The Strigoi Chronicles Box Set

by Nya

  The vehicle swayed and rocked as Jef dove down a steep incline leading to the flat calm sea and some kind of an alcove, spacious enough for parking at low tide, not that the concept of tidal variation had any currency with a body of water pretty much landlocked and relying on river discharge for significant changes in water level. A nice storm dropping centimeters of rain on the Danube, now that would make a difference.

  Jef was at my door, glaring. Usually it was a good look on him, but the sheen of sweat and sting of musk alerted me to an emotional rollercoaster threatening to unglam him into a robust, albeit terrifying promise of wish fulfillment.

  He said, “Get out.”

  “Sire.”

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to say…” but I never finished that thought because he had me on the bonnet of the Mercedes, de-jeaned and singeing the short and curlies on hot metal, without so much as a by-your-leave Demon son of Michel du Velours.

  “You task me…”

  I bit back the … and I shall have you … because maybe was turning into howls of yes yes yes yes, complete with both fists hammering the steaming metal as he pounded my qualms about finding my darling Fane into a distant memory.

  What I couldn’t bite back was a yowl of “Ow, fuck!” that had nothing to do with the delightful sensations of Jef’s phallus stroking my prostate into a state of nirvana and sublime bliss.

  Blanketing me with his huge body, he growled in my ear, “Now what?”

  “My willy.”

  Jef halted, stopped, slammed into wall of disbelief and said, “Your willy,” with a voice tottering on the edge of something unnerving. I could feel him swallow, his Adam’s apple wedged in the notch where my neck and shoulder merged.

  I whined, “The metal’s hot,” and for once I wasn’t making anything up. My private dick was sautéing nicely on the black grill as tall and horny had his way with me. And the edge of the wheel well wasn’t exactly baby bottom smooth, yielding a lube job of juices that ran crimson. The term fit. In any case, the love muscle was at medium rare, and knowing my demon’s propensity for endurance, the odds for well done, even crispy, were better than average.

  I also hastened to add, “And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s late afternoon and we’re in full sun.” The fact he sheltered me like a granite mountain was neither here nor there.

  Jef withdrew his favors, spun me around and parked my splinters on the hood of the vehicle. He purred, “Would you like me to kiss Willy and make it better?” then proceeded to sixty-nine me and him … teasing with a flick of a tail and talons maneuvering my jeans so they covered me from the knees down.

  Willy was happy, Dreu was ecstatic, and Jef humped my throat so hard I had to grapple with the fact I didn’t really need to breathe.

  As usual, I came first and my lover milked me dry, suckling on the tender appendage, obviously savoring the sweet saltiness as he prolonged the exquisite sensations tingling up my spine and parading clear to my toes.

  With my mouth still full, I slurred, “Sthup, pleath.”

  With a playful nip at the still engorged vein, he freed Willy and asked, “Now what,” and waited patiently while I un-tongued and un-teased master assassin weapon of mass delight to a point where I could explain.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry. Do you see any virgins, huh?” He flicked the golden curls in the direction of the sea as if they washed up on shore like nymphs.

  Actually, given the number of virgins Pops had managed to liquidate for my enjoyment, and also considering modern demographics and sexual mores, the sheer quantity available at any particular time indicated that the supply chain might involve a supernatural element I’d failed to consider.

  As he shifted to get a better look at me, I murmured, “I don’t want a virgin.”

  Again he swallowed, this time with eyes hooded, not making contact. He knew what I meant, he understood the consequences. And he got that I offered choices, and although sucking a pint off a ravaged wrist or a punctured throat would certainly do the job of filling Dreu’s hollow leg, it wasn’t the only option available. We’d agreed without talking about it not to go there, not until we’d … I’d … answered the question: Do you love me?

  I had a solution of sorts, and my Jef had agreed that there was only one way to sort it out: I, we, had to find Fane, get answers, dig up an errant nuke and make his most royal secure on his throne.

  Pops was looking to mainstream rights of succession with a little backup: Armageddon in a suitcase and Dreu du Velours as bellhop to the stars. Make that star. Singular.

