by Elsa Jade
She wanted.
It was too perfect, she thought dreamily as they dressed—he in his sonic-laundered white tunic and she, feeling pretty, in one of her best Thorkon gowns. She hadn’t wanted more than a couple of one-night stands and a few disastrous dating site let’s-do-coffees since her divorce, but maybe her life was finally looking up.
Or sideways, or whatever.
While he was pulling on his boots at the door to the suite, she admired his backside. Linebacker, tight end, whatever. “Would you like to have breakfast with my friends?” she asked shyly. “Rayna said she hasn’t had a chance to meet you yet.”
He straightened. “I would enjoy that very much.” When she reached past him for the door, he snagged her into his embrace. “Though perhaps not as much as I enjoyed you.”
She sagged contentedly into his arm as he kissed her—with plenty of tongue this time—and walking to the duke’s private dining room with her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, she floated as if someone had stuffed anti-grav units into her slippers.
Yes, things were definitely looking up. Up being, of course, relative in space.
She smiled at him as he ushered her into the dining room. Though serviced from the main commissary, the duke and his personal entourage received all the little special extras: fresh pixberries, Cook’s tastiest confections, Earther coffee.
“Have you ever tried flavored creamers in your coffee?” She’d explained the concept to Cook at the Azthronos estate and the woman had been experimenting ever since.
Tynan’s brow furrowed. “In my what?”
“You’ve not had Earther coffee yet?” Delighted that she could show him something—it got a little tiring always being the country cousin in the future—she waved to Trixie and Nor, since Rayna and the duke were apparently lagging, but angled toward the side board first.
A crash from behind brought her whirling around.
Trixie was staring toward them, the steaming contents of an entire teapot pooling around her feet. “Blackworm!”
Chapter 5
Blackworm? Here? Impossible!
Heart seizing, Lishelle whirled again to look behind her.
And met Tynan’s quizzical gaze.
Every muscle, not just her heart, cramped tighter as she slowly pivoted to face Trixie again. Nor had his blaster out.
Aimed at Tynan.
Whose confused, narrowed gaze widened as he realized the other male’s intent.
Lishelle spread her arms. “Nor! Don’t shoot him!”
“Shel, back away,” Trixie said with a calm, cool, murderous look that Lishelle had never seen in the small woman. “That’s Blackworm.”
“It’s not.” Lishelle opened her fingers wider, as if that would stop the lethal beam of plasma she could practically smell simmering in Nor’s blaster. “This is Tynan. He’s the officiant for the wedding.”
It wasn’t the scent of plasma but the tart odor of the spilled pixberry tea wafting across the room.
Tynan settled his fingertips lightly on her shoulders and eased her away from him. Her throat clogged with terror—and the realization that he was removing her from the line of fire. “I came here to bless the beloveds,” he said quietly.
She resisted his push, but the strength she’d found so delightful last night was set against her now. If she pushed back, she or he might stumble—and alarm Nor into firing. With a frustrated curse, she held her hand out to Nor. “See? Everything’s fine.”
With a flick of his thumb, a faint, menacing whine emerged from the high-powered weapon. “I see him, all right,” he snapped. “Trixie and I stood face to face with him when he was explaining how he wanted to invade the realm of the gods.” Outrage sharpened his voice. “With my girl.”
Trixie straightened at his elbow. “Did you ever see him, Shel? When we were being held here before, did you ever actually see Blackworm?”
Lishelle hesitated. “I… No. Not…clearly. Through the stasis pod cover, through the drugs…” She wavered.
The bore of Nor’s blaster didn’t even twitch. “How did you get here?”
She knew he wasn’t talking to her, since he knew exactly how she got here: like Trixie, abducted by aliens.
By…this alien?
She flushed cold, as if the eternal chill of space was leaking up through her body, fanning in invisible blossoms of ice across her skin. “He…came with the other guests,” she said weakly. “We knew there’d be some strangers on the station.”
