Devoured Innocence

by Michelle Marquis

  Though loathe to admit it, he kind of missed Gavin. When Desmond didn’t want to bludgeon him with a rock, he was usually good to have around when things went to crap. There is just no middle ground with that fucker. Either you like him or you hate him, the verdict usually decided within the span of a few minutes of meeting him.

  The old bastard had survived tons of near death experiences, but could he survive this? Desmond didn’t know. Everyone ran out of luck at some point. He thought about his old, now deceased friend Commander Typhon. When Desmond wasn’t in exile, Typhon had made life in the military under his father tolerable for Desmond, even enjoyable. Because of their often volatile relationship, Gavin knew that Desmond needed to be placed under the command of someone other than himself. And Desmond thanked the gods often for it. If his father had forced him to serve directly under him he would have probably quit the army long ago.

  Desmond liked this new incarnation of his father but he deeply regretted things had turned out this way. Most of his life he couldn’t have given a shit if someone killed Gavin or not; the merciless bastard was long overdue. Then, a year or so after Gavin had recalled him from Loss to help train Gypsy, Desmond’s feelings changed. He fought it at first, but then some of his rage toward Gavin just dissipated. For the first time everything his father said to him didn’t piss him off. As a result, Desmond spent a lot less energy trying to avoid him. It took years for him to believe that his father was better, and although Gavin had by no means transformed completely, he was definitely an improvement over the old Gavin.

  Which brought Desmond’s thoughts to his mysterious Uncle Dragon. Could that half-baked lunatic really bring Gavin back? If he could, would Gavin be different somehow? Desmond didn’t have any real animosity toward his uncle. But Desmond sure as hell couldn’t fully trust him. He was a Theron, and that alone bred suspicion.

  Thankfully, Dragon had opted to camp a little ways away from the outpost so he could experiment with his new talents. The thought of Dragon being too close while everyone was asleep spooked both him and Krull. It wasn’t really Dragon himself that was of concern. It was that no one really knew how much control he had over his powers...not even Dragon himself. Everything else aside, Desmond appreciated and understood Dragon’s need for solitude. Some things you just need to work out on your own.

  Tilting the chair on its rear legs, he lazily leaned back until it bumped against the building’s wall. A tense boredom set in as he dug around the inside pocket of his jacket. Desmond pulled out a cigar and was just about to light up when he heard something. He inclined his head at the muffled sound. It was strange, softly grinding, like fabric dragging across sand. His sense of smell was suddenly assaulted by an oily odor with a hint of soggy clay. It was damp and pungent like a rotting carcass partially submerged in a swamp. The scent rubbed along the edges of his memory as he tried to identify it. The gamey outlines of the aroma told him this was a predator.

  He leaned forward and the chair dropped down on all four legs and listened for a few moments. The sound had stilled. He stood and scanned the forest floor looking for any sign of movement in the darkness. Stuffing the cigar into his boot, he turned toward the outpost door. Since it was in ruins, there was no way to secure the entry. For safety, they had all agreed on no lights or fire, but this was different.

  Desmond decided the situation was worth the risk and detached his micro-torch from his belt. Shining the light briefly on the ground he caught sight of a long, wavy track in the dust that crossed over the threshold into the waiting room.

  Just fucking great! Why can’t I have just one uneventful evening?

  Cautiously, he moved around the broken door, stopping in the doorway to listen. There was the sound of undulating movement against the wood floor, then silence. Muted moonlight poured in through the dirty glass windows. Through the partial darkness, Desmond could see the second door leading to the exam room was closed. Unless this thing could open and close doors it was still in here.

  Desmond gripped the handle and slowly slid his sword from its scabbard, trying to keep the scraping noise to a minimum. He took a single step inside the front room and debated doing a quick flash of his torch. If he did, not only would he lose the element of surprise, but it would be a beacon for the predator to find him. Scales rubbed against the floor only a few feet away. I need to see what I’m fighting or I’m going to end up as this thing’s dinner. Depressing the shiny, black button on the micro-torch, he lit up the room for a few seconds. Fortunately, that was enough.

