Handling the Hybrid

by Evangeline Anderson

  Dark is a Kindred warrior on a mission. He must steal the Shannom-rah, an ancient crystal capable of storing trillions of personalities, before the enemy of his people gets it. In order to do this, he has to infiltrate the home of the Trollox collector who owns the priceless artifact. Posing as a Replicant, he is in the perfect position to complete his mission. But he didn’t count on finding a female in danger. Despite his determination not to get involved, his heart is torn by her plight. As his feelings of protectiveness for Anna grow, he longs to tell her the truth about himself. But he knows doing so will destroy her faith in him—she has been hurt so badly by living males, she can only trust him because she thinks he is a Replicant.

  When the truth comes out will Anna still care for him, or will she feel betrayed knowing that she has been…Deceived?

  One

  The first time Dark’s mother held him, she cried.

  It had been a long and difficult delivery and she was nearly used up, her emotional and physical resources bled dry by the agonizing pain of the birth. When the midwife handed her the newborn, she took one look at his strange, bronze eyes and cried out in horror.

  “A Pain Taker—the child is a Pain Taker!”

  Then she turned her face to the wall and wept and would not be comforted.

  Dark had heard the story often enough from his father that he knew it by heart. And his sire always added, “She was never the same after that. She started fading away the minute you came into the world.”

  Or some similar accusatory words whose meaning was clear, even when he was child. You’re a freak—you don’t belong. You aren’t wanted.

  Although to be fair, his mother had never made him feel unwanted in the short time he had known her. She might have had a moment of weakness at his birth, but she had loved him and his little brother fiercely, right up until her death, when Dark was thirteen cycles and his brother Creek was only seven.

  That was the first time he ever used his gift—or curse, call it what you will. It was the first time Dark had allowed himself to take pain for another of his own volition.

  It was the sound of his little brother’s tears that prompted him to do it. They shared a room and he could hear Creek crying in the darkness, missing their mother so much it seemed as though his tender heart might break. He was so young—too young to be motherless and alone. For their father was never home—running his restaurant, LorElle, which had earned fifteen Marks of Honor from Frip, the most prestigious Culinary Guide in their quadrant. His job was a convenient excuse—a constant escape.

  After their mother’s death, their father threw himself even harder into his work as head chef and restaurant owner. So that soon, instead of only seeing their father for a few brief hours at night, Dark and his brother were lucky to see him for an hour or two during the week. And that was only when he was so tired he was drooping with weariness or he had to get a change of clothing.

  Dark had suspected their father might be trying to work himself to death so he could join their mother—or at least, work himself into oblivion so that he could forget her loss. He and Creek had no such luxury, however. They had only each other and Creek was nearly paralyzed with grief.

  It was on one of the nights when his little brother’s sobs were especially intense, that Dark finally slid out of his own sleeping platform and went to him. Creek was curled in a ball of misery at the foot of the bed, his shoulders heaving, his entire body tight with the pain of loss.

  “Creek?” Dark had touched his little brother and sensed the intense pain radiating off him like heat from an oven. He had his own grief to bear—his mother’s death had hit him like the blow of a hammer, smashing some vital thing inside him that was crooked now and might never be made right. But he couldn’t stand to see his brother suffer—his misery called to Dark, his suffering shining like a dark star in the night.

  “Creek,” he said again. “Come on, now—come here.”

  He had pulled his little brother up to the head of the bed and wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders, letting Creek press his hot face to his chest while he sobbed.

  “It’s all right,” he told his brother. “Everything will be all right.” Which was a lie and they both knew it but he had to say something.

  “No, it’s n-n-not,” Creek had stammered through his tears. “Nuh-nothing will ever b-be all right ag-g-gain. Muhmuh’s gone—she’s gone, Dark! And she’s n-n-never coming back!”

  “I know.” Dark had sat there, holding his brother and feeling helpless. Creek could be a brat sometimes but he loved the little guy. Also, now that their mother was dead and their father always gone, he felt responsible for him as well.

  What can I do? How can I help? he asked himself. A voice whispered in his head—take his pain.

  He had never done this willingly or on purpose before. As a Dark Healer –half Dark Healer, anyway, his other half was Blood Kindred—he knew that some of his people had the innate ability to heal the emotional and physical pain of others. But only those that harnessed and practiced the power of healing could really use it effectively. The holy ones who lived and prayed at the Temple of the Goddess of Healing studied for years in order to be able to ease mental and physical suffering. And even after years of study and practice, they could not heal completely but only ease the ache.

  What it took the holy ones years to master, came easily and naturally to Dark—too naturally. He had spent his childhood being subjected to the negative emotions of the other kids in his crèche. Anytime another child touched his bare skin, he instantly absorbed whatever hurt—either emotional or physical—they had, leading him to easy tears and early avoidance of touch.

  His mother had begged to take him out of the crèche and keep him home but his father had refused.

  “Let him stay—he needs to toughen up,” he’d told her. “He needs to learn early how to put up walls around himself. How to keep the others out. Otherwise he won’t last a minute in the real world. Pain Takers have to get hard fast or they die, Melsandra—you know that.”

