An Unwanted Hunger (7 page)

Running his hands up her luscious body, he gently squeezed her swollen nipple. A prolonged breath preceded her smile. She lifted one hand from her breast and raised it to her mouth, sucking one finger then two. The sight of her sucking the juice from her pussy from his fingers made his dick throb, threatening his control.

She gave him that sultry smile as she moved his hand back to her breast. “Take me.”

Her words were an explosion of sensation in his mind and body, a siren’s call that could not be denied. He started to stroke, slow and steady, fighting to maintain control and keep the impending orgasm at bay. Her tight pussy pulsed on him, tightening then releasing. Her hips rose and fell, meeting each thrust and matching his pace.

It was not long before they both were breathing hard, trying to hold back the dam of sensation that threatened to burst. She was the first to succumb. “I…I can’t…stop,” she gasped and arched her body, stretching her arms back over her head in a gesture of surrender. “Please…Constantine…please.”

The sight of her submissively offering herself and the husky plea of her words was more than he could resist. He released the bonds holding his lust intact and let the full force of his need be free from all restraints.

Resa groaned when he grabbed her hips and roughly pulled her to him, impaling her on his full length. Her body quaked as he rode her, soft cries urging him on. When he felt her muscles tighten around him, he lowered down, propped on one elbow so that his free hand could pin her arms above her head securely.

His thrusts became more urgent and forceful and her cries deeper but he would not gentle his movements. Nor did she encourage him to do so. This was mating at its most primitive. Here was the moment he’d waited for. Her complete surrender. Now she would become inextricably his.

“Now,” she moaned, and a moment later bared her teeth to him, displaying the elongated incisors. “I want all of you.”

Constantine could not have refused her demand had he wanted to. His mouth fastened on one side of her neck. As his teeth broke her skin, he felt her mouth on him. One sharp spike of pain that was too sublime to be labeled as such, swept through him.

Her body began to quake in orgasm, ending his control. With a hard thrust, he hilted himself in her and surrendered.

His sense of self grew indistinct and blurred. There was no way to differentiate between the riot of feeling that racked his body and those that tossed Resa in a maelstrom of ecstatic sensation. There was no way to tell whether the overpowering realization of love was his own or belonged to the woman who owned his heart.

Their essence was shared in a way unknown to humans, genetics mingling to change each of them into new beings. Beings with the strength and knowledge of the other. Beings who would forever be more than a singularity. For with their mating, the symbiotes within them joined. They were now a collective, united in blood and emotion.

It was nothing like he’d ever imagined and more than he’d dare hope for. For the first time in his long life, he was complete.

When at last reality returned, he sank down on her, listening to the sound of their breaths, their hearts pounding against one another, and feeling their sweat-slicked skin gradually cooling.

He rolled off her onto his side and she shifted to face him, reaching up to stroke along the side of his face. The depth of love he saw in her eyes was as breathtaking as the nirvana he’d just experienced.

“My beloved,” he whispered, reaching up to cover her hand with his. “My mate.”

“Always.” She smiled and closed her eyes. A few moments later, with a smile on his face, sleep claimed him.

* * * * *

Resa’s eyes flew open. Her heart hammered in her chest. They were not alone. She could sense the presence of others nearby. The Alliance had found them. She sat up and started to ease off the bed but Constantine’s hand closed on her wrist like a steel trap.

“Have you weapons here?” he whispered.

“Yes.” She slid off the bed to hurry on silent feet to the closet. Call it old habits dying hard, but she’d brought every weapon she owned. She dressed quickly in her hunting garb, the leather pants, vest and boots. By the time she was strapping her dagger harnesses to her forearms, Constantine was dressed and beside her.

She offered him a sword but he shook his head and selected instead a double-bladed fighting dagger.

“Why did you not wake me sooner?” she asked.

He smiled, testing the balance of the weapon. “Are these blades poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“I sense at least thirty,” Constantine remarked.

“More on the way,” she said, and gave him a dark smile when he looked at her in question. “It’s what I’d do if it was my hunting party,” she added. “You’re not an easy mark and neither am I. And they’ll expect you to have bodyguards. As would I.”

