WastelandRogue (2 page)

Once more, Hamner’s rough hand traveled over her quivering
skin. His fingers skated through the blood and raked through the open
lacerations in her flesh. Oddly, it felt good. That sensation slowly removed
her thoughts from reality. It gave way for insanity to begin claiming her mind.

Rye took a deep breath to stave off the darkness circling
her consciousness. Since arguing with the lunatic wasn’t getting her anywhere,
she had to try something else before she grew too weak to attempt getting free.

“Ple—ease, let me go,” she sobbed, feigning frailty as if
she were a human. “Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry.”

He instantly moved away. Was her ploy working? She heard the
clink of metal to glass. Had he stopped to take a drink, maybe consider his
next course of action?

Dehydration was causing hysteria to swell within her. “What
are you doing?” she asked, impatient for his decision.

Without answering, his coarse touch resumed. The perverse
caress traveled around to her chest. He kneaded her right breast, painfully
rough. Bile rose, burning her sore throat. She swallowed hard, refusing to give
him the satisfaction of seeing her vomit. It wasn’t until now that her thoughts
turned to the possibility he had raped her.

Then he stopped his strange molestation. “You want to drink
this, don’t you?” he asked.

From a gap between the matted fibers of her filthy hair, she
saw his hand. In the center of his palm lay a puddle of her blood. Thus far,
she had struggled to ignore the appealing scent of human blood on his shirt,
mostly to no avail. Inhaling sharply, she let the iron-infused smell rush up
her nostrils. Hunger pangs thrummed the inside of her ravaged belly.
Lamian
s
didn’t need to eat but blood had a revitalizing quality that drew them to it to
fill their inherent need.

Her feeble pulse quivered, revving from the anticipation of
a forthcoming energy. A tremor rolled through her. Veins pulsated
uncontrollably, anxious to savor the renewing nutrients. Finally, the scarlet
in her eyes parted to give her an unobstructed view of what he offered.

“Here, have a taste.” Hamner pressed his hand over her mouth
and nose.

She never considered refusing. Stubbornness wasn’t a viable
reason to deny what she required. Spite would get her nowhere. Pressing her
lips to his palm and sucking quickly, she greedily slurped up the blood. The
awful stench of Hamner’s dirty flesh sickened her. Did he have an aversion to
water—to cleanliness?

The metallic content of her blood coating her taste buds
improved her vigor. Then his hand moved away. Her vitality waned. She hadn’t
ingested enough to make up for what she had lost. With so many slices and stab
wounds, she needed much more than Hamner had offered. Before long, she would
enter an unconscious state of hibernation.

He had said he considered her a vampire and that he wanted
her dead. Why had he not lopped off her head or burned her? Why take his time?
What was his reason? Would she live to find out? If she did, she’d be more
mercifully swift in killing him.

“I think it’s time to go for a ride.” He moved behind her.

It was all she could do to stay awake, let alone keep her
brain from malfunctioning. Intense hatred remained a strong motivator.
Unfortunately, Hamner had reduced her to as vulnerable a state as a
lamian
could experience. His arm went around her middle as he cut her wrists free of
their bindings. She slumped over, unable to lift her head. She hated that she
had no control over her body.

He jostled her a few times, flopping her back and forth from
one side to the other. “Just right, I think,” he said, sounding satisfied by
her inability to move on her own.

She lay limp over the sling of his arm. “Right for what?”
she asked weakly.

“There are some scientists paying a hefty reward for live
lamians
.”

Her mind latched on to one key word—
live
. That meant
there was a chance she’d find Shay.

“By draining you of a lot of blood, I can now transport you
to their facility,” he said.

Scientists
?
Was it true? Was there a group of
intelligent humans working to propagate prejudice and sway the weak-minded into
doing their dirty work? What exactly were their plans for
lamians
?

Hamner dragged her through a few rooms. Everything looked
old, abandoned. When he got her outside, she saw he’d had her in a structure
built from blocks of stone that she assumed to be an old mining station’s
sorting and storage facility. Inside these storage chambers, humans had once
kept their bounties from the earth away from heat, pests and thieves.

