Lionheart Read online

  Roy tried to scream a warning, tried to run, but his body was inert; he was a powerless watcher. The rifles barked in quick succession, but the running lion never turned from its course.

  The lion ran, each bound greater than the last, until he arrived beside the beast who lay so still. The golden lion stopped his charge, turning aside from the men and lowering his head to sniff the nose of the great, black-maned beast.

  Seeing the lions so close together, it was clear that the golden one had not yet attained maturity. The black-maned adult carried bulk in his shoulders and his thick, muscled neck. The heavy black mane framed a large face, wise even in death.

  The golden lion’s limbs retained the gangliness of adolescence, and his mane was short and shaggy where the other’s was luxurious. He raised his great head from the dead lion and turned to face the men again. He stared for a moment, then opened his mouth and roared.

  “Take your shot! Quick, now!”

  Roy thought that such shouting would startle the lion or even provoke him, but he showed no such emotion. As the rifles thundered, the beast leaped forward so quickly that Roy could not follow his movement. With a savage growl, the lion ran behind the white men, slashing this way and that with his huge, powerful claws.

  One of the natives raised a spear as though to attack, but the lion felled him with a mighty blow of his shoulder. With screams of terror, the natives abandoned their posts, supporting their fellows and running for their lives.

  With this, the great cat seemed content. He turned, growling soft and low in his throat, pulling his lips back to expose giant white fangs. Snarling, he paced toward the two white men. Both struggled with the guns they held.

  “Gerald, old chap, what’s the beast doing?”

  “I said it was a man-eater. That damned district officer won’t bloody listen to men who know better than him, and now look—”

  The lion dropped on his haunches and growled menacingly.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  Both men raised their guns. Roy watched, helpless.

  The lion stood still, an expression akin to amusement on its face. Then as the guns spoke, it bounded to the left.

  The men followed, one recklessly letting off another shot, and the lion snarled and kicked as the dust of its passing stung his flank.

  “You got him, Rollie! You got him!”

  “He’s still running! Finish him off, Ger!”

  It was as though the lion taunted them. He stayed beyond their reach, evading their bullets even when the shot was clear and there was no time for him to dodge. The white men followed, panting, until, as dawn lightened the sky, they looked where the lion had been and saw only empty veldt. Search though they might, they found not a single track, and as the sun rose, realization sank in.

  They were alone, miles from home and safety, without water and with only the rounds in their rifles remaining.

  Roy understood their fear but could not pity them. They had no more than they deserved.

  Miles away, a pale gold lion trotted purposefully beneath the shadow of the foothills. To Roy, it seemed as if he glowed, as though he carried the sun within his coat. His destination was a lone baobab tree, its branches reaching to the dawn sky like so many fingers, clutching.

  Some distance away, the golden lion paused. He dropped to his haunches and, head raised, gave voice to a soft, trilling purr. In answer, a huge black bird took wing from the branches of the baobab tree.

  It cried once, then soared high into the sky, higher and higher until it was lost beneath the fading stars.

  Below on the veldt, the golden lion threw his head back and roared, long and loud, until it seemed as if he drew breath from the very earth itself. All around, creatures stopped in their tracks, frozen by the depth of pain and anger in that cry. The two white hunters, lost so far from home, looked uneasily at each other and hurried even faster.

  And beneath the baobab tree, the huge black-maned lion stirred, as if waking from a long slumber. He lifted his head and pulled himself slowly to his feet, seemingly unharmed. His questioning growl carried far in the African dawn, and the young gold male roared again in triumphant answer.

  * * * *

  Roy awoke alone in the cot with the lion’s voice ringing in his ears and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He bolted upright, struggling to reconcile the memory of the dream with his familiar surroundings.

  “Roy? Are you all right?” Ash came into the room and perched on the cot at Roy’s side.

  Roy blinked, struggling to form words as Ash laid a hand gently on his forehead. “You’re cool,” Ash said softly. “The fever hasn’t returned. When you slept so late, I feared the worst.”

  “I—” Roy’s voice quavered, and he covered it with a cough, then cleared his throat. “I was dreaming, I think.” He looked deep into Ash’s blue-gold eyes.

