Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End

by Lesley Young

  I brush mine tremulously against his. Warm. Softer than I imagined. I’m taking such shallow breaths, so uncertain.

  But . . . nothing. Why’s he not responding? I give it another try, kissing him tenderly but harder, grasping his face with both my hands. He slackens and shifts, every so slightly.

  More out of desire than calculation, I taste his mouth with my tongue.

  He reacts with a flurry. His big hands comb and twine in my hair and his mouth opens my mouth, his tongue darting in fast.

  Holy stars!

  He’s done this before! How can that be?

  Before I can think to pull away, still clasping my head, he presses me down onto him. I barely begin to panic when he’s flipped me up into his arms, then down onto the ship floor in record speed, separating my legs with his. His knees are pressing so hard into mine to keep them spread it hurts. Shocked, I try to push him off but his face is firmly attached to mine, his tongue probing my mouth with expertise I’ve never experienced before. In a second, my hands are pinned down above my head with one of his. Then I realize he’s hoisting up my skirt with his other hand.

  No! He’s misunderstood, I realize with terror.

  I scream “Stop!” and “No!” and push against his hold in hopes he will realize a kiss is not a four-course dinner. But his greedy mouth muffles my protests. My skirt’s all the way up and he rubs and grabs my bare butt. His free hand climbs up my shirt, grasps my breast, and squeezes my nipple hard. He groans.

  I can’t believe what’s happening so quickly! Struggle against him! I try but he won’t stop. Fear that he plans to take me mixes with ardent shame. I begin to cry in earnest.

  Frenzied, I wrench against his grip, tearing my triceps in the process. I cry out in genuine pain.

  He freezes.

  We remain there, breathing heavy, him pressed between my legs, his face attached to mine. I’m trembling and near hysterical with panic. Finally he releases my mouth, covering my sobs with his hand.

  I strike at him with my newly freed hands, but I’m shocked to see how this brand new kind of fear has drained me of strength. It’s like I’m swatting at a fly. When he places his entire body weight down on mine, I struggle to breathe.

  He pauses there, and leans over by my ear. “I could be inside you quicker than you could shout out my name in ecstasy,” he rasps.

  My stomach drops with fear again and I wriggle uselessly.

  He props up just enough to stare into my eyes, his so stormy and bright I think wildly that they might rain down green.

  “Perhaps that would be just punishment for tempting me,” he growls.

  “No,” I squeak out. I fear he really will teach me a lesson.

  “Since you did not understand your first lesson today, let me spell this second one out for you,” he says nastily. “Do not confuse your ability to be pleasured with our desire to take pleasure from you. Any other Thell’eon would have taken what he could because you invited him to do so, and there would be nothing that anyone, not even our Prime, could do to prevent it. Fucking, as you humans call it, is always a woman’s choice, and once that choice is made, there’s no turning back.”

  He releases me for a second, and then thinks better of it, pressing down on me even harder.

  “One more consideration: we have been warned against human sex weapons. But even if we had not, no Thell’eon would ever betray one of his own for a katantz . . . ” He pauses, looking at my face without looking in my eyes, “. . . even with you.”

  All at once he lifts up, leaps off of me, and departs the shuttle. I curl up on my side, pulling my skirt down, actually feeling grateful to him.

  Grateful!

  Fucking bastard.

  I breathe deeply to settle myself. I can’t believe how badly I’m shaking. Combined with Onegin’s beating and now this . . . humiliation . . . I’m done. I just need to take a nap. I sit up, dizzy. I take a long moment. Recovering my senses, which are literally vibrating from fatigue and loss. Just plain loss. And I have nothing left to lose.

  Calm down.

  I smooth my hair and my top, noticing the tingling where that, that barbarian pinched my nipple and cringing with humiliation and anger all over again. How dare he take such liberties, even if he was pretending to violate me to scare me. Oh, I can’t believe how stupid I am.

