Unrequited Read online

  "It is only fair that every citizen in France pay taxes, as should the demonic community."

  "And they do, for the services provided by the demonic administration," Adaeus said drolly. "Your government provides no services to demonic France, hence you have no claim to taxation on them."

  The French government knew full well that the demonic world—the Chartrice family in particular—provided a fair chunk of black market goods and services to the humans, and the human government wanted its claim.

  "It is an issue of solidarity."

  "Solidarity is hardly an issues, Mr. Batton, as we are not integrated. Demonic France runs in parallel to… yours. We are not ruled by the government you represent. And may I remind you that we have been here since long before your species were in this part of the world. Obviously co-existence is better, but we have never been integrated, nor will we. Better for all that we continued in that true vein; the other options are not palatable to either."

  “And if the broader population becomes aware and objects?"

  "Then as in the past, we will rule them." Adaeus said it slowly and clearly so there was no chance of misinterpretation.

  Mr. Batton turned beet red, his lips tightening into a sphincter. Castran smirked at the man's discomfort and offense. The humans didn't like being reminded of the insignificant creatures they were.

  "Of course, it is an outcome neither of us wants to see. More trouble than it's worth, you understand," Adaeus cooed, fully aware that this was an informative session rather than a negotiation. "Now, shall we lay this issue to rest?"

  "I'm afraid this is not an issue the government feels is equitably resolved."

  Adaeus turned his head to the side and considered the man. "I'm afraid there will be no other outcome. You have no influence over this. Our financial system is entirely separated from your own, which further signifies that you have no right to interfere in our economics."

  "But money laundering is illegal, no matter which part of France you happen to be standing on, Mr. Chartrice. And as citizens of France, human or otherwise, you are responsible to those laws."

  "I assure you, Mr. Batton, that no such activities occur within our organizations. As for us, any trade we conduct with the human world is done through Chartrice Investments, which adheres completely with all commercial tax laws, including yours." Chartrice investments were little more than a shell, managing shares on the human exchanges. The real business was done elsewhere, and some of it took in huge sums of Euros, which they had interesting ways of clearing. The government obviously knew, or suspected, but had no proof. Even if they did have proof, they would be wary of acting on it.

  The meeting finished and Castran rose, buttoning his suit jacket as he did. A small speck of lint had landed on his arm and he flicked it off, as their guest was shown out by Adaeus' manservant.

  "I think we are done here," Tarquin said and rose. "Do you suspect Mr. Batton will continue to stir trouble within the human administration?" he asked Adaeus.

  "I suspect Mr. Batton has got a troubling notion. Might have to see him right, but not yet."

  Returning to his rooms, Castran was met with a rush of cold air as he opened the door to his apartments. "TOMAS!" he screamed, and the servant appeared down the hall, far enough to be out of reach. "It isn't fixed."

  "We haven't found the source of the cold, my lord. There are no broken windows and we haven't been able to find the origin of the draft."

  "I want this fixed by the time I get back tonight," he said, looking over at the cowering man, trying to calm himself by breathing through his nose. He hated incompetence.

  Chapter 3:

  * * *

  The damn servants couldn't seem to fix the draft in his rooms and Castran was at the end of his patience. He'd decided to go out that night to a dinner party in a Chateau in the south of France, owned by the family of one of his friends.

  The ceiling above them depicted some ancient battle, where the family hero was prancing around on a white horse in golden armor, looking heroic. Humans trembled in fear. Somehow, Castran was sure the true battle didn't go down like the mural depicted, but history was written by the victors and the ugly truth of battle was often hidden.

  Claudine was pouting next to him, her light brown hair silky and smooth around her bare shoulders. She looked best when she was pouting, but her anger was usually skin deep. "You didn't come last week," she said tartly in French.

  "Had something to take care of."

  "I missed you."

  Castran hated it when she was clingy. He smiled. "I'm sorry. We had to work."

  "I don't like it when you do that. I get concerned something will happen to you."

  He snorted. "It would be the rare day some traitor had enough luck."

  "I just wish you didn't have to do it. How long will these traitors keep making trouble?"

  "Every great civilization has its enemies. It is just the way of things."

  "Will you come home with me tonight?"

  "Not tonight." He wasn't in the mood for a night with his intended; he rarely was. There was nothing wrong with her; her pedigree was impeccable, and she tried really hard, but truthfully, being with her wasn't something he sought before they actually had to marry and live together. The arrangement had been made when he'd been very young and he'd never had a reason to challenge it. He had to marry someone, and with Claudine, there was the benefit of her being malleable and easily managed. She cared for him, but he was a vehicle to the life she wanted and deserved. Expensive things always improved her disposition. They both knew how these things worked.

  "Luca, I heard you found one of Phrytten's original texts in some barn in Hungary."

