and made his way into the brush, the scent of Lyuba’s arousal lingering in his nostrils.
* * * *
The rape occurred four weeks into Tresset’s stay with the gypsy clan.
Tresset could not say why he intervened. The human girl meant nothing to him. At best, he tolerated her, at worst she repulsed him. But despite his hatred of humans, Lyuba had been kind to him, had tended his needs, had even cleaned him when, in the first days, he’d fouled himself.
The clan had settled on the outskirts of a small German village where they would remain for five or six days, selling their wares, entertaining with song and dance, reading palms, and generally profiting from the townsfolk. Three young human males, each perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, found their way into the camp on the third evening. The air was brisk and clear, a three-quarter moon illuminated the ground. Lyuba, despite Tresset’s revulsion, was stunningly beautiful and habitually flirtatious.
They cornered her toward the eastern edge of the camp and, when she spurned their gross and overt advances, dragged her beyond the tree line. Tresset had just excused himself from the campfire where he’d discussed with Jisch and two young reyaqc females, the missing Dolnaraq. He was in a state of turmoil. His lifelong companion had seemingly vanished and here he sat among humans and human-loving reyaqc, both of which he despised. And yet they had each, human and reyaqc, shown him a kindness he’d never encountered among those more like himself. Worse, he’d come to realize that he could become complacent here, perhaps even comfortable. Tresset kicked the dusty ground. Cursed. Growled. He did not belong here, and yet he found himself unwilling to disappear into the night as he knew he should.
The scent assaulted him like boiling water splashed his face—adrenaline, testosterone, lust, fear. Lyuba’s cry was stifled, but Tresset’s catlike ears were keen. Instinctively, he loped toward the tree line.
Why?
She was a human. Miserable. Repulsive. By all logic he should let her be. What was she to him? Cattle. Nothing more.
But she had cared for him, nursed him back to health. She had stroked his face, brought him water. She’d shown him affection unlike any he’d yet known on this earth.
Foolish thoughts. She was human. Nothing more mattered.
Yet still, heedless of all logic, he moved to intervene.
Tresset found Lyuba pinned to the uneven ground, a dirty cloth shoved deep into her mouth, one assailant holding her arms, another her legs, her dress torn away, heaving breasts exposed, her legs spread wide to allow the third male access to her most private parts. Tresset extended his retractable claws, first pulling the lanky youth from between the girl’s quivering legs and castrating him with two deft swipes before opening his belly and turning to the dying lad’s startled companions. These, he disposed of with brutal finality.
In all, the strike lasted less than a minute. It took far longer to disengage the hysterical Lyuba as she clung to him, arms wrapped tightly about his neck, her face buried in his chest, her tears dripping onto his taut and bloodied belly.
“You came for me.” Her words were broken by sobs as her form shuddered in the aftermath of the horror. “You came.” She kissed him on the chest once, twice, pressing herself into him. Tresset sought to pull away—her human stench was near overpowering—but she clung to him all the more. At some point, he relented, hesitantly wrapping his arms about her shuddering form, attempting to comfort her. This was not affection, but rather a realization that only in this way could he calm her sufficiently that she would eventually release him.
“Tresset, Thank you. Thank you.”
Another kiss, this one on the cheek. Tresset suppressed the bile rising in his throat.
The gypsy clan was forced to pick up camp and move along quickly. They could not risk the village’s scrutiny once the three
* * * *
The rape occurred four weeks into Tresset’s stay with the gypsy clan.
Tresset could not say why he intervened. The human girl meant nothing to him. At best, he tolerated her, at worst she repulsed him. But despite his hatred of humans, Lyuba had been kind to him, had tended his needs, had even cleaned him when, in the first days, he’d fouled himself.
The clan had settled on the outskirts of a small German village where they would remain for five or six days, selling their wares, entertaining with song and dance, reading palms, and generally profiting from the townsfolk. Three young human males, each perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, found their way into the camp on the third evening. The air was brisk and clear, a three-quarter moon illuminated the ground. Lyuba, despite Tresset’s revulsion, was stunningly beautiful and habitually flirtatious.
They cornered her toward the eastern edge of the camp and, when she spurned their gross and overt advances, dragged her beyond the tree line. Tresset had just excused himself from the campfire where he’d discussed with Jisch and two young reyaqc females, the missing Dolnaraq. He was in a state of turmoil. His lifelong companion had seemingly vanished and here he sat among humans and human-loving reyaqc, both of which he despised. And yet they had each, human and reyaqc, shown him a kindness he’d never encountered among those more like himself. Worse, he’d come to realize that he could become complacent here, perhaps even comfortable. Tresset kicked the dusty ground. Cursed. Growled. He did not belong here, and yet he found himself unwilling to disappear into the night as he knew he should.
The scent assaulted him like boiling water splashed his face—adrenaline, testosterone, lust, fear. Lyuba’s cry was stifled, but Tresset’s catlike ears were keen. Instinctively, he loped toward the tree line.
Why?
She was a human. Miserable. Repulsive. By all logic he should let her be. What was she to him? Cattle. Nothing more.
But she had cared for him, nursed him back to health. She had stroked his face, brought him water. She’d shown him affection unlike any he’d yet known on this earth.
Foolish thoughts. She was human. Nothing more mattered.
Yet still, heedless of all logic, he moved to intervene.
Tresset found Lyuba pinned to the uneven ground, a dirty cloth shoved deep into her mouth, one assailant holding her arms, another her legs, her dress torn away, heaving breasts exposed, her legs spread wide to allow the third male access to her most private parts. Tresset extended his retractable claws, first pulling the lanky youth from between the girl’s quivering legs and castrating him with two deft swipes before opening his belly and turning to the dying lad’s startled companions. These, he disposed of with brutal finality.
In all, the strike lasted less than a minute. It took far longer to disengage the hysterical Lyuba as she clung to him, arms wrapped tightly about his neck, her face buried in his chest, her tears dripping onto his taut and bloodied belly.
“You came for me.” Her words were broken by sobs as her form shuddered in the aftermath of the horror. “You came.” She kissed him on the chest once, twice, pressing herself into him. Tresset sought to pull away—her human stench was near overpowering—but she clung to him all the more. At some point, he relented, hesitantly wrapping his arms about her shuddering form, attempting to comfort her. This was not affection, but rather a realization that only in this way could he calm her sufficiently that she would eventually release him.
“Tresset, Thank you. Thank you.”
Another kiss, this one on the cheek. Tresset suppressed the bile rising in his throat.
The gypsy clan was forced to pick up camp and move along quickly. They could not risk the village’s scrutiny once the three
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