The coolness of the stone tile floor made his toes curl, but he refused to use the convenience of the heating system. There was something unseemly to him about pampering himself that much. Really, the room was warm enough, and soon he’d be under a spray of water that he could make as hot as he wished. And he didn’t need four shower heads. One would do nicely. He tested the temperature before getting in, putting the heat level to just shy of scalding and letting the water sluice over him. The intense heat was cleansing, washing away more than surface dirt. It was fine to spend as long as he wanted, apparently. So said Lucien, and he’d come to depend on the man as something of a kindred spirit and a kindly mentor who helped him navigate through this often-confusing new life. Like Alun, Lucien knew what it was like to be under the control of vicious men. He understood Alun’s fears, even without his having to express them. Alun trusted in the man’s advice. So, he didn’t hurry to wash, and no matter how long he took, experience taught him that the water never ran cool.
This ability to wash was another blessing long denied him. He often showered more than once a day because it felt so good to be clean. And yet, he never truly did. Some part of him always felt dirty, defiled, no matter how hard or often he scrubbed at his skin and hair. Back in Wales, he’d been forced to ignore it, making due with tepid sponge baths and cold rinses from rain water. Now, it seemed that the more he washed, the dirtier he felt. He knew it was nonsense but he couldn’t shake it. And the longer he stood under that spray, the more his mind insisted on focusing on unpleasant matters. Keeping busy was his best defense.
With that thought in mind, he hurried to finish, no longer enjoying the experience. This was how it always ended. The soft towels at his disposal made quick work of drying him. His closet and drawers were filled with more clothing than he could possibly use. He grabbed items at random—a sweater, jeans and socks. Underwear was available, but really, that was something that made no sense to him. Small clothes were for rich people, unless it was about keeping warm, which it wasn’t for him. It was enough to have the barrier provided by what he did tug on. Low boots in soft leather completed his dressing. His final act to get ready for the day was to brush and pull back his hair in a slick tail. He didn’t mind it being wet because, again, the whole house was warm. He didn’t have the patience for using that air-blowing contraption Lucien had given him.
Before he left his room, he gathered the wet towels and dirty clothing from the hamper. He went straight down to the laundry room and threw in a couple of loads in the machines that existed for the purpose, adding others’ that were waiting in the baskets. Washing wasn’t his job in this house. Frankly, nothing officially was, which bothered him. Doing nothing was not in his nature, and the lack of duties disturbed him more than any amount of hard labor did. He wanted to be useful, and the appliances made everything almost a joy to do.
Once that was done, he proceeded to the kitchen. Here again was an area that wasn’t his assigned domain, but there were a lot of mouths to feed, even with some having been captured. The fresh reminder of how his son had been taken from him made him stagger. He gripped the counter until his heartbeat steadied and his vision cleared. It was too easy to spiral into fear and despair and much better to shove his feelings aside and channel his energy into starting breakfast. He knew that those who ruled the kitchen, alien and human alike, wouldn’t fault him for it. In fact, it continued to surprise him how often he was praised and thanked for his efforts. With what little confidence he possessed, he prepped for breakfast, allowing himself the time for a cup of tea and a couple of pieces of toast. Hunger was a thing of the past, but he didn’t have much of an appetite on the best of days.
Omelets were a staple of the household, so he chopped vegetables and sautéed them while warming multi-cartons of eggs on the counter. He started on sausages next, with an eye to cooking them nearly through so that it would be easy to finish them when breakfast started in earnest. Then he made the decision to bake buns, knowing that anything not eaten here would be sent to the place where homeless children were fed.
He had to put aside his disappointment about not being able to go there anymore. He’d found such fulfillment in the work, but Alex, the leader who was so different than Dracul, yet no less forceful, had forbidden it. It was dangerous for any of them to leave the house now, although the building itself had been breached easily enough. Really, at this point, nowhere was safe—not that he mentioned that indelicate fact to anyone. It still didn’t make sense to him, either, that anyone would worry about him. Dracul was unlikely to target him, and if he did, why would it matter? The concern for him was both touching and confusing, such common feelings these days.
So he did what he’d always done—just got on with things.
He was taking the first batch of buns out of the oven when the doorbell pealed. He’d no sooner moved his head in that direction than two aliens, the ones known as Val and Willem, vaulted down to the first floor from the top of the stairs with guns in their hands. Their dramatic appearance caused him to wobble his tray and he scrambled to catch the buns before they fell on the floor. He landed on his knees with a jarring thud that made him wince, but he’d saved all but one of his buns. Then already jackhammering, his heart skipped a beat when he heard the voice of the visitor.
“Hey, guys, what a warm welcome. Are those guns stuck in my face for me, ‘cause I, you know, come in peace and all that.”
The tone of the human cop, Sergeant Jefferson—Craig—was easy-going, yet Alun heard the steel underneath it. This was a man who didn’t scare easily and was someone to fear in his own right. It didn’t surprise Alun that the aliens didn’t appear to succumb to the sergeant’s dominant nature, but his own reaction to the man was unexpected. He should have given him a wide berth, as he did with all men, human and alien alike. Yet he found himself perversely drawn to the cop. After his initial reaction to hearing the man’s arrival, Alun’s nerves calmed with the sound of the banter continuing between the human and his alien hosts.
