Ardor's Leveche (10 page)

“We’re underground,” she said as though she had just realized it.

“Aye,” he said, drawing the word out as he delved lightly into her mind, seeking the cause of the shivering that had suddenly claimed her. When he realized she was claustrophobic, he assured her the mountain was safe, that earthquakes didn’t occur on Riezell Nine. “The base camp is reenforced with titanium girders. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Storm?” she said, finally picking up on the word. “What kind of storm?”

“Would you like to see?” he asked. “Sometimes it’s best to see what disturbs us than to imagine it.”

She nodded, still clutching him.

Before he could escort her from the cell, a guard arrived with her food and with the message that Major Breva was needed immediately in the command room.

“The mountain is caving in!” Ardor said with a gasp.

“No, wench,” the man holding her replied and firmly disengaged her arms from around him. He stood there—holding her wrists in his hands—and looked down at her, staring into her terrified eyes. “You will go with this man after you’ve eaten your meal and—”

“I can’t—”

His look intensified until he was firmly in control of her mind. “Eat your meal and then he will bring you to the command room. Do you understand?”

Ardor smiled. “Yes, Raoul, I understand.”

54

Ardor’s Leveche

Her captor cleared his throat then released her wrists. He turned to the guard.

“She’ll accompany you once she’s eaten. Take care of her, Juan.”

Realizing it wasn’t Major Breva speaking to him for the voice was now that of his overlord and no longer the higher tones of the major, the guard snapped to attention.

“Aye-aye,” he responded. He couldn’t look away from the man who could have passed for Breva’s twin.

“No need to restrain her in any way,” the Reaper said. “She’ll walk calmly beside you. Answer any questions she might have without saying too much, eh?”

“Aye, Sir!”

Breva looked up as his overlord strode into the command room, no longer clothed in the flowing robe but dressed in the black silk shirt and black leather pants of his position, the skeletal mask in place though it was the half-mask that left the Reaper’s shoulder-length, dark brown hair showing.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted, but I thought you’d like to see this,” Breva said and stepped away from the Vid-Com screen behind him. “We knew something was up as soon as we saw the two pleasure ships moving out of the area.”

Lord Savidos bent down, his knuckles pressed against the table beneath the Vid-Com and stared at the fleet of ships soaring through the midnight dark sky. He didn’t need to ask whose ships they were for the vessel in front bore the insignia of the Coalition. “What is their position?” he asked.

“Nine clicks out from Amerigen.”

“Who is in the area?”

“No one,” Breva replied. “There’s a big offensive going on near Sauria and most of the Storian fleet is there.”

“The gods damn it! The sons of bitches must have realized we’re sitting here under a fucking solar storm,” the Reaper snarled, “and can’t come to Amerigen’s aid.”

“Our troops on Amerigen are prepared but without our help and with a force the size of that fleet, they don’t stand a chance.” Breva ran a hand through his hair. “We will lose it like we did Cengus.”

“Aye and Rabushu will be next on their list,” Lord Savidos said. He pounded his right fist on the table. “By Alel, I hate to feel so damned helpless! Where the hell did you say Diego was?”

“Somewhere near Sauria. I’ve tried hailing him but you know how he is. Since the Tribunal made you an outlaw, he won’t answer our hails.”

“He was always a cautious warrior and—”

Breva cleared his throat, gaining his overlord’s attention. He cocked his head to the left and when the Reaper turned, he saw Ardor standing off to one side with her guard.

Her face looked strained, her forehead crinkled, her complexion pale. She was twisting her hands at her waist, running the fingers over and over one another.

55

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Lord Savidos groaned. “I should have told her not to be afraid of the tremors.”

Even as he spoke, the floor rumbled beneath their feet and he saw his captive reach out to grip the arm of her guard.

“Go to her and reassure her that she’s safe. I told her you would show her the storm. Open one of the view grids and let her see it. Don’t show any landmarks that might be identified. She’s concerned the mountain might cave in. She’s very claustrophobic.”

“Will do,” Breva agreed and started toward Ardor.

