8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
W rage
I doubt I can take them all. If they were armed with anything but lasers, I’d have no problem. If Elyse wasn’t here I’d try, though. But she’s my life now, and my responsibility. I toss my makeshift weapon to the floor and raise my hands.
“Who are you?” I say as I take a step forward. “What do you want?
“We have our weapons trained on him and he makes demands,” one of them jokes to his comrades. “Must be stupid as well as ugly.”
“Come.” He motions toward the door with his weapon.
“Let my mate dress,” I demand as heat flares through me just imagining these drackers getting even a glimpse of my mate.
He takes the butt of his gun and jabs it into my cheek. A white-hot spike flashes from the point of impact up through my eye and into my brain. I shake my head, but stand my ground.
“Let her dress,” I insist again.
He feints as if he’s going to hit me again, then shakes his head and says, “Okay.”
I pull my pants on from where they were lying on the floor, then encourage Elyse to stand as I keep her covered with the bedspread. She dresses just as she did on the bus at the ocean the other day.
We march out past Elkin who doesn’t appear surprised to see the armed guards forcing us through the tight hallways. Was this all a plot? Was there even a shortage of rooms in the city, or was this all arranged somehow by the evil female who spawned me? Did she send this particular hover driver who just happened to have a cousin who just happened to have a room that was in a shady section of town where we could be easily stolen from our bed in the middle of the night?
“This isn’t right,” Elyse protests in a whisper, her words meant for me. She’s afraid. Her pulse is hammering in her throat, her blue eyes wide in her face.
They roughly slap pain/kill collars around our necks, then force us into a hover-van.
“Where are you taking us?” I demand even though I know there won’t be an answer.
There are five of them now. The driver must have stayed with the vehicle. There are two in the front and three behind us. After we slide into our seats, they make a show of having their weapons aimed at our heads. I’m going to figure out a way to free Elyse, but it’s not going to be accomplished in the tight quarters of this hover.
We’re taken to the spaceport and forced into a small vessel. I keep looking for a means of escape, but I’m outmanned and outgunned. And I have Elyse to think of.
The vessel is shaped vaguely like a piece of pie, and they seat us in the rear. I’ve been dragged all over this sector of the galaxy in the cheap seats of every type of transport, often behind bars or locked in the hold. I’ve never seen anything remotely like this. It’s sleek inside and out. The hover driver sits in the pilot seat and begins powering up before they even lock us into our seats.
“We were promised priority,” he barks at ground control. Sure enough we take off in less than a minima . Whoever is behind this has a great deal of power.
Although I’ve been jolted into hyperdrive dozens of times on the way to matches, I’ve never experienced anything like this. The force knocks me back into my seat with such power I grunt as my head is thrust against the headrest. They’re obviously in a hurry to get us off-planet.
“I’m sorry Elyse,” I say after the launch stabilizes and we’ve adjusted to the hyperdrive. I’m not embarrassed to express my feelings in front of this galactic scum.
‘Ooh, he’s got it bad,” one of the drackers teases. “She’s going to be hard to love after her new owner is finished with her.”
“It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Are you kidding? This is all the rage on Earth. The couples’ friends kidnap them and take them somewhere exotic they’ve never been before. I think this qualifies,” she says bravely. “I can’t believe you planned such a great honeymoon.”
I scowl, but I’m proud of her courage. I reach to hold her hand, but the seats are too far apart.
“This honeymoon is going to be out of this world,” the pilot goads. “I’m going to be your tour guide. You’re going to have the pleasure of a trip to Rhoid, compliments of this fellow's mother. One thing is certain, you’re either a terrible son or she’s a terrible mother.
“I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to endure even a layover on the planet.” He manipulates the instrument panel, then turns in his seat to enjoy the show his words will provoke. He, like all the others, has taken off his protective shields. With their faces exposed, I see they’re all Wryth’Ns. “They like to call themselves a planet, but it’s so small it barely qualifies.
