The Last Unforgiven: Cursed

by Marina Simcoe

  For decades, there was nothing. Then, in the eighteen hundreds, a report came that caught his attention.

  “You said you don’t have their description,” Raim flexed his jaw muscles, getting irritated with the man he’d paid a decent amount of money to, yet who so far had failed in delivering any useful details.

  Raim had travelled quite a way south from the Base, a journey that took him weeks, to meet with this human contact.

  “Not a physical description,” the man corrected. “But the two who were detained in Dunvall Town have been accused of witchcraft.”

  “To my knowledge,” Raim retorted coolly, “there have been quite a few people accused of witchcraft during the past few centuries, both in the old and the new world. What makes you think these two are the couple I’m searching for?”

  “The woman is a real witch,” the man hurriedly protested. “With her help, her lover can lift things ten times his weight. He walked through a solid rock wall once, too. There were witnesses . . .”

  “He did that?” Raim’s hope spiked. His gold might not be wasted yet.

  “Yes,” the man rushed, spurred by Raim’s interest. “When they first brought them in, he tried to escape. A number of respected town folks testified seeing him disappear into the wall, like an apparition. Likely, some of the sheriff’s people were on the other side at that time, questioning his woman. They called reinforcements and managed to detain him again, but he killed and injured a number of folks during the ordeal. There are murder charges against him too, now.”

  The information was enough for Raim to head further south, to the small, dusty settlement, called Dunvall Town. Though, he had only the vaguest idea of what he would do once he got there. Despite his fixation on tracking the two, he had no intention of confronting the couple again.

  Both Gremory and Olyena had made it clear that night in the Alps that neither of them wanted to have anything to do with Raim. The pain of that rejection was still fresh in his chest, and he had no desire to go through that again.

  Neither did Raim feel inclined to help the couple in any way, now that they had gotten themselves into trouble and obviously could use his assistance.

  He should view this as karma, his way to extract revenge on them for leaving him on the bottom of the ravine in the Alps.

  The fact that he stopped at the bank where the Council kept some of the Incubi money and filled his saddle bags with gold—good old gold as opposed to the flimsy paper cheques and notes that banks had started to use of late—of course did not mean that Raim was rushing down south to buy the freedom of those who had betrayed him.

  Chapter 20

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY relocated?” Raim gripped the doorframe of the entrance to the local courthouse where he had been directed to for information on the couple he believed to be Gremory and Olyena. The wood made a creaking noise, forcing him to release his grip, lest the broken frame catch the attention of the sheriff’s office employee. Raim felt too irritated already to deal with any further delays that might cause.

  “I mean the two accused you’re inquiring about were transferred by wagon to Lintonvale,” the man replied huffily. “The holding cell there is in the basement, and it was deemed better suited to contain the male prisoner.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.” The arrogant male gave Raim a measuring stare, noticing without a doubt the dirt of the road on his boots and coat, not to mention his general dishevelled state after the days of hard travel. His last horse fell about an hour ago, forcing him to make the rest of his way here on foot.

  “I need a horse.” Raim ignored the man’s stare, producing a few coins from the bag over his shoulder.

  “Well,” the official adjusted his jacket, tossing a suspicious glance at the gold Raim deposited on the stand by the door. “I would advise you to inquire at the saloon at the end of the main street. They do have some for sale, occasionally—”

  “Whose horse is tied right here, outside of the court house?” Raim interrupted impatiently.

  “That would be mine—”

  “Great.” Raim turned to leave.

  “It’s not for sale, though . . .” the official hurried behind him, but Raim no longer paid any attention to him.

  Time was pressing. The wagon he had to catch might have made it all the way to Lintonvale by now.

  HE FOUND AN UPTURNED wagon on the side of the road, a few hours East from Dunvall Town. The signs of a struggle around it appeared fresh. The bodies of the officials who must have been those accompanying the prisoners were still warm when he checked. A wide trail of footprints led away from the site of the crash.

  Hope warred with worry in Raim as he steered his horse off the road and into the hills surrounding it, following the messy path of several sets of footprints intermingling with prints of horses’ hooves.

  Did Gremory manage to overpower his captors and free himself and Olyena? Or did someone else intercept the wagon?

  The smell of smoke reached his nostrils, making Raim believe he was approaching a campsite at first. Only after cresting the next hill did he realize what was ahead of him.

  A wood pyre.

  The one that humans used to burn their dead throughout their history. Or to bring a capital punishment to those accused of witchcraft . . .

  Just a couple of centuries ago these were more common, both in the old and the new world. As humanity grew, people had been progressing in many ways, leading Raim to believe they had moved past the nonsense of burning their own kind at the stake by now.

  But there it was.

  A pyre, with two long poles inserted in the middle and a figure chained to each of them.

  Gremory and Olyena.

  They were surrounded by a group of men—one still with a lit torch in his hands, another with a book that he was reading out loud from. A dozen or two of others stood around in a semi-circle, watching their two victims burn.

  Spurring his horse on like a mad man, Raim dashed towards the raging fire at full gallop, feeling nothing but an intense urgency to get there in time.

