by Zoë Archer
Her hands possessed their own instinct. Along the broad contours of his chest, his tight belly that heaved in and out as he fought for breath, and then lower, to grasp him through trousers. The heat of his cock burned her, even with the barrier of fine wool. This wasn’t enough. She undid his trouser buttons and took him in her hand. He sucked in air, a hiss, and, even though time was in short supply, they let themselves explore for a few indulgent moments—her soaked folds, the aching pearl of her clit, the silken steel of his cock, its round, smooth head. A big man. He was a big man, all of a proportion, but she wasn’t afraid, because if anything was right, it was this. Them. Together.
“I think …” he rumbled, “you will drive me mad.”
“Like this?” She dragged a hand down his cock, then up. “Or this?” Her fingernails lightly scored his shaft.
He tightened and growled, growing hotter, harder.
She loved this power she had over him. And, as he dipped his fingers into her clinging heat, putting exactly the right amount of pressure exactly where she needed it, he had power over her. They ruled each other and reveled in both their sovereignty and servitude.
She did have a good imagination, and there were scores, no, hundreds of things she wanted to do to him and with him. But there wasn’t time, and she was careening in a free fall of desire.
Her legs widened, and she urged him closer, between her thighs. “Now, Catullus.” She could barely get the words out, her need all but choked her. “I can’t … wait any longer.”
A blaze of triumph flared in his eyes. Then, in a movement too fast for her to fully understand, he suddenly rolled on his back and positioned her so she straddled him. She braced herself above him, hands upon his chest. He gripped her thighs in a hold almost painfully strong. With subtle adjustments, she brought him to her entrance. The first touch of flesh to flesh, only the head of his cock at her opening. She felt her moisture coating him, proving she was more than ready. Their gazes locked.
A silent agreement without gesture or word. She slid down, taking him inside her.
“My God.” For a few heartbeats, all she could do was feel him within her, his size and heat that filled more than just her pussy, but everything of herself.
He panted beneath her, head thrown back, fighting for control and allowing her whatever she needed, but it cost him. And when, experimentally, she rose up and then sank down, his teeth clenched. If, for him, this felt even a fraction as delicious as it did for her, no wonder sweat gleamed on his throat and chest.
She began to rock on him, an exquisite slide and drag. Pleasure concentrated where they joined and radiated out in solar waves.
“So good,” she gasped. “Need more.”
“Yes.”
Faster she moved, her gentle rocking giving way to a harder, more urgent rhythm. He met her hips with his own, drawing them back and then surging forward. Each thrust tore a gasp from her, as if she could hardly believe the ecstasy she was feeling.
“Touch yourself,” he growled, a tender command. “Ride me and touch yourself. I want you to have pleasure. So much pleasure.”
She readily obeyed. As Catullus gripped her waist, guiding her up and down, she let one hand rise up to caress her breast; the other circled and stroked her clit. Her fingers brushed his cock plunging in and out of her, driving into her.
This was too much. Her climax refused denial. It crashed over her as she exploded outward.
No sooner had one wave ebbed, than another took its place. And another. An unending deluge of pleasure.
Wrung out, she finally draped herself over him in a boneless heap. Then she was on her back, his hands beneath her hips, as he thrust into her. His face was almost grim, his lips compressed into a line. His speed increased, and she bent up, into him, wrapping her legs around his slim hips. Yes.
He froze, arms rigid, and groaned out his release. More than a release. A surrender. She felt him within her, pulsing in time with her heart.
They were immobile, trapped in the amber of deepest intimacy. Forever they would stay like this, two lovers eternally bound, the object of future study and envy.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself down. Yet he was careful not to crush her, rolling them both so they lay on their sides, facing one another, yet still intimately locked. Their breathing rasped in and out, trying to regain normalcy, as if such a thing could ever happen after what they’d just shared.
She pressed kisses over his face, rubbed her cheek against his, and then tilted her head back so she could see him more fully.
He brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead, and, for a while, they looked into each other’s eyes in the silence of the room.
He gathered one of her hands in his, then slid her fingers into his mouth and licked. She felt a renewed blush—not of embarrassment, but desire—when she realized he licked the fingers she had used to touch herself. She could hardly believe the diffident and reticent man from only a few days ago was the same one who commanded her to stroke herself as she rode him.
“Gemma,” he murmured, when he removed her fingers from his mouth. His eyes shone with warmth as he looked at her. “I waited. I waited so long.”
She smiled and kissed him, knowing he meant more than waiting for the opportune moment to make love. A lifetime, he’d waited, a stranger in his homeland, eternally alone.
No longer. For the time they had, they had each other.
A tap sounded on the bedroom door.
“Sunrise,” said Day.
Time to fight.
Chapter 11
Of Scarabs and Sulfuric Acid
Gemma had never been in a battle before. She didn’t know if they had definitive starts; maybe someone walked out onto a field and dropped a handkerchief, signaling the onset of combat. Or did they trickle into being, one shot becoming another, and then another, until gradually gunfire and smoke were everywhere? They might be as individual as fingerprints or the same from one to the other.
All she knew now was that one moment, the village was quiet, preternaturally still, with her and the Blades taking up positions within buildings at each entrance to the small town. Gemma stood in readiness at the eastern entrance, inside a house, with Astrid crouched within another house across the street, the nose of her rifle poking out of an open window. Gemma pointed a pistol out another open window, her loaded derringer in her pocket. She’d never deliberately shot at a man with intent to kill. But Catullus had been clear. No bullet was to be wasted on just wounding. The Heirs would kill her, and every Blade, if given the chance. She was not to give them the chance.
If it meant protecting Catullus, she was ready to do what was necessary.
Oh, God, Catullus. Her body still glowed in the aftermath of his lovemaking. The experience had been … extraordinary. She wondered that her skin didn’t gleam like a pearl, because he made love to her as if no one and nothing were more precious.
Would she experience that ecstasy, that adulation again? There was a distinct possibility she would not.
These thoughts spun through her mind. Then—chaos.
Men charged toward the village. Armed men, faces hard with purpose. They weren’t there, and then they were, and Gemma realized they weren’t trying to be quiet. It didn’t matter to them whether or not the Blades knew about their attack, because they believed there was nothing the Blades could do to stop it.
The group of men barreled down the road, keeping in an orderly group. Until one stumbled, slipped. And then another. They struggled for balance, but their feet slipped underneath them. In tangled knots they fell, swearing. The Heirs at the rear of the charge found their assault blocked by the struggling men on the ground.
Gemma caught Astrid’s eye through the windows across the street, and they shared a brief smile. Per Catullus’s instructions, the cobblestones had received a generous coating of oil, with a dusting of dirt on top to hide the telltale slick.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Astrid aimed and fired into the
lurching group. One of the men yelled, catching a bullet in the foot; then his comrades shot back.
Bits of wood and glass exploded above Astrid as the Heirs returned fire. She did not let up, shooting and reloading so quickly her actions blurred.
But Gemma didn’t want only Astrid to bear the responsibility of holding the Heirs back. Gemma peered up over the window frame and squeezed the trigger of her pistol. The gun kicked in her hand, yet she fought to keep herself steady. She crouched for cover when the Heirs, learning her position, began firing in her direction. The window above her shattered, and she covered herself from the broken glass.
Though the slick had slowed the Heirs’ advance, they were already gaining their feet. Two limped, but pushed forward with anger blazing in their eyes.
If she stayed inside the house, she would be trapped.
“Fall back,” Astrid called across the street to Gemma. “We’ll lead them to Catullus.”
Gemma nodded, then scrambled out of the house into a run. As she raced toward the center of the village, she heard Heirs’ shouting behind her, felt the hot trails of bullets as they sped past. She couldn’t waste time in being afraid. There was only the need to move ahead.
