Dark Stranger Revealed

by I. T. Lucas

With a heavy sigh, he leaned his forehead on the wet shower wall, his hold on the illusion crumbling—the beautiful picture he had created dissolving into the mist.

  He was old.

  And his over eight hundred years of life felt pointless. The endless and senseless wars he had fought in. The meaningless sex with meaningless women he had shared with his fellow soldiers. Even the hating got old.

  Lately, he couldn't summon the energy to loathe his enemy with the same passion he had used to.

  He didn't really care about anything anymore.

  If Annani continued to corrupt the West with her immoral and loose ways, so be it, they could all go to hell as far as he was concerned.

  Let someone else take up the hating.

  He was tired.

  If he could only find an immortal mate, he wouldn't give a rat's ass if she belonged to the enemy's clan. He'd grab the woman and run. Hide somewhere, where no one would ever find them—neither her people nor his.

  He needed to fulfill his own godforsaken dream—a family of his own.

  With no money and no source of income, he'd have to start from scratch. But he'd manage, selling his collection of valuable jewelry to hold him over until he found another job. Killers for hire were always in high demand and the pay was good. Dalhu doubted there could be more than a handful of professionals who could match or surpass his level of skill. He was very good at what he did.

  Indeed…

  A fucking wonderful role model he would be for his hypothetical progeny.

  Chilled from the inside by the ugly reality of who and what he was, the cold spread from the center of his chest to his extremities, and he shivered despite the shower's humid heat.

  Who was he kidding? Him a doting patriarch? A loving mate and father? This kind of fantasies befitted a naive, young boy with hopes for the future still fresh in his heart; not an ancient soldier hardened by life's cruel reality.

  A killer for hire.

  Turning the water off, Dalhu stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he reached for another to dry off his beard and the rivulets of water streaming from it down his chest.

  With the wadded towel in hand, he moved over to the vanity and wiped the vapor off the mirror, then took a good look at his face. He looked hard and old—more so with that dark beard and mustache covering most of his suntanned skin.

  It had to go.

  The few young men that he had seen on the streets with his kind of full-on beard were mostly the unattractive ones. The better-looking males had been either clean-shaven or sported a couple of days worth of growth.

  Rummaging through the vanity's drawers, Dalhu found the scissors he was looking for and proceeded to snip away the bulk of the hair.

  Once he was done, he examined his face again.

  At first, he had planned to leave a short stubble. But now, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he had the urge to just get it all off.

  When he was done, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off of him. For the first time in ages, he felt a cool breeze on his newly exposed skin, and even though it was only the recirculated air blowing through the air-conditioning vent, it felt damn good.

  Dalhu hadn't seen his own face without a beard since he had been fifteen. He'd been so proud of the damn thing when it had finally gotten dense enough for him to feel like a man. But now, looking at himself clean-shaven, he decided he looked much better without it. Quite handsome, in fact, younger, if one didn't look too closely at his deadened, dark eyes.

  Splashing water on his face, he removed the last of the shaving cream and bits of hair still clinging to his skin, then dried it off with the towel.

  When he got back to his bedroom, the hooker was still sleeping. He moved to stand near the bed and shook her shoulder. "Wake up. It's time to go!"

  As her eyes flew open, he gripped her chin firmly, forcing her to look into his. She had a brief moment of fear and confusion before he entered her mind and thralled her to forget; him, the sex, the mansion. Instead, he gave her new memories; of a plain-looking middle-aged man, in a plain looking hotel room, and plain boring sex.

  Exchanging the extraordinary and unusual for the normal and mundane. He regretted erasing the memory of her incredible orgasms, though, and gave them back.

  Even a whore deserves to have some pleasure in her miserable life, he reasoned his uncharacteristic kindness.

  Rubbing his neck, Dalhu wondered if his mother and sister had ever been granted any, but suspected they had gotten none. No one cared for a whore's pleasure or any of her feelings for that matter. They were treated as objects, not as human beings. As if they deserved being despised and mistreated for choosing to be what they were. Except, most of the wretched women didn't have that choice.

  Come to think of it, the attitude toward women in general in his part of the world wasn't much better. They were at the mercy of the men in their lives, be it fathers or husbands, and the ugly reality was that a lot of these men had no honor, treating the females in their care no better than their livestock.

  On second thought, some of the men treated their livestock better than they treated their women.

  Even here in the West, where women were free to make their own choices for the last eighty years or so, he suspected very few sold their bodies voluntarily.

  A wrong turn somewhere, an abusive boyfriend, drugs, poverty… Most probably thought it was only temporary—just until things got a little better. But things seldom did.

  They usually got worse.

  Blurry-eyed and stupefied, the woman got dressed clumsily and brushed her hair with her fingers. Dalhu gave her a few moments to clean up in the bathroom before leading her to the mansion's grand vestibule.

  Still hazy, she stared myopically into space as she sat on the dainty chaise by the massive entry door, waiting for the taxi that would take her home.

  Dalhu left her there and headed for the mansion's dining room, which served as their makeshift headquarters. His six remaining warriors were waiting for him there.