“I review all the manifests,” Nor said. “Only estate staff and approved contractors have come aboard. The first guests and family aren’t due for another two day cycles. Definitely no clerics.” The whine of the blaster notched higher. “I’ll ask once more: How did you get here?”
Tynan frowned. “The beloveds. They need to be sanctified. So I came.”
“How?” Nor snarled. “Trixie, contact security and tell them to sweep the exterior for an unauthorized or shrouded shuttle—”
“The wormhole,” Tynan said abruptly. “I came through the wormhole.”
***
It wasn’t the right answer.
Tynan could tell by Lishelle’s stricken expression. Not to mention the raging fury on the other male’s face.
The smaller female—Trixie, Lishelle had called her—was tapping at the device on her wrist. “They’re searching on all scanner lengths. No signs of any docked vehicles, no record of any questionable deliveries. Running a review of internal sensors for facial recognition.” She glared at him. “We know who you are, you bastard.”
He wasn’t a bastard. He was…
A strange wave of dizziness swept him, worse than when he’d been looking up at the black hole…and looked down to see Lishelle for the first time.
Though he wasn’t sure what had made him dizzy then: the black hole or her.
“I am not this…Blackworm,” he said, adamant in the face of their rage and disgust. “I am Tynan, bringing invocations to the beloveds.”
The rightness of his mission settled around him, and yet… The angry Thorkon male was not wrong to ask. How had he gotten here? He’d said the wormhole, but how could that be? How had he traveled through space without a ship? Without even the memory of how he’d arrived before his glimpse of the black hole.
He pressed his fingertips to his temple, closing his eyes. “I am Tynan,” he said desperately. “I came to give my blessing.”
A whisper of air at his side made him open his eyes to see Lishelle backing away. Her expression was twisted with betrayal. “You told me you were a cleric,” she said, accusation edging her tone. “You said you were here for the wedding.”
“I am…” He gave his head a hard shake, as if he could jolt loose the missing memories. “I know this. I know the three prayers. I know…” He met her anguished gaze. He knew her.
As if she’d heard the thought, she recoiled.
“You know me,” he said pleadingly.
“I can’t believe this,” she snapped.
The smaller female, Trixie, hissed in triumph and lifted her arm. An image beamed upward from the device, creating a likeness in the air.
His likeness.
“Internal sensor images from the station before Nor disabled them when he came to save me,” she said, indicating one image. Another flashed up beside it. “Publicly available image of Blackworm on his way to prison for kidnapping.” She made a flicking gesture toward him, as violent as if she’d been triggering a blaster, and the two images flew toward him, framing his face. “And you,” she said with satisfaction.
Of course he couldn’t see his own face, and the two images were almost right on top of him. But from the others’ expressions—especially Lishelle’s—all three faces were the same.
Why couldn’t he remember? How could this be?
“Brothers?” Lishelle said in a quavering voice. “Cousins? Alien shapeshifter?”
“It’s Blackworm,” Nor snapped. “And if he doesn’t step away from you right
now, I’m going to drop him.”
Tynan spread his hands slowly in the universal gesture of I-don’t-have-a-weapon-so-kindly-don’t-drop-me and took a gliding step away from Lishelle.
Her dark eyes were blown wide with shock. “It can’t be,” she murmured. “Nothing comes back from a black hole.”
“That was his whole belief,” Trixie said. “He thought he could bring his consort back from the dead. That’s why he was sacrificing us. He really believed the quantum entanglement and virtual particles would re-make his beloved.”
“The souls of beloveds are forever entwined,” he murmured. This much at least he knew to be true.
But if anything, the pronouncement seemed to only enrage the other Thorkon male. “So you thought you’d sacrifice my beloved to regain your own,” he growled. “You’re never getting another chance.”
Love was never lost. It was a constant in the universe, changing form of energy, maybe, but never, ever lost.
He bit back the explanation, since the armed and angry male showed no interest in a theological debate.