  “The war?”

  “No.” Roy cleared his throat again, watching Ash. “Lions.”

  Something flickered in the depths of Ash’s eyes and then was gone. “Lions,” he repeated. “I think about them a lot, you know.”

  Roy swung his feet to the floor, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Have you been up long?”

  “I heard lions out on the veldt,” Ash said in a low voice. “I am not surprised you dreamed of them.”

  “You went to look?”

  “I didn’t do anything to endanger us. I promise.” Ash smiled suddenly. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Come. Are you hungry? I made breakfast.”

  All through the simple meal, Roy watched Ash. The lithe young man had tanned gold, and the sun had bleached his hair into a multi-hued golden mane. It was easy to imagine him as a lion.

  “Those bastards and their hunting worry me,” Roy said at last, setting down his bowl. “We’ve been lucky so far, but it’s only a matter of time before you’re seen and possibly recognized.”

  Ash nodded gravely. “I have thought of that too. Do we go to the Zambezi, as you suggested?”

  “Perhaps. But first, we’ll need meat. And we should take counsel with Mambokadzi.”

  They set off an hour later, carrying the hide of the impala and several cuts of meat as gifts for the wisewoman. They each carried rifles, and Roy also carried his service revolver, along with ammunition. A good kill would provide meat to smoke and dry against the heat, food to carry with them if they journeyed north.

  They saw several species of bird and the tracks of duiker, but no game. An hour short of noon, they passed the Finder’s Tree and began the steep climb into the foothills. “The game’s wary,” Roy said in frustration, pausing and looking back across the vast grassland rolling out below. “Haywood’s lion hunts will starve us all.”

  “There’s always pumpkin. And guinea fowl. Surely no one hunts lions in the highlands?”

  “With Haywood, anything is possible.” Roy shrugged. “And last time we came this way, we saw—or heard, I should say—a lion.”

  “Indeed we did.” Ash grinned and started up the trail. “Shall we stop at the spring for lunch?”

  The rocky spring held as many varieties of birds as before, including a tall, long-billed black-and-white bird with a long tail. “Is that a crane?” Ash asked, scrambling over the rock for a closer look.

  “I think so. They usually live down on the grassland.” Roy squinted against the sun. “I forget what Mambokadzi calls them—Hori? Umhori? Something like that.”

  The bird opened its wings, sailed up the small cliff, and alighted on the rocks at the top.

  “I must have scared it.” Ash shrugged and laid down his pack. “Perhaps it will come back while we eat.”

  Roy laid his own pack down, looking at Ash speculatively. “Are you hungry?” he asked, striving for a casual tone.

  Ash turned from watching the birds, and the knowing, anticipatory smile he wore told Roy that his lover’s mind was in tune with his own.

  He stepped forward, hands going to Ash’s hips. A thrilling, magical jolt of ple
asure and need rolled up Roy’s spine, a feeling he was fast becoming familiar with. He stared hungrily into Ash’s eyes, seeing his own lust echoed and welcome.

  “Very hungry.” Ash leaned in, eyes closing as his lips met Roy’s. His kiss was soft and sweet but with an undercurrent of raw passion that set Roy’s body on fire.

  Roy pulled Ash to him, holding on tight. Ash groaned, eyes flying open. Urgently he tore at Roy’s belt, grunting with satisfaction as he freed Roy’s already hard cock.

  Roy took another kiss, plundering Ash’s mouth with his tongue, taking everything. Ash fought back, clawing at Roy’s shoulders, thrusting his hips against Roy’s naked cock. Roy broke the kiss, gasping.

  Panting, eyes glowing, Ash stepped back and undid his own trousers. He stepped out of them and stroked his cock once, gaze on Roy. He licked his lips.

  “Take your shirt off,” Roy said. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

  Ash obeyed, his erection swaying as he moved. Slowly, he dropped to his knees and, as Roy watched, braced his arms against one of the boulders at the edge of the spring.

  Roy groaned out loud as Ash raised his ass, leaning more heavily on the rock and spreading his knees. The position displayed his high, round ass to perfection. Roy stared at the full cheeks, the shadowed clench of Ash’s pucker, the soft pink of his balls, tight against his body.

