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Table of Contents
Summary

Black Forge Books Mailing List

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Books by Black Forge

Books by Shadow Alley Press

GameLit and Harem on Facebook

litRPG on Facebook

Copyright

About the Author

 Summary

Come Into My Parlor Said The Spider To The Dragon.

STEVEN DROKHARIS HAS unraveled the secrets of the
Dragonknights, journeyed to strange worlds, and gathered an
ancient race of warriors... all to face the Zothoric, and their mistress,
the Horror Mother. Now, he waits for the final battle. Many have
tried before and failed, including alternate versions of himself. Is this
the culmination of his plans, or his last chance to run?
And what about Tara Heridan? The half-turned Prosha hears the
Utereich’s whispers in her dreams, and they feel darkly delicious. Will
love bring her back, or will she betray Steven and embrace an
eternity of hunger?
With new allies and old enemies assembled, Steven can feel the
end approaching. His own Morta core thrums with the dark queen’s
approach. Who is he willing to sacrifice for victory? The power he
needs to win may cost him everything.
All of reality hangs in the balance in the final chapter of the
Zothoric Wars.
 Black Forge Books Mailing List

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 Chapter One

A SNORE LIKE A WORLD-rattling chain gun cut through the night,

and Steven winced. He couldn’t sleep. His bed was full of women:
Tessa, Zoey, Sabina, and Aria. Damn, Aria could snore, and she was
doing well that night, even by her own standards. And there was the
smell. Dragons and Dragonskins, their lesser cousins, all had a
distinct scent, and Steven’s women all smelled good. It was like
trying to take a nap in the middle of a pie shop with naked
waitresses. He spent part of every night half-cocked and hungry.
But the women were only half the problem. What really kept him
up was his father. Well, not his father, but the Battle World’s version
of him. His Stefan Drokharis had been killed on Gaia Alpha only a
few months after Steven was born. In a dark Denver alley, Steven
Drokharis became Steven Whipp, the son of a gambler and a good
woman.
That was a good eighteen years ago. Now, the night before, the
Battle World’s Stefan Drokharis had appeared out of nowhere during
dinner. Steven and his Escort had watched the bearded man come
down the escalators in shock. This other version of Steven’s father
had gotten to the bottom, looked them all up and down, and then
collapsed, unconscious.
Steven had been having visions of his father for a while, and at
first, Steven had thought that was what it was—another vision. No,
this was real. His Escort had moved the bearded man to a side office
where they could keep an eye on him. The Battle World Stefan had
been asleep ever since.
Steven had cast AnimusChain on the elder Drokharis and found
nothing in his core, not Animus, not Morta. Nothing. What had
happened to the Dragonlord was a mystery. In the end, Stefan was
human again. That might be why he was still alive: the Zothoric on
the Battle World had wiped out all the Dragonsouls and had taken
the Dragonkind—Magicians, Morphlings, and Warlings—captive to
make Hybriths out of them.
Steven slipped out of the big bed. He went to one of the doors
and touched the wood. Tara Heridan was on the other side, on her
bed, cocooned in a shell of chitin. She’d made sure to tell him she
hated him. He couldn’t take her words that seriously since there was
so much conflict inside her. She wanted to join them against the
Zothoric. In the same breath, she wanted the Horror Mother to
devour her soul. To be so chosen by a goddess had to be quite the
experience. Was that why Ven Dro had turned into such an asshole?
Steven shook away the thoughts. He left the offices and walked
out into the main terminal. They’d patched the roof with tent canvas
to keep out the elements. It didn’t much help with keeping the place
warm. He exhaled and saw his breath. He shook the bracelet on his
right arm: it kept his Animus hidden from the Zothoric. A teardrop
amulet around his neck allowed him to shift forms without worrying
about clothes or small objects. Both were thanks to Enchantrix.
They’d given a bracelet to the elf queen, Quinnestri. They also
had offered her a room, but she’d refused. She’d said she couldn’t
sleep, so she walked the airport, deep in thought—one more set of
eyes to keep watch. Her people were back on Aqualyra, gathering
their forces and getting ready for the final battle against the
shadows of teeth and talon.
Steven shifted into a Homo Draconis, unfurled his wings, and
flew off the high walkway and out the south end of the terminal.
Once outside, he flew around the east side, passing by the control
tower where Uchiko and Nefrinasia would be sleeping with Blackfoot,
their new pet wolf. The ninja and the Shadow Archer now could take
turns watching over them.
Steven landed on the tarmac near the A Gates. He exhaled a bit
of fire from his nose. After feeling the vacuum of space, the chill air
was easy to handle. Stars filled the sky from horizon to horizon;
Denver didn’t have a single light that could compete. Dawn was just
about to color the horizon, turning the black into a dark blue. He
smelled the tarmac and the winter scent of dead sage. The Great
Devouring had blasted the landscape; the Myriad had sucked away
the energy of the world.
Speaking of which, a cloud of Shaze swept through the night sky
in the distance. Their distant whistles shrieked across the
countryside before they whipped themselves away on the winds,
probably to a Cruxis up north.
He reached out with Enchantrix and felt the perimeter he’d set
up with wards etched into silver dollars. If any demon breached the
energy field, he, Tessa, and Sabina would feel it. In all her visions,
Sabina had never seen the airport attacked. However, she’d known
the elder Drokharis would find them. Steven should’ve asked about
the “mysterious visitor” when she’d mentioned it. Damn.
Pink light flashed from the roadways above him, the arrival lanes
of the main terminal. Tessa floated down using her magic. Her sweet
cherry scent perfumed the air. She wore a thick down coat with a
fur-lined collar, jeans, and boots. On her hips were the twin
Peacekeepers, long archaic revolvers, full of magic bullets, encased
in leather holsters tied to her thighs. Warm gloves covered her
hands. It was near the end of October, almost Halloween, and the
air was frigid.
He wondered if it would snow, or if the clouds had been too
poisoned. During the day, as often as not, the sky bled with a
crimson light. The twins thought with the few remaining forests
providing oxygen, they might only have a month or so before the
Battle World became uninhabitable. Yet, Sabina said they had far
less time than that. Zothora was already on her way.
Tessa frowned at him. “You, mister, need to be sleeping. You
have to keep your strength up, or you’ll wind up liked Old Man
Drokharis. I checked on him. Still sleeping.”
“How’d you find me?” Steven asked, tucking his wings behind
him and swishing the air with his tail.
Tessa lifted her hand to show off her simple gold wedding band.
“One of the benefits of being married. I can’t scry you using Magica
Divinatio, because of the hurricane circle tattoo, but I can feel where
you are. It’s less knowledge and more intuition. I figured you’d have
a hard time sleeping.”
 “Hey, I did pretty well,” Steven growled. He pointed a claw at the
eastern sky. “I made it most of the night.”
“Talk to me,” Tessa said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Steven smelled cinnamon. A red-scaled Homo Draconis flew in
and landed next to him and Tessa. Aria had come looking for him as
well.
Well, he didn’t ask her how she knew. She too had the wedding
ring on her finger. “What are you two doing out here in the cold?”
the Indian dragon asked in an English accent.
Aria scooted herself up against Steven and put a wing around
him. Their tails entwined.
Tessa came forward and put out a hand. “Ah, dragon heat.” She
answered Aria’s question. “Steven couldn’t sleep. He was just about
to tell me why.”
“His father, of course,” Aria said in a gruff voice. “Seeing his real
father can’t be easy. I know if my own father appeared here, I
wouldn’t be sleeping.”
“Yeah, me either,” Tessa agreed. “For me, it would be a definite
Hamlet experience.”
Steven and Aria didn’t know how to respond.
That made the barista laugh. “Sorry, it’s my morbid sense of
humor at work. He died a long time ago, and it was hard, really
hard. Sometimes laughing helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. And
sometimes I can almost hear him laughing along with me when I
joke about it.”
As for Aria, she’d had a troubled relationship with her father. He’d
basically given her over to a marriage she never wanted for political
reasons. And when she rebelled, he cut her off. When they’d been in
India, he hadn’t reached out. Aria was dead to him.
For Steven, it was different, for a variety of reasons. He wasn’t
sure where to begin.
“Do you blame him for failing?” Aria asked.
Tessa nodded. “That would make sense. I mean, billions of
people were killed here. Only, we might’ve made the same mistake if
we hadn’t had help.”
 Steven thought about that. From the beginning, the Gaia Alpha
Stefan Drokharis, his real father, had been guiding him with both
visions and writings in the Drokharis grimoire. The plan had always
been to come to the Battle World to face the Zothoric. The Gaia Beta
Dragonlord hadn’t had that guidance.
“No,” Steven said. “I don’t blame him for that. I do blame him for
Ven Dro. He must’ve done some seriously bad parenting for that
version of me to turn out like he did.”
“I didn’t see that coming.” Tessa came and caressed the scales of
his chest.
Aria shrugged and moved closer to the barista. “We can’t know
what it was like for that other Steven. This world isn’t ours. The
rules are different. This Stefan Drokharis might have your father’s
name, but he is not your father.”
Steven had to keep reminding himself of that. It wasn’t easy.
He’d dreamed of this moment, of meeting the man himself, in
person.
“Aria is right. We’re in the land of Taco Bangs. Which reminds
me. I wonder if a Taco Bang has a dollar menu. That sounds dirty
somehow.” Tessa laughed and nestled against his leg. “So, the Battle
World is like the cover of your favorite song. It’s not the original. And
damn, it is terrible. Like Five Finger Death Punch’s cover of ‘House of
the Rising Sun.’”
“Hey, I like that song.” Steven sighed out flame. “Ven Dro wasn’t
the first version of me I’ve met. There was also Spider Finger. It’s
kind of unnerving.”
“At least your versions are alive,” Tessa said. “Ours are all dead.”
Aria gripped Steven’s shoulder gently in a talon. “Perhaps,
Steven, this isn’t about the elder Drokharis. Maybe this is more
about Ven Dro. Seeing him couldn’t be easy.”
“The dark-side version of me was fucked up,” Steven agreed.
“It makes me think about the whole nature versus nurture
debate.” Tessa patted him. “Does our identity come from our
genetics? Or does it come from the environment in which we’re
raised? Probably it’s both. Come on, Steven, you and VD are totally
different. And yes, the twins told me about the nickname.”
 “VD.” Steven chuckled.
Aria knocked him with her tail. “You will be able to discuss much
of this when SD awakens.”
“SD. Yeah, a nickname for this world’s Stefan Drokharis.” Steven
nodded. “I like it. It puts some distance between who I think he is
and who he really is. There really aren’t a lot of similarities.”
“For all we know, he’s as different from your real father as VD is
to you.” Tessa unzipped her coat. “Being between you two dragons
has me sweating.”
Aria took over. “I think the point is, Steven, that though these
other men are you, they aren’t you.”
He could see that, and yet, it still bothered him. “Spider Finger
was smart, powerful, but overconfident. I can understand the things
he did. But Ven Dro? He just wanted to win, and not for any kind of
Escort. He wanted to win just to win. That’s not like me.”
“It’s not,” Aria said. “You win so you can fulfill your destiny, to
bring revolution and change to Dragonsouls everywhere.”
“No.” Tessa’s voice was quiet. “That’s not why he does it. He wins
to protect us. He fights to keep us safe.”
She was right. However much Steven wanted to see the
Dragonsouls freed and the Zothoric destroyed, he cared about his
family more.
The barista pointed. “Look.”
The sun had painted the horizon crimson, made worse by the
clouds of a destroyed land polluting the sky. The sunrise’s light
would spill over at any minute.
A figure walked toward them, tall and thin, covered in robes
made of white and gray fur. Quinnestri. Her blonde hair fell back to
reveal her pointed ears and intense blue eyes. Everything about her
was so beautiful, including how red her nose was getting in the cold.
Tessa sucked in a breath.
“You three.” The elf queen sighed. “It seems you three started
this little war, oh so long ago. You’re still children. How have you
come so far?”
“Coffee,” Tessa said nervously. “Sorry, that was a joke.”
“Destiny.” Aria lifted her chin. “I’m not joking.”
 Steven split the difference. “A little luck. A little planning. But
mostly coffee and destiny.”
Quinnestri wasn’t impressed with the banter. “I grew weary of
feeling this dead world from inside your little structure. I thought,
perhaps, if I walked the grounds, I could sense more life. Yet, the
opposite has happened. More than ever, I fear for the future of my
lands. For when the Utereich finishes with Battle World, she will find
mine.” She sniffed. “You three smell good at least.”
Tessa tried to say something, but the normally calm and smooth
seducer could only grunt. She blushed then buried her face into
Steven’s body. He covered her with his arms, then his wings.
A bored expression crept onto Quinnestri’s face. “Yes. I like the
way you smell. That is of little importance. What is your next move?”
“We have Icharaam’s Orb,” Steven said. “We have your army. We
know Zothora has kept forests alive on this planet for a reason—she
thinks to trap us here. She’s coming. She won’t be brewing up
another Prosha. The Utereich is going to take charge of her armies
herself.”
“She thinks to trap us,” Quinnestri murmured. “We need to trap
her. How?”
Steven wasn’t sure, though he had some ideas. Their best
resource, SD, lay unconscious. The Dragonlord had firsthand
experience fighting the Zothoric on a global scale. If anyone could
help them lay a trap for the Zothoric, it would be his father. But
when would he wake up?
Quinnestri put out an elbow. “Obviously, you do not know. I
would like to be escorted back into your port of the air. Can one of
you be so kind?”
Steven wasn’t sure what she meant for a minute. Port of the air?
Oh, airport.
Tessa didn’t have any trouble understanding her. “Me!” The
barista stumbled forward into the elf queen. She nearly knocked
them both to the ground. Quinnestri grabbed the barista to keep her
from falling.
Tessa tried to recover. “Yes, Quinn, can I call you Quinn? I know
you don’t like Quinnie. And Quinnestri is kind of a mouthful. Not that
I should be talking about my mouth. Or being full. Uh, yeah, I’m
going to stop talking.”
Steven had never seen Tessa so nervous. It was like she was a
dorky middle school boy asking the prettiest girl to skate at the local
rink.
The elf queen didn’t smile. “Quinn is fine. You smell of cherries.
This will be tolerable.”
“Uh, yeah, cherries.” Tessa couldn’t stop blushing.
The two left, leaving Aria and Steven alone.
“Did you just see that?” he asked.
Aria blew fire out of her nostrils. “Tessa being awkward? Yes. I
find it enjoyable. As someone who’s not very social, I find it
gratifying to see her stumble so.” The Indian dragon pulled him into
an embrace. “While I like your scales, I want your skin.”
She shifted human and stood, clinging to him in his partial form.
Aria was naked. Her long dark hair fell across her dusty shoulders.
Steven turned human as well, though he was clothed. He held
her and kissed her. “Do you still believe in our destiny?” she asked
him.
“I do,” he answered. “But Tessa is right. I’m fighting to keep you
safe. We can’t lose this war, but if I have to choose, I’ll choose your
lives over the fate of the universe.”
“You shouldn’t.” Aria’s green eyes were bright and alive in the
dawn’s light. “This will be the final fight. If any of us falls in battle,
we will be heroes. You, however, must live on. You are our Prime.
You are Steven Drokharis, blessed to deliver us, to free us, to bring
revolution.”
Another soft kiss. He loved how hot her skin was compared to
the chill air around them—her smell, her skin, the feel of her ass in
his hand.
“You’ve already saved so many of us,” Aria whispered. “Me,
Mouse, Sabina, Uchiko, and Nefri. The dark elf gazes upon you with
so much love in her eyes now. We owe our lives to you.”
Steven wanted to protest. He couldn’t. Yes, he had saved them,
but they had saved him right back. “No one is going to die. There
aren’t going to be any sacrifice plays. We’re not good at them.”
 Aria didn’t say anything. It was clear by the look on her face, the
Indian woman didn’t want to argue. Yet Steven saw that she
believed otherwise.
He swore to himself that he’d prove her wrong. They’d be smart.
They’d come up with a plan. And when the time came, he’d slay
Zothora, and no one would have to die to do it.
He and Aria flew to the windows of the bridge connecting the
main terminal to the A Gates. They shifted human inside.
Inside, Nefri stood. Behind her ran a shadow. Before Steven
could protect himself, that shadow jumped into his chest, knocking
him over. Before he knew it, he was lying on his back with thirty
pounds of wolf on his chest and a warm pink tongue licking his face.
“We have got to teach this puppy some manners,” he said,
laughing.
Aria bent to pet the midnight black fur of the flying wolf,
caressing the skin that connected his two legs. Aria’s breasts swung
hypnotically. Steven couldn’t help but look.
He wasn’t the only one. Nefri’s eyes drank in the beautiful dark-
haired Indian woman. The Shadow Archer was dressed in her black
robes, the Hellstring over her shoulder. The cowl of her cloak was
back, and her mask was pulled down to cover the scars on her
throat.
Nefri tapped her forehead and pointed at him. She was grinning.
Was that the glint of lust in her purple eyes?
 Chapter Two

