Deathstalker Return (23 page)

So,
thought Douglas just a little cynically,
they’ve gone for beauty rather than brains, this time. Probably just as well, really.

Treasure and James came to a halt before the throne, and Douglas came down to greet them. Treasure curtsied very low, in a graceful rustle of silks, showing off more cleavage than Douglas had seen in one place in his life. James actually blushed and looked away, and couldn’t let go of her arm fast enough. Douglas bowed to Treasure, and reached out to take her tiny hand in his.

“Please rise, my dear. That’s better. You look delightful. This is your will, to be my Queen? You understand the responsibilities you will be taking on?”

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” said Treasure, in her trademark breathy voice. “I couldn’t be happier about this. Are you . . . happy about this, Douglas?”

He smiled at her. He couldn’t say no, in front of everyone. It would have been like disappointing a child.

“A King must marry. I’ve always known that. And you seem to me . . . a perfect choice.”

“And I’m to be the best man,” said James.

“Of course,” murmured Douglas. “You always are, James.” He looked across at Meerah Puri. “I approve the House’s choice. Set a date for the Royal Wedding.”

And while the House cheered, and James applauded loudly, and Treasure beamed and dimpled becomingly, Douglas smiled and nodded and considered his position. He couldn’t say no to a Royal Wedding—the people needed it too badly. They wanted to put the bad business of Lewis and Jesamine behind them, and they needed something good to look forward to, to take their minds off the coming Terror and the Paragons’ continuing failure to find Owen. Treasure seemed a safe enough choice. Typical actress bimbo, mouthful of teeth and a bra full of talent, too dim to make political trouble. It would be a marriage in name only, but he was sure she knew that.

He’d already given his heart to another, and nothing had happened to change that.

 

 

Afterwards, Treasure Mackenzie looked in her mirror and smiled her true smile. It had all gone much better than she’d expected. But then, only a very few people present had known that she was also Frankie, Dark Mistress of the Hellfire Club. She laughed aloud. She couldn’t wait to be Queen.

On the bridge of the hijacked yacht
Hereward,
Brett Random and Rose Constantine were doing their best to kill each other again. They stamped back and forth in the confined space, slamming their swords together with vicious strength, each trying to catch the other off guard. They circled slowly, breathing heavily, their eyes intent and focused, their faces wet with the sweat of their exertions. Rose was grinning, Brett was cold and grim. They sprang at each other again, cutting and blocking and reengaging almost too quickly to be followed. Rose had been the undoubted champion of the Logres Arena, never defeated in any of her many matches, but Brett was holding his own, and more. They’d been dueling nonstop for almost forty minutes now, and neither had managed even to touch the other—which was a whole new record.

Rose had determined to teach Brett how to fight after witnessing his miserable performance against the attack troops on Unseeli. Brett knew how to defend himself—you couldn’t grow up in the Rookery without acquiring a working knowledge of most weapons—but he was no fighter, and would be the first to admit it. Too softhearted, he would have said, with a smile and a shrug. Brett firmly believed that there wasn’t a problem in the world or off it that couldn’t best be solved by running away from it. He also believed in letting other people do the fighting whenever possible, while he hung innocently round the edges, keeping an eye out for any tasty items that were just asking to be picked up and pocketed by a nimble-fingered fellow. Brett was a thief, a con man, and a devout coward, and he figured that was enough professions for any one man.

But Rose was having none of that. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about Brett, but she definitely didn’t want him getting himself killed before she made up her mind. So she took it upon herself to teach Brett everything she knew about how to handle a sword, and she knew a hell of a lot. Brett, not for the first time, didn’t get a say in the matter.

So the two of them spent most of their trip to the old leper planet of Lachrymae Christi dueling ferociously on the
Hereward
’s bridge. Brett picked it up extremely quickly—not least because Rose was quite willing to cut him a good one if he didn’t pay attention—and it wasn’t long before the two of them were almost equally matched. No one else could have mastered Rose’s many skills so quickly, but the telepathic bond forged between Brett and Rose when he first took the damned esper drug was still operating, on deep, dark, and unexpected levels. Rose had to show him something only once, and it was as though he’d always known it. The sword seemed alive in his hand, responsive as a lover, and the more he learned the more easily it all came. All he needed now was practice, to hone his reflexes and build muscle tone, and Rose sharpened his skills in the only way she knew how: by doing her level best to kill him every time they dueled. Brett did his best to kill her too; it was only polite. And so they stamped and lunged and parried, putting everything they had into every blow, dueling on long after anyone else would have had to stop.

But finally the timer they’d set in the bridge’s comm panels went off, and they disengaged and stepped cautiously back from each other, breathing harshly as they slowly lowered their swords. They’d learned the hard way that they had to have a timer. Because sometimes the intensity of their dueling took them to another place—where nothing mattered but the clash of steel on steel and the search for heart’s blood, where they would have dueled each other to exhaustion before either would give up. They put away their swords and nodded respectfully to each other, struggling to get their breath back under control. Brett produced a handkerchief with someone else’s monogram on it, and wiped his face. Rose looked at him almost fondly.

“You make a good pupil, Brett. There’s not much left I can teach you. But you’ll never be able to beat me. Not until you develop the killer’s instinct.”

“I’ll never beat you,” said Brett, “because you’re a homicidal bloody psychopath.”

Rose shrugged. “It’s a gift. I can’t take any credit for it.”

They stared at each other for a while, their breathing slowing, and then Rose moved slowly over to stand before Brett. She studied his face intently.

“This is all new to me, Brett. I never had a pupil before. Never had a partner, or a friend . . .”

