Spiked

by Mychael Black, Jourdan Lane, Willa Okati

  A tap ran, water tinkling, and then Bailey said, “I think that counts as an experimental success."

  Flynn chuckled. “Definitely. I'll catch you later, I've got a report to write."

  The door thudded, and then Bailey's hand rested on Quint's shoulder, warm through the hospital gown. Quint opened his eyes and twisted his head, so he could see Bailey crouching down beside the bed.

  "That was so fucking hot,” Bailey whispered.

  "Yeah,” Quint agreed.

  Chapter 8

  Quint was ensconced on Bailey's couch, beer in one hand, meat-on-a-stick in the other. He wriggled over, still moving a little cautiously post-surgery, to make space for Bailey.

  Bailey slumped down the couch, beside Quint.

  "Feeling alright?” he asked.

  Quint nodded, holding his beer out for Bailey to clunk his bottle against. “How could it be better? I'm not an Immigration detainee, and my cock vibrates whenever I want it to."

  "The simple pleasures, huh?” Bailey said, lifting his beer to his lips.

  "I'm not sure the vibrating bit is simple,” Quint said. “But you once warned me not to confuse simplicity of conception and execution."

  "Don't listen to me,” Bailey said. “I was probably just trying to get you into bed."

  "Must have worked,” Quint said. “Saved my life, too."

  Bailey put his beer down, took Quint's out of his hand, too. Quint's lips were slippery, from the meat-on-a-stick, tingling against Bailey's, and his face felt odd to touch, now his horns were gone. Only it wasn't just Bailey's lips that were tingling, it was the whole fucking couch.

  Their lips made a wet noise when Bailey lifted his mouth. “You're vibrating,” Bailey said, trying not to laugh.

  "Um, oops?” Quint said. “Guess I've worked out what makes the mods work."

  Bailey's hand covered the front of Quint's trousers, his palm against the length of Quint's cock, where it lay across his belly. The vibrations, strong enough for Bailey to feel them up his arm, intensified further, and Quint moaned.

  "Please tell me I'm healed enough,” he whispered. “I want you so badly."

  "You're healed,” Bailey said. “Now the sutures are out, and the skin is intact."

  The meat-on-a-stick was tossed on the floor, and Quint grabbed Bailey with both hands. “Right now,” he said.

  Bailey stood up, pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it after the meat-on-a-stick. He pushed his trousers down, his cock springing free, jutting out. Quint slid forward on the couch, his hands running up Bailey's thighs, and then his fingers eased into the folds of Bailey's groin.

  Bailey gasped at the first touch of Quint's mouth on his cock. Quint licked, sliding the head into his mouth, then out to rest against his lips. “So when are you getting the beads?” Quint murmured, looking up at Bailey. His fingertips circled Bailey's arse, slipping in the fluid.

  "As soon as I train someone else to do the cutting,” Bailey said, his hand cradling Quint's scalp, tangling in his hair. “I'm not letting that butcher Flynn near my cock."

  Quint slid back onto the couch, undoing his trousers, easing them over his cock, pushing them off so they wrapped around his feet. Bailey clambered onto the couch, a knee each side of Quint's hips.

  They kissed, slow and deep, and then Quint's hands groped behind Bailey's arse. The vibrations from the beads ran through the frame of the couch, and the first touch of Quint's cock was a shock, the humming beads purring against Bailey's arse.

  Bailey rocked back slowly, letting his weight push Quint's cock into his arse. The first beads, ringed under the head of Quint's cock, slid into Bailey, moving a little under the skin of Quint's cock. Quint grunted, grimacing, and it must still be tender for him, the skin still healing.

  "Don't stop,” Quint gasped, and then he was all the way inside Bailey.

  Sweat streaked Bailey's back, and Quint's fingers clutched at his thighs and hips. Bailey rocked a little forward, shifting his weight around the buzzing, and something happened inside him, something touched him in the right place, making him writhe and squirm, teeth clenched to stop from screaming.

  "Is that good?” Quint asked, and all Bailey could manage was to nod his head frantically.

  Quint's hand curled around Bailey's cock, squeezing him hard, then stroking up the length, rough and demanding. “Gonna come,” Bailey groaned.

