Dark Miracle

Szeren used his mental abilities and commanded them each to strip, noting how very well formed each was before taking a seat on one of the full-sized beds in the large hotel bedroom. He commanded Shawn down onto his knees between his legs and the male went, his eyes blank though his cock was fully erect, its circumcised tip glistening with moisture. Szeren slid a hand gently around his head to the nape of his neck, tilting his chin up, then pulling slightly to force Shawn's entire body up so that the American was straining towards him. Szeren could smell his blood, could hear it rushing through his veins with every beat of his heart. When he tugged Shawn up by his nape, his other arm going around the man's naked waist, the potent scent of Shawn's arousal mixed with the aroma of his sweet, sweet blood and shot up Szeren's nostrils. Need and hunger clawed Szeren painfully, the demon roaring from deep within, and Szeren bit, piercing Shawn's vein with his fangs.

Hot, luscious, life-giving blood splashed onto Szeren's tongue and into his throat and he moaned, swallowing in great, greedy gulps. The urge to gnaw, to worry at the wound, to rip and tear rose up and Szeren had to fight the demon, fight to stay in control as the darkness in him vied for dominance. He felt Shawn's heart flutter and knew he had to stop. He'd taken enough.

But he didn't want to stop. He wanted more.

Szeren sucked powerfully, his fangs penetrating Shawn's body the way no other part of him could or would, and Shawn groaned, his hips jerking as he came, spurting into the space between their bodies and passing out. Szeren felt the male's body go utterly limp in his arms and the demon screamed in dominance and triumph. Only seeing Jason, his second course, quivering with lust, all hard and wanton as he waited to be included, brought Szeren back from the brink and kept him from killing the young American tourist in his lap.

He licked across the pinpricks to seal them closed and pulled Shawn into his arms, carrying him to the other bed where he laid him out. He returned to where Jason was sprawled, images of both Szeren and Shawn violating him in every possible fashion playing through his debauched mind as he quietly moaned, shivering occasionally. Szeren pulled him up and pushed him back onto the bed, spreading his legs wide apart and settling between them. He was calmer now, the worst edge taken off his hunger, but Szeren noticed that these days, even right after he fed, the urge to feed never quite went away. The darkness in him had grown so strong that not even feeding would assuage it. All the more reason to follow through with his plans.

He licked a long, wet line from Jason's small, rounded knee up the inside of his tightly muscled, strong thigh to the heavy vein that pulsed there. Szeren inhaled, his eyes closing and nearly rolling back into his head at the potency of Jason's blood, heat, and desire. With a roar, Szeren lunged up and sank his fangs into Jason's inner thigh, his strong hands gripping Jason's sweet, hard ass and holding the male close as he drank him down with slow, strong pulls of his lips and throat.

This was as close as Szeren ever came to feeling anymore. This moment, when he was feeding and his victim was right on the verge of orgasm from the pleasure of his bite and the wooziness of blood loss. Again Szeren had to fight the demon for control, viciously beating it back as it demanded he take more, take it all, bring Jason's orgasm spilling forth along with his blood and the end of his life. Szeren ended up on the floor, his head in his hands as he rocked back and forth, his fangs throbbing in time to his wretched heartbeat.

Surging to his feet, he checked on the two young American tourists. Shawn lay unconscious and pale on the far bed, the wound on his neck nearly healed and unnoticeable. By dawn it would completely gone. Jason was spread eagle on his back, the inside of right thigh still bloody, the flesh torn and bruised. Szeren swore. He moved quickly, hauling the male into his lap and licking at the wound until it sealed and the flesh began to mend, although by that point, Jason was writhing against him, his erection resurrected. Szeren put him in bed with Shawn, not failing to notice the purpling fingermarks he'd left on Jason's lush ass.

He thrust into their minds simultaneously and crafted a memory of the three of them having sex. Though Szeren was, technically, a virgin, he'd implanted enough memories of similar acts that it wasn't difficult to tailor events to suit the fantasies of both Shawn and Jason. He made sure the memories included large quantities of alcohol, which wasn't far from the truth. Both men had been drinking heavily earlier tonight. The marks he'd left behind on Jason's body would end up serving as the physical evidence needed to convince the two men, when they both woke up, tired and hungover the next morning, that they had indeed picked up a mysterious stranger who completely rocked their world. Those marks and some hazy, vague memories of amazing sex would be their only link to Szeren, who used his mind control to erase any and all other threads in the minds of the two men.