  Neither of the two looked the way he remembered. Olyena’s long braid had lost its inky colour, turning silver grey, instead. Gremory’s previously golden curls where now the pale shade of desert sand. Both of their faces now had the signs of aging.

  Gremory’s shirt was soaked in blood in the front—he had been stabbed or shot, repeatedly. Was that how they finally overpowered him?

  A bullet wouldn’t stop a demon. But Gremory was no longer a true demon, was he? The shots fired at him must have weakened him.

  The fire rose higher. Gremory lifted his face to the sky with a deep growl of pain. Olyena’s face was turned to him, her head tilted to the side, but her eyes were closed. A peaceful smile curved her lips.

  Getting closer, Raim noticed that Olyena’s hand was clutched in Gremory’s. Then he understood the serenity of her expression, with a chilling certainty—she was already dead. Gremory had drained her to spare his beloved the suffering of burning alive. She died with a smile on her lips, giving him her lifeforce.

  Raim’s gaze crossed with Gremory’s as he approached, wildly spurring on his horse.

  The demon’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the choking smoke leading to a bout of violent coughing, but he did not appear afraid. Raim saw the confidence on Gremory’s face, the ready acceptance of his fate. There was no fear.

  A human would have already succumbed to the pain. But Raim knew that burning in a raging fire was nothing new to Gremory. The pain of hunger was harder to bear, and Raim himself went through that daily.

  Unlike Gremory, however, Raim felt dark, thick horror engulf him the moment the flame fully claimed the two bodies on the pyre.

  The permanence of death terrified him.

  Crashing into him like freezing squall, terror set off the rage Raim always carried inside.

  He was angry with himself for getting here too late. He was mad at Gremory for letting all of this h
appen. He was furious with Olyena for choosing Gremory over him, when Raim surely would have kept her safe.

  But most of all, he was mad at himself for ever letting her go . . .

  Reaching the pyre, he took his anger out on the pathetic humans who stared at him in bewilderment when he trampled the first one of them with his horse. Snatching the still lit torch from the hand of the other, he shoved it into his face, sending him to the ground in screams of pain.

  Someone shot at him, hitting his horse instead. Leaping out of the saddle before he could be crushed by the wounded animal, Raim grabbed the rifle out of the shooter’s hands, breaking it over the human’s head and smashing his skull to pieces.

  The rest blurred into messy, bloody carnage, filled with his rage, his pain, and the screams of the dying.

  He maimed and killed until there was no one left—just the two charred corpses, still upright, chained to the poles amidst the dying flames.

  Kicking the glowing logs left and right, burning his boots and legs, Raim made his way to them.

  Charred and burned, there was nothing left of their appearance that Raim could recognize. Only the images of them in his mind and his memories were all that remained.

  Desperately, he searched inside for any trace of light, hoping that their longevity might have lent them immortality. For if he were to suffer in this world for eternity, how dared they leave him here? Alone?

  But there was no life left in either of them, not even in Gremory. The Incubus had traded his immortality for a woman’s love.

  Any trace of the beautiful light Raim saw inside the two of them that night in the Alps was now gone. They took it with them, too.

  Leaving him behind.

  The anguish of a complete and irreversible loss rocked through Raim, shaking his entire being. Without the blessed relief of tears, all he could do was shout at the sky in sorrow that he now knew would be the biggest curse he’d carry for the rest of eternity.

  EPILOGUE

  LATER, IN THE COUNCIL meeting room . . .

  The woman had long, black hair, but Raim resisted closing his eyes—the images stored in his memories would appear inside his eyelids if he did, bringing more pain, anyway.

  “You’re so incredibly handsome,” the woman murmured to the Handler who was in charge of the Feeding tonight. The Incubus remained silent, following the rules. His gloved hands fluttered along the naked body of the woman, bringing out the nourishing wave of energy.

  Intercepting another heated gaze from the Source directed at the face of the Incubus fondling her, Raim noted a familiar warm tint curl through the red of her arousal. Somehow the exchange between the two had already grown deeper than it should have been between two complete strangers. And now, he was allowing it to grow even more, right here, in the Council’s meeting room.

  The danger of another Incubus falling into the sweet trap of a woman was evident.

  Raim would need to find ways to prevent any real connection between them from ever happening.

  A blindfold would help.

  What a woman couldn’t see, she would not be able to admire. Or Raim could find a way to cover the face of the Incubus. With a mask? Or a helmet?

  Things had changed. Raim had been forced to sign the treaty with The Priory, who were in charge of the Incubi food supply ever since.

  However, Raim had fought hard to remain a Grand Master, making sure to win every single election for centuries. He managed to keep control over the Incubi way of life. Therefore, he could still protect those who were awake from falling into the trap of a human woman that would ultimately lead to their demise.

  He still hoped to spare others the agony of the excruciating loss and regret that he could not escape himself.

  Watching the Handler reap an orgasm out of the Source, Raim skimmed her energy. He needed to feed, to remember. Hunger stripped an Incubus of his memories, but they were all Raim had left. Torturous, as they were, he hated and treasured them all.

