Bloodsong Ch. 01

TAGS APPLYING TO THE SERIES AS A WHOLE:

M/F, Non-consent, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Mating Bonds, Captivity, Tentacle Monsters, SLOW BURN.

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SYNOPSIS

Valerie has spent years fighting to stop humanity from being enslaved by otherworldly invaders. When a call summons her to the small town of Westmont, she suspects trouble — but not a trap.

Jack Aramis, nephew and heir to one of Earth's most prominent slave traders, was Valerie's best friend — until she learned that he'd joined the family business. Having desired Val his whole life and never accepted her decision to cut ties, Jack aims to bring them together again. At any cost, by whichever means possible.

Even if returning her to how she used to be means breaking her.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hello, and thank you for reading this far. Please keep in mind the following if you choose to continue:

- This series belongs squarely in the Non-consent half of this category and falls towards the darker end of the same.

- The Slow Burn tag above shows up in bold and ALL CAPS for a reason. This is a long work. The tentacle monsters are here from the start, but getting to the tentacle sex will take time.

- This is a rewrite/edit/reboot of a story that was previously published on Literotica but never finished. Public comments are turned off and will stay that way until Ch. 20, where the new version should catch up with where the old one left off. I do welcome feedback, so if you'd like to provide it, you can use the "send private feedback" option that shows up on the last page of each chapter, or do it through the contact form on my profile.

Lastly, endless gratitude to my editor, Clare, for having the patience to comb through and polish this thing.

Enjoy!

Alice

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CHAPTER ONE - OLD ENEMIES

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From afar, Westmont looked as it did in Valerie's memory: a small human town nestled between desert and coastline, connected to the world at large by a single lane road.

It wasn't a good road. Ill maintained, with enough holes to make it reminiscent of Swiss cheese. The WelcometoWestmonthaveanicestay sign, turned from the wooden plaque it had been fifteen years ago into a hulking PVC monstrosity, loomed ahead.

The first time Valerie had set foot in Westmont she'd been twenty years old and looked twenty years old. When she'd left, aged eighty-ish, she had still looked twenty years old. Even now, the only wrinkles her forehead displayed were owed to the frown etching between her brows as the distance between her rental jeep and the town shrank. There might come a day when she'd stare in the mirror and spot her first gray, but that would take thousands of years, and odds were good that she'd be dead before then.

Valerie didn't know how to feel about returning.

On one hand, she'd see Mrs. Drakma for the first time in ages, as well as everyone from her old Liberation Front section. On the other hand, it was unlikely that she'd been summoned to catch up on life and bake biscuits. Mrs. Drakma's phone call had been hurried and sparse on details. Her once-upon-a-time mentor hadn't even statedwhyValerie's presence was required.

The possibilities were admittedly limited. It was Westmont. All problems concerning the place could be sourced to a fabric of nightmares buried deep underground, a red-haired mistress of evil with magic dancing at her fingertips, and him.

Him, who Valerie couldn't yet bring herself to dwell on, the prospect likely to make her heartsick too early. She'd cross that bridge eventually. Although she'd much rather not.

Everything seemed quiet. Westmont's layout remained as when she'd left, and also the same as when she'd first arrived. Only tiny changes betrayed that time had passed; new storefronts, and a smoother road once one entered the town proper. The 1940's also hadn't been big on satellite dishes and traffic lights. Or traffic in general, although in the interest of fairness, nowadays there still wasn't enough of it on the road to get on her nerves.

In fact, in that exact moment there was barely any.

In fact, her rental was the only car in sight.

In fact, that had been the case for the past three minutes, and continued to be the case when, some distance ahead, the main road funneled into Bolster Street, the start of what passed for the shopping district. It was Saturday. They held open markets on Saturdays — used to, should still, 'twas tradition, the street ought to mill with people and stalls. Instead it presented a chaotic picture, and one bare of intelligent life.

Valerie slammed her foot on the brake and called Mrs. Drakma.

It went straight to voicemail. She called the Westmont section headquarters. Likewise.

With a knot growing larger and larger in her throat, Valerie resumed driving until she could park somewhere unobtrusive, snatched her main weapon bag from the passenger seat and armed herself with everything that wasn't too awkward to lug around — knives, semi-automatic rifle, satchel with ammunition, plus the dagger she already carried.

