ElyriasEcstasy

by Amber Jayne

  This wasn’t the first time she had been brought before the Toplux. That was a lot of attention for a civilian, even an important chemist like herself.

  She pulled her fingers back through her thick hair, rubbed her face with her palms. Bongo had come up beside her. His smile vanished. His impishness seemed to have evaporated.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, all right? I should have told you what I needed the paper for.”

  “And I should have known you would be careless with it.” Actually, she’d intentionally not asked, though she had suspected the paper would be used for something like those pamphlets. Why lie to herself? “I suppose we can call this one a wash.”

  “Are you sure?” He put his hand on her shoulder.

  She lifted her gaze, narrowed it at him. He had set down his empty glass. Hers was still halfway full of the gold liquor. Or was it half empty?

  “Maybe I could weave a spell of emotional healing between us,” he said.

  Virge blinked back at him. Was he serious…? Yes. He had a small object in his hand now, something of beaten metal with points on it, etched with arcane designs. A talisman. Or what he and the believers would call a talisman. To her it was just a hunk of odd-looking metal, and Bongo had pocketfuls of stuff like this. Feathers, stones, crystals, tiny wood carvings. If he ever got caught with them he could always say they were mere crafts, meant for amusement. As far as Virge was concerned, that was exactly what they were.

  “I’d said I would help you. And I helped you. It’s done now.”

  Bongo gave her one of his little-boy-lost looks. “But you’re still mad…”

  He really was quite a scrumptious male and she’d always felt something just a shade more serious than an animal attraction toward him. But his evidently sincere belief in the magical arts was a put-off. Magic was a shuck, magic was bedtime stories for kids. Magic was the need to believe in something more powerful than the Black Ship, than the Lux.

  “Put that thing away,” she said, then emptied her glass with a decisive swallow. She thumped it down on the counter.

  She used the tone of voice she kept reserved for ending conversations. Bongo’s hand was still on her shoulder. His other returned the metal object to his pocket. The sweat of Nick Daphral had barely dried on her skin, yet she was surprised to feel her blood stirring again. Reacting to the familiarity and warmth of her friend’s proximity.

  Bongo was shorter than Nick but he had a fantastic body, sturdy and evenly muscled. When he wasn’t exercising his talents for civil disobedience, he spent his hours sorting legal salvage at one of the large outdoor plants just inside the Lux city limits. It wasn’t glamorous (whose life was, really?) but he could credit his assigned occupation for the tanned glow of his skin, his strong arms. He could toss Virge onto her back as easily as she could flip open a book.

  She knew this from experience. Flushing, forgetting about the glass, Virge raised the bottle to her lips and took a long swig. Bongo reclaimed it with his free hand when she was done and mirrored her motion, overdoing it, shaking his head when the alcohol—a smooth blend dubbed Fire by Raz—filled his throat. Virge had meant to save the golden liquor for an occasion. Maybe this was one after all, she considered. Any night you got free from the clutches of the Lux was a good one.

  “So, why’d they cut you loose?” he asked, masking a cough behind his hand as Virge took the bottle back.

  “It’s weird…” Virge hesitated. She’d been planning to tell him the news of Urna’s escape. Now an internal voice rose, warning her against it. No one outside of the Lux and the Guard would know about it and that made the knowledge dangerous. If word spread, it might be traced back to Virge’s Interrogator, who had certainly violated the rules of secrecy by telling her. She found she had no urge to get poor, horny, semi-hapless Nick Daphral into any trouble.

  And what about Urna himself? The more buzz there was among the Safe’s general populace concerning Urna, the harder it would be for him to keep a low profile. Virge didn’t actually care about the Weapon’s personal well-being, but she preferred the idea of him evading Aphael Chav for a good long time, keeping the evil old fuck occupied. It might keep him off her back, at least. And maybe even the backs of those rebellious miscreants she considered her friends by way of Bongo. Acquaintances, anyway.

  She looked at Bongo, shaking her head. “They didn’t tell me,” she finally finished.

