Deal with a Dhemon

By Viola Grace

Samantha Vorning has been a hunter, a singer and a dancer and now she is being hunted. She needs to hide, and General Kassil has been sent to get her to safety. He takes her onto his ship and into his bed. To survive on his home world she might have to make a deal with the Dhemon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781554873401

Viola Grace

Viola Grace (aka Zenina Masters) is a Canadian sci-fi/paranormal romance writer with ambitions to keep writing for the rest of her life. She specializes in short stories because the thrill of discovery, of all those firsts, is what keeps her writing. An artist who enjoys a story that catches you up, whirls you around and sets you down with a smile on your face is all she endeavours to be. She prefers to leave the drama to those who are better suited to it, she always goes for the cheap laugh.

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Deal with a Dhemon

Copyright © 2006 Viola Grace

ISBN: 978-1-55487-340-1

Cover art by Angela Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Smashwords Edition

Deal with a Dhemon

Champions of Terra 2

By

Viola Grace

Chapter 1

The ship coming in is loaded with Rranik warriors. You're going to have your hands full tonight, Sam. Moran was cheerful as he watched his friend getting ready for her evening at the Nodak Space Station brothel. Samantha Vorning was a dancer and entertainer of Earth extraction. Holograms of her performances were making the station famous and making her quite wealthy.

Aw, man. I hate the Rranik laments. Do they have any other requests? She tucked her auburn hair behind one delicately pointed ear and put in an earring. She eyed the effect in the mirror, then removed it and selected another.

The Warrior Laments, as well as any other songs you choose. As long as the laments are first. Moran averted his eyes quickly as she dropped her clothing in a heap and began to sort through her costumes. Her naked body gleamed in the dim light of the dressing room, her hunter tattoo visible on her thigh, the trident dagger picked out in vibrant metallic hues.

Stars, Sam! Could you warn me before you do that? His face turned a funny shade of silvery purple as a flush came over him.

Do what? Oh the clothes. Sorry. I forgot. She reached out and threw a caftan over her golden skin. You do know that Adal doesn't care if you see me naked. She knows that we've been friends for years.

Yes, she knows that. And I know that, but you're still an attractive female. I can't help basic responses.

Yeah, but we were trapped on that mining station for months, you saw all that there was to see. It's all old territory to you. Plus, we aren't even sexually compatible. She winked at her friend of three years and then continued her search.

Moran, have you seen the costume armour that the M'dil ambassador sent me? Ah, here it is. She held up the armoured breast plate and grinned. Perfect. I may insult every Rranik there tonight, or it will be one helluva show.

She turned her back to Moran, stepped into a gauzy skirt, and tugged it up to her waist. Can you get Adal in here to help me with my hair? She shed the caftan again and put a cropped top on to pad her from the armour.

Look how fast I go. Moran bowed to her and left the room with Sam struggling in the confines of fabric and metal. As he exited the door, he reminded her, And don't forget to call Negotiator Tyrell as soon as the set is over.

Yes, mother.

One hour later a vision in rainbow silk and silver armour walked out onto the stage at the Nodak Station brothel and entertainment complex. The crowd froze in astonishment. Disapproval came from the audience in a wave. Sam took a deep breath and cued the drums. She began the first of the Warrior's laments. With a twist. As she chanted about being away from home and fighting wars that were not their own, she began to dance. Her movements speaking clearly of longing and loneliness.

The crowd was silent. The Laments were normally performed with a soberly dressed performer standing still on the stage, chanting and singing each lament in turn. The sight of her standing there in a parody of the Rranik armour defied all of their traditions. It was shocking. It was titillating. And it was fabulous.

As she twisted and turned her body in time to the drums, and chanted and sang the laments of an injured warrior on the field of battle, she grinned. Apparently they were not going to lynch her after all.

With a glow of