“We are not alone.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

“I hope you’re right. If the Alliance senses your people, they’ll ramp up their efforts, call in more troops. If your people are here then they’ll wait until their backup arrives before they move in.”

“I will not.”

“You won’t what?”

“Wait.”

With that, he strode from the room, across the living area and to the front door. She followed quickly. He threw it open, stepped outside and announced, “Come if you dare.”

Resa had to admire him. There was not even a hint of fear or uncertainty in him. He stood tall and confident, like a dark god, his hair lifting in the wind to form a black halo around his head.

A split second later hell broke loose. A bolt from a crossbow slammed into the side of the house, its poisoned barb passing within inches of Constantine. Another passed a breath from her own face, shattering the window behind her.

She and Constantine worked as one, dodging and whirling. The rain of arrows was short-lived but followed closely by another assault. Hunters vaulted the deck railing and rushed the steps, swords drawn and slicing the air.

Resa’s mind blanked to everything but battle. They would not kill Constantine. She was like a machine, mowing down all who crossed her path. And at her side, Constantine fought with the skill of a true master, felling one opponent after the next.

“Valians,” Constantine yelled in her direction as a surge of new warriors joined the battle.

Resa did not respond. Reinforcements were welcome. Anything to protect Constantine. The smell of blood and death rose in the air, the sounds of screams and moans mixing with the clash of metal against metal. Alliance hunters found themselves boxed in. Constantine and Resa before them, and Constantine’s forces and the Valians behind them.

Resa lost track of time. It seemed that each time the numbers would dwindle, more would appear. The Alliance must have dispatched several battalions against them. On and on the battle raged. Her arms grew tired and heavy, her lungs heaving and sweat marring her vision.

Suddenly a surge of hunters came at them. There were too many. She screamed at the V’Karian fighting beside her. “Get the Prince to safety. Now!”

To his credit, he did not hesitate to follow her order. Within seconds Constantine was surrounded by V’Karians. His men cleared a path in the battle, forcing him along it. He bellowed in rage, fighting against them but to no avail.

Resa heard him shout her name and it distracted her. For only a moment but long enough for her defenses to slip. The hiss of air was all that alerted her. She dove, escaping the deadly blade that would have separated her head from her body. When she rolled and bounded to her feet, it was to face the one Alliance warrior she’d hoped to never meet in battle. Bram.

With his sword raised over his head and blood in his eyes, “Die,” he growled and swung his sword.

Resa saw death coming for her. But before his blade could reach its mark she was snatched off her feet and carried at breakneck speed through the carnage. She couldn’t see the face of her savior. Couldn’t really see much but a blur, they moved so fast. And whoever her rescuer was, he kept up the pace until they were clear of the battle, headed inland.

When they finally stopped, the man released her and stepped back. One look at him and she was stunned speechless. Silken black hair framed a face that belonged in a dream. Eyes of such a light blue they were like ice, and skin that was so pale, had it not been kissed with a bare tint of gold it would have appeared bloodless. Here was the face the romances spoke of. The ethereal vampire of such beauty that to set your eyes upon him robbed you of coherent thought.

And most definitely V’Karian. That much she could sense. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Octavian Vazanti, heir to the throne of Ishban Shamurz Burahn, Resch Patahn SoFelh, de the Sybelle De’Fane V’Kar.”

“That was a mouthful. Care to translate?”

“Crown Prince of Valia and High Priest of the Order of the Sisterhood.”

“And you saved me because?”

“Because you carry a Vox Narr.”

“Which is?”

He regarded her in silence for a long time then offered her his hand. “Come with me and I shall explain.”

“I must find Constantine.”

“He is safe.”

“And will be looking for me.”

“No harm will come to you. You have my word.”

Resa hesitated. If he was in fact a priest in the Sisterhood then he held answers. Answers she wanted. But was it a betrayal to Constantine to obtain answers from a man who might be his enemy?

“Do you seek to harm Constantine?”

“I seek to harm none, Resa Vânător.”

