“I don’t think this is a good idea,” muttered Brian.
Corbie shot the Vampire a look to kill before returning to study his little flower.
Rose found the photograph pulling at her, tightening a knot in her belly. The image was of three individuals. The tall woman, dressed in what Rose would call corporate Goth, was smiling as she stood before a table with a sword lying propped up in its wooden case. It was the short man beside the glamorous lady that tugged at her, but it was the very tall young man that stood statuesque behind the shorter gentleman that stripped the breath from her body and nearly doubled her up in heart wrenching pain. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Even Terry’s beauty paled against this man. In that instant Rose knew she had to have him.
“Who is he?” She glanced up, fevered eyes meeting ones cold as the grave.
A growl emanated from Brian and it snapped her attention to the normally emotionless man. She wondered what could draw such a vehement reaction.
“Do you recognize anyone in the photo?” Corbie’s insistent voice drew her back to the photo.
A part of her wanted to cry out that she knew them but it was impossible. She had never seen them before. She read the bi-line.
“Dr. Elizabeth Bowen, curator at the ROM, and visiting Art Director on loan from the British Museum, Mr. Paul Nathaniel, presents new discoveries that will be on display at the
Medieval Arts of Britain and Europe Exhibit
set to open at the end of the month at the Royal Ontario Museum.”
There was no mention of the man standing in the back. She shook her fiery mane. “I ken none of them.”
The sudden thickening of her accent shocked her and widened Corbie’s eyes.
“I told you it was a bad idea.” Brian’s smug tones tore their gazes to Corbie’s second.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mr. Haskell.” Corbie’s voice darkened with the threat of violence.
“No, you didn’t, but you should have.” The blonde Vampire uncrossed his arms and came to stand beside his Dominus. Placing his large hands on the white melamine desk he leaned down to match Corbie’s glare. “Having the Chosen come to our shores is one thing. Having the Angel and his sire publicly declare themselves is another matter.”
“You think I don’t know that?” spat Corbie, leaning back in his white leather chair. “This is the perfect opportunity to take my revenge.”
“Don’t you mean ‘our revenge’? We both lost many friends.”
“Fine. Our revenge.”
Brian stood straight. “What do you have in mind?”
Corbie’s dark gaze fell once more on Rose, a malicious smile forming his lips. “The Angel and his sire are outnumbered and are in our territory – a territory they have no knowledge of. We are going to hit him where it hurts.”
“Lady Bastia tried that and look where it got us,” stated Brian, matter-of-factly.
Corbie ignored him, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth belied the control over the fury that was bubbling forth. Rose knew that if Brian did not halt his nit picking he would be staked out on the roof to await the sun, no matter the history between the two Vampires.
“And for that and countless other reasons I want the Angel on his knees, before me, begging for his life as Rose slaughters him.”
“What?” exclaimed Rose and Brian in unison.
“It begins with the Angel’s sword.” Corbie tapped the photo, drawing their attention to it again.
Rose’s eyes did not fall on the blade indicated, but to the one that could only be the Angel. She had wanted to possess him. But if he was truly the one that had decimated her kind in Europe and forced the Vampires to flee, then Corbie was offering her an honour undreamt of.
A frown pulled her full lips. There had to be a catch. “What do I get out of it?”
Corbie’s smile blossomed. “Your dream come true, my little flower.”
“You don’t mean…?” Hope widened her eyes.
“You will have my blessing to spread your seeds and start your own garden,” nodded Corbie.
The shout of joy ripped from her throat as she launched around the desk to hug her father.
“I’ll do it. I’ll make the Angel bleed and wish he was never Chosen,” she whispered into Corbie’s ear, hugging him tight.
S
team billowed, fogging the glass doors of the shower stall and every other surface in the chrome and black tiled master bathroom. He stood there, under the large showerhead that hung from the ceiling, as hot water pelted down on him. The jets that sprayed from the corners of the stall pounded his body, to mingle with the rains from above before swirling down the drain set between his feet. Tilting his head, the flush of heat washed over his face before he bent his head forward to let the water beat down on his neck and shoulders, his long white hair hanging heavy and lank under the barrage. If he opened his eyes he would still be in darkness but it would not be as complete. After an hour of Tai Chi and then another in seated meditation the shower was pure luxury and added to his relaxed sense of being.
Streams of heat flowed over him, merging with others to form giant rivers only to break apart into waterfalls cascading from his body.
Many things had changed in the short time of human progress but this was pure heaven. He thanked the Gods for modern conveniences. When he and Notus returned to London he was insisting on installing one of these magical stalls in their home.
His hand found the controller and pressed another button, changing the steady streams into rhythmic pounding. The heated water massage forced a sigh and he wondered how much more relaxed he could possibly become.
Three weeks had passed since their arrival and he still could not believe he had agreed to let Dr. Bowen have his sword for the exhibit. The first few days after the dreaded meeting with the press had left him unable to sleep. He hated to admit it, but having the sword around was a comfort blanket, making him feel secure in his ability to defend himself no matter what may come. Now it was gone, or to be precise, on loan, and he missed its presence and what it represented.
