Frost to Dust by Myra Danvers

16

General Harper Tilcot.

Broad shoulders filling the entire doorway, he blocked the light. The exit. Any and all hope of an escape that didn’t go through him, first.

Despite the chaotic blizzard thrashing behind my ribs, I let my eyes fall. Affecting the demure gaze of a slave—and felt Sasha’s entire frame sag in relief.

But still, her grip did not loosen.

She was poised to counter any move I might make against her beloved master. To wrap the empath in chains before I could be unleashed, for what she really wanted wasn’t to foster a rebellion using my unpredictable gifts.

She wanted obliteration of the empath.

For me to be submissive and compliant. To follow along in her perfect, dainty footsteps, never setting a hair out of line lest I disturb the careful balance she had achieved here.

Asher wanted to take. To control all that I was and use me for his own ends. A power source, an obedient sleeve for his cock, he wanted to possess.

But General Tilcot?

I blinked, watching the large man move from beneath a coy fan of my lashes.

He wanted a weapon.

“How goes the training of my wildcat?” he asked, slipping the door closed behind us with a firm snap. “I’m here for good news, Sasha.”

The Head Priestess swallowed. “It’s an… adjustment,” she replied, careful with her words. Artful. “Training an empath is going to be a difficult journey, but I’m confident—”

Snapping his fingers, the general took an impatient step toward us. “What is she capable of? What are her limits? Her strengths?”

“I—” Sasha cleared her throat, fingers growing tight and slick around my wrist. “I haven’t had the chance to fully assess her, sir.”

A condescending sound bubbled up from deep inside the general’s deep chest.

“I needed to make sure she was grounded, first. That she could handle the strain of being tested without irritating her empathetic nature.”

Humming, the general said, “Ah, yes. An empath. Such a rare creature.” He closed the distance between us in only two steps. “Tell me more. Everything that makes her an exception to the rule.”

“I—I don’t understand, sir,” Sasha stammered, and tried to pull me back.

But I did.

At least in part.

It was a phrase I’d already heard—before the captain had ushered me to the safety of continued ignorance.

And it seemed the general was in the mood to share.

“This fragile, dangerous girl seems to be more powerful than half of my best priestesses combined,” he began. “I’d like to know what other… hidden talents she might have. An eye for art, perhaps?” He grinned, plucking at the captain’s baggy shirt where it had fallen to expose my shoulder. “A sense of the future before it occurs?”

Sasha exhaled a nervous chuckle. “No, sir. Not that I’m aware of—”

“Then perhaps she carries more than a barren desert in place of a womb, hmm?”

All the color rushed from the Head Priestess’ face. Her fingers slick with cold sweat where they tightened then grew slack on my skin. “S-sir, that’s not… I don’t—”

“Is it possible,” he pressed, and took the top button of my shirt in between long fingers. Working it free without so much as touching my skin, he took liberties without paying the price. “Might she be bred? An exception to the rule of infertile priestesses?”

She swallowed, hard—a sentiment that resonated. Deep, where revulsion sparked and grew, disgust and terror became something… more.

Glancing my way, Sasha paused before she said, “It… it’s possible.” It was an admission that saw the general nod then work another two buttons free to expose the modest swell of my cleavage. “But if any elite c-could get her with… with child,” she said, stumbling over her words, “then it would be Captain Rawlings. Sir. As the only elite bound to an empath, their bond is unique. It has properties we haven’t yet begun to unravel.”

The general sighed. “Yes. I rather expected you to say as much. But what if,” he mused, and abandoned the effort to undress me. Moving instead to the far side of the Head Priestess’ desk, where a pedestal sat covered in dark cloth. “What if another claim were to supersede the first, hmm? A stronger claim from an elite already bound to a powerful priestess.”

Sasha’s jaw worked around nothing. Soundless rejection of a heinous idea she hadn’t been expecting to refute. I felt the cascade of emotions sparkle through her touch, tempting me to reach out and take. To revel in that sweet revulsion and drink.

Lifting one bulky shoulder, the general shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, no?”

And with that, he pulled the curtain back on the chains. Revealed the golden manacles that were a match to my own, and said, “Come here, girl.”

I went. Willingly. Shooting Sasha a demur flick of my eyes before I pulled free of her restraining grip, I ignored the warning that sparkled through my skin. An alarm that was silenced the instant the contact between us broke. Pale legs flashing as I moved to obey, I moved on silent feet, eyes dutifully trained on the floor.

Where a good slave ought to look.

It was, after all, what they all wanted. Trained obedience that concealed the truth of pushing women to be desperate and coy in exchange for their own survival.

