The Thirty-Sixth Chapter
“What happened in Surrey, Dorrien?”
Dorrien could only listen to his alpha’s voice. He couldn’t move or open his mouth or perhaps even blink his eye.
‘What have those heathens done to me?!’ He conversed with himself, asked himself rather.
He could see the frustration in Avril’s face—the disappointment, the worry, and the fury that were all painted on his beautiful face.
He couldn’t stare or glare; his eyes were open but more like blankly gazing to nowhere. The faces of the two ladies in Surrey flashed back in his mind.
Their faces—her face. The face that he trusted the most, loved the most. She was wearing all black and even though Dorrien had seen her wear black many times, he couldn’t erase that memory of her wearing all black and hugging the lady in all red. What devastates him the most is the fact that she called that mysterious red woman her ‘daughter’…
Daughter. She had a daughter. But to whom? When? How? She had only said that she had a stepdaughter. But a daughter coming from her own blood? That was mind-blowing and...mysterious.
Well, she only called the lady in red as her ‘daughter’ and that word may give several meanings. Whether daughter by blood or daughter by some other things, Dorrien wasn’t sure.
But why is she having a meeting with the heathens? With those Blood Witches?
“Damn it, Dorrien! Answer your Alpha!” Avril shrieked again. He could only listen to the man who had been his friend, his brother, his father figure. The Irish Pack had been his family. But, he couldn’t give an answer to what Avril was asking for. He couldn’t. But, he didn’t say he wouldn’t.
Dorrien summoned all the strength left in him to just shake his head. To shake his head, to give Avril a hint if he could decipher it that it is all he could do as he was under a very strong evil spell. One that couldn’t be simply broken by a mere creature of the night like him.
Avril’s eyes widened with his shaking of head. Dorrien heard that he asked again that same question.
Yet, as expected, it was only silence that answered back.
He knew Avril was just gazing at him as if Alpha was an Astral that can scan his mind.
Darn it, what if Avril would really invite an Astral to scan his mind? And if it was Romaine to scan him, knowing that it was actually her face he saw wearing in all black would add more conflict to the already unsolved mystery he discovered. Or perhaps Romaine’s face was another illusion by the heathens as well?
‘Shit!’ was all his subconscious could utter.
Avril certainly knew something was off about him. Dorrien prayed that Avril could smell that he was under the influence of the jimsonweed.
Dorrien breathes; to relax and also to make Avril smell his scent.
He prayed that Avril wouldn’t mistake his reeking breath of Mary’s & Juana’s scent.
Dorrien watched as the Irish Alpha inched closer, inspecting and scanning what the hell is that scent shrouding him.
To help his alpha, he tilted his head and his open mouth upwards, facing the ceiling.
A hint of smile formed in his face as Avril had a clearer view—more vivid recognition of the scent, to be exact.
‘Thank heavens!’ He praised himself and gave gratitude to any supernatural supreme forces watching him—watching them.
Dorrien could tell that Avril Arke is now oriented to what happened to him—that the handsome and glorious Dorrien Ronan was under the influence of a jimsonweed, a kind of weed that induces hypnotism.
Even he himself couldn’t discern why? What was the heathens’ motive? And why was Romaine Eastwood-Zadzisai siding to those blood witches? Dorrien hoped he could unravel this mystery, together with his alpha Avril Arke.
He wished again that someone was able to untangle him—release him—from this wicked bloody spell.
And Dorrien’s prayer was answered as Avril looked at the foyer and an aged woman was standing in there. He couldn’t see it as his face was facing the ceiling.
Despite that, he knew some deity or God or whatsoever had granted his wish as the old woman walked towards him.
And Dorrien knew that, finally, help had come to unleash him from that horrible supernatural grip.
***
It had been decades since Rosette Richards was able to hug and kiss and make love to her Leonardo.
She scooped a spoonful of mashed potato with chives to her mouth as she beheld a tissue bearing the logo of Ezra’s Diner.
The sun was sinking in the tangerine sky—hiding was the more accurate term. The sun always hides when darkness comes, so much like her; hiding in her fortress as soon as the moon wakes up.
She sliced her grilled T-bone steak. The smell and taste of thyme and butter was enough to let her briefly forget the man that she once considered as the missing part of her life. She closed her eyes, savouring the heavenly taste.
Leonardo was her friend, lover, brother, master, and her soulmate.
She missed him. His scent, his lips, his skin, his soft hair, and the sounds he made when he was inside her—all of him. She loved him very much.
But she couldn’t bear to let him watch her grow old in the shortest of time. She couldn’t manage to see those sorrowful eyes in his face as he watched her die; as he watched her withered into dust as all mortals do when they passed. They—mortals—came from dust and so they shall return to it.
She opened her eyes as she slowly chewed the meat. Delicious, buttery, smoky, decadent—that’s why she loves Ezra’s Diner.
In a heartbeat, Rosette was gaping.
No, not because of the sumptuous meat. But because of the breathing flesh that stood in front of her; that was facing her a few feet away from where she was dining.
She could see him, touch him if she’d dare. He was in front of her—her Leonardo.
She looked around. The people are busy as supper is nearing. Darkness spread the sky. It’s already past six in the evening. The clock on the milky white wall tells her that.
She returned her gaze to the man. Rosette blinked once, then twice. She wasn’t dreaming. This wasn’t an illusion.
She dropped her utensils and stood. Unexpectedly, Leonardo also walked slowly towards her; as if they were the only people in this world. Everything seems to freeze. Time seems to stop.
Rosette doesn’t care if it was only her sight or someone was really freezing the time. The important thing is that she was in front of her Leonardo.
But the scent of blood that evaded her senses—courtesy from the menstruating teenager on the next table—made her remember that she was no longer that Rosette.
She was no longer the mortal Rosette whose skin is as old as a senior citizen despite her being in her twenties. The ill-stricken and one-step-closer-to-the-grave Rosette was no longer existing on this planet. She is now a vampire—a powerful, mighty, blood-sucking Astral vampire.
Panic flows in her system. She must do something. The mortal beloved—or so she thought—in front of her must not know she’s a creature of the night.
So, without a choice, she used her powers to create glamour, making her look like someone else.
She saw Leonardo Richards blinking as he was one step away from her. His expression changes; something from elation to utter sorrow.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’re someone else, Miss.” It was the first time Rosette heard his voice in decades, in what seemed to be a lifetime. That ethereal masculine voice. The voice she had long yearned to hear moaning as he rocked inside her, his lips an inch away from the tip of her breasts.
“It’s okay.” She snapped out from her daydream and managed to say that in a hoarse, not-Rosette voice.
She watched him walk away. Not towards the other table, but towards outside the diner and away from this place. The glass pane began to show signs of wetness, indicating that it is raining outside.
She also felt the same; full of sorrow and disdain. But, she must do it for the sake and welfare of the coven—of the vampires and even to the werewolves.
She sat down again and ate the now-cold grilled steak.
Everything became cold…again. One minute, everything was on fire. But, in a heartbeat, everything becomes frigid again.
The fire in her heart had been lit for a second but was poured cold water as soon as she saw Leonardo’s expressions shift.
Indeed, nothing is the only constant in this world.
And Rosette Richards was one of the few people who could prove that that philosophy was correct, especially when she silently cried while having her cold supper amidst the cold and frigid weather.
