Eight
The sky was dark, the air cool. The stars sparkled above them.
Orol flew with his female toward the mining fields. He had his arms around her waist, his fingers splayed over her bare stomach. Their legs were entwined.
The darkness inside him swirled, anticipating the killing. All of him was ecstatic to be touching his little mate.
Rhea had her long gun in her hands, pointed it at the origins of every sound. Insects chirped. She aimed at them. Sand shifted. She targeted those dunes.
His female was a warrior and she would survive their mission, Orol reassured himself. He would protect her, wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch her, and he would win his battle rounds.
He spotted the entrance. It was too far away for his little human to see but close enough to walk to. He drifted to the ground with her, hiding them behind a giant boulder.
Orol hugged his female to him, breathed in the scent of her hair, and then forced himself to release her. “We’re here.”
Rhea looked down at the gun in her hands. “I suppose you’ll want this back.”
She appeared adorably forlorn. He had sympathy for his tiny warrior. She hadn’t talons or natural weapons as he did. Being small, her strength was in her character, not in her physical form.
He was taking away her ability to defend herself. “You’ll have access to the guns on my chest covering.” He slung the long gun over his shoulder. “In an emergency.”
If she used the guns within the site of the battle, he doubted they would exit alive. Slaves didn’t shoot beings. They’d be exposed as outsiders and the patrons didn’t respond kindly to beings who weren’t one of them.
“And when you’re fighting?” His normally soft-spoken female was even quieter than usual, her voice inaudible to any human.
“You’ll be seated in the reserved viewing area.” That was reserved for credit-rich patrons, sponsors of the fighters, their slaves, any other beings attached to them. “No one will harm you.”
He grasped her hands, clinked her wrist restraints together, fusing them. His always-defiant female immediately tested them, was unable to pull them apart.
“This is expected,” he explained. Orol unwrapped one of the gold-colored chains from his forearm, threaded it from one wrist restraint to her collar to the second wrist restraint, clipping the ends to the waistband of his ass coverings. “You’ll walk behind me, between my wings, your head bowed. Don’t look at anyone.”
“If someone attacks me—”
“I won’t allow that.” He touched her face, willing her to trust him. “I can sense everything around me. That was one of my enhancements.” He was designed to be a super-warrior.
“I can do this…Master.” Her voice was breathy. “I’ve been acting my entire lifespan. This is merely a different role.”
It would be a challenging role for his female. “You can do this.” He brushed his lips against hers, tasting her sweetness, his nanohumanics reassuring him she was his. “Let’s go.”
He walked ahead, shortening his stride to match hers. She followed him, the chains jingling, her tread silent as a slave’s should be. Orol monitored the area around them.
As they approached the entrance, males appeared on the surrounding mountains of rock, guns in their hands, looking at them with suspicion. More males guarded the area around the gates.
Orol didn’t recognize any of them. He’d been away from the fighting for too long and guards didn’t enjoy long lifespans.
“I’m Wings.” He introduced himself. “I’m here to fight.” He extended his talons. That should vouch for his prowess.
A big male with a personal viewscreen, clearly the being in charge of admissions, looked Orol over, his one-eyed gaze lingering on his face, his arms, his talons. “Don’t know you.” He glanced to the left and to the right at his buddies. “You know him?”
They shook their heads, grunting.
“I’ve fought in the past.” Orol named the fights he’d won, sharing the dates and locations of those battles.
The big male’s eyes didn’t flicker in recognition. “Does anyone know this fighter?” he called out.
“Fraggin’ hole,” a familiar voice said. “You’re a bunch of offspring. Who doesn’t know him?” Scales stepped out of the shadows, the lights reflecting off his purple scales. To the untrained eye, he almost appeared to be a normal Dracheon warrior. The letters and numbers on his cheek combined with his glowing red eyes identified him as a fellow modified humanoid. “Wings.”
