Ardor's Leveche (9 page)

“Did you bring me something to drink?”

“Aye,” Breva replied. He didn’t need to ask Lord Savidos how he knew he was not alone in his quarters. He knew the Reaper would have been aware of the exact moment his 2-I-C had come into the room.

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“I need my injection.”

Sighing heavily, Breva got up from the divan and went into the galley of the quarters. Opening the refrigerated section of a cabinet, he pulled out a tray with a syringe and a vial of purple-colored liquid and drew up three hundred milligrams of the tenerse.

“Any particular reason you held off on taking this?” Breva asked as he thumped the barrel of the old-fashioned syringe his overlord preferred to the vac-syringe the healers used.

“I needed a shower.”

“And you’ve been in there for two hours?” Breva asked, pushing the plunger on the syringe until a small spray of liquid squirting from the tip of the needle.

“Your point being?”

Breva shook his head. “Just get over here,” he said in an exasperated tone. “All I need is for you to go into Transition and rip off my head.”

“Like I would,” the Reaper replied with a snort.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I might one day if you don’t stop irritating me, Raoul.”

Taller than his 2-I-C, Lord Savidos sat down in the only chair in the galley and pulled his hair from the side of his neck, tensing as the needle neared his flesh.

“How many times have you been told not to tense like that?” Breva asked as he swabbed the side of his overlord’s neck with an alcohol pad. “It will only make it hurt worse.”

“The shit is going to hurt anyway,” the Reaper complained and couldn’t prevent himself from squeezing his eyes shut as the needle went into his neck and the syringe’s payload spread through his jugular vein.

“You are such a baby,” Breva said softly and dabbed at the stinging pain with the alcohol swab, spreading the fiery liquid as he did.

“How ‘bout letting me inject you with three hundred mils of that crap and see if you’ll flinch,” Lord Savidos suggested.

“Fifty mils of it would kill me and you damned well know it, you evil prick,” Breva said sweetly. “Three hundred would fry my brain.”

“What brain?”

Breva returned the vial to the refrigerated unit and laid the syringe in the sink to be autoclaved later. He went back to the divan and sat down. He had to look away as the Reaper came in, took up the beaker of Sustenance and drained it. The sounds of greedy swallowing never failed to make him ill but he hid his discomfort as best he could.

“How’s the weather?” Lord Savidos took off the top of a large container sitting on the table and dug his hands inside, popping small, bright yellow spheres into his mouth.

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Looking around cautiously, the major was relieved to see the empty beaker on the table. “Nowhere near its peak. The storm is still about five miles out, but the lightning is right over us.”

Lord Savidos frowned as he chewed. “That’s not a good sign. Usually that means the storm will last several days.”

“The weather guys are predicting a week.”

“She won’t be able to wait that long.”

Breva was watching his overlord. The man was lounging in his comfortable chair—

long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, bare toes flexing. His shoulder-length hair flowed over his naked shoulders and there were still water droplets clinging to the thick mat of hair on his chest. The black silk britches clinging to his hips and legs fit him like a glove and the thick bulge at the apex of his muscular thighs made Breva shake his head.

“What?” He harvested more spheres from the jar and munched on them.

“You’ve been too long without a woman,
chanto
,” Breva replied. “Just saying the word
she
gave you a hard-on.”

Lord Savidos glanced down at his crotch. “No, the shower did that.”

“What is it with you and the shower?” Breva had to ask. “Do you jack off in there?”

His overlord blinked, surprised at the question. He stopped chewing long enough to reply. “You know I don’t do that. My wardress would know and she’d set the damned pain off in my head and…”

“Then what is it you do in there? What can you possibly be doing for two fucking hours if you aren’t pulling your pud?”

The Reaper’s lips twitched. He got up and padded into the galley, tossing his words over his shoulder. “Remember when we were boys and we used to sneak down to Li Cabiza to go swimming?”

“I remember getting my arse whipped for going there,” Breva said, craning his neck to look behind him for the divan was between the sitting area and the galley.

