He stiffened as he held her away from him, marching her down the passage again. Oblivious to her surroundings, Hadiza was focused entirely on the grip of strong hands on her wrists, the heat of the big body behind hers, guiding her onward. She slowed, trying to back her body up against his, but he held her away, forcing her onward. Thwarted and aching, Hadiza whimpered at the painful want that hollowed her body, boiled her blood.
They passed an open deck where others of her captors’ race labored to arrange the layout of dividing walls around a raised dais. Hadiza’s gaze lingered on broad backs, muscular arms. The need inside of her ratcheted up to an agonizing burn. She twisted hard against her captor’s hold, desperate to have it assuaged. His grip tightened painfully on her arms, keeping her at bay.
“Please,” she whimpered. The small part of her mind that still remembered who she was balked in shame and fury. “Please just make it stop,” she begged.
Her captor ignored her. Just down the passageway from the open deck, a hatch stood open. Hadiza was herded inside a large cabin filled with…
Cages.
Tall, rectangular cubes, made of transparent panels. Just wide and tall enough to hold a human body. A frisson of fear cut through the painful arousal. Coffins, her mind whispered.
No match for the alien’s strength, Hadiza was shoved inside of one. She spun around as the last panel slid shut, enclosing her. Her palms slapped against perfectly smooth, perfectly clear, perfectly unbreakable glass. The alien had already turned his back on her, leaving. All around her, the other women were shoved into cages, crying and grasping and begging. One by one, panels slid shut, enclosing them. Every last one of the aliens departed, leaving a cabin full of weeping, raging women. Some of them were still deep in the grip of the venom, pressing themselves desperately against the glass of their cages, begging their captors to return.
Hadiza felt it surging inside of her again. Her body trembled as panicked, icy fear clashed against burning hot lust. Whatever the aliens had planned for them, it was finally coming to fruition.
Chapter Two
The traffickers had been bold enough to host the auction within the same galaxy Scaevos occupied—though they’d taken pains to choose coordinates where nobody in their right mind would intentionally travel. Errol arrived in a civilian transport vessel. He’d cloaked it, of course, but not to the degree that Enforcement ships were capable of, in the interest of maintaining his cover.
A Scaeven cargo hauler awaited him at the designated coordinates. Every possible identifier had been removed from the ship, leaving only the light-eating cloaking skin—rendering the ship essentially invisible against the backdrop of the Great Maw, a black hole at the center of the galaxy.
Errol locked his ship into stasis, left it cloaked, and boarded a shuttle for rendezvous with the traffickers’ vessel. As his shuttle neared the unmarked cargo hauler, the chip in his encrypted comm activated, hailing the other vessel.
A single shuttle port glowed blue on the ship’s belly, inviting him to dock. In his peripheral vision, two other shuttles approached the ship and more docking ports lit up for them.
Inside the ship’s flight deck, Errol emerged from his shuttle and found himself facing a wall of grim-faced Scaevens.
“Spread your feet. Arms out,” the nearest one ordered flatly.
Errol did as instructed, looking casually around the flight deck while the trafficker patted him down for weapons. He found Errol’s comm in the chest pocket of his expensive Bijari cashmere shipcoat—the sort of thing a wealthy civilian would wear casually. He examined the top line comm—another signifier of wealth meant to cement Errol’s cover—and handed it over to one of his silent fellows. At Errol’s waist, he found an electron gun tucked into the back of his waistband. The trafficker held it up with an accusatory look.
Errol shrugged. “Like you’re not carrying,” he said glibly.
The other Scaeven grunted and handed the gun off to one of his silent fellows and finished sweeping down Errol’s legs. He found nothing more. He wouldn’t—Errol had been very careful. The electron gun had been meant for them to find—such a poor hiding spot would make them overlook the better ones. The trafficker handed the comm back to Errol.
“Your chip,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
Errol ejected the chip from his comm and passed it over.
