The Strigoi Chronicles Box Set

by Nya

  Fane interjected, “About that trade…” and looked to his partner for approval before moving on. “We might,” and he did the finger quote thing, “…might be interested in an exchange.”

  Ignoring the boy, I chose to deal with the man instead. “Let me guess, Samuels, you’re going to want a show of good faith before you hand over the device to my agent.” I didn’t exactly have an agent, but they didn’t know that for a fact, and besides… it sounded cool.

  There was no doubt in my mind that whatever transpired from this point forward was all down to me, myself and I. And how far I was willing to go to seal the deal. If it meant taking out a few zeds, the lowest of the low on the werewolf totem pole, my conscience and I would go a couple of rounds, but my gut told me the bigger picture would win the day.

  While heart, mind and soul reached accommodation, Samuels organized a little foray on the outside in one of those I’ll show you mine if you show me yours displays of dominance. Fane led me back to my cell where I slipped on socks and boots. I’d have gladly killed for a shower and clean clothes, but other than the stray water bottle, I had yet to eyeball any washing facilities.

  Usually a base camp, even for para-military types, involved rudimentary facilities: latrines, kitchens, storage. I’d seen none of that. Whether or not it was significant, well… only time would tell.

  For some reason my insatiable hunger had shut down, as in stopped completely. The usual pangs and cravings weren’t even a blip on my radar. Either I was so dangerously depleted that the overall physiology had given up the ghost, or the demon half had secured a permanent place at Dreu’s genetic table.

  As if I didn’t have enough to think about, the conversion process had the potential to alter my perceptions, and ultimately my loyalties to whichever species took precedence at any given time. For now, being heavy on demon-ness was to my advantage. After all, it was that contribution to the demon-who-would-be-Dreu that triggered my questionable gifts.

  One of the minions slapped the smelly wool blindfold on my head, knotting it down to ‘ow’, then drew my hands behind my back and secured the wrists with a plastic strap, the thin kind that does maximum damage. The trickle of blood should have kick-started my appetite, but it didn’t. Odd.

  Progress was slow, torturous even, as I negotiated the rough ground, angling slowly upward through the bowels of the cavern. I barely had time for a deep breath of pine-scented air, when my guards manhandled me into a vehicle, strapped me in, then injected something into my neck.

  Stick. Ping. Burn.

  Fuck.

  When I came to, there was way too much movement, way too much sweat, too much fear, and the prickly feeling that the whimpers I heard weren’t in my head this time.

  They sounded like children.

  God, please no.

  They sounded exactly like children.

  Chapter Seven

  I wanted this to be a trick, a recording, a figment of my overheated imagination. A reaction to whatever drug they’d jabbed in my neck.

  I knew Elliot had been a psychopath, I had no idea Samuels would be even more toxic, more evil, more self-serving.

  It took four of them to hold me, the hits to kidneys and groin and skull relentless, pummeling me into raw meat. Because they had no clue how my skills worked, they let soft tissue take the damage, assuming rightly that keeping me conscious and co-operative trumped whatever bargaining chip I might be able to call into play.

  Samuels was right on the money: he held all the cards, except for one. There was no way in hell I was unleashing that kind of energy on innocents. I would die first. Fane should know that, if he knew anything about me at all. But I had no way to look at him, to let him know where the line in the ground lay.

  My mistake was in not unleashing hell back at the cave when the only ones at risk were the weres. But I had hesitated, partly to save my Fane, partly to find out more about what was really going on. Vampyrs might be a target, but they weren’t the only ones and all that had transpired, all the insane expectations and manipulations added up to zero, zilch.

  Samuels might be many things but he wasn’t stupid. If he really cared so little about a potential nuclear winter, that meant one and only one thing: he had an alliance with one or more of the factions in Demon Central to bring down the top two of Michel du Velours’ levels, along with most of topside, rendering the planet a wasteland for millennia. And he, Samuels, would be sitting in the catbird seat with a promise of near immortality and unlimited opportunities to play kingmaker.

