by Ella Frank
What is happening to me? he thought as his legs fell slack and useless against those lying prone beneath him.
Then he heard it. A moan of pain. The sound of stirring. And as the sounds filtered inside his head, the scorching sensation in his veins hit his joints and seemed to detonate, locking them into place. His canines retracted with bone-fracturing precision, and his flesh continued to burn. That was when the man beneath him opened his pale, grey eyes.
What the fuck? For the first time in over two millennia, Alasdair was completely captivated. He couldn’t move a single muscle, nor could he will himself to fade out. And as his eyes locked on to those staring up at him, all he could think was, What are you?
It all happened in a matter of seconds, but before he could try to ascertain what he was experiencing, his name, though faint, managed to infiltrate his dazed mind.
Alasdair?
The second time around, the echo of Isadora’s voice came through much clearer.
Alasdair? Where are you? You’re about to be summoned. And we both know it won’t be pretty if that happens.
Even in his current state, Alasdair knew that to be true. If he lived through whatever was happening here, the price he would pay for having thought he’d had time to hunt tonight would be extreme.
But when the man beneath him dared to move, Alasdair gathered some semblance of strength and tightened his grip around the wrists he was holding. The stormy grey of the man’s irises seemed to swirl as the will to survive blazed to life—then Alasdair’s name sounded again.
This time, however, it was like a cannon blast.
The summons.
The pull.
The directive to return home had been issued.
Time stopped, and he and the human faded into the night.
“DAMN IT, ALASDAIR. What the hell happened to you?” was the first thing he heard as he and the man faded in at Isadora’s feet. They landed in an unceremonious tangle of arms and legs on the large, rectangular rug in the Adjudication Room.
The human, whose wrists he was still holding tight, had passed out cold from the transport, which wasn’t unusual for a mortal. It was unheard of, though, that he was just as disoriented.
Isadora crouched by his side, the long line of her leg flawless and her patent red Louis Vuitton stilettos eye level with him. Then she let out an exasperated sigh and rolled up the sleeve of her black chiffon blouse.
“Feed, you arrogant ass. And don’t give me any trouble. You need it.”
Since his legs were continuing to disobey direct orders, he didn’t bother arguing. And when Isadora thrust her dainty arm between him and the man, who was flat on his back, Alasdair listened.
His fangs extended over the smooth skin, and without hesitation, he struck. Biting down hard, he pierced through the layer that, for most, was impenetrable, but to their own, it was easily punctured. She cursed at him, and as he siphoned the blood from his cousin’s vein, his lips curled against her wrist, his message clear.
Don’t get used to issuing the orders, Isa. I’m still your superior.
The ever-eternal flush of immortality rejuvenated him, and as it coursed through his body to every joint and extremity, his strength began to return. The force of it vibrated through his limbs, and once the full potency of it had hit, another response did also.
A more primal one.
Primitive.
One that often, but not always, followed a feed. And as his cock stiffened against the man underneath him, he knew exactly who the cause was.
Able to now move, Alasdair retracted his teeth, and Isadora snatched her arm back.
“You asshole,” she accused. “What’s your problem?”
Alasdair ignored the question and, instead, placed his palms on either side of his prisoner’s head. He inspected the wounds on the human’s neck and then faced the pissed-off female who’d moved to the massive chair on the far side of the room.
“I need you to watch him while I’m gone.”
“Excuse me?” Isadora scoffed as she crossed one of her bare legs over the other. Her black A-line skirt slid perilously high up her shapely thigh. “I’m not babysitting a human.”
“You will do what I tell you to do,” he stated. Then he returned his attention to the unconscious man. “He incapacitated me tonight. We both know that has never happened. Not to one of us. I want to know how he did it.”
“You want a lot more than that if your cock is any kind of indicator.”
Alasdair whipped his head around and pinned her with a look that dared her to say more. Wisely, she chose to keep her mouth shut.
“I have to go to the Chamber. The summons was clear. I have fifteen minutes.”
“I know. Thanos and I were…instructed to recuse ourselves from the hearing they called for you.”
Of course they were. This was to be a punishment—allies were not invited.
Before he could change his mind, Alasdair leaned down so his mouth was poised over the gash in the strong throat he’d attacked. Then he ran his tongue over the wounds and sat back. The skin stretched and then drew together until it seemingly stitched itself back in place and tightened into a smooth patch of healed flesh.
“We both know whatever happens to me in there is likely going to take days—”
“Or weeks,” Isadora interrupted.
“—to recover from,” he finished as he got to his feet. He stepped over the man and saw that his cousin was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, Alasdair. Or what happened tonight. But you need to get it out of your system. You’ve never ignored a direct order from Vasilios. And he is pissed that you chose to tonight. ”
“He happened,” Alasdair said, gesturing to the body on the floor. “Just watch him, would you?” He was about to leave, but at the last minute, he pivoted around as Isadora was getting to her feet. “Isa?”
