But that reasoning was quickly squashed. She knew that if a man truly wanted to be with a woman, he would let the world know. Victor and she were just a secret.
She banged on the steering wheel with her hands, then leaned back in the seat, unable to sit still. She was upset that she’d gotten herself into this mess. Squeezing the steering wheel, she rested her head on it again, contemplating her next move. Wiping away tears that fell onto her wool skirt, she just sat there.
Finally, after many long breaths, she calmed herself. She decided to think about everything tonight to avoid making any rash decisions. With that thought, a feeling of relief washed over her — a feeling that told her everything was going to be alright. And by the time she’d pulled into her driveway, she’d concluded that she would not let Victor go.
Chapter 12: Victor
Victor watched everything from afar. He’d known about tonight’s gathering and had recently been told of Paul’s reputation; he was not a good man. There was no way he was letting Octavia go unprotected. Was he jealous? Of course — he was a vampire. Plus, he was one of the most passionate and desired beings who had ever walked this land.
But when it came to the connection between himself and Octavia, he could not define it. He needed to know all of her. Her body’s chemistry was like none he’d ever experienced. Why was she different? Why was he enthralled with a woman, a human woman? It vexed him.
But as much as he desired her, he did not trust Octavia. That had been his initial reasoning for following her tonight. That was why he’d watched and scrutinized her interaction with Paul, who was obviously infatuated with her.
Outside in the parking lot, he saw what Paul had done and how she’d responded. It pained him not to go to Octavia’s rescue. It took all that he had not to interfere, but he needed to see how she would react. He knew he would have killed the man right in front of her, so he waited. If the man had actually hurt her, then he would have stepped in, no matter the cost. Yes, he was willing to expose his kind to save her.
For now, he waited by cover of night, dressed in a long gray wool coat, a barrier against the crisp air. His fedora tilted forward, almost covering the front of his head, while his eyes glowed in reaction to Paul’s behavior. He heard the whole conversation, including the threat of exposure.
Hidden by a brick building, he watched her drive away as Paul yelled after her. When Paul could no longer see her taillights, he crossed the street, and unbeknownst to him, approached the place where Victor waited. Paul passed him without a glance. Victor allowed him to continue, then followed the man down the street, moving closer as he approached the water’s overpass. As soon as any potential view of Paul was obscured by the brush at the edge of the bridge, Victor grabbed the man from behind. He spun Paul around, pinning his back to a sugar maple, and lifted him off of the ground.
Paul’s eyes widened to its limits. “You! Your face,” he stuttered.
In that brief second, Victor enjoyed the man’s terror. He could smell Octavia on his lips. “You should have never touched her,” he threatened the sniveling man whose feet wiggled to be freed.
As the man tried to unhinge himself, Victor heard naught but Paul’s veins pulsating vigorously. They begged to be ripped opened, to be allowed to flow down Victor’s gullet. Briefly, Victor contemplated this brutal act, allowing his mind to focus on the beating vessels that traveled through Paul’s body back to an erratic heart that nourished it. He envisioned biting into those vessels, feeding his own body what it longed to have. The claw marks Octavia had made still bled with his ripe life force. The more Paul jerked, the more warm crimson temptation trickled down his cheek. Victor could both smell and hear the man’s blood churning. His pupils dilated and his teeth elongated in anticipation. He could almost taste it. Victor’s fingers tightened as he imagined the claret lava quenching his devilish thirst.
It was a strangled squeal from Paul’s throat that refocused Victor on the man himself. Paul released warm liquid down his leg as Victor shattered his fragile neck with one hand. The vampire took a long breath as if in relief, as if a longing had been sated. He tossed the corpse into the freezing river. Callously, Victor watched the man float down river. Killing was an act he had not done in so long, he'd lost count of the years.
Victor’s hands trembled from the rush. He felt himself losing his battle against recklessness. He felt himself toying with the darkness, teetering on the edge. Whatever the great force that was pulling him, he feared he hadn’t the strength to battle it. Eventually, Victor backed away from the bridge and headed home.
