“I felt something like what you’re describing.” Makko shifted uncomfortably. “While the other one, Chief Reccin, was inserting the translator. It wasn’t as strong as you’re saying, though. This was vague. It passed as quickly as it took him to move away.”
“What about you, Captain? Lieutenant Major?” Marc looked from one to the other, but their blank confusion was sufficient indicator. “Nothing.”
The Mother Commander glanced between them. “They had a weapon, used it, it backfired—and now they’re pissed off?”
“Their leaders are single, unattached. Keeps them from being biased.” He watched Dehna and Hamm for a moment before continuing. “He should be stepping down.”
“In favor of that other one.” The Mother Commander eyed Dehna, then exhaled something halfway between a snort and a sigh. “No way do I want to deal with that. Andruski? What’s your opinion? This will be your assignment, if it smoothes out.”
“Apologies, sir. But I’m having difficulty following them even with the translation device.” Andruski glanced at Marc. “I don’t know how you picked it up so fast, Staille. I didn’t realize Orsonna took the time to enunciate slowly.”
“I’ve had some additional help. And Orsonna has a vested interest in ensuring he’s communicating clearly.” Marc’s language skills didn’t resemble Dehna’s, and he didn’t have cultural sensitivity training like Andruski. His competence could be blamed entirely on Hamm and the strange relationship they’d forged. Multifaceted communication certainly had its benefits.
He glanced back again, shifted to an angle, trying to watch the mob of furrs, Dehna, Hamm, Reccin, and the C-C team all at once while still paying heed to the Mother Commander.
Dehna was hackling, bristling, baring fangs while Hamm made a show of studying his unsheathed claws.
She coiled and leapt toward Marc without warning. Not the slightest indication she’d shifted targets. His hand clenched on Mat. He hesitated. Reluctant to kill another furr.
She didn’t aim for him, though, but Andruski. A single flick of her wrists, a twitch of unsheathed claws, and the ambassador to the furrs slumped to the ground with a broken neck, all but beheaded, the last pulses of his heart spurting arterial blood in great arcs onto the grass.
He didn’t know who screamed. He didn’t react fast enough. By the time he brought Mat under control and got a bead on Dehna, she’d broken Cortannas’s arm—the captain managed to draw her sidearm in self-defense—slashed her throat and left her bleeding out on the arid, thirsty soil beside her teammate.
Marc’s finger hugged the trigger mid-squeeze. Hamm roared, a violent, bloodcurdling sound. A lesser man would’ve pissed himself. A blur of white-amber tawny made him relax his finger, unwilling to risk hitting the wrong target. Dehna was tackled to the ground just as the guards stepped up to shield the Mother Commander.
He tracked Hamm and Dehna through the scope, grimacing. The pair were a blur of fur, skin, and limbs. Just as he distinguished a fatal target on Dehna’s darker body, something pushed Mat’s barrel away.
The force countered Marc’s solid grip with ease.
“Leave it.” Reccin spoke softly. Not a plea, but not a command either. “They must fight this out between themselves, without interference.”
He stared at the chief, who held his searching gaze with rock-solid resolve. Only his ear twitched when one of the combatants roared. Marc couldn’t tell if the sound conveyed outrage or pain.
He had to swallow hard and then lick his lips before he was able to form words. “Return to the shuttle.” He glanced over, and blood and bullets if the commander’s personal guards weren’t already dragging their superior toward the closest shuttlecraft. At least the Mother Commander had more sense than an AVR and quit struggling after two or three strides.
The visceral display of violence fascinated him, left him awestruck. The fangs, fully bared, the half-strangled snarls, the grunts of effort, injury, as they struggled against one another; in a way, it held greater intimacy than what he and Hamm had done here in the meadow before the C-C team’s shuttle had bellied into the dirt.
Adrenaline surged in his veins. His grip tightening on Mat despite the sickening twist it caused, the burn in his palms. He struggled with himself, desperately wanted to push Reccin away, squeeze a few rounds into Dehna and be done with it. Fuck that, empty a few clips. He wanted to stand between Hamm and every single furr who saw their mutual attachment as weakness, who sought to depose him because of it.
