The Strigoi Chronicles Box Set

by Nya

  Husking, “Do you miss it?” he laved the spot where the Prince Albert piercing, my homing beacon, had once adorned my manhood, my pride, my only joy.

  Tense and shuttered against watching him prod and score my languid flesh until rivulets of blood tickled the valley between my thighs, I fought against my body’s betrayal but the assassin stroked with such violence that pain nearly overcame resolve. Nearly.

  To distract him, I choked out, “Tie me,” and clutched the brass rails, breathing in shallow drafts, just enough to satisfy my demon, creating an illusion of panting that my blond tormentor found exciting.

  “You want me to hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded yes and watched him secure my damaged wrists with harsh metal cuffs, small enough to bite through the skin if I moved too quickly. The giant straddled me, massive thighs cradling my head, his cock enticingly within reach. Leaning forward, jerking hard against the restraints, I felt the first tick of gratification as skin abraded and my mouth encased his rigid length.

  He twined his hands with mine in a lover’s grip, anchoring me, protecting me, pummeling my mouth, my throat with his hard shaft. Grunting and moaning with every thrust, his obvious pleasure, as fangs scraped silken flesh, was an unwelcome reminder of where I had taken him on that long ago erotic journey into acquiescence and obsession.

  In that cabin, high in the mountains, I’d sacrificed my unspoken vow of fidelity to Fane on the altar of expediency, binding the assassin to me in a tangled web of loyalties that defied understanding. And I had paid the price, over and over and over again.

  But there was no longer an excuse to deny my assassin’s completion. Fane was gone, the man I’d once been vanquished by my own hand. I could selfishly withhold my favors, or I could grant a boon. The first would further attenuate my spirit; the other might be a step toward salvation or purgatory, that road forked with each path leading to the same destination: sins of commission, sins of omission.

  Jefrumael paused, thighs quivering and groin tightening toward release, waiting … head bowed in silent supplication. Our eyes met and I blinked my agreement as my fangs pierced skin over steel, sucking hard until semen and succulent blood gushed in a flood of rapture I would have resented if I had cared.

  As always, I withheld the endorphins, letting him feel the full force of exquisite suffering before the ultimate pleasure, the yin and yang of orgasm as warfare.

  Still on his knees, his body undulating in wavelike spasms, he managed to release my wrists before collapsing along the length of my body. He reached down and pulled the duvet over the top of us, nesting me into his sweaty embrace, the aroma of musk and cinnamon and sex nearly enough to arouse my flaccid cock.

  Stroking my hair, Jef murmured sweet nothings, those little trills of endearments that lovers exchange when sated and ready for sleep. I kissed him, exploring with tongue and fang, mindful that he was easily aroused yet not caring. Pleasuring him was a small reward in return for warmth and the deceit of caring.

  He murmured, “I love you,” and nuzzled the artery roping taut under the onslaught of his determined tongue.

  I stopped myself answering just in time, for truth hurts and to admit to that vulnerability was too dangerous. For both of us.

  But the assassin was nothing if not persistent. He asked, in a voice that commanded my attention, “Do you love me?” with an emphasis on me that was confusing and disquieting.

  I countered with, “No,” but it lacked commitment, even I could hear that.

  What did I feel about the blond giant who was my sire’s right hand man and his murder-on-command assassin? If I admitted to caring, then my disjointed notions about pleasure would slip from the impersonal pedestal on which I sequestered all emotion.

  After the brigands invaded my sanctuary and threw my world into chaos, I’d learned to seek pleasure through pain for only pain brought the senses to full alert, challenging nerves strung tight as they ratcheted out of control. Approach and retreat warred for supremacy until the final release: a brief flare as the body swooned in pathetic submission, pumping out cum and the illusion of power and dominance in a never-ending spiral of addiction and affliction.

  Before the wolves, I’d been a self-indulgent cleric, idling away the centuries with harmless pursuits of the flesh. Fane had changed all that. He’d poked the hornet’s nest, awakening a man whose interests had centered on nothing but his cock, a puerile boy forever locked in a grown man’s body. A man without a lineage, a man without a surname. A bâtard of the first order.