  The intruder was a Nacotta D’Forma, a limbless, three headed, venomous beast, very reclusive but deadly when hungry or scared. Right now she’s probably both. Desmond had once had a sucky experience with one of these things while on campaign.

  Desmond and what was left of his squad had caught and killed one to sustain them until they could rejoin their unit. After spending hours digging the slimy vermin out of a muddy burrow they had initially thought to eat it raw. But the creature’s smell was so repulsive, no one would take the first bite. So he and the other men decided if they cooked it with some local spice plants it would make a decent meal. Surprisingly it didn’t taste half bad and they ended up finishing it. Unfortunately the lot of them paid dearly for that dinner a few hours later.

  Desmond had never thrown up so much in his life. And he was one of the lucky ones. Many of the other men were much sicker than he. If they hadn’t been found by scouts that night, everyone would have probably ended up dead. It took the better of a week for the illness to pass.

  After that incident, Desmond added the creature to the do not molest or eat list in their military protocols. Naturally, Gavin balked saying Desmond was being overly cautious. After all, Gavin pointed out, AEssyrian’s were no strangers to eating poisonous species. So to placate his father, Desmond offered to catch and cook some Nacotta for Gavin to sample. But after hearing the tales of torment from the other soldiers in the squad, his father had dropped the subject and didn’t bring it up again. Nothing would’ve made me happier than to have that asshole bent over puking and shitting his fucking guts out.

  Desmond knew what the damned thing wanted. It smelled his son and was hoping to snatch a fast meal. These creatures had a reputation in rural communities for stealing and devouring those who were unattended and defenseless, like livestock, infants and small children. He had no doubt it would try to snatch Hazen or even Missy if it could only get close enough.

  Centuries ago, mothers would sometimes scare their children with tales of these monsters coming to abduct them from their beds when they misbehaved. But what those terrified children didn’t know was the Nacotta didn’t usually bother anything bigger than thirty pounds. It was too much trouble to try to steal and eat something that may fight back. Missy was probably just out of its desired weight range unless she was sleeping and unaware.

  The Nacotta usually ranged from sixty-five to one hundred fifty pounds. As with many species, the female was much larger and more ferocious than the male. After glimpsing this particular one, Desmond was confident it was at least ten feet long, and it had to be over a hundred pounds, and thus, most likely a female. The long golden body, patterned in horizontal copper twists, was now coiled in a corner so it couldn’t be attacked from behind. Each of its three heads was poised in a different direction as it raised itself up three feet to survey the room.

  With the element of surprise gone, Desmond reignited his microtorch and tossed it to the floor, where it illuminated the whole room. All three heads snapped toward him, all six pupils dilated under the harsh light. The triangular plates protruding down the length of its back began to secrete a dark, tarry fluid. When all three heads hissed in unison the room vibrated shaking Desmond’s already frazzled nerves. Just as he was about to engage it, the inner door opened again, causing him to glance away from the serpent. Catching a glimpse of Krull through the crack, Desmond shouted, “Close the fucking door now!”

  The door slammed shut. Then Scarlet’s
muffled voice came from behind the door. All he could hear was Scarlet’s voice rising in panic, screaming. “Krull, open the goddamned door! Desmond’s out there!”

  My wife is going to get me killed. Desmond heard Krull say something to her. He couldn’t understand what Krull was saying, but the doctor’s calm baritone soothed even him.

  This stalemate was killing him. Desmond wanted to answer Scarlet, go in and comfort her, but he needed to get rid of this thing first. Any sudden movement or loud noise could send the creature into an attack and he wasn’t convinced he’d win.

  The trio of heads lowered and the serpent darted to the opposite end of the room. At least now it was away from the exam room door. It had abandoned any hopes of a meal, trying instead to find a way out. Desmond remained still as it retreated to another corner.