Gritting his teeth and chewing on his tongue, he refrained. And watched, helpless, as the two furrs fought.
The human presence here may have drawn the clans together as they wouldn’t have otherwise—Marc studied the gathered furrs, the strange “feathers” along the periphery of the crowd, their plumage loud and garish among the more earthy tones.
Not a one looked inclined to intervene.
The furrs watched every move, twitching ears and expressions with every sound, no matter how faint. He wondered what he was missing—the nuances of scent that would reveal just how many supporters Hamm could count among those gathered.
Or did they truly value convention and tradition, their existing laws, over progress? Survival over thriving?
He felt his pulse hammer hard in his ears every time he let his attention flick back to the pair, battering one another with vicious roars meant to intimidate as much as slashing claws and rending fangs.
When they rolled closer, he backed away. Unwilling to risk being within Dehna’s striking range, should she slip Hamm’s grip. And if he interfered–even unintentionally—Commander Orsonna would suffer for it. Marc understood that this had to be done their way, as brutal and primal as it was.
It was the only option. It was fucking killing his nerves, though. This wasn’t how he operated.
How he operated involved hours in silence, in stillness, lost in the calm Zen of peace— followed by squeezing the trigger. PoofPoofPoof.
Simple.
Hands trembling on the death stick—his tool—aching from the clenching grip on the steel, he stared at the lifeless bodies of the C-C team leader, the would-have-been ambassador. Their blood glistened wet on the ground, a film of color residue without any sign of puddling. Arid and parched, the indiscriminate soil soaked up what it could.
He wondered, fleetingly, what sort of impact that would have on a fragile ecosystem.
Hamm writhed suddenly, twisting, scent flaring so strongly on the gusting breeze that Marc could smell it. Or maybe it was Dehna’s, because it didn’t smell like shade-cool, mineral-rich soil. It smelled like onions, that sour musky smell.
It made bile burn the back of his throat.
Panic surged up and rode him hard. He glanced from the bled-out forms of the team to the two furrs locked in a mortal struggle.
Over some stupid shred of politics. Over a damned cultural difference that declared Hamm useless to them, no longer worthy of leading. All because of a bond.
Marc’s arms went limp. Mat slipped from his grip, bouncing off his hip roughly. He dipped his shoulder, let the strap slide off, the weight of the rifle dragging it free. It clattered against the hard ground, an eerie sound. Strange, alien. Foreign to this place.
One of these things is not like the others.
No matter what Hamm said or did, it would always be that way. Marc had no illusions that the furrs—or the feathers—would accept him as a part of their clan.
Reccin eyed him askance, then the death stick on the ground, but the chief’s attention rightfully focused on his commander.
“I will leave. Right now. Will that solve the problem? Will it stop Dehna from trying to toss him out? Him having to prove he’s worthy of retaining his position?”
The honey-maned chief stared at him. Searching in silence. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. It won’t make much difference to Dehna unless you’re dead. So long as you live, the commander’s pheromones are compromised.”
Then why had Dehna bypassed a p
erfect chance to kill him in favor of taking out Andruski? It didn’t make sense. Then again, Hamm had mentioned something about Dehna’s “insult” and acknowledged the bond with Marc just before things got violent. That had shifted something, as though the bond afforded him greater protection, no matter how much they disliked it. Yeah, this was more than just emotional engagement, he got that. His own affection for Hamm had only served to expand his perspective and provide balance. He didn’t know if it even worked that way for Hamm. Furrs were entirely different creatures. They needed Hamm, though. The humans did, and the furrs and the feathers did too, whether or not they realized why.
He squatted and rested his forearms on his knees. Glanced up at Reccin. “Kill me, then.”
It was no less than what Hamm’s squad had willingly done. In the name of peace.
Reccin staggered back, distancing himself from Marc with a glance toward Hamm, who gave another bone-chilling roar and shifted his tactic against Dehna.