The trafficker slid it into his own device. After a beat, he looked up and nodded. “The auction will take place on the common deck.” He ejected the chip, and then crushed it between his fingers, letting the shattered pieces fall to the deck. It didn’t matter—Enforcement had already made a replica. They’d been tracking the comm frequencies since before Errol had even departed for this assignment. If they didn’t already have a lead on the transmission source, Errol would be surprised.
The trafficker reached into the breast pocket on his coat and handed over a new chip. “This will connect you to the bidding line. Insert it into your comm.”
Errol did so.
“Follow the passageway,” the trafficker ordered, stepping aside for him to pass. “Don’t touch anything. Just walk.”
Playing his part, Errol gave the trafficker a cocky salute as he passed him. At the far side of the flight deck, an open cargo door led to a wide service passage. Another Scaeven auction buyer made his way down the passage, and Errol fell into step behind him, feeling the eyes of the traffickers on his back. He followed the curve of the passage until he was out of their sight.
Errol slowed his pace, until the other Scaeven disappeared around the next bend. Ahead, he could hear the sound of voices echoing in a large room. To his left, a single hatch. It was locked, but Errol’s comm infiltrated the programming and unsealed it. He waited a beat, listening to make sure the passage was clear, then pulled the hatch and peered inside.
Human females. Dozens of them. Held in rows of glass cages like specimens in a lab.
For a moment, Errol couldn’t react at all, he was so stunned. He’d never seen humans in the flesh. Especially not human females—who were legendary for their particular allure. They came in such a stunning range of colors—his eye was drawn immediately to a female with hair the color of fire who pawed drunkenly at seams of her cage.
In the grip of intoxication, he realized. That was how the traffickers kept them subdued.
His gaze ran over them all. Hair like burnished gold and polished topaz and hematite black. Skin like deepest sable, warm bronze, shell pink. Eyes with round pupils, and irises of nearly every color—blue and green and gray and amber and brown and even a shade startlingly near violet. The humans were a riot of color and softness, with bodies shaped expressly to telegraph their sexual viability. Their hips flared into the perfect cradle for bearing young. Even without infants to nurse, their breasts were full and round.
The traffickers had dressed them demurely in long gowns—wise, as no Scaeven wanted the body of his future mate exposed to the eyes of other males—but their charms were no less diminished for it. Sashes tied at their waists demonstrated the disparity between their lush breasts and hips without revealing any flesh. Their lovely faces were perfectly visible—showing their silky skin, their exquisite coloring, the intriguing textures of their hair.
Errol’s eyes fell at last on the smallest of the human women. She was a slight creature, and yet the curves of her body were outrageous. Her waist was so tiny, he could have easily spanned it with his hands. Her skin was the lush, warm brown of kimner rosewood. Her hair, corvid black, had been gathered into hundreds of minute braids woven through with glimmering threads of gold and silver. It spilled in a thick cascade down to the middle of her slender back. A thin, gold ring encircled the center of her full, pouting, bottom lip.
Errol could only stare.
The stunning female stared back at him, just as intently. Her small hands were pressed to the glass of her enclosure. Her eyes were large, dark, tilted up at the corners. The depths of them were fathomless, and the cold fury in her gaze pinned Errol in
place. A tremor ran down her body, and Errol felt a mirroring shiver along his spine.
Her.
It was his own voice speaking to him, and it had come from somewhere deep inside—a place he’d forgotten existed. The shock of it stirred him from his stupor. He tore his gaze away from her, angry with himself. He’d been sent to recover a single human from the traffickers for Enforcement to examine and question. He was not here to gawp at them like a juvenile seeing his first unmated female.
He stepped away from the caged women and sealed the hatch back up, just in time to avoid being caught by one of the traffickers coming around the bend in the passageway.
“Don’t loiter,” the other Scaeven growled at him. “Auction’s on the common deck.”
Errol held up his comm. Falling back into the accent and attitude of one of the ruling Scaeven patriarchies, he drawled, “Just checking the encryption route on my funds, if that’s alright with you, brother.”
