Naughty Flings: Twelve Naughty Little Romps

by Alexa Silver

  A brood mare, Jordan thought with a wave of nausea. From among the Daughters of the Multitude. What would the progeny of two such powerful magic-wielders be like? Were it to be a girl, she could control, could teach the child to be of the White Path but if it were a male child?

  She shuddered to think how potent the powers of that little boy would be and she doubted she would be able to control or teach him. Would his father do so or would he allow the brattling free rein to work magic from the Black Path?

  “Do Shadowlords work the left-hand way?” she wondered aloud.

  Clutching her fingers, she hung her head. She knew now what she was up against and it didn’t matter which magic path he traveled.

  It was a moot point. The bastard who was coming for her wasn’t just a wielder of magic—either White or Black. He was a loathsome Reaper, one of a race of monsters she feared and hated with all her being. Reapers had slaughtered her family and for that alone she detested them. To be the mate of such a creature was as abhorrent a thought as any she’d ever entertained.

  “And I shall not allow it,” she said. “I would rather ply the brothels on Amerigen than have a Reaper slime between my legs!”

  The thought made her blood boil at the same time it chilled her soul. To be touched by one such as he. To be at his beck and call. To be forced to lie beneath his repugnant, disgusting body was not to be borne!

  There had to be a way to get out of it, to escape him and—the goddess willing—she would find it.

  *****

  A brutal migraine was eating away at the Gravelord’s brain and the accompanying nausea had turned him inside out over the last hour. He was lying in his bunk as the cybot he had constructed flew the Fiach that was a gift to him from the Burgon. It pissed him off that he wasn’t at the controls of the latest Tappas Industries premier model, the Taoiseach. He had yet to fly the powerful ship.

  “Computer,” he whispered. The slightest sound he made reverberated through his aching head.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Tell me again about these women,” he ordered.

  There was an audible sigh from the speaker below the vid-com screen. “Again?” the computer queried.

  “If you want to keep your circuitry intact, aye,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Very well,” the infernal contraption stated. “It is a secret society of women dedicated to bringing harmony back to the Megaverse along with peace, beauty and grace. It is further dedicated to the well-being of all women and the defeat of evil that might affect women and their mates and children. The original temple of the Daughters was on Rysalia Prime but since that sacred place was destroyed the women use magic to move it about the Megaverse from one place to another. These places are collectively called the Shadowlands and they come and go in the twinkling of an eye. No male may enter the Shadowlands but they are permitted at Sanctuary, the Multitude’s well-guarded fortress.”

  “Who guards the place?”

  “An elite corps of Sentinels.”

  He rubbed at the piercing pain over his right eye. “Remind me again who they are.”

  “You really should pay closer attention when I give you information, Commander,” the computer complained.

  “You should pay closer attention when I threaten to pull out your circuitry,” he replied. “It isn’t an idle warning.”

  “Daughters are aided by males who have been specifically chosen to be guardians, messengers, and trusted advisors. These males are trained by the Protectress and given the title of Sentinel. Each Daughter will receive her own personal Sentinel after her training period. She will bestow upon him limited powers such as the ability to make himself invisible.”

  “An invisible protector,” he said. “How quaint.”

  “He would not be invisible to you, of course,” the computer reminded him.

  “Naturally not,” he acknowledged.

  “Your Life-Mate’s Sentinel will accompany her when she leaves Sanctuary.”

  He didn’t care about such things. His main concern was with what would happen once he arrived at Sanctuary.

  “To whom will I be required to debase myself in order to look for my Life-Mate?”

  “You will be required to go before the Assemblage of Authorities,” the computer informed him. “The trainees and Daughters who do not hold office will not be in attendance. Present will be the Great Lady, the Custodian of Laws, the Protectress, the High Priestess and the Great Oracle. Between them they will decide if you are worthy to take a Life-Mate from among the Daughters.”

  “Worthy?” he repeated louder than he intended. The result was an immediate wave of agony that speared sharply through his brain.

  “You must be on your very best behavior, Commander,” the computer warned. “The Assemblage of Authorities will not look kindly on you if you show your usual contempt for lesser beings.”

  Rhyman Cade eased over on the bunk as the pain stabbed viciously at his right temple. He reached for the vac-syringe of tenerse that would ease the agony.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” the computer inquired.

  “Fuck off,” he said as he picked up the vac-syringe and put the bore to his neck. “My head is going to explode if I don’t.”

  “As you wish,” the computer said. “But we are only two hundred clicks from Sanctuary. If you arrive unconscious—"

  “Computer, off,” he ordered. He was tired of the snooty female voice he’d programmed into the apparatus and made a mental note to change it once he was back on Ildathach.

  As the heavy-duty painkiller spiked through his veins with a burning agony of its own, he wondered for the thousandth time why he was chasing a figment of his imagination. A shadowy face in his recurring dreams. A soft voice that called to him out of those dreams.

  Come for me, Rhyman Cade. I am yours.

  When the first dream rudely shoved him out of a much-needed sleep, he used his immense powers to pinpoint the source of his mind wandering but had failed. The dream came nightly, and in it she repeated the same eight words.

