Unrequited Read online

  Unrequited

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright 2016 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  @Camille_Oster

  [email protected]

  PART I - CASTRAN

  Chapter 1:

  * * *

  Paris, France

  The water of the Seine moved like a slowly undulating black snake, reflecting the lights on its dark surface, hiding whatever lurked underneath. Castran stared down on its surface, thinking of all the things hiding in the river’s bottom, centuries of lost treasure and monstrous secrets. There were always bodies in the Seine, a place for hiding the unlucky or unscrupulous. Rivers had always been an easy way of disposing of a body, if one must.

  The night was dark and cold, moonless, but with the amount of lights in the city these days, such things didn't matter anymore. True darkness was hard to find in a city, where the humans went about their business unknowing of the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

  The Chartrices ran the city, or the lesser than human parts of the city. There were more things between heaven and hell than mere humans. Some actions weren’t strictly human—ancient families with demonic blood. It gave them strength, ambition and ruthlessness. They had always existed, but it had served their society to be hidden. It never served them to be generally known. The important humans knew—they knew how strong the demonic faction was, even the degree to which parts of it was integrated into human society.

  Integration was a point of contention, some seeking to forget their demonic blood and embrace their partial humanity. Some sought to undo demonic society completely, rejecting their own blood and heritage.

  Castran’s long, dark hair fluttered slightly in the wind as he opened the window, letting in the city air. Pale eyes scanned the quiet streets below, watching for the trouble that had been brewing in the Resistance's hidden lairs around the city. Their actions were desperate and at times vicious, aimed to terrorize and disrupt, vain attempts to wretch power that belonged to the Chartrices, whispering in the ears of the weak and disaffected. Rarely did they achieve more than a skirmish. Hunted, they ran like rats, but for some incomprehensible reason, they refused to surrender, to fade away and accept that things would be as they had always been, and the ruling family could not be unseated.

  Castran was born in this very house and now his role was to enforce the rules of the order. They ensured nothing upset the smooth running of the city and that the Resistance was eliminated whenever they were come across—they executed anyone who stepped out of line, or in any way threatened the family or its enterprises.

  He heard Tarquin approaching, hearing the footsteps on the soft carpet down the hall, approaching to appear in his typical dark suit and meticulously cut hair. Hair aside, they were quite similar, but Tarquin looked older—mostly, it was the more reserved way Tarquin carried himself.

  Tarquin was particularly reviled by the Resistance. It was him that had had to do most of the work to track down and eliminate the remnants of the enemy, a faction which had flared to life a few years back. They had always existed, back as far as recorded memory existing. It was called politics.

  Necessary acts, Tarquin called the things they did to keep the order intact. Necessary for the peace and stability they now enjoyed and thrived by.

  "We have uncovered a cell," Tarquin said, heading to the bar to pour himself a whiskey. "We move against it tonight." Tarquin's face was cold and expressionless. The years had made Tarquin hard; Adaeus, their father, said so. Growing up, he hadn’t spent much time with his brother, and he had never been the one he’d sought advice and guidance from. Tarquin had little patience for either, and there was no leeway in the Chartrice family for weakness. Few memories existed in Castran’s mind of their mother. Her death had been mourned, but as the years passed, her absence was seen with indifference.

  Some said Tarquin enjoyed the killing too much, others say it was the death of their mother that had made him so hard, but Castran wasn't sure. There seemed to be other ghosts there, ghosts Tarquin never talked about. One had to be careful how one handled Tarquin.

  "When are we moving against them?"

  "Eminently. Prepare."

  Turning back to the twinkling lights of the city, Castran closed the window, shutting away the noise and turned back to his brother who stood with his back to him. "How many are there?"

  "I'm not entirely sure. Intelligence suggests there are ten."

  "Anything of note to keep in mind?"

  "Nothing. They are not particularly skilled, from what I am told. It will just be a matter of lancing the boil."

  Castran had plans that evening, a dinner party at one of the noble demonic families. There had been a fashion back in the middle ages of claiming human titles, and many of them were still part of their society today. Entertainment always had to take a back seat to protection of the realm. It was his true duty and one he embraced. The fear and wariness that surrounded his brother extended to him as well, and he loved being watched and feared; people seeking his approval and good graces.

  Making his way across the hall to his quarters, he undressed and put on his hunting gear. Dark armor with Kevlar sewn into the very material, meant to dissipate any blows that came his way. Swords were still the preferred method of warfare for the noble. Tradition stayed strong in that respect, although guns were often preferred by the weaker talents they typically encountered, and the Resistance was made up of lesser demons, tainted with diluted blood and poor training.

  He pulled on his coat and clipped his sword at the side of his hip. Black boots were pulled on last, making him a vision in black, except the pale, white skin and flowing dark hair, which he rarely tied back.

  The car was waiting outside, ready to take them through the streets of Paris. The vehicle was sleek and crept down the streets like a predator. No one got in the way of their vehicles. Castran sat in the back with Tarquin, in the head car, while their enforcers were in the vehicle behind.