  Fane had created a monster, releasing the addict and holding out love as the final fix, the ultimate high. I had no way then of asking him why, our differences too profound. With him gone now, the why seemed superfluous, though the question still insinuated every fiber of my being.

  My half-demon accepted power and control, for himself and from others, but the Vampyr yearned for simplicity and peace and solitude. Neither would win out until I reacquired a sense of purpose.

  Jefrumael gently pried my lips apart, exploring with teeth and tongue, seeking a different answer to his question. The no vibrated between us as he maneuvered me into position to receive his cock, easily breaking through my hesitation until he filled me with the force of his presence, owning me as not even my beloved Fane had.

  This demon understood the whore that was his bitch, using long, slow strokes to set resistance aside. The torture that was denial ripped up and down my spine until he enraptured my tongue with the first luscious drops of crimson beading on his wrist. Pressing flesh to lips he paid obeisance to the sanctity of our union with an offering the Vampyr refused to ignore.

  My ears deadened to his scream of agony as fangs rendered flesh into bloody chunks of meat and I suckled in ecstasy while my inner demon cringed in abject terror at the abomination.

  Releasing his arm, I surrendered to the violence of his rutting and tumultuous climax, spilling my own seed and my shame with tears of joy.

  Once more he asked, his voice a croaking gasp, “Do you love me?”

  No. I can’t. I won’t.

  With a final caress he withdrew and crooned in my ear, the words filtered through a haze of wanton submission, “You will, Dreu, that I promise.”

  Be careful what you ask for, Jefrumael. Loving me will come with a price.

  Karma is a bitch. And dogma is her handmaiden.

  Chapter Ten

  My assassin chuckled deep in his throat. “You’re a slippery devil.”

  “And you are slow.”

  “I was tied up.”

  Snickering, “That’s an excuse,” I reveled in the easy companionship, my heart lightening as we traded quips and insults.

  Jef drew me into the shelter of his arms, cradling me against the weak morning light. I didn’t need the shadow he threw but the thought, the urge to succor and protect and coddle, was appreciated, more than I could ever admit.

  I scanned the shambles that was my suite and sighed. “Is it my turn or yours?” Neither of us minded turning the bedroom into a war zone, but we both erred on the side of being compulsive neat freaks. The loser in the encounter earned clean-up duties.

  Jef answered, “I think that was a draw. Let’s both do it.”

  Nodding assent, I pointed an accusatory finger. “You broke the bed.”

  “Shit. Sorry about that.”

  He didn’t look sorry. Instead he carried an air of pride that his skinny fuck buddy could be strong enough to heave him halfway across the room onto the four-poster. He’d been surprised. I’d been shocked stupid.

  Pulling up a little braggadocio, I sneered, “That’s what happens when you mess with a vamp.”

  He brushed a finger across my lips and grinned. “I like messing with—”

  A knock on the door startled both of us. We’d been undisturbed for days, the entire dacha devoid of staff, leaving us in blissful seclusion.

  Annoyed I yelled, “What?” but avoided going to the door. Whoever was on the other s
ide might not appreciate our state of bloodied undress, nor did I want anyone to witness my poor housekeeping skills.

  Jef, on the other hand, had no such qualms. He yanked the door open but blocked access with his huge frame. He had a few words with the minion, then said, “We’ll be there shortly,” and firmly shut the door in the messenger’s face.

  Curious, I asked, “What’s that about?”

  “His Majesty requests an audience.” He had an odd look on his face.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  I waited for an explanation but my lover stalked to the closet and rummaged about for something to wear. Most of our tee-shirts had ended up as bandages or tourniquets or bondage toys, leaving mostly formal wear and the odd pair of jeans.

  He handed me a form-fitting light grey Dolce&Gabbana silk blend suit, then pawed through the hangers muttering, “No, no…” until he found a pin-striped shirt meeting with his approval. A narrow plain navy blue silk tie followed.

