Lachlan winced. Kheladin’s words were true, but he was afraid they’d make things worse.
“Humph.” Gwydion pounded his staff into the ground again. “’Tisn’t as if the Morrigan has done anything worse than her usual.”
Arawn nodded agreement. “If anything, she may have been a wee bit better here of late.”
“Only because there are no wars to feed her blood lust,” Ceridwen growled. “Not big ones, anyway.” She walked to Lachlan and thumped him in the chest with an index finger. “Rhukon and Connor are dragon shifter mages—just like you. Malik and Preki are dragons—just like Kheladin. We,” she spread her arms to encompass Arawn and Gwydion, “have discussed this thoroughly. We see them as your problem.”
Lachlan opened his mouth to protest, to tell them the Morrigan made Rhukon, Connor, and their dragons a much bigger problem than they’d be without her magic powering theirs.
Kheladin spoke deep within his mind. “Doona argue.”
Ceridwen waited. She glanced from Lachlan to Kheladin and back. “Much better,” she said and shoved sodden hair behind her shoulders. “Now, we’ll hear no more of this.”
Gwydion trotted to Lachlan’s side and clapped him on the back. “There’s a good lad. Come visit when ye doona want something.” His broad-shouldered form took on an insubstantial air. Moments later, the Celtic gods were gone.
“There’s a good lad?” Lachlan snarled. He pounded a fist into the nearest stone and yelped.
Kheladin blasted fire toward the skies, a sure sign he was seriously displeased. “The only way this could’ve gone worse,” he growled, “would’ve been if they’d challenged us to a battle.”
Lachlan knew better. He walked to the dragon’s side. “Nay,” he said. “Had they been truly bent on harming us, they’d have dissolved our bond.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ann Gimpel is a national bestselling author. A lifelong aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction a few years ago. Since then her short fiction has appeared in a number of webzines and anthologies. Her longer books run the gamut from urban fantasy to paranormal romance. Once upon a time, she nurtured clients, now she nurtures dark, gritty fantasy stories that push hard against reality. When she’s not writing, she’s in the backcountry getting down and dirty with her camera. She’s published over 30 books to date, with several more planned for 2015 and beyond. A husband, grown children, grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out her family.
Follow Ann Gimpel online at:
https://www.anngimpel.com/
https://www.facebook.com/ann.gimpel1
https://twitter.com/AnnGimpel
Demons’ Captive
By Evanne Lorraine
Heat rating: Erotic Ménage, m/f/m, alien sex
One dangerous warrior woman plus two demon males equals a love to threaten an empire. A d’skeku, Zaynah belongs to the emperor. Duty is everything. Rescued by her mates, she must choose between honoring her vows or following her heart.
The rebel demons live to exact vengeance from the Emperor Prado, preferably in blood. The hated royal ordered the murder of their brothers, sparing them so they would take the blame for the heinous crime. The demons escaped by stowing away on a miner heading for Ranin Seven. The remote moon, rich in the duranium essential hyper-light travel provides the brothers with a power base to bring their enemy to his knees.
After capturing an imperial assassin they have a new weapon--one of the emperor’s special pets, but a d’skeku is a dangerous blade to wield. She might give them the vital edge they need to win or she might destroy their untested Pan-Galactic Alliance. Worse, she’s their mate, a latent dragon on the cusp of shifting, and about to become a whole lot more lethal.
Chapter One
In the standard galactic year 4416, the Emperor Prado ruled the Orion Galaxy with a titanium grip from his golden throne on Basilisk Prime. The people trembled before his power, believing Prado divine. They whispered he commanded the elements as well as the citizens.
He accepted the people’s tributes as his due and grew greedy, demanding ever-greater donations to the royal treasury. Those foolish enough to refuse died.
Perhaps his presumption angered the Goddesses, who truly controlled the elements. The imperial stockpiles of duranium, essential for hyper-light travel, dwindled to critical levels. One by one, the mammoth transport ships, bringing the precious mineral from the far edge of the galaxy, vanished without a trace.
