Draekon Pirate

by Lee Savino

Draekon Warrior - Alice & Kadir

  Draekon Conquerer - Lani & Ruhan

  Draekon Pirate - Diana & Mirak

  Draekon Warlord - Naomi & Fifth - coming soon!

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  A Preview of Draekon Mate

  Crashed spaceship. Prison planet. Snarling, lethal predators. Two big, hulking, bronzed aliens who turn into dragons. The best part? The dragons insist I’m their mate.

  The Zorahn wanted women for some kind of super-secret science experiment, and I volunteered. Dumb move, right? But they promised we’d be safe, and they offered a lot of money. Money I needed desperately.

  Of course, everything went wrong.

  Our spaceship has crashed on a prison planet, one where the Zorahn exile their most dangerous criminals. My friends are injured. I’m all alone on a jungle planet where everything is designed to kill me.

  Then I run into the Draekons. When they see me, they change into dragons and burn the predators threatening me to a crisp. They feed me and care for me, and they keep me safe.

  But there’s a catch. The Draekons insist that I’m their mate. And the only way they can shift into dragons again to save my friends? Both of them need to mate with me. At the same time.

  This isn't the space vacation I thought it would be.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Viola:

  I thought it’d be bigger.

  This is the first thought I have when I enter the gleaming golden spaceship of the Zorahn.

  That’s what she said. I hide my grin at my stupid little joke. I always joke when I’m nervous, and it turns out stepping onto an alien craft to be carried off to a planet several light years away is about a thousand times more nerve-wracking than giving a dissertation to a panel of world-renowned botanists. About several thousand times more nerve-wracking.

  It took countless pep talks from my dad and a slug of whiskey to get me over that last hurdle to my Ph.D. It’s going to take a few bottles to get me comfortable on this alien ship. The Zorahn craft isn’t even as large as a commercial airliner. It’s ten feet across, and forty feet long, and the insides gleam with the same golden hue as the exterior. Even more worryingly, there are no seats to be seen.

  This is not going to be a comfortable trip.

  Then the reality sinks in. There is life out there in the universe—we are not alone. Aliens exist. I’m on a real, live spaceship, heading to the planet of Zoraht, home of the Zorahn. I won’t see Earth again for six months.

  I look around, and the faces of the women next to me all betray the same emotions. Awe. Fear. Excitement. Up until a few weeks ago, we were just civilians going about our normal daily life.

  Now we’re astronauts. Insane.

  Major Schultz, the US Army officer who’s been functioning as a liaison between the Zorahn and us, clears his throat for attention. “As you know,” he begins, “this is a momentous day for humanity.”

  The woman next to me, a tall, lean blonde, rolls her eyes. “God, he likes to hear himself talk,” she mutters under her breath. Her name is Harper, I remember, from the team-building exercises the Army made us participate in once we’d been chosen by the Zorahn. She’s a swim coach in California who almost made the national team in college.

  Hector Schultz either doesn’t hear her or pretends not to. “The ten of you,” he says, “have been chosen by our honored guests, the Zorahn, to travel to their planet and discover the wonders of their world.”

  The way Hector Schultz makes it sound, we’re space tourists. That’s not even close to the truth.

  The real reason we’re on this ship? Our genes. According to the emissaries, Zoraht, the homeworld of the Zorahn, is being ravaged by a mysterious disease, and their scientists need our genetic material to devise a cure.

  We’re glorified lab rats.

  “Remember that the thoughts of every single human on planet Earth are with you,” he continues solemnly. “You represent the first step in an alliance that we hope will span generations.”

  He looks like he could go on for hours, but one of the Zorahn males clears his throat, and Hector Schultz takes the hint. His voice trails off, and he stands in the middle of the ship, looking uncomfortable and out of place.

  The Zorahn male who interrupted Schultz’ monologue steps forward. He’s seven feet tall. His skin is bronzed, his head is clean-shaven, and his body is hard and corded with muscle. Blue tattooed whorls cover his bald head, though the rest of his body is unmarked. I think his name is Beirax. He wears black pants, but in place of a shirt, intricate bands of blue fabric cover his chest.