  The wolves were feeling lucky with that imaginary bolt hole. Little did they know…

  Feeling for my fangs, I was relieved that both were still with me, though I’d spit out bits of bone and teeth, along with gobs of blood and saliva and bile during my audition as werewolf piñata. The chatter around me had ceased for the moment and in that instant I knew what I had to do.

  I held up a hand and slowly crumbled to the ground. It was mostly an act. Mostly. Samuels directed his man to release the blindfold, though I kept my eyes squeezed shut to avoid the late day glare. They’d made sure the civilians were in my line of sight, and when I finally looked, there were two youngsters, maybe ages five or six, an infant, a mother, a grandmother, all women, children. All helpless, terrorized beyond hope, sobbing quietly.

  I was looking at collateral damage of the most heinous sort and I was under no misapprehension that the monsters holding me and those innocents hostage gave a flying fuck about whether or not they lived or died.

  I had to make it worth his while to keep them alive.

  We were clearly on the clock so I summoned whatever reserves my demon self had left and spit out, “I’ll do it.”

  Fane looked surprised, though Samuels merely smirked and asked, “Do what?”

  My head went woozy and I swayed, barely staying upright on my knees, but after a few shallow breaths I managed to say, “I’ll kill him.”

  Smug, the wolf snorted, “And who might that be, Father? Would you care to share?”

  My fangs snicked into place, the sound obscene under the circumstances. Fane stood perfectly still but the rest of them jerked, two stepping back, unsure of my abilities. In one-on-one, weres and full-blooded vamps were well-matched in strength and speed, if not in intellect. The lessons of history had separated the races into discrete camps exercising uneasy truces that had lasted nearly two hundred years. It was only in recent memory that rogue wolves trespassed on the mountain reserves of the last remaining Vampyr. With both species in decline, the excuse that competition for scarce resources was the driving force simply didn’t hold water.

  What did hold water was the third element: demons looking to divvy up their nine dimensions and shut down the increasing transparency between the upper Levels and the regions of real estate known as topside. That forty percent aligned against Michel du Velours’ attempts to modernize using a trickle down scheme were the more reactionary of all the demon sects.

  When demons misbehaved, it was on a local scale. It had taken humans and their technology to move mischief to global dimensions, so much so that demon kind faced becoming superfluous on the mayhem balance of power.

  More of Samuels’ men surrounded me and the hapless victims, this new group sporting assault rifles, all pointed at the wailing mass of unfortunate prey.

  I hadn’t answered the wolf’s question: who was I willing to kill to avert global disaster, who was the highest profile target who could bring an entire dimension down in one fell swoop?

  Back in the day it was called patricide and it was a time-honored method of moving things along when middle-aged men wore out their welcome in a household filed with inbred, indigent youths.

  It took me nine hundred years to finally meet and come to an accommodation with my sire, it took all of two minutes to agree to snuff his life in return for global stability and to safeguard my Vampyr legacy.

  I stood and stared at Fane until he blushed and lowered his gaze. Samuels gave me the cat
that ate the canary grin, motioned for one of his men to free my wrists, and waited for my pronouncement.

  Fighting off the urge to swallow my tongue, I croaked, “I will eliminate Michel du Velours, High Demon and King of all Nine Levels of Hel, on this I swear on my oath as Vampyr,” and took a healthy chunk off my wrist, extending it to Fane who gulped the viscous flow greedily. Samuels grimaced and declined the offering but as a deal, by all supernatural laws extant since before time was time, that vow in front of witnesses would hold me in thrall as a binding contract.

  There would be the usual quid pro quos and addenda, most likely a time frame would be imposed, this millennia, not the next—that sort of thing. I hadn’t committed anything beyond offering my services as a hit man because in truth I still didn’t really know what the hell was going on.

  I’d ended up in a pool filled with predators, but not every one was a suitable hard target. I needed to exercise restraint and make intelligent decisions and, for that, information was key, something I was sorely lacking.

