Reaping Day: Book Three of the Harvesters Series
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Reaping Day
Book Three of the Harvesters Series
Luke R. Mitchell
Copyright © 2017 by Luke R. Mitchell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Yocla Designs
Cover illustration by Hokunin
Editing by Lisa Poisso
Proofreading by Dj Hendrickson
Contents
Dedication
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
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About the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
“I never intended on writing a dedication, because I didn’t write this book for someone else. I wrote it for me. I wrote it because I’ve found a great passion for writing, and I love it so much that I thought I just might try to make a career of it. So there you have it. This book is dedicated to me—selfish prick that I am!” – Luke R. Mitchell, Red Gambit
Well, a selfish prick, I may still be. But as I’ve watched thousands of readers step into my little made up world (and heard from some who’ve actually found something of value there), I can’t help but feel that something intangible has shifted. Sure, I’m still writing because I want to, but it’s becoming clear to me that I’m no longer writing for myself alone.
So this one’s officially for you guys—the readers who are making this deluded dream of mine a living, breathing reality.
Thank you for reading. You guys rock.
Want some free books?
Once you’ve finished being thoroughly enthralled by this tasty story morsel, I’ve got a couple extra treats for dessert.
Just sign up to my mailing list, and I’ll send your free copies of the prequel novellas, Soldier of Charity and the mailing list exclusive, Cursed Blood.
On top of that, you’ll also get the Reaping Day deleted scenes, written from Haldin’s perspective.
And on top of that, you’ll be the first to know about my special deals, new releases, and any giveaways I’m running.
So sign up to my mailing list, and let’s go on an adventure!
Now let me tell you a story.
Prologue
After nearly a thousand years spent traveling the universe, Nan’Cagor had yet to grow comfortable with the feeling of being in deep space, though he could never quite place the exact thing that so unsettled him.
There was the silence, of course—the deep, nearly complete absence of any sound but the faint hum of the ship’s systems and the stirring of their cargo, audible to his ears even from several compartments away. But it was far more than that. It was the feeling of the profound nothingness that stretched out in all directions around them, as far as his mental senses could reach.
It was the Void, and it was unnatural.
As far as Cagor was concerned, feet—or tentacles or whatever else that century’s host body happened to be sporting—belonged on the ground or in the water. Wings in the air weren’t so bad either. But no matter what, he was sure that life should be firmly rooted to the gravitational pull of a proper planet, not floating in the vast emptiness of space.
Still, he’d take space travel any day over the doom they’d left behind. The only question was whether they’d brought enough food to avoid simply falling into the slower doom of the cursed blood sickness. Apparently he wasn’t the only one thinking about feeding.
“Cagor,” Al’Krastor called. “Food.”
The crimson glow of Krastor’s eyes was paler than usual. Cagor nodded to his superior and went to assess their stock.
The sounds of their cargo grew more audible with each step down the dim oval hallway, at least until he drew up to the hatch and the room beyond went abruptly silent. He availed the hatch with his mind, and it jumped to his will, peeling off to the side to reveal the large compartment currently acting as their pantry.
He stepped into the room but paused at a whimper from the small girl to the right. The girl and her mother both cowered when he looked their way, silent tears streaming down the older woman’s face while the younger one tried to bury her frightened sobs in her mother’s lap.
“How many times must I tell you?” Cagor said. “You are not in any danger here. You need not cry and cower every time we come.”
The mother only stared back at him with bloodshot eyes and flowing tears.
Cagor sighed, a mannerism he’d picked up from the humans. He looked around, taking in their sad stock. They weren’t the finest Earth had had to offer, but the twelve humans would have to do. Pathetically short life spans, disease, inbreeding—these were all problems Cagor and his companions would no doubt have to address at some point, but it was better than nothing.
And right now, he was hungry.
He pointed to one of the men brooding in the corner—one of the older, weaker specimens in the group. “You. Come with me.”
The man’s face pulled into a snarl, and he spat on the floor by way of reply.
Cagor rolled his eyes (another human affectation) and reached out with his mind. The old man promptly went bolt upright, hopped to his feet, and marched over to Cagor as if he’d been possessed by the spirit of blind obedience.
Of course, it was only Cagor himself that had possessed the man.
Cagor turned and left the room, his new puppet following eagerly at his heels. The hatch crawled shut behind them, and Cagor headed back to the front of the ship with their dinner in tow.
Al’Krastor eyed the tribute distastefully when they entered, but he didn’t hesitate. As soon as the old man was within reach, Krastor grabbed the human’s arm and bit delicately into his forearm with a bored look. The Al slurped up a few deep gulps of the blood flowing from the bite before gesturing their third, Nan’Solga, over for his turn.
