Rogue (9 page)

"What do they use for power here?" I went on to ask.

"I mean, something was running those hovercars! Oil, fusion, fission, solar, or what?"

"They have another stone for that."

I might have guessed as much. It seemed that they had a rock for just about any purpose you could name, and it wouldn't have surprised me to find that some were edible. "You know, it seems as though Scalia's sitting on a veritable gold mine here," I remarked. "No wonder she could afford to bring a piano teacher all the way from Earth! I'm surprised she couldn't get a better one."

He seemed surprised by this remark. "You are not a good teacher?"

"I didn't say that—not exactly, anyway—but there
are
better instructors out there. It's just that she was too specific about her other requirements."

"In what way?" he asked, curious now.

"Well, she wanted someone who could not only teach piano, but who was also a relatively young, unattached female. At the time I didn't think that was so significant, but—" I broke off there, thinking that if Scalia wanted to breed more Zetithians, I might be just the thing. Of course, I could have pointed out to Scalia that if she wanted me to have kittens, she would have to wait; I was on an extended-release form of birth control, and I'd taken a pill a month prior to my departure from Earth.

It would take a while to wear off. I hadn't brought any more of them along with me because—call me careless and irresponsible if you will—I hadn't thought that having sex with anyone on a world full of lizards was even a remote possibility. The sad fact is that I hadn't particularly needed it even when I took the damned pill. It was simply time to take one, so I did.

But taking another good, long look at Tychar, I decided that if you could cross a horse with a donkey, you could probably cross a human with a Zetithian. I'd known people on Earth who were alien crossbreeds, and their parents had appeared to be even more different than the two of us. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that we could have children together.

Tychar must have seen the wheels turning inside my head. "But?" he prompted.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Forgot what I was going to say." Hesitating a moment, I added, "Oh, I remember now; the better teacher thing. It's just that with so many stipulations, it tends to limit your choices."

He nodded, but with a slight lift to his brow. He wasn't going to come right out and accuse me of lying, because my reply had been plausible, but he knew that I hadn't been entirely honest with him, either. Scalia had said that the Zetithians were both very truthful, and, apparently, also pretty good at spotting a lie. I just hoped I didn't have to tell him any.

Any
more,
that is. I'd already told a small fib when I declined his offer to keep me clean. It wasn't that I
couldn't
handle it myself, but my mind was still reeling from the thought of him touching me anywhere, let alone in some of the more intimate places. Would he actually want to do that, or, for that matter, would I actually /e^him? Maybe he could just do my back.

He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because during the subsequent conversation, the scrail cloth had somehow wound up in his hands, rather than mine.

"Let me help you with your hair," he said, returning to the original subject. "I would advise you to use one cloth for your face and hair and another for the... rest of you."

This last bit was said with a noticeable twinge of regret. So, he
did
want to get his hands on me—which wasn't too surprising, given the rest of the morning's events. I tried to imagine what it would be like to just lie down and let him do as he wished—which led me to imagine another situation—one in which / was the one cleaning
him.
To slide my fingers through his hair, to rub his back, polishing his skin until it glowed, to towel off that stiff erection, to massage that perfect ass...

I was recalled to my surroundings when Tychar moved to stand behind my chair and began massaging my scalp with the cloth. He was only touching me with his fingertips, but from the way he was purring, he might as well have had his hands all over me. I hadn't realized how tense I was—the muscles in my shoulders were as tight as coiled springs—but soon relaxed completely as a result of his soothing touch.

Tilting my head back to rest against his chest, he ran the cloth over my face and neck, pausing to linger on my lips. I could feel him purring, and the vibration both tranquilized and tantalized as his hands reached ever lower, moving in a circular pattern over my chest and shoulders. My dress was sleeveless with a scooped neckline in the front and back, and he took full advantage of the amount of skin it exposed.

Just when I thought he would go too far, he retreated, the cloth muffling the sound of his purring as his fingertips teased my ears. Then, with a casual flick to my earlobes, he left me, dropping another cloth in my lap.