  “Well, then, who cares?” Bongo’s fingers moved from her shoulder to brush against the side of her neck. Virge swatted him vaguely, all the while feeling her insides beginning to melt.

  “I’m tired,” she said. Which was true. But there were other, more urgent truths at play here.

  “Yeah.” Bongo took the bottle out of her hands once more, turned her toward him easily by the waist. “So am I,” he said softly. “Maybe we ought to head for bed.”

  It was a juvenile approach. But it worked.

  * * * * *

  The uncapped bottle of Fire sat on the floor next to Virge’s bed, ignored.

  Unlike Nick Daphral, Bongo took his time undressing her. There was no cause to hold his hand through the act and for this she was grateful. Not that being in complete control wasn’t occasionally exhilarating for her, but it was nice to let go and have him take the lead while she unraveled. The perfect antidote to this whole arduous experience.

  How did Bongo always know to come around when she was in need of him? She couldn’t have said, and right now couldn’t have cared.

  The bedroom was on the small house’s second floor—or, really, the bedroom was the second level, a cozy loft with bare beams for walls. Something a previous owner had added on. Virge liked the space. Its snugness was comforting. She had a low wood-framed bed up here and little else. Bongo had lit a candle and shadows rolled up the canted timbers of the walls. The last of her clothing dropped to the floor at the head of the sharply descending ladder. Her lover was still dressed.

  Bongo had always coveted her legs, praising their shapeliness as often as he could. He now laid her gently down on the bed and spread her thighs. Crouching between with the candlelight making fire of his blond hair, he traced slow patterns on the soft inner flesh with his tongue and fingers. Her pussy was already soft with dampness. The leisurely but loving work of his mouth set her streaming.

  It seemed like ages before his lips finally landed where she yearned for him most, and when they did, it only took a few swipes of his nimble tongue across her clit to make her come hard, gasping and shuddering.

  He went down on her for something like a quarter of an hour after that, without respite, without flagging. His tongue kept up its thirsty work, slurping inside her, drawing out more of her juices. Hot breath scalded her folds exquisitely. She sucked air sharply through clenched teeth when she felt the occasional gentle abrasion of his chin’s stubble. His shoulders kept her thighs pressed apart. He heaved and huffed upon her exposed cleft and pleasure struck her again and again, orgasms beyond all lucidity, reducing her each time to a limp and helpless state from which she never wanted deliverance.

  It was delirium. It was better, far better, than drunkenness. She couldn’t possibly get off again, not ever again…

  When he raised himself from his work, a delicious coolness shivered over her pussy. Eyes, closed, drifted languidly open to behold Bongo at last undressing, in a hurry now, hopping a bit comically on one foot while he wrestled off a shoe. Virge took in his body, appreciating it. He had a strongly delineated musculature. His cock was ramrod-hard, thrusting out eagerly from a nest of blond curls.

  He flung himself back upon the bed and swung her knees up over his shoulders, pushing his thick shaft into her slickness in one smooth motion. Virge’s breath left her lungs.

  “Fuck, you’re hot tonight,” he whispered, moving her against him, his hands gripping her ass. She brought her own hands up, stroking his defined chest, implying that she felt the same. There was a tattoo just beneath his left collarbone, the skin raised
faintly by the scar.

  The ancient Elyrian symbol for magic, a mythological rune that had somehow survived from a time even before the arrival of the Black Ship. It was a kind of curlicue, this one drawn in red ink. The symbol he and his other rebel friends rallied under. Unlike the trinkets he carried with him, this was truly damning evidence of his outlawed beliefs. Were a member of the Lux ever to see this symbol, Bongo would likely be killed on the spot.

  The Lux didn’t believe in magic any more than she did. No one with any sense actually trusted that unseen, indefinable, unscientific forces could influence reality. But the Lux recognized the belief system for what it truly was—the desperate and dangerous hope that this current society could be overthrown and replaced with…what exactly, she didn’t know. And she suspected Bongo and his ilk didn’t know either. They were just in it for the sake of dissension, probably.

