by Alana Khan
The two females continue to negotiate for long minimas. Aerie asks, Tsing counters, then Aerie demands more credits and Tsing requests more of me. Every time Aerie offers something more dangerous, her voice gets tighter, higher. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she cared whether I live or die.
“We’re close to our ask,” Aerie’s trying mightily to school the tone of her voice to businesslike nonchalance. “Our male will fight three males each in two back-to-back bouts. This has never been done before. Certainly, you can raise your seat prices to cover the cost of a million credits.”
“We’re at 900,000,” Tsing says levelly.
She glances over at me for the first time during this comm. I’m off to the side, but still on the screen. “I’ll tell you what. I’m feeling generous,” Tsing says, a sly smile on her face. “I’ll personally throw in an extra 10,000 if he removes his loincloth now, and an extra 40,000 if you arrive a day early and he gives me a private dance during dinner.”
Aerie says “No,” as I begin removing my loincloth and step closer to the screen.
Tsing’s smile widens and her eyes slit as she looks me up and down like a child eyes a birthday present.
“The ‘private dance’ will have three participants. The ship’s captain will be present,” Aerie insists, her voice so low it could be taken as a threat.
“Yes, fine” Tsing says, taking her eyes off me long enough to assess Aerie as if she was imagining her nude. “Three is fine if the third participant is you.“ She twirls her finger, motioning me to turn around. “This should be fun,” Tsing says as she closes the comm-link.
“That leaves me 50,000 short,” I say the moment her callous blue face fades from view.
“No it doesn’t,” Aerie says. “I’ll donate my 50,000 finder’s fee to you. It sounds like the money’s more important to you than it is to me.”
Aerie
I grabbed food and ate in my room, not having the mental energy to deal with any living beings, not even WarDog. I was standing not more than ten feet away from Zar and Ar’Tok at the end of the negotiation. Their worry was palpable. It’s obvious they think Beast is going to die.
I open my door immediately at the knock, assuming it’s Petra, the hairdresser on board. She said she might be able to concoct a hair gel that could help me achieve my spiky look.
It’s Beast.
“Can I speak with you?”
I try to read him, but it’s impossible. It’s not that he’s so alien I can’t read his features. He’s just inscrutable. Maybe that’s from his years keeping his emotions on lockdown as a slave.
I nod and step aside.
He enters and stays so close to the door it almost hits him when it slides closed. Now he’s resting his back against the shiny metal door.
“I came for two reasons.”
Shit. I have it bad for him. Shouting Emmannee’s name, as disheartening as it was, did not diminish my attraction to him. Even knowing there’s a high probability he’s going to die in a few days does not lessen my desire to touch his shimmering skin.
Whenever I’m within touching distance, all I can think of is last night. The perfection of his face, the metallic coloring so beautiful I itch to touch it. I shiver recalling the things his tongue did to me.
Then I remember the little tidbit about him being able to smell my arousal. Good job, Aerie, my inner bitch snarks.
“Reason one?” I prompt.
“I sincerely apologize for my behavior last night.”
That must have cost him. No one, especially a male, likes to admit their imperfections. I glance at him to see just how ingenuine a male from Tramachor can look when they’re blowing smoke with the intent of sweet-talking a girl into bed. He looks serious as a heart attack.
I shrug. Let him interpret that however he wants.
“I didn’t say it to hurt you.”
Interesting, he doubled down on his apology.
“And the second reason?” I ask with a toss of my head.
“I can’t accept your offer.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“The 50,000 credit . . . donation.”
“It’s yours. You need it more than me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t take charity.”
A dozen responses fly through my brain, but I settle on, “Tough. It’s yours.”
“Then I’ll repay you tenfold when I fight my next match . . . when I fight as a free male.”
I bite my tongue to refrain from telling him that if I was a betting woman, my money would be on this match on Galgon being his last.
“Even money,” I tell him. “If you feel compelled to pay me back, pay me even money.”
He nods his head once, straightens his already-straight spine, presses his palm on the exit plate, and leaves.
Chapter Four
Aerie
The last time I spoke with Beast was two days ago when he apologized. Since then I haven’t seen him around. I could have found him, though. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to know he was spending every spare minute in the ludus.
I lied. Actually, I went there once, watched for about twenty seconds, and skedaddled out so fast there was no way he knew I’d been there.
What I saw literally stole my breath.
He had two swords—real metal ones this time—and was sparring with three of the gladiators at once. Dahlia wasn’t joking about the naked thing, all four of them were completely bare, as if the tiny rags they wear around their waists were too constricting.
Beast was moving at dizzying speeds, fighting them off one at a time to the accompaniment of clanging swords. He was sweating from his efforts and grunting as he successfully fought them.