Orol’s stomach fell. “Scales.” He retracted his talons, walking toward the warrior. They pounded each other’s backs with their fists, the impact jarring Orol. “Tell me you aren’t fighting.”
“Why would I be here if I wasn’t fighting?” His friend stepped back, a grin on his ugly face. “I’ve already signed up.”
Scales expected him to back away from the battle. They had agreed to never meet each other in the ring. “Do you still have your issue?”
“Being unable to stop?” Scales nodded. “Yes. It has gotten worse. The rage lasts longer. But the organizers don’t seem to care. The audiences like the bloodshed.”
That rage was what Orol called the darkness. Once Scales started fighting, he couldn’t stop. The bloodthirst overwhelmed him and he slaughtered every being in his way until the ring was cleared or he was restrained, a cage dropped on him.
Orol would prefer to die than become a mindless killing beast. That was why he had walked away from the battles.
“Have they changed the awarding of the prizes?” The winner received his prizes immediately. The slaves allotted him were dropped into the still-bloody ring.
The expectation was the winner, hyped from the fighting, would mate with them, giving the audience that thrill also. Orol found nothing appealing about mating with unwilling females and refused to grant that show.
Scales gave the audience another kind of show. He’d seen his friend rip slaves to pieces.
“They haven’t changed anything.” Scales ran his hands over his bald head. “Attendance is bigger for the final round. The audience love to see me slice those poor females to bits, burning their bodies to ash. They cheer.”
Orol inwardly grimaced. His observant female hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved, but he knew she was listening, would be thinking of her sister, scared for her. “Scales—”
“I know how you feel about the slaves.” His friend looked over his shoulder at Rhea. “Though it looks like your stance might have changed on that.”
“It hasn’t.” He’d never condone hurting a female…if the female didn’t want to be hurt.
“I can’t stop, Wings.” There was pain in his friend’s eyes. “And it isn’t only restricted to the ring. At a beverage outlet ten planet rotations ago, a fighter-wanna-be struck me. I killed him and every being in the structure. There were offspring present, offspring, and I ripped them apart.”
Orol had sympathy for Scales. The darkness was difficult to fight, the killing addictive.
“If I asked you not to harm this prize—”
“I couldn’t agree to that. I have no control over it.” Scales met Orol’s gaze. His friend knew why he was asking that, what the consequences of saying ‘no’ were. “Someone has to stop me. Do what you have to do, Wings.”
“I have to fight in this battle.” Orol would have to face his friend, kill him if that was possible. If he didn’t, his mate’s sister, an innocent, would die.
Rhea would never forgive him and he would never forgive himself for hurting her.
The chain attached to his ass coverings tightened.
“There’s no choice.” He added for his female’s benefit.
“Not if you want the prize to live.” Scales confirmed a fact Orol had already accepted. “She’s that important to you?”
“She’s important to someone I would do anything for.” And, although Rhea would never believe his words, he would do anything for her, even enter a battle he wasn’t certain he could win.
“Then I hope you win her.” Scales nodded. “You’ll have to earn that prize. My condition doesn’t allow me to show mercy.”
“Frag you.” Orol punched his friend in the shoulder. “I don’t need your mercy. My kill rate was higher than yours when we escaped.”
“Because you fought in more battles. That’s the only reason.” Scales walked with him back to gates. “This warrior will be fighting.” His friend told the one-eyed male. “Expect to see both of us in the finals.”
Scales slapped Orol’s arm and kept walking through the entrance, not looking back. A cheer rose when he entered, the crowds waiting for him.
Orol completed his registration. There was no entrance fee. Fighters paid with their lives. The profits were from patron entrance fees and from the gambling, the betting on the winners of the rounds.
“Welcome to the battle, sir.” One of the males opened the gates.
Orol walked through the entrance, his wings spread, his female following him. They entered a wide tunnel. A cascade of sound swept over him. Males, humanoid and human, of all shapes, sizes, species lined the space. They were rough, coarse, armed, smelly.
