Kyrian's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night
Kyrian of Thrace. The name is a legend. At one point in time, simply uttering it could silence an entire room of Romans. At one point in time, the man who carried it was whispered to be the man who would rule the world. People who knew nothing more of Kyrian than stories trembled in fear as they pictured a giant cloaked in darkness, a man who was more than a man, a being capable of tearing down the Roman Empire single-handedly.
They didn't picture a laid-back guy who usually whistled as he strolled down the street.
In truth, Kyrian was someone you could walk by in a bar without giving a second glance. He was above average for sure, but that could be chalked up to his above-and-beyond-gorgeous looks. While making girls drool on sight is certainly a talent, it usually doesn't make one think "elite war general."
Not that Kyrian was someone to take lightly. He did, in fact, do everything attributed to his name, and if you did pause for that second glance, you would get a hint of hidden power—if you angered him, you'd get an all-out close up of it.
Too bad angry dogs just didn't seem to care.
"Get off!" Kyrian snarled, wrestling with the dog attached to his leg. The Doberman could care less if Kyrian used to be the man lined up to rule the world—all it cared about was the fact that he had wound up in the unfortunate place of between the dog and its master.
And to add to the joy, the master happened to be unconscious, making it very hard for the woman to call the dog off. That had been fine when it was attacking the Daimons that had gone after the woman, but not so great when Kyrian dusted them and the dog had turned its attentions to the Dark-hunter. He had to force himself to remember that it wouldn't be good to just kill the dog.
"Don't make me kick you," Kyrian threatened, trying to twist away from the dog. "I've got blades on these boots!"
The Doberman growled loudly, clamping down harder. Kyrian cursed and grabbed the dog's jaws, finally prying them apart. He forced the dog down onto its back and held it there until it stopped fighting, only snarling at him.
"Stay," Kyrian growled. He kept one hand—as well as one boot—on the dog, calling an ambulance with the other. After giving an address, he hung up and cautiously released the dog, waiting for another attack.
The dog remained on its back, still snarling. He backed away slowly until he felt satisfied that the dog wouldn't follow him, then he turned around and stepped from the alley onto the sidewalk.
Only to have the dog leap on him in an instant, sinking its teeth into a very tender spot.
Kyrian paled, going completely rigid. That only lasted a moment before he spun and knocked the dog flying. Screw control. Not after a low blow like that!
The dog gave a yelp, hitting the sidewalk and sliding a few feet. It scrambled back up within seconds and dove at him again. With a frustrated sound, Kyrian turned and ran from it, his gait a bit awkward due to his newest wound.
Just around the nearest corner, he ducked into his car, slamming the door on the dog.
"Take that," he said, rather childishly. The dog stood outside his car in an attack pose, its top lip pulled back to reveal its teeth threateningly. Kyrian smirked at it and slid his sunglasses on. He started his Lamborghini's engine and it purred to life. Oh yeah, I love my car.
Then something he saw in the corner of his eye made him cuss loudly. The dog was peeing on his baby! On his Lamborghini!
He slammed the shifter into drive and floored the gas. He hoped it knocked the dog flying again—maybe gave him a permanent limp. That thing had just fouled his baby!
Kyrian decided to end his night of hunting a bit early, fury boiling through his veins; he scowled all the way to the car wash.
Pulling up to the screen, he rolled down his window and leaned out to swipe his credit card.
Error: card not valid
Kyrian stared at the message before scowling and trying again, only to have the same result.
"Fine!" he snarled. He shoved the card back into his wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill, glad he had cash on him for once. He slid the bill into the slot—
—And it slid right back out.
Breathing deeply, Kyrian bit his tongue and forced himself not to destroy the machine. He fed the bill in again—more carefully—and the machine accepted it.
But nothing showed up on the screen.
Kyrian waited, grinding his teeth. The screen remained blank, refusing to access his payment. On a somewhat-childish urge, the Dark-hunter reached out and smacked it. Still nothing.
I don't believe this. Kyrian leaned back, pressing himself into the seat, and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.
"Can I help you, dude?"
Kyrian leveled a glare at whatever fool had decided to speak to him, but subsided when he realized the young man wore the car wash's uniform. Of course . . . was that . . . underwear on his head?