You’d think seeing him fight so well would make me feel good, but it didn’t. It just put very vivid pictures in my mind of how many ways he could die in the arena. The three males he was fighting were all allies. The ones he’ll fight tomorrow will be enemies.
Even if he wins his first bout, how can he regain his energy and fight a second grueling battle a few minutes later? And I have to be there. I’ll see every gruesome minute of it.
I pull my thoughts to the present. I’m standing at the exit ramp holding the little backpack Dahlia lent to me.
I’m wearing my suit and ‘fancy-schmancy shoes’. They give me confidence. I’ve packed a dress Savannah loaned me for the intimate party tonight. I have no idea what to expect other than the visions of ancient Roman orgies swirling in my head.
“Aerie,” Beast says. “You’re ready?”
When I nod, he grabs my pack, slings it over a muscular shoulder, grasps my elbow, and powers down the ramp with me at his side.
“I should have urged you not to come,” he says, his head dipped to my ear. Shadow, Dax, and Stryker are all marching in lockstep with us—two are a few feet ahead of us, Stryker is behind. They’re our protection if anything gets out of hand. “Things might get dangerous.”
“How could anything possibly go wrong with a thousand pounds of gladiator muscle surrounding us?” They’re all wearing spiffy black strips of leather that make kickass-looking alien kilts. The Pinnacle, however, is still wearing the muslin rag loincloth that covers nothing but his sex.
“Ooh, paparazzi,” I mumble to myself when my feet hit the ground. We may be a billion miles from Earth, but you can tell what they are from a thousand paces.
This is the first time I’ve seen Beast show an emotion other than lust or calm. Even when we thought Marauders were about to invade our cell block and he was generously offering to snap my neck, he showed no emotion.
He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into the midst of our guards.
“If pictures of me get out and Plenum of Trent sees them, I won’t be allowed to fight. Or if I will, he’ll demand the purse. No pictures!”
I immediately understand how high the stakes are for him.
“Hi,” I say as I step out of the protective barrier of our wall of flesh. “I’m the Beast of Trama
chor’s spokesperson.” I flash them the biggest smile my face can manage.
“The Beast has superstitions, as all great athletes do. Some never change their underwear, some sleep with their swords,” I just keep rattling on, making this shit up on the fly. “Beast can’t bear to be photographed.” I reward the press corp, luckily mostly male, with a simpering smile.
“Whoever will allow me to watch them remove all photographs from their equipment will be granted personal interviews after the matches.” I glance over to see Beast is safely ensconced in what must be our hover-limo. He’s behind tinted windows. The three gladiators are now surrounding me. How sweet.
“He’ll be dead after the matches,” one of them shouts.
“If that’s the case, you’ll be allowed into the morgue for the best, juiciest, most gruesome close-ups possible. Who’s first?” I ask cheerfully.
Without skipping a beat, every one of them allows me to corroborate that they’ve removed the evidence. I get all of their contact info, wondering how, if Beast somehow does live through the ordeal, we might be able to monetize this.
“Win or lose, I’ll be contacting each and every one of you immediately after the match,” I say as I ease into the limo.
“I hope you were well compensated in your job on Earth. You’re very good at what you do,” Shadow says while looking out the window for threats.
“I was very junior at my firm, but I was rising fast,” I inform him.
Without so much as a “may I?” Stryker picks me up and nestles me near his other hip to get me away from the window. Four of us are in the rear seat with Beast and I in the middle, Shadow and Stryker flanking us. Dax is in the front seat with the driver.
I crane my neck to catch a view out the windshield. The word ‘shithole’ comes to mind. Everything seems to be beige. And dusty. A windy, dirty, khaki planet. Somehow that makes this fight even more ominous.
I glance up at Beast. His posture is perfect as always. His face is calm and emotionless. How does he do it? I’m ready to jump out of my skin and it’s not my life on the line tomorrow.
We touched down on the outskirts of the city in an industrial section. Now that we’re heading toward some tall buildings, I see little stretches with nicer buildings. My initial impression still stands, though—this planet’s a shithole.
“I did some research on our hostess,” Shadow says, his eyes still focused on the terrain whizzing by. “She’s Sabronese, a race known for their work ethic as well as their ruthlessness about money. Everything I found on the Intergalactic Database indicates she’s fair, though, and a female of her word.”
“Don’t worry,” Stryker says, “we’ll be with you every step of the way. We’re your guards. We take our jobs seriously.”
I look over at him. If I met the scarred, red humanoid male in a dark alley, I would shit my pants. We haven’t exchanged a whole lot of words, but he’s been nothing but nice in every interaction. I think he and Maddie, the chef, are an item. He looks at her like she hung the moon. None of the males are quite what they seem at first blush.
We’re hovering down a street full of mansions. I don’t know, is there a word for something bigger than a mansion? These things are palatial.
