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  FEMALES OF VULVAR

  Vulvarian Saga ● Book 1

  J. K. Spenser

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this electronic book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means without the expressed written permission of the publisher, other than for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events in this book are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2020 by J. K. Spenser

  Cover design by Sage Knight Press

  First Edition: April 2020

  ASIN: B084X3FPR6

  Sage Knight Press

  Gratefully dedicated to The Goddess Summer, my muse, in recognition of her invaluable and continual support and encouragement. Thank you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Abduction

  Chapter 2: The Reunion

  Chapter 3: The Teacher

  Chapter 4: The Slave Market

  Chapter 5: My Mistress

  Chapter 6: The First Collection

  Chapter 7: A Little Death

  Chapter 8: An Unexpected Offer

  Chapter 9: The Mission

  Chapter 10: The Journal

  Chapter 11: The Riddle

  Chapter 12: The Quest Begins

  Chapter 13: The Voyage

  Chapter 14: The Living Among the Dead

  Chapter 15: A Second Clue

  Chapter 16: The Necropolis

  Chapter 17: Tomb Raiders

  Chapter 18: The Cave Dwellers

  Chapter 19: The Passageway

  Chapter 20: The Return March

  Chapter 21: Homeward Bound

  Chapter 22: The Homecoming

  Chapter 23: The Banquet

  Chapter 24: An Unforgettable Night

  Chapter 25: A Promise Kept

  Did You Enjoy This Book

  Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2)

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The Abduction

  My name is Tobias Hart. One of my ancestors supposedly shortened the name in the eighteenth century from the German-surname Hartmann when he immigrated to the United States. It was a time when people of non-white Anglo-Saxon Protestant descent were crossing the ocean from Europe in large numbers to start new lives in the new world. The earlier colonial settlers were none too happy about it. Among them, Benjamin Franklin noted inventor and eventual American founding father. He was also a notorious hater of Germans.

  My ancestor, like many German immigrants at the time, exchanged his German-surname for the more English sounding Hart in hopes of minimizing discrimination against his family.

  While my surname may have been changed, I retained the fair complexion, blue eyes, and outrageously blonde hair that the Nazis came to idealize as the uniquely Aryan features they regarded as evidence of Germanic purity.

  You may have noticed my unusual first name, which I’ll simply say was no more common when I was growing up than it is today. I assure you the moniker caused me a good bit of trouble during my early school years. It occasioned as many schoolyard contests of pugilistic skill as did my unusually blonde hair. The name I understand was given to me by my mother, who disappeared when I was very young. I thought her long-dead until the recent occurrence of some unimaginable events proved me mistaken more than thirty years after she had vanished.

  My father, I was told by relatives, had been murdered only days before the disappearance of my mother. While the proximity alone of the two tragic events suggested it, whether they were connected, no one knew with any certainty. And, no suspect in the murder of my father was ever identified or prosecuted. Orphaned at the tender age of four, I became the ward of an aunt, my father’s sister, and her husband, my uncle. They raised me in upstate New York.

  Many times as a child, I inquired of my aunt about my mother but was always told that biographical details were scant. No one seemed to know the circumstances behind her disappearance.

  Despite my unfortunate start in life, I was given a credible upbringing by my aunt and uncle, who furnished everything a child might need with the possible exception of love. That included a good education. I was a bright child I’ve been told, and being a man of wealth, my uncle had the means to pay my tuition at a rather prestigious private boarding school for boys. That allowed my adopted family to go about their lives unhindered by a child constantly underfoot once I reached the age of six. I was away at school all year except for the summer breaks and holidays.

  After completing high school, I managed to gain entrance to Princeton University in New Jersey, where I studied archaeology with an emphasis on the field of Egyptology. I continued there until I received a PhD at the age of thirty-three. Being literate and having a doctorate under my belt, I applied to several universities for a professorship. I claimed in my applications, I was somewhat more advanced academically than I was, and surprisingly the chair at the Department of Anthropology at Stanford University believed me. He offered to interview me for a tenure-track appointment to teach Native American archaeology.

  The interview went well. We entered negotiations, and I soon received my first post in the academic world. I flew home to New Jersey from the West Coast and immediately wrapped up my affairs there and packed my belongings.

  While I wasn’t expected on campus until two weeks before the start of the fall term, I immediately loaded my meager worldly possessions into a small rental trailer hitched to my Jeep Wrangler and headed west. With two weeks available before I was expected in California, I aimed to spend some time along the way exploring some Native American cliff dwellings located in southwest New Mexico.

  For thousands of years, groups of native nomadic people used caves along the Gila River as temporary shelters. By the late 1200s, one group decided the area would be a good place to call home. They built dwellings along the cliff faces above the river in an area near present-day Silver City. The dwellings remain well preserved and are among the few where national park officials still permit visitors to enter the actual dwellings.

  Having precious little experience in Native American archaeology, it seemed spending time exploring the cliff dwellings might provide me some street cred with my future students and academic peers at Stanford.

