He held out a hand, and without thinking Cynthia took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
All she could think was about how fast the trip had been, even as he led her down a familiar corridor. They were heading back to the airlock she had stumbled through when fleeing the jackals.
It was time. Cynthia was about to see another world.
CHAPTER FOUR
She had no idea how she managed to walk without assistance. Rushael was still holding her hand. That probably had something to do with it – whether Cynthia liked to admit it or not, she drew strength from the archon’s touch, and if that wasn’t the most childish thing ever –
They reached the entrance to his ship, and he smiled at her. Cynthia smiled back, and he nodded and the smile vanished. A moment later, he dropped her hand and pointed at the floor behind him.
She didn’t move, and his brows furrowed.
“You are my trophy, Cynthia Withers,” he rumbled. “You must stand behind me. And do exactly as I say.”
Cynthia opened her mouth to protest, and he lifted a hand to pinch his nose.
“Please, Cynthia. This is important.”
She closed her mouth and nodded. Okay. She could do this for him. As a favour.
She fell in behind him, and he waved the entrance open.
Rusneon was bright, and hot. The heat and the light hit Cynthia with all the power of gravity, and she found herself falling back a step as she dealt with the weight of it. She looked up and squinted at the bright, washed-out sky.
There were two suns up there, one huge – roughly twice the size of the sun back on Earth – and one smaller, but still large.
Cynthia let out a shaky laugh. Back on Earth. Like all this was normal somehow.
Rushael was waiting for her, an impatient frown upon his face. Cynthia drew in a deep breath, and had to fight not to cough as hot, humid air entered her lungs. She hurried to catch up, and only barely remembered to fall in behind him. He turned away from her, and she felt a cold sting as she saw his jaw clench. She wasn’t doing so well, so far.
A moment later, she felt annoyed. Why did she care so much about pleasing him? It wasn’t like he wanted her as anything more than a trophy.
And that thought brought up a roiling welter of emotions and ideas too complex for her to easily navigate – not right now, not when she was overwhelmed with bright heat and the very idea of being on another planet.
So she distracted herself by looking around at the world of Rusneon – or, at least, the part of the world immediately around her. Cynthia turned slowly, careful to keep pace just a few steps behind Rushael as she walked.
It looked like they were in the middle of a city. The ship – a smooth, egg-shaped oval sitting on its end – was fitted neatly into one of a dozen holes in the middle of a white stone field. It was probably stone, Cynthia thought. It certainly felt like stone under her bare feet, anyway: hot but not painful, smooth and polished.
Tall buildings rose up all around them, all white stone and tinted glass. At least, Cynthia assumed it was glass; it certainly looked like it. How could she know what anything was on this planet?
There were roads weaving between the buildings above and below. One of the roads looped past the white stone field Cynthia and Rushael were walking across, and dozens of smaller egg-shaped vehicles zipped back and forth in a continuous stream.
There were people inside each of those eggs, Cynthia realised. Rusneans – not humans.
“How many people are on this planet?” she asked. How many families? How many husbands and wives – is that even a concept here?
Those were questions she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t bring the words forth.
Rushael delayed his answer for a few moments, and Cynthia started to wonder if she had spoken out of turn. Was she supposed to just remain meek and silent?
“Twenty million, or thereabouts,” Rushael said, and Cynthia felt a flood of relief pour through her. So they were allowed to talk to each other, then.
“That’s … not very many,” she said. Wasn’t that the population of Mexico City? There were more people in a single city on Earth than there were on this entire planet?
Rushael looked over his shoulder at Cynthia. “We have space travel. We see no need to cram ourselves shoulder-to-shoulder on a single planet.”
Cynthia felt a flush of heat brush her cheeks, hotter than the air around her. There was scorn in those words, a condescending sneer of declension that made her feel even smaller than she actually was – by comparison to Rushael, at least.
They were approaching a building. Nothing about it marked it as distinct from any of the other buildings that surrounded the stone field – the space-dock, Cynthia decided to call it – but Rushael approached it with the absolute confidence of a man walking through his own living room.
Rushael slowed, and Cynthia slowed along with him. He drew in a deep breath, and then fell back beside her. She looked up at him, and felt something flutter in her chest when she saw the tension across his brow.
He was worried. Nervous, even.
She wanted to reach out and touch his hand – she almost did – but then she pulled her fingers back at the last moment. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to that.
But he saw the start of the gesture all the same, and he offered her a thin smile.
“We are about to present ourselves to the Perataik,” he said. He frowned, and hesitated. “That word … doesn’t translate very well. Parliament. War Council. High Command?”
The frown deepened, and he shook his head. “None of those words quite fit. They are the leaders of this world – my world. They – we – maintain control through weapons.”
He clenched his jaw. “They have the right to judge whether my trophies are suitable.”
Cynthia didn’t understand much of what Rushael was saying. But she could see he was distressed, even as he tried to hide it. She hesitated, and then reached out and touched the back of his hand.