It was not his words, but the way he opened his mind and let her see the truth behind them that had her placing her hand in his. Hoping that Constantine would forgive her, she ran with him into the night.

Chapter Eight

Across the globe, in a lavish mansion on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea, a large, muscular man sat alone in the well-stocked library, the only light that of the fading day coming in through the opened doors to the balcony overlooking the sparkling water of the sea.

Another man entered quietly and stopped before the desk.

“Are you quite sure Azarth has made contact?” the man seated spoke without looking up from the document he was reading.

“Positive, sir,” the man in front of the desk replied. “It would seem that Azarth has a hidden agenda we did not suspect. Information indicates that he has switched camps. While outwardly he maintains the appearance of being a loyal follower of the Heir, there is reason to believe that his allegiance may have changed.”

“Are you saying that he now supports the Priest?”

“No, sir. Not entirely. He has had contact with the Priest and their liaisons appear amicable, but thus far no overt actions have been taken.”

“Then what you are saying is that it is nothing but speculation.”

“Not exactly, sir.”

The seated man looked up at the other, pinning him with a stare hard enough to make the man shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Leonidas Kahan Branueesh, Primus Nuria, was not a patient man. Or a forgiving one. As the eldest son of the Praetor of Nuria, the desert world of the system of V’Kar, Leonidas commanded respect and obedience. Even in exile. “I suggest you be exact. My patience is wearing thin.”

“Two visitors have been observed with Azarth. The Priest, who was at Azarth’s home during the time the Dhampir was ensconced in Constantine’s stronghold, and another, unidentified male at a separate time. Our analysts agree that this warrants attention since the Priest’s factions have begun relocation.”

“You have confirmation of that?”

“No, sir,” the subordinate replied with a downcast look. “But I can see no other reason why he—”

“Did I ask for your opinion, Donar?”

“No, sir, you did not.”

“Then please refrain from giving what has not been requested. What word is there from the latest Alliance skirmish?”

“An attack was led upon an abode in which Constantine was alone with the Dhampir. The attack was led by Bram.”

“Bram himself led the attack?” Leonidas was surprised by the news. Bram tended to sequester himself behind the battle lines unless it was a matter of the highest priority, for leading the battle himself put him in the position of being vulnerable to capture. And whoever captured Bram, if lucky enough to break him, would hold the secrets of the Alliance.

“The outcome?”

“Constantine’s forces were in danger of being overrun when reinforcements arrived. Valian reinforcements. Together they overwhelmed the Alliance. The Crown Prince was extracted and taken to safety. Bram escaped with less than a dozen of his warriors.”

“And the Dhampir?”

“That is a mystery. She was not extracted with Constantine. In fact, it was she who gave the order for his extraction. After that, it is unclear what happened. Her body is not among the dead and there have been no reports of her.”

“If she is not with Constantine,” Leonidas murmured, “then the most probable explanation is that the Priest has her.”

He considered it for a few moments before continuing. “I want you to have Daevas and Pavor assigned to Azarth. They are to keep him under constant surveillance and report directly to you. You, in turn, will report to me immediately upon receiving any information.”

“Yes, sir. At once.” Donar nodded and started to back away.

“That is not all.” Leonidas stopped him with his words. “I want you to contact Orcus. He is to insinuate another informant within the Priest’s organization. I must know every move the Priest makes and if he does indeed hold the Dhampir.”

“I will contact Orcus at once.” Donar bowed his head. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No.” Leonidas dismissed him. “You may go.”

Donar turned and left the room. For a few moments Leonidas stared across the room, lost in thought. Abruptly he picked up the phone and dialed a two-digit extension.

“I want a meeting with Constantine and the Priest. Make it happen. Now.”

He hung up the phone and leaned back in his seat. Perhaps it was time to forge a new treaty with the other factions of the V’Kar. Albeit a temporary one, but one that would benefit them all. Unite and rid themselves of the Alliance once and for all. And then…then all their attention could turn to the battle for V’Kar.