  Watching the creature’s movements and body language, Desmond decided it was best to let the serpent escape. Inching sideways, Desmond positioned himself in front of the inner door, waiting for the animal to make its move. It didn’t want to fight. Maintaining his place in front of the exam room door he slowly dropped his arms and relaxed his stance. Lowering the tip of his blade to the floor, he remained still.

  The Nacotta broke her focus from him, allowing her heads to look around. Then she released a soft, short hiss—hesitating, unsure. Lowering her heads to the floor, she focused on the front entrance and quickly slithered toward the broken door.

  Just as the serpent’s heads reached the threshold it came face-to-face with Gypsy and Kharon returning from their lovemaking. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. How much worse can my luck get?

  “Holy shit!” Gypsy shouted, jumping back and bumping into her husband. The surprise encounter was enough to drive the Nacotta back inside to a corner. Only now it had chosen the corner closest to the inner door, closest to him. Smelling Gypsy and Kharon outside, the Nacotta wouldn’t attempt to exit.

  Now what? “Gypsy, you and Kharon need to back away. I think I can get this thing out of here,” Desmond said loud enough for them to hear but not too loud to startle the serpent. The Nacotta was terrified despite his efforts to be still. It remained in a corner—recoiling, raising, and lowering its heads and growling like a feline ready for a fight.

  Before the creature could gain the courage to escape, the exam room door suddenly opened and Bethara poked her head out. She took one look at the Nacotta, screamed at the top of her lungs and slammed the door shut again.

  The scream had the worst effect on the terrified beast. The creature panicked and lunged at Desmond. For such a large animal, it was incredibly fast. Desmond managed to pierce one of its heads with his sword tip before the slick, muscular body slammed him to the floor. Before he could get out from under it, a few coils enveloped his torso. Struggling to break free he realized that it had pinned his arms to his sides and had begun to constrict. Breathing became extremely difficult and he found that it was the only thing of any importance right now. Pain radiated from his neck as he felt a set of jaws clamp down. More teeth stabbed into his upper arm, but by then he didn’t much care. His head was beginning to swim as his vision blurred. Desmond knew this was how he was going to die. He tried to stay awake long enough to bring his leg up and get the hunting knife from his boot. Unfortunately he couldn’t quite reach the handle.

  Desmond heard a muffled noise and blurrily watched the inner door opened again. He couldn’t see who it was and no longer cared. All that mattered was trying to steal another breath. Each time he inhaled the Nacotta squeezed tighter. I can’t believe my end is going to come from some damned giant snake. This is almost as bad as being killed by Titan. He could still hear a lot of noise around him and he dared to hope maybe all was not lost. But soon even that last shred of hope faded into nothingness.

  Chapter 4

  The early morning suns peeked over the horizon, shining their rays through the row of circular windows atop the exterior surgical room wall. Doctor Harlan Theron had been working nonstop for over five hours. Thus far, she had adamantly refused to take a break. It was wearing on Strom’s patience, as was the doctor herself. He had met dedicated physicians in his career but none compared to this human woman.

  This was their fourth patient in a row and another challenging one. Doctor Theron set to work immediately repairing the venom sacs so quickly he barely had time to note her technique. This was one of the last surgeries of the day and it ended with her only being able to restore one of the venom sacs. Unfortunately the other valve was too mutilated to repair. Strom considered it an exceptional outcome, considering the circumstances, but it only seemed to frustrate this woman. Doctor Theron seemed ready to take on another patient but after this, Strom was calling it a day. Mentally he prepared for the argument he knew would come.

  Doctor Theron had remained silent throughout all of the surgeries, unless she needed some suction, a new scalpel blade, or sutures. Strom had been hoping to learn a few things about the Razorback venom delivery system but she was not going to oblige him. She remained defiantly mute most of the time, so Strom stood back and watched...for now.

