by Julia Mills
“Tis’, but noo tis mah turn tae hide.”
“An' soo ye will wee lad.”
But he never got to as the blast of the battle horn ripped through the air and Bastien, along with Alaric’s father and the other warriors, donned their shields and swords and rode off into battle. Running as fast as he could, a young Alaric followed the men of Monadh Criobhe until he could no longer see the tails of their thoroughbreds through the early morning mist blanketing the moors.
Sitting on a stump at the far end of the MacLauren Clan lands until the sun disappeared behind the rolling hills and the air turn bitterly cold, he trudged back to the main house, shuffling in through the kitchen door and dropping onto the stone hearth in front of the fire. “Whaur hae ye bin, Alaric, mah booy? Ah was wooried sick.”
“Ah were…”
The rest of his words were lost in the swirling as many lifetimes of memories raced towards yet another recollection. Stopping so abruptly, his hand slapped upon the thick glass as visions of a battle he’d hoped to never again witness glared at him like a specter from the deepest, darkest recesses of Hell itself.
Blocking his enemies’ repeated attempts to take his life with his short blade, Alaric struck down all comers, his broadsword perilously gripped in his other hand. Stepping over dead bodies, casualties on both sides, he battled the heathens who five years earlier had taken his father from those who needed him most.
Fighting to protect the land belonging to their Clans and Tribes from the warmongering Romans, Alaric and his men engaged with not only other Celtic but also Germanic tribes from Cimbri and Teutones to protect their strongholds on the Jutland Peninsula. Trying to fill his father’s shoes, he fought for his people, but also to avenge the death of the greatest leader the Celts had ever had by slaying Onitus, the Roman General whose blade had ended Iain MacLauren’s life.
Looking over the shoulder of the man whose head he’d just removed, Alaric saw the pompous Leader of the Roman troops, sitting atop his stallion, smiling at the carnage, smirking at the men lost in the name of their Ruler, Gaius Marius. A red hue fell over Alaric’s vision. Stone-cold rage filled his body. Racing towards the General, jumping over the lifeless corpses of the men he’d grown up alongside, learned from, thought of as kin, he focused only on the man responsible for his tremendous loss.
Closer and closer he sped, his eyes connecting with Onitus’. Vengeance, the fiery, undeniable sister of Revenge raced through his veins. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, “Whit’s for ye’ll no go by ye. Fight fur bluid. Fight fur reit. Fight til death.”
Raising his broadsword, slashing with deadly accuracy, his blow sadly missed its mark as pain shot from high under his right arm, setting fire to every nerve ending as it raced through his body. Falling to his knees, an enemy’s blade lodged in his side, nearly piercing his heart. Alaric watched helplessly as Onitus rode forward, extended his right foot and with a swift kick to Alaric’s head, laughed, “Today you die and the MacLauren Clan with you. You are Hell’s fodder now.”
Gasping, blood bubbling up his throat and filling his mouth before flowing freely over his lips and down his chin, Alaric struggled to move, to get to his feet, to avenge his father’s death, to somehow save the day, but it was not to be. On this occasion, Onitus had been the victor. Alaric would die on the battlefield along with his men, his father’s memory and all Iain had done for their people evaporating into the ether.
Long, treacherous hours later, the death rattle slowly vibrating deep within his chest the only sound he could hear in the dark, desolate corpse-filled meadow, Alaric gasped as the sounds of horse hooves invaded the last moments of his life on Earth. The footsteps that followed made his dying heart pause for several seconds before finally giving another sluggish beat.
Kneeling down, a dark-haired, fair-skinned man wearing the plaid of Clan MacAngoran from the Highlands, kin who had been wiped out by Gaius Marius’ army years before, asked, “Whit hae they done tae ye, Brither?
Unable to speak, trying with all his might to move away from the demon the devil had sent to taunt him in his last minutes, Alaric gurgled and spat, fresh blood rolling across his dry, chapped cheeks as he tried to roar at the ghost.
“Dinnae fear. Ah hae bin sent by yer seanmháthair. Th' mammy of yer maw felt yer need an' wants yoo ta’ live anew.”