“It’s too-fucking-early o’clock, Jefferson. We weren’t expecting visitors.” This from Val, the scary security chief who was nevertheless always respectful to Alun.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing, my man, Dracul’s goons aren’t going to ring the bell, so I had that logic going for me.”
“Forgive us if we’re a bit jumpy,” Willem replied.
“I hear you… Hey, Alun.” Alun froze and looked up to see Craig hurry over to him. He had to fight the impulse to cringe away. “Let me help you.” The man grinned as he crouched beside him and reached for the tray.
Alun was momentarily mesmerized—and not by fear. This man was unlike anyone he was used to dealing with. It wasn’t only his looks, either, although his dark skin was unusual in Alun’s personal experience, even before his enslavement. No, it was the way he telegraphed both trustworthiness and concern with a single expression. True empathy showed through his dark brown eyes and, at the same time, made Alun feel secure. It conveyed an ‘I’ve got you’ sentiment that let Alun know he didn’t have to worry about anything. Craig was in charge, although not to dominate. And the easy smile he gave encompassed his whole face, a genuine warmth that infused Alun with a sense of calm and protectiveness.
It also left him tongue-tied. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say or how to react. He simply allowed the man to relieve him of his burden, freeing him to juggle the buns that had fallen. Only one had touched the floor and rolled across it.
Val scooped it up and shoved it in his mouth. “Hmm, delicious.”
“It’s not even iced, like,” he heard himself say before he could stop his tongue from wagging. He shrunk back instinctively in anticipation of a blow that he understood wasn’t coming, but that he feared nevertheless.
Craig took him gently by the arm and helped him to his feet. Funny how that gesture hadn’t startled him in the least. “No worries. I don’t think our giant friend here cares about those kinds of d
etails, although apparently he follows the five-second rule. You know…” he added when Alun could only blink back at him in confusion. “If it doesn’t stay on the floor for more than a few seconds, it’s safe to eat.”
“Yes, of course.” Alun didn’t know where to look or what more to say. It wasn’t for him to dictate what Val or anyone else in this household ate. It had been silly pride that his buns weren’t finished to his liking that had caused him to speak without thinking. That had gotten him into more trouble than he cared to think about. He was nothing and his feelings of no consequence in this world and forgetting that was a dangerous thing.
“I should finish the rest, though.” He didn’t move to do so, however, his mind a muddle from Craig’s proximity and touch. It was hard to think with him there. Alun both wanted those fingers to stay curled around his arm and longed to shake off the touch. Being in the presence of this human confused him.
Craig smiled and let go of Alun to put the tray on the counter. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Alun almost laughed out loud at the idea that such a virile, commanding man should act like a kitchen slut. No, that wasn’t right. No one here called anyone that slur for cooking and cleaning. It was hard to stifle the way he’d been forced to think and talk, even of his own derogation. But Emil cooked, and he was a fierce warrior. Somehow, though, the idea of Craig putting on an apron and helping him ice buns seemed inappropriate. Alun would much rather serve him—and not because he felt he had to. He wanted to, which was just one more confusing thing about the man.
Turning away, he said, “No, thank you. There’s nothing much to it.” The timer for the second batch went off in another oven. The kitchen had an astounding four to use. He hurried to put the buns in his hands onto the first tray in order to fetch the newly-finished ones. He put their tray next to the ones he’d previously baked, careful not to look at Craig. The man was too much of a distraction.
“Would you like some coffee?” The question came to him in a flash and he was pleased that he’d thought to start a pot for the early risers.
“Sounds wonderful. I can get it. Thanks.”
“No, let me.” His boldness made his cheeks heat. “You’re a guest, like.”
Craig moved to lean against the kitchen’s island. “If it’s no trouble…”
“None at all.” He was quick to assure the man and went to fill a mug. “How do you take it?” Although he’d never been permitted to have any at the castle, he’d learned that coffee was a personal drink with lots of choices about how it should be altered, not so different from tea.
“Black is fine. No sugar, either. I’m a simple guy,” Craig added with another grin.
Uncomfortable with so much pleasantry thrown in his direction, Alun busied himself with picking up the carafe. “Well, that’s easy.” He was also perversely disappointed that he couldn’t do more to make the man happy. “Here you are.”
As he passed the mug over, the backs of his fingers brushed those of Craig’s. The brief touch caused a little spark of awareness and he was surprised by the warmth. He’d grown used to being touched by cold beings.
“Thanks.” Once again, Craig gave him a broad smile that reached his eyes. It seemed to be the man’s default expression. He was almost like Annika in that respect, naturally joyful. Except this was an adult, not a child, and even with the misery he must see every day, he’d still not lost that appealing quality. It made for a nice change from the grimness that now pervaded the home, a small oasis that lifted Alun’s spirits—not that Alun dared do more than glance in his direction.
“I could use a hit of caffeine,” Val said from across the dining counter on the other side of the kitchen.
