Kerrigan's Race (The Syreni Book 1)

by C. M. Michaels

  Thank you for sharing such well-reasoned if not entirely new suggestions, Healer Apprentice, King Celandor said, acknowledging her contribution with an approving nod. His dark navy robes were unbound, leaving us all with a clear view of his muscular chest, ripped abs and… other impressive things. If I wasn’t mistaken, I detected a hint of a blush in Naome’s cheeks. Through the years we’ve learned griffins consider any object floating on the surface a potential birthing site. They locate our females primarily by scent, which they can detect from up to two miles away. They may indeed visit known birthing sites more frequently, but there is no part of our oceans they don’t regularly patrol.

  And using smaller, less fortified chambers leaves little room for soldiers to defend our female, Taleoek added. Our current design has stations for twelve warriors, and can withstand blows from even the heaviest objects our adversaries can drop upon it. The chambers are also anchored to the sea floor, preventing them from being dragged away by the strong current or our enemy.

  That left us back at square one. I tried to reason through the problem like my father would as he worked one of his cases, which wasn’t made any easier by the fact that I’d been treated with a significant amount of sherifan root crème in the infirmary. We had to give birth on the surface and remain there until our child’s gills completely formed. There were significant advantages to using the pre-established birthing chambers that made them the preferred option in spite of the predictability. And stealth approaches worked best, as large contingents broadcast our position, and weren’t at all effective in preventing the death of the female trapped inside the chamber.

  But did she have to be trapped? The thought spawned what I hoped was a brilliant idea, or at least enough of one to get the ball rolling. You’ve said that Syreni females have always waited until the last possible moment to enter the chamber. That certainly reduces the amount of time we’re exposed to danger, but I think it’s resulted in unintentional Pavlovian conditioning of the griffins, like ringing a bell before you give a dog a treat. Soon they’ll salivate at the sound of the bell. In our case, every time they smell a Syreni female on the surface it means we’re giving birth. They’re able to focus on attacking the chamber regardless of how many soldiers we deploy, knowing the female either has to sacrifice her child to escape to the safety of the sea or remain there to be slaughtered. And the moment she’s been dealt with they can disengage from the battle, minimizing their losses while still accomplishing their primary objective.

  What if we started ringing the bell without following it up with a treat? Or, carrying it further, what if each time the bell rung it was followed with the nasty sting of a hand spanking the poor dog’s rear? How long would it be before the dog cowered in the corner at the sound of the bell instead of making his way to the treat bowl? Knowing how the griffins will react to my scent makes them predictable. And if I learned anything from all my time in the ring with Austin, being predictable is a good way to get knocked on your ass.

  Having Aristos sweep me up into his arms in front of everyone for a sultry kiss that left me floating in a daze above the granite table was a little embarrassing given our audience and the formal proceeding. Not that I was complaining.

  The king issued us an appropriately scalding reprimand for our voyeuristic behavior unbefitting royalty, which was seconded by a wide-eyed Venerack—if I’d ever seen someone in desperate need of getting laid it was our far-too-uptight chancellor—but the warmth in his pale green eyes contradicted his words. I might have even heard a chirp or two of laughter escape his lips behind the fist that covered his mouth. No one else was quite as expressive as Aristos with their support, but Taleoek, Celandor, Damille and even Venerack quickly got behind the idea. With any luck we’d get several free shots at the griffins before they grew weary of our new tactic, none more so than the first battle, which we planned to take full advantage of.