  They had been searching for this cell for a while and Castran was pleased to finally wipe it out, stopping it from unsettling the city and interfering with them. Hopefully this was the last dinner party interrupted by these vermin.

  The car stopped down a dark alley and they silently got out. Their enforcers surrounded the building, blocking any escape route the rats inside could try.

  They were ready to go in, and there was no indication that their presence had been observed.

  The soft slugs of bullets hitting brick sounded.

  "I guess the mice know the cats are here," Tarquin said, staring up at the building with narrowed eyes. "Take them," he yelled to the enforcers nearby. They stormed toward the entrances. Tarquin followed, stepping over the felled body of one of the enforcers, turning to Castran. "They are playing rough. Beware."

  Castran nodded and continued up the stairs after his brother, until they reached a landing where bullets flew from above. The enforcers fired back and Tarquin stepped out, using unnatural strength to propel himself into position for a strike. A body fell down the stair-well, but more bullets soon followed, with further coming from down the hall to their left.

  "You take that one," Tarquin directed, sending Castran after whoever was firing at them from over left. Turning around, his coat flaring, Castran crossed the hall to a bay that gave him a better vantage point. Bullets hit a
round him, but he kept his focus on the target: the man firing at him from down the hall. Stepping out, Castran sidestepped a slug, sending its ricocheting off the walls behind him.

  The man disappeared into a room and Castran followed, finding him behind the protrusion of a fireplace, sending more bullets Castran's way. Again, he avoided the sharp pieces of metal, waiting for his opportunity as the man tried to withdraw. Leaping high on the wall, Castran repositioned himself within reach and cut the man across his legs and he fell screaming to the ground. Crossing the space, Castran kicked him in the head and the man whipped back, rolling over onto his stomach, searching for his weapon.

  He was dressed like a vagrant and had blood pouring from his nose. These people felt it was their right to tear down everything the Chartrices had built. What right did they have? They were a blight on the demonic world and every one of the needed to be wiped out. Castran put his foot down on the man's neck wanting to snap it underneath his boot, but a searing pain shot through his shoulder.

  The ragged breath of the person who’d shot him echoed off the walls in the room that otherwise had no furniture. Heat and pain scorched through him, and he felt the stickiness of his own blood inside his coat. The coat had dissipated much of the bullet’s energy and protected him, but not all. It would be lodged under his skin, perhaps even in the bone around his shoulder blade.

  Castran swore as he whipped around, seeking the person that had injured him. He saw her, dressed in a cardigan and skirt, holding her pistol shakingly in her hand. She was pale with golden hair. By the look of her, seemingly unfit to fight in a place like this. But she was; she had injured him. For all he knew, it was a serious injury and he may even suffer complications from it. Naturally, because of his blood, he healed with more ease than a human. Rage surged through him, dulling the pain. This would not be borne.

  The girl faltered, taking a step back before firing again, shots that weren’t even close. When his back was turned, she could fire straight at him, but to his face, she couldn't muster the same will. He sent a throwing knife her way, getting her in the leg and she screamed, but stayed upright.

  Pulling the knife out and letting it clatter to the floor, she limped away from him as fast as she could, but there was no use. Frantically she searched for an exit, but there were none for her here.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk," Castran said, and the shock and disappointment was clear on her face. Trying again, she fired the weapon, but it was empty or jammed. She had nothing else and was now utterly defenseless.

  Turning awkwardly, she hobbled to the door behind them, but Castran reached her, placing the tip of his sword on the door. She tugged frantically on the handle, but he held the door in place.

  "Nowhere to run," he said and she turned to him, her face glossy with tears. Her golden hair was curled around a barrette at the side of her head and her eyes were green, large and glassy with tears. Pink, plump lips trembled. She was actually quite pretty and young, a sharp chin on a heart-shaped face. He'd never seen her, which meant she was probably a dilute someone had coaxed to fight the good fight. He wished they wouldn't do that. She would probably have lived quite a long life in the human world, but someone had thought it a good idea to bring her in where she didn't belong. And this was the result. "Taken on a bit more than you can chew. You should have known it was foolhardy to take on the order," he spat.

  Silently, she pressed her back to the door, watching him with her large, fearful eyes. Standing wide, he brought his hands together, his sword held low. "Fatal mistake, in fact," he continued, his voice calm.

  Again, she didn't say anything, just watched him as he reached up and placed his gloved hand over her throat, feeling her muscles, windpipe and ligaments underneath. She knew the game was up. Her lips parted slightly, ragged breath escaping through her teeth. Bringing his sword up, he placed the tip to her chest. She raised that pointed chin, staring him in the eyes, her pride refusing to see her cower before him. "Defeated," he said softly, watching as her eyes grew wide with shock then unfocused as his sword quickly pierced her heart. She slumped to the ground when he let go of her throat.

  She was quite pretty, he conceded, for a minute surveying her crumpled form, but they wouldn't be leaving anyone alive tonight. It was a shame to kill beauty, but she'd hitched her wagon to this; it would never have ended any other way.

