He wanted to go to the sleeping room, to get as far from the other man as possible. But the way Erybet glared at him told Conyod he wasn’t going anywhere, not without a discussion first.
Swallowing hard, Conyod sank onto a lounger against one light-paneled wall. The greeting room wasn’t very big; just enough to entertain half a dozen guests comfortably. He sat in the area with the lounger and a table. Two raised chairs sat across from him. In one corner, a few seating cushions scattered around a smaller second table. Fur rugs covered the floor, creating a soft patchwork puzzle of whites, grays, browns, and blacks. On the far wall were framed portraits of the clan, portraits the talented Erybet himself had drawn.
Conyod felt himself cringing under Erybet’s livid stare and made himself sit up straight.
He’d been completely out of line at dinner with his reticence, and it was time to make amends for his behavior. His “I’m sorry” was spoken with sincerity.
Erybet’s voice was a growl. “Give me one good reason why this one wasn’t acceptable to you.”
Rachel. Conyod bit his lip. Erybet wouldn’t understand. So Conyod went to the other reason, the one that was more plausible. The one his stubborn Dramok should understand but refused to.
“Maria was a perfectly lovely woman. But the state of this clan –”
Erybet slammed his glass on the polished blackwood top of the bar counter, cutting Conyod off. “Her presence might have fixed the state of this clan! Why won’t you acknowledge that?
Damn it, Conyod, we only get two more chances at this! And it will be hard to find someone as good as Matara Maria!”
Hating the pleading tone coming out of his mouth but unable to stop it, Conyod said, “Our Nobek is in no condition to protect a Matara. He can’t even protect himself from himself!”
“Sletran needs focus. He needs a goal. Seeing to a Matara’s needs will give him the direction he needs.” Erybet was dogged in his belief that the Nobek’s natural protectiveness would fix everything, if only he had someone he could exercise that nature with.
Conyod knew better, and Erybet’s continued blindness to the real situation was making anger replace fear and contrition. He rose and stomped across the fur-covered floor to stand before his Dramok, returning glare for glare across the bar between them. “He needs therapy.
Erybet, chopping his hair off with his knife is one step away from self-mutilation. Maybe even suicide!”
Erybet winced. He broke eye contact, his head bowing. “He would never do that. Not our Nobek.”
As his leader’s anger bled away, Conyod’s also diminished. “Not the old Sletran. But this one—” Conyod shuddered. “He’s not the same. Neither are you. You used to tell me everything. Both of you did. Why won’t you tell me what happened? You know I won’t talk, not even under torture.”
Erybet’s fists clenched. Opened. Clenched again. “This is different. We’re under orders from the highest command. We can’t speak of what our last mission was, or what happened on it. It’s just not possible.”
Anger surged once more in the face of the Dramok’s stubbornness. Conyod spat, “Is your Nobek’s life worth the secrecy? Because that’s what you’re gambling. If we lose him, and I find out I could have done something if you’d just told me, then I … I don’t think I could forgive you.”
Erybet slowly raised his head to look at him. His expression was blank. “I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take then. I’m sorry, Conyod. I really am.”
With that, Erybet turned and left the room, leaving Conyod seething impotently. Again.
The Imdiko grabbed the bottle of bohut with a shaking hand. Drinking would not help matters one bit. He’d only wake in the morning with a pounding head and a still broken clan.
But the siren song of forgetting for even a few hours was too much temptation to resist. He didn’t bother with a glass, tipping the bottle to his mouth and wincing against the fiery burn of liquor running down his throat.
Conyod walked back to the lounger and flopped onto its soft surface. He lifted the bottle and asked it, “Who gives a damn anymore? Me, that’s who.”
He drank until the bohut put him under, took him away from the bitter disappointment, fear, and heartbreak. He was unaware when the sleepless Erybet came back into the room.
