The Shifter’s Prisoner

by T. S. Ryder

  “It’s genetic,” she told him, each word heavy with enthusiasm. “It’s artificial and genetic.”

  It took Sebastien, still woozy from sleep, a few moments to realize what she was talking about... and, when he did, the realization hit him like a hammer to the head. “Are you telling me someone actually designed this goddamned thing specifically for us?” he demanded, his tone harsh, but where a lesser woman would turn defensive, thinking he was blaming the messenger for the bad news, she took it as it was – disgust at the orchestrator of the tragedy – and simply continued.

  “Not you,” she said, “We ran the tests all day, and the same sequence of alleles kept repeating over and over again, so we cross-referenced all the names in the lab results and in Beauchamp’s reports... and guess what?” Eyes wide, she grinned victoriously. “All of the victims had one of the slaves your mother brought with her when she ran off to marry your father in their ancestry.”

  Now that was news.

  As he quickly got dressed, Kendra told him all about their findings. They could not pinpoint the exact moment of the original infection, but because several of the infected remembering seeing odd, shallow cuts that took a little longer to heal than they should have after that night at last year’s Gathering, they suspected that Sebastien’s first instinct was right. It seemed likely the Mississippi Clan engineered what was pretty much a genetic time bomb and, after their offer of marital alliance was rejected, purposefully infected as many people from the Louisiana clan as they could as revenge for every sin they felt Sebastien’s Clan and his family had committed against them.

  “I don’t know if it was a design flaw,” Kendra explained, “Or if they made the disease require a specific set of circumstances to prevent it from spreading too fast and revealing their trap too soon, but the disease needed both the person who drank the blood and the donor to share those specific recessive genes in order to activate.” Her brow furrowed a bit. “It was a monstrous thing to do... but, also... kind of brilliant,” she admitted, though she clearly felt morally conflicted about admiring something so foul.

  “It is,” he nodded. “Both of those things.” He knew she was not looking for his approval, but also that she wouldn’t feel nearly as bad about understanding the kind of talent and hard work it took to devise such a scheme if he showed her that he understood it too.

  Unfortunately, a cure did not seem possible. “We could screen everyone for the reagents,” Anais told him. “And give them a list of people they should not feed or feed on under any circumstances, but that’s it. Those already infected... they’re lost.” She cried then, inconsolable, and he held her close until she was able to function again. The news broke his heart for the people they were going to lose, but there was nothing to do for them but make their last days as comfortable as possible.

  Breaking the news to his father was a task Sebastien took on himself. Baptiste Roche, the Clan King of Louisiana, had woken up several times during the past week and seemed mighty pleased with Kendra. “She’ll keep you on your toes, that one,” he told his son, pride and joy in his voice. “But it’ll just make you love her more.”

  Grinning, Sebastien nodded in agreement. He already knew the world would be a bleak place without Kendra in it, and he couldn’t wait to formally make her his Queen. They’d begun the preparations for the Bonding rite, one which would tie their life-forces together and make it so that they aged and grew old at the same pace. Vampire couples didn’t need to bother with that, the longevity of their relationships all but set in stone, but mixed couples chose to undergo it even though it mean the vampire of the pair was looking at a shortened life span. To Sebastien, like many other vampires before him, this did not seem like such a large sacrifice. He wanted to spend his life with Kendra, no matter how long or short – and she felt the same, as evidenced by the fact that all he needed to do to convince her to go through with it with him was tell her what the end result was.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Baptiste told Sebastien, when his son told him about the results of his investigation and his sister’s work. “I’ve had a good, long life, I was lucky enough to Bond twice, and I raised a worthy heir to the Clan Throne. I’d be greedy to ask for more.” The only request his father had was to make the Mississippi bastards pay.

  And tonight, the main eve of the Grand Gathering, hosted by their own Clan Home, was the perfect night to do it.

  Chapter Nine

  Kendra sat next to Sebastien, introduced to the representatives of the North American vampire Clans as his Bonded mate and future wife, and watched the final confrontation unravel. As they expected, when Sebastien rose and made their accusations about the Clan King of Mississippi, his maternal uncle, the snide bastard had the gall to claim innocence. It was a good thing they had come well prepared – and with a special gem up their sleeve to reveal only after all other proof was presented.

  It was one hell of a process, reminding her more of a courtroom drama than anything else, only more boring. If she had not been deeply invested in the entire ordeal, she would’ve been a little bored. But, things being as they were, she listened and observed intently, both the accused and their audience, who mainly remained on the sidelines, refusing to take anyone’s side until they had heard everything that both parties had to say.

  It annoyed her, but she couldn’t blame them – most of their evidence was circumstantial, and Kendra was not sure it would hold up in a human court of law.

  But their ace was not something that could be contented – or ignored.

  Their ace was a collection of CCTV images, released to them by the police after several days of negotiations and, finally, threats of a lawsuit. They were a little grainy, but in full color, and showed a large red pickup truck stalking and then deliberately hitting the car of one Dr. Keith Duquesne, husband of the Louisiana Clan King’s daughter, and a scientist just a few steps away from discovering the full extent of the Mississippi Clan’s crime.

