From : Chihuahua
Date : 8th April 2003
Disclaimer : I don't own any of the TRA:JQ characters and neither do I own any of the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. No money is made out of this fic. Don't sue me as I'm not sure I can afford Ally McBeal.
Category : A, JJ-HR, DBN-HR, F, E, JQ/Buffy Crossover
Rating : Parental guidance is advised.
Author's note : This takes place after Season 2 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is my account on what happens and is based fully on my own creativity.
Archiver's Permission: Granted to those who want it. Just inform me on where it can be found.
CHAPTER 6: LIFETIMESMAINE
"Jessie!" Race bolted upright, washed in cold sweat. He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand, ripping the sheets aside with the other. He fumbled for the nightlight, flicking the switch. Another dream, another nightmare.
"Another nightmare?" a quiet voice asked, tinged with some sleepiness.
Race nodded. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep, Stell." He felt the sheets shift as she felt repositioned herself. A moment later, her warm hand was on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"We'll get through this, Race. We'll do it together." She turned his head to face hers, gazing straight into his icy blue eyes. "I promise."
Race drew a deep breath. It was all he could do from crying. Despite his best efforts, he felt a warm tear trace its way down his right cheek. "I miss her… I miss my little girl!" He burst into tears, his body wracked with sobs.
"I do too… but there's nothing you can do. Nothing to bring her back."
"I could have protected her better." Self-doubt was evident in his voice.
"No you couldn't," Estella whispered.
"I'm her father. I should have been there to protect her. I…" Rage pulsated in his voice now.
"Jonny was there… the Slayer was with her, and even he couldn't protect her. You wouldn't have been able to save her!" Estella placed a soothing hand on her ex-husband's bare shoulder.
"I still could've tried!" The pulsing anger was gone, doubt replacing it.
"Race, you were a good father. A terrific dad… and even so, there was nothing you could have done in the situation. I know she knew and understood that." She decided to attack his doubt, lay it to rest.
"How can I be sure? How can I know if my baby knew that I would've done anything to save her? How could she?" Self-doubt oozed from every word.
Estella was not above recognizing the irony of the situation; Race Bannon, the man who was perpetually the poster boy for confidence was agonizing over his parenting skills when it was the one job he excelled at above all others. "She knew, she knew her daddy loved her."
Race smiled, a small crooked smile. "Then she must have known that her mom loved her too."
"Absolutely!" Estella affirmed. "No question about it!" She laughed softly.
"I'm sorry, Stella… I'm so sorry…"
Estella was slightly taken by the apology. "About what?" she asked, not knowing if she wanted to know the answer.
"About everything. About my work. About my life. About your life. About us. About Jessie. I'm just so sorry, for everything."
"It's not your fault. I never blamed you for any of it," she said firmly. "I knew what I was getting myself into back then when I said 'I do', so it's not your fault. You did nothing to mislead me, I just wasn't able to cope as well as I thought I would've been able to." She looked at Race again, amazed at how taxed by his own personal guilt he was.
"I should never have gotten you involved. Or…"
"She chose her life, Race. Let it be and let her rest."
"Aren't you a bit affected by this? She's gone!" Race demanded.
Estella felt her temper begin to fray and she felt herself burst. "How dare you?" she said, her tone sharp and clipped. "Of course I care, she was my daughter too. Of course I care… you yourself said so. But she IS gone. I can't bring her back; I wasn't there to stop it. And even if I was there, God knows if I could have saved her!" Hot tears coursed down her cheeks as her furious outburst ended. "God!"
Race pulled his ex-wife into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it… what I said, it was stupid."
There was an ample silence as they both just hugged and cried in each other's arms for a long while, two souls bound together by life and death.
***
Benton stepped into the family library, cinching the belt of his robe tightly around himself. He wasn't surprised to see the light on. He padded along the heavily carpeted walkway till he saw another expectation.
Hadji was slumped on the heavy table, a book open beside him as though he had been reading it before sleep finally took him. A notepad and ballpoint pen lay beside his left hand, a sure indication that he had been taking notes about his reading material.
Benton gazed fondly upon his older son, and at once, a familiar feeling of sadness consumed him.
