Kristof stood at the table of weapons and huffed. “I’m not fighting you with a fucking sword. I fight with my hands.”
Jacoby turned with a look of disgust. Of course he hadn’t thought of that, assuming every vampire worth his salt would’ve been taught how to battle with swords. Some families taught it, some didn’t. “Gods, I hate your uncle even more now.” He tossed the sword to the guard without looking, who caught it one-handed. “Fine. I’ll beat you to death.”
With a smirk, Kristof began removing his chain and shirt. Jacoby was large and strong, but Kristof was young and quick. It could go either way without weapons.
Dison walked up to Kristof. His last chance to end this madness. “Your uncle wouldn’t want you to do this. Don’t let your pride decide your fate.” He glanced back at John, who’d removed his shirt also. “Jacoby is a reasonable royal. Apologize, show some respect, and he’ll let us walk out of here. If he wins, you’ll die. Do you really want to take that risk?”
“Get the fuck away from me, numbers man. Once I win, I’m dealing with you next. I’ll take Jacoby’s territory and have more money and more power than my uncle ever had.”
“You really think the other royals would allow it?”
“Fuck the other royals. I don’t need their permission, or yours, or my uncle’s. I take what I want.”
He sure did, and it was going to get him killed. Dison didn’t want to be here to witness it was because his presence alone would mean he was responsible for whatever happened to Kristof, no matter the circumstances. Too bad Jacoby’s son wasn’t around to assert how stupid this was; despite being the child of a temperamental father, he had grown up to be a lot cooler headed.
One last try… “He’s fought literally centuries more than you have. He has the advantage here. We’re on his territory. Who’s to say even if you do get the upper hand, his guards won’t kill you anyway?”
That gave Kristof pause. Could he possibly see reason through his dense skull?
Kristof cracked his knuckles, glanced at Dison, lips pursed, then set his gaze on Jacoby again. For one second, Dison had hope, picturing Kristof muttering an apology for disrespecting Jacoby in his home and asking for another chance to make things right.
Kristof plugged one nostril and blew snot on the ground with the other.
Dison sighed. That was why fantasies were not called realities.
Jacoby gestured for him to come forward, expression bored, confidence high.
Dison flicked a look at the guards stalking the perimeter of the courtyard who were not really paying attention, as if they knew it was going to be a short confrontation and that their leader would be the victor.
Kristof attacked, with a head first tackle into Jacoby’s midsection, to take him down and pummel him from on top. Barrel of a man that he was, Jacoby wouldn’t let himself be forced to the ground, dug his heels in, and pushed against Kristof’s momentum, planting his hands on his opponent’s shoulders, shoving him back. Kristof stumbled, and Jacoby took advantage with a right hook to the jaw.
With a frustrated yell, Miocic swung back and missed, meeting Jacoby’s other fist. Once again, he tried to take him down to the ground. Jacoby laughed and pushed him off; he was enjoying this. He didn’t laugh when Kristof connected a well-timed fist into his ribs and an elbow to the back of his head however. Then the fight turned serious.
For a few minutes it went on. Perhaps if Kristof had learned to fight rather than just brawl, he might’ve stood a chance. But when Jacoby headbutted him, breaking Kristof’s nose and sending him reeling back in blood and pain, the favor fell completely on Jacoby. He advanced, kicked Kristof in the knee, buckling him. Then, with Kristof yelling in pain, Jacoby hit his face with the back of his hand over and over, until Kristof fell over, gasping.
Jacoby kicked him in the stomach, and Kristof raised his pathetic gaze up to Dison, and reached out. His opponent found this amusing and let up. Bleeding, out of breath, Kristof scrambled up to his feet toward him, swaying and heaving. He grabbed Dison by the lapels, teeth gritted, saliva shooting out of the corners of his mouth.
Just when Dison started to shove the man’s hands off him, Kristof yanked a knife from the heel of his shoe and swiftly got behind him, shoving the sharp point to Dison’s neck.
