Chapter Five

 

 

 

 

 

Slipping his arm into the sleeve of his jacket, Alaric finished the last drop of Merlot, poured and drank two fingers of Scotch then marched through his home into the elevator jamming the first-floor button with his index finger. The blood wasn’t helping. The alcohol tasted like shit and did nothing to curb his appetite. Looking at himself in the mirrored panels, he saw the faraway look in his eyes, the sneer of his lips, and the tight clench of his fists.

“What the hell is wrong with me? If I weren’t nearly two-and-a-half millennia old, I’d swear I was going through the vampire version of puberty.” Closing his eyes, he ran his fingers through his hair, down his face, and across the stubble on his chin. “I’ve done nothing but devour bag after bag of blood, bottle after bottle of wine and jackoff so many times my hand is tired.” Opening his eyes, he stared at the beast clawing to be free as the deep gray-blue of his eyes bled to red and the tips of his fangs peeked from under his top lip.

Images of his fantasies returned, the same he’d had in the shower. Instead of his fist wrapped around his hard cock, he saw her massaging him from top to bottom, her lips swollen from his kisses, whispered puffs of her breath coaxing drops of precum to the surface.

Testing his resolve, her deep brown eyes captured his as the tip of her tongue lapped at his essence. Moaning deep in her throat in unison with his groan of impatience, the beautiful creature on her knees before him slid his cock into her mouth as far as she could, the vibrations of her hums of delight nearly driving him to an explosive end.

Fisting the silken curls of her light brown hair, careful not to hurt her, but needing to stay standing, Alaric’s head fell back, the muscles in his thighs trembled as his fangs erupted from his gums, the need to own her body and soul replacing his all-encompassing hunger for the first time in over a month.

Jerking his hand out of his pants, Alaric slammed his hand against the emergency stop button and leaned against the back wall, shaking off the visions of a dream he didn’t understand but longed to recreate in real life. Letting his eyes once again slide shut, he took several long deep breaths, counting to ten on every exhale. There was no way he could meet with Mateo in his current condition. He had a hard-on he couldn’t hide and looked like he’d been on a week-long bender. The man was not only trained by Clarence, but had been a warrior, an executioner, a doctor, a detective, a Tracker, and a Hunter for centuries before being selected to be trained as another appointed to ‘dole out’ the Directive’s justice, a dreaded Enforcer.

Thinking of the first time he’d meditated, the only thing he hadn’t tried to calm his hunger and his soul, Alaric recalled his grandmother by his side and Androu, his Maker, in attendance as Alaric, a newly turned vampire unsuccessfully fought the torturous bouts of bloodlust and the uncontrollable urge to fuck anything in a skirt. No matter how much reassurance his seanmháthair gave him, he simply could not reconcile his unquenchable desire to exsanguinate anyone with a pulse with emptying his seed into their bodies over and over with the teachings of his gods.

“It is reprehensible, seanmháthair. Ye havta kill me. Send me tae Hell,” he cried, ripping the hair from his head. “Ah am naethin' moor than a demon. Wa did ye nae liet me die oan 'at battlefield?”

“Coz Ah loove ye an' Ah hae a friend comin' tae help ye.”

Looking up at Androu, Alaric wailed, “Nae, nae heem. He's awreddy doomed me ta’ torment. Ah need nae moor froom th' likes ay heem.”

“And no more ye shall have,” assured the tall, broad-shouldered man who walked in from the far side of the room. Stopping in front of Alaric he continued, “I am here to show you another way, to bind myself and that of my Dragon to you, to give you the peace you need to carry out your Destiny.”

The stranger’s accent, clipped and precise like that of a Roman, intrigued instead of enraged Alaric, but not nearly as much as his words. “Ah hae a Destiny?”

“Indeed, you do. One that cannot be ignored.” The stranger knelt down and looked Alaric in the eye. “I am Carrick, Leader of the Red Dragons. Your grandmother has been a friend to the Dragons for many years. It is an honor to repay her in any way that I can.”

