Chapter One
Astaria
“Filthy alien scum! Let me go! Unhand me at once, you unworthy dirty brute!”
I hope I sound suitably surprised and outraged. They expect it, you know. A good abductor is not easy to find, especially not one who can be bothered getting through the many layers of near impenetrable security around my chamber.
A woman of a long royal lineage knows very well that she will likely be kidnapped in her lifetime. I am twenty-five years of age, and though I initially took fright when my bedroom chamber wall was turned to splinters by the rough intrusion of an atomic ram, and I was made to endure the forceful intrusion of an oversized alien who now has me in his massive arms, I am now more or less resigned to the entire situation. A common girl might panic and become hysterical, but that is hardly becoming, is it? My father has always said you can tell how well-bred someone is by how much they beg for their lives. A commoner will go on and on, whereas a princess like myself knows full well that her life is more or less an inconvenience she is likely to be relieved of with very little in the way of notice.
He has put a black cloth over my eyes, treating me the way they treat frightened horses. He has made a mistake. I am no timid filly. I am Astaria Grace, crown princess of the Pleiades and I am afraid of very little. So little, in fact, that other people become afraid of how much I am not afraid.
My abductor smells like other worlds and rare minerals. I expected him to smell like a filthy animal, but the thick hair which I can feel as it whips around the uncovered parts of my face is perfumed with musk and ornate smoked wood. He has long hair, and a lot of it. I use that to my advantage, grabbing at his locks and pulling as hard as I can. Just to make things convincing, of course.
He cannot easily return the favor. I have short silvery hair cut close to my head so that when I wear the jeweled wigs of royal office that extend over a foot all around and gleam with all the colors of creation, my natural hair does not interfere with the spun threads. My hair is cut every two weeks while I am suitably restrained. They don’t trust me around scissors, even when someone else has them.
No matter how unpopular a royal I may be, appearances have to be kept up. Since birth I have been presented as an ethereal incarnation of pure royalty. Tens of thousands of girls have wanted to be like me, poor things.
My tugging seems to have little effect on the alien. I can feel him heft me over the edge of something or other and then I am dumped onto a soft surface. There is a sense of motion as the ship I presume I have been taken on accelerates away from my tower like an impish page boy running from a bag of steaming dog dirt.
“Easy,” the voice says, speaking fluent Intergalactic with a sexy accent. There are only two types of beings who speak Intergalactic. Royals and those in power, because they must be able to negotiate, and warmongers, because they need to be able to accept surrender from the former.
I feel myself shifted into the lap of the beast. He is large and his thighs are broad and hard. I wonder who has taken me. Many have tried over the years. All of them have regretted it, and most have perished. Actually, all of them have perished, now I think about it. That thought makes me let out a little giggle that turns to a laugh no matter how much I try to stop it.
“And what is so funny, princess?” The voice is deep and gruff with authority. From the moment he laid hands on me I felt the dominance running through him. He, like so many before him, has come to me with the masculine impulse to claim and own. It will be his undoing and his downfall, but there is no telling him that.
I do not answer. I couldn’t explain it if I wanted to, and I do not want to.
Moments later the fabric over my face is removed. I see my captor’s face for the first time. I draw my breath in with a shocked gasp. This is no mere brute! This is a famous alien! This is my father’s greatest enemy. His image hangs on the wall of every soldier’s barracks and is pinned on every wanted board in our territories.
I clap my hands together with involuntary excitement.
“I know you! You’re Blackmane!”
Blackmane is a xenovork known for his great plume of dark hair. One would think he’d be known for being the first of his kind to kill ten thousand human soldiers in battle, but it is his hair that we know him by. It is the envy of every noblewoman I know. It is glossy and lustrous and when he stands over his fallen enemies it blows in the wind like a glorious banner.