14. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
W illa
It’s WarDog’s favorite morning routine. He delicately slurps me with his huge tongue, and I furrow my fingers through his thick ruff until they reach his warm skin. He loves the gentle scratch of my nails and especially loves my happy voice when I talk to him.
“Yeah, WarDog. He’s a good boy. He deserves pets and kisses,” I croon to him.
When we’ve both had our fill, I kiss his nose one more time and roll out of bed. After I shower and dress, we head to the kitchen where I’ll help Maddie the cook prepare breakfast for the Mongol hordes.
Alright, they’re not exactly Mongols, or a horde, but you'd never know it by their appetites.
Oh shit. I almost skid to a stop when I notice everyone is already in the dining room. Everyone. It takes my brain less than a second to remember why they’re all here this early. The match.
We must have docked in the middle of the night last night. I was too preoccupied with my sexy dream—that was a first, I don’t think I ever had one that explicit before—to recall we’re on Aeon II for Stryker’s match.
WarDog and I hurry to the kitchen, but Maddie isn’t here. Furred, feline Captain Zar’s mate, Anya, and Callista who’s in charge of comms, are cooking. My belly squeezes in guilt—they definitely could have used my help this morning.
Maddie is Stryker’s . . . I’m not sure what she is. They’re not one of the mated couples like Anya and Zar or former-gladiator Shadow and his adorable mate Petra who has more sass inch for inch than anyone I’ve ever met. Maddie and Stryker share cabins from time to time, and from what I can tell, Stryker would like it to be more permanent.
Even if they’re not mates, Maddie clearly has feelings for him, so I’m sure she’s a ball of nerves knowing he’s going to fight today.
“Sorry. Sorry,” I tell Anya and Callista. “I never oversleep. I don’t know why—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Anya says as she flips pancakes on a griddle, “we’ve got it covered. Why don’t you take a day off, too?”
I protest, but when they insist, I grab a few pancakes for me and a stack for WarDog, return to the dining room, and slide in next to Aerie. Since we arrived on the Fool’s Errand together, I’ve always kind of stuck with her. Although she and Beast are a mated couple now, she’s actually friendlier than she used to be. Their love has somehow mellowed her. It’s as if she’s finally at home in her own skin.
Beast was voted Captain on our other ship, The Devil’s Playground , it’s the one the gladiators seized after they rescued us. Normally Aerie would be there with him but she’s been here for a few days to negotiate a better fee and higher price for Stryker’s match as well as to visit me.
Within an hour, WarDog and I are filing down the ramp along with almost everyone on board. As we pay our entry fee for the matches, the guy at the ticket booth shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the crimson-skinned male’s voice is deep and gruff, “contestants enter over there.” He points to our left with his lips.
“Me?” I point to my chest as if my word needed clarification. He thinks I’m a contestant? Seriously?
“The beast,” he clarifies.
“He’s my pet .”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “Contestants and their handlers get in free, but it makes no difference to me.”
Once we’ve paid, everyone onboard files in and we find seats along what on Earth would be the Mezzanine railing. All of us, that is, except Dax and Stryker. Dax is Stryker’s best friend and will be down in the contestants’ area with him until his match.
The arena is ancient, as old as the Colosseum in Rome, maybe older. The beige stone seats are in ringed tiers going all the way up to the nosebleed section. The sand in the arena seems to be made of the same stone as the seats and the structure itself.
Everything would be buff-colored if not for the thousands of patrons filing in. They’re aliens of every stripe—literally. And their wardrobes are equally colorful.
Smells of spitted meat assault my nose. I see WarDog sniffing it, his black nose squinching with every inhalation. Maybe I’ll buy him a treat when the nearest hawker comes by.
The stadium is filled with the noise of eager fans excitedly talking about the upcoming matches, males and females walking up and down the aisles taking bets, and music that sounds like bad porno pouring from ubiquitous speakers.
Maddie is sitting between Anya and Grace, each of whom is holding one of her hands. It’s obvious how much she cares for Stryker, she’s pale and worried, her teeth tearing at her lower lip.
