Creations 4: Caging the Beast (3 page)

“Greedy little bastard, eh?” The beast continued to pet him, his hand large and callused but curiously gentle as he stroked Tarn’s coarse fur. “Can’t blame you. Out there, they’ll as much use you for sport as work. No rest for us. Not ever.” Long fingers eased down his neck but stopped at the spiky scales along his back.

“But there are compensations. You look well fed,” the beast continued. “Your fur is thick, your eyes rich with energy. So bright, so very green…” He paused, a curious look on his face as he stared at Tarn. Then he inhaled and froze. “You smell like
him
.” At that moment, the door handle of the cell turned. As soon as the beast’s attention was diverted, Tarn teleported out of the room back into the corridor.

Stepping back into a shielded alcove, he heard curses and watched as more men arrived to subdue the beast. Sorry for the trouble he’d caused, he quickly departed. A jog down to Master Furon’s quarters was in order, and it would help him ignore his odd reluctance to leave the beast back in his cell. He stopped outside Master Furon’s room and put his ear to the door.

Inside, Furon grunted and moaned. The sound of a female’s cries echoed, cries not of pleasure, but of pain and anger.

“Good work, whore,” Furon gasped. Then the sound of a thump and angry, feminine complaint. “The guards will take you back.”

Guards? Tarn hadn’t seen anyone. He hurried out of the way back into the shadows as approaching footsteps neared the other side of the door. When it opened, he scented three males and the female. She smelled sickly and looked worse than he’d expected.

One of the men dragged her, swearing and threatening Furon, away from the doorway down the corridor. Unfortunately, the door swung closed again. Not all the way, but enough to hide those inside.

“By Atta’s balls, I can’t wait until we get our next shipment of women. The whores we have now aren’t worth a damn,” Furon complained.

Atta’s balls? Atta was the Melan god of strife. It figured Furon hailed from a planet where war and chaos were a way of life.

“You came hard enough,” one of the guards rumbled with disgust. “Stars sake, Furon.

Did you have to hurt the girl? We have plenty of others who give it away willingly enough.

And did I have to be here to see it?”

“Watch your tone, Pyrgo,” Furon snapped. “You know as well as I do Jenna gets off on the pain. She’s just angry I wouldn’t let her bite me.”

“Or come,” Pyrgo muttered. “Yeah, well, I still don’t like having to watch.”

“I don’t care what you want. I like having an audience. Now behave or I’ll show you just how much fun an ass reaming can be.”

Silence.

“Well?” Furon asked in a low, interested voice.

“My mistake, Master Furon,” came the strangled reply.

This guard didn’t sound like the others. Nor did he smell ripe with filth. He smelled like… home? Tarn wanted to get a good look at him when Furon’s next words took his attention.

“That’s right, Pyrgo. Your mistake. The next one you make will be your last. Now tell me about the crystal.”

His interest perked.

“The Mardu that stole it won’t sell it until The Slave Trade.”

“Dammit. That’s another ten days from now.”

Shit. Ten more days in this hell hole?

“I know. But he let me see it. He attended last night’s fight. The crystal is the one you want. It glowed brighter the closer it moved to the beast.” Tarn blinked. What did the crystal have to do with the beast?

Furon chuckled. “The Dorvian crystal and our beast. Now what do you think the two have in common?”

An interesting question, and one Tarn didn’t have time to answer.

The other guard had returned.

“Mother of Mines. Where the hell did you come from?” The guard lifted a phaser and glared at Tarn. “Not one of Yorum’s
thrells
, not this big. Boss? I think we have a new candidate for the blood sport tomorrow night. And I’m betting this one’s a winner.” Tarn swore to himself, irritated at his inability to act and think like a fucking leader of warriors. He was the Ebrellion Destroyer, caught twice now in the span of one night.

He didn’t give the excited guard a chance to react. Whipping his tail at the male’s hand, he knocked the phaser aside. Then slicing a claw down the guard’s abdomen, he injected the male with
threll
toxin. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him violently ill.

