Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Spring Wind.pdf - Boyett-Compo - terranova.books

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Seasonal Winds:

SPRING WIND

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright March 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.

Chapter One

"Fucking cops," Striker grumbled as he increased his footsteps. His hands were thrust deep

into the pockets of his scrub pants and his shoulders were hunched defensively. A scowl

drew his features taut, making his eyes appear smaller than normal.

"Just keep walking," the woman at his side said in a low voice. "Don't give them any reason

to suspect us."

"I hate fucking cops," Striker stated.

"Well, none of my best friends are cops, either," Bailey MacKenna said. She gave Striker a

quick glance. "You look guilty, Nate. At least wipe that expression off your face."

Making an attempt to relax, Striker carefully watched the two policemen strolling along the

sidewalk across the avenue. So far, neither of them had looked Striker's way. In his position

as diener--the person responsible for handling, moving, and cleaning the bodies at the

morgue--he rarely came into contact with the authorities and he wanted to keep it that way.

He especially disliked the Portal Patrols who maintained the exits points on Vardar-7.

"Uh, oh," Bailey MacKenna whispered.

Striker looked to where she was staring and felt the blood drain from his face. "I knew it,"

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he said. "I knew we were going to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I told you we were

going to get caught!"

The tall man walking toward the policemen wore the dreaded steel gray uniform of the

Modartha, the ultra-secret police responsible for the Slándáil Phoiblí, the National Security.

The people of her world were terrified of the Modartha for the elite law enforcement officers

were not only deadly assassins but during full moons, changed into gray wolves--the most

dangerous of their kind.

"We're going to hang," Striker said with a moan. "Sure as shit, we're going to hang."

"Shut the hell up, Nate!" Bailey said. So far the Modartha agent had not looked their way.

He had stopped to speak to the policemen who appeared as rattled by his appearance as did

Striker.

"We're going to end up in the Doinsiún hanging by our thumbs," Striker muttered.

"We're not going to the Dungeon," Bailey hissed at him. "We've done nothing wrong."

"You don't think providing aid to the Resistance is doing anything wrong?" Striker

demanded. "Bailey, if we are caught, we'll be jailed and I've no desire to be some bull's

cow!"

Bailey rolled her eyes. "We haven't been aiding the Resistance and we haven't done anything

to warrant being sent to the Dungeon. We've simply been attending their secret rallies just as

hundreds of other people have. If every curious citizen was jailed, there wouldn't be anyone

left to do their everyday jobs. There is nothing with which the Modartha could charge us."

"Not yet," Striker reminded her. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."

It was at that moment the Modartha agent turned his head and looked right at Bailey. She

could feel her stomach do an odd little flip and she drew in a breath. Quickly, she looked

away from his probing stare, lowering her head with the proper respect one showed a man of

his position.

"Oh, Sweet Morrigunia, Bailey," Striker whimpered. "He's crossing the street and coming

straight at us."

"Keep walking," Bailey told him. Sweat was gathering in her palms, her heart was

thundering--blood pounding--and a cold finger of dread was scratching down her spine.

"Halt!"

Immediately both Bailey and Striker did as they were ordered. They stood stock still,

waiting for the Modartha to reach them. With heads down, eyes on the sidewalk, they

assumed the required position of hands clasped behind their backs in an attitude of

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subservience.

"Identify yourselves," the Modartha demanded. He came to stand directly behind Bailey and

it was she who spoke first, the senior of the two.

"Cróinéir Second Class Bailey MacKenna, Milord," she said.

"Diener Class Nathan Striker, Milord," Striker replied.

"A coroner," the Modartha said with a snort. "Not a typical feminine occupation."

Bailey said nothing for she'd not been asked a direct question.

"Do you enjoy playing with dead things, wench?" he queried.

"It is my job, Milord," she answered.

"Assigned?"

"Yes, Milord." She drew in a breath for he was so close to her she could feel his breath on

the nape of her neck and his body warmth radiating toward hers.

"Don't you like playing with live men?"

She didn't know how to answer that. Her knees felt as though they would give out beneath

her at any moment and she was trembling violently beneath his scrutiny.

"Do you prefer playing with live women, then?"

Bailey closed her eyes. "No, Milord. I am not of that bent."

His voice was low, a sultry caress but steel-hard as she felt his lips against the column of her

neck. His body made contact with hers. "Step into the alley, wench," he ordered her. He

gave Striker a nasty look. "You stay right where you are, diener."