Marc watched, indulged himself. Drinking in every detail of the male. Finally. It was okay to stare, to appreciate, to gorge on it. In a few moments, none of it would matter.
Cording tendons, tensed muscles, the line of a leg, thigh, the sinuous line of spine and wide shoulders gradually obscured beneath the dreadlocked mane. Thick, dense hair. He lifted his hand, chafing fingertips against the pad of his thumb, feeling the slick residue of oil. Concentrated pheromone from burying his hand into that mane.
He could recall the way Hamm’s vibrating purr felt, could feel it as though that resonant sound had never stopped.
Or was that Hamm’s roar, vibrating his body?
Hamm couldn’t begin to imagine who Dehna was attempting to influence with her rank stench, but he caught the scent of Marc through the fog of her pheromones.
The musk filled his nostrils. He snatched it out of the air like a kit after fresh ’nip, greedy, ravenous. Wild with it in a way he hadn’t let himself be before. He tightened his grip on Dehna’s arm and throat, unsheathing his claws. He was finished messing around, done trying to reason with her, sick of indulging her emotions and blind confusion, her refusal to see.
Because something was wrong with Marc. And Reccin’s scent had just gone sour.
His claws slipped through Dehna’s flesh, into her neck with calculated precision. Not slicing her jugular, but so close she had to cease struggling or she’d execute herself. Bleed out just as surely as the humans a few feet away, like fresh kill waiting to be skinned and gutted.
Dehna went still, retracting her claws from where she’d sunk them into his shoulder and arm. Raised her hands, claws sheathed, until they hovered in the air.
He twisted half around, still snarling, frantically looking for Marc, wondering what the problem was. Reccin stared down at the human, eyes wide, that sour scent still rolling off him.
And Marc squatted on the ground, the death stick a carelessly discarded mangle of steel and shoulder strap. He stared up at Reccin, neck arched as he strained to meet the chief’s gaze from below.
Exposed and submissive. No. Marc didn’t submit to anyone. Not even him.
“Just make it quick, if you would. The furrs I’ve killed, they didn’t suffer.” His voice sounded resigned. And then he turned to look at Hamm, gaze softening. That flash of life and lust he knew so well returned.
Hamm roared, raking claws down Dehna’s body as he twisted away, coiled, and leapt. Tackling Marc to the ground, pinning the human beneath him.
His claws, slick with blood, curled into the dry, crumbling soil as he flexed his hands and crouched over Marc. When he looked up at Reccin, his second bowed his head and diverted his gaze in blatant submission.
“What was that about?”
“He asked me to kill him.”
Hamm stilled. “He what?”
“He thought it would resolve the situation without you and Dehna having to kill one another. He has the selflessness of a furr.”
“Not all of us are so selfless.” Hamm glanced back at Dehna, who’d propped herself up on an elbow and was inspecting the parallel gouges running down the length of her torso.
They were superficial, mostly. But deep enough they’d leave a mark. A reminder for her.
He felt fingers in his mane, burrowing deep, sliding along his neck, stroking skin. Deliberately stimulating his musk glands? Hamm returned his attention to Marc, but the human didn’t remove his hands. Not that he wanted him to. It felt good.
Like someone scratching an itch you didn’t realize you had.
“I don’t want you to die.” Hamm held himself above Marc, not wanting to hurt him, and dipped his head closer, hooding his eyes. When Marc’s fingers stroked over his neck, tangling inextricably in his mane, he purred. Softly, haltingly, afraid of the intensity of his own emotions. Afraid of how right it felt when the human touched him.
“It won’t make things easier for you?”
Hamm opened his eyes, focusing on the human’s gaze, expression. Scent. “No.” He barked the word, fierce and defiant. Then huffed, inhaled slowly, and tried again. “It would simplify the issue with our laws. But it would hurt me. Deeply.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“Okay, Hamm.”
“I don’t want you to leave, either.”
Marc tightened his fingers, gripping, pulling him down, closer. He trailed his mouth over the heavy ridge of Hamm’s nose, his forehead, lips dragging soft and moist, warm huffs of breath teasing his nerves. The tip of Marc’s nose tickled the soft hairs along the edge of Hamm’s hairline. He traced every inch of his face as though trying to memorize him.