'Why is all this happening to us?' he questioned inwardly as he saw his son's drained expression. 'How much more do we have to go through before it all ends?' Benton sighed softly. First, Rachel died. Enter Race, and when he finally gained acceptance, there was Hadji. After everything had fallen into place, in came Jessie. Benton smiled. For a while, all had seemed good, except for the regular death threats by his many enemies. Suddenly, Jonny was part of an ancient prophecy, Race and Jessie were a much bigger part in his son's life than he could've ever imagined. Then Jessie had died, and Jonny vanished. Now, here was Hadji working insane hours at translating and decoding old scripts and passages, trying to find out more about his brother's destiny and the lineage leading to Jonny. Everything seemed such a mess, and yet it seemed to be the main design of life.
Benton rubbed his brow, trying to clear his head. Silently he took the blanket he had taken down with him and gently and carefully draped it over his sleeping son. Hadji did not even stir.
Benton straightened himself, feeling the coiled up tension in his shoulders. Quietly, he picked up the book beside Hadji and began to read it silently. He was relieved to find that it was written in Old English, a form that he could still remember from when he had picked it up in college when doing a doctorate in languages. He had done a thesis on how most native languages seemed to stem from a common tongue.
He glanced over at Hadji's scribbled notes and saw that his sin had not gone very far in deciphering the ancient text. Who knew how long he had spent on just deciphering the first paragraph? He ignored that for a moment, settling down to read and making a personal note to help his son with any future work. The text was apparently written by an English priest in 1297 A.D. and it was a rough outline on the lineage of the Slayer, the Destined.
He read:
'Ever since the beginning of time, the war between good and evil has seen no end, a test of might in the beings that walked the Earth. Neither manifested itself physically, but were forever present in everything living. For as both were omnipresent, they failed to conquer and quell one another. Life was flawed, and everything had the capacity to be neither purely good or evil in essence.
'There were many soldiers of the battle, those who fought for the sake of their calling. Evil flowed through the hearts of demons, hell-beasts and dark gods. But that was not enough and evil tainted the souls of man, and so the first hybrids were born, not entirely demonic, and yet only vaguely human. Amongst many of these hybrids were the vampyr, the vampires. They took tenancy in the shells of men and women alike, invulnerable to many things. They were able to stalk their prey under the guise of being normal humans and were able to share the dark gift of tainted immortality with their victims. They were also fully capable of hunting simply for sport, caring none for their drained prey. Over the eons, the vampyr grew to enormous multitudes, occupying every continent, slaying all that fell prey to them.
'Good had its own soldiers, four beings of supernatural ability. These were beings of light, fair beyond account of build and appearance and each derived his and her strength from an element. They were gifted with many skills and were virtually undefeated in combat.'
Benton flipped the page and found an account of each of the four warriors, two men and two women.
***
Race slipped out of bed, careful so not to wake Estella. He got dressed quietly and padded down the steps. He was surprised to hear someone already out of bed. He expected it to be Hadji, but was surprised to see Benton scooping some coffee into the coffeemaker.
"G' mornin', Benton," he said, sounding a lot more chipper than he actually felt.
"Good morning, Race," Benton acknowledged, scooping yet another level spoonful of coffee.
An ample silence followed, interrupted only by the sounds of Benton's activity. Both men stared at each other, each expecting the other to break the tension.
"I hate this, Ben. I hate the way we seem to be afraid of each other. Of how we are afraid of talking anymore!"
Benton nodded. "Me too. But there are so many things that lie between us now. So many things that block of what we used to have."
"What changed, Ben?"
Benton hesitated for a moment, sorting his thoughts. "The secrecy Race. We no longer have that mutual trust. I'm not sure of who you really are, and you probably still have your doubts on how much I know about my son's birthright."
There was another pregnant moment of silence as Benton's words sunk in.
"We're in this together, Ben," Race said, finally, "so let's not keep each other in the dark anymore. For the time being, we share a similar mission, to locate Jonny."
Benton nodded his agreement. "No more secrets."
"No more," Race affirmed. "Ask what you want, and I'll do my best to answer it."
"Are you really Roger Bannon, the bodyguard and friend I have known for the past twelve years?"
"Yes, that much is true," Race said.
"Good. Your turn."
"How much of the Slayers you know?"
Benton cleared his throat. "As far as I know, a branch of my family had always carried the lineage of the Destined, a continuum of Slayers. When a Slayer is killed, the birthright is passed down to his next of kin. I knew that Jonny had inherited the birthright when I saw the birthmark on his left shoulder blade."