She proceeded on foot, keeping to the shadows.

She knew that she wouldn't like what she'd find as she ventured ahead, and yet.

Whoever had done . . . whatever had been done, they'd made more of a mess in this area. The street was littered with trash and assorted wreckage; cups and plates and cans of soda left on empty tables, torn vehicles dotting the road, overflowing shopping carts scattered at random. There was . . . yes, that was a dead body over by the lamppost. Shit.

Valerie made a beeline for it and rolled it over. Human, male, Caucasian, old, overweight, reeking. He'd been dead for a while. Strangled, judging by the blotchy black band around his neck.

Great. Just . . . great. 

She was halfway through processing the sight and what it meant when she heard them. In her head rather than through her ears, a primal part of her vibrating in acknowledgement and involuntary greeting, the jumble of their discordant blood songs reaching her before she heard the footsteps, before she heard the shout.

"RedmontYOU CUM SUCKING BITCH!"

Valerie didn't bother to turn, dropping on all fours to dodge the first bullet and the salvo that followed. She rolled onto the sidewalk, ducked behind a trash can, disengaged the safety catch on the rifle and shot. A scream and abundant swearing ensued.

No way to tell if it was a kill. She'd hit the heart, but often that made no difference. Her attackers, two or three of them at least, judging by the cacophony in her head, were Tsikalayan; topped by few species in the bitch-to-kill department. Which, since they shared a taxonomic rank, worked in her favor as much as it did against her.

She tried to pick their melodies apart, wanting to isolate one that rang familiar. The leader of the group saved her the effort by shouting further abuse. His voice was one Valerie recognized, far more memorable than the tune of that which Tsikalayans had no name for and humans would call his soul.

"—SMASH YOUR WHORE MOUTH UNTIL—"

Sykes. Billy fucking Sykes.A mercenary, whose chief claim to fame lay in having been banished from Barashi, his — their— homeworld, for assaulting his half-sister. Getting away with rape might be dirt easy over there, but incest was another matter, which made Sykes an exceptional case of the High Council doing something right.

What was that waste of facial hair doing back on Earth? Was he working at the Mayfly, had Marabeth hired him again after the fiasco in New York? Surely not.

"YOU CHOKE ON MY HARD, FAT—"

At the same time, Valerie found it unlikely that Sykes would be in town without the endorsement of the head bitch in charge. He had five men with him, all armed to the teeth. Only three made her skull noisy. Decent odds, depending on which species the silent pair belonged to and on whether the Tsikalayans had acquired silver immunity. Sykes she knew was immune, but he was also an incompetent, lazy, lily-livered pussy who would assign the fighting to the others unless left with no other choice.

"Get her! Go get me that slut!"

Case in point.

When they were almost on top of her she dove behind a truck. From there she ran into the supermarket, veering around collapsed shelves, shopping carts, rotten produce and oddly bent bodies. Yet more shooting stalked her progress, forcing her to return fire. She sighed. It wasn't that she hated being what she was, but when ninety nine percent of one's species was comprised of unmitigated fuck-faces . . . 

Someone — if it had been Sykes she'd smack herself later — landed a hit on her arm. It stung, more than it would have with bullets made of lead or steel. Valerie cursed but shrugged it off. It had taken effort, pain and stabbing herself in the foot a hundred times, but these days silver bullets were only slightly more annoying than regular ones.

Come to think of it, how had Sykes ever built up immunity? He didn't strike her as someone who would willingly self-inflict the amount of damage necessary.

Maybe the cumulative effect of however many times others had knifed him throughout the years had done the trick. He did have an eminently stabbable personality.

"Hit her feet, idiots! Make the bitch trip!"

Valerie fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I'll get ya, Redmont! Run as fast as you like, you'll be pissing blood for weeks! Begging us to gobble up our cum, just like your bitch of a boss did!"

She almost stopped.

He was lying. Mrs. Drakma was thousands of years old. Had spent two thirds of that long, long life making herself a nuisance to people crueler, stronger and smarter than Billy Sykes. He wouldn't be running around blustering if they'd crossed paths. Their encounter would have consisted of a brief lecture followed by slow vivisection.

Wherever she was, Mrs. Drakma was fine.

She had to be.

"You'll be screaming my fucking name, Redmont!"