  “Uh, Jef?” He ignored me.

  Being pimped out in interview clothes made me nervous, especially since I was singled out for that particular honor. Jef gathered up his leather kick ass assassin garb and headed out the door. I followed, still hoping for enlightenment.

  Instead, the demon assassin said, “I’m getting a shower. I suggest you do the same.” He disappeared down the hall into the guest suite, leaving me with an armful of expensive menswear and unanswered questions.

  When Jef returned, I was still struggling with the tie.

  “Come here, let me do that.” He spun me around and quickly knotted the blasted noose into a half-Windsor that pinched my Adam’s apple, then adjusted the shirt collar to fit neatly over the material.

  I grumbled, “I feel like I’m being trussed for an execution.” I hated ties.

  Jef said enigmatically, “Not yours,” and took my elbow to guide me toward the stairs leading to one of the parking structures.

  Inside the garage, he keyed open a sleek Marussia B2, a concept luxury vehicle that was my sire’s pride and joy. Michel du Velours had been tickled pink to score one of the few test vehicles available.

  Jef adjusted the seat to accommodate his six-eight height. It was a tight fit but he didn’t seem to mind. He and my sire were automotive junkies of the first rank.

  I reminded my chauffeur, “If we’re going through a portal, I’m gonna need a towel.” Or two or three. If I’d been squirrelly about the monkey suit before, the prospect of soiling a two thousand Euro semi-custom silk blend drained what little confidence I had left.

  “No.”

  “Uh, no towel? Or no portal?”

  Jef’s face finally cracked with a marginal uptilt to his full lips. He replied to my questions with, “Neither,” turning to pat my thigh. “It’s okay. You’ll see.” I don’t think he believed that for a minute.

  Driving with casual disregard for oncoming traffic and the steep drop on my side of the road, Jef put pedal to the metal and made good on his ‘we’ll be right there’ assurance to the minion. We plummeted down a series of switchbacks and hurtled through a picturesque town, eventually rising again toward a villa hugging the cliff. Like the dacha, it was brilliant white and starkly modern, the message of conspicuous consumption nicely understated.

  It was also several thousand square feet larger than my humble abode.

  Odd, that. When did the dacha become home?

  As if sensing my thoughts, Jef said, “I like ours better,” and squeezed my hand.

  My man had gone tender for a fleeting moment. It was enough. From this point forward, he was Michel du Velours’ right hand and my body guard. To the outside world of demon and human we would maintain our distance.

  What we did in the privacy of our home was no one’s business but ours.

  Jef held the door, allowing me to go first. That told me we’d entered a safe zone, yet he hovered close, ever protective.

  I muttered, sotto voce, “Is there danger?” to which he replied, “Just keep your eyes open.”

  We entered a largish conference room with a dais and several leather recliners scattered about the space. A credenza with decanters and tumblers occupied a far wall. Minions quietly moved a long conference table toward the center of the room and arranged seating for twelve.

  I looked around the room and then at Jef and asked, “Is this for the Council?” to which he simply nodded yes and directed me to the man in Armani.

  My father wore an impeccably tailored three piece in a dark gray, his silk to my blend, the shirt a muted albicocca pallido tone with a matching tie in subtle variations on shades of apricot. He was dark to my light, dapper to my sober. An interesting contrast of father and son.

  Like my hair, his was on the longish side, fashionably unruly with the high widow’s peak more pronounced this day. As usual he wore his signature Porta Romana aviator sunglasses, masking eyes famous for their flat pewter glare. If and when he took the shades off, the room would clear in ten seconds flat. No one but no one wanted to be the recipient of his undivided interest.

  He greeted me formally, “Tu as l'air bien, mon fils.”

  “Merci. I feel much better now.” No thanks to you, daddy dearest. I still harbored some ill will toward the man who’d manipulated me into yet another mass murder, masking the real intent of our walk on the wild side with lies and misdirection.

