Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Virak was aware of the words his advisors and military leaders used to describe him: Measured. Reserved. Composed. Unemotional. On an unhappy day, they may use words like unapproachable or withdrawn. Never in the years since he took the throne had he been described as furious or wrathful.
As he stared down the Magdian prisoner, whose red-orange scales stood fluffed out defiantly, Virak could see his close circle staring in open surprise. He was angry. He wasn’t yelling, but fury vibrated from him, astounding the advisors but, apparently, amusing the prisoner.
The smug Magdian, whose hands and feet were encased in blocks of metal, simply turned his three small eyes to the ceiling and remained silent.
Three members of Trak’s crew stood nearby, lounging against the wall.
They looked bored. One of them slid a hand over a short blade strapped to his upper arm.
“We can hurry this along, if you’d like. ”
Virak ignored the offer. “I will ask you one more time,” he said to the prisoner with deceptive silkiness. “Who is running the Sifter organization?”
The Magdian, who was twice the bulk of a Virilian, but almost half their height, did not reply.
“Where are your headquarters located?”
“We’ve been at this for the better part of a day,” complained a crew member. “He won’t crack.”
“Unless we crack something in him,” added another with a guffaw. “Happy to oblige.”
Virak’s military advisor cocked his head. “Perhaps we should give these fellows a turn on the prisoner.”
He had given the Magdian a chance to tell what he knew without pain, but without the information he needed, Virilians would die.
There were those who trusted Virilians to keep them safe, like Paeri and others who called the cities their homes.
He thought about how close Jessa had come to being injured or worse, and his hands clenched into fists. “So be it.” He stepped away.
The Sifter grinned widely. “You haven’t got the korkis to do the work yourself.
” They were the first words the prisoner had uttered.
“You allowed your species to atrophy by turning to mining and trading.” The Magdian laughed.
“Virilians used to be feared. Your kind obliterated entire armies. Now, look at how weak you are.”
Virak raised one brow, but he felt swamped with fury. “Being feared is not an honorable trait.” He leaned toward the prisoner. “And I would do the ‘work’ myself, but I rather like these pants. It would be a shame to splatter your blood on them.”
The Magdian's scales flattened against his head. “You have never even seen splattered blood, you highborn sack of yurkoo.”
“I’ve seen plenty, Sifter. On this very floor, actually.”
“Liar,” the Magdian sneered. “Your blood is so rich, you probably won’t even be able to stay and stomach what they’ll do to me.
But it won’t compare to what my people will do to your human whore.
Once we take Tagja City—and we will take it—she will serve us on her knees or on her back.
That female will accept her place and learn to enjoy it.
Sifter males will fill her with so much cock—”
Virak’s fist connected with his jaw, cutting off the rest of the prisoner’s sentence.
His blood pumped hard and fast. A red film covered his vision, making it slightly out of focus.
The strangest sensation spun through him.
He felt as though liquid fire shot through his veins, and he gritted his teeth at the discomfort.
“Speak of her again, and I’ll relieve you of your limbs, one at a time.
” Even his voice sounded different. It was lower, louder, and there was an odd crackling to it.
“Stars, will you look at that,” muttered one of the crew members. Urgent murmurs went through his advisors and Trak’s crew, who weren’t looking quite so bored any longer.
Was it so odd he punched the prisoner? Maybe his reputation had grown soft over the years.
The Magdian no longer looked smug and cocky.
Raw fear showed in the creature’s three eyes and his jaw, which had been busy talking, hung loose where Virak had dislocated it.
From one punch? Virak took a small step back, confused.
He was strong, but there was nothing delicate about a Magdian's jaw.
He inwardly reeled at his own sudden strength.
He reached down, gripped the prisoner’s jaw and snapped it back in place, eliciting a moan from the Magdian. That was when he saw his hand. Thick, glowing red veins bulged on his skin. The Magdian, who was already red to begin with, leaned away from the waves of heat pouring off Virak’s body.
Understanding slammed through him like rocks to the chest.
This was the primal form. It could be no other thing.
