by Nya
While the lieutenants positioned themselves to either side of my chair, I tallied up what I knew, or could make an educated guess over. The decision tree was fairly simple as those things went. The man-beast would offer me good health, sustenance and longevity. He’d sweeten the deal with a side of quality of life thrown in for good measure: young Stefan.
And an ‘or else’.
If he were as well-read as I assumed, the wolf would appreciate that Vampyr were devilishly difficult to kill, albeit beheading often worked surprisingly well. But given the right circumstances, even vamps lacking certain body parts, especially the seniors in our race, could regenerate. So threatening to ‘kill’ me might not have quite enough cache to buy my undivided loyalty.
The kicker was, I’d handed him the or else on a silver platter. Problem solved.
The demon who’d stripped my virginity, in a metaphoric sense, had been right about one thing: if you care, then you will always be at someone’s mercy.
Why I cared about young master Stefan, I hadn’t a clue. But I’d be a fool to deny that I’d grinched my non-functioning heart three sizes when he’d stared down at me with those puppy dog eyes. That pesky kernel of attraction went in the negative column on a number of counts. But I’d save the psychic carpet-bombing for another day. For now, it was what it was.
Stefan mattered, for whatever reasons, and I’d set aside idle curiosity about him shifting and how that might take our relationship to the next level for another time, another place.
On the plus side: I was old enough to be considered geriatric. I had skills of the ripping-out-throat variety and anger management issues of my own. Add to that a little demon mojo and I was going to be one tough cookie to dispose of. To wit: Dad’s minion body count on the other side that would serve as a perverse source of pride for eons to come.
In truth the Man in Armani had been impressed, if not a whole lot of inconvenienced, by my little display of pique.
Of course, Elliot didn’t know about demon-me and that was a cat I wasn’t letting out of the bag any time soon.
Motioning for Samuel to bring a tablecloth to hide the unsightly mess, we cozied up to a blueprint and a few print-outs on tactical nukes for dummies and I knew I was in deep shit without a shovel.
Samuel, a Brit ex-pat with the look of whatever they called their special forces—square, bald and bulked—took over the briefing.
Before he could launch into the hows and whys, I said, keeping my voice whiney and petulant, “I don’t suppose you could find my robe?” I added quickly, “It’s cold.” It was, I wasn’t, but to do justice to the process meant taking my hands away from my privates.
I didn’t take issue with being nude … but I did with being exposed. IQs might be dropping, but not shoe sizes. My boys weren’t going to survive another pummeling.
Not that a coarse wool robe was much protection; it was more mental than anything and maybe gave them one less thing to look at.
Jacob muttered, “Shit,” and stomped off, taking a right and leaving the door ajar. He returned within less than a couple of minutes, which meant the briefing chamber was close to my original cell and in one of the corner turrets with direct access to seaside. Not immediately useful but it never hurt to have a picture of one’s whereabouts in case the means to escape miraculously appeared.
Grateful to have my prickly wool garb, I quickly slipped it on and leaned on the edge of the table, perusing what could only amount to an elaborate assassination attempt. The question was, on who and where. I didn’t recognize the blueprints as being the Kremlin or the White House or even the Reichstag Building in Berlin.
The venue seemed intimate; perhaps it was a private residence of a competing arms merchant or mob boss. That would make more sense. There wasn’t much to gain from disrupting world politics. The government leaders seemed perfectly capable of handling their own self-destruction without asking a group of misanthropic lycanthropes to risk fang and fur … and exposure to a human world unprepared to handle the truth.
Samuel unfolded a map of Bucharest and surrounds, then added a topographic survey chart of the forested region to the north and west. Five would get you ten, Stefan’s home town was located close to the area of interest. My young pup’s eyes-on-the-ground could have been the impetus to choose this place and not that.
