“I’ll be the judge of that.” She didn’t give him a chance to reply, but pressed in for a smoldering kiss that left little doubt what she had in mind.
When Simon’s doorbell rang, the pair of them were on the sixth-century Heriz rug next to the living room sofa, half-dressed, lips swollen, and faces flushed.
“Just a minute!” Simon shouted.
He was chuckling as he shoved his shirttail into his pants and buckled his belt.
“Where’s the…?” Sorcha asked.
Knowing what she wanted, Simon pointed to the hallway that led to the closest bath. She scurried off to right herself, leaving him to answer the door.
“Would you like dinner served in the dining room, Director?”
“Yes. That would be nice,” he said.
Five minutes later he quietly knocked on the bathroom door. “They’re gone.”
She opened the door, still looking flushed and gorgeous and supremely kissable.
“Dinner first?” he asked tentatively.
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to decide. “The man I’ve craved or the sea bass I’ve craved. ’Tis a near impossible choice.”
“Up to you.”
“Is there a bed in this big beautiful place?”
“Yes. And it’s big and beautiful.”
Simon refused to let Sorcha set the pace. She begged for fast and hard. He took control and insisted on slow and sensual. At one point she threatened physical violence if he didn’t give her his cock immediately. He laughed as he slowly kissed his way down her squirming body, watching her face every inch of the way.
She forgave him.
After she’d enjoyed three orgasms, she said, “Why did you no’ tell me you had real feelin’s for me? When we were at the ring?”
“I was afraid of scaring you away by being too intense too soon.” She laughed. “What’s so funny?”
“I was doin’ the exact same thing.”
“You knew I was your mate?”
“Aye. Right away.” She cupped his face with her hand and kissed the tip of his nose affectionately. “My human.”
“You make me sound like a pet.”
She laughed as she crawled toward him with a gleam of insatiability in her eyes. “’Tis no meant as disrespectful. You’re my mate. That means you’re everythin’ to me. The bond is settlin’ between us and soon I’ll be needin’ you just to keep breathin’.” A shadow passed over her face. “But Simon, you can no’ be unfaithful. ’Tis you for me. Forever.”
“Sorcha. I’ve been faithful to you in my heart for twenty years. Now that I have you here, I’m faithful to you in every way.”
They ate dinner at Simon’s dining table naked, laughing and kissing in between bites of food Sorcha claimed was the best she’d ever had in her life. Then Simon told her everything there was to know about Black Swan.
“So you really were no’ kiddin’? About bein’ a vampire hunter.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s come to my attention recently that I may not be great at, ah, joking.”
“So you think I can get back into grad school?”
“Without question. If that’s what you want.”
“What do you mean, ‘if that’s what I want’?”
“I just mean that you have options. Right here, in this very building you could have access to the records of a very old organization that happens to have been focused on your very study of interest. That is, if you made a commitment to secrecy and took an oath of loyalty. We can always use somebody smart, who can be trusted. Somebody interested in what we do and why we do it.”
Her eyes began to sparkle. “Tell me more.”
Simon woke the next morning to the foreign sensation of somebody sleeping in his bed. He turned his head and smiled to himself. Not a dream.
As he lay awake in the early hours, examining her long lashes fanned against her cheek and the lid movement of REM sleep, he thought about the fact that there were holes in the world. Holes that led to places where people shouldn’t be and stole lives away.
They were exactly the sort of menace that was the concern of Black Swan.
CHAPTER NINE
“You wanted to see me? Again? Don’t you already have a girlfriend?” Rosie said as she flopped down in the chair in Simon’s office. He knew she was coming when he heard the Mario Brothers flower music. Rosie had persuaded her grandfather to give her his ringtone. He took his second choice, which was herald fanfare.
“Yes. This coming and going from other dimensions. It’s been going on forever.”
She blinked. “I know that, Simon.”
“Well, it needs to stop.”
“Why? Because Simon says?”
He gave her a withering look. “Never heard that one before.”
“But surely you appreciate the fact that mine was delivered with a rose twist.”
“What’s a rose…? Never mind. Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”
She saluted. “We shall!”
“You’re trying to turn me into a mindless spouter of expletives.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not. Swear.” She crossed her heart then giggled. “Okay. I didn’t mean to say swear.”
“Elora Rose. Time to grow up.”
She looked a little offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been given the ability to do things no one else can do.”
She nodded. “Superpowers.”
“Let’s not get carried away. I’m trying to say that, if your special abilities aren’t paired with extra responsibility to use them for the good of our world, and maybe others, then what’s the point?”
“Maybe you don’t know everything about me, Simon,” she said quietly, in a tone he’d never heard her use.
“Maybe not, but I’d like to.”
“So you can exploit my ‘abilities’.”
“Using what you’ve been given to its highest purpose is not exploitation. Considering that I know who your mother, father, and husband are, I’m surprised to hear you talk that way about service.”
She blinked slowly and sighed. “What do you want?”
“I want you to save the world.”