“It’s good for nothing except green salt. Mines dot the entire planet. Most are owned by the Rackton company, and run by a fellow name of Sooma Ryone. You don’t rise to the top of the heap on a planet like that because of your good intentions and scruples. He’s one badass from what I hear. Better try to stay on his good side for as long as you live.”
Glancing at Elyse I see her eyes fly open as she gasps. Her brave front has disappeared. She’s terrified.
“Green salt is green because it’s radioactive. Average lifespan in the mines is less than an annum , although some races last longer. Not sure about Wryth’N, though, and not sure about . . .?” He’s waiting for her to tell him her race. She doesn’t answer.
He grabs a toothpick from an indent in his computer desk and begins working at something in the back of his mouth.
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t answer, female. Whatever race you are, a little thing like you isn’t going to last long.”
This time, when I reach for her she sees my hand and grasps it as if it’s a lifeline.
“Why does my mother want me on Rhoid?” I ask levelly. I don’t want them to realize how badly I want an answer.
“She didn’t stoop to tell someone at my level all the particulars, asshole. She did say I needed to take you immediately. She made sure we got priority at the spaceport. And she said, and I quote, “I don’t want him to ever leave the miserable planet you’re taking him to. Do I make myself clear?’”
My stomach tightens like it’s being gripped in a fist. I should have killed her when I had the chance. Even though Wryth’N has the death penalty, it couldn’t be worse than what that bitch sentenced us to.
One of our captors offers us water, Elyse sips some before I can warn her.
Elyse
Wrage warned me before I could stop my reflex to swallow—they drugged me. I wake up when one of the men slaps my cheek.
“Wake up,” he mocks, “wouldn’t want to miss that honeymoon surprise you were excited about.”
I have to pee so badly I wonder how long I was out. That moves to second priority, though, when I glance out the windows flanking the pointed nose of the vessel.
Is that a planet? The closer we get, the more I understand the pilot’s warning. It’s a swirling ball of red dust.
Wrage is peering out the windows looking dazed. I wonder if they drugged him too. If I know him, even though he’s half out of it he’s planning a method of escape. I’m not feeling optimistic. Certainly, neither of us know how to pilot a ship, and God knows, it looks like that’s going to be our only ticket off this rock.
Landing is a lot smoother than takeoff, and we’re released from our bonds and hustled off the ship into a metal hangar. It’s old and rusty with holes in the metal, especially at the seams. Sand blown by the galeforce winds seeps in through every crevice, pelting my skin and whipping my hair so wildly I have trouble seeing.
My parents took me to Cancun when I was in high school. It was hot as blazes that week and I realized I never wanted to live in the tropics even if other people described it as paradise. One day we were caught in a sudden afternoon storm. One moment it was sunny, the next it was monsooning. We sat in the safety of the old school bus we were touring on with three dozen other strangers.
It was so hot and humid I thought I would die. That’s what it’s like here except it’s combined with blowing red sand that’s abrasive enough to be giving me a facial even as we speak.
Five laser blasters are trained on us, which is overkill considering we’re wearing pain/kill collars. Wrage’s hands are tied behind his back and his feet are shackled so closely together he can’t walk, it’s more like a shuffle. Wrage leans to me and says, “I don’t need a day at the spa. My face will be smooth as a baby’s butt if I just stand in the wind.”
He has the audacity to give me a lopsided grin and a wink.
My heart squeezes with my love for this male. Despite our circumstances, he’s trying to joke to ease my panic.
“Get moving, shitbags,” one of them bellows while another prods Wrage between his shoulder blades.
There’s a huge purple bruise on Wrage’s cheek. I heard the force of the blow when one of them hit him with the butt of his rifle in our room. I thought the asshole might have broken the bone.
I have the urge to kiss it better. Tears threaten behind my eyelids at the thought of how deeply I love this male after knowing him for such a short time.
After four years in captivity, when half the time I yearned for death, not believing that anything good could ever happen to me, I stumbled into this force of nature called Wrage. I found the beauty of wreathing and companionship and silly jokes, and yeah, the amazing physical connection we share.
