GRYFFIN STRAIN: HIS FEMALE
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, September 2004
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
PO Box 787
Hudson, OH 44236-0787
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0005-6
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
GRYFFIN STRAIN: HIS FEMALE © 2004 MADISON HAYES
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Gryffin Strain: His Female
Madison Hayes
Chapter One
Jarrk threw himself backward and twisted to avoid Grat’s sledgehammer right knowing Grat would follow up with a low left. Then jumped back another step to avoid the hammering left. He could have come back with a rounding blow to Grat’s stomach, but didn’t want to make the golden Gryffin angry.
He just wanted to win.
An angry Grat would be hard to beat. And he had to win. A quick glance at the human female reinforced his opinion, along with his resolve. Jarrk squinted against the afternoon sun, bursting through the trees that ringed the clearing, and almost missed Grat’s next barrage.
Chiarra watched the golden Gryffin as his fist shot out to swipe viciously at his opponent. On his head, a ruff of spiky hair rose in angry menace. The silver male was fast, agile. As he threw himself backward, Chiarra noted at least a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.
She didn’t hold out much hope for either of them, however. Gryffins were nothing more than animals—at least that’s what she’d been taught and there was no evidence here to convince her otherwise.
Jerking against strong hands that gripped her, Chiarra sneered at what she considered pure, ugly, male barbarism. She couldn’t help but see her position as a lose/lose situation. The two males circled each other, hand hackles raised, barbs out, as they fought for the right to include her in their fold. The creatures’ upper bodies glimmered with a sheen of sweat as they paced out a circle on the trampled grass, each of them searching for the opening that would assure success, each of them reluctant to commit to an action that would threaten failure.
Chiarra’s eyes followed the silver male. Although the Gryffin had had openings, opportunities to injure, he hadn’t immediately pressed his advantage. Instead, he appeared to hold in rein a leashed power not yet released. His behavior implied he would not be satisfied with injury and waited his opportunity to destroy. As though he had a strategy. Now she frowned at the man.
Male!
Male, she corrected herself, quickly.
Barbs thrust forward on a huge fist, Grat made his next lunge. Jarrk’s head snapped back as he took the barbs high on his cheek, felt Grat’s barbs tear into his skin. As he slanted toward the ground, Jarrk punched the top of his left hand with his right fist. A jet of blue liquid shot into Grat’s eyes and the Gryffin howled. Jarrk’s hand snaked around Grat’s neck and pulled the heavier Gryffin earthward with him as a twisting motion put Jarrk on top. With his knee between Grat’s shoulder blades and a fist in his hair, Jarrk yanked his head back and pressed his barbs tight against Grat’s scalp at the base of his ruff.
There were a few panting seconds as Grat glared up at Chiarra with violence. “Take the bitch!”
As Jarrk released Grat, Chiarra watched the golden Gryffin hop to his feet, swift to demonstrate his defeat as merely temporary. With curled lip, Chiarra snorted at what she considered a pathetic display of male assertiveness.
Or re-assertiveness, in Grat’s case.
She returned her attention to the champion. When he slid her a look from under white eyelashes, she hurried to meet it with a haughty stare meant to inform the Gryffin she was nobody’s prize. She expected gloating satisfaction from the male. Instead, she was surprised to find his expression held only relief. She gritted her teeth. Evidently, the creature considered her a prize of some importance.
As Jarrk started toward her, the hands that had gripped her pushed her forward to face her new master. She elbowed herself free, wiping her hands distastefully on the simple linen wrap that hugged her hips. When the silver Gryffin stopped in front of her, she glared into his neon eyes and spat full in his face. Coldly, she watched his reaction as his eyes jerked to hers with a flash of pain, pain that had been entirely absent—earlier—when Grat ripped into his face.
Grat let out a hoot of derision. “Thanks for sparing me that, Jarrk! Take the girl and welcome to her.”
Chiarra watched her spittle sag on the Gryffin’s cheek to mix with the blood he’d shed for her. His gaze darkened as he raised a hand to wipe his face. “You’ll live to regret that,” he told her, just before he turned and walked away.
Chapter Two
Jeering catcalls followed Jarrk while Chiarra stood watching his back. The Gryffin, having apparently lost interest in her, moved out of the clearing and melted into the forest as they disappeared into their lodges. With sudden realization, Chiarra accelerated after Jarrk. Just catching a glimpse of silver between two thick trunks, she followed him out of the clearing. It was an old forest with widely spaced birch and elm along with chestnut. Underfoot, the path was clear of the jumble of low growth found in younger forests. Small geyser pools sprang up in unexpected places to feed fences of willows. Chiarra saw Jarrk disappear behind a mass of green vine. She followed.
Parting a curtain of periwinkle, Chiarra slipped through the opening, straightened and blinked. She found herself within a long, low structure constructed of live willow, bowed into an arch and woven together. Turning, she frowned at the lodge opening, which, from the outside, was a perfectly camouflaged part of the forest. Several females were active in the long open dwelling.
At least, she assumed they were females and not boys.
