Mene
Council meetings were insufferable at the best of times, but the Elder refused to stop flapping his mouth, pleased with the sound of his own voice.
Mene sent a brief message to his brother. Father will not stop talking.
Too busy to greet our guests? Lorran responded.
Mene frowned at the screen. The two Terrans were not his guests but Seeran’s, his other brother. Or rather, the sister of his brother’s mate. His mother had insisted that Mene be the one to meet them when they arrived on Sangrin. Tani claimed it was to welcome them after a long journey and make them feel welcome, rather than let an impersonal auto-transport deliver them.
He knew the true reason. Tani played at matchmaking. The sister of Seeran’s mate—Hazel, he recalled her name—would likely have a high degree of compatibility with one of Seeran’s brothers. His unmated brothers.
Tani wanted grandsons more than she respected the autonomy of her sons. Mene was not interested in being matched to a mate, and he was not interested in claiming the passed -over sibling of Seeran’s mate.
Good. Mother already sent me to spaceport, Lorran typed.
Mene growled low in the back of his throat. He did not want his charming and personable younger brother to greet the female.
I will be there. Mene’s fingers stabbed at the screen as he entered the words.
Afraid the female will prefer my company?
No.
He did worry that the Terran female would prefer Lorran to himself. He didn’t want her, but the idea of her wanting Lorran sat uncomfortably with him.
I don’t care, Mene wrote. Just fetch the Terrans.
So gracious. So inspiring. Truly, a leader of warriors.
Mene chuffed at the screen.
“Something amusing you, Warrior Rhew?” The Elder’s dry voice rustled across the expanse of the council chamber.
Mene shifted his stance, standing at his attention behind his father’s chair. “No, sir. I followed up on a previous mission.”
The elder turned to Oran. “Monitoring these sessions is his only mission. Our security’s focus should not be split. We are far too important to leave vulnerable and exposed because this young one is...is flirting.”
Flirting? Mene bit his tongue. Elders demanded respect, even the pompous, self-important windbags.
Oran choked back a laugh. Though his hair was white with age, he remained in peak physical form. If an attack happened, Oran was not so far advanced in his years to be helpless. “The hour grows late. I believe our families are anxious to celebrate Golau.”
The Elders of the Council murmured agreement before breaking for the evening. A mix of Mahdfel warriors and Sangrin politicians populated the council that oversaw Mahdfel activity on Sangrin. The council members fancied that they directed the clan warlords but Mene saw the truth: the warlords listened to the Council out of respect for experience and wisdom. If they disagreed and defied the Council’s will, there was little recourse.
The little recourse was him, the Council’s enforcer, but Mene rarely had to act in that capacity. The times he had done so had left vivid reminders on his body.
Currently, the Council argued about a power struggle between two warlords. A young, ambitious warlord had designs on a larger clan. Tradition demanded that the warlords resolve it among themselves. The clans self-governed, mostly, and the most powerful and cunning warrior rose to the rank of warlord. The trouble in this situation was the older warlord with the larger clan was deeply unpopular with the Council. The younger warlord was reckless and let the Suhlik, their sworn enemy, gain an advantage.
Mene had the feeling that if the warlords did not resolve this soon, he would have to mediate. His form of mediation did not involve sitting around a large table and flapping his maw. His mediation was violent and direct.
For the most part, the council directed the Mahdfel clans of Sangrin, spent money building stations and equipment, funded research, and oversaw the testing of the Sangrin female population for genetic compatibility, in accordance with the Mahdfel-Sangrin treaty. The Mahdfel had defended Sangrin against invasion for several generations. There remained little for the Council to do at this point but squabble about taxes and perceived insults to their honor.
Mene’s father, Oran, left active duty for this. Worse, Oran expected Mene to follow in a political career.
He hated politics. Almost as much as he hated politicians.
A small female, hair white as the snow on the ground, motioned for Mene. “Elder Deron,” he said, nodding his head.
“I want you to meet my daughter, Charin,” Elder Deron said. He tapped the shoulder of a younger female standing next to him. She turned around, a pleasant smile on her face, and visibly flinched when she saw Mene. Not unattractive, the female was slight in stature, and her small horns curled delicately from her brow. Her color drained away, but her smile remained fixed in place. A true politician’s daughter, hiding her disgust at his scars.
Mene gave a short nod, ignoring her revulsion. He should be used to it, but it still stung. Regardless, it did not matter. Her scent did not appeal to him. Recently invented, the genetic compatibility test replaced the traditional method of hunting a mate via scent. According to mated males, though, the aroma of their female was the most luscious, delectable fragrance they had ever experienced.
Mene wanted that. He wanted to find his female, to detect her unique essence and let it overwhelm his senses. He wanted her taste to explode on his tongue as he licked the salt from her skin and the cream from her quim. He wanted her to genuinely smile when she saw him because he was a vain creature, and he never wanted to see the shadow of fear in her eyes. He wanted to hold her, protect her and make a family with her. It was a deep-seated need, one embedded in his genetic code by the Mahdfel’s former masters, he knew, but that did not diminish the need.
He refused to settle for anything less, and he felt no such pull with this female. Charin was not his.
She murmured a greeting, eyes demurely downcast. Even if her scent had intrigued him, that alone would have been enough to turn him away. Mene had no patience for a shy and tender female.
“She is a Mahdfel widow,” Elder Deron said, as if that revelation would magically make them compatible. She was simply not his.
“I wish you a festive Golau,” Mene said blandly. “My mother has made many promises of my time, and I must deliver my father safely home. Please forgive my departure.”
First, his mother played matchmaker and now Elder Deron. Was there no escape from meddlers?