  * * *

  Chapter 2:

  * * *

  Castran's apartments were still when he returned after he’d had the wound in his shoulder tended. His fingers were still buzzing from the violence he had wielded that night. He should be going to the dinner party, but he wasn't in the mood now. The night had left a bad taste in his mouth, but he wasn't entirely sure why. Instead, he retired to his apartments and opened the windows to the city, letting the cold air rush in.

  The fire roared in the marble and brass fireplace. He preferred their mansion here in Paris to any of the other properties they had, particularly where there were medieval walls and drafty rooms. In fact, he'd spent very little time in this city during his formative years, years spent training to take up his role as enforcer when finally rejoining his family.

  Walking to the bar, he poured himself a whiskey, just as his brother had earlier. They had done well; the city was yet again saved from chaos by the removal of the resistance. Even the girl with her pretty eyes and luscious trembling lips. He placed her out of his mind, a fleeting connection that would never be anything more. Taking someone's life was an act of intimacy, no matter how one looked at it, but it fleeted away like sand.

  Glass in hand, he retreated to the couch and sat down, placing his feet on the lacquered coffee table. The whiskey warmed its way down his throat, clearing away the smoke and destruction of the evening. Power had great responsibility; he'd always been told that. One had to do what one must to strengthen and preserve it, and one wasn't strong enough to have it if one balked at these things.

  Checking his watch, he saw that it was late, not too late to go out if he wanted to, but too late for the dinner party. He could go out of one of the city’s more interesting clubs, where he was treated like a god, or even one of the human clubs to pick up some piece of trash to waste himself in for the evening, but he couldn't be bothered.

  Instead, he pulled off his boots and shirt, and padded into the bathroom, the cold of the stone seeping into his bare feet. Bending over, he poured water into the sink and washed his hands and face, cleaning any dirt off his skin, clearing away the evening's less savory activities.

  He patted himself dry with a white, fluffy towel and turned out the lights, taking himself to bed and laying down on top of the blankets. Suddenly he felt tired, exhaustion seeping strength from his limbs. He lay shirtless and barefoot, in only his pants, his hair spread across his pillow as he slowed his breathing.

  *

  Waking with a start, he felt icy, his skin stinging cold. His breath formed vapor as he exhaled. Painfully and aching, he sat up. The room was freezing and he remembered he'd left the window open. Getting up, he walked past the still roaring fire, which did little to warm the room, and closed the window.

  It wasn't snowing outside, but it certainly seemed cold enough to. Water fell on the window pane as he closed it. It was raining, drops distorting the view of the city.

  Turning, he made for the fire which seemed muted in fighting off the cold. He crouched and added another log, which crackled as it ignited. Slowly, his front and hands were warming, but he shuddered with the cold, stopping his teeth from chattering. He stoked the fire further and then made his way back to the bed, considering whether he should take his pants off as he normally did, but he was too cold.

  Crawling under the duvet, he huddled against the cold of the sheets, trying to find the spot he had lain on earlier. The sheets soon warmed and he started to relax. The fire still did nothing to defeat the cold in the room and he felt icy currents come and go across his face. There was a draft drawing cold air into the room. He had to get one of the
servants to find and seal it in the morning.

  As he slowly warmed, he fell asleep again, to wake to weak sunlight in the morning. Paris was awake and the humans were moving around relentlessly as they always did. Tourists were on the half-full boats, floating along the river, a tour guide spewing useless facts to absorbed visitors. Castran wished he could sink the boat, but it would bring lots of humans with their blaring sirens for days on end. It plain wasn't worth it.

  The room was still freezing, although understandable as the fire had died down. Sprinting into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and undressed while the water heated. Steam filled the glass compartment and he stepped inside, letting the warm water wash away any discomfort in his body.

  A noise crept into his ears and he turned to the glass door, wiping the steam so he could see out. Nothing stood in the doorway. He'd thought someone was there, even though few would walk in on him while in the shower. Probably just a careless servant making his presence known. Anger flared through him; anger at being interrupted. The servants should know better.

  Stepping out and wrapping a towel around his hips, he saw steam rising off his shoulders in the mirror. It shouldn't be this cold in here. Something had broken or something needed to be fixed. The servants would have to tend to it.

  "Tomas," he called and an elderly man appeared.

  "There is something wrong. A draft is stealing the heat out of the room. Find where it's coming from and address it." He looked over sharply at the man through the mirror, who nodded and retreated. Castran sought his wardrobe, pulling out a dark suit set, made by the finest tailors in Paris. The material was rich, almost soaking up light to reflect pure blackness. He smiled as he ran his hand over the lush material.

  *

  Their father was meeting with the French human government today and they had to be in attendance, the three of them intimidating the human president's representatives. Castran sat down on a chair along the side in Adaeus' sumptuous office as the human representative was brought in—a man in his fifties in a gray suit with similar skin and hair. He was the most boring and nondescript man Castran had ever seen and he wondered how the man could stand himself.