Szeren settled them into bed together, verifying again that neither was bleeding, and took his leave, turning to mist and streaking through the night. He would miss New Zealand, the islands, the people and their culture. Aotearoa, as the natives referred to it, had become home to him in the last four hundred years, its soil every bit as rich and inviting as theterra preta of the Carpathian Mountains. He knew, though, that he simply couldn't continue on this way. His colors and emotions were gone, he couldn't forge blades anymore, darkness lay heavy on his heart, and worst of all, he had even less desire for a female to complete his soul, to become his lifemate now than he had as a young male. Eventually, he was going to kill someone, or several someones, and when he did, he would become the loathsome creature hated and feared the world over. He was on a fast slide toward becoming a vampire, and he couldn't let that happen.

The time had come to retrieve the Kizvicius clan sword from its hiding place in the Carpathian Mountains and let it make one last clean cut, separating him from this world before he went on to the Land of Mists and Shadows to join his ancestors.

****

The Carpathian Mountains, Romania

The Dark One, Gregori Daratrazanoff, master healer and hunter, stood before Mikhail Dubrinsky, Prince of the Carpathian people, and stared, open-mouthed.

"Szeren Kizevicius? Here? I thought the entire Kizevicius clan died out during the Daylight Massacres!"

"As did we all, my friend, but he arrived at dusk yesterday evening. Apparently he has been living in New Zealand these many centuries, serving the dictate put forward by my father."

"But the Kizevicius clan were great artisans, not warriors. Why would he choose to seek out and destroy the vampire?" Gregori asked. The Prince's second paced the elegant, wood-paneled study with long, measured strides. Protecting the Prince was his most important duty, and he took any and all threats against Mikhail seriously. He didn't like the sudden appearance of a powerful ancient Carpathian from a line long thought to be extinct.

"If you remember, Gregori, it was a master vampire who was believed to have killed part of the Kizevicius clan prior to the Daylight Massacres. Remember also that to create a masterwork blade, the forger must be able to wield a blade. I remember when I was just a boy seeing Nicandros Kizevicius giving a demonstration with a newly forged blade. His technique was amazing. Watching him was as exciting as watching your brothers, Lucien and Gabriel, spar," Mikhail said, grinning.

Gregori seemed deep in thought, then turned to Mikhail. "Both of them carry Kizevicius blades." He stalked the length of the room twice before whirling around and pinning the Prince with his swirling silver eyes. "I don't like it, Mikhail. What is he doing here?" he asked, flatly.

Mikhail's heavy sigh told Gregori all he needed to know, but the Prince continued anyway. "Centuries of destroying his own kind have stolen not only his color and emotion, but apparently his craft, too. Have you ever heard of this phenomenon?"

Gregori shook his head. "You mean he can no longer work?"

Mikhail shrugged. "He did not admit as much, but I could sense his inability to create. His artistic temperament is completely stifled. His soul is dark, Gregori, as dark as any hunter's."

"I do not want you meeting with him again alone."

Mikhail's mouth twisted in a strange smile. "Giving me orders, son?"

"When I have to," Gregori said. "Do not be foolish. If he is so close to turning then he is a danger to us all."

Mikhail sighed and nodded.

"You still have not told me why he is here."

"He has come with the last five weapons created by the Kizevicius clan. He said he intends to distribute them to the surviving Houses before retrieving his family's clan sword and seeking the honor death."

"What has stopped him?"

"The Kizevicius clan sword has been stolen."

Gregori's mouth dropped open for the second time. It seemed it was simply a night for surprises. Gregori was nothing if not an out-of-the-box thinker, though, and he quickly shut his mouth, putting his prodigious mind to work.

"Perhaps if we called in Vikirnoff and Natalya," he mused. "She is mage, and may be able to track the weapon using a spell."

Mikhail shrugged. "Aidan had a better idea."

Gregori's silver eyes flashed as he froze in place, turning slowly. "Aidan and Alexandria are here as well?"

"They arrived as I was speaking to Szeren."

Gregori swore with eloquence and feeling, a time honored, "Sun scorch it!" in the old language that made Mikhail laugh.

