The Bonded

by John Falin

  In unison, “Sure/Yes.”

  The sword has calmed down with lethargic swirls aimlessly flowing and I feel the connection, as I am tired and feel the tranquility of sleep calling me too. The conversation ends quite naturally and Quilici parts ways with us to his chamber underneath his bedroom. I guess all the houses have this in common. Percy and I make our way to the basement and are pleasantly surprised to find a bed with fresh linens, soft music, and no windows. I yawn first and then feel compelled to stretch as yet another layer of tension is released in preparation of a good day’s sleep. Percy is watching me with curiosity, so I ask, “What’s up?”

  She answers while laughing. “Nothing is up. I just never thought I would be sharing a bed with someone.”

  “You’ve never slept in the same bed with someone else?”

  “No. I am certainly no nun, Adriel, but this is new to me. To a vampire, it requires complete trust to allow another being to have access to your sleeping quarters because we are utterly defenseless. Even in our community we had impregnable doors that kept us in and others out.”

  I sneak over to her, lightly touching my body to hers, and feel the heat of her satisfaction. Wrapping my hands around her limber waist, I softly pull us into each other as our lips almost touch. I sense her need as she licks her dry lips, ensuring they are moist, and with lurid desire, she kisses me. After several long tumultuous minutes, we release and she smiles with insidious delight, whispering, “I think I’m robbing the cradle.” Damn!

  It is a strange day of dreams and visions as we sleep huddled close with my sword to my side like some sort of perverse ménage à trois. I can hear voices chanting and singing about upcoming war and hooded people trekking through the woods on a mission, speaking a language that is both unfamiliar and melodic. One of them stops and looks directly at me as if she knew I could see her in my dream, and at the moment she removes her hood, I awake.

  Chapter 12

  I rise from the dream, panicking and pulling the sheets with me, and feel the cold pool of sweat gathering around my hairline. I strain for clarity, attempting to remember her face through the shrouded hood, but see nothing other than her eyes. I can’t resist a spastic shiver from a chill when they catch me. They are the abyss of darkness swallowing light and I can feel the hypnotic glare luring me to rest with promises of tranquility. She was familiar, yet alien, and she knew me.

  Percy must sense my discomfort as she gently scratches my back, kneading her way to successfully calm my nerves. I feel the stress bleed out rhythmically with each exhaled breath and my shoulders slump, expressing their resignation. She says, “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  I’m about to reply when my heart jumps gears, revving beyond its usual speed limit. It’s that second of terror when I think that I’ve forgotten something important or left it behind and I do a quick visual search, hoping that something will jog my memory. Without thought my hand reaches for the sword and instantly upon touch my body reacts with a shot of morphine, making the world right again. Percy is a witness to this anxiety attack and comments. “This question may sound odd, but does the sword feel like me? Not physically, but in desire, in need.”

  I contemplate the question for several minutes before responding. “No, but yes. It is similar in how we connect. I’m drawn to the sword because it seems to want my excess energy and… I can’t zero in on the details, but it is an echo of the fae. Well, at least I’m guessing they’re the fae because it belonged to my mother. Whoever it is, though, I can sense their life in it.

  “Yet it’s dissimilar because the connection isn’t organic or emotional. How can one compare the love of an object with the love of a person? The sword reacts to me, but it’s not real… It’s like a weapon designed specifically for me. That’s it! I feel the truth in it.”

  Her touch increases in pressure and I figure she must be memorizing this through osmosis when she replies light-heartedly, “We make quite a trio.” Then, abruptly serious, she says, “What do you think would happen if I touched it?” Good question and I can tell a remnant of fear still remains from a night almost forty years ago, but I offer it to her anyway. She responds hesitantly, but yields to curiosity—first poking at it with her index finger to test the reaction, and then once the threat is negated, she wrapps her hand around the hilt.

  She says with elation, “Nothing! I feel nothing.” Swinging the sword in an ancient kata, she nearly gives me a Van Gogh look and smirks at my apprehension. “You do not trust me?”

  I’ve been around enough women to know the answer to this one. “Of course I do. It was just a natural reaction, that’s all.” She lets me get away with the rehearsed response and I’m grateful.

  She respectfully places the sword next to me as an artist is careful with meaningful art and, with her head still bowed, she says without looking at me, “I have to admit that I am relieved that the sword is not connected to me as well. No offense, but that is a burden that you can carry all by yourself. I am curious how the shadow of life within it communicates to you.”

  She is smart, a tactical maneuvering to the original question concerning my dream. In my experience, most people are willing to move from one subject to the next without much thought, or even from friend to friend, lover to lover, or car to car as nothing is sacred and everything is disposable. Apparently, when she latches on to something of interest, she will not release it easily and I appreciate this insight into her character. So, I decide to compensate her efforts and simply describe the hooded people wandering through the forest and the lady that knew I was observing them as if the dream were real. I share with her that the lady’s eyes were mesmerizing darkness that whispered for me to let go and fall into her. Yet, I felt no fear.

  She says, “We both need to think on this, Adriel.”

  “Should I tell the story to Quilici as well?”

