Catalyst (Hidden Planet Book 2)

by Anna Carven

  As expected, her smile disappeared, but then she did something that blew Imril’s mind.

  She tipped her head to the side ever so slightly and bared her neck.

  An act of submission… of trust.

  She should not be the one to initiate it. He was supposed to be the one to demand this.

  How did she know that this tiny action was so provocative, so powerful?

  Unable to hold back any longer, Imril hissed and tore the black glove from his hand, curling his fingers around her neck.

  Her skin was warm, soft, smooth, her neck so delicate and fragile he could snap it with his bare hands.

  Her pulse beat beneath his fingers, and it was surprisingly steady.

  Then it hit him.

  “Ah…” He exhaled slowly as her glorious vir surged up through his arm, filling him with the power he’d craved, flowing into the deep well that was his empty soul.

  What he’d taken from her before… it was nothing compared to what he was about to drain.

  As Imril grew vir-drunk on her heady energy, taking more and more of the golden nectar into his body, it occurred to him that he hadn’t been the one to initiate this feeding.

  She’d forced him to lose control.

  Just like that.

  And the well of her energy was deep, just like his hunger.

  Warmth spread through Imril’s body as his cells converted living energy into power.

  He did not question why he needed vir to survive or why his body could transform it into pure energy. He did not wonder why only females of certain species seemed to give off the golden vir that every Drakhin craved, and why the Naaga, the made race, were only capable of producing bland, silver vir that paled in comparison to the rich energy of the females.

  There was a time when he used to wonder about such things, but his father, the cursed Ancestor, had left more mysteries than truths, and perhaps some things would never be explained.

  As he stared down at her, growing more and more intoxicated, she looked back at him, her green eyes wide and unwavering.

  For the first time, he was struck by the intelligence in her gaze.

  Where did you come from, sweet thing?

  This alien might be soft-skinned and weak, but she was no fool. She knew exactly what he was doing to her. Resentment radiated from her, even as Imril’s hand tightened around her neck.

  Oh, she tried to hide it from him, but she couldn’t. He could feel it in her vir.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to convince himself this was like any other feeding; a simple master and servant transaction.

  Esania.

  She’d told him her name.

  His wounds began to heal; he felt the familiar itch as his true skin knitted together. His scales would take longer to grow back, but at least the pain was starting to diminish. Three darklights he’d waited for this, putting up with the very specific, excruciating kind of pain that came from a Vradhu barb.

  And although he’d fed from Rau, the other one’s vir just didn’t interest him. This was what he wanted. Pure, undiluted bliss.

  More. Give me more.

  As the vir flowing into his body reached the sweet point, Imril’s senses grew sharper. He became aware of the sound of her breathing; slow, steady, but with an almost imperceptible hitch now and then. He studied her in intense detail, noting the way her round black pupils constricted slightly, watching in fascination as her long, dark eyelashes fluttered against her silky brown skin.

  Her features were elegant, symmetrical, perfect. A high forehead, straight nose, full lips. Her skin was perfectly smooth, in contrast to his.

  Soft. She was softer and more delicate than a female Vradhu, lacking the sharp teeth and claws that made the violet-skinned ones so irritating to deal with.

  You’re not made for this world, are you, sweet thing?

  His cock grew hard, surprising him once again. Maybe he was just drunk on vir, but he suspected it was something else.

  Her perfect combination of submission and defiance.

  It seeded a certain kind of madness within him.

  Fuck.

  She rubbed her upper arms. Fine spots rose on her brown skin. Her teeth started to knock together. Chattering.

  What was this sudden reaction?

  Too much? Was he going too far?

  You need to stop, Drakhin.

  He didn’t want to kill her.

  With great effort, he pulled his hand away, even though he wasn’t yet sated, even though he was just starting to feel like his old self again.

  Then Imril froze.

  Slender fingers curled around his wrist, staying his hand. She stared at him, growing weaker and weaker by the moment.

  But she wasn’t afraid.

  Did she not realize how dangerous he was to her right now? Just a fraction more and he could drain her to the point of no return.

  Her heart would stop beating. Her body would go cold.

  He knew. He’d done this once before.

  “Stop,” he growled, wrenching his wrist out of her grasp. He took a step backward, power coursing through his veins. It crackled from his fingertips and sent a golden haze across his vision. “I do not want to kill you.”

  Teeth still chattering, she leaned back on her elbows and had the audacity to smile at him.

  For some reason, that angered Imril. “You would risk your life just to prove a point?” He spoke in his original tongue, the language of the Ancestor, and of course, she couldn’t understand a word he said. Rau was supposed to teach her Naaga, but nobody learned a language in three darklights, not without an implant.

  And he would never allow her to speak Drakhin, because that was the language of power, spoken by his people alone.

  With power snapping and writhing at his fingertips, responding to his anger, Imril leaned in and picked up the golden jacket Rau had retrieved from some mysterious place. “Never do that again. Ever,” he snapped, knowing she would at least understand the warning in his tone. He thrust the jacket at her. “Put this on. Warm yourself up.”