  "I did. Worth a fortune," the young Italian said, his glossy hair shining in the copious candlelight. "It will go on auction next month. It is amazing what people have forgotten in dusty corners." Luca considered himself a treasure hunter and had some success, too. A year ago, tracking old documents and maps, he'd found a sealed cave where some ancient Russian demon had stashed his treasure. It had been quite an event, the communications around the world covering the find, the demonic community in a tiff about the ancient treasures uncovered.

  "I heard you uncovered a Resistance cell last week," Tyrell said, wiping an invisible stain off his dark dress jacket.

  "Uncovered and cleared. No survivors."

  "Good," Tyrell said. "If these people won't finally learn their lesson, we are all better off without them. Good riddance."

  Castran's thoughts turned to the young woman with the trembling lips. Why had she done it? What drove these people to die for this stupid cause? He couldn't understand it. If you bait a bear, eventually it will turn and swipe you down. That was the natural order, and you were foolish to fight it. "They are uniquely idiotic."

  "We are probably all better off if these people are no longer here to breed," Claudine said to agreement around the table.

  "They benefit from our protection like everyone else, but there are always some people who insist on biting the hand that feeds them, picking an old wound, refusing to let it heal. The only option is the lance the wound and clear the malcontents once and for all.”

  They retreated to a set of sofas made of white and gold brocade as was still the preference in the old French families, almost toward baroque architecture and décor. Castran preferred more contemporary décor, but for many, the old traditions held firm.

  Returning home, he walked into the massive hallway. It had been a typical evening in the finest company of his generation. He should have them around soon, plan a proper party with entertainment. Maybe a masked ball. A bit of intrigue always added a bit of spice. So did the idea of chasing some girl, stripped of identity, seduction based on nothing but skill. His identity usually achieved that for him, so it was nice to actually have to work for it—once in a while.

  A blast of cold air hit him as he threw open the doors to his apartment. "Fucking useless," he screamed. As he hadn't requeste
d the servants, none turned up. "Why can't someone just fix this?"

  "What are you screaming for?" His brother's voice was heard down the hall.

  Castran tensed as he couldn't help doing around his brother. "There is a draft in my room the maintenance staff can't seem to block."

  Tarquin moved forward and stopped at the doorway, looking into the apartment. "I can feel it."

  "For a week, the staff have said they'll fix it."

  "Perhaps you should ask some maintenance professionals to have a look."

  "I might have to. Did you want something?"

  "Adaeus wants you to come to dinner on Friday."

  "Fine," Castran said. They didn't eat together that often, particularly as Adaeus had the country to run and did most of his work in the fine restaurants around Paris. Someone was always petitioning him for something.

  "At the Swiss seat."

  Castran's heart sank. He hated going to the old home in Switzerland with all its history and memories he didn't share. But Adaeus sometimes insisted they keep in touch with the ‘old’ country. "Fine," Castran said, with less enthusiasm this time.

  With a last look, Tarquin left and Castran watched them go. Their relationship wasn't what it should be. It never had been. Castran knew Tarquin loved him, but he had difficulty showing his affection.

  Turning his attention back to his apartment, his brow creased. He didn't want to put up with this anymore. He closed the door and moved down the hall to one of the guest rooms. Until it was fixed, he'd just have to sleep elsewhere.

  The room was beige and white and it looked like a hotel room, but it would do for now. Castran pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. The Resistance had moved onto this human technology first and they'd had to follow to track them, but the usefulness of it was something they'd grudgingly had to accept, even if the older generation was a bit slower in embrace it.

  He watched a replay of a fighting match, but grew sleepy and undressed before crawling under the blankets.

  *

  Anxiously, he twisted away from the burning ice moving down the skin of his chest. He couldn't get away from it, being restrained, tortured, surrounded by dank darkness. He sought a means to escape the shadowy figure burning his skin, but the restraints held him in place. It didn't speak and he could see nothing but darkness within its hood. His chest clamped down like he couldn't breathe.

  He woke with a start, his heart beating wildly, still urgently trying to escape the hooded person intent on harm. Grasping the blade, he kept under his pillow, he wished there was something he could fight, hating the helpless feeling the dream had instilled in him. He was not helpless. He was the one their enemies sought to escape from. No one was stronger than them.

  After a few moments of breathing, he noticed his breath forming mist in front of him. The room was freezing. It hadn't been like this when he’d entered last night, but now, it was freezing, maybe even worse than it had been. Frost crawled up the inside of the window, glowing against the blackness outside.

  Leaning over, Castran turned on the lights, trying to see if he could spot something in the room that had caused it. There were no open window and this room was considerably smaller than his apartment.

  As he sat, his pale chest was chilling and he thought about getting up to put on a sweater or something, but these weren't his rooms and he had no clothes here other than what he'd worn last night. The button that operated the fireplace was close by and he leaned over, pressing it until flames lit in the fireplace, which slowly heated the room.

  But it was more than chill that ached on his chest, he hadn't noticed at first with the extreme chill in the room. Now that the chill was grudgingly being pushed out, he noticed there was something more.

