Petru lurked to one side, like the ghoul he was. “Yes, sir. Marius has elevated the fear over there in quick order. I think his plan of small explosions in various locations in quick succession shall prove more disruptive than one large one.”
Dafydd knew nothing of war strategy—less than he did about the way Dracul’s mind worked—but even he understood the plan was an ingenious one. A big, traumatic event would cause the people of Boston to mourn for a long time, but they would recover their normalcy quickly, as they had before. Small disasters that struck without an obvious pattern would put them on edge as they anxiously went through their days wondering if they would be at the center of the next one. Yes, that would serve Dracul’s interests very nicely indeed.
Dracul hummed in agreement. “Marius is the best of all of you. It’s a pity he has such a short attention span. I could use him more consistently if he were stable and reliable. It would also help if he could stop blowing off body parts.”
Dafydd nearly grinned internally at that remark. He’d only seen Dracul’s crazy acolyte a few times, yet on each occasion some extra bit of him was missing. His endless experimentation with explosives was proving to be almost as problematic for him as for anyone else. In his more morbid reflections, Dafydd wondered if the guy was self-harming in an effort to slowly remove himself from a place he’d never wanted to be. Too bad he was taking many innocent lives with him, if that were the case. There was nothing amusing about Marius.
“It’s true, sir,” Petru allowed. “He will grow weary of this game. We can only appreciate how much the Stelalux clan must be aggrieved by all this.”
“Yes, there’s always that.” Dracul sighed before turning his head sharply to glare over his back. “Careful, slut. Your nails need trimming. See to it before you touch me again or I’ll have your useless fingers cut off.”
Brenin paused for a moment, head bowed. “Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.” He glanced at Dafydd once Dracul’s attention was back on the screen.
Dafyyd tried to reassure him using only his eyes. It was cold comfort, he knew. They were almost never able to speak with each other without Dracul or Petru or someone else listening in. Even then, Dafydd still didn’t dare share his plans with the boy. He simply couldn’t trust Brenin not to betray him. No matter what scruples someone held, Dracul had a way of making good men bad. Besides, he thought with another rub at his side, there was time. Nothing could happen until Dracul’s spawn was cut out of him.
He just hoped the birth would be the beginning and not the end.
* * * *
Emil fled Alex’s office, unable to continue watching the horror playing out once again on the television. Five dead, a dozen injured… It was too much to bear. A peaceful wintery night at a local club had turned into a battlefield. If there had been any doubt about the warehouse explosion being some isolated and random event, it was gone now. The newscasters were already speculating about it being a terrorist attack. And it was…just not the kind they thought. After a few months’ lull, Dracul was back in action. The city was going to suffer yet again.
Because of us. Emil couldn’t help the guilt swamping him. He knew the others felt the same, and if they didn’t already, Duncan would be by at some point with his understandable anger. If it would help, Emil would gladly hide away somewhere in a corner of the globe where others wouldn’t be hurt. Alex and the rest would, as well. But, as they’d told Duncan and those allies who’d come before him, they weren’t the reason Dracul sowed havoc. They were the check on him. Leaving Boston wouldn’t make things better. It would only allow Dracul a clearer shot to harm the people here or wherever else the man chose to focus his attention.
They were caught in an ever-tightening net with the only way out being the total annihilation of Dracul and his minions. The question was how? After centuries of trying, they hadn’t managed to achieve it. Maybe they never would.
Strategy was not his role. He was a scientist by training and a cook by choice. So, with nothing better to do, he went to his happy place, as the humans liked to say. He headed for the kitchen. In the middle of the night, with his anger vibrating in his bones, his best choice was bread. Making bread took time, physical energy, and it made the kitchen smell marvelous.
