by Karen Glista
Rubio turned to face him, then spat his gold tooth in a stream of blood to the floor. He eyed Antonio.
Antonio raised a brow. “One last time. Who is your master?”
Silence.
“Remove his feet from his body,” Antonio commanded as he rose and stepped back to allow an Affiliate well trained in torture to take his place. The Affiliate, with a curved blade held tightly between his teeth, grasped Rubio’s left foot.”
“No wait!” Rubio squealed, as Lisa gasped. “I’ll talk, but I want to live, Antonio.”
Antonio shook his head. “We’ll see about that, but you know I don’t make promises.”
“It’s Garret.”
“Whew!” Antonio nodded with a look to Torin that screamed, ‘I told you so.’ “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
Rubio coughed, then spat blood-laden saliva to the floor.
“Did he order my daughter’s death?” Antonio asked with a hushed whisper, his eyes distant.
“Yes.”
For a moment, Antonio froze, rooted to the hardwood floors, his eyes squeezed tightly. “Why?” he whispered in a hushed tone. “She was a gentle soul, my only child.”
Rubio spat again as if he didn’t hear.
“Tell me why?” Antonio sputtered as he took a step closer.
“Some crazy attempt to save Zaroc.”
“Save him from what?” Antonio barked.
“Scarface.”
“The killer?” Torin snapped, joining Antonio’s side.
“Yeah, seems he is the Seventh Miigis and has invaded Zaroc’s body.”
“Not possible,” Torin scoffed. The seventh left here a thousand years ago.”
“Wait,” Antonio said, a hand up to silence Torin. “For the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right, that Scarface is the Seventh Miigis and has somehow taken possession of Zaroc. Why would they think that killing Marie would free him of the spirit?”
“They were hopeful that the dying child of a Sirun, one of the seventh’s own direct descendants would become a host for the spirit. It was the perfect plan and they hoped that once Scarface was in her body, that Marie could get close and kill you.”
Antonio gasped.
“It’s true, I swear it,” Rubio mumbled. “Garret hates you and he wanted the last thing you see on this earth to be your daughter, your own flesh and blood, taking your head. It didn’t work, and try as he might, the seventh couldn’t take her body. Now they realize it must be a newborn descendant, or at least that’s what the Midewiwin has predicted.”
“So that’s why they abducted Donja,” Antonio said. “They want to drain her blood, get rid of Torin’s antigens and get her pregnant. Then Scarface can kill the baby and take its body as his own,” he said, eyes on Torin who was foaming at the mouth, fist balled tightly with an overwhelming desire to draw blood. Antonio grasped Torin’s arm just as he lunged for Rubio.
“No, not you,” Antonio glowered, gripping him tightly. “Look around you, this is your new family and they’re watching you. Don’t leave that image in their minds. Let the boys handle him outside,” he whispered. He turned back to Rubio with eyes of fire. “Your death as well as Garret’s will bring me great pleasure,” he grinned wickedly, “and just so you know, blood transfusions to get rid of antigens only works in one out of ten cases. You followed a madman, Rubio, now take that to your grave.”
“No!” Rubio shouted.
Antonio nodded and the Iridescents seized him amid a flurry of wails, spitting blood, and begging for his life. They dragged him across the foyer and out the door which slammed behind them.
Anna and Lisa stood up.
“They tried to get me,” Lisa said. “Now that Frankie’s blood is tainted, they must think that they can use me for the transfusion.
“Yes,” Antonio sighed, “your DNA markers mimic Donja’s but after they get you and realize your blood won’t match, they will feed on you.”
Lisa gasped. “The bastards are determined. They’ll be back and I’m good as dead.”
“You can get them off your back, that is if you’re willing to cross over.” Antonio said.
“Me,” Lisa stuttered with wide eyes, “like Frankie, become an…”
“No!” Carson shouted, there must be another way.”
Lisa held up her hand. “So, if they think that I am the last of the blood and it’s tainted, will they let Donja go?”
“They might,” Anna said, “only one of them got close enough to me in the battle to realize my lineage and Gage killed him, so they still believe you’re the last hope. If you cross over it will increase the chance of using me as a bargaining tool.”
