His attention drifted to the tap. Sanguiners sometimes used spigots like those on nibari and others who were to be drained a bit at a time. Sometimes they went so far as to implant them into a nibari's or prisoner's neck, chain them onto a draining rack, and take just enough at a time to make their more celebrated blends. A good sanguiner was worth his weight in gold.
Malthus wished he were back at his mansion discussing blends with his sanguiner. He missed those luxuries. He hadn't accepted an assignment of this length in several years. The sa'necari shook himself free of his musings, and sketched a spell on two of the tankards. He had not yet dared to take a male the way he had the females. The relative isolation of the camp compound had allowed him to restrict the contact the females here had with the village. Most lycans cared nothing about the humans and sa'necari here. Certainly no one would look close enough to investigate any changes in their behaviors. It was the changes that implanting sways, triggers, coercions, and outright compulsions wrought in myn's outward behavior that tended to alert others to sa'necari and vampiric tampering with a victim's mind.
So he used subtlety with Shalto and Oswyl, enhancing their suggestibility in his presence, relying on his charismatic talents to subvert the village's male youth. He had built a following without resorting to heavy-handed methods. Malthus offered them what they wanted: females, liquor, and a feeling of superiority over the rest of the villagers. Some of them he influenced, and others he owned through insinuations of power so subtle they did not realize he had touched them, and a few he held in his pockets for money and favors. Regardless of the methods, they all belonged to him. Shalto, Oswyl, Preece, Rheu, and Yren formed the core of Malthus' gang, while the other eleven who worked at the Sanctuary spun like moons around their planets and all of them circled Malthus' star.
He was using a similar, but different, method to start his subversion of Claw's guardsmyn and family. Gorgarty Burr had been delighted to learn how accessible the 'sluts' at the camp were and he showed up at every opportunity.
Malthus emerged from the house and handed the tankards around.
Shalto sat with his elbows propped on the table, his expression more thoughtful than usual. He took a drink. "So you said eleven? That's seven more than you got full-in-the-belly."
Malthus smirked. "As much time as you and the others spend stabbing their tails, what did you expect? You're young, strong, and potent."
"Yeah, we are," said Oswyl. "But what if more than one of those high aprons is from the same wolf? That would get us in a lot of trouble."
Shalto shrugged. "It isn't just the Lycamornots using them either. We tried to keep it small this time, not like with Beth, but each of us has a couple of friends we let use those bitches in exchange for favors and such."
Malthus' small, viperous smile played across his features. He pulled at his long, thin mustaches and scratched around his oak leaf beard. "I already knew that, but I appreciate your admitting it. We'll discuss it when the others get here. I have an answer for everything. I don't wish to be caught any more than you do."
Shalto's expression turned grim. "Claw would eat your heart, if he knew you'd been cheating on Merissa like this."
"I know." Malthus gave a grim bark of laughter. "Where I come from it's considered a male's right to have as many mistresses as he wants. My father had seven. All at the same time."
Shalto grinned. "He must have kept his wick wet more often than not."
"Huh. Matter of fact, my friend, he did. And, like you, he was a strong and potent mon." Malthus did not add that most of the time his father had kept his cock shoved into dying bodies as he rited captives, rivals, and nibari. Lord Feodras Iagaris had had a powerful legacy created by generations of sons riting their fathers when the parent grew too old or became too injured to survive. Malthus had not waited for Feodras to grow old: he had rited his father out of hate.
Preece sauntered in with Nesswen at his heels. Nesswen, a shaggy young blond, had watery blue eyes, and an overbite. Malthus fetched mead for them and repeated his patterns with the spells. When he emerged with the tankards, he saw that Yren had arrived with Rheu and Torquil. Rheu was the smallest and youngest at fourteen, while Torquil was the largest member, a huge strapping smith's apprentice. They were all good with the long knives that rode at their hips, but only Torquil could claim a moderate expertise with swords and axes. They wore simple wool drawstring pants, and knee length robes that wrapped loosely around their upper bodies in a variation of the traditional lycan garb that allowed them to switch freely into their powerful hybrid forms.