She barked out a laugh. “You implied my use of the term superpowers was hyperbole.”
“That’s because I don’t think vanity is an attractive quality for a division head.”
“Division head?”
“Yes. I’ve been given clearance to offer you the job of setting up a new division and, hopefully, heading it up. We’ve decided to call it D.I.T., which stands for Department of Interdimensional Trespass.” He opened a cabinet behind his desk and withdrew an accordion folder. “There’s an entire section of the library dedicated to open case files that might be attributed to detrimental visitations. The only reason why it has heretofore not been considered as big a problem as vampire is because, before you, vampire were more easily dealt with.
“We’re not concerned about visitations of a benign character. Just those that cause problems.”
Rosie was stunned. “That’s really flattering…”
“We want you to hire personnel to determine where these doorways are and who’s using them to what end. Where they can be shut and sealed, we want to do that. Where they can’t be, we want you or your people to act as police. Run them down and stop them from returning. Get the word out that our world is no longer a defenseless smorgasbord for purveyors of all kinds of mischief.”
“Run them down?” She’d perked up at that.
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
“Had it occurred to you that some of the ‘doorways’, as you called them, are being used for good reasons?”
“I thought about it. I guess we’ll learn more about who’s who and what they want as you get further into it.”
“You sound pretty sure I’m going to say yes.”
“Gods. I hope so.”
“I need to talk to Glen.”
“Why?”
“Because, when you’re married, you make decisions together.” Rosie stood to go. “You’ll find out.”
Next up…
PREVIEW
The first two chapters of Finngarick.
CHAPTER ONE
From the Memoir of Glendennon Catch
Sovereign Jefferson Unit, Order of the Black Swan
For some time my wife has been after me to write down my stories. Maybe that’s because she’s afraid that I might be subject to early onset dementia. Maybe it’s because she’s busy, spending a lot of time directing the new Black Swan Division, D.I.T. for convenience sake because the real name, Department of Interdimensional Trespass, is quite a mouthful. Or maybe it’s simply that she’s being nosy about the details of how I spent my time during the years before she was born and when we were apart.
Rosie seems to believe that putting it all together in written form will be ‘spiritually healing’. I don’t have any reason to think I need spiritual healing. Rosie, if you’re reading this, let me add that my spirit is fine, but I’m always up for sexual healing. While I deny being in a state of spiritual unrest, I will reluctantly admit that I have found the process of organizing my life and experiences oddly calming.
When I first met my wife, she gave every appearance of being a year old, even though she’d been born about six weeks before. When I arrived in the Storms’ kitchen, Rosie, who was riding her mother’s hip, squealed, clapped her hands and said, “Glen!”
Since she had never seen me before, you can imagine my surprise. I stared at her in stunned wonder along with her parents. What can I say? When she came into the world she was into me. That was the first time she surprised me, but it would definitely not be the last time. In fact, she did it a minute later.
I walked over for a closer hello thinking she had to be the most beautiful baby ever created in the history of babies. She promptly slapped me on the cheek with a chubby little hand, squealed in delighted giggles, and clapped, saying “Glen. Glen. Glen.” Perhaps I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the last day I was ever able to feel real happiness without her. Thankfully, she left her impulse to hit me in the face behind in childhood.
You may be wondering what this has to do with Finngarick.
Well, while he and I have not been on parallel journeys in the strictest sense, our lives have touched, tangled, and disentangled on several occasions. Those intersections of fate may lend insight into Finngarick’s character, or lack thereof depending on your point of view. For that reason I am as enmeshed in the fabric of his story as he is in mine.
I can only report things as I see them, which means that my comments should be taken with the inherent bias that is inescapable. Still, you may find value in first hand witness; in moments that are forever branded and encapsulated within my memory, however flawed.
As it happens, Rosie is also part of this story, albeit indirectly, as you will see.
Like everyone who worked within the organization of The Order of the Black Swan, I had heard of Sir Torrent Finngarick and his infamous exploits. It was through that prism of preconception that I viewed him on first meeting, which happened to be his father’s wake.
It was in Dunkilly, Ireland, a fishing town on the northwest coast on a day so cold my fingers wouldn’t work the latch of the Land’s End pub door wherein I was told I would find Sir Finngarick and the other misfits of Z Team. You might think it would be impossible for the air to be cold and full of humidity. The wind blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean whipped inside my clothes, chilling me to the bone marrow, as I stood outside the pub, jumping up and down, waiting for someone to either come or go and open the door for me.
I’ve been in the Canadian Rockies at two in the morning in January. I’ve been to Antarctica. I’ve even taken the train across the Russian tundra in winter. But I have never been as cold as I was that day in Northern Ireland.
I was there as a test devised by the late Sovereign Sol Nememiah. My mentor, Sir Engel Storm, and I were going to share the work of the Sovereign until a suitable replacement could be found. Storm made it clear that he disagreed with the decision to send me to Dunkilly and said something about lambs and wolves. I choose to not remember the exact phrase. He argued with Sol and said he thought that sending me was particularly sadistic and utterly uncalled for. When the dust settled, Sol had won, as he always did.
