by Jess Granger
Soren dragged his broken body through the swaying grasses, compelled by a desperation that seemed outside of him. He squinted into the bright sunlight. Ahead, a naked, emaciated man walked away from him, strolling easily through the tall grass. Deep brown ringed spots covered his bony back, and his ragged hair shone red in the blazing sun. He seemed hazy in the heat rising off the ground, surreal. The man looked back over his shoulder toward Soren and smiled.
“Lakal?” Soren gasped in disbelief.
The image shimmered and changed as the starved slave’s body grew with strength and vigor. Clothing appeared on him, and his hair swept up into an intricate braided pattern. He nodded to Soren then turned back to his path. Rich, warm laughter echoed over the empty plain as the man sprinted away, disappearing into the waving sea of gold.
“Lakal, wait,” Soren shouted after him. It couldn’t be. His heart felt like it was about to burst from his chest. All his pain, confusion, and guilt felt like a storm within him. He must be delirious. Death was coming. He had to save Cyani. He pushed himself to his feet, and in spite of the tearing pain in his leg and blistering sun on his back, he managed to run.
Tears streamed out of his burning eyes as he jogged forward. Soren could taste the bitter blood in his parched mouth as he limped along, losing strength.
“Where are you?” he called. He no longer cared if he was sane or not. He desperately needed his friend. “I need your help. I can’t let her die.”
He crumpled into a heap on the ground. With determination born of pain, he tried to pull himself back to his feet, but he couldn’t. “I can’t let her die,” he whispered again, clenching his hands on the hot, hard ground.
A low growl rumbled through the grasses.
Soren lifted his head.
The bright amber eyes of a white lioness stared directly into his. Her tongue slowly swiped over her large jowls, displaying her deadly fangs.
Soren managed to struggle into a low crouch. The lioness’s rumbling growl rolled through her throat as she stalked closer.
Soren gathered his will and projected the light through his eyes.
He took a deep breath as the lioness collapsed in a deep sleep. He heard a rustle behind him.
“Lhiri! What did you do to her?” a strange voice demanded. He spoke Lakal’s language. Confusion stunned Soren for a moment.
Suddenly pain ripped through his scalp as he felt himself pulled up to his knees by his hair. The cool touch of sharp stone at his throat forced him to hold still.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the stranger demanded. Soren felt the push to answer, along with a forced blanket of paralyzing fear. It was not his fear. He did not fear death. It was a projected feeling. And this time it was not Lakal, but another like him. Another Makkolen. The man was another Makkolen.
“Help her, she’s dying,” Soren gasped.
“Who?” he demanded.
“At the ship.”
Pain exploded in his head as a hard blow crashed into the back of his head, and the world turned black once more.
SOREN WOKE SLOWLY. HIS HEAD SPUN, AND HE COULDN’T MAKE OUT HIS SURROUNDINGS through his blurred vision. He was someplace cool, not dark, but shaded and sheltered. He felt the heavy influence of calm in the room. Every thought came slowly, carefully into his mind. He was not alone.
“Ah, you wake,” a deep voice commented. Soren tried to make out the speaker, but could barely lift his head. “Drink this, as much as you can bear.”
He felt a hand lift his head and cool liquid spill over his parched lips. Soren drank deeply before he could fight the powerful influence enough to be suspicious. The tangy drink unfurled within him. His body began to heat from the inside out. His vision cleared, and much of the pain lifted.
Sitting beside him was a man with a broad, kind face and patient sienna eyes.
“Cyani,” Soren choked out. “What did you do to her?”
“Drink, regain your strength.” The man tipped the bowl again to force Soren to drink. “Your woman is sleeping in the hammock above you. Our animal healer is taking care of your strange dog-cat. She was badly injured. And my son is taking care of the bites on his hands, for he was also injured by your dog-cat.” The man chuckled. “She is very willful, quite difficult to influence, and my son did not approach any of you in the most compassionate manner. He apologizes. This is a place of peace. We will not harm you.”