  For a demon, emotions were to feed on, he told himself, not to experience. And he crushed them all down, striving to feel nothing.

  Only when he remembered, he allowed himself to feel.

  The Last Unforgiven – Freed

  CHAPTER 1

  (Unedited and subject to change)

  Raim

  The last symphony ended, the needle of the gramophone uselessly skipping at the edge of the record disk.

  Hand on the window frame, Raim leaned his forehead against the cool glass, the night outside completely dark in the Swiss countryside, just south of the mountainous border with Austria.

  A sudden loud knock on the heavy front door of his estate home scraped against his nerves. He didn’t move from his position by the window, though—a demon would enter, even with the doors closed. A human could go back to wherever they came from, for all he cared.

  The knock came again. Loud and persistent. As if the uninvited visitor had the right to demand the entry into Raim’s house.

  Letting go of the window frame, he strolled to the front door, just the way he was—shirtless and barefoot, wearing but the pair of silk pants. The intruder on his privacy would have to deal with his half-undressed state.

  He opened the door. “Father?” Shocked, Raim stared at the elderly man who was flanked by two younger humans in suits. He had met the current Priory Elder on many occasions, but never had The Elder personally visited Raim in any of his dwellings.

  Until now.

  The large black vehicle was parked on the circular driveway. Served Raim right for neglecting locking the gate.

  “To what curse of the Devine do I owe the honour of your visit?” Raim asked flatly, not inviting The Elder in.

  “I need to talk. Coming here myself seemed like a more practical option to the summons of you.” The man held Raim’s stare with challenge.

  The memories of the burning lashes of chants as his demonic essence hovered suspended in the power of a summoner creeped hot and cold up Raim’s spine.

  The Elder could not remember any of that because he wasn’t there—couldn’t have been—Raim’s summons happened more than six hundred years ago. Many generations and many Elders had changed since. However, humans had long found a way to preserve their knowledge through records and archives, way past their limited lifespans.

  The Elder was not even born then, but he knew all about Raim’s disgrace. And he never failed to remind him of the one and only time Raim had fully submitted to a human.

  “Let me come in,” the old man demanded.

  “What for? I’m no longer a Grand Master and have no business with your Priory.”

  “So I’ve heard. You’ve abdicated your position.”

  “Abdicated?” Raim scoffed. “It wasn’t a royal throne.”

  “Maybe, but you have reigned—”

  “Not anymore,” he bit out, The Elder was beginning to test his patience. If it wasn’t for the plain curiosity about the purpose of his visit, Raim would have shut the heavy door in his face already.

  “You are The Grand Master, Raim,” The Elder stated, mater-of-fact. “Always have, always will be.”

  Raim drew in a long inhale. In a way, the human was right. As the only Incubus who had never spent a day in Deep Sleep, Raim had been awake and alert all his life, a witness and a participant of every event pertinent to Incubi’s existence in this world. The title of Grand Master that he had fought so hard to gain and keep had become a part of him, he no longer could be completely rid of it even after giving it up.

  “Why are you here?” Raim scanned the man’s emotions quickly. His unusually genuine serenity was puzzling. The strong mistrust and hostility Raim normally saw in members of The Priory was muted by confidence in The Elder this time, instead of being amplified by fear as it often was.

  “I’ve come to have a chat with an old friend.” The Elder slid the end of his walking stick in the gap between the door and the frame, obvious about gaining the entry.

  “Friend?” Raim li
fted his eyebrow in question. The desire to find out the true purpose of this visit, finally, made him open the door wider. The Elder entered promptly, leaving his escort outside. “You must truly believe in our ‘friendship’ if you are willing to come in alone,” Raim commented. “Either that, or you’re losing your common sense, old man.”

  “My common sense tells me that if you wanted to harm me, my bodyguards wouldn’t be able to stop you, anyway. They may as well stay outside.”

  Raim spotted a sliver of orange glow between the buttons of The Elder’s suit jacket—the man was wearing his soros amulet. He did not entirely place his safety in Raim’s hands, after all.

  “Very well then.” Instead of going back to the sitting room with the gramophone, Raim led The Elder to the more formal and less intimate grand room of the house, making sure to enter it first. It would be ridiculous to let The Elder’s amulet lock him out of a room in his own house, leaving him having to request a permission to enter it afterwards.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, playing the part of a host.

  “Do you have anything older than me?” The teasing glimmer in The Elder’s eyes reflected his good humour, again making Raim wonder about the reasons for this unexpected serenity in the man.

  “Older than you? Plenty.” The hatch of the antique liquor cabinet squeaked when Raim opened it, taking out the dark, dusty bottle he brought from Scotland several decades ago. “Scotch?”

  “Please.” Propping his walking stick against an armchair in front of the grand fireplace, The Elder lowered himself into the chair.

  Pouring two crystal glasses, two fingers deep each, Raim brought one to his unexpected guest, then leaned against the mantle of the fireplace.

  The Elder took a tiny sip from the glass and closed his eyes, obviously savoring the drink. His expression brought to Raim’s mind the faces of the Council members during the Feedings, when they consumed the sexual energy of the human Sources, savoring every drop of it.