ONE
ONE Arthos, the Infinite City Terran Year 2105 Even amidst the glow of countless colorful signs, illuminated storefronts, and holographically projected advertisements along the street, Twisted Nethers stood apart. There was something more vibrant about its less-than-subtle signage, something warmer in the pulsing lights along the building’s edges, something more imposing about the spotlights on its roof that cut through the gloom to illuminate the metal framework and plating high overhead. The massive, ever-changing holographic genitalia out front undoubtedly helped it stand out. Despite the blatant display, the denizens of the Undercity considered Twisted Nethers an exclusive club. It was a place where anyone with enough credits could satisfy their exotic tastes, whether for drinks, drugs, or writhing, naked bodies. For Tenthil, it was just another stop on a long, blood-soaked path. He strode toward the club’s entrance, weaving through the crowd of diverse beings awaiting admittance. Their features—as varied and colorful as the Undercity signs—blurred together in the shadows cast by the neon lights. He walked as though he belonged here, as though he’d frequented the place for years, as though everyone else should’ve been honored by his presence. Many of the aliens waiting in line glanced at Tenthil as he passed. Facial appendages quivered, brows fell low, and mouths opened to voice protest, but the onlookers kept their opinions to themselves when their eyes dipped to the pin on his jacket—a stylized red sun with the white silhouette of an ancient axe at its center. That pin marked him as part of a street gang, called the Ergoths, that had claimed this sector as their territory years ago. Drok, the owner of Twisted Nethers and Tenthil’s current target, had close ties to the gang, though the true nature of his relationship with them was unknown. The doorman, a burly vorgal with scars crisscrossing the drab green skin of his face, glanced at the pin as Tenthil approached. His mouth, from which jutted a pair of upward-pointing tusks, remained an expressionless flat line as he stepped aside and waved Tenthil in. The people waiting to enter the club voiced no objections. Though some might’ve been standing out there for hours, they knew better than to question an Ergoth in this part of the city. Tenthil walked through the door and entered the dark corridor beyond. His eyes rapidly adjusted to the gloom. The black strips of rounded glass to either side were likely part of a body scanning system, and the pair of guards in front of the door at the end of the hallway held auto-blaster rifles that could fill the air with enough heated plasma bolts to melt the surrounding walls in seconds. There was no cover here were they to open fire. Just a few more obstacles for Tenthil to overcome when he finally made his move. He drew in a deep breath as he stepped forward and dissipated his amplified bioelectrical field to prevent it from interfering with the scanners and drawing suspicion from security. Maintaining the disruption field had become second nature over the years, and he felt strange without it in place. Pulsing bass rumbled through the walls and floors, its vibrations running up through Tenthil’s boots and into his bones. As he came within a few paces of the door, the guard to his right—a pale-scaled groalthuun with four bone nubs sweeping back from the top of his head and glowing green tattoos on his face—held up a hand. Tenthil halted. A faint light shone behind the groalthuun’s tinted goggles—likely a readout from the scanners on the walls. The groalthuun twisted and pressed an unseen button on the wall. A small drawer slid out beneath his hand. “Put your piece inside,” said the groalthuun. His companion, a craggy-faced bokkan with gray, rock-like skin, remained unmoving, but Tenthil felt the bokkan’s eyes—also hidden by goggles—fixed on him. Both guards wore their finely tailored coats open at the collar to display a bit of the combat armor beneath. “Come on.” The groalthuun waved his hand. “Boss appreciates all the business you Ergoths bring in, but the rules ain’t changing. No one goes in packing but pre-approved private security.” Moving with deliberate care, Tenthil unfastened his jacket and raised his left arm, revealing the flechette pistol holstered under his armpit. Such weapons were devastating at close range, but they were messy—as the Ergoth Tenthil had taken the pistol and pin from a few hours before might’ve attested, were the pulverized remains of his head not splattered across an alley wall. It would have been preferable to take the pin through less lethal means, but the Master was unwavering when it came to the tenets of the Order. No witnesses. The Ergoth leadership would assume it had been a hit from a rival gang. Many of the criminals in the Undercity and the Bowels carried weapons with flechette ammunition because they were intimidating—few species could survive a blast from one. Even the highest quality combat armor struggled to stop the superheated tristeel darts from close range. Keeping his movements slow, Tenthil removed the pistol from its holster and laid it in the open drawer. The groalthuun spread his lips, revealing his wide, flat teeth in what he must’ve considered a smile. Tenthil’s people would’ve called any creature with such teeth prey. The drawer slid shut, vanishing into the wall without any trace of a gap or a seam. For most individuals, entering a potentially hostile space while unarmed was a frightening prospect, but Tenthil was unconcerned. He didn’t need a weapon to kill; thanks to the Master’s training, he was the weapon. He wasn’t here to cause trouble, anyway—at least not tonight. This was a reconnaissance mission. Once he was familiar with the club’s layout and Drok’s movements within it, Tenthil would formulate and execute a plan of attack. “Pick it up on the way out,” said the bokkan in a