He shot a shocked look to his advisors and the Virilian crew members. Their expressions erased all doubt. One of the crew flashed a grin. “Good timing, mate. Saves us the trouble of ruining our fine pants, too.”
Heat, fury, energy flared from Virak, causing the crew member to back away, hands extended.
“Shut it, Ruren,” muttered another. “That’s primal form. Fellow is not all there at the moment.”
Virak was not all there. His mind was a thing of reaction, not reason.
His careful artifice of indifference was blasted to smithereens.
He loomed over the prisoner, purposefully bearing down with his heat and menace and rage.
“The only other words I will hear from you are the name of your leader and the location of your headquarters.” He grasped the Sifter’s abused chin and held it as the Magdian cried out in pain.
“Or I will burn you down. I should anyway, for what you said about her.”
“P-Pella Rin,” the Magdian stammered out. “Pella Rin is our leader. Headquarters are on his ship. He calls the shots from there.”
“I know that name,” growled one of the crew, nostrils flared. “He’s Virilian. A real piece of work who doesn’t pay his debts.”
Trak’s crew member Ruren stepped forward, a blade wagging toward the prisoner. “You’re saying the leader of the Sifters is Pella Rin, the Virilian?”
“Yes!” screamed the terrified Magdian. “He wants this whole planet. He wants the cities unified under him. The loyal will get a share of the mining wealth.”
Virak struggled to take this in as mutterings rose around him. The sliver of logic left in him knew he had to calm down, walk away so he didn’t kill this prisoner. He was in no state to deal with anything properly. “Where is this Pella Rin?”
“I don’t know,” the Magdian sobbed. “The outer quadrant somewhere? He’s always on the move. We’re never told his exact position. I don’t know anything else—I swear.”
“How unfortunate for you, then,” Virak growled, “that your usefulness has come to an end.” He lifted one of the long, filthy braids that hung from the back of the Magdian’s head.
It caught fire and turned to ash between his fingers, filling the air with the stench of burnt hair. “Where shall I start?”
“No—no, wait!” The prisoner struggled in his solid bonds to get away from Virak. “I know more. I can provide more information—names, supply chains, supply locations. Please don’t…”
But Virak couldn’t get the Magdian’s filthy words about Jessa out of his mind.
They scraped like nails on the inside of his skull, growing more infuriating by the moment.
His advisors were telling him to stop, urging him to step back.
The crew were slinking into the background, wanting no part of this.
Virak was beyond heeding any of it. With a terrifying snarl, baring all of his sharp, newly lengthened teeth, he reached for the blubbering Magdian’s neck.
“Vi—Virak?”
Her voice stilled him. He turned and saw her standing there.
Her shoulders were hunched and her arms hugged around her middle like she was about to be sick.
The look of pure horror on her face told him that she’d been standing there for a while.
She’d seen the savage, brutal side of this primitive form of him.
“Jessa.” But his voice wasn’t the one she knew.
It was the voice of a predator. A killer.
He couldn’t see himself, but he knew what primal Virilians looked like—red eyes, flaming horns, an enormous body popping with thick, pulsing red veins.
The primal form was meant for killing, specifically for defending home and family from the myriad of threats that ancient Virilians faced in millennia past. Here he was, about to torture a prisoner for taunting him about Jessa—his female. His…family.
They stood there for an agonizing moment. He wanted to speak, but blood and adrenaline and fury pumped hard through his veins, smothering the reassuring words he longed to say. He opened his mouth before remembering that it was full of long, sharp teeth.
Jessa let out a sob and fled the training room.
“Ah. Now that’s some bad timing there, mate,” said one of the crew with a sorrowful head shake.
Virak’s chest tightened around his heart in a painful grip. He pointed to the whimpering Magdian, whom he had lost all interest in. “Lock him in a cell. Squeeze every bit of information out of him. If he resists, I will return and finish the interview.”
“Yes. Of course, Virak,” said one of his advisors—he didn’t know which one. He didn’t care. With a growl, he strode to the exit with one destination in mind.
“Not the best idea, mate,” one of the crew called after him. “Might want to cool down a bit before you—”
“Save your breath, Uric,” another replied. “He’s gone mad.”