Race nodded. "I was informed of the existence of a new Destined, but we were unable to place a Watcher for him immediately as you were rather against the idea. But when tragedy struck, and you finally realized how vulnerable your family was, I-1 seized the opportunity to place me in your service."
"So, I-1 is a subsidiary of the Watcher's Council?"
Race shrugged. "You could say that, but more accurately, I-1 is an independent body. Its primary mission is to provide Destined Ones with the proper Watchers to guide and train them."
"What about the Watcher's Council?"
Race snorted. "They refused to acknowledge the second lineage of Slayers, although a few Watchers were dispatched secretly to guide a few of the boys. A pride issue I guess, but that's why we split. Several Watchers who accepted the existence of the Destined split from the Council and founded their own little 'club', bringing with them what little resources they had. Of course, they still had internal ties with the Council, but it's all hush hush."
"And this little 'club' you speak of is I-1?" Benton asked, pouring two mugs of strong black coffee.
Race took a sip of his before continuing. "Not exactly. I-1 had once existed as a government covert operations group. However, once the 'Big Boys' realized that national security wasn't all about keeping enemies at bay, but also fighting the darkness that lay within the country's perimeter, they placed the unexplainable cases under I-1." Race took another sip of his coffee. Sighing in satisfaction, he continued, "Corbin and the other 'Big Kahunas' realized that they were in way over their heads and decided they needed some expert help…"
"Which is when they roped in the renegade Watchers," Benton finished.
Race snapped his fingers and gave Benton his 'You-Da-Man' look. "That's more or less the condensed version. But let's just say that the renegade Watchers were more than happy to have some big guns on their side, so they accepted the offer. In return, they were to train selected I-1 agents as Watchers."
Benton tapped him fingers on the solid counter top, mulling the information. "Wait, you said second lineage of Slayers…"
Race smiled. "I was waiting to see if you'd catch on to that. There are two lineages of Slayers that we, the Watcher's Council and I-1, know of. Jonny's lineage is that of the Destined. The lineage is passed down through blood, though it's not always that simple." He paused to see if the doc was following him clearly on this. Satisfied that he wasn't left too far behind, Race continued, "The 'original' lineage of Slayers, The Chosen Ones, are selected by The-Powers-That-Be, and I don't mean metaphorically, that's what they're called. There is no necessary blood relation between the girls, and the selection is purely random, more or less."
"The girls?" Benton asked quizzically.
Race sighed. "The Chosen Ones are all girls, part of some ancient prophecy. The Destined Ones on the other hand are all males. Probably some kinda quirk somewhere along the way too."
"Okay, let's leave it at that for the moment and move on to a more immediate call. Why is Jonny a Slayer? I mean if the lineage is carried on by blood, how can he be a Slayer when I'm just, well, normal." Benton shifted his mug over to his other hand, soaking in the warmth of the hot ceramic.
"I told you it wasn't quite as simple as simple a gift passed down through blood. For many generations now, the Destined One has pretty much operated mainly in Europe, being the fact that they were all selected from your kin over there."
"Then they would have to be really remote relatives. I can't remember having any relatives over there."
"Yeah, they're very remote relatives, I've got the family tree planned out somewhere in my room. But back to the topic. What happened was that about twelve years ago, the last Destined One was killed, along with his immediate family." Race stopped to take another sip of his now warm coffee.
"But you said that before that I-1 also had another boy under surveillance to determine if he was the next Destined," Benton protested, getting tangled in the tale.
Race nodded. "This is where it gets slightly complicated. The kid, the Spanish one, was a bastard son of the last Destined. Apparently the guy had some worries about his own son not being able to uphold the duty, the kid was asthmatic, so he sowed his seeds in another place so to speak, and kept it a secret. The kid was later moved over to London for surveillance." Race chuckled. "We managed to locate the boy through scrying, when we were trying to locate the next Slayers whereabouts. Of course Jonny turned up too, I guess instead of showing us the next Slayer, it showed the possible candidates."
"But the other kid was a blood-relative, why didn't he get chosen?" Benton frowned a little.
Race shrugged. "Damned if I knew, but anyway, Watchers and operatives were sent out to locate the two boys. They would be the first generation officially 'Watched' Destined Ones. Over the years, the boy showed promise, but he was ordinary… there was no extraordinary ability or anything." Race beamed proudly before continuing, "Jonny on the other hand seemed to be an excellent candidate. Even the operative sent with me, Jessie, agreed. Of course, she never told him that."
