by Kate Roman
Haywood rubbed a hand across his face and lowered his voice. “I sent the natives to look, but they found nothing. There were marks—a man may have passed, but there was no way to be sure. It might have been an antelope or even that damned lion.” He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “My brother has been most upset—you can hardly blame him, of course. His only son.”
Roy nodded, fist clenching on the rifle barrel. His only son. “Of course. You’re still hunting the lion, I take it?”
“Oh, yes. And I’d have had it last night, I tell you, if it weren’t that my boys are a pack of lily-livered savages, fit only for the laundry and the scullery.” His hand went to his belt, and he turned sharply, then stopped as though realizing his bullwhip was missing.
Roy closed his eyes briefly. “What happened?”
“We’d made a good kill—a great big male with a beautiful head—and were heading home when one of those damnable Bateleurs flew overhead. You’d have thought it was mustard gas, the way my boys behaved. Ran screaming as though the devil himself was on their heels. Left us alone out there! Then that damned young lion appeared out of nowhere and started chasing us. I had a couple of good shots at it too, and I did my best, but with no loader and no beaters—well, it got away.”
Roy thought of his dream, and his heart beat faster. “And your trophy?”
“Gone. When the boys came sniveling back this morning we went out after it—it was just below the ridge here—and there’s nary a sign.” Haywood snorted. “I knew how it would be. A pack of hyenas makes short work of a carcass!”
Roy opened his mouth and closed it again. Hyenas were the ultimate scavengers, but to completely dispose of a carcass, bones and all, in a single night… It was barely believable, but no less believable than a dead lion returning to life.
“Poor Rollie took fright last night, and I fear he’s not quite himself. I’d better get on and find him. Good day, Bennett!”
Roy stared at Gerald Haywood’s retreating back, head spinning. He had to find Ash and then get them both into hiding. There was no time to hunt or to consult with Mambokadzi. With Haywood prowling the veldt, the only safety lay in the cave.
Then, Roy vowed to himself, he would have the truth. The truth about Ash, so golden, so beautiful, with his unexpected strength and magical gold-flecked eyes, and the truth about the lion.
“Bennett, you cur!”
A shot rang out and Roy hit the ground rolling. Rocks slid under him, and he pulled himself to a flat piece of ground in the trees at the side of the trail, staring all around him for the source of the threat. He was dimly aware of a fiery throb in one shoulder.
“You hid him! My filthy bitch-whelp son. I killed him, I tell you. I killed him, and I won’t have it. This time, he’ll stay dead! And so will you!”
Sir Roland Haywood, rifle held to his shoulder, advanced slowly up the trail. Roy saw madness glittering in the man’s eyes.
Roy struggled to his feet, taking what cover he could behind the narrow trunk of a tree as he fumbled for his own gun.
“You can’t trick me, Bennett! You’ll pay, you and Ashcroft, just like the filthy little slut that bore him! He should never have been born! Now get out here and die like the dog you are!”
Roy thumbed the hammer off his service revolver. It seemed Gerald Haywood hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said his brother wasn’t himself. Unless this is who Ash’s father has been all along. Roy held the gun close to his chest. Memories of the war tugged at the edge of his brain, but he resolutely pushed them away. Out here it was just one-on-one—him and a madman.
And Ash.
A low, thrumming growl filled the air, a sound that seemed to come from the very earth itself. The brush beside Roy parted and something huge and golden flew through the air, directly at Ash’s father. Sir Roland fired, but the lion did not falter in its charge. With a mighty roar, it sprang, knocking the baronet clear of the trail.
Roy could see the lion clearly now, and he was not in the least surprised to recognize the young gold beast he had seen so recently in his dream. “Ash,” he whispered, staring. “Kashiye. Shumba.”
“No! No!” Sir Roland’s terrified shrieks were nearly drowned out by the lion’s bloodcurdling snarls as it attacked. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it fell back, standing foursquare in the middle of the trail, staring upward.
Roy whirled, distracted by a shout of rage. Farther up the trail, Haywood fell to his knees, bringing the huge barrel of his elephant rifle to bear. “This time, man-eater!” he boomed.
“Ash,” Roy cried out, leaping forward. “Ash, they’ll kill you!” He ran out, hands outstretched, with no clear intention past saving the lion—saving Ash.
His feet went out from under him and he fell to his knees. For a long moment, his eyes locked with the golden lion’s; then the boom of Gerald’s elephant gun shattered the stillness.
As Roy fought for breath, the lion bounded away into the undergrowth.
With an agonized scream, Sir Roland staggered across the trail, clutching his chest. Blood poured from beneath his hands, and he toppled slowly forward, sliding a little down the trail before he lay still.
Shoulder throbbing, Roy stared at the motionless body.
High above, a huge black eagle screamed and screamed again, then soared away toward the sun.
* * * *
Hours later, Roy returned to the spring and gathered up their supplies. He had done what he could, but for Sir Roland Haywood, there had been no help. The baronet had taken the full blast of his brother’s rifle squarely in the heart and had been dead before he hit the ground.
“I was shooting at the lion,” Gerald Haywood said, over and over. “You saw, Bennett. You were there. You’ll vouch for me, old man? It was the lion.”
Roy had agreed. Little as he liked the man, it was nothing but the truth. Sir Roland had been attacked by the lion; Haywood had tried to shoot the beast, and by some tragic quirk of fate, Sir Roland had come between his brother’s gun and the lion.