"Saw you hit the money thing," the kid drawled, nodding as if he understood some great truth hidden from the rest of the world. "You know, violence is not the answer. If you keep your soul in balance with the money thing, you can find peace."
Kyrian stared at him. Finally, he was unable to hold back and snapped, "Are you high?"
"Anger isn't the answer either." The kid stepped up to the screen and caressed a hand over the top of it. "I'm sure this nice money thing wants to help you, but you're probably scaring it with your imbalance. You need to ask it nicely, to show your good intent. A hug can go a long way too."
As if to show the Dark-hunter what he meant, he bent down and hugged the screen, resting his cheek on it with a lazy smile. His eyes met Kyrian's again, half-lidded. For his part, Kyrian could feel one eye twitching as he continued to stare.
"See?" the kid said. "The money thing feels the balance, dude. Just put yourself out there a little and you can both learn to trust and find peace. And a kis—"
Kyrian's hand found the shifter of its own accord, throwing it into reverse. He hit the gas and flew away from the car wash, whipping his car around in the parking lot and tearing out onto the street.
Of course, just because the gods were dead set against him that night, he hadn't been on the street a full minute before someone began to tail-gate him. Kyrian cussed and flipped the car off out his still-open window. At the same moment, someone swerved in front of him.
Unable to hit his brakes because of the car behind him, Kyrian jerked the wheel to the side to avoid hitting either car. Unfortunately, that meant he hit a wooden pole off the side of the road—dead on.
The airbag blew up in his face and Kyrian blinked for a few minutes, dazed. Then realization hit him and his jaw fell open in horror. He beat the airbag back and forced his door open, flying out of the car.
Kyrian of Thrace was not a man who ever shed a tear. Hours of torture at the hands of his enemies couldn't drag them from him.
But when he saw his dear baby Lamborghini's front end completely folded around a pole, he felt like bawling.
Sirens sounded behind him and already, people were gathering, asking him if he was alright.
All he could say was, "My baby. . . ."
"You have a baby in the car?!"
Kyrian rounded on the man who'd said it, tears in his eyes, "My baby is the car!"
Police pulled up to the scene and one came right to Kyrian.
"Sir, do you feel dizzy at all?"
"I'm fine," Kyrian snapped, turning to stare at his utterly destroyed baby.
"Sir, you were just in a very serious accident. We need to get you to a hospital; you may be in shock."
I'm shocked all right. My baby. . . .
"Val, this guy's got a whole case of dangerous weapons in his car!"
Kyrian froze as a second cop pulled his head back out of the Lamborghini's window. The cop who'd been speaking to the Dark-hunter narrowed his eyes.
"Let's see them, Bob."
A few more policemen forced the crowd back as Bob brought out Kyrian's hunting tools. The first cop—Val—took one look at the assortment and turned back to the Dark-hunter with fire in his eyes.
"Care to explain what these are for?"
"I'm in the professional Chef business—we like an array of knives."
"Uh-huh. Then what are the guns for?"
". . . . We also kill our own chickens."
"Planning on killing any tonight? You've got a gun hiding in your belt there."
Kyrian cursed silently, forcing a winning smile on the outside. "I work the night shift."
The man didn't look the slightest bit convinced. Even less so when he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"Alright mister, you're under arrest for negligent driving and concealing weapons without a permit. Unless you'd like to produce one now."
"Would a chicken head count?"
Apparently not, since his hands were forced behind his back and cuffed. He cast one look back at his demolished baby as Val led him to the police car. Once inside, he leaned his head against the window and sighed.
What a horrible night.
He used his one call to have Nick come bail him out, but the stupid idiot didn't pick up the phone. Kyrian left a message and was forced to spend the night. In the morning, an especially chipper squire picked him up. The Dark-hunter felt like strangling Nick on the spot.
"So, "Master Chef", sounds like you had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night," Nick chirped.
"Get that off a cereal box?"
"Children's book, actually. I can't believe you told them you used your guns to kill chickens!"
"Shut up," Kyrian snarled. He snatched his sunglasses from the squire and shoved them on his face.
"This is all that dog's fault."
Authoress's Note: Just a piece written on request for someone's birthday. Thought I'd go ahead and post it. Review and tell me what you think, please!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherrilyn Kenyon's amazing Kyrian--obviously that honor goes to her. I also don't own the book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I do own the high dude at the car wash, but I'm not sure if I want to claim him. . . .