"Do your feet last," he suggested just before the door closed behind him.

HAVING PERFORMED MY MORNING ABLUTIONS WITH NOTHING

but a towel, I then took a tour of the palace escorted by my tall, dark, handsome, and very naked tiger. He was telling me plenty of things about the palace, but I'll admit to only hearing about half of it, for he was much too distracting for me to be able to absorb much in the way of information.

It took quite a while to get through the tour because it seemed as if every Darconian we passed had something to say to Tychar. He may not have been known to anyone on the outside, but those who lived and worked inside the palace seemed to know him quite well—and all the ones wearing beads seemed to think he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. We saw Cernada again, and after a brief dalliance that had her laughing delightedly, she went on her way, this time patting him on the butt instead of running her fingers through his hair.

"That happen often?" I asked once she rounded a corner.

"All the time," he said. "Though she is my most dedicated admirer. The rest seem to be afraid to touch me. I think Scalia may have warned them to keep their hands off."

I felt my heart drop to my navel. Scalia had given me no such warning, but
still.
"Did she... say anything about me?"

Exhaling with a soft, rumbling purr, he said, "Those rules don't apply to you, Kyra."

"W-why is that?" I stammered.

"Unlike the other women in the palace, she has assigned me to
you,"
he reminded me, "and I am to see to your
every
need." The look in his eyes and the emphasis he placed on the word "every" sent my imagination tearing off on another sexual rampage.

Tychar seemed to guess the nature of my thoughts, for his purring grew even louder, and the tone of it deepened seductively.

"And... if one of those needs was to... touch you?"

I ventured.

His lips curled into a smile. "Then you may touch me all you like."

My throat tightened uncomfortably, but I managed to say: "You're sure about that?"

"Yes, I am," he said with a slow nod. As if to prove that the reverse was also true, he brushed my cheek lightly with his fingertips, sending delightful little thrills racing over my skin.

"How sure?"

"Very," he replied. Noting that I remained skeptical, he added, "I know, because I asked."

"You asked Scalia?" I said incredulously. "When?"

"While you were... cleaning yourself," he replied, his expression one of apparent regret for not being allowed to finish the job. "And she said I was to do
anything you
told me to."

I couldn't even begin to imagine going up to the Queen and asking her if I could have my wicked way with her cherished slave! Tychar was obviously more courageous than me—or more determined to get what he wanted.

In an effort to downplay the innuendo, I said jok-ingly, "Even if I told you to jump off the roof?"

Leaning down so closely that I could feel his warm breath tickling my ear, he purred: "But you wouldn't do
that...
would you, Kyra?"

"No, you're right," I said lamely. "I wouldn't." I wouldn't want to do anything to prevent him from staying right by my side for the rest of my life. Now that I knew I had the Queen's permission, I wanted to feel every square inch of him and reached up to touch his cheek the same way he had touched mine.

"You don't have a beard, do you?" I said, finding his skin surprisingly smooth.

"Beard?"

"Facial hair," I replied. "Most human males develop it when they reach sexual maturity."

"That must feel very odd."

"Never liked it much, myself," I admitted. "When you shave it off, it leaves a rough stubble, and when you let it grow long, it tickles."

"You are speaking from the woman's point of view, then?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"So when you kiss a human male, it is... unpleasant?" He seemed pleased with this idea—as if it gave him a slight advantage.

"Well... it could be."

"It doesn't hurt or tickle to kiss a Zetithian," he assured me, his eyes glowing with the desire to prove he was telling the truth.

I stared longingly at his lips, wanting to find out for myself. "W-what about the fangs?" I asked hoarsely.

His smile broadened, revealing them fully. "They don't hurt or tickle, either—unless I bite."

"You...
bite?"
I said meekly.

"I will if you want me to," he replied. "Would you like that—or would you prefer to bite
me?"