  I kept forgetting: demon is as demon does. And Pops was the penultimate specimen in a dimension crawling with wannabes and sycophants.

  My old man nodded to Jef to do a sweep of the room, leaving the two of us in an awkward silence.

  I blinked first. “What’s this about?” I was about to say ‘Dad’ but choked that back. I wasn’t quite ready to resume the tenuous bond of blood after what he’d put me through at the casino.

  To my surprise, he answered my question.

  “I called a meeting of the Council. We have, um, certain matters to discuss.”

  “Is it a dog and pony show?”

  He looked confused at that term so I explained and finished with the real question, “Why am I here?” Dressed to kill…

  Crap. I had a bad feeling about this.

  Before he could explain, the Council members shuffled in, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. It wasn’t unusual for Pops to call a meeting, but it was unheard of to pull his liege-lords from their respective dimensions topside. Not one looked comfortable with the situation.

  Not that I blamed them. Mine Père had one or more traitors in his midst which was business as usual. Except this time, there was a missing nuke and well-armed humans invading our sacred spaces. His most royal had also lost a good friend, and those had to be a scarce commodity indeed in his world. That alone would make a demon lord antsy.

  All of this, of course, would be an open secret and each of the lords would have factored in any number of extenuating circumstances to explain why this isn’t the demon you’re looking for, Sire.

  Michel, on the other hand, looked positively relaxed and smug with that ‘I know something you don’t’ air that had me wishing I could curl up in Jefrumael’s arms and apparate to another planet.

  Their Lord’s demeanor did not go unnoticed. That left shifting bodies and grateful acceptance of chilled water in cut glass tumblers as the minions made quick work of seeing to their charges’ needs.

  Pops cleared the room of worker bees with a nod and bid Jef to stand next to him at the head of the table. I was not a formal Council member so I occupied pride of place behind and to Dad’s left, perched tentatively on one of the leather seats. Going for the relaxed heir apparent persona, I played my part as best I could.

  Jef hovered in a protective stance. To my knowledge, he was the only one in the room armed to the teeth. Somehow that did not make me feel better.

  What I did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was if anything happened to Jefrumael, I was unleashing the powers of Hel, even if I had to break my own wrist to activate armageddon.

  An uneasy silen
ce settled over the assembly until the click of the door opening had every head swiveling to the rear of the room. Rafe entered first, followed by a human. And not just any human. This was the one I’d sacrificed my left wrist for, the one who allegedly assassinated Michel du Velours’ best friend, Constantin.

  “Son, if you don’t mind, would you take your place…” and he pointed to the dais, then turned to Rafe and instructed, “Doctor, please seat our guest, if you would?”

  It was a lot like being in a sensory deprivation chamber, like my sojourn in stasis during the weapons’ heist. The silence was deafening. Rafe took up position behind the leather seat. Along with the usual katanas the man favored, he sported what looked like a syringe gun in a special holder on his belt.

  The guest was clearly under the influence, his eyes vacant and mouth slightly open, the facial muscles flaccid and wearing an unflattering shade of scared shitless. He moved in a Simon says way, awkward and reactive. Once settled in my chair, Dad pressed a button under the table, one I could see from my vantage point, and a subtle click alerted me to the fact that he’d just hermetically sealed us into this room.

  The others probably wouldn’t know that but my vamp hearing relayed the characteristic sigh. Some of us were not leaving this room alive.

  Michel made himself comfortable, took a sip of water and said, “Son, if you would please review events, starting with the assault on our dacha in Romania.” He managed to place emphasis on the ‘son’ and I wasn’t the only one squirming because of it.

  However, I was on solid ground with this assignment and made quick work of summarizing everything I knew and observed right up to the rapid egress from the casino’s third floor window. At that point I hesitated, not sure if I should let that cat out of the bag.

  My liege-lord said in a voice that was smooth, smarmy and dangerous, “I’m sure the Council would be interested in the details.” He glanced at Rafe and asked, “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”