HerOutlandishStranger

by Summer Devon

  “Huy-man,” he numbly repeated to himself, “it’s true. I’m here. It’s all true.”

  The man, Edward P., was carrying his unconscious daughter into the cave. Edward, whose last name was lost in history, had slipped the woman some kind of drug, perhaps laudanum, the annals suggested. Whatever laudanum was.

  Most sources agreed that Edward had likely given her the drug because she wouldn’t leave his side, and the fighting drew close to the already near-decimated village where they lived. The only verified fact, experts had solemnly informed Jazz, was that Edward would place his drugged daughter alone in a cave in a foreign land. Then the father was lost to history, though he probably returned to their home in a small village, where he likely died.

  The female, Eliza, lived.

  Though the general net didn’t reveal many details of the next few years of her life, according to the DHU’s secret files, she would survive because of Jazz.

  Jazz considered attempting to look at the mysterious Edward P., but he’d risk too much. The man might change his mind about leaving his daughter in a cave near a spot where strange men lurked behind boulders.

  Instead Jazz lay down in a useless attempt to get comfortable. He listened to the rustling and snorting of the horse standing outside the cave less than ten yards away from him. The creature packed a powerful stench, like everything Jazz had encountered in this world.

  It seemed hours until the man backed out of the cave entrance and swung himself onto his animal. Jazz waited until the hoof beats faded, then he slid down the hillside. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do, so he wandered for a time, then slipped into the already familiar cave. “CR, medium light,” he whispered. In its eerie yellow glow, he studied the woman’s features.

  It was the woman, no question. Eliza. In person, she appeared thinner than the three later portrait paintings the CR had displayed. Could he see any resemblances to the world’s greatest leader, Madame Blanro, this woman’s descendent?

  She was much younger than the Madame of his time, of course. She lay sprawled on her back, a thick cape, similar to his own woolen monstrosity, wrapped around her. Jazz thought her pale skin was exotic but not ugly. She was so white that the long, dark eyelashes showed against her cheeks, which were pink. Good, a sign she had enough oxygen.

  Because her eyes were closed, he couldn’t see if she possessed the leader’s legendary melting brown eyes. Maybe the shape of the straight nose and full lips were somewhat like Madame’s?

  He leaned close and watched her chest slowly rise and fall. Her steady breath seemed quiet. No sign of nightmares or fits. Her lips were delicate pink too, another indication she had enough oxygen and wasn’t cold. He brushed the odd material of her clothing to make sure it wasn’t soaking wet. Damp maybe, but the thick, plush stuff was good. She wouldn’t die of hypothermia. Her pulse beat slow but strong at the base of her throat.

  He grew aware of her scent. Not bad. Not what he was used to, but the alien, rather musky odor wasn’t awful by any means. He touched the skin at the side of her throat, and without thinking, spread his palm to make contact with more of the soft warmth. His hand looked large and dark against her slender neck.

  And suddenly he became aware of something else, about himself. He backed away quickly, almost knocking his head on the low cave entrance. He’d had some wild-state symptoms over the last few months, but this response seemed ridiculously potent.

  He ducked out of the cave and clambered back up to the spot where he’d perched earlier. Out of breath—and not from the exercise—Jazz leaned against a rock. He held the comfortingly familiar shape of the CR for a long moment before flicking it on.

  “CR,” he mumbled. “I’m having an extreme male response. Is this normal?”

  “You have been off all inhibitors for four months. More than enough time for even the strongest dose to wear off.”

  Maybe. But even during his feral period years ago, his male reactions had never seemed this intense.

  After the fall of the Way, and after he’d been purged of his worst memories, he’d allowed himself to go into wild-state for a time. He’d fallen for a woman back then, and had been involved with Rae until she took off.

  Leaning against a rock in antique Spain, waiting in the drizzle that was fast turning to sleet, he could actually feel that old despair in the pit of his stomach, with all those damn urges and sensitivities restored.