Rye steered her thoughts toward healing. Her location wasn’t
as important as why her body hadn’t regenerated. What prevented her cuts from
healing? What kept her lethargic? Then she questioned the underlying bitter
aftertaste from the sweetness of her blood. That putrid smell on Hamner’s hand
she had accepted so easily as the stench of uncleanliness. Not suspecting his
motives, she had let him feed her poison.

Her iron-rich blood had masked the usually pungent odor of
the garlic juice found in allium. With its paralyzing effect on rejuvenating
tissue cells, the blood poison made Rye feel doomed.

Sevrin Renault pushed opened the steel door of his steam-trekker.
A wave of heat, heavy with dust hit him in the face. He stepped out on the
running board above the metal-ribbed track wheel that carried his vehicle over
the roughest land. It made a good mobile base for his wandering life in the
wastelands.

He wiped his leather-gloved hand over his face. The grit of
dirt clung to his lips and he tried to muster up saliva. It didn’t come easily.
“Damn weather.” He reached back inside the steam-trekker for his flask. He took
off the cap. Taking a mouthful of water, he swished it around and spit it to
the ground. With the dryness gone, along with the grainy residue, he took
another drink and swallowed. He replaced the cap and slung the flask back into
the steam-trekker.

He hopped off the running board. Fine dust particles from
the parched earth billowed up and coated his boots. He snapped back the tails
of his overcoat, sending a flurry of filth from the worn garment. Then drawing
his gun from the holster at his back, he checked to see that the chambers were
full, the hammer unlocked and the weapon ready for use. Armed for any sudden
surprises, he returned it to the holster, satisfied.

The steam engine in his vehicle suddenly hissed, startling
him. No matter how many times heard that in a day, he would never be prepared.
The series of spits, sputters and several juicy popping sounds as the liquid
cooled in the water-fueled tank reminded him he’d have to find a watering hole
and refill soon.

Curiosity drove his attention toward what someone had dumped
on the wayside. He prided himself on being a man getting by in life by whatever
means came his way. His brother, Zandt, called him an aimless wanderer. In
reality, he was a salvager, hunting for valuables that made life easier, more
comfortable and often interesting.

Along the top edge of the sloped hill, he walked back toward
the lighter than sand mound. Possibly a tarp, probably petrified wood, either
way he wanted to know it wasn’t something better.

He looked toward the bottom of the gully. It was normal to
find odd bits of furniture or machinery in unlikely places. People discarded
what they didn’t want whenever and wherever the mood stuck them. The last thing
he had expected to see thrown out as useless trash was a person.

Humans buried their own.
Lamians
burned theirs.

Wishing his eyesight had played tricks on him, he rubbed his
hand over his face. He scratched his jaw, giving a momentary thought to cutting
back the whiskers when he fueled the steam-trekker. The image of the naked
female quickly pulled his thoughts back on track.

The sight of her was about as far from common as finding
grass in the wastelands. Unable to turn away and ignore her, he climbed down
the bank. Loose gravel rolled out from beneath him, making his steps shaky.
Twenty feet later, he stood at the halfway point on the slope and stared at the
mutilated corpse of a young female.

Sprawled out in the rutted dirt, her limbs askew, she
appeared unreal, as if she were one of those mangled rag dolls children
sometimes carried. Her awkward position left an intimate part of her exposed.

Someone had wanted her to suffer before dying. Mutilation
came from anger. But who did it? A sex partner, a violent thief, what could
anyone possibly want from her? With her naked, it wasn’t beyond imagining in
their uncivilized society that someone had killed her for her clothes.

Whatever the reason, he had no part of another’s business.
Everyone had an agenda. He was no different and this was clearly not his
problem.

Still, he had trouble leaving it alone. The wastefulness of
her death disturbed him. Females were few in the wastelands, especially
beautiful ones. It didn’t make sense for anyone to go killing them off.

Sevrin moved closer, stumbling the remaining few steps over
the bumpy ground. Letting his gaze glide gradually over her sleek feminine
curves, he shook his head in disgust. Marred by dozens of cuts, her perfectly
shaped body showed all the signs of a lengthy torture.

“Damn crackbrains.” He shook his head, disgusted by what
people did to others. Then he turned away to leave.

Partly healed cuts
? He glanced back at the female.

To make sure she was dead, he bent down, flipped back the
blood-matted blonde hair from her face and pushed up her top lip.

