Instructing the Novice Read online

  Feeling Lizabeth’s abject terror without being able to get to her and save her was tearing Lone apart. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth, willing the damn train to go faster.

  “No, you damn well don’t understand,” he growled at Joren. “She’s terrified. I can feel her fear but I can’t get to her. Hurry, damn you!”

  “You can feel your lady’s fear?” Joren frowned. “Is that a Kindred trait?”

  “It is when you’re bonded,” Lone said tersely. He felt Lizabeth’s fear spike even higher and nearly shouted with frustration. “Gods, are we almost there?”

  “Be easy, lad. We’re here right…now.”

  As Joren spoke, the train car at last came to a jolting stop at the far station. Lone was out almost before the doors slid open to let in a freezing wind. The frozen ball of pale yellow that was the sun on this Godless rock was nearing the horizon, he noticed. He wouldn’t have much daylight left to do his killing in.

  For it was killing he intended. He would slaughter the whole damn tribe of Friezens and if they had hurt Lizabeth in any way, well, he would do it slowly.

  That was when he heard her screaming.

  “Lad, wait!” Joren was calling behind him. “There’s too many of them—wait for the rest of us!”

  But the protective Rage was on Lone—his vision was blood-red and the killing fury filled him. All he knew was that his female was in danger—was being hurt—and he had to kill the ones who were hurting her. Dimly he heard the other males calling for him to come back as he raced down the cold metal ladder and across the icy, barren landscape. He didn’t even turn his head to answer them.

  He had to get to Lizabeth before it was too late or die trying.

  Lizabeth’s vocal cords felt as though someone had taken a rusty razor blade to them. Every scream hurt so badly she could barely stand it and yet, she couldn’t stop screaming.

  The Shaman had finished carving and burning the words of whatever invocation or incantation to the Father Gods he thought were necessary into both her inner thighs and the pain was so bad Lizabeth felt as though she’d been branded. But the worst was yet to come.

  She watched, unable to look away, as he picked up the third knife—the one with the longest, thinnest blade. It narrowed to a point no bigger than a needle—a red-hot glowing needle.

  And he’s about to use that on my clit!

  Lizabeth drew another ragged breath, knowing she was going to scream again.

  “Here we are now—the final cut to honor the Father Gods,” Terg’s voice was self-satisfied—the voice of a man congratulating himself on a job well done.

  As the glowing point of the knife touched the tender bundle of nerves at her center, another screame ripped through Lizabeth’s shredded throat.

  Oh God, the pain was unbearable. Why couldn’t she just faint? Why couldn’t she lose consciousness? Why—

  There was a sound outside the tent—a low, guttural growling that rose above the howling of the storm. Then the shouting began.

  Terg pulled the knife back and away from her without completing the cut.

  “What’s that?”

  “What in the name of the Father Gods?” Brut growled. He had been watching with a kind of gleeful anticipation as the Shaman carved up Lizabeth’s inner thighs with the red-hot knives and then went after her clit, but now he looked up, frowning.

  “Did a Garn-beast come out of its deep sleep early?” The Shaman’s assistant looked uneasily at the fur-covered flap that served as the tent’s door.

  “Go and check, will you, Brut?” Terg spoke with the air of a man preoccupied by a difficult but enjoyable task. “If the men are getting impatient for a taste of the Snow Queen, tell them I’m almost done here. They can have her soon enough.”

  “Not before I do! And anyway, I want to see you finish carving out her impure parts first.” The Friezen leader leered at Lizabeth’s exposed sex. “That’s always the best part of the ceremony.”

  “True. Well then—Lurx, you go. Let them know we’re almost done here.”

  “All right.” The Shaman’s assistant looked uneasy but he headed obediently towards the tent flap. “I’ll just—”

  Suddenly the flap slapped open and a big hand caught the hapless Lurx by the throat. The Shaman’s assistant gurgled, his eyes popping wide with surprise. He had no time to say anything before the hand tightened and his throat was ripped completely out. He dropped to the floor, gasping and choking, clutching at the bloody hole where the front part of his neck had been as crimson streams poured over the dirty fur that carpeted the floor of the tent.

  “What in the names of the Father Gods?” Brut was on his feet, a long, wicked-looking dagger in his hand when the bloody hand followed by a long muscular arm entered the tent. The arm was followed by a seven-foot tall Kindred warrior with his eyes blazing blood-red.

  “Lone,” Lizabeth cried—or tried to. His name came out in a dull croak. His eyes flicked to her direction anyway and Brut chose that moment to lunge at him.

  “Watch out, Brut! He may have a blaster!” Terg exclaimed. He was also on his feet now, the long, needle-sharp knife still clutched in his grimy fist.

  “I do have a blaster.” Lone’s voice was almost unrecognizable, Lizabeth thought, so low and guttural and full of rage as it was. “But you don’t fucking deserve a quick death.”

  Fast as lightning he reached forward and gripped Brut’s knife-hand by the wrist. The Friezen leader tried to lunge towards him but Lone’s hand tightened and he made a decisive, brutal movement faster than Lizabeth’s eyes could follow.

  There was a low crack, like a tree-branch snapping, and suddenly Brut’s hand and wrist were bent at a right angle to the rest of his arm. His gray face turned even paler and a gasping howl came from his lips.

  “Not so brave when you’re the one who has to bear the pain, are you?” Lone snarled. “You bastard—this is the least of what you deserve for hurting my mate! I’ll tear you apart piece by fucking piece!”

  As he spoke, he grabbed the other male’s head and began to squeeze—pressing Brut’s cranium between his powerful palms.

  “Father Gods!” The Friezen leader flailed wildly but his right arm was useless and it didn’t matter how he beat and kicked at Lone, the big Kindred wouldn’t let go. Lizabeth saw his eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth open wide in a hoarse scream.

  My God, she thought numbly. He’s really going to do it—Lone is going to crush his skull like a grape!

  Her gaze was glued to the scene playing out in front of her but now another movement caught her eye.

  “Lone!” she tried to shout. “Behind you—look behind you!”

  But her voice was nothing but ragged shreds and she couldn’t give more than a hoarse whisper.

  As the Friezen leader’s skull gave way with a cracking sound and gouts of blood poured from his eyes and nose, Lone turned anyway. But too late—Terg was already plunging the long, sharp knife to the hilt in the big Kindred’s back.

  Lizabeth gasped when she saw the bloody tip come out the front of Lone’s chest.

  Oh God, he killed him! No—oh, no! Lone—no!

  She expected to see the big Kindred crumple to the floor and he did stagger and gasp, his blood-red eyes going wide with pain. He dropped the limp body of the Friezen leader and it seemed he would soon follow himself.

  But to Lizabeth’s amazement, the big Kindred didn’t fall. Instead, he turned towards the Shaman. Glaring at Terg, he pushed the point of the knife decisively back through his body. As the Friezen Shaman watched, stunned, Lone reached one long arm around behind him and pulled the knife free. Letting it fall to the dirty fur carpet by Brut’s crumpled form, he grabbed Terg, who was still staring in amazement, by the neck.

  The Shaman’s muddy brown eyes grew wide in his gray, bearded face.

  “You…should…should be…dead,” he gasped as Lone tightened his grip.

  “So should you,” Lone growled, his eyes flashing.

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