Oycher (9 page)

“You okay, man?” Dax asked

“Pain, lots of it.” Terje would be surprised if he didn’t find himself hanging his head over a toilet soon.

Dax clapped him on the back. “You about ready, then?”

Terje shook his head. “Yeah, just about. If she refuses to mate me, one of you will have to kill me.”

“She won’t refuse you.”

“Yeah, even you don’t sound so sure.” Terje knew he had to take a long, wearying run to bring down his juice. He couldn’t teach the Younglings in this shape, and he needed to train Isla. “Flynn, watch over my female until I return.”

“Not a problem.”

“Now” - Terje took a steadying inhale, preparing to do battle with his werewolf — “Both of you release my Beast.”

Sage just couldn’t drop it. “I can’t believe you don’t even know her name.”

Although Vojaks put their asses on the line every day of their lives, Sage had forgotten his sense of self-preservation tonight. “I’m thirsty and I scent that you’re still bleeding.” Oycher adjusted his cloak as they waited for the miasma to slide open in the Fort Myers horizon.

He rubbed his healing cheek with the back of his hand. “Females are temperamental.”

A flight of marble steps presented themselves. “I don’t have that sort of problem with females.” Oycher had the sudden urge to knock on wood.

“Well, since you’ve found yours, you’ll never have that problem at all.”

They ascended the steps in the human way. “Might I suggest you stop using piss-poor pickup lines?” Oycher then mocked in falsetto, “I can bite you in places you never knew existed. Pathetic.” Upon the final step they headed into the mouth of a vampire made tunnel molded with packed dirt and woven roots.

Sage lifted the hem of his cloak, avoiding a puddle, as they reached the foothold of the bastion. “It’s all on her, but she’ll come around.”

“She’s not coming around anything you’ve got. Have you forgotten I was there? You hit up a three hundred year old vampiress. Don’t you think she knows every possible place to bite or to be bitten?”

“Not yet.” Sage wiggled his tongue between his lowered fangs, his piercings gleaming in the flickering sconce lights. “She hasn’t been with me.”

They walked up a flight of shingle steps to hit the main surface. Oycher asked, “So you think your ego’s going to work out for you with a seasoned vampiress?”

“If our females would stop mingling with the humans and assimilating with their sick ways, yeah.”

“Assimilating, how so?”

Sage explained, “They’re getting all funny, wanting us to act like human men.” A looming shadow fell over them, the castle in the near distance. “Just the other night, one asked me to be tender.” He visibly shuddered. “Like I’m all soft and sweet and cuddly.”

Oycher shook his head. “I’ve heard it from the other Vojaks. They’re expected to be virile enough to kick down doors and throw females over their shoulders, like human firemen. But if they ever try such a thing, the females will yank their dicks right off their bodies. Gone are the good days.”

Sage snorted. “Why emasculate me? I’m a warrior. I rip heads off shoulders nightly. My female should be grateful I shower bits and pieces out of my hair, before I come over and split her in two with my cock.”

Oycher lifted a brow. “Grateful that you showered or grateful for the cock.”

“Either, I guess.”

He gave Sage a droll look as they reached Prince Volos’ castle. “Have you considered that’s why you have only firsts? First feedings, first hookups, first dates, no seconds or thirds.”

Sage gaped. “You’re saying it’s all my fault?”

Oycher fixed his gaze on the Master Gryph. His ebony wings curled in as he landed in front of the crimson doors marking the entrance to the royal tomb. “I understand your point. In this country, it’s confusing. Females don’t want you opening doors for them, but they expect breakfast in bed.”

Sage lowered his cowl, shaking out his blonde hair. “If a female wants breakfast in bed and it’s not in her nature to latch onto my neck to drink, I’d better be on the receiving end of a morning suck-off before I go fetching.” The crimson doors opened for the Master Gryph. “And you want to know what else pisses me off? No matter how much their boobs hang out of their shirts, I’m not supposed to look. To them, an ocular feel-up is the same as assault with a deadly weapon.”

Oycher strolled into the tomb, whispering under his breath, “I feel confident that you will stay single for all eternity.” He raised his voice. “Greetings, Fedor.”