“And who will do this?” Lisa whispered with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Antonio,” Torin said. “He changed Frankie.”
“You changed Frankie?” she asked. “I thought it was Torin.”
“Yes, it was me,” Antonio said. “Frankie has Donja’s blood, it would have been a hardship for Torin.”
Lisa pondered as Carson joined her side. “It’s not something I would ever have wanted,” she said, “but if it will save my life and possibly help get Donja back, why not?” She thought about Frankie.
Maybe I would have my son back.
“Let’s do it,” Lisa whispered.
“Not without me,” Carson chimed in. “You’re not crossing over without me,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
“Looks like our family is growing,” Antonio remarked with lustrous eyes. He held out his hand to Lisa and Carson. “Let’s take a walk.”
Hearing the front door close behind them, Torin took a deep breath. “Could we have some coffee,” he asked, hoping to distract from the uncomfortable silence settling upon them.
“Sure,” Makayla said. She headed for the door, Anna at her side.
In the kitchen, just as the coffee pot ceased to hiss and churn, Makayla poured six cups, then spun as the front door opened and every eye fell upon the hallway, leading to the foyer.
Antonio emerged, Lisa and Carson at his side.
Frankie cast a look as a smile curled upon his face.
Lisa gazed into Frankie’s eyes and in as much turned a page in her life. She understood his feelings, knew his needs. She had not lost her son, he had simply evolved. They shared a companionable moment and then she turned her gaze to Anna, who was sipping coffee. They shared a look which required no words.
Anna sat her coffee on the island and turned to leave. She paused beside Frankie, so different, yet his presence still warmed her heart. With a clandestine glance, she found Antonio’s eyes upon her. She took her leave into the hallway and headed for the stairs.
“Her heart is skipping beats. Go to her,” Frankie said with a nudge to Antonio.
Antonio bolted with long muscled strides, closing the gap just as Anna reached the stairs. “We need to talk.”
Anna stopped with her back to him. Then, without a word, took to the winding stairs. Antonio raced after her, two steps at a time. He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “I loved you. Why did you run?”
Anna looked deeply into his eyes as if searching his soul. “I was a scared kid, twelve years old and to me…you were a demon.”
Silence like a rolling fog, settled upon them, deadlocked with neither of them breathing.
“I would never have hurt you,” Antonio said. “I would have worshipped you.”
The manor creaked, sunlight finding the lonely places.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered with trembling lips, shaky hands gripping her arm. She glanced down to his hand and he released her. Slowly she raised her head, avoiding his gaze, then spun and ascended the stairs.
Antonio watched until she disappeared, swallowed by the old house and then he bolted down the stairs to the kitchen. “Torin, he snapped, “get Garret on the phone, now!”
Torin dialed his cell. “Garret, Antonio wants to talk to you.” He handed Antonio the phone.
“Garret, you’re
a murdering, no good bastard.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Rubio’s dead, but not before he spilled his guts. I want the girl released.”
“No, the Red Queen belongs to my son.”
“She’s no good to you and as for your plan to use Frankie’s or Lisa’s blood to get rid of Torin’s antigens—forget it, you lose. They have both crossed over and bear my antigens.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Garret growled.
“Doubtful.”
“You come here or bring your forces, and this little bitch dies.”
“No, she won’t, you need her to save your son.”
“Not anymore,” Garret said. “We both know that without a transfusion she’s useless to me, other than feeding…and of course, carnal desire. See what you did Antonio? She’s no longer a queen, she’s a worthless peasant. You signed her death warrant.”
“I have an alternative.”
“None I’m interested in.”
“Oh, you might be surprised,” Antonio said. “How about the real Red Queen, one who has never been marked? She’s of the Durent Clan and willing to give of herself to save the girl.”
The phone crackled. “Interested?”
“I’m listening,” Garret answered.
“Good, because we’re coming. We trade the females, kill the Seventh Miigis, then it’s just you and me.”
Garret chuckled. “There’s no way to kill him.”
“If he has taken a human form, he can die!”