  Not that the Lux didn’t goddamn well deserve to be overthrown.

  Bearing that tattoo permanently, inked into his skin, was akin to Bongo signing his own death warrant. Yet he wore it with pride, and that notion filled Virge with a sudden, intense affection for him.

  Bongo was plowing steadily into her, his muscled body flexing. It was a constant, unvarying rhythm. Maybe a little unimaginative, but it was precisely what she was in the mood for right now. Just lie back, let this hot stud screw her. His cock filled her over and over, withdrawing ‘til only the swollen cap stretched her entrance, then sliding lusciously inside her, exciting fresh pleasure from a body she’d thought already spent.

  Impossibly, she came one more time, just as Bongo’s thrusts were going uneven and urgent. He spilled into her with a long, hoarse groan as Virge shuddered beneath him, gripping his shoulders with her knees, pulling on him. His oozing bliss filled her and the sweetness and directness of her orgasm gave her comfort.

  He was kissing her breasts and her neck. Any place he could reach with his mouth. There had been no pretense of pulling out, of utilizing contraceptives. He understood the implications behind Virge’s tattoo as well as she did his.

  Finally he collapsed on top of her, breath still hitching, until she nudged him gently, encouraging him to roll onto his side. As well as she knew him, she knew that any second now he would cheapen the moment with some lame-ass comment or stupid question.

  “Feel better, baby?” Pride in his tone, like he’d doubtlessly cured anything that could be ailing her.

  “Oh yes.” She gazed at him, the familiar snarky twist returning to her lips. “Like a million sunlit days.”

  “The least I could do, really.” He gave sarcasm as good as he got. It was one of the things she liked best about him, though she’d never admit it aloud.

  “Your services were adequate, as always.” She smiled sweetly. “Now get out, please.” She held his eyes just long enough for him to think she was serious.

  “I can’t leave now,” he protested. “I could get arrested.”

  “You’d deserve it. But I suppose you can stay until the curfew clear bell.” The standard curfew in the Safe was midnight to sunrise.

  “Good enough.” Bongo rolled over onto his other side, lifted onto an elbow and blew out the candle. Darkness took the loft. Virge remained staring until the low, bare ceiling was murkily visible, her limbs buzzing with adrenaline as the events of the night started to catch up with her again. She thought about a final swallow of Fire but the bottle was on the other side of the bed. Eventually her thoughts strayed back to Urna, the escaped Weapon.

  She wondered what he was thinking right now. How far had he gotten, or had they already caught him? What would the first bell bring for him, and would it be more bearable or less so than her own life?

  It didn’t matter. He was just a tool of the Lux, in the end, although a temporarily disobedient one.

  She didn’t need any more men in her life. Between Aphael Chav and Nick Daphral and this revolutionary here with the mad green eyes already dozing beside her, she had three more than she cared to have. Still.

  Urna, she thought with sudden clarity just before sleep grabbed her, what are you looking for?

  * * * * *

  It had gotten bad in the space of mere minutes. Urna had to halt the vehicle. Hand shaking, heart racing, he reached into his pocket for one of the pills stashed there. Swallowing one did nothing. He took a second pill. Anything to relieve the dreadful craving and panic that was so suddenly coursing through him.

  Years of taking these drugs. Never knowing quite what they were or why the doctors wanted him to take them. So they were some kind of narcotic after all. He’d more than half suspected as much. Whatever else the drugs did to him, they had evidently turned him into an addict. He needed these pills, and he hated himself for that weakness even as he swallowed a third. That finally started to bring the panicky reaction under control. But it left him with only two of the capsules. He’d better save those, mete them out very judiciously.

  Twenty minutes later, though, the urge came back, much worse than before. It felt like death was coming for him, grinning, sinister, eager to collect his worthless life.

  Again he stopped the vehicle, this time swerving it unsteadily and nosing it into a ditch lining one side of the unlit, unpaved rural road he was following. With his whole body trembling almost uncontrollably now, he clawed the last two pills from his pocket and swallowed them desperately.

