by J H Spade
“Speak down towards the floor, so it can't read your lips,” he advises in a calm clinical manner.
Fuck, that sure puts a damper on my plans. In my most civilized voice, I say, “You’d better get me that drink and make it strong.” A twist of my wrist takes the knife off his throat, which happens to be filled with tight veins, to lie against my forearm. I hide it while I bring it under my hair to lay flat against my back inside the sports bra I'm wearing underneath my scoop-neck tee. Looking like I'm flipping my hair into a ponytail, to only let loose in a nervous gesture I fake, deciding it's the best way to hide my weapon from the computer keeping tabs on me.
“Can I get my knife back?” he complains, barely making a sound, slightly shocked with the whole encounter and with how quickly I made out with my newly found treasure. I give myself a few seconds to calm my thoughts enough that I'm no longer concentrating on the blood flowing through those veins.
“I think you should be more concerned with not overcooking the steaks, rather than your knife. I won't hurt you, but I'm pretty sure Darius won't give you the same courtesy if you ruin our dinner,” jokingly, I remind him while I turn on my heel and go back to ignoring my inner demon. The soldier waits until I'm the perfect model citizen sitting at the dinner table before he takes a step.
He stills from pouring the sauce on the steaks when I ask, scrunching my nose, “Why do you smell familiar?”
“Darius asked me to feed you my blood earlier tonight while you slept.”
Suddenly, I take a good look at the soldier. He's about six foot tall with dirty-blond hair and hazel eyes. I guess you could say he's handsome, filled with muscles, but nothing brutal like Darius.
Darius had me drinking from him, why?
I don't ask, but the question must be written all over my features because he answers, “You weren't waking up, and he was worried about you.” By the look on the soldier’s face, I can tell he's downplaying what Darius's reaction at the time must have been.
“Must have been rough for him, watching me feed from you,” I say, more to myself than him.
“He extracted the blood from me with a syringe and filled an IV bag, so I wasn't in the room with you,” he corrects, his blood pumping faster, making me wish I had another plastic bag handy.
“Of course, how silly of me to assume differently.”
He looks at me a moment longer than necessary before he turns to grab a plate and lays the steak and some vegetables on it, carries it to me and gently places it over my shoulder on the table. Slightly bending over my shoulder, he whispers with his back to the camera, “You know if you need more . . . I wouldn't be opposed to you drinking from my vein.”
*****
Darius
My knuckles and forearms are bleeding, unable to heal after I've cut them repeatedly from striking the unrecognizable lycan, hanging by silver chains. He's scarcely holding onto his life. I think of giving him my blood just in an effort to prolong his miserable life. At least, long enough until I can break him.
The fucker proves hard to break, and my patience is wearing thin, thinking of Emma’s tight little body prancing around in those black tights. I should have given her something that fit more loosely, but I wasn't counting on interruptions.
I pound on the body, breaking several of the few intact ribs left as he spits blood and yells, “I might die, but I've already got proof of life on my Queen. I can scent her on you.”
“Don't play games. You can't smell shit because she's not here. And she's definitely not your queen.” I clear my head from any thoughts of Emma and remember I made sure no one would scent her. The moment I found her, I placed a cloaking spell to protect her. She's invisible to them as long as she's not moving in water or something that can mark her movements. Or if she bleeds. She's not bleeding, or I would scent it myself.
He’s bluffing because he needs proof she's here. It should be enough for him to know where I am— she'll be, but he’s thorough and doesn't want to signal anyone who may be close to die unnecessarily. I see the bleak understanding, the resolve clear in his unfocused eyes. I admire his unwavering will even when I have to kill him because . . . as he is ready to die, he will try to save the life of his accomplices if he can.
Not if I can help it.
“How many and how soon?”
He looks like he's taking his last breath, so I do the unthinkable and feed him a few drops of my blood.
He shakes his head, clearing his mind, fangs lengthening with renewed hunger. “It's just me. Or you would have been drowning in your blood by now. But you're too desperate. She's your weakness, and she's here.” He laughs, my blood giving him an invincibility complex as I cut the chains to let him loose and give him a fighting chance because I fucking crave the outlet this kill will give me.
I hope for Emma’s sake he gives me a hell of a fight and wears me out.
The only information I’m able to extract from him, places an arrow of culpability through her double-crossing heart.
My fangs and claws extend ready for the shifting lycan aiming to kill me.
Seleros Vampyre Realm
Edenstone Castle
Eros
“My Liege, please if I could have a moment,” I hear Elenessa calling after me, but I swiftly make my way through the throne room, ignoring her voice among those in the crowded room, that is, until I remember there is something I need from her to complete the spell.
I turn in anger from the interruption, patience never being one of my virtues.
My ill temper often gets mistaken for the King’s ‘madness’, but she is someone I try not to scare away, so when the flash of violence assails me . . . I wait for it to simmer enough to say, “What do you want?” The crowd falls silent around us as they realize their king is in the room among them. She bites her bottom lip, trepidation twisting her classically beautiful features in a mix of fear and desire when my gaze meets hers.
