The Strigoi Chronicles Box Set

by Nya

  For that he would spare the one and honor the other. As for Eduardo and Fane and Samuels? He would do what was necessary.

  Voices ranged back and forth, rising and falling; there were negotiations, threats, allegations, more threats. My liege lord spoke softly, but the words carried steel, as he informed the company arrayed before us what their new options were. Jef rose and left the room and no one made a move to stop him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Fane grasp at Samuels’ elbow, fear cutting across his young features. Father Dreu still cared, very much so, but his compassion paled in the face of betrayal and expediency. As Michel du Velours would select an appropriate denouement for the woman who claimed his heart, so would the demon he’d sired, trusting that man to deal with two animals who had been willing to sacrifice innocents in pursuit of vile ethnic cleansing.

  Michel du Velours stood and bowed respectfully toward the woman, my mother, his wife. I didn’t listen to the words, my gaze finally locked onto Fane’s, pity stirring in my gut but not the passion I desperately tried to recall. Movement registered all about, the wolves slowly making their way out of the room under escort of my father’s, our guards.

  I heard, “Eduardo, Evaline, walk with me please,” then silence as Fane and Samuels awaited my pleasure.

  Standing with my palms flat on the table, I leaned forward, staring hard at the quaking young man who’d been too easily corrupted, first by me, then by an alpha too cowardly for leadership but desirous of all its perks. Logic suggested death would be the compassionate choice, for a wolf cast adrift went insane if left alone to wander the world without the safety and succor of its kind.

  Prognostication was not in my skill set. I could not predict whether or not the youngling would find a place in the fractured landscape that was topside. The best I could do was send him into exile to his homeland and hope that choice was the right one for both of us. I had a responsibility for this man-child and not nearly enough experience to exercise it.

  I stood up and said, “Go home, Fane,” then turned toward Samuels, ignoring the shuffling of feet and the scent of uncertainty as the pup exited the room, leaving me alone to savor the choices before me.

  The wolf crossed his arms and stared, his expression flat, but a faint scent of smugness, the whiff of a dare, tested my resolve and on this matter I had a choice. Incarceration until the end of his days would drive him mad and put at risk those tasked with tending to the needs of a wild animal. Letting him go was out of the question.

  The whimpers of those children would haunt me to the end of my days. Their terrors would infuse their waking dreams and turn nightmares into living hell, and nothing I could do would change that sad fact.

  I turned my back on Samuels and walked to the door, the echo of Hail Marys and the phantom click of beads performing one last service. The metal of the handle was oddly cool and soothing. I used that to calm and direct my thoughts, then I left the room and shut the door.

  One of our guards said, “Sire?” and swung his head toward the conference room. “What should I do with the prisoner?”

  About to say ‘nothing, son,’ I asked instead if he could find a shop vac or a shovel and large plastic bags. He gave me an odd look and asked again, “Sire?”

  The ex-monk and the newly minted demon were in agreement. Together we shrugged and answered, “We clean up our own messes, boy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jef massaged my shoulders and hummed his disapproval. “Come on, babe, put the spreadsheets…”

  I interrupted with, “Genie-fucking-ologies,” and smacked my forehead on the desk, twice, just to make sure it registered. I was so tired that my nose hairs were numb. Moaning, “I used to be good at math, but this… this shit is… is… fuck,” and scattered the diagrams and begats all over the surface of the plasteel.

  My blond giant knelt and gentled my thighs, running his thumbs suggestively along the inside, flicking at the deep vein, palpating it, reminding me that I owed him big time for running interference with the toadies sucking up to the new world order.

  Settling back against the leather seat, I spread my legs and let my lover work his special brand of magic.

  I asked, though not really expecting an answer, “Did you ever think he’d actually do it?”

  Jef managed to mumble, “Um-hmm,” even with his mouth wrapped around my balls and his tongue layering a thick sheen of saliva that he would use in most creative ways. I loved when he did that thing with his throat, causing my flesh to vibrate off bones that liquefied under his tender ministrations.

  Instead of satisfying my curiosity about why mine Papá had come to such a momentous, if not unexpected, decision, Jef said, “Why don’t we take this off,” and helped me lift my hips so he could slide the jersey cotton shorts down my legs. He flicked the fabric under the desk and went back to distracting me from the joys of upper management.

  Rafe barreled through the side door, the one that led to our private quarters, bearing a tray with sandwiches and another very large stack of legal documents. I think someone said, maybe the first time I had visited my adopted home, that there was a reason most lawyers were demons. From my perspective, they were taking far too narrow a view. I’d have opened it up to bureaucrats in general.

  The medic-slash-advisor-slash-concierge was on the other side of the capacious desk, fussing with the documents and making sure that the plate of food was settled conveniently where I could reach it and still attend to whatever new annoyance I was expected to learn, virtually overnight.

  Eventually the medic realized I was doing something other than picking lint out of my navel, and found a compelling spot over my left shoulder while he quickly explained the volatile nature of the current spat between the Arapahoe Council and the demon oversight committee that threatened to shut down an entire section of the Montana corridor.