Soren took the bowl and struggled to his knees. He couldn’t think of anything until he saw Cyani. He pulled himself up to the edge of the hammock from the soft bed of blankets and pillows on the ground beside it.
Cyani slept peacefully with her dark green hair spilling around her bare shoulders. Soren reached out and stroked her hair, then let his hand trail over a dark bruise on her jaw. She sighed, but did not stir.
A translucent sheet of cloth draped haphazardly over her creamy flesh, barely masking her nudity. His gaze swept over each smooth curve of muscle, lingering on the soft rosy shadows of her nipples.
The hair rose on the back of Soren’s neck as the hormones in his blood raged with sudden fire. He turned on the other man in the room, his instincts demanding he drive him from her.
The man stood to an imposing height as the room suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of ease and peace. Soren’s possessive instincts didn’t put up much of a fight against the influence of the telepath. The man within him didn’t want to.
“Easy,” the Makkolen murmured as if he were talking to a feral predator. “We have not harmed your woman, and I have not touched her. Lai,” he called.
A woman stepped into the small room. Tall and regal, her long copper and gold hair fell in waves of fire around her proud, spotted shoulders. She wore a gauzy dress that clung to matronly curves and left little to the imagination. Around her neck hung an intricate web of a necklace composed of tiny carved beads. A bonding necklace, Lakal had described them to him. The necklace was far more beautiful than he had imagined.
The woman assessed him slowly, then stepped in front of the man and elegantly sat on an animal skin in the center of the room. She folded her long legs underneath her and continued to watch him with knowing eyes and a cool, intrigued expression.
“This is Lai, my queen. She’s been caring for your woman. Now, I have questions for you.” The man sat on a stool next to his mate, placing his large hands on her bronzed shoulders.
“I apologize,” Soren offered. “I’m more beast than man.”
“Well then you are lucky that we are adept at taming beasts,” Lai said through a smile. “You’re in shock. Don’t apologize. You’ve done no harm. Drink. The kiltii water will help you heal quickly.”
Soren took another deep draught from the bowl as he looked around the small one-room clay hut. Soft light filtered in through a red cloth hanging before a small window. The heady aroma of afternoon sun on the dried grass roof infused the air with rich spice that surrounded him like a lingering fog.
Painted figures of men, women, and animals danced over the walls in bold patterns of black and white, while a lush, deep green vine clung to the clay. Delicate white blooms released a citrus fragrance that perfumed the sweet, clean air. One blossom remained curled tight in a neat bud. Soren breathed on his fingers then touched it. It opened in greeting.
He looked down at his hands. They were clean—even his nails had been scrubbed. His whole body felt cool and fresh, his hair damp, his wounds dressed with white cloth. He finally noticed he was naked once more, with a thin sheet twisted around his waist. He was so used to existing in a state of nudity, he hadn’t even noticed.
“Who are you?” Soren asked the man. His dark auburn hair faded to gold at the ends of long braids woven intricately into a headdress of dried grass. Fading silver brushed his temples, but his strong bare chest bore no concession to age.
“King Lirkam,” the man answered, circling his hand in a way that implied Soren should drink even more, even though his gut felt swollen with the water.
“Who are you, star flyer? And tell me how you managed to carry the soul of one of our warriors home to us.”
“Star flyer? I don’t understand.” Soren’s head was spinning. This was Makko; they had landed on Makko.
“You’re not one of the dark swarm, though you came here in their ship. You wore the clothing of a star flyer.” The king rubbed the shoulders of his queen as she reached up and covered his hand with her own. He was talking about the Garulen, the dark swarm. Star flyers must be the Union.
“I’m not a star flyer,” he tried to explain. “I was a slave, taken from my world by the dark swarm. A star flyer saved me. We escaped. We landed here.”
“Your woman is the star flyer. I see.” The king rocked back on the carved stool he perched on. “How do you speak our language?”
“Another slave, taken from here by the dark swarm, he was my friend, my brother. Lakal.”
