Minor fluff warning for this chapter: You know I don't write anything racy unless it's integral to the storyline:- and this is. Honest. Anyway, there's nothing graphic – just thought I'd better put up a warning.
Freya sat alone in Raziel's library, face furrowed in a vexed frown. The bargaining session had not gone as well as she had hoped, Raziel first proving himself immune to her dubious and abortive attempt at seduction, and then Turel interrupting them when it looked like they might finally have reached a compromise. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever get her hands on those damned texts. Freya released a pent-up breath as the door to the study opened again to admit Raziel's fledge, Isca, who regarded her with an almost hostile, appraising stare. She raised her eyebrows in a patent query as to what he wanted.
"My lord has instructed me to . . . accompany you."
Freya smiled inwardly. The fledgling's attempt at converting his master's instruction to 'keep her out of trouble' were clumsy, but admirable. She threw him a smile as she rose to her feet, causing the fledge's eyes to widen. She had definitely been a bit too eager with the knife on her neckline.
"So," she said brightly, "show me around."
Once they had got past the initial issue of her waning loyalty to the Sarafan, it soon emerged that the young man harboured a deep-seated resentment towards the vampire-hating knights. Feeling particularly vindictive towards Antaris at that moment in time, and aware that she wanted to win the fledgling's trust, Freya began to regale her companion with tales of the Sarafan Lord's cowardice. In the end, she had a feeling it was her description of Antaris' loss of bladder control at Raziel's threats that finally thawed the young fledge's attitude towards her, and the pair were soon chatting away like old friends, immersed in a conversation that ranged from combat strategies to apple scrumping. By the time they returned from their tour of the fortress, the rest of the fledglings had begun to gather in one of the main halls, and were busy talking through the events of the day. The rows of tables fell silent as Isca brought his guest to sit with them, but curiosity soon overcame mistrust, prompting a lively discussion on the Sarafan P'ramma's presence in the Fledgling Mess Hall.
Freya noted with some surprise that the foaming tankards that were being passed around were not, as she had first supposed, filled with blood. She queried her guide on this practise.
"Many of our human tastes continue to hold sway in the first years of unlife. When we get older – like Poul there," the impudent Vampire pointed out a sour-faced fledge who could not possibly be more than a few years older than himself. The youth scowled in response, and Isca continued undeterred: ". . .We will crave only blood. But for now at least, our drinking tastes vary - especially when we've already fed."
Reaching across the table when Poul's back was turned, Isca snagged the older youth's tankard and set it on the table before Freya.
Poul, belatedly noting his missing beer, glared at the P'ramma.
"If you think I'm sharing my ale with Sarafan scum . . ."
Freya glared back at him over the top of the tankard.
"Those bastards can no longer claim any allegiance from me." She interrupted his cutting response by turning to another fledge at the table and asking him to elaborate on fledgling drinking habits.
"I don't see why you'd find it so astonishing that we drink beer," He commented.
"Just surprised that vampires can stomach the stuff."
"That's rich, coming from a woman."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Everyone knows women can't take their ale." Several of his friends supported him on this.
Freya recognised from the youth's expression that he was intentionally goading her, and she rose to the challenge: she liked to think she'd developed quite a tolerance in the last few years. Before long, the quaffing competition degenerated into true merrymaking, as apparently it did most nights, vampiric constitutions precluding the possibility of hangovers.
"I think it's starting to get to her," commented the fledgling who had instigated the drunken revelry. Freya was playing a game of cards with a blond-haired youth at the end of the table, and had recently started to cheat - badly and blatantly.
"She hasn't fallen over yet," observed Isca.
"She's sitting down," his fellow pointed out.
"I would have expected her to drink like a man - she certainly fights like one." sneered Poul, adding a comment under his breath which included a word that sounded suspiciously like 'butch'.
Freya tried to decide whether or not to be offended, finally opting for neither extreme. "That's not true - I just use – different methods." She opined, swirling the contents of the tankard as she reconsidered her card strategy.
"What do you mean, 'different'?" asked Isca, his curiosity piqued.
"Well," she replied, focusing her thoughts with difficulty, "They're just fighting styles you're not familiar with . . .here . . ."
"Show us."
Freya made an explosive noise with her lips. "Don't be daft – I'm not giving away my secrets." She eyed him shrewdly. "Can't have you lot winning, can I?"
Isca shot her a sharp glance. "So you do plan to return to the Sarafan?"
Freya gave him a sarcastic stare. "They tried to kill me, stupid."
Isca snorted. "Less often than we have, surely?"
The woman made a show of counting on her fingers, then gave up and took another swig of ale.
"Wouldn't bet on it."
"So, show us."
Freya put down her tankard. "Alrighty then."