The Master Gryph turned to face them, spreading out his wings against walls so black it defied logic and snapping them close to his back. He inclined his head, his hair the color of topaz with eyes to match. But deep in those eyes, Oycher spied flames, a thousand deaths. “Commander.”

Oycher glided to the first set of crypts, those housing fallen Vojaks, and found his brothers. “You and I are overdue for a talk.” He ran a fingertip over the inscriptions, wondering when his time would come.

“Yes.” Shadows of wings, a voice of wrath.

“You were in my city.”

“Out of necessity,” Fedor replied, turning to the left where a body rested beneath the bronze and scarlet colors of the monarchy.

Oycher’s eyes raked the outline of the freshly fallen. Firstly, the silk and velvet covered no wings. Secondly, the body of a fallen Master would have been placed behind the grey doors of endless marble halls veined in scarlet and bronze. Thirdly, he scented no mixed blood denoting another murdered Donor. He reached out with his senses and his blood turned to ice. “A Vojak.” Not just any Vojak, either. “One of mine.” The Master Gryph removed the covering. “Grim.” A Youngling Oycher and his Master, Maestru, had plucked straight out of the Academy.

Fedor tilted Grim’s chin up and his head wobbled to the side. Decapitated. “I found him by the pier outside the gate.”

Sage swallowed roughly. “His strength was remarkable, his bravery boundless.”

Topaz flames leapt from Fedor’s eyes. “Don’t forget greedy and foolish.”

Swiftly, Oycher held out his arms, forcing back Sage. “Explain.”

“For starters, the Master Gryph, Azzo, of Italy has discovered two fallen North American Vojaks who were visiting his country.” He gestured to the far corner, where two bodies were also shrouded.

“Master Gryph Azzo?” Oycher placed his hand on Grim’s forehead, breathing a warrior’s blessing over him, wishing him peace in the next life. “You mean Renaldo.”

Fedor shook his head. “Prince Volos took Renaldo’s wings nearly six months ago. Permanently.”

Oycher never kept up with Gryph affairs, nor was it required of him, yet he had to ask. “Why?”

“As an example to those who fail to protect my Donors.” Prince Volos appeared before them, not donning his typical ebony cloak lined in bronze and scarlet, but jeans and a thin black sweater. “Vampire mercenaries, all apparently from the Southwest Florida region, invaded the Italian monarchy’s stronghold and captured a highly prized female Donor named Isladora Harris.”

Oycher’s skin crawled, recalling a story he knew firsthand. The North American Werewolf Pack had received the gift of Donor Isladora, after she’d been tortured by shapeshifters and traced to Italy. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sire.”

Immediately, they bowed in unison, falling to one knee in deference to their prince. Volos waved them up impatiently. With eyes of butterscotch, flawless skin, and gilded blonde hair, he would never pass as a human. Interestingly enough, though, his hair had been recently cut in a very mortal way. And if Oycher wasn’t mistaken, and the nose rarely lied, Prince Volos had been slumming in the human world. But the rage leaving his body was anything but human.

“Renaldo is insane,” Volos elaborated. “He’s turned away from his family and has methodically pieced together this band of mercenaries that’s woven through this continent, down to the state of Florida. We have recovered bodies of Vojaks, Lovci, and Gryphs. A few soldiers were also found decapitated outside of Miami.” He hissed in the way of incensed vampires and produced a hand-scripted note. “And Renaldo is accomplishing it with lethal precision. See for yourself.”

Oycher scanned the scrawl of a madman, reading in disbelief. He handed the note back to the prince. “Uveritelné, he’s psychotic.”

“Agreed.” Volos nodded. “All those who cost him his pride, his position, his livelihood, and his very wings will die. I’m sure that includes me, but none of us can seem to find him. If Renaldo would face me, I would finish him as I should have done from the beginning.”

Oycher covered Grim with the cloth. Had he ever been this young, when he’d first devoted his life to his people? Had he always stayed on the right side of the law, where too frequently the lines blurred between what was wrong and what was only a little better? “Are we certain all who were killed by Renaldo’s hands were, in fact, mercenaries?”

“As far as we can tell, yes,” Fedor said speculatively. “None of them will ever stand trial, since they’re going down by his hand. A staggering reward was offered for that female, and a multitude of vampires participated, splitting the illegal bounty. Who knows how many will end up dead?”