  Trapped in the wild-state, maybe he’d use his old memory as an exercise to pass the time in this stink-hole Spain. He’d work on banishing emotion, a popular DHUy agent exercise.

  Still resting against the rock, he folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes to concentrate. Nah, he couldn’t stop the welling up of peculiar longing and pain he’d last experienced more than ten years ago.

  Too bad the DHU dim-bonks wouldn’t let him have suppressants. Going wild was fine for younger idiots, but a useless affliction. Particularly when he had to clamp down on his instincts—ex-Truthies like him always had to be careful. Besides, the whole process made him grubby and disorganized. Life was much more comfortable without that ugly drive cluttering things up and distracting a person.

  “The natural state” was the euphemism the DHU used to make the whole process sound less messy. Lack of control, he’d call it. And undoubtedly a problem when he started dragging the woman around the countryside.

  If he couldn’t banish it, he’d take a look at what was muddying his brain. Surprisingly, Rae was not a problem. The old pain surfaced, but he could barely recall her face.

  The image of the woman in the cave flickered through his mind. Now that picture knocked into him a bit. He looked down at his hand, recalling the feel of her skin…warm. Soft. He wondered when he’d last touched another human. A year? Two?

  Aha. No great agent work required here. She seemed to be the focus of his current bother. And she was key to the flipping assignment.

  He absently pushed back his wet, too-long hair and pulled up the hood again.

  Mental exercises didn’t cut it. He’d distract himself from uncomfortable speculation by practicing a few DHU physical exercises. He even unsheathed the sword he’d been issued and fenced inexpertly with a few of the surrounding trees. Steele, who’d turned out to be Jazz’s favorite agency instructor, had taught him moves so he’d blend in with the time. Eh, not a good sign that the trees won most of the matches.

  He switched over to flinging the dirk he kept tucked in his boot. The sharp blade whizzed from his hand and stuck fast in all of his targets. No huge surprise there—he’d long suspected he’d been programmed with that skill in the bad old days of his lost Way of Truth years.

  Time passed.

  The sleety rain pelted down harder. He hunkered uncomfortably under the cloak. Even its invisible layer of rain proofing wasn’t enough to keep cold at bay, so he dug out the wool blanket too. He considered flipping up the false bottom he’d built into the bag and pulling out the warming cloak. No, he’d wait until it was absolutely necessary, maybe at the first symptoms of frostbite.

  Of course, the cave would provide shelter from the wind-driven rain, but he did not dare go there in case the first stranger came along early. Nothing could inhibit that vital event. The baby must be conceived. His era depended on it. Gah, his own freedom depended on it.

  The rain tapered off.

  Time stood still.

  For something to do, he opened his CR and messed around with the psunder connection. He pressed his thumb into the imprint shield and tried to make a connection through the skin. Nothing. Not even the best techno could manage brainwave function without a nudge from the network. He’d have to stick to speech and, if he was truly desperate, touch. That outdated skill was rusty, so he practiced a bit.

  “How much longer,” he touched the CR, “before the first stranger appears?”

  “It must occur in less than an hour,” the CR flashed back.

  “What is ‘it’, CR?”

  “
The impregnation.”

  “What?” he asked aloud.

  For some reason the CR answered aloud, though Jazz had trained it only to speak when addressed as “CR”.

  “Archival records indicate the fertile period will pass in approximately one to two hours.”

  A frisson of terror ran up his spine. No. He sat down on the hard, wet ground.

  Naturally there were no portraits of the mysterious first stranger, but he had saved some descriptions. “CR, primary historical documents of the first stranger. No DHU dull-crap analysis this time.”

  Words taken directly from Eliza’s own correspondence flashed on his CR, a note she had written to one of her grandchildren.

  During that dark time even our sleep was haunted by fear. And the dreadful drug my father administered to me in the wine made the nightmares so much the worse. Early spring proved damp and dreary. We all had been cold for days but the man gave me warmth. You asked me to describe him. I cannot, other than to recall I had an impression he was of large stature and had dark hair. The only memory I still hold is that for a brief while he made me feel sheltered and warm. Outlandish isn’t it, since his goal was ravishment? Even in that stuporous state, I felt safe.