“I do not know this Blackworm,” he said with careful dignity, “but if he tried to come between you and your beloved, then he has done you great ill, and his debt to you and the universe must be paid.”
“Oh, you’ll pay all right,” Nor said.
“You can’t repay us,” Lishelle said. “Some of those women died. And the rest of us will never be the same again.”
His heart clenched at the pain that crackled in her voice. But he didn’t think she wanted to hear that nothing stayed the same, ever. Even love, though never lost, was a thing of flux, always.
She took a jolting step toward him. “Nothing to say for yourself now?” Her lips twisted in fury. “You were spouting poetry before this.”
“Lishelle—” Tynan reached out a calming hand to her.
“Shel, step away,” Nor warned.
But Lishelle had her own lethal shot to take. “You lied to me,” she cried. “I should never have trusted you.”
The words pierced him, more devastating than plasma fire. Love could survive lies, but not mistrust. “It’s not me,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You already have.” She swung away from him.
Unable to stop himself, he reached for her again. The last thing he saw was the teardrop that trembled at the corner of her dark eye before the lancing yellow beam of light brought him down.
Chapter 6
Tynan woke far less pleasantly than when Lishelle had been beside him.
He stretched, grimacing when his whole body zinged with painful tingles. Definitely not like the pleasurable shivers of her touch.
He swiveled his head against the hard, unfamiliar slab under him, wistfully wishing she might be right there…
And met her accusing dark stare.
Through a transparent wall that separated them. But at least she was there, sitting on the floor with her bright Thorkon gown pooled on the utilitarian gray floor. The oiled ringlets of her hair were twisted into thicker plaits, as if she’d been worrying at them.
The dreadful prickle in his body dissipated as they watched each other, to be replaced by a less physical and somehow more awful pain.
“I am not the criminal you seem to believe,” he said softly.
“You look exactly like him.” She angled the screen she’d been holding on her lap, showing him the images again. She’d been studying him—accusing him, judging him, damning him—while he lay there. “Blackworm. The Thorkon nobleman who kidnapped a dozen Earth women, killed…” She cut herself off with a loud gulp. “He said he did it to win back his dead consort from the realm of the gods. And you say you’re an Avatar of the God of Beloveds—”
“No,” he said. “I am the God of Beloveds.”
“Right. I’ve been reading about Tynan, the guy you’re named after—”
“Not named after. I am he.”
She blinked at him rapidly. “What?”
“I am Tynan, God of Beloveds.”
One last blink, and then she just stared, dark eyes wide and fixed.
Then she laughed.
She laughed so hard the device slid off her lap onto the floor with a clatter, and the images of the face that was his but not, thankfully, vanished.
The tears he’d seen before he was shot glossed her eyes, and she curled her knuckles over her lips as if to silence herself.
When her laughter eased, she dropped that tight-clenched fist into her lap, and her gaze was as hard as onyx. “A god? You weren’t that good in bed.”
“Wasn’t I?” he murmured. But he didn’t let his ire linger as he swung his feet to the deck and pushed himself upright on the hard platform that was serving as his prison bed.
Lishelle scrambled to her feet, obviously unwilling to let him loom over her, even if he was locked away. “We already know you were crazy, sending people into the black hole, talking about reviving ghosts from virtual particles and quantum physics. So don’t bother trying to act even crazier by pretending to think you’re a…a god.”
He paced slowly along the barrier between them, trying to work out the last spasms in his muscles. “It’s still not fully clear to me,” he admitted. “I remember… No, not remember, exactly. It was…a sensation. As if I were sleeping, dreaming. Then coming through the wormhole, feeling the pull from this side. When you told me about the wedding, I knew that’s what drew me. Beloveds, in need of my blessing.”
“You aren’t the God of Beloveds!” Her tone scaled higher. “You’re Blackworm.”
He ran his hands down his chest to settle on his hips. “I do seem to have his appearance.”