The trafficker grunted and strode past Errol. Errol fell into step behind him with a lazy, insouciant stride that spoke of entitlement, wealth, privilege.
The passage sloped steeply upward. On the common deck, he joined a crowd of at least five dozen Scaevens who perfectly matched the persona he’d adopted. They were the unmated grandsons and great-grandsons of powerful patriarchs, flush with wealth they’d never had to work to earn, unconcerned by the notion of buying a sentient being. And why would they be? Everything in their world was for sale. A mate was no different to them than a home or a meal. Just another creature comfort, of which they demanded the finest, the rarest, the priciest.
Errol’s self-control was his finest weapon. He did not betray even the faintest shadow of his contempt for the untried, pampered leeches surrounding him. He slipped into their fold with ease, exchanging cool glances and brusque nods with them as he positioned himself at the back of the crowd. His Bijari shipcoat, boots of Eiklan ramskin, and the gold filigree laid into his upper fangs were things he’d never be able to afford by his own means, but he wore them with the confidence of a future patriarch. His hair couldn’t be helped—he’d always kept it efficiently cropped, while the wealthy patriarchal sons favored long, elaborate braids. Even so, his companions had no idea they were looking at the working son of a landless archivist.
Like the others, Errol busied himself with his comm, waiting for the auction to begin. Unlike the others, his attention was entirely focused on the space around him. He took careful stock of the other Scaevens, both auctioneers and buyers. The traffickers were as intently focused as Errol, their gazes traveling distrustingly over the assembled buyers. The buyers were almost universally non-threats—except for one. He stood at the opposite side of the crowd from Errol. His posture was the same disinterested slouch, head bowed over his comm, but a hyperaware intensity radiated from him. A plant, most likely, from the traffickers. He’d either be keeping an eye on the buyers from the inside, or he’d be working to drive bids up. Perhaps both.
Errol lifted his head, affecting an expression of impatience as he gazed around the deck. There was only one clear exit, flanked by guards. There’d be other guards posted in the passageways once the auction began. The deck, though large, had been portioned off by temporary walls—crowd control. A long dais stood in the middle of the space. That’d be where the humans were put on display for bidders. For now it was empty.
In his peripheral vision, Errol detected the traffickers’ plant’s gaze on him.
He let out an impatient sigh and looked back down at his comm, pulling up the dummy account that Enforcement had loaded with funds for his mission and pretended to scan the contents. After a few beats, the plant’s gaze slid off of him.
Errol lifted his gaze once more, just in time to see one of the traffickers stepping up onto the dais. The other buyers lifted their heads as well, suddenly aware, eager.
“The auction begins momentarily,” the auctioneer said. “Bids will only be accepted through the encrypted line—be certain your comm has connected.”
A rustle as the buyers double-checked their connections. Errol mirrored them.
When they’d subsided into still, impatient silence, the auctioneer spoke again. “All bids are final. One lot will be awarded per bidder, no more. Winners will secure their lot in a private berth.” He paused for a moment, his iron-gray face hard as he scanned the bidders.
Nobody spoke.
“And we begin.” He stepped down from the dais. At the near end of the dais, a hole spiraled open, and through the aperture, a glass enclosure began to rise.
The buyers surged forward as a collective, fanning out around the dais, avaricious glee writ on their faces. Errol did the same, still lingering at the back of the crowd.
Inside the enclosure, a human woman huddled in a corner, her eyes wide, breathing hard and fast. She looked every bit the caged animal. Her skin was honey-gold, her hair rich mahogany. They’d dressed her in a violet silk gown. It billowed around her crouched form, hiding the shape of her body.
“Get her to stand,” one of the buyers called out. “I want to see what I’m shelling out for.”
The auctioneer slammed a fist against the cage. The human lurched away from him, stumbling upright and crashing against the opposite wall of her cage. She’d gotten nowhere, but she was on her feet now. The hem of the gown clung to her thigh, exposing a long, slender leg.
Growls of approval chorused from the buyers.