"Tell me how you really feel, old friend!"

"You know I relish the chance to visit with Aidan," Gregori said, shaking his head, and Mikhail knew the words to be true. Gregori was a friend to both of the blond-haired, golden-eyed Savage brothers.

"Then..."

Gregori shook his head. "If Aidan and Alexandria are here, it means she did not enter into her fertile period at the autumn equinox as we'd hoped she would. She and Aidan were hoping to conceive, but..." Gregori sighed. "Tell me what Aidan's suggestion was for Szeren."

Mikhail nodded as he led Gregori from the study through the large, airy home he shared with his lifemate, Raven. The two males passed through a comfortable great room with a huge open fireplace and through a mostly unused kitchen that was, nonetheless, filled with all the most modern appliances and conveniences.

"Apparently there's a human psychic in San Francisco," Mikhail said, and upon noticing the instant gleam that came into Gregori's eyes at the words, "human psychic," added, "a male, Gregori, a human male, who works with the police on missing persons' cases. Aidan met him a year or so ago and was very impressed by him, and he's available to come help search for the missing blade."

Gregori nodded. "I hate to see any of our males face the honor death, but the alternative is much worse."

Mikhail's face was pained as he and Gregori went out onto the wraparound porch that surrounded his home. "Come, Shea wishes to speak with you about helping with the Halloween masquerade."

"Oh no! I have nothing to say about it," Gregori protested, his eyebrows flying up. "This- this...costume party is in the hands of the women!"

"Careful there, old friend," Mikhail warned. "You may find yourself dressed as something very embarrassing indeed if you do not get into the spirit of the thing."

"Savannah wouldn't dare," Gregori growled, then shifted to the form of a great silver wolf and took off running.

Mikhail shook his head. After all these years, he truly thought Gregori would've learned by now. Once the Carpathian women had an idea firmly in their teeth, it wasn't wise to butt heads with them. Mikhail, for his part, had agreed to dress as, well, a prince, because it meant getting to see his beautiful Raven dressed in the authentic period clothing of a princess. He could hardly wait to see her in the yards and yards of brocade, velvet, and lace, as well as the precious metals and gems that she so richly deserved to be draped, smothered and wrapped in every day. It hardly mattered that with a single thought he could melt the clothing away and see her in nothing but a rosy blush. Long ago, Mikhail had learned that when one dealt with a lifemate who had once been human, the secret to harmony and happiness was compromise. If dressing up and spending an evening cavorting together in silly costumes pleased his lifemate, Mikhail was happy to do it.

Staring up at the sliver of moon in the sky over the mountains, his heart ached for Szeren Kizevicius, the last of his line, the end of a legacy. How he wished the male could find the other half of his soul and know the joy of such simple pleasures instead of the unrelenting darkness plaguing him right now. Mikhail shifted into the form of a great black wolf and took off into the thick stands of timber, hoping against hope that the fates would be kind to Szeren now that he was back among his people. As Prince, Mikhail would offer hope until the end. More and more often in these difficult times, it was all he could do.

****

Problems landed side by side with Rhys when the jumbo jet touched down in Europe. His flight was kept circling in the air for an extra 90 minutes, so by the time they landed, he'd missed his train. He couldn't get a decent internet connection anywhere in the airport, and even after he switched over from his American circuitry to the European standard, his system kept hiccuping so that he couldn't book himself another train. When he finally broke down and went to the ticket counter, he was treated like, surprise, surprise, a kid. Even producing his black AmEx and his IDP made little difference. Being 19 meant he got about as much respect as the average college student did, which meant none at all. When his droid beeped and he saw the name Savage on the display, Rhys's heart leapt. He jammed his earpiece in and answered.

"Rasmus. Is that you, Mr. Savage?"

"I know I've asked you to call me Aidan, Rhys," Aidan said, a smile clear in the tone of his voice.

"Sorry Aidan. I'm having a helluva time here."

"What's the problem?"

"Missed my train and now I can't seem to get out of this airport. I got an International Driving Permit before I left the states, but apparently unless you're 25 nobody will actuallyrent you a car here. Would've been good to know. Since it's after business hours all the offices are closed so I've had no luck getting hold of anybody. If I'd known what a hassle this was going to be, I would've gotten a letter from the Embassy vouching for what a good boy I am."

