by Ana Calin
“You’re trying to take over the town, Serpaint, don’t think I don’t see beyond your schemes.”
“And if I were, Timur, what are you going to do to stop me?”
Timur snaps his fingers, and his men approach. Mark makes a small gesture with his chin, and Darius, the big alligator shifter, steps in to face the men.
All Darius does is glare and let out a low growl. He rarely ever talks, he keeps at the back of the squad of guards, and rarely steps in. When he does, it means the confrontation is worth it. I sit still near Serpaint, not moving my irises, but observing everything.
“We can spare ourselves all this, Timur,” Serpaint says as his men and Timur’s face each other like rivaling packs of dogs. Only that Serpaint’s men are serpent shifters, pedigree beasts, while Timur’s are stray dogs in comparison.
“All you have to do,” Serpaint continues, “is tell me where your friend, Father Ruben, is hiding.”
The words send a rush through my veins. All my senses spike.
“Father Ruben was my confessor, not the other way around. He knows my secrets.”
“You know, Timur, your people enjoy my powders, and they give me the information I want in return. They already revealed that, Father Ruben being your confessor over so many years, you became friends and enjoyed philosophizing together. Some even say you’re the only friend he had besides my wife. So who could he have gone to for help, if not a friend?”
Timur laughs. “I heard that Father Ruben and his mysteries were what drew you to this town, Serpaint, but I never believed it.” He motions to Mark with a trace of disdain. “You, the master of drug lords, interested in the secrets of a broke priest who used to live in a nursing home.”
“Tell me where he is now.” Mark keeps his cool, but I can tell it’s a challenge.
“Come on, you’re big, strong and powerful. Don’t tell me you really can’t get a hold of an old priest that doesn’t even know how to use a cell phone.” There’s mockery behind the words, and Mark’s blood heats up. This intensifies its scent, which makes my nostrils flare. Hell, how I want to rip his throat open.
The tense conversation continues between the two men, while plans and strategies flash through my brain.
I turn to stare hard at Serpaint, getting his attention. “I think I have a solution for this.”
Serpaint nods and returns to Timur.
“All right, let’s drop this for the time being. And rest assured I’m not trying to take your power in this town away from you. That has already happened. I own the underground already, so next time you step into my club, make sure you fucking remember who’s the boss.”
He signals his men to take Timur away, but Timur stands up and lingers there, looking boldly into Mark’s face.
“You think you’re cunning, and even invincible, Mark Serpaint, but that is a mistake. Try not to step on my toes, because I’m stronger than you think.”
A few serpents burst into laughter, and even I can’t repress a smirk. Poor bastard, if he only knew what he’s up against.
Later, as we step out of the club side by side, Serpaint leans to my ear. “By the time this is over, I’ll have you rip off that fat finger with the golden ring, and shove it up his ass.”
Tristan
SERPAINT AGREED TO my plan. After we talked in his office—not alone, fortunately, or I might have really torn him apart—I get out of the house to go on a hunt.
By the time I find the perfect victim I’m mad with thirst and the need for release. I decide on a rapist slash pedophile lifting a schoolgirl’s skirt by the dumpsters between gray apartment buildings in the night. The girl flees screaming after what she thinks is a swift knife attack on her aggressor. I hear police cars in the distance as I leave the scene, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, and the knife on my thigh. I’ve just slit his throat where my teeth pierced it, in such a way that a coroner will conclude it was indeed a knife attack. He’ll have less blood than he should in his body, but they’ll blame it on something else, something that makes sense. They always do.
Back at the villa I throw off my blood stained clothes, and sink into a hot bath. Hell, it’s good, feeling that rapist bastard’s blood running through my system, fueling mine, making me stronger.
Villains’ blood works wonders on any vampire’s system, it rejuvenates us like nothing else. The bigger the villain, the stronger we become. Not many people know that, but it’s true. Vampires attacking defenseless women or weaklings, that’s just myth, bad press. It would actually be a good thing, if that happened. Many would be healed of their weaknesses, and live forever afterwards. A vampire’s existence may be far from ideal, but it does provide eternal life, eternal youth, and extreme strength and resilience. Sometimes, vampirism even comes with a superpower.