She stopped where she was and turned her head in his direction. When her midnight-blue eyes found his and her raven hair spilled in loose curls over her shoulder, Alasdair ground his teeth together.
Isadora was a beauty. A deadly one, at that.
“You are to keep guard from the outside of the room. He will heal. You will keep him alive. And when I return, I want to know what is running through his blood and how someone such as he was able to defeat someone like me.”
“ENTER!”
THE BELLOWING order was issued with the force of a sledgehammer. The weight of it coursed through Alasdair’s veins as he stood outside the closed door where the three Ancients had gathered.
He’d committed a grievous transgression tonight. He’d missed a meeting, and as one of the first sired, he was expected at all that were called—unless dead.
Two of his Ancient’s brainless minions flanked the massive doors, waiting to bring him inside, and as he glared at them, he held his chin in lofty disposition. They knew better than to challenge him. He’d have them defeated and dead in the blink of an eye if they tried. This show of muscle was merely a formality. An insult to him, because he now had to wait until he had permission to enter the Chamber.
As one of them opened the door, the tether that bound him like an anchor to his maker strengthened, and Alasdair had no choice but to walk forward.
How ironic. To have the entire world at your fingertips and one word or thought from one being will bring you the fuck home.
He entered the cavernous hall, one foot in front of the other. However, unlike other times he’d been inside the Chamber, he had no control over his motions. He was being brought to heel, and he knew what was about to come—punishment.
Many times over, he’d borne witness to one who’d disrespected the Ancients. Most didn’t live to see another night. But death would not be the ultimate, or swift, ending to this particular session.
The scrutiny of the council members was intense as Alasdair continued inside, his eyes trained on the three sitting on the elaborate stone dais
at the far end of the monolithic room.
Each one of them was a striking specimen in his own unique way. He was always somewhat shocked when he had the privilege to be in their presence—even more so tonight, dressed as they were in their ceremonial garb.
They were remarkable. The high, black-collared empire jackets with brass buttons that held the fitted garments in place drew one’s eyes down the flawless proportions of the body it concealed. It was a body both mortals and immortals craved the second they were within eyesight.
The Ancients had mastered a most effective disguise. Civilized and outwardly appealing, they resembled nothing more than extremely handsome men in their prime. A form no one in everyday society would question but, instead, would want to be near. But if one were unfortunate enough to procure their wrath, the creature that emerged from within that polished shell was a most frightening fiend to behold.
“Alasdair.”
His name echoed down the extensive aisle, but it was as clear as if his sire were standing by his side.
“How gracious of you to find the time in your busy schedule to join us.” The words were delivered with an air of authority only an Ancient could pull off.
Muffled whispers came from the pews lining the aisle, where the council members of each brood had gathered to await his punishment. Deriving pleasure in another’s torture was an inherent trait of their kind—and there was no way they would miss out on it being inflicted on an Ancient’s sired.
As he continued up the walkway, his jaw fused shut, which was standard at a punishment hearing. He couldn’t open his mouth to speak, and he wouldn’t be given the opportunity until his opinion or thoughts were deemed necessary.
His eyes remained on the figure at the center of the platform—his Ancient, Vasilios, who was more breathtaking to look upon than Michelangelo’s David. His coal-colored hair was cut close to his head, accentuating a face that was a model study of sculptured angles and bones. It made one want to reach out and trail their fingers along those lines. But, as Alasdair knew firsthand, that deceptive allure was a façade, and a most potent one, at that.
As usual, there was no indication to judge what Vasilios was thinking. The stony expression on his unflinching face didn’t flicker. But then Alasdair caught it, the way his eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. It was the only movement in the otherwise still room—until he spoke.
“I have to confess. You have disappointed me tonight.”
Vasilios halted Alasdair’s movements when he was within a few feet of the three and found himself fixed to the spot.
“I never expected you to be one who would show such disrespect. Thanos, perhaps, but not you.”
The inability to speak was frustrating as fuck. But even if he’d had the capability to do so, he wouldn’t have responded. One didn’t do that—not unless they wanted their tongue ripped from their head.
“I wonder what could have been so pressing tonight that you would have dismissed a meeting so blithely? Especially when you knew this one held such importance.”
As the word importance left his tongue, Alasdair’s kneecaps cracked and he fell to them with a muted grunt of agony.
“You will kneel as we ruminate your misgivings. Do you understand?” Vasilios’s eyes glowed with the question, and Alasdair’s jaw loosened enough for him to speak.
“I live to serve, my sire.”
“I am delighted to hear that. But not quite convinced of your sincerity.”
The perverse excitement building en masse was obvious from the muttering amongst the council members, the anticipation of blood and violence starting a frenzy amongst the natives as the one-sided trial played out before them.
“Perhaps we need a token of good faith. Proof that you weren’t thinking clearly when you disregarded a mandate over a thousand years old. It’s been a long time since I have thought about my own beginnings, Alasdair. The whys of it all. Like…why do we share a bond that binds you to me if you are going to ignore it?” Vasilios’s voice had built to a thunderous roar, and then he ceased talking altogether. The silence was eerie as he glared down at him. Then he clasped his hands together and asked, “Do you need a reminder, Alasdair? I wouldn’t think you would need to be re-schooled on how we came to exist. However—”
“Ambrogio,” Alasdair forced out between taut lips.