I was to make the trip to Dunkilly and inform Z Team, in person, that they were being transferred to Jefferson Unit. Effective immediately. Further, I was to escort them back. Personally.
Torn’s three teammates had taken leave to accompany him to the wake. Not because Torn was broken up about his father’s passing, but more out of respect for Finngarick. Or maybe just because it was a good excuse to get out of Marrakesh, where Z Team had been attached to the least desirable post in the world.
Eventually the door opened. Eyes set in a wizened old face widened slightly at the sight of me, no doubt because the sight of strangers was an unusual occurrence. The man nodded slightly as he drew his cable knit scarf closer around his neck and stepped past me. I nodded in return trying hard to look like my teeth weren’t chattering like a battery operated Halloween skull. I caught the door with my shoulder and stepped inside to warmth and smoke so thick I could barely see.
The good people of the town of Dunkilly didn’t like Mick Finngarick much and liked his son even less. But it appeared that wouldn’t stand in the way of free drinks and a little live music. The place was crowded with people standing around with pints, raising their voices in amicable conversation.
Though the warmth was welcome, my face and hands stung from the abrupt contrast in temperature. While I stood near the door where I’d entered, trying to get my shivering under control, I looked around. When I caught the bartender’s eye, he simply pointed to a back corner, as if there could be only one reason for my presence.
Curious to see if the bartender knew what he was doing, I began to slowly navigate my way through the locals and the smoke. I’d never seen photos of the members of Z Team, but I knew them instantly because they wore their reputations on their collective countenance like a neon sign.
As I recall my first reaction was to wonder how they could expect to be successful vampire hunters, part of a secret organization, when they went about wearing a vibe that communicated not just danger, but crazy as well. They looked like it was entirely possible that they’d escaped a facility for the criminally insane. So much for blending in and keeping the mission on the down low.
One was bare-armed with fully tatted sleeves. One was so dark and gothic-looking he might have been a movie vampire himself, the kind who made ladies gush their drawers. The term Black Knight came to mind and made me smile to myself.
Another had some tribal tattoo tails disappearing into the neck of a plain gray hoodie. He had a pierced eyebrow raised, watching me. He didn’t look away, but I could see he was saying something to the others. That’s when the fourth turned his head. Elfin ears. Brownish hair with big thick titian streaks that gave it a fiery look. There was little doubt it was Torrent Finngarick. In the flesh.
The four gave me a good stare down as I approached the snug they’d taken over, looking for all the world like they owned the place.
I introduced myself to the four of them. To Torn I said, “Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick.” I said ‘sir’ so quietly that it was more implied than audible. “The office sent me.”
In response they didn’t respond. They sat and stared. I knew it was an attempt to intimidate.
To put things in perspective, I was eighteen years old at the time. Lovable. A bit goofy perhaps. And agreeable. That’s how I saw myself and I’m pretty sure that’s how most others saw me; affable and easy-going. For that reason they tended to forget that a quarter of my genetic makeup is werewolf, a particularly dominant strain. I didn’t go out of my way to advertise that fact. I just went about my business and found that I rarely needed to give a demonstration.
This was an occasion for a demonstration. I could stand there the rest of the night without either flinching or looking away.
At length, the guy with the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned. The dimples worked against the tough guy persona and I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew that. “So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We’re waiting.”
I chuckled along with the other three, but let my laughter end with the hint of a growl. I don’t shift, but I did get the full complement of vocal cords. I understand that it can be startling and, I’ve been told, can raise hair follicles. It wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They sat just a little straighter.
I had their interest. But that’s not the same thing as respect.
To Hoodie I said, “My briefing didn’t mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to call me by a name, it’s Glen.”
Finngarick’s blue eyes twinkled in a way that brought Rammel Hawking to mind. “Long way to deliver a message,” he said. “Would you no’ have a pint with us then? Glen.” He reached out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it up to the snug, and nodded toward it in invitation. “You’ll find we’re no’ much on formality. Call me Torn.”
Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, “This is Gunnar. That’s Raif.” He sliced his chin in the direction of ‘Black Knight’. “The fella with the questionable personality is Bob.”
I said, “Gunnar. Raif. Torn. And Bob? No way.”
Finngarick’s eyes danced with the sparkle that belongs to elves alone. “Aye. Make no mistake. The bugger’s name is Bob.”
I suggested we rename him, which was a bold and perhaps even ill-mannered thing to do, but it took the focus away from me.
Finngarick looked toward Bob before bringing that blue-eyed gaze back to settle on me. “What we have here, gentlemen, is a cool, gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no’ a thing to do other than have another pint. So I say we should try playin’ Glen’s game. What would you be callin’ the man if ’twas up to you, young emissary?” I hadn’t thought that far in advance. So I shrugged. “Come now. No ideas?”
Simon Says (Order of the Black Swan, D.I.T. Book 1) Page 8
