Her Two Alphas

by T. S. Ryder

  I can’t tell you much about my brother, Magnus. He lived up to his name for about a century or two, being magnificent and all, but then he had his room reassigned underground. I haven’t seen him in about ten years, but rumor has it that he practically lives at the Harem — that’s where the ladies are. Guys of his age are the ones who frequent the Harem the most, because they’re in their prime and from a time when they couldn’t fuck around as easily, so the novelty of the whole thing hasn’t worn off yet. I doubt it ever will. Lady Mary and my mother used to bicker at every chance they got, the former calling my mother a harlot. I’m not sure if she deliberately distorted her name or just taunted my mother for sleeping with her husband while he was married. That marriage was doomed, though. Not having a son used to be a really big deal back then, and Lady Mary had failed to produce another offspring. Then there’s Victoria, known popularly as Victoria the Virgin or Virgin Mary. She’s still stuck in her time and hasn’t been able to find a gentleman yet. The only modern thing she does is watch Downton Abbey on repeat. Yeah, that show is from her time, although Lady Mary in the show did have premarital sex with someone who wasn’t exactly a gentleman, but Victoria hasn’t learned yet. She’s my half-sister so I won’t say much, and it doesn’t really matter anymore, but she’s jaw-dropping-gob-smackingly gorgeous and comes complete with the 18th century get up. That leaves Charlotte, my younger sister, who got trapped in her youth in a time when children played in the gardens. She ventured into the garden about two decades ago and never returned. It was a breezy summer day and her ashes went with the breeze, although we did recover her clothes.

  I’m not callous, although it may seem that way, but after being alive for years, you get bored of people and don’t really care much if they live or die. The feelings you have for them certainly do die. No one was really bothered by Charlotte’s death except my mother, who sank into a deep depression and has kept to her room since then. We often find her hanging by a rope tied to the ceiling fan, looking embarrassed as hell upon being discovered. My father says she doesn’t really want to die, because if she did, she could just go outside during the day. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Most feelings have died after all these years, as my father tells me every time I ask for a favor and play the ‘I’m your son’ card. “I have loved you enough for 20 lifetimes, so I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t have any more to give to you.” And I do understand, truly. I won’t shed a tear when he dies, that’s for sure. The only thing that has survived is lust, although even we have some lunatics who believe in love and all that.

  We don’t really know much about our origins, to be honest. There were vampires before us, way, way before us. But we have customs and traditions, things that we have to do, although the reasons for all those things are obscured by years and years of history. You can learn all that stuff from the Ancients, but there are no Ancients at the Fort.

  I can already hear doors opening, as people get ready for the meeting where the tasks will be assigned. With an air of efficiency and purpose, I abandon my bed and head to the Foyer. There’s a steady stream filing out of the staircase that leads to the underground floors. The lights are all on, and people start to get in order once my father appears in the gallery of the second floor. He doesn’t bother with speeches, just says a few words of welcome, states the issues, proposes resolutions, urges people to share their opinions and take matters to the Council. This week he announces that we are running short on blood, and our blood consumption has reached a high level. In his words, “Our stocks are neither depleting nor repleting, and that is cause for concern, for times change without warning, and before we know it our survival could be threatened. I urge you to keep that in mind and volunteer for tasks that will help the cause. The Wicce has also fallen ill and it is rather unfortunate that we don’t have others of her kind among us; the doctor is of the opinion that she will soon succumb to old age, and we don’t have anyone she can pass on her knowledge to. It would indeed be a great loss if we didn’t find a replacement in time. Anyone who does find us a replacement for her shall be handsomely rewarded.”

  I know what he means, I think. From time to time we take in humans who are transported to the lowest level of the Fort. They are treated very well and mostly come of their own free will or are recruited. We give them the best food we can arrange, nutrition that promotes blood in the body, and our nurses regularly extract the blood and store it for us. There’s a high humans get when a vampire sinks their teeth into them, so some of them are here for that. Others prefer more civilized methods, like having their blood harvested through tubes and stuff.