“Magica Divinatio.” Casting the spell while on his back wasn’t an

issue. Blackfoot, though, was a bit distracting. As was Aria.
The wolf yipped at the shadows pouring out of Steven’s eyes.
Nefri’s voice came to him. This woman is naked and very
beautiful. The others are clothed, most of the time. But she is
different. She is your first wife, yes?
Steven cracked a grin. Uh, Tessa might have something to say
about that. But in some ways, yes, Aria was the first Dragonsoul to
believe in me.
Nefri set the bow down, let her cloak drop, and then unhooked
her mask and plopped it down on the pile of fabric. She stood with
her white hair tumbling onto her shoulders. Then I need her blessing
in your Escort. What are the rules for sex? I would like for us to have
sex. I’ll give Blackfoot a bone to chew on. That will keep him busy.
Aria knelt and leaned back. “What are you two discussing?”
Steven wasn’t about to lie. “Nefri is wondering about the rules for
sex. She’s expressed interest in you.”
Aria stood, straightened, and addressed the dark elf. “From what
I have heard, you are already in Steven’s Escort. Then, there are no
rules.”
“Tessa would say consent is important.” Steven managed to push
Blackfoot off him. He sat up and scratched the black wolf behind his
ears.
Aria nodded. “Consent is important. But if Nefri has expressed
interest in me, then I consent.” She walked over to the Shadow
Archer. “I must admit, I’ve found you intriguing. Can I hold your
hand?”
Tell her yes, Nefri sent immediately.
 “You can hold her hand,” Steven said. The air of the enclosed
bridge grew intense. Nefri’s musky scent grew stronger, mixing with
Aria’s cinnamon perfume. A bit of the cold leaked in through the
broken windows, but Steven hardly felt it.
Aria intertwined her fingers with the dark elf’s. “Your skin is
rough. I expected it to be soft.”
Tell her I apologize. I use my hands to battle. Soft hands have
not been a part of my history.
Steven relayed the information. The Shadow Archer had spent
years alone, watching from the shadows on Earth, working as an
assassin for the highest bidder.
Aria caressed the dark elf’s face. “You are a warrior. That is as it
should be. Yes, your cheek is velvety. You’re very beautiful. Why do
you want to be part of Steven’s Escort?”
Nefri cast her gaze down. Her eyes lingered on Aria’s breasts
before finding the ground. As you know, at first, I did not want to
join you. I wanted to kill Zothora on my own. Yet, I saw Steven’s
strength and compassion on Aqualyra. I know your Prime is unique
among Dragonsouls. I do not want to be alone anymore. My family
is dead. I need a new family.
Steven summarized her thoughts for Aria.
The Indian woman smiled. “Can I kiss you?”
Nefri nodded shyly.
Steven watched breathlessly as their lips met, then their tongues.
Aria’s black hair seemed even darker compared to Nefri’s. The kiss
grew more intense until both women were breathing hard. Aria
gripped the dark elf’s hips and drew her in for an embrace.
Blackfoot turned to look, pink tongue lolling.
Nefri broke the kiss, finding the two sets of eyes looking at her.
Now is the time for the bone, I think.
You know, that’s a perfect opening for a joke.
You think my opening is perfect? Nefri smiled at him. She dug
into her robes, removed a bone, and tossed it across the bridge to
the far side, near the hallway that led down to Terminal A. She
whistled. Blackfoot took off, chasing after his snack.
 The dark elf undid her shirt and pushed it open to reveal her
nearly black nipples on her blue breasts.
Aria rubbed her chest against Nefri’s as their tongues licked into
each other’s mouths. It was a dirty, sloppy, wet kiss. The sexual
energy around them thickened.
Aria gasped. “I don’t feel the Animus in her. I feel that dark
energy. I like it, I think.”
“That’s her Morta core,” Steven replied in a husky voice.
“She gives you something we can’t,” Aria whispered. She pressed
her lips against the dark elf’s again, slowly, sensually. “This only
adds to our strength. I like her. Who else has Nefri been with?”
Steven’s blood was racing, making it hard to think. “Uchiko. Pru.
That’s it. Unless Sabina paid her a visit this morning.”
Nefri shook her head. No, it has only been Uchiko and Prudence.
But I find myself drawn to all your wives, Steven. I know some do
not care for the touch of women. Mouse, Chazzie, but the others
might find my attentions welcome. The dark elf’s hand dropped
down to Aria’s sex. I think this one likes my kisses.
“Do you like what Nefri is doing?” Steven asked.
Aria could hardly speak through her moans. “Yes. I do. I want to
see what she looks like.”
Nefri stepped back. She kicked off her black boots and let her
pants fall. She was as naked as Aria now.
“Can I taste you?” Aria asked.
The dark elf nodded.
Steven stripped out of his clothes, watching.
Nefri settled back onto her fallen clothes and spread her legs.
Aria let out a shaky breath. “She’s so big down there. I love it.
I’m going to enjoy you, Nefri. I think all of us will.”
Aria got down on her hands and knees and lowered her face
between Nefri’s thighs. Steven got behind her.
He reached out with AnimusChain, feeling the swirling energies
of the two women in front of him. Aria’s Animus burned brightly.
Equally as powerful, Nefri’s core spun with the darkness of Morta.
Nefri let out a long groan, eyes closed, head thrown back. Her
white hair reached the floor.
 Steven caressed Aria’s back, her full ass, and her slender hips.
Her skin was smooth, her flesh pliant.
Aria wiggled her hips at him. She was enjoying Nefri, but it was
clear she needed some of his attention as well.
Steven could feel the intricate power around them, Animus and
Morta, the light and the dark.
His divination spell lapsed. He hardly felt it leave.
Every instinct wanted him to plunge his length into Aria’s open
sex. Instead, he pulled up the Morta skill tree.