He started with his favorite, a sweet almond-flavored braided bread. Into his large mixing bowl, he put a packet of yeast, warm water, a small amount of sugar and flour. After a few minutes of gentle mixing, he let it sit with a cloth cover draped over the bowl. He spent the time while he waited heating milk and melting butter, something he should have done first. With his frustration level rising, he didn’t have the patience to mis en place. It might not be the best way to bake, but it suited him at the moment. He could work faster than a human could, although he was careful not to be indiscreet about it. Damien was known to come in when he couldn’t sleep in the dead of night. Like Emil, the human used cooking as a form of therapy. It wouldn’t do if he found Emil flittering about the kitchen at supersonic speed.
He uncovered the bowl to see the bubbling yeast and took a deep sniff. There was something so delightful in that smell. He never tired of it. After carefully mixing in the rest of the ingredients, he turned the dough onto a floured surface and began to knead it. He loved this part of the process. There was something satisfying about the rhythm and physicality of working the dough. Once again, he took care to use human speed. It was better that way, a controlled expression of his anger and worry. He pressed down with his palms, rolled the dough, pressed again. Occasionally, he whacked it against the surface to switch the kneading method.
He didn’t stop until the dough was as soft as a baby’s bottom. Not that he’d had much experience with how that felt, but somehow he just knew when he’d reached the right consistency. Cooking came naturally to him, and if there was some good to come of being stranded on this strange world, it was that he had the chance to cook. On the home world, much of food processing was automated and it was rare for a male to make it a hobby. His mother would have nixed the idea regardless. That much he knew.
Next, he placed the ball into an oiled bowl, covered it to give it a nice warm place to rise and started on the next loaf. This one would be a dense, multi-wholegrain with fruit and nuts. He’d learned it centuries ago and it nourished and stuck with one for hours. Entire armies had marched on such bread. He’d already made the poolish that would serve as the mother dough and make the end product more complex in flavor and last longer. It would be reserved for family only. The club members liked refined food and never quite appreciated his more rustic efforts.
Emil worked through the quiet of the night, away from the angst and debates about what to do going on in Alex’s office. The club was too far away from the carnage of the bombing for him to hear anything even with his ultrasensitive alien ears. He liked the quiet, not bothering with turning on music. The hours ticked by unnoticed as he moved from one type of bread to another—sourdough, pumpkin, corn… It was all good and much of it would enhance the omelets he intended to make for breakfast soon.
The kitchen became enveloped with a myriad of smells. Emil lined up each loaf as they came out of the oven. In a way, they were his soldiers in this war, the one thing he could muster to help others in the battle. He turned away to start a pot of coffee. Without looking at the clock, he could tell dawn was breaking and that Damien and those club members who’d never left would be looking for a hit of caffeine to jump-start their days.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. They were human, yet not any that he recognized. There was no Mackie-bounce or Quinn’s sure tread. These were hesitant, fearful even. The scent followed a moment later, and Emil closed his eyes briefly against the wave of tension that washed over him. Even with the kitchen filled with the smells of freshly baked bread, the sweet one that he associated with the sad little human cut through easily. Emil was careful to turn slowly, so as not to scare the already easily spooked boy.
Jase approached with hunched shoulders and
a downward gaze. Like the last time Emil had seen him, he was naked, except for a tight jockstrap that crushed his cock and balls and invaded his ass with an obvious plug. And as always, his satiny pale skin was marred with angry red welts and dark bruises. Emil frowned at the sight and had to bite back a growl. Jase’s fringe of blond hair flopped down over his eyes, so he couldn’t see Emil’s reaction, not that he looked at anything other than the floor.
With hands balled into fists, Emil pushed a quiet question past his pressed lips. “How can I help you?”
The boy still jerked at the sound of Emil’s voice. His Adam’s apple bobbled before he answered. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but my master was hoping for breakfast, and the bar only has late-night snacks.”
Emil really wanted to say that the asshole could fuck off, but twenty-four-hour food service was part of the membership. Special orders outside of normal mealtimes were permitted if kitchen staff was available, which obviously he was. Plus, he wouldn’t do anything that could lead the man to take his anger out on the boy.
“Of course,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “Is there anything in particular he’d like?”
