Chapter Three

 

 

 

 

 

Opening his second bottle of his special blood/Merlot mix, Alaric filled his chalice and turned towards the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. Tight and overheated, his skin so sensitive to touch that he stood naked, gazing at the twinkling lights of the spectacular skyline. Hell, he couldn’t even touch the soul of others anymore. When he tried, all he saw were the horrific visions of him draining them dry or fucking them senseless or both.

Add lost my fucking mind to the list of ailments and rip the heart from my chest. This bastard is down for the count…

Images of a huge, stone and mortar castle, the stronghold of Iain MacLauren, the Chieftain of Monadh Criobhe, filled his mind. The enticing scents of sea air, fresh rain and heather filled his senses. The caw of the gulls and the sound of horses’ hooves thundering across the countryside echoed within his mind, precious memories from a time long forgotten by most. So far away, both in time and space, but so very important. Every second, every action, every step had led him to this place, this time, this uncontrollable, all-encompassing need threatening the entire world he’d built from the ground up.

The pitter pat of little leather soles on the cold stone floors of one of the bastle homes where his father’s soldiers slept awaiting the next battle resonated through the long, narrow halls. “Whaur ur ye, Bastien? Aur ye hidin'?” The high voice of his six-year-old self called out mere seconds before he squealed with excitement.

“Aye, Ah’m hidin' froom ye. Is 'at nae th' point oof thes silly game?” His father’s Second teased, his baritone rumble tickling the young boy even more as the mountain of a man picked him up and swung him around.

“Tis’, but noo tis mah turn tae hide.”

“An' soo ye will wee lad.”

But he never got to as the blast of the battle horn ripped through the air and Bastien, along with Alaric’s father and the other warriors, donned their shields and swords and rode off into battle. Running as fast as he could, a young Alaric followed the men of Monadh Criobhe until he could no longer see the tails of their thoroughbreds through the early morning mist blanketing the moors.

Sitting on a stump at the far end of the MacLauren Clan lands until the sun disappeared behind the rolling hills and the air turn bitterly cold, he trudged back to the main house, shuffling in through the kitchen door and dropping onto the stone hearth in front of the fire. “Whaur hae ye bin, Alaric, mah booy? Ah was wooried sick.”

“Ah were…”

The rest of his words were lost in the swirling as many lifetimes of memories raced towards yet another recollection. Stopping so abruptly, his hand slapped upon the thick glass as visions of a battle he’d hoped to never again witness glared at him like a specter from the deepest, darkest recesses of Hell itself.

Blocking his enemies’ repeated attempts to take his life with his short blade, Alaric struck down all comers, his broadsword perilously gripped in his other hand. Stepping over dead bodies, casualties on both sides, he battled the heathens who five years earlier had taken his father from those who needed him most.

Fighting to protect the land belonging to their Clans and Tribes from the warmongering Romans, Alaric and his men engaged with not only other Celtic but also Germanic tribes from Cimbri and Teutones to protect their strongholds on the Jutland Peninsula. Trying to fill his father’s shoes, he fought for his people, but also to avenge the death of the greatest leader the Celts had ever had by slaying Onitus, the Roman General whose blade had ended Iain MacLauren’s life.

Looking over the shoulder of the man whose head he’d just removed, Alaric saw the pompous Leader of the Roman troops, sitting atop his stallion, smiling at the carnage, smirking at the men lost in the name of their Ruler, Gaius Marius. A red hue fell over Alaric’s vision. Stone-cold rage filled his body. Racing towards the General, jumping over the lifeless corpses of the men he’d grown up alongside, learned from, thought of as kin, he focused only on the man responsible for his tremendous loss.

Closer and closer he sped, his eyes connecting with Onitus’. Vengeance, the fiery, undeniable sister of Revenge raced through his veins. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, “Whit’s for ye’ll no go by ye. Fight fur bluid. Fight fur reit. Fight til death.”

Raising his broadsword, slashing with deadly accuracy, his blow sadly missed its mark as pain shot from high under his right arm, setting fire to every nerve ending as it raced through his body. Falling to his knees, an enemy’s blade lodged in his side, nearly piercing his heart. Alaric watched helplessly as Onitus rode forward, extended his right foot and with a swift kick to Alaric’s head, laughed, “Today you die and the MacLauren Clan with you. You are Hell’s fodder now.”

Gasping, blood bubbling up his throat and filling his mouth before flowing freely over his lips and down his chin, Alaric struggled to move, to get to his feet, to avenge his father’s death, to somehow save the day, but it was not to be. On this occasion, Onitus had been the victor. Alaric would die on the battlefield along with his men, his father’s memory and all Iain had done for their people evaporating into the ether.