HE HAD MASTERED THE first two abilities, BlackBlood and

NecroMend, but the third ability, Leeze, remained a mystery. It
seemed to be like AnimusChain; Leeze allowed you to tap into the
cores of others, to draw on their Morta, but there was more to it
than that. The dark elf could cast the first two Morta abilities, but
she’d stopped there. In a lot of ways, Nefri hated her dark energy.
She hadn’t been interested in learning more.
Steven, though, needed every weapon he could find in his fight
against the Zothoric. He focused on his fear and anger. He tried to
activate Leeze, almost triggered it, until he felt an explosion of Morta
from Nefri. She was coming.
Aria whipped her head around. “Steven, what are you waiting
for?” She sounded both desperate and angry.
He laughed a little. “I took a minute to train. I was feeling
something.”
“Now?” Aria yelped.
Steven smacked her butt. “Yes, now. I thought you’d appreciate
me furthering my studies. It is as it should be, or that’s what you say
all the time, Ol’ Blood and Guts.”
“Thirteen!” Aria insisted. “And yes, ‘it is as it should be’ might be
my catchphrase. But now isn’t the time for that. I need you in me!”
Nefri watched them, a hand on one breast, a dazed smile on her
face. She nodded. She mouthed the words, One more.
“Nefri wants one more,” Steven said.
Aria again motioned at him with her hips. “I’ll oblige her if you
oblige me.”
Steven let the Morta skill tree drop, yet he still felt the rage. He
gripped Aria, hard, and growled. “I’ll fucking oblige you.” He sank
into Aria as she lowered her face again.
Steven felt himself nearly snarling as he pounded himself into
her. Every thrust made her whimper. Nefri must’ve felt the vibrations
because she opened her mouth and got her one more.
Seeing her orgasm pushed Steven over the edge. He lurched
forward, fully enclosed in Aria’s tight, wet channel. Sweat dripped
onto his back as their Animus cores were filled.
They collapsed into a heap.
Once their breathing returned to normal, they could hear the
slurp and crunch of Blackfoot gnawing his bone. They laughed,
dressed, and retrieved the wolf, who was none too pleased at having
his snack interrupted
They walked to the main terminal, hand in hand. The lights were
on in the Señor Chang’s. Machines inside hissed as Tessa made
everyone’s morning coffee.
Steven was brought back to a hundred mornings back at the
Infinity Ranch in Wyoming, and all the times the barista brewed up
their required doses of caffeine.
Quinnestri sat in the chairs down below. She wasn’t alone. Stefan
Drokharis, otherwise known as SD, sat there with her. Both had their
heads down as they talked.
A bit of fear knotted Steven’s belly. He wasn’t sure what the pair
were talking about, but it seemed intense. Knowing Quinn, their
conversation would be about defeating the Zothoric.
Steven, Aria, and Nefri traversed the dead escalators down to the
lower level. By that time, Tessa joined them with a tray holding a
collection of mugs.
The barista set a cup in front of Quinn. “We might not have
carnivorous sage, but we do have mocha lattes. It’s a bit of magic
from us humans.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. She didn’t touch the mug. “Stefan and I
were talking about his experiences on the Battle World. Things are
as dire as I feared.”
SD glanced up at Steven. “Hello, son.”
Steven wanted to lash out. He wasn’t this man’s son. No, this
man’s son met his end in a star in some other universe. Steven
controlled himself. “Steven is fine.”
“You’re named after me,” the bearded man said. He wasn’t as
pale as he’d been the night before. The circles around his eyes were
less pronounced.
Aria shifted into her Homo Draconis form and stood, arms
crossed. “Should we wake the twins? We’ll need them to plan.”
Tessa sat and blew on her coffee. “That is a suicide mission. I’m
not going to do it. And don’t send me to wake up Mouse. I don’t
think I have enough Animus for that.” She threw a smile at Aria and
Nefri. “Speaking of which, what were you three doing?”
 Nefri made a fist with her left hand and inserted her right index
finger. She grinned.
Quinn made a face. “Dragonsouls and their Escorts, the story
there never changes. My people have a way of controlling their
urges.”
Steven wasn’t going to talk about sex in front of SD, but Quinn’s
reaction did make him wonder about sex among the Lyra. How did
they control their lust? Or maybe the elves were simply beyond sex.
Quinn seemed to be.
Tessa giggled nervously. Her eyes went from the mocha to
Quinn.
SD reached and grabbed his cup. He sipped. “Yes, black coffee,
strong.”
“It’s still an Americano, Mr. Drokharis, not an espresso. If you like
it black and strong, I can make liquid caffeine that’ll curl your toes.”
“This is fine,” SD said.
Nefri sat and got her coffee. She kept smiling at Quinn, and it
wasn’t very pleasant—there were daggers in that grin.
Quinn didn’t seem to notice.
“So, Steven,” SD started, “Quinnestri and I have been talking. I
must say, I’m impressed by all that you’ve accomplished. To think,
we are sitting here with the Lady of the Lake. Pity she didn’t bring
Excalibur with her.”
“Attur Dro’s sword. Lost to time.” Quinn leaned forward. “I was
foolish to help the humans. It seems not only my world, but entire
universes will be punished for my philanthropy.”
Steven didn’t want them to get off track. “I have a lot of
questions for you, SD.”
“SD?” The elder Drokharis nodded. “Yes, I see. My initials. Stefan
and Steven are close. Listen, son—”
“Steven. Is. Fine.”
SD nodded. “I can see you’re upset. Quinnestri told me some of
what happened on Aqualyra and the fate of my son. He’d been
troubled a long time. He’d been a good kid when he was young.
Anyway, I thought about traveling there myself, but then, things
here got out of control.”
“Tell us what happened,” Steven said.
“Failure.” SD sighed. “Failure on every level. And I’m to blame.”
 Chapter Three