My brain chooses this moment to taunt me with pictures of my beautiful male looking up at me from between my feet as he adored me with his mouth when he marked me.
Why would fate be so cruel as to tease me with such bliss for a few short days only to snatch it away?
I must not be moving fast enough to suit the male behind me because I feel the barrel of his laser rifle graze the back of my neck.
“Move,” is all he needs to grunt for me to scurry ahead.
Outside the shelter of the dilapidated hanger, the winds are ten times harsher than they were a moment ago. I can barely see five feet in front of me, but I keep moving forward to escape the cold kiss of the laser.
We’re led past what must be the opening to one of the mines. This stuff has got to be worth a fortune if the entire planet is being mined for it, but they haven’t invested a lot in infrastructure. It looks like something I saw in a black and white movie about the old west.
The opening is a slanted soil ramp leading deep into the planet. There are guards at the open mouth of the mine. They’re armed and looking in. I don’t think they’re guarding from predators. They’re guarding to prevent escape.
I see a few scraggly looking males, all of different races, milling about. They have slave collars and wear nothing else except loincloths and beards. They’re filthy. Looking at them I imagine they haven’t had a bath since they were dumped on this godforsaken rock.
I’ve never been much of a believer in the power of prayer, but I start praying up a storm.
We pass a few more outbuildings, then approach a mansion. The juxtaposition of incongruity hits me like a brick. All the poverty and hardship of the miners is just steps away from this house that was created to be a work of art.
It looks hewn out of the planet’s red rock. Built in a similar style to the castles of old, this structure has tiny vertical windows maybe six inches wide. There are hundreds of them. They must be designed to let in light while protecting the house from the sandstorms.
Both Wrage and I are nudged up the steps at the point of gunbarrels. Not long after the guard knocks, a naked young woman opens the door, her head bowed as she steps back to allow us all in.
I glance at her, noticing her sky-blue skin and four arms. It’s something males from all over the galaxy whisper about when they’re drunk. They often brag that they’ve been with a four-armed Mordite. Of course they never use a decent euphemism like ‘been with’. They usually brag that they’ve dracked one—or more.
It’s believed that all Mordites are trained in the Moruvian Butterfly technique. I’ve heard that males would pay their life savings to experience it.
I catch her looking at me and see it. I call it the Dead Eye. I often saw it in my own mirror when I dredged up the courage to look at myself over the last four years. This female is gone. Far gone. I can only imagine what she’s been through.
After I’m thumped between my shoulder blades, I scurry ahead.
The entryway is sumptuously furnished with thick woven rugs and paneled in rich honeyed wood. Because of the horrendous winds, we pass through another doorway that forms an airlock to protect the house from stray grains of sand—and riffraff like marauding miners.
When we’re through the second entrance, we enter the main mansion. Sooma Ryone certainly likes his creature comforts.
Pricey knickknacks dot every stick of furniture that has a flat surface. The living area itself is big enough to play full-court basketball. It empties onto a winding staircase, or rather the winding staircase empties onto it.
A male stalks down the stairs, walking slow enough to make certain every eye is on him. His form is humanoid, but his face is one-hundred percent cobra. Every part of his body that I can see is covered in black scales.
His eyes are well camouflaged by the black scales that surround them. If I didn’t see the light bounce off his irises, I’d think he was blind. He probably has excellent hearing, because there is a cowling of extra skin surrounding his ear holes, forming a small shell that probably amplifies sound.
But it’s the teeth, fangs really, that capture my attention. Two long ones, where human canines are. But these are maybe an inch and a quarter long and hang well beyond his bottom lip. His other sharp, spindly teeth show when he says, “Welcome,” sounding a bit like Bela Lagosi in Dracula . A shiver jolts up my spine.
He’s wearing fashionable trousers and an open robe.
“I came to meet my new guests,” he says as if he has an audience of a thousand watching from all over the galaxy and wants to make a good impression on them. It’s clear he doesn’t care about impressing us.