She and Astrid ran, dodging gunfire. Then Catullus appeared, standing in the middle of the street, brandishing his shotgun. If she wasn’t hell-bent on running for her life, Gemma would have admired the sight he made—fierce and lethal, a man capable of anything, the weapon held easily and comfortably in his big hands.
The wooden barrel lay on its side in front of him. Heat radiated out from the barrel, though it didn’t appear to be on fire. She didn’t have time to consider how or why this could be. As Gemma neared, Catullus’s face hardened, jaw tight, gaze dark and angry.
“Get behind me,” he commanded.
She did so at once. He kicked the barrel, sending it rolling down the street, straight toward the advancing Heirs.
Catullus blasted two shots at the Heirs before grabbing Gemma by her arm and hauling her toward the shelter of a doorway. Astrid, too, dove for a doorway, pressing herself against the jamb.
Once in their doorway, Catullus braced his arms on either side of Gemma, shielding her. She peered around him, needing to see what was coming.
The barrel continued to roll toward the Heirs. The men looked perplexed, seemingly wondering what an ordinary barrel was doing rolling in their direction, but didn’t stop their advance. They charged up the street, and, as the barrel came toward them, stepped aside to let it pass. One of their number—a bulky brute of a man—made to kick the barrel to one side. As he did, he suddenly yelped in pain. The leg of his trousers began to char and smoke.
“Stay down, damn it,” Catullus growled, shoving Gemma against the unyielding mass of his body. For a moment, all she knew was the heat and press of him, shielding her.
A detonation rocked the ground, and Gemma would have stumbled if Catullus wasn’t there, holding her up. She heard the explosion, followed by the screams of men.
When Catullus stepped back from the doorway, allowing her freedom to move, Gemma looked down the street to where the Heirs had been advancing. She gaped at the scene.
Three of the men lay on the ground, unmoving. They were bloody and torn. Two others staggered on their feet, covered in cuts large and small. The remaining three sported lesser injuries, but they shook their heads and struggled to regain clarity.
“The barrel exploded,” Gemma murmured, stunned.
Grimly, Catullus surveyed his handiwork. “It was packed with gunpowder and iron scrap.”
“I didn’t see it burning.”
“I soaked the wood in very pure, distilled alcohol from the chemist. Burns invisibly.”
“So the Heirs wouldn’t know to get out of the way.”
He gave Gemma a clipped nod; then they and Astrid turned at the sound of an enraged animal bellow coming across the village, from the western entrance.
“Nathan.” Astrid sprinted toward the sound, a look of angry fear tightening her face.
Catullus and Gemma moved to follow, but a sudden, loud clicking filled the air. The lightening sky dimmed. The whirring, clicking grew even louder as the sky darkened. A strange, shifting cloud of shadows. Spinning around, Gemma saw one of the slightly less wounded Heirs chanting while gripping something metal in his hand, something that was not a gun. Looking harder, she saw it was an ankh, an Egyptian cruciform that symbolized eternity.
“He’s got—” she began, but then the cloud descended.
Everything became a swirling, seething mass. The noise deafened. She and Catullus found themselves pelted by thousands upon thousands of enraged, sharp bodies. Pincers and serrations scored her face, her hands. She had just enough presence of mind to slip her pistol into her pocket. Gemma batted uselessly at the tempest, her hands contacting untold numbers of flying, biting creatures. Squinting, she tried to make out what the things were, but there were too many, their numbers too thick and their attacks relentless.
Something wriggled in her hair. She reached up and plucked it from her head. When she examined what it was she held, she fought down a gag. A copper-colored beetle, the size of her palm, legs and antennae waving, mouth snapping. The air was thick with them, coming at her from every direction. She felt the insects trying to wriggle down her collar and climb up her legs.
The only thing that kept her from screaming was the fear the beetles would climb into her mouth.
All her exposed skin burned as a thousand mouths bit her. Mandibles gouged at her face. She tried to pluck the insects from her, but no sooner had she flung one aside than two took its place.