  He ticked off a few ROIs, profit sharing incentives and loss of revenue stream impacts, all of which went over my head. The medic’s devotion to the bottom line was gratifying if not somewhat surprising.

  Torn between watching Jef’s bouncing golden curls or laying my head on the backrest and groaning, “Oh shit, that’s good, yeah, baby, suck me, God that’s so fucking good,” I peeked up at my demon slave driver, fully expecting him to bolt from the room. To his credit, he waited, but I had a suspicion once he left he was headed for the washroom to flush his eyes and ears with Clorox, or worse.

  Swallowing the urge to really let it rock ’n roll, I instructed my administrative assistant, “Tell them I’ll visit on the tenth. We’ll discuss their issues and I will decide how best to proceed.”

  Rafe mumbled, “Uh, yes, fine. I’ll make arrangements,” as he backed away, his eyes still fixed on a dot in space only he could see. The hapless medic was locked into a see-no-evil time zone, but unless he had turned off his hearing aids, he was getting treated to one of the best audio performances my assassin had ever given.

  Rafe was about to make his escape when I called out, my voice hitting soprano high notes in ecstasy, “Tell… tell them, uh, shit, yeah, tell them they’ll need extra dumpsters.”

  “Sire?” I loved when he called me that.

  “Just, oh God, yes, remind them, um, there my love, yes… Remind them there weren’t enough… Oh, geez, shit, tell them there weren’t enough last time.” I don’t think the medic heard that last bit.

  Jef rocked back on his heels and asked, “Is he gone?”

  “Yeah.” I palmed his gorgeous face and drew him up for a lingering kiss, taking a moment to explore the wonder that was my archangel.

  Nibbling on my lower lip, my assassin asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of traumatizing that poor man?”

  “No. Why, it’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh, but have you seen what shrinks are charging an hour nowadays?”

  “Shit, that reminds me, that budget…”

  Where he got his strength and agility was beyond me, but in one fell swoop he s
tood and slung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and jogged in the direction of the emergency exit.

  He anticipated my question and informed me that we had a date.

  That perked me up and reminded me that I was hungry. As we took the stairs two at a time, I bounced happily on his shoulder, wondering where we were headed. As usual, curiosity got the better of me so I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace new.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jef was huffing and puffing by the time we reached some kind of sub-basement level. Demon architectural features weren’t high on my list of talking points, but when he shoved through a sturdy metal door braced with cross-beams that reminded me fondly of a few Hapsburg castles I’d visited in my travels as minister to pious virgins, well… Both Father Dreu and the heir apparent smiled in shared memories.

  The archangel did a thing with a flick of his hand, activating emergency lighting, and set me down to survey the expansive interior. I’d been half-expecting, half-hoping for a dungeon, complete with manacles and accessories, but this was better, way better.

  Fluffing his magnificent appendages, he spun in a lazy circle, a wide grin splitting his features.

  I ‘wowed’ and touched the first display. There were dozens lined up, down one aisle and up another, color coordinated with matching quilts, some with headboards, some just sitting there bare-assed naked, awaiting our pleasure.

  Jef asked, “Do you like?”

  Like didn’t touch it but a niggling concern forced me to ask, “Won’t they notice…?”

  “We own majority shares, and besides, they’re insured.” He gazed down at me and stroked my cheek.

  I murmured, “I don’t know what to say.”

  My demon lover picked me up and threw me onto the nearest mattress, the innersprings groaning at the violence of the assault.

  Jef asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  ****

  Rafe poked me, harder than necessary, and hissed in my ear, “Say something.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are your parents, and he left you in charge while they go honeymooning, or whatever the Hel it’s called.”

  Jef agreed. “Be nice, Dreu, it’s only for a few hundred years.”

  Grousing, “I don’t want to be in charge,” I assumed belligerent, a pose I’d gotten good at over the last few weeks while acclimating to the chaos that was Demon Central. But before Rafe could drill me a new one, I shouted after the Ferrari disappearing through the boundary, “Have fun, use condoms.”

  Jef snorted and I said, “What?”

  “Condoms?”

  Smirking, I said, “Going away present.” Rafe sputtered so I explained, “The last thing I need is a little brother or sister…”

  Jef and Rafe stared at each other, then at me. It was Rafe who said, “He’s got a point,” then we all ambled back inside to deal with the Council picking their noses and awaiting the first of many bowel watering pronouncements I had lined up for the day.

  Jef mused, “You know, you could be a little nicer to her. She is your mother.”

  “Why? She doesn’t like me.”

  Rafe, behind me, muttered, “Nobody likes you.” When I spun to confront him, he pursed his lips and growled, “I don’t like you.”

  We paused at the conference room door. I asked, “What about them?”

  Jef said, “They don’t like you either,” and drew his sword.

  At the table, I placed my palms flat on the smooth surface and leaned forward. I had their undivided.

  “Gentlemen, first things first.” There was the usual shuffling, some audibles, then silence. I waited a few heartbeats, letting the anxiety level build. Finally I said, “Let me make this perfectly clear…” and paused as my archangel and my advisor closed ranks around me.

