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  He hardly qualified. Little of her blood bond pertained, and while he should have been grateful for not suffering the debilitating reaction to daylight, he still had that unquenchable thirst that neither food nor wine satisfied. It was a hunger so soul deep, so achingly exquisite in its emptiness, its refusal to fill, to be sated, that he slipped along the sword-edge of madness and despair.

  He murmured, “I am thirteen, old enough to make my own way. I can bond my services to one of the liege lords…”

  “And when he comes for you, what will you do then? How will you defend yourself?” She took a shallow breath, her shoulders rising and falling, a parody of what she’d seen humans do. It had allowed her to fit in, though her wealth and connections had had more to do with her acceptance than any affectation could possibly afford.

  “I could go to the Saint-Gilles, seek asylum.” Her sneer reminded him of their checkered history, one of the reasons she’d fled to the eastern provinces, to shield herself from the endless assaults on her freedoms. Mentally ticking off possibilities, he offered, “There’s always one of the Marquises of Provence?”

  “And be assigned to the kitchens because you are small and weak and…” she huffed derisively, “…different.”

  “And it’s better for me to wear rough woolen robes and toil under the sun and fast and … and…”

  “Yes.”

  A knock on the door heralded the arrival of his transport and escort. And the end of life as he knew it.

  He took the small valise from her hand, bowed his head with respect and said, “Maman,” proud that he’d swallowed the hitch in his throat as he exited the only home he’d known for thirteen years.

  The three mounted Vampyr flashed fang and nodded respectfully, leaving him to marvel that they sat such elegant palfreys with ease. Most animals shunned their kind, their sensibilities tuned to a predator-prey dynamic that forced most Vampyr to engage in other types of transport. He climbed into the cart and settled against coarse cushions as the driver flicked the reins, urging the stubby pony to lean hard into the traces. The cart jerked once, twice, then rolled smoothly along the beaten track.

  Though short, their journey was fraught with potential dangers. Villains, thieves and all manner of brigands roamed the byways, the region an ancient trade route dating back to Roman times. It was why Aveline’s sire had loosed the purse strings and sent an armed escort to accompany him to his incarceration.

  That her sire would accommodate what he considered an abomination, that union of demon and Vampyr, perplexed and irritated the boy. He had a niggling suspicion that there was far more at play than a simple dismissal to serve at the altar of a competing liege lord.

  Surely, his half-demon soul deserved some consideration rather than have it beat out of him with theology, religious fervor and asceticism. He drifted off, lulled into a light doze by the swaying of the cart and the anxiety punishing his innards.

  Dreu stared at the representative of the Abbott glaring with unabashed distaste at him. He stood, legs apart, a scrawny acolyte in clear defiance of the deference expected of all who passed through the Abbey’s portal. The guards had waited until he’d entered the gates, then rode off without a backward glance, leaving him to face Bernard, the infamous mystic, with naught but his wits and determination.

  The man’s face had turned a strange puce in the flickering light, his eyes scanning the young man from top to bottom, derision changing to concern, then outright fear. Dreu was certain Bernard wouldn’t comprehend exactly what it was he feared; but such a visceral reaction would undoubtedly leave him disquieted.

  Dreu understood he would do well to appear nonthreatening, avoiding releasing his unique scent or in any way baiting the man to take measures that could make his stay at the monastery even less pleasant that it promised to be. For now there was no escape so he would do well to embrace all the community had to offer.

  One thing he’d learned from the demons was that their liege lord valued knowledge above all. Gossip, rumors, innuendo and ambiguity, facts and fancy—all bought his good graces. But his Maman had made it clear that route to maturity was unacceptable, her withdrawal of favors something he loathed too much to press any advantage or argument he could muster.

  With diminishing options, Dreu had campaigned to join the legions of human valets instead; but he’d already passed beyond the rank of the damoiseau because of his age. And he knew in his heart that simple prowess with sword or mace or halberd would be ineffective against the wiles of even the least of demonkind.

