Wolf's Bane: Book Three of the Demimonde

by Unknown

  "He must have been a hell of a man if you are still bound by the pains of losing him." He turned away, taking a few steps before sweeping out his arm toward the falcon. "Can I at least know the name of the one who is turning my life into quagmire?"

  What would it hurt now? "Marek—"

  "Thurzo," he finished in a stony voice. "Of course. It would be him."

  He cast a contemptuous glance at the bird, which ruffled its feathers and lifted its beak in a dismissive gesture. Dierk raked back his hair and shook his head before stalking back inside, leaving me alone with a rather smug-looking falcon.

  After a moment, even the bird took off, leaving me alone.

  Completely alone.

  New moon | 0% visible

  A slamming door jolted me from an uneasy sleep, the force strong enough to send a tremor through my bed.

  Groggy, I sat up, stretching out an inquisitive finger of power, trying to identify who was making all the racket. It didn't take a genius. The Demivamp's signature was full-blast and self-secure, and would have glittered if it could.

  Shiloh. She didn't know how to temper her energy yet. Who needed an alarm clock when you lived with Shiloh Thurzo?

  As if I needed an alarm set for the middle of the night. Her nocturnal habits had gotten real old, real fast. Sleep was a sacred institution for me, and Shiloh had become a heretic.

  When she made noise at this hour, there was usually a story behind it. I drew a deep breath and shoved off the blankets, much to the dismay of my sleeping partner, who'd stretched and hooked his back claws into my arm when I reached down to settle him. Sheesh. Cats were so high maintenance.

  I slipped on my robe and padded out, grabbing my cell phone from the charger on the way out. Once in the hallway, I detected another pulse of power, this one subtle and guarded, just as the sounds of voices echoed from the foyer.

  "Fine!" Shiloh's voice was shrill enough to raise the hair on my neck. "Enough already, I said I'd go!"

  I couldn't quite catch the quiet response. When I stretched out my senses to inquire, I came up against a wall of power. Solid and impenetrable. I could have powered through it, but then I'd have to give up my curiosity. I knew who it was.

  That voice didn't have a calming effect on Shiloh. "Well, considerate people leave notes when they disappear in the middle of the night. She's driving me to school tomor—"

  Her companion cut her off. This time, the speaker made no effort to conceal her voice—or the hint of aggression behind it. A shove of mind-your-own-business made me teeter on my mental feet.

  The message was unmistakable. A stranger in my own home. Don't belong here. Get out.

  Shiloh's power flared. She released a wave of energy that I felt all the way upstairs, as strong as getting socked in a pillow fight. Every door in the house slammed simultaneously with a floor-shuddering thump.

  Every door, that is, but mine. I spun, seeing the door to my quarters had closed gently behind me. Shiloh shielded me, even as she lost her temper.

  Her voice rose in a conversation-ending roar. "I said, okay, Mother!"

  Another slam, this time from the front door, echoed into the sudden silence. I heard the sound of a familiar high-pitched engine and tires scraping on pavement as their car took off down the driveway.

  I wilted as the flash-flood of adrenaline subsided. Hooray. Aurelia was here. No wonder Shy was so shrieky. Hell, I knew I was thrilled. I wrapped my robe tight, my shields tighter. I hated how Aurelia got to me. She was a razor-sharp wedge, slicing between me and the people I loved.

  And I knew one day, the razor's edge would tilt and take it all away.

  With a sigh, I continued down the hall toward the kitchenette in Shiloh's suite, too awake to think about going back to my room. I stuck a mug of water into the microwave before swinging the cabinet doors open wide. Decisions, decisions. I scanned the shelves crammed full of Keurig boxes and hot chocolate before reaching for a can of instant chai.

  When the microwave beeped, I took out the mug and carefully measured the prescribed amount of powder into the water. After a moment of deliberation, I dumped an extra spoonful of chai powder into the cup. Really no need to go back to sleep so soon.

