In Thrall

Hi gyr.

The first scene - It is very well written as always but if it was to be removed would it really matter? It doesn't seem to add anything which we don't already know. Apart from maybe Moncreif's status on Locus Nova.... I don't know, maybe its just me but it didn't seem majorly relevant.

“No, of course not. I’m not wasting any more of my leave than I already have.”

No need for the "thank I already have."

Scene 2 - Wonderful, great ending - leaves us wanting reading more. You are developing a fresh relationship with fresh characters which adds to the overall momentum of the story, keeping it fresh and neat.

I don't understand why more people aren't reviewing this...

Danteel walked out of the shuttle, and into something out of his history books. It wasn’t a house. The closest word he could find, at least in Basic, was estate. The craft had landed in the middle of an expansive courtyard, full of lush grass, small but stately trees, and stepping-stone paths. The four enclosing sides were formed by smooth, red marble columns, and the walls and entrances to the building proper were a good three meters beyond them. The courtyard itself was easily fifty-five meters square, probably more, and a tall fountain flowed gracefully in the exact center. Taken all for all, it was almost an exact replica of the main quadrangle in the original Nagian palace, or at least a replica of what descriptions had survived.

He turned to Moncreif, who was just disembarking, and could not keep the awe from his face. “This,” he said, “this is incredible.”

The captain grinned, took in a deep breath, and for the first time since he’d met the man, Danteel saw him do something like relax. And for a single, perfect instant, Danteel’s world was a place of peace and beauty.

And then a door opened at the far end of the courtyard, behind one of the ranks of columns. It didn’t do so automatically, Danteel saw; it was the traditional form of sliding door, made of thick paper or fabric stretched across a wood frame and set in guide rails. The kind his race had invented so many centuries ago. The man who had opened it stepped through, and as the gentle sun glinted off his golden collar Danteel’s contentment vanished. At a distance, the slave looked fairly human, but as he approached Danteel saw the subtle pattern of visible veins beneath his skin, most prominent at his temples and throat. He was younger than Danteel, and as he came to a halt before his master he bowed at the waist, and the angle of that bow seemed very definite. When he straightened, the Nagai saw that his eyes were dark red with white pupils.

“Master,” he said, his voice unexpectedly deep and harsh. “We were beginning to worry about you.” As he spoke, five more figures emerged from the doorway he had left open, and somehow Danteel had expected them: five very beautiful women, each a different species from the others, each collared. He had known, in a way. Mattira hadn’t been the first, and her nearly endless stream of replacements had come from somewhere. From here. He wasn’t sure why the rage didn’t swell in him at the sight of them. Perhaps it was their silent beauty in this place of mythos; perhaps it was that he had finally grown numb to it.

One of them, obviously the newest with green, gold, and blue feathers rather than bare skin, smiled at Moncreif, and finally Danteel’s heart did twist. It was a genuine smile; she was truly glad to see him. Quickly, almost desperately he searched the remaining four faces. One, smooth like midnight blue marble, was impassive, but in the other three he saw the combination of restrained fear he was so familiar with. For some strange reason, this comforted him.

The feathered woman stepped forward. She was dressed in a gown of plumage similar to her own, and so it was difficult to tell where the garment ended and she began. She bowed much lower than the man, and said in soft, purring tones, “Moncreif. It has been far too long.”

“Yellesha,” he returned, and Danteel was surprised to hear how cold his tone was. Then he turned to the smallest of the women, probably the oldest, though through her short, cream-colored fur it was difficult to tell, and his smile seemed to tell the world that here was his favorite. “Chaya,” he said, the word part greeting, part command.

She stepped forward, only barely inclining her head as if she knew her status and was secure in it. “Master,” she replied, her face—what Danteel could read of it—expressionless.

Moncreif called the rest of them by name, and each gave a bow of different depth, reflecting their current position. Just, thought Danteel, as they once did in the royal Nagian court. He watched this simple ceremony with a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were an invisible observer. But once it was done, Moncreif turned to the young man who had first met them and said, “This is Danteel. Take him to quarters and let him refresh himself, we’ve had a long flight. He will dine with us this evening.”