deep, rough voice. “It’ll be tied to your body scan.” His expression hadn’t changed, but his stance shifted to subtly direct the barrel of his auto-blaster toward Tenthil. The guards shifted closer to the walls, revealing a rugged blast door behind them. Whether the rest of Twisted Nethers’ security held up to this standard, Drok wanted his patrons to believe they were safe. It wasn’t surprising given the wealth of some of the regulars—several of the Undercity’s most prominent business people, legitimate and illicit alike, frequented this establishment. Perhaps this contract would provide Tenthil a challenge. Perhaps it would provide some meaning, however shallow, to his work, which for too long had merely been a matter of following orders. Of being wielded as the Master’s blade. Despite spending most of his time outside the temple fulfilling contracts, Tenthil felt caged by his obligations—and that would eventually drive him to madness. The groalthuun pressed another unseen button, and the blast door rumbled open. Music swept over Tenthil, loud enough to hurt his ears. Strobing lights and slithering neon text crawls mingled with holographic projections to make it difficult for his eyes to focus. The smells of alcohol, food, and drugs from dozens of worlds, of hundreds of bodies dancing, and of sex, crashed into his nostrils. The air pulsed with vibrations from the music and dancers. Despite his discomfort, he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold. Once the door had closed behind him, he restored his bioelectric field, finding a hint of comfort in the brief tingling that spread across the surface of his skin. The interior of Twisted Nethers was larger than he’d anticipated. The place was tiered like a stadium, with two higher levels ringing the main floor. Tenthil stood on the middle level. Several stages along the levels boasted beings of diverse species dancing in varying states of undress. Each stage had its own audience space with tables and chairs, no two of which were quite alike in either furnishings or arrangement. Straight ahead, a wide set of steps led to the ground level, from which the music originated. It was dominated by a crowded dance floor, but also possessed a wide stage, at least thirty tables, and a huge bar running nearly half the circumference of the space with more than a dozen people behind it, furiously mixing and serving drinks. Projected lights and images rained down from overhead, filling the air with motion and color—naked males and females amidst abstract shapes, all moving, flashing, and changing above the writhing dancers. Tenthil removed the Ergoth pin from his jacket as he scanned his surroundings. More of Drok’s security team were posted throughout the club, but the only ones openly carrying weapons were those stationed at the staircases leading to the upper tier. He slipped the pin into his jacket pocket and walked around the middle level. He kept his eyes on the dancers as he moved but focused his attention on his peripheral vision to drink in the details of the club’s layout and security. Though the music from below was deafening when he was near any of the stairs leading down, it faded completely in the vicinity of the small stages, leaving him to travel through pockets of often drastically different music. There were undoubtedly sound-dampening fields in place to prevent the audio of simultaneous shows from overlapping. Several corridors and doors branched off the lower and middle levels. Some were marked as lavatories, while the rest declared STAFF ONLY in at least a dozen languages beneath bold letters in universal speech. The upper level extended over the middle far enough that Tenthil could see into it only from the opposite side of the ring. The few beings visible there were clad in rich attire, seated at tables that doubled as dancing platforms. A naked volturian female writhed atop one of the tables, surrounded by seated volturian males who were close enough to her that she must’ve felt their breath on her bare skin. Tenthil rounded the tier to stop beneath the volturians. He leaned his arms on the railing, turned his face toward the lower level, and listened. Countless sounds assaulted him in a chaotic jumble—the music from the nearest stage was the loudest of them, but the din of countless conversations and the thumping bass from the dance floor refused to be overpowered. He moved his head, and the qualities of the sound changed as his ears entered the dead space on the edge of the sound dampening field. It was there that he discovered what he’d sought—the lilting, flowing words of the volturians’ native tongue drifting down from above. Even without his translator implant, he would’ve understood their complex language; it was one of several the Master had forced him to learn in his youth. The volturian males were arguing over who would have a turn with the female first. Despite the dampeners, sound traveled well enough from the VIP level for Tenthil to overhear nearby conversations. That could prove valuable; the Master always appreciated his acolytes bringing new secrets when they returned to the temple from their work around the city. After another visual sweep of the upper level, Tenthil moved on to the three mid-level doors marked as lavatories. All three led into long, high-ceilinged corridors that differed only in the signs on the lavatory doors found along them. Each corridor had a heavy-duty hatch positioned near the center of its ceiling. He paused in the third corridor to study the hatch with more care. This hatch, like those prior, appeared to be secured with a manual wheel crank. Such mechanisms were common in the Undercity and the Bowels below, but not in establishments like this, where security and modernity were presented as paramount. The hatches either lacked latches on their other sides or had been fused shut. Possibly both. Tenthil stepped aside to make space