Some beings asked who he was. A few old-timers recognized him. Their information flowed through the crowd.
The beings parted as he strode forward. To touch a fighter was considered tampering with a fight. The penalty for that was death.
To touch a slave had no consequences. Males leered at his female, made crude suggestions, edged closer to her, becoming more and more brazen.
An Ungarian male lunged forward and grabbed her ass. His female, to her credit, didn’t make a sound.
“She’s mine,” Orol roared. He turned, extended his talons, and swiped them across the male’s blue furry neck, decapitating him. The head was knocked into the crowd. Blood spurted from the being’s neck. His body fell to the ground, arms and legs twitching.
The crowd roared with approval, vastly entertained.
“Touch my slave and you die.” He warned the crowd. His gaze slid to his female. Her face was pale. Her lips were pressed together. Her eyes were downcast.
She was scared. The bastard male had frightened her. His inner beast beat its wings, raking its talons over its confines, seeking to protect its mate.
He forced himself to ignore her, acting as a brutish fighter would act with a replaceable slave. His female was a warrior. She would survive this.
Keeping his bloody talons extended, an unspoken threat to all who saw him, Orol continued the long walk through the former mining tunnel.
It wasn’t long before he was tested again. A human male ran forward, reached under Rhea’s ass covering and thrust his dirty, greasy, unworthy hand between her legs.
Orol gripped the male by the neck with one hand, raised him high in the air so even the beings in the back could see him. “No one touches what is mine.” He dragged his talons up the male’s protruding stomach, slicing through skin. The male screamed, catching his entrails with his hands.
Orol sliced off those hands, hands that had touched his female, and he stripped the flesh from the male’s arms, baring them until he saw bone. The shrieks coming from his adversary echoed in the narrow space. Blood pooled around the male’s boots.
The human begged for mercy. The pain must have been excruciating.
Orol waited until the male’s head swayed, until he had almost bled out, and then he dealt the deathblow, decapitating the human. The crowd became even more crazed, cheering, their hands raised.
He wasn’t tested again.
When Orol stepped out of the tunnel, a small, slender male waited for him.
“We are the Host,” he announced with grave dignity. The male’s garments covered him from his dainty chin to his immaculately shined boots. Only his pale hands and carefully coiffed head were visible. “If you will come with us, Fighter Wings.”
Orol followed the Host as he glided through the abandoned mining fields. The site, the result of a hole dug through the sand and rock, was shaped like a wind funnel, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, with many plateaus between the two points.
The fighting ring was on the first level, the Host explained, his tone bored. A barrier twice Orol’s height kept beings out and fighters inside. Seating was on the second level. Some males already reserved prime spots for the melee occurring the next planet rotation. Merchants did brisk business on the third level, selling weapons, nourishment, beverage, female company. Fighter accommodations were on the fourth level. The higher levels were reserved for guests, the organizers, the credit-rich patrons, in order of importance. At the very top, there was a space for the sunrise gatherings.
The organizers expected him to attend every sunrise gathering, the Host informed him. That was mandatory. He could bring his slave but no other guests.
Orol had no other guests to bring and he wasn’t leaving Rhea behind.
They stopped on the fourth level. The corridors were wide and high, made for mining machinery and suitable for large fighters.
“I want a big sleeping support and an open view.” Orol made his preferences known.
The Host glanced at his wings. “You would.” He stopped in front of a set of doors. “Place your right hand here.” He indicated the control panel.
Orol complied.
“And you have access.” The doors slid open, revealing a large room, lavishly furnished with a huge sleeping support, chairs, horizontal supports laden with nourishment and containers of beverage. The far wall was constructed of clear material, could be opened to the site. “Privileges increase as you progress. The options are on the screen.”
The male backed out of the chamber. The doors closed.
They were alone. Orol placed his hand on the interior control panel. The clear exterior wall turned opaque.
No one could see them. He removed the chain dangling between Rhea’s neck and wrists, tapped his ring against the restraints. She parted her hands.
