“I didn’t say you could speak.” It was no idle repetition. It was a prelude to violence.
Audrey smoothed back wet hair and met his gaze. “If the Old Man wants me here, he won’t appreciate seeing me harmed. I bet you can’t risk that,
¦ ¦ ¦
During combat, Leto would’ve laid waste to the insulting bitch. He’d have crushed her ribs before she uttered another infuriating syllable. With the collars temporarily disengaged, his speed and reflexes—the hallmark of Clan Garnis—would’ve made that possible.
He couldn’t remember the last time a neophyte figured out how their relationship worked. Symbiosis. If this woman failed to entertain, Leto would share the blame. To lose face left him seething.
He checked his thoughts. There was always something to be done when a neophyte got lippy—no matter how clever. No matter how fucking sexy.
Leto shut down that thought even faster. Just as he tried to forget the healed surgical incisions on her lustrous golden skin. A violation.
“Get in your cage.”
“Go to hell.”
“You can stay out here, but I won’t feed you.”
Defiance dazzled from her bright eyes.
This time Leto was able to hide his renewed surprise that she knew how to pick her battles. The Tigony made no secret of their disgust for the Cages. They were the Tricksters of the Five Clans, more eager to wheedle than fight. They could storm fire from the heavens, yet few tapped into that potential. They simply talked too much.
“Get in your cage, Nynn of Clan Tigony. Or I’ll throw you in.”
“What happened to letting me have free rein of this . . . cave?”
“That was before you insulted me.”
She shot a disdainful glance toward his crotch. “Hit a little too close to home?”
He pulled until her ear nestled against his mouth. She smelled delicious now. Fresh. Scrubbed clean of the sweet, unnatural scent of decay that the lab refugees always carried. He never let his mind journey to Dr. Aster’s lab. Imagination was best left to techniques in fighting. But he couldn’t deny what his senses told him.
Whatever happened there was simply
Leto used his grip to shove her into the four-foot-square iron cage. He hated being unprepared against
He threw the lock and knelt. “Your identity won’t make a difference when we train. What will make a difference is your gift from the Dragon. And I sure as hell know what that is.”
“My gift never manifested!”
“Save your breath.”
He said it flatly, because he’d seen proof of her destructive powers: Dr. Aster’s lab, with its roof obliterated. Her lie was obvious.
Unless . . . unless she had been subjected to the same procedure as his sister Pell. Leto had survived the disorientation and fear of his first manifestation, but his sister had not. Vigorous powers required the intervention of a telepath. Sometimes the process of installing unconscious restraints went badly. Very badly.
Leto shook off his foreboding. Time to get food. She would respond to food.
He walked away without explanation, unsurprised when her shouts followed.
He’d been confident in what to expect when first entering her training cell. Now, he knew what she looked like naked.
He exited at the guards’ discretion and walked between them toward the mess hall. He knew the turns and sloping underground tunnels well enough to walk with his eyes shut. He may as well have. Images of Nynn overlaid his vision. Waist and hips designed for a man’s hands. Supple legs to curl around a man’s lower back. Tight nipples waiting for a man’s eager mouth.
She’d got it all wrong. He had tamped down his arousal out of sheer mental discipline. He would not be limp when he bedded down that evening. In his private quarters, he would indulge those erotic images and release the grinding tension she’d ratcheted into his joints.
The mess hall was no more elaborate than Nynn’s training room, only bigger, having been carved out of granite deep within the earth. Dozens of human workers, all male, had gathered for the evening meal. Long wooden tables were flanked on each side by plain benches. Durable pewter plates held beans, rice, chunks of beef, kernels of corn, and buttered bread.
The guards accepted their meals from a stumpy man named Kilgore. “Here for your portion, Leto?”
“Yes, and for my neophyte.”
“The girl? Caught a glimpse when they brought her from the lab. Is she a looker? Couldn’t tell.”
“Food first.”
“You can be such a bore.”
Leto stood over him. “Earning the roar of a satisfied crowd is never a bore. Can you say the same for ladling beans?”
“Don’t rub it in.” Kilgore’s puckered face didn’t need much incentive to curl in on itself. “Not all of us can be stars in the Asters’ empire.”
The man served up dinner and assembled a second plate.
While Leto sat in the mess hall, he ate with silent relish. Quality fare. He’d heard rumors of Dragon Kings who fought for the Townsends and Kawashimas. Some were fed no better than scraps. Their holding cells were riddled with vermin and disease. They fought for meager prizes. Only Dr. Aster had perfected the process of reproduction among Dragon Kings. No one knew how he’d managed to solve the problem—or why conception was a problem in the first place.
The two other cartels had achieved limited successes. Their warriors bore as many insane, malformed children as ones delivered healthy and vital. It was a chance more were willing to take by the day.
Leto, however, was a god to the Asters. Praised above all who shared this warrior’s life. That Yeta had given birth to a healthy child meant he was more than a warrior. He had helped pass down their bloodline. His niece, Shoshan, and the few others who remained represented the future of Clan Garnis.
He returned his empty plate and faced Kilgore. “You ready for it?”
The small man stopped in the midst of lifting a scoop of corn. He ignored the thin, sallow-faced worker who waited for his food. Nearly every human in the compound looked that way—pale, sunken, wasted. Life underground turned them into two-legged moles.
Leto hid his disgust. For millennia, the Dragon Kings had ruled over these people, and for good reason. Mere herd animals.
He only wore the Asters’ collar because he benefited.
“Go on, then.” Kilgore’s dark, beady eyes were eager. “Her tits. Tell me.”
“Small but shapely.”
“And?”
“Tight buds. Dusky. Best I’ve seen in years.”
A shudder of pleasure jerked the loose skin along Kilgore’s jowls. “You really are without peer, my friend.”
Leto hid a scowl. He counted no humans among his friends—as if such a word existed for him. Sharing physical details about his neophytes spoke to Kilgore in the language of small minds. His lust for news about new arrivals was insatiable. Kilgore would embellish those curt descriptions, earn clout among the workers, and spread proof of Leto’s superiority. Such men eagerly bet on their favorite champion.
Distasteful. But necessary.
Leto took up the second plate of food. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a neophyte to break.”