  It was too soon, far too soon. Bailey wanted the feelings to last, wanted Quint to fuck him for hours, wanted the impossible buzzing deep inside him to just go on and on. But Quint was jabbing into him hard, groaning louder and louder with each thrust, his hand tugging harder and harder on Bailey's cock, fucking demanding that he come, and Bailey had no self control at all when Quint was around.

  Bailey yelled, shoving himself back hard as he could on Quint's cock, his come shooting across Quint's belly, going on and on, impossibly long and hard, because Quint was coming, too, shouting and thrusting, deep inside Bailey.

  The buzzing faded inside him, Quint's cock softening, and when Bailey opened his eyes again, Quint was staring at him.

  Bailey patted Quint's cheek affectionately. “You alright?"

  "Fuck, yeah,” Quint said weakly. “Can we do that again? Now?"

  "Soon as you can manage it,” Bailey said, because Quint's cock had softened enough to slip wetly out of him.

  Bailey staggered to his feet, and then fell back onto the couch.

  They had beer within reach, the night breeze was blowing, through the open windows, and Bailey could hear the band that played at the local pub jamming over the hum of distillation units and water pumps. The season was changing again, moving away from summer to the cool dry days of winter.

  The meat-on-a-stick was probably not salvageable, lost somewhere across the room, but Bailey didn't care. He had Quint, who was half asleep beside him, head on Bailey's shoulder. Once Flynn got the vibrating beads approved by SirenCare, then Bailey could stop doing fucking boring colorbursts for a living.

  If Quint woke up later, they might go out for a beer, maybe even to Frood's pub. Or they might fuck again. Bailey didn't care which, he was blissfully happy with either option.

  "You're getting old,” he told himself, and the dozing Quint. “Losing your edge, settling down."

  Quint snuffled in his sleep, so Bailey grinned at the darkened room and reached for his beer. “Sleep well, pretty one,” he whispered, kissing Quint's forehead where his new horns would eventually grow.

  Beneath the Mask

  By Mychael Black

  "Thank you for meeting me like this."

  "My pleasure."

  I flipped open my notebook to a fresh page and tried to ignore the slight shakiness in my hand as I clicked my pen. “I'm just going to jot down some initial notes. If anything is wrong, please feel free to correct me.” There was no answer, but when I glanced up, I saw the shadowed figure nod. I fixed my gaze back onto my paper. “Triarius ... Any last name?"

  "No."

  I continued. “Born in Rome in 12 BC, turned in 7 AD.” I paused. “You're ... over two thousand years old?"

  "I am."

  I stifled a sigh. Maybe this was a mistake. When Jeff gave me this lead, I had high hopes of a great interview—the pinnacle of my career. Yes, vampires were quite well-known to exist, and some even held ranks within the human government, but aside from a few instances, getting into their circle was next to impossible. And that was just the Romanorum. This ... was the Brotherhood. I twirled my pen in my fingers, wondering just how to start this. I've been interviewing vampires for nearly fifteen years. Why was this one so different?

  "Is there something wrong, Mr. Shaw?"

  "No!” I shook my head. “No, no.” I cleared my throat. “I asked you here to fulfill an opportunity—for us both. A chance for me to, quite honestly, get the story of the century: the history of the Inferi Brotherhood. And a chance for you to dispel the rumors of ... well ... less than pleasant acts said to occur within the Brotherhood."<
br />
  "And what if the rumors are true?"

  I swallowed compulsively, my mouth and throat suddenly dry. “True?” He stood and I watched him walk over to the window. Moonlight shone through the glass around his body. He was shorter than I'd expected, for some reason, and of slighter build. I'd thought one of the most feared men in the world would be much larger in stature.

  "Size matters little when compared to the mind, Mr. Shaw,” he said without turning. He clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders straight and squared. On a lesser man, the position might have been seen as bravado; on him, it seemed natural. “I created the Brotherhood because I no longer felt the Romanorum served its purpose."

  "What if Diocourides were to find out? He would—"

  "Dio knows we exist, Mr. Shaw. The Romanorum knows. At this point, I would daresay the entire world knows. The fact remains, however, that they cannot find the worst of us. And by that, I mean those of us who actively kill humans."

