Danix’s roar was lost in the sudden rush as housekeepers added their own yells and stomped toward Cin and Mach.
She heard a familiar whizzing sound and barely had time to register that her poor knives were in bad shape, their luster dimmed, their beauty dented, before they began slashing at the enemy.
Mach roared his battle cry and thumped his chest, and then she lost him in the crush of huge bodies. She was too busy trying to save her own ass to help him as two of the housekeepers broke from the crowd and came to drag her away to Danix.
Besides, Saint and Satan were evening the odds for Mach. She gripped her weapons so hard her fingers cramped, and she tore into the two housekeepers with a savagery she hadn’t really known she possessed.
She wanted to maim, to cut, to kill. She wanted them to know her fury. She felt nothing but satisfaction when one of them yelped in surprised pain as she rammed her blade into his shoulder.
But these men had been trained in the fine art of ass kicking and had been at it a hell of a lot longer than she had.
With the sounds and grunts and cries of rage and pain around her, she gave it everything she had. She might not have been trained, but she was a damn good street fighter and had the element of surprise on her side. And desperation. She was fighting for her life, and that lent her an extra edge.
One of the Mehnarthians took her sword, and she was almost glad to lose it. That freed her up to use both hands on the heavy crank, and she made them feel its bite before they wrested it from her and bore her to the hard ground.
Her hands were slick with blood, most of it not her own. She clawed and twisted and fought them, but they dragged her with unrelenting, inevitable force toward Danix.
He stood with arms crossed, his smile smug when she was dumped in the dirt before him. He nodded at his men. “Go help with Mach. I will take care of her.”
She shuddered as his cold gaze lit on her. A quick sob escaped her lips, and she silently cursed herself for giving him any hint of emotion. “Bastard. I’ll see you dead.”
He kicked out and caught her in the stomach. “You’re mine now, slave, and you will not speak to me other than to call me master.”
She fell to her knees, gasping for breath, then forced herself to climb to her feet. She would not writhe in the dirt at his feet. Would not.
She heard the battle continuing behind her but was afraid to turn and look. She had to keep her attention on Danix, lest he snatch her to him and run away before she had a chance to run away herself. Or kill him—whichever came first.
Damn the housekeepers for being so…armored. Danix didn’t look like he had a single weak spot on his big body, which was loaded down with weapons and covered with hard leather and chains.
The housekeepers had made sure she was handed to Danix with no weapons, and now she stood before him with nothing but nails and teeth and fists. She wasn’t about to call Saint and Satan away from Mach; he’d be lucky to escape with his life even with their help. Without them, he would die.
But with his men concentrating on Mach, that left Danix in something of a vulnerable position. Even if she was without weapons.
She’d simply have to be creative.
To force him farther from his men, she waited for the second his gaze was turned toward the fight, and then she ran.
She’d known he’d follow her, and with a roar, he started after her. His roar was loud, and full of something that wasn’t quite fury. Or maybe it was fury, but it was an eager, thrilled fury.
Danix, after all, liked his victims to fight, to run, to scream. He wanted resistance, to be able to break his quarry. She knew what he liked.
That was his weakness.
So she left Mach, Saint, and Satan to fight the Mehnarthians, and she took on the leader.
She led him deeper and deeper into the woods, her skin crawling at the imagined feel of his hot breath on her neck. Knowing he was enjoying the chase and what he would do to her once he caught her added fuel to the fire of her fear, and her feet skimmed the ground as though wings had been glued to her heels.
Splinters of pain shot through her calves and feet when she landed on large, bruising rocks and thick sticks, but she waited until sounds from Mach’s battle dimmed and then faded before she made her move.
She wanted to think she had a plan, but truly, all she had was a desperate will to live and live free.
The ground was littered with sharp sticks, and that was as far as her plan went. She dived for the leaf-covered forest floor, and as Danix slowed and then advanced on her prone body, she hunted frantically for the sharpest sticks she could find.
“What will you do now, my little bird? Will you beg while I strip you and make you weep with fear? Will you beg me to be gentle? Will you promise to be my good little slave?” And slowly, he began to unbuckle the belt at his waist.
She scooted back against a solid tree trunk, her breath coming hard, her heartbeat weak, thready, fast. One of the sticks she held had broken, and its tip was sharp enough to draw blood if she could make contact. The other was less sharp but solid.
It was the best she could do. She’d have to make it work, or he would have her. Her stomach rolled and nausea threatened, looming like a dreaded storm cloud on the horizon. She forced it back and prayed silently for strength.
“Or will you beat at my chest with those tiny fists and curse me as I part your legs and force your tight cunt to accept me?” He pulled the belt from its loops and tossed it to the ground. His cold smile never left his face. “I rather like the second option better. Fight me, little human. Fight me hard.”
Sawdust coated her throat, and she could not swallow past it. She delved deep within in search of her rage, but it danced teasingly just out of her grasp. It would come when it was damn good and ready. In the meantime, she had only her fear to help her.
