Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  At the end of the corridor where the stairs led to the floor below, a huge black bear stood on its hind legs, front paws arched with vicious curving paws and a snarling muzzle in which jagged ursine teeth showed.

  The wolf spun around and would have raced in the opposite direction but there perched a mountain lion bigger than any known to man. The giant cat hissed, its ears drawn back, its giant tail swishing angrily from side to side, knocking against each wall so large was the feline.

  There was no escape for Stavros Constantine. He backed up against the far wall, staring in terror at the thing that sidled slowly from the bedchamber. That thing that was Lucien Korvina made the wolf’s blood run cold and the lupine shifted haltingly back to humanoid form.

  Yet the monstrous being that advanced toward the shivering form of Stavros Constantine did not shift. It crept forward until its leathery face was but a few hot breaths from its enemy’s. Glaring into that frightened face with eyes that flowed a sickly green, the creature flicked out a thick, forked tongue and tasted Stavros’ flesh.

  Shrinking in upon himself, cowering as that slick, rough tongue washed over his cheeks, Stavros began to whimper. His legs were trembling so violently, his knees were knocking together. The hot scent of urine clung to him as well as the even bolder, muskier smell of runny shit.

  Scales covered the creature’s low-hung brow beneath which slit eyes stared unblinkingly. A short snout with wide nostrils that flexed with each audible breath quivered and leathery lips pulled back from long, needle-like fangs.

  “What have I ever done to you, Lucien?” Stavros whined. His teeth were clicking together in rhythm with his knees.

  “What, indeed?” the creature queried and its voice was slick and oily and of such a timbre it grated on the nerves.

  A broad paw came up to slap against the wall beside Stavros’ head. Thick, yellow claws pierced the stone wall as though it was paper. The creature’s other paw rose to bracket its enemy’s head.

  “A few minor things,” Stavros answered. “Nothing s-serious.”

  As broad as the head of a small elephant, the creature’s face cocked to one side and one thick, horned brow lifted in challenge. “Minor things,” it repeated. “Nothing serious.”

  “You can have my thralls,” Stavros said and bloody tears streaked down his cheeks. “Take my lieutenants, my herd. I’ll not lift a hand to stay you.”

  “What of my woman, cousin?” the creature purred.

  Stavros’ brows drew together. “Woman?” he repeated.

  The creature pressed close to Stavros, and the spiky plates of its scales dug into Constantine’s flesh like hot nettles.

  “Which woman?”

  A savage paw moved lightning quick and came across Stavros’ face, neatly cleaving the Revenant’s nose from his face. The bloody flesh landed several feet away. Deep gouges scored Constantine’s once-handsome face from left temple to the right side of his screaming mouth.

  “My woman!” the creature thundered and fire washed over Stavros to burn flesh from bone.

  The agonized shrieks of Stavros Constantine trilled down the chamber and the Revenant lord fell to the floor in a heap, his hands pressed over what was left of his ravaged face.

  Giles Kolovis had been delirious for several days, a rampaging fever having taken a toll on the Korvina clan member. His legs were rubbery as he was helped past the large black bear that blocked the stairs.

  Petros shifted from his ursine shape to reach out and help Farris Papoulis support Giles. “You’ll survive, Giles,” Petros promised. He lowered his head toward the other man’s throat.

  “Turn me later, milord,” Giles said weakly. “His Grace must be told the Lady Khamsin isn’t here and never has been.”

  “I told him what I suspected,” Papoulis injected.

  Petros glanced at the creature hunched over Stavros then turned back to Giles. “You are sure she was not brought here?”

  “Aye, milord. Very sure.”

  “And the Lady Christina?”

  Giles shook his head. “I would know if either one of them had entered Duaric. They have not.”

  Petros nodded curtly and hurried down the hall, calling out Lucien’s name as he walked. He winced as the creature swung its misshapen head toward Petros and gruesome eyes fastened on him.

  “She was never here,” Petros said. “Stavros has not laid a hand to her.”