A whiff of Isolde’s scent seeps in through the cracked window. I’d recognize that scent anywhere, lily of the valley mixed with the scent of her husband’s blood. I sit up in the tub, the water lapping over the marble edges. Looking behind me through the window, I spot Isolde running across the terrace, her chocolate hair and her satin robe floating in the wind.
I push up from the tub, grab a pair of pants, and lunge out into the rain through the doors from my chamber that open onto the terrace.
There’s a storm out at sea, I can see it in the distance. Angry clouds coil in the sky, the sea raging, Isolde disappearing farther on the beach toward the piers like a white veil taken away by the wind. The breeze carries her sobs over. Fuck, she’s gonna do something reckless.
My eyes dart around like the eyes of a hawk, making sure there’s no one around to see me take off like a rocket after her. Sure enough there’s no one out in this storm, and when the rain starts pouring down, I can’t be seen from windows either.
I run as fast as a Jaguar, the salty wind whipping around my face, thick droplets of water splashing on my forehead and my cheeks. I grab her just as she steps onto a large stone, ready to throw herself into the waves. I spin her around, and one look at her is enough to realize—she would have thrown herself into the raging sea without a second thought. She’s emotionally broken.
I pull her from the stone to my chest, wrapping an arm tightly around her, and brushing the wet hair off of her face with the other hand.
“Sweet Jesus,” escapes my mouth for the first time in my two hundred years.
Isolde’s jaw is blue, and the base of her neck has the texture and coloration of someone strangled by a snake. Revulsion and anger bubble up inside of me. Looking at this woman with her melancholy blue eyes, the woman who’s dedicated her life to nursing the disabled and the elderly, being abused like this, it’s torture to my heart.
I scoop her up and take her back to the villa, sneaking her into my room through the terrace doors that I left open. The rain has whipped inside the chamber, leaving the curtains and part of the expensive carpet soaking wet, but that’s the least of my concerns. I seat Isolde on my bed, wrap the fluffy comforter around her, and hurry to push the doors closed. I linger there just a few moments to observe the serpents outside, who run toward the beach like crazy—that slimy bastard must have sent them after Isolde. So nobody knows she’s here.
I walk quickly back to her, but as I hunker down in front of her she flinches and whimpers, then squirms as if she’s terrified I might attack her.
I try to touch her forehead, but she leans away. She presses a hand protectively between her legs over the satin robe that clings to her body, as if she’s afraid I might try to force myself on her. I keep reaching out to touch her, slowly, my eyes fixed on her terrified face.
“Trust me,” I say softly. “I won’t hurt you.”
But she’s having a fit, she squirms and whimpers louder, and I’m afraid she’ll give us away in the end. I have to turn to another myth about vampires, one that happens to be true—hypnosis and mental manipulation.
I release the chemicals, imbuing my voice with them, too.
“You’re safe, Isolde. Always, by my s
ide, you will be safe. You can trust me. You’re innocent. You’re pure. It’s Mark who’s filthy, he is scum.”
She relaxes, her whole body now mellow, and her eyelids falling heavy. Those long, curved eyelashes that glisten with water move slowly up and down, brushing the upper part of her cheeks when she closes her eyes. Fuck, this woman seems an angel, physically and emotionally abused by a creature so vile that he must have sprouted directly from the devil’s cock.
“I swear I’ll kill him for it,” I whisper. Isolde is still trembling from the cold, since she’s still wearing the wet satin robe underneath, but I figure this isn’t the right moment to insist that she should undress.
I sit gently by her side, so slowly that she barely notices the movement, and wrap an arm around her shoulders.
“I need warmth,” she whispers through white lips.
I hold her tighter. God. Her flowery scent creeps into my nostrils. Fuck, I can’t be so sick as to want this woman, especially in the state that she’s in, can I? To distract myself, I go to the bathroom to get a thick, fluffy towel, and start drying her hair with it. When I see that she’s warmer, I dare suggest that she takes off her wet bathrobe.
