The Star King Page 2

  “I was. But I don’t feel a thing now.” He lifted his hand to touch the swelling bruise on her forehead, then stopped and clenched his fist. “Do you?”

  “No, but I—” Gasping, she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “I can feel your grief.”

  Great Mother. The knot Rom had cinched around his emotions nearly unraveled. He fought for control, barely regaining it before he answered, “My brother is dead.” The four tersely spoken words did little to convey the enormity of his loss. “I shouldn’t have left him in the wreckage; I should have freed him while I had the chance.”

  “No.” The woman’s eyes closed. “Crush the darkness.”

  “What?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  “You must crush the darkness.” She was paler now. “I hear that in my head. What does it mean?”

  “My enemy, Sharron, is the darkness,” he said in a growl. “A monster of matchless evil whose death will mean the end of this war. My troops cry ‘crush the darkness’ before we go into battle. It was the last thing my brother said”—his voice softened—“before he died.”

  “Then you must do it,” she said with conviction, moisture glinting in her eyes. “Kill Sharron.”

  All doubts as to why she was here scattered like dust. Those few words gave him the determination, the heart to go on.

  “This was your purpose all along,” he said. “To guide me. To set me back on my path.” He risked smoothing his hand over her cheek. Consternation flickered in her eyes, but in the way of dreams, she accepted his brash caress. The feel of her soft and disturbingly real skin set off alarm bells in his head. To be so moved by this woman, even if she was a vision, was unfortunate and improper, especially given—should he survive physically unscathed—his impending arranged and very necessary marriage.

  Jas leaned into his warm, roughened palm, her eyes drifting half-closed. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d waited for this man all her life, that fate somehow bound them together. “I’m analytical,” she whispered fervently, “level-headed. Things like this don’t happen to people like me.”

  He cupped her chin, silencing her. Then slowly, reverently, he brushed back her hair, his fingertips skimming along the edge of her ear. She held herself completely still, certain that a single move would shatter this dream.

  Her breath caught as he pressed his lips to her hair, then her cheek. “Trust your senses, my angel,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat. “What they reveal is not always what we expect.” Weaving his fingers through her hair, he guided her to his mouth.

  Her eyes closed and her lips opened under the soft, warm pressure. Lovingly, his tongue stroked hers. Passion scorched through her, heightening the sensitivity of every square inch of her skin. Out the door went her inner warnings and anything else resembling rational judgment. He’s not real, and this isn’t happening, she chanted silently.

  Desperately.

  He was a stranger, a wounded soldier whose courage and integrity mirrored those of the knights of old; a handsome, golden-eyed warrior whose briefest kiss left her breathless, whose pain and grief she had taken into herself as if it were her own. His familiarity, her depth of feeling for him, and the way she could read his thoughts—it defied logic, and baffled her, for clearheaded reasoning was a trait she had valued and cultivated since childhood, just as she had trained herself to suppress strong emotion.

  Until now.

  They kissed deeply, fully.

  Rom rolled the woman onto the coarse sand, careful to cushion her head with his hand. He surrendered to her taste, her scent—whiffs of exotic blooms from lands he had never seen mingled with the harshness of smoke and blood and dirt. He needed her with a desperation born of his precarious position at the edge of death, wanted to make love to her while he possessed the strength and passion of life.

  Her pleasure would be his salvation.

  But the blackness returned too quickly, flickering specks at first, and then billowing clouds that blotted out his vision. He prayed for more time, prayed that this ethereal being would prevent him from slipping from his mortal life into eternity.

  “Wake up!”

  Rom sucked in a breath as the toe of a booted foot jammed into his abdomen and wrenched him back to reality with stunning cruelty. The laughter of at least half a dozen helmeted men echoed off the hills, and he was again a wounded pilot lying on his back on a battlefield. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he seized his weapon. The booted foot kicked it out of his hand.

  “Dreaming about your last pleasure servant, eh?” one of the soldiers inquired with a muffled sneer. “By the looks of it, she must have treated you well.” More laughter. “It’s B’kah. And he’s hard as a rock. Kick him again.” Rom twisted to one side, deflecting the vicious strike from his groin to his hip.