  Backpacking and camping had been my favorite recreational pursuits during my college years. As a result, I had accumulated a considerable amount of camping equipment. My plan was to camp reasonably near to the remotely located cliff dwelling sites I intended to visit and to hike to the various sites over several days to explore them.

  Three days after departing New Jersey, I arrived in Silver City, New Mexico, where I spent what I expected would be my last night for the foreseeable future in the relative comforts of a hotel room. The following morning, fortified with breakfast and having secured ample supplies for my wilderness expedition, I set off on the 44-mile drive to the Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument.

  Almost two hours of driving was required for me to reach the federal park lands due to the mountainous and winding nature of the narrow road up from Silver City. On arrival, I stopped by the welcome center where a friendly, helpful park ranger pointed out available campsites on a map he had supplied me with.

  It was late afternoon and raining quite briskly by the time I had selected a campsite and had erected my small tent. Facing about a two-hour hike to reach the first site I planned to visit, it seemed best to relax at the campsite, get some sleep, and then to head to the cliff dwellings the following morning. I passed the balance of the afternoon inside my tent out of the weather, drinking coffee, and reading. Once the rain stopped for a time, I prepared
an evening camp meal over my portable stove. After cleaning up, I climbed into my sleeping bag to get some sleep.

  While it rained all that first night, the morning broke with clear skies and bright sunshine. After breakfast, I packed some modest provisions and lashed my sleeping bag to my pack. After orienting a topographic map I’d secured before the trip, I plotted a bearing and, with a compass in hand, struck out for the cliff dwellings. Given the anticipated distance I had to cover, I aimed to hike to the site and spend the day exploring. Then I planned to rough camp overnight near the site before hiking back to my tent and Jeep the next morning.

  More quickly than anticipated, I was alone in the deep woods of Gila National Forest. The hike turned out more challenging than expected due to the heavy rains and the activity of some industrious dam-building beavers along my route. The many streams that traversed the wilderness before emptying into the Gila River were overflowed. As a result, I found myself slogging through marshlands and, in many instances, knee-deep standing water. This required much physical exertion and numerous detours.

  The two-hour hike I had anticipated slowly turned into a strenuous all-day exercise. Since it had been more than a year since my last backpacking trip, I found I wasn’t particularly well-prepared for this taxing encounter with nature. But, being the confident type, I gamely trudged onward through the mud and the muck along the bearing calculated to take me to my intended destination.

  Finally, in the late afternoon, I caught sight of the cliff dwellings high above me, framed by a gap in the thick pine trees. My goal was only a few hundred meters away, but with what I estimated was only about an hour of daylight remaining, I yielded to the weight of my pack and stopped near a rocky outcrop to set up my camp for the night. I was exhilarated at arriving at my destination and being alone among the thick pine trees. Since I wasn’t pressed for time, I changed my plan. I’d prepare a hot meal, get some sleep, and explore the ancient dwellings the following morning. I felt sure I’d then have plenty of time to hike back to my primary campsite the next afternoon.

  I set about gathering dead wood for a fire. It was well past dusk by the time I had the campfire roaring and had filled my belly with hot canned beef stew and coffee for my dinner. Fatigued after the rough hike, I rolled out my sleeping bag near the fire, took off my boots, and climbed into the bag. It was after I’d bedded down for the night when circumstances started to make an unexpectedly bizarre turn.

  Just as I was dozing off, I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck and opened my eyes widely. I sat upright and peered out into the darkness beyond the light of the dying fire. I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched by someone or something. The park ranger had advised me that the wilderness area was teeming with all manner of wildlife; black bear, mountain lion, wolves, elk, and deer. I told myself whatever I’d heard out there in the darkness that had startled me was only an animal of some kind. I was safe enough beside the fire. Yet I was shivering despite the sleeping bag and my heavy outdoor clothing.

  Nevertheless, I was also sweating. My heart pounded, and my breath was short. I was frightened.

  Getting out of the sleeping bag, I piled more wood on the fire. I tried to reassure myself, telling myself I was foolish, and the fear that gripped me was irrational. I filled my coffee pot with water and grounds and set it over the fire. The activity took my mind off the feelings of unease. My pulse began to slow.

  I sat on the ground beside the fire, sipping the hot coffee. Looking up at the heavens, I marveled at the thousands of stars twinkling like diamonds in the dark sky above.

  Eventually, feeling drowsy once again, I crawled back into the sleeping bag, determined to get some sleep. But soon, the unsettled feelings of unease returned with a vengeance. I nervously glanced about attempting to detect movement in the enveloping darkness beyond the campfire. I thought I heard something moving around in the brush about a hundred meters to my right. Again I had the eerie feeling I was being watched. The fear escalated. Something out there in the darkness was stalking me. It was not a pleasant thing to acknowledge.

  Getting out of the sleeping bag again, I pulled on my hiking boots. I rolled the sleeping bag and returned my gear to the pack. I kicked the wood in the fire apart, scuffed dirt over the burning embers, and stamped out the remaining sparks. Just before the fire sputtered out, I was sure I’d caught movement less than fifty meters out in the darkness.

