Outlanders 14 Hell Rising, page 23
Fand took his hands and placed them over her small but perfectly shaped breasts. The gem-hard nipples pressed against his callused palms. Her immense eyes focused on his, seeming to pour her own desires and passions into him.
Ka'in had often wondered if Fand had indeed seduced him with her powers, enchanted him with a love spell as others had accused. True, she was not completely human, but as he knew from delirious experience, she was more than human enough.
Sliding a leg between his thighs, she pressed her lips against his with such violence, Ka'in went down on the soft grass, half-smothered by a flurry of bruising kisses. He dredged up his last scrap of will to push her aside, but she had ever been a tigress in her passions, stronger than most men.
Fand put a hand between their bodies and beneath his kilt. Ka'in groaned as he felt her sharp-nailed fingers close tightly on his rigid shaft. She straddled him and moved backward along his body until she knelt between his legs. Swiftly, she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Ka'in raised his pelvis and arched his back as her head rose and fell in an excruciating rhythm.
A roaring madness engulfed him, driving away all rational thoughts, all concerns for the future. Tearing off his clothes while Fand still suckled him, Ka'in struggled to his knees. As if she knew how close to climax he was, Fand released him and fell backward on the grass, arms upflung and legs open.
Cradling her buttocks, Ka'in placed the tip of his erect member at her moist and hot mound and fell forward, arching his back to drive fully into her. Fand gasped, squirmed and cried out sharply. She raised her pelvis to meet his deep plunges, her full lips peeled back over her perfect teeth in a half snarl, half grin of pleasure.
Ka'in maintained his steady, full-length thrusts as Fand levered herself up by her slender, muscular arms, locking her legs tightly around his hips. By arching her back and pushing, she rolled him over and sat astride him.
She bucked wildly above his body, her pants of exertion interspersed with little moaning cries. She rode with a wild, fierce intensity. Ka'in lifted his head and cupped her left breast, his tongue flicking over the nipple. He could feel the swelling tension in his shaft and so could Fand. She shifted position and rolled her hips in a frantic undulation.
With a hoarse savage cry of release, Ka'in writhed, clutched her around her narrow waist and shot a steady stream of his seed into her.
Fand cried out loudly, biting down on her lower lip. "Ka'in—!"
The word cut through his consciousness like a knife, forming a bridge between the dreaming Kane and the dream Ka'in.
KANE'S EYES SNAPPED wide and he came awake, breathing heavily, blinking back sweat sliding from his hairline. The bed quivered beneath him. Fand sat astride him, her head thrown back, her long hair hanging down behind her. Her white skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration, and her teeth were sunk into her lower lip. Her full breasts trembled, and even in the feeble lamplight Kane saw the flush spreading over them. The pulse throbbed wildly at the base of the slim column of her throat. In a faint, aspirated whisper, she said, "Ah, you did remember. The souls of our past incarnations were at long last reunited to express their eternal love." Kane was too numbed, too stupefied to say or do anything but pant for a long tick of time. His thoughts staggered in disorder, trying to reconcile his dream of Cuchulainn and Fand at the trysting place with the hard reality of Kane and Fand in a bed at the Ministry of Defense.
Fand fell forward over him, limp in post-orgasmic weakness. She kissed the side of his neck, murmuring words in Gaelic. Kane's confusion finally gave to outrage. Gripping her by the long braid of hair, he pulled her head up and back. She yipped in pain, and then her face grew solemn when she saw the fury stamped on his face.
"You got into my mind again," he said between clenched teeth, voice so thick with rage it sounded like on animal's guttural growl. "You manipulated me, forced me—"
She stared at him, stricken and shocked. "No, Ka'in, it wasn't like that—"
He heaved her up and away from him, rolling her onto her side. Rising from the bed, still gripping her by the hair, he struggled to control the almost overwhelming urge to kill her. "Kane, goddammit! My name is Kane! Why did you do this? Why come to me like some kind of—" he paused to grope for a term "—succubus? If you know me as well as you claim you do, you should know force is the absolutely, positively worst approach to take."
Tears sprang to Fand's eyes, but they were of sorrow, not pain. "I would never force you. If the memories I raised to the surface were not of you, of us, this would not have happened. I stimulated your remembrances so you would understand how I feel."
He locked gazes with her, probing her huge golden eyes brimming with tears. He realized her distress was genuine and understood the source of his own fury. He was still angry over Lakesh's scheme to mate him with Beth-Li Rouch. The old man's plan to turn Cerberus into a colony and pass on Kane's superior genetic traits hadn't reached fruition because of Kane's unwavering resistance to it.
In Kane's mind, Lakesh's idea to breed only the best with the best was nothing but a continuation of the purity-control eugenics program practiced in the villes. The fact Beth-Li was a schemer herself, and her beautiful face masking a corrupt soul, hadn't contributed to his enthusiasm.