  Looking down, he saw red welts running down his chest, precisely as he'd been tortured in his dreams. His eyes narrowed. He was under attack in some way, by someone very cunning. Surely there hadn’t been anyone in his room. Getting up, he locked the door. Or else, someone was using magic to achieve this. This had to be dealt with in the morning. He had to track who was doing this and rip them apart. No wonder the servants couldn't find the source—this was someone doing malice from outside. This he could deal with.

  Chapter 4:

  * * *

  Castran might not be the most proficient when it came to magic, but he could manage some protection and put in place everything he could think of. His apartments were locked up so tight not even radio waves were coming through. Nothing was getting into his apartments, including the servants. In meant his apartments wouldn’t get clean as usual, which had a clear downside, but right now, he just wanted rid of this damn cold.

  It started to feel a little warmer, but there was still a distinct chill. He guessed it would take some time to degrade, whatever magics had been inflicted on his personal space. This wasn't just some random attack; it was personal—targeting where he slept.

  Tarquin was looking into who was attacking him, having engaged one of the magics masters to look into the issue. Castran sat back and relaxed, letting his brother chase down the culprit. It was snowing again outside and the fire roared in the grate, enough to warm him as he sat on the sofa, feeling bored with the whole thing.

  Perhaps he should find out what his acquaintances were up to—the bored elite, forever searching for entertainment and distraction. He wouldn't half mind following Tarquin somewhere to beat up someone not towing the line. Tarquin was the consummate bully. Anyone who put themselves in his way, or stepped out of line, got it—swiftly and brutally. It kept insurrection at bay. Fear truly was the most effective tool for ruling.

  A text pinged through on his phone, but he knew it was Claudine and he couldn't be bothered with her relentless neediness. Picking up his blade, he skinned an apple, slowly peeling the skin off it, seeing the juice spurt as he cut through cells. Merlin, he was bored, and boredom made him cranky.

  Suddenly he wanted to move, to stretch—feel his muscles work. He took good care of his body, keeping himself in shape. It was a point of principle. Looking good was important; it added to the image of the family, of their invulnerability.

  Again his mind turned back to the girl he'd killed, her tatty cardigan and dress. She had been much too pretty for those poor clothes. Why did they fight? He didn't understand. This was how things were supposed to be. What was the point fighting it?

  Discomfort drove him off the sofa and he turned to his wardrobe. He needed to move, burn some energy. Undressing, he pulled on a pair of gray shorts and a dressing gown before heading downstairs to the pool located in a high vaulted room. The room was completely silent, the water lying motionless and slack in its large basin. The windows in the pool room were always steamy, heat rising from the pool, giving the impression of a hidden oasis.

  Slipping his white dressing gown off, he walked over the rough stone slabs and dived into the pool, feeling the warm water caress his skin. It felt heavenly and he emerged after swimming a good half-length under water. Noise echoed off the walls as he emerged—water rushing over the edge of the pool into its hidden receptors around its perimeter.

  With speed, he swam the length and back, feeling the water move around his body. He stopped in the middle, where it was too deep to stand. All of the pool was too deep to stand. This wasn't a pool for frightened children. Adaeus didn't necessarily believe in leisure, so he didn't build much for pointless activities, including this pool, which was meant for exercise.

  Cold currents swirled around his legs, which was strange. The cool spread up his legs, making him freeze. Goosebumps rose quickly and his skin tightened painfully. The cold was intensifying and for a moment, he feared the water would freeze around him.

  With his heart beating and lungs burning, he set off at pace for the edge, when burning cold clenched around his ankle, dragging him under the icy water. He heard nothing but his own heart beat and the air coming out of his lungs. Fear speared up his spine, tensing his whole body, but he refused to g
ive into it. Under attack; he couldn't panic. He forced himself to still and pay attention.

  A tug forced him down deeper and he looked down, trying to spot what was acting against him, but there was nothing. Clear, cold water was all he could see. Not even the slight distortion of magics hiding someone. His ankle still burned from where the thing had touched him, but now his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. He had to get up; had to get air. His arms pumping, he forced himself up to the surface, pushing his body through the water. The ceiling was above him, dome shaped through the water. It seemed an eternity away.

  He had no weapons, which he’d left with the dressing gown and now he was vulnerable—in water, where he could drown so easily. Something slashed along his thigh, he felt the sharp burn of it. He saw no blood, but it felt like he'd been cut. With desperation, he focused all his attention to the surface. He had to get there. Lungs screaming for air and panic threatened to blind everything from his mind.

  Flailing, he felt like he wasn't getting there, finally worrying that he might actually die. The surface came suddenly and air roared into his lungs as he looked around desperately for what was in the water with him. Beyond doubt, he wasn't alone in the pool and something was attacking him.

  With harsh strokes, he swam to the edge, expecting another attack, but nothing came. The edge was almost within his grip and he begged to reach it. His fingers clasped around the tiles of the edge and he pulled himself out of the water in a smooth move, leaving him crumpled on the edge. Urgently he shifted away from the edge unless he got pulled in again.