Female Gryffins were straight-waisted and flat-chested. Chiarra pressed back a smile; for once in her life, she felt on the generous side of well endowed. Not that the women weren’t without their own beauty. For although they couldn’t boast about the size of their chests, Gryffin females had her beat all-to-hell in the color department. Each female sported a ruffled V-shaped fan above her shallow breasts, similar to the males’ chest fans but in colors—vivid colors—varying from iridescent greens, to opalescent blues, pearly purples and every glowing, fiery shade of orange and red produced in the flickering depths of hearth-fire.
A female passed, her loose shorts riding low on her hips. Low enough that Chiarra could see brilliant crescents of color that started just below her pelvic wings and continued downward into the low-slung shorts.
But Chiarra wasn’t there to guess how far the color dipped between a Gryffin’s legs. She looked for the male, Jarrk. And found him across the room. He watched her from the corner of one eye, while one of his women painted a thin, clear substance over his wound. Chiarra opened her mouth…and held the words back with a curled tongue.
Like the shovel jaw Beejer, the Gryffin were a magnificent stain—you couldn’t help but admire them. Jarrk’s spiking curls framed an angular face dominated by a strong nose that started at his eyebrows and slanted down from there, in a long line, to just above his mouth. And the mouth curved boldly, wide above a strong but narrow chin. The eyes were neon—always neon—in Jarrk’s case, an inner circle of brilliant purple ringed with a wide band of dark silver. And yet, the sum of these features is not what made Jarrk a striking animal, instead, it was the b
ushy white eyebrows that arched high and fierce over his neon eyes. They gave the creature an air of intelligence that she would never have credited—
“It’s impolite to stare,” he told her. His tenor voice graveled and rasped like stones in a jar.
She smiled at him indulgently. “I only returned yours.”
He grunted. “You’re supposed to be better than I,” he reminded her. “Mind the example you set.”
Her mind reeled backward across the room, across space and time, across misconceptions and unfounded prejudice. She’d heard of animals, like the Gryffin, that used tools, that could communicate. Some birds used thorns to spear grubs. Small apes used leaves to collect drinking water. Certain sea animals communicated amongst themselves with rudimentary language. Dogs could be playful and even teasing.
She could not recall one report of an animal with a sense of humor.
Let alone a cynical sense of humor.
And yet…humor is what she saw in Jarrk’s neon eyes as he turned his face toward her.
It set her back a bit. Her lips parted. They stared at each other several moments before Jarrk finally pulled his gaze from hers. “Thank you, Akela,” he told the woman who had painted his wound.
“You told me I’d live to regret—”
“You will.”
“That’s a threat?”
He shook his head. “That’s a fact.”
She snorted at him, pityingly. She could have walked away from the clearing and lost herself in the forest. “What’s to stop my escape from your…fold?”
“The maelstrom, mostly, although you’re welcome to escape if you can manage it. You might try the forest. Mind the dragons.” He stood and started across the room.
“You’ll stop me.”
He flicked a glance her way. “No.”
She almost decided the male might be simpleminded after all. Why had he fought to include her in his fold?
“I don’t give a—fuck—what you do.”
Chiarra started.
“Did I use the word correctly?” he inquired, politely.
Eyes narrowed, she gave him a curt nod.
“You may stay here if you choose, try the forest or attempt a crossing on your own. No one from the clan will try to stop you. And after your recent display of gratitude—”
“Gratitude!”
“—I doubt any will try to help you. If you stay, my females will show you how you can make yourself useful.”
“Useful!” she sputtered. “To you? If you plan to use me—”
“Only if you force yourself on me.”
“—I won’t require instruction!” Chiarra took an angry breath.
Jarrk stared back at her, the beginnings of a smile on his face as his final words made some headway through the thick bunker that was her skull.
Only if you force yourself on me?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, “although with eight females, I won’t require a ninth.”
“Why did you fight for me,” she snapped, “if you don’t plan to use me?”
“I thought I’d made that clear,” he informed her brusquely. Then smiled slowly. “You needn’t sound so disappointed.” Long strides on lean legs carried him to the door.
“When will you make the next crossing?” she demanded, before he could escape. “When will it be safe to cross to the north side of the maelstrom?”
“Not until the next meteorological phase…several weeks in your language.”
“You’ll permit me to cross—then?”
“Nothing would please me more,” he told her, “other than your earlier departure.” He ducked through the door and was gone.
Scowling, Chiarra turned to find the female Akela glaring at her. Her ruff was up. “What!”
“You’re slow,” she said unkindly, “even for a human.”
Chiarra made a gesture of impatience.
“You humiliated Jarrk in front of our clan. When you spat at him. You made him lose face.”
“Why should I care?!”
“You’re every kind of fool, human! Jarrk only fought for you to save you. When he told you that you’d live to regret your action, he meant it literally. You’ll live! You’d have died in Grat’s fold, inside a week.”
“You don’t give me much credit.”
“Credit wouldn’t help you when Grat set his barbs into you.”