As the native bearers had set off for Thornside with their tragic burden, Gerald Haywood had followed, a broken man, and Roy reflected that at last the veldt could be at peace.
Roy buckled the two packs securely closed. They were lighter now, and not just because of the meal he and Ash had eaten. The impala skin was missing, as was the meat they had brought as a gift for Mambokadzi.
It was possible a predator had taken the food. But a predator small enough to raid the packs without damage would have been hard-pressed to carry the tanned impala hide. Roy had brought the things for Mambokadzi, and something told him the wisewoman had claimed them. Roy wouldn’t have put it past Onai to have snatched everything up and carried it away in her own two talons.
Roy raised his eyes to the sky, wincing a little as he felt his wound. Sir Roland’s bullet had only grazed him, little more than a burn, but it would make shouldering his pack difficult. Especially without Ash’s help.
Ash. The lion. Roy no longer doubted that they were one and the same.
A sudden silence fell over the veldt. The humming of insects fell still; the birds ceased trilling. Even the gentle breeze had disappeared. Something thrilled inside Roy, and he straightened up, turning toward the spring.
Standing at the edge of the water was a golden lion. As Roy stared, mesmerized, the lion shook its mane and made a soft, chirruping purr that sounded like a question.
“Ash,” Roy said softly. “Ash!” He started to run. The lion leaped too, and as it landed, all legs and golden hair, it no longer looked like a lion at all.
Roy caught Ash in his arms and swung him off his feet, then kissed him with everything he had.
“You knew me,” Ash gasped, reaching up for Roy. “Out there—you called me—you knew me.”
“I’ve always known you,” Roy said, his voice breaking. “I was so afraid. I thought they’d shoot you. I thought Haywood killed you.”
“I thought my father killed you. That’s why…
I meant just to hide, but then—” Ash broke off. “I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know how to explain.” He hesitated. “I still don’t.”
Roy stared into Ash’s beautiful blue eyes, lit with gold, filled with hope and fear. “Out here,” he said softly, “it’s usually best not to try.”
Roy released his lover, expression sobering. “Ash, your father is dead.”
“I know. By my hand? Or was it the gun?”
“The gun. Haywood’s gun. He shot at you, but somehow your father got in between.”
“I’m glad,” Ash said painfully. “He was a bad man, Roy. He killed for pleasure. He killed my mother, and he would have killed both you and I, if he could have. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“I’m glad he’s dead too.” Roy put a hand on Ash’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “There’s no need for us to go to the Zambezi now. Haywood will be busy enough with the district officer. He might even return to England.” Roy picked up his pack. “We will go to the cave. Whatever happens, we’ll be safe there.”
Ash helped Roy seat his pack, avoiding the wound in his shoulder, then picked up the second bundle. “And what of Mambokadzi?”
Roy scanned the sky. Of Onai, there was no sign. Clouds were massing at the horizon, climbing higher across the clear blue. Within a day, the rains would be upon them with a vengeance, bringing with them a new season.
“Mambokadzi has taken her meat. And if one thing is sure, it is that she will know where to find us,” Roy said with certainty. “Come on, Ash. It’s time for us to go.”
Epilogue
The old woman and the older bird sat together in the rough mud hut, waiting for the rains to fall.
In her village, the air was heavy with the promise of thunder, sharp and tangy with ozone. Mambokadzi sniffed. The storm was only a few miles away now, she knew, moving fast, picking up speed and power.
She smiled and hummed quietly as she sat on the reeds, watching the big black bird stalk around its post. Onai felt the storm coming too. Mambokadzi could see it in the set of her neck, the way she folded and refolded her wings as if trying to find a position that pleased her. Mambokadzi reached for the pestle, still half-filled with corn needing to become meal. “Onai, you think them boys know the storm’s on its way, mm?”
But the chapungu didn’t answer, instead fixing her beady green eyes on the corn. Mambokadzi began grinding it with measured, powerful strokes, rock against rock. The day grew green and dark in the tiny hut, until the clouds had stolen everything except the glowing firelight. The huge black eagle settled on her perch with an angry chuff, head tucked in, shoulders bowed.
Mambokadzi cocked her head to one side, eyes unfocused. “You just might be right, bird,” she said. “Those boys might be that storm itself.”
Many miles away in the foothills, the storm was in full swing.
The rain didn’t fall so much as it was thrown at the earth, huge gouts of it striking the dirt and bouncing up to splash down a second time, trajectories unknown. Wherever it finally landed, it pooled and ran across the hard-packed dirt, seeping into cracks, lapped up by a land thirsty for relief.
Atop an ironstone boulder nestled in the tors, Roy lay naked in the warm, gritty mud, rain pouring down all round. Ash sat astride him, rocking his hips hard against Roy’s, their skin slick and dripping with rainwater. Roy gripped Ash’s buttocks tightly, stomach taut, anchoring him. Ash’s head was thrown back to the sky, and as he rode Roy’s cock to completion, he roared with pleasure.
Thunder boomed overhead, shaking the ground, and lightning followed soon after, with a crack like the sky had torn open, as if the very land itself roared back.
Loose Id Titles by Kate Roman
Firebug
Lionheart
Man and Wolf
Kate Roman
Currently based in Northern California, Kate divides her time between dreaming of beautiful, heartbroken men and the men who love them, and working in IT support. She's ably assisted by one cat, an assortment of dogs and several rabbits, and doesn't want to talk about the shameful state of her garden. She also reads more books than can possibly be healthy.
Find out more about Kate at http://www.kateroman.com