  Ash looked back over his shoulder. The expression in his eyes held so much heat that Roy grabbed the base of his own cock, forcing the tide back. With a strangled growl, he stumbled forward and dropped down between Ash’s knees, laying his palms on Ash’s back.

  Ash thrust his ass back against Roy, and Roy reached beneath him, capturing his swollen cock. It pulsed in his hand, slick already with precum.

  Roy stroked him, panting, his own need building. He spit on his fingers and tentatively stroked Ash’s entrance.

  Ash pressed back into the touch, squirming. Encouraged, Roy probed the willing flesh, moaning as his finger passed Ash’s rim. Ash moaned right back, bucking. His hole gripped Roy’s finger, pulling him deeper.

  Roy shuddered, releasing Ash’s cock. He spit on his hand and used the saliva to slick his own dick. Slowly, he withdrew his finger from Ash’s passage, then rubbed his slippery cock up and down Ash’s crack.

  With a whimper, Ash arched his back, raising his ass higher. His pucker flexed, displaying the pink inner flesh, slick and ready from Roy’s ministrations.

  It was all Roy could do to hold back. Shaking with anticipation, he licked his fingers, then pressed back inside with two fingers this time. He worked Ash’s entrance, quick and urgent, urged on by Ash’s harsh panting. Then, when he thought he could stand it no more, he pulled out and took his cock in his hand.

  There was a humming in his ears, and the world seemed to sway around him. Roy closed his eyes against the sensation and pushed the head of his cock against Ash’s entrance, giving himself over to the agonizing perfection of Ash’s tight hole.

  He pressed forward slowly, nearly overwhelmed, lost in Ash. He thought he should wait, give Ash time, but when he tried, Ash snarled a protest and pushed back, driving himself onto Roy’s member.

  Then at last they were joined. Time froze; there was no sound, no sensation, save for the heat of Ash’s passage, the sweet, lithe perfection of Ash’s body under Roy’s. Roy couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, until beneath him, Ash started to move.

  Roy rocked with him, the air rushing back into his lungs as he stroked. Ash was incredible. Roy drove into him, harder and harder, riding the rhythm Ash set with his own thrusts. With every stroke, Ash got tighter, his ass clamping down, drawing everything from Roy.

  Roy was on the edge, teetering, every stroke exquisite torture. He gripped Ash’s hips, feeling how close Ash was in his shudders, in the feral moan torn from his lips. Roy held Ash back against him for an instant, tight, deep, then he took a final thrust.

  Ash arched up against him, crying out as his orgasm took him and Roy let go, collapsing on Ash’s back as he spent himself deep in Ash’s ass.

  * * * *

  Roy was dozing, a sated smile on his face, but Ash found sleep elusive. His body still sang with the adrenaline rush of the previous night, and deep inside, with every step, every breath, he felt his wild nature come more alive.

  He’d never felt so strong, or so free.

  Or so afraid.

  Somehow, he had to find a way to share this new part of himself with Roy. The idea was thrilling, exciting—and terrifying. Ash had no idea what words to use, how to explain what he barely understood himself. And if Roy would not or could not accept what Ash had become, Ash had no idea how he’d go on.

  Roy had dreamed of lions. Ash wasn’t sure exactly what that meant or how much Roy might already suspect.

  Ash quietly got up and made his way farther up the trail, until he could climb across a rocky scree to the top of the little cliff. The water bubbled from under a rock, and flocks of tiny, colorful finches chittered and splashed. There was no sign of the crane.

  Ash dropped to his knees and trailed his fingers in the water. Africa was his birthplace. He was a lion. And he was Roy’s. Before coming to Rhodesia, he’d known none of those things; now, they were the most central part of him.

  He closed his eyes, and the song of the veldt swelled inside him, burgeoning, growing.

  “Ashcroft! Ashcroft! I say!”

  Ash jerked to his feet, gaping. Mere feet away, on the far side of the spring, stood his father.