“Two poached eggs, please, on rye toast with some fruit on the side. If you please, sir.” It didn’t take an alien’s senses to tell how nervous and tired the boy was. His voice quavered and his body trembled. Fine goosebumps showed all over his exposed skin, although it wasn’t necessarily from feeling cold. It had to be unnerving to stand essentially naked in front of a stranger. The boy’s dignity had been stripped from him as surely as his clothing had been.
Once again, Emil wanted to wrap him in his arms and carry him to bed, not that he had any plans about what he’d do once he put the boy there. His first instinct was to protect and coddle. Any more carnal interests needed to be shoved down and out of sight. That they were there at all scared the crap out of him. Yet, he made an involuntary move to scoop up the human before catching himself.
Instead, he nodded once in quiet acquiescence, an effort lost on someone not looking at him. “Sure,” he said, “no problem.”
He started to go get the eggs then changed his mind. The asshole could wait. Just because Emil couldn’t whisk the boy away to the safety of his bedroom didn’t mean he couldn’t make his stay in the kitchen better. He went to where he kept a clean set of whites hanging and grabbed them off the hanger. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He approached the boy slowly with the jacket outstretched.
“Here. Put this on.”
Jase jerked his head and blinked a few times before tipping his chin down again. “Um, no thank you, sir. I’m fine,” he added.
Emil stood staring at the top of the boy’s head for a few seconds, debating whether he should push the issue. It really wasn’t any of his business whether this boy played rough games with an asshole who didn’t appreciate him. Not Emil’s concern, either, if the games were getting out of hand and hurting the kid. Nope, Emil was a cook, not a babysitter or a knight in shining armor coming to the rescue.
Fuck it.
“Put it on.” He made it an order, leaving no room for refusal.
Jase quivered some more, obviously uncertain how to react, before putting his arms through the proffered jacket. As he turned, it gave Emil a chance to see his back. It was worse than the front and it seemed impossible for anyone to want that kind of harm inflicted on himself. Hardening his heart for the moment, he helped Jase tug the jacket on, buttoning part of it to keep it closed. His fingers brushed the boy’s chest, proving that it was smooth and silky where it was unmarred.
The sleeves were comically long, so Emil rolled them up to Jase’s slender wrists. It was like dressing a child, except young as he was, Jase had a certain maturity to him, physically anyway. It was impossible for Emil to ignore the tug he felt, much as he tried. That urge to move them both into the bedroom reared again. Worse, his cock rose from its usually dormant state to take an interest. Thank God his whites hung long and loose enough to cover that inconvenient truth.
Stepping back from temptation, he nodded. “There…that’s better. It’s too cold in here to be naked.” It was a ridiculous statement given the heat from the baking, yet he knew Jase would never gainsay him.
The boy stood with arms hanging down straight, his thin legs now the only part of his body other than his head and a bit of neck and fingers showing. It was good. It gave the boy some privacy, although Emil’s memory of what was covered did little to cool his heated reaction.
Don’t be like the asshole. Don’t exploit him.
The admonishment helped a little, as did the idea that the boy was probably hungry. He was certainly way too skinny. Feeding him would be the next thing to do.
Emil pointed to the table in the corner. “Go sit down. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
“T-thank you, sir, but my master will feed me from his plate.”
Yeah, Emil could only imagine what little scraps the asshole bothered to throw Jase’s way. “Sit,” he ordered, before turning to his line of bread soldiers.
He didn’t bother to make sure Jase was obeying. The light patter of feet told him as much. Emil cut a thick slice of the fruit and nut loaf, slathered butter on it, and put it on a plate, along with a scoop of fruit salad he had ready in the fridge. He also poured a large glass of milk and carried it all over to where Jase sat nervously on the edge of a chair.
Emil put the plate and glass gently in front of him. “Here, eat and drink all of this.”
Jase peeped at him from under his fringe. “It’s a lot, sir. I don’t think I can eat it all. Truly.”