Pleased he’d at least managed that, he caught a brief glimpse of Pyrgo’s face when the door opened. Tarn swore under his breath. Another Ebrellion in the System this far from Mardu? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Before Pyrgo could confirm Tarn’s identity as anything other than a feral
threll
, Tarn raced away down the corridor. He glanced over his shoulder and stopped when he saw no one behind him. Between one heartbeat and the next, he

‘ported back into his cell, shifted into a man’s form, and slumped down onto the floor.

Catching his breath, he thought about all he’d heard and seen tonight. A Dorvian crystal. The beast’s aura. Another Ebrellion on a slave planet. But most importantly, he pondered the beast’s curious effect on his libido.

The latter occupied him well into slumber. Tarn tossed and turned as he dreamed about the silver haired, red eyed Creation built for sex and destruction. Which he would give Tarn, only fate could say.

* * * *

The next day, Zachem rose from his pallet, healed from the inside out. Self-healing—a gift from his Creator, the shifty
drun
. Stretching, Zachem couldn’t help wondering when he’d get to see the new slave again. The male had been on his mind all night long. Especially after encountering that mysterious creature last night.

He still had no idea how the thing had entered his cell. Or why it had seemed to have the same eyes and feel as the handsome slave he couldn’t stop thinking about.

No matter how much Zachem tried, he couldn’t identify the slave’s origins. Something about him looked Mardu, except for his size, which could only have come from a Ragga background. In the Vrail System, races did not interbreed. Due to some odd construct in their genetic chemistry, progeny of differing races only ever produced and retained the characteristics of the dominant race.

Which is why Creations intrigued the geneticists of Eyra. Zachem possessed the genetic combination of several races in the System, and he displayed them outwardly. He had brawn, strength and agility, much like what he’d sensed from the new slave.

Yet the new slave didn’t appear to be a Creation. He looked too normal, except for that one brief instance when he’d blinked and inner lids had shielded his eyes. A reptilian-like pupil and alien awareness seethed in that stare.

What did he see when he looked at me? Did he see a Creation? A killer? A fool who trusted the
wrong person and wound up a slave?

Zachem snorted at his fanciful imaginings and ignored the guards’ mutterings. A quick glance at the
thrells
snarling more than usual at him told him what he knew to be true. The
threll
he’d touched last night had not belonged to the guards. Though most
thrells
came up to his own mid-thigh, the one in his cell had been several heads larger. A giant in its own right.

Full of danger, yet docile under Zachem’s touch.

He clenched his fists and followed the guards out of the pen to the feeding chamber.

Forced to sit at a rough-hewn table, he glared at his captors, pleased when they hurried away. Were it not for the collar at his throat, he would have killed them and escaped long ago. Unfortunately, the thin shock collar was more than symbolic. Zachem, for all his strength, couldn’t withstand bursts of enon energy for any length of time. Hell, just one jolt from the collar put him on his ass. It left a memorable imprint, one he had no inclination to experience again.

Other slaves began entering the chamber. He saw the females from last night, who shyly waved at him, as well as the Ragga who pretended not to know him. Most of the slaves kept to their own kind. Mardu sat with Mardu, Melans with Melans. A few of them intermingled, but like the System in which they’d been born, like stayed with like. Hence, Zachem remained isolated.

In his entire life, he’d only ever met one other being like him. He’d had to kill the male in order to avoid being killed. The Creation had been crazed, like the scientists in the lab had warned to expect.

“You want to leave us? Where would you go? If anyone learns what you are, they’ll kill you on
sight, and us as well. Your crazed brethren have done us all a grave injustice.”
He recalled the conversation as if it had happened yesterday. The horror of learning just what he was, a hated Creation. The Eyran War of 2845, centuries before his existence, had turned those in the System against his kind. Though engineered from the best and brightest genes in the System, most Creations suffered immediate problems.

Apparently, the first batch had been so subservient they’d had to be told when to breathe. The second batch had become
too
assertive—genius killers who butchered their Creators, Handlers, and everyone else they could reach.

Zachem had had no option but to stay with those who’d made him. Created to serve, he’d at first loved his Creator, and even his Handler. He’d endured their tests, the pain, the constant demands to perform. When he’d been bought by Master Caegon, he’d lived a life of relative peace, despite his use as a battle slave. Though the sex he’d experienced had never been pleasant, it satisfied the growing urges within him to mindlessly destroy. Or at least, it had.