Ardor was trembling as Breva reached her. She was unaware of the Reaper’s presence in the room but when the Storian major reached her, she looked up at him and when she did, saw Lord Savidos across the room behind him.

“Let’s take a look at what’s going on outside,” Breva said, taking her arm and leading her toward a large section of tambour panels that were slowly lifting as they drew near. “This should help, wench.”

Ardor wrinkled her nose for Breva’s breath was a bit on the foul side. He smelled as though he’d eaten a few cloves of garlic since he left her and the smell offended her.

“This is what’s happening out there. We are in the midst of a particularly bad solar storm and…”

Ardor wasn’t listening. Her attention was locked on the Reaper. She had never seen him without the flowing robe and the cowl that hid his dark hair. She realized his hair was as long as Breva’s—just as thick and curly—and tied back with a leather thong from the mask that looked as though it was glued to his flesh. The gruesome black, white and matte silver skeletal mask fit him as though it actually was his face. Only his eyes could be seen through the bony-like orbits and from that distance, they looked dark as sin.

Realizing he was being ignored, Breva turned to see where she was looking. He groaned, realizing that whatever Ardor was seeing, her masters at Command were seeing as well.

Lord Savidos was staring back at his captive, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, minus the grisly gloves that made his hands look like bony claws. His legs were apart and to those who glanced his way, the stance carried with it the supreme power of his authority.

Putting a hand up to her temple where a slight pain had suddenly intruded, Ardor could feel herself drawn to the man across the room. There was a pulling that made her want to close the distance between them, look into his eyes in the hopes of finding some modicum of humanity there so the mask would not disturb her so.

“Don’t stare at him, wench,” Breva suggested. “No one has ever won a staring contest with the Reaper.”

Ardor took that as a challenge and continued staring at Lord Savidos. The pain was escalating in her head and she realized the implant signal must be increasing.

56

Ardor’s Leveche

The Reaper could not take his eyes off the woman. She was pale, her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight braid that fell across one shoulder to drape seductively down her left breast. The feathered tip of the braid just touched where he knew her nipple would be and the thought made him hard as a rock beneath the sleek fabric of his britches and he had to turn away before anyone could see his erection.

“No one has ever won a staring contest with him, eh?” Ardor asked, feeling a moment of triumphant interspersed with disappointment that he had turned his back on her.

“Not until now,” Breva said, his voice filled with awe.

“He’s not as all-powerful as you and he think he is, then, is he?” Ardor asked, then gasped as the pain in her head throbbed with such a horrific agony her knees buckled.

The Reaper not only heard the woman’s gasp, he had felt her pain all the way across the room. With lightning speed, he spun around and caught her before she could hit the floor, sweeping her up into his arms.

“Get that damned healer on the horn!” he shouted at Breva. “Tell him I’m on my way over there.”

Breva—along with everyone in the room who had witnessed the blur of the Reaper racing across the room—could do nothing but gape at their overlord as Lord Savidos stalked off, carrying the limp body of his captive. When his brother’s words finally penetrated, the Storian major hurried after him, running to catch up with the Reaper’s long-legged stride.

“Gabriel,” he said, forgetting himself and using a name he’d been ordered never to speak unless they were alone, “you can’t go out there. The storm is at its zenith. Not even The Web can prevent the strikes from hitting us. Your ship would be pulverized!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Lord Savidos snapped. They were nearing the queen’s chambers and although the woman lying unconscious in his arms weighed little more than a feather to him, the drip of her blood oozing from her right ear onto his arm felt like a ton. “Have the healer standing by and do it now!”

As Breva watched, he saw the woman’s eyes fluttering open and warned his brother. Within a matter of seconds he was seeing Ardor Kahn in the arms of his double and he staggered back, never having seen the Reaper shape change into a mirror image of the man he looked at as he shaved each morning.

“By the gods,” Breva said, awed by the sight. It was
like
looking at himself in the mirror!

“Get the hell out of here and do what I ordered you to, mister!”

