Pheromone, page 35
part #1 of For the Love of Aliens Series
I give a thumbs-up, but that’s it. I don’t have the energy to offer anything more.
Avril’s footsteps move away, and I crack a lid. Somewhere, she presses a button and huge curtains slide across the glass wall, cutting off that disturbing view of the stars. I breathe a little easier once the lights dim and everything is dark.
When I hear a door open and close, and Zero’s footsteps sound on the opposite side of the room, I lift my hand up and put my palm against the wall.
I can still smell him. I can feel him.
And I know he’s pressing his palm to the wall on the other side.
I yank my hand back, hug the fur-covered pillow more tightly, and force myself into a fitful sleep.
Rurik
The Imperial Princess despises me.
I leave my hand pressed flat against the wall, but she does not return the favor a second time. I turn away and stalk over to the windows, putting my hands on the glass and dropping my head. I want to blow something up. I want to direct the armada to hover above that horrible planet—Jungryuk—and I want to destroy it, to watch as my father’s ship blows it up, and then as it eats it.
“If you hurt Abraxas, I will never love you.”
She knew exactly how best to choose her words to hurt me.
I am a broken male. I am a broken prince. I am someone who has never wanted to be king.
Now, my fate is chosen for me.
Now, I see that my greatest hope and dream, the one light in all my darkness, my mate … will now become my greatest disappointment and my deepest melancholy. I drop down to my knee, spreading my wings, antennae pressed up against the glass.
I should greet my parents; they will be expecting me. But I can’t bring myself to get up. I went to Jungryuk so that I would not find my mate just yet. So that one of my brothers would find theirs, and I would be left alone to explore the universe. As with any Vestalis, my primary desire was to find my other half. We are a race comprised entirely of males. There are no Vestalis females. We breed and bond with and love the female that our bodies are most drawn to.
It has always, in the whole history of our race, worked this way.
Mates are drawn to one another.
Never has a Vestalis male—especially an Imperial Prince—been rejected like I have.
Now I will suffer the hells of being king along with the loneliness of rejection.
I clutch a hand to my neck, to the bright red fur at my throat. I dig my fingers into it, trying to catch my breath. She mated another male. This is your fault. It is your oversight. You picked the wrong girl.
What sort of an idiot chooses the wrong mate in a tent where there are only five creatures standing besides himself? I knew there was something off with that Avril girl. The blood on her skin was fire, and she stood in the doorway, staring me down. But my mate, she crawled away from me, turned her head, closed her eyes. That is not normal behavior for a mate. How was I to know?
I stand up suddenly, eyes tracking the ceiling. Fear spikes inside of me before I remember that my father does not have eyes in this room. No, because you have just been moved to the heir’s quarters, the most coveted place on the ship, and the only suite of rooms where my mother and father cannot watch my every move, cannot smell me, cannot touch me.
I smooth my jacket out and debate a change of clothes. But no. I’m already late, and they will have wondered why I didn’t come sooner. Bringing my mate home is a joyous occasion. For them. They are pleased to have an heir, pleased that my father can soon abdicate his throne and leave me with the tremendous responsibility of piloting the armada and keeping order in the Noctuida.
My life is ruined, but, unlike my father, I will not have a loyal and loving female by my side to soften the blow.
I wave open the doors to the honeymoon suite—where I will soon be sleeping alongside my mate—and find that girl, Avril, waiting for me in the foyer.
“Well?” I snap, knowing that the doors here are sealed well enough that no sound can travel. My princess will not hear me discussing her with her lady-in-waiting. “What?”
“She loved the wine.” The woman offers me one of her digits, pointed up at the ceiling. She looks at her hand, looks at me, and then drops it by her side with a puff of air from her strange mouth. I study it, trying to decide what it is about hers that is not attractive, and what it is about my princess’ that draws blood into my cock. All my life, and that organ has been flaccid and useless.
Not anymore.