The other slave nodded an almost-bow to Danteel, gestured in the direction he had come from, and began to lead the way. “What is your name?” the Nagai asked as he followed his guide through the door and into the softly-lit interior of the house.

“The master calls me Ret. It is the first letter in my people’s alphabet, and I am first in this place when he is not here.” It was clear that the man’s original language had not been Basic, and from the difficult way he spoke, Danteel suspected his species’ vocal cords were not designed for such a tongue.

“How long have you been here?” The house was larger even than it had looked from the air, but as he saw no staircases Danteel assumed it must be only a single story, again in the old Nagian style. He wondered if there was a roof garden.

“Many cycles,” said Ret.

It was on the tip of Danteel’s tongue to ask how long a cycle was, but Ret did not seem inclined to indulge him just now, and at that moment they arrived at their destination. A black door slid open to reveal a simple but comfortable room. The walls were of the same pale, sturdy wood as the rest of the house and there was a well-padded futon in one corner. Danteel couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept on anything besides an uncomfortable bunk. There was also a low desk with a cushion to kneel upon and a small but full bookcase next to it. Full, he realized, of true pages-and-binding books. Danteel went over and examined them, running his fingers over the paper. They were all in his language, and contained the basic histories of his people. Every cover was plain; no title or author was given for any of them and Danteel wondered if they were Moncreif’s own observations and summaries.

He looked up to thank Ret, and found the man gone, the door still open. He stood, strode over, and closed it. There was trunk in the corner opposite his bed, and in this he found several changes of clothes—all white—and a pair of simple indoor sandals. The wall opposite the door held a shallow sink, designed to look like an old-fashioned porcelain basin, set just below a high window. This looked out, not into the courtyard, but over an uncultivated lawn with a pine forest beyond it. He knew, from his observations during the shuttle’s decent, that there were no other habitations for kilometers around Moncreif’s estate, and wondered how an officer of the Realm, even a captain as famous as his master was supposed to be, could afford all this.

There was no proper bathroom connected to his quarters, and so he assumed there would be a communal one somewhere nearby. Without knowing its location, though, he had to make do with washing his face and hands in the sink and running a comb—yet another of the trunk’s contents—through his hair. It hadn’t been cut in some time and now hung down almost to his shoulders. Once or twice he’d considered asking Moncreif if Gassil might give him a trim, but his loathing to ask his master for anything had overridden the slight inconvenience that came with long hair.

There was a light tapping at his door and Danteel turned as he said, “Come in.”

The furred woman, Chaya, opened the door. Her face was every bit as expressionless now as it had been in the courtyard, but her dark eyes were bright and missed nothing. “May I enter?”

“Of course.” Danteel gestured towards the lid of the trunk. “Please, sit down.”

Chaya did so, looking him up and down. “A Nagai,” she said. “We’d heard, of course. I never thought he’d manage to find one of you.”

Danteel shrugged. There were no chairs in the room, so he stood next to the sink, his hair still slightly wet. “He’s a very determined man.”

She looked at him silently for a long time. Then, “He is. Are you?”

“I have to be.”

She nodded. “You will kill him then?”

Her bluntness took Danteel off guard—had Moncreif sent her? But the captain already knew that Danteel wanted to kill him. What did he have to gain by such a charade? Still, best to be cautious. “Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”

Chaya again fell silent, and it was the silence of someone considering their next words very carefully. “I have had the chance.”

“And since both of you are still alive, I’m assuming you didn’t take it.” That might explain why she was Moncreif’s favorite, at any rate. Before Chaya could respond, Danteel crossed his arms and said, “What is it you want, my lady? I do not mean to be rude, and while I enjoy such verbal dancing, I do not enjoy being unsure of my opponent’s motives.”

Again, she nodded. “We have something in common.”

Her meaning left him—only momentarily—speechless. “You suspect me? You think that I’m in league with him! You think I’d spy on his own slaves for him, that I’m his creature?” He could feel his eyes begin to blaze and fought to keep control. “I serve that man only so long and so far as honor demands. As soon as I find an honorable way to free myself from his hold on me, his life ends. He knows that, and if you think to curry favor with your master by giving him information he already has, then you are a fool.”