  Constantine continued to scream, the piercing sound echoing all around them. He squatted in the middle of a ring of his own piss, trying to hold the mutilated pieces of his face together.

  Swiping out a paw to gently push Petros out of the way, waving the Revenant lord back with a wave of its scaly arm, the creature waited until Petros was well out of range then turned its ghastly face to Stavros and another spurt of fire sprayed from its maw to engulf the man huddled on the floor.

  Putting up a hand to pinch off his nostrils to the smell, Petros backed further away as the once-humanoid body of Stavros Constantine burst into roaring flame and split apart with a hissing, popping sound like bacon frying in a hot skillet.

  Standing over his enemy until there was nothing left but ashes, the creature threw back its head and roared, causing a section of the wall behind Nikos Carrus—still morphed into his mountain lion form—to collapse. As that roar reverberated, Lucien Korvina transformed into his warrior shape and backed away from the destruction he had wrought upon his cousin.

  Petros let out a shuddery breath and came up to his friend. “Do you think Sibylline has her?” he asked.

  Lucien nodded, his anger still so high he could not speak. He stood there panting, dragging ragged breaths into his lungs as he clenched and unclenched his fists. The audible grinding of his teeth was brutal.

  “Do we stay here until she contacts you?” Petros inquired.

  It took every ounce of his self-control for Lucien to answer Petros. He didn’t look at his friend but continued to stare down at the heap of ashes that had once been Constantine.

  “Take his herd and those who have been turned back to Modartha. Burn the dead and destroy Duaric.”

  Petros frowned. “What are you going to do?”

  Lucien’s eyes shifted slowly to Petros. There was no need for him to answer for the knowledge of what he was planning glazed from his ice-cold eyes.

  “Be careful, Luc,” Petros bid. “Obviously this has been her plan all along. She couldn’t slay Stavros and she knew you’d never attack him without good reason.”

  Lucien snorted and turned his back on his friend. Giles and Papoulis moved out of his way, bowing respectfully to him as he strode past them.

  “Turn Giles before he breaths his last!” the Revenant prince ordered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Khamsin ignored the food Sibylline had left for her and Christina and stood staring out the window. Hail was hammering the stones of the walkways in the dark courtyard beyond the window. “Do you think it never stops storming here?” she asked.

  Christina looked up from the book she had been trying to read, having scanned the same paragraph ten times in the space of an hour. “I think Sibylline revels in the tempest,” she replied. She closed the book and laid it aside. “The fury of nature must make her feel more alive.”

  “Do you think she has gone to meet with him?”

  “She left with a smirk on her face so, aye, I think she will be seeking out Lucien.”

  Leaning her forehead against the glass pane, Khamsin no longer flinched with every flash of lightning and boom of thunder. Both she and Christina had come to realize the storm that brewed outside was nothing more than show and posed no threat to either them or Croì Cloiche. At least the turbulent display was distracting and kept her from giving in to the fear that was pressing upon her heart.

  “If you are entertaining the thought that she won’t return us to Modartha, forget that,” Christina said as she got up from her chair and stretched. “She doesn’t want us here in her precious keep any more than we
want to be here.”

  “Aye, well she could just as easily kill us or hand us over to some other man,” Khamsin reasoned.

  “Not her style,” Christina denied. “She isn’t as evil as she wants us to believe she is.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, egotistical, arrogant, narcissistic but not evil. Besides, she has affection for Lucien else she wouldn’t want his bairn in her oven.”

  “This will hurt him,” Khamsin said, her voice breaking.

  “Aye, that it will, but he’ll do as she bids.”

  * * * * *

  The moon was high overhead as Lucien climbed the rocky slope overlooking Duaric. He stood on a narrow ledge and watched the keep’s timbers blazing, the stones crashing down as his troops demolished the Constantine stronghold. In the light from the flames, he could make out Petros giving orders and saw Stavros’ herd being loaded onto wagons. Though he was a good mile away, his keen eyesight took in the scene and felt deep remorse that he had allowed the humans to suffer for as long as he had. From the looks of them, they had not fared well at Stavros’ hands. With only three Revenants to feed, they should have been healthier-looking but almost all of them were emaciated and could barely walk.

