The Strigoi Chronicles Box Set

by Nya

  Sound receded, a door closed, and I retreated into that inner panorama of reflection, muttering Hail Marys and Our Fathers, tapping off the rhythms with my toes and fingers, the only body bits I could move. How odd was it that, in this secular world of mayhem and violence, I could still resort to the small comforts of indoctrination and habit? Whether or not the words had meaning, or could summon the relief I yearned for, seemed beside the point. They focused thought, re-directed the inner self onto a plane of consciousness that soothed and made manifest deep-seated desires to be more, better than, above worldly burdens and the woes of walking paths of others’ choosing.

  I’d often wondered, what was worse? The lies we told others … or the lies we told ourselves. I’d convinced myself that I could handle this, handle seeing Fane, setting aside the grief and torture of replaying in my mind him tumbling into the cataract, riddled with bullets, dying and never hearing ‘I love you’ because the cleric who abused his trust was too weak, too egotistical, too laden with the guilt of ages and cultures and prejudices to set it all aside. To give instead of take.

  Jef had asked, do you love me? I’d said, maybe, diving into the white lie to save my sorry ass from making the final commitment. And though in his heart he knew the answer, the true answer, he’d not stay with me if I could not voice it, admit it out loud. Such was his way and I would respect that, when and if the time came.

  For now I had to deal with the emotions churning my gut into jelly. Why Fane had ordered me trussed and immobilized was simply him being prudent. The soft kisses on my brow lingered with phantom love and devotion, but I knew deep down that this Fane was not the precious youngling I’d devoured with hedonistic verve. Nor was I that same cleric, self-serving and acknowledging only the basest of my instincts, relentless in my pursuit of pleasure, as if it were a drug and the next fix was the sole reality that informed my universe.

  Karma was a dish oft served up with unnecessary cruelty; and the choices ahead were ones I shrank from, that kernel of please, please, I can’t, I won’t snarling around my guts and twisting my emotional core, my very soul, into psychotic knots of desperation.

  Willing stasis to take me, I prepared to do what I did best: run from any and all uncomfortable, taxing, demanding situations, forsaking I do and embracing nothingness, never acknowledging the simple fact that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

  I’d blamed Maman for my own lifetime of servitude to asceticism and denial, making them art forms and … excuses.

  When stasis failed and the Vampyr bowed in favor of the demon self, there was only one being left to blame.

  ****

  The concept of time passing only has meaning when it is truly finite, or at the least within, say, a diurnal variation or a monthly system based on lunar cycles. In the next best thing to a sensory deprivation chamber, time became infinite in all its glory, without beginning, and most definitely without end.

  And even when perturbations occurred—the odd feeding, a drizzle of blood that sustained but never satisfied—a word, sometimes a cough, allowed a tickle of hope, but it was fleeting, gone almost as soon as detected. Scurries, the skritching sound of rodents checking up on my progress into degeneration—though perhaps tenderization was a better term given my incessant squirming to relieve the pain of nerves and blood vessels with nothing to do but agitate for movement—all of that registered on one level, but none of it really hit the mark. Nothing said: this will be over soon, hold on, love, I’m coming for you.

  Because, sap that I was, I was a believer, not in the arcane preachings about higher powers or the heartfelt suffer this onto’s… I believed, finally, unequivocally, that Dreu du Velours could love, and if I could love, then maybe, just maybe, that Dreu, that selfish, egotistical emotional runt might be worthy of love in return. And if he was…

  Oh, if he was, then love would find him. It would come to claim him and wrap him in gossamer threads.

  Or…

  Or it would lick his balls and whimper with adoration.

  “Take care with him.”

  That sounded like Fane, but from a distance, as an echo, him walking away, leaving one of the pack to see to my needs. This one I recognized. He’d sir’d me and done due diligence seeing to my relative comfort early on. Some of the others hadn’t and the burns still zinged and ached if I twitched the wrong way which, given my state of bondage, was most every way imaginable.