  Stop it! Calm down.

  I try to relax my features into a blank expression. It occurs to me to channel the idea of Shadon’s surge, and I’m surprised to find a store of positive energy. Maybe that’s how it works. I rise, channeling grace, and slowly walk out, legs shaky, not even looking at the giant jerk I know is him, and certainly not the others who follow me. When we reach the exit of the hangar, I wait for Kell’an to take up the lead and follow him submissively. I focus on the route and I give myself credit for remembering it correctly. I even drop a few torn when the path veers from the mess to ‘my space.’ So I have that going for me.

  When we arrive, my hopes of having a few moments alone are dashed when I remember that Or’ic insisted a Kir be with me at all times. I think I could have a fit over the lack of privacy as Kell’an leans against the downcore while a Cinarian helps him remove his boots. But then I channel the surge stores again. No need to waste any of my already dwindling supply of dignity.

  I use the privy, untie my own boots, and then lie down on my downcore with my back to Kell’an who’s sitting on the extra downcore in my space occupied on a com-tab-like device.

  I want to fall asleep and never wake up.

  Instead, I lie there, focusing on my breathing, going over the route to and from the hangar bay at least a dozen times. A disturbing question pops into my mind. Should I ask? Why not? He’s already done the worst. “Kell’an, are there human women on Thell’eon?” I ask without turning to face him.

  Silence.

  How else would he know how to kiss like that? I don’t know a ton about Thell’eon mating, but what was passed along made it sound about as intimate and intricate as well, animals rutting in a pen. So how would Kell’an know how to do all that? I imagine a great number of scenarios, the worst being a whole group of human women used as sex slaves.

  “There may be,” he answers finally, quietly.

  I’m surprised he’s actually conversing with me.

  I roll over and look at him questioningly.

  “I knew only of one,” he adds. “She was translocated from deep space mission as a child and raised as Thell’eon.”

  This is beyond upsetting to me. What kind of horrible life must she have had? Forced to give away her sons when they turned six.

  “What happened to her?”

  For the briefest of moments, a look of utter sadness haunts Kell’an’s face. Does he care for her? I try a new tactic. “How do you know her?”

  What surprises me the most is how much he appears to want to talk about her.

  “I mated with her, when I was much younger.”

  I blush at his forthright confession.

  “Before I was a Kir. A Kir only mates within our own class,” he adds, clearly remembering those occasions with fondness by the unexpected softening in his eyes.

  So humans were too lowly for a Kir. I focus on the more important point.

  “And where is she now?” I ask?

  A look of rage sours his features.

  “Dead?” I whisper.

  He turns to me. “Worry not, human. She is being avenged every day, even as we speak.” His face is twisted from emotion, like the day he told me about Lor.

  Avenged every day. Whoa! It makes total sense. Could Lor have had something to do with this human woman dying?

  “Why is she being avenged? What happened to her?” I ask urgently, but he has shut down. Back to doing work on his com-tab.

&nb
sp; No matter. What I’ve learned is huge. Kell’an clearly has some attachment to this woman beyond what I gather they feel toward Thell’eon mates. Could it have something to do with her being human? Being a sifter gives me some leverage, but nothing compares to affection. Maybe I was not wrong to tempt a Thell’eon.

  Maybe I just tempted the wrong Thell’eon.

  Exhausted at the prospect, I close my eyes and pretend I’m back at ESE. Move beyond the buzzing in your head. Those noises around you; pretend they’re from Jordanna up late studying. That you’re meeting King for lunch the next day, and that Daz is home safe and sound.

  I’m being shaken awake. But I feel like I only slept for two minutes! I roll over and see Kell’an standing before me without a stitch of clothing on.

  “Kell’an!” I turn away, embarrassed, and totally shocked.

  Then I remember the shuttle and fear he has changed his mind. I jump up and get on the other side of the downcore, holding on from wooziness.