At close to seven foot tall, I'm towering her. Her eyes cloud with urgent need as she takes a few steps, bringing her closer to me. “Please, don't risk yourself. Let me cast the spells. In time, I'll bring her back.” Licking her lips, she says the words, hoping to use her beauty as persuasion.
I’m already hard, and it has nothing to do with her. The anticipation has been building ever since I went to collect the ingredients necessary to cast the spell that will bring me to Emmaley.
I shake my head, some thick strands of my shoulder-length hair falling loose from the leather strap.
She reaches for them.
“Don't. You never get to touch me.” My grip fastens hard on her delicate wrist, but I don't release her, “Understand?” I hate her and her family. Every time I look at her, I can't help but remember as she watched fascinated while her father tortured me. Underneath her silent tears, I knew then, she enjoyed watching me bleed—the pain too unthinkable at times.
I press her thin bones until she cries out in agony, “Yes, I do. I'm sorry, please.”
I don't have time for this, I think, releasing her, shifting my body to look out the iron encased windows, watching the two moons align almost in perfect symmetry within the scorpion constellation of Zorhn. If I miss this short window, Emma will be lost to me. It is why I wished to remain unseen among my people when I crossed the room. I can’t waste another moment.
I look at her neck with renewed interest, “Your sister’s locket, I need it. Give it to me now.” I see sorrow shadow her light-green eyes when she realizes the reason my gaze lowered to her neck is not as she first imagined. Her love for me makes her undeniably useful, as well as a constant thorn in my side.
She hesitates, pain evident when she raises her arms, but I don't wait as her hands go to unfasten the necklace. With just a thought, I feel the warmth of the gold sink into my palm after I speak the words that bring it to me.
She gasps, “I need that back or I won't be able to do any of the spells you’ll need for me to trap the lycan. Do not destroy it.”
She
knows I won't, but she brings it up, wishing I'll divulge what I have planned for the locket.
I don’t.
As I turn to go she calls after me, “Marcus has returned. It is the reason why I came for you.”
At any other time, his presence would be of utmost importance. Marcus, my twin brother, is finally back with his warriors, and I realize this is what has caused the commotion in this great room. There must be preparations underway for a vast feast to commemorate his incredible victory for the crown. I will have to address it and make a significant speech, giving them some of the treasure they raided. Over my shoulder, I yell, “Marcus took three years to lay siege to the Lycan castle, he can wait the hour I require.” I can feel his jade eyes burning at my back from across the room, and as I continue towards my chambers I can imagine wide shoulders well over the crowd with his seven foot height, his claws itching for my neck as well as my crown. It is a wonder he will have nothing to do with wanting Emmaley.
I believe he would rather fight every instinct that begs him to take her for himself as he replaces it with his need to kill her, finally seeking his revenge against me because fate enjoys making a monster out of me.
Centuries ago, I slaughtered his wife along with their twin boys when I was blinded by rage after she planned to use them in a scheme to kill my brother.
*****
I can't help the painful flashback, playing the consequences of my betrayal to my brother, and his revenge against me.
I wake up in a dungeon cell, the sickening scents permeating the air in this purgatory are of rotting flesh, blood gone cold for days, disease, and death while I hang from silver chains. I do a mental check of my injuries; both my shoulders remain dislocated, my ribs are mending excruciatingly slowly since the silver used on me inhibits regeneration.
My wounds are open and festering, and fever is driving me mad with visions of Emmaley.
Sometimes, her sister enters my cell and helps to cure and feed me, even when I thrash with refusal. I’d rather be dead than without my beloved.
Elenessa waits for the madness to claim me, uses my body for her sick needs in those moments of delirium, and I don't know which is worse.
To be skewered by her father's torched lance, or be touched by Elenessa during those rare times my mind disconnects with what is the horror before me, and I find peace long enough after the torture has passed to dream of better times with her sister and our laughter.
I laugh, remembering the last time their father tried to open me up like a boar.
“Where is my daughter, you degenerate?”
“Which one, old man? The one your whore of a mistress abducted from you when she was only five years old because she became bored with your limp dick and sought my bed instead, or the bitch in heat who begs for my cock after you're gone from my cell?” I really did want him to kill me and hoped his hunger for blood extended to Elenessa and then that she, too, would follow me in death.
I didn't even try to fight with my fangs when he got close enough to my face as his claws slashed through my flesh gripping my heart. Too bad he remembered the bond I shared with his daughter, deciding it was better to leave me with a festering wound than to end me and possibly kill Emmaley.
“Lies. My daughter wouldn't let deprived filth like you touch her.”
"Put a guard on her, you dumb son of worthless bitch, her deafening screams will drive me fucking madder than this weak shit you call torture. Chain her with your prized hounds and let them feast on her since they are at least loyal to you. And tell her I say, memories of her sister’s sweet dripping cunt, taking my cock as I pounded inside her night after night is the only reason she can get me off because she is by far the most pathetic lay in my immortal life!”
I would never let them know the truth. Let them know that I dreamed about Emmaley’s sweet cunt because I had been saving her for until I learned the secret to drinking her blood and surviving. I hadn’t trusted myself to claim her and abstain from drinking her, so in my frustration I had pushed her away.