Romania, formerly ground central for Vampyr, had been overrun in the last few decades with lycanthrope immigrants from every Eastern bloc country. The damn state not only bordered trigger-happy Serbia, but it also bumped asses with Ukraine and Bulgaria. And it sported a nice stretch of sea coast on the Black Sea, just down the block from the Crimea and me and my stash of illegal arms. The Carpathian Mountains nearly bisected the country before doing a dogleg north. You had geography and history doing a two-step with every manner of illegal activity that humans and supernaturals could devise.
I’d been wrong about being on the Adriatic. We were still on the Black Sea and I’d bet my Maman’s chateaux that the Danube Delta wasn’t far away.
I felt like my brain was going to implode. Stretching like a cat, I yo-yo’d my gaze from Samuel to Elliot searching for a reason why this was a bad idea on every level imaginable. I didn’t see one.
I’d hoped I was dealing with mercenaries looking to score a coup or pad their 401ks with Euros; instead I faced a clan of true believers intent on ethnic cleansing.
The alpha growled to his lieutenants, “Leave us,” then motioned for me to join him at a comfortable sitting area by the fireplace. Pouring himself a brandy he lifted a tumbler and asked, “Do you drink?” I nodded yes and accepted the libation. It stung, spreading unaccustomed warmth as it snaked its way into my innards.
He slouched in the chair, his long legs extending toward the smoldering embers. Castles, no matter the time of year, were cold, dank places, even in the moderate climes along this section of the coast.
He asked, “When did you figure it out?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, or even why he’d be interested. So I answered a question with a question. “Why me?”
He shrugged. “We were given intelligence that led us to your cave and…” he paused to sip his brandy, “…the coffin with you inside.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question, why me? I’m a recluse now, have been for … well, longer than you’ve been alive. I do nothing more than study ancient history and contemplate my navel. I don’t see why I’d be of interest to anyone.”
Chuckling, Elliot said, “That’s not what I heard from the village matrons. Your reputation is … interesting, Father.”
Ignoring my reputation as a side issue, I pushed for clarification, demanding, “What if I say no?”
“You could, but then you know the consequences, don’t you?”
All too well. I also now appreciated that I’d been set up, the purpose fairly simple and straightforward: I would help the lycanthropes ferret out the last remaining Vampyr stronghold, which they would probably nuke—to be sure, to paraphrase a line from some movie—and thus free up the entire Eastern bloc for the exclusive use of the shifters.
As a negotiator I was an epic fail, but at least I was still in the game. But first things first.
There was no need to fake my irritation so I growled, “I need to feed.”
Elliot stood and pulled his cell phone from a back pocket. “I’ll call for one of the pups…”
“No.”
“No?” He looked surprised.
I hastened to explain, “It has to be Stefan.” Before he could object, I said, “If I feed off another of your people, you risk them falling into thrall.”
“Thrall, what the hell is that?”
Interesting, he wasn’t as educated as I assumed. “The, uh, process invests me with some measure of control over the donor. It’s not permanent, but it would be best not to divide your people’s loyalties, don’t you agree?”
Oh Dreu, you lie like a dog.
“Then you’ll do without.”
/>
I shrugged and muttered, “As you wish. But I won’t be much use to you or anyone else if I fall over in a faint from hunger.” I wouldn’t but then again he didn’t know that for a fact.
After considering all the quid pro quos he yelled for Samuel. The lieutenant appeared so quickly it was obvious he’d been lurking outside the door during the conversation.
“Take the Father to Stefan’s cell and I want you to stand watch. When he’s finished, take…”
I interrupted, the lies coming thick and easy to my tongue. “It makes the donor weak and sometimes has an adverse effect. It would be better if I stayed with him.” I waved around the small room and sighed, “And where would I go anyway?”
“Very well. Samuel, I want guards at all times, rotated in shifts. You know what to do.”
And with that, my host bid us goodnight. I followed the wolf in the opposite direction from my room, down a narrow staircase to a lower level that looked not much different from any other floor in that damnable edifice.
The wolf unlatched a scarred wooden door, not nearly so imposing as my own nearly impregnable barrier, and shoved me inside.