As we were standing in the middle of a well-traveled corridor, all this talk about touching, kissing, and biting had me wondering why I'd ever left my room—or wishing I had as much guts as Cernada did. Choking back the gasp the thought of biting him evoked, I cleared my throat audibly and said: "Urn, shall we get on with the tour?"

I got the distinct impression that Tychar wasn't fooled for a moment, but all he did was lead the way as I'd requested.

Finally, after we'd been down the five-hundredth corridor and seen the Great Hall, the Grand Ballroom, as well as the kitchens, the administrative offices, the Security Chief's office (Wazak was out to lunch, I believe) , and the schoolroom where Zealon was engaged in studying geometry, I asked Tychar to take me somewhere to sit down, explaining that the heat was affecting me again. While this was probably true, I was also a bit footsore—aside from the fact that I wanted him to stop because every movement of his naked, muscular body was so fluid, so graceful, so
hypnotic...

"This way," he said, motioning me toward yet another unexplored corridor. "It's the most beautiful part of the palace."

The guard posted there obviously knew Tychar, if not me, and waved us by. As I followed him through a set of doors even more ornate than those opening to the Great Hall, I was struck dumb by what lay behind them.

To say that it was the most beautiful part of the palace was putting it mildly—it was probably the most beautiful place on this and several other planets. As we were enveloped by the unexpectedly humid air, riotous, tropical growth met my eyes, along with flowers of every shape and hue, carved stonework, and—I could hardly believe my eyes—cascading water. Some type of glass or plastic—the first I'd seen on this planet—formed the walls on three sides, as well as the roof. I say three sides, but it was actually more like part of a bubble, for the walls and ceiling were rounded, a perfect sphere broken only where there were doors cut into the glass. Beyond those doors I could see a walled patio that seemed to be sitting on top of the portico that encircled the palace.

Fully half of the patio was sheltered from the sun by a domed roof, which was supported by columns crafted from the gleaming shepra stone. And, as if all of that weren't enough, the view of the distant mountains from where I stood was nothing short of spectacular.

"And I thought there was a nice view from
my
window," I said with awe. "What
is
this place?"

The corner of Tychar's mouth twitched into his sig-nature smile, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. "The Darconians call it The Shrine of the Desert," he replied, "but it's actually the slave quarters."

"Oh, you've
gotio
be kidding me!"

"No," he assured me. "This is where they lock us up at night."

Words like harem and seraglio leaped into my mind, even though the room wasn't filled with beautiful women. In fact, the best I could tell, we were all alone there. "Well, you certainly can't say you haven't got a nice room," I remarked, "even if you do have to share it." I stared longingly at the fountain, watching as water spilled from a bouquet of stone flowers carved high in the stone wall to be captured in a large basin of highly polished shepra. It was undoubtedly against the rules, but all I wanted to do was to jump right into it and just sit there and soak for a couple of hours. "Where does the water come from?"

"Underground," he replied. "This is the oasis source."

"Oh, surely they don't run
all
the water in through here, do they?" I found it hard to believe that anyone in their right mind would do such a thing. The slaves could have barricaded the doors and cut off the water supply to the whole city. Surely Scalia had thought of that when she decided to house her pets there.

"No," he replied. "This is only a small portion of the water that flows from the spring."

"And where do you sleep?"

"Anywhere we like," he said. "We have pallets that are put away during the day. We may sleep inside or out, according to our own preferences."

"And you, where do you sleep most often?"

"Out there," he said, with a gesture toward the patio.

"I like to look up at the stars."

And dream of escaping to them one day—even with the knowledge that there were few of his kind left, that his homeworld had been destroyed, and that he might be hunted down for the bounty on Zetithians were he ever to leave this sanctuary. He
must have
dreamed of freedom, even though he might have had nowhere else to go.

"What was Zetith like?" I asked impulsively.

"Much like this room," he replied. "Green, beautiful, warm, and with many plants and trees—though in some places there was open grassland."