by L A Warren
For whatever reason, she took an instant dislike to the man. Maybe it was his beady brown eyes and matching short-cropped hair. He was short and stocky, too, at least compared to the other Vendel, although he still stood well over six-foot. All the Vendel were imposing in every measure: height, build—hell, their intimidation factor was off the charts. Standing in front of them, she felt diminutive and weak.
"Gentlemen, welcome," her grandfather said with a puff of his chest. From the way her grandfather rolled his shoulders back, trying to stand taller than his aging frame allowed, it was clear he felt their guests’ natural dominance too. "Please be seated. We've prepared a meal which I hope you enjoy."
The Emperor stepped around the table and pulled out the chair next to her. A heady aroma filled the air around him, making her pulse leap in her throat.
He placed a hand on the back of her chair, holding it for her. "Miss Comwell, may I?"
With a gesture, he indicated she should sit. As he adjusted her chair, he reached over her shoulder, startling her, and flicked her napkin open laying it across her lap. His mouth hovered beside her ear.
"You are quite lovely, Elise."
He turned away and exchanged words with the man sitting beside him, the one introduced as High Tender Marcus vlor'Vardhal. They spoke in a different language, harsh and guttural. The men disagreed about something. Their argument ended as abruptly as it began when the Emperor put his back to the High Tender. The red-faced man crossed his arms, obviously the loser, but looked like whatever conversation they had was far from over.
The Emperor leaned forward, ignoring the High Tender. "Director Comwell, I'm sure this is one feast I'm certain to savor."
She fiddled with her napkin, smoothing it over her lap, looking anywhere but at the man seated beside her. Two of the Vendel, who hadn't been introduced, took up posts behind the Emperor. Slim black rods, tied at each of their hips, extended midway to their knees and looked a lot like police batons. She wondered if they didn't serve a more sinister purpose because the men oozed malice.
An awkward silence descended over the table. One she broke with a question. "Excuse me, but what is the proper form of address for you? Is it Emperor Malita or Emperor vlor'Malita?"
He leaned back, took a sip of water from the crystal glass from his place setting, and smiled. He flicked a glance at High Tender Marcus vlor'Vardhal. "For you… it would please me if you would call me Gregor. In fact, I insist on it."
High Tender Marcus vlor’Vardhal coughed and shifted in his seat, but otherwise he remained silent. His dark brown eyes regarded her with intense scrutiny.
"That seems very informal." She placed more distance between herself and the Emperor.
"I insist," he pressed. "For the rest, Sire, or My Lord, would be appropriate."
"But you are not our ruler." Her words came out with more challenge than she had intended. "Or is that your intent?"
Why would he want her to call him Gregor? It seemed a very informal form of address. No way was she going to call him that.
The entire head table went silent punctuated only by the deep indrawn breath of her grandfather. He reached over and squeezed her knee under the tablecloth. "Elise," he hissed in a whisper. "Behave!"
Oh great. Open mouth. Insert foot. What would her etiquette tutor think now?
The Emperor tilted his head back and laughed. "A challenge at every turn. How refreshing. You are correct, of course. Presumptuous of me and very rude, but a matter of habit, I'm afraid." He leaned forward. "Director Comwell, you must forgive me. Your granddaughter is correct, and I meant no offense. My subjects would refer to me as 'My lord,' or 'Sire,' but I would not expect someone from Earth to use that address. I respect your autonomy. Emperor vlor'Malita is the proper form of address. The lor' or vlor' is added before a lord's name and their title before that."
He leaned back, using it as an excuse to speak low into her ear. "But for you, call me Gregor." There was no mistaking the hunger in his words. His throaty chuckle resonated deep within her, calling forth an answer she wasn't yet willing to acknowledge.
As the Emperor's laughter diffused the tenseness of her challenging question, her grandfather moved the topic towards something much more mundane. "What do the prefixes of your names mean?" He swirled the water in his glass as he shot her a warning look, as if to say, behave yourself. "Does it denote a specific title or rank?" He leaned forward, cutting her out of the conversation.