“You just couldn’t stay out of sight, could you, Wrage of Wryth’N? I must admit, you presented me with an excellent opportunity. It’s not often that the third in command of the biggest cabal in the galaxy asks a favor of a male like me. Your mother wants you here for the rest of your miserable life. In exchange for that, I’ll ask a favor of her someday. I don’t know what that favor will be, but I guarantee it will make me rich.”
He steeples his hands, fingertips under his chin. “The day I figure it out will be a good day, indeed.” He attempts a smile, but it just shows more of his hideous ochre teeth.
He saunters down the last few steps looking like a simpering contestant in a beauty pageant. “For the life of me, I don’t know why she didn’t kill you. She went to a great deal of trouble to get you here. Rumors of her ruthless nature have circled the galaxy for annums . She must really love you.” He laughs. The sound of it is dry, sinister, and worse than nails on a chalkboard.
“And who have you brought with you?” He prances in a circle around us both, his eyes on me, fingers still steepled as if they’re glued together.
The moment I realize I’m staring, I force my gaze to the polished white marble beneath my feet. Too late, he caught me looking. Lodging one perfectly manicured pointed black nail under the tip of my chin, he drags my head up and waits for me to glance at him.
“A bonusss!” he hisses. “Your mother said you’d have a mate with you but she didn’t say what she was. A pretty little Morganian. Or are you an Earther?”
There’s something about the way he says Earther that makes me want to keep my secret. “Morganian,” I say, still avoiding his eyes.
“I have a little test to figure that out,” he says. “Say bullshit.”
I gather the courage to glance at him. His lips are pressed together in a thin line. What’s the right answer? It’s like one of those riddles that fascinated me in grade school. Is the man who always lies lying or telling the truth when he says he’s lying?
I take a guess and say, “Buellshit,” just like Wrage did when we first met.
“Morganian. Good. I won’t have to kill you right away. I’ve developed a . . . distaste for Earthers.”
“You,” he says, pointing a finger at me as if he’s choosing which lobster to eat from a tank in a restaurant, “will live in the house with me while he,” another point, “will go to the mines. No.” He shakes his finger back and forth. “Strike that. I want my new toy to fight in the Pits. You are a gladiator after all.”
Wrage never had time to put a shirt on when we were forced out of our room at gunpoint. Sooma Ryone walks around his new gladiator trailing the tip of one of his nails all around Wrage’s body at nipple height. The nail is sharp as a stiletto, because when he’s made the full circle, my mate has a 360 degree thin line of blood trickling from the slice.
“For a trained gladiator, you don’t seem very formidable. Men!” he says, looking not at the five who brought us here, but at his own contingent—three well-armed, muscled males of his race who’ve been watching us with barely a blink since we arrived. They point their weapons at Wrage as they approach him.
I freeze. Something’s about to happen, and it’s not going to be good for my mate and me.
“Catali, drag her to my sex room. The rest of you,” he points to all seven of the others, “take him to the Pits. Give him the best room in the house.” His laugh is hissy and evil and belongs in a cartoon.
Sex room? Again, visions of the things I saw in the Medieval Torture Museum float through my mind. Whips and chains and beds of nails. Dear God, this can’t be happening.
“Sir, Mr. uh, Ryone,” I say, my voice a pathetic whisper. On some level, I know my fear is ramping up his pleasure.
“What does the delicate flower want?” he asks, his voice deceptively kind.
“Uh.” I don’t dare look him in the eye. “We were recently married—”
“Do you have even an inkling that I give a drack ?” he screams so loud I smell his breath. Not pleasant.
“Um, Sir, I thought you should know we were just mated on planet Paragon. The head marital official himself took an interest in our union. He said he’d be watching our trackers. He threatened that if we weren’t together at all times he’d send his troopers after us.”
In this situation I would have told the galaxy’s biggest whopper to get out of the ‘sex room’, but I think the truth just might save the day.