  Slinging the pack, I checked my compass by the light of my headlamp and then started off on a bearing that would take me back to my original campsite. I felt like an idiot trying to hike back in the darkness, knowing the swampy, flooded ground stood between me and my original campsite. I was asking for a twisted ankle, a broken leg, or maybe a broken neck. It was a reckless exercise I’d embarked on, but the fear drove me onward.

  I felt compelled to put some distance between me and my hasty campsite, between me and whatever it was out there in the darkness stalking me. I told myself I didn’t have to make it all the way back to the original campsite. If I only managed a mile or two, that should be sufficient to calm my fraying nerves. Maybe then I could unroll the sleeping bag and feel safe enough to sleep until morning. Then I could continue on at daylight, feeling confident and secure. Feeling so compelled to put some distance between me and the hasty campsite, I didn’t even give any thought to aborting my exploration of the cliff dwellings.

  After about twenty minutes of making my perilous way in the darkness, I started to worry I might have become lost. In the darkness, it was exceedingly difficult to spot a tree or other fixed terrain feature ahead on the bearing to stay on course. Instead, I had to check the compass dial frequently. Even if I had become lost, I was competent in navigating the wilderness and felt confident that even if I tramped along all night, I’d be able to get my bearings again when the sun came up.

  Given the fear I felt, it seems strange now that I think back on it that I didn’t run headlong into the woods. But, as frightened as I was, I somehow managed to maintain some semblance of control of my faculties.

  Determined to stay on course using the compass as best I could under the trying circumstances, I checked the dial every minute or two by the light of the headlamp. I was doing just that, checking the face of the compass illuminated in the narrow band of light when to my horror, I saw the needle was spinning crazily and oscillating backward and forward. It was like a Bermuda Triangle nightmare. It was if the laws of nature had ceased to operate in my vicinity. For the first time, I felt myself losing control. My fear turned into pure terror. The compass had been my last remaining anchor. I’d counted on it. Now it had stopped working.

  Suddenly, there was a loud noise. To my shame, I can admit now it may only have been my own frightened shrieking. The next thing, I had thrown off the pack and was running headlong through the dense forest, bouncing off tree trunks, branches slapping me in the face. I was simply running like some demented animal, desperate to escape some threat I couldn’t even identify. I slipped and fell often.

  It may have been only a few minutes. It may have been hours. I may have been sobbing in utter terror. All I remember for certain was the blind, panic-stricken flight. Once my headlamp illuminated two disembodied eyes in the darkness. I screamed and ran from them as fast as I could. Once I ran into a band of deer, startling them into flight. One or more of them buffeted me, knocking me to the ground as they bounded away in the darkness. I sprang up and just kept running.

  At some point, the clouds broke, and the moon came out, casting an eerie glow on the trees and the side of a slope. I realized I was going uphill again, which meant at least I wasn’t about to run straight into the Gila River and drown myself. I began to slow and then stopped, unable to run any further. I fell to the ground, gasping for breath. After a time, I started to gain a grip on my emotions. I marveled at the stupidity of my panic-stricken run through the wilderness in almost total darkness. For the first time in my life, I had been seized by complete, unreasonable fear. It had
gripped me like the claws of some great predatory beast. I had surrendered to it, and the fear had propelled me like a twig caught in a surging river.

  Pushing myself up from the ground, I looked about by the light of the headlamp. I spied a rocky promontory I immediately recognized as the outcropping of rock only a stone’s throw from where I’d made the hasty camp near the cliff dwellings. Then in the dimness, I saw the ashes of my campfire. After all the running, I had managed only to make a great circle and had ended up back at the point where my frightened flight had started.

  The exhaustion now complete; I collapsed heavily to the ground in a sitting position. My muscles ached, and my body was covered with a foul-smelling sheen of fear and sweat. Mentally I berated myself for my cowardice. I sighed in relief, realizing at least I hadn’t suffered any serious injuries. I expected in the morning light I’d find a few bruises and scratches, but I didn’t feel any worse for the wear beyond the physical exhaustion. That seemed the important thing. I was alive and unhurt.

  Moments after having those thoughts is when I saw the ship descending. At first, I thought it was a shooting star headed for impact. But then it became a clear and substantial shiny disk of silver. It hovered and then settled noiselessly onto the ground, scarcely disturbing the grass in the small clearing where it landed. There was nothing more than a slight disturbance of the surrounding air. Instinctively, I suppose, I had leapt to my feet to run away, but unable to process what I saw my feet seemed rooted to the ground. I watched as a door in the side of the craft slid quietly open. I could see dim, eerie lights emanating out from within the ship. That apparently was when I fainted.

  Chapter 2

  The Reunion

  I remembered nothing from the time I was taken aboard the silver ship in the wilderness of New Mexico. I awoke, feeling rested, and opened my eyes, half expecting to find myself inside my tent at the campsite in Gila National Forest. I turned my head, feeling no pain but only some slight discomfort as if a weight was pressing upon my chest. I was lying on a comfortable bed within a spacious rectangular room with a high ceiling, some twelve to fifteen feet high, I estimated.