  When the last section of wall fell to the ground, Lucien turned away and continued up the mountain trail. As young men, he and Petros had ventured into the higher elevations of Mount Duáilce and hidden in one of the vast caves, once with two bottles of Communion wine they had pilfered from the church.

  Experimenting with approaching manhood, they had learned how to masturbate in that cave and both had lost their virginity among the stalactites and stalagmites. Though it had been centuries since he had set foot in the cave, Lucien ducked beneath the cobwebbed overhang and time seemed to hurl itself backward. An old lantern still sat on a rocky protrusion and with his keen sense of smell could detect a small level of oil left in the brass base.

  He fumbled on the shelf, and found a box of Lucifers and struck one against the rough rock wall. The match flared to life and he touched the flame to the lamp. Feeble light caught then flared to light up the immediate surroundings.

  There on the rocky floor was a pile of empty wine bottles. Against one uneven wall lay a moth-eaten wool blanket, no doubt so dry-rotted it would disintegrate in his hands should he attempt to pick it up. Knowing it was not a holdover from his own time spent in the cave, he wondered if some human had not called it home in the recent past.

  Smiling grimly to himself, his memories traveled back in time and he shifted his shoulders, feeling the fall of his father’s wide leather strap on his bare back.

  Such a beating he and Petros had received that time! He thought as he sat down on one of the loose boulders his friend and he had rolled into the cave to use as seats.

  The blood had run down his rump and stained his britches and he hadn’t been able to work in his father’s woodshop for nearly a week. Petros had fared no better but had been made to tend the family’s sheep even though he could barely walk. Both boys had been taught a lesson neither wanted to have to repeat.

  Strong drink and willing girls aside, Lucien had enjoyed his yearly visits to the cave simply because he had been able to have a modicum of privacy that he could not have in a small hut with his parents and five sisters. He and Petros spent many a night simply sitting around the fire pit they had built and not saying a word, knowing full well that when they returned to their village, they would pay for their daring. Until the two had brazenly swiped the forbidden wine, their whippings had been more a token protest in acknowledgement of their mothers’ worries than actual punishment from their fathers. Stealing sacramental wine had not only been a grievous sin, the act had resulted in the entire village knowing of their transgression and from that time onward, the boys were very carefully monitored, not daring to step out of line again.

  Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Lucien crossed his booted ankles, folded his arms, and let his chin drop to his chest. He was tired, sick at heart and the headache that had plagued him for weeks was back with a vengeance. The odor from the burning oil made his stomach turn and seemed to intensify the agony throbbing over his right eye.

  Perhaps he dozed—he would never know—but when he lifted his head, the lantern had gone out and the cave was dark, except for the faint sky glow coming in from the opening. He knew immediately that he was not alone.

  “Is she all right?” he asked softly.

  “Unhappy but perfectly well, Sweet One,” Sibylline replied.

  He heard the swish of silk coming toward him and did not flinch as a cool, soft hand touched his cheek. Her smell—of jasmine—invaded his nostrils and took him back to many passion-filled nights lying abed with this woman.

  “Christina was no spy,” he stated.

  “No spy,” she agreed. “Simply a means to an end. If I had left her at Modartha, you would have known right away it was me who took your sweeting.”

  He sighed. “If you had wanted Stavros removed, all you needed to do was bid me do it, lady. There was no need to make me think she was being brutalized by him.”

  “Perhaps, but if I had not taken her and placed her where you could not rescue her, you would not be willing to do as I ask now.”

  “Willing?” he echoed. He shook his head. “It’s not willingly that I am here, Sibylline. It is blackmail.”

  She trailed her fingers across his lips. “Such a handsome man you are, Lucien Korvina,” she said wistfully.