  Lifting the straps did little to relieve the pain, not when muscles and tendons and ligaments had finally frozen into a rictus of immobility, either atrophied or turned to stone. Either way, moving was a bucket list item, one of those things set in a distant future, part and parcel of the wishful thinking mindset that promised sanity without ever having to deliver.

  The pup drizzled a thin stream of O neg onto my parched lips. It felt bland, tasteless, but I cracked an opening and enjoyed the sensation of lukewarm sustenance trickling down my throat. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, stasis offered a smidgen of hope, a chance to put this world behind me until my demon could awaken his sleeping prince with a kiss.

  The fact that I was mixing metaphors and toying with doing an abracadabra out of my situation was almost enough to distract me from the two rejects from worldwide wrestling, dressed in scrubs, and armed with unguents and oils, setting to on various body parts.

  Since my mouth seemed to be the only movable part for the near term, I did what I did best. I babbled. About Nurse Kinky and brillo pads, inquiring after their supply of household products, and the relative merits of accessories in the relentless pursuit of pleasure. Apparently neither of them understood English, probably a good thing.

  The one who did occupied the far wall watching the proceedings. Fane lounged casually, right leg crossed over the left, hands jammed into his jeans pockets, eyes downcast and biting his lip. He said something to his minions and they responded by cracking joints into serviceable working parts and sitting me upright, back against the wall, bare feet on the floor.

  The chill barely registered but it was there. In fact, there were a lot of things suddenly ‘there’ and I wished I’d taken that leap into stasis when coward Dreu had offered a way out.

  Unfortunately for me, it was too late. Now what I remembered, far too clearly, was Fane’s scowl of displeasure, him directing Jef to triage my shattered body, and the total disinterest in my pain and suffering, ignoring my howls and entreaties, and him turning his back on me.

  Then there was Jef objecting…

  “I don’t like the looks of…”

  “Then break it again and reset it.”

  “No, he’s had enough.”

  No, this was not that Fane, the pup who confounded my emotions, twisting them into knots. This wolf was canny, and hard. Tender and compassionate. Wary and aloof. An alpha.

  And completely alien to me.

  Since getting on common ground was more than prudent, I asked the obvious question, “How did you know it was me?”

  He shrugged, shoulders and thick neck shuttering together and releasing, then he tapped his nose and smiled, the grin still as feral and magnificent as I remembered. What was new was the frisson of fear piercing my gut, an unwelcome chaser to a once beguiling look of innocence and the glorious promise of carnal delights.

  The bridge remained. A span of desire, of longing, of mutual lust shimmered like an energy stream between us: his pheromones, my hormones dancing and twining like berserkers on aphrodisiacs.

  He motioned for me to follow him. I felt the first surge of a pride I seldom enjoyed, swallowing the pain and discomfort, forcing my body to do what it simply could not. We marched, stride for stride, in a bubble of silence, descending further into the bowels of the earth under the Buscegi massif until another small cavern opened up, the formations providing natural seating in an arena of interrogation.

  This was not just a were pack, looking to survive in a world unprepared to handle the supernatural, a pack oddly devoid of family structu
re, a set of misfits. It was a small army, disciplined and at Fane’s complete command.

  The omegas crouched in a semi-circle, ready to do my alpha’s bidding. Guards patrolled the perimeter, the room large enough for the edges to ooze away into shadow. A few had taken wolf form, others handled assault rifles, all were on high alert. So much so I wondered if they knew my dirty little secret; and if they did, what enticements would they bring to bear to make me reveal just how wrong had been that coupling of demon and Vampyr nine hundred years ago.

  I’d come with the intent of securing a weapon of mass destruction and removing it from everyone’s bargaining table.

  How I was going to deal with myself was another matter entirely.

  Movement behind me heralded additions to the company. Scenting carefully, I recognized the stink of betrayal and falsehood. It was the hard target that Jef and Michel du Velours had hoped for.

  I allowed a whiff of congratulations, Dreu, well done to pervade my senses, all my ducks in a row, the mission parameters clear and unequivocal. The endgame set in motion.