I turn away from Avril and stalk to the bedroom door, placing my fingertips on it and wishing I could open it. If I were any other Vestalis male, I would be preparing to mate with my female. It’s a joyous occasion, celebrated by all, accompanied by rituals, by travel, by companionship and love and sex.
For a prince, it means a wedding.
For me, it means … a challenge.
The thought of forcing myself on my mate is … I cannot. Other races do, but not ours. There has never been a need. Not one Vestalis male has ever had a female reject him the way mine does. They are always as eager for the mating as we are.
I yank my gloves from my pocket and put them back on, sliding my fingers carefully into the fabric.
“Look, Your Majesty, can I speak frankly?” Avril asks, but why she is even asking, I do not know. She speaks her mind constantly. She is lucky that I have always had a mild temper and little taste for violence. I am not opposed to it if the situation calls, but I do not revel in it the way my brothers do.
“Where is your cloak?” I snap. I have been training this female for several solar weeks and yet, she has not mastered the art of demure submission or silence. Especially the latter part.
“Erm, hey guy, listen.” The human female walks over to stand beside me, and I take a step back. “You’re a decent person. I’ve seen it over the last few weeks. But you’re … really fucking this up.” She points at the princess’ door. “She’s in love, okay? And she’s not in love with you. That’s not a death sentence for your relationship, but it does mean you’re going to have to try ten times harder. How do you expect her to fall for you if you’re a rude dick?”
“Pardon me?” I’m aghast at her loose and fast tongue, her casual language, her presumptiveness. Yet, since the moment I licked her neck and doubled over, heaving on the sidewalk and finding myself unable to stand, she has behaved in this manner. I should have dumped her with the arrogant Falopex in the market and forgotten all about her.
“She told me she liked your smell,” Avril offers, smoothing her strange, blunt-tipped fingers down the front of her dress. “That’s a good sign, right?”
It is.
I am pleased by that information. I can see it when I look at my mate, that she appreciates my scent, my appearance. When we stare into one another’s eyes, I know that she can feel it, too. We are chosen by the Stars. We are destined for one another. I do not understand why she would reject such a gift.
That Aspis male.
I have never wanted anything more than I want him dead—with the exception of the princess’ love. I have left the male alive for now, but killing him does seem the more prudent option. If he is alive and well, how will I ever get her to pay any attention to me? How will I convince her to give me a chance?
I should have cut his tongue out, I think again, clenching my fists so tightly that my gloves creak in frustration. Aspis tongues are highly prized, worth millions in the Noctuidan coin. Not only does their saliva coagulate, it’s anti-bacterial, anti-viral, and dripping with stem cells. And that tongue was all over your mate. Possibly inside of her.
I am tempted to destroy the decorative vase that graces the round table in the center of the room.
I do nothing but stand there and seethe.
“That is all you have to report? A passing comment about my scent?” I direct my rage toward the princess’ lady-in-waiting, but she does not flinch as she should. Any of my brothers would have her hung by manacles in the control room’s foyer until her impertinence faded to nothing.
But I am not my brothers.
“If you could find her friend, Jane, I think that’d go a long way.” Avril pauses, like she isn’t sure I know what she’s talking about. Of course I do. One of the very first things my mate asked for was that human female. I’ve done my best to locate her, but my reach only extends so far. I am a prince, not yet a king.
That bloody space pirate, I think, my antennae pressing flat to the sides of my head. My father would be pleased if I were to capture and kill him. Captain Kidd’s head on a pike would make a lovely gift to celebrate my father’s abdication of the throne.
My eyes close, and I do my best not to think about the responsibilities headed my way.
Imperial King of the Noctuida is not a job for the faint of heart. I have never wanted it. The truth that I can tell no one is that I have feared it. That I fear it even now. While it comes with absolute power, it also comes with chains. I wish that I could run from this. If I could, if I thought my father or my brothers would let me go, then I would flee with my mate and never look back.