The Dramok stared at his unconscious Imdiko for a few minutes, not bothering to wipe the silent tears that tracked down his face. At last Erybet sighed and came over to the lounger. His fingers brushed hair back from Conyod’s face, a face he’d adored since Sletran introduced them years ago. A face that looked at him with far too much despair and disappointment these days.
And with good reason. Erybet had failed both his clanmates, had failed them utterly.
The Dramok gathered Conyod in his arms and picked the insensible Imdiko up. He carried Conyod to bed, pulling his clanmate’s boots and clothes off before drawing the covers over him.
Erybet slid under the linens to lay next to him, watching Conyod sleep and praying to the ancestors that Sletran would come home safe. He thought he wouldn’t be able sleep himself until he knew the Nobek was all right. Yet weighty despair and exhaustion were enough that he drifted off within the hour.
Chapter 3
The self-styled Beast of New Bethlehem roamed the halls of the Matara complex, tracking the scent of the one who had caused such emotional pain tonight. It wasn’t enough that those like her had physically destroyed so many of his men. Had killed them outright. The devastation continued. Perhaps the bloodshed had ended, but the Earther women still annihilated Kalquorian men, this time through their hearts and souls.
He’d watched her tonight, though no one realized it. Had watched as she led on men that meant so much to him, men he’d die to protect. The disappointment on Erybet’s face had been gut wrenching when the capricious creature unfastened the beautiful necklace he’d presented her and handed it back.
The clan deserved so much better than the likes of this hateful woman, this monster that hid behind such a pleasing mask. And she … she should pay for humiliating them as she had. As she would, given the opportunity, humiliate the next clan and the next and the next.
She had to be stopped, and he was just the man to do it. He was the Beast of New Bethlehem, the destruction of the Earther destroyers.
He nodded to other Nobeks as he passed them, not worried that any would challenge him.
He’d learned the turnover of those guarding the Earther women who resided in the complex was constant. Kalquor had gone to the lottery system in an effort to keep the playing field level as to the clans who could vie for a female. It was deemed necessary to regularly rotate out the security. It was unfair to unduly tempt Nobeks with females they may never be able to clan or give them an advantage over clans whose Nobeks were not assigned guard duty.
Not only that, his forged identification clearances were impeccable, their frequencies tuned correctly to allow him access where he would be expected to have it. A career and rank in the military had given him access into the compound’s security system, since it was run by the military. He posed as a mere sub-commander, someone not worth a second look by most. He didn’t worry over running into any of his men either; the few that had survived New Bethlehem and hadn’t committed suicide yet were on administrative leave due to the trauma they’d suffered.
He slowly wound his way up to the fourth floor of the western side of the complex. He’d followed his quarry’s scent to the transport. There, the aroma had been lost in the scents of so many others. It was no matter; he’d known he would probably lose her. It also didn’t concern him that using the computer system was out of the question since queries would be tracked, if not outright questioned by anyone seeing him performing them.
There were simpler ways to hunt his prey to her lair. Laughably simple.
He went into the laundry intake, where the Mataras sent their clothing to be cleaned through motorized chutes. It ran only during the day, ensuring he would meet no one
who might question his activities. Most of it was automated anyway, with manual backups should the system fail. Even the manual stations were organized so the staff could identify exactly where an article of coded clothing had come from and return it to its rightful owner once it was laundered.
It was only a matter of walking past the bins, inhaling the aromas of perfumes, natural body oils, a potpourri of soaps and lotions. The scents of women made him achingly hard, but he ignored his body’s eager response. He would never take pleasure with one of the Earthers, not after what they’d done to him and those who meant so much to him. Never.
He’d gone a quarter of the length of the laundry when he caught wind of her particular musk and the cloying perfume she wore. He drew closer to the wall with its chute openings that vomited out the clothes of the Mataras. His sensitive nose flared wide, searching for the correct output.
There. Directly over his head, two openings up. That was hers.