  As he entered the room, he glanced at the large street map of downtown Los Angeles and its adjoining neighborhoods that he had tucked last night unto the tapestry covering the room's east wall. The thing was covered with colorful pins, marking the locations of the numerous nightclubs and popular bars he planned on scoping once the reinforcements he had asked for arrived.

  Tonight, he'd start with what remained of his original team. The same bunch that was now staring at him as if he had sprouted horns. At first, he didn't understand their dumbfounded expressions, but as he ran his fingers over his smooth chin and realized what had caused their moronic reaction, his face pinched in anger.

  What a bunch of mediocre simpletons. But what could've he expected? Shaving off facial hair was forbidden for members of the Brotherhood, and it wasn't as if these guys could think independently or observe their environment and adapt accordingly.

  They knew only what they had been told, and questioned nothing. Brainwashed since birth by Navuh's propaganda, their deeply ingrained hate made them into well-sharpened weapons with which he delivered death and vengeance to those he considered his enemies.

  The way of true zealots, they were ready to die fighting for Navuh's cause without really understanding what they were willing to sacrifice their lives for.

  Not that Dalhu could really blame the morons. It had taken him long enough before he had begun questioning what he had been told, and even longer for the supposedly holy cause to lose its luster in his eyes.

  But then, he was smarter than most, and with how easy it was to obtain information in this new, internet connected world, he was better informed.

  It all boiled down to the quest for power and wealth. Who had it, and who did not. Dalhu preferred to be on the side that had it—regardless of its moral underpinnings.

  It was all crap anyway.

  The whole world was corrupted, and those who believed differently were stupid and naive and deserved being
led like cattle to the slaughter.

  Dalhu was as far from naive as it got.

  For real, though? All he needed from his men were their muscle, fear, and blind obedience. The thinking and strategizing he could manage himself.

  In the cutthroat world of the Brotherhood, having idiots for foot soldiers was a necessary evil; a smart ass, capable underling was liable to challenge your position, take you out, and seize leadership of your unit.

  Dalhu should know. Realizing early on that he didn't want to spend his long life as a foot soldier, he had cunningly disposed of his first immediate commander. Though in his defense, he had believed he had no choice; as no one ever retired willingly or left to vacate a spot, it had been the only way to advance in the Brotherhood's ranks.

  To become a leader, he had to oust his predecessor…

  The men were still shooting quick glances at his face when the elderly cook and her rolling cart, loaded with their breakfast, granted them a short reprieve.

  For a few blissful moments, they gave their undivided attention to wolfing down the huge stacks of eggs, toast, and hash browns onto their plates. Once they were done, and the cook cleared the table, Dalhu pushed up from his chair.

  "I have a plan," he began. "The colored tacks on the map mark the locations of nightclubs. Each night, you will go out and scope for immortal males in the clubs you'll be assigned to. For now, it will be one man per club. When reinforcements arrive, we'll scope a larger area, and you'll be working in teams of two. But even with the reinforcements, we'll be stretched thin covering such a large city."

  Given the guys' clueless expressions, it was obvious they had no idea where he was going with this, and he continued. "In the past, we managed to snag a few of the clan's males in whorehouses. Their biology being the same as ours, they need a constant supply of mortal females. Except they are not as lucky as we are, with a builtin brothel at our disposal; courtesy of our exalted and brilliant leader, Lord Navuh."

  He paused for them to finish their chuckling and saluting. "They are forced to constantly prowl for females. As we all know, given the rampant corruption of the West, willing women come to the clubs and bars looking for males to fuck them. Therefore, it stands to reason that we'll find what we are looking for in those places."

  Dalhu waited, giving the men a moment to process what he had told them, then assuming his most severe expression, delivered the instruction that would trouble them most. "Your beards have to go; they are not popular here in the West, and you need to call as little attention to yourselves as possible. Consider it a sacrifice for our holy cause."

  "But, sir, we are forbidden to shave,” one of the men protested. "Navuh doesn't allow it! We'll get ridiculed and most likely severely punished…"

  The panicked expressions of his comrades should have warned him that he had made a huge mistake; questioning your superior was not something a subordinate Doomer dared to do. Their lives belonged to their leader to do with as he pleased and to question his orders was to court dangerous retribution.

  "Come here!" Dalhu called the soldier to him. "You worthless dog! You do not think! You do not question! You obey!" he hollered and sent his fist flying, at the last moment aiming lower and instead of the guy's jaw, punching his middle. The powerful punch had the guy double over on the floor, retching his food. Still, the man had been lucky; Dalhu needed his face to remain pretty for tonight.

  Taking a steadying breath and then another, Dalhu tried to rein in his rage. It was becoming harder to do lately—the anger would rise at the slightest provocation and linger, poisoning his mood and impairing his thought process. But at least he retained enough self-control to change the trajectory of that punch… Thank Mortdh…

  The bastard had a point, though. As shaving was forbidden in the Brotherhood, the few unlucky men born without the ability to grow facial hair were ridiculed and humiliated for not being real men. And to add insult to injury, the poor bastards were not allowed to join the warrior ranks, becoming servants in the barracks or the brothel—a truly disgraceful existence.