  Jazz sucked in several deep breaths of the cold, damp air, and allowed the terror to dissipate.

  He’d had so much to assimilate in training he’d never paid much attention to this part of the story. Huy-man, he’d forgotten the dark hair, and thought of own his pale, curling hair with relief.

  He relaxed against the lumpy boulder and tried to call up the historical material he’d read during training. Yeah, now Jazz remembered reading this letter before. The DHU expert could barely contain her excitement because this letter to the grandchild verified an important theory.

  Eliza P. did not conceive the first child, Madame Blanro’s great-great-great-great and so on-grandmother, with the man she married some time later.

  All that really mattered—Jazz was not the first stranger.

  He’d been told often enough he was the second stranger. The Department called him the “protector”, probably to make him feel like some kind of knight or whoever it was that cavorted around saving women. The department liked that kind of thing because it fit the DHU image, after all.

  But of course he wasn’t the first guy. Beyond what was necessary, they never talked to him about the first stranger or “progenitor”, their elaborate name for “guy who takes advantage of a drugged woman”.

  Jazz yawned and wished the progenitor would hurry up. After that, he and Eliza P. could get started on the traveling portion of the program so he could warm up too. She wasn’t kidding when she described the place as damp and dreary. And cold—almost cold enough to drag out the hat, if not the cloak.

  The hat.

  Instantly, the fear plowed through him again as he remembered that forbidden hat he’d grabbed from his DHU supplies.

  The black hat.

  The minutes sped by too swiftly then, until the appalling moment when he could no longer deny the truth. When the CR answered that there were fifteen minutes left, he abandoned caution and clambered up onto a boulder, the highest point in the area. He balanced on the pointed ridge and slowly scanned the horizon. He saw no sign of life, other than some large dark birds slowly flapping though the gray sky.

  A wave of cold revulsion washed over him. He at last understood why he’d been sent here. Why the flipping DNA mattered.

  He slid off the boulder and sat down heavily. No, they could send some other idiot for this job.

  No.

  As he considered how he could escape back to his own time, he absently ran his fingers over the scar on his arm. Despite the cold, he’d rolled up the sleeve. He always did.

  Survivors of the Way of Truth had argued the mark should always show, so when the government took out the chip, they implanted standard sensitivity nodes that made the skin ache when Truthies continuously wore clothing over their mark of shame.

  Pinner, another soldier survivor, had chuckled with delight at the news Jazz was to be part of DHU. “Hope they flash your picture all over the net and include the da’ scar too.”

  He didn’t need Pinner to remind him that no former Truthie had ever managed to get a position in the new government—higher than janitor, anyway.

  And then there was Madame Blanro…

  He stood and looked around again. Nothing and nobody.

  Jazz climbed down from his high point. After staring at the sodden bag for a long minute, he pulled out the hat. Then he reached in for the shimmering warming cloak too. She was cold? The very least he could do was warm the poor woman up. He was only a tool but at least he knew it. She’d never understand.

  As he headed down the hillside, back to the cave, he grimly wondered if the effing DHU had known the truth the whole time. The director obviously did. Him and his flipping “instinct”.

  Jazz would have plenty to say to that bastard when he got back home.

  In the cave he reached out a tentative hand and stroked the skin of her cheek. Chilled and soft. He lightly pressed his hand to her face. In her drugged sleep, she turned toward the source of warmth.

  He backed away, unbuckled the stupid sword and laid it on a rock next to the CR.

  “CR, very low light,” he instructed and remembered to flick on the timer.

  Then he threw the large cloak over her and crawled under to join her.

  He had intended not to touch her unnecessarily, some formal kind of “inoculation” was the only way he had to maintain her dignity. And his, he supposed.

