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LENGTH: Short Story
SENSUALITY: Spicy/Carnal

Cover art (c) Dan Skinner & Kat Richards 2006
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Blaez Dolan is an intergalactic badass, a werewolf with one helluva attitude. He takes nothing from nobody and if you cross him, you might not live long enough to regret it. He has no family, no friends, no ties to anything save his ship and the deadly laser whip he has strapped to his thigh. As good with a blade as he is with the whip, killing comes as easily to him as breathing.

It seems Rozenn Quinlan has a problem. She has run away from Galrath Convent and after stowing away on ship after ship she's managed to find her way to Aneas Quadrant and become stranded on the planet Gelal. Without money or food and with no prospects for leaving, you'd think her luck had changed when she encounters the black runabout fueling for takeoff. But hiding on board might prove to be the biggest mistake of her life-or would it?

In the barren darkness of space, a man with nothing to lose and a young woman with everything to gain find themselves marooned on a world where judgment fits the crime and passion is but a touch away.

Rating: Contains explicit sexual content, violence and graphic language.

TAILWIND

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.