  No, he must learn a different set of skills, one that would speak to his strengths, one that would draw on the best of Vampyr and demon, masking his flaws and turning weaknesses into assets.

  Bernard finally motioned for a figure hiding in the darker recesses of the room to come forward. “Take him to the dormitory. See that he is settled, then return to me.” He raised his eyebrows and continued, “We have some urgent matters to discuss.”

  Dreu had no doubt that those urgent matters included devising ways in which the wily mystic could arrange for an unfortunate accident while still maintaining control over the not inconsiderable grant of lands and coin that had eased his acceptance into the order. As an oblate, a sacrificial gift to the Abbey, he was under their control but that would not last forever. Once he reached the age of majority, he would see to his own future.

  Nodding to Bernard, he turned and followed the cloaked figure into a hallway lit irregularly with beeswax candles, the flames flickering and wavering as they passed. The building was still under construction so it had a new feel to it, the odor of freshly chipped stone dust heavy in his nostrils. It contrasted sharply with the rancid smell of nervous sweat and the tang of undyed wool, the color dulled to whitish-grey, giving the figure a ghostly appearance in the dim light.

  The dormitory lay shrouded in shadows, lines of pallets in orderly rows stretching into darkness. Most were occupied as the mystic had brought a sizable retinue to Cîteaux Abbey the year before.

  He smiled to himself as he reclined on the uncomfortable pallet, his cloak drawn tight about his thin frame. If knowledge were indeed power, he was well on his way to gathering the resources he would need to see to a future fashioned in his own unique image.

  Rolling over, he sniffed the air appreciatively. The banquet stretched in an unbroken line, a veritable feast to his senses.

  Idly he wondered how the haughty Bernard would taste, his pores leaking fear and something he’d yet to identify … or experience.

  He whispered, “Thank you, Maman. Perhaps you did know best…”

  Chapter Three

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  It wasn’t an idle question. Maman might not have qualified as mother-of-the-year but she had standards, one of which was according one’s meals a proper level of respect. Cannibals did something similar, I’m told—a tidbit perhaps best left in anthropological tomes stacked on dusty shelves.

  Glancing up, I realized my Adonis might not be forthcoming with a name. Not in the near future, anyway. With eyes rolled back in his head and blood pouring off a bottom lip punctured by thick canines, he was the picture of bad-assed wolf brought to the brink of total sensory submersion. Not even a rump of freshly-killed Wallachian sheep was going to distract him from my playful fingers and the deep sucking pulls off a femoral artery gone a gusher.

  It had taken a coon’s age to work that puppy to the surface, through thick, hard cords of muscle. Calling those thighs tree trunks was like calling an oak a sapling. I was in ‘be careful what you wish for’ territory and loving every minute of it.

  Several centuries of asceticism had taught me the value of moderation, of not gorging on largesse offered freely. I was the poster boy for that ‘stay thirsty my friends’ meme making the rounds on social networks. Going without by choice, rather than by circumstance, lent one an air of righteous superiority.

  And I was nothing if not righteous.

  Groaning, my boy toy mumbled,
“Fane.”

  “Fang?” A frisson of concern that I might be hurting the young man brought me up short. I dislike rushing the pain portion of the entertainment, preferring to dole it out in increments.

  Stuttering, “St-ste-stefan,” he shook his head, the strands of devilishly stringy black hair flopping against a weight-lifter thick neck.

  Oh. Fane, Stefan. We were already into diminutives; that boded well for our impending activities. Acolytes had been in short supply at the monasteries, that privilege reserved for the various holinesses occupying place settings for Papal influence and oversight—the ultimate in middle management whilst us worker bees toiled on parchments or in the fields, exercising fiduciary restraint and keeping productivity high.

  I’d been coy about the perks of having my position bought and paid for without the painful constraints that came with being a child oblate; except, when it came time to make a decision one way or the other, my Vampyr had met its match in a system of indoctrination that stripped the me from the soul.

  A century or two later, I rediscovered that lost ego but it took a demon to show me the light.