  Come for me, Rhyman Cade. I am yours.

  Strive as hard as he might he could not see her face. Had no name by which to call her. Could conjure no world on which to find her.

  She did exist. She was out there—that much he knew—but either she or the Megaverse was hiding her from him. Shrouded in mystery, cloaked in secret.

  He was a commanding mage. A deadly warrior. The very epitome of authority yet he was powerless to find one young woman who was—by rights—his.

  For over a year he had been searching for her, but the clues to her whereabouts were few and far between. In his dreams he saw her walking through a lush, pristine garden. Her back was always to him but there was no denying the shapely figure beneath the white robe. The outline of her slender waist and flaring hips, the suppleness of her thighs as she moved never failed to give him a raging hard-on. Shimmering golden curls fell halfway down her back and he ached to run his fingers through the thick strands.

  And her laughter! Sweet Merciful Alel, her laughter did such wondrous things to his body. It filled him with peace he had never known. Made him smile. Made him long to have her at his side. To walk eternity with him. To soar the currents above and race across heather-strewn fields in the moonlight. To swim naked in a silver-shot stream under the warm grace of the setting sun.

  Such dreams made him desperate to find her. He would wake covered in sweat with his cock as hard as a steel spike. The longing, the craving, the need for her grew more intense with each passing of the night. His days were spent trying to find her and his nights were spent following behind her through the dreamscape.

  Then came the night when her location was revealed to him.

  Not her face—he had yet to see it—but the place where he would find her.

  The Wind whispered its name—Téarmann.

  “Which is Rysalian for sanctuary,” he said.

  But where was this place? He could not find
it on any star map. There was no reference to it in his computer’s databanks. No one he asked seemed to know anything about it. The name was unknown to the ship captains and military men he encountered.

  How to find it became an obsession.

  It wasn’t until he had been sent to Aduaidh Prime to meet with the Burgon that he learned Téarmann was on Iliomad in the Osnádúrtha Quadrant of the Cairghrian Galaxy.

  A lifetime from where he was at that moment.

  “Why do you want to know where Téarmann is?” the Burgon had asked.

  “Because my Life-Mate is there and she calls to me,” he’d told the Emperor of Aduaidh Prime.

  “Ah, well if that’s the case, you will need to petition the Daughters of the Multitude if you wish to meet your lady. You’ll never be allowed to land if you don’t get the permission of the Great Oracle, their version of me,” the Burgon informed him.

  Finding out his Life-Mate was a Daughter both thrilled and concerned him. He was a mage. She was a witch. Historically such entities did not meld well together. But he wasn’t going to let that stop him from taking her for his own.

  “Daughters can be a handful, Rhy,” the Burgon warned. “Hellions on the battlefield and wildcats in the bedroom.”

  Such news boded well for his union with the girl, he thought.

  Until he found out just how hard it was going to be to meet her.

  Chapter 2

  Along with every other young woman at Sanctuary, Jordan kept an eye on the bright cobalt blue sky as they waited for the arrival of the Gravelord. There was excitement among her friends. Most of them were hoping to be the one the warrior was coming to find. By the time she fled the giggling, gaggling horde earlier that morning, the primping and preening in the dormitories had reached a fever pitch. It was so noisy in the hallways she could not hear herself think and had fled to the gardens for peace and quiet.

  Where her friends were searching the skies eagerly for the Gravelord, she was dreading his appearance.

  And she didn’t know why.

  Yes, you do, that small voice whispered inside her head.

  It was because of the dreams, she thought. She glanced up fearfully as a shadow flew by overhead. Relieved to see it was just a large cormorant winging its way to the sea, she took a steadying breath. She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her robe. Her heart was racing and her stomach was tied in knots. Never had she been so nervous. She knew precisely what she had to do.

  “Hide,” she said.

  Immerse herself in shadows he could not breech. Wrap around her a protective rune he could not penetrate.

  Shadowlords are Mages. They are supernaturally adept beings with immense psychic proficiencies. They are very powerful mages with superhuman abilities.

  The Custodian’s words chilled her.

  Could he find her no matter where she hid? How cleverly she disguised her presence?

  The thought of him finding her, claiming her as his Life-Mate terrified her. Reapers were the enemy. Contact with them was to be avoided at all cost. Being shackled to one for eternity would be a fate worse than death.

  “There!” she heard someone shout. “There it is!”

  Steeling herself to look up, her gaze locked onto the underbelly of a sleek dark gray Fiach cruising above her. The runabout looked like a giant bird of prey. A sense of foreboding filled her to the very marrow of her bones as it began to bank toward the teleport.

  Run, Jordee! that inner voice screamed at her. Run. Now!

  She wanted to. Had every intention of doing so but her feet would not move. She seemed rooted to the spot, unable to do anything other than stare at the Fiach as it finished its arc and drew close to the docking stanchions. The steady whirl of the expensive An Gearmáin engine became a quiet hum, a soft clank as the landing gear came down, engaged and the runabout settled gently upon a stanchion.