Shit. He hadn’t seen that coming.
“Come any closer,” Kristof warned while Jacoby went for his sword, “and I’ll slice his vein all over your grass.”
Dison’s hands curled to fists. “By the gods, you are stupid.”
But Jacoby didn’t advance to his aid. He took pause, glaring at the two of them, assessing the situation. Of course he didn’t care what happened to him. All Dison ever did was make the man money, but now that he worked strictly for Miocic, that wouldn’t save him.
He could make a quick move to escape Kristof’s clutches, but that would risk a deep slice to the neck that could bleed him out in seconds, too fast for him to heal. Calculating risk was his job and it wasn’t worth it to find out.
“Come on, you shit, come on,” Kristof spat, pulling him to move toward an exit.
“Let us leave,” Dison advised Jacoby.
“Cheating bastard,” Jacoby yelled at Kristof. “Get back here and fight me!”
“Fuck you!” He shoved the knife harder into Dison’s neck and cut him, the blood poured out of Dison’s skin and down his chest.
“Fine.” The feral look in Jacoby’s eyes was unmistakable. He wasn’t going to let Kristof leave. “You cheat. I cheat.”
Just as Kristof had dragged him to the archway, Jacoby disappeared. Dison had no idea the man could blur.
“Where—where the fuck did he go?” shrieked Kristof.
A breeze blew on the fine hairs of Dison’s neck and in the next second, a sword pierced through Kristof’s stomach. The young royal let out a sound of unimaginable despair.
Dison whipped around in time to see Kristof look down at the magnificent blade Jacoby had stabbed him with, dripping with his blood. Jacoby sneered as he pulled out the weapon from Kristof’s body, and watched him collapse to his knees. He gave Dison no glance as he came around to face the man.
“Damn. Killing you isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be.” With his left hand, he raised the sword over his right shoulder. “And you know? I’m actually looking forward to this war with your uncle.” He sliced off his head with one smooth cut.
Kristof’s skin and clothes disintegrated into ash, while his skull bounced on the ground, and his bones fell in a heap.
Dison briefly closed his eyes. And so it begins.
Two
His plan to unite the families had ended.
Jacoby wasn’t going to kill him, but he might as well have.
“Nice try, Huxford,” Jacoby said after a moment, turning around, Kristof’s blood sliding off his blade. “I know you didn’t want to bring him, and that bastard forced you to. And now, despite your grand plan to unite us in business, you failed. It’s not your fault the kid was a turd. Only a fool would mourn his death.”
Dison swiped at the blood on his neck, the wound still bleeding, but healing. “As much as you loathed Kristof, he was heir apparent to Ivan’s empire. You didn’t have to kill him.”
“Sure I did.” He brushed past Dison. “I did the vampire world a favor.”
“And started a war.”
“I happen to like war! By the gods, we haven’t had one—a good one—in ages. The war with the shifters is nothing more than quietly killing each other one by one. I’m bored.”
Dison glanced down at Kristof’s bones. “I’ll be sure to relay the reason why you executed his nephew was a decision stemmed from ennui. He’ll love that.”
The gun runner handed his guard his sword then went to pick up his shirt. “Tell him whatever you want. I’ll be ready for him. Are you taking the bones with you or do you want me to have them delivered?”
No way was he going to bring Kristof home in a bag. “You killed him. Y
ou deliver the remains.”
“Why did you let him take you hostage? You could’ve broken his arm in four places and taken the knife from him. It was the only reason I hesitated. I assumed he would be on the floor in seconds. Keeping that side of you a secret, even though it could’ve cost you your life?”
He drew in a breath. A lot of things about him were a secret. “I didn’t want to fight him.”
“From what I know, it wouldn’t have been much of a fight. The man was threatening to end you.”
Dison shrugged. “He didn’t.”
“Will his uncle come after you?”
“Probably.”
“Well, you weren’t the kid’s bodyguard. I don’t know why he’d blame you.”