“We’d stay down there all day until Manuel came looking for us.”

“Manuel,” Breva said with a grunt. “What a nuisance he was as a boy.”

“And still is as a man,” Lord Savidos agreed as he came back and handed Breva a glass of plum wine. Taking his own glass to his chair, he sprawled into it and took a sip of the heady wine.

“Can’t argue with you there.”

“I can still remember running and grabbing the rope we’d strung from that old oak and swinging out over the water, dropping down in the center, trying to see who could make the biggest splash.”

“That’s how you broke your arm as I recall.”

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Lord Savidos shrugged. “It was worth it because I was doing something I loved.”

He took another sip of wine then ran the index finger of his free hand around the rim of the glass, creating a clear ringing tone as he circled the circumference. “Now, the closest I can come to enjoying something like that is by standing under the water and remembering.”

“Ah,” Breva said, understanding turning his face dark. “I hadn’t thought about the parasite’s aversion to water.”

“Let me come within three feet of running water or a pond and that damned thing will ripple like a mother-fucker up and down my spine.”

The two men were silent for a moment then Breva hung his head. “I’m sorry to have brought up a painful memory,
chanto
.”

“What are brothers for if not to torment one another?”

Breva smiled and lifted his head. “I’m good at it, aren’t I, Gabriel?”

The Reaper sat forward in his chair, his right hand cupped in his left, elbows on his spread knees and asked what was really bothering his brother.

“Other than our father’s insanity?” Breva countered.

“Or our young brother’s stupidity?”

Breva shrugged. “Actually, as much as I hate to admit it, Manuel isn’t really stupid.

Naïve, perhaps, but not stupid.”

“True and he’ll make a good king one day when the old man meets his deserving end.”

“Better him than me,” Breva said with a shudder.

“Or me,” Lord Savidos agreed.

“As the eldest, the throne is rightfully yours,” Breva said quietly.

Lord Savidos drained his glass before he spoke. “I don’t want it.” He got up and went back to the galley, bringing the wine bottle with him this time. He poured himself and Breva another glass. “No more than you want it as middle son.”

“Middle, illegitimate son,” Breva reminded his brother, toasting him with his glass.

“One not even entitled to carry the Leveche surname thus not entitled to that damned sapphire throne.”

“It’s the woman who is plaguing your thoughts,” the Reaper accused, changing what had always been a sore subject between them.

Breva nodded. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”

“Who said I was going to?” Lord Savidos asked as he brushed lint from the leg of his britches.

“Give her to me.”

The Reaper looked up slowly, locking eyes with the one person in the entire galaxy outside his mother he had ever loved. “No.”

“Why not?”

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“Because you have a woman of your own already?” was the question.

Breva waved a negligent hand. “Mary is a dozen light years away and so heavy with child—”

“Your child.” It was said in a soft, proud voice that made Breva swell up like a peacock. “My first niece or nephew.”

“I can have a harem,” the Storian major said, his chin raised. “
That
I am entitled to as a royal son.”

“Try having one and see what Mary Morana does to your flabby ass,” his brother admonished.

Breva’s shoulders slumped. “Gabriel, you just can’t—”

“I can’t get her out of my mind,” the Reaper admitted and when Breva turned shocked eyes to him. “And, no, I haven’t taken her, but by the gods this day won’t end without me having done so.”

The eyes of the 2-I-C of the Storian rebel forces became like saucers in his swarthy face. “By Alel, do you think she is your destined mate,
chanto
?”

“If I believed in such silliness, but I don’t,” Lord Savidos replied. “If I had to explain it, I’d say it’s a hormonal thing. As you reminded me, it’s been awhile since the eel has been swimming.”

Blushing at the crude expression, Breva finished off his glass of wine and got to his feet. “I need to check on her and—”

“Take the evening off, Raoul,” the Reaper said, making it sound like an order. “I’ll check on her.”

Breva narrowed his eyes. “As me?”

“For now.” He fished into the jar and extracted more spheres.