  She breathes deeply. “I trust Quilici, but the tethered relationship that has been created between you and the fae is new and fragile. Neither of us have any idea what they are doing nor if there is some confidential message being communicated. I do not want to be hypocritical, but this situation may call for secrecy, at least temporarily. What are your thoughts?”

  “No relationship is simple. They each have depth and while some are lakes, others are oceans. I trust Bryn and Quilici, but what exists between you and me is unique and fathomless. We should include them when the time is right, but I just don’t want to muddy the water and divert our attention from this current mess we are in.”

  “Agreed. There will be plenty of time to deal with the future.” As the final word trails off, we hear a gentle tapping on the upstairs door that leads to the basement. Percy reaches over beside the bed to a light switch, flipping it down, and it reacts with a slide and click that releases the locking mechanism on the door. One can never be too careful when sleeping.

  Quilici’s massive frame pounds the aged wooden stairs into submission while he ducks through the narrow stairwell for the descent. His presence is intimidating and I cringe at this new position I’m in. At six foot two, I am quite used to looking down on people. There is a certain comfort that I have from a position of physical dominance. It appears the shoe is on the other foot because I feel like a child insecurely looking up to an adult for approval. He senses my juxtaposition and chooses to dismiss it while saying, “I was correct. There will be a meeting this evening at 2 a.m. in the location we discussed earlier.”

  I break in. “How do you know that?”

  He responds. “The tribe naturally follows the most powerful Alpha—it has always been that way. We respect strength, but only appreciate wisdom, which has resulted in most of the pack supporting Caedmon with his claim to Alpha. Of course, the other packs around the world will have to support him as well, but that is a history lesson for later. Even with his power, there will be a few who remain loyal to me, and fortunately, one has already been in contact with me. That waer is on the perimeter of Caedmon’s inner circle and
has access to his comings and goings. Through a brief discussion, we combined information and feel that this is the most likely scenario.”

  Percy goes into strategizing mode and replies, “First, we must feed because we will need all of our strength this night. I would like to visit the Graveyard.” Quilici looks confused so she continues. “It is not an actual graveyard, but a feeding ground that only Adriel and I are privy to. It will not require us to hunt and will be expeditious, as we will need to arrive at South Mountain ahead of our enemies. Are there any objections?”

  Neither of us offer an alternate plan, but I imagine it’s for different reasons. Quilici understands the urgency this night will demand of us and that we will need to simply think of food as fuel, dismissing the thrill of the hunt to ensure our objectives are met. I think of Percy. Behind the logic there is a mercy for those who desperately seek death as their final reprieve from a world that is cruel and unyielding. She feels an obligation to care for her damaged humans the way a volunteer at the local animal shelter cares for dogs that are riddled with malignant cancer. If I would’ve disagreed, she would’ve possibly ignored me, but worse, she would’ve been disappointed at my lack of empathy. Quilici wraps up the conversation with speedy finesse and begins his ascension to the main floor to sip on the floral tea that has permeated the air. I shake my head at the thought of the prior Alpha of the worldwide waer community having breakfast tea before drinking the blood of humans as his brunch. I turn and find Percy mirroring my amusement and we share a private moment as old couples who have known each other for decades. Okay, this is getting scary.

  She says, “There is one store on our way out that we will need to visit.”

  “Why?” I’ve always been a ‘why’ person, not one of those ‘what’ ones. The question is as important as the answer.

  To my disappointment her answer is “You will have to be patient, Adriel.”

  * * *

  We arrive an hour later at an indiscreet store surrounded by colorful storefronts that desperately want attention with their bright purple and orange paint contrasting the white doors. They are specialty shops managed by owners that give this small town the character other cities have lost due to corporate takeovers and gigantic supercenters. I’ve always aligned myself with this kind of town where individualism is encouraged and acceptance is almost always assumed. Although, there are always a few that want to force everyone into the same church, the same school, and the same clothes, but fortunately, they’re considered the unusual ones by the majority. I can see why Frederick was chosen by the waers and vamps as a headquarters as most citizens just leave them alone, or at the very least, their southern roots prohibit them from being rude.

  Since it was on my mind, I say as we park by the meter, “Quilici, out of all the places to live on this planet, why would the Alpha of the waers and the leader of the vampires choose to live in close proximity to each other?”

  “When the treaty was agreed upon, neither group trusted the other. So it was written into the covenant that we would always have our leaders within the same city to make certain the other did not do anything that would jeopardize the peace. Strangely, it has worked well for centuries because no one wanted to be responsible for creating another millennium of war… that is, until now.”

  Satisfied with the answer, I shift my attention back to the unassuming store. As we shut the doors, the chirp of the alarm system pierces the semi-noisy street. The two stores on either side are painted brick while this one remains original, proudly displaying its old age with dilapidated shingles and worn-down mortar. The door hasn’t seen repairs since before I was born, rusty hinges painfully creak like knees on old men. Quilici, being the eldest, holds the door open as Percy and I enter cautiously, anticipating the worst-case scenario. Wood flooring with soothing brown drywall that nearly matches in color, but holds just enough contrast to please the attentive eye. It’s a tailoring shop, and well frequented, judging by the walls, saturated with hanging jackets and shelved with boots. The floor has several racks of shirts, pants, and other assortments of clothing that aren’t crowded, but give the shopper a sense of variety with room to peruse. I look closer and notice that many of the clothing selections are Big & Tall, or more appropriately Huge & Ginormous, because the only person that would fit them would be whom I walked in with.

