The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano. "Help me get my glove off-"
"Forget it. You're not ready."
"You're getting worse."
"Tomorrow-"
"Now. We do it now." The patient's voice lowered to a whisper. "In another day you won't be able to stand. You know what happens."
Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and reached for the patient's gloved hand.
Jane backed away until she hit the chair she'd been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like contact with that thing was no big deal.
Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God, the skin seemed to glow.
"Come here," the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. "Lay with me."
Jane's breath stopped in her chest.
Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear.
Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her.
Cormia's own need was such as to be undeniable, however.
The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade and its double doors were always open. Of all the sanctuary's buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the most prized lot: Herein rested the Scribe Virgin's records of the race, a diary that was of incomprehensible scope, spanning thousands of years. Dictated by Her Holiness to specially trained Chosen, the labor of love was a testament of both history and faith.
Inside the ivory wall, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary's volumes were arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn't be in this general section.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old Language:
The Black Dagger Brotherhood
To Defend and Protect
Our Mother, Our race, Our Brothers
Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on, she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge.
The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but shiny black. The books ringing the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was bloodred and soft as a pelt.
The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She tried to imagine them here and couldn't, as she'd never seen one of them. She had never seen a male in person, actually.
Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by year-Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well.
She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin's diary. This initial warrior had several books to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore him as their sire.
Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic. The next page was the warrior's lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he'd mated and the young he'd sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field and off.
This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on him, and one of the last notations was the male's joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined the Brotherhood.
Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected from the lessers. Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her?
As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks…
Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four.
The Bloodletter
356
The name of the Primale's sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even those who fought nobly could be cruel.
Odd that his paternal line wasn't listed.
She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names.
VISHOUS
Son of the Bloodletter
428
There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he'd be three hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood. She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of the book was blank.
Replacing it, she returned to the father's volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior for he was brutal on vampires and lessers alike.
Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open it again.
After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin's sequester the Bloodletter's son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his rightful possession. She couldn't imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded the sexual lessons.
At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he would prefer them. If she had any luck at all, she would be rarely visited.