  It was a ceremonial jacket, an old thing, the kind that might be donned by a Vradhu female to preserve warmth after a ritual feeding. It was the younger Drakhin who had invented these strange customs and rituals. Imril didn’t care much for such things, but the garment was warm and finely made, and seemed to have survived the ravages of time well enough.

  With trembling fingers, she took it and slipped it on.

  Imril couldn’t help but admire the way the fine golden fabric complimented the warm brown tones of her skin.

  Still, he was angry. In that brief moment, she had tempted him, challenged him, and forced him to reveal an important truth.

  She was valuable to him.

  And there was no way for him to punish her, because he needed her in perfect health.

  She knew it. She was telling him, loud and clear, that she knew it.

  What a risk she had taken. Was this delicate creature actually mad?

  No, she was calculating.

  Her vir was softer now, a tantalizing, ephemeral halo that beckoned to him even as he backed away.

  “Next time, I won’t be so forgiving,” he growled, his wings lifting threateningly. “Know your place, servant. Do you really want to die?”

  Her eyes never left him, even as he turned his back and left through the wide doors, feeling stronger than he had in a long time.

  But nowhere near his full strength.

  He needed more vir. A lot more.

  Soon.

  Next time, he wouldn’t be so reckless.

  So this impudent little creature thought she could vex him, huh? He, who had once ruled the greatest civilization that ever existed on this wild, hidden planet?

  As he watched her, something shifted deep within his soul, and an ancient rhythm began to pulse through his veins. A dark, primal song spread through every fiber of his being. Instantly, he knew what it was, even though he’d neve
r heard it before.

  Could it be…?

  Song of the Void Between Worlds.

  He had to be imagining things.

  So quickly? This creature, this alien—he didn’t even know what species she was—was having this effect on him?

  Impossible.

  And here she was, looking at him with a secret smile hovering on her lips. This alien thought she could play games with him?

  He was going to have to teach her that she wasn’t as irreplaceable as she thought. Oh, she was special, all right, but Imril would not allow himself to become dependent on a single Source.

  It was too dangerous, especially when she had this effect on him.

  He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the doors behind him, activating the lock with a flick of his hand.

  Sealing his prisoner inside, even as his cock grew hard at the thought of her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the doors slammed shut, Esania let out a deep, shuddering sigh. Was it possible to feel drained and angry and smug and terrified and mildly aroused, all at the same time?

  Because that’s how she felt right now, with the memory of the Drakhin Lord’s touch lingering at the base of her neck, where her skin still tingled.

  Surreptitiously, she ran her fingers over the area, replaying the moment in her mind’s eye. This time, his touch hadn’t been painful or forceful. He’d been gentle with her even as he’d sucked her dry.

  Like a parasite.

  A beautiful, terrifying parasite.

  What he’d done to her was hideous, monstrous, and it defied any logical explanation. Extracting pure energy through touch?

  It wasn’t even scientific. It was woo-woo stuff, straight out of the fanciful stories humans made up to entertain themselves.

  And to think she’d encouraged him.

  What the hell did you just do, woman?

  She’d taken a risk, and it had worked… perhaps.

  As she’d predicted, the Drakhin had finally come and claimed his dues. He’d pulled the raw energy out of her, drinking it in as if it were water, leaving her shivering and drained, and the look on his face…

  He’d enjoyed it.

  And surprisingly, so had she, up until the point where he’d taken so much energy from her that he’d pushed her body into a kind of hypothermia.

  His hand on her neck had been firm, but not painful, the pads of his fingers smooth and without the scales that covered the rest of his body. When his… vortex, or whatever it was, collided with her energy, the feeling was electric.

  A dark, irresistible caress.

  As he’d stared down at her with those glowing catlike eyes, she’d almost felt…

  Aroused?

  Impossible.

  That would be entering serious Stockholm Syndrome territory, and she was Primean.

  She should know better.

  Only humans succumbed to things like that.

  Esania tucked her hands into the folds of the impossibly soft jacket, reveling in the sumptuous feel of the fabric, even as she desperately tried to get warm. The garment was incredibly well made, although it smelled slightly musty, as if it had been stored away in someone’s closet for a very long time.

  Crazy Drakhin.

  Leaving her here freezing, half-drained and wearing a splendid musty old jacket with a high collar and intricately patterned buttons. It could have come straight out of some history archive on Earth.

  Bastard. He thinks I’m his property.

  But she’d achieved what she’d set out to do.

  He’d needed something from her, and instead of fighting him, she’d invited him to feed.

  Doing the unexpected.

  Throwing him off balance.

  Making him realize how valuable she was to him, and no, he didn’t want to kill her. She was certain of that now.

  Esania curled up into a ball, fighting the shivers that racked her entire body. Her feet were cold. She couldn’t even feel her toes anymore. Numb.

  Numb toes, racing heart, thoughts on fire.

  Was she reckless, or stupid, or both?

