by Ann Mayburn
Hyena Queen
The Legend of Synthia Rowley, Book 1
By Ann Mayburn
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Hyena Queen
Copyright 2018 by Ann Mayburn
Published by Honey Mountain Publishing
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
**DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, BDSM or otherwise, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Ann Mayburn will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.**
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Dear Beloved Reader,
Thank you for giving me the chance to entertain you. As some of you may know, I believe everyone deserves a happily ever after, and that there is someone for everyone out there. Or in Synthia’s case, four someones. The idea for this series came from many places, but mainly from my heart and National Geographic. The spark for this story flared to life as I watched a documentary on the spotted hyena, and I was fascinated on how gender roles in nature aren’t as solid as we humans like to believe. For humanity, gender is a huge part of our identity, it tells the world how to view us, what particular mental box to put us in, and from the moment we’re born we’re expected to stay inside that box. We’re told that anyone that deviates from established gender roles are weird at best, a danger to society at worst. And based on our gender we’re told who and how we should love. That to be anything other than heterosexual is unnatural.
This couldn’t be more untrue.
Now I could go off on some big political and sociological rant on the state of our world and its view on sexuality, but I’ll spare y’all that. Way smarter people than myself have put forth eloquent arguments about gender identity better than I ever will. This book isn’t about politics, it’s about passion, and epic fantasy, and finding the love (or in Synthia’s case, loves) of your life in the most unlikely of places, in the most unlikely of ways. I hope you enjoy the first book in Synthia and her mates’ tale, and thank you ever so much for taking a chance on a book that is for sure outside of the box.
Ann
Acknowledgements
It takes a village to write a book, and I’m so very proud to have the support of my wonderful friends. To my Beta readers and Bug Stompers Susan Foulkes, Shellie Marshall, TL Reeve, Sheri Vidal, Lynnette LaPaire, Velvet Michael, Brenda Satlin, Meagan Lemery, Shannan Neff, Siobhan Muir, Stefani Drury, Barb Wilson, and my editor-the ever so fabulous author and crap fixer, Heather Long-thank you. Without your generous help and kind words, Synthia and her men would have been a big, illiterate hot mess. Being dyslexic with a brain that auto-corrects typos, your clear eyes and brilliant minds are priceless to me. Thank you.
Ann
Chapter 1
Syn
The early morning subway car was oddly empty for a Monday. Usually it was standing room only, and getting a highly coveted seat was a miracle. Somehow, I’d done the impossible and managed to secure not only a seat of my own, but also an empty space next to me for my commute on the Metro. If I believed in good luck, I’d be running to the nearest lotto stand and buying a hundred tickets. The lights flickered overhead as we descended into a tunnel, the pink blush of dawn turning to darkness before my eyes. I leaned my head against the cool glass window, my bored gaze watching the gloom fly by.
I was zoned out, in a weird state of being mentally nowhere when something caught my eye. It was a jitter of movement outside of the speeding car, a brief flash of something. The little hairs along the back of my neck stood up as I shook off my daze and turned so I could get a better look out the window. An endless line of concrete walls, along with the occasional red exit sign met my searching gaze. My body rocked with the movement of the Metro, the constant hum of the subway car over the tracks subtly vibrating through my bones.
There it was again.
A flicker of grey splotched with violent crimson. It was the burst of red that snapped me out of my daze, as bright as a carnation and glowing in the darkness. My brain tried to argue I was seeing some kind of maintenance lighting, that my eyes were playing a trick on me. Tucking a wayward strand of brown hair behind my ear I glanced around, wondering if anyone else noticed something out of place. In the unflattering lighting, my fellow passengers were all going about their normal business, so I turned back to the window and hoped no one noticed my nose was now pressed to the glass.
I was a big enough dork already without adding window licker to that list.
A streak of color seared my eyes, and I sucked in a sharp breath as something sprinted past the hurtling subway car.
Tearing at my throat, a scream tried to fight its way out of me, but it couldn’t get beyond the lump of fear choking me tight.
No other shouts came behind me, so I was sure no one else had seen what I just did. People who lived and worked in D.C. might be jaded, but even the most bored executive would have at least uttered something. That meant only I had seen it, and maybe it wasn’t real.
Keeping my eyes peeled in the darkness, I kept watching, my anxiety building by the second. Something was wrong here—off. As the train continued to rumble and lurch, it dawned on me that we’d been underground for a long time. Way longer than usual. We should have reached the surface by now. Glancing down at my watch, I was shocked to see that it was 3:15 am.
The train lurched, hard, and I cried out in pain as my head thumped the glass. My nose burned and I licked my upper lip, the taste of my blood coppery and harsh. I reached up to feel my sore nose, but a horrible shriek of rending metal behind me had me whipping around in my seat.