“Fangs,” he muttered. “That explains the exaggerated efforts
of your attacker.”

He pulled off his right glove and pressed his fingertips
against the center of the
lamian’s
chest. Slowly, he maneuvered them
under her left breast until he found the slow beat of her heart.

“So, you’ve just been left for dead.” He pushed on her chest
with the palm of his hand and studied the large puncture wound in her belly.
Blood bubbled out. He pushed again, hoping to stimulate something better than a
weak thump of her heart. Reviving anything half-dead wasn’t in his area of
expertise.

“Why aren’t you healing?” He tried to think of what else he
might do to get a response from her.

With her advanced metabolism, she should have recovered from
her injuries shortly after receiving them. Even if she was not pure
lamian
and had a slower regenerative process, she should have healed as he watched.

Sevrin rose and pulled off his other glove. He shoved the
finely crafted pair of lizard-skin gloves into his pocket, not wanting to lose
them.

He scanned the area for signs of someone else, checking that
there was nothing to say he too was in danger. The barren wastelands let a man
see far and he saw no one.

A sound from the
lamian
drew his attention back to
her. How long had she been lying there exposed to the heat of the sun and
bleeding to death?

“Cold,” she suddenly but weakly complained. Her breathy
voice, although lacking energy, had an incredible magnetism.

Shaking off the disturbance to his senses, he squatted and
placed his hand against her slender neck. She radiated excessive heat. Death
nearing meant internally she would feel cold.

He stood and jerked his arms out of his overcoat. Like his
gloves, it also had been made of the slick hides of lizards. He took pride in
owning the long, durable garment. While it was often a cumbersome part of his
attire, it had useful purposes. Used to shield both sun and rain, it also made
for a decent bedroll or tent.

“Your body needs insulation from the sun’s heat,” he said,
snapping his often-coveted possession out over her without concern for the
blood that might get on it.

He made adjustments, thoroughly covering her arms and legs.
Reaching beneath the coat, he caught her leg by the calf and pulled her limbs
together. He tucked her arms close to her sides and flipped the collar up near
her neck.

Her soft moan drew his gaze. Her lashes fluttered and then
opened completely. She stared at him with the most gorgeous pale-blue eyes. The
mesmerizing tranquility of the color confused him. Whether full-blood or
half-breed,
lamians
usually had dark-brown or golden irises. Was his
scientist brother right with his hypothesis that the species who evolved from
humans only a couple centuries ago would continue evolving during their lifetime?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said reassuringly, expecting
fear, embarrassment or panic.

She blinked once, showing a quiet acceptance to his
statement. It either indicated the truest strength in her nature or was a sign
of her eminent demise.

While he preferred to stay out of time-sucking situations
unless he profited, a soft spot in him also never passed up an innocent in
distress. Something that seemed to happen to him a lot and the fragile female
at his feet certainly needed his help.

“You’ve got to replenish your blood loss.” He pushed his
sleeve up to his elbow.

“No.” She closed her eyes and turned her head away.

He’d met all kinds in his travels, from starving,
flesh-gorging humans to greedy, blood-drinking
lamians
. Run-ins with the
dregs of the world left him biased about not giving up his blood to anyone.
This was something new—a
lamian
who didn’t want to rip open his flesh
and suck his veins dry. She reminded him that
good
existed in the least
likely of places. It made him want to help her even more.

He slid his hand under her head and lifted it up. “You have
to do this.”

“Bloodletting perpetuates falsehoods,” she grumbled.

“You have sun-fever. If you don’t get fresh blood into you
soon, your body will become combustible, heated enough to burst into flames. I
don’t reckon I’d be too interested in seeing that happen.” He offered his
wrist, something he had never done for another
lamian
.

“Then leave.”

He understood pride, yet she was too pretty to let die
because of it.

“No one will know…except us.” He put his hand under the coat
and rubbed his fingers between her breasts to stimulate her heartbeat. “I’d
think you’d prefer drinking my blood rather than having me fondling you.” He
moved his hand to her hot belly. Blood still pumped out. “What’s your name?”

“Rye.”

Just having her answer showed she wasn’t ready to give up
life.

“Is that it?” he asked, trying to start a conversation of
any sort just to keep her awake.