Stryker is a muscular male with spotted red skin and heavy scars, especially on his face. I’ve always liked him. Maybe it’s because he’s the opposite of me. I’m timid and quiet and think before any word slips from my lips. Stryker is loud and brash and says the foulest, funniest shit that flies through his brain. My filter is on overload, and he doesn’t have one. He cracks me up. When I’m with him I always feel a bit less uptight.
“Welcome females and males,” the male announcer calls from the podium. He’s light blue, with puffy tufts of hair at his jowls and two yellow spots on his cheeks. He’s colorfully dressed in what can only be called a dress. Either his deep voice belongs to a woman, or his species has taken the kilt idea to the max.
“Our first match of the day will be a rare treat. Most of you have never seen a Skylosian. Since their planet was decimated, they’re incredibly rare. If perhaps you’ve seen one of these beasts before, I doubt any of you have seen a Skylosian match.
“Don’t worry, these beasts will not come to any harm today. Due to the Meretrian Agreement, these beings are not allowed to fight to the death. The first animal to roll onto its back, exposing its neck will be declared the loser.
“Their handlers are at the ready to stop the fight at a moment’s notice. Negrid,” he announces with a flourish as an animal that looks astonishingly like WarDog enters the arena.
WarDog has been lying quietly at my feet since I’ve been seated. He’s usually content to just hang out with me wherever I am. Now, though, he sits up straight and looks directly out at the action. They’re clearly the same species.
Shadow is one seat over from me. From what I’ve been told, he’s fought in every sector of the galaxy for over a decade.
“What is that?” I ask him as I lean over Petra.
“I’ve never seen that species fight before. He’s called a Skylosian.”
I pointedly look down at WarDog and Shadow gets the message.
“I guess your friend there is a Skylosian,” he confirms with a shrug.
Digging my fingers through the hair on WarDog’s ruff, I make sure I go all the way to his skin so he can feel my presence. His muscles are different than a moment ago, tighter. I think I’m anthropomorphizing, imbuing him with human qualities where none exist, but I wonder if he’s anxious about what will happen to the canines in the arena.
“Montem,” the announcer says as Negrid’s opponent enters the ring at a trot, the long, chocolate hair of his mane rustling in the breeze.
The two dogs are kept on long leashes by their handlers, but once they’ve jogged around the periphery of the arena to excited applause, they’re pulled up short and are now facing each other in the middle of the arena.
“At the ready,” says the announcer. “Begin!”
The handlers release their animals and step away. They prominently display the equipment, about the size of a cell phone, aloft in their hands. It suddenly dawns on me that whatever the Meretrian Agreement is, it was meant to reassure patrons that the fighting animals won’t be harmed.
The paradox is not lost on me that many of the matches here today will pit sentient humanoids against each other and they will fight to the death, but people’s sensibilities are offended by the possibility that canines might be harmed. The equipment they’re holding up so everyone can see must be a visual signal that they can stop the fight at a moment’s notice.
The dogs begin circling each other, growling so loudly I can hear it from here. One of the handlers must give a verbal command, because the lighter of the two, Negrid, appears activated and launches at his opponent.
The fight is on, with neither animal holding back. They snarl as they attack each other. Even though their fur is thick, you can see their power in the way they move. Their hindquarters, sleeker than their fronts, show every muscle as they tuck their haunches beneath them to propel forward with more force.
Mighty jaws, with those long canines I’m so familiar with, are flashing white in the sun as the two animals threaten each other. They’re wearing metal collars similar to what WarDog had around his neck when I met him in that cell on the Urlut vessel. The spikes that ring their necks are four-inches long.
Every muscle in WarDog’s body is poised to run, or in this case jump. We’re maybe sixty feet above the sand, but by the way he’s pulling on his leash, I wonder if he wants to leap into the fray.
Shadow and Petra change places to my left so Shadow is sitting next to me. He grabs WarDog’s collar, just to lend a hand. In other circumstances, I would protest that I needed no assistance, but I’m glad for the help. If WarDog decided to leap over the three-foot rail, I wouldn’t be able to contain his powerful muscles.