  While I’d been pondering, Jef maneuvered my sorry, sunburnt flesh back in the front seat. The effort cost him about a nickel’s worth of interest, ten inches shrinking to nine, maybe nine and a half.

  He asked, “Are you sure,” but held out his wrist in case he’d misunderstood.

  Not bothering to reply, I coddled the sac and the piercings, allowing my tongue to tease up the risers of metal, flicking at the prominent vein as I bracketed the bluish bulge with my thumbs, seeking out a spot thin enough to cause the least pain. My assassin never allowed the endorphins to interfere with his pleasures.

  The frenum ladder and intricate mapping of barbells and thick metal rings marching up and down the engorged length teased against fangs aching to pierce flesh and muscle, to draw down until thick crimson mingled with an explosion of demon seed.

  He stood, solid, a massif of tawny flesh, arms bulging as he gripped the roof, eyes already shut tight against a rising tide of sensation, the anticipation almost better than the actual experience. Almost, but not quite.

  Surrendering to the Vampyr, I pulled hard, swallowing the length and succoring with vocals that resonated off metal, creating vibrations and harmonies that commingled with my demon’s sobs of agony and ecstasy. The testicles tightened and released as I orchestrated how and when, using my finger to trace a path to his anus, circling and pressing sensitive muscle until he bucked and keened his pleasure.

  With short, stabbing movements I guided him to the point of no return, feeling his balls constrict, his breath coming fast, shallow, head back, mouth in an ‘O’ of submission. Suckling and swallowing, I waited, feeling his belly constrict against my scalp, the hint of disappointment and dismay building.

  Waiting.

  “Please, Dreu…”

  Please please please.

  We made eye contact, Aegean storm greyed with flecks of adoration, promising, I’ll do anything you want, and I shriveled inside at that level of commitment, because I held his heart in a vice grip, still whole, still hopeful.

  What happened if the answer was no? What would I do when the time came? Did I have it in me to destroy him, to destroy us and unleash Hel on earth?

  Mine Papá had said, Take care with your loyalties, son. Not everyone is as he seems.

  Then the realization hit, hard: before love, there must be trust. So, did I trust my assassin?

  The answer to that was an unequivocal yes.

  The question then became, did I trust him enough?

  As sweet cum filled my cheeks and throat, as the soft moans and entreaties fell like silken reverence, I squeezed the last drops and bit down, releasing a gush of lava heat, coppery iron rich, thick, a soul-trapping indulgence of gluttony.

  Soft sobs rang true, the pain overshadowing my demon’s pleasure. I released the endorphins, bearing his silence and disbelief with my own brand of hedonistic bliss, knowing that what I’d done had sealed both our fates.

  I drank far past satiation, punishing both of us, until Jefrumael sank to his knees, pulling his phallus and his offering away. He lay his head in my lap and sobbed.

  Stroking his fine hair, I wondered at the cost of salvation. I’d gone beyond fingering beads and reciting boilerplate phrases, intoning incantations for penance and absolution. What cost for enslavement? What cost for bondage?

  I’d been worried about the small matter of love and the emotional
journey toward discovery. I’d wanted desperately to fill the cavity, to know that this fleeting spurt of sensation wasn’t all there was, a mindless physical act, repeated endlessly. In constant quest to elevate, to enhance, to achieve a high that transcended.

  Transcended what was the existential question for which I had no answers.

  Eventually my demon’s shoulders ceased shaking; the waterfall of grief and despair and joy had eased to a trickle. His lips and tongue caressed my phallus, not to arouse, not to titillate but as succor, wrapping his oral senses around the familiar.

  I whispered, “Do it,” and braced as succor became demands and my groin tightened and prepared. Clenching my hands on the seat, I arched into his mouth as he drew down, vicious and determined. When the first nick hit, I bit back the groan, as I did the second. On the third, he pierced deep and pulled hard, and I think I screamed.

  When I woke, I was still screaming…

  Chapter Two

  “Give him this.”

  What, give me what?

  “No, you can’t.”

  Jef?