  When we were finished they’d be left hesitant to attack when they detected our scent in the future, never sure if we were really giving birth or if it was just another trap. Knowing I’d be taking turns being the bait with Naome and Serienne once they were pregnant—in case the griffins were attracted to the hormones pregnant females emitted rather than the woman’s own scent—was a little disconcerting, but it allowed us to fight on our own terms and gave us the best chance of protecting our children. That’s all any of us could ask for. Taleoek and Celandor were already beginning to plan our initial assault when Aristos carried me home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Athena’s Gift

  * * *

  After almost two hours of painstaking work, Johnna finally finished tattooing the last of our seven deity symbols—an owl signifying Athena’s wisdom—on the back of Serienne’s freshly shaven head. She didn’t appear to mourn the loss of her over-bleached pixie-cut locks, given that she asked our high priest to use a more potent mix of talcium paste to ensure her head remained bald the entire first year. Just as Naome had done. If it wouldn’t have been for the still-healing gash on my head, I’m sure being shown up by both of my sisters in front of our high priest would have been more than enough peer pressure to make me cave and have him treat my scalp as well. I was almost grateful I’d maimed myself. Call me crazy, but I liked having hair and was eagerly awaiting its return.

  When I emerged from the altar room I swam out into the cathedral to meet Naome in front of the statue of Athena where we’d all been claimed by the gods. The moment she saw me she turned her trepid face toward me so I could check out Armiele’s handiwork, causing my avia to take a firm hold of her chin and grumble a rather agitated reprimand about the need to remain still. Please tell me I don’t look like a freak. I thought my face was going to be decorated like yours. Not a raccoon.

  Much like Damille, Naome now had an ear-to-ear solid bar of accent coloring—dark navy, in her case—reaching from above her eyebrows down to the top of her cheeks. All but the very tip of her nose was colored. The two healers were the only Syreni I’d seen with such markings. Perhaps all healers were marked that way so they’d be recognized in battle and granted protection from our kind. It seemed plausible, even if it was just a theory. A flowing bouquet of tiny purple flowers spread out across her forehead and down her jaw line, ending just as mine did with large blooms on both of her cheeks. Where they crossed over top of her dark navy mask they’d been outlined in white for contrast. With her gold streaked, fiery red hair shaved away and her exotically colored face—the only parts of her that had remained relatively unchanged to this point—she no longer resembled my human best friend. She’d become a beautiful Syreni female.

  As soon as Armiele finished touching up the bloom on her left cheek I pulled her into a one-armed hug—I’d be wearing a sling for at least another week—and gave her a comforting pat on the back. You bear the coloring of a healer, Naome. And you look amazing. Absolutely stunning. With the flowers, everyone will know you’re my sister.

  You have no idea how much that means to me.

  It wasn’t easy to tell if a human was crying underwater, but based on the slight quiver of her glistening, purple and blue lips, it seemed likely. I placed my hand flat against her cheek. Since we can’t cry, when Syreni are emotional we express ourselves by placing the hand of a loved one against our cheek, accepting their comfort and support.

  She quickly covered my hand with her own, pressing it even more firmly against her cheek. That works. Love ya, Cami.

  Love you too, sis.

  When we ended our embrace, Armiele placed seven aquamarine gemstone studs—the color for the Ceraspian Mountain Region—in each of her ears. Naome never released the death grip she’d taken on my hand, which left me no choice but to awkwardly watch as Armiele pulled and twisted her nipples until they hardened. The swollen buds were pierced with aquamarine-encrusted rings that held glittering disc-shaped aquamarine jewels tight against her breasts, concealing her areolas. Combined with the woven rope chain waterfall bracelet that I noticed was now lock
ed around her wrist, she was as clearly marked as Bulrigaard’s property as I’d been when Aristos had been presented the key to my chastity belt. I almost prayed the perverted bastard touched her while they were still in Halon’s Gate. I’d have him strung up from a guard tower sliced open from neck to nuts so the fish could feed on his entrails until he died.

  Armiele held up a long black robe for Naome to slide her arms through and tied it on the side. The sleeves ended in black gloves, and the train stretched well past the end of her tail, leaving her entire body concealed. Armiele draped a black shoulder length scarf over the top of Naome’s head, carefully positioning it along her hairline, before covering it with a much denser one that stretched down over my sister’s ebony robes to the small of her back. The opaque shroud Armiele secured behind Naome’s head concealed her entire face, leaving only a narrow slit for her to see through.