“Is that all? If there’s nothing else, return to your duties.” I wave her away with a flick of my gloved hand, moving past her and into the hallway. The door opens, closes, and then locks automatically, barring entry to anyone but myself, my princess, and her servants. The cyborg I have gifted my mate is under my complete control. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can see through hers.
Observe the princess. It’s not even a command, just a thought, a fleeting idea. But the cyborg moves as if my will is her own, pausing beside the bed to watch my sleeping bride’s face. I feel my anger dissipate somewhat. She is truly the most beautiful female that any Vestalis male has ever had the pleasure of being mated to.
That’s the thought that runs through my head, but it does not feel entirely like my own. I open my eyes to stare at the door of our suite. Yes, my mate is beautiful. I have never felt emotions the way I do when I gaze upon her. But in truth? I grit my teeth, clicking the sharpness of my fangs against the flat teeth underneath.
My mate is a liability in so many ways.
She is not influential in her own right, lacks physical strength or unique abilities. She does not hold power or office even among her own people. More than that, her species itself is a problem. My marrying her will break the tentative and sometimes unenforceable treaty protecting her planet. The Falopex will not like this. Even that one, that rogue officer on Jungryuk, he was displeased. I can only imagine what his father—the Chief of Police—will have to say about this.
I remove my gloves and press my palms flat against the sterile white metal of our door, closing my eyes and leaning in to press my lips to the smooth surface. As I do, I reach deep into my blood for those abilities I have always possessed but have never been able to use. Feeding on my mate—even that small amount—has changed everything for me. Threads of red unfurl from my mouth, breaking through the surface of my tongue to trace along the edges of the door. I push them into and through it, snaking my own veins across the walls and the ceiling. Blood lace decorates everything in the royal suite. My blood lace. My very own.
My father controls the entire Vestalis armada through his own blood lace. There is not one thing he cannot see or one area he cannot control from the throne room.
Except for this.
As the next in line for the throne, I’m permitted the opportunity to observe and manage my own quarters.
When I draw back, fatigue hits me and I stumble, hitting the wall hard enough that my lips leave a streak of red. Blood smears into the wall, and my father’s blood lace immediately absorbs it. I close my eyes. They are my parents; my blood is their blood. But now that I have my mate, I am not so sure that I agree with that.
I look back at the door to the suite, pleased to see my own mark upon it. I have always wondered why the threads we create are called blood lace. My father’s is thick, with blue veins and red arteries, thick as my mate’s lovely thighs. Stretches of red muscle and meaty flesh blend with his designs.
But my own blood lace? It is fine and delicate, glowing red threads woven into careful artistry. It is beautiful enough that it could adorn one of my mate’s garments. Decoration for a skirt. A fine sheet for a veil. Lace for her undergarments.
I exhale.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” A voice draws my attention around to one of my mother’s handmaidens. As the queen, she is permitted as many servants as she wishes. I believe at this point that she has more servants than she does sons which is a remarkable feat.
“Yes?” I ask, wiping the reminder of the blood from my face. I swipe it off on my uniform. The fabric absorbs it, and I exhale as its energy is transferred through the material and back into my skin. My mother’s servant glances at the door to the suites, and a pleased expression crosses her face. It is difficult to tell at times what my mother’s people are thinking. The Spirobolida still seem foreign to me, despite the fact that my mother is one of them.
No matter what the female is, no matter what she looks like, her offspring with her Vestalis mate will always be more Vestalis males.
“The Imperial Queen has requested your presence.” The handmaiden does her best to imitate a Vestalin bow, but it is not possible with her sinuous form. I have been told by Avril that the Spirobolida are reminiscent of Earth’s millipedes, but there’s been no time to verify the veracity of her claim. This particular female is a brilliant red—which is likely why my mother favors her—and has too many legs to count. I know that my mother has in excess of two-thousand legs.
“Of course.” I tuck my hands back into my gloves, resisting the urge to sigh.
