TailWind

New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com

Copyright ©2006 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

© copyright May 2006, Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cover art by Dan Skinner & Kat Richards, © copyright May 2006

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Barefoot, Blaez Dolan stood six foot six inches tall in his blazing glory—a slight pun on his name. His shoulders were broad, his waist was lean, he had chiseled pecs, his biceps bulged, and his abdomen was flint hard. The pelt of crisp dark hair on his muscular chest dipped down to his loins in a well defined tiger line, drawing the eye of every female who had the pleasure of seeing him without his shirt. With a head of thick black waves that fell loosely to his shoulders, finely arched brows with long, spiky eyelashes, amber tinted eyes, full lips and startlingly white teeth, he had been likened to an ancient god stepped down from the vault of the heavens.

In realty Blaez was a cold as ice mercenary with a smile that could best be described as deadly and with a penchant for frivolous blondes with few brains and large tits. With no roots, no attachments, no stable place to call home, his was as solitary an existence as money and power could buy. He was so far off the radar of those around him he might not have been there at all.

What set Blaez apart even farther from everyone else was that he hailed from Lupinia, a planet two star systems over where the inhabitants had the ability to shapeshift into dangerous creatures the megaverse called werewolf. Though Dolan was an extraordinarily handsome man with a knockout physique, he could change into a snarling, vicious, shaggy wolf with sharp fangs, even sharper claws, and a propensity to make mincemeat out of those who annoyed him and he could do so in the blink of an eye.

Sitting in a seedy bar on a backward world—the name of which he hadn't even bothered to remember once he'd been cleared to land—he was there waiting for his runabout to be refueled. Blaez was nursing a shot of potent Ionarian whiskey and brooding so fiercely no one dared come near him. They knew where he was from by the dark blue tribal tattoo of a stylized wolf that curved down the left side of his face, and they were giving him a wide berth. Even the most down-on-their-luck whores kept their distance, sensing a man who'd just as soon slit their throats as give them a quick look. Staring into the dusty mirror behind the bar, he almost smiled when the bounty hunter moved into position behind him.

"Hello, Brewton,” he greeted the man.

The people in the bar scattered like chaff in a brisk wind and with just as much noise, no one wanting to garner the werewolf's notice as he sat watching Brewton's reflection in the mirror.

"Set the drink down, Dolan,” the tracker said, “and keep your hands where I can see them."

"It took you long enough to find me,” Blaez replied. “I've left bread crumbs all over the megaverse. I've done everything but put up a flashing red neon arrow pointing to my head. Had a little trouble reading my trail, did you?” He brought the glass to his lips and knocked off the remainder of the whiskey.

Al Brewton tightened his grip on the laser guided pistol he was clutching. A small red dot shone in the middle of Dolan's back, lighting the way to his heart. “Don't make me have to put you down, wolf boy,” the tracker snarled. “If I have to, it won't be easy and it won't be pretty."

"Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Blaez drawled. “Really, Brewton, you need to come up with a better line. That was sounds so fucking lame."

Brewton was standing with his knees flexed, both arms straight out in front of him in the shooter's stance he'd no doubt learned from watching too many old vids.

"Put that drink down, I told you, and get your bond-jumping ass off that fucking stool!” Brewton yelled and even an imbecile could hear the fear making his raspy voice shake.

"Brewton, if I get up off this fucking stool,” Blaez said, “you'll have just enough time to take one last breath before I slice that nappy head of yours off that dirty neck you haven't washed in—oh, I'd say from the smell I'm guessing—at least a week.” He met the tracker's eyes in the mirror, his own twin orbs of brutal intent.” Now, do you really want me to get up?"

"Aye, I want you to get the fuck up!” the bounty hunter screamed.

Hovering in the corner of the room was a vid-com, one of an ancient variety that had seen better days. Its titanium surface chipped and pitted from the drunken target practice of the bar's patrons over the years, miraculously the plasma recording device still worked—a testament to the fine
an Ghermáin
engineering of the Tappa Industries. What the vid-com recorded for the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that afternoon would be replayed over and over again and examined closely by dozens of officials who would finally file the recording away, none of them keen on sending yet another bumbling bounty hunter after Dolan.

For those who would view the action later, the bar had been dimly lit, smoky, the herky-jerky movements of the participants appearing on the screen caused by the slowly disintegrating integrity of the vid-com tape. Rolling blips and white streaks of interference, caused by passing spacecraft, interfered with a strong, clear signal and thus distorted the confrontation—but it was obvious what had happened. Only the werewolf and the bounty hunter appeared on the viewback. However, it would be enough for those who studied it to have it brought forcefully home to the members of the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that Dolan wasn't a man to mess with. He could be one mean motherfucker when angered.

There was the skirl of the bounty hunter's silver bullet tumbling through the air, the mirror behind the bar shattering. Blaez, the man for whom that deadly shot had been intended, was lying on his side on the floor, his left hand wrapped around a ten-inch long handle with a dragon perched at the base. The laser light of his whip wavered for a moment then retracted into the dragon handle with a sharp sizzle.

For a moment Albert Brewster stood where he was—knees still bent, arms stiff as a day-old cadaver. His pale blue eyes were wide, his mouth ajar with a thin stream of spittle seeping from one side. He made a strangled sound, and then his head fell from his shoulders to roll beneath one of the gaming tables.