“He’s a spirit that dwells within Zaroc. He comes out from time to time as his old symbiont, Scarface, but he can’t survive more than a few hours. He has possession of my son. You can’t kill one without killing the other two.”
Antonio stood in silence. Finally, he said, “So, they were both there when Marie died, Scarface and Zaroc.”
Garret didn’t answer, but Antonio could hear him breathing. “Watch over your son, Garret. An eye for an eye.”
“You even look at my son and—”
“Just have the girl ready,” Antonio said.
“No problem little man, a pregnant bitch is of no use to me anyway.”
“What?”
“You heard me. She’s pregnant with Mancini’s child.”
“Don’t you dare harm her, Garret, I swear, I’ll—”
“Just bring me the royal bitch!”
A Desperate Plea
Torin caught a red eye flight to Princess Royal Island off the North coast of British Columbia. He immediately checked into the King Admiral Pacific Lodge. He didn’t bother to unpack his black leather bag, but instead picked up the house phone and dialed the front desk to book another flight.
Twenty minutes later, with dusk falling he boarded a chopper, waiting patiently as the pilot radioed his credentials to a central office in Russia. After conversing in Russian, the pilot pulled off his earphones and nodded approval. He flipped a switch, the overhead rotor humming. The helicopter rose and like a bird of prey, spun midair, soaring down the eastern flank of the Inside Passage. Fifteen minutes later, gliding fifty feet over the rising swells, the pilot slowed, hovering precariously over a huge yacht with a blinking red beacon. After the chopper landed atop the railed deck with waves gently rocking the ‘Grand Presidential Yacht,’ Torin took a hasty exit. He bent his frame while running across the deck with turbulence from the rotor whipping his hair.
Downstairs he combed his hair with his fingers then smoothed his jacket as security in the form of two hulking Affiliates approached. “I’m Torin Mancini,” he said producing identification. One of the Affiliates sniffed him up close and personal, nose to skin. Finally, he backed off. “Welcome Mr. Mancini,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “The Duma Council is in session.”
Down one more deck, Torin was ushered into a room, which occupied the bottom floor. It was packed, some fifty or more men sitting on velvet chairs facing a white, ornate table with four Old World Siruns, who by sheer force and thousands of loyal Soviet Affiliates, controlled the world’s largest Iridescent army. Torin took a seat, listening to boundary disputes between Russian, Alaskan and Chinese clans. The arguments lingered and when the Chinese Affiliate turned hostile, arguing with the Duma’s final decision, an Affiliate Peacekeeper walked up behind him sword in hand and decapitated him. His remains removed, the session continued, business as usual. Twenty minutes later as Torin found his thoughts stretched between past and present events he flinched at the sound of his name.
“Torin Mancini, are you present?”
Torin stood up. “Yes.”
“Approach.”
Torin made his way through the rows of velvet chairs packed with Iridescents from around the world. Nearing the ornate table, he took a sweeping bow. Milos Puszecki, who was the oldest living Soviet Sirun, gave him a quick once-over, golden locks framing his masculine face. He was regal, with a square jaw and thin mustache, broad shoulders and perfect skin, quite dashing for a man older than time. “Mr. Mancini,” he said with a thick accent, “the Duma received an urgent message from the United States regarding international danger. What say you, sir?”
“Thank you, Siruns of the Duma, for having me,” Torin replied with a respectful bow. ‘I was sent by Antonio Naosoi, Grand Sirun of the U.S. New World Council with an urgent plea for assistance.”
Milos, who was scouring paperwork, retorted without looking, “Mr. Mancini, the Soviet Duma does not interfere with U.S. affairs.”
“I understand,” Torin said, “but this is not just a U.S. situation, it’s one that may well destroy our way of life worldwide.”
Molos’ head jerked up, annoyance bleeding from his eyes. “Enough speculation, Mr. Mancini, to what are you referring?”
“The Seventh Miigis.”
The room succumbed to noisy chatter, every eye on Torin.
“Silence!” Milos snapped. The babbles ceased. “Mr. Mancini,” he said with tight brows, “are you insinuating that the Seventh Miigis has returned?”
