by Poppet
Closing the door, I decide to try the big double doors. This time I hit the jackpot as the passageway is presented in the dramatic flourish of doors that finish opening without assistance.
They're so silent it feels like a dream.
Maybe it is a dream?
Shit like this doesn't happen in the real world. Dreams can be devoid of sound, and stuff can work strangely.
His home is like a living organism that anticipates your next move. Lights coming on and off, doors opening and closing, all because you looked their way. They must go beserk when he's in a bad mood.
Maybe they're heat sensitive? Or...? Fuck, I don't know!
It's enough to make someone on the paranoid edge think they're either being watched and everything is remotely operated by the all seeing eye, or they're about to enter into a wrestling match with a poltergeist.
Or his domovoi is really well trained. Most people don't believe in the domovoi these days, but I think the house spirits exist. They do chores, and protect the house and the people who live in it. But then again, you do get bad ones. Sveta's domovoi must adore him to switch lights on and off, keeping everything user friendly and helpful.
Dismissing the thoughts which scrunch my calm into knots, I tiptoe into the passage and walk to the right. Predictably tiny lights set in the wall at floor level flick on when I'm three feet away from them, lighting my way.
He's either really energy conscious, or he gets so wasted on a regular basis he leaves everything on and got sick of the electric bill.
Sveta, I thought I knew you. Who the fuck are you?
Traversing the long passage made of plain stone tiles and the same marzipan suede walls, I keep walking until I detect the alluring decoction of coffee brewing.
There is no scent more seductive than morning coffee.
With my pulse tripping with nerves, I finally breach through an opening and am instantly soldered to the spot by the sight waiting in ambush.
Afraid to breathe, move, or make a sound, I am frozen, enraptured.
This has to be a dream.
Before me is a living room which is so spacious and vast it's a hall. But it's shallow, with approximately sixteen feet between me and an open wall. Floor to ceiling doors are folded up like a tight fan on either side of the opening. And the opening is the entire wall before me.
There, on a perfect oval of turf, is a man so fluid he moves like an eel through water.
Which is apt, because beyond him is a rock pool lit with waning moonlight, releasing tranquility in a slow trickle from a sedate waterfall. It forms a barrier of privacy, secluding him in his own private outdoor sanctuary.
But it's not the beauty surrounding him that gives me pause, it's him.
Balancing on one arm, his body is straight as a torpedo and just as rigid, his other arm held outstretched in perfect alignment with his shoulders to keep his balance.
Gracefully, like the crook of a swan's neck, he maneuvers after his locking hold of position, into lifting a leg straight out like his arm. Now he's simply slanting, holding his weight on two toes and a hand.
Silent as the night, he stretches his arm in an arc to reach over his head, then curls the arm in and melts into the next move. It looks like a push-up until he straightens his arms and lowers his hips, turning his spine into a spectacular crescent.
Relaxing, he droops his head onto his shoulders, giving me a seraphic view of his neck, its strength, every vein on his body bursting to be free of his skin. His muscles are so deeply etched he looks ready to pop.
I've seen well built men in my time, but none come this close to a god, or an angel. Every single muscle is defined, bulging, parading for inspection and draped in skin so taut and pale it's supernatural.
It weakens my legs and I sink as gradually as I can to puddle on the floor. I forget. He is supernatural.
Clad in white baggy drawstring trousers, the kind you imagine on a guru or sensei, I stare as he curls into himself, finally relaxing his arms while he's folded over his legs, tucking his face into his knees.
In a perfect patch of paradise he stays immobile for an eternity while the predawn breath strokes his skin and kisses each vertebrae down his spine.
Only when the crisp caress of her presence has worshipped him, does he unfurl, slinky, serene, turning his face so he stares directly at me with sprinkles of apricot phosphorescence leaking from his eyes.
They are the only light source other than the secretive moon, and it snaps my soul into fragments.
Nothing could prepare me for the moment I stare at a being so precious my spirit and soul fight to climb out of my skin, rushing to embrace that perfection with adoration.
I have no strength to move as I meet his iridescent eyes glowing their luminosity at me with what I now know is lust and love.
I am so unworthy. He is so close to perfect it hurts to stare at him. The woman in me wants to crawl over the cold stone tiles, to touch, appreciate, to simply soak in his presence. It's when you catch a neuri in an unguarded moment that you realize just how supreme they are to the rest of us.
After what I just witnessed I can understand how men have built shrines and modeled religions after the gods of men.
He is a god among men.
Standing in what can only be described as a svelte drape of elegance, he comes closer, walking toward me with that muscular perfection twitching and flowing in perfect symmetry.
His body is a planet that tempts the explorer to traverse the vales, ridges, mountains and storms. The closer it gets the more I can feel the magnetic charisma and attraction mounting its static between us.
I'm aching to slide my palms over the hard hills of his chest, to tread fingers down the canyon between the muscles to his stomach, to track the ravines between them with my tongue and to adore the strength of those curved biceps, the tight triceps, the lats that line him like handles to hold to on the ride of a lifetime.
What a dream... a holograph.
