The New Convert--A Sexy Shapeshifter Gay M/M Billionaire Novelette from Steam Books
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“But I am giving you my full authorization to change it!”
“The law is clear: the dead cannot change their will. Your body is now interred at that beautiful mausoleum of yours in the Cimetière de Montmartre. If it means so much to you, then please resurrect your body so you can come in to sign the appropriate paper work. If you can do that, then let us know, so we can send men to unseal the marble entrance right away.
“Unless and until you do that, monsieur, you can make no further changes to the dispensation of your estate. Such is only possible for the living, which you are not.
“Bien. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gaillard. Good bye!” and she whacked the copper gong beside her.
“Waaaiiit…” Mr. Gaillard said.
He looked like he was saying a lot more, but as he began to disappear, no more sound was coming across. To make sure he stayed gone, Mme. Rémi gave the gong yet another whack. Although no longer visible, they could still feel the man’s spirit trying to reassert itself back into the room.
With an annoyed grunt, Mme. Rémi gave the gong such a powerful whack, that it flew off the table and skittered several feet away on the stone floor with a loud clang. For good measure, she then threw the gong striker in the air where the man had once stood. Then she leaned back and began patting her hair down, as well as fixing her jacket as if nothing had happened.
“Shall I ask the Requisitions Department to order a new gong, madam?” Donovan asked, careful to keep his face a blank mask and his voice a perfect calm.
Beside him, the transcriptionist had stopped tapping away, and was simply staring straight ahead.
“See if it still works,” was Mme. Rémi’s reply when she finally got her breathing back down to normal.
Donovan stood up and walked to the gong. There was nothing magical about it, whatsoever. It simply emitted the right tone when hit. Once sounded, Shreen like himself could manipulate the vibrations it produced, and do wonders with it. In this case, communicate with the dead.
He picked the gong and its striker up, and noticed that the former had a slight dent near the top. There were also some scratches where it had scraped along the rough, stone floor.
Holding it by its base, he hit it gently. Instead of a clear C sharp, it emitted a slightly off version of it. Mme. Rémi sighed loudly and rolled her eyes upward, muttering something about things being made in China.
“Perhaps we can have it fixed, madam?” Donovan offered.
But Mme. Rémi simply waved a hand at him in a ‘do whatever you think is best’ gesture as she got up and walked out of the room. That was the transcriptionist’s cue to pack her stuff. She gave Donovan a shy smile as she left, and he followed, still holding the slightly dented gong in both hands.
As Donovan returned to ground level, he breathed easier. Late afternoon light poured into the vast windows of his office building, and he couldn’t wait for the day to be over so he could explore more of Paris.
He had been in the city for barely a month. Despite that, the hassles of moving into his new place, as well as the demands of his new job, had left him little time by which to relax.
Donovan had acquired a doctorate degree by the time he was nineteen. He was now twenty, and had thought that he would be allowed more responsibility, considering what he had accomplished so far, as well as what he was. So far, however, the Clans had other ideas.
So there he was: an assistant to one of the senior portfolio managers of what was left of the Banque de France, the country’s national bank. Thanks to the European Union, however, it was now part of the European Central Bank. The Clans had worked long and hard to unify Europe, and at last, their vision was coming true.
Across the world, the Clans in the Americas were hard at work doing the same thing, as were those in Asia and Africa, as well as the Middle East. True, there was some resistance in certain places, but the Clans were confident that within the next two to three centuries, their central, geo-political domination of the entire world would be secure.
A unified and prosperous world at peace, Donovan thought with a satisfied smile as he sat behind his desk. It’s what makes such boring, tedious workdays worth it.
Despite his optimism, he was relieved when work finally ended. He practically ran out of the building and onto the street.
As the deadening light and noise hit him, he thrilled. Shreen could manipulate vibration, light, and sound, as well as shape thought. Donovan’s mind skimmed over the thousand and one dramas going on all around him, let himself hear the song of stars that had died millions of years ago, the pain of trees that groaned in their concrete confines, and the anguish of rocks being torn asunder by aggressive tree roots. Paris was as old as his native London, but its quality of light and sound and minds was so different.
It was a Friday night, but he had no one to go out with. The humans who worked at the Central Bank were wary of him because of his position, while the Clans men and Clans women who worked there were wary of him precisely because he was Shreen.
There was only one other Shreen in the building besides himself, but he had yet to meet her since his arrival. He wondered if she was deliberately avoiding him, or if she was just too busy to bother.
He tried to befriend some of the other Clans People, but though they were all unfailingly polite, all made it perfectly clear that they wanted nothing more to do with him than was absolutely necessary. Though they had tried to mask their thoughts, Donovan easily picked up on their fear and discomfort, so he had backed off.
He remained hopeful, however, that one day he would make a genuine friend out of someone. Not someone he simply got along with, as he did with the other Shreen.
He smiled sadly at the thought. Even the other Shreen thought him odd for wanting such a thing. To them, the Shreen were sufficient in themselves.
Shreen were such powerful, evolved beings. What need had they of friends, therefore? And for those who were not Shreen? Well, they were either useful, or they were not.
