The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution) (10 page)

Karla accepted
the kind lie, a satisfied expression sweeping across a
well-preserved face in the latter laps of its course through life.
Too soon, it would arrive at the finish line.

“Come,” Karla
said. “Lunch is on the veranda. The chef prepared his
specialty.”

They walked
down the six-foot-wide hallway at Karla’s deliberate pace, passing
several more bedrooms. None of them were as large or elegant as the
one where Lorna had stayed, but still, they were impressive. The
hall had varnished oak chair railing. Below, more lacquered oak
tongue-and-groove paneling exuded the scent and gloss of recent
waxing. Above, pale yellow plaster stippled the walls to a distant
ceiling. Spaced along the way, portraits representing various
branches of the White clan hung from the plaster. The massive
life-sized, wood-framed paintings had needed a work crew to hang
each one.

“Those are The
First Parents,” Lorna remarked.

“Yes,” replied
Karla. “Jim and Samantha, with their first litter. There is my
father Edward, Senior, along with his sisters—Claire, the
dark-haired one, and Cassandra, with the red hair.” Her voice
acquired a muted tone of sad acceptance when she added, “The
children were all hybrids and are gone now, but the First Parents
still live.”

Lorna
remembered the bundled letters. Claire had written them to
Cassandra. The dates were in the right timeframe. What did two of
the most famous sisters in the world say to each other? Lorna was
dying to know.

The hall ended
at a set of twelve-foot-tall French doors, which opened onto a sun
room. Mature trees shaded the glass-walled space. The distant
surface of the lake shimmered in a tropical breeze. Lorna concluded
they must be well south of Orlando, maybe near Miami, or even The
Keys. Someone opened the louvers to let in the warm, rich outside
air. Beside a round table stood an elderly human addressing his
attention to the simmering food on the dumbwaiter in front of
him.

“This is Max,
a very talented chef,” said Karla. “He’s been in our service for
nearly fifty years.”

“Pleased to
meet you,” he said, extending a hand exuding human scent, like raw
peanuts.

“A familiar?”
Lorna asked Karla.

“The term
“familiar” is no longer used. They are called employees now.”

Another
employee seated Karla. Cynthia and Lorna fended for themselves.

After the
appetizer—a beef tartare—Karla initiated conversation. “We are ever
so grateful for what you did to get our papers returned.”

“I was happy
to help. But I do have a question.”

Karla dabbed
her mouth with a linen napkin. “Certainly.”

Lorna
paused.

Didn’t Ed say
he wanted me to learn about the family?

Taking a
breath she asked, “What’s the story behind the safety deposit
box?”

Karla gaped at
Cynthia. The question took them by surprise. Lorna feared she’d
blundered into something private. “If my question is intrusive…”
she began.

“No, it’s all
right,” Karla answered. “The box belonged to Aunt Cassie. How can I
put it? She was a troubled soul. She couldn’t accept being a
hybrid. She believed herself cheated by having a human lifespan.
The issue arose in adolescence, remaining an on-and-off point of
contention for almost her entire life. She accused our grandparents
of terrible things. First for bringing her into the world,
believing they did so knowing what her fate would be. The truth was
no one realized hybrids aged in this way until the First Litter,
which included Cassandra, reached puberty.”

“I grew up
with the same issue, but from the other side,” Lorna said. “My
parents were hybrids. They dumped me at the corporation
orphanage.”

“You poor
dear,” Cynthia said. “It must have been terrible for you.” A slim
hand covered Lorna’s.

Karla picked
up the thread of the narrative. “Later, when we learned hybrid
matings yielded a percentage of The Others along with more hybrids,
Cassandra asserted her kind served as no more than a breeding
vessel for lycans and vampires. Her accusations broke our
grandmother’s heart because they were so dear to one another when
she was little. While the other children remained close to the
family, Cassandra pulled away. After showing exceptional
marksmanship the plague of 2026, she joined the Army, remaining
over twenty years. Contact with the family stayed sketchy at best,
mainly because of arguments over drinking. When drug abuse entered
the picture, the break became complete. She obsessed over putting
everything she could into the time she had left. Claire never gave
up on her, writing the letters you found.”