  As for the Wicce, she is just a witch. She has been with us since the beginning and, in spite of all those long life potions, she has aged — they all do, the best they can do is really slow it down. The Wicce has done a lot for us, can heal sun wounds, sits on the Council and is just as important as the Head (my father); what she does at the Council or in her chambers is not known to us, but we know that she plays an important part.

  I sign up for blood collection because that is kind of an easy job. You just go to a hospital and rob the blood bank and make sure no one sees you, that’s all. And since I am so bored and in desperate need of a life, I decide to get the job done tonight.

  Chapter Three - Lola

  Sunday

  My mother is holding an event to honor my father at Miro. It is the poshest place in New York: so posh, in fact, that they simply turn you away if they haven’t heard of you. It’s where people from the Forbes 500 hang out with Hollywood’s royalty. I have only seen pictures of that place, pictures of my parents partying there. Naturally, my mother hadn’t thought it was important for me to be there. As with most things, I find out about it on E! News. What’s really depressing about it is that the news channels are broadcasting the arrival of the guests, all the famous people, almost as if it were the Academy Awards.

  I turn off the TV and call up the hospital to see if they need help.

  “Lincoln Medical Centre, this is Penny Morgan, how may I help?”

  “Penny,” I say. “It’s me, Lola.”

  “Oh, hi, why aren’t you calling my number? And why are you calling at all?”

  “I just wanted to see if you guys needed any help.”

  “Lola, you just had a terrible loss. I think you should enjoy your — err, just spend your off time with your family.”

  “Penny, I swear I’ll kill myself if I have to stay at home and see any more of my mother on TV. Can you believe she didn't invite me at the remembrance thing she’s holding at Miro?”

  “Oh dear,” Penny says. “Well, you know it’s a hospital and it’s the weekend. We can use all the help we can get, and I could use a break too, so come whenever you want to. I need to hang up now, a lady in labor just showed up.”

  “Bye,” I say, after she hangs up.

  Penny Morgan is one of the ladies who sits at reception with me. She’s a very nice lady, and often brings muffins for everyone at work. Her husband died last year, but her daughter had a baby soon after, so she’s doing well now. She regularly brings photos of her grandson and shows them to people at work. Naturally, being single, I absolutely love kids. I would like to have a few children of my own someday. Since I haven’t been able to find a man, and I know how tough getting through adoption is, I have been considering IVF. I had thought I would inherit some money when my father died and would be able to afford it then, but that didn’t happen.

  I get off the bus and walk across the block to the hospital. The red brick building of Lincoln Medical Centre looks as imposing as ever, and I see the usual scene behind the glass doors, the weekend rush: drunk teenagers, women in labor, concerned parents, and a cop or two roaming about. Penny is sitting behind the desk cheerfully talking to a couple, gesturing to some corridor with her short, flabby hands. She smiles when she sees me and waves me over.

  “Goodness, you’re already here,” she cooes excitedly. I can see the bread crumbs on her pink
uniform and pray to god that she doesn’t hug me. God is usually busy when it comes to me, though, and Penny opens her arms wide and embraces me.

  “Oh, sweetie, I know what you’re going through. When my Wilmer died, believe me, oh…it was horrible.” I know what comes next, the tragic story of how her husband had died of old age, how unexpected it was even after six months in and out of the hospital. The tragic story is followed by a steady stream of tears, and instead of being comforted — not that I need any comforting — I end up comforting her. It looks like she feels sadder than I do, which makes me feel like I should be sadder than I am. But there isn’t much to be sad about, and the pressure to feel sad is getting on my nerves. Whenever I look at Penny I find her looking at me, smiling in that annoying “I feel you” way that is too saccharine for my taste.

  “Penny, why don’t you head home? Isn’t your daughter visiting?”

  “And leave you all alone here?”

  “I know how much you love your grandson. You should go be with him, enjoy the time while he’s here.”