“I am.”
Milos rocked back in his chair with a boisterous laugh. “I must give it to you, Mr. Mancini, this is the best bullshit, which by the way, is a term learned from your own country, that I have heard in over nine hundred years.”
Torin shrugged. “I understand your skepticism, sir, I felt the same at first, but it’s true.”
Milos leaned forward in his chair. “You’re trying my patience. Everyone knows that the six spirits pulled him back to the ocean—”
“No,” Torin cut him off, “they pursued him, intent on ending his reign of terror and though he was stripped of most of his powers, he somehow managed to escape them. He has taken possession of an African Iridescent, Zaroc Mpufue with the intent of birthing a child by a Chippewa of the Durent Clan. If he is successful, he will regain his full powers and wreak havoc on the world. No one will be safe, not even you, sir.”
Milos pushed back in his chair and stood up, tall and muscular. He tilted his head with a stolid glare. “Do you have proof of this outlandish accusation?”
“Just my word, and that of Antonio Naosoi, Grand Sirun, who by association, you know to be an honest Iridescent. He fished in his vest pocket and produced an envelope. “If I may approach?”
Milos didn’t answer him, but instead winked at his trusted aide, a six-foot female, hot off the runway in Paris. She was a heart-stopping beauty, demanding of attention, a female no man could ignore. She sauntered straight to Torin and he caught her scent which reeked of blood and sex—fresh sex. She was obviously a Participant, one of Molos’ feeders which was not uncommon. Elites used them like disposable buffets, keeping their beloved Consorts under lock and key, safe from wandering eyes.
The Participant took the envelope, flashing her baby blues then spun, shimmering red locks bouncing as she made her way back to Milos. He scanned the letter, penned by Antonio, then passed it down the table to the other Siruns. A measurable silence fell upon them, all eyes locked on the last Sirun as he read t
he message. They leaned, ear to ear, sipping martinis, whispering. Finally, they turned their attention to Milos and like stone statues with lips tight, spoke by incessant flutters of the eye, Morse code, none could decipher.
Torin swallowed hard, desperately trying to read their faces.
It’s taking too long. Say something damn it!
“Duma Council,” Torin remarked, breaking all the rules for he was not sequestered to speak. The Siruns simultaneously directed their attention upon him.
“Forgive me,” Torin said, suddenly rethinking his outburst. He dropped his head, fearing punishment.
Milos cleared his throat. “Your anxiety is as palpable as your jugular, Mr. Mancini.”
Torin raised his head and met his gaze. “Fear will do that to you,” he whispered. “And I don’t use the word lightly. You must understand. The seventh is a sadistic demon who murders for sport. For now, it’s just the U.S. but he will eventually find his way to your consorts, your daughters and even your Participants,” he said, with a cursory glance to the redhaired beauty. He trailed their faces and met them eye for eye. “I beg you. Stand beside us and help us force him back to the dark veil from whence he came.”
Milos combed his thick, unruly locks with his fingers, glancing to the other Siruns, silent messages flowing, eye to eye. Finally, he leaned across the table facing Torin. “We will assist in this battle, Mr. Mancini, but heed my warning and take it back to your master. If this is a hoax, there will be consequences.”
~~~
Torin spent the next hour atop the yacht, pacing. Once the chopper arrived, he made the flight back to the hotel, his chest so tight he could scarcely breathe. Donja’s eyes danced in his mind, the feel of her skin and her taste driving him to madness. He grimaced with clenched fist, his anger supreme.
Pregnant.
His jaw tightened.
Hold on baby, I’m coming.
Nigh on dark, fighting tears he had not shed since Anstosa’s death, the chopper arrived at the Maldives Airport. Dismayed, with an hour layover before departing to Vancouver, he found a bar and took a table. He ordered a lime spritzer. Beleaguered by a sudden desire to feed, heightened by a group of females two tables over, one of which was menstruating, he tightened his jaw. It occurred to him that in the chaos of the last two days, he had failed to feed, Donja his only concern. He took a hasty exit and outside the bar, dug in his vest for his cell and phoned Val.