He bent to the bin beneath that opening and immediately spied the dress she’d worn tonight, right on top of the pile waiting to be sent to the sorters. He grinned, his fangs descending from the roof of his mouth in anticipation of the kill. Oh, this was just too easy, especially for a Nobek with his cunning and experience in tracking the enemy.
Taking the dress to the manual code scanner immediately gave him all the information he needed. Maria Byrne, Eighth Floor, Room 98.
All that was left was to go to the cache he kept in the back of the laundry’s cavernous storage room. He donned a housekeeping uniform and grabbed a two-tiered hover cart that no one ever seemed to notice was in the wrong department. On top of the cart’s shelf were a myriad of cleaning solutions and implements on top of a long cloth that draped low, hiding the empty second shelf.
He left the laundry, entering the corridor. He paused as the hallway turned left, as he always did before entering a new space. After only a moment, he rounded the corner, his gaze flicking up to glance at the recording vid lens mounted on the ceiling.
The recorders gave him no worry. He didn’t even bother to hide his face from the round, black disk that was even now sending a message to the security monitors that the signal had been interrupted. It would come back on line as soon as he had passed out of its view. He’d successfully perfected the portable frequency distorter shortly after the attack. It would have brought him much income and prestige if he’d presented it to the military. Techs had been trying to develop such a device for years without success.
He couldn’t turn it over, not when there was so much good he could do with it.
A brief ride in the transport and short walk down the eighth floor’s hall brought him to Matara Maria’s door. He stood in the corridor, empty at the dark hours of morning, and listened.
His sharp ears discerned nothing behind the door; no music, no movement, no sound. He thought perhaps she had gone to bed, laughing to herself over how she’d dashed the hopes of three men and planning for the next clan.
He reached into his stolen uniform’s pocket and took out the device that would search out the door lock’s frequency and interrupt it. Not even a second later, the catch made its distinctive low-toned trill, indicating the door had been unlocked.
The Beast took one last look around to ensure there were no witnesses before stepping into the apartment, bringing in the hover cart and locking the door behind him.
He let his eyes adjust to the quarters’ darkness. Apparently, the Matara had gone to bed, because Earther eyes wouldn’t see much in the gloom. Kalquorian eyes saw much better.
The Beast shook his head. Kalquorians had the more sensitive senses, were stronger, and more technologically advanced. Yet the Earthers had come close to winning the war, and they continued to do damage. It made no sense. Nothing did anymore.
The room he’d stepped into combined dining and sitting areas. Small, but definitely functional. The furnishings weren’t extravagant, but Maria lacked for nothing. Computer, vids, and a com that would instantly give her access to an operator at the complex’s central control, and thus anything her little devious heart might wish for.
Leaving the housekeeping cart in the main living area, the interloper made his silent way into the sleeping room. There was a three-way mirror in one corner, along with a table topped by a couple of framed pictures of the young lady with an older couple. Parents, perhaps, probably long dead. The time had come for a family reunion.
He looked at the girl sleeping soundly in the middle of the sleeping mat. Her face was so sweet and innocent in slumber. They were all lovely, these Earther females. It pissed him off that such beauty concealed the monsters they truly were.
He crept close and inhaled her sweet, musky scent. She’d washed the choking miasma of cologne from her body, thank the ancestors. He stood over her, hard and aching to sink his cocks into her warmth, to be absorbed in her softness. That she could trick his body made him hate her and the others like her all the more. He would never let their surface beauty fool him again.
The Beast covered Maria’s mouth. Her eyes were just fluttering open when he buried his fangs in her throat. She made a choked sound. She struggled against him, and he grew harder than ever. He held her down easily, enjoying how her efforts grew more feeble as the seconds ticked by until her body was completely lax beneath him. Another several seconds, and she sank into unconsciousness.
He kept the intoxicant flowing into her a little longer, making sure she was totally under. At last he released the bite, picked her limp form up, and carried her out to the main living area of the quarters.