  Unfortunately that demon had also raped me of my capacity to care, to empathize, to love. That left pleasure in a glass half empty, a pyrrhic victory of the senses, meaningless and ultimately unsatisfying.

  I, more than anyone, understood church canon to be the lie no one talked about: that the promise of elysian fields awash with golden flowers bent in lush obeisance to the beat of angel wings, of peace, contentment and everlasting pleasure … was pure, unadulterated crap.

  Not that it didn’t exist—for all things were possible—but as a goal for the hereafter, why would you want it? I had nine hundred years and change into chasing that pleasure gig: the quick fix, coming like an orgasm junkie, rinse, repeat.

  You really can have too much of a good thing.

  Pain, though? Now, that was a whole nuther matter. Just the thought of the Inquisition had had me in raptures, until that unfortunate…

  “Father? Are you all right?” The boy sounded concerned, his eyes at half mast, staring down that prominent nose into my own tortured orbs. The wolf was still at bay, chained for now.

  “I’m fine.”

  I’m not, but thank you for asking. Not many do.

  Dearest Fane traced a visual path from my puckered lips to the two fingers pinching at the base of a cock that had gone a dangerous shade of purplish puce. Valiantly plugging a hole in a dike threatening to rupture at any second wasn’t winning either of us any game points.

  I stood but kept my fingers positioned for maximum benefit. He was already in a world of hurt, of the good sort. I planned to take that to the next level … and hopefully surprise him.

  “Have you ever topped, son?”

  “T-t-topped?” It came out more like ‘toppeth’ over swollen lips, delightfully endearing.

  Careful Dreu, you’re starting to sound like a drag queen.

  Before I could explain, the synapses fired and an expression of pure fascination, mixed with a subtext of horror, set his mouth into an ‘O’ of disbelief.

  “I didn’t think so.” Fane’s face went pinkish olive and when I whispered, “Would you like to?” it positively flamed beet red.

  Bucking against the restraints, he mewled, “Nu, nu, nu,” but his cock put the lie to that sentiment. Sometimes, on occasion, no means yes.

  My world, my rules.

  We were sliding into the endgame effortlessly.

  I’d reached an interesting conundrum. Young master Fane was tall enough, especially being stretched to the point where the soles of his boots barely scraped the stone floor, that I ended up discussing matters of erotic interest with his well-endowed man boobs—not really an issue if all I wanted was access to nipples buried in a downy coat of plush fur.

  To reach his lips would require a stool. Sometimes being short was a disadvantage, especially in the modern world where genetics, mixed with nutrition, had set the Slavic race onto a path favoring the over-sized.

  Releasing him was an option, but it also upped the odds the wolf would come out to play. Even at my most perverse, that kind of topping wasn’t on my bucket list of things to do before I died. And the problem with immortality was that once the psyche got scarred, it lasted a long time and cost a fortune in therapy.

  The corner I’d gotten myself backed into wasn’t cooling my ardor … and it should have. In fact, my own appendage seemed so smitten with Fane’s assets that the two were doing a tango to music only our libidos could hear.

  That I was missing some very important clues should have said something about my state of mind and body. To wit: that the dark chest hair had morphed into a plush blanket of fur, that his canines had ripped and savaged and torn through thick lips hemorrhaging silver-tinged ruby goodness, that the odor of arousal had gone way past musky testosterone into a carnal assault of lust even I, on my absolute baddest days, had never experienced.

  He, I … we both reeked of frankincense, an almost perfect match chemically to human sexual secretions. Pheromones. The air was thick, like our senses had drowned in a vat of fragrant jelly, leaving limbs heavy, cocks distended and aching.

  Which was fine. Personally I liked to engage every sense. The kicker was … neither of us was human.

  Or did Mommy Dearest have some ’splaining to do?

  Bottom line: what the fuck was going on?

  Being an ascetic, monastic, inward-focused being sometimes led me down the path of overanalyzing a situation. It was all part of that ‘pleasure’s transitory’ vibe I’d built up over the centuries. That taught me patience and the ability to extend whatever sensation I was either enjoying or inflicting into arenas where endurance was its own reward.