She forced herself to sit tight, to be patient, to refuse to allow her courage to abandon her. The rough bark of the tree dug into her skin through the thinness of her shirt, and she tightened her grip on her sticks. Sweat ran in rivulets down her face, itching and bothersome, but she did not raise a hand to wipe it away. The birds continued to sing beautifully like nothing at all was wrong on Ripindal.
“You’re a dead man,” she whispered, her words too soft for him to hear.
With a practiced quickness, he rid himself of his bulky belts and chains and holsters, kicking them behind him so she’d have to go through him to get to them.
She couldn’t believe how stupid he was. He was underestimating her. Good for her, but for him, not so much. She would grab with both hands every edge he gave her.
He didn’t bother taking off his boots or his clothes. He pushed his pants down around his ankles and stared at her, as if waiting for her to admire his enormous erection.
She gagged.
He narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his hips. He was like a mountain staring down at her, and for an instant, doubt crept in, and she knew, just knew, she was going to die there, die beneath the huge, cruel Mehnarthian.
“You’re an ugly, disgusting piece of shit.” She wanted to giggle in horror at herself for provoking him. She’d always been a little crazy.
Her words seemed to infuriate him. Maybe it was the fact that she was not begging, or running, or scratching and clawing. She just sat there against the tree with her loaded fists beneath her thighs, waiting, waiting.
He thumped his chest. That odd Mehnarthian trait he shared with Mach relaxed her the tiniest bit, oddly enough, for she was reminded that Mach was not far, fighting his own life-or-death battle, and that she was not really alone.
Someone on this godforsaken moon cared about her. Cared about what happened to her, and that made her feel good.
She slid down until she was lying flat on her back, her hands hidden. Not that he’d care about a couple of sharp sticks. But she needed the element of surprise if she had any hope of staking him like he was a vampire, and she was a slayer.
“We
ll, come on then, housekeeper. Let’s get this over with.”
“You can pretend you are not afraid, little girl. But I smell your fear. It coats my tongue like pudding.” He started forward, his steps hard and heavy. “And I do crave the taste of it.”
It was time.
In the next few minutes, she’d either kill him, or she would die.
Chapter Nineteen
He fell upon her like a wild animal upon a hunk of meat, his anger such that he needed to hurt her, to make her cry, and show him he was who he thought he was.
She knew this, but couldn’t force herself to act the part even though it might have helped her. She was too focused on the sticks in her hand, too worried about where to stab him, terrified of only hurting him and making things worse.
She didn’t really fear death; she feared the agony this man could inflict upon her before he allowed death to come claim her.
His body was heavy, too heavy for her small frame despite the fact that he’d at least rid himself of his heavy weapons and straps and belts. He ground himself against her, leaving marks, she was sure, that would last for weeks. But right now, she barely felt them.
White noise descended upon her mind with the cold snow of some ancient reflex and animal instinct. She stilled, pushing away the sound of his loud breath, his cruel smile, his hugeness.
He was flesh and bone, and she could destroy him.
She didn’t know what she was going to do until she did it. Her instincts took over, and she let them.
He lowered his head and pushed his mouth into the side of her throat, his teeth drawing blood. His hands were busy squeezing and pinching. He shifted and fondled hard a breast through the thin fabric of her shirt, then rammed his hand between her thighs, growling and groaning against her throat.
But she shut that out. She focused on what she needed to do, and with sheer desperate terror lending her strength, she raised the dullest of the sticks and rammed it with all her power into the back of his neck.
His reaction was fast, so fast, but she was ready. He roared and bucked off her, his hand reaching for the pain in the back of his neck. His eyes widened in shock, and she struck again.
She went for his vulnerable throat, screaming as she speared her sharp stake into that wide expanse of soft tissue. Still, he didn’t die.
There was no time to think. She scrambled away from him and fell upon half his weaponry and grabbed the first thing her fingers touched; a deadly crank.
She went at him, part of her realizing she was still screaming.
He rose jerkily to his knees, his arm raised to deflect her blow. The crank slid through his forearm like a knife through butter, and as he stared at his severed arm in stunned disbelief, she finished him.
She left the crank buried in his forehead where she’d planted it for the killing blow and stumbled away sobbing and panting. She fell to her knees and vomited, then dry heaved for what seemed like hours.
She shuddered and shook with cold, although the air was warm. She couldn’t think clearly, her mind was a buzzing entity that had left her, and her body weakened and turned against her. All she could do was fall into the dead, rotting vegetation lining the forest floor and cry.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before the emotion weakened and left her calm and empty, but at last, she climbed to her feet and forcibly pulled herself together.
“You’re a bad-ass bitch,” she told herself, “not some slobbering sissy. Get a grip, for God’s sake!” The talk didn’t do her a whole lot of good, but she’d always been one to fake it until she could make it.
She strode to the fallen housekeeper and stared down at him. She would look at him until his gruesome death no longer made her want to crawl inside a hole and hide away forever.
Finally, she remembered Mach and his battle, and that was the thing that got her moving. She snatched up some of Danix’s weapons and on still-shaky legs she sprinted back to him. He had to be alive.