Alun startled at the sudden request. “Yes, of course.” He started to turn away from Craig, but the man caught him gently by the arm and kept him in place.
“Get your own damn coffee, Mr. T. Alun’s not your slave.” Craig winked and took a sip of his own drink.
Unsure of what to say or how to react, Alun fell back on his usual passiveness, allowing Craig to hold him, even as he fretted over Val being forced to get his own coffee. The grip around his arm loosened and morphed into a kind of stroking, a reassurance without words. Alun stopped worrying about Val and began to wonder how he would find the strength to move away from this unexpected attention. He searched for some hint of menace or even demand, and finding none, he decided to leave it to Craig to decide what would happen next.
Doing so wasn’t new to him. He’d never been in control of his life, going from a dutiful son who had left his beloved school room to head for the mines to an enslaved whore for an alien monster. This, however, was the first time in which he felt no resentment. He trusted this man to have his best interest in mind, although the why of it alluded him. After all that he’d been through, this kind of assertive behavior should scare him to death.
The situation resolved itself in the form of Damien, who literally jumped into it by taking the last few steps of the staircase with a leap. He landed with a thud that was nothing like the almost-silent entry of his alien lover moments before. And he bobbled a moment before straightening with a look on his face that telegraphed his obvious glee.
“Man, I love my new superpowers.”
Willem walked over and gave him the kind of passionate kiss that always called up some unnamed longing in Alun. “Easy, baby. You aren’t invincible. I don’t want you breaking a leg during your transformation.”
“You worry too much.” Damien rolled his eyes in a form of disrespect that made Alun cringe. He still expected such an act to end in a severe blow.
Craig gave Alun’s arm a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Don’t worry. It’s just banter between lovers.”
Surprised that the man had read him so well, Alun gave him a grateful smile before stepping away. The proximity was becoming uncomfortable now, especially as others were joining them.
“Hey, Alun, thanks for the prep.” Damien sauntered into the kitchen area with the confidence of someone who knew he belonged there. “And you made buns. Awesome.”
The gratitude made him even more uneasy. “They still need icing.”
Damien nodded. “Sounds good… And while you’re doing that, I’ll fix you an omelet.”
Alun widened his eyes with alarm. “Oh, no, I had some toast already. There are warriors who need feeding first. And Mackie’s coming,” he added as the pregnant changling lumbered down the stairs with his hand on his lower back. Alun winced inside with sympathy. He knew how hard it was to carry a baby inside a body that had not been readily designed for it. Unlike the alien who’d impregnated Alun, however, Val strode to help the human who was pregnant with his son.
Damien shook his head, commanding Alun’s attention once more. “It takes no time at all to make one with all this prep done. No one will wait for long. So, what do you like in yours?”
Alun was at a loss, considering what he ate had never been a choice and he hadn’t gotten used to the idea of making such decisions. He instinctively looked to Craig, who was watching over the rim of his mug. He felt stupid needing help with such a simple question.
“How about a little of everything?” Craig suggested. Alun found himself nodding before turning his attention to his buns, which was where it belonged.
“Everything it is,” Damien replied.
The simple problem having been resolved sent a wave of relief through him. He concentrated on finishing his buns and valiantly tried to ignore the focus of the man standing behind him.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Craig said.
The sound of the man’s footsteps leaving both relieved and disappointed Alun. The conflicting emotions were too hard to unpack, so he fell back on old habits and turned numb to it all.
I am such a jackass. Craig chastised himself, even as he took a position on the other side of the dining counter. He hadn’t moved far away from the focus of his interest, yet hopefully he’d stopped making the guy uncomfo
rtable.
After sleeping like the dead on his kitchen floor, of all places, he’d moved to his bed only to lay there the rest of the night with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, trying to make sense of his new, weird reality. Was he really involved with ancient aliens who were the origin for the vampire legend? And were they truly locked into a thousand-year battle over controlling Earth? This was some serious sci-fi shit. It would be easy to dismiss it all if not for the mountain of bodies that had been carted out of Club Lux, along with the freaky shit that he’d witnessed that couldn’t be the work of a human.
Those memories kept haunting him—one man using the strength of many, along with a cartoonish speed, to carry a wounded comrade up the stairs, fangs gleaming white before sinking into the blood vessels of another’s wrist to suck blood for an instant transfusion. Then there was the deal-sealer—a man he’d once loved and totally trusted telling him that this was all real. Yeah, Trey had broken his heart, and rightly so, given his own infidelity, but the man was rock-solid in the head department. If he said these were alien vampires, one could take that information to the bank.
Nothing, however, that he’d seen or heard had the same impact as the one man he currently watched with a rudeness that his mama would chastise him for. Alun. That name, that face, had dominated his thoughts, shoving the rest aside with regularity every time he’d tried to focus on something else—something relevant, such as how he could protect his species from an escalating alien war. Every effort he’d made to lay out plans for the near future had been upended by the intrusion of Alun’s lovely face. The memories of their first encounter at Our Safe Place in particular were strong and warm. They weren’t tainted by the horror of the massacre.
Final Dance Page 23