WarDog: Book Twelve in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

by Alana Khan

  We argue for a few more minimas, with every soul on board watching. When I saw both Captain Zar’s and Captain Beast’s mates fold their arms across their chests with looks that had both Captains grimacing, I knew I was fighting a lost cause.

  Willa puts her hands on her hips and gives me the same look, her eyes slitted. Even WarDog chimes in, whining. I ignore him.

  Maybe Willa’s right. As much as I would prefer to have her safe on the ship while I do the mission, I also come to the abrupt realization I don’t want to be separated from her ever again.

  “I don’t like it, Willa, but I can’t fight you and everyone else on board. At the first sign of trouble, though, you have to go back to the ship.”

  “I’m glad you still have two cabins,” Petra says after Zar approves my participation in the mission only if Willa accompanies me. “I have a feeling someone’s gonna be sleeping in the doghouse tonight.” She snickers as her eyes avoid mine. “No offense. It’s an Earth saying.”

  Willa

  The last few days have been an education in anxiety—controlled and otherwise. If I had just sat around worrying, I would have nibbled my nails to the quick. Luckily, I’ve been keeping myself busy.

  Dax and Bayne helped me make a bow and arrows. I even have a cool leather quiver. I’ve been practicing archery in the ludus. Although I don’t think I could kill any wild game, I will look proficient enough to corroborate our cover story.

  We’ve already docked on Fairea. Bayne and I look like we belong together as we wait for the ramp to lower. We’re both wearing tan leather pants and tunics. Dax helped us make soft moccasins, too. I even know what type of game we’ll supposedly be hunting, I looked it up on the Database to make sure I could stay completely in character. They’re like deer with shockingly ugly heads and four eyes. According to the Database there are no large predators in this part of the planet.

  We’re parked in one of the offworlder parking lots near the fairgrounds. Most of the people from the Fool’s Errand visited here a while back and their descriptions were spot-on. It’s a giant Renaissance Festival—alien style.

  I saw a cornucopia of aliens on Aeon II when I watched the canine shifter match, but it feels different here. At the gladiatorial games, the bloodlust in the air was so thick you could almost taste it. Here at the fair, people are more light-hearted. They’re here for a good time that doesn’t involve bloodsport.

  The reedy sound of a flute drifts to me from my right and primitive drum beats assault my ears from the left. The smell of spitted meat wafts to my nose; I’m sure WarDog must love that.

  People are wearing the garb of their ancestors, just as we do at Ren-Fests on Earth. I see everything from loincloths to velvet dresses with as much variation as can be imagined.

  We don’t enter the fairgrounds, though, we skirt that and head to the hover lot. Shadow will drive us to the forest about an hour away.

  After stopping at an outfitter store to stock up on camping necessities, we take off to the west.

  Shadow is a large male, wearing his black leather kilt and sash. On the ship, most of the males wear loincloths or nothing at all, but this is like their uniform when we’re on land. It makes them look deadly and official, which is the exact impression Shadow is going for.

  His left arm looks like it was severed in battle and he wears a high-tech prosthetic. He also has a prosthetic eye. He was a gladiator for a long time, but rumor has it that before his parents sold him into the arena, he was high-born. I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but rumor also has it that Daneur Khour was part of his fall from grace and descent into slavery.

  Shadow’s smart and savvy and loves his mate like she hung the moon—or moons depending upon which planet we’re on. After he mated Petra, he decided not to fight in the arena anymore, but sometimes I wonder if he misses it.

  “Let’s go over it again,” Shadow says as he competently hovers along the periphery of the vast fairgrounds.

  We’ve drilled this a dozen times in the last few days so I launch without more prompting. “We’re Bayne and Willa, no last name. I’m Morganian, he’s of unknown parentage and grew up in an orphanage on Aeon II. If asked about specifics, he’ll say they didn’t allow him out of the building. I investigated the Intergalactic Database enough to be able to answer basic questions about Morgana.”

  “We’re on our sweetmoon,” Bayne continues.

  “Honeymoon,” I gently correct.

  “We’re on our honeymoon and thought it would be romantic to live on the land, so we could rely on each other. We own a farm on Nativus.”

  The three of us are sitting abreast in the front of the hover, our supplies are in the back.

  Before I can continue with my canned speech, Bayne looks me in the eye, and says, “Willa, please go back to the ship,” his tone is a combination of an order and a plea. “This is too dangerous.”

  Smart male. Over the last few days, I at least broke him of the habit of telling me it was too dangerous for a female.

  We’ve had this argument over several breakfasts, lunches, and dinners as well as upon rising in the morning and before bedtime. It’s been between us like a living thing.

  “I calm you, Bayne, and I think you might need me at your side to keep from shifting. Even Captain Zar agreed the honeymoon gave us a great cover story, and I’ve gotten pretty good with the bow and arrow.”

  “You’re barely proficient at it, Willa. And you're so small. And soft. And I don’t want you hurt.”