for a passing group of Ergoths. He was glad he’d removed the pin. If he’d been caught posing as a member of their gang, violence would’ve been unavoidable, and being thrown out of the club for injuring some thugs would only hinder his ability to complete this contract. Once the Ergoths had entered a lavatory, Tenthil shifted his attention to the walls below the hatch. For the first five meters, they were smooth and wide-set, broken only by random pulses of neon that moved like radiant serpents racing through the dark of the Void. Though invisible to the naked eye when not illuminated, Tenthil recognized the lights for what they were—infinitesimal imperfections of which he could take advantage. Beyond the smooth sections, dozens of exposed pipes and conduits would make the rest of the climb effortless. Best to check the hatches before I leave tonight, should an opportunity arise. Leaving one of them unlatched would provide an easy entrance for his next visit, when he’d be a bit less inclined to submit to the weapon-check at the front entrance. He exited the corridor and returned to the railing overlooking the lower floor, fixing his gaze on the dancers below. This time, he kept his attention on the uppermost edge of his vision. Drok, if present, was most likely behind one of the STAFF ONLY doors or up on the third floor. Tenthil had come to accept the simple truth of his work long ago—no amount of training, planning, or skill could completely cancel out the effects of chance. Even the Void, which touched everything according to the Master, could not overcome the universe’s inherent randomness. Chance was certainly at play when Tenthil lifted his head just as a huge, heavily muscled tralix emerged from the guarded VIP staircase directly across from him. The left prong of the tralix’s forehead crest was broken off, and his mottled teal and violet skin was covered with old scars, including a prominent one on his cheek. He was Tenthil’s target. He was Drok. Drok turned to face the small entourage that had arrived. Four well-dressed, broad-shouldered vorgals flanked a slender, long-necked ertraxxan clad in rich attire. Offering a wide, tusk-filled smile, Drok clasped hands with the ertraxxan. Though the tralix was easily three times the mass of his guest, the ertraxxan maintained a haughty air. But Tenthil paid little mind to their meeting. His attention had been caught by the sixth member of the ertraxxan’s group—a pale-skinned female with black hair that lightened to blue toward its tips. He knew her species only because the Master insisted the Order’s acolytes study every alien race known to inhabit Arthos, focusing on anatomy to ensure efficient kills. Only the most powerful and influential species—the six races which comprised the Consortium, the city’s rulers—had been omitted from those studies. This female was a terran, a race that only recently begun official migration to Arthos. She was the first of her kind Tenthil had seen outside of holograms. And she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, wearing clothing that revealed enticing patches of her pale skin, and her hair shimmered in the ever-changing light. Stepping aside, Drok waved the ertraxxan and his entourage toward the stairs. The ertraxxan, wearing a displeased frown, lifted his chin and led his people up. Tenthil held his gaze on the terran until she was out of sight; she moved with a subtle swaying of her hips and an unspoken grace in her lithe limbs. Drok paused to speak with the guards on either side of the steps before following his guests upstairs. Forcing himself to remain in place, Tenthil looked up at the top tier. The booths along the edge were but a hint of what was hidden above. Private dance chambers and secret meeting rooms were both the most probable and tamest of the possibilities—too tame, perhaps, for a place like Twisted Nethers. The wealthy of the Infinite City sometimes indulged in dark forms of entertainment. Chance fell in Tenthil’s favor again when the ertraxxan entered the booth to the right of the stairs with the terran and two of his vorgal guards in tow. Drok joined them soon after, settling onto a seat across from the ertraxxan, who directed the terran onto the table with a flick of his wrist. Drok’s gaze locked on the female as she climbed up and began a slow, sensual dance, swaying and undulating her hips, causing her green skirt to part and expose her long legs. Warmth blossomed in the center of Tenthil’s chest and spread outward; the female’s hypnotic motions stirred something unfamiliar in his blood, something deep and powerful. A dull, unfamiliar ache coiled low in his belly. Tenthil glanced down to find himself clasping the railing with knuckles white and claws extended. When he finally eased his grip and lifted his hands, they trembled. Unease sank in his gut like a leaden weight. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so distracted by anyone, by anything. Rogue thoughts flitted through his mind. How would the female’s skin feel beneath his fingertips? What did she smell like, what did she sound like? Venom flooded the glands above the roof of his mouth, a few drops leaking from his fangs and onto his tongue. Oddly, it lacked its usual bitterness—this was sweet, with a hint of spice. I have a job to do, he thought. The Void has accepted Drok’s name, and it must also receive his life. He barely suppressed a frustrated growl. Shoving away from the railing, he walked around the central level, forcing nonchalance into his steps, forcing himself to peruse the various stage shows as he passed. None of the dancers, whether male or female, clothed or nude, incited the reaction his brief glimpses of the terran had. Realization struck him—he was no longer in control of himself. Tenthil should have left the club at that moment. He told himself he remained because of duty, because of his contract, because of his resentment for