“I have to get back, and God forbid I don’t have it on,” she says. She can still barely speak, she’s depleted. I can’t resist the impulse, and take her in my arms again.
“We can dry it with the hair dryer later, and you can wear my things until then, but if you keep wet clothes on you, you’ll get sick. Listen, I’ll go get you something to eat, and make sure no one comes looking for you here. I saw serpents storming out onto the beach, so Mark thinks that you’ve escaped, and I’d have him keep thinking that for a while. In the morning, we’ll find a solution. My clothes are in the wardrobe, choose something, and change. We’ll deal with your clothes when I get back.”
She nods.
I put on dry pants and a shirt before I get out of the room, locking the door. I don’t want anyone discovering Isolde while I’m away to get her food. Not only because of what they might do to her, but because of what I’d do to them if they as much as touched her with a feather.
I don’t think I ever wanted to kill Serpaint more than I do now, not even after what he did to me. After all, I was an assassin who’d tried to kill the Devil’s Son with a special silver blade. I was a killer, maybe a villain, just like them. But Isolde, who can possibly see anything deserving of punishment in her? She is a white dove, a pure soul. My little white dove.
I can feel the electricity in my eyes as I walk to the kitchen, my jaw clenching. I’ll split Mark open right in front of Isolde, and I’m going to do it soon, but for now I need to stick to my plans. I can’t go swinging my blades at his men, decapitating all serpents happening in my way. I have to be strategic about it, and the rage of emotions I feel inside isn’t helping. It’s true, what my masters taught me all those years ago—emotion is weakness. I resolve to get a grip.
I muster all the self-control I can when I run into serpents. They’re worried, some even frantic, because they lost Isolde. I make sure everyone sees me, including the big alligator shifter, who’s in the main hall, organizing his men to go in search of Isolde. He gives me a suspicious glare.
I make sure he learns that I have no idea where Isolde is either, then I return to my chamber and lock it on the inside.
Isolde sits completely still on the edge of the bed, her gaze lost, looking out the window, at the pouring rain. She’s wearing one of my shirts, a white one that suits her angelic frame.
A brief sensation of fulfillment goes through me as I realize that I’m giving her a few moments of respite. But then I press my lips together—a few moments can’t possibly be enough. She needs to be free from this bastard, once and for all.
“You won’t ever have to be alone with him again, Isolde, I promise you.” I pull the coffee table close and set the food on it, in front of her. “I have a plan to free you from him, but you must play along.”
She keeps staring ahead, without aim and without hope. The violet bruises at the base of her neck, so clearly the coil of a serpent, makes anger re-surge inside me.
“What happened exactly?” I inquire. “Did he—” Fuck, the idea alone sends a stab through my gut. “Did he rape you?”
Isolde shudders, but then, to my relief, she shakes her head no.
“He hardly ever does,” she says. Her voice is small, faint, like that of a child. “He takes his pleasure from hurting me.”
“And how did he hurt you now?”
“Nothing close to what he did to you. In comparison, I’m ashamed I even broke down like that.”
I press my lips together. “He told you?”
She nods. “A few nights ago. When he can’t do things to my body, he does them to my soul. Telling me the story of your torture in detail was his entertainment a few days before—” She motions generally to herself, then her hand drops back into her lap as if it doesn’t matter. “Before he did this.”
Lightning splits the sky, flashing over Isolde’s beautiful but battered face. Hell, it hurts to look at her.
“Mark Serpaint is one of the most wicked creatures I ever came across,” I say through my teeth. “He deserves to be skinned alive. If you want, that’s what I’ll do to him, right before your eyes. I will avenge you, Isolde, I swear, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
She grabs my fingers in her fragile, cold hand. “No you won’t, and I don’t want you sticking around any longer, either. Just leave me, I’m collateral damage. But save the world from him. When you get the chance, ambush Mark with Lord Dracula’s men, but not now. You’re alone, a vampire among serpents, you don’t stand a chance.”
