Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (78 page)

selected, too…”



Mr. Supernat scanned it. “Military, special forces, Master’s in

math and engineering… Perfect. Thank you, Jas.”


“No problem.” She gave a wave as he walked away, Reynolds’

resume in hand.
 Her inbox’s alarm went off. She had lunch scheduled

with Saul. Saul was better with names. Maybe he’d know why Major

Patrick Reynolds’ sounded so familiar.

THE END
Again

Author bio:
Ryan Loveless has a B.A. in English from a private

college in Illinois and a master’s degree in library and information

science with an archival certificate from a university in New York.

Raised in a conservative family, she was shocked and relieved when

her coming out was largely uneventful. She has been writing since she

could read and has always drifted towards M/M because she enjoyed

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 469

the relationship dynamics. It’s possible that her first story was about

G.I. Joe. She wishes she still had that story.

Also from Ryan Loveless

Available at Silver Publishing:

Pop Life

Available at Dreamspinner Press:

Off the Page

Offside

The Gift

Uniform Appeal Anthology

Available at Smashwords and Lulu:

Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included)

Email: [email protected]

Faceboo
k: http://facebook.com/ryanlovelessbooks

Blog
: http://ryanloveless.dreamwidth.org/

Twitter
: http://www.twitter.com/ryanloveless

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 470

Selah March – THE SATYR’S LAMENT (Post-Apocalyptic/ Mythology)

Genre:
erotic post-apocalyptic fantasy

Tags:
outdoor sex, virgin sex, gladiator,

Dear Author,

Greek/Roman mythology, pushy bottom

This fine, fine specimen

Content warning:
non-sexual violence and

caught my eye.

gore

[PHOTO: A toned,

Words:
4,511

muscular, kilted man leans

back against a wall. His

THE SATYR’S LAMENT

dark-haired head is tilted,

enhancing the sharp angle

by Selah March

of stubbled jaw, the half-

This was not how Cato was meant to die.

lidded eyes, the hip-thrust

stance. A tattoo marks his

He was meant to die as a hero on the

bicep, a dangling cross

battlefield, or in the forest as the meal of a

draws attention to his bare

chest, the slitted dark fabric

hungry predator, or even as an old man in the

reveals one strong thigh.]

bosom of his loving family. But not like this —

What I want to know is…

never
like this.

Warrior or cosplayer?

He lay on his back in the dust. The sky

Bad boy or playboy?

above the coliseum glowed white as bone and

Angsty or shy?

bright as a freshly sharpened blade, dazzling his

Defiant or stubborn?

eyes. The roar of the crowd filled his ears, and

he could smell his own blood and that of other

Whatever the answers are,

he looks awfully alone

men, and over it the rank stench of the

there. Can you find him a

Holocaust Machine — dirty oil, spilled

pair and make him happy?

gasoline, and burning flesh.

Thank you!

He shifted, jarring the jagged piece of steel

LadyM

that protruded from between his ribs and

sending a bolt of agony down the length of his

body. He gripped the mechanical monster’s

broken claw between his numb fingers and

pulled. It came away in his hand — all six

inches of it. A fresh gout of blood flowed from

the hole it left.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 471

The clanging and grinding of gears alerted him to the Holocaust

Machine’s second approach, and he struggled to prop himself on one

elbow. Around him, men in caught in the process of dying flinched

away from the sound, but Cato would face the instrument of his

destruction.

The beast stopped a few yards away. It stood twenty feet high and

fifteen feet across, its pitted carcass a wonder of ugliness and ferocity.

Once a fearsome war machine, it was now relegated to slaughtering

expendables for the entertainment of the high and mighty. Cato

wondered if it comprehended how far it had fallen.

The beast opened its maw with an echoing screech to reveal its

deadly, gore-splattered teeth and the charred remains of Cato’s fellow

gladiators. Rage filled Cato’s heart — hot and pure, but no less

pointless for its intensity — and he pushed himself further upright.

“Come on, chow down already! I’ll give you a bellyache like the

end of the fucking world, you rusty bastard!”

The beast tilted its spiked head, reminding Cato of a quizzical dog.

Then one of its dozen arms shot out. Its claws closed around Cato and

lifted him into the dry, dusty air. The spectators in the stands shrieked

their approval.

The ground tilted dizzily beneath Cato as he was upended. When

he closed his eyes, he saw the forest grove where he and his father had

once hunted. He found himself murmuring the words to an old prayer

from his childhood — an irony of the highest order, as he no longer

believed in any version of heaven, which was how he’d ended up as

fodder for the Holocaust Machine in the first place. Still, the words

came to him couched in his mother’s voice as if she were bending to

kiss him, as she had every night till he was fifteen and the warrior

monks of the Sacred Union invaded his home and snatched him away.