  A chaste touching of bodies at the crucial points only. Huh. He had even tried to invent polite phrases to describe this particular task.

  Thick, demanding relief—his cock certainly announced its readiness to perform his duty.

  But when he burrowed his hand through the layers of clothing to touch the center of her body, accessible through some odd, open undergarments, he discovered a soft brush of hair, soft skin, but no dampness. Of course she was not ready.

  He groaned. No way could he shove anything into her without hurting the woman.

  He lightly traced fingers along the slit between her legs and tried to recall what he’d learned from Rae and the two other women he’d slept with.

  Foreplay, they might call it for regular sex. For this event…? Manipulation might be the right word.

  Stop thinking. He dampened the tips of his fingers with his tongue and then reached back under the skirts of the woman. Stroke her there, at the opening. And there, at the smooth, rounded hard flesh of her clitoris. He prayed it would help. The feel of her certainly seemed to help remind his body of its screaming need. His heart raced.

  After a while she sighed aloud and moved against his hand, blooming into swollen, slick warmth. Her sleepy but heated response increased his own temperature. He carefully pressed his forefinger into her. Ah, and he’d forgotten how warm and tight and damp a woman was. Then he had forgotten how to breathe. He grew dizzy and forgot about his resolution to only properly touch her at the center of her body.

  Under the tent formed by the featherweight warming cloak, he hiked up her skirts, lowered her blouse, flung aside petticoats. He touched her everywhere his fingers could reach. He kissed her on the mouth, and he kissed everywhere his mouth could reach. Licking to taste her warm breasts, the strange delicious flesh of her soft arms. She groaned again. Her musky sweet odor filled him with even more dizzying need.

  A soft chime from the CR had warned him he had only a few minutes left. Clumsy, rushing, he moved between her legs, spreading them even wider, hoping that he wasn’t imagining that she tilted up in response. At last in the dim light, he carefully positioned himself above the froth of skirts and with one hand to guide his cock, nudged into her opening, a difficult task since he was determined not to hurt her—they had many miles to walk, after all.

  Innoculation. Fast but gentle—even, he hoped, painless. Yeah, right.

  She seemed
so small. As he pushed in, a soft moan escaped her throat. Blast. He tried to move as little as possible, only a tiny motion to bring the necessary release.

  After a few careful and wickedly slow strokes he had felt her sigh and wiggle, just a tiny motion that pulled him farther in. No. Too good. Too much. He lost control and plunged—all the way in.

  He responded to a slight exhalation and squirm as if she had wrapped her arms and legs around him, eagerly pulling him to her.

  What would it be like to have this woman a full participant, eagerly returning his kisses? The most arousing image he’d ever had.

  With one final thrust, he exploded deep inside her, shouting out in astonishment at the intensity. He intended to pull away at once. He’d done all that was required. Finished in plenty of time—seconds to spare. Yet wrapped in the warmth of the woman’s body he couldn’t move. Not yet.

  “Good enough for government work” was a phrase the DHU director was fond of. The stupid words had actually floated into Jazz’s mind as he held himself above the woman panting and spent, still shuddering, unable to move yet without collapsing his weight onto her body. He shakily laughed aloud at the asinine thought.

  At that moment, her eyes opened to half slits, not wide enough in the dim light for him to discern their color or quality. He froze, and waited for her scream of fear and rage. She smiled and whispered, “More.”

  That was first time he heard her voice, he realized.

  She might have meant more laughter, more kisses, more heat, or perhaps it was only nonsense uttered from a dream, but he didn’t want to consider those possibilities. The single word provided the encouragement he needed and soon he knew he could move in her again. More slowly then. And he touched, stroked her again and listened to something other than the pounding of the blood through his own body. Her sighs echoed through the small, odd space, loud enough to cover the gentle chime of the CR.

  He reached into all the layers of clothing to stroke her breast, feel the blossoming of her nipple, wishing he could see and not just feel the satin under his fingers. She pushed up, and then, yeah, not just his imagination. She really did move with him.