the Master, but none of that was true. He remained because he wanted another look at the terran. Clenching his jaw, he stopped beneath Drok’s booth, leaned back against the railing, and watched the dancers on the nearby stage. The guards beside the staircase Drok had used loomed at the edge of Tenthil’s vision. Though their eyes were obscured by dark goggles, Tenthil knew they were scanning the crowd for potential threats. Tenthil relaxed his jaw and tipped back a little farther, pausing when the music from the nearby stage faded and he heard the deep, gravelly voice of a tralix from overhead. “—can’t wait to push it. Think we’ll make a killing,” said Drok in universal speech. “Of course we will,” the ertraxxan replied in a high, reedy voice. He also spoke universal speech, pronouncing each word with cold precision. “I provide only the highest quality goods.” “I’d almost think you take pride in all this, Cullion.” “I do,” Cullion said, “and it would comfort me if those with whom I do business show some pride of their own. A bit of poise would do you well, Drok.” “We’re making money. What else really matters?” “Status. Respect. Reputation.” “I got all that. And fear, too—that’s more important. People around here know not to mess with me.” “Few appreciate a braggart, Drok. I am not amongst them.” “This braggart keeps the gangs in line and the money flowing, all while keeping the heat off you. Need to keep up the illusion that you’re legitimate.” Cullion made a frustrated sound—a sort of clicking growl. “I am a legit—” Drok cut off the ertraxxan with a guttural laugh. “Yeah, and I’m running an innocent dance club here. You know the difference between us, Cullion? You were born into what you have. I’ve had to fight for every fucking credit. Try spending a few years in a fighting pit on Caldorius, and then you can complain to me about this shit.” “I find your language distasteful.” “Yeah, you find everything about me distasteful—except that I turn you profit. Now we going to talk distribution, or what?” “Once I dismiss my pet, yes.” “I don’t mind her.” “You are staring as though you wish to fornicate with her.” “I like watching her. Definitely nicer to look at than you. One of these days, you need to let me at her.” “Just when I assumed you couldn’t be fouler. This thing is beneath even you, Drok. An animal trained to perform for our entertainment. I would be remiss if I allowed any of my associates, even the most unpalatable, to stoop to such a low.” Drok laughed again, a richer, fuller sound. “For all your fancy words, Cullion, you’re a damned fool sometimes. You paid a small fortune for her, and you could earn it back a hundred times over if you’d rent her out from time to time. Hell, half my staff wants to fuck her just to know what it’s like. She looks soft. Real soft.” Tenthil clenched his jaw. The sweetness on his tongue was replaced by the tang of bitter venom as something dark stirred in his heart. “I will hear no more of this,” Cullion snapped. “If you cannot cease these insults and focus on the important matters at hand, I will—” “Fine, fine. Send her to the lower stage. My customers appreciate a good show.” “She is mine, Drok. Not an attraction in your house of debauchery.” “If I didn’t know all ertraxxans were pricks, Cullion, I might believe you had a personality of your own,” Drok replied. “Send her to the stage. People will watch her, which means they’ll keep buying drinks and drugs. When my business prospers, so does yours.” “Fine. Go.” The conversation ceased, and Tenthil’s awareness expanded. A tall, naked cren female with long, pointed ears, two three-centimeter-long tusks protruding from her mouth, and small breasts had taken the nearby stage. She undulated to a quick beat, her motions complemented by bursts of color flashing over her skin. Her music was underscored by thumping bass from the dance floor below, the rhythms just out of sync with one another. Movement called his attention to the stairs. His eyes flared, and his heart quickened. He watched as the terran walked down from the upper level, her long legs emerging from beneath her skirt with each step. His gaze dropped to her sandalled feet, to her dainty toes with their short, painted nails, and rose slowly. Golden anklets sparkled around her ankles, and her shapely calves led to toned thighs—hers were the legs of a dancer who had honed her body into a precision instrument. Grace, skill, and confidence permeated her every movement despite the demure downward angle of her chin. His eyes moved higher still, driven on by the pounding of his heart, which had drowned out the music. Her midsection was bare above a wide, ornate belt, a delectable span of flesh from the flare of her hips to her chest. The dark blue material covering her breasts bore a metallic glint and was run through with subtle golden accents, matching the belt. A thick necklace, more like a collar than a piece of jewelry, encircled her slender neck. The blue and black of the long hair cascading about her shoulders contrasted her pale skin. Her face held his attention the longest. There was a familiar symmetry to her features, a configuration common to many of the intelligent beings in the Infinite City, but her face was softer, more refined, and more expressive than those of most creatures he’d encountered. The slight downturn of her full, pink lips conveyed a sadness so profound that it pierced his chest. Her averted gaze could not hide the emotion sparkling within the frames of her dark lashes. The terran walked toward the large central staircase leading to the lower level. She didn’t look up, though many of the people around her stared while she passed. Oddly, most everyone who noticed her stepped out of her path, a few of them casting worried glances at nearby security guards. Legs moving of their own accord, Tenthil followed her. He felt as though he were floating through the emptiness of the