Ardor was staring up at the underside of a strong jaw as she was laid down on the bunk. The face of the man holding her was only a few inches from hers and as he spoke, she held her breath, expecting that telltale garlicky smell to wash over her.

“Lay still, wench,” she heard him say.

57

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The floor shuddered again and Ardor gasped, clutching at the arms that had released her.

“Easy, Sweeting,” he told her. “You’re safe.”

His hands were roaming over her face, brushing back wisps of hair from her forehead and cheeks even as her fingers dug into his biceps. His breath was fanning across her face and Ardor stared up at him as realization began to set in.

“You’re not Breva,” she accused, unmindful that she had increased the pressure of her fingers into the khaki crispness of the tunic he wore.

“Who else would I be?” he asked, smiling at her.

“It’s your breath,” she said.

He frowned. “Is it that bad?”

“You smell like lemons,” she accused.

The man leaning over her stiffened. “Well, I had garlic on my omelet this morning and—”

“Breva might have but you didn’t,” she said, snatching her hands away from him.

“Your breath smells like lemons.”

“I popped a few lemon drops, aye,” he acknowledged.

“When?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. “Right before you scooped me up and brought me here? I didn’t see you do it.”

The Reaper realized she had found him out and straightened up. He stood there staring down at her as Breva. For a full sweep of the old-fashioned analog clock on the wall behind him, he looked at her then shrugged and the khaki trousers and uniform tunic shifted to black silk and leather.

Ardor drew in her breath as the garments changed but the face of the man, the build of him was still the stockier, shorter Raoul Breva.

“In for a copper, in for a silver,” she admonished. “Let’s see the rest of you, Reaper.”

She was amazed as his body lengthened, slimmed down a bit and the black curls that mimicked Breva’s lightened to a shade of dark brown. Black eyes shifted into a shade of amber that caught the light and looked back at her as though stars had been caught in their warm depths.

Yet still the facial features of Raoul Breva remained.

“Are you so hideous that you don’t want me to see your face?” she asked. “Do you think I’ll faint at the sight?”

Her challenge stiffened his backbone and for one wild moment, he was tempted to show her what she thought was beneath the mask she’d seen him wear. The invisible demon that rode his shoulder thumped a horny fist at the side of his cheek, egging him into scaring the hell out of her, sending her screaming headlong into unconsciousness.

But the male part of him that was still reacting in ways he could not understand forbade 58

Ardor’s Leveche

him from playing such a vicious trick, and when his face changed into the true way he looked, he saw her eyes widen and her lips part in stunned surprise.

Ardor could not believe what she was seeing and had it not been for the brutal pain gouging into her brain and increasing in strength again, she would have shouted at him. As it was, her words were spoken from between clenched teeth.

“Very funny, you evil bastard,” she said. “Now show me the real you!”

Realizing in his egotistical stupidity he had committed a grievous mistake, Lord Savidos’ face shifted to the skeletal mask in the blink of an eye. Never,
never
had he intended her to see him as he really looked.
Never
had he intended for her masters to get a look at his face for they were bound to recognize him—as the woman had—as King Alejandro’s son, a man thought to have died in the fire pit on
an Éigipt
,
and the rightful heir to the Storian throne.

Ardor instinctively moved away from him now that he once more sported the god-awful mask. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand he peel the thing off when she began to understand that what she had seen before he made the mask materialize to cover his features had been his valid appearance.

“Or would you prefer this face?” he asked and from her memories dredged up Kurt Bowen’s beefy face to replace his own.

Knowing he had taken her lover’s image from her thoughts angered her but she knew it would also confuse the man who would see that image on Riezell. Instantly, she pictured General Morrison and almost as quickly, that face appeared on the Reaper.

“Ugly old bugger, isn’t he?” Lord Savidos asked.

Ardor would have laughed but the pain exploded in her head and she began convulsing, her limbs stiff, her back arched, her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Wench, no!” the Reaper shouted and reached down to pry her jaws open with one hand while he jerked at his belt with the other, stripping it from his waist, doubling a section of it and forcing it between her teeth for her to clamp down on to keep from swallowing her tongue.