  And then Samuels said, “You did well, my love,” and brushed past me to take a seat next to Fane.

  Chapter Six

  Fane draped an arm across the smaller wolf’s shoulders, his head cocked, listening intently as Samuels murmured instructions in a language I didn’t understand.

  I didn’t have to. If they had skewered me with a sword, encased me in silver chains, driven a stake into my bleating heart, the pain would have been far less than what I experienced with my eyes alone.

  Mature Dreu, the demon-me, interceded and reminded the grieving ex-monk that there were enough betrayals to go around. After all, hadn’t I taken the demon archangel as my lover, and did I not flirt with the words, the ones that would forever bind me in thrall to him, to my blond giant, to Jefrumael?

  But I thought Fane was dead!

  I, Father Dreu of Cîteaux Abbey, had made a vow of revenge and retribution, then willed myself to the true death, forsaking my heritage and my responsibilities.

  Drama Queen Dreu had existed on a steady diet of coulda, woulda, shouldas and, as they say, the chicken had finally come home to roost.

  Staring at the handsome couple, I fought back bile mixed with hate and bitter recriminations. Spite, jealousy, rage, and embarrassment warred with common sense and the sure knowledge that when false choices were removed, what remained was the true path.

  Once I learned Fane lived, I had used that to build a wall, to block out my feelings because the old Dreu simply could not envision being worthy or deserving of love. Being deserving required payback, reciprocation, stepping outside of himself, and before all possible gods it was the one thing that pathetic genetic freak that was me had refused to consider.

  Taking a breath, I held it deep, warming it, then releasing with a long, slow hiss. The stutter step of a heartbeat reminded me of my duty: to my kind, to my world … to myself. But mostly to Jefrumael, my soul, my future.

  I’d save the words until later. For now, I had the one thing in my grasp that the cleric had never once believed in: that there was something bigger than, more important than, the petty concerns of a single man.

  That inner sense connecting me to the demonized archangel had severed somewhere along the way. It could be a matter of geology or my assassin had a full plate and wasn’t tuning in to my wavelength. That was actually a benefit because it removed distractions; and it sequestered me with a choice that no one, not mine Papá, not Jef, not anyone I knew or cared about, would consider rational or in anyone’s best interests.

  Rocking gently on my bare heels, I beamed bonhomie in all directions and stated, clearly enough to have the words echo around the chamber, “I thought you were dead.” To Samuels, I gave the eye roll and a different message: you’re next, asshat.

  Fane grinned and lifted his tee-shirt, the six-pack-abs pockmarked with bluish contusions that had faded with time but still pulsed with lividity. Eyebrows raised, I invited one or the other of the ruling junta to fill in the gaps in my knowledge base.

  Given Fane’s weak English and my even weaker Romanian, Samuels was happy to oblige. Poking at a spot just below Fane’s left nipple, he said, “Rubber bullets.”

  That explained how, not why, so I mumbled, ‘Uh-huh,’ and waited patiently.

  At the point where the cows were about to come home, Samuels and Fane exchanged a look. My interpretation was that they were willing to give the idiot savant a few morsels to chew on, but not enough to help me make an informed decision in the upcoming negotiations. And that surprised me. Wolves weren’t known for subtlety or misdirection. And while a foe would be hard pressed to trust one, let alone a fully armored pack, one thing you could trust was for them to act in their species’ best interests.

  It was what Samuels didn’t say that had my undivided. Woven in amongst the lies and half-truths was a clear indicator that someone, most likely Samuels, had recognized Fane’s potential for leadership, using a metric that escaped me but that didn’t make it any less valid. He’d also seen the dangers in the pup’s juvenile attachment to the monk, the kind of attachment that informed a young man’s later maturation into a leader. Had he stayed with me, Stefan might have developed into a subservient omega with nothing more on his mind than the next orgasm.