Reaching out, her eyes screwed shut against the onslaught, she searched for Catullus. Blindly, she waved her arms, contacting only more flying creatures. They came so thick and fast that she staggered against their bombardment. Maybe she could take shelter inside one of the shops or houses along the road.
She heard glass breaking—the insects crashing through windows. No shelter, then.
A heavy mass slammed into her, and she fell backward to the ground. Under her back, she felt the crunching of dozens of beetles, their bodies releasing sticky ooze. But she paid this no mind. Instead, she focused on the bulky body crushing her. A man. Pinning her to the ground, robbing her of breath.
She opened her eyes to slits. An unknown man’s face snarled down at her. His thin lips were twisted, his eyes cold. Vaguely, she noticed that a pocket of air surrounded him, free of beetles. Some protection insulated him against the insects. Gemma struggled furiously beneath him, clawing at him.
“Blade bitch,” he spat.
One of his hands came up and cuffed her across the cheek. A constellation of pain sparked, dimming her sight, yet she struggled against unconsciousness.
When she felt the cold press of a gun barrel under her chin, she went very still.
“That’s better,” the man hissed, shoving his face closer. “Treat me nice, and I won’t have to kill you.”
Gemma allowed her body to soften even more, compliant. “I’ll be good.”
The Heir smirked, slightly lowering the gun.
Her hands shot up between them. With one hand, she pushed his gun away from her. And with the other, she dug her thumb into the man’s eye. He howled, and she pushed all the harder, until something wet ran down her hand.
Gemma used his distraction to shove herself away. As she did, she left the small shelter provided by the Heir’s nearness. Beetles surged around her as she rolled to one side, then crouched low. With one hand clapped over his ruined eye, the Heir struggled to his knees. He still held his pistol, and Gemma threw herself back down to the ground as he fired wildly.
A loud blast punctured the roar of swarming beetles. The Heir toppled over, gurgling, a red stain spreading across his torso. Insects immediately covered him. With his death, the protection around him vanished.
Then Gemma was being pulled to her feet. In the thick, stinging cloud, she found herself cradled in the shel
ter of Catullus’s chest.
“Hurt?” he breathed close.
She shook her head, then reached up and touched his face. Like her, he was covered with bites and scratches, but he was alive, and so was she, and, even in the middle of this hell, she allowed herself a moment of relief.
It was short-lived. Somewhere, the Heir’s chanting grew louder, sending the beetles into a frenzy.
Catullus pressed them both down to the ground. He covered her as the insects surged, and the darkness was everywhere, without end.
Catullus sheltered Gemma with his larger body. Beneath him she felt tiny, delicate. Yet not a moment ago he’d seen her effectively cripple an Heir with nothing more than her thumb. That did not mean she was bulletproof. When Catullus had gotten his opening, he took his shot. Now the Heir was nothing but rotting meat in the road. She was safe from that son of a bitch’s threat.
But the damned scarabs kept coming. Catullus didn’t know if the insects were flesh-eating or just extremely maddening. Now was not the time for entomological studies. With the swarming beetles everywhere, and the Heirs insulated against them, Catullus, Gemma, and the rest of the Blades were hobbled. Vulnerable.
As long as the Heirs had the Ankh of Khepera, the scarabs were theirs to command. And the Blades were defenseless.
Not entirely defenseless.
He lowered his mouth close to Gemma’s ear. “Move with me.” He felt her slight nod.
Slowly, like a crab, they crawled along the ground, he forming a protective shield around her. His sense of direction never failed him, and after long moments, they pressed against a wall. He guided her to turn into it. “Now, stay here,” he murmured. With a quick movement, he stood, throwing off his long cashmere coat and using it to cover her.
Scarabs swarmed everywhere, all over him, burrowing between the gaps in his clothing. Their eager mandibles bit and pinched, their legs scrabbling everywhere. He was glad to see, however, that the wall and his coat effectively shielded Gemma from the worst of it.