She began by showing them a couple of simple throws, and the general technique for roundhouse and side kicks. Five minutes later, she was seated at the side of the hall with her head in her hands wondering what Raziel was going to do to her when he found out she had instigated this bedlam. The fledglings were essentially excitable young men with an excess of power. Imagine, if you will, a boisterous group of young army recruits on a night's leave, then multiply it with the destructive power of a vampire, and spice it with the loss of judgement provided by distilled grain.
The tables were matchwood.
Eventually Gurt detached himself from the shadows at the side of the hall where he had been watching for some time, silencing the tumult with a single phrase.
"What in Kain's name are you doing?"
The fledges had frozen in comical positions with the arrival of the feared Fledge Master, some of them mid-punch (they had long since forgotten they were supposed to be practising throws), and were now slowly regaining their feet, dusting themselves off and trying to look innocent.
Freya decided, in her inebriated state, that it was better to own up before one of the fledges dropped her in it.
"S'my fault." She grinned apologetically.
Gurt fixed her with an annoyed glare. "I rather doubt that, human."
"No, no, seriously," insisted Freya, in what was quickly degenerating into a 'you're-my-best-mate-you-are' tone, "I was just trying to teach them some moves."
"Were you, now?" asked the austere Master, eyeing the splintered benches in consideration. Freya nodded vigorously, making the room spin.
"Well then, in that case, I think we can overlook this." Freya was not the only one to glance at Gurt in complete surprise: the Fledglings' Mess Hall was . . . a mess. Freya raised an eyebrow.
The Fledge Master turned to leave, aiming his parting comment in her direction. "I think it's only fair, seeing as you just volunteered to carry on training them tomorrow."
Freya goggled at his departing form as she wobbled unsteadily from side to side.
"Bugger."
She glanced about to see that Raziel's dratted fledge was guffawing heartily at her. If she didn't know better she would say he had planned this.
"And you can stop laughing too," she admonished, oscillating slightly as she walked from the hall.
"Where are you going?" asked the puzzled vampire.
"Bed."
"It's this way."
"I knew that."
She poked her tongue out at the vampire's supercilious smile, but nonetheless accepted the support of his arm as he guided her in the proper direction.
"Thanks." She muttered grudgingly.
"Don't mention it."
"Oi, I'm up here!"
Isca's gaze flicked back to her face. He grinned and shrugged, offering no apology for his lack of manners.
Freya clucked her tongue. "Anyone would think you'd never seen any before," she grumbled.
Isca stopped before her room and gave a mock-bow, waving an arm towards the entrance as though it were a palatial abode. She returned it with a mock-curtsey, which almost unbalanced her, and she tripped giggling into the room, slamming the door behind her.
The fledge shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. He was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that this woman, who was, by the look of her, somewhere close to his own true age, was the leader of the enemy forces. Ex-leader, he amended mentally. Isca hovered outside the door, vacillating as his Fledgling urges threatened to take control. Although he knew that the P'ramma had something akin to diplomatic immunity for the moment, and that none of the Clan would violate Raziel's edict, his feet nonetheless were stubbornly refusing to take him away from the door. A steady splattering sound drew his attention to the fact that his nails were digging into his palm, allowing droplets of dark blood to stain the floor. For some reason he had yet to fathom, he was suffering from a deep-seated need, an almost tortuous yearning which had nothing to do with the Thirst for once: it was an ailment for which he knew there was but one cure.
The fledge turned tail and headed straight for Quadros. He had a promise to keep.
Isca's highly-attuned senses told him he was not the only vampire in the town that night, several of the Elite having descended to extract their blood tithe. A glance through a nearby lighted window showed the unexpected picture of his own captain reclining on a low couch, stripped to the waist and stroking the hair of the young woman nestled against him. Eyebrows almost on his hairline, Isca sought the tavern, a quick jump bringing him to a ledge outside an upstairs window. After taking a moment to ascertain the identity of the sleeper within, he entered and moved to stand at the end of the bed. She looked much as he remembered her: golden locks splayed around her head as though she were underwater, the bloom of health and youth on either fair cheek. His next step forward made a floorboard creak, and, to the girl's credit, she was on her feet brandishing a brass candlestick before Isca could react.
"Who's there?" demanded Maeve in a decidedly shaky voice. "I warn you," she added, waggling the candlestick threateningly, "I'm armed!"
Isca's face broke into a grin. "Hello, Maeve."
The girl froze as she matched the voice with its owner. "Isca?"
A quick scuffle from the table as flint and tinder met, and wan candlelight illumed the room. Maeve turned with a smile that melted into unadulterated admiration as she saw the changes that had been wrought on her childhood sweetheart. His standard fledge uniform, consisting of a high-collared, long-sleeved jacket and close fitting trousers, both in a heavy black twill, lent him an air of youthful authority. The jacket itself was emblazoned with the Razielim Clan symbol on either breast, and instantly captured the young woman's attention. Her gaze eventually wandered back up to see that he had allowed his hair to grow long, and he had, in accordance with his rank's dress code, secured it back from his face with a series of metal bands. Maeve made a little circular motion with her index finger and Isca obliged with a slow twirl. It seemed to the woman as she appraised her friend that he had a more potent aura now: his shoulders seemed broader, his stature more imposing – or maybe it was a combination of the uniform and the poor illumination. In any event, the faint glow from the candles was certainly deceptive – the deathly pallor was hardly noticeable in this light.