At first I thought they’d lured me into some kind of trap as the room appeared empty save for a cot and some rushes on the floor. Weak illumination came from an overhead bulb, the 40 watts or so barely making a dent in the shadows masking every corner.
Fane’s scent filled my nostrils, forcing my fangs to lengthen in anticipation. Where was he?
A whine, pathetic and heart-wrenching, drifted from my left.
“Fane, I’m here, son.” I held my breath, not sure what to expect. I assumed he was unharmed, but right then I wasn’t certain and fear flooded my gut.
When I looked down, a black figure crouched at my feet, the muscles quaking under fur so thick and black and silky it made it difficult to see his shape. Sinking to my knees, I buried my face in his ruff and cried silent tears of gratitude. Nuzzling my ruined wrists, he licked the tender flesh, the growl reverbing up my arm and into my chest.
We sat there, on the cold stone floor, content in the companionship of equals.
And for the first time in my long life, I understood the power of caring.
Chapter Six
“What are you going to do, Master?”
Do? Good question. Right now I wasn’t going to do anything. I was too sated to move a muscle, let alone string two thoughts together. Young Fane had indeed taken our relationship to the next level, and then several steps beyond.
I’m an old enough Vampyr to admit I liked the sound of Master, but the new, caring me realized that the balance of power had shifted in directions that, just a few hours ago, I’d never have predicted.
So I said, kindly, “My name is Dreu.” Not Master, not Sire, not Father.
The reimagined me had finally reached maturity in a dark corner of a cell overlooking a flat plain of brine stretching nearly to infinity … or Turkey, depending on which direction you looked.
That’s the problem with being a monk, hidden away in the recesses of a cave carved out of granite … instead of a flat screen and cable, you had maps and illuminations. I liked being smart. I liked popular culture and its entertainment options even better.
But Fane’s question had merit and an element of urgency. Elliot had given me no clue as to their timetable, but as is common with brigands and fanatics … the sooner the better usually won out over careful planning and execution. At least when it came to lycanthropes. Long-range was never their strong suit. They were feeling thick in the wallet with ordnance to burn and I was the fuse to light up their dreams.
Funny—not in the haha sense, sort of more like the ironic variety—but just because I lived in a hole in the mountain surrounded by boxes of stuff that went boom!, they assumed I possessed and had read all the spec manuals to go with the toys.
I hadn’t. Those manuscripts and bits of parchment cluttering my tiny office space amounted to perhaps the world’s best collection of erotica and sex practices throughout time. Ergo, my ‘reputation’ amongst the local matrons. What fun was research without actually testing some of the more arcane theories?
And that thought reminded me that I really needed to find a competent yoga instructor…
“What are you thinking about Mas— Sorry, Dreu.” He smiled shyly, ensnaring my heart all over again.
Without thinking I replied, “Auto-fellatio.” That earned me a puzzled look so I explained.
The next thing I knew, I was on the stone floor watching my darling Fane morph into the Loup of my boyhood, the wolf of legend and myth. A very flexible legend.
I nearly choked on my laughter, in fact the sensation was almost alien: the sheer joy and love and gratitude I felt was beyond anything I could have imagined.
When he shifted back, he lay sprawled on the narrow cot, one leg braced on the floor, the other drawn up to rest against the rough wall. Gazing into hungry eyes, I realized he was ready to take the next, the final step, to become truly mine.
The problem was … I had doubts. Not about him. About myself.
Had I been just Vampyr there would be no hesitation, no second thoughts, no vacillation … no woulda, coulda, shoulda. But I wasn’t just Vampyr, I was demon and for that I had no handy template, no guide to give me a clue as to what bonding with my wolf might mean in the bigger scheme of things.
Would it alert my sire to new possibilities, new ways to exercise his unique brand of deviltry, or, worse yet, new ways to control me?
If I truly was falling in love with the pup, would I want to risk his soul and his very existence to the vagaries of a dimension that not only lived up to the hype from centuries of church indoctrination but took depravity and evil far beyond corporate transgressions and personal peccadillos.