  “Enough,” a deeper voice ordered. “There’s not much time. Sharron wants him now.”

  The soldiers hauled him to his feet. Pain rocketed through his chest. He was burning alive, couldn’t fill his lungs with air. He gritted his teeth, struggling to stay conscious, but his legs swayed like ribbons. He prayed for strength, for discipline, for focus, so he could complete his mission. And he clung to the vision of the woman—the angel—to keep him awake, remembering the words that would keep him alive long enough to kill Sharron: Crush the darkness.

  They dragged him down into the caves, humid caverns ripe with the stench of suffering. There was laser-lit darkness, the sound of distant weeping, then blessedly cold, crisp air in the decontamination chamber.

  “He will see you now,” said one of the three muscular guards who propelled him along a corridor that stretched on forever, rivaling in size the hallways of the palace in which Rom had been born. Home. Sienna. But that grand architectural showplace emanated goodness, not this…evil.

  “The prince, my lord.”

  Rom was all but dropped onto a chair. Struggling to maintain some semblance of aristocratic poise, he sat up straight. You are the B’kah heir, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth as his battered ribs scorched his insides like white-hot pokers. The guards had been fools; out of respect for his status, and the presumption that his injuries had rendered him helpless, they had not bound him with shock-cuffs.

  Sharron stood tall, serene, as he contemplated a floor-to-ceiling painting of the black hole at the galaxy’s center. He had the pale hair and perfectly formed features of his well-regarded merchant family. Generations of loyal men preceded him. What had happened? What had changed him?

  Sharron turned, facing Rom. A medallion engraved with a rising sun above two clasped hands dangled from his neck. Rom recognized the metal: an empathic alloy. Disgust curled his mouth. Medallions such as these had been banned since the Dark Years, when they were used by warlords to influence behavior. He was surprised Sharron hadn’t already ordered one hung around his neck.

  “Romlijhian B’kah, the wayward prince,” Sharron said pleasantly. “How I wish our meeting were under better circumstances.”

  “Frankly, I’d envisioned sifting through the wreckage of your headquarters, searching for your worthless remains.”

  “Please, no harsh words. This is the chance to smooth over our differences. Most of what troubles you stems from not understanding what the Family of the New Day is and what we stand for.”

  “You’re a butcher. You and your chosen elders impregnate your female followers, then send them on a one-way journey to the center of the galaxy after they give birth.”

  Sharron’s smile was magnetic. “Baseless allegations.”

  Rom gripped the sides of the chair. That had been his father’s response, too. If only he had proof, other than a few dozen holo-images recordings of women being loaded onto ships, perhaps he could have gathered support from his father instead of fighting this war with only his own trusted men.

  Sharron projected genuine empathy. “Since infancy you’ve known only the brainwashing of the Vash Nadah. It’s extraordinarily difficult to see past that relentless indoctrina
tion, Romlijhian. But you must endeavor to do so. You are a powerful young man, one of the few influential enough, intelligent enough to make a difference.” The man took another step, coming near enough that Rom could reach out and grab him. “Innocent lives have been lost, on my side and yours. Let us stop this killing.”

  “Sign the agreement of surrender. It is the only way.” His muscles tense and ready, Rom peered at his enemy through half-closed lids. “Capturing me changes nothing.”

  “True.” Sharron clasped his hands behind his back and paced across the room, away from him. Rom swore under his breath. “I miscalculated. Force was not the path to take. Not yet. I did not anticipate you’d drum up such support so quickly, and without your father’s blessing. Yet, in a way, my mistake has garnered good results.”

  A sudden malicious delight flared in the cult leader’s eyes. “You were exposed to the radiation many long hours. Too many, don’t you think?”

  Rom masked his fear of what Sharron implied, that he had rendered himself sterile, ending his family’s unbroken lineage of kings.