Kneeling, the man called Carrick who claimed to be a Dragon laid his hand upon Alaric’s arm. The scent of smoke and ash filled his mind. Dragons of all colors, shapes and sized flew through his mind. He watched in awe as the majestic beasts defended their homes and their kin with stealth and fire.

His vision narrowing to a single red Dragon soaring over a blood-soaked battlefield, Alaric watched as the beast slowly descended, changing from the Crimson Dragon to the man known as Carrick before his feet touched the ground. Rage and sadness colored the man’s face. Warring emotions filled his mind and body as he tried to understand the senseless loss of life.

Mile after mile, the warrior walked, praying to the Heavens for the safe passage of each man’s soul. Weary, both emotionally and physically, Carrick stopped beside a small river for the night. Making his camp, he was alerted to the arrival of two strangers by the sound of their whispers floating on the evening breeze.

“Who goes there?” He demanded, pulling his broadsword from its scabbard.

Appearing out of the mist, a tall, lean man with kind eyes and a long beard stopped beside an older woman with hair the color of silver. Raising their hands in surrender, it was the woman who answered Carrick’s demand. “Fear nae. We wish ye nae harm.”

Her magic was pure and that of the Druids. Her accent with its lilting beauty carried the ring of truth that made Carrick lower his blade and offer them food and companionship. Days turned into weeks and then months as the three traveled the countryside looking for survivors of the terrible Roman invasions.

Finally, the Dragon was called home, but before he left, Carrick promised, “To you, Brygid, and you, Androu, I pledge my fealty, my loyalty, and my friendship until the day my soul is called to the Heavens. It matters not that you are Vampire and I am Dragon, should you call, I will come and those of my blood as well.”

Slicing across his hand with a silver blade at the same time that Brygid and Androu did, Carrick held his hand over the fire watching the crimson drops of his life essence drop into the flames. “From this moment forward, may the Dragons be at your call. Your confidences shall be our confidences, and we shall fight alongside you as true brothers in arms.”

Mirroring Carrick’s actions, Brygid and Androu responded in unison, “Froom th' moment forward, we an' aw whoo come efter us shaa remain loyal tae th' dragons. We shaa keep their confidences as they keep oors an' fight alongside them as true brothers in arms.”

Brygid then continued, “By th' magic ay mah people we ur bond.”

Taking his hand from Alaric’s arms, Carrick encouraged, “Open your eyes, Alaric, son of Agora whose mother is Brygid. On this night, you shall receive the Blessing of Ancients and the calm that comes from Dragon kin that is as old as time.”

Opening his eyes, Alaric was shocked to see not only Carrick but the face of the same red Dragon from his vision hovering over the man’s face like a brightly colored shadow. Unable to speak, Alaric nodded, unable to breathe as he felt the warm embrace of not only the man but his beast as sparks of magic, similar but most definitely unique in its power than the Druid mysticism of his grandmother, filled his body and soul.

“Blessed peace of the calm waters, blessed peace of the soft breeze, blessed peace of the quiet Earth, deep peace of a shining star, may it all be yours. Moon and sun, Heavens and Goddess, Earth and Fire, Water and Air pouring their healing light and love to you.”

Nodding, Carrick coached, “Say it with me, Alaric. Feel the words. Believe their meaning. Absorb what is rightfully yours and calm the warring spirit within you.”

Opening his eyes while still repeating the mantra he’d learned over two thousand years earlier, Alaric reached forward, touched the red Emergency button allowing the elevator to continue its journey downward. Watching as the door opened, a minute wave a calm just barely holding his thirst at bay, the ancient vampire strode out into the candlelit halls that led to his office.

Taking a deep breath as he approached the solid black, six-inch thick oak door, Alaric slowly let it out as he whispered to himself, “Showtime and as Ruari would say, ‘Never let ‘em see you sweat’.”

Opening the door, he stepped into his office exuding his usual calm, suave demeanor, the act he’d perfected centuries ago. “What an unexpected pleasure, Mateo. What brings the Directive’s favorite Enforcer-in-Training to my humble establishment?”

“There never has nor ever will be anything that you are involved in considered ‘humble’.”