You don’t know Ivan Miocic. He turned to leave. “Enjoy your war.”
On the drive back to his flat, he picked up his mobile, dreading the phone call that would set Ivan’s world on fire.
“I need to talk to him. Now,” he told Ivan’s second-in-command.
“He’s out. Where’s Kristof?”
“He’s dead.”
A long pause on the other end. The man didn’t seem surprised. “What happened?”
He relayed a summary of the why and how between Kristof and Jacoby, including how Kristof tried to cheat by pulling a knife to a fist fight. He didn’t embellish or defend either man’s actions.
“Where are you now?” Ivan’s second asked.
“At my flat,” Dison said getting out of his car.
“Stay there.” He hung up.
What the hell? He stared at his mobile for a couple seconds, wondering why the man hadn’t asked more questions, and why he’d abruptly ended the call. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
He headed up to his flat and immediately took out his gun, making sure it was loaded. After a shower and tossing his bloodied shirt and jacket in the waste basket, he sat down in his chair by the window facing the street, his gun inches from the armrest.
He expected Ivan and his crew to pull up any minute.
His mobile went off. Unknown number.
His thumb hovered over answering the call and sending it to voicemail. An instinct told him to pick up. “Yeah?”
A pause. “Dison. I have a message from Coury,” said the unfamiliar male voice.
Dison slowly straightened in his seat, brows furrowing. He hadn’t heard from his pen pal in a while, and he never communicated through the phone. “What is it?”
“You’re not safe. Go to the Five Gold Rings Inn. Meet you there.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been placed on a hit list. Get out. Now.”
Dison tossed his old passport, mobile, and any identifying documents in the fireplace. He made certain the flames chewed and consumed the items before he walked away.
Jaw clenched, he pivoted, and strode to his bedroom.
There was nothing left to do, except vanish.
Dison had climbed the social ranks of the British vampire elite due to his intelligence and offering of services very few could match, but had gotten lost in the glamorous, by the money and the influence that put him there.
Nonetheless, his ex-clients were never his allies, or even friends; they had been using him for his financial savvy and keen insight into underworld dynamics, and he’d been fine with that. Moreover, he wanted them to use him. Smart, calculated moves had earned him the position as a well-known finance counselor for the abominably wealthy. It’d also ultimately earned him a life of regret and a fierce will to change everything and start over.
Over the years, he’d been working—very slowly—to cut himself out. Distancing himself whilst maintaining a constant presence so as not to draw suspicion, finally whittling his client list to a party of one. It wasn’t easy. While most assumed he accumulated wealth for materialistic reasons, he’d discreetly saved it where no one could touch it.
While he could’ve severed ties to this world some time ago, he had his reasons not to.
Ensuring his family’s protection for one thing. A priority endeavor. Now his parents and brother would want for nothing. Making sure Marex Daulton wasn’t executed for a crime he didn’t commit, his second do-gooder task while he still had the resources to do so. Last he heard from his contact in New York, Marex and Nadine were hiding out in Canada, trying to obtain a key to the Centurias.
They were safe. For the time being.
The last item on his list was securing a safety net for himself, but unfortunately, that plan had been accelerated much sooner than estimated.
Fortunately, he had been prepared for a sudden dash.
He sharply shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his duffel bag and walked away from his flat, and life as he knew it. Hard to fathom that his whole existence was reduced to a carry-on: two passports, cash, a map, an address book, some personal items, and a few days’ worth of clothes were the sum of all his possessions. Not even a mobile phone. Anything that could track him was left behind. Funny how he’d spent so much time accumulating material possessions, and now he didn’t care what happened to those things.
Even though he’d never met Coury, he knew he could trust the forewarning. After all, they’d been exchanging sensitive information via letter for about five years now, and everything the guy had passed on, big and small, had turned out to be true. Dison didn’t even know if Coury was a first or last name, it was the only one he’d ever been given. In total, his pen pal was a mystery, but an ally nonetheless.
Finally, he would be able to put a face and voice to the name.