A nurse
approached the table with a shawl for Karla.

“Get that
thing away from me.” She scowled, drawing back from the woman.

“Now, Mother,
Frieda’s right. You might catch a chill.”

The older
woman leaned forward, grumbling. The nurse wrapped her shoulders
and left. “Where was I? Oh yes. Claire’s letters were never
answered. She never knew whether the addresses were good. At last,
Cassandra, in failing health, returned home. For reasons that
aren’t clear to this day, she reconciled with the family,
especially Grandmother Sam. Family lore attaches supernatural
influences to Cassandra’s change of heart, but no one knows for
sure. By all accounts, her remaining years passed in contentment.
She found peace, and even love.

“A few years
after Cassandra came home, liver failure claimed the poor dear. Her
husband, with daughter Sadie’s concurrence, allowed our
grandparents to bring her ashes to Mars. The box you found is
called a Perpetuity Box. The record of ownership must have been
lost in the Cyber Panic of ’45. All Fargo’s records showed were
that someone paid in full through 2199. Finding Claire’s letters
means a lot to this family.”

“Like every
other family, our hybrids fall into two groups. Those comfortable
with their lifespan, and those who see themselves living under a
death sentence,” Cynthia said.

Lorna
remained silent, but a saying Mike often used came to mind.
Change the things
you can. Accept the things you can’t, and be wise enough to know
the difference.

After lunch,
she went back to her borrowed room. She locked the door, sat on the
bed, and returned to the scents. Would the room speak to her
again?

Carefully, she
delved into their secrets. Like an archaeologist she excavated
through the layers, past the cavalcade of happiness, triumph, and
shared love. Then she found what she searched for, faint and
scattered throughout, almost obliterated by the volume of the
others. Traces of a mother’s anguish for a child once close and now
lost that culminated in a final image of reconciliation followed by
mourning.

Cassandra
might have died in this very bed.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he
children slept in the next room. Two of them graced the clan now,
Rigo, the male followed by the recent female, named Ampra. The boy
had seen four summers. Cithara, delivered of the girl less than two
months ago, again presented an image slim and taut as she’d ever
been. They’d not mated since well before the birth. With a proper
healing period past, Aliff sniffed, pawing after her like a rutting
bull. On that night, he returned to their spaces from sentry duty.
The clan had wintered in the high mountains, descending with the
arrival of spring to an abandoned meeting place of a new sect, the
so-called Christians.

The other clan
female covered the windows to block out chilly springtime winds
while the two adult males gathered firewood or hunted. They had to
make do with game, for no human lived within fifty leagues. When
little Rigo resisted being separated from his parent’s privacy, one
of the pack males tempted him away with a new carved wooden
toy.

Aliff had a
single thing on his mind when he stepped into their separate area,
casting aside his cloak, a complete bear skin he’d taken in a hunt
the winter before. With fervor, he closed the distance to his young
mate, covered in another bear skin, naked and yearning
underneath.

“
Oh, my
lord,” she gasped in feigned surprise. “What brings you to me
tonight?”

He stood tall
before her, his vast shoulders tapering to a delicious, rippled
abdomen, which glistened in the faint lamp light as if oiled.
Leather britches laced in front with a huge bulging codpiece
covered his loins. Thick copper tresses hung behind in two tight
braids falling halfway to his waist.

He stopped.
“What is that?” He pointed to the symbol of the running serpents
inscribed with the shape of the woman.

“
It is the
goddess Mari, accompanied by consort Sugaar, to bless our special
night.”

“
If Sugaar
agrees to watch only, he may stay. As for the goddess, I have
nothing to spare for her satisfaction.”

Ignoring the
blasphemous overtones of his proclamation, Cithara smiled at the
compliment of forsaking the region’s dominant female deity for her.
Nevertheless, religious decorum of the faithful required an
admonishment. A simper accompanied the token. “Forefend, you must
not speak so in the presence of a goddess.”