“Good day.” Zaynah saluted, smiling warmly at the pair of d’skeku warriors standing watch at the entrance to the throne room. She got nothing back, unless she counted the blast of icy rejection. She stiffened her spine to the perfect posture required when in the presence of royalty and pretended very hard their snub didn’t matter.
She swallowed a sigh of regret, holding herself even more rigidly. The guards’ insult was nothing new. Foolishly she kept trying to make friends, hoping that at least one of the other warriors would thaw. So far, no such luck.
Excluded from the comradery in the residence hall, the snickered whispers of Emperor’s pet behind her back still stung. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Years ago, she’d denied the unfair label. Her protests only triggered a burst of more blatant cruelty.
Worse than being the perpetual odd warrior out, she ranked dead last in fitness. No matter how many extra hours she trained, she never improved. She couldn’t blame the others for avoiding her. No one wanted to be friends with a last place loser. She just needed to work a little harder. This year she’d turn things around.
Crossing the expanse of plush purple carpet, she stepped over its wide border taking care to avoid disturbing the woven dragons cavorting along the rug’s edge. She averted her gaze as protocol demanded, coming to a halt precisely two milors from the enormous throne, and bowing deeply to show her respect.
She’d grown up in the royal compound, but familiarity hadn’t dimmed the audience room’s splendor. Every time she entered the chamber her breath caught in awe. The soaring walls bedazzled her senses with rich hangings and beautiful artwork set between windows of stained glass threw rainbows throughput the space. The opulent room had the sparkle of a giant jewel box—an ambience deliberately designed to please a dragon’s fondness for treasure.
In the middle of the area, on a raised dais, a throne of pure gold was cushioned in rare natural silk. The ornate back and sides flared in winged extravagance. Dominating the magnificent seat, indeed the entire chamber, sat Prado the fifth, the current Emperor of the Orion Galaxy.
At the center of the greatest of all the galaxies blazed the yellow giant, Dragon’s Fire. Eleven planets circled the brilliant star. Only Basilisk Prime, fourth from the life-giving inferno, had the necessary requirements for carbon-based life forms to thrive.
During their first lessons, every youngling learned they held pride of place in the known universe.
Zaynah tried not to tremble in proximity to the exact center of the universe—a place of great power and greater danger.
The room and the man demanded tribute and certainly deserved her respect.
To her shame, a tiny part of her always squirmed, resentful of the emperor’s power. Rebellion was a grievous—even fatal—flaw for a d’skeku warrior.
She tamped down the flare of suicidal defiance by silently chanting the warrior’s code, “Duty is my purpose, my shield, and my honor.”
While repeating the calming litany, and waiting to learn why she’d been summoned, she studied the powerful man through her lashes.
His long and lean form draped on the royal seat with perfect composure and the innate assurance of the divine. He seemed wearier than she’d ever seen him. Fine lines creased his brow and even his dark eyes were dull and hooded. Aside from those small disturbing signs, he was as usual—groomed to immaculate elegance and completely intimidating.
He wore the formal robes of state, silver over a snowy white silk under-robe. In the fashion of royals
, his nails were polished. Today they gleamed a glossy blue. The long tips flecked with gold. An elder’s gray queue hung down his back, but his face remained unlined, making it impossible to guess his true age. He’d ascended to the throne in the year 4286 as an adult. Based on the holograms she’d studied during history class, he hadn’t aged in the past one hundred and thirty years.
One of Zaynah’s earliest memories was of her pre-training group being ushered into the dragon chamber for presentation after passing their entrance exams to the Royal Academy of Deadly Arts.
At five she’d been tall for her age. Prado had dwarfed her—a magical and fearsome entity. The Emperor inspected his future imperial troopers with stern formality. She’d been so terrified throughout the ceremony she’d scarcely drawn breath, fearful of disgracing herself with a sneezing fit if she inhaled too much of his peppery scent.