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know what fucking form he’s taking, Rafe. And why the hell am I telling you this?” A long pause, the silence akin to a full-out assault on senses gone mad, or the beginning of an offensive to isolate what was left and stuff the lot into sensory deprivation, I wasn’t sure which. Then the unknown he, maybe Jefrumael, growled and spit in a language I understood at a visceral level and really, really oughtn’t… “You’re the damned medic, fix this, Rafe, or by all the Shades I will have you. Do I make myself clear?”

  The demon who might be Rafe sneered, “Crystal,” followed by muttering and then, “Himself isn’t going to be pleased about this delay, Archangel.”

  “Fuck Himself. I’m sick of his games.” More shuffling and pauses, heavy breathing, something invasive in an orifice I hadn’t considered pleasurable, then the gentle brush of breath over eyelids gone achingly dry. My eyelids, maybe, though dry and wet, alive or dead seemed like superfluous categories, little descriptors I’d employ later, when the ink on the epitaph glistened with the promise of becoming.

  “Is he always like that?”

  Like what, excuse me, mister … holy shit, what is that?

  My Jef echoed my thoughts with, “What the hell is that?”

  “A catheter.”

  Well, whoopti-do.

  “Uh, you need me for anything for a while, Doc?”

  “No, go on, I have this. It’s not his first rodeo with this condition.”

  Great, now I have a condition. Dreu, les invalide, the victim on a cold slab of granite…

  “I know you’re in there somewhere, asshat, so hold on, this will hurt like a sonofabitch.”

  Been there, done… Shit shit sh—

  “How’s he doing?” My assassin sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Better than earlier. And you can stop pretending, monk.” Rafe, at a guess.

  I cracked my eyes open just enough to see the good medic tut-tutting about blood splatter on his scrubs. Nurse Kinkster wafted in and out of focus, efficiently yanking a length of Tyvek from a numbed lower extremity.

  “Is there anything I need to do for him?”

  “Other than enforcing his vow of celibacy, I don’t think so.” Raf and the Kinkster gathered appliances and a large plastic trash bag and hot-footed to an exit somewhere off stage left.

  Other than listening to a few imaginary heartbeats, I decided gathering intel was a reasonable activity, since it involved only minor adjustments to my field of vision. The sensation of being sprawled on a slab of cold granite was right on target.

  At some point I’d gargled with glass shards, so whatever came out of my mouth for the near term sounded way too much like the language the good doctor and my Jef had been spouting.

  Lips, as chapped and rough as my own, explored a tender moment. The demon propped me up but I was numb below the waist and not feeling co-operative. Something cool and tangy slid down the back of my throat.

  And then the universe shifted. Howling like a banshee, I folded, squirming away from the full frontal assault on my penis, and seeking stasis.

  My gorgeous blond giant gathered me in his arms and rocked me until the pain subsided.

  He whispered, “Drink,” and held his wrist out for me to take, pre-punctured and oozing lovely droplets of demon blood.

  Suckling like a greedy little bastard, it occurred that the sensation had gone just south of incestuous, as if I snacked on essence of Dreu, and that was a nerve-wracking thought. But help it did, in almost no time at all.

  That left me with a wee, actually a rather demanding problem: Pops’ disapproving version of internal affairs had graced me with yet another tracking device punctured through my glans, this one bigger, heavier and demanding of a trial run.

  I smiled at Jef and said, my mouth still sucking down the last trickle of blood, “I’m feeling amorous.”

  “I see that.”

  He gently extracted my fangs and set me back on the cold stone. Liking the feel of the chill on my overheated scrotum, I risked a look at the new, improved monkhood. Other than an oddly puce coloration accented with a broadcasting device strong enough to reach beyond earth orbit, the love muscle looked hale and hearty, even with matching scars and the inevitable pinkish residual skin as it regenerated.

  I asked, “What happened,” but I already had a pretty good idea. Lots of blood, Tyvek tubing, new scars, bringing up the tricky notion of celibacy … if someone wanted to look up priapism all they needed was to find Dreu and big dick in Wiki, diagrams optional.