“No problem. I’ll let you sleep with your gladiator at night. You’ll need some time to recuperate from my attentions.” My thoughts wander to the poor Mordite female.
“And, uh, Mr. Ryone?” I simper. “My body carries an implant that detects if any sperm other than my lawfully wedded mate’s enters my body.” On the scale of lies, I wonder if that qualifies as tiny or a whopper. At this moment, I don’t care.
“Sir,” the guard who butted Wrage in the face back at our room in the bar, interrupts. “You might want to check. I’ve heard that same information. We discovered their mating brands while they were both 'taking a nap' on the way here. We disabled the trackers but we didn't know about the implant, it must be new, and it may carry a tracking device.
"You don’t want authorities of any kind showing up on this planet. I doubt you’re following the interplanetary labor laws.” The male’s chuckle is interrupted as Ryone does a karate-type move that is so swift he’s a blur.
I couldn't follow what he did, but I see the aftermath. He must have used more than the tip of his nail to slash the male’s throat. Arterial blood is pumping out of his neck. His hands scrabble at his throat; he’s losing blood fast.
His comrades stand, the whites showing around their irises, but don’t move a muscle to help. Finally, the male slumps to his knees, and then to the floor in a pool of his own blood.
My palm is over my mouth although I don’t remember slapping it there. I coach myself not to say one word.
“It!” Ryone bellows. “It!” he says again, louder and even more agitated.
The blue-skinned Mordite runs over and kneels at his feet. I hope I have the courage to kill myself before I’m that far gone.
“It, get on the Intergalactic Database and look up the marriage laws on Paragon.” As she runs to a nearby computer station indented into the paneled wall, he gives her a laundry list of research questions, all clearly in service to being able to have access to my body.
Minutes later, despite his numerous interruptions, It informs him that what we’ve said was true. Including confirming my little lie about the intra-vaginal device that makes certain no sperm other than my lawfully wedded mate enters my canal and that it has a tracker with new technology that can’t be deactivated or removed without sending out an immediate pickup beacon.
It, you wonderful female, you lied to save us. How she gathered the courage to deceive her master is beyond me. I promise she’ll never leave my prayers. She could have thrown me to the wolves and gotten some respite from his attentions, but she chose to save me.
“How fortuitous for you,” he says as he steps over the thug’s dead body. “I’ll just have to take my pleasure in other ways. Female, I order you to watch every one of your mate’s matches. That will ensure you see his death. Once we report it to the Paragonian authorities, I’ll play with you until it isn’t fun anymore.
“Gron, I want vid cams set up in the cell so I can watch the loving couple mate. Let’s see if that can get my cock harder than the pathetic four-armed female I’ve grown weary of.”
I glance at poor It. For a moment, when she was saving our asses, she showed some spark, but now her Dead Eye has returned.
Wrage stiffens at my side. His jaw is clenching so hard I wonder if he’ll break a tooth.
The floor beneath us rumbles. Ryone’s fine glass collectibles are dancing on their shelves. No one moves or mentions it. When it’s over, it’s as if it never happened.
“Take them to the Pitsss,” he says, the last consonant forming a long hiss.
We’re escorted at gunpoint by the contingent of the seven remaining guards. When we’re back out in the ferociously blowing sand, I allow myself to let my guard down. My tears flow freely, immediately being whipped away by the wind.
I know Wrage can’t fix this. There’s clearly no escape, but I can’t wait to feel his hand in mine. I wonder if in some small way the touch of his skin will make this better.
It’s quite a trek to the Pits. It’s built in the same fashion as the mine I saw earlier. We’re prodded down a ramp into the soil, then keep following the tamped-down dirt in switchbacks until we’re deep underground.
Although it’s maybe ten degrees cooler down here, and out of the sandblasting, it’s no more comfortable. It’s oddly humid, and there’s a stench of something. Perhaps it’s one-hundred years of humanoid effluvia. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
We’re running the gauntlet now, passing dozens of cells. There are many races on display here. They’re all big and angry as they inspect us. The catcalls started as we approached the first cell, and get louder with each cell we pass.