SD RUBBED AT HIS BEARDED chin while he talked. He wore the

dusty motorcycle leathers they’d seen him in the night before. He’d
left the helmet in his room. Those gray eyes often went to Steven.
The sun warmed the tent tops as morning wore on.
Steven was hungry for breakfast but eating could wait. The
information they were getting was vital. Aria continued to stand in
her Homo Draconis form, listening intently. Nefri kept giving smiles to
Quinn, who was doing her best to ignore both the dark elf and Tessa,
who was waiting for the Lyra queen to sip her mocha.
The Battle World’s history was like Gaia Alpha’s. The three
Alpheros brothers came, they mixed with the humans, and
Dragonsouls were born. Attur Dro and Mynn Lyrr fought off the
Zothoric with the help of another version of Quinnestri. While SD got
a working knowledge of the Americos Chambers, he never went on a
quest to find Icharaam’s Hoard, otherwise known as the holy grail. He
didn’t have the Wayne twins on his side nor the help of Spider Finger.
If they won, Steven would have the Gaia Theta Steven to thank.
Spider Finger had manipulated events to get Steven the vital objects
he needed.
“I killed Rahaab’s secret cabal before they could assassinate me,”
SD said. “That included Rhaegen Mulk. It wasn’t long until the last of
the Dragonknights also came after me. They were relatively easy to
deal with. Once I had my enemies taken care of, I managed to get a
coalition of Dragonsouls to agree to take on the Zothoric. I had no
idea how tough they’d be. Nor how many there would be.”
“What about nuclear weapons?” Steven asked. That had been a
burning question in his mind for a long time.
“We tried them.” SD pulled at his white-speckled beard. “The
destruction they left behind actually helped the Myriad. Yes, the initial
blast wiped out a good number of those bastards. The rest, though,
fed on the radiation like it was a duck confit canape.”
“Sounds fancy,” Tessa quipped.
SD grunted out a laugh. “Yes, well, the reality was a lot grimmer.
And we didn’t want to destroy the very planet we were trying to
save. We didn’t know it was a lost cause until it was too late.” The
bearded man turned his head to the side. “My son knew. He told me
he started having dreams about the Horror Mother. She started
talking to him, and I think that helped drive him mad.” His voice fell
away.
It helped drive him mad, Steven thought. But there was more to it
than that.
Quinn picked up her mocha then set it back down. “Mr. Drokharis
told me they tried to activate the Americos Chambers to drive the
Myriad off the North American continent.”
Tessa sighed. From the expression on her face, she was more
upset about her untouched mocha than the chambers.
“You see,” SD said, “the chambers can focus on Morta energy and
repulse it. We thought if we could clear a continent, we could
regroup and then destroy the Cruxi on the rest of the world.”
Steven nodded. “I’ve felt the repulsing magic before. On my
world, the Dragonknights used it to push me away. What happened
here?”
“There were too many Zothoric.” SD shrugged. “The vast numbers
of the Myriad pushed through energy fields. They clogged the
system. Many were destroyed in the attempt to breach the repulsing
field, but they simply piled on more bodies. They reached a master
chamber near L.A. There, they broke the enchantment and all the
chambers failed. After that, it was only a matter of time until we were
overwhelmed. And then... my son ...at the Battle of Denver, he
betrayed us all. That was the last stand. I did try something...” His
voice fell away.
“With your son or with the Zothoric?” Aria asked in a growl.
Quinn lifted the mocha to her lips then set it down as SD
answered the question.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tessa whispered.
 “No, not with my son. He was a lost cause.” SD paused. “During
my research with the Americos Chambers, I created my own master
chamber that would work better than the others. This... this was
after the Battle of Denver. I thought I’d lost everything. In some
sense, I did, but that was nothing compared to what happened in
Alamosa.”
“That’s in Colorado, right?” Tessa asked. “And it’s fun to say. Al-a-
mo-sa. Like it’s a lost city full of gold. The treasures of Alamosa, like
an old time-y movie.”
SD patiently grinned. “I believe you mean The Treasure of the
Sierra Madre. Badges and all that.”
“Old school,” Tessa agreed.
Quinn snapped her fingers. “This is not the time for stories.
Please, do not prattle on.”
“I will keep the prattling to a minimum,” SD conceded.
Tessa frowned at the mocha in front of the Lyra queen. “Quinn, if
you don’t like chocolate, I can try something with vanilla.”
“I do not know what chocolate is.” Quinn motioned for the elder
Drokharis to continue.
Steven wanted to know as well. What was in Alamosa?
SD cleared his throat. “The San Luis Valley flooded, and we
started calling it the Rio Grande Sea. The Great Sand Dunes are on
the eastern shore. I created an island there, near what used to be
Alamosa, along the old highway to Hooper. There, in the master
chamber, I thought to try the repulsing magic again. Yes, the first
time failed. Perhaps the second time I would have better luck. Little
did I know that I’d burn out my Animus core. Such is the nature of
RealityFire.”
A shiver went through Steven. He pulled up the Path of the Twin-
Souled Dragon.
STEVEN STUDIED THE tree and realized he had mastered every skill
except for ChromaticFury and RealityFire, at the top of the Alpherian
head of the dragon. Icharaam’s Crown had supercharged his Exhalant
abilities.
“What is RealityFire?” Steven asked.
SD leaned forward, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling
well. Can we meet later? I need to rest. I have so little energy now
that I burned out my energy core.”
“Unacceptable,” Quinn said, a firm expression covering her face.
“Time is of the essence. According to Steven, the Utereich is coming
and could be here any day. This world has a single Prosha, this Ulita
Rozhenko, but if the Zothoric are able to create another one, we
would have real trouble.”
“Only one Prosha?” SD asked. “We know one died but our intel
said they’d brewed up one more in Leadville.”
 “We freed Tara Heridan,” Aria explained. “It was our first mission
here.”
SD’s face turned pale. Sweat slid down from his scalp. “Tara
Heridan. My Tara?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought she was
killed in the Battle of Denver. I... I didn’t know she’d been captured.
Please, I’m pushing myself as it is.”
Tessa rose and helped SD to his feet. “Sorry, Quinn, but this has
to wait. Look at him. He’s beyond exhausted.”
Quinn shot to her feet. “So you engage in endless jests. You
coddle your people. All the while, death is breathing down upon us.
Unacceptable!”
Aria exhaled flame. “I agree with Quinnestri. Mr. Drokharis, tell us
more about the master chamber in Alamosa.”
“Don’t answer that,” Tessa said.
Steven got involved. “Mr. Drokharis, I know this is hard, but what
was your plan with the Alamosa chamber?”
Tessa widened her eyes. “Steven, you have to side with me.
We’ve got enough information for now.”
SD leaned heavily on the barista. “There was no power for the
chamber. I created it. I linked it up with the others. A network...
Animus... to stop her... to bring back.” He sank down to his knees.
Tessa wasn’t strong enough to keep him on his feet.
Aria came forward to catch him before he went face-first into the
hard tiles of the main terminal’s floor.
The Indian dragon scooped him up in her arms. “I’ll take care of
him.” She leapt into the air and flew SD up to their office rooms.
Quinn marched over to Tessa. “You, girl, are a child. You have not
lived, nor have you battled, like I have. You need to know your place,
which I would suspect is in the kitchen.”
Tessa’s mouth dropped open. When she closed it, her lips shrunk
into a pissed-off pucker. “Wait. You’re new, Quinnie. You don’t know
me. You don’t know the first thing about me. So you need to shut
your trap. Don’t make me go full-on fuck-customer-service barista on
you.”
“What is that?” Quinn wrinkled her nose. “What are these strange
words you bandy about? Barista? Chocolate? You speak in riddles.”
 Tessa raised a finger. “First, a barista is an angel who makes
coffee, unless you fuck with them, and then they become the devil of
your worst nightmare. Second, if you drank your fucking mocha,
which I made you, you’d know what fucking chocolate is. Lastly, I’m
the daughter of Merlin, I’m the daughter of the Slayer, and I have a
supply of Animus you wouldn’t believe. We work as a team, and we
talk about things, and you might be the queen in Aqualyra, but you’re
the new girl here, and you better know your place.” Tears slid out of
Tessa’s eyes. She brushed them away. “Great, now you have me
angry crying. I can’t believe this shit.”
Steven had never heard of angry crying before in his life.
Quinn stepped back and gave Tessa a cold look. “How old are
you?”
Nefri gazed at the pair from her seat. The dark elf sipped her
coffee with an interested gleam in her eye. This was high drama.
Steven stood, waiting to step in. It was a shame that Tessa and
Quinnestri were getting off on the wrong foot, but he trusted Tessa
would be able to handle herself. If not, he’d get involved.
Tessa inhaled and blinked. She exhaled. “I get it, Quinnestri.
You’re millions of years old, and you’ve done this before. And I know
you’re afraid. I’ve been afraid for weeks now, terrified. And I’ve been
busy. SD said this new master chamber reconnected the other
chambers, but he ran out of power to charge them. We have the
power. I’ve been able to replicate Icharaam’s Orbs using Enchantrix.
It took some time, but I got the matrix down. Which means we have
the power to bring Animus to the chambers.”
Quinn’s expression turned thoughtful.
Nefri sipped coffee from her mug, loudly.
When the Lyra queen glanced over, the dark elf waved.
That didn’t help Quinn’s mood. Nefri could be such a
troublemaker. Steven gave her a stern look. “Behave.”
“It seems you are all against me,” Quinn said, chin lifted high.
“Why wake me if you ignore my counsel?”
Tessa went to her. She reached out a hand. “We aren’t ignoring it.
We want your input. But you have to treat us with respect, all of us.”
 Quinn remained distant and cold. “I am royalty on Aqualyra. And I
will be royalty here. You all will grow accustomed to it. I will not
change.” She went and plucked her mug up from the table by the
chairs. She sipped it before breaking away from them to the
escalators.
She whirled. “This is delicious. Is this the chocolate?”
Tessa nodded. “Chocolate. Coffee. And a lot of high fructose corn
syrup. Welcome to America.”
Quinn turned and climbed the stairs. She hugged the mug to her
chest.
Steven walked up next to Tessa. “Well, uh, that wasn’t good. I
have a couple of questions.”
“Shoot.” Tessa stood, brow furrowed.
“What’s angry crying?” Steven asked.
Nefri let out a laugh.
“Men.” Tessa sighed. “There’s all sorts of crying. Happy crying, sad
crying, angry crying. It’s when you get so pissed off, so upset, you
can’t help but cry. Next question.”
“What was this about you being a full-on fuck-customer-service
barista?” Steven was genuinely curious, though that wasn’t his real
question.
“I’m chill, right?” Tessa nodded. “Don’t answer that. I know I’m
chill. At the Coffee Clutch, I got along with most people, but every
now and then, some customer stepped out of line, and I had to say
fuck customer service and set them right. Most of the time, they
figured out what they needed to do to get their coffee, and they’d do
it. Quinnie will need to learn that. And we don’t even know what her
powers are. Sure, she set up some cool magic on Earth, and she had
the whole sleep-for-centuries thing as well as astral projection, but
dude, would that help us in combat? Maybe. Maybe not.”
Nefri was more concise. She flipped a middle finger at the
escalators that Quinnestri had climbed. The meaning was clear: fuck
that bitch.
Steven sighed. Gathering an Escort was one thing. Getting them
to get along was a whole other deal. He’d gotten lucky since most of
his wives were happy to be with him and got along with each other
great, even Mouse and the Texas machine-gun twins.
Tessa surprised him by casting a Magica Divinatio spell. Her eyes
gleamed with a pink light. “What you really want to know is if we can
broadcast a crap-ton of Animus out of the Americos Chambers. Sorry,
but I got impatient. And, yeah, Nefri needs to be nicer to Quinn. If
her queenliness is hogging up all the attitude, the rest of us need to
be on our best behavior.”
“She’s right, Nefri,” Steven said.
The dark elf rolled her eyes. It wasn’t surprising that the Ohkreela
was having a hard time dealing with the Lyra; they were polar
opposites of one another.
“Quinnestri didn’t join my Escort,” Steven said. “We forced her
here. So that’s not going to help things. As for the chambers, yeah,
what if we could amplify the effects of the chamber, to maybe not
repulse the Zothoric but to destroy them?”
He thought of the Leeze ability.
“Not just that.” Tessa touched his arm. “We could bring life back
to the continent. Remember how when we have sex outside, the
plants grow because of our Animus exchange? I’m seeing that
amplified across thousands of square miles. New life.”
“Maybe we could destroy and create at the same time.” Steven
stood there, wondering about their next steps. They had the
beginnings of a plan. He needed more information, and he needed to
get his troops in line. SD’s health was precarious. Quinn wasn’t
playing along. And then there was Tara Heridan, who’d been
problematic since they first met her.
“You and Aria did what?” Tessa asked Nefri. The two were talking
telepathically. The barista shoved Steven. “You should’ve called me,
Steven. That all sounded super-hot.”
Nefri didn’t pause. She went right up to Tessa, stuck her blue face
into Tessa’s, then waited.
Tessa blinked and breathed hard. “Yes,” she whispered.
Nefri kept her eyes open as she settled in close. She cupped one
of Tessa’s tits, their faces less than an inch apart. Tessa opened her
mouth, then closed it, but kept eye contact.
 The dark elf slowly licked Tessa’s bottom lip. Then Nefri took the
lip between hers, sucking gently, before pulling back.
Nefri strutted away, ass weaving.
“What a fucking tease.” Tessa’s legs were trembling so badly she
was forced to sit down. Her charged but short encounter with the
dark elf appeared to have left her a bit bewildered. “Well, at least
someone from Aqualyra seems to like me.”
Steven grinned. Dealing with wife drama did have its benefits at
the end of the day.
Chazzie and Pru came floating off the upper level as two pink
Homo Draconi. They landed next to them and turned into two
gorgeous freckled women with strawberry blonde hair and eyes the
color of cedar.
Chazzie gave him a sigh. “Uh, Steven, your pet bug is losing her
shit upstairs. Pru and I don’t have Raid, but we do have a few .50
caliber bullets that’d do the trick.”
Zoey, in her bear form, leaned over the railing and roared. Sabina
had a hand on the bear’s back. “Yes, Steven, you’ll find Heridan in
Terminal A. You might want to go alone.”
Lastly, Mouse came out of the offices, squinting, in one of his T-
shirts, dragging the Slayer Blade behind her. “For the love of biscuits,
could we not have these early morning freak-outs? People can turn
evil after I’ve had my morning coffee.”
Steven was in his partial form in an instant, flying toward the
offices. He heard the shrieks, the sound of broken glass, and then a
heartbroken wail. He hoped he wasn’t too late to stop Tara Heridan’s
complete self-destruction.
 Chapter Four