  He’s intimidating as fuck.

  He says something, the words harsh and garbled in my ears. I have no idea what he’s saying, and I turn to look at Harper, wondering if she can understand him any better than me. The tall blonde is frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Nope. Not just me. The only one who seems to have any clue what the Zorahn said is Schultz.

  Noticing our looks of confusion, Beirax snaps a question to the other male on board the ship, Mannix. Mannix is just as tall as his fellow alien, but his tattoos are black and brown, not blue. I’m sure the coloring has some significance, though what it is we don’t know. The Zorahn haven’t bothered to tell us much about their culture. All we know is that the High Emperor rules the entire planet and we will be under his personal protection when we are on Zoraht.

  Mannix shakes his head. He holds his palm over a wall panel, and it slides open, revealing a storage cavity packed with mysterious and unidentifiable objects. Pulling a handful of small golden disks out, he hands one to each of us, and mimes that we’re to insert the disks in our right ear.

  Ah. Translator. That’s why Schultz didn’t look as confused as the rest of us.

  Harper snorts. “No need for the lab rats to understand what they’re saying,” she says dryly. She lifts the button-sized device to her ear. I do the same, yelping as a spark runs through me at the point of contact.

  “No kidding,” I mutter, rubbing at my ear. “Also, no need to tell us that the damn thing should come with a warning label. I guess they don’t have lawyers on Zoraht.”

  “We don’t.” Beirax’s voice drips with frost. “If you could return your attention to me, Viola Lewis?”

  Ahem. The translator’s working then. Good to know that the first alien sentence I hear is a scolding.

  A couple of the women giggle, but they stop as soon as they feel the full force of the Zorahn’s glare. “As I was saying,” he continues, “You are passengers on Fehrat 1. The journey to the homeworld will take ten of your Earth days. You will be placed in stasis for the trip. Any questions?”

  Multiple hands fly in the air. Beirax sighs in frustration and points to a petite dark-haired woman. “Sofia Menendez,” he intones. “Yes?”

  I wonder if the Zorahn understand the concept of a first and last name. The way Beirax refers to us, I doubt it. Voila Lewis. Sofia Menendez. Either that or he has a stick up his butt.

  The last of the Zorahn, Raiht’vi, chooses this moment to enter the spaceship. She’s a lot taller than most human women, but her build is similar to ours. She has a narrow waist and wider hips, and her clothing, bulky as it is, doesn’t hide the swell of her breasts.

  As tall as the men, she’s the only one with hair on her head. The scarlet tresses are tightly braided and decorated with objects that look like shells, and her clothing is white. “Are we ready to leave, Beirax?” she asks, a forbidding expression on her face.

  “The humans have questions, Highborn,” Beirax says apologetically. “According to the orders of the High Emperor…”

  She cuts him off. “I’m aware of Lenox’s commands.” She gives us an unsmiling look. “Satisfy their curiosity. We leave in a knur.”

  One Knur equals Twelve Earth Minutes, the device in my ear helpfully interjects.

  Twelve min
utes until we’re off planet. I take a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my NASA-issued clothing, made from a navy material that fits like a second skin. The last few weeks of training and a highly nutritious diet have left me fitter than I’ve ever been in my life, but I still don't care for the government-issued Spandex. “Why can’t we wear normal clothing?” I’d asked when a grim-faced captain handed them to me.

  “The suits are specially formulated for space travel. The nanotechnology cleans itself and will help regulate your body temperature.”

  “Does it come in pink?” When he didn’t crack a smile at the wisecrack, I’d mumbled, “Navy isn’t really my color.”

  “You are a representative of the United States,” he’d replied tersely. “You will dress the part.”

  So I stand in the Zorahn ship with the other women, the ten of us looking like an Olympic ski team. If the aliens think it’s weird that we’re dressed identically, they don’t say anything.