The fight in the arena goes on for long minutes in the hot sun, but eventually Montem pounces hard on Negrid’s withers and grabs the other’s muzzle in his deadly teeth. Negrid rolls onto his back and both handlers intervene.
The controllers must shock the dogs, because both of them stand down immediately. Montem rolls to stand on all fours and the onlookers rise to their feet in applause.
“Females and males,” says the announcer, “you can certainly do better than that. Let’s show these animals our true appreciation for the battle you just observed.”
The noise in the arena rises by a few notches.
“I know you can do better,” the announcer goads.
The patrons now go wild as the dogs circle the edge of the arena again. It’s as if this is the canine equivalent to taking a bow.
The announcer motions to Montem’s owner in a sweeping gesture of his outstretched hand. You can hear the male’s microphone being switched on.
“Thank you for coming today,” the handler says. He’s a bulky male with skin that looks like cooled magma, all rolling black flesh that folds over and over on top of itself. “Montem of Skylose.” He lifts both fists in the air as if he himself won the match. “To the victor go the spoils!”
He makes a show of pressing a button on the controller and all at once I’m uncertain what my eyes are seeing. The animal begins to change—his form distorts so quickly I have trouble processing what’s happening. Within half a minute, though, Montem is no longer a deadly ball of brown fur and two-inch fangs. Montem has shifted into a humanoid.
Fascinated as I am by the show in the arena, I can’t control my gaze from flying to WarDog. If I thought he was stiff during the fight, he was loose compared to this. Every muscle in his body appears to be on high alert as he watches the action in the sand.
He’s whining now; it’s almost continuous. His leash pulls on my fingers. It’s not an overpowering yank, my big boy is too well-behaved for that, but I can feel his yearning to go to the arena.
“Shadow? What the fuck is going on?”
“I’ve never seen this species before. They’re humanoids who shift into canines?” It sounds like he wanted that to come out as a statement, but it certainly sounded like a question to me.
Is there a humanoid trapped in WarDog’s body? How could we not have known this? No one on the ship had heard of Skylosians before? If WarDog is this species, then he’s humanoid under all that fur. My eyes open wide in wonder as shock spikes through me.
The pomp continues in the ring for a few more minutes, then the combatants along with their handlers exit through the doorway leading to the catacombs.
“Shadow, we’ve got to get down there. If there’s a humanoid under all this fur, I need to talk to those handlers and see how to break the spell.”
“I understand. Steele, Aries, come with us.”
My three bodyguards and I, along with WarDog, make our way to the nearest steps, then skirt along the rounded walkway to the arched doorway leading to the underground area where the fighters are housed.
As we approach, the two armed guards at the entryway stand taller and try to block us. “We have business,” Shadow says, his tone is firm as he glances at the dog.
“Kin?” one of the guards says with a leer as if it’s funny as hell that WarDog might be related to one of the fighters.
“Perhaps. Let us pass.” Shadow puffs his chest, his nonverbal suggestion that if the guard doesn't let us through there might be a gladiatorial fight right here, right now. I don’t think the guards would like the outcome.
“And her?” one of them says, his eyes sliding to me.
“His handler. Want her to unleash him on you?”
WarDog growls as if on cue, showing more snarling white teeth than he’s ever shown me.
We step into the underground area passing from the heat of the sun to the cool of these ancient catacombs. The fetid smell assaults me. The walls are the same beige squares as the rest of the structure. It’s cooler down here, but I can’t wait to escape the claustrophobia and return to the bright light of day.
About twenty males, all wearing loincloths, line the hallway. Some sit, some squat, some are perched on the few stone benches that must be centuries old. These males must be the rest of the day’s entertainment.
I see Stryker on the stone floor, Dax standing next to him as if he’s the male’s owner. They don't approach us or act as if they know us. It would call more attention to us, which we certainly don’t need right now.
Shadow leads us down a hallway, and it suddenly strikes me that all the males with me have probably been in this facility during their careers. They’ve sat where Stryker’s sitting right this minute, possibly about to enter a deathmatch, wondering if they would be alive or dead by sundown.