  Animosity slipped into Sharron’s light tone. “A rather amusing situation, had either of us been men blessed with a sense of humor. Look at you—scion to the richest, most powerful family of the Vash Nadah, the undisputed rulers of all known worlds, damaged beyond repair in the only way that truly matters.” He flicked his broad palm up as if tossing grains of sand to the wind. “Your seed is undoubtedly ruined. No hope of sons—or even daughters, for that matter.”

  Clutching the sides of the chair, Rom let his chin bob forward. Just as he’d hoped, he heard Sharron move closer. “You’re going to die on me, aren’t you, Romlijhian?”

  “The hell I am.” Arching upward, Rom shoved the heels of his boots into Sharron’s midsection, throwing him off his feet. Then he was out of the chair and on his prey before Sharron had any chance to beg for his sorry life. They skidded across the floor and slammed into a wall. A painting crashed to the ground nearby. Broken glass crunched under Sharron’s back as his head hit the leg of a table with a muffled thunk. To his credit, the man did not cry out.

  Rom felt his chest wound reopen. He knew the bright crimson blood smeared across Sharron’s face and over the white-tiled floor was his own, but fury obliterated his pain. He wrenched the frame from the fallen painting and jammed the jagged metal edge up and against Sharron’s throat with both hands. It cut through tendons and flesh. Blood spurted across the wall. Sharron gurgled, clawing at his neck.

  “Die, bastard, die!” Rom used the last of his strength to hold Sharron’s shuddering, dying body in place. He had to be sure, or this monster’s matchless evil would spread to the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

  Sharron went limp. Rom’s vision grayed, and the buzzing in his ears grew louder, muting the sound of approaching boots and screaming men. “Our security has been breached!” he heard someone nearby shout. “Evacuate!” Hands pried his arm from Sharron’s neck. A burst of light stunned him. No! Rom groped blindly about him. Where? Crawling, then dragging himself across the floor, he pursued the sounds of the retreating soldiers.

  Rom knew that his own men had found him by their gentle, deferential handling. He forced his dry mouth to form words. “Sharron…dead. They took the body.” As his troops lifted him, he urged hoarsely, “Don’t let them escape!” The roaring in his ears covered his soldiers’ response. The walls careened around and around, and he squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the tilting room. Someone slit his uniform open to the waist, exposing his wound. His teeth chattered; his heart faltered, then continued its odd, shallow flutter.

  You’re not going to die.

  The Balkanor angel. He recognized her sweet, husky voice in his head.

  “My beloved,” he whispered. No longer able to open his eyes, he felt her warm arms around him, comforting him, filling him with a bliss he never imagined, holding him to this side of life.

  Her presence wavered.

  “No. I don’t know how or where to find you,” he cried, his pride secondary to having her at his side. “Don’t leave. I need you.” But she slipped from his grasp. Great Mother, he’d lost his brother, and now the woman. “I will find you. I swear it.” Someone—his surgeon, perhaps—laid a cool cloth over his forehead and soothed him in worried tones. Despite the doctor’s ministrations, Rom chanted his promise until he could speak no more. “I will find you.”

  I will find you.

  Jas tightened her embrace. “I’m right here.” She pressed her cheek to his, relishing the prickly roughness of stubble on his otherwise smooth, tawny skin.

  Don’t leave.

  “I won’t,” she assured him in his language. But in a rush of hot, dry wind, his presence evaporated, draining her heart of its newfound joy. She clutched the air, crying out, “No, don’t leave!”

  “Hey, hey. No one’s going to leave you, Lieutenant.”

  Someone clamped a mask over her mouth and nose. “She’s conscious! I need the C-collar—now!”

  With an enormous effort, she opened her eyes, blinking to clear the shadow floating in front of her, squinting until the blurred shape became a young black medic dressed in U.S. Air Force combat fatigues. “Oh—” The world roared back. Chaos. The rhythmic thunder of chopper blades. Saudi desert heat. Turbulence. Pain streaked outward from the right side of her forehead as she fought rising nausea.