In a way, he now needed The Pit as much as they needed him. Within these walls, he rarely felt a desire to kill. Fed on fights and sex, he could withstand the daily doldrums in the caves without harming anyone who didn’t deserve it. He flatly refused to fight anyone he didn’t consider strong enough to withstand him without dying from a few punches in the process. Those rabid enough to try to kill him deserved death. He had no problem sharing violence when needed.

More slaves filled the area as he continued to eat. The guards brought him a second and third tray filled with rich meat and fruits, food unlike the mealy protein substance the others were served. He forced himself to slow down, wanting to wait until the new slave arrived.

Finally, he walked through the doorway. Like Zachem, the slave had to bend not to brush his head against the upper frame. As soon as he entered, his gaze sought and held Zachem’s.

Excitement drummed through Zachem’s body. He waited.

Taking his time, the new slave picked up a plate of food. He skirted the other tables and made his way to Zachem.

The rest of the room stilled, as if anticipating the beast’s reaction.

“Sit,” he said when the slave paused by his side.

The dark-haired male raised a brow at his tone but sat across from Zachem and studied his plate. The rest of the room resumed conversation.

“What’s your name?” Zachem asked, impatient for the introduction.

The slave grimaced at the food he’d been given and pushed it aside. And no wonder.

Zachem had refused the substandard fare as well when he’d first arrived. He shoved his tray at the slave, who accepted it with thanks.

“Your name?” he growled, needing to know.

“Tarn.” Tarn took a bite of succulent melon and sighed. “Damn, I needed this.” He paused. “So what do I call you? Beast?” He snorted.

“My name amuses you?” Curiously, Tarn showed little fear in his presence. A definite challenge to his ego.

“I’ve seen my share of beasts. You aren’t one of them. An alien warrior with those red eyes, silver hair and glowing skin. But no beast.” The warmth in Tarn’s gaze surprised him.

Zachem didn’t know how to respond. Tarn seemed to be complimenting him, but he wasn’t sure how to feel that the male didn’t find him threatening.

“Your name?” Tarn asked around a mouthful of
zarva
meat.

“Zachem’zen. I answer to Zachem.”
And Beast.

“How long have you been here?” Tarn stared at his collar and frowned.

“Too long.”

“I don’t see anyone else around here wearing a collar. Guess you’re the lucky one.” Tarn’s green eyes flashed with amusement, and he responded with a smile, unable to help himself.

Tarn sobered, and Zachem had the uneasy feeling he stared at a man as dangerous as himself. A predator behind a calm façade.

“We’re supposed to fight later in the week,” Tarn murmured.

“The guards told me this morning. Don’t worry. I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”

Tarn smiled again, and Zachem’s insides twisted with arousal. “I’m not worried, Zachem.” He lowered his voice so as not to be heard by the nearby guards. “But I’m wondering how smart it would be to give the audience such a good fight.” Zachem blinked. “You think you can last in the ring? That you can beat me?”

“Yes, I do. But if I bring too much attention to myself, I might end up wearing something like that.” He nodded to Zachem’s collar.

“You’re already bringing attention to yourself by sitting with me. But you pose an interesting point.” No way in hell Tarn could defeat Zachem, who’d never before been beaten. But why the notion of losing to the male made him harder than stone was a puzzle he’d reflect on later.

“What does the collar do, anyway?” Tarn asked. “Is it a magnecuff? Does it contain a type of charge?”

Zachem fingered the slender band with distaste. “If I go outside my prescribed perimeter, or Master Furon feels like it, the band shocks me with pulses of enon energy.”

“Ah. Enon energy. Quite effective, I’ve been told.”

“Yeah.”

They sat together in silence while Zachem memorised Tarn’s face. Harsh, masculine, and tempting. Unlike most of the males here, Tarn had short, thick black hair that looked soft and surprisingly clean. Long lashes framed his exotic, bright green eyes.

He had defined cheekbones, a square jaw and firm lips that parted around another piece of fruit with such natural sensuality Zachem couldn’t look away. Tarn’s tongue darted out to catch the juice, and Zachem couldn’t help the wave of lust that pushed a burst of scent towards the male. Instinct told him to trap and keep Tarn, just as long as he could. He didn’t understand the slave’s hold on his libido.