  Dark had learned and by the time he’d been old enough for primary classes, he had a tough shell around him to keep others out. The other children knew not to touch him—a lesson he reinforced by breaking one boy’s fingers when the bully wouldn’t let him alone. He’d been suspended for several weeks for that but it was the one time Dark remembered his father expressing pride in him.

  “Did what you had to do—good for you, son,” he’d barked, clapping Dark on the back so hard he almost fell over. “Don’t let them get behind your walls and you’ll be fine. We might make something of you yet.”

  It was the first time his father had showed him any physical or verbal approval and shortly after that, Dark was allowed to accompany his sire to the kitchen of LorElle and start helping with the prep work. It was there that he fell in love with cooking, for it was the only way to be close to his father—who closed himself off from everyone but their mother, when she was alive and closed himself off entirely after her death.

  So Dark had learned his lessons from his father early and well—keep your walls high and your knives sharp. But sitting there in the darkness, cradling his younger brother who was weeping his heart out, Dark couldn’t keep his walls up anymore.

  Circling Creek’s thin, birdlike wrist loosely in a finger and thumb, he had deliberately let down his walls for the first time since he had built them up in primary ed.

  Pain had blazed into him, pouring like fire through a funnel into his guts. His own grief for his mother was like a dull, grinding ache—a constant sorrow that never went completely away, even when he was asleep. But Creek had intense emotions and their mother had been his whole world. He hadn’t been born a Pain Taker like Dark, so their father had allowed her to baby him and cuddle him as she had not be able to do with her oldest son. Creek felt her loss like a knife wound to the heart—a stabbing agony that went on and on and never dulled or lessened. A pain so great it was breaking him.

  It al
most broke Dark too.

  As he sat in the darkness and let his brother’s pain flow into him like a poison tide, he felt as though he might die of it and yet he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t yank his hand away and leave Creek to face the pain himself.

  I love him too much, he thought, dizzy and sick with the piercing, stabbing, blinding ache of both his own pain and his brother’s. It hurts more to see him in pain than it does to take it on myself. I have to take it all—have to ease his ache.

  As so he did, though it weakened him so much he could barely get out of bed the next morning. But that night, for the first time since their mother had died, Creek slept peacefully. And looking at his little brother’s sleeping face, the lines of pain and loss temporarily smoothed from his forehead and his young body completely relaxed in sleep, Dark knew it was worth it—worth the intense agony of taking his brother’s grief inside himself, worth the weakness that followed—worth everything just to give Creek a little bit of peace.

  It was a cycle that repeated itself often. For though he could take the emotional pain of the loss for a little while, it always returned. It was never so bad as that first time, however, and after a while, it lessened considerably and Dark learned to live with it.

  His father, of course, had no idea of what he was doing. To him, Dark was nothing but an extra set of hands in the kitchen when he could be spared from watching his brother—a convenient extra prep cook whom he barely saw. He buried his own grief in work and let his sons fend for themselves—why would he know or care what Dark was doing?

  Dark had grown to resent his father even as he emulated him. By the time he was twenty-five cycles old, he had a restaurant of his own on Rigelis Prime, far from his sire. Creek had come to work for him and by the time Dark was twenty-eight, he had earned the first ten of the coveted Marks of Honor. He’d been planning on earning another ten and surpassing his father in every way—not that the old bastard would probably notice.

  And then the Ambassador from Yonnie Six came and his life became wildly skewed.

  She and her entourage ate at his restaurant—Tour’femm—and found both the food and the head chef to their liking. She had waited for him, surrounded by guards with blasters, and caught both him and Creek in the alley after closing time.

  Before Dark knew it, both he and his little brother were sold to the ruthless Mistress Hellenix to work in her kitchens. He had done some of his best cooking there—better even than he’d done when he knew the critic from Fisk was reviewing him. That was because the sadistic Mistress was quick to criticize and free with her pain whip when she didn’t like the end result of Dark’s tireless work.

  How often had he tasted the sting of her lash—and taken Creek’s pain as well as his own afterwards? For his little brother and no one else would Dark endure the double agony that came with his curse. And he endured it often while they were slaves on Yonnie Six.

  He had feared he would live his life in bondage but then a miracle happened—his cruel Mistress had traded him and Creek for another slave and at last Dark and his brother were free.

  Dark had planned to go straight back to Rigelus Prime. He didn’t know what might be left of Tour’femm but he was determined to go back to the life he had built for himself and finish earning the Marks of Honor. He would put everything he had endured at the hands of his sadistic Mistress to the far back of his mind and forget it, he promised himself. As for Creek, thanks to Dark’s gift, his brother had been mostly spared from the horror. He ought to be able to live his life as well. They would run the restaurant together and forget and be happy—or at least be free.

  Then came the dream.