She slapped him.

Danteel stood there, dazed, for a moment. She was standing now, almost as tall as he was, and now finally she had an expression—a scowl. He touched his stinging cheek, and smiled. “I think we understand each other.”

Chaya crossed her arms. “I should hope so. I would hate to have to slap you again. Did you know that your eyes do something strange when you’re angry?”

He nodded. “Why didn’t you take it?”

“Take what?”

“You said you had the chance to kill him once.”

Chaya looked away from him, her mouth set in a line. “I did. That is what I have come to tell you about.”

Danteel held out his hands. “Well?”

She shook her head. “Supper will be served soon, and my next few nights are his. I will come to you when it is safe; do not seek me out.”

“I understand.”

She straightened her shoulders and turned to leave.

“Chaya,” he said. She glanced back at him. “I’m glad that we’re on the same side.”

With a nod, she left.

Sorry it's taken so long. Doing this as -- wait, I missed another chapter? Coolummy, sorry.

Er, chapter-before-the-most-recent-one...

“He is with me,” replied Moncreif before the ensign could say anything. “My slave, you see?” He gestured to the collar.

“My madman, you see?” echoed Danteel in Nagian, mimicking the captain’s careless gesture.

But every time the captain spoke in his language, every time Danteel answered, every single time he moved even a few steps they faltered, lost the initiative.

Take out the bit in bold. It's kinda naughty to start a sentence with "but."

“Uhuh.” They were in the shuttle by now, the pilot beginning the preflight sequence. “So,” he asked while they strapped themselves in, “what is going to happen to Lark now?”

"Uh huh" seems rather colloquial for Danteel.

Her wings were still wrapped around her where she sat on the floor, shrouding everything beneath her neck in soft white.

I like Lataar.


-

And! Splitting this into two, one for each to keep it simple and because I'm awful that way. (By the way, I just nearly had a heart attack.)

Good chapter and all, why don't you bug me more?

Chapter-that-is-the-most-recent-one-and-which-Blackadder-has-nothing-whatsoever-to-do-with:

Danteel walked out of the shuttle, and into something out of his history books.

"The" history books works just as fine and better and Crazy Frog rules!

The courtyard itself was easily fifty-five meters square, probably more, and a tall fountain flowed gracefully in the exact center.

"Flowing" makes me think of a river, not a fountain, and no it isn't Christmas.

And for a single, perfect instant, Danteel’s world was a place of peace and beauty.

And then a door opened at the far end of the courtyard, behind one of the ranks of columns.

Be anything you like, but use a different word either time. Ands are bad.

He was younger than Danteel, and as he came to a halt before his master, he bowed at the waist, and the angle of that bow seemed very definite.

Comma?

When he straightened, the Nagai saw that his eyes were dark red with white pupils.

Coooew

The feathered woman stepped forward. She was dressed in a gown of plumage similar to her own, and so it was difficult to tell where the garment ended and she began. She bowed much lower than the man, and said in soft, purring tones, “Moncreif. It has been far too long.”

She purrs, but she's a bird. Cool. Potato?

Chaya again fell silent, and it was the silence of someone considering their next words very carefully. “I have had the chance.”

Oh, gaw. She doesn't, does she? Pants in spades.

He could feel his eyes begin to blaze and fought to keep control.

No, no Jar-Jar. Blast it into tiny pieces and into oblivion, like a thousand pumpkins in the pumpkin patch.

She slapped him.

Remind me to add Danteel to the official list of heros given the female slap.


-

Ooooh, boogieboogieboogie. Plot moves, plot grooves, cool snake and but however watch out for Danny-boy's eyes.

I love you Twit. And I love your nonsensicality. Nonsensicalness? You, anyway. Thanks a mil--will get to Scavenger's latest chapter asahp.

Lark had discovered his secret weapon—food. His mother, not trusting the campus-provided cuisine, had insisted that he learn to cook before going off to the university, and while he was no gourmet, neither was he incapable.