  “We are bathing before the pyre. I cannot leave you alone. You must come with me. You would wash as well.”

  Like hell, I think, my heart in my throat.

  He’s still standing there, all hanging out, so I gesture angrily with my arms.

  He turns and walks away. Holy stars, how can they be so cavalier about nudity? I think it’s tied into the lack of privacy. That was actually my first live viewing. Out there on its own, with no purpose, it seems a bizarre contraption.

  I follow him to the baths, actually too scared to be without a Kir in case I sift and that Aeon is there. What am I going to do about that? If I don’t feel safe with a Horde of Thell’eon trained to protect me, when will I ever feel safe? Don’t think about that! Focus on something else. I stare at Kell’an’s perfect ass. Guards follow, fully clothed. Inside, there are quite a few Thell’eon bathing (super duper!) so I keep my eyes on the ground.

  After a minute of two just standing there, I think I do need to bathe, badly. I stink like sweat. My hair has not been washed properly in days.

  Cinarians are lined up with towels and I approach one with particularly long arms. I explain what I want, how I want him to use the towels as a screen like Zeke would, but he does not understand. Frustrated, I manage to get him to hold it partially up, enough for me to disrobe behind it. I grab the towel and wrap myself in it, then head to an area of one of the shallow pools that’s empty. I stand at the edge and contemplate how I can get into the water without revealing anything.

  “You flatter yourself,” says Kell’an, who must be an incredible swimmer to get all the way over here so quickly. He’s lathering himself. “We have already seen what it is you hide.”

  Right. Yes. Thanks for reminding me. Images of me being carried out of the pool totally nude flash before me.

  That’s when I spot him, on the far side of the waters relaxing. Watching.

  Or’ic.

  My face burns red. I’m so frustrated. I think about taking off the towel but if Kell’an didn’t care, why would he have swam so close? Why would Or’ic be staring for so long? So I climb into the water with the towel securely on. Kell’an’s surprised. When I glance over, Or’ic wears a slight smile.

  A Cinarian approaches, his skin glistening with its unique scale-like pattern, and offers me soap. I get to work on the mass of tangles in my hair. The Cinarian motions that he would like to help, and I let him because my arms are sore, and it’s so relaxing. Wow, his incredibly long digits, I’m not even sure how many they have on each hand, apply just the right amount of pressure. I dip back, floating on his long arm, trying not to stare up his wide, vertical nostrils, big enough to be a set of eyes, while he uses the other hand to gentle rinse out the suds. I’m always amazed how the water seems to cleanse itself. The soap and grime just disappears into clean, fresh water.

  Kell’an has to wait for me since my hair takes so long. When I’m done, I struggle to get out, so tired!, and trudge behind into ‘my space,’ where two Cinarians are waiting with an incredible array of armor. Yet more are dressing Or’ic in his space.

  “What’s all this?”

  “We dress for the pyre,” says Kell’an.

  Oh. Guess it is a formal affair.

  To say I’m exhausted is an understatement. I don’t want to go. Really. But I have an obligation to the Cinarie because of Zeke. He died trying to save me. Some of that cloud is back, hanging over me.

  I’m empty. And depressed, really.

  I rummage through my care package and find the dress they gave to me the first day. I take it into the privy and slide it on. When I return, Kell’an has on his bottoms, a fascinating complex sculpture of malleable metal. Knife holsters are melded right into the fabric.

  “Wow,” I say involuntarily.

  He glances up at me. And then smiles. I swear, if these aliens knew how to seduce, more than half the human race would be putty in Thell’eon hands.

  “Aren’t you worried I’m conflating your ego?” I ask snidely. There. That’s more like yourself.

  After I comb out my hair, I pass the time watching the rest of the formal dress; application of layers and layers of crisscrossed belt-like fastenings, the Cinarian clearly know where everything goes whereas I’d need a blueprint, with more weapons and finally a cloak of a kind I’ve not yet seen, weighed down with patterns of intertwined thin ropes of twisted metal. It takes three Cinarians to help Kell’an into it.