Striker was trembling too, but he managed to bob his head. “Yes, M…milord,” he

stammered. He was breathing heavily and perspiring copiously with sweat glistening on his

pale face. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sensed Bailey moving away from

him.

Terrified of the man behind her, Bailey walked the few feet into the shadowy alleyway that

ran between two tall buildings. She stopped.

"I didn’t tell you to stop, wench. Keep walking," he told her in a gruff voice.

Her mouth dry and her palms slick, she continued deeper into the alleyway until he bid her

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stop.

"Turn and face the wall," he said.

Bailey faced the wall.

"Put your hands above your head--palms flat to the stone, fingers spread--then lean into the

wall."

She obeyed him, wincing at the cold and slimy feel of the wall.

"Spread your legs."

Her bottom lip trembling, she did as he ordered and when she felt his hands on her hips she

flinched. He used his foot to move her legs further apart, his fingers tightening on her hips

then put his right foot in front of hers making ankle-to-ankle contact.

Standing so his chest touched her back, he put his hands over her hands and ran his fingers

between hers. His palms were dry and warm as they slowly moved down the backs of her

hands and onto her wrists. He encircled those wrists for a moment then released them,

dragging his palms down her forearms, over the insides of her elbows, along her upper arms

then turned his hands so his fingers dipped into her armpits. He did not just pat the material

covering her, he crushed it so she felt his fingers exploring under her arm.

"You're sweating," he said quietly. "I wonder why?"

His hands slid slowly down her sides then moved toward one another at her waist. The sides

of his thumbs grazed the undersides of her breasts with just enough force to draw the globes

together and lift them. When the base of each of his hands pivoted on her lower chest and

his hands turned, she knew he was about to cup her. She bit her lip to keep from making a

sound. With his palms hefting her flesh, he moved his hands back and forth under her

breasts several times--his thumbs not touching her. He squeezed her breasts together--held

them that way for a moment or two--then ran his thumbs down her nipples.

"Oh," Bailey said, unable to keep the groan from escaping.

"You like that, wench?" he whispered, his lips at her ear. He pushed against her and she felt

the hard bulge at the front of his uniform trousers.

"Milord, please," she said, tears forming.

Through the thin material of her red government-issued thigh-high gown, he rolled her

nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, grinding his erection across her buttocks.

"Do you know what they do to prime sweetness like you at the Doinsiún, wench?" he asked

and clamped his teeth onto her earlobe.

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Bailey shuddered and sucked in a startled breath.

"Every man there gets a good, long taste of the women brought to that hellish place." He

swirled his tongue into the spiral of her ear. "A good…long…taste that can last for hours."

Tears were sliding down Bailey's cheeks.

He pinched her nipples just hard enough to make her cry out then slid his hands down over

her abdomen and ran them down her hips. He hunkered down behind her to move his palms

down the outsides of her legs. Bringing his left hand to join his right, he hooked his hands

around her ankle then slowly brought them up her leg.

Bailey tensed, knowing he was going to touch her intimately, shamefully, and she bit her lip

hard enough to taste blood but he stopped just short of the junction between her legs and

moved his hands to her other leg to repeat the procedure. His hands were warm and

calloused as he dragged them along her flesh. As he once again neared her privates, he

stopped with his hands circling her upper thigh. She could feel him looking up at her.

"Right now, there are thirty-seven men incarcerated at the Doinsiún," he told her then

released her thigh. He stood up and put his hands to her hips again. "Those aren't good odds

for a soft piece of fluff like you."

The moment his hands cupped her ass, Bailey quivered from head to toe. He was kneading

her, crushing her flesh in his strong hands.

"You know what those men do when they get a fresh piece of cunt, wench?" he purred into

her ear. He tugged up the skirt of her short gown and insinuated his fingers into the leg band

of her panties. "They fuck them until they can't walk."

He touched her and Bailey thought she would scream. No man had ever touched her there

and his fingers were sliding over her folds, swirling into the pubic curls, grazing something

that made her jump.

"Are you virgin, little coroner?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said. Her voice broke and she whimpered.

"Then they would hurt you badly," he said. "They would thrust into you…"

His fingers slid into her so quickly, so unexpectedly she jerked against him and tried to

break away, but he pushed forward, jamming his body into hers to press her tightly to the

wall. He went deep inside her, his fingers twisting gently but insistently. "They'll fall on you

like a hoard of ravaging dogs, baby," he said, his voice gruff and hard. "Your sweet little

body will tear beneath that assault." He moved his fingers in and out of her. "They'll thrust

and thrust and…" He slid a finger into her anus. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Please don't do this!"

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