Lataar was hungry. As she began her second stack of sweet-grain cakes, liberally spread with butter and gobs of cream, Lark began to wonder if her frailty were due to more than hollow bones. Moncreif, he thought bitterly, would certainly have an easier time controlling his slaves if he kept them half starved.

Yes, came the reply, but Lark had learned not to jump at the girl’s voice in his head. He would have liked it better if Danteel had warned him of this, but he’d encountered stranger things. She’d finished the carb-rich meal by now and the hopeful thought came, More?

“You’ve already had seven of those cakes, three standard meat rations drenched in spices, and a bowl of soup. If you’re as malnourished as I think, we can’t risk giving your stomach too much to deal with all at once. You’ll get sick.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, gazing down at her sticky plate. Tea then?

Lark smiled. He’d have preferred to have his own tea things on hand, and it would have been simple enough to retrieve them from his quarters. But he had a definite aversion to leaving Lataar alone. “We’re almost out,” Lark said, “but I think I can conjure one more pot.”

She smiled at him for the first time ever, and he felt his cheeks flush. You are kind, she told him.

Lark smiled back at her, and decided to take a chance. “I’d like to take a look at your scars,” he said quietly.

She stiffened, and he had a feeling as of a cold wind blowing over warm, wet skin, and the corresponding goosebumps rose on his arms and the back of his neck. Why? The word was made of equal parts anger, fear, and shame, the combination of which crashed over him like and emotional typhoon.

He swallowed, tried to keep his balance. “I think one of them may be infected,” he said, pointing to the one he meant. It was difficult to tell, as he had only the barest working knowledge of her species, but that particular scar was deeper and more ragged, and he thought he could see a tint of red along its edges.

Lataar withdrew the arm in question, her wings coming around to shroud her as they had before. To heal you must touch, she thought, not looking at him.

Lark bit his lip for a moment, thinking how best to respond. “As little as I possibly can manage,” he said.

For a long time she sat there, a motionless ball of white feathers with a head sticking out of the top. At last, still not looking at him, she slid out her arm. Lark had brought a basic medical kit with him, and now placed it on the table. “This,” he told her, holding up a little tube, “is a basic anti-infective cream. It kills most known forms of infection, and will change color as its doing it so I know what kind of infection it is. I’ll need you to rub a little bit all along the scar, making sure to cover the places where it’s red.”

He held out the tube and she took it, unscrewed the top, and followed his instructions. She winced slightly as the pale cream touched her wound, but within a few seconds it was done and she placed the tube back on the table. The two of them watched the cream for awhile, and after about thirty seconds Lark noticed a faint blue tint. He let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he told her. “I won’t bore you with details, but blue’s good, means it’s one we know about and that the cream can treat.” He nudged the tube towards her. “I want you to keep this, and apply it whenever you need to. If the cream ever turns green, let me know when you can, and if it turns yellow, come and see me at once. Blue and purple are all right, though.”

She nodded and picked up the tube. He sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say next. Lataar ran her fingers down the inside of her wing as if exploring it, and Lark imagined how soft the feathers must be, how warm. Nothing now, she said. But later.

“What do you mean?”

Later. When I molt. She glanced at him and then extended a wing towards him, the pinions almost brushing his shoulder. A feather in thanks. When I molt.

“A S’kytri feather,” he breathed. He knew little enough of her culture, but everyone knew how valuable a S’kytri feather was—the avian species guarded their molted plumage jealously, apparently believing that anyone who owned one of their feathers would have power of the S’kytri himself. “Thank you.”

She smiled for a second time.

Did I mention how much I like these two?

Oh gaw, there isn't going to be a Lark/Lataar pairing somewhere along the lines here is there??

The word was made of equal parts anger, fear, and shame, the combination of which crashed over him like and emotional typhoon.

And = an

To heal you must touch, she thought, not looking at him.

I had to read the dialogue three times before I got it. Perhaps make it a little less disjointed and more clearer?


Otherwise... Macbeth.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Moncreif and Danteel sat at opposite ends of the low table, the five women arranged on either side. All reclined on cushions, as was the Nagian custom, though far more stiffly than was usually required. Chaya was seated to Moncreif’s right, Yellesha—the feathered girl—to Danteel’s. Ret had laid the table and then withdrawn, presumably to enjoy his own meal elsewhere. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery on dishes, the subtle shifting of weight, and the occasional, whispered request to pass something.