  “No,” she says. “I can’t do that to you.”

  “I’m fine, really, Penny. I just want to keep myself busy. You can repay the favor later, when I need it.”

  Penny thinks for a moment and I intensify my gaze on her. “All right, all right, I’ll go. But you call me if you need anything, okay?”

  “Will do, bye.”

  I stand at the reception until I see Penny duck walk out of the front doors, then collapse into my seat for a few minutes. The other girl at the reception handles people while I open a notepad and randomly strike the keys on the keyboard, trying to look like I am doing something really important. I work in inventory and it is really easy to do. Most of the stuff is updated automatically through tablets. All I have to do is to check stocks, order meds and equipment, claim warranties, get things replaced, etc. It keeps me busy, so I’d say my job is pretty good.

  The bustle starts to die down after about two in the morning. That’s when I notice him: a pale guy in a hoodie, head down and eyes darting from side to side, walking around purposelessly with his hands in his pockets. He is out of place in the hospital, too casual for the environment. Since the other receptionist is here, I leave my seat, pick up a clipboard from the desk and begin to follow him. I keep a safe distance from him and keep looking at my clipboard over and over again so as not to seem suspicious. The guy stops and looks around before he turns any corner. He climbs the staircase to the second floor and then takes the elevator. I can’t just get in the elevator with him or he’ll know he is being followed, so I go into another room. As soon as I hear the bell of the elevator door closing, I leap out and check where he is going. The elevator goes straight down to the basement. I call up another elevator, tapping my foot on the floor as I wait, and then hop in. There is a nurse and a patient in a wheelchair who are going up. Once they are out, the elevator descends to the basement.

  The door opens on to a long corridor. All the doors here are kept locked and only people with passes can get through. A sign at the wall ahead explicitly states “No Visitors — Only Staff Allowed.” The guy is standing in the corner in front of the glass door with his back to me.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?” I say. He turns, a sheepish look on his face. “This floor is only for staff. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  “I am sorry,” he says. His voice is surprisingly deep and husky, not at all what you’d expect from a sneaky guy in a hoodie. “I just…”

  “Out,” I say. “I don’t know why you people are so obsessed with morgues. Get out or I’ll call the security.”

  “You are right,” he replies. “I just feel closer to my mother when I am here. I have never been inside the morgue…when it happened, I couldn’t. And now something keeps pulling me back here, as if she’s still there. This is stupid, I know. I am sorry.”

  “Oh,” I say. “What happened?”

  “She had an accident. I couldn’t bring myself to go in and identify her. I panicked and fled town, and my family was done with the funeral by the time I came back. I just feel like she’s still there. I won’t bother you again, though. I’ll just leave.”

  Having nothing better to do, I decide to help him. I don’t understand the obsession because I am not close to my parents, obviously. “Just this one time I’ll let you go in and see, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, and I unlock the door and let him through. There isn’t anyone here at this time anyway. I stand outside once he goes in, keeping an eye on him. He comes out after five minutes and thanks me.

  “Got your closure?”

  “I suppose,” he says gratefully. “What’s your name?”

  “Lola,” I reply. “Yours?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lola. And thank you so much.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m Valnoir.”

  “Valnoir? That’s a strange name.”

  “It’s a French name,” he says. “But I’m not French. I’m English.”

  “Really? You don’t have the accent at all.”

  “I was raised here.”

  “Ah, nice,” I say, leading him out and closing the door behind me. The elevator has been called up, so I pressed the button and wait for it.

  “You look familiar,” he suddenly says.

  “Why? How?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I think I have seen you somewhere before.”

  “If that’s your pickup line, it’s too cliché,” I reply dryly. “But if you want a shag, just ask for it.”

  “No, I swear, not a pickup line. I really think I have seen you on TV or something.” The elevator opens and I step inside, but he presses the button to keep the doors open. “You serious about the shag part?”