*****
To think I hoped for sure death, prayed for the first time in my life for it's absolution, and instead, found I gained my freedom, and the king had died instead—really shows what a fickle bitch fate is.
My debt to Marcus should be paid after surviving the unimaginable torture I lived through night after night.
It's what he will have me believe since he is the one who delivered me to Emmaley’s father. They both sought to know where Emmaley was, although, for different reasons. Marcus was too smart to let the bastard know the real reason he had to find Emmaley was not the obscene ransom the king offered, but to kill her himself.
Marcus. His mind games.
I must uncover why he's helping me, what he hopes to gain by giving me the lycans because it must run deeper than his need to be king.
I'll expect him not at the hour requested, but thrice as long as it is customary for him to make me wait.
If I'm fortunate enough.
He may even wait longer to bring me news of the captured lycan king and where he's hidden him. It seems the only two people I love in all the realms have this common trait adding to my supposed 'madness' as the masses say; my love for them the only reason they live after the insult.
Upon entering my rooms, the fire from the hearth erupts to life in ominous greeting. Lowering the hood from my cloak, I take the pouch with the black salts out of my pocket, gathered from The Death’s Sea and create the circle required for the spell on the wooden boards before the fire. I strip out of the heavy material, my leather pants are next to come off, taking the mud I collected to draw the glyphs on my body. [30][31][32]Gripping the bottle of Drahn, the elixir of life created by the first dragon in existence—it is the strongest liquor used for spells known in all the realms with great mystical qualities, I wait the few seconds for perfect alignment. When it happens, I feel power surge through my hand causing the balcony doors to burst open, and I hang the thick chain of her locket over my neck. Taking the crystal bottle from the mantle, I drink, spitting a long spray into the fire to add the remaining elements of air and fire required for the spell. I'm already covered in dirt as I feel the glyphs searing my skin, lighting up with green light.
I begin chanting the words and instantly unbearable pain begins to work itself through my spine from the poisonous change traveling through my body, swiftly knocking me to my knees. Every overworked muscle in my body strains to its limit, sweat beading on my skin from the horror climbing every inch of my bared flesh as I grit my teeth, failing to stand. Falling on my side, I try to crawl in an effort to hold back the madness blurring my surroundings in a haze of agony as I begin feeling my body disintegrating, starting with my legs. I roar, while placing the three key knocks, a required part of the spell, to request and unlock entrance into her reality.
Meanwhile
Emma
“Thanks for offering, but I think it's best if . . . we, if I didn't.”
Jeffery straightens and walks away, resuming his tasks in the kitchen.
“Well, what will you have to drink then? I've been briefed on what can be expected since I'm the only one assigned to your floor, and whiskey seems to help curb the hunger pangs.”
My fork falls loudly against the dinner plate as my nerves feel too on edge, “Can we just not talk about it anymore? I’d rather . . . just, not think about it.”
He clicks his tongue in disapproval, “Why because I volunteered to help you?”
As I try to figure him out, I ask more to myself, than him, “Why would you jeopardize yourself for my own selfish gain? I'm a monster.”
“Don't speak like that. I've had encounters with bloodsuckers, and you’re the complete opposite of them. Before I was recruited, I was Special Forces, and it's safe to say you're nothing like what I came in contact with. There's a war out there no one knows about, rather no layperson, and I prefer it doesn't touch you. It's why I was brought on. In addition, I'd like you to know that I
have a younger sister, and I can't help to think she could easily be you. I would do it for her no questions asked.” He stares at me to see if I understand, and of course, I do, so I nod in gratitude.
Jeffery is one of the good guys willing to risk himself to protect a stranger.
He continues to speak about his sister and how he misses her, the sleeve tattoos down his arms move as he pours me a drink, but there's one that catches my attention. It's a tiger, climbing a woman's body, and I realize it fits him perfectly since the hues used to ink the tiger match his tanned skin tone, golden honeycomb colored eyes, and dirty-blond hair.
Reaching out with drink in hand, he says, “A bit of unwarranted advice . . . I do think if you drink from me, it will help you get whatever it is that's going on inside you under control with less use of drugs in the lab. Drinking from me will satisfy like no bagged blood can. Kind of a holistic approach.”
Jeffery gets a high out of living dangerously on the edge. I recognize that now. My primal instinct is to seduce and abuse this need of his, but I pull the plug on the sensory receptors guilty for my spiked hunger. Instead of reacting, I allow my body to shut down to a level that allows me enough function to numbly play with my food. He places the shot glass on the table in front of me and without even taking a breath of his warm scent, I grip the crystal, shooting its contents down my throat. The burn is satisfying in the way a self-inflicted wound might help cover up a pain you can't outrun. Temporary but momentarily substantial.
With a satisfied moan and a timid half smile on my lips, at my small outburst, a flash of pain travels from the arch of my foot as if I've been bitten.
It is when surprise and tears flood my eyes, and my dream flashes through my mind.
I hear three distinctive knocks followed by a terrifying roar I recognize, so I run to the window, thinking the night has unleashed a monster from the darkened skies.