A scream, one born of pure fear, tore from me as I scrambled back, trying in vain to put some distance between myself and the horror now staring me in the face.
The back of the subway train was missing like it had been ripped in two, and beyond the jagged curls of metal and the severed sparking wires was a rushing horde of abominations pouring out of the darkness. Shapes that had no right to exist, things made of teeth and fangs, a roiling mass pulsating with evil intent. Their howls and screams combined into a terrifying crescendo that tore through my soul like the end of the world.
“Ma’am!”
A hand shook me roughly, and I jerked awake, blinking in confusion at the sight of an old lady with lots of curly white hair shaking my arm. She sat clos
e enough that I could see the fine white hairs of her old lady mustache, and she smelled faintly of fried food and flowers. Her teeth were slightly crooked, but her breath was nice and minty.
“You awake now?”
“What?”
Releasing my arm so she could sit back in her seat next to mine, she cocked her head and looked at me like I was mental. “You must have been havin’ a doozy of a bad dream. You were screamin’ like someone was trying to murder you.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
As my fear lifted, burned off by the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, I figured out I wasn’t on the Metro, but on the Amtrak train for the first part of my commute into work. And everyone on it was either staring at me, or looking out of the corner of their eye. Scrunching down beneath the weight of their gazes, I ducked my head, wishing I had my hair down so I could hide behind it.
“Don’t be sorry. I used to have nightmares all the time about Richard Nixon. He sure was a terrifying son of a bitch.”
“Uh—”
Abruptly she grabbed my hand. “Sweet Mother Goddess, you’re bleeding.”
To my shock, I looked down and saw that each of my palms had little crescent shaped cuts from where I’d dug my nails into them in so hard they’d pierced my skin.
“Oh,” was all I could whisper as I stared down, the pain finally reaching through my mental paralysis. “Crap.”
“Wish I had my big purse with me, but I always leave it home when I come into the city. Too many snatchers out there, just waiting for me to turn a blind eye. Have lots of Band-Aids in that purse, but none on me. Next stop is coming up, you should get off and go wash your hands. Who knows what kind of diseases are left on these seats. Why just yesterday I saw a man…”
As she rambled on about some guy being repulsive in an alley, I gently folded my fingers over my palms, my racing heart slowing as I took in deep breaths of her French fries and lilies scent. Not the most pleasant combination, but it helped ground me for some reason. The sound of screeching brakes caught my attention, and I quickly stood then grabbed my backpack.
“Thank you for waking me up,” I said in a low voice as I scooted past the old woman.
She patted my arm, then lightly settled her hand on my wrist, her deep blue eyes unexpectedly sharp. “When the benevolent Mother told me to go into the city today I knew it had to be a good reason, ‘cause these bones of mine are tired of moving and would rather be at home. You take care of yourself, young lady. Dark days are coming and you’re going to be a candle in the night. Not all the darkness in the world is gonna be able to put out your spirit. Mmmm, hmmm. I can see it now, your love is gonna guide a lotta people like a beacon from a lighthouse, show them the way to safety through the storm. Many blessings on you.”
Unable to think of anything to say in response to that, I muttered, “Okay, well—um, thank you. Have a nice day.”
She waved to me, but I lost sight of her as I darted out the doors onto the concrete platform. Weaving through the crowd, I made it to the utilitarian restroom with its scratched mirrors. My normally tan cheeks were pale, and the light scattering of freckles along my nose stood out. Taking a deep breath, I focused on washing my stinging hands, then dried them beneath the air blower as I examined my wounded palms. The nightmare that had caused them still lingered in my mind, but I forced it away and focused on cleaning myself up.
By the time I boarded the next train I was running a bit late, so I texted my boss, Dr. Greg. Just like I expected, he quickly messaged me back not to worry and to take my time and arrive safe. In a world full of assholes, my boss was one of the few —and rare— genuinely nice guys. Plus, he commuted from Baltimore, so he understood the pain of late trains and missed connections. Finding a seat, I settled in and put my backpack between my feet.
As the world rolled by, my dream faded, and I grew embarrassed all over again for screaming myself awake in public. I didn’t like attention, didn’t like to stand out in a crowd, and giving people a reason to make fun of me made me want to barf. You know that old saying about words not hurting? It was a total and complete lie. Words hurt, and the wounds they inflicted were slow to heal.
In an effort to distract myself from my morose thoughts, I glanced around the train car. A flash of red caught my attention and I startled, reminded of my nightmare, but it was just the sunlight glinting off a woman’s pretty auburn hair. Her companion had dark hair, cut short enough to reveal his scalp in places. Maybe he was military.