But he saw no such corruption in Fand's tear-streaked face, only guilt. Suddenly, he was so weary he could do nothing but shake his head at the absurdity of it all. He released his grip on her hair and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Tentatively, Fand touched his bare back and whispered, "No matter what you think, I could not control your mind even had I cared to. Part of you desired to do this, part of you said yes. That is the part I asked. Consent was given. There is no need for shame."
Massaging his eyes with the heels of his hands, he said hoarsely, "Grant was right."
He shifted on the bed to look at her. "Let's talk about shame, Fand. What do you think I would feel if I return home and learn Brigid died while I was here with you, reliving an erotic encounter from a thousand years ago?"
He showed his teeth in a hard, humorless grin. "Shame wouldn't even begin to cover it."
"She has not died, Kane," Fand said in a hushed but confident voice.
"How the hell would you know?"
"You would know, not I. As it is, you have smothered the flame of your passion for her, for your anam-chara. You fear if you fan it to life, it will consume you, blind you, make you a slave to it."
Kane knew his startlement was reflected in his eyes, for Fand smiled knowingly and a little triumphantly. "As courageous a warrior as you are, the prospect of expressing your deepest feelings for the woman Brigid , terrifies you far more than any enemy you have ever faced."
Kane opened his mouth to voice an angry denial, but nothing came out. It was true. He had no choice but to acknowledge it.
Fand's smile broadened. "So brave, yet so fearful."
Annoyed, Kane demanded, "And what about you, what are your motivations?"
"Motivations?"
Remembering Ambika's self-important vow of chastity, Kane asked bluntly, "Did you figure it was time to lose your virginity?"
Fand surprised him by laughing. "That time came and went a number of years ago."
He stared at her, nonplussed. "Really?"
"Really. Did you think all those years I spent wandering the length and breadth of Erin I never came in contact with men? One of my duties—pleasures, actually—as the living embodiment of Ireland's spirit was to participate in fertility rituals."
"No wonder you were so popular."
She nodded. "Indeed. I also have three children, a boy and two girls, now living in the Priory's citadel. Phin's clan took care of them."
Kane's surprise grew. Haltingly, he said, "I had no... I guess I figured when we first met you were..." His words trailed off.
"That I was saving myself for the incarnation of Cuchulainn?" she supplied.
"Something like that."
She grinned. "Wonderfully romantic but hardly practical. I was mad, but 1 wasn't stupid. The Danaan Fand took many human lovers, though she loved her Ka'in the most intensely. Because her race was so long-lived, she knew her affairs with men were fleeting."
Kane studied her smooth, unlined features. Although she appeared to be barely twenty, he knew she had been born more than thirty years ago, after her mother's release from cryostasis. Strongbow claimed
his mutagenic treatment had extended his longevity and so the Annunaki genes Fand carried, doubtlessly slowed her own aging process, prolonging her life for God only knew how many years—or centuries.
With a touch of envy, he realized she would probably look exactly the same thirty years hence. He also finally accepted Fand didn't harbor sinister motives. She desired him, and as loath as he was to admit it, he desired her. He felt a trifle ridiculous when he realized how most, if not all, of his assumptions about her were wrong.
Repressing a sigh, Kane stood up, avoiding looking at Fand, almost unbearably lovely in her nudity. He glanced around for his clothes, saw them neatly folded over the back of a chair and wondered absently if Fand had taken them off or if he had. He decided it-didn't matter.
She asked, "What did you mean when you said `Grant was right'?"
Pulling on his pants, Kane answered, "There doesn't seem to be a good reason to have summoned me here unless it was for...for what we just did. The plan we came up with to board Northstar 40 would work—or not work—just as well even if I wasn't involved."
"Perhaps so," Fand admitted. "If anyone other than Quayle—Balor—were in command of it."
Kane's face twisted as if he suddenly tasted something extremely repugnant. "Another bit of unfinished business from the life of Cuchulainn?"
"In a way. Balor was ever the traitor, betraying his clan, his oaths, whenever the possibility of power beckoned. Always Cuchulainn was there to thwart him, to denounce him, to expose him."
"So you're saying only I can face off against the bastard and have any chance of winning?"
Fand pursed her lips. Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "Let us say your presence may tip the scales more in our favor and leave it at that."
Picking up his wrist chron and glancing at the LCD, Kane announced with a touch of surprise, "It's almost time to go."
Fand smiled impishly and toyed with her braid. "I did promise to wake you up, remember?"
Chapter 23
Hornblower's Wraith pitched and bounced on the relentless chop, white spray flying from the cresting waves. The incessant rising and falling motion awoke nausea in stomachs all over the twenty-five-foot length of the boat.
The man at the wheel was named McCrae and he sang "I Wish I Was in Carrickfergus," completely oblivious to the discomfort his piloting caused. He paid no attention to how Fand, Phin, Grant and Kane swayed and stumbled on the deck of the little wheelhouse. Finally, Phin ordered him to ease off on the throttle with a stream of snarling Gaelic and a kick to the rump.
Even Grant, with his years of jockeying Deathbirds through all kinds of maneuvers and weather, looked relieved when the rocking became less violent.
