activities in favor of retaining their lives.
Jek had not been disappointed, for the rumors had all been true. Kil was as deadly, if not more so, than legend allowed. The king had mellowed some in the last few years since the birth of his children, at least on the surface for Queen Mari’s sake, but for the longest part of Jek’s tutelage Kil had been as cold and merciless as his legend.
Jek had learned from the mightiest, the strongest, the most deadly.
No fear.
A weak warrior asked. A strong warrior took.
No fear.
A coward walked away when his enemies outnumbered him. A hero stayed and fought even if it cost him his life.
No fear.
And so it came to pass that Jek Q’an Ri became the very image that Kil Q’an Tal had made him into: ruthless, merciless, cold, and unforgiving. He rarely smiled, wasn’t given to jest, and never backed down once he’d set out on a course.
At least amongst other warriors. Whilst visiting with the females of his line he allowed his guards to slip just a bit that he might have the freedom of laughing and jesting in their presence. Mayhap, though, all warriors were given to such dual behavior. ‘Twas difficult indeed to remain grim and stoic every hour of every day, so ‘twas probably a necessity of nature that allowed for a warrior to relax in the presence of wenches.
“You’ve enough gastrolight stored on board to last you ten lifetimes should you need it.” Kil motioned toward the spaceship as they neared the launching pad. “Have a care the pilot hits naught, for the resulting crash would take your lives in the blink of an eye.”
Jek nodded. “I take with me Yar’at. ‘Tis no finer pilot than he.”
“You have named Yar’at your first in command when you leave for your own sectors then?”
“Aye.”
Kil inclined his head. “A worthy choice.”
No more words passed between the warriors until they reached their destination. They absently watched whilst an underling led Jek’s harem aboard the gastrolight cruiser, shooing them toward their awaiting bedchamber.
Kil grunted. “You are taking enough bound servants along to last twenty quests. Leastways, ‘tis for a certainty that the long trip shan’t bore you o’er much,” he said dryly.
Jek’s eyes twinkled, but he didn’t smile. “Aye, Mighty One.”
Kil nodded, serious once more. “Be prepared to turn around and hightail it back should I hear tell of my nieces in another dimension or galaxy. Until the laws of succession force me to release you from your duty to me you are still my handpicked first in command.” One eyebrow rose arrogantly. “I want you at the ready at all times.”
Jek’s gaze strayed toward the awaiting gastrolight cruiser. He sighed, actually hoping that the king did call him back. Leastways, the trip was bound to prove a failure, and a dull one at that. No warring. No hunting for a Sacred Mate. No nothing. “Aye, Mighty One.” His gaze shot back to his cousin’s. “I am ever at the ready.”
Chapter 1
Houston, Texas
The United States of America, First Dimension
September 19, 1986 A.D. (Anno Domini)
Brynda Mitchell’s eyebrows shot up as her curious gaze strayed toward the old man standing at the opposite side of her desk. His head was thrust back, his eyes closed in bliss as if he’d just reached nirvana, while he thrust open his trench coat and gave her a close-up view of his naked, and extremely wrinkled, seventy-year-old body.
Exhibitionism, she absently thought, letting the Psychology term mentally roll around on her tongue. She had just studied the section on sexual disorders in her Psychology textbook and could spot all sorts of wicked mental problems from twenty paces. Not that this one was particularly challenging. The trench coat and the nudity more or less gave it away, she conceded on a sigh.
Brynda shook her head slightly, suppressing the urge to sigh a bit more dramatically. Having worked in a library since she was old enough to hold down a job, she’d seen it all. Flashers. Junkies. Prostitutes. Once she’d even had to call the cops on an annoying pantomime artist who’d become irate when she couldn’t figure out what in the hell his hand gestures had meant. She had calmly informed the pantomime of the fact that he was a failure at his craft, which had enraged him enough to break the cardinal rule of pantomiming—he had spoken to her. Bellowed actually. And none too prettily at that, she recalled.
The public in general tended to think of libraries as sedate places where little to nothing in the way of odd might transpire, but on the contrary, the odd was so commonplace that it seemed rather normal to her. From couples that wanted to spice up their sex life by carrying on in a library aisle to hookers seeking a safe haven from pursuing pimps, Brynda had seen it all. She supposed all the weirdness helped to shake up the monotony of her otherwise staid existence, so she didn’t exactly mind any of it. Not even this seventy-year-old man and his naked, if a bit disgusting, body.
“That’s nice George,” she said distractedly, her gaze flicking back down to the textbook she was reading from. She had an exam in her graduate level Psychology course at the university later this evening and wanted to make certain she aced it. “Did you have a book you wanted to check out or do I need to call your daughter to come pick you up again?”
George closed his trench coat with a huff, nirvana forgotten as quickly as it had been found. “No, I don’t want you callin’ Emmy,” he snapped in an amusingly irritated voice only old southern men can perfect. He wagged a skinny finger at her. “I ain’t gettin’ sent to my room again, Miss Brynda, and that’s a fact.”