  “How do I get her back?” he said, careful to keep the anger from hardening his voice.

  Sibylline slid her hand down his chest and between his legs. “You service me, Sweet One, one last time.”

  He sought her eyes in the darkness and squinted when the lantern flared to life once more. Though she was a good six feet away, he knew her magic had fired the lantern.

  She was watching him as her hand massaged the bulge in his britches. There was a faint smile on her lush lips and her eyes were sparkling with passion.

  “One last time,” he said and no more trusted her than he would have Stavros.

  Sibylline shrugged. “I am ready to go To The Ground and I would have a final thrusting to keep me warm in the coolness of the soil.”

  “Neither Gideon or Francisco have women. Why not go to them?” he asked. “I know you’ve lain with both many times over.”

  “Aye, and they are both extremely satisfying cocksmen but it is yours I want in me. As my heir, it is your right and…”

  “A right I will gladly decline,” he interrupted.

  “One in which you have no say,” she countered.

  He lowered his head. “Will you swear this will be the last time you abuse my body, lady?”

  “Abuse?” she questioned, shock in her voice. “You dare call it abuse?”

  Not looking up at her, he shrugged. “Abuse, exploitation, rape. Call it what you will. Any way you slice it, it was always against my wishes that you fucked me, Sibylline. I had no say in the matter, as you just reminded me.”

  She snaked out a hand and grasped his chin, yanking his head up so his eyes were locked on hers.

  “Tell me you did not enjoy our times together, Korvina,” she demanded through clenched teeth. “Tell me you did not!”

  “Much to my shame I can not tell you I didn’t enjoy it. You are very good at turning a man’s blood hot and his cock hard as steel. You’ve had many millennia to practice your craft. Why would you not be an artist at it?”

  Her right hand tightened cruelly on his chin as her left cupped him brutally between the legs. “Whether you enjoyed it or not, you will provide your cock one more time and you will enjoy it!”

  Lucien steeled himself not to flinch at the pain her hands were causing. Despite the sharp discomfort at the juncture of his thighs, he could feel himself growing hard beneath her onslaught.

  “Then get on with it,” he said, holding her stormy gaze. “Take what you
want and let me have my woman back.”

  Sibylline snatched her hands from him and stood there quivering with rage. “I could snuff out her life like that!” she said, snapping her fingers.

  “Harm her and I will go To The Ground, myself,” he said. “You’ll need to find a new heir apparent.”

  A hiss of rage pushed from Sibylline’s mouth and she reached out to rip open his shirt, exposing his naked chest. She caught hold of one manly pap and twisted it viciously.

  “Take off your clothes, Korvina. I will ride you like the beast I have made you!” she spat. “I will show you what abuse is!”

  The pain intensified around his nipple until he thought she would snatch it from his body. When she let it go, stepping back to allow him to stand, he shook his head. Such had always been their relationship and he hoped this one last time would be the end of it.

  Sibylline took another step back, her chin lifted as she watched him shrug out of his torn shirt. The sight of his chiseled chest made her mouth water. Her fingers curled at her side as though she were striving not to rake her nails down the wide expanse.

  Unbuckling his belt, he kept his eyes on her, not trusting her for one moment not to jump on him and try to scratch his eyes out. Her fury was evident in the harsh, labored breaths she was taking and in the way her jaw was set. That she would make him pay dearly, he had no doubt.

  Sibylline licked her lips as Lucien pulled the belt from its loops and let it drop to the ground. As he worked the buttons at his fly, her eyes became slits of smoldering lust.

  Lucien kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, then shrugged the leather britches down his lean hips and stepped out of them. He felt defenseless, vulnerable as her hot eyes raked his nakedness. The cold night air spread over him and pebbled his flesh.

  “Strip off my gown,” she ordered.

  He knew the way she liked to have sex—violently and with him seeming to overpower her. She wanted him to conquer her, make her like the degrading things he would do to her body and though the entire scenario had always been her idea, he had all too often reveled in the dominance such behavior had always made him feel.