Her gaze followed his gesture, then snapped to his face with a guilty purse of her lips before she pivoted away. Had she been remembering her hands on his body?
“Lishelle,” he called. “Please. I’m not what you fear.”
When she halted, he held his breath. But though she twisted her head toward him so he could see her profile, she didn’t look at him. The second prayer, denied. “I was afraid of finding another guy I could…want to spend time with, knowing I’d be making myself vulnerable again. But since you’ll be doing time, I guess that won’t be a problem.”
She strode down the corridor—and though he pressed against the barrier—out of his line of sight.
“Lishelle.” He slapped his palms to the transparent wall between them, but she never looked back.
The cell was exactly three paces wide, not enough to relieve his edginess, though he walked it, repeatedly, until he was almost dizzy from the short expanse. Perhaps he should be grateful they hadn’t done to him what this body had apparently done to their friends. He slammed his fist into the wall again.
A disapproving tsk brought him whirling around. “Keep that up and we’ll have a good excuse to stun you again.”
He faced the Thorkon male—Nor—who had shot him. Beside Nor stood another male, dark where Nor was blond, but with a similar stamp to their features and set to their stance that proclaimed them brothers.
“I am Aelazar Amrazal Thorkonos, Duke of Azthronos, Blood Champion of Zalar, Avatar of Azjor, God of Oaths,” the newcomer said. “And I hear you were pretending to be a cleric for my wedding.”
“I am Tynan, Lord of the Lightlands, God of Beloveds.” Tynan smiled thinly. “And yes, I will still bless your union.”
“Didn’t ask you.” The duke strode closer, eyes narrowed.
“You don’t have to.” Tynan backed away to sit on the platform. “My blessing flows from the Lightlands to all beloveds. It falls on you like the light of stars.”
“Uh-huh.” The duke stopped in front of the cell wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So how long have you been a god?”
“Raz,” Nor said in a warning tone.
The duke flicked one finger for silence. “My brother faced Blackworm in a fight on this very station not so long ago,” he said. “And I believe him when he says you could be that fel
on. If you’re going to convince me there’s more to your story, make it good.”
Tynan tilted his head. “I wasn’t just a story. I was a legend, even in my own time.”
“Your time?” Nor growled. “You mean one lunar cycle ago when you were trying to kill Trixie?”
Tynan eyed him irately. “That might’ve been this body, but it wasn’t…me. I can see you’re only half Thorkon”—he shifted his gaze to Raz—“but you must know our history. Back then, I was an arrogant young warlord with a hundred maidens vying for my eye. But I would have none of them except the one who could win me, body, soul, and galactic credits.” He grimaced. “Did I mention I was arrogant? And like many young lords, I needed the money.”
Raz quirked a wry smile. “I might be familiar,” he murmured.
Familiar with the problems of a young lord, or familiar with the history? Tynan wasn’t sure it mattered. Even has he spoke, the story, which he knew in his tongue, came alive in his memories, as if emerging from a stunned sleep. “To the hundred maidens fair, I set three tasks. I hid myself from them in the most distant parts of my kingdom and challenged them to find me. The ones who completed the task of the searching steps would arrive before me weary, their slippers worn thin as fog, sometimes with their soles bloodied.”
“The first invocation of beloveds: the Prayer of Steps Seeking,” Raz said.
“At the time, it wasn’t a prayer,” Tynan reminded him. “Just a young warlord’s idle whim. But that wasn’t enough for me. If they found me, I asked them to perform the ritual of pixberry tea, win a game of countip against me, and weave a traditional Thorkon robe by hand, in the most intricate geometric patterns.”
Nor snorted softly. “Typical idle nobleman. But I guess those were the skills of the women of your time.”
Tynan dropped his gaze. “And I made them do it blindfolded.”
“Larf-licker,” Nor said, though the insult lacked some heat.
Propping his elbows on his knees, Tynan letting his hands dangle between. “I told them they should need their eyes for nothing but me.”
