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Her Billionaire, Her Wolf(15)

By:Aimelie Aames


“But, more than this, listen to your instincts and prepare yourself for battle. Powers have begun to stir and when subtlety turns to action, I believe our very existence shall hang in the balance.”

Brazier Abraxis shrugged in response then said, “Have you not prepared me? Have you ever ceased to teach me despite all that comes between us?”

Has even death itself posed a barrier to you and your cursed lessons?

The voice sighed with the sound that wind makes when whistling through the teeth of a bleached skull.

“Aye...so I have, Braze. So why do you continue to defy me in these petty ways? Why would you deny me?”

The man did not reply for a moment, weighing his words before saying, “I would never deny you...father.”

Then he turned away as the moon slipped from the clouds at last and the reflection of it in his eyes went from rich amber to golden yellow.

He tilted his head back and howled to the sky, wishing that his brethren would take up the call. Desiring more than anything that he did not stand alone when he was meant to lead, meant to be lord to his fellows.

The howl grew to a roar as he withheld himself no more, allowing at last the savagery held fiercely at bay, loosing the leash of his self-imposed mastery.

The howl rose far above the city and its sound was not that of a man, but that of a beast.

Its sound was that of a wolf.





2

Lust and Lies





He slowly stepped forward, rolling his foot from heel to toe, easing his weight down before lifting up the opposite foot to do the same. The boots he wore were light and flexible with crepe soles. To keep the soft rubber from squeaking upon wet surfaces, the man had powdered them well with blackened talc.

The rest of his attire was just as carefully considered. Loose, soft, allowing free movement; while anything that might have made noise had been cut away to be replaced by simple buttons. It made for a slipshod appearance, but was precisely what he deemed necessary for absolute silence.

A long trench coat rode upon his shoulders. Unbelted, open, it hung down to mid-calf.

His patience was infinite, his concentration tightly focused. His success and his life depended on it.

Another step forward, all in slow motion, then low, almost lost in the darkness that enveloped him, the man heard glass shards crunch under his heel.

He froze, waiting.

But, the only response was silence, broken only by the slow dripping of water somewhere within the derelict building. He could see nothing moving although the only illumination came from moonlight slipping through broken out windowpanes, threaded through with the sinister shadows of a leafless tree outside.

It was not yet autumn, the man reflected, which meant that the tree had died or was dying. A sad thing, to his mind.

But death comes for us all, and for some, not soon enough.

He let his breath out slowly through pursed lips, then resumed his excruciating progression through the room.

Three paces further, he paused, then heard once more the unmistakeable sound of glass shards underfoot. Only, this time the sound came from several paces behind him.

He whirled, his trench coat billowing about him, and saw the visage of an angel.

She stood perfectly still, her skin an ivory white, her eyes downcast.

Like a silky mane, her black hair fell in a cascade to drape her shoulders. Then, she tipped her face up to reveal eyes of crystalline blue. Full lips beckoned to him, lusciously red, and with a half smile, she raised an unblemished hand to blow the man a kiss.

“Who goes there?” she asked with a voice meant for seduction, a velvet sound in the man’s ears, “Is it someone bearing good will, come to share in my vigil; or is it an ill wind that blows sad tidings from afar?”

Instead of giving answer, the man widened his stance, then turned his hands so that the palms faced forward before saying, “As you can see, I am the bearer of nothing. You might say, even, that I have come to offer you nothingness.”

The woman flinched at his words, her beauty marred by a momentary twisting of her mien, then her features softened once more.

“You cannot mean to harm me, dear man. Tell me that it is not so.”

The man shrugged, then like a magic trick, in a movement that seemed to defy the laws of time, he held a shining short sword in the darkness. His trench coat rippled as it fell back down to cover the simple leather scabbard belted at his waist.

Her voice came to him like the hissing of a great cat.

“No blade can harm me, mortal fool. And I see no picket hewn from witches’ wood. You are woefully unsuited to do so much as scratch me.”

“That is where you are wrong, blood drinker,” he replied. “For this is an arm that has known the blessings of holy men a thousand times over for more than a thousand years. It is proof enough against those such as you.”