  Sir Roland Haywood was as white as a sheet. He stared at Ash, mouth working soundlessly. “You’re dead! You filthy little bastard, I’m not having it! You’re dead, and this time you’ll damn well stay dead! Just like your bitch mother. Both of you and this filthy place!”

  Ash trembled at the loathing in his father’s voice, all pretense of civility gone. Flecks of spittle stood out white at one corner of Sir Roland’s mouth.

  “As soon as she brought you back, I knew you’d been sullied. The gash on your leg, some ridiculous story about lions. I knew it. As like as not you picked up some disease crawling around in the dust. Elizabeth should’ve left you there to rot and given me the son I truly deserved. Bah! No more. I’ll be free of you both if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “Rollie! Rollie, what is it, old chap?” Gerald Haywood’s voice came faintly from above.

  Ash glanced up. Thick vegetation lay between himself and his uncle. There was little chance he would be seen. He turned and ran, scrambling across the scree, then sprinting down the trail at breakneck speed, back to Roy.

  Roy was on his feet, rifle at the ready, staring wildly. Looking up, Ash could hear signs of pursuit, but the rocky overhang sheltered them from view. “My father,” he panted, grabbing Roy’s arm. “They’re coming.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Roy, my father saw me.”

  “Get the other rifle,” Roy growled. “We’ll head for the cave.”

  “No time. I’ll hide. Act like you don’t know what they’re talking about.” Ash let go of Roy’s arm and was gone, over the rocks and into the trees.

  The blood pounded in Ash’s veins. As though from a great distance, he heard a sound like thunder, followed by chanting. The voices rose and fell, thrumming and insistent. Like the song of the insects, like the song of the veldt; strong and true. Calling him.

  A harsh cry rent the air, and Ash knew without looking that the Bateleur had come. Falling to his knees, Ash put his hands flat on the dusty earth and swayed. He felt power flow through him, through his fingers and his wrists, surging through him, untrammeled, raw…angry.

  With a single bound, Ash was on his feet. As a man, he had felt the heat oppressive, but now the air tasted sweet and fresh. Insects zithered nearby, their tiny sounds magnified into a riot of music. In the tree above, Onai cocked her head, and Ash heard the scrape of feather on feather, the soft creak as the branch she perched on shifted beneath her great weight.

  He scented the air and wavered for a moment. He tasted
the smell of the old woman, she who was everywhere and nowhere all at once, but with it was that other odor, one that lived in Ash’s heart. He was struck by the sudden urge to turn tail and seek out the owner of that scent, to run to his side.

  For a moment, Ash was a weakling cub, lying in strong arms. A fractured, beaten boy, clinging desperately to a dream of clear blue eyes that knew his soul, hands and a voice that came from nowhere and took his pain away. And then he heard the chant again, faint but true, the message clear.

  Ash shook himself and snarled, then bounded away. He was a hunter born, and he was called to the hunt.

  * * * *

  Roy stared for an instant at the place where Ash had disappeared, then turned for the trail. His one thought was to put distance between himself and Ash and lead the pursuers away.

  Whatever happened, Gerald Haywood must not find Ash.

  He started up the trail, listening intently. From above, he heard a confusion of voices. There was no sound from the trees or the spring to show where Ash had gone. Roy clutched his rifle and redoubled his pace.

  From somewhere behind and below, Roy heard the scream of the Bateleur. All the hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound. The dream returned to him clearly: Onai and the golden lion, wild upon the veldt, hunting the hunters.

  Onai was no ordinary bird, and Ash was no ordinary man. Of those two things he was certain.

  Roy met Gerald Haywood above the head of the spring. Accompanied by two natives, the man carried his rifle, but the customary bullwhip was missing.

  “Bennett!” Haywood hurried forward. To Roy’s surprise, he looked relieved. “Have you met anyone on the trail?”

  Roy eased the butt of his rifle to the ground. “No one. Have you mislaid another man?”

  “It’s my brother. We struck a luncheon camp on the hill.” Haywood gestured behind him. “Rollie went down to the spring, and I heard him shouting—I ran down, and he swore he’d seen his son.”

  Roy worked at keeping his face impassive. “The boy has been missing two weeks or more. It’s hard to believe he’d still be alive out here.”