Aidan laughed. "I think I can probably help you out. I'll be there in... thirty minutes. We figured something was wrong when you weren't here an hour ago. Can you go grab something to eat and a coffee? I'll text you when I get there and we'll hook up at baggage."

Rhys sighed. "Thanks, Daddy."

Aidan grunted. "Careful with that. Alexandria's already got ideas."

Rhys snorted. "You couldn't afford me."

"I can't afford her. Go eat; I'll see you soon, kid."

Rhys popped his earpiece out and slipped his droid into his shirt pocket. His notepad went into its carrying case and he was quickly on his way to the Starbucks he'd seen on the upper concourse. At least he could count on the caffeine content being the same here. No telling what things would be like once they got out into the Carpathian Mountains.

Rhys was excited about the assignment, and even more excited to see Aidan Savage again. He'd met the strange man during one of his first forays with the San Francisco PD, when he was still very much a kid and not yet looking to use his gifts professionally. He knew Aidan was special, kind of like a super hero, but he'd never pushed the reclusive philanthropist. Something told Rhys that one day Aidan would come to him, and sure enough, the email had come. Now here he sat on an all-expenses paid trip, waiting for Aidan to take him to meet Szeren Kizevicius, another reclusive philanthropist, only Mr. Kizevicius dealt in heirlooms and antiques, one of which was missing or stolen, nobody was sure which. Rhys was sure he could and would find out, and then he and Aidan were going to talk.

About vampires.

Rhys's psychic skills matured at age 11, coming to life with such a vengeance that merely brushing up against another person was enough to send him into convulsions. Writhing helplessly on the ground as his mind filled with the sounds, scents, images, and feelings of the past, present and future, Rhys had no choice but to ride the visions to their inevitable conclusions. Ostracized and misunderstood by teachers and "the system," he was very lucky his mother believed him about what he was seeing and hearing, and didn't listen to the psychiatrists, who insisted he was schizophrenic. She and Rhys's stepfather, Jonathan, allowed him to withdraw from school and be home-schooled, and encouraged his interests in psychology and parapsychology. In time he learned to control his abilities, but the easiest thing to control by far was who touched him. If nobody touched him, he was fine.

What neither his mother nor his stepfather knew about was The Dream, which Rhys started having almost as soon as his skills manifested. A recurring dream that he experienced with alarming regularity and surprising intensity, The Dream began as an ever-expanding series of vivid, full-color images of eroticism: arms and legs entwined, arching necks, the gorgeous, triangular expanse of a back flexing in the age-old to-and-fro motion of lovemaking.

When The Dream began, it was so taboo that at first Rhys was far too embarrassed to do or say anything about it. He was, after all, having a wet dream, and had no doubt about that because he woke up after every dream with a pool of sticky wetness drying on his belly, his thigh, or his sheets. Several times when he'd been particularly tired, he'd awoken to scratching his fingernails through the patch of dried cum as it itched and drove him crazy. As a preteen, though, Rhys had zero control, no skills, and precious little discipline. After eight years of a dream that just got more detailed, more erotic, and more intimate, now Rhys worked the thing like it was his own personal porno flick.

So Rhys was not surprised to once again "wake up" firmly in the grasp of The Dream. Every single time The Dream took possession of him, Rhys surrendered, because it was all he knew of intimacy, the closest he got and possibly the closest he would ever get to real human contact. He relaxed into the dreamscape, taking in the Egyptian cotton sheets, cool and crisp under his heated, naked flesh, his legs spread wide with his dream lover lying prone between them. Before Rhys could ask for what he wanted, what he desperately needed, his lover moved up, the gorgeous spill of wheat-blond hair tickling and pooling against Rhys's groin. The way those rich, thick blond strands looked trailing through Rhys's pubic hair, so dark a red it looked almost black, made his penis jump against his belly. Rhys pushed his erection up toward his lover's face, a face he'd never seen - not in eight long years - and had to bite his lip as a hot, wet mouth enveloped him, swallowing him down with such love, such care. Rhys sighed, his fingers pushing into all that soft, thick blond hair as his dream lover licked and sucked, kissing up his shaft and suckling at the tip of Rhys's cock, pulling a droplet of clear fluid onto a tongue that was so strong, so talented it drove Rhys crazy with the things it could do.