His face softened, briefly, and she felt an electric shock run through her body. Feeling his skin under her fingertips reminded her of when he had tended to the injury on her thigh –
And this really wasn’t the right time to be thinking or feeling like that, she thought. She pushed the lust down and offered him a smile. She searched for some reassuring words, struggled to find something appropriate to say, and realised that she didn’t even really know what was going on.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” she said. It was better than nothing, and even those words seemed to have a positive effect. Rushael nodded and smiled at her, and for a brief moment managed to look much younger and more vulnerable than he ever had before.
Cynthia found herself quashing the wet electric heat within her body yet again. Inappropriate.
“Let us proceed, then,” Rushael said, and he turned and strode toward the building. Cynthia fell in behind him, her mind roiling with all manner of thoughts and images as she let her gaze wander over the tall, muscular alien’s shoulders and down his back.
That fabric really was form-fitting, she thought.
And she was wearing exactly the same fabric. Just how much was she showing off right now?
She pushed the thought out of her mind and concentrated on the building in front of them.
There were no doors visible until they were less than a few metres away, at which point a panel appeared and slid seamlessly out of sight. Rushael didn’t miss a step, and led Cynthia through into the interior.
They were met with a hostile barricade.
A dozen men, tall and scowling with their arms folded across their chests, each with half a dozen women standing behind them, hands clasped and eyes cast demurely floorward.
Rushael stopped in front of them and raised both his hands in salute.
“Elaba, Perataik-narun,” he said, and bowed his head. It was quite clearly the start of a ceremony, and Cynthia hurried to imitate the body-language of the other women present. Was that the
right thing to do? Or was she supposed to do something else? Rushael hadn’t told her a thing–
He was still speaking. Cynthia risked a glance upward without raising her head. Rushael’s head was still bowed, and the other men were still standing with their arms folded across their chests and scowls cutting across their faces. They were letting him speak, but they were not happy about it.
One of them glanced at her, and a cold shock ran through her body. She dropped her gaze, afraid to even show that she’d been looking up. There was a naked honesty in that gaze – anger, and contempt, possibly even disgust.
They weren’t happy about her.
Rushael finished speaking, and raised his head. Cynthia could see him out of the corner of her eyes, hands still clasped in front of his face as he waited for the – what did he call them? The Para-take? – to respond.
The one that had seared Cynthia with the gaze of withering scorn stepped forward and dropped his arms to his sides. The women behind him did not move; nor did any of the other men or women in the room. Even Rushael remained very, very still.
And of course, at that very moment Cynthia’s nose began to itch.
She dipped her head lower and wriggled it back and forth, hoping that would be sufficient. It wasn’t, of course, but she would not – could not – do anything else. She had a feeling making a movement out of turn right now would be the worst mistake of her life.
No one had spoken for awhile now. The room was completely silent, completely frozen. Cynthia risked a glance up at Rushael. He was still standing with his hands clasped in front of his face, but as she watched he lowered them to his sides.
“Zai-archon Verek,” Rushael said, and Cynthia was surprised to hear his voice take on a soft, almost deferential tone.
“Rushael,” Verek said, and there was such poison and spite in his voice that Cynthia took a step back out of reflex. Every eye in the room snapped toward her, and she couldn’t help but feel the disgust and contempt in their gaze.
What was she doing here? Why had she just allowed Rushael to lead her into this room? These people hated her!
And then Verek turned his eyes on her, and all the scorn and contempt she had just experienced suddenly seemed like a friendly shrug from a stranger. This man embodied disgust – at least so far as his attitude toward her was concerned. It was so overwhelming that it was almost a tangible force, and the pressure of it left Cynthia trembling.
“You bring this – this vilkriek into the oma-perataik?”
Cynthia didn’t need that word translated. It was so clearly a vile insult that the syllables hung in the air like poison – and Rushael’s response only underlined that: he clenched his fists and drew in a sharp breath.
Verek raised his chin, and for a moment Cynthia could have sworn he smiled. Then Rushael let out his breath and unclenched his fists.
“Under the rules of acquisition, which all archons must adhere to, I am required to present any trophy I claim as my own to the Perataik,” Rushael said. There was a sonorous quality to his words, and Cynthia realised he was reciting them. It was part of a ritual – and judging by the reactions of the other men (more archons?) he had somehow just gained the upper hand on Verek.
Was it because the zai-archon was ignoring ritual?
Verek sneered.
“It’s a human, Rushael. Why would you claim a hairless ape as a trophy?”
The other archons laughed, and Cynthia felt the sting of humiliation on her cheeks. She hadn’t asked to be treated like this –
And then she saw Rushael’s reaction.
He clenched his jaw again, but also glanced sideways at her. There was something in that gaze – something completely different from the way everyone else looked at her – and she thought she knew what it was.
Was she more than just a trophy to him?
There was no way of knowing, and he certainly wasn’t giving anything more away. He turned his attention back to Verek and raised his chin.
“I can claim anything as a trophy. I could claim a rock, if I so chose.”