  Raiht’vi, the female Zorahn, disappears into the cockpit of the spaceship. At least, that’s what I think it is, given the number of instrument panels on the dashboard. It’s also the only part of the ship that has a window.

  Look at the blue skies, Viola. You won’t see them again for six months.

  Sofia, who is fresh out of medical residency, asks her question. “The translator is speaking English to me,” she says. “I’m bilingual. How did it decide what language to use?”

  Her question seems to puzzle Beirax and Mannix. “The translator doesn’t decide,” Beirax replies, a confused expression on his face. “The translator translates.”

  “Why didn’t it translate to Spanish?” Sofia persists.

  Beirax frowns. “The translator translates Zor to English and vice-versa. That is its purpose.”

  Not a universal translator then. That shit probably only exists in the imaginations of sci-fi writers.

  “Excuse me?” A soft voice at my elbow makes me turn. A stunning redhead with a perfect figure and flawless pale skin stands at my side, biting her lower lip. I blink, and even the alien falls silent.

  “Hi, I’m Olivia,” she says, with a little wave of a manicured hand. “I can’t get my translator to work.” She holds the device up and shakes it, all the while wearing an adorable little pout.

  If I were going to set up an intergalactic dating service, I’d definitely put bombshell Olivia Buckner’s picture front and center.

  “Try sticking it in your ear,” Harper quips. She and I exchange glances as Mannix gets another translator, and Schultz about falls over himself to help her put it in. Even Beirax can’t take his eyes off her gravity-defying breasts. Male interest in a hot female is universal.

  My gaze drifts over the muscles of the brown tattooed alien, Mannix. Are Zorahn cocks like human males?

  Focus, Vi!

  After much attention from the men, Olivia finally has her translator installed, and Beirax signals he’s ready for the next question. A woman with short curly brown hair raises her hand like she’s in grade school. “You said stasis,” she says nervously. “Is that safe?”

  “Of course it is.” Schultz rushes to reply before either of the Zorahn can answer. He looks indignant. “Everything on this ship has been tested. The United States government is deeply invested in your safety and well-being.”

  Mannix gives Schultz an irritated look at the interruption. “The High Emperor has decreed your safety. It is so.”

  “This High Emperor must be quite the guy,” Harper Boyd murmurs.

  I don’t doubt it. As a gesture of good faith, the Zorahn came bearing gifts. One of them was the cure for leukemia. Rumor has it that lung cancer is next on the list, and the tobacco companies are practically drooling at the prospect of being able to market their wares again without health concerns.

  I don’t know what else the Zorahn promised our government to get them to sanction shooting us into space, but whatever they offered, it’s gotta be huge. Much bigger than cancer. Once the Zorahn told them what they wanted, the government fell over itself to cooperate with the aliens. They even got the media in lockstep. I’ve seen article after article gush about the Zorahn, calling them our allies, even our saviors.

  The way I see it, the Zorahn spaceship could be a tin can, and I doubt the government would care. There’s too much superior alien technology at stake.

  May Archer looks worried, biting her lip. I nudge her. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say, keeping my tone reassuring. “The Zorahn want us to arrive safely as much as we do.” We’ve been told our genes could save their race, but only if they can study us in their high-tech space-age labs. Thus the journey to their planet.

  Beirax makes a chopping gesture with his hand. “No more questions,” he says tersely. “Hector Schultz, it is time for you to leave. We depart for Zoraht in a pars.”

  One pars equals Six Earth Minutes, my translator chirps.

  Six minutes to go. I glance around at the nine other women, but no one in our little space sorority seems excited anymore. Reality has set in.

  Who volunteers to leave Earth behind and travel to an alien planet for six months? What kind of person chooses to trust the emissaries when they promise our safe return, guaranteed by the High Emperor of Zoraht himself? Why would anyone line up to be poked and prodded by alien scientists?

  The answers are simple. Money. Adventure. And in my case, a lack of anything left on Earth to live for.