Of them all, only Mme. Rémi seemed unafraid of him, but her position and age was such that there was little possibility of them ever hanging out together.
Then again, Donovan wasn’t sure he wanted to hang out with a member of the Vampire Clan. His people looked down on blood suckers, after all. In retrospect, his Clan looked down on anyone who wasn’t Shreen.
As a result, he was used to being alone, though he had made a few acquaintances over the years. Shreen rarely ever had more than one child at a time, which explained why they were so few. They were also generally unsociable. Not Donovan, however, which explained why he generally got along with humans.
Looking up at the sky, he prayed that tonight would be his lucky night. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he didn’t want to go home yet. By the time the sun had set completely, he realized he was lost.
Then he laughed. He had stopped beside a small boulangerie which displayed pastries and breads in the shape of penises and other body parts. The sign above said Legay Choc, and brightly colored letters all over the glass read: Boys Just Want to Have… FUN.
A good-looking guy behind the counter inside smiled and waved at him, so he walked in.
“Bonjour,” he called out, mindful that most Parisian shops were family-run businesses, and that the owners frequently worked there themselves.
“Bonjour,” the guy replied cheerfully. “We have new stuff just out of the oven.”
“But it’s evening,” Donovan replied in surprise.
“True, but this is the Marais. The gays come out at night and they are always hungry.”
The way he said the last statement held no malice, whatsoever, only a question. To reinforce it, the man smiled at him, then winked.
Donovan blushed and looked down. It seemed the signal the man was looking for. His smile deepened, and he held a finger up in a ‘one moment’ gesture, before turning away from the counter.
When he came back, he held a steaming pastry tray. He selected one with a ton
g, then sprinkled it with a thick layering of nuts and confectioner’s sugar.
Donovan took the pastry. It was in the shape of a penis, and he was delighted. He broke it in half to let it cool, and saw that it had been stuffed with raisins. Then he paid the man.
He didn’t know what to do next.
The man beamed at him, then waved, and said ‘good night.’
So Donovan smiled back, waved, and stepped out – feeling as if he’d been cheated, somehow. Was it just his imagination? Had the man been trying to pick him up? Or was he just flirting with him to get him to buy something?
The pastry was great, especially since it was so fresh, but Donovan had really been hoping for more. He hated being so socially inept, but neither did he want to risk making a fool of himself and… and what? Go back in and ask him for a date? He wanted to go into the man’s mind to find out, but held himself back.
Despite their external appearance, humans were primitive creatures, and therefore terrible thinkers. They were an emotional species, not inherently thoughtful, which explained why they were so weak. It was why they stood below the Clans People, and why they were destined to be ruled over for their own good. Just like in the ancient past.
Donovan sighed and continued his survey of the street, before deciding to make his way further north along the Rue des Archives. The street narrowed, and to his right was a stone wall, behind which lay a medieval-looking castle.
And then he saw him. On the sidewalk opposite, was a set of metal garbage boxes, and beside them sat a young man with his arms wrapped around his legs. He looked utterly miserable, rocking himself back and forth. Though he was dressed in clean clothes, he sat on the pavement with bare feet.
Passersby were careful to avoid the man, walking quickly past, but Donovan could see what they could not. The man’s mind had compacted into a tiny ball. He was silently screaming for help. He was barely aware of his surroundings, desperately trying to hold on to his personality that was fragmenting.
Donovan was outraged. He walked up to the man and leaned closer. The man gave no sign he was aware of him, as Donovan reached down to touch his neck. It was as he had suspected. There were bite marks on the right side.
Donovan picked up his cell-phone.
“Allo?” said a professional-sounding woman’s voice.
“I need a retrieval for an Infected,” Donovan said. “I’m on Rue des Archives, but I don’t know the exact address. There’s a castle-like building across the street from me.”
“Please stay where you are,” said the woman, before hanging up.
Donovan laid a hand on the crouched man to keep him calm. He could feel the man’s growing Hunger, so he reached into the fractured mind to soothe it as best he could. He had to protect the passersby in case the poor bloke lost it. Pedestrians were now giving Donovan nasty looks, probably blaming him for the man’s condition.
Within ten minutes, a black van came up the road, driven by a man in a black suit wearing sunglasses, even though it was evening. Donovan took the sounds and the streetlights around him, then wove them into a pattern radiating several meters around him.
To those passing by, there was no van, no men in black suits who poured out of it, no man being pulled up from the sidewalk and hustled inside, and no Donovan. Though they saw nothing, they still swerved or stopped as needed, though they did not understand why.
Donovan got in, and they drove off.
So much for my Friday night, he thought to himself miserably.
CHAPTER 3
Blaise du Lac knew he was in deep shit. He had locked Michel in the padded cell for his own safety. He knew he should have killed him, but he just didn’t have the heart to do it. The boy was so cute, so sweet, and so vulnerable, he wanted him to live. And he had such a tight, hot ass.
He also hadn’t expected Michel to get infected so easily – so few humans actually did. How was he to know that of all the men he could have picked up last week, he would choose the rare human who could? It was so unfair.