TARA HERIDAN KNEW SHE was dreaming. She sat at a black-mesh

table under a red umbrella in the alley of the Roostercat Coffee
House in Denver. Her friends were with her: Christine, Vickie, Terry
T., Florida Rob, and Bryant. They were all vassals of the Stefan
Drokharis Primacy, which was on the verge of freeing them forever
from the Zothoric.
Tara could hardly believe a day would come when humans,
Dragonsouls, and Dragonkind could live side by side. Stefan painted
glorious visions of traveling to other worlds and exploring the
universe; already, Tara was learning Magica Porta in preparation.
Stefan had access to magic, grimoires, and knowledge that would
make such world-hopping possible. The only thing standing in their
way was the Zothoric.
Bryant, always so handsome, said something funny to Florida
Rob. Rob laughed, also good-natured. That ended when Steven
Drokharis walked up to the table with two women hanging off him.
The young Drokharis had inky black hair and gray eyes. A
permanent smirk twisted his lips. “You need to stop spreading
rumors about me, Tara. We don’t need your lies, not when we’re
about to fight the Zothoric.”
“Maybe they’re not lies.” Christine wasn’t about to take any shit
sitting. She was a big Morphling woman who ran wild as a
monstrous gray wolf. Christine’s fury was getting the better of her.
She stood, her hair growing into a shaggy mane before their eyes.
“It’s okay, Christine.” Tara remained seated. She looked up at
Stefan’s son and tried to stay relaxed. “I don’t know what lies you
think I’ve been spreading.” When in doubt, play stupid, especially
when it came to the son of the most powerful Dragonlord on Earth.
 Steven reached, fueled by SerpentGrace, and flicked the tip of
Tara’s nose with his fingers. It stung and made her eyes water.
Then the bastard was back standing with the two women. They
weren’t part of his Escort. Steven didn’t have a Primacy, so he didn’t
have an Escort. Supposedly, he’d get a harem after the war with the
Zothoric. Tara had her doubts.
She held her face, nose throbbing.
“Don’t talk shit, Tara, or there will be consequences.” Steven
walked off with the two women trailing. Tara and her friends had no
idea who they were. That was okay—he’d have two new ones the
next week.
Summer. It was the June before the war started, more than two
years in the past.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. One of Tara’s memories.
She wasn’t Tara, she was Heridan, and the difference was
destroying her.
Heridan shrieked and came awake. In a room, in an office, ceiling
tiles, cubicle walls, a mattress on the floor, and soft lights from
expensive lamps. Another Steven Drokharis had ripped her away
from her home in the Cruxis. Was he as smirking and smarmy as the
asshole in her dream? Or was it a memory?
Heridan grew furious with herself. It was hard to think. Hate was
easier than doubt. She’d keep on hating any Steven Drokharis she
met even though she felt the pull of the Dragonlord magic on her.
She wanted to love him. She wanted to give herself to him, to join
his Escort, to become his wife. That fucking magic made hate a
requirement.
She felt the Morta inside her bubbling, feeding off her fury.
BlackBlood tentacles burst forth from her hands, which were black
claws now, covered in chitin. A black exoskeleton covered her from
her hands to her elbows, from her feet to her knees, and all around
her head and neck. She heard her skull creak and crack as horns
grew out of the bone, circling her head. Inside her mouth, she had
fangs, and it seemed even her spit had changed into Morta ichor.
She smelled the rank perfume of those twin girls. She knew
about Steven’s Escort and the dirty things they did to each other.
They had a new girl with them, some bitch with blue skin. There was
evil inside her. That same evil was in Heridan, and it felt good to
embrace her hate.
Heridan smashed through the door, walking across the floor on
liquid Morta. She smashed into the corner office and through the
bad roadhouse décor of the Wayne sisters’ room: a Bud Light sign, a
wagon-wheel coffee table, pink canopies over their beds, and then
the rifles, shotguns, machine guns, and bazookas lying in piles of
ammunition.
Heridan smashed through the window and walked on Morta stilts
of her Morta core between cars parked in the upper deck’s Arrival
lanes. The morning sun cast shadows on the western side of the
airport.
Those shadows called to her. She’d been so excited about Magica
Porta back when she’d been a Magician, a vassal working for the
Drokharis Primacy, but not one of Stefan’s wives. He’d said he
needed warriors and not wives.
Heridan instinctively knew what to do. Transvexri, that would
take her to the darkness, and she could emerge from other shadows
—all she needed was to reach out with Connexra to find their
location. Because Mother knew. Mother knew about everyone,
everywhere.
Mother. Zothora. She was searching for her exiled Prosha, as was
Ulita Rozhenko, in Russia. Was Ulita still there? Or was she moving?
Heridan appeared in the shadows on the south end of the
terminal. She walked herself back into the sunlight on her own legs.
She felt the warmth on her skin but not on her back. Something was
different about her body. Again, she went on instinct. The carapace
covering her back opened, and whirring wings took her into the air.
She could fly. Mother’s gifts were endless.
On buzzing wings, she sailed from the main terminal, past the
bridge, to the A Gates. Another skill, Corropor, filled her head. She
reached out with a hand. She could control other people’s minds and
bodies using Corropor. She could also animate objects. She focused
on the jet bridge. It came alive, a serpent of living metal.
Heridan stepped into the mouth of the snake.
 Mother was looking for her, but Heridan kept herself hidden. She
couldn’t make the choice, yet. She’d been asleep for a week, or was
it two weeks? Or was it two years?
She focused her mind. The Battle of Denver had been two years
before, almost to the day, and she’d spent most of that time a
prisoner in the Leadville Cruxis, having her core perverted. Or was it
perfected? Hard to think. So hard to think.
Heridan walked into the terminal and saw the seats, the
motionless people mover, and a Jamaican Juice. She’d loved their
smoothies. She remembered that she’d heard a woman call out,
Fuck Jamaican Juice. I want Jamba Juice.
No, there wasn’t a woman in the airport. That was a memory,
something Mouse said at some point. They thought Taco Bangs and
Señor Chang’s and Donald Douglases were so strange. For them, it
was a Big Mac. For her, it was a Big Doug, and she had loved fast
food. Heridan’s metabolism had been superpowered for most of her
life, and that meant she could eat what she wanted and as much as
she wanted. Tara had loved food. Heridan couldn’t remember the
last time she’d eaten.
How could Heridan remember what Mouse had said? How was
that possible? Connexra. Mother is calling. You should answer
Mother. The voice was her own, but it sounded like someone else’s.
Heridan’s voice versus Tara’s voice?
The conflict would kill her, or drive her insane, or both. All the
Prime’s dragons and all the Prime’s men couldn’t put Tara Heridan
back together again.
No, that wasn’t right. That rhyme was about Humpty-Dumpty.
Why was he an egg?
She felt the Morta of someone behind her. Was it the blue-
skinned woman with the white hair? Or was it Steven Drokharis, the
Taco Bell version? The McDonald’s version. Zoey, the bear girl, hated
fast food. How did Heridan know that?
Connexra. Mother is calling. You should answer Mother.
Heridan turned. The scent of orange blossoms and sweet smoke
perfumed the wide terminal.
 Steven Drokharis approached her, concern in his eyes. Where
was his smirk? Where was his smarm? He thought he could do
anything with the vassals in his father’s Primacy. Or was he dead?
Heridan felt her thoughts slip away from her. This Steven was so
handsome, approaching her with his hand stretched out. He wore a
red hoodie and jeans and boots. Was that a crown on his head? It
looked out of place and silly. It made Heridan smile. Her black lips
pulled back from her fangs. Her exoskeleton covered her shoulders
and back but not her breasts or stomach or sex. She was basically
naked in front of him. She wasn’t a Dragonsoul. Nudity should
embarrass her.
Or would seeing her naked make him want her? “Stop it!” she
screamed.
Steven did stop and raised both hands. “Stopping, Tara. I’m
stopping.”
“Heridan!” she hissed. “Tara is dead. Or I think she is. It’s hard to
think. Mother is calling. I should answer Mother. Connexra.”
Steven nodded. “If you do that, if she finds us here, we’ll have to
run. We’re almost to a solution, Heridan. We’re so close. I need you
to hold on a little longer. Just a little bit longer.”
Fear and rage thrummed through her core. Who was she afraid
of? Who did she hate? Zothora? Steven? Both?
Using the Morta skills had depleted her resources. She knew
where to get more. “Leeze,” she whispered.
Steven let out a strangled yell and fell to his knees.
She reached into the dark energy of the Dragonlord. Yes, he was
a Dragonlord, so powerful, so yummy. She wondered what his cock
looked like. That put a special tingle between her legs. She was far
from a virgin.
She’d fantasized about joining a Dragonlord’s Escort, and now
she could, if that was what she really wanted. However, that was a
problem. What did she really want? Did she long for a dragon or did
she want a goddess inside her?
“Magica Incanto,” Steven grunted.
Heridan didn’t know what kind of spell he was casting, but it
seemed to have no effect. She was taking his Morta, adding it to her
own, and growing more powerful.
“Damn,” he said. “I can’t dispel your Morta energy. I hate to do
this, Heridan, but you’re taking too much out of my core.”
BlackBlood tentacles exploded out of Steven’s clothes. At the
same time, he cast a shield spell. He certainly wasn’t running low on
Animus. The stuff was overflowing out of him. He’d probably had sex
that morning.
Heridan used transvexri to appear behind him, in a shadow
corner near the doors that led to the jet bridge.
Steven spun and got his black shield between them.
That didn’t stop her. She cast another Leeze spell to pull from his
Animus core rather than his Morta center. Yes, the light energy
flowed into her as Morta. Leeze allowed her to feed off both kinds of
power.
Steven grimaced at the attack. “Okay, fine, let me try something
else. Defensio!” He placed another shadowy force field between
them. Her Leeze spell winked off.
“Should’ve known,” Steven said. “So a shield spell against magic
does protect me against Morta attacks. And a physical shield will
protect me against BlackBlood.”
Heridan pushed herself off the ground using her midnight
tendrils. She somersaulted over him and hit him square in the chest.
He fell to the ground with her atop him.
She leaned in close to inhale his orange-tinged scent. “You smell
good.”
“Thank you?” Steven asked in wonder.
Heridan couldn’t help but kiss him. He smelled good. He tasted
better.

STEVEN REACHED AROUND Heridan and felt the chitin on her back,
hard and unforgiving. She had one of his hands pinned to the floor
above his head. Those claws could rip open his flesh easily, and yet,
they weren’t fighting anymore, but kissing.
 Morta energy swirled around him. A bit of the ichor dripped onto
his face, but he found he didn’t mind it. This woman, part human,
part Zothoric, smelled surprisingly sweet, like some strange flowery
perfume.
Did that point to an innate goodness? He hoped so. She sure
didn’t stink like a Hybrith.
Her tongue was human enough, soft and wet. Her breasts
pushed up against his chest. His hands went from the exoskeleton
on her back to the soft globes of her ass. He squeezed them before
sliding a finger down her crack.
She jerked back. “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He felt her anger, and it triggered his own. Rage and lust
combined in his core. He accessed DragonStrength and tossed her
off him. Now she was on her back, legs spread. He scrambled on top
of her. His enhanced muscles had her pinned to the ground.
Riding his rage, he kissed her again, pressing his body between
her legs. She rubbed herself against him, their mouths mashing
against each other—lips and tongues and spit, the kiss seemed to go
on forever. He broke it. He wanted to get a good look at her body.
He leaned back a bit. All the while, his Morta core swirled with
anger. The black carapace covering her throat met pale skin, lightly
freckled. Her nipples were big and hard, begging to be sucked. The
muscles of her flat belly tensed, covered with the sheen of sweat. Or
was that Morta? Sex with her would be a messy affair. She literally
dripped.
She didn’t have a trace of pubic hair. From his angle, he couldn’t
see her sex. He got curious.
He let her arms go and sat back on his haunches. The swollen
petals on her wet mound pooched out visibly.
Yes, he satisfied his curiosity, but it was a mistake.
She flung him back with her tentacles. He caught himself on coils
of his own. Their kiss had replenished his dark core. He triggered
SerpentGrace, switching from Morta to Animus easily.
She was trying to get up. He didn’t let her. Back on top of her,
the rage and lust made him want to take her right there. This was
different than his experiences with Nefri, but then, Heridan was
Another random document with
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 *
* *