The ding of the elevator jerked the ancient vampire from his memories as he downed what was left in the silver chalice and turned to stare at Ruari.
“Has the dress code become more, um…” he motioned up and down Alaric’s body with his index finger, “lax? Have you got the permits for complete nudity, Boss?”
“What do you need?” Alaric cut to the point, stepping forward and pouring more wine.
“You have a VIP waiting in your office.” Ruari’s voice was laced with tension and more than a bit of anger, something the ex-Commander kept well-hidden even in the worst of times.
“A guest?” Alaric handed his friend the bottle of wine and shoved a clean goblet across the highly polished, mirrored bar top. “You know I never make appointments during operating hours and most definitely never in the club.”
“Yes, and so does this person.” Ruari took a sip of Merlot, looking over the rim of his glass. “But then again, Clarence never was one to follow directions unless they were those of the Directive, and his newest protégée, Mateo, is no exception.” Continuing to stare, he inquired, “Something you want to tell me?”
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Alaric asked, ignoring his friend’s question, instead making a show of once again filling his goblet before returning to the window. Shoving the torment feeding on the anxiety that the name of the Directive’s new investigator added to his already chaotic emotions down as far as he could, Alaric summoned every ounce of his waning control.
Wasn’t it enough that he did everything possible to stay off the radar of the one organization in all the world that controlled Supers, the ancient Vampires that have lived among the humans for centuries, can pass for an ordinary person, and are well established both in business and society? Once would think, however, it was never the case. The Directive always had to poke and prod and try to dig up dirt on any and all Supers that they could. They loved playing judge, jury, and executioner. It was an aphrodisiac to them.
Living among the shadows, never revealing the location of their headquarters, enlisting the brightest, the best and the oldest among all Vampires to police everything supernatural, they were nothing if not diligent. The Directive was the worst kind of Internal Affairs and most assuredly the deadliest. But then again, he couldn’t argue with the need for some kind of policing authority, he just hated being the one who they were investigating.
There had been a time when a Coven or Clan could go out and kill a village or two before the sun came up with no repercussions for their actions. If Vampires wanted to be regarded as anything other than monsters, there had to be rules, and the Directive took pride in enforcing said guidelines.
“I have no idea. You know they regard me as your lapdog. The prick walked past Security, tapped me on the shoulder and with the same shit-eatin’ smirk he was sportin’ when we had the formal introduction a few months ago, said, ‘Tell your boss I’m here,’ then headed towards your office.”
The sound of the bottom of Ruari’s glass striking the bar’s wooden top was just a little too forceful. Alaric knew it was to get his attention, but he wasn’t into games, especially not with his hunger and sexual need rising exponentially with every beat of his heart. Leaving the view of his beautiful city behind, the ancient Vampire headed towards his bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “Tell Mateo I’ll be there in five. Let the bastard wait.”
“Aye, aye, Boss. Any other errands you need me to run? Your dry cleaning? Groceries? Want a mochacinno- kiss my ass -frappabeano?”
Usually, Alaric found their brotherly banter entertaining, but on this night, visions of reaching through the hardwood of the door and tearing out his longtime confida
nt’s heart flashed in his mind.
“Ya’ know we still have things to talk about,” Ruari grumbled. “Starting with your piss poor attitude and flaming trashcan bullshit from this morning. I’m not letting this shit go.”
Waiting until he could hear the young vampire get into the elevator and the door slide shut, Alaric whispered into the darkness, “Maybe Mateo’s here to take my head. The Directive wants to make a statement. Shows their power and his prowess by letting his first kill be an Ancient. Let the dickhead make his mark with an oldie but goodie.” Chuffing sarcastically as he crossed the room, opened his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans along with his favorite leather jacket, the ancient vampire added, “At least I’d finally have peace.”
Chapter Four
“How did Cecily pull off a private room and back of the house entry at the swankiest club in the DFW Metroplex?” Ashlynn whispered to Leslie as they, along with four other friends including the bride-to-be, filed through the back door of CRAVE. “I thought the people in line were gonna mob us when that huge bouncer got us out of the back of the line and marched up to the front.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ve got bodyguards,” Leslie chuckled, pointing to the two musclebound men waiting for them just inside the side entrance to the club.