Void, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat, seeing nothing but the terran. The female continued to the lower floor. Tenthil halted at the top of the stairs as the crowd, even those caught in the deep rhythms of drink, drugs, and song, parted for the terran. No one seemed willing to come within arm’s reach of her. Hazy speculations tumbled through Tenthil’s mind, but he was too distracted to address them. Who was this female? Did her kind possess some psychic power that bewitched those around them? How had merely looking at her triggered these reactions within him? Keeping her gaze downcast, the terran strode toward the stage. Thanks to the club’s special effects, her footfalls left glowing patches on the floor that faded after several seconds; only as those spots faded did the crowd fill in her wake. The conflicting nature of her bold, sure stride and her mournful, downturned expression only intrigued Tenthil further. Those clashing aspects of her shouldn’t have fit together. And he wanted her like he’d wanted nothing else before. When she reached the steps on the side of the stage, the guards posted there made no move to stop her; they didn’t so much as cast her a fleeting glance. She mounted the stage and walked along its length, pausing only to slip off her sandals. Her expression had hardened, leaving only a glimmer of sorrow in her eyes; she now wore the look of a professional preparing for action, of a hunter surveying the killing ground. Tenthil leaned forward as though that tiny movement could somehow bring him close enough to smell her, to touch her. She moved to the center of the stage and turned her back to the crowd. Tenthil barely noticed the hush that had fallen over the place; though the gentle din of conversation continued all around, it was softened by an anticipatory energy thrumming in the air. Tenthil’s legs itched with the urge to move closer, but he held himself in place at the top of the steps. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her for even an instant. The terran turned her head toward the booth from which a four-eyed, violet-skinned valzin controlled the music, and nodded once. The lights on the stage and dance floor went out abruptly. The ambient glow from the bar and the floors above cast faint highlights on the crowd, but impenetrable darkness dominated the stage. It had become the Void. This was not the first time the Void had devoured Tenthil’s desires and snuffed out what small hints of light he’d discovered in the vast, dark universe. Unease reintroduced itself as a boulder-sized lump lodged between his ribs. Though he couldn’t explain why, losing sight of her set him on edge. His muscles tensed, his claws protruded, and his gritted fangs ached. For several moments, everything was quiet and still. The crowd’s eagerness suggested this wasn’t merely the result of an exotic species taking the stage—they had some idea of what was coming. She must have performed here before. Tenthil envied everyone who’d seen her before tonight. The terran reappeared on the stage, a lone figure cast in violet-blue light. Her back remained toward the crowd. It was only as she lifted her arms to either side that Tenthil noticed the ribbons clasped at her wrists, hips, and near her temples. The first swelling chords of music accompanied her movement. Her hands rose over her head, slowing their upward momentum. When she swung them down again, the song’s first beat played. At the same instant, the ribbons lit up with a neon-green glow. Another drumbeat had her spinning toward the audience. The ribbons left green trails as they flared out with her rotation. Her lips glowed vibrant pink, matching the luminescent pink and purple patterns adorning her face. The patterns were reminiscent of the natural markings common to volturians and sedhi, but these were far more detailed. As the music picked up speed, so did the terran, her movements flowing in perfect harmony with the sound. The stage remained dark, though her footprints glowed in vivid colors for several seconds after she’d lifted her foot away, creating an ever-changing, surprisingly intricate path around her. Eyes transfixed upon the terran, Tenthil finally descended. There was a pattern to her dance, barely discernable through the fluid, natural ease of her movements. Just like he’d learned to throw different punches and kicks and to wield various weapons, she must have learned to weave the steps of her dances together, combining basic parts into tantalizing wholes. Urged forward by a consuming desire he could neither understand nor deny, he wove through the crowd, studying her every move. He needed to stand beside her, to touch her. He needed her scent to wash over him. Nothing else in this place, in this world, in the entire universe mattered more. All that existed was this female, dancing amidst the darkness. Dancing for him. A two-meter-wide section jutted into the dance floor from the center of the stage with a guard posted to either side of it. Tenthil worked his way to the left, giving the guards a wide berth. The beat of the music pulsed through him as he tracked the terran’s steps. Tenthil didn’t pause to consider his next action; his willpower had succumbed to whatever spell she’d placed upon him. He ticked off the beat in his head as she moved closer him, his muscles instinctively tensing in anticipation. He forced himself to relax. The terran came within a few meters of the stage’s edge and shifted her momentum. He leapt onto the stage. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, but Tenthil was only distantly aware of the sound—it could have been the sigh of a ventilation system or an effect in the music for all he cared. Tenthil mimicked her steps, matching her pace as she danced toward the opposite side of the stage. The female turned and faced him, her eyes widening as she met his gaze. Her skin paled. “What are—” Without missing a step, he took her hands in his. Heat flared where their skin touched. Electric currents crackled through him, flowing from his fingertips to light every nerve in his body ablaze. He led her across the stage, and she followed, casting a worried glance toward the crowd. Tenthil pulled her gaze back to him with a gentle squeeze of her hand. Their legs moved in unison, like complementary pieces of a clockwork machine. Even in the dark, her eyes shone a brilliant green, more beautiful than the lush forest of his earliest memories. He lost himself in their impossible depths. The female smiled. Her surprise and the sadness that had lurked in her eyes were swept away by a spark of excitement, a joyful gleam, an inner light in defiance of the surrounding darkness. Suddenly, Tenthil was no longer leading. She released one of his hands and twirled around him, brushing her skirts—and her body—against him. Her scent filled his senses in a rush. Crisp and clean, it reminded him of freshly fallen rain on the plains of his youth, but bore an underlying sweetness that poured fire into Tenthil’s blood. An ache pulsed low in his belly, and his cock strained against his pants. That oddly pleasant taste returned to his mouth as venom seeped from his fangs. Her movements altered; whether it was due to her having a partner or because the music had changed, Tenthil neither knew nor cared. Her body was his guide. She danced around him, and he reacted, reading the hints in her body language to offer an anchoring arm when she dipped, to stabilize and speed her spins, to drop his hands to her hips and lift her off her feet. She raised her legs and swept them to his sides, skimming her bare inner thighs over his clothing. He longed to remove his attire and feel her flesh against his. Despite her spins and twirls, despite her ceaseless motion, the female’s eyes snapped back to Tenthil’s time and again, darkening as the dance continued. Soon, the new steps were instinctual to him. Her unspoken desire became his command; he was a slave to her dance, to her body, and he yearned for more, more, more. He dipped her backward and ran his free palm down her abdomen toward her belt, eyes never leaving her face. She laughed, her smile widening. When she came back up, she cupped his jaw between her hands and leaned close, their noses only centimeters apart. Her breath was his, and his was hers. He tightened his hold on the terran and drew her closer. Tenthil held the female’s gaze for another moment, and then lowered his lips and pressed them against hers. She tensed for an instant, eyes rounding, before her mouth softened and yielded to his kiss. Her hands settled on his shoulders as she closed her eyes, and Tenthil slipped his fingers into her silky hair. His heart pounded against his ribs as fresh venom flowed over his tongue—spicy, woody, saccharine, but bland compared to the tiny sample of her taste he received while their lips were together. She tasted rich, alluring, and pure, impossibly sweet. She was… Mine. Tenthil broke the kiss and drew back from her. She stared up at him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. He couldn’t help but kiss her again more firmly. His muscles tensed as a deep, primal urge to bite her built within him. He swallowed it down; his venom was deadly to most species in Arthos, and he doubted hers would react any differently. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to hold her. To protect her. His cock pulsed, and a low growl resonated in his chest. He wanted to— “Hey! Get your hands off her!” The world burst back into Tenthil’s awareness. The lights were on again, bathing the stage in an intense white glow, and the music had stopped. Powerful silence gripped the club. The crowd was staring at him, many wearing stunned expressions. Two guards were on the stage, quickly approaching Tenthil, but neither had drawn his weapon yet. A commotion at the main stairs caught Tenthil’s attention; Drok, Cullion, and several more guards, including the ertraxxan’s bodyguards, were hurrying toward the lower level. The crowd parted again, this time with fearful urgency. Anyone who wasn’t quick enough was thrust aside by the burly guards or the massive tralix. The female shoved away from Tenthil, stepped back, and dropped to her knees, bowing down to press her forehead and palms to the floor. Even now, Tenthil longed only to draw her back onto her feet and pull her against him, but the situation was escalating too rapidly. Drok wasn’t likely to have him murdered in front of a crowd, but there were a lot of dark alleys and deserted tunnels around the building. Tenthil had botched his mission, and placed himself in immediate danger, and still his only concern was for the terran. “What is the meaning of this?” Cullion shouted as his retinue reached the stage. “I’m sorry, Master,” the female replied quickly. “I asked him to join me. We were only dancing.” Tenthil’s brow knitted. Why was she taking responsibility for his actions? Drok pounded a fist on the edge of the stage protrusion. A set of steps rose from the floor. Cullion did not hesitate to mount them with his bodyguards immediately behind. “That was far more than dancing. His hands were on you. His mouth. I should have you incinerated just to ensure your cleanliness, you gutter slug!” The female’s fingers curled, her blunt nails scraping the floor, and a shiver wracked her thin frame. Tenthil’s legs flexed as instinct demanded he move closer to her, but he dared not approach. Not while she was at risk. “You all asleep down here, or what?” Drok asked. The guards who’d been posted at the stage exchanged glances; Tenthil imagined their eyes rounding in alarm behind their goggles. While everyone’s attention was diverted, Tenthil dipped a hand into his pocket, took out the Ergoth pin, and clasped it to his jacket. It was his only chance of deflecting some of the hostility that would