Valerie threw a shopping cart at his head and made for the staff door. Beyond, the floor was lousy with wrappers, crushed chips, fallen plaster and blood. In places, chunks of brick had been ripped from the wall. There were two bodies: an elderly woman and a man whose right leg stopped at the knee, a fact divorced from the events leading to his death, judging by the relative lack of blood and presence of a cane. Old, disabled or otherwise lacking in fitness — a pattern emerged in the bodies she'd found so far. It was a familiar, but far from pleasing one.

Sykes' cursing grew louder.

Valerie moved along, squeezing through the back window and pondering how to dispose of her pursuers. Best that she get off the street, where she risked them rushing her all at once. She could try riddling them with bullets until they slowed down enough for her to approach and finish off with the dagger, but there were too many. Too many chances for the situation to escape her control. Dispatching them one on one would require moving to more favorable ground.

She glanced around, then up. She smiled.

The nearest building was fifteen stories tall. The front door, open. She took the elevator to the top floor and sped through the first door she found, bypassing a dead homeowner and arriving at a balcony.

She shifted her hand and started climbing, stabbing the wall with her claws to lever herself up. Once she reached the roof she picked a spot, replaced the empty magazine, took aim and waited.

A minute later another clawed hand appeared, grasping at the ledge.

Valerie shot thrice; one bullet in the head for the first man who made it to the top, one bullet in the hand for the one hanging not far behind, one for the man waiting on the balcony. The last one ducked inside just in time, but two out of three wasn't bad.

Sykes yelled abuse as the bodies pancaked on the street. Then he yelled at his remaining men to retreat. A misdirection. They'd gone looking for a safer way up. Best to be elsewhere when they found it.

The nearest building was a seventy foot gap of nothingness away. Tricky, but doable.

Valerie retreated to gain momentum and ran for it.

She made it by a hair.

The next piece of cannon fodder to rise above the ledge was the pair of unknown species, and they first spent a moment looking around in bewilderment before one spotted her. Now that she could take a better look at them, she noticed the radioactive green sheen of their eyes. Sorals. Shape-shifters, weak healing factor, much better used as spies than as muscle. She couldn't have asked for better luck.

Valerie waved. Then she shot them dead.

Two left now, including Sykes. He'd be the biggest challenge, despite being a rotten coward. His egomania and fear of being upstaged meant he always picked cronies weaker than himself. However, being that he was a rotten coward, would he dare face her without them?

Valerie prayed that he would. She wasn't keen on wasting time chasing after him if he ran off to call for backup.

A seaweed green tentacle shot into view, burrowing into the concrete. That wasn't Sykes — his true form, she recalled, was more on the turquoise/lime spectrum.

When her newest opponent emerged, she pegged him as fresh out of the gate. His skin was tanned gold by a sun much hotter than Earth's, and he had yet to learn how to dress to blend in with the human population. She cringed at the long, loose pants, patterned waist bandage and flowing, knee length layer of dyed cotton. Was this the current fashion on Barashi? Praised be the gods unresting, was the place ever going downhill.

The man shed the draping with a grand, sweeping gesture and let it fall, bullfighter-style. Nine tentacles exploded from his back, joining the one already out.

Valerie only stared, mortified beyond what words could express.

It figured. Just when you convinced yourself you couldn't be made more ashamed of your species, something like this inflated showboat would come along and prove you wrong.

Sykes, having gathered the nerve to join them, landed scowling, his thin face contorting with hatred, his lips curling to flash double rows of triangular teeth.

Valerie scowled right back and emptied the rifle in his chest.

"You bitch!" Sykes cried, patting the holes as if dusting them off would make them vanish. She ignored him, busy reloading. "This jacket was new!"

"I'll get her, boss!" Mr. Showboat announced, not in English but thickly accented Barashnik. Valerie couldn't pin down the island. In the last fifty years she'd heard her native tongue so seldom that she'd lost the ability to discern its subtleties. The only speakers with whom she held exchanges not limited to 'Die, whore!' were Mrs. Drakma, who had so much Earth over her accent that she might as well be speaking Mandarin, and . . . 

No. She wouldn't let her thoughts go to him even now, lest they summon the bastard. If the gods were good, he'd be out of town doing something horrible on his horrible aunt's behalf, and this mess would be done and dealt with before they crossed paths.