Looking at two of the biggest men she’d ever seen in her life, Ashlynn thought they looked more like they were going to eat them instead of protect them. Trying to smile at the mountain of a man with tattoos covering his bald head, arms, and back of his hands, not to mention thick silver rings braided into the goatee that hung down to the middle of his massive chest, she ended up quickly looking away when he winked. Seven-foot giants who looked like they belonged to Hell’s Angels were not her idea of Security, and most definitely did not wink.
Stepping through the door, her eyes landed on the bald man’s cohort, and the idea of making a run for the taxi stand sounded like a true winner. Resembling a Viking with long blond waves that touched the tops of his shoulders, a jawline that would cut glass, bulging muscles, and wicked blue eyes, he was definitely handsome but had an air of danger that freaked Ashlynn out.
“Are you sure they’re not our captors,” she whispered, trying a joke to ease her tension.
“Very sure, Hun.” Leslie laid her hand over Ash’s on her shoulder. “Cecily’s fiancée may be a rich, privileged momma’s boy but he’s got friends in high places. These men come from none other than…” The slow, sensual beat of the music just on the other side of the wall reached a crescendo that drowned out what Leslie said next as they continued farther into the dimly lit club.
Figuring that Rodney, Cecily’s soon-to-be husband, wouldn’t let anything happen to his bride, Ash shrugged as the bald giant led them through a door and into what the glowing sign above the doorframe called ‘Silk Fantasies.’ It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the soft amber lighting, but when they did, she feared they would pop from her head.
Everywhere she looked there were couples doing what she could only imagine was dancing, their bodies intertwined in intensely intimate positions as they swayed to the slow, pulsing beat of ‘Cry Little Sister’ from The Lost Boys Soundtrack. She’d never thought of the song as erotic, but as her eyes stayed glued to the dancefloor her cheeks grew hot, and her hips moved in a lazy figure eight of their own volition.
Jumping as Leslie’s hand landed on her shoulder, Ash spun around, barely containing her squeal of surprise, as the other woman put her mouth next to Ash’s ear and said, “Come on. I don’t want you to wander off and get lost. Our room is down that hall.”
Pointing across the room into a corner hidden in shadows, Ash followed where Leslie led, glad to see the rest of their party waiting beside the two hulking men. Nodding to the others in the party and mouthing, “I’m sorry,” she stayed in step with the group as the music changed from slow and sensual to upbeat, popular tunes the farther they moved into the depths of the club.
Smiling as she immediately recognized Blondie’s Sunday Girl, Ash sang along wondering if Dr. Crane, one of her colleagues who liked music on in the operating room, would never guess that one of his favorite bands was being played at a place like CRAVE. “Not on your life,” she snickered under her breath. “He’s too preppy-New England-old-family-money for that.”
Thinking about telling him just to watch him squirm while he wondered how she’d gotten into the club, Ash nearly tripped over her own feet as their group came upon ten muscled hunks, lined up in a perfect row down one side of the narrow corridor. Their skin oiled to a high shine, each wearing some kind of leather straps across their shoulders and chests that made her think of gladiator-type gear, she made the mistake of looking down one man’s body.
Not only was his soft, black leather loincloth barely more than the size of a handkerchief, but the black G-string underneath barely contained his semi-erect penis. Popping her eyes to his face, blushing so intensely she knew she was glowing, Ash’s mouth went dry when the gorgeous man raised an eyebrow and suggested in a low, provocative tone, “Why don’t you meet me after the show? You’re the sweetest thing I’ve seen in ages. I’d lick you all over.”
Opening her mouth, unsure what to say, Ashlynn had never been so glad to see the giant with long blond hair. Ducking behind him, she hurried to catch up with her group as he warned, “This is a private party. Keep your eyes off the ladies and do your job, or I’ll have to have a word with Alaric.”