  Giving the cup a half-hearted stir, I turned toward the snack bar where I'd dropped my phone. I stumbled over something, biting back a curse when pain lanced through my toes. The offender was a pair of black army-type boots, scuffed and stained. Despite the lack of a designer label, they belonged to Shiloh. Her new look: slayer-in-training.

  Little Miss Prissy was out learning how to be a vampire killer.

  You'd think I'd find it a tad bit more objectionable but honestly, I was all for it. I knew what she was learning how to kill and, knowing they were dead already, I had no moral complaints.

  I just worried.

  I felt the same way about Shy following in her sister's footsteps that perhaps parents do when enrolling their children in martial arts classes. They'll learn to defend themselves. They'll learn courage and self-confidence. It's for their own good.

  Except kids didn't usually get killed in judo class.

  Up until now, Shiloh's greatest weapons were her teen-aged disdain and her ability to spot a fake Louis Vuitton at fifty yards. Now, she was adept at Filipino stick fighting and knew eleven different ways to use a garrote.

  I didn't worry all the time, especially not when she was down in Marek's gym. I watched her idea of a workout. She was just as twisted as Marek had been. God, I shudder to think how proud he'd be.

  I didn't worry when she came in at three in the morning on a school night because sleep didn't seem to be a requirement anymore. Apparently, her cusp was a permanent caffeine high—she had become utterly tireless.

  I only worried when Aurelia was with her.

  Whenever Aurelia came around, Shiloh's power took on a different tint, a gun-metal edge. Admittedly, I'm just a human and a wussy one, at that. I knew next to nothing about what Brianda and her patrols actually did. But I knew aggression when I saw it, and I knew it when I felt it. And I felt it around Aurelia.

  Aggression could have been a positive factor when training to be a slayer but Shiloh was new to the emotion. She wasn't focused enough yet to use aggression as a driving force. It made her reckless, impulsive. I didn't know if it was lack of control, an inability to harness a strange new source of power, or if she pushed herself to try and impress the mother who had suddenly re-appeared after a lifelong absence.

  I tried not to judge Aurelia, even though Rodrian was not the same since she showed up on our doorstep. Whatever was between them was unequivocally their business, even if it seemed it was spilling over into Rodrian's relationship with me. I tried to remain aloof and not give Rodrian more grief than she already gave him.

  I didn't like Aurelia. But for Rode and Shiloh's sake, I tried really hard not to hate her.

  Rubbing my toes, I decided I hadn't broken them. Just to be safe, I looked around to make sure she hadn't left a sword lying around. Next time I tripped over something, I might not be so lucky.

  I was on my way back to my room when I paused in front of the office door, a voiceless command to stop, wait. I tried to peer into the inky darkness. Usually, moonlight would spill through the French doors, diffusing into a cool glow in the sheer curtains. Tonight, the office was as dark and still as a coat-filled closet.

  And I went in, anyway. Something was outside, and it wasn't DV.

  I stepped out onto the balcony, fingers of cool air slipping beneath the collar of my sleep shirt. The black sky was dotted with punctuations of starlight, blending seamlessly with the row of trees beyond the field. New moon tonight—a dark sky, dark and unforgiving. I had a vague recollection of someone calling my name but, reaching out to survey the inhabitants of the house, I sensed no one whose power matched the timbre of that voice.

  Whoever it was, she was invisible.

  When I subconsciously identified the speaker as female, a presence began to unveil itself much l
ike a blush, a soft glow of somethingness. Standing on the balcony, I saw no one. I heard no one. I felt no one.

  And yet, she was there.

  Sophie.

  I tilted my head, hearing my name but not. It was directionless, a shadowy echo. It came from somewhere outside my head. Or did it?

  A light plucking along the back of my neck made me jump and swat at my hair. It wasn't an insect. It felt like fingers. "What do you want?"

  The air pressure changed.

  Who am I?

  I shook my head and hugged my waist, feeling chilly and bare. The scent of earth was strong, earth and the unfurling oaks beyond the field. "I haven't the faintest idea."

  Yes, you do. There was a smile in that mind-voice, a teasing tone. You've always known.