  During the morning’s procedures Strom had noticed the condition of Doctor Theron’s hands. As she worked on this last patient he noticed the red, swollen joints of the doctor’s fingers. She would pause from time to time and open and close them presumably to loosen the joints and muscles. During these brief breaks, she would try to hide a painful grimace. Several times Strom offered, under her guidance, to take over but she curtly refused and continued working. The doctor did all in her power to downplay her affliction and deliberately pushed herself to the point where she could barely manipulate her fingers. Her condition became especially pronounced when she began to stitch up the muscles in this last patient’s neck. She managed to finish, but as Strom watched her remove her protective surgical attire, he knew she wasn’t capable of doing any more. This was it. She was done for now.

  The head nurse was updating the next patient’s chart when Strom strolled over. “That’s all for now, nurse. Doctor Theron and I will be taking an eight-hour break.”

  “I am not taking a break,” Harlan called from across the room. A technician standing behind Harlan handed her a patient chart. “Disregard that and please prep the next patient for surgery in a half hour.”

  The head nurse visibly paled and stared at Strom. He clinched his jaw and stalked over to the obstinate, human woman. He icily stared at the technician behind her who quickly averted eye contact and hurried off.

  Doctor Theron did not look up at him. He resisted the urge to grab and shake her. “May I speak to you in private?” he asked as pleasantly as he could manage. Keep your temper, he cautioned himself. No one on any planet can piss you off like a woman, particularly one of the human persuasion.

  Harlan gave him a cursory glance, then marched down the hall to the physician’s break room. Once inside, she abruptly turned to face him and folded her arms across her chest. “Say what you have to say.”

  Strom waited a full ten seconds before he spoke. He needed to stay calm and she was testing his patience. “Your fingers are stiff and swollen. You need to rest for a few hours.”

  “I don’t have the luxury of resting. Unlike you, I am a prisoner here and my first priority is to find my family. I can’t do that until I am finished.”

  “I can appreciate that, Harlan, but—”

  “Don’t call me Harlan,” she interrupted. “We are not friends.”

  Strom lifted an eyebrow at her tone but wasn’t astonished by her disdain. He encountered it often, especially from those who didn’t understand the nature of his work. Although it was true that Kirillian research cost the lives of many lesser beings, it saved countless more. He refused to apologize for that. “Very well then, Doctor Theron. Let me put it this way. You physically cannot continue and are in desperate need of a break.”

  The doctor gave him a cold, angry stare. “I appreciate your concern, but I am fine.”

  Strom worked hard t
o keep his temper under wraps. He hated for anyone to see him lose control but he couldn’t allow her to dictate this exchange. He pulled in a slow breath. “I am the lead physician here, Doctor Theron. I alone dictate when we work and when we break. Not you. You will not be permitted to operate anymore today.”

  Harlan nodded grimly. “You’re the Medical Director here?”

  “Yes, that is correct.” Her lovely green eyes darkened like a stormy sea. He liked her spirit, admired it even, although she was currently making him furious. “I am sorry this arrangement isn’t to your liking. Perhaps you should take your objections to the Razorback Queen.”

  “Does she know the grim details of your research methods?”

  “She knows what she needs to know. I responded appropriately and honestly to every inquiry made of me and my experience. And you’ll pardon me if I’m a little confused. How is this relevant to your fatigue?”

  A cruel, sardonic smile twisted her pretty blush lips. “Oh, I’m sure you told her everything.”

  Strom leaned against the wall and studied the human woman. She was clever; he’d give her that. But game time was over. It was time to regain control of this situation. “I am not trying to keep you from your family. And I think we can both agree you will be allowed to leave here much faster if we cooperate. So why don’t we compromise?”

  “I don’t need an eight-hour break.” Each word was said with slow, unnecessary emphasis. How does her husband put up with this willful nonsense?

  “Very well, then. How about if I agree to less time if you permit me to treat your swollen hands.”

  She snorted her dismissal. “That is a complete waste of time. I already know what’s wrong with my hands. It can’t be treated by you or anyone else on this planet. I can handle the discomfort. Besides, I don’t want you examining me.”

  “Alright then. Eight hours it is, then. Perhaps more if I deem it necessary.”