Cagor suppressed the protest on the edge of his tongue and waited his turn. Solga was only a Nan himself, equal to Cagor by every right, yet Krastor continued to favor the bastard over him in every way.
No matter. For now, it was enough to be alive.
Solga finished his portion and waved Cagor over. Cagor took the old man’s arm and drank his fill. Then, with a careful shift of thought, he released a flood of healing factors into his saliva and set to work licking the man’s wound shut. His skill at healing wasn’t particularly admirable among his kind, but nonetheless, the wound was mostly closed when he stepped back a minute later. It’d be fully healed within one of Earth’s day cycles. Not that they’d be needing to feed again from this one so soon. Each of the three raknoth didn’t need more than a few gulps every couple of days, and they could easily rotate their feeding stock to keep the humans fresh and healthy.
Cagor was just debating whether he should take a stand and tell Nan’Solga to deal with stowing the man back in the pantry when the ship suddenly called out to them in alarm—a buzzing telepathic pulse that was impossible to miss.
Cagor exchanged a tense glance with his companions and reached with his mind for the ship’s instruments.
“No,” Al’Krastor said quietly beside him. “It cannot be.”
Cagor sensed it a second later: an incoming ship, not unlike their own.
Terror clutched at his senses. Across from him, Solga’s eyes flared bright crimson with panic.
“It’s …”
Solga didn’t need to complete the thought. They all knew.
Somehow, by the worst odds of the universe, the Masters had found them.
Krastor looked at them, the stark paleness of his eyes betraying his despondence. “Let me do the talk—”
A section of the hull exploded inward with a wrenching crash. Sudden and furious winds tugged at them as the ship’s air rushed to make its feeble donation to the Void. Cagor and his companions dug into walls and consoles with sharp claws. The old man they’d fed on found no such purchase and was rocketed rapidly into the void with the escaping air.
The hull was reacting now, folding over to seal the breach. It wasn’t quick enough.
The Master who’d no doubt opened the breach to begin with pulled himself through the hole and landed on his feet with a heavy thunk as the hull sealed above him.
Cagor had never seen this particular rakul in person, but he recognized the hulking, bipedal mass of muscles and sharp edges from the memories his kin had shared with him.
“Kul’Gada,” Al’ Krastor said, dropping to his knees and bowing his head in deference. “Master. We bow before you and praise your—”
Kul’Gada’s thick tail flicked into the wall with a bang, denting the wall and silencing Krastor. The Kul regarded them in silence, eyes burning with crimson fire more intense than any Cagor had ever seen.
Seconds ticked by. Cagor and his companions waited, eyes to the floor, too terrified to move.
“Traitors.” Kul’Gada’s voice poured into Cagor’s mind like a choir of rasping whispers with the weight of an ocean behind them.
It made Cagor cringe. Cringing turned to trembling as Kul’Gada splayed the fingers of one hand and his digits smoothly elongated into foot-long appendages that were more blade than claw.
Al’Krastor half rose from his cowering bow. “Master! We—”
Kul’Gada stepped forward and hacked Al’Krastor’s head into multiple pieces with one sweep of his bladed hand.
Nan’Solga, to his credit, elected to go down fighting once their imminent doom was confirmed. The raknoth roared and lunged for the rakul. Kul’Gada caught Solga’s head in his open palm and slammed the raknoth to the deck hard enough to shatter his skull.
Kul’Gada straightened and stepped on Solga’s broken skull for good measure. It crushed under his weight with a sickly crunch.
Cagor watched, slack-jawed and utterly beyond action as he tried to find the will to move, to fight—to do anything but cower silently, frozen in place.
Then Kul’Gada’s mind fell on his with all the inexorable mass and pull of a black hole, and Cagor was truly and completely powerless to so much as blink as the Kul drank in his every memory and thought of Earth—cursed Earth, with its cursed blood and impetuous humans and its doom, past, present, and future.
“You were wise to flee,” Kul’Gada’s raspy multi-voice finally whispered in his mind what felt like years later. “Your brethren will beg me for such mercifully quick deaths before I am through with them.”
For a thousand years, Nan’Cagor had toiled and trained and vied for position among his peers. He’d listened to his elders’ lectures about the intergalactic supremacy of their strength as a species, about how he and his ilk should be grateful to count themselves among the raknoth and how they should always bear the name with pride. For the most part, he’d listened. He’d believed. But now, a thousand years later, there was no pride to be found—no dignity in the shriek that escaped his throat as Kul’Gada grabbed his skull and squeezed.