He swept aside the cloth hiding the lower shelf of the cart. He tied and arranged her body carefully so that she wouldn’t shift and reveal herself to any passersby as he took her out.
Satisfied, he let the cloth conceal his prize and moved the cart around the room to be sure she remained secured.
It looked perfect. No one would ever guess a person was hidden inside.
The Beast opened the door to the corridor and waited a moment to let the security recorder lose transmission. Then he went out, escorting the cart with its cargo.
Minutes later, he had her in his personal shuttle and was taking her to his special place, the place where he could punish her for her misdeeds and then pass final judgment. As he raced through the night, he allowed himself to laugh out loud. He was doing the Empire proud, making amends for the losses Kalquor had suffered.
* * * *
Rachel was surprised but delighted when Conyod stopped by her room earlier than their usually scheduled session. In fact, she’d only finished her breakfast when he showed up. She switched off her computer immediately, hoping she’d remember the new Kalquorian words and phrases she’d been working on. Then she fought to keep from running across the room to the Imdiko, to fling her arms around him. She was as goofy as a teenager in love seeing him smile as he closed the door behind himself. And though his eyes seemed more shadowed than ever, he was still the best vision a woman could hope for.
She thought he sounded hopeful as he said, “Good morning, Ray-Ray.”
Her voice wasn’t as raspy and weak as it had been last night. Her surgeon had given her vocal exercises, exercises that had been useless when she couldn’t get a single word past her clogged throat. Being able to speak in Kalquorian had changed the game however, and she’d practiced last night with newfound will. She returned her therapist’s greeting with pride. “Ibo dug, Conyod.”
His grin lit his entire face and he took a few steps towards her, stopping an arm’s length away. “If you only knew how good it is to hear you speak.”
She typed on her handheld, wishing she was fluent in Kalquorian. With her heart in her throat, she asked, How was your appointment? She couldn’t bring herself to call it a date.
Conyod’s smile slipped, and he looked a little ill. “Not very good. The Matara rejected us.”
Rachel debated whether she should extend her sympathies, but she didn’t like to lie. So she opted to skip any fu
rther discussion of the subject. Conyod didn’t appear eager to talk about it anyway.
Govi says I might join the lottery very soon. She hesitated, then in a flurry of typing asked, Do you think perhaps your clanmates would consider me? Would YOU consider me? Conyod read the words, and his smile returned. Heaven and earth, she loved it when he smiled.
He said, “Nothing would make me happier. As for Sletran and Erybet…” He considered.
A shadow passed over his face, and he seemed to struggle with an inward debate. Finally he added, “I think perhaps they would. They were very impressed with you. But Ray-Ray, I am your doctor and this might be frowned upon. It’s not unheard of for patients to fixate on their therapists because they feel gratitude or a sense of obligation.”
His expression seemed to beg her to negate this idea. She was more than ready to do just that. He stepped closer so he could read over her shoulder as she typed, as if he couldn’t wait one second for her answer.
I know my own mind. I know it very well. While I am grateful, I do not feel obligation. I feel—
She stopped typing and looked up into Conyod’s big, beautiful purple eyes. She dropped the handheld on the nearby table, turned, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Everything inside went soft and warm as she felt the strength of his body against hers. Sure, she was fixated, but it was love. As sure as she was standing here, the front of her body plastered to the front of his, she was in love. She stood on her tiptoes and moved her lips over his.
Conyod’s arms wrapped around her back, and happiness surged. His tongue flicked over her mouth, and she opened so that it could dive deep, tasting her and allowing her to taste back.
His flavor was fresh and bright, and she wound her tongue about his to take as much as he would give her.
The thorough kiss he gifted Rachel with sent arousal surging to her lower parts. She couldn’t help but move against him, needy and starved for more. The hardness that pressed against her belly told her Conyod’s appetite was just as great for contact. His hands slipped down to cup her buttocks and hold her so he could grind hard against her.
Alien Redemption [Clans of Kalquor 06] Page 5