Because of the harsh environment, the houses don’t have green lawns like on Earth, yet their landscaping screams ostentatious wealth. Huge crystals, some five feet tall, some twice that high, grace these front yards. Some houses have the crystals in pleasing arrangements. Others incorporate water features that flow through the sculpture gardens.
The crystals glow in a rainbow of colors. I can’t discern whether these shining hues are natural or manmade. This display would be impressive on the grounds of presidents or kings. I guess money talks on whatever planet people live.
After we touch down, two uniformed males open our doors and offer to carry our luggage. I’m the only one who brought anything, and it’s a backpack, but they make quite a show of taking it from me.
They escort us inside and I feel like I did the first time I got off the train to New York from my group home in small-town Florida. I was eighteen and had earned a scholarship to Queen’s College. It’s surprising my head didn’t snap off my neck as I looked at all the tall buildings. I was so busy gawking, I turned my ankle stepping off a curb. Anyone within a hundred paces could tell it was my first time in a big city.
As we walk through the spacious foyer and well-appointed living area, I’m gaping at the finery displayed on every tabletop, shelf, and glassed-in armoire. I visited my New York boss’s house a few times for parties. He’s wealthy beyond belief. Tsing’s house makes his look like a sharecropper shack.
The two males, possibly ex-gladiators by their builds, escort us up the plushly-carpeted stairs and show us to our rooms. The three bodyguards will share one room, I’m in the middle room, and Beast is on the end.
Glancing at him, I can’t get a feel for what his emotions are. He’s hard to read. If he’s impressed by this show of wealth, I’d never know it. Perhaps he’s burrowed deep inside himself to keep thoughts of tomorrow’s life-and-death matches out of his thoughts.
Our escorts inform us dinner will be in three hours, recommend we take a nap, and tell me a female servant will arrive at my room in two-and-a-half hours to help me dress.
Despite the stress, the over-the-top opulence, and my anxiety, I manage to doze until a gentle knock wakes me.
A pretty, elf-like humanoid female enters with an armful of clothing. My little three-foot-tall gold visitor has vivid red lips and shining silver eyes that seem like they’re looking through me. Despite her unsettling visage, she treats me with extreme deference.
Half an hour later, I’m dressed in a pale peach dress that’s fitted around me like a toga. It’s edged in gold brocade fabric. When I glance in the mirror, I’m surprised by how good I look. Since Tsing most assuredly picked this outfit for me, I would have assumed she would want me as dumpy and dowdy as possible since she’s obviously interested in Beast. Instead, she’s dolled me up in a way that compliments my coloring and short blond hair.
The toga exposes one arm and shoulder and dips almost to my breasts. She’s loaned me a gold and ruby necklace with matching dangly earrings.
She’s even provided shoes—flat sandals. I’m certain they go well with the outfit. However, whether it’s by accident or design, she’s discovered my kryptonite. I’d rather be wearing my six-inch stilettos.
As if perfectly orchestrated, I enter the hallway at the same time as the four males. The three bodyguards are wearing the black leather kilts they arrived in. Beast is wearing a short toga in sapphire blue. The color looks amazing against his skin, making the metallic green almost shimmer.
His face is on lockdown. I can’t read him at all.
We’re escorted into a large dining room. It’s sumptuously appointed, with blood-red and gold brocade fabric on the walls and plush chairs. The chandelier is dripping with crystals, perhaps the same kind sprinkled all over the yard, that cast sparkling colors on every surface in the room. A large ornately carved crystal fireplace dominates one wall.
Three of Tsing’s staff are there, each wearing a sword at one hip and a dagger at the other. Shadow, Stryker, and Dax are similarly equipped.
Although the room could accommodate a banquet of fifty, there’s only a small table in the middle of the room, set for three.
The six guards, three of ours, three of hers, take up positions around the periphery as Beast and I are seated. It’s only now that Tsing enters.
I hadn’t noticed when we were on comms, but she’s tall, well over six feet. She carries herself like a queen, wearing a toga similar to mine. Hers is a shimmering golden fabric that deepens the tone of her opalescent skin.
“Good evening. I hope you enjoyed your naps. Let’s begin our dinner, shall we? I can’t wait for the after-dinner entertainment.” Her brows rise, her eyes open wider, and her lips pull into an animalistic smile. She’s waiting for the private dance she�
��s paying 40,000 credits for.
Servants ply us with course after course of sumptuous food. I only pick at it, and Beast eats even less. I don’t know what Tsing’s game is, but I don’t think poison is on the agenda. She’s too keen on getting her lap dance. Besides, if Beast is too ill—or dead—to fight tomorrow, it will cost her big time.
“You don’t like your food?” she asks after I wave the server away for the third dish in a row.
“Delish. I’m just full.”
“I don’t blame you. We wouldn’t want to be uncomfortable during the upcoming festivities, would we?” There’s that lascivious smile again.