Malthus had no intention of allowing them to know that he was sa'necari, and that every single female in the refugee camp had been made subject to his will, with his spells knotted into their minds. There were now sixty-one myn living here in the camp, twenty-one of them adult females. His taste did not run to true humans, so he had only slept with the five sa'necari and Clodagh.
"Some of them don't want to come outside anymore," Shalto said.
Oswyl nodded a quick agreement. "They don't want Pandeena and that new lawgiver to see their bellies."
"Sooner or later." Preece let his gaze slide across every face. He had the jaded air of a stone-cold killer, which was why no one ever crossed him at the camp. Preece had made no secret, among his companions, that he had been the one who put a knife in Kynyr Maguire's back during last summer's riot simply because he had always wanted to kill a guardsmon. "They're going to get noticed."
"And then we're all in trouble," Torquil said.
"That's not right," Yren protested. "We shouldn't get into trouble over a bunch of sluts."
Malthus sucked his cheeks in with a sly glance to the side, his head lowered. "But that's exactly what will happen. Remember what Pandeena said. She's going to blame us for whatever happens with these women."
"Hsaaah," Shalto growled. "I didn't do anything to her and she busted me up."
"She's pretty," Torquil said. "But the only way we'd get a stick up her would be to tie her down."
"She's a vicious trolleymog," Oswyl muttered, staring into his tankard. He had not yet raised his head once.
"My point, Oswyl," Malthus said, his tone smooth, with a faint undercurrent of amusement. Then he straightened and met each eye in turn. "They'll Read the females, and then punish us all. The females will complain to make themselves look innocent. They'll tell on all of us."
"We can't let that happen," said Shalto.
Malthus took a long, considering drink from his tankard, and then sat it down with a thump for emphasis. "I have a solution. We need to move the pregnant ones to where they can't be found, along with their children. And I've found the perfect place for them."
"Where?" Shalto asked.
"My mother's manor."
"Your mother's got a manor?" Shalto asked in surprise.
"I thought all your family were dead," Torquil said.
Malthus turned to Torquil. "All my sa'necari family, all those on my father's side except my nieces, are dead. The human side of my family appears to have found safety in a distant valley. My human mother has agreed to take the pregnant ones and their children in. Once they're gone from here, we should all be safe from the lawgiver and the priest again."
"What about the other females?" Yren asked. "Sooner or later aren't they all going to get full in the belly and we'll have to do this all over again?"
"My mother is a bio-alchemist, when we deliver these to her, she'll give me some potions to sterilize the others."
Torquil whistled. "You think of everything."
"I would never have survived this long if I didn't," Malthus said. "I rode to Ocealay alone when I was your age, Torquil. I proved myself among the kandoyarin there."
"So we'll still get to wet our sticks," grinned Rheu.
"Wear masks to this meeting," Malthus told them. "My friends and I will be doing so also."
Oswyl finally raised his head from his tankard with a suspicious expression. "Masks? Why?"
"Safer t
hat way," Malthus replied. "If no one sees your face, they can't say who you are. Animal masks. I have a lot to teach you. Next time I go hunting I'll meet with my mother's friend and set up the meeting."
* * * *
Unseen by all of them, one of the largest wolves currently in the village slunk away into the shadows. He had not been able to get close enough to catch more than fragments and had little idea what they were talking about beyond the suspicion that they might be sleeping with some of the women in the camp. He bolted across the forest, taking a roundabout path to Pandeena's apartment. He would have a look at some of these females tomorrow, maybe find an excuse for Pandeena and himself to go door to door and check on all of them.
Caimbeul's conversation with Kynyr a few days ago had convinced him that the Sanctuary was the best place to begin his investigation of Malthus in earnest. Everything else the taverns and other gathering places had failed to pan out. He needed to explore other possibilities, and considering what had happened to Nikko, following Malthus on his hunting trips did not seem wise.
As he rounded the edge of the compound, Caimbeul saw several young lycans traveling stealthily over the grounds, moving from shadow to shadow until they drew near to various houses. He faded back to watch and listen.