One
Of all the items on the long list of things Rachel Cross had never expected to see in her life, it had never even occurred to her to add a raknoth drinking—or, technically, preparing to drink—tea, and especially not one doing it with all the poise and delicacy of a Victorian monarch at that. Yet here she was, and there sat the bloodsucking aristocrat in all his pompous glory.
In the interest of not looking at him one second longer, Rachel instead glanced around the spacious room for the thousandth time, seeing but not really observing the collection of fine ceramics and luxuriously dark, shiny wood furniture that graced the space with its oh-so-eloquent presence. She suppressed an exasperated huff (only for the hundredth time) and settled for squeezing her staff and clenching her toes until her feet cramped.
The collection probably would have gone for an arm and both legs back when people had cared about such things, back before they’d had to shift their focus to more pressing concerns like whether they’d be able to grow enough food for the winter and whether they’d be able to escape the notice of marauders while they did it.
But fancy, gaudy, stupid, unnecessary trinkets weren’t the reason she was about to blow a gasket.
The impetus of that impending calamity was the imperious little brat who sat in front of them, taking his sweet, deliberate time in fixing his tea—the making of which was apparently of life-and-death necessity before he could be bothered to properly hear them out. Or maybe he was just fucking with them. Who drank tea these days anyway?
The raknoth, apparently. Or at least this one.
She never would have expected to use either of the phrases, “little brat” or “fixing his tea,” in reference to a raknoth, and yet here she was, about to burst a blood vessel, and there he was, stirring that steaming cup ever so gingerly with his ridiculous little spoon.
Last time she’d ever agree to play nice.
She glanced over at Lea and decided that if the beautiful Resistance fighter could keep her composure through this nonsense, she could at least give Nan’Ashida one more minute before she put him through one of his rustic adobe walls.
Whether he knew it or not, the little prick spoke up just in time.
“Tell me, Krogoth,” Ashida said to the raknoth sitting across the table from him. God, even his voice was annoying. “Have you ever been on a safari?”
“Never,” Krogoth said.
“A shame.” Ashida raised the tea cup to his lips with three fingers and took a delicate sip, then he let out a contented sigh.
And now she’d seen everything.
“I’ve always found them to be invigorating,” Ashida continued. “The perfect glimpse into the true way of the world—predator and prey, hunter and hunted. Survival”—he pointedly shifted his gaze to her and Lea before looking back at Krogoth—“of the fittest.”
Rachel rolled her eyes so hard the muscles at the tops of her eyeballs threatened to cramp. “Cool story, dude.” Lea tensed at the sound of her words, but Rachel pressed on. “It’s a shame some scaly green assholes had to go and blow the world to shit. Probably wasn’t so invigorating out there during the dark days. Probably still isn’t.”
A crimson glow awakened in Ashida’s eyes, and a look of distaste warped his features as he regarded her.
Given his clear raknoth superiority complex, she was kind of surprised she could read Ashida’s expression at all. Many of the raknoth, like Zar’Krogoth with his rustred hide, elected to retain their reptilian appearances—what Jarek referred to as “going full raknoth”—around the clock. Having dealt with more than enough raknoth in just the past couple of weeks to keep her sated for life, she was getting a bit better at reading the expressions of their scaly snouts and smooth, angled eyebrows, but there was still a lot of guesswork involved.
With Ashida opting to maint
ain the appearance of the human host whose driver’s seat he’d laid permanent claim to, though, his disgust was clear. He had the dark skin of a native Kenyan, which only made the creepy crimson glow of his eyes stand out that much more. He could have hidden the ominous luminance, she knew. That was how the raknoth had managed to take their planet and pull the strings that had ended up wiping out nearly ninety percent of the world’s population fifteen years ago. They hadn’t needed to break a sweat or raise a finger—save for the one that had pressed the nuke button.
She kept that thought firmly in mind as she held Nan’Ashida’s gaze, hoping he’d choke on his stupid tea.
“How can you think to work with these pathetic creatures, brother?” Ashida asked Krogoth. “The lion would not think for a moment to lower itself to the company of the hare. It is unnatural. And unnecessary. This lot”—he flicked a hand toward Rachel and Lea, somehow conveying disgust with the motion—“will be centuries in their graves before we’d ever have any reason to expect the harvesters would come here. And if that should ever come to pass”—he gave a haughty laugh—“I don’t see how our food could hope to stand beside us on the battlefield.”
He went to take another sip of tea and froze, which seemed a little ironic, because that was exactly what his cup of tea had done: frozen solid. At Rachel’s will, of course.
She harmlessly dispersed the heat she’d drawn from the tea and met Ashida’s confused look with a wide grin. “Not bad for a pathetic little hare, huh, asshole?”
Krogoth looked between the frosty cup and Rachel and said nothing. But was that amusement on his features?