It all reminded Danteel, yet again, of the home he had left behind, the peaceful mealtimes shared between his father, mother, sister, and himself. But those gathered here were not Nagian, not raised to the solemn observance of a silent repast, and such observance was all too clearly a thing forced on them.

Moncreif rose first, his plate clean, and touched Chaya lightly on one shoulder. Though she had no finished, she rose without a word and followed him. The other four women watched those two hawkishly, and Danteel could almost hear them mentally counting down the seconds until their master was out of earshot. Each of them seemed to have the same countdown, for at the same moment they all relazed, breathing out in a collective sigh.

Yellesha turned to Danteel, her blue-gold crest feathers rustling. “So, you are the Nagai,” she said, her voice surprisingly cat-like for so avian a creature.

Danteel regarded her coolly—he had not forgotten her earlier fawning over Moncreif. “Obviously.”

She giggled, and Danteel winced at the sound. “I do not mean to pry,” she said, her curious eyes giving the lie to her words. “But we so rarely get visitors here. In fact, never that I can remember.”

The woman with midnight-blue skin—Tilkim if Danteel remembered her name right—snorted. “Your memory of this place counts for little, as it extends back only a few months.” Tilkim turned to the Nagai. “Please excuse our little ‘sister’ sir. She is as ignorant as she is rude.”

Danteel nodded deeply to her, then glanced at Yellesha, who had returned haughtily to her food. “There must always be a youngest,” he said.

Tilkim and the other two nodded. “I once held that…honor,” said a woman with pale brown skin and smooth features. Danteel could not quite place her name, and she half-turned as if speaking to Yellesha as well. “Such a thing often fades quickly, to be replaced by a more…realistic outlook.”

Yellesha’s feathers rippled. “It is not I who am denying reality, Shentiri. You all act as if we were in the netherworld already, with a demon for our jailer. There are far worse masters than him to be had.”

Tilkim’s dark eyes flashed. “Spoken as one born to this life,” she spat, and Danteel got the sense that this was an old quarrel.

He said quietly. “Netherworld or not, we all have the same jailer.”

The women all seemed to relax slightly at his words, and he could see Yellesha’s feathers settling. It was Tilkim who spoke: “True words, sir. And all too quickly forgotten.”

They ate in silence for awhile. When Danteel was done, Ret appeared and carried off both his dishes and Moncreif’s and Chaya’s. Slowly the others finished, but none showed any signs of wanting to leave. Ignorant or not, Yellesha had probably been right when she’d lamented their lack of visitors.

Danteel leaned back on his cushion, one hand on the table. “I am curious,” he said at length, “how Moncreif affords such an estate.”

There was a small wave of surprised gasps. “You speak his name?” Shentiri asked in wonder.

And Danteel remembered. In Nagian lore, the use of a person’s name had always been one of the pivots on which a tale could turn. To know a person’s name was fine, and to use the name of one socially below you was not only accepted but—among the upper classes—encouraged. The use of names between equals was a sign of that equality, almost of friendship. But to call by name one above you, one who, in most cases, had some power over you? Pure folly, for to do so was to call on that person, to summon their interest even if they were a thousand miles away.

How could he have forgotten so easily? Or perhaps he hadn’t, and calling his master by name had been his unconscious way of defying him. But Moncreif had allowed it. Moncreif, who by all Danteel had seen so far aspired to nothing so much as to be Nagian, had allowed a slave to call him by name.

The women were still staring. Danteel shrugged as if dismissing the entire affair. “If he has taught you anything about my people, you must know that we do not submit easily. As to my question?”

Tilkim shook her head. “None of us knows how he came by such wealth. We have learned not to ask questions.”

“Wise,” Danteel conceded. “Will you think me any less wise if I ask them?”

There was a short round of chuckling. “Not at all, sir,” said Yellesha coyly.

He frowned. “Why do you not call me by my name? If we are not equals, then you have a very strange idea of equality.”