  Fuck. I was in over my head. What was I thinking? Here I was, in some nondescript ghost town in the middle of nowhere England, with a man—a creature—who could easily kill me. And no one would ever know. Curiosity, however, is a strong influence.

  "I know the Brotherhood is underground—both figuratively and literally, and no, I won't ask where. I am curious, though, as to why the Romanorum can't find you. Can't every vampire—even a rogue—trace his or her blood back to the sire?"

  "Not all of us are rogues,” he said. “It is true that I myself am, by Romanorum standards, but you forget that the oldest of us did not take the formulas required to make that distinction. It is by name alone that I am known for who I am, not by any taint to my aura or soul."

  "So ... there are those who are not rogues within the Brotherhood?"

  "Yes. The Brotherhood is not based on killing humans. We are gods, Mr. Shaw. Descended from gods, created by them. Human are cattle, put upon this earth for us to use as we see fit."

  "The Romanorum would have something to say about that,” I said quietly.

  "You are not writing. Is my tale that uninteresting?"

  I blinked down at the paper. A large stain spread out from where the tip of my pen rested, but there were no words. What was I supposed to say, how was I going to write any of this into a news story? I stared at the blotch of ink and wondered why I'd even asked for this meeting.

  "Perhaps you were curious, more for your own sake than that of your readers."

  "You can read minds."

  "I can."

  I figured the best step would be to find out more about the man behind it all. “What else can you do?"

  Triarius chuckled, still facing away from me. “Much. More than you could ever begin to explain to your readers, Mr. Shaw."

  It occurred to me then that I had no idea what this man even looked like. He was here when I'd arrived, cloaked in shadows. “What do you look like?"

  "Another question for your story?"

  "No.” For me...

  Triarius turned and my heart nearly stopped. Light glinted off of something silver on the right side of his face. Like some real-life twist on the Phantom, Triarius had a silver mask—or at least half of one—covering the upper right side of his face. There was a hole for him to see out of, and the mask stopped just an inch or so above his mouth, and then tapered off to the side. The eye peering through the hole in the mask was milky white, almost glassy. His other was steel blue. His lips curled into a twisted smile that said he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  "I was disfigured long before my turning. A bit of sparring gone wrong, you could say."

  I could tell there was more to it, but he didn't seem inclined to elaborate. He stepped away from the window and closer to the table where I sat. The shadows seemed to move with him, somehow, wrapping around his body like a cloak. I knew some vampires were able to control the shadows. I'd even been witness to the Prince of London toying with them a time or two. These shadows were much different, though—thicker, consuming. Like Triarius, they seemed to draw in the light, engulfing it until there was nothing left. I wanted to say this man was evil, but even that felt inadequate for what I saw in his eyes. There was power behind them, more than I think anyone ever realized, but there was something darker. I knew he was a rogue—he'd said so himself. This went beyond being a rogue. It wasn't blood lust that fueled him. It was the worst kind of power imaginable: unspoken, quiet, calculating.

  Triarius settled back into his seat and the darkness enveloped him. His unassuming voice broke the awkward silence. “I created the Brotherhood in 1232. To this date, there are thousands of us, spread throughout the world. We have a network, a system through which we conduct business, recruit, and if need be, dispose of unwanted influences."

  "Unwanted influences?"

  "Every organization has its share of bad seeds. We deal with ours effectively—within and without the Brotherhood itself."

  "So you are murderers, killing without the need to drink, then."

  Triarius clicked his tongue, the sound loud in the small room. “Come now, Mr. Shaw. Murder is such a strong word, don't you think? I prefer ... cleansing."

  "How do you do it?"

  "We receive reports, from our members out in the open. We then send teams to investigate. If we find the reports to be true, the subjects in question to be threats, then we dispose of them—quickly and efficiently. If an answer cannot be determined right away, the subjects are brought to me."

  I felt the blood slowly drain from my face and I shivered as the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. “And you hold them prisoner? How do you determine if they are a threat or not?"

  "There are many ways to prompt a person to speak when he or she is not normally inclined to do so."

  "Torture?"