  "Vampire?"

  Nothing so trivial. I am more. I am nearly all, and you know me.

  Suddenly, I remembered a similar cryptic exchange I'd once had with another female I'd never quite figured out. But this wasn't Dorcas, either. Whatever it was, it was massive.

  The air pressure increased, pressing my eardrums and thinning my breath. The mental bear hug threatened to take me to my knees, and I reached out to grasp the rail of the balcony.

  "Stop!" My voice clacked against the stone of the house, a slight repeat against the trees. "Just leave me alone."

  You don't understand what has happened to you. The voice was coy, patronizing. This is a process you cannot hope to deter. The wheels have been set into motion.

  "What are you?"

  You know. You can never truly forget. No one escapes a destiny. The voice took on darker tones. Not even in death.

  A shrill scream lit the night air, close by, and I staggered back toward the door. An owl. That's all.

  And that's all I needed. I ducked inside and slammed the door shut, whispering a breathy prayer that, whatever that voice was, it couldn't follow me inside. I hurried back to bed, trying to forget how dark that voice had become, and how I'd swear I could still hear its smile.

  Saturday morning, and I couldn't sleep. What a crime. I spent an hour cleaning my rooms wearing little more than my bathrobe and a pair of flip-flops and argued with the cat. Apparently, he'd been having no trouble sleeping at all. No matter what I did to occupy myself, I kept hearing those words from the night before, a crystalline repeat.

  No one escapes a destiny.

  Not even in death.

  I wasn't sure if it had been meant as a threat but, paranoid as I'd become lately, I sure took it as one.

  As I carried my laundry basket out of the bedroom, I spied the books I'd brought back from Marek's place. I hadn't even looked at them since bringing them home. Tucking Marek's journals into the pockets of my robe, I lugged my linens down to the laundry. Once back upstairs, I went to sit in the tri-suites, reading while I waited for a pot of tea to brew.

  I spread the books over the top of the snack bar, not even knowing where to start. Rodrian had given me the stack of hard-bound journals, the covers worn, the corners abused from being tucked into pockets. Marek had dated his journals, perhaps as a reference, in the inside of the front covers. Did he ever go back and read what he'd written, many years later?

  I saw the years he'd written inside those covers and refused to believe them. The earliest was dated 1863. My immigrant ancestors hadn't even arrived in America and Marek was already keeping a diary.

  At first, I tried to joke it away, a slight comment about hot older guys, but when it came to Marek's age, I had a truly hard time wrapping my brain around it. Someone who had been so warm, so alive, couldn't possibly be that old.

  His penmanship was an even scrawl, if not overly flourishing. Like Marek, the letters were lean and constant, the words precise and objective. One journal described business transactions and a subsequent purchase of land in Balaton village. The street references made me smile in recognition and I realized he described having bought large plots in outlying Chaucer's Square and downtown. If he'd retained ownership of all that land—

  I shuddered. It meant he owned huge interests in Balaton, at least at one time. Since I couldn't imagine him giving up—or (perish the thought) losing—anything, it meant Marek's estate went far beyond a cottage and a townhouse and a biotech company.

  Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the looming headache to keep away. Rodrian said I'd been granted his estate. Oy.

  I shut the journal with a snap. Enough of that one.

  Picking up one that looked newer than the others, I peeked at the date. 1981. Whew. Practically yesterday. Flipping to a random page, I noted his handwriting hadn't changed much.

  July, 1981

  Amarisa returned from the north today. She left a fortnight ago after receiving a letter from her superiors. She has a haunted look in her eyes, one that I've seen before.

  Pain, for another. Someone she loves is suffering and she is powerless to comfort them.

  We spent the afternoon in the city, she feeding the bold squirrels that have come to recognize her. Amarisa insists on shelling the pistachios for them. The little scavengers are spoiled and complain loudly when I toss them unshelled nuts. I tell her she makes wasted efforts, but she pays no attention to me. She says that a kindness offered, even if it isn't returned, still increases the sum of goodness in the universe.