She'd rather dance with Sykes. Sykes wasn't much of a dancer. Heavily prone to stumbling.

Valerie cleared the rifle and slung it over her shoulder, trading it for the dagger. Its blade was red silver — askara, the proper name for the metal, was seldom used in speech. Being one of the few substances capable of stopping a Tsikalayan's healing factor, the usage of weapons forged from it was restricted to religious rites and mating ceremonies since time immemorial. She had swiped hers from the Georgetown chapter of the Venerable Temple of Tugol, God of Produce and Poultry. Their High Priest had been part of a human trafficking ring spanning half of South America, and he wouldn't miss it, since she'd left him propped on a crucible with his innards hanging halfway down to his knees.

It was a very, very nice dagger.

However, it turned out that she wouldn't have to rely on it, because Mr. Showboat's attempt to 'get her' was flat out amazing.

In its stupidity.

Valerie had taken it as given that, since seventy feet was some distance and ten tentacles weighed a ton, he'd shift them back before making the leap. Even Sykes uttered a grunt of disbelief when, spitting in the face of logic and physics, his underling propelled himself forward without bothering to shift or make a running start. He made it only a handful of feet before the jump turned into a downward arc, dropping like a stone without so much as grazing the adjoining building.

It was, hands down, the most ridiculous thing Valerie had seen all year. She had to lift her fingers to her lips to muffle her helpless snickering.

Sykes skipped towards the ledge, glared at the man lying whimpering below and cupped his hands around his mouth to ensure his shouting made it to street level.

"YOU USELESS SPROUT OF A CUMGUZZLING FUCKHEAD!"

"Hey, don't be too hard on him. He just made my day!" Her call forced Sykes' attention back on her. He stepped back. Not retreating, but preparing for a proper jump. That was unexpected. Either she'd overestimated his paucity of guts or underestimated the magnitude of his loathing.

"Oh, I'll make your day. You just wait for me to wipe that smile off your face, you . . ."

Valerie extended her arm, curled her fingers to her palm and left her smile where it belonged.

Sykes shifted his tentacles away. She watched him, calculating where he'd land. When they collided, she became a blur. Time meant everything; if she allowed him to change to his true form again, their confrontation would be drawn out and draining. She needed to get him well and good before he manifested a single tentacle.

Her free arm caught him under the armpit. She spun him around and to the ground. He tried to headbutt her. She kneed him in the groin. As he howled, she brought the knife up, thrust downwards and brought it back, slicing him open from neck to navel.

The howling quieted. Sykes' mouth formed an almost comical O as he looked down.

"Your sister says hi."

In truth, she hadn't heard from Amadea in twenty years and had no clue where the girl even was these days, but she had given her word that should she ever get Sykes in this position, those were the words she'd say. She tilted his chin up; held his dazed gaze, moved one hand to each of his ears, twisted his head clean off, tossed it away, sheathed the dagger and kicked the corpse off the roof. 

That was that, then.

Valerie sat down. From here up high she'd see who came after her long before they saw her, so she could afford some time to think. There was no point in attempting to contact the Westmont section again. If they — gods, no, please — weren't all dead, they were bound to be busy. She called the St. Louis section headquarters instead.

The phone went beep beep beep against her ear. Then it went crack.

Valerie lowered her hand and made a face at the screen. Black and blank, until it lit up, the light extending beyond any natural brightness and burning incandescent. She tossed the thing away, scrambling back. A fraction of a second later a whirl of coruscating red mist darkened every inch of concrete within a three foot radius, and the phone exploded.

She didn't avert her eyes in time to avoid being blinded. She sat in a daze, blinking away tears, ears ringing and sight suffused with kaleidoscopic patterns, for an entire minute before the smoke faded away to reveal the half-melted, half-exploded remains. The red mist dissolved within seconds, but she'd needed only a moment to know it.

Magic. A widespread, long-ranging spell rather than a focused attack by a nearby magician, or they'd have taken her out in the minute she'd spent stunned. She scanned the rooftops, only breathing easier once it became apparent that she was well and truly alone. Magic users were her least favorite people to tangle with. Her own preternatural aptitude was on par with that of a bundle of dried celery, and evading offensive spellwork until the caster ran out of juice was tedious and took ages.