The king nodded, but the queen looked stricken. “My son saw a spirit on the plains. He followed it and found you.”
Soren knit his brow. While he had talked much with Lakal about their homes, they rarely discussed death. It always felt too close to them. “I don’t understand.”
It was the queen who offered an explanation. “Our spirits have the ability to attach to those they love. Your friend led you here, and you carried him home. He is free now. For that we’re in your debt. What is your name, brother?”
“Soren,” he said, spreading his hands in greeting, then touching his fist to his heart, mouth, then forehead in the way of the Makkolen. His mind was reeling. How was this possible? Unless . . .
He’d continued to feel Lakal’s presence after his friend’s murder. Lakal insisted it wasn’t the end with his dying breath. What force brought Vicca to his dark prison and kept her there? Why had Cyani decided to try to land here? Had Lakal’s spirit guided all of these things?
He shook his head in wonder and disbelief as he looked up at the ceiling. The heavy weight of his guilt for Lakal’s death eased, replaced by the bittersweet longing of missing his friend. He could bear that ache.
“About your woman,” the king mentioned, changing the subject. “Her injuries were severe. You must force her to drink as much of the kiltii water as you can through the night until she wakes.”
“She’s not my woman,” Soren tried to explain, but the king waved a dismissive hand.
“I’ve had purple eyes myself,” he chuckled, leaning forward and kissing his mate on the hair. “My daughter has agreed to stay with her sister for a time so you and your woman who is not your woman may remain in this home until you are well.”
“What role will we play here then?” he asked, trying not to let his suspicion darken his voice. He knew these people had no means of contacting the Union. They were stuck here, for better or worse. Their only chance for survival rested in the hands of the king.
“We shall see.” The king stood and motioned to clothing left on a bench near the door. “These are for you. Bear them with honor and strength. You are welcome here as one of my family.” The king pushed the heavy cloth hanging over the door aside and stepped out into the burning sunlight beyond. The queen followed, leaving him alone with Cyani.
He turned to her and brushed his hand over her silky hair.
She was all he had left. He’d care for her until she was well, then they’d do what they’d always done—find a way to survive.
Gratitude mixed with his fear as he dipped a small bowl into a squat, carved vessel filled with the kiltii water. Easing down on the hammock next to Cyani, he surveyed the contents of a large wooden platter laden with roasted meat, fruit, and crumbling flat bread. The hammock swayed with his added weight, rocking them gently.
He cradled her head in the cup of his hand so he could tip water past her full lips. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus with the violet spreading through his blood. He could feel it, the bright fire. His heart raced as he tried to fight back the beast it stirred within him.
The water dribbled over Cyani’s lips as she remained limp and still.
There was nothing hard or cold about her now. He held his breath as he let his gaze wander over her body. The sheet had fallen away from one of her soft breasts. He stared, unable to stop himself. The violet rush of arousal coursed through his blood. His head throbbed with it while his muscles felt loose and tight at the same time. Great glory, his fascination consumed him. Like an addict, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Before he was taken, he had lived alone in his new garden. The only women he’d ever seen were his younger sister and his mother, and he’d never seen a woman naked.
Men were comparatively ugly. Where he was hard, she was all soft, pale skin and smooth, flowing muscle. The lines of her body reminded him of drifts of gentle snow. Never in his life had he ever seen anything more beautiful.
Hard and aching, he let his gaze slip down one long sleek leg that had pushed out from under the sheet. Her calf bore the same striking blue hue as her forearms, and the dancing vine meandered below her knee and around her ankle, just as it did with her elbows and wrists.
The sides of her leg carried slashing scars, whip burns. He had seen enough scars like them in his captivity. He traced the edge of one. Her leg twitched, and he withdrew his hand. What had she endured to become such an efficient killer? Was it ever really in her nature? With tender care, he covered her as best he could, tucking the sheet over her shoulder.
He forced himself to concentrate on the dark and ugly bruises staining the creamy skin of her shoulder and hip. He unwound a bandage from his wrist so he would have a bit of cloth to dip in the water and bathe her.
