by Aja James
Despite their fighting prowess, perhaps because of their small population, the Royal House of Anatolia had ever allied itself to the Dark Queen Ashlu, who had ruled over the empire for thousands of years.
They provided her an elite class of warriors for surgical strikes against her fiercest foes. The best of their fighters were included in her personal guard. And she also used them strategically as assassins when she had particular enemies to dispose of with minimal fuss.
After all, it was difficult to trace cause of death when death came in the form of shadows.
This was the life the boy would one day inherit. A life that had only two goals: to continue honing the shadow arts, and to perpetuate the line.
From birth, the boy’s existence was rigorously regimented to produce the most fearsome fighter the vampire race had ever seen.
Instead of milk, the boy was weaned on Pure blood alone. No diluted human blood would do. Only the strongest nourishment for the Prince’s warrior son.
No one held him longer than was necessary. Every touch was perfunctory and emotionless. Unless it was with fury or distaste, as the beatings by his father always held.
No one comforted him with words of reassurance when he displeased the Prince by not growing up fast enough, or when he made mistakes during the grueling training to be a shadow since he’d first found the balance to stand unassisted.
At four summers, the boy was made to watch for hours on end as the Prince copulated with female after female.
See, the Prince told him telepathically with his narrowed wolf-like eyes, this is how you fuck a female. This is what you’re going to do one day to carry on the line.
The boy had vomited everything in his stomach when he’d finally been taken back to his own chamber.
He didn’t ever want to have to do what his father did. It didn’t look particularly pleasant for all parties involved. Just a grotesque slapping of bodies against one another. And the Prince’s grunts during the ordeal made it sound like the most onerous chore.
The boy had never witnessed, heard, or felt any pleasure.
Pleasure, he was taught very early on, was dangerously addictive.
Pleasure spawned desire.
To desire was to want. To want was to expose oneself to weakness. Weakness that could be used to bring endless pain and torment.
And it all began with pleasure.
Therefore, all pleasure must be removed from his life.
By five years old, the boy had managed to contain all emotion and feelings, including pain.
Every day began the same way. Breaking fast at the throat of a Pure slave, always a male slave, for the Prince believed that males were stronger.
Spending grueling hours on the training grounds from nightfall to dawn, learning how to fight, how to defend his weak flesh and bones from sharp instruments made of an especially hard metal that could cut through stone like it was butter, a metal that was indigenous to Anatolia
Taking brief breaks in between the unforgiving training to drink more blood, devour tasteless food, before engaging in mock combat once more against foes who were fully-grown males, who outsized the boy three-to-one and outweighed him by even more.
Finally washing away the blood, sweat and dirt at the end of the night in an icy cold bath that the human servants drew for him.
Huddling onto the cold, barren ground of his chamber to sleep so that his body could recover enough to endure the same torture the next day.
There was nothing soft in the boy’s short life. Nothing bright and colorful. Everything was muted gray, sterile white or bleak black.
No one smiled at him, and he wouldn’t know a smile if he saw one. He certainly never smiled himself.
He might have cried as a baby, but he couldn’t recall it, and he’d heard tales about how the males of the Prince’s line never cried. They either didn’t have the physical requirements for it or they weren’t capable of the feelings that resulted in tears.
Even pain dulled in intensity over prolonged endurance of it. Until the boy felt nothing.
Like now.
It was as if he’d died inside.
Not that he’d ever felt truly alive. It was all the same whether he lived or died. It felt kind of nice to float outside his own body.
As the wielder of the spiked paddle pulled back for another whack, the boy closed his eyes and gave in to the vast nothingness that was his existence.
And evaporated into thin air.
*** *** *** ***
Perhaps it was the horrific events of the night—being attacked by shadow assassins and the scrubbing and cleaning she had to do afterwards to remove the three piles of ashes and Eli’s bloodstains from the wood floors of the orphanage—that induced Clara to sleep like the dead, cuddled protectively around Annie, until mid-morning.
Or perhaps it was boneless exhaustion from the multiple intense orgasms she’d had with Eli’s magnificent erection buried in her sex.
Or the blood loss from his feeding at her throat.
So many explanations to choose from for her tardiness in rising from bed that Clara took another few minutes just to sort herself out, breathing deeply in and out.
Had she dreamt it all?
Maybe none of these things actually happened. After all, she had a very robust and vivid imagination. She just didn’t think she had enough creativity to come up with this stuff, even unconsciously.
Speaking of her robust imagination, for the first time since she was a child, she had that recurring dream again, the one where she was transported to a magical world, green and lush. The air had been heavy with an intoxicating musk, a dense mist swirling around her legs as she walked. The difference was that she was no longer a child in this dream.
She was a woman, and she burned.
Clara shook her head to clear it, even now feeling the fiery tingles in her skin.
Strangely enough, the dream had felt good. The flames that enveloped her body had felt comforting, pleasurable, as if all her senses had finally been ignited, and she was truly alive at last.