As the wind whipped across his frigid face, Victor held securely to his hat, making sure his true face was concealed. He walked off that bridge to reclaim his normalcy, but in all honesty, he knew that he never would.
***
A few days had passed since Victor had removed Paul from this earth. Regret should have seeped into his thoughts, but it did not. His only concern was Octavia. He had not seen or touched her in days. It was not by his choice, but he’d received a telegraph from the Cabalistis informing him that they were aware of his sickening romantic involvement with a human. They warned him to put a halt to it immediately and cautioned him that they would be watching him closely.
He’d grown careless and sloppy. He knew it, but even after the threat, he had no intention of following their orders. He’d been ruled by the Cabalistis for so long. Was he not due to live? For the first time in centuries, he was driven by something other than work, so was he not entitled to indulge? Their constant control infuriated him.
Victor handed Brayden the notice as they were headed back to the castle via the tunnel late one evening. It led from the basement level of the hospital to the far west gate. Few knew of this passageway. It was a necessity in case an ill vampire required shelter from the sun. The bright star limited their power and weakened them, so minimal exposure to the sun was a necessity. Although a healthy vampire could survive in the daylight for hours, the less contact, the better. Understandably, most vampires preferred the dark. The moon was their vitality. Like the sun’s rays were to humans, the crescent was to them, and not just werewolves as most would think.
“They will kill her, Victor,” Brayden said, crumpling up the paper in his palm.
“I don’t think so. If they were going to kill her, they would have done so already and not bothered to forewarn me with a letter.”
“True. The Cabalistis worrying about you not cooperating if they harmed her is most absurd. They worry about little and care for even less,” Brayden added as they reached the back gate of the château. Brayden held out a hand to stop Victor. He stepped forward as his eyes narrowed, searching the gloom.
Brayden could smell the threat already, but Victor had to wait for it. Though he was more powerful, his senses did not match an older vampire’s like Brayden. They stood in the back garden of the castle, allowing the intruder to come to them. Victor sniffed the air when the stench of the creature wafted past his nares. “Come out!” Victor shouted to the uninvited guest.
Out walked a vampire familiar to Brayden. He was, as far as vampires go, unattractive. His face held permanent acid burns from being tortured. The scars had never healed properly because his tormentor had repeatedly burned his skin to get information. He’d never caved. He had been built to withstand massive abuse and was known for his detached state. He was the stoniest creature Brayden had ever run across. “Suus 'nimium diu, Brayden,” the vampire said in a thick Russian accent.
“Not long enough, Razvan,” Brayden replied, not too pleased with seeing the man with whom he had a long and unpleasant history. “So, I see the Cabalistis sent their best to do their dirty work. Why isn’t she dead? You always complete a job.”
Razvan gazed towards Victor. “I’m not here for the girl. I’m here to bring Victor back.” His upper lip snarled in revulsion toward Victor.
“Tell them under no circumstance will I return to Romania unless it is my desire to do so. If they want
me, then they can come to me themselves.” Brayden shut his lids at what Victor had said. Victor was on good terms with the Cabalistis, as well as one can be with them. But no one tells them no. Ever.
Razvan’s scarred lips turned up at their corners. “I was so hoping you would say that.” He pulled out a gun. It was not a typical pistol; its bullets were laced with the blood of a dead man. It would surely kill a newly risen vampire, but it would only render Victor debilitated long enough to arrive in Romania.
In response to the imminent threat, Victor’s body showed his true nature. The veins on his face bulged in direct correlation with his increased heart rate. His fangs lengthened and his fingernails grew. “You will have to take me by force.” There was no way he was leaving Octavia alone to be tortured. He could never leave her unprotected and vulnerable. He suddenly realized it was essential to place a guard around Octavia to keep her safe at all times.
“And here I thought you’d lost the fight in you, Barbarian. So, you haven’t grown soft after all.” Razvan released a deep snarl as his appearance matched his opponent’s. Victor was taken aback by that statement, but not Brayden. Never before, had Victor heard that term ‘Barbarian’ in reference to himself. Victor glanced over at Brayden, but he did not face him in return. Instinctively, he knew this was another piece of the puzzle to his missing first two hundred years.