Blaez was lying at eye level with the gruesome trophy for a moment then got easily to his feet, dusting off his black jeans, snapping the handle of his laser whip back into its leather sheath. He straightened his shoulders, reached for the bottle of whiskey, poured himself another drink, downed it, slammed the shot glass on the bar and fished in his pocket for a beryllium slug, slapped it down, then walked out of the bar without a second glance at the man he'd killed.

Outside the bar, it was colder than a witch's teat. A thick rime of frost lay on the ground and it crunched as he walked toward the refueling station at the edge of the shoddy little town. A single light glowed in the station but all around him the windows of the buildings were dark and not one single curtain, one single blind moved as he made his way down the street.

The air reeked sharply of sulfur and something even more obnoxious. With his keen sense of smell, the odors were combining to give him a wicked headache. That did nothing to elevate the black mood into which he'd been sinking since landing on Gelal.

His ship was sitting where he'd left it. The fuel had been brought to it for he didn't trust—or allow—anyone to touch his baby but him. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, reaching out to stroke his hand down the gleaming black hull of the Fiach class runabout that was his pride and joy.

Glancing around, he didn't see the station attendants but that neither surprised nor alarmed him. His kind were feared—and rightly so. Taking the wallet from his back pocket, he opened it and counted out what he felt should cover the refueling. If it did, that was okay. It is didn't, tough shit.

Climbing into the cockpit of his baby, he glanced out the windshield and saw people milling around outside the saloon. Some of them—obviously braver than the others—turned to look toward the refueling station. He snorted disdainfully as he sat down and buckled himself into the safety harness crisscrossing the command chair. He flipped switches, pushed a myriad of buttons, keyed in coordinates and instructions, checked the fuel tanks to make sure they were filled to capacity with crystals, engaged the engines, and then pushed the throttle to 10 percent. The Fiach lifted like a feather floating on the breeze with barely a disturbance of the dirt beneath her keel. Rising into the air with hardly any noise at all, the black runabout hovered there for a moment as its pilot made a few final adjustments. Gently nosing the sleek machine ninety degrees to the starboard he settled back in the form-fitting leather chair and pulled back on the stick. Lifting with a roar of its mighty propulsion tubes, the Fiach shot into the sky as though flung from a catapult.

"Holy, Mother of Alel!"

The voice startled Blaez so violently, his hand jerked back on the stick and the runabout screamed upward almost vertically.

"Cut it out!"

His head snapped around and his eyes flared wide as he saw a woman sprawled at the rear of the cabin, struggling to get up from the floor. Her skirt was peeled back from her legs and she was floundering in her effort to right herself. Cursing, he eased the stick forward, but it took a moment to level the craft and all the while, he was grinding his teeth, his body as tense and rigid as steel.

Once the Fiach was flying sure and true, he engaged the autopilot and his hands flew over the buckles of the safety harness, flinging them aside, shooting up from the chair with every intention of strangling the stowaway.

Rozenn Quinlan was grumbling as she smoothed her skirt down over her bare legs. She had just enough time to sit up before he was on her, bent down toward her, his snarling, infuriated face in hers, his lips peeled back, fangs extended. Her eyes widened for a moment, she stared at him, he glared at her, he growled, and then she began to laugh.

It was the laughter that stunned the werewolf and made him straighten up. The woman was laughing so hard, tears were gathering in her eyes and she was practically rolling on the floor with mirth.

"Stop that!” he yelled at her, the words garbled for his fangs were still out. He had never mastered the art of controlling his volatile temper no matter how often his instructors had smacked him on the back of his head. When anger or fear or just plain overwhelming irritation got the better of him, his canines had the tendency to elongate into fangs quicker than a randy sailor's pants in a bordello.

"Oh, this is just too much!” she laughed, slapping her thigh.

"What the hell is wrong with you?” he bellowed and reached down to snag her arm and jerk her to her feet.

The strength in his hand, the power behind his movement was enough to squelch Rozenn's laughter. As his grip tightened to a painful hold, she sobered and met his raging glower with a lifted chin. “You're hurting me,” she said softly.

Blaez's eyebrows drew together, his fangs retracted so quickly they sliced into his gums and he felt the wash of blood on his tongue. Shaking his head, he let go of her as though the touch had scalded him and stepped back.

"Thank you,” she said, adjusting the bodice of her gown and extending a hand to him. “I am Rozenn Quinlan."

His gaze lowered to her hand for an incredulous moment then slowly lifted to her face.

It wasn't a pretty face. The woman was overweight—or pleasingly plump depending on which man you might ask. She had chopped off mousy brown hair that was quickly running toward gray and slight pouches beneath her eyes. Her face was broad, her lips thin, her earlobes protruding almost comically. The only arresting thing about her face was her eyes. They were a striking emerald green and framed beneath perfectly arched brows that—however—were in need of a thinning.

"Hello?” she said, waving her hand at him. “I'm introducing myself."

With a menacing growl, he spun around and stalked back to the command chair. Slamming down into it, he jerked the safety harnesses in place and began to mumble under his breath.

"You're a rude werewolf, aren't you?” she asked, calmly taking one of the two jump seats that sat along the port side of the ship. With care, she strapped herself in.

"How the hell did you get on my ship, wench?” he snarled.

"I stowed away,” she replied. “I've gotten really good at it, actually. Usually they don't even know I'm there until I get off."