Notus said that he could have it back whenever he wished it, but he had given his word. It would stay with the exhibit while they were in Toronto. When it was time to return home, or Gods forbid, they were forced to continue onto the next city for the exhibit’s tour, then the sword would return to him.
In the meantime, he had managed to dodge Dr. Bowen’s prying questions about Geraint’s sword. After the night of the press conference and the car ride with her there and back, she had learned that grilling him for information was just burning her. In the end she apologized and insisted that he call her Elizabeth, just like Notus did. He refused. He preferred not to be around when she was, but this was not always the case.
Since Notus worked nights, Elizabeth shifted her work schedule a couple of days a week so that their hours overlapped. It meant that when he drove Notus to work on the motorcycle he had delivered four days after their arrival; she was there, getting ready for home. Sometimes she stayed a little longer to work with Notus or to stay and chat.
He tried to ignore her and leave, but she was Notus’ colleague and that meant she was also the monk’s friend. It even got to the point where on the evenings Elizabeth stayed late Notus insisted on stopping off to pick her up a coffee or some other such beverage. It also meant that for the first couple failed attempts, Notus had to figure out the best way to carry a hot beverage while being a passenger on a very expensive and very fast motorcycle. Those were the evenings where the Angel spent the rest of the night cleaning the spilled drink off the bike and then off him. Notus somehow never got spilled on.
Once the monk had perfected the skill of carrying a beverage with one hand and holding on with the other, Elizabeth was always thrilled with her evening treats and her partner’s consideration. The way the two talked made the Angel wonder if something more would come from their working relationship, but quickly dismissed it. No matter the times, Notus would always be a monk, even if it was at heart and not in practice. In any case, Elizabeth’s eyes always would alight onto him and follow him around until he left for the evening.
The worst was when her car broke down and he had to give her a lift home. Riding a motorcycle was not the issue. Elizabeth was excited by the prospect of being on one since the last time was before her daughter was born. It was when he walked her out to where his bike was parked and handed her the helmet that she balked. He had to call for Notus to help cajole her that she was safe with him driving his
MTT Turbine SUPERBIKE
, most commonly called the
Y2K
. Being on a jet with two wheels was a bit much for her as he barrelled through traffic. Elizabeth clung onto him with closed eyes. By the third night she was relaxed enough to enjoy the ride, but her hands never let go of their death grip around his waist.
Despite her every effort to get him to warm to her he still remained remote. It was better this way. Better for him and especially better for her.
Pressing another button changed the massaging waters back into a steady stream before he found the faucet and turned the handle, cutting off the flow of water. The absence of falling water amplified the sounds of water racing down the drain and the water droplets falling from his body to be swept away in the drain’s whirlpool. He stood there for a moment before releasing a sigh, and opening his eyes he slid the shower stall’s door open.
In the total darkness of the bathroom he could see everything coated in moisture. Condensation formed droplets on the black sink and ran down the tank of the black toilet, creating streaks in the midst of smaller drops that were already coming together for their gravity assisted journey. The wall width mirror over the counter was completely obscured.
Stepping out onto the cool black floor tiles, he noticed that they were dulled to grey with condensation. He reached to the chrome towel bar and grabbed the white terrycloth towel before wrapping it around his slim waist. Streaks of red, silver and gold ran riot through the black marble countertop as he picked up his hairbrush. He was tempted to turn on the lights just to see if the brilliance would be increased but decided against it. The colours were spectacular enough.
Pulling the bristles through his hair, he stared at the obscured mirror and stifled the urge to swipe his hand through miniscule beads to reveal the glass below. He knew what he looked like. He did not need a mirror to reflect back at him the differences that had caused so much grief in his lengthy lifetime. He did not want to see the scars that remained of his torture under a Vampire’s hand. It had taken him a long time to be able to brush his own hair without his hands twitching painfully.
He released his breath in a huff and placed the brush back down. Its wooden handle clicked against the stone. Running his hands through his wet hair, he felt the drape slap against his back and he stiffened. Even after all these decades it was little things like this that could evoke memories he wished would stay buried, and he turned away from the mirror.
Tonight he would do the same as every night since arriving to Toronto. He would get ready, take his Chooser to the museum and then enjoy the rest of the night exploring the city. Sometimes he would walk for hours, other times he would get on his motorcycle and ride the wide straight highways, amazed at the breadth of the metropolis. It was these times, when he opened up the engine and let fly that he could really feel part of this new land. Of course, police would pull him over for his excessive speeding, but with a little Push he was off to repeat with the added benefit that if the same police officers ever saw him they would ignore him.
On nights when it rained, making the roads too slick for the expensive bike, he would walk Notus to work and then catch a show or two. It was in the darkest hours of the early mornings, when he would return home after feeding, if he felt so inclined, go up to the roof and practice his forms. Here he pressed his body to move in ways they used to. Some took more concentration than others, some were easy, allowing his mind to let fly and his body explode with action. Many nights, Notus would find him up on the roof before dawn. He did not require his link to his Chooser to know that it was those times that Notus truly worried for his son.