Le jour de l’an passa sans qu’une cérémonie quelconque le

différenciât aux yeux de Hiên d’un dimanche ordinaire. Puis vint le
Têt, jour de l’an annamite.
Ce fut un grand jour. Dès l’aube, Hiên le Maboul et Bèp-Thoï,
ayant fait brûler des bâtonnets d’encens sous l’appentis afin de se
concilier les bons et les mauvais esprits, coururent allumer des files
de pétards devant la porte de l’Aïeul, qui fut éveillé en sursaut.
Dès qu’il fut levé, les deux tirailleurs se présentèrent devant lui,
et, l’ayant salué avec ensemble, lui offrirent des bananes, des
oranges et des œufs frais ; puis Bèp-Thoï, lissant sa barbiche
grisonnante, adressa une longue harangue à son chef :
— Aïeul à deux galons, voici l’année nouvelle : puisse-t-elle
conserver à tes serviteurs un maître tel que toi !… J’ai de longues
années de service : j’ai fait la campagne du Tonkin contre les
Chinois, puis contre les Pavillons-Noirs ; en ce temps-là, il n’y avait
point encore de tirailleurs tonkinois… J’étais alors ordonnance d’un
capitaine que les pirates tuèrent d’un coup de fusil : je ramenai son
corps et j’eus la médaille du Tonkin. Puis je servis sous les ordres de
beaucoup de lieutenants, dont j’ai gardé les portraits, mais dont j’ai
oublié les noms ; j’ai fait la guerre à leur suite, dans la plaine de
Lam, puis sur le Mékong, puis au Siam… Maintenant me voilà âgé ;
le mousqueton commence à se faire pesant sur mon épaule, et
bientôt je n’aurai plus d’autre distraction que de me rappeler tous les
officiers avec qui j’ai combattu et marché. Parmi tous ceux-là, que
j’ai servis en fidèle soldat, tu es au premier rang dans mon affection :
je pense que ton départ sera pour moi un plus cruel deuil que la mort
de mon père et de ma mère, car je t’aime plus que mon père et ma
mère… A toi de parler, Hiên !
Et Bèp-Thoï, très fier de son discours, poussa du coude son
camarade. Hélas ! de la brève allocution qu’il avait cependant
apprise, mot à mot, pendant des semaines, il ne restait plus une
bribe dans le cerveau rebelle du malheureux Hiên, et, lorsqu’il eut dit
à son tour : « Vénérable Aïeul, voici l’année nouvelle… », il resta
court, tremblant et suant.
— C’est bien ! dit l’Aïeul, vous êtes tous deux de braves gens.
Toi, Bèp-Thoï, tu es le modèle des vieux serviteurs, et toi, Hiên, un
excellent garçon, de cœur généreux. Que l’an nouveau vous donne
le bonheur…
Dehors éclatèrent des pétards et des voix résonnèrent sous la
véranda. La porte fut ouverte à deux battants, et l’Aïeul aperçut la
compagnie entière massant au bas du perron ses salaccos plats,
étincelants, et ses figures noires. Une formidable acclamation salua
l’apparition du lieutenant derrière la balustrade.
— Heureuse année, vénérable Aïeul !
— Heureuse année, petits frères !
Puis tous firent silence afin de laisser parler le sergent Cang.
— Aïeul à deux galons, que l’année te soit bonne comme tu as
été bon avec tes soldats ! Qu’elle te donne la félicité et la gloire…
Quant à nous, nous serons heureux tant que tu demeureras avec
nous, car ta présence est la garantie de notre tranquillité, de notre
paix. Tu es notre bonheur : avant ton retour qu’étions-nous ? Des
gueux misérables et courbés sous les injures. Nous ne savions plus
rire et la seule pensée des choses que nous allions dire nous
décourageait de causer entre nous comme autrefois. Nous étions
plus tristes que des pierres et plus humiliés que des chiens. Et j’en
connais qui voulaient déserter, gagner la brousse, et d’autres qui
rêvaient de se mettre le canon de leur mousqueton dans la bouche
et d’en finir… Est-ce vrai, frères cadets ?
— C’est vrai ! c’est vrai ! rugit la compagnie.
— Mais ceux qui méditaient de déserter, ceux qui méditaient de
se tuer retardaient leur fuite ou leur suicide dans l’espoir que tu
reviendrais… Tu ne revenais pas : on interrogeait les sampaniers
descendus de Baria, de Cua-Lap et de Nha-Trang ; ces gens-là
disaient qu’on ne te reverrait jamais, car tu étais monté sur la grande
montagne d’Annam où sont embusquées des tribus de sauvages
nus et des légions de méchants esprits. Et, comme ils t’aimaient
aussi, ils pleuraient avec nous.
— C’est vrai, ils pleuraient ! gémit le chœur, à ce rappel de la
terrible époque.
— Et tu es revenu ! Les chiens qui rampaient, l’échine tremblante,
ont relevé le nez, gambadent en aboyant de contentement.
Personne n’a déserté, personne ne s’est tiré de coup de fusil dans la
bouche… Ah ! comme les clairons sonnaient gaillardement sur la
route du camp, le matin où tu reparus parmi tes tirailleurs ! Comme
les rires s’envolaient jusqu’à la cime des aréquiers ! Et moi, vieux
sergent presque blanc de barbe et de cheveux, j’essuyais, tout en
marchant à ma place de serre-file, des larmes de joie : car je savais
bien que le mauvais rêve avait pris fin, et de loin je te voyais sourire
sous ton casque et je me disais, pleurant comme un imbécile :
« Puisse-t-il, puisse-t-il rester avec nous ! » Et maintenant je te dis
encore : « Reste avec nous désormais ! »
— Reste ! reste avec nous ! supplièrent les tirailleurs.
— Je tâcherai, dit l’Aïeul.
Des cris d’allégresse montèrent des cactus piétinés et les
pétards firent rage.
Et Hiên répétait :
— Reste ! reste, Aïeul à deux galons !
 XII