He had spent the last several days nursing Michel through the first stages of the infection, holding him when the shakes got so bad, singing to him when the pain became intolerable. When he could, he’d even suck Michel’s cock off.
Blaise had spent the day taking care of business. Returning to his place, he immediately felt its emptiness. Heart beating hard, he made his way to the Panic Room, but even before he got there, he already knew it had been opened.
How the hell did Michel get away?
Not that it mattered. Vampires were considered among the lowest of the low on the pecking order of the Clans People, and there would be serious consequences. With the exception of the few approved humans who were in the know (what the Clans People called Familiars), the Council had forbidden any more of them to be infected into any Clan, whatsoever.
Blaise had double-checked the data base anyway, but nope. Michel Martin was not a registered Familiar. He was really in serious trouble now. It did not matter that Blaise had been born a Vampire, a blue-blood from an ancient and noble Vampire family.
Thousands of years ago, the Shreen had emerged victorious from the vicious Clan Wars, and had been calling the shots ever since, those damn bastards. Behind their polite smiles and gracious manners, however, they could be even more vicious than the most depraved among the Changeling Clan – those disgusting shape shifters. As such, even the Vampire Clan feared them. Everyone did.
If Michel was out there, he was in the final stages of his infection, and humans were in danger. And thanks to the discovery of DNA analysis, it wouldn’t take the Council long to find out who was responsible. Not that it mattered.
Every Vampire had a unique and distinct scent. All any Vampire had to do was get close to Michel, and they would know that Blaise had infected him. There were so few of them, after all. And there were many in the Vampire Clan who would be more than happy to turn him in, in order to gain bonus points with the Council.
Blaise sighed and padded his way to his living room dejectedly. He could run, but there was nowhere in the world that he could possibly hide. He tapped out a message on his computer, and satisfied that it had been sent, initiated the program which would wipe his hard drive clean. Resigned, he leaned back and waited for the inevitable.
He didn’t have to wait long.
* * *
“I don’t understand,” Donovan looked to the head of the medical team as Michel clung to him.
A medic of the Changeling Clan tried to pull the young man away, but Michel howled and snarled at him, only calming down when Donovan patted him. Annoyed, the Changeling began undressing, no doubt to shift into his animal form and avoid ruining his uniform, but Donovan held up a hand and the man backed off.
“Neither do we,” said Dr. Tomás Vergara, a Vampire who headed the medical facility. “According to the database, he was illegally infected by a Mr. Blaise du Lac. Instead of killing him, however, as the new laws require, Mr. du Lac chose to keep him alive.”
“Kill him!?”
“Si, Señor Cogey. The Council forbids any more new infections among non-Familiars. As you know, the US military has recently acquired genetic evidence that some of us exist. Until we address this matter, we are under threat. To bring more outsiders into our Clans leaves us vulnerable.”
“But why is he clinging to me? He should be bonding to his patron, this uh…”
“Blaise du Lac, señor. As I said, we do not understand. This man was infected rather quickly – barely a week ago, according to the blood analysis results. His patron clearly cared for him through the worst of it. As to why he’s not with his patron and is bonding to you… perhaps because you made physical contact with him at such a crucial stage?”
“That can only happen if his patron’s dead,” said another lab technician, a blond female Changeling. “It happens with these Converts.”
They had tried to get Michel into a cell, but he broke away from the men who held him and ran to Donovan, clinging to th
e Shreen’s waist like a pathetic child. Donovan wanted to cry.
Michel looked so lost and so alone, Donovan stroked his head to soothe him, mindful of the others. What he really wanted to do was hug him.
Michel was in the final stages of his transformation. His eyes had turned reddish, and his body was becoming more muscular. While his nails had yet to fully grow out, his fangs were already visible. Once they grew out completely, he would need blood, or he would die.
“Dr. Vergara, are you going to kill him?”
“Señor, we must. He is a liability to the Clans.”
“But it’s not his fault! He was a victim of one of … ermm...”
“You are being polite, señor. Go ahead: say it. He was victimized by a blood sucker. Be that as it may, the Council has spoken.”
“Indeed we have,” said a new voice, and everyone in the room froze.
Coming toward them was Ching Shenchi, the unofficial chief executive officer of the Banque de France, and second-in-charge over all of Western Europe. She was the other Shreen who had yet to meet him at the office. Donovan wasn’t sure he appreciated the honor, considering the circumstance.
Behind her were two members of the Changeling Clan in their human forms, one of whom pushed a stretcher bearing a body. Without even extending his senses, Donovan could tell that it was dead, and that in life, it had been a Vampire.
It must have been Blaise du Lac.
Michel sniffed the air, then let out a loud piteous howl. His nails dug into Donovan’s flesh, causing scratch marks.
Donovan winced. He took the sound of Michel’s howls and wove them into a shield around his flesh. The nails no longer dug into him, but Michel’s emotional pain still hurt. So he gently nudged the former human’s mind.
Be calm, Michel. There is no pain. There is only sleep.
Michel slumped to the floor and lay still.