  For the next week, you are forbidden to speak unless required to do so as part of your servitude. You will not take in substance of any kind or remove your shroud. You’ll be addressed simply as handmaiden, and will live in our convalescent home caring for those who are too sick or feeble to care for themselves. Your own handmaiden, Lady Wenderie—who you’ll soon meet—will serve as your mistress for the next week. You will obey her every command as though it came from Lord Neptune himself. Serve your fellow Syreni well, child. Prove yourself worthy so the gods may bless your upcoming pregnancy. Lady Wenderie is waiting for you outside the Cathedral.

  Seeing Armiele play such a central role in Naome’s purification ceremony surprised me until I remembered she was Johnna’s oldest daughter. She’d probably assisted him with hundreds of these ceremonies over the years. Naome dropped into a perfectly executed formal bow before swimming off across the mural-covered floor and exiting the cathedral, pushing open one of the ornate golden doors. Studying the image of Neptune and Poseidon defending a lone Syreni female against a hoard of armor clad griffins took me back to the moment we’d first entered the cathedral as abducted Olympic athletes with an uncertain fate. Kerrigan, Gentry and Tara. The names seemed as foreign now as the lives we’d once led. Like the characters from some enchanted fairytale, we’d been reborn in this temple, the gods granting us destinies far grander than anything we could have ever imagined before.

  Serienne joined us only moments after Naome had left. Armiele set to work on her immediately, lining the top and bottom of her eyes in dark coal. Vertical bands of chartreuse, sea foam green and a soft powder blue were blended together, stretching from the thick lining above her sexy long lashes to her blackened brows, with chartreuse on the inside along her nose and powder blue extending well past the corners her eyes, almost to her hairline. The bouquet of jet black flowers Armiele inked into her forehead, along her jaw line and on her cheeks contrasted her chartreuse tail and bright speckled lips perfectly. She took the time to detail the edge of each petal of the dozens of blooms in one of the three shades she’d used on her eyes. By the time she finished, Serienne’s decorated face was an absolute masterpiece. There was no denying my avia was a gifted artist.

  Armiele placed seven iridescent peridot studs—one for each of the deities we worshipped—in each of her ears, just as she’d done for Naome, before placing a smaller but equally radiant stone in the left side of her nose above her nostril. Horseshoe-shaped peridot jewels were threaded through her hardened nipples and accented with a ring of seven micro-sized stones that encircled each of her areolas, making thirty-one piercings in all. Fifteen more than Naome and I had received. The faint blue light cast by the phosphorous lanterns mounted on the granite walls of the cathedral refracted off the multi-faceted stones, turning the water around her face a stunning lime green shade.

  With the elaborate piercings complete, Armiele continued the peridot theme, tattooing every inch of Serienne’s small breasts in a mesmerizing geometric design. Both sides of her hands were decorated in the same complex pattern from her wrists to her fingertips, as were her upper arms from her elbows to the top of her shoulders. The bright greenish hue associated with the region she’d eventually call home tied in well with her chartreuse fish-aspect coloring. The elaborate and beautifully detailed body art was as extensive as my own, and only added to her already exotic appearance. No part of her looked human any longer.

  You now carry all the markings of an affirmed, South Central Region Syreni female, my sweet child. May your studies at the Palace of Poseidon over the next six years instill the immense knowledge you will require to effectively serve your region as a practitioner of our hard sciences. General Lanipas will be keeping a close eye on your progress, as will your sister, of course, and the rest of the Throne of Nine. You’ve impressed us all with your spiritual enlightenment, having willingly embraced your physical transformation and become a devoted servant to your father, Poseidon. Now show us what a dedicated student and bright young woman you are.

  Serienne’s beaming smile broke through the devout, stoic façade she’d maintained so well during her entire purification ceremony. Thank you, Lady Armiele. I promise you both I’m going to study my ass off. Naome’s training to be a master healer. And Cami’s the friggin’ queen and a badass warrior. I’m really looking forward to having children, but I want to contribute a hell of a lot more to our society than just my womb.