Long, treacherous hours later, the death rattle slowly vibrating deep within his chest the only sound he could hear in the dark, desolate corpse-filled meadow, Alaric gasped as the sounds of horse hooves invaded the last moments of his life on Earth. The footsteps that followed made his dying heart pause for several seconds before finally giving another sluggish beat.

Kneeling down, a dark-haired, fair-skinned man wearing the plaid of Clan MacAngoran from the Highlands, kin who had been wiped out by Gaius Marius’ army years before, asked, “Whit hae they done tae ye, Brither?

Unable to speak, trying with all his might to move away from the demon the devil had sent to taunt him in his last minutes, Alaric gurgled and spat, fresh blood rolling across his dry, chapped cheeks as he tried to roar at the ghost.

“Dinnae fear. Ah hae bin sent by yer seanmháthair. Th' mammy of yer maw felt yer need an' wants yoo ta’ live anew.”

The ding of the elevator jerked the ancient vampire from his memories as he downed what was left in the silver chalice and turned to stare at Ruari.

“Has the dress code become more, um…” he motioned up and down Alaric’s body with his index finger, “lax? Have you got the permits for complete nudity, Boss?”

“What do you need?” Alaric cut to the point, stepping forward and pouring more wine.

“You have a VIP waiting in your office.” Ruari’s voice was laced with tension and more than a bit of anger, something the ex-Commander kept well-hidden even in the worst of times.

“A guest?” Alaric handed his friend the bottle of wine and shoved a clean goblet across the highly polished, mirrored bar top. “You know I never make appointments during operating hours and most definitely never in the club.”

“Yes, and so does this person.” Ruari took a sip of Merlot, looking over the rim of his glass. “But then again, Clarence never was one to follow directions unless they were those of the Directive, and his newest protégée, Mateo, is no exception.” Continuing to stare, he inquired, “Something you want to tell me?”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Alaric asked, ignoring his friend’s question, instead making a show of once again filling his goblet before returning to the window. Shoving the torment feeding on the anxiety that the name of the Directive’s new investigator added to his already chaotic emotions down as far as he could, Alaric summoned every ounce of his waning control.

Wasn’t it enough that he did everything possible to stay off the radar of the one organization in all the world that controlled Supers, the ancient Vampires that have lived among the humans for centuries, can pass for an ordinary person, and are well established both in business and society? Once would think, however, it was never the case. The Directive always had to poke and prod and try to dig up dirt on any and all Supers that they could. They loved playing judge, jury, and executioner. It was an aphrodisiac to them.

Living among the shadows, never revealing the location of their headquarters, enlisting the brightest, the best and the oldest among all Vampires to police everything supernatural, they were nothing if not diligent. The Directive was the worst kind of Internal Affairs and most assuredly the deadliest. But then again, he couldn’t argue with the need for some kind of policing authority, he just hated being the one who they were investigating.

There had been a time when a Coven or Clan could go out and kill a village or two before the sun came up with no repercussions for their actions. If Vampires wanted to be regarded as anything other than monsters, there had to be rules, and the Directive took pride in enforcing said guidelines.

“I have no idea. You know they regard me as your lapdog. The prick walked past Security, tapped me on the shoulder and with the same shit-eatin’ smirk he was sportin’ when we had the formal introduction a few months ago, said, ‘Tell your boss I’m here,’ then headed towards your office.”

The sound of the bottom of Ruari’s glass striking the bar’s wooden top was just a little too forceful. Alaric knew it was to get his attention, but he wasn’t into games, especially not with his hunger and sexual need rising exponentially with every beat of his heart. Leaving the view of his beautiful city behind, the ancient Vampire headed towards his bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “Tell Mateo I’ll be there in five. Let the bastard wait.”

“Aye, aye, Boss. Any other errands you need me to run? Your dry cleaning? Groceries? Want a mochacinno- kiss my ass -frappabeano?”

Usually, Alaric found their brotherly banter entertaining, but on this night, visions of reaching through the hardwood of the door and tearing out his longtime confidant’s heart flashed in his mind.

“Ya’ know we still have things to talk about,” Ruari grumbled. “Starting with your piss poor attitude and flaming trashcan bullshit from this morning. I’m not letting this shit go.”

Waiting until he could hear the young vampire get into the elevator and the door slide shut, Alaric whispered into the darkness, “Maybe Mateo’s here to take my head. The Directive wants to make a statement. Shows their power and his prowess by letting his first kill be an Ancient. Let the dickhead make his mark with an oldie but goodie.” Chuffing sarcastically as he crossed the room, opened his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans along with his favorite leather jacket, the ancient vampire added, “At least I’d finally have peace.”