Except I know it's not. I know he's living and breathing and almost close enough to hold. And I know I am humbled by his perfection. He has ruined me for every other man on this earth. None are worthy to touch his shadow.
Sveta causes scar tissue to build up in my irises just from looking, and my fuck what he can do with his body would put anyone but him into traction for months.
Last night will stay with me forever, no matter how many times I reincarnate. I never knew a man so strong could be so tender and delicate. Or deliver so many hours of endless ecstasy.
He drops silently to his haunches, reaching out warm hands to defrost my cold body, and it's the touch of a sun in an ice-age.
His laugh revokes my ability to stand without support as it sucks the strength from my blood and replaces it with desire so vivid it attacks with the ferocity of a solar flare.
Hot lips brush mine while citrus stained breath washes up to my olfactory nerve. “Good morning, angel.”
I can't speak. He has parched my mouth and I can't even swallow. I am a living moment of pure breath and desire, and nothing else.
“You forget, I can hear every single thing you think. Your thoughts aren't private around me.”
I don't care. You are so beautiful it makes me want to cry.
Tears pin my eyes and prickle across my face.
The tender touch of his thumb runs softly over my cheek. It's a blessing, a balm, sanctifying.
“No more tears. You've filled lake Zena, now it's time for joy,” he says with a dreamy smile.
Ferrous pollen mists out of his eyes and I'm spellbound by the twinkles of light reaching out to sink their glow into my skin.
It's like being injected with a strong opiate. Immediately my eyelids become weighted and I wilt closer to his muscular body poised before me. It's hallucinogenic when that sculpted strength closes around me, allowing me to be weak, to worship, to succumb to the invasion of satin lips pressing mine open to accept his velvet tongue.
Liquified, I am barely lu
cid, except for the torture of the need obliterating my consciousness. Lifted, hot breath burrows into my neck when he moves to kiss my pulse.
I have never been so desperate, or vulnerable, as I am with him. Strength surges back to my bones and I grip tightly to lock my arms around his neck, weeping with the soul transfusion of his light to mine.
Plyx to plyx, the rainbow sphere enclosing around us vibrates with a tremor of heavenly sound.
“Don't you want coffee?”
Cradled in his arms, I'm so close that his voice flows through me. That incredible voice which is so like the secretive whisper of a bamboo wind chime when it's brushed with a prayer bowl.
“I want you.”
You!
Chapter 17
Sveta:
It's with a heavy heart that I drive away from her house. She has no clue why I'm leaving her when everything is perfect.
For the first time in all our months together there's no tension, no backbiting, no shit. Today is my date with destiny, fast forwarded just for her, but the timing sucks.
This morning her eyes were so weighted with desire and peace, god damn she fucks me up and I can't think straight. It was so hard to let go, to force reality harshly between us, but what fucking choice do I have.
I asked her to meet me at Pravus later and made an excuse about needing to see Zauran and Aisyx to talk work. When in truth I'm going to Zauran's to have my ass kicked so I can become an alpha to heal her mind. I've done all I can for her heart and soul, and with Arsay's help - her spirit.
This is the final hurdle.
If she only knew how much I meant it when I said I would do anything for her. This definitely qualifies as anything.
Anything that will fuck me up stupid just because I love her, and would turn the planet inside out to heal her and change the darklight back into a pure slakax star.
She will always have darklight abilities, and be able to see into the beyond because of the suffering she's endured. Only those who have suffered immeasurable trauma get to see the afterlife while still living.
That's how she knew the demons weren't here to hurt her. That's why she trusts them. Demons, they're a complicated bunch with many roles, and as usual humans got that label truly fucked up.
Shaking off the internal monologue, I focus on the road and idiot drivers who conveniently have a blind spot for bikers. Usually it's just a three minute zoot down the drag from my spot in Slanci, to Zauran's pad in Višnjica, but I had to drop Zena off in Dedinje first.
She told me she's thinking of moving out to Simanovci. That would more than double the time it takes me to get to her house, and fuck that for a fucking bad idea. How the hell would I reach her in an emergency?
If I have my way, she'll be moving to Slanci where I know the vampyres can't find her, in my bed, in my house, close enough to touch every time I think of her, away from the clogged congestion of the city.
Either way, right now my three minute drive is a good forty minute battle in traffic right through Belgrade, and back out onto the highway curving along the Danube river, to curl back inland to my haven; forests and open air where I can breathe.
I love this time of year, the grass is drying and turning into a tweed palette, the trees are rich and vibrant with golds, scarlet, and hot orange. Every time the wind blows, leaves feather through the air, crunching, rustling with dry discontent, and the morning air is crisp and sharp.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than this time of year, a new challenge, and the strange satisfaction of knowing she loves me. Really fucking loves me, no bullshit.
Fuck this, whatever Zauran has he must bring it. I can do this, and I have so much shit to work out I'm tensing just anticipating the release of the freedom to nail someone brutally without getting into shit for it.
Well, Zaria might be pissed at me for a bit, but she's a walk in the park compared to Zena..
Zaria I can handle.
Flexing my fist, looking forward to what's waiting for me, the Honda rears, nostrils flaring, speeding up, invigorating me with the merciless blast of cool air.
Bring it brother, bring it.