— L’Aïeul dort toujours ? demande Bèp-Thoï, assis sur les

carreaux de la véranda et rafistolant des cannes à pêche.
— Toujours ! répond Hiên, qui plonge un regard curieux à travers
les lames disjointes des persiennes.
Hiên se rassied et tend à son compagnon les cordonnets tressés,
les crins et les hameçons :
— L’après-midi est chaud, soupire-t-il.
— Oui, mais il y a de la brise : l’Aïeul aura beau temps pour la
pêche.
— Oui ! beau temps pour la pêche ! Quand le soleil pénètre l’eau,
les poissons viennent se chauffer près des roches, et l’on en prend
des quantités, parce que la lumière les aveugle et qu’ils ne
distinguent pas le pêcheur… L’Aïeul en rapportera son plein panier.
— Il ne rapportera rien du tout… On voit bien que tu n’as jamais
été à la pêche avec lui !… Il jette sa ligne, allume sa pipe et ouvre un
livre : il exhale de grosses bouffées de fumée bleue qu’il s’amuse à
suivre de l’œil, lit une page de son livre, lâche son livre pour
regarder les vagues en sifflotant d’un air content ; sa pipe éteinte, il
la rallume et recommence… Tu verras ça tout à l’heure… Quant au
poisson, il mange les appâts tout à son aise, et si, par hasard,
l’hameçon résiste, l’animal a tout le loisir de se décrocher ou
d’emporter l’engin avec lui.
— Mais moi, que ferai-je pendant ce temps-là ?
— Tu n’as qu’une chose à faire, t’étendre à l’ombre et dormir. A
ton réveil, l’Aïeul sera parti ; tu retireras les lignes et tu rentreras :
voilà tout !… Tu peux bien te dispenser de prendre un panier.
— Dis-donc, Bèp-Thoï, je crois que l’Aïeul a bougé.
 Bèp-Thoï regarde, à son tour, dans la chambre. Sur la natte de
rotin multicolore, l’Aïeul s’étire et bâille : la sieste a été longue et le
sommeil invincible pèse encore sur les paupières. Mais le vieux
tirailleur a poussé sans bruit la porte, qui livre passage derrière lui au
jour éclatant, et la face ahurie et bon enfant de Hiên s’encadre dans
l’embrasure.
— Les lignes sont prêtes !
L’Aïeul bâille une dernière fois et se lève décidément, très à son
aise dans le pyjama de tussor gris, enchanté de la lumière et de l’air
frais. Après avoir barboté dans son tub, il s’habille de toile kaki et
écoute patiemment les sages discours de son vieux boy.
— Aïeul, choisis pour t’asseoir une roche sèche et nue ; la
dernière fois que tu es allé à la pêche, ton pantalon était tout vert
d’algues écrasées et j’ai eu toutes les peines du monde à le laver.
— Entendu, vieux Bèp !
— Et puis, veille à tes lignes : elles reviennent toujours sans un
hameçon et même sans un crin.
— C’est compris !… Que veux-tu encore que je fasse pour te
complaire ?
— Prends garde aux coups de soleil : mai est proche !
— C’est bon ! c’est bon !… Partons, Hiên !
— Faut-il prendre un panier, vénérable Aïeul ?
— Mais oui !… En voilà, une question !… J’espère bien rapporter
une friture magnifique… quoique j’aie été, jusqu’ici, assez
malheureux.
— Il y avait un peu de ta faute, geint ce grognon de Bèp-Thoï. Au
lieu de surveiller le bouchon, tu siffles et tu lis et tu regardes les
vagues aller et venir.
— Je t’assure que je suis très attentif à ma besogne ; je n’ai pas
de chance, que veux-tu ?…
 L’Aïeul marche à grandes enjambées, la pipe aux dents, et un
livre sous le bras, et Hiên trotte derrière lui, équipé comme pour une
lointaine campagne de pêche : des lignes jalonnées de bouchons
rouges dansent sur son épaule droite, une épuisette sur son épaule
gauche ; des bidons, des boîtes à vers, des paniers à poissons
s’entre-choquent sur ses hanches et sur ses reins avec un tapage
de ferraille.
Le soleil tape sur le dos des deux promeneurs. Sur les hautes
branches des banyans, les cigales chantent éperdument leur hymne
interminable à la chaleur ; des tourterelles s’appellent doucement,
d’une dune à l’autre, par-dessus les rizières ; des huppes s’amusent
à lancer leur cri précipité aux échos de la forêt, qui le redisent d’une
voix accablée et assourdie ; des perruches se querellent, enrouées
comme des concierges. Il fait atrocement chaud : les palmes des
aréquiers, comme lasses, inclinent vers le sol leurs feuilles repliées
et flétries ; les bananiers prennent des poses vaincues de saules
pleureurs ; les cosses des flamboyants crèvent avec des détonations
brusques ; les fleurs des frangipaniers tournoient et roulent dans la
poussière du chemin qui ensanglante leurs lèvres blêmes, et l’on
croirait qu’elles ont mâché du bétel ; les hibiscus prudents ont
refermé leurs pétales autour du pistil, dont la pointe seule apparaît,
écarlate, parmi les feuilles d’un vert tendre.
Sur les bords d’un étang où des lotus agonisent entre les joncs,
un chœur de grenouilles maudit la sécheresse avec une éloquence
bruyante. Des chiens jaunes, pareils à des renards, ont élu pour y
dormir les degrés de brique de la fontaine et baignent leurs flancs
décharnés et palpitants aux flaques d’eau que le soleil n’a pas bues
encore. Derrière les stores mi-levés des cases, se balancent des
hamacs d’où pendent des jambes nues de fillettes.
L’Aïeul et son compagnon se hâtent le long des murs trop blancs
où sommeillent les margouillats gris, insoucieux du vol strident des
moustiques. Voici la baie enfin et la brise fraîche venue de l’ouest et
de l’océan Indien. Fête de lumière et de couleurs : l’azur éblouissant
du ciel se confond avec l’azur de la mer ; la flottille de sampans
découpe nettement sur l’eau bleue ses vergues brunes, ses
cordages d’aloès marron, ses coques noires où s’ouvrent des yeux
pourpres et qui se dandinent au passage de la houle moirée ; la
montagne dresse plus haut dans l’air vibrant ses croupes de granit
vêtues de verdure neuve.
Sur son contrefort pelé, la villa du gouverneur mire au soleil l’or
de ses mosaïques et l’émail de ses chimères. Les toits de tuiles
semblent des fleurs géantes écloses aux branches des lilas du
Japon, les ardoises de l’Hôtel Ollivier scintillent entre les cimes des
eucalyptus. Des pêcheurs, autour d’un sampan échoué, cognent à
coups de maillet le bordage sonore, rythmant la mélopée que
module leur chef ; le ressac bruissant entre les galets de la plage
chante en sourdine avec eux.
Devant la maisonnette du sergent Cang, voici Maÿ accroupie à
l’ombre et bâillant.
— Où vas-tu, vénérable Aïeul à deux galons ?
— Je vais à la pêche, sœur cadette.
— Il fait beau temps : le poisson abondera.
— Heu ! heu !
— Vénérable Aïeul, permets-moi de t’accompagner : je m’ennuie
à la maison ; il fait chaud ici et j’ai envie de me promener.
— Viens avec nous.
La fillette bondit et emboîte le pas aux deux hommes. Tout en
marchant, elle remarque l’air pénétré de Hiên, entend la musique
infernale que font les instruments de fer-blanc attachés à la ceinture
du tirailleur, et rit comme une source. Hiên se retourne,
soupçonneux.
— Pourquoi ris-tu ?
— Tu ressembles au mât de cocagne que l’on avait planté au
marché, le jour du Têt.
A cette comparaison moqueuse, mais juste, le pauvre diable ne
trouve rien à répondre, et, tout à coup, les bidons, les paniers, les
lignes dont il s’est encombré, et que, tout à l’heure encore, sous le
soleil ardent, il portait si vaillamment, lui paraissent pesants et
ridicules, et, comme on arrive à la levée où l’Aïeul choisit
habituellement sa place, Hiên se débarrasse avec joie de l’attirail qui
le rendit grotesque aux yeux de sa bien-aimée. Il déroule les lignes,
arme les hameçons de hideux vers rouges, assujettit les cannes
avec de gros cailloux.
Fameuse place, à l’ombre d’une touffe de bambou, éventée par
le souffle du large ! L’Aïeul oublieux des recommandations éplorées
de Bèp-Thoï, a jeté son dévolu sur une large pierre tapissée d’une
belle mousse verte : il s’assied et regarde la houle où filtre le soleil.
Les bouchons écarlates se balancent doucement, avec des allures
pacifiques d’engins inoffensifs ; des essaims de menus poissons
argentés défilent en bon ordre et d’un air indifférent autour des
appâts : sans doute les jugent-ils répugnants… « Ils n’ont vraiment
pas tort » ! songe le pêcheur, et, sans plus s’occuper de sa besogne,
il admire maintenant les fusées d’écume que la houle projette sur les
roches. Des ourlets d’eau pétillante montent à l’assaut de la digue,
submergent les rochers, qui reparaissent ruisselants et pareils, avec
leurs chevelures d’algues tordues par les lames, à des crânes de
noyés.
L’Aïeul ouvre le roman à couverture jaune qui gît dans la
mousse ; à travers les feuilles de bambous, le soleil crible les pages
de petits ronds dansants… Choix malheureux : c’est une banale
histoire d’adultère, où sont décrits avec complaisance les états
d’âme d’une petite provinciale neurasthénique et détraquée. L’Aïeul
estimant que l’héroïne eût mérité cent fois le fouet ou la douche,
enfouit l’ennuyeux volume dans le panier à poissons.
Rasséréné par cette exécution, il bourre minutieusement sa pipe
et l’allume, et la fumée s’envole en petits flocons blancs qui
réjouissent les yeux du fumeur. Le ronflement rythmé du ressac lui
suggère des souvenirs musicaux… Oui, c’est bien la chanson du
Rouet d’Omphale… Il fredonne la plainte du héros courbé aux
genoux de la femme ; comme les violons de Colonne, il passe du
piano au fortissimo, et les escouades de poissons qui rôdaient
autour des hameçons prennent décidément la fuite. Seul un crabe
énorme, averti, sans doute, des faibles dangers courus, se glisse
traîtreusement parmi les algues et grignote paisiblement les appâts.
Le chanteur, tenté par la mousse et l’herbe, s’est allongé sur le dos,
le casque sur les yeux. Le crabe peut maintenant dévorer tout à son
aise les vers rouges : l’Aïeul s’est assoupi et les clameurs des
cloches battues par l’écume ne cessent pas de le bercer.
Ses compagnons sont restés d’abord bien sagement à regarder
flotter les bouchons ; puis Maÿ a entraîné Hiên le long de la grève,
et, un instant, ils ont cherché entre les galets des hippocampes et
des coquillages ; ils ont lancé des cailloux aux crabes attardés,
enfoncé des branches dans la panse gélatineuse des méduses. Puis
la fillette a déclaré :
— Je suis lasse.
Et le bon amoureux l’a installée confortablement sous une sorte
de tonnelle de ricins.
Pour la distraire, il fait des ricochets superbes avec des débris de
tuiles. Il a ôté son veston de toile, et son torse noirci, ses biceps
saillants se tendent glorieusement au grand soleil qui dore la plage.
Maÿ le considère et se sent alanguie et nerveuse.
— Viens t’asseoir près de moi, Hiên.
Docile, Hiên vient s’accroupir aux pieds de la fillette.
— Vois comme j’ai chaud, Hiên !
Elle a posé ses deux mains brûlantes sur les épaules bosselées
de muscles durs qui tressaillent.
— Moi aussi, j’ai chaud, bégaie le géant accroupi et frissonnant.
Mais que fait donc Maÿ ?… Elle dégrafe sa longue tunique de
crépon noir ; les boutons d’argent roulent sous ses doigts hâtifs et
cèdent, un par un ; la voici demi-nue, offrant sa poitrine à la brise
fraîche. Elle s’étire et cambre son buste de statuette où perlent des
gouttes légères de sueur. Renversée sur le gazon, les mains
croisées sous la nuque, elle rit comme roucoulent les tourterelles et
parle d’une voix essoufflée :
— Mets-toi près de moi, Hiên.
 Il hésite : devant ce petit corps dévêtu et frémissant, il s’est senti
tout à coup désemparé, hébété ; un nuage rouge est descendu de
ses paupières devant ses yeux, ses oreilles bourdonnent, ses mains
tremblent de fièvre et cette sensation neuve l’inquiète…
Mets-toi donc là, imbécile !… Cette fièvre, c’est l’amour, le seul
amour vrai, l’amour des bêtes !… Tu vas être, pour cette petite fille
en délire, pareil à un dieu !… Et demain tu le seras encore, et
toujours !… Et tu auras conquis le bonheur…
— Prends-moi dans tes bras, Hiên !
Elle attire de toute la force de ses poignets minces le lourdaud ;
et il se défend, et il lui semble qu’il va salir son idole s’il entoure de
ses vilains bras poilus cette délicate divinité d’ivoire.
— Viens près de moi, Hiên !… plus près !…
Elle est folle !… Hiên se redresse à demi, les tempes battantes,
la considère avec ses yeux de bon bouledogue effaré. Et les lèvres
empourprées de bétel lui crachent l’injure :
— Individu idiot !
Il se doute alors vaguement qu’il a commis quelque fâcheuse
bévue, et, pour la réparer, pour apaiser la colère incompréhensible
de Maÿ, il rit, il rit bêtement, et ses doigts malhabiles torturent son
turban.
Les boutons d’argent ont refermé sur les seins minuscules la
tunique de crépon noir et Maÿ se lève, rouge encore, un sourire
méprisant à la bouche. Sans plus regarder le gueux agenouillé, elle
s’en va sur la route où pleuvent les fleurs de frangipanier ; elle
disparaît.
Il la voit fuir, abruti et malheureux, prêt à sangloter… Que lui a-t-il
fait ?… que lui a-t-il fait ?…
Il se secoue, comme au sortir d’un sommeil traversé de
cauchemars.
Le soleil ne brûle plus, son disque orange affleure l’horizon. Le
crépuscule va venir, et la nuit bientôt… L’Aïeul est parti.
 Hiên ramasse les lignes veuves d’hameçons, les paniers vides,
les boîtes à vers, les bidons qui recommencent sur ses flancs leur
musique infernale. Il marche d’un pas morne et le front bas, suivant
dans la poussière les traces des petits pieds nus de Maÿ. Une idée
fixe l’obsède maintenant et il la formule à mi-voix :
— Il ne faut pas que je raconte cette histoire à l’Aïeul !… Je ne
parlerai pas à l’Aïeul !…
*
* *

Il a parlé à l’Aïeul. Il lui a tout dit, accroupi près de la chaise

longue et remuant l’éventail japonais, et l’Aïeul a froncé les sourcils
et, retirant sa pipe de sa bouche, a fait simplement cette réponse :
— Individu idiot !
 XIII