Happy to be away from all the action, Ashlynn’s heartbeat had just returned to normal when they entered what their bald escort called, ‘The Velvet Room.’ Not sure what to expect but ready for the first of what she was sure would be many drinks, she looked at the floor to ceiling crushed red velvet covering the walls and the black leather furniture and for the first time in her life decided – what the hell?
“How ya’ doin’, Kiddo?” Leslie came up beside her, shoving a Corona into her hand and grinning from ear-to-ear. “Can you believe this place?”
“Not even a little bit,” Ash sighed before taking a huge drink of her beer. “I’m guessing from what I saw and heard that ‘Silk Fantasies’ is the tamest room in the club?”
“Yes, that’s absolutely right,” the Viking grinned, sidling up to them and standing on Ash’s other side. “I’m Sampson, by the way.” Turning, he held out his free hand and added, “If anything that happens tonight makes you uncomfortable, all you have to do is give me the nod, and I’ll get you out of here, okay?”
Shaking his hand, Ash smiled, “I’m Ashlynn, but you can call me Ash, and this is Leslie. The blond with the tiara is Cecily, the bride-to-be and the woman next to her is her older sister, Audrey. I’m sure you can see the family resemblance.”
“Sure can.”
“The red-head is Karen, she’s a sorority sister of Cec’s and the one with short, dark hair is Melissa.” Ash leaned a bit closer. “The only one of us who’s married with kids, but still one of the old gang from high school.” She knew she was babbling on, giving way too much information, but that was what happened when she was nervous, and boy-oh-boy, was she ever nervous.
Looking back to Sampson, she asked, “What’s your friend’s name? Is he a vampire, too?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Gasping at her incredible faux pas, she stuttered, “O-oh m-my God. I-I’m so s-sorry. I-I’m such a-a…”
Laying his hand on her upper arm Sampson smiled sincerely as he reassured, “Please don’t worry about it. To be honest, it makes it easier when people just ask instead of pussy-footin’ around and trying to act like we’re not who we are.” He continued to gently squeeze her arm. “But I have to ask, how did you know? Usually takes people longer, especially with all that’s goin’ on in here.” He snickered. “Or they never say anything and just whisper behind our backs, which, we can hear anyway.” He tapped the lobe of his ear. “Super senses are part of the gig.”
Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Ashlynn contemplated whether she should tell Samps
on how she’d known or not. She and Leslie had agreed there would be absolutely no shop talk at the party. Ashlynn was supposed to be just a part of the gang, out having a good time, not worried about how many times a minute someone breathed or the color of the veins in their neck.
Dropping his hand and bumping her with his elbow, Sampson teased, “You’re not a secret agent for an undercover organization here to take out all vampires, are ya’?”
Laughing out loud, feeling herself relax, Ashlyn chuckled, “No, nothing that glamorous I’m afraid.” Deciding to fess up, she went on “I’m a cardiac surgeon. It’s my job to notice things other people either don’t see or don’t recognize for what they are.”
Narrowing his eyes and leaning his head down, the vampire asked in a hushed tone, “What did you see that gave me up?”
Pointing to the table in the corner, Ash suggested, “Why don’t we go over there where we can at least hear ourselves think?”
Looking at his friend and tapping his watch, Sampson quickly nodded, “Yeah, that’ll work. Axel says we have about twenty minutes until the first round of entertainment gets here.”
Rolling her eyes when his back was turned, Ashlynn couldn’t help but worry about the ‘type’ of entertainment that was on the way. Deciding not to worry about things she couldn’t control and enjoy talking to someone who was actually interested in what she did for a living and not the balance in her bank account, the young woman got up on a high back, leather stool and set her empty bottle on the table.
“You want another beer before you give me a class in spotting vamps?” Sampson chuckled.
“No, I’m good. Not really much of a drinker. Never was.”
“That’s better for you. I never did understand how people could get completely smashed night after night. Seems like such a waste of time.”
“Yeah, it sure does, and it never seems to lead to anything good.”
“You are so right, Doc,” Sampson readily agreed, going on to say, “So, spill. What gave me away?”