Was it because of what happened with Eli?
She looked down at her palm where she accidentally sliced herself on the blade of the sword Eli had left on the floor, before it disintegrated into dust at her touch like the shadowy demons who had wielded it.
Yep, the thin, two-inch gash was still there, underneath the gauze she’d taped on top of it from the first aid kit in the hallway bathroom.
She definitely didn’t imagine the events of the night before.
Annie stirred beside her and rubbed her eyes open. She stretched her limbs like a kitten and yawned.
“Good morning,” Clara greeted her young charge, curving her lips into a cheery smile. She’d analyze her feelings later in private.
“We better head down before all the breakfast is gone. Will you help me make the bed?”
After tidying up Jaimie’s bedroom, brushing their teeth and brushing their hair, they went to Annie’s shared room to get her dressed for the day.
While Annie dug into her breakfast, consisting of a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with milk and a soft-boiled egg, at a long table with the other kids and Joanna, Clara slipped away to the basement to check on her wounded protector.
He was no longer there. There was no trace that he ever had been.
Clara sighed, weighed down by acute disappointment.
She’d known in her head that Eli was most likely gone by now if what he said about her blood healing him were true, but, in her heart, she couldn’t help hoping he’d be there where she left him.
What if she never saw him again?
But then, she sternly told herself to stop this train of thought. If he was still there, it would mean that he hadn’t recovered enough to poof out of the basement.
And Clara desperately wanted him to be recovered.
She went back upstairs to help Joanna with the day’s routines, trying to distract herself with familiar work and the innocent chatter an
d laughter of children.
It worked to a certain extent, but Clara couldn’t stop thinking about last night.
What if the shadow creatures came back again? Well, not the ones Eli had turned to dust, but more of them?
What did they want? Who had they been after?
Clara distinctly recalled looking into the eyes of presumably the leader of the threesome. His gaze had been cold-blooded and menacing. But she didn’t know whether they’d been there to abduct or to kill.
She swallowed and folded more paper origami, which was the art lesson for the children this afternoon.
Every one of her students sat at a round table with a stack of colorful Japanese origami paper. She’d shown them how to make a paper balloon, a boat, a box with lid, a wolf that could open and close its mouth, and of course, a crane.
As the kids worked, Clara sat at her own table folding cranes. She was planning to string them up and hang them from the art class ceiling along with the children’s creations. She’d already folded over three dozen cranes, given that her fingers tended to be extra dexterous when her mind was busy jumping through hoops. Making things was her way of exerting some sense of control over the world around her.
Should she call the police? Not about Eli but about the shadow intruders? Should she tell the other staff at the orphanage so that they could all be on alert?
But what would she say?
Hey all, I got attacked by three men last night that can turn into shadows. I fought them off with my Pepper spray and Taser. Where are they now? Oh, they kinda turned to dust and I swept away the evidence. Didn’t want to leave a mess in Jaimie’s bedroom, after all. Wanna see the cut I got on my palm handling the sword that also no longer exists because it disintegrated the moment I sliced my hand on it?
Clara winced. If she were part of the audience to that whale of a tale, she wouldn’t believe herself either. Better to keep these phantasmagoric observations to herself until she knew more or could come up with something more believable.
At least, she’d be taking Annie home with her tomorrow, though she didn’t know whether that made them more or less of a target.
Later that evening, the orphanage’s part-time teacher Maria Knightly, and her niece, Grace, who often visited with her, arrived together with three full grocery bags worth of fresh fruit for the children.
Everyone in the orphanage loved Aunt Maria, who was easygoing and liked to smile and laugh a lot. Grace, however, was a conundrum.
On the one hand, she seemed to relate very well to the children, and they enjoyed spending time with her. On the other hand, she was extremely awkward because of her unique case of Asperger’s, especially with the adults.
Lately, Grace had grown much more open and expressive with her emotions. She even smiled with genuine joy.
“You look very pretty today, Grace,” Clara complimented, taking in the other woman’s glowing porcelain skin and glossy hair.
Given that Grace always used to put her un-brushed straggly hair in a knot on the back of her head, and her skin always looked pale and pasty, Clara noticed the difference immediately.
“I got mated—I mean—married,” Grace said by way of explanation, her tone flat, as if she’d said instead, “I got a root canal.”
“Oh wow! Congratulations!” Clara exclaimed with the joy that Grace was not expressing, neither on her face nor through her voice.
“Where’s your ring?” Clara asked, looking at Grace’s left hand.
“What ring?” Grace frowned slightly. Then, her bushy brows lifted with comprehension.
“I didn’t get one. My…husband and I got married quickly. Besides, I don’t like to wear jewelry.”
“Well, married life is definitely agreeing with you, Grace,” Clara said, beaming at her.
She’d always liked the socially awkward woman; Grace had a good heart and said some of the funniest things sometimes, usually without meaning to.