  Father Dreu certainly hadn’t been the ideal role model in that regard, a niggling fact I’d conveniently buried, along with a slew of other non-flattering descriptions of my id. Or ego. I still wasn’t clear…

  Not that I cared about the alpha wolf, but I interrupted the clever discourse to ask, “What happened to Elliot?”

  Samuels turned to Fane, who merely shrugged and said, “I killed him,” with nary a flicker of remorse. His eyes, once wide and expressive, open to love, open to experience, open to life… those eyes had flattened to opaque, soul-less orbs and I knew, I just damn knew, that ‘in cold blood’ was the unspoken threat hanging between us.

  My own demon was a stone cold killer, tasked with carrying out Michel du Velours’ every directive without question, yet nothing about Jefrumael turned my insides to mush the way Fane’s total lack of inner light, his complete disregard for the sanctity of life, accomplished with three simple words. Recalling how he’d brushed his lips along my forehead, oh so tenderly, suddenly seemed like a trap, a psychotic toying with emotions I wore on my sleeve when it came to this wolf.

  Had worn. Past tense. Later, I might indulge in a few prayers for his immortal soul, but for now I needed to set feelings aside and get this charade back on message.

  The wolves had something I wanted. And I had something they wanted. That was the easy part. Tit for tat, but if I was going to be any use at all to my demon father, I needed to find out who was behind the perturbations in the force, a reference Pops would get and appreciate.

  Since none of us was getting any younger, I decided to cut to the chase. “You have the nuke,” and I held up a hand to stay the inevitable no, but we know where it is, or no, we can have it Fedex’d by tomorrow, or the last resort, that’s not the nuke you’re looking for.

  Fane squirmed, mostly because he was still young and untested in the waters of misdirection, but Samuels sat steely-eyed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  So I continued, not bothering to hide my grin, “You also have me.”

  A wolf behind me chuffed as Samuels said, “I’d say that leaves me, us, holding all the cards, wouldn’t you, Father Dreu?” He lengthened and accentuated the “Father’, trying to shame me, to pin me to the board like the helpless, hapless butterfly I’d once been.

  I suggested, “Perhaps we should take this discussion elsewhere,” and jammed my hands in my pockets, forcing my body to relax, not so easy when all six-two wanted nothing more than to go avenging cleric on their furry asses.

  Fane was the one who picked up on the subtext, shooing the guards and the omegas back the way we’d all come in. That left a few empty boulders to park my butt on. In truth my feet hu
rt from the cold floor and I was unsteady at a cellular level, partially from the imposed immobility and near starvation, but also from the tsunami of emotions that had swept away everything I thought I knew or understood about where I fit into a sensual landscape built on nothing but landmines.

  I sat on rough stone and pretended to a comfort I didn’t feel. Fane twiddled metaphorical thumbs, waiting for Samuels to take point again. And while it would be so very easy to hate my wolf for his total capitulation to the wiles of a sociopath like Samuels, it wasn’t completely his fault. Men like Samuels were charming, convincing and corrupting.

  The same could be said of men like me.

  The brutal truth was … the kid hadn’t stood a chance. I was tempted to jump the gun and worry about post-mission rescues and a rehab schedule, weaning him off Samuels and setting him up as his own wolf; but that scenario was predicated on me living to orchestrate those events.

  The negotiations were a very long way from that outcome.

  Curious, I asked, “Why the nest?” meaning why target the last small gathering of Vampyr pseudo-royalty. It was a reasonable question, so I pressed, “Why bother? There’s plenty of room for both species.” I mumbled on a bit about resources and non-competition clauses, but there was one item I hoped had nothing to do with it, so I said, “Please tell me this not about ethnic cleansing,” because if that were the case, my job was simple. And direct.

  Fingering my wrist, it occurred that breaking it wasn’t going to be an easy task anymore, not with my bone structure super-sized and demonized. I needed another incentive than ordinary pain to activate Dreu’s secret weapon.

  Since I hadn’t expected an answer, I went off into la-la-land as was my habit. But when Samuels said, “Not exactly,” he had me with a dropped jaw and a ‘oh hell no’ climbing up the back of my throat.