  From behind a black curtain, a slightly tall man at six feet with a delicate thin frame enters to greet us. He steps to the counter with natural fluidity while his neatly combed and straight grey hair lays around his shoulders and over his black turtleneck. Before he speaks, I am evaluated with sunken, wobbly eyes that dimly resemble the color they once were and he says, “Welcome Quilici and Percy. What ca…”

  I cough out, “What is he?” as I reject his scent as abnormal. It is a human smell, but I detect something mutated.

  I look around and notice no one displaying shock at my deduction or outburst as Percy says, “You were right, Quilici. I cannot detect any anomaly, but he sensed it immediately.”

  The thin, pale man leans over the desk, looking through me and says with satisfaction, “He is what I have heard, and more.” His tenor is creepy in a sexual predator kind of way, so I back away casually, giving him all the space he requires. “No need to fear me, young one. I am merely a servant to your kind.”

  I correct him without delay. “I think you may have confused surprise with fear, old one.” I couldn’t resist.

  To squelch the tension, Quilici chimes in. “He is an Avvelenato, or in English, the poisoned. In the first ages of our evolution, our kind could occasionally procreate with humans, causing some mutations, but only a mirrored image of what we are. Those that were more similar to us were hunted down and killed due to their weaknesses and their inability to fit in with either species. Yet, those that favored humanity were granted leniency because of their unique ability to blend in and do our bidding during the sunlit hours. Their numbers are few and diminish with time because our genes are recessive, but there are enough that continue to carry our mark.”

  The shop owner respectfully adds, “We are born of human parents who carry the DNA and, if we are fortunate, found by your species before it too late and given sanctuary.”

  I ask, “What do you mean too late?”

  He responds. “Many of us are incarcerated, in mental institutions, or dead from suicide or the state before located.”

  Percy demands our attention and says, “Adriel, could you imagine what it would be like to have our hunger for blood, yet no physical need for it as sustenance?” She lets the thought linger, then says, “They are born with a blood lust and no means of appropriating the need. Most of the vampire mix are sociopaths, severe schizophrenics, or just suffer from extreme manic depression. When you hear or read of serial killers, mass murderers, or even monsters that launch genocide, there is a very likely possibility that they are Avvelenato.”

  I reply. “Are you saying that all the bad shit that happens to humans is because of these guys?”

  “No. Humans are quite capable of murder and ill intent without their assistance, but I am saying that the worst of them could be what Riley is.” She points to shop owner, giving me his name.

  Quilici picks the discussion back up. “Although he is a vampire mix, there are others who delineate from our line. His kind certainly has more of the psychological issues, but our kind is much larger and prone to rage. When wars are brutally fought with no respect to the Rules of Engagement or villages are burned down with no survivors, the waer blood is a strong possibility as the Avvelenato from our bloodline are emotional creatures with heightened senses and near preternatural strength.”

  “What is the sanctuary that you offer them? If they are truly psychotic, how are they to be trusted or controlled?” I say with justification.

  Percy glances to Quilici with a non-approving stare, begging him to reply with reason. Quilici receives the request, grudgingly accepts, and says, “We cannot scientifically explain this as
of yet, but there is a natural order of things between our kind. They innately accept our positions of authority and we, in turn, care for them, giving them refuge and utilizing their talents or areas of interests. For instance, Riley has a genuine talent with sewing and creative designs that accommodate our unique criteria. There is also a side of him that yearns for blood. He is detailed, thorough, and meticulously precise, which is the perfect combination to meet certain needs of the tribe or pack that require, how should I say… anonymity.”

  I strike the question, “Are you saying that Riley is an assassin?”

  Before Quilici responds, I hear Riley inhale, a sound crammed with yearning as he fantasizes about a past or future murder. Then Quilici rolls his eyes and says, “That is correct and he is rather skilled in both talents. This may sound odd to you, Adriel, as you thought you were human only months ago, but it is our way and must be done to ensure our species survives.”

  Percy steals the next sentence. “I think both of you may be underestimating Adriel and his willingness to approach this new life with pragmatism. He killed when he thought he was human; he has killed since, and I suspect that he will have no problem killing our own kind when the situation demands it. No one—human, waer, or vampire—should relish in the apathetic and calculated murder of another, no matter their species, but all of us understand what is necessary for survival, whether for food or protection.”

  Everyone sensed her dangerous tone as she spoke and Riley seemed to soak in her cold resolve with unreserved pleasure. She continues. “Riley, what have you heard?”

  Whimsically he answers, “Now, Percy, you know that I can’t reiterate what has been said in my presence. That would surely not end well for me with business, and perhaps it would end my life as well.”