"I take it you passed the Trials, then." Maeve's voice held a hint of sarcasm . It had been a good five years since she had heard anything of his fate, and she was not a little miffed at his lack of consideration.
Isca's smile dissolved. "Come here."
Not wanting to refuse a request from one of the town's protectors, Maeve obeyed, a shy smile lighting her face as she was drawn again into her former beau's embrace.
The fledge's eyes roved over the young human's face, gauging her willingness before inclining his head and pressing his lips to hers. The initial contact caught Isca unawares: it was like kissing a furnace - the heat from the young woman's skin seared his cold flesh like a brand. Although the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, Isca was glad when her lips warmed his, bringing their temperatures closer together. Shortly, he brought up a hand and slid her nightgown from her shoulder, his lips then following the path his hand traced across her bare flesh. The chill of his touch sent gooseflesh in a thrill across the girl's upper body, and he quickly bared the other shoulder in a like manner. Bereft of its supports, the nightgown succumbed to gravity, as did Maeve, who reclined on her mattress, inviting the fledgling's next advance. Quickly divesting himself of his uniform, Isca joined her on the bed, the press of his icy flesh against hers causing a prolonged shiver. The fledge considerately dragged the covers over them. Shortly, he felt her gasp beneath his lips as he consummated their reunion, and by and by, his hungry mouth was drawn inexorably away from hers to travel down by degrees with each thudding heartbeat to stop instinctively at the optimum point.
Maeve moaned, louder this time without his lips to stifle her outcries, and Isca clamped a hand over her mouth, his ears alert. Despite five years of undeath, and killing and maiming, he still held a healthy fear of Maeve's grandmother, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught defiling her precious granddaughter in a room he knew full well was less that ten feet from hers. The old woman was far too good a shot with her shoes, as he had learned on several occasions, much to his backside's chagrin. Seconds ticked away and the tavern remained silent, and so Isca turned his attention back to the young woman's tensed frame, breathlessly prepared for the pain that would surely come. Maeve jolted in instinctive shock as the fledge dropped a cool, gentle kiss on the side of her throat. A moment later his lips opened against her skin, and he pressed his canines gently against her neck: he then allowed the pressure to increase momentarily before altering the angle of penetration so that the razor-sharp tips pierced the flesh. Blood gushed into his waiting mouth like a hotspring freed from the earth. Isca's senses reeled from he power of the act: of course he had fed before – hundreds of times over the last few years - but never like this. The pleasures that coursed through his being were manifold: the physical and the emotional combined with a previously unknown and unforeseen feeling of power that threatened to drown him in its intensity. This new sensation stemmed from his knowledge that the woman too was deriving enjoyment from his actions, and this, coupled with the supreme and ever-present excitement of the feed, was rapidly taking him to hitherto unknown heights of pleasure.
Maeve's fingernails clawed at his back in a reciprocal gesture for the ache he was causing in her throat, but he remained oblivious to the minor pains, captivated as he was by the exquisite taste of her. It is true that emotions taint the blood: just as fear spices the vitae with the tang of adrenaline, so too do the chemicals that accompany sexual excitement. As the act reached a crescendo, Isca heard a voice cry out as his being was engulfed in heady waves of bliss. Even as the sensations subsided, he was unsure as to who had made the sound: all he knew was the siren song of the blood pounding in his ears, and the intense convulsions of the woman beneath him.
Presently, he drew his head away from Maeve's neck to look at her face, and he was rewarded with the young woman's sleepy, blissful smile. Her slender fingers curled in his dark locks, which had come loose from their bindings with the energetic movements of their tryst. Lowering his head to her throat once again, he drew a cold tongue in delicate whorls around the twin puncture marks, removing the last of the spillage. Maeve shuddered again, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. Seeing that the girl could barely keep her eyes open, Isca kissed her paling lips once more before rising from the bed. Maeve smiled as she drifted into sleep: he would be back.
*
"His mind is wandering again."
"Well, bring him back!"
A handful of filthy water hit Isca full in the face, instantly rousing him from his pleasant daydream. He let loose a scream of agony as the liquid burned red-black runnels across his skin, the water cauterising even as it scalded him. His eyes focussed unwillingly on the dark, mangled apparatus that constituted Turel's torture chamber, and then on Turel himself, who had placed himself directly in the fledgling's line of sight.
"Don't you dare ignore me, fledge."
He fingered his next instrument of pain lovingly. "We have much to talk about, you and I."