I want to snort, assuring her I’ve already thought of three ways of bringing the slimy bastard down, but I refrain. She’s probably safer not knowing. Look where knowing the secrets of Father Ruben has brought her. I don’t want mine to get her killed. I put my hand over hers.
“Isolde, listen carefully. Tomorrow, at breakfast, you’ll go into the dining room. You’ll tell Mark you will no longer take his abuse. You spent the night at a friend’s or something, and you’ve only come to pick up some of your things, then you’ll go again. That’s what you’ll tell him.”
She stares at me like I’m crazy. “Do what? He’s gonna lash at me.”
“No, he won’t. Because, like I said, I have a plan.”
She inspects my face.
“All right,” she says, and I can hear the trust in her words. It comes with responsibility, but I’ve never taken on a mission more readily than I’m taking on this one. I will save Isolde from the monster, if it’s the last thing I do.
I make to get up and pull up a chair, but Isolde stops me, grabbing my hand. She stares at me out of big blue sparkling eyes, and a sensation of melting goes through my body.
“Can I ask you something, Tristan?”
“Sure, whatever you want. But eat first.” I sit down in a chair, my back at the terrace doors, my face to Isolde.
She starts picking at the sausages—I’ve noticed what she likes to eat during the meals we’ve all had together in the dining hall these past few days. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, in my business I have to notice everyone’s preferences, but I did take special note of hers. In fact, she picks at her food more than she eats it, but I can tell under normal circumstances she’d love what she puts on her plate.
“It’s something that Mark wonders about as well,” she says, taking a small bite of sausage, then reaching for a salt pretzel. “It’s on his mind quite a lot. Actually, if I think about it, he’s becoming obsessed with you, he wants to know you on a very intimate level.”
My stomach revolts, but I repress any physical reaction that might betray that.
“What did you want to ask me?” my white dove, I want to add, but I stop in time. I do take my hand to my chest, though, pretending to arrange the open sides of my shirt. It’s a very strange sensation, this need of calling her a pet name, as
if that could do her good in some way.
“Well, it’s about—” She takes a sip of the orange juice, but I know she’s stalling. I lean forward and take her hand.
“Like I said, you can ask me anything. You can do no wrong.”
A smile quivers on her face. “I’m sorry for blabbering around, it’s just that you look so forbidding, so dangerous.”
“I could never become dangerous to you.” Even my voice grows much softer with her. It’s still deep, but no longer hard, it’s pleasant, like I’m inviting her to trust me, open up to me. Snap out of it, Tristan.
“Well.” She sets the glass down, her fragile hand beginning to sweat. She’s nervous, and I think I am, too.
“I was wondering about your love life. I mean, I know, you said you were never in love, you said that being trained as an assassin ever since you were child made certain things hard if not impossible, but still.” She raises her eyes meekly at me. “You don’t look like a man who’s lived without, well, without sex forever.” She’s so careful with the word ‘sex’ that I could jump on her. Damn, I’m full of impulses I don’t understand.
“I—” What do I tell her? I can’t possibly tell her the truth. But then I look into her expectant eyes, and I just can’t lie to her. Serpaint abused her physically and emotionally. If I lie to her, I would be abusing her as well. And I want to be her protector, her... her what? Her father, her brother? Her lover?
“Well?” She nudges when I don’t speak.
I take a deep breath. Okay, here we go.
“I used women.” That didn’t come out right, I rub my forehead. “Er....”
“Used?”
“Only if they were into that kind of stuff, too. Okay, here it goes. As assassins, we were trained to direct our sexual energy into battle, focus, strategy. If we got horny, we trained harder, or we’d go meditate while sharpening our blades. As boys and teenagers, if we had hard-ons in the morning, they’d take us out into the cold and make us walk in circles with a slab on our shoulders with two full buckets of water on each end. Often for a full hour. They’d do that no matter the weather, even in extreme cold. Often we returned frostbitten, but, if properly trained, the human body can regenerate quickly and recover from just about anything. And, if anything, we were properly trained.