They shifted uncomfortably. The brown one, Shentiri, said, “It is not our idea of equality that we follow, sir. The captain has made it very clear—without actually saying it outright—that you are the highest of his slaves. Higher than Ret, or even Chaya.”

Danteel felt a chill go down his spine, and shuddered. “I want no such distinction,” he breathed, almost snarling.

“He said you were born nobility,” Shentiri continued as if she hadn’t heard him. Perhaps she hadn’t. “All but a prince on your homeworld, and that even a Nagian beggar was greater than the king of any other alien race.”

Danteel’s fist slammed onto the table, silencing Shentiri and rattling the dishes. “He seeks to deny me even your friendship!” he roared, eyes blazing. “As if what I was should be a barrier between us, as if he cared. As if he didn’t choose me for my birth, only to watch me fall farther than another would, only to have more pride to break, only to—” Rage closed his throat and he choked on his own anger. Sheczkall! he screamed within his mind. An enslaver far more skilled than I ever gave him credit for.

He forced himself to calm down, to take deep breaths. Even with all his will bent to the task, it took some time until he felt the silver fade from his eyes, until he could breathe normally again. All four women were watching him, their faces masks of fear such as Mattira had often given Moncreif. That though, that world-shattering realization, went twisting through his heart like a blade, turning his skin cold and killing his breath. He only realized that he had been standing when he crashed to his knees, muscles limp as water, shame as hard as ice forming around his heart.

Well played, Moncreif, he thought, as the others slipped silently away, only Tilkim pausing at the doorway to throw him a wary look.

Very well played.

keep it coming I'm a fan!

I thought you had reached a point in "In Thrall" where the story would not progress (as we discussed). However you just proved me wrong. We have reached yet another segment of your story and you are allowing us only to suckle at it, tempting us to read more and more. I have said this before: In Thrall really isn't a sci-fi story but a character study encased through the medium of science fiction. And its a really interesting relationship. Moncrief is not a cut out but a real person with motives and agenda's that develop as the story continues. As the reader, I want to uncover and dig up more and more about Moncrief. It seems like he is collecting slaves. What is that man planning?

God, if you want me to ever write a full length review for this when it is published (and it will be once its been polished) I will happily do so on amazon etc...

-----


“What do you mean?”

Later. When I molt. She glanced at him and then extended a wing towards him, the pinions almost brushing his shoulder. A feather in thanks. When I molt.

“A S’kytri feather,” he breathed. He knew little enough of her culture, but everyone knew how valuable a S’kytri feather was—the avian species guarded their molted plumage jealously, apparently believing that anyone who owned one of their feathers would have power of the S’kytri himself. “Thank you.”

She smiled for a second time.

-----

Watch this though, a little confusing - is your punctuation in the right place? Also you have kind of ignited an atomic bomb inside the eye of a needle. That is - you are telling us something in a confined space. Don't be afraid to meander at this point because it is tremendously interesting stuff. You already have the reader firmly addicted to In THrall, who is to say you can't dump slots of *relevant* information in now and again?

Superb story. Superb characters.

Regards, Adam.

*Thrash*

Get another installment out.

*wails* I'm trying to get Gypsie Eyes published, I'm afraid Danteel's been on the backburner a bit...and glaring at me from the backburner.

Oh wow - All the best for Gypsies Eyes, I've been following In Thrall more than I have "Eyes." Hope to see it on Amazon within the next year

*waves white flag*

By popular demand (please don't kill me, I know it's short):




Lark dreamt that he was having tea with Lataar, but her teacup was full of the anti-infective cream, which had gone bright yellow—the color of only the most virulent infections. Lataar seemed to enjoy it, however, and kept drinking and drinking even as Lark tried to tell her to stop, that wasn’t a good idea. Finally he sprang out of his seat and grabbed her arm, and at the touch she shattered like glass, the fragments passing right through him. He flung up his hands to protect his head nevertheless, and when he lowered them, he discovered that he was standing in utter darkness.

It was then that he realized that he was asleep, and had been dreaming. He did not wake up, but he was certain, absolutely certain, that he was dreaming no longer. At least, was not dreaming his own dreams. There was the fluttering of wings, the rushing sound of something speeding through the air, and suddenly his world exploded back into color and movement.