Razvan aimed the gun at Victor, but Brayden dove at the man, taking them into the shrubbery. The gun misfired, shooting into the air, just missing Victor. Brayden slammed Razvan’s head into a tree branch, then against the cement. Razvan tossed Brayden into the air like he weighed not an ounce, but Brayden bounced against the gate and landed unharmed.
The fight was savagely brutal, as were most vampire fights. They were never really meant to let off steam or simply make a point. They were meant to kill. Even in this day and age of civility, while the conqueror walked away injured, the underdog no longer would hold life.
Victor watched as Brayden did his duty in protecting him, but this time, he wanted to partake. There was no doubt, he was a skilled fighter, but that was not his role — a position Victor was slowly starting to despise. He became furious that he was not the one immersed in combat. He had brought down the wrath of the Cabalistis, and he felt a scorching need to stand up for himself.
Victor watched heatedly, as his tongue slid across his sharp fangs and his claws dug deeply into his palms, furious that he was removed from the equation.
Victor had had enough; he grasped the hair of the man who, unfortunately for him, only faced Brayden, and plunged his daggered fangs deep into Razvan’s throat. The warm liquid rushed into Victor’s mouth, up his fangs and down his throat. He savored the delectable flavor of the ones Razvan had tasted not long before arriving.
Victor gripped the man’s ribs so tightly, he crushed them when the man tried to free himself. Victor’s clutch was merciless. He cared not that this being was alive, that it was his kin, nor that he was killing him. Victor lived in this instant and treasured it as the delicate liquid slithered out of his mouth, onto his chin.
Initially, Brayden let go of the man, until he realized that Victor was not just feeding, but killing him. He grabbed hold of both Victor and Razvan to pry them apart, but Victor shoved Brayden away with such force he flew back. Victor’s transparent blues shot him a cautionary threat to stay away. Brayden had seen that look before. It was the part of Victor that Brayden had thought he’d eradicated so long ago. Now he knew that Victor had only suppressed it.
When the man no longer struggled, Brayden rose, but stayed clear, shaken by his friends recently rediscovered barbaric behavior. Victor’s incisors dug in even further, virtually removing his victim's head; his bite was vicious. Brayden watched as Victor shook Razvan violently, taking away his power by way of his blood. It was disturbing to see Victor behave this way. He was no longer the polished Victor everybody knew, but the man he had once been, Nikolai Von Mort—the Barbarian.
Once the man no longer held life, Victor dropped him to the ground and stood over him, beyond repentance. The feeding had been glorious. Hedonistic. It had been more than two centuries since he'd allowed himself the gore of a fresh kill, instead pretending to dignify his instincts with a glass. Now, drunk off of the nourishment and resulting surge of power, he stepped away, using the back of his cuff to wipe the fresh gore away. It smeared across his face and previously clean blue and white shirt.
“What?” Victor barked, falling against the bench in an attempt to remain upright. His mouth formed into a crooked leer from the power surge. Victor’s stare was menacing. The carnage of a fresh kill was exceedingly exhilarating.
“What the hell has gotten into you, Victor?” Braydon roared, pointing to the dead body.
Victor only looked at him sideways, his hues aglow, a death stare. “Isn’t this what a Barbarian does?” His piercing glower sent chills down Brayden’s spine. Brayden was a man who had seen it all, a man who was shocked by nothing. Victor walked off towards the castle without an ounce of guilt.
***
“Where’s the body?” Victor asked when he heard Brayden walk into the bathroom. He rested against the shower tile, letting the frigid water wash over him, in an attempt to come down off of his high.
“Where do you think?” Brayden slid back the glass shower door and tossed him a towel, advising Victor to get out. Brayden was beyond manic. His shirt was soaked in blood from chopping up the body to dispose of all of the evidence.
A better, but a still soaring Victor, slowly stepped away from the much-needed water and wrapped the towel around his lower half. He stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the condensation. “In the incinerator?”
“Who gives a damn where the body is? What the hell has gotten into you?” With a towel in hand, Brayden wiped his speckled face.