  Schultz salutes us briskly and departs, clattering down the ramp. There are no windows on the sides of the ship, so I can’t see the crowds outside. Maybe some of the other women have family watching them depart. Not me. I have no family left. My mother left when I was ten, and my father died of leukemia two months before the cure came. Yeah, I know. Irony.

  I watch as Beirax and Mannix hold their palms over several large panels in the back, which slide open to reveal the stasis pods. Ever seen a picture of the capsule hotels in Japan? That’s what these resemble. “Are we going to be awake during the trip?” I blurt out without thinking.

  This time, Beirax actually rolls his eyes. “It is a stasis pod, Viola Lewis. By definition…” His voice trails off, and he sneers at me.

  Yeah. I’m making a great first impression.

  I awaken with a lurch and bang my head against the ceiling of my stasis pod. “Ouch,” I groan, rubbing at the spot. Pain wars with excitement and excitement wins.

  We must be landing on Zoraht.

  The panel opens, and I peer out eagerly. I’m here. I’m on a different planet, halfway across the galaxy. I’m going to see an alien world.

  Then I realize that something’s wrong. The three Zorahn are standing in the center of the craft, and one of them, Beirax, has a weapon pointed at the other two. “I’m sorry, Highborn,” he’s saying. “I have other plans for the humans.”

  “Lenox guaranteed their safety.” The female Zorahn, Raiht’vi, speaks through clenched teeth. “ You’ve altered the ship’s course and locked the controls. What are you doing? This is treason.”

  “No.” Beirax’s voice is eerily calm, and his hand, the one holding the alien gun, is steady. “I commit no treason. I answer to a higher authority.”

  “Traitor.” Raiht’vi looks ready to tear Beirax apart from limb to limb with her bare fingers. “There is no higher authority than Lenox.” She glances at the cockpit and sees something on the screen that causes her to gasp out. “No,” she whispers. “That is the prison planet. You cannot mean…” Her eyes go wild, and her voice rises in pitch. “What are you doing, Beirax? No ship can survive the asteroid belt. We will all die!”

  Asteroid belt? Prison planet? What the hell?

  Goosebumps rise on my skin. Something very bad is going on—bad enough that Raiht’vi thinks we’re all going to die, and Mannix looks like he’s going to wet himself—and my instincts warn me not to get in the middle of it. I don’t want to know how effective the Zorahn weapon can be.

  Over the whine of the engines, I think I hear
the other women stir in their stasis pods. Don’t move, don’t move, I beg. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourselves.

  Beirax draws himself to his full height. “For a thousand years,” he intones, “we have sinned against the Draekons. We have used them and imprisoned them. We have exiled them to a harsh and hostile world.” His eyes glow with an inner fire. “And we, the Order of the Crimson Night, have sworn never to forget.”

  Sinned. Imprisoned. Exiled. Whatever Beirax is talking about, it isn’t giving me the warm and fuzzies. Who are the Draekons, and what the hell kind of fucked up politics have we landed in the middle of?

  The ship lurches. As I watch, my heart pounding in my throat, its trajectory changes. A red planet looms in the view screen, and the nose of the ship tilts inexorably toward it.

  We start to descend.

  Scratch that. Descend suggests that we’re landing with a measure of control. From the panic etched on Raiht’vi’s face, from the way my stomach’s churning, I don’t think we’re landing.

  We’re crashing.

  “The Draekons will rip us apart, Beirax.” Raiht’vi tries again, one last desperate appeal. “You fool, don’t you understand? Even if we survive the landing, they will destroy us. You must let me correct our course before it’s too late.”

  Beirax remains unmoved. “I chose exile and even death so the Draekons may rise again.” His voice rises to a chant. “It is foretold. The humans were the seed that gave life to the Draekon. And I, Beirax, will provide the seed anew. The human women will restore the Draekons to the glory that is their birthright.”

  Part of me struggles to understand what’s going on. The other part of me is frozen in horror. We’re going to crash on an alien world. One that’s reduced Mannix to a blubbering mess, one that’s caused Raiht’vi’s face to whiten with terror.