  "If necessary, though I find it tedious. I prefer mind over body. The mind does not lie, only the mouth. If I want truth, I need only to see a person's thoughts."

  "So you invade their brains, basically?"

  "My, but you are abrasive in your choice of words.” He sighed. “But yes, I do."

  "I guess it's pointless to argue about morals, then."

  Triarius laughed. “Mr. Shaw, I have, in my two thousand years, taken great pleasure in watching men die. Do you really think morals matter to me?"

  "No.” I had to look away. Something in his stare unhinged me. I didn't like feeling as if I was a bug under a microscope, and yet, despite being the interviewer, that's precisely what I felt like. “So...” My brain frantically searched for something else to say, something to ask him. Anything to keep the conversation going. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about the Brotherhood?"

  "Aside from where we are, details of our membership, all of which would require me to kill you lest it get out? No."

  I blew out a breath. “Okay,” I announced. “I think I have enough to write up a good piece here.” I closed my notebook, tucked the pen in the spiral, and stood. “I want to thank you for this opportunity, Triarius. I'm sure my readers will find it very interesting.” I started for the door, only to have it close before I reached it.

  "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Shaw.” He hadn't moved. “I cannot allow you to publish anything I've told you."

  "Excuse me?” Fear began inching its way into my gut. My heart hammered against my ribcage and I backed up, heading for the window. The lock on it twisted shut, then snapped off. I spun around to find Triarius standing only a foot away from me. Words stuck in my throat, lodged in a scream that refused to come out.

  "I promised an interview. I said nothing about having it printed."

  * * * *

  "Beth yw e?"

  There was a pause and I heard gravel crunching under shoes. Then a car door slammed, rocking the entire vehicle. I kept still, quiet. If I let on that I was awake, there was no telling what these men would do. I didn't know if Triarius was here, but I remembered enough to know he'd brought me here. Wherever here was.

  "Pam ryd
yn ni'n aros?"

  I couldn't make out a single word they were saying. I inhaled slowly, hoping to catch any scents that might give away our location, but all I got was the thick, cloying smell of old leather. The car rumbled to life and a moment later, we were moving. Riding was bad enough. Riding while blindfolded, without the ability to look around, sent my motion sickness into overdrive. I fought back the nausea, the low, rhythmic hum of the engine not helping in the least.

  Fear clawed at my insides, but if I was going to get out of this alive, I had to stay rational. Panic only led to stupid mistakes, and in the presence of vampires, stupid mistakes meant certain death. I wasn't going to go out without one hell of a fucking fight.

  It was night. The cool air blowing into the car from a window up front gave that much away. With my hands bound behind me, I couldn't pull off the blindfold, but I knew the car was big. I was stretched out on my stomach, head facing the front. Words occasionally drifted from the front, but they were still talking in a language I didn't know. I wanted to get the blindfold off, but if I did, they'd know I was awake. For some reason I'd yet to fathom, Triarius hadn't killed me. Why? Why keep me alive when I might find an opportunity to escape?

  The air thickened and crispness gave way to the rich smell of earth and stone. I felt the car turn, and then we started up an incline. My equilibrium was off, which made me feel like I was on some sort of carnival ride. I squeezed my eyes shut under the blindfold, more focused on trying to will away the urge to throw up than figuring out where the hell we were to begin with. By the time I got a hold on it, we'd stopped. It took a moment for me to realize we were on somewhat level ground again. The door opened and I willed myself to go limp, hoping it would be too much dead weight for my captors to carry. I hadn't factored them being vampires into my plans when one simply hefted me over a broad shoulder like I was nothing more than a child's rag doll.

  We went down steps, then into total blackness. Even if I didn't have the blindfold on, I knew sight would've been pointless. The darkness was a living thing—consuming, almost crushing. It reminded of the shadows around Triarius, the coils that circled and enveloped him. Footsteps and voices echoed off the rock, giving me enough to know that we were in a tunnel of some sort. Sounds were hollow but long, stretching out in front and behind us. My captor, the one carrying me, grunted and shifted me, his shoulder digging into my stomach. My arms ached and my shoulders had long since stopped throbbing and now only burned. I almost dreaded them releasing my hands; I knew the pain of the blood rushing back would be excruciating.