“Nothing,” he said, lying even to himself. All he could think about was the taste of warm flesh, the warm liquid in his mouth oozing down his throat. He touched the mirror to steady himself as his mind reflected upon the lifeless man in his arms — his second kill in less than a week.
“Look at you,” Brayden barked, snapping Victor out of his trance.
Victor squeezed the sink and crushed it to the floor. “I see myself clear as day in the mirror.” He spun around to face him. “But I don’t know myself. Do I, Brother?” Victor slammed Brayden against the tile, waiting for a response.
Brayden shoved him off. “Victor, I’ve told you all that you need to know.”
“Yes, I know. The same sad story about how I was brutal, cruel even. How I killed so many. The only thing is, you won’t tell me why I have no memory of my youth.” He walked off to his closet to dress. “Or is it that you can’t? Was it so ordered by the Cabalistis, the high Gods, the ones we bow down to?” He mocked a bow. He tore off his towel and pulled up a pair of slacks.
Brayden watched his derisive behavior. “It’s not worth rehashing. What else do you need to know?”
“The truth. The simple truth. You act as if I will sink into a black hole or revert to the cruel monster I once was.”
“It’s not that simple, Victor.”
“Oh, I know that. I’ve known that for some time, but tonight confirmed it. ‘Barbarian’ is a term I’ve never heard you use in my description, but Razvan most certainly did. Plus, the fact that they sent him, their most vicious, a step above their caged dogs, to retrieve me. Let’s not forget the look you gave me when I shoved you away. You acted as if you feared me.” Victor’s anger was overpowering his fresh kill’s sway.
“How about the fact you killed? You shoved me away while performing an act you haven’t done in centuries! Or have you? What’s changed, Brother?” Brayden snapped back at Victor, in advisement to back down.
Victor turned his back to him. “Don’t go there.”
Brayden turned Victor back around. “Oh, but we will. Ever since Octavia arrived, you’ve changed. I’m starting to see a side of you that I have not seen in a v
ery long time. A human, and I use that term loosely, is changing you. There is something bizarre about her. You sense it yourself, and yet you don’t seem to even care. Her mysterious appearance into this world as a child. Victor, think!”
No more than two inches apart, Victor spoke words Brayden had hoped never to hear. “You may be right, but for the first time that I can remember, I’m starting to feel like myself again.” Victor chilled Brayden for the second time tonight. “Maybe if I stopped constantly ignoring my own needs and listened to them more often, I would be better off. Then maybe…” he tapped the side of his head. “I’ll figure out who I really am.” With those final words, Victor walked off, leaving Brayden to contemplate the grim future ahead if Victor continued on this course. He’d only hoped it was the recent slaying that was talking and not him, the man he’d masterfully molded.
***
A few days after Victor and Brayden had their heated altercation, a rarity for them, they were back on better terms, even though Brayden watched him vigilantly. This was a habit of Brayden’s that Victor did recall in his earliest memories — Brayden never once leaving his side.
“Victor, sir.” It was Stacey who called to him from the doorway of his office. He looked up from his desk to find a helpless expression on her face.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” But then Victor sensed him, and before she could speak, Stannis Dimitri himself walked in without a proper announcement. Victor stood up and walked over to one of the Cabalistis members. “Nice of you to come.” It really was not, but cordiality was one of Victor’s most valued traits. They shook hands, but Dimitri’s grip was a forceful one. Intimidation was one of their tactics. “That will be all, Stacey.” Victor excused the woman who waited there to eavesdrop, something he knew she had a habit of doing when it came to his life.
Upon the door closing, Stannis’ stoic face remained the same, but Victor allowed his cordial smile to fall and replaced it with hardened features. Stannis was just under six feet with a slender build. His hair was naturally platinum blonde and his eyes were a cold shade of green. His skin was on the paler side because of the cold climate in Romania, and because he mostly resided underground. It was an exceptionally extravagant underground citadel. He wore black and blue because these colors are the best shield against the sun’s rays, and night stalkers find it easier to blend in with dark environs when dressed in dark colors. “Let’s not be coy with each other, Nikolai. You know very well why I am here.” Elders like to call all vampires by their birth name, no matter their alias.
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