Had to be.
He was. She saw him running through the woods, his huge, bloody body half running, half limping toward her.
“Mach,” she screamed and knew she would never forget the look on his face the instant he saw her.
He skidded to an immediate stop and let his weapons fall to the ground, his face showing the shock and pain of a barely won battle. He opened his arms.
Laughing, giddy with relief, she dropped her weapons and flew into his arms. He lifted her against his chest and held her so tightly she could barely breathe, and she didn’t mind a bit.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and slammed her mouth against his, her lips desperate to taste him, to taste the life within him.
“You’re okay,” she whispered, when at last she could drag her mouth from his. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”
He stared into her eyes, smiling, the lines on his face deep, his eyes tired. “Yes.” He slid her down his body, gently, then began looking her over, his fingers probing, questioning. “You all right?”
“I killed him, Mach. I killed Danix.”
He nodded. “I know.”
Surprised, she stared at him. “How?”
“Because you live.”
That made sense. “I was lucky.”
“No, Cin. You are a warrior.” And he thumped his chest.
She laughed, long and loud, the sound lighting the mountain with joy. She thumped her chest, grimaced, then thumped it again. “Damn right.”
Then she remembered. “Mach! Where are Saint and Satan?”
He grinned and pointed his chin to something behind her. “Look.”
She turned, already smiling, and there they were, zigzagging through the air like a couple of playful kids. “Saint! Satan! Come…”
They flew into her hands, buzzing with excitement, or so it seemed to her. She lifted them to her mouth, allowing only one sob to escape onto their not-so-pristine hilts as she kissed them. She closed her eyes in a long moment of thankfulness, then walked back to camp with Mach to put them to bed.
She had her knives, her Mach, and her life.
Now she could finish her task of gathering shrube to buy her way into paradise and once more have her Elder.
Then almost all would be right with her world.
They gathered up their packs and goods and left camp. They simply left the horror behind as well as they could but would never forget about it. She half wondered if retribution would descend upon them for the deaths of the housekeepers or whether the Gamlogi would simply send in more when they realized the first group had died.
And what of the housekeepers who hadn’t followed Danix this night? Would they seek retribution or escape into the wilds of Ripindal, happy with their newfound freedom?
That was worry for another time. Right now it hardly mattered. Hand in hand, they walked as far away from the fallen housekeepers as they could, before vultures and the hungry were drawn to the scent of fresh blood. They needed no more fights tonight.
Mach put together a makeshift camp miles from the battle they had fought, and they slept for only a couple of hours before he roused her and got them moving again. Upward, ever upward.
When they made camp for the night, she wasn’t sure she could manage more than to fall upon the ground in an exhausted heap, but Mach began gathering firewood, humming tunelessly beneath his breath, and she guiltily pushed her tiredness away and went to help him.
She could barely wait for the chores to be finished and dinner to be over so she could lie in his arms and love him.
That was her paradise.
Chapter Twenty
He insisted they would bed down in a rather shallow hollow carved into the side of the hill. “Storms will come.”
She had no reason not to believe him, although the scent of rain was not in the air. She got none of the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach that usually preceded a storm, not until later.
Much later, when she smelled rain in the air and her stomach tightened with reactio
n to the predicted storm, she looked at him in amazement. His senses were amazingly strong.
She was almost too tired to eat the supper he’d prepared, and had to be bullied into going to the stream to wash.
“I’m tired,” she told him.
He wrinkled his nose. “You smell of…” Then as if unable to find the right word for her stench, he pretended to pinch his nostrils closed while he held his stomach in agony.
Coolly, she lifted an eyebrow, not amused. But she didn’t hesitate to haul ass down to the water to clean her stinky self up.
She stripped quickly, wanting to get back to camp before the rains came and worse, the freaky lightning of Ripindal.
Still, she shot glances at Mach as he stood waist-deep in the stream and scrubbed, unable to help herself. He was something to look at, the huge warrior, with his bunching muscles, his long hair, his fierce eyes.
He’d taken down half of Danix’s men with only the help of Saint and Satan, and at the thought, a thrill of pride shot through her. Perhaps he was as proud of her. She lifted her chin and smiled. He should be.
Her hands slowed on her body as she watched him busily cleaning himself, and she was a little pissed that he didn’t even seem to be watching her or caring that she was standing a few feet from him naked, wet, and willing.
Sudsy and clean, he sank beneath the cool water, rinsing away the soap. He was nearly finished and would be striding back to camp before she had managed to climb out onto the bank.
Quickly, she finished washing as he exploded from the water, shaking himself like a wet dog. He left the water without once glancing her way.
Frowning, she immersed herself in the water to rinse, and when she arose from the water and looked for him, she found him standing on the bank with his clothes and hers in hand, waiting for her.
“Come, Cin.”
“You’re so damn bossy.” But she climbed from the water with embarrassing eagerness. Heat stung her face as he watched her walk toward him. She felt his gaze like it physically touched her, and despite her desire, she had to force herself not to hide behind her hands.
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