She stopped, considering the matter thoughtfully. Brett stood very still. Rose was never more dangerous than when she was thinking. Besides, he didn’t understand their relationship either, and he was curious to hear what she would come up with.

“I never needed anyone else in my life,” said Rose. “Never wanted anyone, except to kill. As long as I had the Arena, and the blood and the suffering, I was content. Murder was sex, the killing stroke my orgasm. And I was happy. Then our minds touched, and in that moment I saw things . . . emotions, feelings, possibilities I’d never considered before. Sex was different for you; a joining, sharing thing. It was so much . . . more. I want to feel those things, even if I’m not sure why. I like teaching you . . . I like seeing you become more like me. But there are things only you can teach me.”

“Oh, yes?” said Brett.

She moved another step closer. Brett stood his ground. It was like having a wild animal come out of the jungle and walk right up to you to stare curiously into your eyes. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead again. Their mouths were so close now they could feel each other’s breath on their lips. They were both breathing heavily again, almost in rhythm. Rose was frowning slightly, as though considering a difficult problem. And then her bloodred leathers creaked as she took him cautiously, gently, into her murderous arms.

 

 

In the cargo bay of the
Hereward,
in a rough nest he’d made from boxes of the alien porn data crystals, the reptiloid Saturday was fast asleep. He’d been sleeping ever since they left Unseeli, his emerald green belly swollen and distended from all the people he’d eaten. He smiled toothily in his sleep, and occasionally his tail or his clawed hands would twitch as he dreamed happy dreams of slaughter and feeding.

None of the others had any intention of waking him until they absolutely had to. And then they’d do it from a safe distance, probably using something long to poke him with.

 

 

While Brett and Rose grew closer and the reptiloid slept, Lewis Deathstalker and Jesamine Flowers caught up on their quality time. To be exact, they’d taken over the main cabin, locked the door securely, and hadn’t left the bed for two days, except for certain necessary trips to the food synthesizer or the bathroom. They were currently standing together at the foot of the bed, both entirely naked, looking at themselves in the full length mirror on the wall. Jesamine was frowning. She studied her famous face and figure with critical, merciless eyes, turning this way and that to check all the angles and find her best side. Lewis stood easily beside her, one arm draped companionably around her slim waist. When he looked at them both together, in the mirror, he saw Beauty and the Beast, and wondered, not for the first time, what someone so breathtakingly beautiful saw in an ugly brute like him.

“Oh, God,” said Jesamine. “I look awful.”

“What are you talking about?” said Lewis. “You look wonderful. You always look wonderful. If you were any more perfect, you’d be banned as harmful to the eyes.”

“I’ve got a roll of fat around my middle, my tits are sagging, and I’m actually afraid to turn round and look at my bum. I can feel it heading towards the floor as we speak. This is what having to live without full-time beauty technicians does to a woman. I’m not as young as I was, you know. Once a woman reaches a certain age, she has to spend a lot of time taking care of herself, or it all falls apart in the middle of the night and she wakes up looking like her mother. It’s a fact.”

“You look fine to me,” said Lewis. “You look great. I wouldn’t change an inch.”

“You say the sweetest things, darling man.” Jesamine kissed him absently on the cheek, and then went back to studying herself in the mirror.

Lewis sighed, but had enough sense to do it internally. Even with his limited experience with women, he knew they were venturing onto dangerous ground here. Women never saw themselves as they really were; inside they were always judging themselves against some imaginary perfect image they picked up in their youth and never broke free from. Jesamine Flowers was famous as one of the most gorgeous women in an Empire full of beautiful women, and here she was scowling at her reflection as though she’d just acquired jowls and a mustache.

Lewis looked at himself, and had no illusions. He was built for stamina, not speed, and his muscles were made for action, not posing. He let the fingertips of one hand trail unhurriedly across the various new scars he’d acquired since leaving Logres. There were quite a few of them, from swords and guns and explosions—places where death had touched him briefly, in passing. Scars were a new thing for Lewis. As a Paragon on Logres he’d had automatic access to regeneration machines, so that even the worst wounds never left a permanent mark on him. The
Hereward
had no regen tank. He had to heal naturally, and he hated it. It was slow and uncomfortable, it interrupted his thinking—and it left scars.

As if he wasn’t ugly enough already.

Jesamine put a gentle hand over his, as it traced a long scar down his left side. “You got that one fighting to protect me, in Traitor’s Hall, in the Bloody Tower. I remember. You’ve been through so much pain for my sake.”

“You’re worth it,” said Lewis. “I was never really happy, never really alive, till I met you.”

Jesamine laughed quietly, and put an arm round his waist. “You always know the right things to say, my dear. But when this is all over, you’re going straight into a regeneration tank, and we’re getting rid of those awful scars.”

“They serve a purpose,” said Lewis, his harsh features falling into familiar dark lines. “These scars are reminders—to be more careful, more thoughtful about everything I do, because I can be killed so easily out here, and so can you. If you were killed . . . I wouldn’t want to go on living, without you.”

She kissed him, to stop him saying such things, and afterwards Jesamine looked at Lewis’s face for a long time, tracing its harsh lines with a gentle fingertip. “You have a face like a force of nature, Lewis. Hard, unyielding, but not unattractive. You could have altered it—become anonymously handsome, like everyone else. Why did you never change it?”

“Because then I wouldn’t have looked like me anymore. It would have been like wearing a mask. Wearing a lie. With me, what you see is pretty much what you get. I never changed my appearance for the same reason Anne never changed hers. Because we’re proud of who we are.”