Bristling at the Directive’s new kid’s condescending tone, Alaric stopped at the corner of his desk and held out his hand. “I take that as a compliment coming from someone as well traveled as yourself.”

Smiling as he shook Alaric’s hand, Mateo’s eyes showed no emotion. He was not on a social call; the Directive never was. Feeling the sting of the Enforcer probing his mind, Alaric let go of Mateo’s hand and went to the marble-topped bar in the corner.

Lifting the bottle of Scotch, he asked, “Would you care for a drink before we get down to business?”

“No, thank you.” Mateo’s search of Alaric’s thoughts halted as he added, “What makes you think I’m here on business?”

Snickering and shaking his head as he poured half a rocks glass of twenty-five-year Scotch, Alaric chuckled, “Aye, you guys at the Directive are all work and no play, so, just cut to the chase and save us both some time.”

Pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his perfectly-tailored black suit, the Enforcer slid his finger back and forth across the screen several times before raising the silver device and showing Alaric a picture of a golden signet ring, the huge large ruby etched with a flaming dragon’s wing. “I’m guessing this looks familiar to you?” Mateo inquired.

“You know it does,” Alaric stepped forward, looking closely at the ring, noting the smaller band and intricate scrollwork. It was my grandmother’s. “As far as I knew it was lost when she was beheaded by the bloody Duke of Argyll in the Battle of Sheriffmuir.” His brogue grew thicker with every word. “I had come to the New World five years earlier. Settled with the Spanish down south, where San Antonio now sits. It took nearly four months for Androu’s letter to arrive. There was nothing left of our homestead. The bastards took what they could pillage and burned the rest.” He took a long, deep drink, attempting to let the warm amber liquid calm his nerves. “But you know that I’m sure. I can’t imagine Clarence Collins letting his most prized pupil out on his first solo mission without all the facts. Don’t you guys have like a Hall of Records or a Supercomputer or something to keep every scrap of information and intimate detail of us Supers hidden away in your secret compound somewhere?”

“Indeed,” was Mateo’s only response as he once again swiped his fingers across the screen of his phone.

Opening his mouth to ask the asshole to get on with it before he ripped his heart out, Alaric waited instead as the sound of ringing proceeded the icy calm voice of none other than Clarence Collins, the Directive’s legendary Enforcer, and all-around total bastard. “Hello, Alaric. How are you doing this evening?”

Once again, he was forced to bite his tongue as his mind was invaded for no other reason than the Clarence the Bastard liked to flex his muscle. The battle between them had been waging for centuries, and Alaric was in no mood to go another round. Plastering on his usual cocky grin, he replied, “Doing well, Old Man. And you?”

Ignoring his question, never answering any questions unless forced, always the one to do the asking, the Enforcer went on as if Alaric hadn’t spoken. “What do you make of the photo? Is that not the insignia of your family, of Clan MacAngoran?”

“Aye. It is the crest given to my mother’s family, and worn by any, and all my grandmother and her companion Androu, brought into the family.”

“And you have yours?”

Raising his hand, the thought of flipping Mateo off making him smile, Alaric wiggled the fingers on his right hand, dropping it back to his side as the younger Enforcer replied, “He has it on.”

“Do you know who the one in the photo belongs to?”

Clarence’s tone was steely. The bastard was driving at something, and Alaric wasn’t answering another fucking question until someone told him what was going on and preferably in the next five seconds. He could feel the Dragon fire, a gift from Carrick upon the completion of their Bond of Brotherhood, racing through his veins. Tapping his fingers together, he growled low in his throat as sparks danced in the air around him.

“What exactly are you driving at?” Alaric demanded.

“Who does the ring belong to?” Clarence reiterated, his voice lower, his power making the silver device in Mateo’s hand vibrate.

Changing tactics, Alaric spoke just barely above a whisper and asked, “Where did you find it?” Giving another snap of his fingers to remind the Enforcer before him who he was dealing with, Alaric smirked.

Silence, as cold as the grave and infinitely more deadly, stretched between them. Alaric knew he was poking the bear, the bear that could sentence him to death with the blink of an eye and damn it all if it didn’t feel good. He was sick and tired of being fucked with, and this was where he was taking his stand.