  ***

  I don’t care what he looks like and I don’t even bother really looking at him. Here is a sad man who needs comfort, and I, having resolved to help everyone, jump at the opportunity. Literally jump — that’s how badly I need to get laid. I gather all my strength and throw myself at him. He is stronger than he appears and catches me easily, pushing me against the wall and grinding his groin against me.

  “You sure?” he asks. Our mouths are close, our lips brushing against each other. Grabbing the sides of his hoodie, I pull him closer and kiss him. He holds my face in his hands as he kisses me and I push mine into his pants, feeling for his manhood. He is hard and cold, which is strange. How long has it been since I last had sex? Have I forgotten whether a cock is warm or cold?

  He grabs my wrist and pulls it up, bringing it to my other wrist and clasping them both in his hand. He undoes the knot of my trousers and lets them fall freely to the floor, then he places his cold hand on the sides of my stomach and gets down on his knees, pulling down my panties with his teeth.

  “Ahhh!” A moan escapes my lips as he pushes two cold, wet fingers inside me. He brings his mouth close to my vulva, his tongue swirling around my labia as his fingers penetrate me fast. The cold sensation sends a shiver up my spine. He pulls out his fingers and pushes them in my mouth before I have a chance to decide whether I want them there or not. This isn’t something I have ever done before, but tasting myself shouldn’t be revolting, so I close my eyes and suckle his fingers. I picture a cock in my mouth and start sucking them intently until he pulls them out. He gets up and kisses me again, sliding three fingers inside me this time. My arms are above my head, under his forearm. His mouth is on mine, his fingers inside me. Then he pushes in a fourth finger and starts moving his hand faster. There is a burning sensation inside me, a strange feeling I’ve never had before. His fingers are going deeper. He stops the motion of his hand while kissing me eagerly and then curls his fingers, massaging my clitoris with his thumb. He hits my G-spot and my body tenses and shivers as I orgasm. He gets back down on his knees and places his cold mouth on my pussy, sucking in all the juice he can. As my body relaxes, he licks my pussy and wipes it clean, then pulls up my trousers and knots them again.
r />   “Enjoy that?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I pant. He turns to walk towards the elevator.

  “Wait, let me finish you off.”

  “I don’t fuck in hospitals,” he says casually.

  “What? What do you want to do then?”

  “Nothing. I am gonna leave.”

  “I could give you head if you want.”

  “Like I said, I don’t do it in hospitals.”

  “Where do you do it, then?”

  He comes close to me and says, “At my home,” kissing me on the forehead. “In my bed,” he whispers, kissing me on the lips. “Slowly,” he says, nibbling my ear, making me shiver.

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “If you want it to be,” he says.

  We get back in the elevator and I walk him to the exit gate.

  “See you around,” he says, with a boyish grin. I am not sure whether it is a question or not. I am not sure whether I want to see him again either. But the dude knows how to work his mouth!

  Chapter Four - Valnoir

  Monday

  I leave through the main door, the taste of Lola’s honeypot in my mouth and her access card in my pocket. I find a bench outside in a dark corner, near the parking lot, and perch myself on it. I like how Lola tasted, and she smelled nice too. There was something very familiar about her. I feel like a hero in one of those sappy movies who gets the feeling that he knows the woman and falls in love. I’m not in love with Lola. I know there isn’t anything like love at first sight, or at all — being alive for three centuries teaches you that. I’m waiting for her to leave, and as I do, I can't stop thinking about her familiar face: her big, brown, almond shaped eyes; her oval shaped face; her slightly stubbed nose; her faintly pink lips. She hadn’t smiled even once in the time I’d spent with her, hadn’t looked at me. It felt weird and degrading somehow. How can a girl you are hooking up with not care about what you look like? Isn’t it all about looks and money these days? She certainly wasn’t getting any money from me. And then I find myself rather unsettled when I start thinking that maybe she didn’t give a shit about me. How could that be? Why was it that she hadn’t even replied when I’d said, ‘See you soon’? Not that I intended to see her again.