She looked at him again. “It’s enough.”

“So that’s the name you want carved on your grave marker?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Her obstinacy showed spunk.

If he were the one lying near death, he might have said the
same thing. With hardships of day-to-day living and the lack of beauty in the
world, why not give up the struggle to hang on? On the other hand, perhaps her
display of stubbornness was a sign she was healing on her own.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to burn you instead of burying
you?” He needed to keep her talking to prevent her from sliding into a coma.

“According to you, I’ll burst into flames soon enough.” She
gasped a weak sound. Her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.

“Rye?” He gripped her chin and turned her face toward him.
“Rye, look at me.”

Her thick golden lashes lifted and her glistening blue gaze
lacked the resolve of her words.

“Your temperature is rising. You should drink before it’s
too late.” He offered his wrist again. “You must have some reason left to
live.”

Her eyes widened and he knew he’d found a chink in her
obstinacy.

Then she let out a sigh of defeat. “I was fed an extract
from allium.”

Blood poison
. Still, she could survive it or so he
had heard.

“You have to try,” he said again, not knowing to what extent
his blood could help. As a loner, he didn’t have long or detailed conversations
with purebreds of the
lamian
species to know all the differences in them
compared to humans. And half-breeds, those who had a mix of
lamian
and
human blood, had enough dissimilarities that it wasn’t a topic that came up in
his travels.

“I need…too…much.” She coughed on the last word.

Rye convulsed with sickening sounds of distress.

Sevrin’s stomach knotted. The haunting memories of his
mother’s illness flashed in his thoughts. He pulled Rye forward, rolling her on
her side. Vomit and blood spewed from her pale lips. He grabbed her shoulder
and steadied her as she continued to heave. Bile hit the bottom of his trouser
leg and his boot. When he touched her bare back to hold her from falling on her
face, he felt other gashes in her skin and more sticky blood.

“Fuck.”
What sadistic son of a bitch did this to her and
why?

“I’m sorry,” she said, anger fringing the apologetic tone.

Realizing how his disgust for her abuser could sound aimed
at her, he swept her hair back from her forehead. “Don’t be.” He moved his hold
away from where his fingers dipped into the split skin but he found no safe
place to hang on to her without touching an open cut.

She tried pushing herself away but another round of vomiting
forced her forward. He held her tight, helping her back to the ground when she
stopped shaking. Shifting his coat back in place to cover her, he felt around
the garment for the pocket with his flask.

He opened the lizard-hide container. “Here, drink this.” He
raised her head.

“No,” she protested. “It will dilute my blood and make the
poison recycle easier through my veins.”

“And if you don’t get cooled down soon, you’ll die. It’s a
damned if you do and damned if you don’t situation.” He flipped back the coat
from her upper torso and poured some of the water on her neck and chest. The
clean liquid cut paths through the grime.

With bloodstained hands, he wiped the water along her
collarbone and up her slender neck. The mixture of blood and dirt smeared
together. He splashed more water on her face and wet her dry-cracked lips. She
didn’t protest.

“How does that feel?” Not getting an answer, he grasped her
jaw and shook her by the face. “Rye?”

He continued to pour the water on her until it was gone. It
wasn’t enough. With the coat over her, he scooped her up. He climbed the slope
to the steam-trekker. There he laid her on the ground. He had some extra water
in the steam-trekker meant for powering the vehicle. The moment he opened the
small hatch to check the fuel reserve and heat wafted out, he knew he’d have to
use what water he had stored in the cab to pour in the fuel tank.

He opened the door of the steam-trekker and retrieved the
government storage can from behind the seat.

“Damn, not even half-full,” he said, shaking the gray metal
container.

He emptied it into the fuel funnel and then flipped the
hatch shut.

Rye remained motionless on the ground. He could have used
the water on her, but then where’d they be if he couldn’t quickly get her to
more water? Putting the can back behind the seat, he picked Rye up and hoisted
her to his shoulder. He mounted the running board, leaned inside the cab and
dumped her into the passenger seat. She fell toward the console. He pulled her
back up and realigned the coat over her as best he could. When she slumped
toward both him and the open door, he saw no other choice other than to climb
in with her. From there he could get into the driver’s seat.