Ten million dollars, Oycher knew this. He’d suspected his very Master of paying the price. “This is a disaster.” He reached beneath his cloak, toying with his favorite blade. “He must be stopped.”

Volos rubbed his forehead. “The mercenaries, I care nothing about. But, Isladora Harris was under the Italian monarchy’s protection. And even though they screwed up, her disappearance falls on me.” He closed his eyes as though he were in pain. “If only she’d been brought here.”

“If she’s been taken as an underground Blood Slave, Sire, we will find her,” Fedor vowed.

“Wait a minute, Fedor.” After everything Isladora Harris had been through, had she finally met her death? “I found a dead female last night, unmarked and unclaimed, same MO as these.” Oycher nodded to the bodies. “The Territorial Beta has her body under guard. Perhaps, someone from Italy can identify her. ”

Prince Volos rubbed his mouth with his hand, clearly sickened. “I’ll have my underlings make the arrangements with Ruyter’s office.” Volos dropped his elegant shoulders, appearing worn. “My possessions are becoming restless with the news of her disappearance, thinking any despicable creature can come into my many kingdoms and steal at will. If this woman is Isla… I’ve a good mind to travel to Italy and burn every last vampire down with immortal fire, setting an example to the rest of the world.”

Fedor sighed. “And it all started with a maddened Gryph.”

What was Oycher missing here? “Sire, he’s not the first Gryph to lose his wings by your hand.”

“No, he’s not.” Volos leaned against the wall, quite uncharacteristic of the prince. “But we think his wings may have regenerated, which makes no difference to his mental well-being, but he can get around much better.”

Oycher searched his thoughts. “I’ve never heard of a Gryph regenerating his wings.”

Fedor explained, “He’s drinking most of his kills — all powerful immortals, to death at an alarming rate. Not only is he regenerating, but his power is growing at a staggering rate.”

“He’s beyond blood lust,” Volos continued wearily. “You read the note. He’s enjoying his killing spree.”

“So if he’s the one hunting and slaughtering alleged mercenaries,” Oycher asked, “then what is the scent I’m picking up from the victims? It certainly isn’t that of a Master Gryph.”

“I scented it, too, the Hounds of Cyn,” Volos said, glancing at the covered bodies. “Italy held the final two hounds, a male and a female.”

Oycher had heard of this, explaining to Sage, “Immortal attack dogs rivaling the power of werewolves, they were reared and trained by our ancestors to rid the world of Beasts.”

“My father ordered them slaughtered when I was a Youngling,” Volos continued, “allowing only a male and a female to remain in case of war.”

Oycher groaned. “Are you telling me that’s what I smell?”

“Yes, Renaldo took them from the monarchy when he fled,” Fedor said, clearly aggrieved. “We were chasing them through Fort Myers, though we didn’t kill either one. The werewolves attacked us, and our efforts were divided.”

“Hold up.” Oycher’s heart kicked into double time. “Did you say a male and female?”

“Yes, both of them have been under Renaldo’s authority for centuries. Certainly a male and a female is required for breeding,” Volos answered Oycher’s concern. “However, the hounds only come together to produce a litter under the Druid Moon.”

Oycher didn’t keep up with the Druid calendar. “And it’s when?”

Sage said, “Less than two weeks away.”

Oycher asked, “How many do they produce per litter.”

“Usually six pups,” Fedor filled in, “But they only need a few weeks to become full-grown and lethal. And if we allow those creatures to develop to maturity, where they can also reproduce under the following Druid Moon, we’ve a colossal problem on our hands.”

“It’ll go beyond the deaths of mercenaries,” Sage whispered in horror. “Innocents will lose their lives.”

Oycher met the butterscotch eyes of the prince of vampires. “My father always said the vampire who kills whenever and whomever he pleases has no discipline, yet the vampire who kills an innocent has lost his soul.”

“I remember your father,” Volos said with a fond smile, “a great male, a fine warrior.” 

Could Oycher say the same of himself? In theory, yes, he’d mostly played by the book, risking his life daily for his species. But his heart had turned all those months ago, when he stirred a passion between Pack and Coven, wanting an odd sort of union to protect Donors where the monarchy had failed. He took a fortifying breath and risked sudden death. “Sire, might I have a private word with you?”