Emil frowned. “Nonsense. You’re not Scarlett O’Hara. You don’t have to pretend that you eat like a bird and you don’t have to worry about your waistline. This is good, hearty fare. You know… Back in the day, armies marched with food like that in their bellies and won battles. If you’re going to let some asshole beat the crap out of you, you need to at least keep up your strength.”
He hadn’t meant to be so belligerent about it—or judgmental. And he really should stop referring to the club member as an asshole, except—fuck it—he couldn’t. The way Jase’s shoulders hunched in on themselves made Emil feel like a real son of a bitch, like he’d kicked an already-whipped puppy.
“Please,” he said, trying for a different, more productive tack. “Take small bites. I’m a cook, and I like to see people enjoy my food.” Okay, now he was guilt-tripping the kid, but damn if it didn’t work.
Picking up the slice with one delicate hand, Jase nibbled at the corner. His lips quirked a tiny smile as he chewed. “It’s delicious,” he said after swallowing and before he took another larger bite.
Pleased, Emil nodded. “That’s it. Good boy.”
That praise caused Jase to smile more broadly. It seemed like it didn’t take much to bring the boy out of his shell. The fact that he needed the affirmation made Emil feel sad. There was nothing beneficial about dwelling on it, however. So, after watching Jase eat another bite and drink some of the milk, he headed over to the stove to fix the asshole’s eggs.
Poaching eggs was hard to get right. He considered briefly overcooking them, but pride and concern for the boy killed that idea. So instead, he slid two perfectly cooked eggs onto equally perfect slices of toasted rye bread. He added a scoop of mixed fruit to the plate, swiped away a few dribbles and put the meal to one side.
“Does he want coffee?” he called over his shoulder, already headed for the pot.
“Yes, please, sir. Black,” came the reply from across the room.
Emil thought the boy’s voice sounded stronger. At least less afraid, and he counted that as a win. He poured a cup of coffee into some good china that he kept for fussy club members. It wasn’t because the asshole deserved it. Emil simply wanted Jase to bring something that would appease the man. He arranged both the cup and the plate of food on a simple wooden tray. Jase should find it easy to carry upstairs where the asshole undoubtedly lay waiting
like the fucking Queen of Sheba for his breakfast. A fantasy flashed through his head where he marched to the playroom and first dumped the coffee on the guy’s head before smashing the eggs in his face. Oh yeah, that would be very satisfying. Too bad it would give Alex fits, and again, it would only end in trouble for the boy.
He turned and pulled up short before he bumped into said boy. Jase had returned with an empty plate and glass. “I’m sorry, sir. I, um…thank you,” the human stuttered through an unnecessary, yet likely automatic, apology.
“You’re welcome.” Emil plucked the offering from Jase’s hands and placed it on the counter. “I have your… Don’t say ‘asshole’…a tray for you to take.” There. No need to even bring up the recipient.
“Thank you, sir.”
Shit. All that ‘sir’ business was grating on Emil’s last fucking nerve, not that there was anything to be done about it. However, he had an impulsive need to keep the boy hanging around longer. He blocked Jase when he moved to get the tray.
“Hey, there’s something I want you to try.”
Jase carded his hair away from his face and blinked a few times. “Sir?”
“Come here.” Emil slid over to where the sweet almond bread sat. Slicing a piece off, he held it with his fingertips. “Try this for me. I want to know if I balanced the flavors right.” That was a lie. He’d made it a thousand times over. He simply didn’t want the boy to leave quite yet.
As he held it out for Jase to take, Emil couldn’t help but stare intently at his face, such perfectly formed features with high cheekbones and a cupid-bow mouth. Those lips opened while he looked at them. Instead of taking the slice from Emil’s fingers, Jase took a small bite with his straight white teeth, much like a horse would a carrot or an apple. And Emil wanted to run his palm down the boy’s head, just as he would a horse. He wanted to gentle him to his hand, to his touch. Except this wasn’t his boy and never would be.
Slave Dance Page 6