* * * * *

Constantine hurled the crystal glass across the room, watching it shatter into thousands of glittering shards as it hit the wall. It’d been over six hours and still there was no word from Resa. Had he been able to establish a mental link with her he would have been merely angry that she had not contacted him. But to not be able to sense her had “angry” pushed aside in favor of a more difficult emotion. Fear.

A tap on the door had him snarling, “Come!”

The door opened and one of his aides stepped timidly inside. “Sire, Leonidas has requested a meeting.”

“For?”

“A truce.”

Constantine’s laugh was a bark that lacked humor. His aide hesitated for a moment then continued, “For the elimination of the Alliance.”

That Constantine could believe. The Alliance plagued them all. And perhaps a truce between the three factions could serve to rid them of that old thorn. But trusting Leonidas was no easy task. The animosity between their worlds was deep and long-lived.

“Has the Priest been invited to this peace conference?”

“Yes.”

Constantine considered it for a few moments, pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back. Finally he stopped. “Inform the Nurian that we shall agree to the conference. Providing that a neutral location is selected. One not under the control of either power.”

“Sire,” the aide nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Constantine went to his desk for his journal and pen and took a seat in front of the window. For a moment he stared unblinkingly, blind to the landscape that lay beyond the glass.

Despite his intentions to capture his feelings on the current situation and the proposed truce, when he opened the journal and began to write, the words that took shape came from a memory lodged deep in his mind. A scene from long ago…

Sunlight glinted in bright sparks from the golden domes of the Imperial Palace in the distance. Heat shimmered from the street and the ancient stone of the Imperial Hippodrome, creating visual distortions. The wide avenue leading to the Hippodrome had been cleared of all traffic, vehicles being replaced by bodies. Imperial troopers spaced equidistantly along the avenue guarded the barriers, keeping the populace from the street.

All streets leading to the Hippodrome were packed with people. Those without a clear view of the avenue itself turned to watch enormous vid-screens that decorated the sides of buildings.

Sleek fighter craft streaked in formation overhead, performing an elaborate aerial ballet. Small, one-man security pods cruised above the heads of the people, scanners sweeping the crowd.

A transport ship appeared at the far end of the avenue, high above the buildings. The thunder of its twin engines competed with the roar of the crowd as it slowed and hovered.

A hatch opened in the belly of the ship and a smaller craft dropped from its bowels to descend to street level.

A hush fell over the throng as a hatch opened in the side of the small craft and a landing ramp slid forward. Two of the Emperor’s Imperial Sentinels stepped from the craft to take up positions on either side of the hatch. A low murmur rippled down the avenue like a wave as Leonidas and Octavian stepped into view.

Four additional Sentinels emerged behind them, taking mirror positions to each side of them, one fore and aft.

A deafening cheer went up as horns blared and the processions commenced. Leonidas’ contempt was clear on his face as he beheld the spectacle.

Watching from the comfort of the Imperial box in the Hippodrome, I studied the scene displayed on the vid-screen. It was surreal. Almost as if we had stepped backward in time. As if ten million years of history had vanished. Once more the Imperial Troops were arrayed in golden armor and plumed helmets, the modern armament and communication glasses incongruous to the billowing capes, plaited loincloths and gem-encrusted gauntlets. Banners fluttered, horns trumpeted and armored war horses snorted and pranced as they led the procession.

To Leonidas’ credit, no sign of weakness was evident on his face as obscenities and curses were shouted at him. His face showed nothing but disdain for those who hurled denunciations toward him.

I understood and even admired him. He did this as much for his people as for himself. Never would they see him humbled or defeated. He had to have been thinking the same thoughts as I. That at this moment every person on all three of our worlds watched. This was a media spectacle. I doubted there was a person alive on any of the three worlds who was not glued to the broadcast.

Leonidas walked with shoulders square and head high. I found myself wondering what emotions boiled within his heart, within the heart of his people. Were they overcome with defeat and hopelessness or did there burn the fire of vengeance within them? I suspect the latter held true for Leonidas.

The procession slowed as they neared the massive tunneled entrance of the Hippodrome, the dim interior a welcome respite from the stares and taunts.