Chiarra felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
“The poison won’t kill a Gryffin, unless it’s delivered at the ruff. It did, however, kill the last human Grat mated.”
Reaching out blindly for something to steady her, Chiarra dropped into a chair. Several revelations assailed her at once and she felt her forehead crumple like a battered shield as she reconsidered—the relief she had seen in Jarrk’s eyes immediately following the fight—the pain when she spat on him.
“Tar’s Pit,” she muttered under her breath.
Chapter Three
By the time the meal was prepared, Chiarra was dragging. Akela had put her directly to work, skinning shanks. Chiarra carried a trencher to the pit and set it on a low table. Her legs folded beneath her as she dropped to the floor.
It had been a long day, a day begun with running interspersed with hiding. She’d lain, face down, heart galloping, in a narrow ditch while a column of men tramped to within a few feet of her hiding place. One of the soldiers had spat into the ditch.
Up again, a hasty glance behind her and more running. A glimpse of yellow uniforms between two trees. A frantic dash across the deep, smooth chasm while the maelstrom winds sucked at her with growing force. Knowing if she could make The Spit, she’d be safe—for a time.
Chiarra’s eyes glazed with fatigue as she recalled the wild, swirling winds as they picked up velocity then increased with alarming violence—one foot had slipped—the maelstrom tugged then dragged her down the smooth, bare floor of the chasm, dragged her fighting for one more foothold, one more step.
Clutching upward to climb the chasm walls—Chiarra opened her hands to blink down at her skinned palms—coming face-to-face with the tall, golden Gryffin.
Grat.
But she was safe for the time being, for as long as the winds were up, isolating the spit of land that split the maelstrom.
Located about ten leagues inland, The Spit was created when the easterly winds swept across the ocean and pushed into the wide fjords at the sea’s edge. The high mountains that bracketed one of these fjords channeled the winds into an ever-narrowing valley. At certain times of the year, when the winds were fierce and trending into the valley, the maelstrom was created, rushing through the valley with the tumbling force of a mountain stream. Within the valley was a shallower chasm on either side of The Spit. Originally created by water, this chasm was now empty and scoured bare by the maelstrom winds. At the height of the maelstrom, there was no way to cross the chasm.
Yes, she was safe for the time being. And after that?
She’d have to make the north crossing before the uniforms returned for her.
Jarrk’s females turned to watch him enter the lodge. Swinging a bundle off his shoulder, he threw several rabbits down just inside the door and joined his females for dinner.
Like the females, Jarrk wore nothing on his chest. Loose dragon-skin pants hung low on his hips, revealing his belly and a good deal of skin below that—skin that gradually gave way to fringed scales that disappeared into his pants. A sporran of dragon spines hung to cover and protect his groin triangle. He wore nothing on his feet, which were calloused and spurred at the heels.
Blinking hard to keep awake, Chiarra picked through the crisped hide and cracked bones for bits of meat. Eyes glazing again, she found herself staring at the skin stretched taut across Jarrk’s flanks. When he moved, she tipped her head as her eyes tried to follow the silver crescents into his pants. She stopped, holding her breath, and stared, captivated by a warm desire—to smooth her hands over the taut skin, the fringed scales—to slide her hands down
between dragon skin and Gryffin skin, over the flat male stomach—to follow the riff of crescents and discover…what that would lead to.
He leaned forward. Almost absently, she noted the very thick, very male mound beneath his sporran. Whatever the crescents lead to, there was a lot of it. She blinked with a start and raised her eyes—and met Jarrk’s intent gaze.
He adjusted his pants upward with an impatient jerk. Slowly, the ruff on his head lifted his curling hair. Tension sprang from him to his females as they all stared at him. Tension as thick as Tar’s dick.
Chiarra lowered her eyes.
“Akela,” he said. “It would seem my new female hungers for something other than what she’s been offered.” His tone was clipped and Chiarra bit her lip as her cheeks warmed. “Are there any knuckles left?”
Akela left to return with a jar, which she emptied into a bowl. Reaching for one of the meaty joints, Chiarra didn’t stop until the bone was clean. When her head drooped, she jumped suddenly, realizing she was almost asleep. She needed to apologize to Jarrk, she thought. And that was the last thing she remembered.
* * * * *
She woke to murmurings of erotic pleasure. Rolling toward the sound, Chiarra could make out the female named Shani on hands and knees in the center of the sleeping pit, the dim form of Jarrk as he knelt behind her, groin firm against her bottom. With fingers spread, he worked them into the ruff on her head, which appeared to intensify the woman’s pleasure. As he tugged his fingers through her ruff, Shani’s neck arched backward and she jerked against him a few short spasms then collapsed.
That didn’t last long, Chiarra thought briefly, then realized one of the other females now knelt behind Jarrk, her arms wrapped around him; her hands moving up his torso to caress the fan on his chest. Chiarra watched Akela’s hands as they ran into the silvery crescents that spanned Jarrk’s chest in the same place a human male would grow hair. Tiny, fringed scales lifted when she pulled her hands upward and flattened when she pulled her hands down.
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