  The medic leaned closer, patting her on the cheek. His voice eased into a honeyed Southern accent. “That’s it. Keep those gorgeous eyes wide open for me.” He lifted the oxygen mask from her mouth and clamped a neck brace over her throat. Peering at his watch, he held her wrist between his fingers. Then he pressed the microphone attached to his headset to his lips. “Say again? Yeah, blood pressure’s ninety over fifty. Fifty.”

  “I bailed out, didn’t I?” Her words were slurred. “Don’t remember.”

  “Shot down…friendly fire.” His voice was drowned out by the incessant drumming of the rotor blades.

  She tried to sit up, but was strapped firmly to a litter. “I saw someone out there. A man. He’s hurt—we have to go back.” The medic pressed his hand onto her shoulder and squeezed. “No,” she persisted. “We talked…and he said…and then we—” She swallowed hard. How in the world was she going to explain that he needed her, that she needed him, when she hardly understood it herself? “Just don’t leave.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Please.” She beseeched him with her eyes as he settled the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, silencing her. No! she screamed silently.

  “Ma’am, we circled the site. If there’d been anyone else, we would’ve seen them.” His tone was gentle, not condescending. “Breathe deep and slow. There you go. You’ll feel better in no time.”

  “Don’t need to feel better,” she mumbled into the mask. “Don’t want to forget.” Groggy, she closed her eyes.

  Don’t go. I need you. The lyrical, exotic words swirled like dust motes in the hazy place between wakefulness and sleep. Then the blackness closed in, and she was helpless to stop it.

  Chapter Two

  Nineteen years later

  “True love? Oh, spare me.” Jas pulled her hand away from the palm reader only to have the woman yank it back. “Isn’t there a money line?” she asked brightly. “Ought to be, Tina. Much more practical, I think. Tell me about the big collector who’ll walk in and buy out my paintings so I can live in Sedona like Betty here.”

  “Open your hand, dear.”

  The adobe walls of the softly lit art gallery radiated coolness and muffled the street noises so that all she heard was her own pulse—and the drumming of her fingers as Tina made her way back to her love line. “I could use a weather forecast,” Jas ventured. “My son and I are going camping next week.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton…” The aged fortune-teller pursed her lips, the mirth in her eyes magnified by her thick spectacles. Then she lifted her exasperated gaze to Betty, Jas’s friend and agent, and the owner of the chic gall
ery. “Artists are supposed to be intuitive, open-minded, and receptive, are they not?”

  “Supposed to be.” Betty winked at Jas, then turned her mischievous brown eyes back to the palm reader. “I simply don’t know what to say about this one. But her paintings sell, and sell well, mind you. So”—she sighed—“I put up with her.” Chuckling, Betty arranged a tray with chocolate biscuits and a pot of espresso and carried it to the table, while Tina resumed her study of Jas’s palm.

  “Your love line runs steady and does not branch out. A rarity. It means one man, one love. A love everlasting.” Tina’s voice dropped lower. “He is your soul mate, you see. You have loved him in the past and will love him again, for your souls are forever intertwined.”

  Every muscle in Jas’s body went rigid. The chimes near the entrance tinkled as the wind hissed down from the surrounding hills, whispering over her bare arms with a lover’s touch. I will find you. Swamped by an inexplicable feeling of deéjà vu, of longing, Jas inhaled and exhaled several times through her nose to calm herself, a technique she’d learned from yet another one of Betty’s octogenarian New Ager pals. Instinctively her eyes sought an enormous painting, her most recent, into which she had poured all the passion of her wounded soul. It held hues of gold, amber, rich sienna. Sand. Sky. The hush of deepening twilight as the first stars of evening glittered in cool desert air.

  The mysterious dream had awakened her the night she’d painted it, and she’d worked through the following day and night, trying to re-create the harsh splendor of the landscape, while lingering desire thrummed deep inside her, more powerful than ever, along with the sense that she’d left someone behind. But whom? Upon waking, she sometimes recalled a man with enigmatic golden eyes, but his features were always blurred, as if she were viewing him through frosted glass.

  It was the only aberration of her otherwise wholly rational mind.