“Ahh, yes. See? You do remember your history.”
“Of course,” he said through the crushing bite of pain in his knees. “He turned the three of you after years of isolation. That is why, with him in a state of transcendence, you three reign as the almighty. The most powerful vampires to exist.”
“Quite right you are, agóri.”
Deciding he might as well try everything to get in his Ancient’s good graces, Alasdair continued. “That is also why he made a vow to you three. A promise that you would not share the same lonely fate as he. He allowed you to choose one you would bind yourself to. Creating an eternal bond between you and your first sired.”
“Yes. One I am seriously second-guessing since you deemed it within your right to disregard my wishes this evening.”
Alasdair opened his mouth to continue but found he could no longer speak.
“I think it is time you prove yourself to me once more. In front of our friends and family.”
The splintering shards of broken bone in his knees were a crushing reminder that he had no choice of what he wanted or could do. But the humiliation that accompanied the position was what really smarted, not so much the shattered bones. So, with the expected respect, Alasdair lowered his eyes to the ground and answered.
“I would enjoy nothing more than to prove my obedience to you.”
Mumbled speculation swept throughout as the council played onlookers to a day they never thought they would see: Alasdair Kyriakoús on his knees. It truly was a first.
“Quiet!”
The word thundered through the hall, and the silence that followed could have only been achieved by those who had the ability to exist without breath—those who were already dead.
“It would be remiss of us not to give Alasdair a chance to defend himself before we decide what should become of him. And how are we to do that with all of your inane chattering? The next to utter a sound will take up and play his proxy, and unlike for him, I hold no affection for any of you. Do I make myself clear?”
Alasdair wondered if the others were thinking just what would happen to them if the affection he was currently being shown was two smashed kneecaps and fuck only knew what was to come.
“As for you… You are going to help me understand why you would ever think it was acceptable not to show your face when I command you to do so.”
Metal scraped across stone—pointed nails extending from deadly fingers. Nails that could slit a throat open, puncture a vein, or stab an eye out.
Before he had a chance to speak, though, Alasdair’s head was thrust up by invisible fingers to face his sire, who was now on his feet. His eyes locked with the angry, black orbs that had replaced the green they both shared.
Alasdair had never seen him so enraged—at least, not at him. In that moment, the true majesty of Vasilios’s power washed over him, and a rush of adrenaline raced down his spine, followed by the icy tendrils of true fear.
“Are you frightened of me right now, Alasdair?”
Vasilios was able to sense his fear as easily as he could rip his heart out with no more than a thought. But part of his punishment, Alasdair understood, was the humiliating process of bringing him down a peg or two.
“Yes, my sire.”
He figured the next thing that happened would be painful and horrendous, but instead, he heard in his head, You should be, omorfo mou agóri. You have hurt me greatly. And now, though it pains me to do so, I must return the gesture.
When his right hand was wrenched behind his back between his shoulder blades, a curse tore from his throat. His arm had been dislocated from the joint and left to swing down by his side. Then, inv
isible, ironlike tentacles wrapped around his spine and arched his chest out at a warped angle so his upper body bowed. Next went his coat and his shirt, both ripped free so they fell on the floor behind his useless frame, exposing his torso to the crazed eyes surrounding him.
The temperature in the room skyrocketed from frigid to fevered as the lust and hunger of a kill, or a taking, was presented. Alasdair wondered for a brief second which direction it would go—until fingernails scoured his chest as they dragged down his ribs to his pants.
“Understand, Alasdair. Although I need you to exist, I can still break you.”
The words were calculated. They were issued as a way to inform the others of exactly who was the puppet and who was the master. But there was no mistaking it, and Alasdair knew that the words were also being stated for Vasilios’s own warped pleasure. He was enjoying showing the council what was his. That was soon confirmed as the next thought was forced inside his mind.
If you try to resist what I am about to do to you, I will let these animals feed on you until you are so weak it will take a good year to heal. And they’re hungry for you. Look at them.
The threat was the most effective one he could’ve issued.
Alasdair was known for three things.
One—never slaking his needs within his own brood. Fight-or fuck-wise.
Two—his selective nature when it came to whom he fed and healed from.
And three—his unnatural self-control.
All things his sire was aware of.
The welts now rising down the length of his torso festered from the liquid silver the nails had been tipped with, searing like an iron poker being pressed directly into his veins.
He couldn’t help the tormented snarl that roared from his gut as those same nails found the button of his pants. His eyes were still locked with the malevolent being controlling every fucked-up second of this power exchange, and a flash of raw, sexual desire entered Vasilios’s eyes.
Before Alasdair could begin to imagine what was in store for him, a memory hit with blinding force, and even through the pain, a frisson of lust shot through him…