  The dream of the girl with the bruised face and frightened look—the dream of the Shannom-rah—an ancient artifact desperately needed by the Kindred of the Mother Ship. They had to get to the rainbow crystal which was capable of storing trillions upon trillions of personalities before their enemy, the Knower did.

  And Dark had volunteered to go.

  Because of the dream. Because of the voice he’d heard whispering, A life for a life—you must go, warrior.

  But, not because of the girl, he told himself firmly, as he looked out over the assembled crowd in the Replicant brothel. Not her. Never her.

  He’d been failed by females all his life. His mother who died and left him with an uncaring father and a helpless brother to take care of…the Yonnite ambassador who had stolen five long cycles of his life…the Mistress who had beaten him when she was angry and done…other things when she was pleased.

  No, he had no time for females, Dark told himself. No time, no patience, and no need. After this assignment he would go back home and live out the rest of his life the way his father had—working in the kitchen of his own restaurant to make the best cuisine he could, seeking the elusive Marks of Honor, and never, ever taking a mate.

  Wonder what Creek’s doing now? Is he prepping for Last Meal service tonight? he thought, listening to the crowd murmur among themselves over the pumping music. The auction was about to begin and expectations were high. The Replicants were lined up in neat rows around the perimeter of the large room and everyone was eager to begin. Most of the were female—because most of the buyers were male—but there were a few male Replicants on the far side of the room. Dark was at the end of their line. His handler—the brothel employee who had smuggled him in for a princely sum—was long gone and now he was on his own.

  Can’t believe I’m actually going through with this! If it wasn’t for that damn dream…

  This wasn’t the first time Dark had been auctioned off—he’d been sold to Mistress Hellenix at the Flesh Bazaar five cycles before. Even though he was being sold of his own volition this time and the assignment would be temporary, he could feel his nerves beginning to fray.

  He was beginning to sweat, the fine droplets of perspiration beading on his forehead just below his black hair. He usually wore it long but he’d had it cut short on the Kindred Mothership—the better to emulate the neat, artificially handsome Replicant he was supposed to be.

  Replicants were humanoid-seeming androids manufactured by the Knower, the enemy of the Kindred people. It was a powerful AI who had taken over an entire Kindred planet and killed all the inhabitants—but that had happened in another timeline—one Dark didn’t remember.

  It was a complicated matter but no more complicated than what he was involved in now—passing himself off as a Replicant in order to get to the Shannom-rah and keep it from falling into the wrong hands—the Knower’s hands.

  But I must only be sold to Gorn G’rime, the current owner of the Shannom-rah, he reminded himself. It was a good thing this was a silent auction with the bidders walking around the spacious room with black marble floors and glaring neon lights decorating the walls, where the brothel usually held its late night orgies. Hopefully this way he could make a case for himself and Gorn would want to buy him.

  It was well known to the Kindred council that the Trollox had plenty of money—enough to have bought the Shannom-rah in the first place, which was considered a priceless artifact. So he could certainly afford to outbid everyone else at the auction if he liked Dark.

  As he had that thought, his future owner (he hoped) came into view.

  The Trollox were a hideous race in every respect. They had gray skin and two heads—each one horned and with glowing eyes. Dark couldn’t help noticing that Gorn’s left head was slightly higher than the right, giving the huge Trollox a lopsided look to his powerful body.

  But having one head higher than the other didn’t do a thing to diminish Gorn’s apparent physical strength. Though Dark himself was seven standard feet tall and muscular, thanks to his Kindred heritage, the Trollox topped him by two feet at least. The horned heads were attached to a massive torso which was bare and covered in glowing spiral tattoos—one for every enemy Gorn had killed, if the research Dark had done was correct. And he couldn’t help noticing that the Trollox had a lot of fucking ink.

  His pros
pective owner came stumping over on legs like tree trunks. The left head had glowing yellow eyes which scanned Dark up and down while the right head looked over other prospective candidates, glaring at the Replicants lined up in a row with restless red eyes.

  In any other situation a strange male of Gorn’s size coming to look him over, would have sent Dark into high alert. He would have lifted his chin and glared at the other male, giving attitude for attitude, letting him know that he was no easy mark.

  But he couldn’t do that now, he reminded himself—couldn’t stare down the other male or it would be obvious he wasn’t a Replicant. Instead he stared straight ahead, pretending cool disinterest as Gorn looked him over.

  “Well, yer a pretty one, ain’t you?” the Trollox sneered at last in a voice like someone gargling with gravel. “Bet some desperate female snaps you up quick-like so you can fuck her every night, pretty boy.”

  “Your pardon, Master, but I am not built for sexual gratification,” Dark said coolly.

  “You’re not?” The Trollox sounded surprised and his right head stopped scanning the crowd and turned to survey Dark as closely as the left head was. “Prove it!” he demanded.

  Dark had come prepared for this. He had been willing to go on this mission only as long as he didn’t have to worry about servicing anyone—especially the Trollox—sexually. Accordingly, one of the engineers who worked on the Pairing Puppets, which were the androids the unmated Kindred on the Mother Ship used to meet their needs, had created a prosthesis Dark could wear.