undoubtedly be unleashed upon him. “No, boss. We thought he was part of the show,” one of the guards replied. “Part of the show?” Cullion whirled toward the guard, his thin lips falling into a severe frown. “All of you know this creature”—he jabbed a long, slender finger at the terran—“belongs to me. She is mine.” Fire flared in Tenthil’s chest; the female belonged to him, not the ertraxxan. Cullion stalked toward the terran. He tugged a thin metal line from his pocket and held it up. The free end lashed out on its own, hit the heavy necklace around the female’s throat, and connected to it with a click. Looping his end of the line around his hand, Cullion gave it a vicious yank. The terran grunted as she was dragged to her feet. Tenthil’s claws lengthened. He curled his fingers into his palms. Stinging, bitter venom again replaced the strange, sweet flow from his fangs. The ertraxxan led the female toward the steps. “You will pay dearly for this. Perhaps it is my folly for expecting better from so primitive a creature, but you will learn your place.” He brandished his extended finger at Drok. “Should anything like this happen here again, it will be the end of you and your business.” The tralix lifted his huge, blunt-fingered hands, palms out. “A mistake, Cullion. Honest mistake. I’ll make sure they all learn their lessons.” Cullion cast a scathing glare at Tenthil. “See to it, Drok. My trust in you will not survive another such blow.” The ertraxxan tugged the terran down the stairs and across the dance floor. She stumbled along behind him, struggling to match his hurried pace. The vorgal bodyguards flanked her. Tenthil clenched his jaw; it took all his willpower to remain in place and watch her go. Whatever awaited her wasn’t good, but it wasn’t his fight. He’d done enough damage to his mission already. The contract would be even more difficult to complete after this, and he would undoubtedly be admonished by the Master for it. He hated the dread that thought spawned in his gut. When Cullion’s group reached middle level, the female looked over her shoulder. Her eyes met Tenthil’s for an instant; they shimmered with fear, longing, and sorrow. Tenthil stepped forward. Drok shifted into his path and slammed a palm into Tenthil’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” The tralix’s blow had been solid, but Tenthil didn’t feel any pain. He leaned to the side for a glimpse at the stairs. The terran was gone, along with Cullion and his guards. “Seems like maybe you don’t understand how much shit you’re in,” Drok said, reclaiming Tenthil’s attention. “You got problems, and they’re standing right here.” Several of Drok’s security guards—six in all, each either a vorgal or a borian—moved closer to Tenthil, three on each side of the tralix. Tenthil gave them no ground. None of the guards had drawn their weapons; they likely saw no need, given they outnumbered Tenthil seven-to-one, with more security personnel stationed around the club. “I got all kinds of females in this place.” Drok gestured vaguely around him as the valzin began the music again. “Most of them, you can touch or fuck for the right price. But that one? That one’s not for touching. I understand the desire to, but she’s off-limits. And you…you almost cost me a lot of money by being stupid.” Tenthil’s foes had moved into a semi-circle, with the two on the end now flanking him. They stood only a couple paces away. Their postures were confident—too confident. But what resistance would they have expected? Even if Tenthil matched the biggest of the guards in height and stature, vorgals and borians had reputations as fierce, skilled warriors, and the tralix was at least a head taller and twice as burly as any of them. Drok grinned, his dark eyes gleaming beneath the bone crest on his forehead. “There’s a nice, quiet room in the back. You’re going to walk to it with us all on your own. Then you’re going to sit in the chair, and we’re going to beat you into a pasty gray pulp. But we’re not going to kill you. Hell, I’ll even let you come back—at least on nights the ertraxxan isn’t coming.” The tralix took a step closer, eliminating the distance between himself and Tenthil. He extended a finger and tapped the pin on Tenthil’s chest. “Consider it a favor, okay? You lot are usually well-behaved in here. I’m willing to call all this an unfortunate misunderstanding.” Drok raised his hand and brushed the tip of his finger across the scar on Tenthil’s cheek. “By the looks of you, you’re already used to people making an example out of you. How about one more time?” Keeping his head tilted back, Tenthil held the tralix’s gaze. Drok’s grin faded. “Not much of a talker? Guess we’ll have to make you scream, instead.” “Maybe we ought to open up those scars. See how far we can pry his jaw open before it breaks off,” one of the guards said. Drok patted Tenthil’s shoulder with a rough palm; though the gesture was gentle, the weight of the arm would’ve been enough to knock most people down. “He’s a tough one,” Drok said, stepping backward. “No more wasting time. Grab him.” The two guards on either side of Tenthil advanced, reaching for him. The situation was far from ideal, but his cover had been compromised. Even if he were allowed back into the club after tonight, security would always keep a close watch on him, and that wasn’t to mention the likely retaliation from the Ergoths when they learned of this incident. His mind flashed back to the terran, back to the fear and sadness on her face. She didn’t have psychic powers, hadn’t bewitched him; Tenthil knew that now with unreasonable certainty. He’d connected with her during their too-brief dance. Something had sparked between them—something powerful that had been buried inside of him. But now she was gone, and he might never learn of her fate, might never learn her name. He latched on to his boiling rage and attacked. Tenthil thrust a hand to his