  Cowering in their chairs, his men were trying to ignore the sight of their comrade wiping his vomit off the rug, but their troubled expressions spoke of all the unanswered questions they still had.

  "I know what you're thinking, but don't worry, I've thought of everything. You're asking yourselves how are you going to catch and extract the males, without getting too close for them to realize what you are. Right?" Dalhu pulled a small plastic bag with white powder out of his trousers' pocket. "You’ll thrall the bartender or the waitress to slip this powder into the male's drink. The drug will make an average sized immortal male sleepy, but although he’ll be too fuzzy to talk or offer resistance, he’ll still be able to walk with your assistance. To the mortals, the male will appear drunk while you’ll look like the good friend taking him home. With the thing being tasteless and odorless, the male will not suspect he is being drugged until it’s too late. Good plan, huh?" Dalhu smiled smugly. The drug connection the Brotherhood had in Los Angeles was proving once again to be a most valuable resource.

  "You bring them here for me to interrogate. If you value your own lives, they'll better be alive and well enough to talk when they get here. So make sure you don't accidentally overdose any. Even if your intention is to knock the male out, don't use more than two packets." Dalhu looked around making sure they got it. "We go out tonight. I'll text each one of you the address of the club you'll be scoping. Before you leave, check the map to orient yourself. Make sure to get all clean and scrubbed by eight this evening and dress appropriately. Jeans are okay, a dress shirt, and don't forget the cologne. No playing with the females until it's closing time, and then only the willing ones. No thralling until after the deed. Am I clear?"

  "Yes sir!” the men acknowledged.

  There was really no way for him to ascertain if the thralling occurred before or after the sex, but hopefully, the men feared him enough to follow his orders.

  CHAPTER 49: AMANDA

  Out of breath and drenched in sweat, Amanda stepped off the treadmill and glanced at Syssi. "I'm done. Are you ready to go up and put in some desk work?"

  After an hour-long run at a speed that could've put an Olympic athlete to shame, Amanda felt, at last, as if she was done exorcising her demons. For the time being at least… Walking over to the paper-towel dispenser, she pulled one and used it to wipe the sweat off her face.

  "Thank God! I thought you'd never stop. I'm exhausted from just trying to keep up at a fast walk," Syssi said, following behind her.

  Being the last two at the gym, the sound of their voices echoed off the walls, making the place feel like a crypt. Hurrying out and stepping into the elevator's welcoming interior, Amanda was relieved to leave behind the empty gym and the bad memories that had surfaced there.

  Syssi was quiet and somber all through the ride up to the penthouse, and Amanda wasn't in the mood for small talk either. Which was okay. The silence didn't bother her, and at this point she hoped that Syssi was comfortable enough in their friendship for the quiet to feel companionable as opposed to oppressing.

  However, it was time to do something about Syssi's bad mood and to fix the mess Kian had made.

  Feeling like herself again—after she had showered, changed, and spent a good ten minutes applying her makeup—Amanda walked into her office and smiled as she saw her best girl already at the desk. "Ready, sweetie?"

  "Show me." Syssi rolled her chair sideways and pulled another one for Amanda.

  It didn't take Amanda long to introduce Syssi to the proprietary software that was developed by none other than William. The thing was years ahead of what they had in the lab which, of course, meant that any significant trend they'd discover could not be used in the official research papers. But it would save them time by identifying, quickly and efficiently, which of their assumptions were correct and which were not. That way, they could focus their efforts and use the official program on what was more likely to work
.

  "I have to leave for a little bit. Are you okay here on your own?" Amanda asked once Syssi got the gist of the new program and began uploading the research data they had accumulated over the past several weeks.

  "Yeah, I'm good. With this software, I’ll probably be done in a couple of hours. If you're not back by then, I'll text you when I have the results so you can decide what you want to do next."

  "Good deal. I'll check on you later."

  Letting a few minutes go by, Amanda peeked into the office to make sure Syssi was immersed in her work, before sneaking out her front door and closing it soundlessly behind her.

  Making the short trek to Kian's apartment, she walked in without knocking and headed down the hallway.

  CHAPTER 50: KIAN

  "We need to talk,” Amanda said as soon as she entered Kian's office.

  Lifting his head, Kian grimaced. An angry expression marring her pretty face, she looked ready for battle. Bracing for the attack that was sure to follow, he eased back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  Halting in front of his desk, Amanda placed her hands on her hips and began tapping her shoe on the hardwood floor. "What did you do to her this time?" she accused.

  He really didn't have the patience for the scene she was making, and her offensive behavior was getting on his nerves. And what’s more, once it dawned on him that he was the one assuming a defensive posture, his temper flared hot. The little hellcat was the one who was supposed to bow to his authority and answer to him. Not the other way around. He was cutting her way too much slack and forgiving her impudence out of love. But enough was enough.

  Uncrossing his arms, he placed his palms on the glossy surface of his desk and pinned her with a hard stare. "What do you want, Amanda?" he barked back, letting some of his anger leak into his voice.

  Amanda winced. Plopping down on the chair facing him, she continued in a softer tone. "Syssi is upset and unhappy. You must've either done something or said something to hurt her."