There was a veiled insult in there, Cynthia thought, and from the way Verek narrowed his eyes it certainly seemed to have struck home. A smile touched the corner of Cynthia’s mouth, and despite herself she felt pride at Rushael’s victory over this arrogant, spiteful man.
He saw it.
Verek saw her smile, and that was probably what made him do what he did next.
“Vilkriek-mo lash!” he shouted, and the other archons stepped forward with murder in their eyes. Rushael glanced at her with a frown on his face, then stepped forward as well.
Between Cynthia and the other archons.
He held out a hand.
“What is this?” he demanded. “What do you hope to achieve?”
Verek was actually smiling. His eyes were empty of emotion, but his lips were curled and he was clearly enjoying himself.
“No human is worthy of ever becoming a Rusnean’s trophy,” Verek said. “You know this, Rushael. You know they are primitive, crude, over-sexed –”
Cynthia blushed, and the reaction did not go unnoticed.
“Over-emotional, and weak. They are not fit for us.”
Rushael began to bluster, but Verek held up a hand.
“That thing –” he gestured at Cynthia – “is not fit to be your trophy. She is not fit to stand on Rusneon.”
Verek looked around at the other archons, and the smile on his face grew. When he returned his attention to Rushael, the expression was undeniable.
The zai-archon was gloating.
“The Perataik cannot allow this to continue,” he said.
Rushael went to interrupt, but Verek spoke over him. He was relishing this situation, savouring the words that he was about to say like fine cuisine. He rolled them around his mouth, then let them fall out to poison the air with tiny, jagged stabs of pride and hatred.
“She must die.”
What??
Rushael turned his face toward Cynthia, and she felt the world drop away beneath her feet. The expression on his face matched the feelings churning through her body. She felt like she’d just been hollowed out – there was nothing there but a howling void, screaming in her ears and leaving her shocked and unable to move. Verek was still speaking, but she could barely hear his words. He repeated himself, and the meaning finally bled through into her mind. And, somehow, it was even worse.
“She must die, and you must kill her by your own hand.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was a joke. It had to be a joke. Cynthia kept repeating that to herself over and over as Rushael led her up a winding staircase.
“It will be painless, I can promise you that much,” Rushael said. He refused to look at her, refused to even slow for her when she began to struggle with the stairs. He obviously meant the words to be comforting, but their content was so cold that Cynthia couldn’t help but shiver at them.
“It is a kindness for them to let me do it this way,” he continued. There was the whip crack of anger in his voice, and Cynthia wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or someone else. It only compounded her misery either way.
He stopped, and she nearly walked into his back. She drew back at the last moment, and he turned and looked at her.
“We’re here,” he said.
They were standing in front of a blank wall – another one of the hidden doors, Cynthia presumed.
She desperately wanted that door to stay closed. Even as Rushael raised his hand to make the now all-too-familiar gesture, she prayed for him to stop. Change your mind, she thought. You don’t really want to do this.
He waved his hand once, and the door slid open. He stood to one side, and Cynthia realised she was supposed to go in first.
Her feet didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to move. Maybe she could turn and run and –
And then what? Fight her way back to the ship? She didn’t have any weapons – she didn’t know how to fight – she was doomed.
&nb
sp; This was her fate now.
She raised her chin and refused to look Rushael in the eyes. At the very least, she could go out with some dignity.
The door slid shut behind them, and Cynthia found herself in a small, circular chamber. There was a raised dais in the middle of the room, and above it was a matching shape descending from the ceiling. Another shape rose from the floor opposite the door, on the other side of the dais. It was about waist height, and its surface was angled away from the dais.
Aside from that, the room was utterly empty.
“They are watching,” Rushael said from behind her. “Please stand in the circle.”
Cynthia refused to look at him. Her blood was ice, even as it surged through her veins. She took a breath, and hated herself for letting it shiver.
She stepped up on the dais.
To her despair, Rushael moved around to the only other shape in the room – the waist-high table. It was a computer, she realised, and it controlled this execution device.
He looked up at her. She tried to look away, but it was too late. Their eyes locked, and a flash of heat ran through the ice in her veins.
She’d assumed his expression would be cold and distant – that he would look at her the same way she’d look at a bag of rubbish being dumped in the trash. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. His eyes wavered with an ocean of emotion, and she wanted to reach out to him and touch the side of his face just to reassure him.
And then she remembered what he was about to do.
Her control snapped.
“You don’t have to do this!” Cynthia cried. “Please! Rushael, listen to me –”
But he pulled his attention away from her and back to the computer. He talked over her, drowning out her voice with his bass rumble.
“This machine is used to teleport non-organic goods across the city,” he said. “It renders them down to their component parts and then reassembles them elsewhere.”
He hesitated, then looked up at her one last time.
“It will be painless. I promise you that.”
Alien Romance: Rusneon Mates Boxed Set: A Scifi Alien Abduction Romance (Alien Romance, Alien Invasion Romance, BBW) Page 18