  My prey often didn’t have the same vision. Apparently Fane’s appreciation of the fine points of denial had worn thin enough that he’d started seriously leaking, the pre-cum drizzling over those two fingers safeguarding the dike and making the whole effort too slippery to sustain much longer.

  We were at break point, advantage Fane.

  The boy croaked, “Father, please,” a plea for physical absolution so terrifyingly raw it cracked my resolve, shattering my focus into shards of sheer agony. Fractured mirror knife edges sliced up through my skin from the inside out.

  Is that what you feel my young friend? Is that what need and desire and unadulterated lust is like: emotions sledge hammering against the skeleton of the man-wolf, bone splintering with nowhere to go but up, up and out?

  Too proud for tears, instead the heavy weight of his despair sagged against the manacles, rendering his wrists bloody and tempting.

  The hunger awoke again, roaring through my system, the sound deadening me to everything but his heartbeat and the memory of suckling at a distended vein dispensing salvation and penance in equal measure.

  Reaching up, I added my weight to the burden on the breakaway snaps. It was enough to disengage them, leaving me to support Fane’s not inconsiderable bulk.

  That lasted all of a nanosecond. The boy powered me upwards with shivering, quaking arms, until we were face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth. Burying his bloodied tongue into the deep recesses of my desire, I suckled frantically as fang clanged on fang in a cacophony of fevered need.

  I had convinced myself that emotion was something I’d never, ever experience again—the desperation, the longing, the mutual consumption of an elixir that set fire to two undeserving souls and sent them spiraling out of control.

  Instead he filled me … no, he fulfilled me in a way I couldn’t ken, and probably never would.

  Whispering into his mouth, I begged, “Take me,” and slithered down his sweaty frame, the droplets glistening in the dim light.

  Discarding my coarse woolen robe, I let it fall carelessly to the cold floor, then bent down and released his feet from the boots and the bunched up jeans at his ankles.

  The last thing I wanted was for him to trip and fall, taking a header on that unforgiving surf
ace and risking damage to that magnificent monument to his lust and sexual prowess.

  I’m selfish. And unrepentant. That cock was going where the sun don’t shine and it was going to spread illumination and pleasure in all the dark spaces.

  It was a onetime offer and it was going to hurt like hell.

  Fane moaned, “I don’t want to hurt you,” mimicking my own thoughts except for the one-eighty on whether or not hurt was on the menu.

  Tucking the denim under my knees, I rocked forward onto my elbows and waited a tic for him to spread my legs to accommodate his bulk. Thick hairy thighs brushed heavily against my own, a coarse palm briefly caressed my aching erection, then splayed across my belly, the heat and pressure so intense I nearly cried out.

  Do it!

  No innocent, he knew the steps: that erotic tease, a finger, two, stretch, caress. Find the spot, the one that fires an armor-piercing bullet through the frontal lobe, rendering all sensation extraneous, all but the drag of thick muscle over a hard nub, sending lightning bolts through the cock. Turning a stiff muscle into a titanium rod.

  I desperately wanted his, buried deep, to the hilt.

  Tentatively he probed until I could bear it no longer and launched backwards, his cock exploding inside me, making me yelp.

  Fearing I would frighten Fane and force him to withdraw prematurely, I murmured assurances, clenching him tight.

  If I could have cried from the sheer joy of it, I would; instead my lover leaked tears that fell cool and refreshing on skin gone inferno in ecstasy.

  Sobbing, “Ride me, damn you—” my world erupted in a blazing shower of sparks, then floated through a darkling fog. I was empty. Bereft. Consciousness tickled fairy dust into bloodshot eyes, rendering the floor, the room indistinct, multihued.

  Steel toes ricocheted off my groin, again and again and again, and the only sound was the screaming inside my head. Curling into a tight ball, my body wracked with agony, the last thing that registered was the piercing sob of Fane and the scrape of boots exiting the cell, leaving me and a pair of worn Doc Martens alone in a hell not of my choosing.