There’d been many such inspections in past fourteen years. Now she breathed fine in his presence,—most of the time. Even when her spirit rebelled, the grandeur and power of his station commanded her respect.
He beckoned her to approach. The rare yellow diamond ring on his thumb winked sparks of fire. “What do you know about Ranin Seven?”
Startled by the unexpected question, she bowed low again, reciting facts every cadet knew. “Ranin Seven is one of more than a dozen moons orbiting Zenon, a frozen gas giant—.”
“Yes, yes, very good. But what makes the moon important?” The Emperor tapped a rapid beat with his glossy nails on a flared armrest.
“Duranium, your eminence.” She bowed deep in silent apology for irritating him.
“Exactly,” Prado said darkly. “Do you know how many mining transport ships we’ve lost in the past decade?”
“No, your eminence.” She didn’t add such information was guarded and not shared with a mere trooper. Not even a d’skeku, who lived in the royal palace and served as one of the Emperor’s personal force—the most elite of all military corps. Why would she tell him what he’d decreed and risk his always quick wrath?
“Three.” A peek through her lashes revealed his expression remained a calm mask. “Two more than we lost in the previous century.”
No response seemed to be expected or required. She stood at attention, stared into the middle distance, and waited for him to explain why she’d been summoned.
The Emperor scowled. “This past year, we’ve lost half a dozen unmanned probes in the sector. The last mining transport we sent was accompanied by a squadron of fighters. There’s been no communication from them for more than a month. Our duranium levels are dangerously low. This is why I’m sending you to Ranin Seven. I need to know what in the seven hells is happening on the dark side of that miserable rock.”
Zaynah’s stomach fluttered with excitement at the assignment. As she’d been trained, she schooled her face to show nothing. “Yes, your eminence.”
“You’re pleased by the mission, which makes you a fool.” He shook his head, having easily read her best stony warrior expression. “The meteor storms at the outer edge of the galaxy are brutal and the mining of duranium is a hazardous business done by dangerous males. You will require every skill you’ve honed to survive the mission.”
“I’ll be careful, your eminence.”
“See that you are,” he said curtly. “I need you to infiltrate the dark side of Ranin Seven, where the mining transports are loaded. Once you’re inside the station itself, you will assassinate the leaders, evade capture until my troops arrive, and facilitate their landing. After the moon is secure, report to me.”
“I’ll do so, your eminence.” She’d lied, knowing success was unlikely. She would try her best and die nobly.
“Come here, pet.” he curled his index finger, beckoning her to approach.
She was d’skeku. Her obedience was without question. Yet Prado didn’t wait for her to comply with his order.
He compelled her forward.
The possibility of resistance had never entered her mind.
Her feet stayed motionless, except to leave the floor as she was pulled closer to the throne. She weighed fifty quilons fully dressed so lifting her didn’t qualify as an impressive feat. Prado transported her without even a frown of concentration. No hint of spell casting or smell of magic offered any explanation for her short flight. His brief demonstration of telekinesis would’ve terrified her had she not been frozen rigid.
Then he did the odd thing he always did before he dismissed her. He laid the heel of his hand flat on her bony sternum. His cool palm made contact through the fabric of her uniform. The red marks that had appeared on her chest soon after her thirteenth birth year seemed to heat.
Despite his rare use of an endearment when he’d beckoned her closer, the strange gesture didn’t feel sexual, although nothing would have changed if it had been.
Obedience to the Emperor wasn’t a matter of conscious loyalty—it was coded into her cells. Imperial conditioning began even before birth. No warrior ever questioned, let alone objected to, the Emperor’s demands.
His hold erased any awareness of time passing. One moment he touched her and the next she was in her previous location, the precise required two milors from his presence.
“May your mission succeed, trooper, dismissed.” He flapped his hand in a shooing motion to hurry her on her way. His eyes flared brilliant blue. The flash of temper emphasized his impatience for her departure.