  Jef’s lips quirked. “Apparently you underestimated what sucking down quarts of demon blood would do to your system.” What he didn’t say was adding a half gallon of semen to the mix sent my libido into hyperspace and yet another bout with retribution for foregoing my vows.

  Memory is an odd duck. What I would like more than anything was to bury my new jewelry into my assassin’s ass and ride ’em like I stole ’em, but instead my brain demanded answers.

  “What did you mean by not knowing what form I was taking?”

  I’d almost hated to ask because Jef got that strange, faraway look in his eyes when it was my turn to top, kind of glazed, smoky and so sexy I got harder still just thinking about it. He had that look now, in spades.

  “What you took amounted to almost a complete transfusion for you. I tried taking some back, but apparently it wasn’t nearly enough.” He shrugged. Neither of us had a handle on my mutt physiology; that my body reacted outside normal parameters was a constant source of entertainment for everyone except me, and now my lover. He apologized and explained the reaction in cinematic, wide-screen, 3D, IMAX, leaving out no detail, no matter how miniscule.

  Debriefing my demon on assassinations was going to be a hoot if I ever ascended to sit side-by-side with my pater familias. And where that thought came from was like a taser to the gonads, leaving more than my ego deflated.

  I think Jef breathed a sigh of relief. In any case, he continued with the fill-in-the-blanks: poofing in Rafe and Nurse Nutso—and putting paid to that claim of it doesn’t work that way—then noticing a few changes that clued him in to me going more demon on his ass than usual.

  I held up a finger and wiggled my eyebrows. At the same time I felt that pit of despair filling up with guilt, wondering what kind of body count I left behind and if Ukraine was even on the map anymore. The last time I’d zoned under duress, that broken wrist incident behind the dumpster at the casino being case-in-point, I’d leveled a square mile of organic life forms, including humans and a few demons.

  Pressing Jef for clarification, I demanded, “What, exactly, other than my oversized willy,” smiling along with my demon who was biting his lip to keep from exploding with laughter, then continuing, “…um, what kinds of modifications are we talking about.” I used the imperial ‘we’ for no particular reason other than hoping for a show of solidarity and supp
ort.

  A life in the cloisters did not make for easy acceptance of change. It had taken nine hundred years for me to shed the habit, of the clothing variety, and I still felt lost without the comfort of a hair shirt and rough wool scoring my skin into diamond fine lacerations.

  Wearing jeans and tee-shirts, and even a Nutty Buddy, simply added layers of protection and a source of annoyance between me and a willing blow job. I said as much to Jefrumael.

  Waggling his hand, he indicated I should follow him. Sliding off the stone slab, I took a step, another and landed flat on my face.

  Six-eight of blond bombshell leaned over and inquired after my health. “Are you okay?”

  “I tink I brot my doze.” The blood gushing into my mouth made it difficult to articulate.

  He flicked a talon on the other wrist and gave me a few drops. His expression waffled between amusement and something else. The usual soupçon of lust tempered with exasperation had a new layer, one I seldom saw, given my diminutive stature: admiration.

  He lifted me up and set me on my feet. It used to be I’d have a straight line view of his cut abs and nipple rings. Now I stared right at his Adams apple and well-sculpted, sloping shoulders. In bare feet, on a flat floor.

  What the hell?

  “Be careful, it might take you a bit to get used to it.”

  Jef helped me into an inner chamber carved out of the rock. The rescue squad had found one of those notorious cave systems along the bluffs, not so very different from home sweet home, back when life was simple and all I had to worry about was stocking up on my supply of virgins. And keeping the erotica library updated.

  The inner chamber was sparsely furnished with a cot, no mattress, a chair and small writing desk and a stand for one of those antique water bowls for washing up. That item fronted on a wavy, dirty mirror that hadn’t seen vinegar and newsprint since the turn of the century.

  If you ever need tips on housecleaning of the green persuasion, your local Cistercian monk was a good bet. I had obligations other than gardening and domestic chores to attend to, but since meals were usually communal that had left me ample time to file away the stray item of interest.