Frozen with shock, he stared at the wounds on his wrists. They’d been caked with cracked scabs. Now smooth pink scars wrapped around his wrists. As he watched, the bruises from his shackles dissipated like a dark cloud pierced by the sun.
He took another long drink of the water then ripped off the bandage on his calf. The flesh knitted together, mending the fresh wound right before his eyes. He had never seen anything like it.
She had to drink.
“Cyani,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. He could feel the heat of her naked skin through the thin sheet that barely separated his body from hers. “Cyani, wake for me.”
He drank the water then kissed her soft lips. With delicate attention, he caressed them with his teeth, his tongue. He had to make her respond to him, only enough to drink.
With his body screaming at him to cover her, enter her, sink into her until he no longer knew himself, he leashed his passion, focusing on breathing life into her instead.
“Wake,” he whispered against her lips. “Drink for me.”
She moaned.
He quickly lifted the bowl to her swollen lips and poured the water across them one more time. This time she drank.
Relief rushed through him as warming and powerful as the magical water. He forced her to drink as much as he could before releasing her and sliding off the hammock.
The tension in his body thrummed as he tried to cool off. He dipped his hands in the water and rubbed them over his face and shoulders. He shouldn’t touch her like that, no matter how right it felt. He couldn’t touch her again until she woke. He didn’t know how far he would go, and that frightened him.
Once again, he cursed the drugs in his system. At least he’d never have to bear them again. They were lost now, crushed somewhere beneath the wreckage of the ship. His only means of survival swayed in the soft hammock, asleep and unaware of how much he needed her.
9
THE AIR SMELLED DIFFERENT THAN SHE REMEMBERED.
“Cyani?” a familiar voice asked. It was him.
“Soren?” She blinked and tried to sit up, but a slicing pain lanced through her temple. With a groan she fell back. The whole room swayed. No, she swayed. She watched the thatched grass roof above her swing back and forth as she pulled herself up again. She was in a hammock? Where were they? What happened?
Soren leapt up from the corner o
f the small red-clay hut. He dropped a plank of food and scooped up Vicca.
“Vicca!” Oh, thank the glorious Matriarchs she’s alive. Cyani grasped for her scout, her relief pounding in her aching heart. A hard clay cast wrapped around Vicca’s front leg, but she was alive. How could Cyani ever make it without her? With furious energy, her fox licked her nose. Cyani buried her face in her little girl’s fur, so desperately grateful that she had survived.
“Careful of her hip,” Soren cautioned as Vicca curled up on her chest and purred so loudly, Cyani could feel the vibration of it in her toes. “We were all soundly beaten in the crash, but she’s healing fast.”
“What happened? Where are we?” She fought to remember, but the last thing she could recall was coming in hard for a landing on the wastelands of Makko. How did she end up clean, sheltered, and—oh merciful Creator, she was naked.
She clutched at the thin sheet wrapped around her bare flesh and tried to sit up in the hammock without losing her only protection from Soren’s smoldering blue violet eyes.
Soren rose slowly. She barely recognized him. The thick streaks of color in his hair gleamed in the warm light seeping through a small window. The front had been twisted and intricately braided to hold his hair from his face. No longer covered with filth, his golden skin glowed, his stripes rippling over powerful muscles beneath a woven red vest. His scabs and wounds from the shackles and bands had disappeared, leaving pale pink scars in their wake.
Her eyes followed the smooth muscles of his abdomen down to the waistline of a loose leather kilt slung low around his lean hips. It fell to just above his knees. A bandage wrapped around one strong calf, but it didn’t seem to hurt him as he pulled a stool carved into the shape of some sort of ape to the edge of the hammock. He sat next to her, placing the tray of food on his lap.
“How are you feeling?” his low voice rumbled. It sent a shiver down her spine as an uneasy tingling raced over her skin. He tenderly placed his palm on her forehead then slid it back over her hair.