Staring at Mateo because Clarence hadn’t deemed it necessary to travel, Alaric refused to be intimidated by the likes of the Enforcer’s lackey. They would fucking answer his questions or get the hell out of his club.

Giving a single nod, obviously telepathically conspiring with his boss, Mateo reached forward, pressed a button on his phone, glaring at Alaric as the gruesome photo of a bloody crime scene popped into view. Stepping closer, he saw the open cavity of what used to be a woman’s neck, the skin shredded down the length of both her arms revealing bone and muscle that had been gnawed on by long, sharp canines and the bite marks between her legs and covering her sex.

Blinking as the picture changed, he fought to keep down the bile rising in his throat as a close-up shot showed his grandmother’s ring sitting on the dead woman’s left ring finger. Grabbing the phone from Mateo, ignoring the Enforcer’s warning snarl, the ancient Vampire flipped through all the photos, looking for any clue as to the identity of the perpetrator of this heinous crime.

There it was, in the last picture, barely visible except with his preternatural sight. Dropping the device into Mateo’s outstretched hand, Alaric walked around his desk, casually taking a seat when he felt like falling. Pointing towards the Enforcer before him while speaking directly to Clarence, Alaric challenged, “You saw it, didn’t you? You spotted the small ribbon of tartan tied around the hem of the woman’s dress and straightaway sent your attack dog to question me?”

“Yes.” The Enforcer’s one-word answer dropped like a live grenade between Alaric and Mateo. Long seconds ticked by until Clarence finally added, “I saw the tartan. I know it is from Clan MacAngoran. I further know that your grandmother, Brygid and her consort, Androu, made that the colors of their Clan of Vampires just about the time you were Made.”

Knowing there was more to come, Alaric drained his glass and slammed it onto the mahogany top of his eighteenth-century Governor’s desk. Pulling open the bottom desk drawer, he lifted out a new bottle of Macallan 25, cracked the seal, refilled his glass and downed it as Clarence began again.

“I also know that you have been nowhere near San Antonio, specifically the site of The Alamo in the last thirty days.” Clearing his throat, the Enforcer spoke to his protégée, “Show him the other photos, Mateo.”

Drinking another two fingers of Scotch, Alaric grabbed Mateo’s phone as it slid across the desktop and thumbed through eleven more photos of six more victims. Each brutally drained, half-eaten, then left with a signet ring from the MacAngoran Clan and a ribbon of tartan.

Sitting back in his chair, Alaric finally answered the Enforcer’s initial question, “The first ring belonged to Brygid. It is one of a kind, matches mine and was given to us by the Leader of the Dragons when our bond was forged.”

“And the others?”

“You mean for those later turned?”

“Yes.” Again, Clarence’s one-word answer grated on Alaric’s frayed nerves, but he knew answering was the quickest way to get rid of the asshole.

“They had simple gold bands, very little scrollwork, smaller rubies, all etched with the flaming dragon wings.”

“And the ones in the photographs, where did they come from?”

“I have no clue. They look newer. The bands are plain like I said,” he ground out. “Even the older rings had some scrollwork, it was the one thing besides the etched ruby that Brygid demanded.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “There are only four of us left from what she called the Ceannródaí or Pioneers. Have you found the others?”

“We are looking.” Clarence’s voice actually held the slightest touch of what Alaric thought might have been empathy, but then he spoke again, and all that remained was the steely resolve to find the rogue Vampire running around Texas on a murder spree. “There’s one more thing you need to know.”

“And what might that be?” Alaric grumbled, taking a drink straight from the bottle.

“There is something I left out of the photos, the last piece of the puzzle that assures me it is either one of the remaining MacAngoran Vampires or someone trying to frame you and yours by killing humans and leaving their bodies out in the open.”

“Go on, Mr. Wizard, tell me. I can’t think of anything more damning than the tartan.”

“What about white roses with their thorns removed? Ring any bells?”

“Son of a bitch, I will decapitate the bastard myself,” Alaric roared, throwing his glass against the far wall before storming out of the office.