I’m so glad we’ve all found our freedom.
WarDog is in the lead now. His more acute sense of smell is pulling him toward the other Skylosians. We pass several rooms, actually more like cubbies, where perhaps the premier acts are allowed to wait before their bouts. Negrid, still in canine form, is in one, not only being verbally eviscerated by his master, but receiving some abusive kicks as well.
I clamp my teeth together, hard, when Shadow spears me with a quelling look. “Don’t say anything,” he whispers. “Your words will change nothing, and it will call too much attention.”
Earth was no picnic, but I have to admit the galaxy is a harsh place.
We find Montem in the next cubby. He’s a tall, muscular humanoid with canine aspects to his face—sharp cheekbones, high pointed ears, a swath of fur across his shoulders, and rounded brown eyes. His hands are pressed to the small of his back as he leans backward, moaning in pleasure. I wonder how long he was in his canine form. It must feel odd to walk on two legs again.
Both his and his handler’s attention is riveted on WarDog.
“What?” the handler asks roughly. “Want to sell your fighting stock? Highly unusual to approach a handler, especially at a match. Lucky for you I just won and I’m in a good mood.”
He didn’t just win anything. But I don’t say that. Nor do I mention that if this is his good mood I don’t want to catch him on a bad day.
I don’t let Shadow or any of the males speak for me. Ignoring the owner and stepping toward Montem, I ask, “He’s one of you, right?”
He nods, his eyes darting toward his handler. He may be in humanoid form, but he’s not a free male.
“Don’t be an idiot,” the handler scolds. “Of course he is.”
“He came to me this way. How do I get him into his humanoid form?”
The handler’s eyes narrow to slits. “If you don’t know the answer to such a basic question, you can’t be his owner,” he says.
“He’s mine !”
“Got his papers?”
“He’s a free agent.”
“So, what is he? He’s yours? Or he’s free? You can’t have it both ways,” the handler jeers.
Shit .
“I think I’ll take him off your hands,” he says as his jaw clenches.
“You and who else?” Shadow steps up and practically bumps him with his muscular chest. Steele and Aries step closer also. I have no doubt the three gladiators could overpower the handler in a heartbeat.
WarDog chooses this moment to step closer and put a soft mouth around the male’s thigh. Out of anyone on the planet, my guess is that this male knows what could happen if WarDog peels back his lips and grips his thigh with those long, white teeth.
“Tell me, male. How do we change the canine into his upright form?” Shadow’s tone is harsh.
“Try my controller. Most of the Skylosians were owned by the cartel at one time. They were all chipped with the same hardware.”
Shadow grabs the controller and asks, “Which button shocks and which allows the change?”
“Top button shifts, bottom shocks,” the male says, spearing him with an angry look.
Shadow presses the bottom button, obviously not trusting the handler to tell the truth. His hunch was right because WarDog shifts before my eyes. The handler roughly snatches the controller back.
WarDog doesn’t stand like Montem did, but lies on his side on the stone floor. It’s shocking to have a front-row seat to this metamorphosis. The fur covering most of his body disappears, replaced by tanned skin. Brindle fur, the color of WarDog, remains across his shoulders to the top of his pecs on his chest and tapers to a ‘V’ in the middle of his back.
He curls into a tight ball and groans for a moment. I’m used to every sound WarDog can make, but the male on the floor sounds different somehow, more . . . humanoid.
He’s in pain. Montem didn’t shift like this. He leapt to his feet before his change was complete. WarDog’s metamorphosis is slower and definitely more painful.
He rolls onto his back and slowly unfolds, allowing his spine and hips to fully straighten for the first time since I met him, and who knows how long before that?
His eyes are closed, facial muscles tight, but I can see his humanoid features and totally naked humanoid body for the first time. Perfect rose-colored lips that can’t hide the tips of his sharp canines. High, angular cheekbones that hint at what he looks like in his non-human form. And pointed ears much higher on his head than mine. I command myself not to look lower than his chest and have to struggle to obey.