Dison flagged a minicab and caught a ride to the country.
While the cab rocked and bumbled along, he took out the map to discern where exactly he needed to get off to get to the inn, an isolated establishment close to the Welsh border.
An hour later, he told the driver to pull over, hoisted his bag on his shoulder, and began the three mile walk. He didn’t want anyone to know his exact destination.
At last, the inn came to view, its glowing, exterior sconces lighting the way to the flat, stone, two-storied structure. When he walked in, he felt as though he’d stepped back in time. As in, a century back. No fluff or decadence here. Oddly enough, he really liked it. To the left of him was a bar, and to the right, a public space with wooden tables, benches, and tin pitchers stuffed with wildflowers.
“Room, supper, drink?” An older, gentleman in a tailored wool jacket asked from behind the bar.
Dison knew instantly he’d been greeted by the owner.
He paused to assess what he was dealing with. No vampiric or otherworldly scent. Just a human. “All. I was hoping for the sunset suite, if it’s available.”
The owner gave a single nod. That was code for letting the owner he required a few special accommodations. Dark curtains, fresh blood, privacy.
“Ah, I see. Welcome, sir. My name is Harold and my wife Katherine—” He gestured for her to come over, “are here at your service.” He set his hands on either side of a large book and spun it around. “Sign in, please?”
“I’d…rather not.”
Harold slammed the book closed. “Understood.”
No questions, no judgment. What a relief. Looked like Coury might’ve given the innkeeper a heads up in advance or their customer service was just that understanding. He held out his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.”
“I hope we’re able to provide everything you need. We’re only a modest inn here.”
“From what I can tell Harold, it’s perfect for me.”
“How long will you be staying with us?” Harold inquired.
“A few days.”
“Very good then.”
Katherine, a thin, lovely woman perhaps in her fifties, escorted him to his room on the second floor, last door at the end. “No one will bother you here. We’re too remote and plain for many visitors. No Wi-Fi or spa,” she told him, handing him the key. “Mostly farmers come here since we’re the only tavern around for miles. The occasional a
dventurous newlyweds. Try to act like one of us.” At his eyebrow raise, she added, “Desist from joking about drinking their blood, ripping off their limbs, etcetera.”
He chuckled. “You have my word.”
She left with a polite smile, and he set down his bag, turning on a lamp. Sitting down on a chair, he set his head in his hands.
He never felt more alone.
Three
A few days had stretched into six. No word from Coury.
The longer Dison lingered, the easier he could be discovered. Tonight, he had to leave, no matter what. He could only imagine what Ivan thought, and who he’d sent after him.
With nothing to occupy his time other than reading books, he sought out ways to be of use. Currently, that included fixing the toilet. He’d become the pseudo resident handyman while their usual man was out sick.
Tightening the bolt a few more times, he felt a shadow at his back.
“Stephen. What a dear you are,” said Katherine. “Why you’ve practically rehabilitated the whole second floor. The front window, the crooked door, and now this. Bless you.”
Stephen was his brother’s name and every time he heard it, he felt guilty for lying. Nevertheless, it was a must. He glanced back from his crouched position and smiled. “Think nothing of it. Besides, you already had the tools, I just had the time.”
“Your supper has arrived. I left it on your bed stand.”
“Thank you.” He used an old towel to wipe up the mess and went to his room to slate his hunger.
Out of all the hotels that offered blood, the Five Gold Rings provided the most exceptional. His supper sat in a teapot with a dainty napkin, a plate of biscuits, and a side of tea. Where these humble inn owners obtained such quality blood, he couldn’t even guess. Feeding from the vein was best, but he had to make do.
After, he ventured downstairs where he was greeted heartily by the tavern’s regulars, who, like Harold and Katherine, called him Stephen. No one knew his real identity. Stephen was simple, easy to remember, and most of all, so common it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow like the name Dison would.
Dison: Immortal Forsaken Series #2 (Paranormal Romance Novella) Page 2