Brynda blinked at him over the rims of her large-framed spectacles. “Then I highly suggest you keep Mr. Wiggly under wraps. And I do mean that literally.” Her gaze flicked back down to the book. This particular chapter was actually quite interesting as it not only dealt with various sexual disorders and their remedies, but it had accompanying photographs as well. “There’s a new series of books on UFOs that came in today,” she said absently. “You might find them interesting.”
He hesitated. “Do they got pictures?” George asked begrudgingly, his interest snagged.
She glanced up and smiled. “Artistic renderings. I don’t believe anybody’s actually photographed an alien yet. Aisle D5, George.”
He grunted, curious despite himself. “Oh all right dammit, I’ll go have me a look.” His bushy eyebrows narrowed, forming one long caterpillar looking creature. “And no tattlin’ on me to Emmy while I’m thumbin’ through the alien books, y’hear?”
“Loud and clear,” she said indulgently as she turned the page in her textbook.
An hour later, when the library was getting ready to close down for the evening, Brynda stood up and headed for the women’s washroom to make herself presentable for class tonight. She wished she had time to run home and change into more comfortable clothing, but the visits to the doctor’s office directly after work made her free time between the library and the college nonexistent.
When she arrived at the women’s washroom, she made a direct beeline for the mirror, wanting to tidy herself up as much as possible. She studied the sensible, dependable image she presented as she straightened her neat little bowtie. Made out of red ribbon, she had read in a women’s magazine that a spiffy little ribbon bowtie was part and parcel of the proper image a modern businesswoman of the eighties should present. Accompanied by a pinstriped cotton shirt, a pair of matronly black pumps, and a no-nonsense skirt that ended just below the knees, she felt ready to take on the world. Or if not the world at large, she conceded, she at least felt ready to take on the Psychology exam at the university tonight.
Sometimes, especially during moments like this when she was tired and not feeling particularly well, she wondered if it was all worth it. Why bother going to class at night when she knew she’d never live to see graduation day? But in the end she always pulled herself together and carried on with life, for she wanted to keep hers as close to normal as possible for as long as possible.
Only thirty-six-years old, Brynda realized she would never marry and bear children. A small part of her grieved the loss of what could have been if only Harry hadn’t died, but he was gone, and she had her reasons for not wanting to entangle another man in her life.
Harry had been a good man, if not a particularly fascinating one. He had cared for Brynda wholeheartedly, and while she might have wished for him to be a tad more on the inventive, entertaining side, he had been a dear friend and a thoughtful lover. Unimaginative, even complacent perhaps, but thoughtful regardless.
Not that Brynda herself was particularly fascinating and entertaining. On the contrary, she knew she was a wallflower, knew too that people tended to think of her as a dull little mouse. She was interested in her work at the library, pursued her advanced degree in Psychology at night at the local university, and that, unfortunate as it might sound to others, summed up the whole of her existence.
But Brynda was happy. She might occasionally grow bored with the status quo, might every once in a blue moon wish she led a wilder, more exciting life, but all in all she was quite content with the life she had. Brynda preferred predictability. She sought out stability and normalcy, and she didn’t much care
for anyone or anything that shook up her ordered, sensible life.
Harry had been good that way. He had been as mousy and sensible as she was, which had made for a smart, if a bit boring match.
Only forty, it had been a shock when Harry had died of a heart attack. It had taken Brynda nearly two years to recover from the loss of him, but eventually the grieving period had ended and now when she thought back on his memory it was more with a small nostalgic smile as she remembered the good times, rather than with tears as she recalled the pain and abject loneliness of losing him.
But it had been difficult. She had always expected it would be her that would go first and not Harry. Now that she understood what it felt like to lose someone you love, she knew that she would never put anybody else through such a horrific event as what she’d gone through herself.
And so the status quo would remain. She would continue on with her life, lead it in the way she knew how to, and she would have no regrets, no wishes that she hadn’t dragged somebody else into her life only to leave and break their heart.
Brynda drew in a deep breath as she studied her image in the mirror. She was an average looking woman, she supposed. Neither ugly nor gorgeous. She possessed long blonde hair, clear blue eyes reminiscent of a wolf’s, but was otherwise rather ordinary looking. Still, she was fairly certain that if she wanted to she could find another man to date.
But, she reminded herself, she didn’t want to. She might be lonely—terribly lonely even—but she would not do to an innocent man what Harry had done to her. She would not allow a man to grow to care for her, only to have her die on him in less than a year’s time.
Brynda finished arranging the ribbon bowtie around her neck, shoved the pair of spectacles back onto her face, and reached for her briefcase. She wanted to get an early start before rush hour traffic hit, realizing as she did that traffic on a Friday was terrible. There was only two hours left before the exam tonight and the doctor’s office was clear across town.