  Two of the photos were particularly interesting because one of them clearly caught the license plate of the truck – and the other the face of the driver.

  The truck was registered to the Mississippi Clan King.

  The driver was his dhampir nephew.

  Upon that reveal, all hell broke loose, and the members of the Mississippi Clan attempted to flee, but the rest of the vampires quickly rounded them up.

  As Kendra learned, the vampire justice system could be a little drawn out when it came to presenting evidence, but once they were sure they had convicted the responsible party, the punishment came quickly and brutally.

  The final decision was unanimous - the Mississippi Clan was no more. The scheming Clan King and all those suspected of involvement in his revenge plans were executed. The remaining Clan members were to be absorbed into other, bigger clans, to live their lives in peace and free of persecution.

  It was not something Kendra wished to see happen again. She knew the wrongdoers had to be punished, but this was a little too much for her to take all at once. Sebastien seemed to understand, and put no pressure on her whatsoever, giving her his quiet presence and support to lean on.

  She had to admit, it was a good feeling. Kendra was proud of her strength, but it was nice to know she didn’t have to be strong all the time anymore. She had someone she could rest with and know she would be safe and loved, no matter how strange the way that love came to be was.

  With Sebastien at her side, she knew she could survive anything and come out a winner.

  Epilogue

  Three weeks later, she stood barefoot and dressed in red in the center of the Clan Home back lawn with Sebastien, also barefoot but dressed in dark green, facing each other as they waited for the Clan Priestess to perform the Bonding rite. The elder vampire woman, in elaborate formal robes, suddenly looked at Kendra and proclaimed with a huge smile on her wrinkled face, “You’re pregnant.”

  Shocked by the statement, Kendra looked at Sebastien, who seemed just as confused as she was,
and then back to the Priestess.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, and the woman laughed.

  “You’re pregnant, child! I can smell the change on you!” The Priestess confirmed her diagnosis, much to the loud joy of everyone present.

  Kendra looked at the man who, by the end of this night, would be her husband. He was the only person other than herself who wasn’t cheering, but the smile on his face spoke more of how happy the news made him than all the noise everyone else was making.

  “Is she for real?” she asked him, skeptical, and wondering if she’d be criticized for it, but Sebastien just laughed.

  “She’s for real,” he confirmed, nodding. “She’s trained to sense such subtle changes. No one else could’ve possibly caught it, not until way longer into the pregnancy.”

  Still a little dazed by the revelation, Kendra looked down to her stomach... and then back to the Priestess because a terrifying thought crossed her mind. “The baby... the rite, will it harm it?” she asked, almost frantic, remembering too many stories in which mixing magic and pregnancy resulted in tragedy, but the old woman just smiled and patter her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured Kendra. “It might be uncomfortable for you, but the baby will be just fine. It’s too small for the rite to affect it. It’s just a cluster of cells waiting to grow into a son or daughter.”

  That calmed her well enough, but she still felt an enormous amount of excitement and anxiety mixed together.

  A baby.

  She was going to have a baby.

  She was getting married, doing strange and inexplicable things to her body to make her life as long as her vampire husband’s was, and she was going to have their baby.

  If someone had told her all this a month ago, she would’ve had them committed in less than an hour.

  Yet it had all happened, and was no less real than the life she was about to leave behind.

  Sebastien took her hands in his and smiled that special, warm smiled reserved just for her.

  “Ready?” he asked, and Kendra felt her heart overflow with love and hope for the future that lay ahead.

  She smiled back and entwined her fingers with his.

  “Ready.”

  *****

  THE END

  The Dragon Shifter's Babies

  Description

  A voluptuous model with a knack for love potions PLUS a hot Dragon Shifter looking for a mate PLUS a head witch who gets in the way!

  Cyrene Redwood is a witch, but unlike any other witch, she doesn’t like being a witch. She has no idea where her wand is, her cauldron is stowed away under the kitchen sink and she uses her broom to sweep her apartment. She is also an aspiring model landing a gig at a modeling agency. But she is wayward, unruly and has a short temper, which jeopardizes not only her relationship with the head witch and her new employer, but might also put off that hot new guy she has met.

  Dell is a Dragon Shifter, who looks like a model straight out of a Calvin Klein poster. He radiates “macho.” He is stable, well settled and established and has seen enough in his time that hardly anything catches his fancy - like a girl who mixes something in his drink or a witch who doesn’t fall for his charms.

  When Cyrene is on a night out with her so-called friends, a daring bet lands her in Dell’s lap. Things turn steamy quick. But Dell knows more than he lets on and Cyrene has ulterior motives. As Cyrene shakes his foundations, Dell has to ask himself if he can really handle her. Will they reveal who they really are? And can Dell break down the wall that Cyrene has built around herself?