  How can I not be falling for this guy? Look at his face, his golden eyes swirling with passion. He may sound controlling, but it’s obvious he just wants to protect me. What female wouldn’t want that?

  “It’s decided,” I say as I place a soft hand on his thigh. “I’ll be here with you. It’s just a recon mission.”

  I think he has an ulterior motive. I believe he’s hoping to not just find Daneur Khour, but to kill him.

  “Shadow, promise me someone will be at the comms station every moment. If we need help—”

  “You don’t need to ask, brother,” Shadow interrupts him. “We have your back. The captains want the ships cleaned down to the seams in the metal while we’re waiting for your call. Trust me, we’ll be doing nothing more important than tuning into the comm frequency, ready to drop everything to help you. Gladiators will be armed and stationed at the transporter, ready to beam down at a moment’s notice.”

  We’ve left the hubbub of the fair, and are hovering toward an expansive forest. Farther west I see what looks like a small city.

  “Khour’s compound,” Shadow informs us.

  “Whoa!”

  First of all, I didn’t imagine it would be . . . beautiful. Even though we saw it on vid, I didn’t realize how large it really is. There is one huge main building which Shadow says is Khour’s mansion, and dozens of smaller outbuildings. The entire complex is made of rock cut by the finest artisans and pieced together in a kind of checkerboard of chestnut and gold stone.

  It looks as if much of the compound is old, maybe many centuries. The mansion seems to have been added recently. It was designed to fit in with the rest, though, retaining the same checkerboard look with stones cut and pieced together to look as if they’re from the same slab of rock.

  Is that an old covered well in the middle of all the structures? It almost reminds me of a feudal lord’s compound—or a fairytale. Too bad such an evil bastard lives here. I’m sure Khour loves being lord of his castle.

  “I guess burning it down is out of the question,” Bayne says glumly.

  “No. Stone doesn’t burn,” Shadow agrees, “but it’s not impervious to lasers.” He banks hard to the right and lowers us so we’re skimming so close to the treetops my hands grab my thighs in terror.

  “Tell me when you see a campsite you like. We’ll find you something easily defensible.”

  “There,” Bayne points off to the right. The trees are thicker there, and there’s an outcropping of rock maybe twenty f
eet high that we can shelter against.

  Shadow can’t set the hover down close to the spot because the forest is so dense, but an hour later we’ve carried our supplies to our campsite, he’s helped us set up a space-age tent, and he bids us goodbye.

  “We’re standing by, you two. All we need to know is when he’s in this forest, his coordinates, and an estimate on how many males he has with him. We’ll do the rest, and you two will remain safe.” He swings through the hover doorway, then leans out to tip his head and smile as he tells us, “You might as well have some fun.”

  After he leaves, I take the opportunity to investigate our campsite. It’s quiet here, and although it doesn’t remind me of where I used to hunt in Texas, it does remind me of how much I love to revel in nature.

  The temperature feels like the high eighties, but here in the shade, it’s comfortable. The round-leaved trees form a canopy overhead, and I hear birds calling to each other all over the forest.

  When I used to hunt with my dad or granddad, the sounds of nature and the wind on my face soothed me. When I glance at Bayne, the tightness of his features tells a different story. He’s not having calm, fond memories. Is he back in his village, watching invaders burn it to the ground?

  “I wish you weren’t here, Willa. I wish it with all my heart,” he looks at me, eyebrows pulled down tightly in concern. “We’re in a relationship. In my world, that means it’s my responsibility to keep you safe. I’ve met this male, he was evil and heartless years ago, and he’s only grown more powerful since then. I don’t want you on the same planet as him, much less so close to his property.”

  My heart swells with affection as my eyes grow misty. We only crossed the line from ‘it’s complicated’ to ‘in a relationship’ three days ago, but I wonder if I’m falling in love with him. ‘It’s complicated’ includes a humungous four-legged dog with razor-sharp teeth, but now that I’ve met the caring male underneath the fur, it hardly seems worth factoring into the equation.

  “It makes me feel so cared for that you want to protect me, Bayne. If the situation changes, I’ll comm the ship and have them beam me up. Until then, you’re stuck with me.” I waggle my eyebrows at him, suddenly in a hurry to unpack our bedroll. From the pictures at the outfitter shop that showed a thick air mattress the size of a queen bed, this is about as close to glamping as I’ll ever get.

  The tent is amazing. Actually calling it a tent is like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. The tent is a see-through sphere made of thin plastic. With the touch of a button, it somehow fills with air, inflates, and voila, we’ve got shelter. Not just shelter, but we can see the sun rise and set. It’s going to be romantic.

  We unpack the six-inch cube which inflates with a press of a button to a ten-inch thick mattress, organize our food and cooking supplies, and neaten our little ‘sweetmoon’ suite. Is he adorable or what?

  It’s mid-afternoon, we have plenty of time until supper . . . and bed. I wonder when I’ll tell him Dr. Drayke informed me the contraceptive implant he gave me is now effective.

  “Let’s explore,” he says. His muscles are loose for the first time in days. After we shrug our quivers and bows over our shoulders, he grabs my hand, and we strike off.