The riders split at the far opening to circle the Hippodrome. Riders fought to still the nervous mounts in place as they took positions rimming the floor. Leonidas stepped from shadow to sun and stopped to cast a challenging look around.

The stands were filled to overflowing, tier after tier packed with screaming, shouting people. The Emperor’s box was open to the elements, the protective shield having been lowered for the event. Royal banners whipped and snapped from the railings.

I felt I could read his thoughts as his challenging gaze lifted to the Emperor’s box where we sat. In some respects I agreed with what he must have been thinking. Never one to miss a media opportunity, the Emperor had staged a media circus, a dramatic, symbolic and lavish spectacle to mark his victory.

Leonidas started forward, his head held high. My father the Emperor watched him and Octavian approach with a satisfied smile. Illustrious in the traditional yet outdated royal vestments, he was the perfect picture of sovereignty. The glittering crown circling his brow and the shining lamé of his golden cloak seemed to bathe him in a glow.

As Heir Apparent, I sat to the left of the Emperor. Out of respect to the men standing in the dirt below, I kept all expression from my face. My brother, RaJahn, second-in-line to the throne, seated beside me, paid no such respects to the men, or made no effort to conceal a conceited smile, his delight at the sight before him evident.

To the Emperor’s right sat Azarth Vahn L’Par Dahl Azoz, Minister of Science and longtime advisor and friend of the Emperor. Seated beside Azarth was the Eldest of the Order of the Sisterhood, her black-robed figure a stark contrast to the colored finery that surrounded her.

On either side of the Emperor’s box were seated the members of the J’Zhan. Among them was Leonidas’ own father, Branueesh Kahnn, Praetor of Nuria. As always, his father’s face was stoic, his bearing proud. He did not bat an eye as his son was led across the floor of the Hippodrome to gaze upward at the Emperor.

The guards halted and motioned for Leonidas and Octavian to step forward. Leonidas scowled at the slender, pale-skinned man who moved beside him.

Octavian had to look up to meet Leonidas’ eyes, but there was no fear in the blue depths. Vazanti, Heir to the throne of Valia, Octavian had been Leonidas’ enemy as long as I could remember. Intelligent in that covert, secretive manner so common to a physically weaker race, Octavian had been a constant thorn in Leonidas’ side.

Leonidas should have known better than to allow himself to be talked into an alliance with the Valians. Particularly this one. Octavian’s ties to the SyFeth De’Fane V’Kar were tight.

The most ancient order of their peoples, the Order had always kept well hidden in secrecy and sorcery. Unmarried but not celibate, they drew their members from all three of the V’Karian worlds, and insinuated their own into every circle of power. Abominable creatures, they wielded power without ever lifting a weapon. While none of the ruling powers would ever admit to fearing them, in truth they lived in perpetual fear of what would become of them should the Sisterhood decide to take a stance against them.

And Octavian was one of them. In an Order historically forbidden to men, he held the rank of High Priest, making him the second male in their history to occupy such a position. Considering his current situation, this would cause one to assume that the power carried far less weight than anyone had imagined, for Octavian stood on the executioner’s block beside Leonidas while the true instigators of the doomed coalition, the Order, remained out of reach and untouchable.

Leonidas’ eyes wandered and I saw that his resolve almost faltered when he saw Riana, his wife, and his council of advisors seated on the front rows along one side. Well guarded, they were not shackled. Riana’s eyes sought his. I watched with fascination at the change in his expression when their eyes met. He would display courage no matter what he faced. For her, his would be a noble death. She would remember him with pride.

“Leonidas Kahan Branueesh, Primus Nuria,” a voice came over the speakers.

Silence fell. Leonidas stared squarely at the Emperor as the herald continued. “Octavian Ishban, Vazanti Valia. For the crime of treason, the Alfas J’Zhan has agreed and has been granted Imperial license by Shah D’Harahn V’Kar, Atohl Vox TraaNur to issue sentence upon you and all those who have been found guilty of aiding and abetting the crime of treason.

“The sentence is death.”

A roar went up from the crowd. At last the moment all had awaited.