  It was quite a piece of work, she thought as she stared at the glossy streamlined craft. Its gullwing doors were a darker shade of grey, as was the X-shaped tail section. Along the side was a black emblem she did not recognize but the sight of it took away all moisture from her mouth. Whatever the symbol signified, it had the power to frighten her.

  What she needed, she decided, was a protector. She had not chosen a Sentinel for her own and she sincerely wished she had.

  Forcing her attention from the docked Fiach, she looked toward the long barracks that housed the Sentinels. Now was as good a time as any to pick a male from the barracks to be her champion. Each of them was a well-trained warrior in his own right. Each chosen for the latent psi powers that had yet to be brought forth by a Daughter. Finding one of those males to stand at her side, help her hide from the Gravelord had become imperative.

  After one last uneasy look at the grey runabout, she picked up the hem of her robe and headed for the Sentinel barracks.

  *****

  Rhyman struggled to get up from the bunk but the tenerse had such a strong grip on him he could not. He was floating on a black sea of silk, unable to lift his head, his limbs heavy.

  “We have landed,” the computer said needlessly.

  “No shit,” he mumbled as the engine powered down and absolute silence filled the cabin.

  The cybot—which he had yet to name—came aft to stand over him. “We have landed,” it also pronounced.

  He ignored the thing for it looked just like his Aunt Sara whom he hated with a passion that defied logic. Why he would design the artificial intelligence unit to have his aunt’s face and stocky body frame made him question his sanity.

  “We have landed,” the ugly thing said again.

  “Go. Away,” he ordered.

  The A.I. cocked its head to one side. “We have landed,” it repeated. “Do you not wish to know that is the case?”

  “Do you not wish for me to take you the fuck apart and sell you for scrap metal?” he snapped.

  “I am not made of metal, Commander,” the cybot stated. “I am a plastiform—”

  “Piece of shit,” he interrupted. “No. Shut up.”

  “We are being hailed by the Protectress,” the computer informed him. “She asks what the holdup might be.”

  “Tell her I will deplane when I am ready,” he snapped and tried yet again to roll out of the bunk.

  He couldn’t. It seemed his arms and legs had decided to go on strike.

  “I believe I warned you about taking the tenerse,” the computer said in her huffy tone.

  “Scrap metal,” he said.

  “The Protectress is asking permission to board.”

  “Tell her no!” he snapped.

  There was a long pause and then the computer’s voice came to him filled with undisguised glee.

  “She has a boarding party with her. This is their world. She is demanding entrance to the runabout. I am being ordered to grant her entry.”

  His limbs might not work but his psi abilities had not been compromised. He closed his eyes and willed his body to dematerialize. Let the bitch board his craft. She wouldn’t find him until he was ready.

  Well, until his body was ready to cooperate, he thought.

  *****

  Between the vast expanse of the garden and the Sentinel compound was a gently curving wooden footbridge that spanned the waters of a wide tumbling brook. She glanced down at the sparkling waters as they bubbled and frothed over pale peach-colored stones. Her bare feet made no sound as she ran across the planking. She reveled in the warmth of the weathered boards on her soles. If she had her way, she wouldn’t wear sandals at all, much less shoes or boots.

  Ahead of her was an embankment upon which sat the fieldstone barracks. An oyster shell pathway led from the bridge to a set of seven steps which would gain her access to the training ground of the warriors. Those who were not on hand for the Gravelord’s arrival would be working out at that time of morning. She could hear the boisterous shouts and challenging catcalls of men sparring with one another.

  By rights, she shouldn’t be v
isiting the males’ compound. Certainly not without a chaperone, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The very sight of her appearing on their turf would let them know her presence among them had serious implications.

  She stopped at the first step and looked up. No one had seen her as yet. She still had time to turn back. Her heart was in her throat for defying the rules, and flouting convention was not a normal occurrence for her. Putting one foot on that first step could be a monumental mistake.

  “Being the Life-Mate of a Reaper would be an even greater mistake,” she mumbled. The thought of having such an evil thing as that having the right to her body and soul sent waves of terror racing through her.

  She brought her other foot onto the step. She stopped.

  “At that rate it’s going to take you until sunset to make it to the top.”

  The voice coming out of nowhere made her cry out and she spun around to see who had spoken. Looking to the left then to the right, she saw no one.

  “Up here,” he said.

  She lifted her head to look up the steps but there was no one there. Neither was there anyone on the embankment to either side of the steps.

  “Up here, wench.”

  She swung her head toward the giant cumbaa tree that spread its copper-colored branches over the brook.

  She blinked.

  “What are you doing up there?” she questioned.

  He was sitting on a low branch with his arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree and his legs dangling from the branch upon which he was perched.

  “I miscalculated,” he replied.

  She moved up a step so she could see him for his face was blocked by a swath of leaves.

  And her entire world came to a screeching halt.

  “Mother of the gods,” she whispered. “Please tell me he isn’t taken!”

  He was staring at her with the most glorious blue eyes she’d ever seen. They were a startling shade of azure that seemed to pierce her to the core. A mop of curly black hair hung low around his ears and tumbled over his forehead.