They knocked at doors and were greeted by the females there.
"A friend told me you could see to my needs," one of the young males said.
"I'm available, but I have company coming," the female, a human, answered and let the young wolf inside, closing the door.
Caimbeul's ears perked forward and he laid his head on his paws as he heard those phrases repeated with little or no variation at every door that opened. This required further investigation. Pandeena would probably call him an old lecher again for thinking this, but he suspected the females were being used sexually. He dashed to another spot, closer to one of the houses and pressed himself against a row of rain barrels.
Some of the females saw three or four young males that night. This did not look good. Caimbeul withdrew cautiously and returned to the Lawgiver House. If he could connect Malthus to what was occurring at the camp or connect him to Baroucha, Caimbeul would have an excuse to arrest Malthus.
* * * *
The principal barn at the manor contained over three hundred stalls just for the horses that were kept there as ready mounts and two hundred of them were continuously occupied by the mounts of Claw's guardsmyn. The huge building was wrought of the same blue and yellow veined stone as the manor, with a shingled roof and it sprawled across the western edge of the courtyard. Behind it to the north, lay six other barns, none of them nearly as large as that one. The interior was partitioned into four aisles; the tack was hung around the stalls to make saddling up in an emergency faster. The bales of hay and other necessities that made maintaining the stables easier were kept at the west and eastern sides of the building in a succession of storerooms.
Georgie Rogan, Claw's head hostler, had quickly discovered that there was not a horse born that Cooley could not ride. Even the meanest and worse-tempered of the war-trained mounts and the most skittish of Claw's racing stock gentled in response to Cooley. So Georgie had made exercising the horses the cub's main task.
Although no one said anything to outsiders, the myn who worked in the barns and stables had already begun to speculate about Cooley's parentage. Only one man in Claw's service had ever had that knack for horses, and that riding style: Cullen Blackwood.
Lunch time, as soon as the grooms and hostlers gathered, Georgie would open the storeroom where he kept the kegs of mead that Claw allowed them in their rations each month, and tankards were passed out.
Georgie sat on a crate and leaned his back to a wall as Elwiss Taylor began describing, with relish, a tavern wench's reaction when he flashed his bone at her. They had all heard it before. Elwiss' accounts of his sexual exploits were mostly lies and exaggerations and they all knew it.
"Just because you're a big dog, don't mean you got more'n two fingers worth of cock."
All eyes turned and they saw Cooley standing nearby with the reins of Kynyr's Bucky in his small hands.
They all laughed at him and Elwiss glared. "What would a little mouse of a cub know about those things? Get off before I teach you manners."
Elwiss' tone of voice rankled Cooley, and despite the frequent admonitions from Todd and Kynyr, Cooley spit back before stopping to think. "My ma ran a whorehouse. I ought ta know."
"Tell me about your mother," said a new voice.
Cooley looked over his shoulder, and swallowed: Malthus stood staring at him.
Georgie Rogan saw Cooley turn pale and start shaking. He had no idea what it was about Malthus that frightened Cooley, and he did not care; Georgie started to warn Malthus off when he saw how Bucky had laid his ears back, and held a hind leg poised to kick. He lowered his head and exchanged a discreet glance with his buddies.
"I think ya oughtta back up nice and easy, Malthus."
"Stay out of it, Georgie." Malthus sneered at the hostler.
Georgie shrugged and thumbed at Bucky. "I will. He won't."
Malthus' gaze followed the direction of Georgie's pointing thumb and had just enough time to throw himself sideways as Bucky let fly with his hooves. He hit the ground, rolled and got to his feet, brushing bits of hay and dirt from his tunic.
The grooms burst out laughing.
Cooley threw himself onto Bucky's back. Before Cooley could get straight in the saddle, or get a decent grip on the reins, Bucky took the bit between his teeth and sprang to the side, gathering speed with every stride, until he was racing along at a full gallop. The horse's pace was nowhere near as fast as Larkspur or Glorygirl's, yet the warhorse thundered along as if Bucky could sense Cooley's need to be away from Malthus. The horse did not slow down until they reached the edge of the village. Bucky kept the bit in his teeth, resisting all of Cooley's attempts to turn him about until the horse came to a stop in front of Cahira's shop.