She pressed back, happy to stay silent.
High Tender Marcus vlor'Vardhal answered. "They denote social status. The lor' belong to the governing caste. The vlor' designate the ruling caste." He bowed toward the Emperor, placing fist to chest.
As he leaned forward to speak along the long head table, the Emperor pressed back to give him room. Which left the two of them leaning back while her grandfather and the High Tender discussed Vendel social structure. The Emperor tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair, but did not engage her in conversation. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the rhythm of his fingers.
"And for those without the lor' or vlor'?" her grandfather asked. "And Tender, Councilor, and Judicators, are those titles as well?"
"Only lords are referred to as Councilor. Judicators are men taken from the working caste. They sit as a counterweight to the power of our lords." The smile he gave looked anything but friendly and did nothing to soften the hard lines of his face.
"What does a Tender do?" Elise tore her eyes away from the Emperor's hypnotic fingers. How was it possible for fingers to be so damned sexy?
High Tender Marcus vlor’Vardhal’s hard-brown eyes narrowed. "We fulfill a vital role in training certain members of our society."
She wanted to press him, but stopped when her grandfather placed a cautioning hand on her knee.
"We are fascinated to learn about your culture," her grandfather said. "How does it work with governing and ruling castes?" He monopolized the conversation, frustrating her to silence.
"The lor' serve the working caste by governing them," the High Tender explained. "They meet in High Council and present their requests to the Ruling Council. The lor' govern, but the vlor' rule."
"And the Judicators?"
"They protect from tyranny." The Emperor gave a slight incline of his head toward the end of the table. "As a collective, they have the power to overturn any of my rulings, but they must then step down and select a new group to serve."
One man, introduced as a Judicator, returned the Emperor's gesture by raising his glass.
She could no longer keep silent. "So, does the working caste select representatives to meet with the 'lor? Do they have a voice?"
The High Tender snorted.
The Emperor answered in a soft tone. "Like many things, there are differences between how we govern. We are not a democracy." His eyes glinted, and he gave a soothing gesture to High Tender vlor'Vardhal she didn't think she was supposed to have seen. He folded his arms across his chest, ending further questions.
The servers delivered their meals. Cornish game hens decorated their plates and succulent vegetables sat to the side. Murmurs of approval sounded throughout the room.
"Director Comwell," the Emperor said, "if I may propose a toast?"
"Absolutely," her grandfather said.
He stood, and within moments all eyes were fixed on him. It was impossible to ignore the man.
Silence engulfed the hall.
He raised his glass. "A toast to the ladies. The food is delicious, but you are the true feast of this evening." His gaze settled on her for a moment before turning back to the crowd. "Your beauty brings tears to my eyes and joy to my heart. My earthly cousins are rich beyond belief, basking in your charms. To the true treasure of the Earth, I toast the radiance of the fairer sex."
Cheers rang out through the banquet hall. Everyone toasted, except Elise. Her fingers curled around her glass, gripping hard.
Why toast the women? Did the Vendel not have women? She glanced
to her grandfather, debating whether to pose her question.
When she didn't join in on the toast, the Emperor's lips pressed into a thin line. It was over before she could blink, and they were soon embroiled in another conversation.
She allowed her grandfather to guide the conversation, curbing her insatiable questions about the Vendel. He steered talk toward matters of state and soon they were speaking about trade and plans for an integrated step-wise cultural exchange program.
The conversation shifted from topic to topic and came back, by degrees, to the main subject of the Vendel's visit and future trade. Each time her grandfather prodded and asked about Vendel history, and their path to the stars, the Emperor or the High Tender shifted the conversation to another topic.
As waiters removed the dinner plates, High Tender Marcus vlor'Vardhal cleared his throat. "Director Comwell, if I may?"
"Yes?"
Bored to tears with the politicking, she folded her napkin and nearly succeeded in making a crane.