  As weak as she was, Esania forced herself to get up out of bed and pace around on bare feet, trying to generate some warmth. The next time he appeared, she would ask the Drakhin to give her damn boots back. Still shivering, she pulled up the collar of her jacket and tucked her hands into her armpits.

  Well, at least her teeth had stopped chattering.

  So you’ve gone ahead and poked the big bad dragon with a stick. What are you going to do now?

  She had no choice but to wait. Clearly rattled, he’d left in a huff, shooting her a dark glare as he pulled his wings tightly against his back and slammed the double doors with a vengeance. She had no way of knowing if he’d be back in a few minutes, or hours, or days, or even months.

  She had no power here.

  But her actions had caused a reaction in him.

  Now she just had to wait and see what he would do.

  After all, every action had an equal and opposite reaction, didn’t it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Imril drifted silently over the clouds, watching for any trace of life below. The dense trees obscured his view of the land, but it didn’t matter.

  He was hunting for vir, and even from up here, his sharp eyes wouldn’t miss even the slightest hint of a golden aura. He circled the spot where he’d picked up the creature, Esania, searching for any clues as to where the Vradhu and their brown-skinned companions might have gone.

  Thanks to Esania, he was stronger now, strong enough to hunt without fear of the Vradhu. He’d found a suit of Drakhin scale-armor in Kunlo’s war room, and now the second scales covered every part of him from head to toe, leaving only his eyes and wings uncovered.

  No Vradhu barb or war-spear would be able to penetrate his armor, and if he was unlucky enough to encounter a kratok beast, he would be well protected.

  As he angled his wings, swooping down toward the forest, Imril growled, unable to get a certain face out of his mind.

  Esania.

  Such a bold female. It wasn’t just her vir that was addictive.

  That piercing stare. Those mesmerizing, impossibly green eyes, the color of the new leaf-buds on the quinze trees, which he’d just seen dotted amongst the forest canopy. Impossibly, even as other parts of the Ardu-Sai died off, the spectacular trees were coming back to life after hundreds of revolutions in hibernation.

  Just as he had come back to life—thanks to her.

  This alien, this female… where had she come from?

  She reminded him of something, of someone, of a time when he knew nothing about the world below and believed everything he was told.

  But that was long ago, the memories buried so deep within his consciousness that they were barely a part of him anymore.

  He dropped into the clearing, landing feet first, his scale-armor moving in perfect synergy with his body. From memory, Kunlo had been a head shorter than him and thicker in the torso, but Drakhin armor was designed to mold to the wearer’s frame, so it had stretched to accommodate his size.

  He carried no weapon. He didn’t need one.

  Power pounded through his body, and really, it wasn’t his energy but hers, a constant reminder that without vir, he was nothing.

  He began to walk, folding his wings against his back and following the trail left behind by the Vradhu. Alone, the warriors were impeccable trackers and hunters, and they would have left no trace of their passing, not even a scent. But they had females with them, and they’d obviously left in a hurry.

  Imril closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the forest. Flowers. Berries. Decaying leaves. Even the pungent smell of some small animal’s droppings. The cycle of life and death went on, accelerated now because the sun had appeared for the first time in over three hundred revolutions.

  There.

  His eyes snapped open as he caught it.

  A trace of something otherworldly,
easy to identify because it was similar to Esania’s scent. He swore he could even detect her scent mingled in with the others.

  Imril walked across to the place where he’d first put his hands on Esania, a barren patch of land surrounded by straggly tchirrin bushes. Evidence of her struggle was still there on the ground; a small cloth pouch filled with bittersweet orange fruits lay in the dust.

  The strap was broken. It must have snapped when he’d stolen her away.

  Imril picked up the thing, knotted the strap, and hung it around his neck, taking care not to damage the fruits inside. Judging from their smell, they were just at the point of maximum sweetness.

  Those who knew him would have shaken their heads in disbelief at the sight; Imril the Lightbringer, dressed in full Drakhin battle-armor, carrying a pouch of sweet tchirrin fruit around his neck.

  But he’d always been considered strange; he knew the lesser lords had whispered such things behind his back.

  The Overlord has been on this world for too long. Age has turned him mad, the same as his cursed brother. Abominations, both of them.

  They never would have dared say a word of it to his face.

  He’d been known to kill on a whim, and he was too powerful for any of them to seriously consider challenging him—or so he’d thought.

  Following his nose, Imril moved across the clearing, heading for a thicket of trees.

  His eyes snapped skyward as a familiar sound reached his ears.

  Whoosh.

  A dark shadow streaked overhead, and his gaze snapped toward the skies. He caught sight of a sleek black ship as it coasted overhead, disappearing into the distance. It was a Drakhin ship, the sort used to transport servants and cargo over long distances. Once, every Drakhin had owned a fleet of the black ships—another gift from the Ancestor’s collection of dark technology.

  Two more ships streaked past, signifying that this wasn’t an ordinary transport mission.

  Imril growled.

  Deathkiss was supposed to have killed most of the Drakhin lords, and the Naaga couldn’t operate the ships on their own… could they?

  Whoever it was, perhaps they were here for the same reason. There was a valuable prize in their midst.