I knew this was coming.
I am prepared for it.
We walk the halls quickly, the handmaiden trailing along behind me. I can hear the constant patter of her legs against the floors. Other Vestalis duck out of our way as we walk, drawing to the walls and dropping to their knees. They place their fingers against their lips and use their nails to draw single droplets of blood. The smell catches in the air, but it has no hold on me.
The only being in existence whose blood sings is … my mate.
Doors open for me as I move through the ship, winding my way through maze-like corridors until I reach the antechamber for my parents’ suite. There are guards here, though they are relatively useless. My father can see danger coming from any room in this ship and act accordingly. Never once in the history of the Vestalis has there been a successful coup.
The large round door that leads to the throne room slides open, and I step into the damp, dim heat of my parents’ chamber. By necessity, this is the control room for the ship, the throne room for Vestalis business, and also my parents’ personal bedroom.
The door closes behind me and the handmaiden does not join us.
It is me, my father, and my mother.
I drop to my knee and offer the proper level of obeisance.
“Rise, my son.” My mother’s voice is sinuous through the translator implant, and I look up to see that she is offering her version of a smile to me. Her head is large and round with two segmented antennae, two dark glittering circles for eyes, and sharp mandibles near her mouth. When she is pleased, those talon-like appendages vibrate.
I do as she’s asked. Authority among the Vestalis is absolute. My father is the boss. My mother obeys no one but him. And now that I have found my mate, I obey no one but my parents. My mate—if only she would listen—need obey no one but the three of us. She is free to command the entire galaxy, and she does not seem to care.
I don’t allow these thoughts to show on my face. Despite the number of children my parents have, they know us all quite intimately. After all, there is nothing my brothers nor I can do on this ship that they do not see, that my father cannot feel.
My gaze drifts to the wall of screens on my left, surrounded and consumed by my father’s blood lace. I do not know if it is because of his immense power, the influence of my mother, or simple genetic variation, but his blood lace is thick and wide, pulsing with red and blue, surrounded by muscular tissue that throbs. My blood lace is thin and jewel-like, always a bright red, reminiscent of fine human lace.
Humans. My human female. My mate.
I resist the urge to sigh.
I have done copious research on humans in the past few weeks on Jungryuk. It still feels as if I do not understand them at all. I force my wandering attention back to the present, but the effort costs me. My jaw is clenched, teeth bared. It isn’t easy to school my expression, but I manage it.
The screens flicker between data and video footage, each of them embedded in the thick, muscular wall behind them. Some are partially obscured by my father’s blood lace, some are fully obscured. The entire room is dark the way my mother likes it, and there is nary an inch of floor or wall or ceiling that my father’s blood lace does not touch.
He sits, large and stoic on the throne, his dark gaze on me. We are similar in looks, though my father is no less than three times as large as his offspring. Again, I do not know if that is my mother’s influence—Vestalis males often adjust to their mate’s preferences—or if it is because he has absorbed the power of the ship. He is connected to it now, his threads woven with the heart of The Korol. He can no longer rise from this throne as he is bound to it. Since the day of his coronation, my father has not moved from this room.
For nearly sixty Earth years—I am trying to acclimate to my mate’s sense of time—my father has not moved. And my mother has spent nearly every second by his side.
What am I to do when, someday soon, my father abdicates his throne and I am forced to sit in that very chair? I will not have a loyal, loving mate to assuage the loneliness, to soothe the dust of my wanderlust, to mourn the loss of my dreams.
I will be alone with a reluctant queen marched to this room weekly for a forced feeding.
It is a fate worse than death.
“Rurik,” my father grumbles, his true voice echoing in the room. The sound of my name on his lips is a whisper and a hiss, the native tongue of the Vestalis. It is required of all who enter the throne room to translate the king’s words on their own. He does not wear a tongue implant to translate his speech, and he does not wear an ear implant to translate the speech of others. “Where is your mate?”