"We did not mean to leave out your granddaughter and Commodore Armstrong's wife with our gift. If I may present it to them now?"
Her head snapped up, and the napkin fell on the floor.
The Emperor picked it up and draped it over her lap. His husky whisper curled in her ear. "What a shame, I was wondering what you would make."
She fisted the napkin and placed the crumpled fabric on the table, embarrassed to find he'd been watching her fiddling.
His low chuckle had heat rising all the way to her ears.
High Tender vlor'Vardhal pulled out two bottles from an inside breast coat pocket. He passed a vial to Elenor, who took it with a polite murmur of acceptance.
Elenor opened the bottle and inhaled the fragrance. "Why, it's stunning. How did you bottle such a wonderful scent?" She sneezed. "Excuse me."
"Bless you," Elise said.
The Emperor exchanged a look with the High Tender.
"It is one of our unique skills," replied the High Tender. He handed the next bottle to the Emperor. "My lord, are you certain?"
The Emperor took the vial and twirled it in his hands. "This is a most elusive scent, and it would give me great pleasure if you would allow me to apply it to the inside of your wrist."
A danger signal flared, but she couldn't refuse. Not with her grandfather poking her in the ribs.
A tense smile fixed to her face.
The Emperor took the top off and applied a small dab of liquid to his fingertip. "It's best when slightly warm, like so." He set the bottle down and High Tender vlor'Vardhal stoppered it back up.
The Emperor turned in his chair so his knees brushed her thighs. He grasped her wrist in his muscular hand and turned it over. With the tip of his finger, he applied the liquid to her inner wrist. In no hurry, he allowed his touch to wander and caressed her wrist, tracing a line up her forearm and back down into her palm. She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip held firm.
He gazed into her eyes. "This is a special essence. It has a tendency to linger. There's a legend our people made this as an aphrodisiac."
Did he proposition her? She flinched at the intensity of his stare and found her answer in the heat of his gaze.
Electricity spiraled up her forearm where his finger touched her skin, sinking deeper as heat rushed into her shoulder. From there, the shock branched, heading up to flush her cheeks and burst into an uncontrolled explosion of multi-colored light. She gasped as her body awakened with a painful hunger. This was not the Vendel-Earth union her grandfather had in mind. Tiny tremors shook her body from the inside out, unsettling her stomach and making her voice quaver.
She ripped her hand out of the Emperor's grip and pushed back from the table. "Excuse me, please." She rose on shaky legs. Her stomach rioted, threatening to return her dinner to her plate.
"Are you all right?" He bolted to his feet, eyes glinting with concern. He cast a worried glance at the High Tender who shrugged.
"Yes," she said, if too sharply. She smoothed her tone of voice, trying to recapture her composure. "I need to powder my nose."
The Emperor stepped to the side to let her pass. She felt his eyes on her all the way to the exit doors of the banquet hall. As they closed behind her, she broke into a run and headed towards the bathroom and a sink where she could wash off the perfume.
Aphrodisiac her ass. That was a love potion amped up on steroids. She couldn't get the image of him ravishing her out of her head. Or worse, her ripping that black uniform off his body. And her wrist burned from where his finger traced that deadly line of fire.
And the rainbows? What was up with the rainbows flashing in her vision? A kaleidoscope of color still swirled in her periphery. Could the perfume have hallucinogenic properties?
She slammed the bathroom door and raced inside to the sink.
Get it off! Get it off! Oh God, get it off!
The floral perfume floated up to her nose, saturating her nasal passages with the potent aroma, even as water poured over her wrist. She staggered against the overwhelming desire for him to claim her. What's in this perfume?
Chapter Three
Wednesday night, February 2, 2035:
Elise walked out of the restroom and into the empty foyer. No doubt she would hear about her behavior later tonight when she and her grandfather got home.
In front of her, the doors to the banquet hall opened and two elderly women stepped out, their steps echoing in the cavernous space. The women exchanged polite nods with her and disappeared into the women's restroom. She hesitated outside the doors, not wanting to go back to the gathering. Her entire body shook with the urge to run, because, inside, he waited.