  Bayne

  The trees in the forest have little round leaves that flutter in the warm breeze. The area we enter is so dense, not much sunlight penetrates the canopy above.

  I sniff the air to find the scent of predators, but only smell small birds and little woodland mammals. My ears prick as I listen for danger, but there’s nothing nearby to fear.

  It feels like an eternity since I’ve felt my canine run in a place like this, so long since I’ve been in my shifted form for anything other than fighting. Both WarDog and I are anxious to feel the dirt under his paws again.

  Even though I’m still upset with WarDog, I know I may need him to fight or protect Willa. I call him forward and call a truce. His head raises expectantly and his tail unfurls from between his legs. When I encourage him to come out for a run, his tail thumps happily.

  “Willa, stay here. Please don’t stray. I won’t be gone long, I just need to . . .” I shrug.

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  I didn’t even have to tell her what I wanted to do, she knew. She’s so accepting of who I am. I remove my weapons, pull my clothes off and set them in a neat pile, then walk a few steps away.

  Mate, WarDog says happily as we glance back at her.

  The shift is easy and painless, just as it used to be back on Skylose when we functioned as a team.

  WarDog is cautious at first, wanting to make sure he stays in my good graces. But after a moment, neither of us can hold back. The world of smells opens and his canine nose sniffs wildly at every blade of grass, every pile of leaves, and every flower.

  The feeling of dirt and loam squeezing beneath the pads of his feet reminds us of fun days as a youngling when we ran for hoaras until we were lost, then he scented our way home.

  Run, WarDog says in ecstasy.

  Free, I say, reveling in being able to feel the wind ruffle his fur.

  Willa doesn’t leave our minds for long. After our quick romp, our duty to protect overrides our joy in exploring our surroundings. We circle back and see her still standing, her back against a tree as a physical sign of her commitment not to move, then we allow ourselves the joy of the chase.

  WarDog’s muscles feel loose as he trots and then runs in one direction and then another. The delight of pulling out all the stops, of pushing his body to its limits is so freeing. His paws pound the soft ground, his chest expands with huge inhalations, his breath escapes in hot gusts.

  How did I live for a decade without this? We both feel fully alive here in the woods, his strides covering the forest floor almost effortlessly.

  When we circle back to Willa for the third time, WarDog does more than give her a quick glance. He drinks her in with such affection. I’ve been so mad at him for getting out of control and embarrassing me in front of everyone on board not one but two ships, but I can’t deny we’re together for a reason.

  We make a good team. And we’ll always be linked by our love for that female. Maybe part of the reason I resent him is that he had her to himself for so long when I was locked, virtually unconscious, inside.

  Had enough for now? I ask him, wanting to shift back into two-legged form so I can kiss her smiling lips.

  More later? He’s tired, his tongue is lolling out of his mouth.

  Yes. I promise.

  He sits at her feet. Willa gives his ruff a vigorous rubdown, digging her fingers deep into the fur, reaching skin. His tail wags so hard dirt and leaves are flying. His eyes close in canine bliss. She laughs and gives him a kiss on the nose.

  I missed her so much, he says to me on a heartfelt sigh. WarDog gives her one last adoring look, and I come out.

  Willa

  Bayne is standing a few feet away, unable to hide his happy, relaxed smile. He steps into his pants and slings his bow and quiver over his shoulder. When he returns to my side, the feeling of Déjà vu is so strong the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  The huntsman!

  The dream has faded enough that I don’t think I’ll ever clearly remember the huntsman’s features, but everything else is exactly as it was a month ago in my dream. From the pelt on his shoulders, which is his real ruff of hair, to the bow and arrows. He’s my huntsman.

  Sometimes the universe conspires against you. I felt that way when I woke aboard the Urlut slave ship on my way to God knows where. I felt it again when I was roughly tossed into a cell with two huge alien gladiators and a dog whose shoulders were taller than my waist. And again when it was clear the slave ship was being fired upon and I thought my death was imminent.

  Sometimes, though, I guess the universe conspires with you. That dream was a gift, signaling me that something wonderful was coming my way.

  I debate for a moment, wondering if Bayne will judge me or decide I’m crazy, bu
t finally I blurt, “I dreamed this, Bayne. I dreamed every detail of this. The sun dappling through the leaves, the thick trees, even the rich smell of the loam and decomposing leaves.

  “Mostly, though I dreamed of you.”

  His eyes flash to mine, alight with an unspoken question, I’m certain he sees the sincerity written there.

  Although we’ve devoured each others’ bodies a dozen times in the last few days, I feel shy, but not too shy to share, “That morning, before we left the ship for Aeon II, when I . . .” I scold myself not to give up now, “pleasured myself. It was after the dream where I met you for the first time. I called you the huntsman in my mind.”

  He stalks to me, his footsteps silent on the carpet of damp leaves. He places his palm at the nape of my neck and pulls me to him—almost rough, but not harsh. He’s full of passion. “What did this huntsman do?” his voice is gruff, almost a growl.