  The loving embrace the three of us shared brought Serienne even more back into herself. I could feel the stiffness ease from her shoulders until it was once again my young sister I held awkwardly in my left arm rather than Poseidon’s devoted servant.

  The motherly warmth faded from Armiele’s weathered eyes as she lifted up a decorative black chain from the marble floor beneath her sun-kissed, red and orange tail. She stretched the netting snugly around Serienne’s hips, the ends snapping together in the back without leaving a key hole or any other obvious way to unlock it. Four rows of three-inch loops draped down from the center chain, the cutouts providing glimpses of Serienne’s chartreuse tail through the gaps in the black metal. General Lanipas asked that you be fitted with this body chain to remind the male students at the university that you are the surrogate mother of his children, and that physical interaction between natural born Syreni males and converted Syreni females, such as yourself, is strictly forbidden. We cannot risk having you mother a hybrid child. Carrying such a child could kill you or leave you sterile. Even if it didn’t, the fetus would almost certainly be unviable. You’d end up losing several months of your fertility while we waited for you to have a potentially life-threatening miscarriage.

  Given how critical preventing such interaction is to your health and the survival of our race, the punishment for committing such an offense would be severe. Any male caught touching you in a sexually suggestive manner—an open-mouthed kiss, an intimate caress, a lingering embrace—will be castrated. If they were to defy our most sacrosanct law and sleep with you, we’d have no choice but to execute them. Should you be found complacent in such acts, even the far more innocent ones I mentioned a moment ago, you will be severely whipped, expelled from the university and stripped of all of the rights granted to you by our king.

  The disillusioned frown on Serienne’s drooped head and slumped shoulders were at odds with the doggedly determined way she bit down on her lower lip as she battled to reign in her emotions. After a long silence her stoic façade slipped back into place, extinguishing the high-spirited, mischievous glint from her hazel eyes. I exist only to serve our Lord Poseidon. I’d never do anything to jeopardize my ability to help propagate the Syreni race. I vow before my god that no male will ever touch me. My virginity will serve as a testament to my faith.

  There was no questioning her devotion to our gods. I had no doubt she’d love the children she gave birth to, as well, and would be a wonderful mother to them. But I wanted far more for my beloved sisters. I wanted them to fall in love and have bonding ceremonies of their own. To know what it felt like to share a piece of their soul with the male the fates had chosen for them. To join thei
r bodies with their compar and experience true ecstasy. To give birth to their own offspring.

  I wanted them to be as happy as I was.

  Questioning the gods as to why they hadn’t transformed us all into Syreni females rather than making my sisters endure such horrific surgeries and live half a life was a fool’s errand my devoted spirit wouldn’t even consider acting upon—one harrowing trip down that suicidal road was more than enough—but the treacherous thoughts still lingered in the back of my mind. Naome and Serienne had done everything our gods had asked of them. Why shouldn’t they be entitled to live just as full of a life as any of their other faithful servants?

  If there was a silver lining in Armiele’s bleak pronouncement, it was that it clearly spelled out the punishment Bulrigaard would suffer if he ever acted on the impulses dancing around his perverted mind and assaulted Naome. Seeing him get castrated would almost be worth having him grope her. Especially if he was gelded before he could fertilize any eggs to place inside her womb.

  Armiele helped Serienne into her black robe, draped her head and tied her shroud into place before taking hold of her now gloved hands. Our Lord Poseidon is truly blessed to have such a devoted, lovely daughter. I’m so proud of you. You are forbidden to speak for the next seven days unless required to do so as part of your servitude. You will not eat, and you will keep your entire body covered at all times. You’ll spend your days caring for the elderly, cleaning their homes, bathing and feeding them. Your new handmaiden, Lady Sophia, will serve as your mistress, and will teach you how to properly care for others. You will obey her orders as though they came from Lord Poseidon himself. Serve the Syreni people well, child. Prove yourself worthy so the gods may bless your upcoming pregnancy. Lady Sophia is waiting for you just outside the doors of the Cathedral.