Aliff grunted.
Throwing off his britches, he stood naked in front of her. His
magnificent masculine shape never failed to thrill. The scars he’d
acquired since they became a pair added to his allure. Cithara
judged the deities mollified with sufficient obeisance. She turned
from them to the need she shared with Aliff.

“
Join me,
my lord?” She lifted a corner of her covering.

Shuddering
once in the chill of their room, he wasted no time slipping under
the bearskin. His manhood slipped into the warm cup of her lean
hands. Her nearness warmed and soothed the windburn from the dry
cold outside. Two wanton visages came together in a long, soulful
kiss while each body, at the end of its capacity for denial,
accommodated the other. Rolling him onto his back, she climbed on
top.

“
Will you
ride me like a beast of transport?” he chided playfully.

Her thighs
wrapped his hips, and their mingled sexual readiness saturated the
small closed room.

How fortunate
I am to have the love of this man, the only one I’ve ever
wanted.

Finding his
member, she moved it toward her yearning female cavity. The rod
felt warm and smooth in her hand. Before inserting it, she ran a
sharp-nailed finger down its length. When his body trembled under
her touch, she marveled how she, so small, possessed such power
over one so great. Then she pressed his sex into her hot
wetness.

Turbulent with
passion, he writhed beneath her.

Like holding a
wolf by the ears.

She rode up
and down on his strained shaft, like a war club within her. His
rising passion threatened to boil over into a morph. Abandoning
restraint, she leaned forward to scrape her clitoris against his
swollen, lubricated member. The raw contact of their intimate and
sensitive parts brought on the culmination of their love. Her
female core repeatedly embraced his masculinity, triggering a
mutual climax. The best part of him gushed forth to slake the
appetite of the beast that can never be sated, into a place where
it was eminently cherished and appreciated.

* * * *

“Ms. Winters.
Ms. Winters.” Donatello jabbed her awake. “It’s almost six. We have
a lot of work to do.”

Groggily, she
sat up. “Sorry, I usually catch my sleep in the afternoon, right
after shift.”

“No problem,
love,” he answered. “We have time. Let’s create Cinderella.”

While
Donatello worked on her, Lorna sensed a quickening tempo throughout
the house. Servants scurried by in the hall, accompanied by a buzz
of conscientious voices.

“All right,
darling,” said Donatello. “The masterpiece is finished.” They were
in the passage between the walk-in closets. He turned on the last
of the lights. Perched on the vanity stool, the hot glare pressed
in on Lorna from everywhere. An opaque plastic sack covered her
hair. “Let’s see what we have.”

With a snatch
of his wrist, he ripped away the cover. Lorna couldn’t help but
gasp. The result more than justified the discomfort. The hairdo was
still OPD regulation, but with subtle differences. The color
deepened into a glossy, chestnut shade. The texture appeared
thicker, framing her face in a more attractive way. Raising eyes
heavenward in gratitude, she promised herself to cover this work of
art at night to make the style last until the next century if she
could, because for sure, none of the tonsorial idiots she dealt
with back home could duplicate it.

“Donatello,
it’s beautiful!”

“No more than
you deserve, darling. Now, you’re perfect.”

At
ten–to–eight, a heavy knock rapped on the door. Donatello stepped
back to admire his creation a last time. “Showtime.” He smiled.
“Knock him dead, Princess.”

Somehow,
coming from him, the “P” word seemed appropriate. Maybe because he
gave her the feeling of being one.

The blond
giant of a man who’d driven the car taking her from Floubert’s
stood in the doorway. “Hello, Ms. Winters,” he said amiably. “I’m
Ethan White. I’m pleased to meet you at last. Officially, that
is.”

“Hello,
Ethan,” she replied, offering a hand while appreciating how well he
cleaned up.

“I see Father
installed you in the First Parents’ room as I recommended.”
Donatello raised a portentous eyebrow. “We dine tonight in the
Green Room.”

“Will there be
others?”

“No, ma’am,
you are the only guest on the card.”

Lorna turned
to accompany Ethan, but paused when Donatello touched her arm.
“Remember,” he whispered in her ear. “The room spoke to you as it
has to no other. Let what you learned guide you.”