“When do we get to meet him?”
“Who?” Grace stared expressionlessly back at Clara.
Clara blinked. It was like rolling a boulder uphill, carrying on a conversation with Grace.
“Your husband. What’s he like?”
For the first time since Grace arrived, her whole face lit up like a sunrise.
“He’s magnificent.”
Clara grinned wide. It was extremely rare for Grace to use such a strong adjective to describe anything. She barely used any adjectives.
“You must be very much in love. I’m so happy for you.”
Clara enveloped Grace in a loose hug, and the other woman awkwardly patted her twice on the back, perhaps a signal that she should step away now and give Grace the space she needed.
“I am,” Grace replied. “In love.”
Then she tilted her head slightly and peered unblinkingly and intensely at Clara.
“Are you?”
Clara shook her head with bemusement. She never could follow Grace’s line of thinking.
“Am I what?”
“In love.”
“Oh.” Clara lowered her eyes and fidgeted with the origami cranes.
“Why do you ask?”
“You look very pretty today too,” Grace said. “You’re always pretty, but you look prettier today. It’s more in the way your eyes shine. There’s a brightness to them that wasn’t there before. I’ve seen the look in the mirror. It’s the look of love.”
Clara was effectively rendered speechless. That was the longest monologue she’d ever heard from Grace. And the words themselves resonated with such irrefutable truth that Clara was suddenly afraid.
Surely she hadn’t fallen in love after a few days of being stalked, brief snippets of conversation, a near-death experience, and an all-too-brief explosive meeting of sexual parts?
Clara sighed inwardly.
Whatever it was she felt, she somehow knew that she’d never feel it again with anyone but Eli.
Chapter Four
His penthouse was no longer secure.
Eli had floated in smoke form from the orphanage back to his apartment’s balcony, letting the wind carry him and save him the energy of carrying himself.
The moment he coalesced into physical form he knew that his apartment had been breached. The air both without and within his rooms was different. The currents had shifted, and new scents mingled with his own.
Sensing that the intruders were no longer there, he went inside for a thorough check.
Nothing was out of place; nothing was taken.
He closed his eyes and let his senses travel with the air around him through each and every crevice of the apartment.
The intruders had placed cameras and mics in strategic locations throughout the penthouse. He was even now being watched.
Eli looked up at the ceiling smoke detector where one of the cameras were hidden.
Who are you? He asked with his mind. What do you want with me?
Whoever it was, he wasn’t going to stick around to be spied upon.
Leisurely, as if he were taking another stroll about town, he left the building through conventional means, down the elevator and out the front revolving doors.
When he was a good distance away from the high-rise, relatively isolated from view in a dark corner of Central Park, he transformed into smoke and traveled with the wind until he located a safe hiding place in a lightless sewage tunnel underground.
The smells and the dampness would mask his own scent, and there were plenty of shadows to blend into should the need arise. He’d be completely undetectable.
He coalesced again to rest and think and plan.
He was now homeless, for the apartment was the only place he remembered he had access to.
He was also penniless, for, if whoever the intruders were had infiltrated the penthouse, they might also know about his electronic bank accounts. It would no longer be safe to access them.
He was still very weak, from prolonged starvation of blood and his recent wound, which ha
d punctured his intestines. The internal bleeding had stopped, but the tissues were mending at a very slow pace.
He needed more blood.
The predator in him had known it when he’d fed from Clara’s vein. He’d fought fiercely within himself to not take her life and soul as nourishment. Doing so would have accelerated his healing, given him more strength—the vampire’s instinct for survival was paramount.
Doing so would also have killed Clara. What’s more, it would have eliminated her soul from the cycle of life entirely. Snuffed out from the universe forever.
He couldn’t do it.
In the end, his inexplicable need to protect her won over the instincts for self-preservation.
Eli closed his eyes as he felt the drugging effects of the rising sun above ground. It was dangerous to sleep, but he had no choice, as weak as he was.
Within seconds, he crossed over to the world of dreams.
Third millennium BC. Capital City of Akkad. The Ivory Palace.
The Prince’s son grew up to be a fearless warrior.
Fearless, because he had conquered pain, so it could not hurt him. Because he felt no connection to life, death did not deter him.
He did, however, develop a purpose of his own for living, which prevented him from actively courting death in the countless battles he’d fought and led since the age of twelve.
His purpose was his men.
The shadow warriors who trained and fought alongside him. Though he formed no personal relationships, there was unequivocal, lifelong respect within the ranks. And as he proved himself over and over in battle, his fellow warriors’ admiration and awe of him grew.
Too, he’d learned to harness the shadow arts better than any of the Anatolian Princes before him. Whereas other warriors could turn themselves into shadow, he could do the same, but also become as swift and fierce as the wind, as light and invisible as air.
Far more powerful than his father, the Prince, who envied, hated and feared his own son.