As fast as protocol allowed, she backed away, bowing as she left. She’d been thrilled with orders for her first solo mission. Now exhaustion weighted her limbs to the point of trembling. She hid the sudden fatigue beneath titanium determination, unwilling to show the haughty guards such a dishonorable weakness.
She had no one she could consult about the emperor’s stranger behavior. To question Prado was treason—a criminal infraction, carrying the mandatory death penalty.
An icy foreboding chilled her blood. Perhaps if she’d had a soul, she would’ve prayed to the Goddess to keep her safe. An artificial human, especially those conceived in lab containers, didn’t have a soul so prayers served no purpose.
Like every d’skeku, she belonged to the emperor no more and no less than his splendid robes and embroidered slippers did. Her choices were as limited as those of his other possessions. The only difference between her and his clothing, was garments didn’t resent their lack of free will. Due to a sad lapse of discipline, she did. More foolish than her rebellious thoughts or longing for acceptance from her peers, she dreamed of mating and young of her own.
She tucked away the yearning, which would only make her more of barrack’s joke and held her rigid military posture for the endless march past the royal guards. Once clear of their sight, she sagged against the cool stone of the deserted passage.
Xeth, the ancient former weapons master, appeared out of nowhere, peering at her. Kindly concern added extra furrows to his craggy face.
“Are you all right, lass?”
“Fine, sir.” She pushed herself upright then spoiled her tough warrior act when wave of sudden dizziness made her sway.
“Sure you are,” the retired master grumbled, steadying her with one massive arm. “Had an audience with himself have you?”
She nodded, too exhausted to answer.
Xeth kept his own counsel for the rest of the trip to the barracks. When they reached the entrance, he studied her.
“Can you make it from here, lass?”
Still sapped, she summoned enough strength to speak.
“Yes. Thank you, Master.” She kept her attention on her shoes, unwilling to meet his worried eyes and the pity she knew she’d see there. Afraid his sympathy would loosen the floodgates and she’d disgrace herself further by bursting into tears.
He brushed away her thanks with a gruff snort.
“So, himself is sending you off to explore the dark side of Ranin Seven.”
“How did you know?” She gaped in amazement, although Xeth had an uncanny knack of knowing everythin
g that happened in the compound.
“Never mind about that.” He thrust a tiny cylinder into her hand. “You’ll be needing to do some studying for your adventure.”
She rotated the slim metal tube, no thicker than her smallest finger.
“What is it?”
He took the device back, demonstrating how to work the small notches on the underside. The reader activated with a flick of his thumbnail. The cylinder opened to reveal holo-text.
Her comlink had a personal reader feature. There were several popular versions, but she’d never seen one so small or so fine.
The weapon’s master cleared his throat. “I’ve preloaded it for you with the history of Ranin Seven and treatise on Dragons.”
“Dragons?” she asked eagerly, intrigued by the old tales, despite how juvenile an interest in the mythical beasts made her seem.
“Aye lass, dragons. Past time you were learning about your heritage.”
She took an automatic step back with a nervous laugh.
“You’re teasing. Dragons aren’t real.”
“Oh, they’re real enough.” He scowled. “You’ll do well to keep an open mind about them and other things.”
Aware Xeth believed what he was telling her, her cheeks heated for her thoughtless dismissal of his dragons. If the harmless stories gave Xeth comfort, then she’d been cruel to scoff. She bit her tongue to keep from saying something more tactless.
Dragons existed only as legendary beasts born of imagination and superstition, and likely based on the giant reptiles that had once roamed the planet. Xeth’s belief was no more that a faith in harmless superstitions, common enough among the oldsters. The last thing she wanted was hurt her friend. He’d gone out of his way to train her and had never shown her anything other than kindness.
“Even if dragons are still around, I’m the least likely dragon candidate on Basilisk Prime. As we both know, I’m not even a good warrior.” She smiled to lighten her tone then dropped her voice, confiding what she’d never told another living soul. “The bouts of weakness are getting worse.”
Flight of Dragons Page 66