*
Zauran:
“Zarak come in,” I wave him over to the breakfast table.
Zaria is still in bed, and Aisyx is here to keep me in check for Sveta's initiation, so now is good timing for a change.
“Sorry to bug you at home but you haven't been back to Pravus,” he says, pulling out a chair at the table and dwarfing it as if he's playing house with a little girl. Even our cups are too small, and I'm not a small man by any measure of the imagination.
“Coffee?” I offer, reaching over to the simmering espresso pot.
“Thanks,” he nods, looking to Aisyx, and then back to me.
Handing his drink over, I get to the point, “So? Did she come clean?”
“I purified her, and honestly Zauran she's not hiding a god damn thing. She's way too arrogant and conceited to hide her activities. The babe likes praise.”
His expression clearly states praise and a whole lot more, but I'm not going there. His personal shit needs to stay private.
Aisyx leans forward, planting elbows on the table and covering one hand over the other, paper and rock style, “There haven't been any attacks since she's been with you, Zarak. That spells guilty in my book.”
Zarak is the polar opposite of Aisyx. Aisyx has jaw length blond hair and piercing blue eyes, showing his vampyre bloodline, but he's built like a neuri. The largest neuri half-breed on earth, he's as big as a demon. Zarak is all dark and broody, intense, threatening, which belies his attitude more than half the time.
The demon's eyes flash blue, then red, before settling back in to black, “She is innocent, Aisyx. She likes acknowledgment and adoration. After everything I put her through she would have said something, let something slip, because it's her nature – and she didn't.”
“Are you saying that because you want to protect your addiction, or because you believe it?” I challenge.
As the neuri responsible for Belgrade I have the jurisdiction to question Zarak in this manner, and he can't deck me.
He twizzles the coffee mug around on the table by the handle, staring at it, then looking at me like the speck of dust he thinks I am, “She's a cold hearted killer, and she's innocent. I raped her mind inside out looking for the red letter you want to hang on her neck, and for this crime it just isn't there. You're now wasting precious time looking at the wrong scapegoat.”
He downs his coffee and rises up from his chair to tower over the kitchen, “Take it or leave it. I'm freeing her today because we're holding the wrong person in custody.”
I point at his seat, “Sit down. We need to talk about the vampyre community.”
Zarak glowers at us before slowly lowering into his carved wooden chair at the round table, every muscle straining against fabric, definitely coming over as intimidating.
Again, I get to the point, “Is Venix a vampyre, or angel?”
“Both,” Zarak says, as if I'm wasting his time.
“What's up with that?” says Aisyx.
Zarak looks to him, “He had to maintain his vampyre abilities and presence in order to keep that population under control. He's raising vampyre babies, which means with them he has to be a vampyre. An angel has completely different needs to a vampyre. That's why you get different readings from Venix, and that's why he seems schizophrenic at times, it depends which half is currently dominating his actions.”
Well that puts that issue to bed. Fuck. So if it's neither of them, then who is it?
Nodding to Zarak, I say, “Please be so kind as to get Venix here. I need to speak with him. What will you do when you release Ellindt?”
“Go back to Pravus. Why?”
“I want it to look legit, give any people nosing about the believable impression the doors are closed for renovations, cleaning, upkeep, that kinda thing. Do you think you can maintain that illusion?”
“Sure,�
�� he nods, standing up again.
“Cool,” I nod, indicating he's free to go. He takes two steps away from the table and vanishes.
No goodbye.
Aisyx looks at me, “Are you fucking insane? You're inviting Venix into your home.”
“Yes, Aisyx. I'm bringing the enemy into the den, you wanna know why? Because he loves Zaria, and more than anything in the world I need to keep my children safe during this madness.”
Leaning back in the chair, I prop my feet onto the table, tilting my chair onto its back legs, getting frustrated that we can't find the rogue cell, and that we seem utterly incompetent when it comes to pinpointing who would want to attack us, or why.
Glaring at my cousin, I reinforce, “You would be the best Vampyre leader for this region because you are vamp-neuri. You understand the needs of both factions.”
Dropping the chair to sit on all four legs again, I skewer him with my focus, “You need to make friends with Venix. It's time we built a bridge that can withstand the storms. Sveta reverting to old prejudices constantly, isn't helping the cause. The only way we can move forward as a community is if we forgive each other for the past and let that baggage go.”
Aisyx smirks, blue eyes twinkling, “He's like a pissy ex-girlfriend. Every time there's an argument he drags up a list of misdemeanors that are no longer an issue.”
Laughing, I almost have a fucking heart attack to see Venix leaning against the doorframe, watching us.
*
Jowendrhan:
It takes immense restraint not to manifest inside her home. Playing the gentleman, I suck air into a gale as I pop into being on her doorstep, giving the door a knock.
Staring through the wall as if it's no more than a hazy window, I watch her wrap the towel around her body, catching long hair in another towel and twisting it onto her head.
She thinks I'm Sveta, ha! This should be priceless.
There's no way I'm giving up my immortality when I thrive on reading the thoughts of the women I've sucked and screwed. This ability must burn Sveta's sanity every time it dawns on him.