Her wrist itched where the Emperor had rubbed in the perfume. Images of him kept swirling in her mind, intrusive and unwelcome. Despite her social obligations as hostess to their alien guests, she couldn't force her feet to move. Surely her grandfather would forgive her if she slipped away for a while? Who was she kidding? He would be furious, but she couldn't stomach another moment beside the Emperor. His overt interest went beyond casual flirtation, inappropriate for an official banquet, and the fact her grandfather did nothing concerned her even more.
A few stolen minutes wouldn't hurt, and she had pressing concerns of her own. She headed down a hallway leading to an array of private sitting rooms. It would only take a moment to check in at the university and get the edits on her thesis. The closest parlor was empty. She slipped inside and closed the door. She looked around. There, tucked into the corner, was a small workstation. With a press of her palm to the controls, the electronics came to life. Two slim metal rods rose out the top of the desk and the shimmering screen of mist and light formed.
A few flicks and she navigated to the Global Corps virtual campus where she looked for Professor MacCabe. He was usually online. As always, she sent her avatar, a nerdy pimply faced teenaged boy, in for a visit, rather than teleconference directly. To avoid favoritism, no one on campus knew her identity. Unlike her fake trust-fund friends, she liked to earn her grades rather than buy them.
"Alex!" Professor MacCabe's Einstein avatar greeted her arrival with an enthusiastic wave. "What are you doing on campus this late on a Wednesday night?"
Avoiding alien Emperors.
But she couldn't tell him that. Semester grades were due, and she was dying to know what he thought of her thesis. There was little time to make changes. An 'A' in his class sealed her seat on the Jupiter mission.
"Have you looked at my neural modeling paper?" Her avatar, Alex, pushed thick glasses up his nose and gave one of his programmed nervous shrugs.
"Yes." Einstein ran his hand though scraggly gray hair. "One moment, please." He leaned over a stack of research papers and thumbed through the mountain of folders. "Let's examine this theory of yours." He pulled the glasses off his face and chewed on the earpiece.
Over the next half hour, the two of them waded through her term paper. At one point, MacCabe's Einstein sat up with interest. They were
in the neural phase processing section where she described her six-dimensional theory about neural interfaces extending into higher dimensions. It formed the basis of her theory for the anchoring of the subconscious in four dimensions, space and time, with subsequent extension into the fifth and sixth dimensions.
"This is promising work," McCabe said.
The door squeaked behind her. In the reflected view of the holo-mist, the imposing image of Emperor Gregor Ulysses vlor'Malita stared back, a look of concern etched deep in his face. Behind him, his Goliath bodyguards with the black batons took up positions outside the door.
Her stomach clenched, wondering how, or even why, he'd tracked her down.
Like a snapshot, her mind imprinted every detail of the enigmatic man into her mind. In one hand, he balanced a dessert plate that held a beautiful confection of chocolate lace swirls, a sprig of mint, and two forks. Under his arm, he clutched a bottle of wine. He gripped two wine glasses between the fingers of his other hand. His black uniform accentuated the sculpted muscles of a robust physique, and she would never forget his tattoo—dark lines swirling with a sinuous grace.
Pressure built in her chest, a sudden pounding that made breathing tenuous. A faint fragrance whispered past her nose, memory of the perfume she'd scrubbed off her wrist. Without thought, she lifted her wrist and sniffed, but all she smelled was the lilac scented soap she'd used to wash. Where was that tantalizing aroma coming from? This was not good.
"Professor, I have to go."
"But Alex?"
"I'm sorry."
She cut the connection because she couldn't risk MacCabe overhearing anything the Emperor might say. She turned off the console and faced the Emperor.
"What are you doing here?"
His eyes flashed silver in the soft light. "You missed a delicious dessert." He stepped away from the closing door and placed his treasure on a small coffee table in front of two wing-backed chairs.