  That I had been snookered into voluntarily offing Pops was a given. And no one was foolish enough to confuse my promise of ‘eliminating’ mine Papá with the obvious, more permanent solution. I wasn’t being coy, I was simply trying to keep some wiggle room for when things went really south.

  Growling, “Release them,” I stepped away from Fane and confronted Samuels. He held his ground but nodded to the guards. Behind me, shuffling feet and incoherent gasps and moans retreated into the darkening edges of the forest. I’d boxed them and myself into a no-win situation. The minute those humans had become hostages they were dead, it was just a matter of time.

  I stared down Samuels, both of us knowing what was about to happen. The pain I’d felt, the crack of bone and the vicious stab of hot nails sizzling and hollowing out my insides when Pops had forced the issue back at the casino, that was nothing … nothing like the mental anguish of knowing I couldn’t control my ability enough, to direct it where it was most needed instead of having the energies span out as if a boulder had dropped into a lake, swamping the shore in every direction.

  Otherwise I’d have cherry-picked the assholes and dropped them one-by-one. Me, facing off against a sociopath, helpless, waiting for an execution that would haunt my soul until the end of time…

  …didn’t happen.

  He’d been poking at the edges of my consciousness, but without a frame of reference it seemed more wishful thinking, on the order of self-delusional, another of those lies I told myself because courage wasn’t high on Dreu’s list of awesome personality traits, at least not the kind that had me facing down monsters instead of matters of faith. Though, in truth, there might not be as much difference as one might believe.

  My demon had been the urban legend, the assassin with a sense of humor and a sensuality that drove his targets to their final resting place with a smile on their faces. I doubted Samuels’ men, the ones who had shepherded that small group of women and children to a so-called freedom, were smiling now.

  Not a leaf stirred, nor a pine cone, the forest gone preternaturally quiet, pensive. The air had weight, substance, pressing down on my chest. The Vampyr ignored the discomfort, the demon forced patience and time slowed one tick, two, three…

  Metallic snicks, murmurs in surround sound, movement behind and to the side and Fane pulling back, away from Samuels but not far enough, not nearly. Something crumpled and rolled, then ceased moving and still the trees and darkling sky paused life to embrace death, and they fell, fur and flesh and bone, to the solid earth with barely a sound, a weak thuft on needles carpeting the spaces between.

  Whimpers and keening too near, much too near, reminded me I didn’t dare try it because even with time slowed I had no metric by which to measure how I dealt out retribution and justice.

  With tunnel vision, I watched Samuels and Fane climb in a vehicle and spin in slow, lazy circles, dirt and gravel and the discards of nature’s beauty arcing, rooster-tailing in a discharge of violence, and disappearing into the night.

  He approached, my blond giant, just at the edge of my peripheral vision, magnificent in his fury, blood-spattered, his sword held at his side dripping gore and satisfaction. The walls shattered and sound cascaded in a riot of joy and Jefrumael gathered me in his arms, and for just an instant, so brief, so fleeting it was less imagination than a wondrous revelation, he wrapped me in salvation.

  Lowering his head to ravish my mouth, he suddenly stopped and stared with dismay. I could only imagine the damage. The wolves had been methodical and thorough and I didn’t need a mirror to know I wasn’t pretty anymore, that much I could see in my demon’s eyes. Rage and pain and hate flickered, his heat to my icy cold. I felt nothing at the surface but inside emotion swelled and nearly consumed me.

  But this was hardly the time or place. The hard crunch of gravel had both of us turning to watch the man in Armani approach, deadly casual in raw silk and Gucci, the katanas held lightly, angled away to avoid contact with the illusion. Michel du Velours wore a feral grin, but his eyes assessed and judged and I wasn’t sure how I’d measured up.

  I waited for Jefrumael to release me, to stand aside in obeisance to his liege lord. Instead he tucked me against his side, possessive and defiant.

  My father nodded to both of us but addressed his assassin. “He royally screwed the pooch again, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sire.” The agreement came from my demon’s chest like a deep rumble, tinged with amusement.