Hiên le Maboul déroula sur les planches du lit de camp sa natte

siamoise où se voyaient dans une plaine verte des lions cerise et
des pagodes jaunes. Il descendit sa caisse de l’étagère où sa place
était marquée parmi d’autres caisses uniformément noires et
timbrées de chiffres rouges. Il l’ouvrit et, méthodiquement, avec des
précautions de ménagère comptant son linge, en sortit tout son petit
bagage.
Il plia selon les rites les vestons de toile blanche empesés, les
vestons de toile kaki rapiécés et flasques, les paletots de molleton
bleu sombre, les pantalons de coutil et de cotonnade ; il bâtit ensuite
avec le tout une magnifique colonne carrée, qu’il coiffa d’un salacco.
A la base du monument, il sema les jambières, les jugulaires et les
ceintures. Il déploya sa trousse de cuir fauve, aligna sur un mouchoir
illustré le miroir d’étain, les ciseaux, la brosse à dents, le peigne de
bambou, le dé, et démonta l’instrument de bois qui lui servait à la
fois d’alène, de bobine et d’étui à aiguilles. Reculant de deux pas, il
contempla son ouvrage d’un œil admiratif.
Autour de lui, et d’un bout à l’autre de la case, des nattes
s’étaient déroulées sur le lit de camp et des caisses noires avaient
vidé leur contenu multicolore sur les nattes. La compagnie se
préparait à une « revue de détail », et les deux grandes cases
bruissaient comme des ruches.
Les sergents français, le casque en bataille, allaient et venaient,
prodiguant des ordres et des encouragements, jurant et s’épongeant
le front avec leurs mouchoirs à carreaux. Des tirailleurs de corvée
époussetaient les étagères et les charpentes goudronnées,
chassaient les pacifiques margouillats et les geckos bruyants,
massacraient les araignées, balayaient les monômes de fourmis,
crevaient les édifices des termites. Des caporaux faisaient laver les
persiennes peintes au coaltar. Les hommes « de chambre », le balai
de rotin aux doigts, fourrageaient sous le lit de camp, sourds aux
clameurs des innocents camarades à qui, par inadvertance, ils
donnaient de leur balai dans les chevilles. Les vieux tirailleurs
médaillés, graves et muets, se tenaient accroupis auprès de leur
paquetage étalé d’un tour de main et fumaient la pipe à eau.
Dehors le grand soleil calme s’épanouissait. Hiên promena la
brosse sur ses cartouchières et sur son ceinturon cirés à
l’encaustique, fit reluire les boutons et la plaque de cuivre avec du
sable mouillé. Puis, s’étant assis et s’étant muni de tout un arsenal
de tournevis, d’écouvillons, de brosses, de chiffons, de fioles, il
ébaucha la grande œuvre : le nettoyage de son mousqueton. Pièce
par pièce, il l’astiqua, le frotta, le récura, le dégraissa, jusqu’à ce
que, plaçant l’œil à la bouche du canon, il vit les rayures étinceler,
jusqu’à ce que la culasse d’acier poli parût nickelée. Avec des soins
minutieux, il coucha l’arme éblouissante sur le bord de la natte et
courut se laver les mains à l’abreuvoir. Puis il s’habilla et attendit les
événements.
La grosse voix du sergent Castel recommandait aux retardataires
de se hâter, car l’heure passait. Sur le ciment, où des artistes
avaient tracé des dessins géométriques avec des caisses de tôle
percées de petits trous, le trot affolé des pieds nus se précipita.
Il y eut encore des cris, des injures, et le silence se fit au moment
où le « Fixe ! » hurlé à pleins poumons par un caporal annonça
l’entrée du lieutenant. Les deux lits de camp adossés alignaient, d’un
bout à l’autre des deux travées, leurs piles bigarrées d’effets, leurs
nattes vertes, débordant sous l’étalage des cartouchières et des
trousses, et les deux haies de tirailleurs figés et contemplant les
premières poutres de la charpente.
L’Aïeul, suivi du morose Pietro et des comptables importants et
raides, s’avançait, foulant de ses bottines vernies les rosaces
humides. Il vérifiait des livrets, inspectait des doublures, se mirait
dans des plaques de ceinturon, manœuvrait des culasses de
mousquetons, faisait jouer des baïonnettes dans des fourreaux. A
chaque tirailleur il adressait un discours bref, louant ou critiquant sa
tenue, reprochant des peccadilles récentes ou glorifiant les services
rendus aux chantiers, tançant les paresseux, encourageant les
braves gens à persévérer.
Mais ces harangues étaient paternelles et les mauvais sujets
eux-mêmes s’en trouvaient réconfortés, prêts au repentir. Hiên reçut
de vifs éloges, qui allumèrent une flamme dans ses yeux sauvages
et lui donnèrent la tentation peu militaire de saisir les mains de son
chef et d’y poser les lèvres. Il conserva cependant l’attitude du soldat
sans armes et la discipline n’eut point à souffrir d’une manifestation
contraire à toutes les règles établies.
Des honneurs plus éclatants encore étaient réservés à ce bon
tirailleur. Lorsque fut terminée l’inspection, la compagnie se forma en
carré sous les flamboyants et l’Aïeul exprima à ses hommes toute sa
satisfaction. Puis il ajouta :
— Vous tous présents, je félicite particulièrement Phâm-vân-
Hiên. Vous êtes tous témoins des progrès réalisés par lui : il s’est
appliqué, chaque jour, à faire mieux que la veille ; il s’est instruit ; il
est devenu un vrai tirailleur, ardent au travail, soumis et propre…
N’a-t-il pas mérité des félicitations, petits frères ?
— Oui, vénérable Aïeul, il les a méritées !
— C’est bien ! ne criez pas si fort !… Je le félicite donc, et devant
vous tous, je proclame qu’il est un bon soldat.
Les tirailleurs se dispersèrent, commentant l’heureuse chance de
leur camarade et jacassant comme un vol de perruches. Et l’Aïeul,
resté seul avec Hiên, vit les prunelles de son serviteur se ternir et
ses mains danser, signe d’émotion grave. Il prévint le déluge
imminent.
— Va chercher une paire de rames, dit-il, nous allons faire une
promenade dans la baie pour noyer ton attendrissement.
*
* *

Entre les coques blanches et effilées des baleinières, le petit

canot vert pomme s’insinua. Hiên ramait et l’Aïeul tenait la barre. Ils
contournèrent l’appontement, évitèrent un lourd ponton ancré dans
le sable et gagnèrent le large. Ils longèrent les jonques assemblées
au milieu de la baie ; les pêcheurs assis en rond sur les roufs
couleur de rouille leur souhaitèrent en riant une heureuse traversée ;
ils passèrent… La houle les prit et les balança sans violence.
L’Aïeul demanda subitement :
— Aimes-tu toujours Maÿ, petit frère ?
Hiên faillit, ainsi interpellé, lâcher ses rames pour assurer son
turban et bredouilla confusément :
— Si j’aime Maÿ ?… si j’aime Maÿ ?…
— Ne te trouble pas : je ne me moque pas. Réponds à ma
question : aimes-tu toujours Maÿ ?
— Je l’aime toujours.
— Autant qu’au premier jour ?
— Davantage, Aïeul à deux galons !
— Sens-tu qu’il te serait impossible de renoncer à elle ?
— Comment pourrais-je l’oublier ? Je ne puis passer un seul jour
sans l’avoir vue ; il faut que je la voie, que je l’entende parler. Elle est
dans mes yeux, dans mes oreilles, dans mon cœur, dans toute ma
chair : comment pourrais-je l’arracher de moi ?
— Tu l’aimes à ce point ?
— Au point que tout ce qui me vient d’elle me semble doux, que,
faute d’obtenir son sourire, je mendie ses rebuffades. Je suis comme
le chien qui sait qu’il va recevoir un coup de trique, mais qui rampe
tout de même vers son maître pour lui lécher les mains.
— Je connais ton mal ; j’en ai souffert autrefois. J’ai guéri. Tu
peux guérir encore.
— Quel est le remède, Aïeul ?
— Renonce à Maÿ. Elle n’est pas faite pour toi. Tu es simple, elle
est compliquée ; tu es franc et honnête, elle est perverse et fausse.
Tu es pauvre ; elle raffole des bijoux, des belles tuniques, des
piastres neuves, toutes choses que tu ne pourras lui donner… Il te
restait une chance de bonheur : elle admirait ta force. Elle a perdu la
tête, un instant, en ton honneur : tu as été assez niais pour te
dérober… Elle ne te pardonnera pas de l’avoir respectée ; tu as
perdu à ses yeux ton prestige de solide gaillard pour n’être plus
définitivement qu’un nigaud maladroit. Tu as passé à côté du
bonheur, ne t’acharne pas à courir après. Il y a d’autres filles que
Maÿ.
— Aïeul ! Aïeul ! quelle fille est pareille à Maÿ ?
— Je connais cette antienne : je l’ai chantée. Et je ne la chante
plus. Tu sauras que les femmes sont toutes pareilles les unes aux
autres ; elles se valent toutes. Celles qui paraissent meilleures, il ne
leur a manqué, à celles-là, que l’occasion de faillir… Du moins, si tu
dois te marier, faut-il t’arranger pour mettre le plus possible d’atouts
dans ton jeu : choisis une bonne grosse fille qui ne soit pas
détraquée ni vicieuse.
— Je ne pourrai pas, je ne pourrai pas oublier Maÿ, gémit
lamentablement le pauvre Maboul.
— Tu l’oublieras, petit frère… Tu souffriras, parbleu ! Tu passeras
des nuits blanches ; il t’arrivera d’errer anxieusement autour de la
case de la bien-aimée ; tu n’auras plus de cœur à rien. Puis, un beau
matin, tu laisseras pour toujours sur ton lit de camp ton cauchemar
mauvais ; tu jugeras que ton idole est une ridicule pimbêche ; tu
brûleras gaiement ce que tu avais adoré. Tu seras grand, fort et
joyeux, parce que connaissant les femmes et les méprisant. Tu
seras heureux !
— Maÿ seule pourrait me donner le bonheur !
— Il ne peut venir des femmes que deuil et malheur. Oublie Maÿ.
— Je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas l’oublier !
— Alors oublie tout ce que je t’ai dit. Du moment que tu tiens
absolument à épouser cette petite fille et que tous mes arguments
ne peuvent prévaloir contre ton amour, épouse-la. Je peux me
tromper, du reste, et je le voudrais. Je ne demande pas mieux que
de te voir marié, père de nombreux enfants, choyé par ta compagne,
heureux enfin. Je ne veux qu’une chose : ton bonheur ; et, puisque,
d’après toi, il réside uniquement dans ton mariage avec Maÿ, je ferai
venir, ce soir, le sergent Cang et je renouvellerai ma démarche…
Rame un peu maintenant…
*
* *

Le sergent Cang a consenti : le mariage se fera dans six mois.

Selon l’usage annamite, Maÿ n’a pas été consultée : son père lui a
simplement amené Hiên et les deux fiancés ont échangé la noix
d’arec et la feuille de bétel. Elle n’a point souri ; elle n’a point pleuré :
à quoi bon ?
Le pauvre Hiên, encouragé par Thi-Baÿ, a voulu mettre ses
lèvres sur les joues froides et fermes de sa future femme. Elle s’est
laissé embrasser, les yeux morts. A quoi bon résister ?… lui a-t-on
demandé son avis ?…
L’Aïeul l’a fait comparaître dans sa belle maison tendue de soie
et gardée par des bouddhas barbus ; il l’a félicitée, en présence de
Hiên, et lui a fait don d’une boîte laquée où, sur un lit de coton rose,
dormait un splendide collier d’or travaillé au poinçon. Elle a mis le
collier à son cou ; sa figure s’est illuminée, une seconde, et Hiên le
Maboul a été envahi d’une joie démente : il a cru que son bonheur
serait éternel et les paroles de l’Aïeul sont sorties de sa mémoire.