He makes a sound. It’s an unintelligible growl. Is he more beast than man? Can he speak? Is he even fully sentient in this form? Montem is capable of thought and speech, but perhaps WarDog isn’t.
He growls again, then says, “Willa,” as clear as if he’d spoken English his entire life. “Willa,” he repeats, his golden eyes never leaving mine. I guess his speech was just a bit rusty.
“WarDog are you okay?” Stupid question, I know, but what do you say at a moment like this?
“Bayne,” he croaks in a manner that hints at just how long it’s been since he’s used his mouth for speech.
“Pain? You’re in pain.”
He nods, his head barely moving, then points to his chest and repeats, “Bayne.”
That’s his name. Of course, he has a name other than WarDog.
“How do we get a controller?” I ask the handler, not wanting anything other than to get the fuck out of here before someone detains us or discovers Bayne has no owner and appropriates him.
“The controller is for an owner,” Montem offers. By the way his handler’s gaze pierces him with lighting bolts, he’s risking his safety by telling us this. But he continues, “If he’s free, all you need to do is . . .” he moves swiftly and bends to touch the back of Bayne’s neck “remove—.” He can’t finish his sentence. His handler has pushed the button and both Skylosians shift back to their canine forms.
“Bolt!” Shadow shouts as soon as Bayne has fully changed back to WarDog.
Poor WarDog is moving slowly as we try to hustle him out of the underground area. His spine and hip joints must be screaming in pain having been stretched in different directions in such a short span of time.
Shadow reaches down, lifts the huge animal into his arms as if he was carrying a baby, and the four of us race into the sunlight. The rest of our contingent see us fleeing through the arched entryway, and most run to meet us as we leave the grounds.
A few stay to protect Stryker, who still has to compete in his match.
We’re running to the Fool’s Errand , which is parked maybe four city blocks away. At some point, Shadow hands WarDog off to Steele and we all keep hurrying.
Someone must have comm’d ahead, because Dr. Drayke has a stretcher at the top of the ramp as we board.
“I wish I would have known,” Dr. Drayke says an hour later after he’s removed a small metal device the size of a grain of rice that had been lodged near the top of Bayne’s spine. “I would have removed it the same time we removed the spiked collar the day he boarded. I think he’ll be fine. Let me go to my lab to examine the controller more closely. I’ll leave you two alone.”
Bayne is on a bed in his humanoid form. I’ve been in the room for the entire procedure and when the controller was removed from his spine, I had the opportunity to watch him shift from canine to humanoid again. Now I have the time to inventory him more closely.
He has brown hair with auburn streaks, the same brindle he had in canine form. His ears are closer to the top of his head than at the sides like a human. They’re triangular, like a German Shepherd.
He has the same ruff on his shoulders he had in canine form. It’s the most obvious characteristic of his dual nature.
Otherwise, his lips are fully human although the long canines peeking out between his lips belie his true origins. The nails on his hands and feet are humanoid, not resembling claws in the least.
His lids pop open and our gazes immediately lock. His eyes are beautiful. Mesmerizing. They’re golden. A warm, almost blazing gold that’s so rich and so deep you could dive into them. They are just like WarDog’s—this both shocks and reassures me at the same time.
“Willa,” he says, the look on his face shows rapidly changing emotions I can’t identify. “How long?”
“How long since what?”
“Have I been . . .”
“I’ve known you three months . . . lunars . Before that, I have no idea.”
He closes his eyes and blows a long stream of air through his lips.
“I think it was a long time. Long time. I was in my shifted form maybe . . . annums . My thoughts are cloudy.” He glances around the room as if he’s only just noticing it. “Medical?”
“Medbay, yes.”
“Did we used to . . . share a room?”
“Yes.”
“Can we go back there?”
“Sure,” I say before I give much thought to the fact that we shared it when he was WarDog. Now he’s Bayne. Very handsome, very masculine Bayne.
For a moment, the way he looks at me isn’t humanoid. He’s more like a wolf. The wolf in Little Red Riding Hood who wanted to eat her up.