  I wonder what the pyre will be like. I suppose they’ll burn the bodies.

  I think of Zeke, and hope he’ll be burned with his head, too.

  Or’ic joins us from the other side of the partition and his attire’s even more grand. Mildly amazed, I stare at how many weapons adorn him. No wonder Thell’eons are so strong. They have to be to wear all that weight, I note absently. I blink a few times, and realize my face feels numb. I touch my cheeks, my forehead and force out a grin. I’m really not myself. Something’s wrong. Maybe I’m tired. No. It’s like . . . I’m not really here.

  As we head off, Or’ic explains the attire even though I don’t ask. Any chance to brag. He says weapons are earned by Thell’eon, and that they symbolize strength, honor, and valor. Guess this explains why Shadon was so devastated over losing one the first time he gave me the surge and things got out of hand.

  The five Kirs, and me, behind, with my guard, who I’m beginning to recognize, one, for his incredibly light gray eyes, another, for a rather pointed chin, head up a massive processional march of every member of the crew. All of them are dressed in their best, and I suppose it would be quite a feast of sight and sounds, if I cared.

  Flashes of muscle. Markings strategically displayed between belts of weapons. The stomping shakes the ground beneath my feet. When we enter the practice arena, hundreds of Thell’eon gather around the center, where prone bodies hang suspended in air. Of course, I know better. There must be some invisible downcore under them. I spot Zeke right away (with his head), the only Cinarian to die, and that’s when I notice an unusual high-pitched beautiful tone. Oh. It’s the Cinarian standing beside Thell’eon, honoring Zeke I assume.

  Why do I feel no emotion?

  The ceremony takes longer than I ever dreamed possible. There’s much grandstanding and speechmaking, which has the rhythmic nature of poetry. But I don’t understand any of it since it’s in a strange language that my translator’s not converting.

  Finally, when I think I might collapse—my feet and back are so sore—the invisible downcores glow into a bright orange and burst into neatly contained flames. The Cinarian launch into their pitch again. The flames and what remains of the bodies shoot up into the open ceiling, and—I’m surprised to ascertain—into space. There must be a hangar opening up there.

  We stand for another eternity in silence. I think of the dead Thell’eon, but mostly Zeke, and then more abou
t my sore feet. My heart, my mind, they are disconnected. Or maybe they’ve been amputated. Put in separate dark corners for safekeeping.

  When activity resumes, I do experience a familiar emotion, rage that the event is not yet over. I need to sleep like never before. I shift and cross my arms, impatient, while a dozen or so Thell’eon including Onegin and Kell’an step forward. A row of Cinarians have moved into place during the silence, but I can’t imagine what for. As they set up chairs and bring out strange machines, I get it. They’re getting new markings for this battle, which has no doubt gone down in Thell’eon history. They begin shaving Shadon’s beautiful hair.

  This should be interesting to watch. They’re not tattoos so much as stained brandings. Somehow they raise the skin ever so slightly in the pattern, then stain them white and gray. Pers’eus told me they are permanent. Not even RISH can remove them. But I really just want to go back to my space. Rest.

  I’m taken aback when Or’ic turns to me, his hand outstretched, as though I should take it and step forward.

  What does he mean by that? It’s probably some symbolic gesture of a ‘perfect Horde’ he wants to make in front of all of his men. I’m not taking his hand. No way. I ignore him. Frustrated, he steps forward, grabs my arm, and tugs me forward. He’s taking me toward a Cinarian holding one of the marking devices.

  That’s when it clicks. They mean to mark me. Because I hurt that Aeon.

  They intend to brand me as one of them.

  Something inside me goes pop.

  “No!” I say. “No, No FUCKING WAY!” I yank away and turn to run. I won’t let them me do it! I’ll have some thing on my face on ESE forever! I’ll be marred!