"So, this pretty much means you lied about not knowing how the heck Jonny cleared that dash before Hadji reset the alarm?" Benton asked, knitting his eyebrows teasingly.
Race nodded, then added indignantly, "Hey you didn't 'fess up too, Cryptic Man!"
"Yeah, I know." Benton sighed, a rare sigh of defeat. "It's all screwed up!"
Race nodded. "It's pretty screwed up shit, Ben. I know what that's like."
"I'll cope," Benton said, giving a watery smile.
At that moment, a very drowsy looking Hadji appeared in the doorway. "Good morning," he mumbled, before stumbling towards the coffeepot to pour himself a strong dosage.
***
SAN FRANCISCO
Jessie jerked awake, the potion effect waning. Her head hurt and she gasped for breath, although she no longer needed it. The room seemed to expand and contract at random, lending a warped appearance to her surroundings. Turning around, she saw Prumiva looking at her, a satisfied smile on her face.
"I see that you were successful in finding out the truth," she said, checking her long nails. She redirected her gaze at Jessie.
"I couldn't finish it though. I didn't finish it."
"There'll be time for that some other time. For now, it's dusk and we will feed tonight," Prumiva said, ticking a glance at Jessie to check her response.
Jessie simply nodded, and got out of her cot. It would be a few more hours before she could continue that dream. And somehow, she feared the outcome very much.
***
Jonny jogged to a payphone and placed a call to Maine. He waited impatiently for the calls to be connected, checking his watch every so often. He took peeks out at the streets, taking in the slick asphalt; it had rained earlier on.
"Come on, Pop. Pick up the damn phone!" he muttered.
"We're going to have a serious talk about the language you've been using lately, young man," his father's deep baritone said.
Jonny jumped a little, then composed himself. "Do you have the spell?"
"Yes, now do you mind telling me exactly what you're going to use it…?"
"No time now, Pop. Please, just give me the spell," he pleaded. He could almost see his father sigh on the other side.
"Fine. Firstly, how fluent are you in Ancient Greek?" His father's question came as a surprise.
"I could do with some help here and there, but otherwise I'm pretty okay, I guess." Jonny hoped that he was as good as he sounded. "Why?"
"Because that's the closest we could come to an unbinding spell. I'm pretty sure Jessie used a spell from an old Aztec journal, the book had been moved quite recently, judging from the dust patterns. There was no reverse spell, but there was one in Greek, so here it is. Do you have a pen ready?"
Jonny nodded, before realizing that his father couldn't possibly see him, he added, "Yeah, Pop. Let a rip!" He scribbled furiously as his father recited the incantation over the phone, taking note of the steps and precautions too.
"Jonny, please come home," his father ended. There was an unmistakable pleading tone in his voice. It was the desperate voice of a father who knew that his son was in danger.
Jonny fought back his tears, and struggled to keep his voice level. "I will, Pop. I will. Later." That was all he could manage before his wall broke down. Just as he hung up, he could hear his family calling him, telling him not to hang up. He had hung up long ago.
Hot tears traced wet tracks down his cheeks. He brushed them away with his sleeve. He vowed to dust the next vampire he saw within thirty seconds. He repeated that vow twenty times that night, breaking it each time to pound each one into a mutilated pulp before driving a stake home.
And still no Jessie.
***
ASHQELON
"Strike to the right!" roared Antius as Daerian disobeyed yet another command. He marched over to where the boy was sparring with an operative and smacked him smartly upside his head.
Daerian veered around, anger blazing in his eyes. "Don't…!"
"Don't you dare tell me what I can and cannot do!" Antius roared back. "I'm your Watcher! And you will do as I command!"
Daerian shot back, "And why should I? Because I'm a slave? Because…"
"Because you want to stay ALIVE!"
Daerian glared back defiantly for a moment, and then fell back. "Which stance do I take?"
"The crane. Focus more on your agility, speed. Immense power is not needed here, not as much as stamina." He looked approvingly at his protégé as the boy delivered yet another devastating blow to the operative's chest. Protective pads or nothing, Antius was glad that he wasn't on the receiving end of the boy's fury.
"Good, now try switching attack modes. Be unpredictable. Don't let him guess your next attack, that's your strongest advantage!" He nodded his head in approval, noting the boy's improved stance and technique.
Daerian stopped his barrage, and looked over at Antius. "I need to get back to work. This," he said, motioning at his surroundings, "isn't going to make me any money. I've got to care for my mother too."