“General Tilcot, sir, I really don’t think—”

“Then be silent,” he said, cutting her off. “We’ve been over what your job is, Sasha. And women don’t do their best thinking on their backs, do they?”

My lip curled where he couldn’t see it.

But I held myself in tight control. Watching without blinking. Fixated on this elite who didn’t see the danger standing directly before him, who chose to ignore the other half of the coin, and saw only the healer.

Ignoring the destroyer as he couldn’t ignore the hidden promise of my nipples.

I fought the smile.

Watched as he withdrew the chains and lay them out on the desktop to his left—one by one—then claimed my hand in one that was smooth and dry. Manicured. Soft.

Churning, lazy flames licked the back of my wrist. Power in dizzying abundance, yet it lacked the captain’s flavor, the pure ambrosia of vitality I’d grown accustomed to in so short a time.

I took a careful sip.

Groaned before I could stop myself, and rolled my neck. Trying not to take more than a single gulp, I turned the tide before the empath slipped her leash, and said, “Tell me what the program is for.”

The general snorted. Collecting one manacle, he slipped it over my knuckles and fit it over the one already welded in place. “Bossy little thing, hmm?”

Stretching unfamiliar muscles, I sent a single, tiny barb darting through the general’s veins. Took that dainty sip I’d stolen, and put the energy to work. Clumsy and reckless, I got the sense of the man in careful, lapping waves.

“Tell me,” I whispered, bleeding through muscle and sinew. Tugging on random strings until I felt a thread of compliance sparkle through his meaty brain.

Manipulating.

Infecting.

As Sasha had done to me. And Asher. Both more proficient in the art of wielding another’s energy, both lacking the pure, unfiltered rage that sang in my blood.

“The program…” Murky brown eyes flicked up to meet mine, and the general frowned. “It’s for Tritans. For the good of the… empire…” Elite energy surged to life. Laced with confusion, tainted with alarm, the general took a breath. “What is this?”

I couldn’t help it—I grinned my toothiest grin.

And lost control of the empath in a second.

She surged to the fore. Skating through flesh, drawn to the buffet of banked flames peppered with a tantalizing whisper of fear, my palm landed on the general’s broad chest.

Closing the loop.

Beneath my palm, the beat of a healthy heart.

Strong. Rhythmic and steady.

Until I found a soft spot and burrowed deep as I might go.

Drinking my fill. Gorging on the strength of a man who’d taken everything from my people. Whose very life force was laced with the beauty of priestess magic.

A large hand wrapped about my throat, but I paid it no mind. Lost in the seduction of indulging myself, I feasted. Replacing all that Asher had stolen. Reveling in the way that strong pulse broke down and grew erratic, I grew entranced by the sour sweat beading on the general’s brow.

“You… little… bitch,” he rasped, face blooming a deep shade of ruddy purple. Sagging before me, he slumped in the chair. Chest heaving for breath, spittle misting the narrow space between us, the general’s hand fell away as his eyes grew round. The whites speckled with tiny dots of blood-red.

“My turn.”

I heard the words before their meaning registered. Before the eerie echo could take root and give warning of an attack.

Cool hands slipped over my collarbones, framing my shoulders and throat.

“Release him, empath,” the Head Priestess spat, fitting me with a noose of blinding, white priestess magic. The sort of purity I was forbidden to wield.

And it was then, as I felt her energy slip through my wide-open defenses, that I realized my colossal error—in taking from the general, I’d given Sasha leverage. A window to shut, energy Asher had taken with the intent to leave her with nothing to work with.

Nothing that might get me killed.

“Let me do this,” I hissed, caught in an easy thrall of a master. “I can beat him, Sasha. I can be the weapon we need.”

“They’ll execute you for this, and I should let them.”

“Sasha—”

She forced me back. Took a liberal helping of the general’s energy and built a wall around the ravenous beast that couldn’t be reasoned with. “You think to embody both sides of the spectrum?” She laughed, low and cruel. “To be the hero we need in this war? You’re nothing more than a delusional little girl. A child playing with forces she cannot possibly understand.”

With both hands, she sent me staggering back. Crashing into the desk before I hit the floor in a disoriented heap of bare legs and an oversized shirt. The towel fallen, tangled between my ankles.

“Go,” she snapped. “Now, before they realize what you’ve done here.”

I blinked, trying to banish the encroaching fog. “Sasha—”

“I said go!” Whirling, she turned back to the fallen general and set her hands to his face. The hands of a healer, working to revive a destroyer.

I stood on legs that trembled, staggering toward the door. Haunted by the image of the Head Priestess stooping over a man who’d taken so much from our people. From her.

“And Mila?” she said, not bothering to look up from her rotten work. “Pray.”