He pulled his female to him, wrapping his arms and wings around her trembling form. “You did well,” he murmured. “You didn’t make a sound when that male touched you.”
“I reacted, Master.” His cautious female said that for his hearing only.
“You’d be expected to react.” He rubbed her back, trying to comfort her. “A slave should only be touched by her Master.” He lifted her ass covering. “Spread your legs for me.”
She did as he commanded.
He skimmed his fingertips over her ass, her pussy lips, examining her, looking for any injuries. “Did he hurt you?” He didn’t see any abrasions.
“He didn’t physically hurt me, Master.” She blew out a shaky breath.
The male had scared his fearless female. That angered Orol. “I couldn’t kill him until he touched you.” He caressed her flesh, removing her assailant’s scent, replacing it with his own. “No one will grab you again.”
“Not after what you did to him.” Her quivering intensified, her fear flowing to desire.
“I’ll do the same or worse to anyone who touches you.” He stroked her. “I’ll protect you.”
“I’m trusting you to do that.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Why did you agree to fight? Scales is your friend. To win the battle, you’ll have to kill him.”
“I had no other choice.” If there had been another option, Orol would have taken it. “You heard what he does to the prizes. He’ll do that to your sister.”
“There are other ways to save her.” His female kneaded his muscles, as though she was trying to soothe him, ease the agony of what he would have to do. “We could have snuck into the site.”
“Security is too tight for that.” They wouldn’t get past the gates and they certainly wouldn’t get close to her sister.
His female’s lips twisted. “They were guarding the gates closely,” she conceded. “But it might have been worth a try. He’s your friend and a modified humanoid. I saw the ink on his cheek.” There was concern in her eyes.
For him.
His female must care. Orol removed his fingers from her pussy, licked them clean, savoring her taste. “Even modified humanoids have weaknesses.”
The lines around her mouth deepened. “Have you ever fought a modified humanoid?”
“Not at one of these battles.” He hadn’t faced one of his brethren since the training bouts when they were first engineered. Those battles had been to the death also, a way for the Humanoid Alliance to filter the weak from the strong.
His friendships with those modified humanoids had been newly formed. His relationship with Scales spanned many human lifespans and countless battles. The male had saved his lifespan multiple times, as he had saved his friend’s.
“Don’t worry, Rhea.” Orol brushed her hair back from her beautiful face. “I’ll defeat him.”
“You won’t have to defeat him.” She summoned a small smile. “I’ll find another way.”
“Don’t do anything without my approval.” He frowned. She’d put herself in peril trying to help him.
“I won’t take action.” His female rolled her big brown eyes. “I’ll watch and listen and derive a plan we can both implement.”
There was no such plan. She would discover that at the sunrise gathering for fighters, organizers, and credit-heavy patrons.
His female would need her strength to deal with that.
He scooped her into his arms and transferred her to the sleeping support. “We should rest.”
He removed her footwear, her ass coverings, her chest covering, keeping the restraints around her wrists and ankles, her collar around her neck. She’d wear those symbols of his ownership during their stay in the mining fields.
Orol stripped his clothing and boots also and lay down beside her, tucking her under his wing, relishing the feel of her body against his.
“Those males in the tunnel thought they were so tough tormenting a defenseless slave,” she whispered. “But they were no match against you. You killed them quickly.”
“I killed them too quickly.” He kissed her forehead. “They deserved to suffer for touching you.”
“You protected me.” She wiggled, burrowing deeper into his form, the brush of her soft skin over his muscles hardening his cock. “And you were magnificent.”
Would she still think he was magnificent when she realized how much he enjoyed killing? His female was observant and clever. She’d witness Scales’ loss of control, realize Orol was a modified humanoid also, susceptible to the same flaws.
She’d figure out, as Orol had, that he could easily become like his friend, addicted to dealing out death, prone to the killing madness.
Would she trust him to protect her then?
Could he trust himself?