Hornblower's Wraith was one of the few seaworthy vessels remaining in the imperial fleet. The frigates, the freighters and even the three-masted sloops had all been sunk. The twin-engine Wraith was more suited for hugging coastlines than the open ocean, but still she was a trim craft.
Grant had pointed out how the vessel was built a hit like the old PT boats of the twentieth century: long and slim in configuration, the wheelhouse and the cabin superstructure positioned forward, the long afterdeck covered with heavy cypress planking was fairly open, except for the tripod-mounted M-60 machine gun bolted to an upright stanchion.
The Wraith could cruise easily at twenty knots and was roomy enough to accommodate twelve men in the lower crew cabin. A dozen Celts and one frightened, motion-sick dragoon sat on the facing benches. The young man did not look out of place since almost all of the Irish warriors wore the red jackets and berets of the Imperium. They also carried H&K MP-5 sub- guns.
Only a handful of the Irish sitting on the low benches in the cabin possessed hard seamanship experience. They were landsmen; they didn't trust the ocean. More than one of them mumbled a prayer to the ancient sea god of Eire. Several of them were freshly shaved and closely cropped, and the forced shearing of their beards and manes hadn't improved their moods, either.
Although many of the uniforms bore bloodstains and bullet holes, Kane felt their appearance lent veracity to the story of battle-weary soldiers fleeing New London. He just hoped they wouldn't stain them further by throwing up. One hundred nautical miles was a long boat ride, especially one made in the dead of night in turbulent waters. McCrae had speculated it would require six or more hours to come within sight of the rig, but that estimation depended on how rough the seas were.
It worked both ways, Kane reflected. They would probably spy the oil platform at the same time the troopers aboard it spotted them. After studying the pix of Northstar 40, he knew it would be impossible to approach the structure unseen. They would be challenged, and that was why Harper, Quayle's orderly, would make the initial face-to-face contact.
A huge wave crashed over the prow of the Wraith, and McCrae wrestled with the wheel. He gunned the two diesel engines, and the boat shook with a stern-to-aft shiver. The wipers droned steadily, but they were unable to keep the windshield clear for more than an instant at a time. The bouncing, the engine roar, the pervasive diesel odor and the mumbled prayers— and occasional retching—from the Celts became an encapsulated world of its own, one both Kane and Grant were desperate to leave.
As it was, Kane was just as glad to be in the crowded, stuffy wheelhouse rather than down below. He felt awkward being alone with Fand and could not meet her eye. She wore the bulky combat vest and leather leggings again, her staff angled over a shoulder.
Earlier she had asked Kane how his shoulder felt and he mumbled it felt fine—which was true. Except for an occasional twinge, the pain and stiffness had vanished.
Grant, if he suspected anything had gone on between them, had the good taste to keep his suspicions to himself. As close as the two men were, both always respected matters of a personal nature.
"There she is," McCrae suddenly announced.
Kane and Grant looked out the windows on both sides of the wheelhouse, but saw nothing but miles of uninterrupted, heaving gray. The sky was the same pewter color, but a bit lighter in shade, heralding the approach of dawn.
Then, as Hornblower's Wraith rose on a swell, they saw off to starboard a vague outline. Kane guessed it was about a mile away and wouldn't have been visible at all except for the bright lights forming an irregular, glowing silhouette.
Kane leaned over and shouted into the open hatch, "Harper, front and center. It's nearly time for your performance."
The young man shakily climbed up the ladder, squinting at Kane with his one good eye. His other was swollen shut, his face bruised and puffy from the beating he had received the day before.
"Do you know your lines?" Grant asked.
Harper nodded, and as if by rote stated matter-of-factly, "New London has fallen into the hands of the savages. We're all that is left of its defenders. Sir, if it please you, we humbly ask permission to come aboard and join our fellows."
Phin shook his head in disgust. "Try to put a bit more feeling into it, lad. If you don't convince your captain, either he'll have you killed or I will."
Harper swallowed and repeated his lines, this time emphasizing certain key words and adding a wheedling note of humility. To Kane's ears, he sounded just dumb enough to be convincing.
Grant nodded as if satisfied. "At my word, get out on deck. And remember, there'll be at least three blasters aimed at your back."
"I'll remember." Screwing up his face, Harper clapped a hand over his mouth. Fand led him quickly to a window and slid it open just as Harper poked his head through. He vomited copiously, either due to fear or seasickness, or a combination of both. When only dry-heave shudders wracked his frame, he straightened up, wiping his mouth. His head and shoulders were drenched by salt spray. At least, Kane hoped it was salt spray.
Grant peered through a set of binoculars, focusing past the droplets of water sliding across the fore port. "Can't see much," he said with a grunt after a few moments. "The light is still too lousy."
He handed the binoculars over to Kane, who squinted through the eyepieces. The rolling swells hid all but the ninety-foot-tall derrick tower. Bleakly, he said, "Quayle could have left already."