  Chapter One - The 13th of the Moon

  Cyrene

  I stop for a second while crossing the road to light my cigarette, when a blue Fiat Punto screeches to a halt and starts honking. I get it, the signal was red and I should have waited, but there is no need to honk like your life depends on it—such behavior pisses me off. “Learn to be patient,” I shout at the woman inside, louder than I intended. I flip her the bird and then walk away. Just so you know, I never walk away, I only walked away because that’s what I was already doing. With three kids in the car, you’d expect a woman like her to have more patience. She honks again as she passes me by.

  “Fuck you,” I shout back in return. What a bitch!

  I am cranky, I know, it’s that time of the month. No, it’s not what you think. It is the night before the full moon, the night of the coven meeting. I absolutely despise coven meetings. I loathe all the other witches—more like bitches, especially Minerva, the head witch. I don’t see the point of these meetings, what they accomplish and why the fuck are they always held on the night before the full moon. At this point in time, in this century, all witches know that the phase of the moon has no impact on the meeting, none whatsoever. Yet I’m the only one who has the balls to say it. And, obviously, all witches are required to attend.

  As I wait for the bus at the station, another bus waddles away and my eyes land on the ad on it: ‘Models Wanted - Apply Now.’ I save the address from the ad on my phone and wonder whether or not I should apply. I know I am beautiful, I have always known that, but I am not sure if I am “model beautiful.” For starters, I am not stick-thin, or thin, at all. I workout and I am fit, have a stunning bosom that makes people gawk, a flat stomach, and long red hair that make me stand out. I also have light freckles on my face, nothing that I can’t cover with some powder. When my bus arrives, I shoulder my way in and head home.

  After I am done with my household chores, I get to my computer and type in the address I saved earlier. It turns out that the ad was from Glance, a prominent modeling agency. And I meet the minimum height requirement: I am 5’11! All they ask for is a photo, so I pull out my phone and take some photos. None of them satisfy me and I take some more. I finally settle for a very neutral one because I think that’s what they will really want to see: not pouts, not me flipping birds, just a neutral expression. I email the photo and head to bed, tired down to the bone. Working two jobs isn’t easy. Try it sometime if you don’t believe me.

  At about three in the morning, there’s some fierce knocking on my window. I lazily open my eyes and see Bats in the window.

  “I am not going,” I say, pulling the duvet over my head.

  “That’s not an option, Cyrene,” Bats says. “Come on, honey, it won’t be long.”

  “Go away! I have to wake up for work in three hours.”

  “Then let’s get going. I’ll have you back within the hour.”

  “Tell the head bitch I quit being a witch.”

  Bats taps on the window full force, rattling the window frame. “Open up or I’ll break the glass.”

  I ignore her, curling up in bed. She smashes the window with the back of her broom, shattering the glass to pieces.

  “Bathilda, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” I scream as I jump out of the bed.

  “Told you. Get your broom before I break the rest of the stuff here,” she warns in a saccharine way.

  I know by now that she means it, so I whistle to my broom and it flies to me.

  “God, what did you do with your broom,” Bats asks, “don’t you ever clean it?”

  “No, Bathilda, I don’t clean my broom. I clean with my broom. You know, that’s what brooms are for.”

  Since I am calling her Bathilda instead of Bats, she knows I’m pissed, so she doesn’t make any more conversation. As I step out the window, she sighs loudly. I know she can’t hold it in, and she finally speaks.

  “Are you really going to go in your pajamas?”

  “I only dress up for Halloween,” I say, hopping aboard my broom.

  We shoot straight for the pitch-black sky and stop a little above the clouds. The rest of the coven is already gathered. There are eleven witches to be precise, standing in rows of three like an assembly at school. Minerva is sitting on the opposite side, facing them.

  “So good of you to finally join us, Cyrene,” says Minerva in her calm, therapist-like voice that makes me want to pull my hair out. W
hat’s worse is that she isn’t being sarcastic at all. As Bats and I take our place, there are only two witches standing out: Minerva with her green velvet cloak, her polished broom, her old-hag botox-hungry face and her floral crown with a mix of thirteen ever-fresh flowers; and me, with my straight-out-of-bed hair and pajamas, standing in stark contrast with the other eleven witches who are all dressed up in black cloaks and hats.

  Minerva completely ignores me. I know she’s a prude and hates me for not dressing up, but she doesn’t say a thing about it. Although I can see her disdain for me in her violet eyes. She drones on and on about things that I have no interest in so I doze off. Then she clears her throat loudly, waking me up before she finally gets to the important stuff—all witches are given a task during every meeting that they have to complete before the next meeting. Given that my coven is the guardian of nature, our tasks are usually stupid so I won’t bore you with them.

  I am the last one in the last row and I hadn’t paid any attention to what the meeting was all about, so Minerva decides to hand me the death sentence.

  “Cyrene, as you know that the only remaining and the most important ingredient is—I have no idea what she’s talking about—dragon hairs, it falls upon you to procure them for the potion before the next meeting of the coven.”

  “What?” I say, unable to believe what she had just said.

  “Dragon hair, my dear, it’s not that hard of a task,” Minerva says.

  “You are kidding, right?”

  “No,” she says seriously.

  “That’s a death sentence. Why not just kill me now?”

  “Cyrene, my love, I would never put you in danger. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t know you could—”