He was flying, his vision was sharper than it ever had been and tinged in shades he never knew existed. His body felt intensely fragile, like a leaf on the wind, but the exhilaration, the pure joy of flight overrode that nervousness and he called to the sky in joy. Then his body moved of its own volition, tucking in his wings and diving directly downwards, the wind whistling through his hair and over his feathers, the ground getting closer and closer until—

Again, darkness. Lark stood on nothing, surrounded by nothing. His body was the old, familiar, heavy one, and wingless. He gulped, but the sound was swallowed by the eternal nothingness. Even his heartbeat, hammering in his ears, was a muted, distant thing. He considered calling out, and finally worked up the courage to say, “Hello?”

A pair of eyes, each twice as long as his body, opened just a few feet away. They were Moncreif’s eyes.

He awoke in the middle of a scream.

* * *

Chaya awoke because she felt the long fingers around her throat, trying to strangle her. Moncreif was having nightmares. Again. She leaned in, trying to ignore the black dots that swam at the edge of her vision as her master’s dream-driven grip sought to extinguish the breath from whoever it was he thought lay beside him. Chaya kissed him, pressed her lips to his as hard as she could and felt his hands loosen, fall away. With a soft moan he fell back, demon-green eyes still closed. She couldn’t fight back the coughs that came with her restored breath.

He came awake at the sound, but groggily, and it seemed to take him awhile to realize where he was. He half sat-up in bed and put a hand over his eyes without touching his face. Chaya lay as still as she could, not quite pretending to sleep, but hoping that he might lose interest in her if she didn’t move. This happened most times when he had nightmares. Occasionally, however, the dream would still have a grip on him, a grip so strong that his mercilessness reached new peaks and the pain he exerted made her realize how much he otherwise held back.

But this time he looked down at her, his eyes blank, his face slack and almost child-like. He opened his mouth and exhaled, moving his lips as if intending to speak, but no sound emerged. Then he collapsed, his head landing on her shoulder, his arm across her body. His steady breathing and relaxed muscles told her that if he no longer dreamt of strangling anyone.

She settled back down to sleep beside him and, just before drifting off, planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Yay, you put more up!

Well, as this is in two halves... The second was very very very good. On the one hand I'm not surprised that Moncreif has nightmares, and yet it's very humanizing, if that's the right word. It shows his more vulnerable side at the same as you describe his eyes as "demon-green", which is very cool. And Chaya kisses him afterwards, apparently because she wants to? Oy vey. o_0

The first half was not as good. Some of your sentences don't run quite right.

Lark dreamt that he was having tea with Lataar, but her teacup was full of the anti-infective cream, which had gone bright yellow—the color of only the most virulent infections.

At first I thought this was too long, but it isn't that. I think it's that your commas are wrong, and that it's a very abrupt opening. I don't think you need the red comma. Perhaps you could reword so that the fantastical parts of it are introduced more smoothly. So something like, Lark dreamt that he was having tea with Lataar. She smiled at him and fluttered her feathers, and he smiled back at her. Then he saw that her teacup was full of the anti-infective cream which had gone bright yellow—the color of only the most virulent infections. I know that the action I put in isn't very in character, but you get the picture. Add in something else so it isn't so rushed.

Lataar seemed to enjoy it, however, and kept drinking and drinking even as Lark tried to tell her to stop, that wasn’t a good idea.

The "however" is awkward. You could take it out and I don't think it would hurt.

You've got the second bolded bit down like it's dialogue, and that's all right, but it doesn't run right. Perhaps, ... even as Lark tried to tell her stop, that that wasn't a good idea or something.

Finally he sprang out of his seat and grabbed her arm, and at the touch she shattered like glass, the fragments passing right through him.

Too many ands, and too many actions in one sentence. I'd split it in two.

He flung up his hands to protect his head nevertheless, and when he lowered them, he discovered that he was standing in utter darkness.

Nix, it's awkward.

---

How many children does Moncreif have? Has he had any by his alien mistresses, or is he using a kind of space birth control? (That sounds kind of weird... do Star Trek aliens use the pill?)