Antius suddenly realized the burden the boy was under. He was a slave, a gigolo when purchased. He had a mother who lived by the same profession. They were social outcasts, scum on the pavement. And now, on top of all that, the boy was the Destined One. He dug into his lambskin pouch and pulled out a few gold coins and offered it to the boy.
Indignant anger flared on the boy's features. He pushed back the offering hand, shaking his head vigorously as he did so. "No, sir. I will not take what I've not earned. Think of me as foolish, but I am nothing in society, and all I have is my dignity. So, I thank you for your kind offering, but I cannot take it."
Antius smiled a rare smile. In fact, he had forgotten that he had used to like children; he had adored playing with his nephews and nieces when they were children. And when I was less enlightened, he added to himself. He banished his idle thoughts for now, focusing on the task at hand. The boy was strong, yes, but he would need a lot of polishing before he was as good as some of the previous Slayers.
"We'll stop for today, but you must promise to return tomorrow to continue your training." Antius' tone was kind but there was a note of finality in it. "Dismiss," he said, waving the boy away.
***
"You'll need to be on duty tonight," Antius spoke to the strong young man standing in front of him. "The attacks have been more frequent of late, and you've been unable to do little more than diminish a few."
Daerian was reproachful as he spoke. "I cannot patrol tonight as I've been hired to serve at a banquet." Another reproachful look told Antius all he needed to know: the pay was too good to refuse and he needed it for his ailing mother.
Antius nodded understandingly. You must tend to your business then, but be on the lookout for anything strange." It was against his better judgment to let the boy off his patrolling duty, but he understood how much rode on the promise of a good pay. A sturdy boy, not quite yet a man was a very tempting offer, and he was sure that Daerian would be rewarded handsomely, more so if his pimp arranged the usual 'after-plans'.
"Thank you. Tomorrow night, I'll work double," Daerian promised. He was relieved to find his Watcher in an understanding mood today. He desperately needed the money. The herbs his mother required to stay alive were expensive, rare flowers and roots brought over from China to trade with the Western civilization. He didn't know how much time they bought her, but he couldn't just sit back and watch her die.
"Have you eaten yet?" Antius questioned, noticing not for the first time that his protégé had been looking worryingly gaunt lately.
Daerian looked into his Watcher's eyes. "Yes," he said, hoping that his moment's hesitation did not cost him his believability.
Antius understood. His years of Watching had fine-tuned his senses to emotional vibes. "Well, here are a few gold coins. Go get yourself something else to eat; you'll need your strength for tonight." He made sure that he handed out more than he thought the boy's mother's medicine would cost.
Daerian hesitated, shifting uneasily. "No need…"
"Just take it, Daerian. I know…" Antius said, shifting his impatient tone almost immediately to denote his true meaning.
Daerian smiled. "Thank you."
"Go now. And take care of yourself."
Daerian cringed a little as he felt yet another pinch on his rear. Before he could shift his position, he felt another hand cup his groin. He forced a smile on his face before he said, "More wine?" His groper, a young woman smiled languidly before nodding. Daerian tipped his flask and poured a steady stream of crimson liquid carefully into her goblet.
The woman raised her goblet and tipped it slightly, as if toasting him. Then she took a deep sip. "Excellent service tonight, Prumiva!" she called to her host.
Daerian looked over at the host. She was exquisite, raven locks cascading over her shoulders and falling over her front, just covering her ivory bosom. Dark kohl lined her expressive eyes heavily, contrasting stunningly against her alabaster complexion
Daerian was a little puzzled about one small matter. Several small matters actually. Prumiva, or so she had been called on countless occasions in the evening was seemingly wealthy, every bit a socialite, but this was the first time he had ever heard of her. The rich and wealthy were constantly flaunting their wealth and it would've been strange that he had never even seen her. Secondly, the slaves around her were all foreign faces to him. Banquets were normally a secondary meeting place for slaves and gigolos, as the popular ones were always called to serve. Tonight, none of the other young men around him were familiar, some even from as far away as China.
Daerian glanced around him again. Something just didn't feel right; he could feel it in his bones, literally. There was a strange sensation pulsing through his body, reminiscent of the strange feeling he had experienced the night he had learned of his heritage. The other slaves and probable gigolos were all stripped to the waist like him.
Then realization struck him. They were all deathly pale; there was hardly any difference between their pristine white togas and lean bodies. The Chinese boy especially stood out as his black hair and eyes seemed like bits of charcoal on white linen.