  The terror eased. Death, shrugging, retreated, probably figuring on returning at some more convenient time.

  Urna slowly blinked his way back to sensibility. He felt a consuming shame at his own lack of will. He wouldn’t have guessed that anything in this world had such a powerful hold on him. Not even Rune.

  “Goddamn dope,” he muttered, not sure if he was cursing the drugs or himself.

  Everything was at a sharp angle. The ditch he’d driven into was a lot deeper than he had thought. The car’s engine had died. Working the controls, he started it humming anew, but the wheels, no matter how hard he revved the electric motor, wouldn’t grab. Frustrated, he wrenched open the hatch and stepped out.

  The night was still, the sky swept with stars. No sign of dawn or even first light yet, but the new day couldn’t be far away. He felt the velvet weight of loneliness.

  Here he was, on foot, on some half forgotten road that led—well, he didn’t know where it went. To some lesser town of the Safe, no doubt. He had passed a few old barns on the way, the structures in disrepair. This whole area seemed unpopulated to him. Maybe the land had been overworked and no longer produced crops. Maybe the Lux, for whatever arcane reasons, had decided that this small region should be evacuated. There was no way to fully know the plans of the Lux unless you were Lux, and even they didn’t know everything. Only the Toplux knew all the secrets, all the schemes and machinations. Only Aphael Chav.

  Too bad Urna couldn’t nab the old son of a bitch, lock him in a room and make him spill all those secrets. Perhaps not all of them. Just those that pertained to the Weapon himself. And to the Weapon’s Shadowflash, Rune. Whatever the mystery was that surrounded him, it involved Rune as well, Urna was certain of that.

  There was nothing he could do about the vehicle. Just leave it, he decided. This road didn’t look like it got much, if any, traffic. But the Guard would be out searching for him and eventually they would discover the car. He had to get away from here.

  Gathering himself, he set off down the road. His steps crunched quietly on the rough surface. He wondered how long it would be before the drug craving returned. His system, he knew, must be all out of whack. He’d done that to himself by withholding his nightly dose, thinking he could sensibly ration those pills.

  Well, that plan had gone to shit. And now he had no stash from which to draw. He was on his own, dangling over an abyss of impending narcotic need. He had to find some more. A substitute, at least. He didn’t figure the designer drugs they’d been giving him in the Shadowflash/Weapon division all these years would be available to the general population of the Sa
fe. Still, he knew he would be needing something, and needing it soon.

  Alone, a Weapon bereft of his Shadowflash, Urna walked the road.

  Chapter Seven

  Virge Temple quirked an eyebrow at Bongo and said, “You can’t mean that.”

  “But I do.”

  They were downstairs. Virge was dressed and about to don her coat for the walk to the lab. Last night had faded to a blunt but pleasant memory—one more good fuck she’d enjoyed with this male. Nothing extraordinary about sharing her bed with him, except perhaps that it wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last, no matter how good an idea it would be to cut him out of her life for good. They’d shared a weak pot of tea this morning. It was about an hour and a half after sunrise and she wanted to get to work. Yesterday had been a total waste as far as accomplishing anything at the laboratory.

  “You want to walk me to my lab?” she asked, hoping her tone sounded as skeptical as she meant it to. Her head, even after the tea, remained a trifle fuzzy. All in all, she’d had a lot to drink yesterday.

  “Actually, what I said was, I insist you let me walk you there.” Bongo was buttoning up his own coat. The night’s chill had seeped into the small house and the streets this early were liable to be rather chilly.

  “That’s what I thought I heard. Insist.” Virge regarded him with a flat stare. “You want to recant that term?”

  “For something more apologetic?” Bongo shrugged. “Fine. I fervently desire to accompany you to your place of employment this morning. Is that better?”

  “A bit flouncy but fine. Still, why?” It wasn’t like he’d ever made this offer before on mornings after the nights he had spent here. “You think I don’t know the way? Or are we going to hold hands and make gooey eyes at each other on the way there, like we were teenagers?”