Errol’s stomach lurched as he watched the human. He felt none of the stupefied fascination from earlier, only sickened pity. The human’s gaze darted frantically around the deck. Sweat made her shoulder-length hair stick to her face, the silk tunic cling to her figure.
After the buyers had had ample time to examine the first lot, the cage glided down to the opposite end of the dais with its human cargo, locking into place. The terrified woman remained on display, though most of the buyers’ attention had been diverted away from her as the aperture spiraled open again, and a new cage emerged.
One by one, frantic, terrified, trapped women were presented. Buyers were given a few moments to peruse each woman before the enclosures glided down to the other end of the dais, forming an ever-growing row of terrified humans. Errol watched a peachy-pale, bronze-haired woman weep in abject despair as she was sold away. And then a tawny-gold woman with curling brown hair and eyes the color of sageweed, who stood like one already dead, her gaze vacant and uncomprehending. Next, a sable-skinned, black-haired woman who shouted and pounded the glass of her cage with helpless fists. Another vacant-eyed ghost. Two more huddled, weeping wrecks. Another furious warrioress.
And then… her.
She did not weep. She did not rail. But she was present in a way that Errol could feel through the glass and across the open space between them. Despite her diminutive size, she towered over the monsters who loomed around her cage. She was a cold, dispossessed Queen, unimpressed and unintimidated. Her large, dark eyes swept over the assembled buyers with unconcealed disgust.
Just like the women who’d slammed the walls of their cages and shouted invectives at the Scaeven buyers, her regal bearing inspired a few gleaming, fanged smiles. Some males enjoyed nothing so much as the chance to destroy that which was powerful and beautiful. Errol knew their type. Weaklings, who could only reassure themselves of their own power by preying on those who couldn’t fight back.
The human woman on display may have been smaller and physically frail compared to a Scaeven, but the fire in those eyes did not belong to a weak creature. Errol had no doubt, whoever claimed her might get a son on her, but he would not live long enough to know the child. Scaevens are hard to kill, but this was a creature who would find the way to do it.
His chest clenched painfully. Her, that forgotten part of him whispered again. He knew he shouldn’t listen. That part of himself had been shut away for a reason.
But then her gaze met his.
Chapter Three
After a while, the venom’s effect had faded.
Still caged, Hadiza was left with only her fear. The dark cabin where they were all caged was filled with the sounds of defeat—weeping, begging, praying, and furious swearing.
Suddenly, the cages all dropped a few inches into the floor. A terrified silence settled over the women.
“We’re on a track,” Aislin whispered.
As if to underscore Aislin’s words, Hadiza felt her cage glide forward. She stumbled and fell against the glass. Righting herself, she squinted in the darkness. Sudden light glowed into the cabin from an opening in the far corner of the ceiling. Hadiza watched as one of the Martian women slid towards it. A hydraulic pedestal lifted her cage upwards, raising her through the opening. The pedestal blocked the light, sealing them in darkness once again.
“What’s going to happen to her?” one woman asked, voice quavering with tears. Hadiza recognized a smooth Martian accent, but couldn’t place the voice.
“They’re going to give her a puppy and ride home,” somebody replied in a rougher, Galilean accent.
Long, tense moments passed in darkness and the sound of weeping. And then the cages all glided forward on their track. The aperture in the ceiling opened again, and the next woman was raised up through it. A few minutes passed, the cages glided forward, and another woman ascended into the unknown.
One by one, the women rose up out of sight. Hadiza recognized a snaking pattern to the movement of the cages and began counting off to her turn. When there was light in the cabin, she looked back. Aislin was at the very back. They were saving her for last.
Hadiza met her gaze. Aislin’s steady, unflinching calm wavered briefly—a flash of fear in her eyes as her chin trembled—and then she swallowed and smoothed it away. It nearly broke Hadiza to see it happen.
“Aislin,” she whispered hoarsely.
Darkness closed over them again, and the only thing she could see was a constant replay of Aislin’s fracturing courage.
Moon Struck Page 2