It felt a little like intruding, but I couldn’t look away from the couple. They gazed into each other’s eyes, and their peaceful smiles flickered in the bright morning sunlight pouring through the windows. The woman reached up and toyed with the ends of her bright red hair, lowering her eyelids as she gave the man sitting next to her a coy tilt of her head. When he reached out and gently cupped her cheek, her eyes closed all the way and she sighed as he kissed her tenderly.
Bliss, her expression was pure bliss, and oh how I yearned to know that sensation.
A pang of longing rippled through me and I looked away, trying not to be angry with the couple for their non-crime of being in love. It wasn’t that I was genuinely mad at them; I just coveted the connection they had with each other. I was jealous of their ability to be normal and watching them so obviously in love reminded me why I was different. An outcast, a tall and nerdy twenty-four-year-old woman with a body like a prepubescent boy. The redhead being kissed senseless on the other side of the train was everything I secretly yearned to be. Through lots of therapy and bouts of depression, I’d come to a peace of sorts—or at least an acceptance of my physical oddities that would forever prevent me from having a romantic relationship.
That didn’t mean I still didn’t wish things were different.
That I wasn’t different.
Oh, I was normal enough on the outside. I inherited my full lips, wide cheekbones, and a bold nose from my African American and Irish father, while my Scottish and German mother had gifted me with her hazel green eyes and light brown hair. My body was normal, if on the tall and skinny side. Once I left my teens behind, my acne had finally cleared up and braces had come off. I didn’t dress any different from the majority of the professional work crowd, or wear attention drawing outfits. If anything, my clothing tended to blend in. Neutral colors, soft prints, nothing that would make people notice me. I had no desire to catch anyone’s eye to the point of one of my college friends telling me I dressed like a nun with a fetish for beige.
No, my exterior wasn’t what set me apart from the rest of humanity.
If it was just my looks that made me a freak, I could have had plastic surgery to fix it. But there was nothing that could correct my condition. I’d tried everything, some things more than once, and I still remained flawed on a fundamental scale. There was no quick fix for my condition, or any fix at all.
I had no sex drive.
I didn’t mean I was slow to arouse, or that I was just very picky about what I found attractive. No, I was talking about a complete absence of desire to the point where I had no idea what arousal would even feel like. Lust was as elusive of a concept to me as what it would be like to have roots like a plant instead of feet. And never, not even once, had I looked at someone and had a desire to kiss them, let alone have sex with them. To be honest, the thought of making love to someone made me faintly queasy. Without the drive of passion to motivate me, the mental image of me getting all sloppy with a man in bed was totally unappealing, no matter who I imagined snogging around with. I liked cuddling, and holding hands was nice, but having someone paw at my breasts when it did absolutely nothing for me was a kind of torture.
Ugh.
It wasn’t just the physical issues that set me apart from everyone else. Sex was everywhere in society. People used it to sell goods, to change someone’s mood, and as a motivation second to none. People would go to ridiculous lengths to have sex, and I had no idea why. They would cheat on their spouse, lie, steal, pa
y, and even kill for it. Surely a simple physical act couldn’t feel that good? I mean, wars had been fought over sex. It was the major force driving most people’s lives in one way or another. Everyone wanted to find their Prince or Princess Charming, get married, have kids and live happily ever after. I wasn’t immune to the need for a family, but my version would have to happen during an IVF at a doctor’s office.
When I was a teenager I kept waiting to feel the glorious tingles of attraction that my girlfriends would describe, and long for the day when I’d look at a boy and see him as being something other than a friend. That day never came. Desperate, I attempted to see if maybe I was gay and liked women, but my body was equally unresponsive to them. Hell, I couldn’t even make myself orgasm, and I’d tried really hard. I felt like a complete failure as a woman, a sexless freak who was denied one of life’s basic pleasures through no fault of my own. Sometimes I wondered if I was being punished for something, if I was meant to be an outcast. It was better to feel like I was cursed, than to acknowledge the fact that my abnormality was how I’d been born. A hapless fluke, a random assembly of DNA gone amok.
Finally, after becoming suicidal, I told my mom what was going on. By then, I was eighteen and still sexually unresponsive. More than a little freaked out by my depression, she took me to the doctors ASAP. Six months and a variety of humiliating tests later, they decided my issue was psychological and told me I was just a late bloomer. Four years later, when I was twenty-two and still asexual, they did another barrage of tests. Once again they turned up nothing abnormal. In the end, the expensive doctors couldn’t help me, and their final recommendation was that I speak with a sex therapist. I tried that as well, and our sessions together only left me feeling more broken than when I began.