“You’re addicted to those damned things,” Breva commented as he headed for the door.

“There are worse things than lemon drops I could be addicted to, bro,” he replied.

“Your breath always smells like a lemon tree.”

“Better than it smelling like an abattoir,” Lord Savidos pointed out. “Every Reaper I’ve ever known has a thing for sweets.” He smiled nastily. “Must be to counteract the saltiness of the Sustenance.”

“Ugh,” Breva said, and left without another word.

The Reaper sat there for a little while longer, chomping lemon drops until the jar was nearly empty. It was a treat he had discovered on his one journey through the Carbondale Gate and into the galaxy known as the Milky Way. The confection was an expensive habit that cost him at least a week’s wages—two weeks if luck was against him—to obtain from scout ships sent to Terra. But to him, it was worth it for not only did the pale yellow spheres soothe him, feed his sweet tooth, they had the added 51

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

benefit of tempering what he knew had to be a foul smell coming from his breath when he fed.

Finally denying himself any more treats, he got up and padded into his sleeping chambers. Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the armoire, he envisioned his brother’s stiff khaki uniform tunic and trousers. As he watched, the molecules shifted around him until he was clothed in the detestable garments.

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There was a gentle hand on her brow and Ardor opened her eyes to look up into one of the handsomest faces she could ever remember seeing. The dark complexion was a warm honey gold. The lips were full and as they stretched into a gentle smile, the teeth behind those lips were white and straight, the central incisors a tad longer than the laterals—perfect in every way. Warm black eyes gazed down in such a way she could see the heat building in them. Soon, she knew those black depths would be hot as pitch bubbling in a cauldron.

“How do you feel, wench?” he asked in his soft Storian accent that sent tremors of expectation down her spine.

Ardor put a hand to her head and was relieved she no longer felt the pain that had been slamming against the inside of her skull. “Better,” she said and became aware she was no longer on the ship. “Where are we?”

“Inside the base camp,” he told her and helped her sit up.

“How did I…?” She looked up at him with accusing eyes. “He had me drugged.”

A soothing hand was slipping up and down her back in a comforting way. “It was for your own good. You would never have been able to make the journey from the ship to the mountain.”

“Why not just land us in the mountain? Don’t you have the technology?”

“The Web is designed so such a thing is impossible without us shutting it down.

Can you imagine the problems we’d have if our enemies could simply rearrange their molecules and appear in the heart of our defenses?”

Ardor agreed it would present a dilemma.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” she said. Looking around her at the sumptuous surroundings, she had a million questions to ask but her belly was rumbling and the mere thought of food made her mouth water. She thought of all the dishes she would love to dive into at that moment.

He went to the Vid-Com and ordered a tray sent to the quarters immediately, naming off menu items that were her particular favorites. When he was finished and returned to sit beside her on the bed, she sent him a mutinous look.

“How did you know what I like?” she asked in a suspicious tone.

There was a pause then he shrugged. “He reads minds, wench,” her companion said.

“Do you?” she questioned.

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“Raoul Breva has no such abilities, I fear,” he said, putting a hand to his heart.

“Most of the time I’m glad he doesn’t.”

Annoyed by people who talked about themselves in the third person, Ardor ignored his remark. “Was he in communication with you just then? Did he tell you what to order?”

A blush spread over his face and he looked away. “I am never free of the Reaper, wench. He is in me every moment of the day.”

“Well, tell him to stop slipping into my thoughts! I don’t like it and it is hateful.”

He frowned. “I’ll try to remember to have a talk with him about it,” he mumbled.

The floor beneath them shook for a moment and Ardor hopped off the bunk. She was in his arms before the vibrations ended.

“What was that?” she asked, her face as white as parchment.

He could feel her heart thudding in her chest and gathered her closer. “A mild tremor, wench, nothing more,” he explained.

“An earthquake?” she asked and the fear in her voice was evident.

“No, just a reverberation from the storm outside.” He could feel her fingers digging into his back. “Are you frightened of storms?”