  That they meant me was fairly clear from past contexts, but for once I held my tongue and waited for clarification. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “You do realize, don’t you, son, that you will have to follow through now.” That was half a question: the do you realize part. The rest of it was an uh-oh, of the epic cluster fuck variety. The problem was, I didn’t have that proverbial clue what I’d done wrong this time.

  Actually, I did know something, several somethings, in fact: the list of my misdemeanors was getting really long, we were running out of time, the nuke was still missing, and my understanding of the big picture had shrunk to a peephole. And the bad guys had exited stage left with a squeal of tires.

  Snarling, “Instead of playing twenty questions,” and I wiggled out of Jef’s grasp and put distance between myself and both of them, “why don’t you cut to the chase and just fucking tell me.”

  Michel du Velours sighed dramatically and asked Jef, “Do you want to handle this or…”

  “No, no, go ahead, you’re doing fine.”

  Mine Papá said, “Give him your sword,” your being my assassin and him being me. Confusing, yes, and akin to being offered chlamydia. Besides, the only thing I’d ever done with a sword was cut myself trying to sheath it. I was way more effective with quills in eyeballs, but that was another time, another place. And one of the reasons my sojourn in the Papál halls of secrets had been embarrassingly short.

  Both men advanced, said sword did indeed end up in my right hand and Pops bared his chest. Not his naked chest, but rather the midnight blue silk with matching neck scarf, the unitone classy and striking even in the dark.

  Keeping an eye on the drooling katanas, still held loosely at his sides but slowly rotating as his fingers fondled the steel, I resorted to a different mantra: wake up, wake up, idiot, wake up.

  Pops said, “Do it.”

  Jef echoed the words, the sound of do-it-do-it-do-it bouncing through the dense canopy.

  I screeched, “Do what!” and brandished the weapon, mostly toward the ground as my body spiraled in an effort to keep far enough away from both of them before one or the other of my agitated halves decided to break loose and behave inappropriately.

  Jef hissed in my ear, “Kill him.”

  “Are you fucking nuts?” I swatted Jef away with a backwards sweep of the weapon but never took my eye off my liege lord.

  “You made a deal.” Jef again.

  “Deal, what deal, I don’t kno—” Pops grinned and I san
k to the ground on a moan of, “Oh shit,” the tip of the sword gouging a trail through the mat of leaves and pine needles in front of me. I managed to gag, “That can’t possibly be legal,” but I guessed the answer was oh Hel yes.

  And I hadn’t just signed on the dotted line, I’d sealed the deal with a blood bond.

  Lightheaded, I swooned, the hunger finally hitting like a freight train out of control. Pops said something to the effect of ‘bring him’, then my body floated, there was a thing, and another thing, and then I threw up on the Guccis.

  Chapter Eight

  There were fine lines radiating from the corners of Jefrumael’s eyes. I traced each one with my tongue, a lattice work of burdens and cares that only the strength of an archangel could bear. And for the millionth time I wondered why.

  Why here, why now? That his bondage, his troth, had been laid at my father’s feet voluntarily was a secret he’d revealed when I’d railed against the risks Michel du Velours had imposed on him in coming to my rescue.

  My assassin hadn’t just fallen, he’d skydived into a pit of vipers, vowing an allegiance that countermanded all that he was, all that his creator had deemed worthy and good and righteous. With his sword and his vengeance he’d blurred the lines between right and wrong, black and white, muddying even the shades of grey by which most of us justified how we got through the day.

  He, more than any being I’d ever known, lived the contradictions that had consumed my entire existence. He wore them like a second skin, as comfortable as old, worn leather, protecting without penetrating, impervious to the chaos, the ultimate shield for and against evil.

  Swallowing the moan, my body shifted of its own accord, outside my conscious control, responding to his touch, as tender as the softest spring breeze on newly minted flesh, with warmth a taunting promise instead of the insistent hammer of heat. He tickled the surface, flexing this follicle and that one, never lingering yet never leaving, driving me to my wit’s end as flesh-on-steel stretched until pain demanded surcease and release.