He’s looking me up and down with undisguised interest. The blanket covering him tents at his hips.
His nose wrinkles as he pointedly looks at the sterile cabinets. “Can we leave this room?”
“Sure.”
I don’t know why I’m saying ‘sure’ when I’m not at all sure this is a good idea. I stand near the bed and let him rest his hand on my shoulder as he rises. He grunts deep in the back of his throat as his feet hit the floor.
“You’re in pain?”
“My spine, hips, and shoulders are screaming. I was in my shifted form too long.”
Dr. Drayke hears him and comes out from his office with a hypo-gun in his hand. “Can I give you something for your pain?” he asks as he motions with the gun.
When Bayne nods, the doc puts it against his shoulder and there is a hiss as he depresses the trigger. “This will help with the pain and stiffness. Take a hot shower. You’ll feel better in about half an hoara . Rest today then slowly increase your activity.” Bayne nods his thanks and Dr. Drayke returns to his office.
Bayne’s naked hip grazes mine with every step as we slowly walk the hallways to my cabin. When I slide my arm around his waist to steady him, I realize how tall he is.
My arm, rather than circling his waist, is beneath it. His skin is hot, warmer than a human’s. I’m trying not to stare, but I catch glimpses of him from my peripheral vision. He’s tall and tan and perfectly built. His shoulders are wide, his waist narrow, and his hip bones are visible beneath his skin.
It’s not his hip bones, though, that fascinate me. It’s his cock that has captured my attention. It’s bobbing at his hips, semi-hard and huge, jutting from an inviting thatch of brown hair.
Forcing my attention away, I try to find something in the hallway that’s half as interesting. Fat chance. I look up to notice we’re at our destination.
“Here we are.” I palm the entry plate and help him onto the bed.
“Piss,” he says, pointedly looking at the bathroom door.
I help him there and leave him at the doorway.
“Gods.” I hear a few minutes later. “It’s been annums , perhaps a decade.”
He must have gotten a good look at himself in the mirror.
“I don’t know how, can you turn the shower on?” he calls.
My mind is still reeling from this new turn of events. At first, I was consumed with escaping the arena and evading the authorities in case they came to confiscate the male. Then I was fearful as I watched the medbot remove the hardware lodged near his delicate spinal nerves. I never allowed the impact of what happened to actually hit me.
I slip into the bathroom and turn on the shower, then return to plop on the bed. My mind spins until he returns to the room. During the entire time I should have been deciding what to do about the humanoid who’s expecting to share my bed, all I could think about was what he might be doing to his cock in the shower, or what I might do to that cock when he returns.
The huntsman! The huntsman from this morning bore a shocking resemblance to Bayne.
How could I have dreamed of Bayne this morning? My mind searches for answers, but I haven’t a clue. What I do know is that this Earth girl is on a spaceship a million miles from home. And I know there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of alien species out there whose appearance and powers are things I couldn’t have dreamed of.
What I do know is that all the knowledge I possess doesn’t fill a thimble. What I do know is that as sure as I’m sitting here, I dreamed about Bayne this morning. And I wanted him. And I orgasmed thinking about him.
The bathroom door opens and Bayne’s wide shoulders practically fill the doorway. He’s nude. He hasn’t even slung a towel around his hips. I guess I shouldn't make too much of that, he hasn’t worn clothes for a decade by his reckoning.
“Want a nap? You’ve been through a lot,” I say as I leap off the bed toward the far wall, keeping the bed between Bayne and me.
“Bed. Yes.”
He slides between the sheets and gazes at me in silent invitation. There’s something about the way he swivels his head that’s vaguely canine. I imagine I’ll notice a lot of things like that as I get to know him.
“I don’t remember much,” he says as he pats the mattress, beckoning me. “But I remember some things. I know you petted me all the time. Your touch was soft and gentle. Things in shifted form get fuzzy when I return as Bayne. But I . . . remember this morning.”
This morning. This morning’s little masturbation session. He watched. As I recall, when I was done pleasuring myself his nose was inches from mine. Great. He remembers that.