They must not get many females down here, because by their comments you’d think I was a movie star—an extremely sexy one that they’d like to do many specific and unsavory things to.
Wrage is practically vibrating with anger, but he says nothing. He told me he learned early that letting this type of male know something bothered you ensured their continued bad behavior. He acts as if I’m nothing to him, his head held high as he surveys our surroundings.
We get to the last cell in the row. Maybe eight by eight, it’s hewn into the rock on one side and the back wall, with a stone wall between us and an orange amphibious humanoid on the other side. A wall of bars faces the walkway.
Two techs hurry in, their hands laden with gear. We’re pushed into our cell at gunpoint and made to watch as cameras are mounted in three places on the ceiling.
“In case you’re wondering,” one of the males who forced us out of our room back on Wryth’N says, “I have a feeling pulling these out of the wall will have severe consequences.” He swipes his cheekbone with his fingers, taunting Wrage about his cheek.
“Settling in?” Sooma Ryone’s smarmy voice pierces the noise of the fighters’ jeers still reverberating down the hallway. “Don’t get too comfortable here, Wryth’N. No one lasts long in the Pits.”
Well, that effectively sucked the air out of the room. The techs fold their ladder and leave, and our contingent of guards exits also, clanging the door shut and locking it with a flourish. Point taken. We’re locked in.
Wrage and I, still standing, face each other and drink in each other’s presence. I thought I’d been handling this well, but now that we’ve been left alone for a moment, my tears flow unbidden.
He folds his arms around me and leans my cheek against his pec. Settling his chin on my head, he rocks me gently.
“I wish I could tell you this will be alright, love. I don’t think I can fix this. I’m sorr—”
“If you apologize one more time I’m going to have to beat your ass,” I sass as I step back and look up into his face. “Enough! You didn’t do anything on purpose to hurt me. Let it go. We need to put our energy into trying to esc—”
He presses a finger to my lips and shakes his head. “I assume our collars are bugged.”
My lids snap closed and my lips quiver as I hold back my tears. Knowing that the cobra asshole was going to watch our lovemaking—because I’m not going to let the voyeur stop me from having sex with my beloved mate—was one thing. The fact that he can hear every word we say, feeding off our love and our fear, that’s even worse.
We won’t be able to plan our escape together. I’m going to have to think of something on my own.
Wrage turns his back as I finally have time to relieve myself, then nudges me onto the bed and slides in next to me. The disgusting mattress is beyond filthy. I shiver as I imagine the dirty, sweaty, possibly bleeding fighting males who’ve lain here before me. It wreaks the same as the air in the Pits, only this smells in an up-close-and-personal way that makes me shudder.
I lean closer to Wrage and breathe in the air next to his beautiful blue flesh. I can smell him over the hideous stench around me. He pets my hair as he reassures me.
“I know you’re worried about many things, but one thing you shouldn’t worry about is the fight tonight. I’ve trained since age fifteen. I observed all the males lining the hallway on our walk to our cell. Many are big, some larger than me, but I’ve got preparation, skill, and experience.”
That may be true, but I’ve watched enough movies where this type of shit happens that I have to warn him.
“I’ve never seen a gladiator match, but whatever rules they might have, don’t expect any here. Just remember. No rules. Just do what you have to do to win, no matter how low, how dirty, or how corrupt.”
“I never had a taste for blood, Elyse. I was never in it for the wins or the spoils or the accolades, or even the 10% my owner promised to put on my ledger. All I ever wanted was a normal life and a mate.
“I always knew I’d fight until I die, there were some days when I welcomed it. But now that I have you . . . I’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive.”
Snuggling even closer, I tip my face from him. If he sees my sadness, he’ll worry even more than he is.
Even though we were both drugged into oblivion on the flight here, I know neither of us are rested. Was it only a day ago he worshipped me as he scented me? That seems unreal.
I stroke his back to help him fall asleep. I think this soothes him.