right, catching the vorgal’s wrist and digging his claws into the tough flesh. As the vorgal hissed in pain, Tenthil kicked the left guard in the knee. A cry of pain drowned out the sound of crunching bone. The other guards were caught in shock as Tenthil tugged the vorgal closer and sank his teeth into his foe’s neck, letting his venom flow. The vorgal’s pained exclamation intensified. Tenthil pulled the blaster from the vorgal’s belt holster and shoved the doomed being aside. The others fumbled to draw their weapons as Tenthil leveled the blaster. He squeezed off three shots, striking two guards in the head and one in the throat before the fourth guard, a dark-haired, broadly-built borian, stepped closer and swung a thrumming energy blade. Tenthil swayed back from the first swing, dodged a second, and fired the blaster from his hip. A bolt of plasma pierced the borian’s thigh. The hiss of sizzling flesh was quickly swallowed by the screams of the crowd and the thumping music. As the vorgal with the shattered knee staggered forward, raising a blaster in his trembling hand, Tenthil grabbed the borian’s arm and wrenched it back. Bones cracked, and the motion swung the energy blade through the advancing vorgal’s throat. The vorgal’s head tumbled off his shoulders and landed on the stage with a dull thwap. Dropping the blaster, Tenthil tore the energy blade from the borian’s grasp and stabbed him through the chest. Drok released a wordless, enraged cry and charged forward. The stage shuddered under his heavy footfalls. Tenthil lowered his hand to the gun holstered at the sagging borian’s hip as Drok lifted his massive fists over his head. Tenthil leapt away just before Drok slammed his hands down, using his momentum to draw the gun. The stage floor collapsed inward where Drok hit it, producing a deafening crack. Tenthil stabilized himself on one knee and aimed the gun at Drok. The weapon’s short, thick barrel was characteristic of a flechette pistol. The tralix lifted his gaze to Tenthil, his beady eyes widening. “Who the f—” Tenthil squeezed the trigger. The flechette pistol roared, spraying fire, and Drok’s face disintegrated in a spray of burning blood and mangled flesh. Turning his attention away from his foe, Tenthil surveyed the club again. The crowd was fleeing, and the congestion caused by hundreds of bodies attempting to press through the single door had created a backlog on the main staircase and the walkway around the middle floor. Several guards were fighting their way toward the stairs. Drok dropped to his knees with a heavy thud, dark blood running over his teal and violet skin. Tenthil pushed onto his feet, plucked a blaster from one of the fallen guards, and fired two more plasma bolts into each of the beings on the ground. With the flechette pistol in his left hand and the blaster in his right, he hurried to the side of the stage. Distant shouts came to him over the music, followed by the high-pitched whine of fast-firing blasters. Several plasma bolts struck the walls around him, melting metal and concrete. He wasted no time in thought—he knew of only one potential route of escape. Tucking the guns into his belt, Tenthil leapt onto one of the massive, wall-mounted speakers beside the stage. The frantic beat of the music pounded into him, louder than ever. It was quick enough to match his racing heart. He scrambled atop the speaker as plasma bolts whizzed around him, grateful for the guards’ poor aim, which was likely worsened by the relatively dim, pulsing lights overhead. Grasping the middle floor railing, he hoisted himself over. Movement flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision. Landing in a roll, he drew the blaster and fired instinctively. One of the two guards who’d been rushing to intercept him spun aside and fell, an orange hole glowing where the plasma bolt had pierced his groin. The other dove behind an overturned table and fired his auto-blaster blindly around its side. Fortunately, one of the lavatory corridors stood directly to Tenthil’s left. He fired two quick shots at the table and scurried into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind him. The hall was thankfully deserted. Tenthil returned the blaster to his belt and broke into a run, glancing toward the ceiling. Near the center of the hallway, he leapt, kicking off the right wall to propel himself higher. He bounded off the left wall once he reached it, thrusting himself high enough to grasp the pipes above the smooth portion of the wall. It took seconds to climb to the hatch from there. Bracing his feet on the ductwork nearby, he grasped the wheel and exerted pressure. Muffled shouts from beyond the closed door echoed down the hallway. Gritting his teeth, Tenthil threw more strength against the hatch. The wheel groaned as it moved, its rotation easing with each turn. He shoved the hatch up the instant the latching arms had released and hauled himself through the opening. He emerged on a rooftop about ten meters below the metal framework that comprised the Undercity sky. The nearby spotlights cast powerful beams on the metal overhead. The door in the corridor below clanged open, and the shouts grew immediately louder. Muscles tensed, Tenthil gently lowered the hatch, holding his breath until it was fully, silently closed. As he’d guessed, there was no locking mechanism on the top side; it opened and sealed only from within. After giving the roof a final scan, he hurried toward the next rooftop. His contract was fulfilled, but this matter was far from over. He had badly mishandled the mission and left scores of witnesses. He had only himself to blame, and that was exactly how the Master would see it. The only positive had been the terran female. At least he could take solace in the fact that he had a strong lead to seek her out—if her owner, Cullion, was as rich and powerful as his behavior had implied, he would be easy to find.