  I looked at each councilor in turn, taking their measure until you could cut the tension with a knife, and nodded for Jefrumael to place his sword on the table.

  I repeated, “I want to make this very clear and very simple. Mine is bigger than yours.” I turned to Rafe and commanded, “May I have Eduardo’s folder, please…”

  ****

  Jef stood at the French doors, staring out at the sea. Pale bluish light danced and shimmered in the watery air, dawn still just a promise. I’d brought us to the dacha on the Black Sea, dismissing the minion staff in anticipation of an argument that might get nasty. And for that we needed privacy.

  My insides felt hollow with that gnawing sensation of a hunger that could never be sated. And frustration that my archangel refused the gift I offered: his freedom.

  “Why do you refuse, Jef? Michel du Velours released you from your oath. You are free now.”

  He spun, his beautiful face twisted and contorted with emotions that defied description. Eyes gone gunmetal grey, flat and featureless, raked me with disdain.

  His voice deadly with malice, he growled, “And are you releasing me from our oath?”

  Stuttering, “Yes … no,” I raked a hand through my hair and whined, “I don’t know.”

  But I did know. I’d compelled him and bound him to me back in that cabin in the wilds of Romania, the Vampyr staking a claim in service to a goal that no longer pertained. Then I had wanted, needed, control and a buffer against the father who would ultimately define my new existence.

  Back then I thought I knew love, but I knew nothing. The assassin had pulled me from the morass of lust into the light of affection. And it took an archangel to teach me the meaning of trust and honesty and self-sacrifice.

  That Jefrumael loved me was never in question. Why he did so was.

  I tried again, knowing my words would fall on deaf ears, risking driving him away because I wasn’t able to express what lay hidden in the cave of fear I’d sheltered in for nine hundred years.

  Not even trying to mask my misery, I cried out, “I compelled you…” and gagged as his hands grasped my throat, lifting me off my feet and slamming me against the wall, crushing my windpipe for good measure.

  He hissed, “Is that why you think I stayed, you moron?”

  It was hard to answer with his tongue ravaging my mouth. All I could do was wrap my legs around him and let my body say what my voice could not.

  When he finally released me, I asked, just because avoidance was my favorite go-to position, “Why doesn’t Rafe like me?”

  Jef sighed. “Nobody likes you.” He shook his head in exasperation and muttered, “Even I don’t like you.”

  “Oh.”

  Tipping my chin so I could look into eyes softened with affection, he said, “But I love you, asshat. Okay?”

  For no particular reason, I was thinking about how my archangel had offered his troth to the Demon King, and there was that open-ended patricide pact hanging over my head, along with a few of the more entertaining quid pro quos we’d unleashed on the Council that gave a whole new meaning to binding arbitration. So when I asked, “Does that mean we need a new contract or something?” it actually made sense.

  Brushing my lips, my assassin murmured, “No Dreu, love doesn’t work like that.”

  “How does it work?” Inquiring minds and an overactive libido really wanted to know.

  I followed his line of sight to the bed but before he could say or do anything, I asked, “Can we go back to Ikea?”

  “Um, no. The showroom’s gonna be under construction for a while.” He almost looked relieved about that, though for the life of me I couldn’t understand why.

  Petulant, I muttered, “Shit,” then brightened and said, “We have six guest bedrooms.”

  Laughing, Jef threw me on the duvet, agreeing, “That we have, lover, that we have.”

  ~~~~

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nya Rawlyns has lived most of her life in eastern Pennsylvania and South Jersey. She’s been a teacher, a small business owner, a sailor, and a technical writer.

  Her novella, Sculpting David, from Red
Sage Presents is out in eBook. Her novel, Hunter’s Crossing, also from Red Sage, is available in eBook.

  Additional works include Guardians of the Portals (dark urban fantasy); SKIN (crime, action); Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts) – paranormal/action; Dance Macabre (noir with a hint of erotica); and Finish Line (erotic romance/contemporary women’s fiction).

  Her new work is an uncompromising exploration of homoerotic sensuality, the bestseller: The Wrong Side of Right.

  Taking on a contemporary western M/M theme is Ash & Oak (A Crow Creek Novel), another bestseller.

  ALSO FROM THE AUTHOR

  THE STRIGOI CHRONICLES: PENANCE, FANE, MICHEL, DREU

  ASH & OAK

  (A CROW CREEK NOVEL)

  Ash MacBryde thinks he knows what he wants. When his sister offers him the chance to return to his roots and take over running the ranch, he jumps at the chance. Ranching has always been his first love but it doesn’t fill the long lonely nights.

  Oak Richards’ career is skyrocketing, earning him national recognition in his sport of endurance racing. But after an unfortunate riding accident, when his mentor and lover decides Oak is no longer flavor of the month, he’s cast adrift.

  Will a little luck, a healthy dose of fate, and a matchmaking sister conspire to bring together two damaged men living two thousand miles apart?

  For the shy, reclusive Oak and the domineering, territorial Ash there’s more than distance separating them. When they finally meet, sparks fly; but it will take more than just a powerful attraction to bridge the gap between them.

  THE WRONG SIDE OF RIGHT