"Old son of a toad" Cooley giggled, patting Bucky's neck.
* * * *
Preece Malloy sweated in the sun, coated in dirt and grime as his shovel bit into the ground. Two lines of White Fire had made the task of digging Ramsey Fitzgerald's grave less onerous. As his shovel threw the dirt from the grave, Shalto and Oswyl moved it to a large pile to the side of the grave. All three of them were high. Preece listened to his companions laughing and cracking jokes with an edge of irritation. Those two did not know how to ride the drug. The zealously guarded pound of White Fire had become Preece's best bribe when he wanted help with something. In this case, the grave Pandeena had ordered Preece to dig.
He glanced at the measuring stick leaning in a corner of the grave. Two more feet to go before he was off the hook.
"Hey, Preece! The beer is here!" Nesswen settled his wheelbarrow near the dirt pile. A hogshead of beer rested in the wheelbarrow.
Preece flung his shovel down, grasped the edge of the grave, and heaved himself out, landing on his stomach. He pushed off the ground and got his feet under him, brushing his hands on his pants legs.
The entire work crew for the camp lounged around the cemetery with eager faces. Counting Preece, there were fifteen wolves; of which, Preece was the oldest.
Yren put a crate of tankards beside the wheelbarrow, grabbed a tankard, and claimed the first drink.
Preece eyed the beer, shook his head, and pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket. In one compartment was a square of metal polished to the brightness of a mirror and his little silvery tube. The other compartment held a quantity of White Fire. He laid out lines and the others gathered around him.
"You gonna share, Preece?" Nesswen blinked his watery blue eyes, a hopeful smile displaying his big front teeth and overbite.
Preece slid his gaze across the young wolves encircling him. "Maybe." He passed the tube to Nesswen. "You brought the beer."
Nesswen accepted the tube with a triumphant grin and snorted a line. He returned the
tube to Preece as pleasure suffused his face and heightened the color in his cheeks.
Yren stepped closer, his head tilted and considering. "I brought the tankards. Don't that count?"
"Sure does." Preece let Yren do a line of White Fire.
"What about the rest of us?" A lean wolf edged between Yren and Nesswen.
"The grave's only half dug"
Soon he had more help than he needed. Preece put the drugs away and sauntered over to a broad oak, where he settled cross-legged with his back to the trunk. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander, fantasizing that it was Maguire getting dumped into that pit, rather than Ramsey.
* * * *
Malthus waited until the household slept. Then he crept along the hallway to Darmyk's room. Yesterday he had forbidden the child to sleep with his cat. Kenly made Malthus uneasy, despite its being only half grown. An adult maned hunting cat could weigh over three hundred pounds a formidable opponent.
With Kynyr out of his reach for the time being, Malthus decided to make his first moves against the son of the mon who had killed his brother. Isranon would pay in grief for killing Troyes when Malthus sent him the pieces of his mutilated offspring.
The little boy slept with his arm around a stuffed cat similar to his beloved Kenly, but smaller. The full moon filtered its light between the trees growing close to the window and cast a silver glow on Darmyk's face. Malthus opened the child's sleep shirt, pausing twice when Darmyk stirred in reaction to the tickling touch of his stepfather's fingers. Malthus smiled broadly and his fangs descended. He bent to sink them into Darmyk's neck.
The sound of splintering glass caused Malthus' head to jerk up. Kenly bounded across the bed and straddled Darmyk, hissing at Malthus.
The cat must have been inside Darmyk's treehouse that Claw had built in the huge chestnut tree just outside Darmyk's window. Although Darmyk would not be three years old until mid-winter, his physical coordination was that of a six or seven year old human, so the treehouse had been an appropriate gift from his doting grandfather. However, facing off against Kenly, who had just used the treehouse to access Darmyk's bedroom, made Malthus wish it had never been built.
Janrae Frank - [Lycan Blood 02] - Fireborn Law Page 24