To the spirits of the grove I offer my allegiance. I pray they will

guide me safely to my home in the bower, where I may spend eternity

in peace and plenty.

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But Cato would never live in peace and plenty again. He bit back

a curse as the beast’s fiery breath scorched the exposed skin of his

chest and caught at the wool of his kilt, making it smoke. He could

feel blood running like water from his wound, and wondered if he

might bleed out before the Machine incinerated him. It was the best

hope he could muster.

He closed his eyes in resignation and prepared himself to die.

All at once, the chants and jeers of the crowd faded, replaced

by…birdsong? And why did the beast’s breath blow cooler now, and

was that the sound of rushing water? Cato opened his eyes, shouted in

alarm…

…and fell from the branches of a cottonwood tree onto soft, green

grass.

****

the ground with a thud and a groan. He waited as the human got its

bearings — looked around, rubbed at its eyes, checked itself for

nonexistent wounds. When it stood and shook the cinders from its

skin, Silvanus stepped from behind the mulberry bush and into the

dappled sunshine.

“You are even more beautiful at this distance. It is quite

remarkable.”

The statement was nothing short of the truth. The human was

stunning — an artful combination of pale skin, shaggy black hair, and

cobalt blue eyes. Though its ribs showed too well beneath its short

cape, and its kilt hung too low on its hips, Silvanus could see that with

proper nutrition it would be a strapping example of its species.

At the sound of Silvanus’ voice, the human jumped and stumbled

backward. When it turned to face Silvanus, its hands were already

reaching for its blade, though the cut of the human’s sharp glance was

weapon enough for any three of its kind.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 473

“Who…who are you?” it asked, its voice rough as bark and pitched

low beneath the babble of the brook.

“I have many names. You may call me Silvanus.”

“What is this place? How did I get here?”

Silvanus chose to ignore the first question. “I willed your

presence.”

“Willed it? Like…with magic?” the human asked, his tone even

more distrustful. “Are you a sorcerer?”

Again, Silvanus chose not to answer directly. “In your final

extremity, you prayed to the spirit of the grove, did you not?”

The human nodded. “I remember.”

“I merely answered your plea,” Silvanus explained. “This is your

new home in the bower, where you may spend eternity in peace and

plenty.” He took a single step forward. “And pleasant

companionship.”

The human shuffled backward. “This is a dream. The guards put

something in my tea, and I’m hallucinating.” It rubbed at its eyes

again, and ran its hands through its shaggy, black hair. “They do that,

you know. They get bored and fuck with our minds while we’re

waiting to be fed to the Machine.”

Silvanus shook his head. “I know nothing of your guards, but this

is no dream.”

The human gave him another cutting look. “You know, it’s hard

to take you seriously when you’re standing there naked.”

Silvanus glanced down at the glory that was his body and

shrugged. “There is no need to cover oneself here. The sun will not

burn, the wind will not freeze. The rain is warm and gentle, and seeks

only to quench our thirst.”

He sidled nearer as he spoke, scuffing his feet in the grass.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 474

The human took another step backward. “All right, Nature Boy,

that’s close enough.”

Silvanus inclined his head. “As you like. We have all eternity to

know one another.”

“All eternity? You mean this is it for me? Forever?”

“It was your dying wish.”

The human scowled. “I was under duress. You shouldn’t take a

man literally when he’s about to barbecued.”

“Barbecued?” The word was unfamiliar to Silvanus, but he did

like the way the human’s lips pursed in aggravation.

“Never mind,” the human replied. “Where’s the exit?”

“Exit?” A flutter of panic erupted in Silvanus’ chest. “You wish to

leave this place?”

The human shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of abandoning my

buddies. They’re getting massacred in the arena.”

“And how would your instant demise help them, exactly?”

Silvanus inquired, doing his best to seem non-threatening.

“Call it a point of honor.” The human seemed less intimidated

than impatient. “Seriously, how do I get back to the coliseum?”

Silvanus thought a moment. “Will you give me your ear,

courageous human, for but a few moments? Allow me to tell you of

this place, and all its beauties. Allow me to show you what you would

so readily trade away for the privilege of being…barbecued.”

“But my buddies—”

“Time moves differently here. What seems like hours will

encompass but a moment or two on the human plane.”

He watched as the human considered his request.

Finally, it nodded. “I’ll listen, but you can’t keep calling me

‘human.’ My name is Cato.”

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