My last crisis of conscience had been … well, never. So this was virgin territory for me and as much as I loved shedding virgins of their innocence, when it came to my own shaky emotional foundation, I wasn’t convinced that I had the intestinal fortitude for the long haul.
Fane continued to loll with casual disregard for my inner turmoil, though I realized with a start that he’d been gently stroking my head, each time with more insistence until I was resting my face on the broad expanse of his chest. With clear line of sight to an invitation and a promise, the dark line of silken hair making a beeline to his proud and very impressive wolfhood.
Whispering, “I’m ready,” Fane maneuvered me into position, a blunt finger palpating the vein in my groin, just like I’d done to him a half dozen times, taking quick sips to slake my thirst but not to fully satisfy.
My Vampyr half had been preparing me for this eventuality, keeping me hungry—and the demon watched with interest. Now I planned to consume my wolf’s very essence, driving him over the edge into nirvana. For me it would hurt like hell. Fane had no venom to anesthetize or dull the sensation, in fact his secretions would likely burn with acid brilliance. For a pain-pleasure junky like myself, this was going to take me to a paradise I’d longed for all my existence. And it would scar. A permanent reminder of our union.
The pack had no clue they harbored a budding alpha in their midst. Young Fane took control easily, slipping inside to find the G-spot with ease. So long as I thought of it as lubrication rather than drool easing that digit’s passage, I could keep my mind on the business at hand and not curl into a fetal position with a terminal case of the giggles.
With playful nuzzles and nips he stroked the fire burning in my gut, leaving me distracted and not holding up my end of the bargain. It took almost more willpower than I could muster to return the favor, massaging the nub with ever increasing intensity and unleashing my fangs to clamp with unrelenting force on his cock. Semen and hot thick crimson goodness flooded my senses, nearly gagging me with the power of it. Racing with the unstoppable energy of a freight train out of control, the blood bond screamed its way through the Vampyr, sweeping it aside and colliding head first with a demon waiting with open arms.
>
When consciousness returned, there was no feeling in my limbs, my body rendered extraneous to sensation. The distant sound of panting and soft growls reminded me that I wasn’t the only one partaking in this sensual journey of discovery.
Fane was being far gentler than I, his fangs buried deep, the sucking pulls like the sweet hiss of soda through a straw. It hurt like hell. With slow, sure strokes, inside and out, he teased me close, then drove me away until I arched my back, thrusting with desperation.
Yet still he denied me release.
The demon did not approve.
With more strength and speed than I knew I possessed, I flipped a creature half again my size onto his knees with ease and buried my cock to the hilt, ramming home again and again until the wolf howled—in ecstasy, agony, it mattered not.
His long black hair fell in waves across his shoulders as he arched his head to give voice to his passion. Grabbing a hank, I jerked his head back, hard enough to lift his hands off the floor and expose his neck, the rigid line of the artery pulsing red hot in anger and lust.
The last thing I remember was ripping and tearing at the rough flesh, sucking with great greedy gulps as my seed spilled, claiming the wolf as mine.
****
Having cold steel pressed into my temple wasn’t unique. I’d had some experience with displeased penitents and their swords, knives and the odd cinquedea—a splendid Italian short sword best used for thrusting, more irony—but a Glock, of the type popular with law enforcement … not so much.
I didn’t feel the need for that kind of persuasion. After all, I was prone, buck naked on a cold, unforgiving stone floor with a black wolf the size of an SUV swallowing my throat whole between massive canines.
I was also bleeding like a stuck pig from that pesky groin wound that the wolf’s saliva had failed to stem. I needed pressure and lots of it; otherwise my contribution to the new union would be of the short but sweet variety.
Most significant others withdrew sexual favors, imposing a period of abstinence on miscreant mates who engaged in various transgressions. Stefan went that additional step to make it clear that my foreplay skills needed honing by closing off my larynx and threatening to remove my head from my body.