While refilling yet another goblet, he ticked his glance over at the host and took in her stunning appearance once more. She no longer looked beautiful, but rather ghastly as she sipped her wine and smiled at her unsuspecting guests. He contemplated his next move. He took relief in noticing that all the invited guests were still alive.
He noticed Prumiva gesturing for him to come over to her side. She lifted her glass to be filled. When he had done that, she stood up, and spoke loudly. "I trust that my boys tonight are to your liking, ladies!" When squeals of delight and approval were heard, she smiled and continued, "Then ladies, each of you may take one for your personal contentment tonight in my guest chambers.
Daerian realized in horror that this was a feast, not just for the guests, but also for the undead. Each guest would be a tantalizing treat for each of the host's 'slaves'. He decided that if there was a time to act, now would've been as good as any.
"No! Stay away from the slaves!" he yelled, tossing his flask aside.
"Silence, boy!" a woman shouted. "You need to be taught your place!"
Not wasting any time, Daerian snapped the leg of a chair and launched it across the room at an Indian slave, impaling him for a second before he turned to dust. "They're all vampires, demons! Run!" he roared.
The women, having watched the horrifying spectacle screamed and ran, some consciously heading for the door, others running mindlessly. The screams reverberated through the villa as each slave showed his true face, the grossly deformed faces of the undead.
Daerian moaned silently. He was outnumbered and the odds against him were huge. On top of all of that, he had to try to rescue any of the guests. Putting on a brazen exterior, he cart wheeled aside and snapped a couple more legs off another chair and brandished the splintery pieces of wood.
"You all hungry?" he taunted, body poised for an easy offensive and yet ready to take on a defensive stance. He ticked glances at the various vampires scattered all over the dining hall. The women were surrounded. Prumiva on the other hand was watching his movements with analytical eyes, observing him as he struck her minions.
Leaving his first victim in a dusty heap, Daerian snapped the neck of another vampire as it lunged in for the kill. He jumped in with a scissor takedown, wrestling a tall well-built vamp with his thighs. He threw his extra makeshift stake with deadly precision, dusting another before he got back to his feet. He grabbed the Chinese boy's neck and slammed his head hard onto the solid tabletop. Seizing a knife, he plunged it through the back of his neck, disconnecting the vertebrae. There was a howl of anguish before Daerian jammed his stake through.
Suddenly, he felt a heavy blow to the side of his head. He was knocked across the table, landing heavily on a chair. He felt a white flash of pain as a rib cracked under the pressure of the fall. Struggling to get up, he felt a well-aimed kick hit him in his broken rib, causing him to release a loud yell.
Sweeping his hands about, he found the broken chair leg and taking a quick aim, he sent it flying at his assailant. He almost cried out in frustration when she caught it neatly in one hand and with the other snapped it into useless pieces.
Prumiva smiled knowingly at him and it that instance, Daerian felt helpless. He clutched his broken and bruised rib and struggled to get up. Standing as straight as he could bear, he assumed a fighting stance. With the back of his left hand, he smacked a Russian slave in the throat. Deviating quickly to his left, he thrust his elbow sharply into the vampire's ribs. Spinning quickly on his heel, he twisted the vampire's head twice, before ripping it off the neck with a sharp yank. Then he lunged forward for an attack on Prumiva.
His attacks were painfully futile as his injury made it difficult for him to attack whole-heartedly. Often the pain was so unbearable that he fell back. He felt a burst of satisfaction as his instep landed heavily in her face. His second kick also hit home, whacking her on her head.
Just as he prepared to attack again, strong arms grabbed him from behind, the crushing force on his ribs nearly causing his to black out from the searing pain. It was quickly followed by a deep pressure on his throat and instant before he felt twin daggers piercing it. He saw Prumiva licking her blood-stained lips, a satisfied expression evident on her face. She ducked in again and slurped noisily, his warm blood running down his bare chest.
Daerian struggled to loose himself but his strength was waning. A warm numbness seemed to overcome him as the world around him slowed its frenetic pace to that of a falling olive leaf. Blurs of colors danced across his vision, streamers of light flitted by and eruptions of seemingly endless waves washed over him, encasing him in a cocoon of sensuous pleasure.
Her voice was a deep echo, persuasive and alluring, "Drink from me…"
And he drank.
To be continued…
Comments anyone? Send them to me at wenxina@hotmail.com