When the answer came, every syllable moved Marc’s lips against Hamm’s temple, the moist warmth of his breath tangling in his mane. “Then I will stay. And together we will find a way to make this work. For everyone. Okay?”
The sensation, as much as the words he spoke, made Hamm’s throat close off, his eyes burn. Relief made the strength go out of him. His arms felt too weak to hold him up anymore. He could feel his body trembling, betraying him. Sheathing his claws, he shifted to his forearms and purred, loving the intensity of Marc’s scent. His senses saturated, drowning out everything else, all awareness of their surroundings. Hamm knew it wouldn’t last, the escape from reality, but he took it while he could get it.
“Yes, we make this work for everyone. For furrs, and feathers, and for humans, too. But mostly?” He ran the bridge of his nose along Marc’s jaw, and Marc raised his chin, neck arching. “We make this work for us. You and me. That’s it.” Marc made a sound in the back of his throat, just as Hamm dragged his tongue up the length of his neck.
Reality could just fucking wait another minute.
Hamm dropped to a crouch in the stone’s shadow, unsheathing his claws into the cool-moist soil. The breeze gusted, tangled through the small grove of saplings. It swirled around the monolith to tease him with Marc’s scent.
His sight tripped into thermal, glands soaking his mane with musk and saturating the air with his pheromones.
“I thought you were hunting, or stalking or whatever.” The voice, low and soothing and edged with humor, came from the other side of the stone.
He hunched his shoulders and chuffed in disappointment. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I can smell you?”
Hamm straightened and stepped into the early evening sun. Marc looked up from his spot on the ground, one shoulder leaning against the stone, fingers resting on the grooves that formed the names of four humans and as many furrs who’d fallen in this valley.
For peace.
“I was stalking, actually.” The line of Marc’s neck drew his attention, unerringly.
“What happened?”
“The wind shifted. My prey scented me.”
“Out of practice, are you?”
Hamm rumbled and bared a fang in a harmless attempt to emulate what Marc called a smile as he joined him on the ground. “I didn’t know you could
smell me.”
“You smell like soil.”
He glanced pointedly at the dirt under them.
Marc jutted his head toward the far end of the valley, at the grove of ancient trees crowded along the riverbank. “Shaded from the sun by an old stand like that, moist and rich with minerals.”
Hamm inhaled deeply, pulling the human’s scent out of the air. He always reeked of guilt, regret, and sadness when Hamm dragged him out here. Today, though, it felt different. Lighter. “I’ll remember to stay downwind next time.”
The bark of laughter lightened Hamm’s spirits even more. Marc rested his head back against the stone and stared up at the sky. “You were stalking me.”
He took the pose as open invitation and ducked his head to the man’s neck. The rumble of his purr eased something in his chest and loosened tension from Marc’s shoulders. Marc cradled Hamm’s head with his arm, burying fingers deep into his mane until they stroked skin.
“You know you don’t need to stalk me, right? Or is this some mating ritual instinct of yours that you need me to—”
“No.” A flash of warmth rolled through him at the man’s indulgence. Hamm purred again, a stutter of vibration, as he rubbed his cheek against Marc’s face, then rested his head on the man’s shoulder. “I just enjoy watching you.”
No need to concern the human with the fact that it bothered Hamm whenever he was out of sense-range. Many of his furr instincts were outmoded and useless. It didn’t make struggling against them any less painful.
Marc’s fingers found the glands on his neck, petting with ruthless precision. Hamm felt his body going limp in response and looped his arms around Marc.
“What are you planning to do?” He blurted the question with all the finesse of an adolescent making a first overture at dominance. He’d been biting it back for too long, though, and the mining teams had almost finished gorging on white carbon. The furrs had spent a few weeks showing their new human trade partners how to extract what they wanted without raping Soma. After that, it had gone too swiftly for Hamm’s tastes.
Fragile Bond Page 15