  I admit I don't understand her position on kindness. I might have once, but those days are rusted and gone.

  Times such as these, I admit I am not the companion she needs. Our past binds us, secrets and all, and within her light she makes much room for my shadow. All I can do is listen to the truths she is permitted to tell and pretend that I understand why she would chose a vocation that lends itself to such tremendous grief.

  I know I would never be one to bear such pain. That would require a soul, and I'm perfectly aware I do not possess the prerequisite qualities. Times like this make me glad my own fosterling is grown. I am not a compassionate man.

  Not now. Not for a very long time.

  I lowered the journal and closed the page on my finger. Marek's words were difficult to read. They called up the memories of when we first met; he was so dark, so tortured, and although I only caught glimpses of his shadows, I knew they must have run deep.

  His journal entries provided insights to the terrible past he'd hinted about, those peeks when his somber shell would stretch full and the cracks would leak his darkness. Who was Amarisa? He called her a companion. Was she a lover? A friend? All I could do was send a desperate prayer to Heaven that she had been a source of comfort to him. Reading that entry made my heart ache, knowing he'd suffered so much in the past and I had been not there for him.

  I was in elementary school when Marek wrote this. What would a skinny kid with freckles and a frayed ponytail have done? Especially not a skinny kid who, at the time his journal entry had been written, was still trying to deal with the loss of her little brothers.

  With a sigh, I closed that journal, too, and dropped it on the snack bar. Silly me, thinking Marek's diary would distract me in a happy way. He had a funny way of reminding me of all the things I'd lost.

  Tea brewed and poured, I went into Shiloh's room to strip her bed while the tea cooled. Although she didn't spend much time here, I wanted her room to be ready for her when she came home.

  I seemed to be going through a lot of motions. All these little tasks, chores to pre-occupy myself, taking care of people who really didn't need to be cared for.

  What if I was just treading water? I was being carried along on strange currents. Wouldn't it be easier to swim along with it, and perhaps find a resolution further downstream? As it was, I was in completely over my head, and eventually I'd exhaust myself with the mere effort to stay afloat.

  And why was I doing Shiloh's laundry, anyway? She knew each of the household staff, seemed comfortable with their duties and their position. Rodrian was always scolding me for not letting them do their job. He hated wasted money and he swore every load of wa
sh I did on my own cost him unnecessary payroll dollars.

  Don't you have enough to do? he'd ask.

  I wasn't sure I did. Not anymore, anyway.

  Swiping the journals into a stack, I picked them up and lay them on top of the bed sheets I'd retrieved from Shiloh's room. Perhaps for now I'd tuck the books onto a bookshelf in Marek's tiny library. That's when I thought about the other book Rodrian had brought back for me. The canon.

  I passed one of the staff on the way to the staircase. She noticed the wash basket on my hip. "I can take those for you, Miss Galen, if you'd like."

  Any other day I would have said no, thanks and scurried off but the image of Marek's big dusty book wouldn't budge from the front of my mind. Maybe just this once. I nodded and took my books off the top before handing the basket over to her. She smiled, perhaps thinking she'd made a tremendous breakthrough with me.

  There was a breakthrough, all right, but the maid would be very disappointed that she couldn't take credit for my sudden ability to let something go.

  Waxing gibbous | 2% visible

  The afternoon sped past while I pored over the old tome. In fact, I may have even added a new butt-grove to Marek's ugly armchair. Once I sat down and started flipping pages, I didn't move until Fraidy came in to holler at me. I'd forgotten to feed him. A rumble in my own belly reminded me I'd forgotten to feed me, too.

  How could I even begin to figure that book out? That it was a volume in a sequenced set was certain, as long as the crude table of contents was correct. The list described a five-book set of which this was the second. Scriptura Semideis.

  Each chapter was in a different language, with hand-drawn images and woodcut pictures of every conceivable type. I alternately used an online translator and a magnifying glass, trying to pick out some kind of clue. What this book needed was a scholar, maybe a college department full of scholars. Not some broad with a smart phone app.