Page 4 of Fangs & Freaks
When you’ve lived as long as I have, you develop a sense for these things. A twinge here, a shimmer there, a faint tickle of awareness at the base of the spine. She might not be obvious to the average mortal, but to me? She’s ringing alarm bells. Still, I can’t quite place her, and the mystery only sharpens my curiosity.
“Well, well,” I drawl, letting the corner of my mouth curve into a predatory smile. My voice is thick with dark amusement,my fangs gleaming as I lean forward. “What do we have here? A little lamb wandering into the lion’s den?”
Her eyes narrow, and I can see her chest rising and falling as she struggles to steady herself. “Are you the president of this... gang?” she demands, her tone clipped, a tremor beneath her words that she tries to mask with bravado.
A chuckle rumbles from my throat, low and dangerous. “It’s a club, my lady,” I correct her, savoring the way her jaw tightens at my words. “But yes, I am. Warrick Ravenwood. And who might you be to come barging in here with such... urgency? Aren’t you the least bit scared of what could happen to a tasty morsel like yourself?”
Her hands ball into fists at her sides, and she draws a shaky breath. “I need to speak to you,” she grits out, her voice filled with barely concealed desperation, ignoring my question.
I tilt my head, feigning confusion as I motion between us with a smirk. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
Her eyes flash with frustration, her teeth clenched. “In private,” she insists, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with pleading.
Intrigued, I push myself up from the high-back chair, my gaze never leaving hers. “Well, then, by all means, my lady,” I murmur, gesturing for her to follow. “After you.”
I lead her to my office, the small space dim and thick with the scent of leather and old books. I close the door behind us, savoring the tension that fills the air. She hesitates, and for a brief second, I think she might bolt. But then, with a small, determined nod, she takes a seat opposite me.
My gaze sweeps over her, taking in her determined expression, the tension coiled in her shoulders. Objectively, she’s attractive—no,bangable, as some might crudely put it. But I’ve spent the last decade or so firmly in my ‘male era,’ and right now, she doesn’t exactly fit the bill.
It’s not that I’ve lost the capacity to appreciate beauty or desire. Far from it. But when you’ve lived as long as I have, sexuality becomes... fluid. Almostirrelevant. I enjoy who I enjoy, when I want, for as long as it suits me. No rules, no labels. Just indulgence. Lately, though? Men have been the indulgence of choice.
I settle behind my desk, steepling my fingers beneath my chin, watching her with calculated interest. “Now,” I say softly, “how may I assist you?”
She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands as she fumbles to find the right words. “I... I need your help,” she finally whispers, her voice shaking. I raise an eyebrow, letting my silence urge her on.
My eyebrow arches, a hint of curiosity flickering. "Is that so?" I muse, my tone dripping with skepticism. "And what, pray tell, could possibly be so urgent that you'd risk barging in on the private quarters of the Crimson Brotherhood?"
"Please," she whispers, her voice trembling with desperation. "It's a matter of life and death."
A humorless chuckle escapes my lips, sending a visible chill through my guest. "My dear," I say, leaning forward slightly, "everything is a matter of life and death when you're dealing with vampires."
Her breath hitches, and I can see the resolve in her eyes as she forces herself to meet my gaze. “My name is Vienna and my brother, Varys… he’s missing,” she says, the words spilling out in a rush, as if she’s afraid that if she stops, she’ll lose her nerve. “I think he’s been taken, and I—I don’t know where else to turn. He’s all I have left. Please, I’ll do anything. I just need to find him.”
Slowly, I unclasp my hands, one finger tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the desk. "Missing, you say?" My voice is low. "How long?"
“Three days. He was supposed to meet me, but he never showed up. It’s not like him, he wouldn’t just?—”
I lift a hand, silencing her. “Enough.” My gaze sharpens, watching her flinch, and a spark of satisfaction ignites in my chest. “Where was he last seen? Who would want to take him?”
“He was... heading to the Whispering Woods,” she replies, her voice faltering. “As for who would want him... there’s only one I can think of. We keep to ourselves, but our kind… we’re not always safe.”
I lean forward, my eyes narrowing. “And what kind would that be, exactly?”
There’s something in the way she holds herself, something just beneath the surface that piques my interest. A scent, faint but unmistakable, lingers in the air—a mix of sharp citrus and something deeper, more unknown. We’ve kept the habit of breathing from our mortal lives—an unnecessary act, sure, but without it, there’s no sense of smell. And without that? You’re blind to half the world.
Her face pales, and she looks away, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hesitates, glancing back at me as if weighing the risks of revealing this truth. “We’re... different,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “Rare. Valuable to some.”
A smile curves my lips. "Valuable, you say? Now that is interesting."
“We’re unicorn shifters,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
My eyes widen fractionally, the only sign of my surprise. “The Obsidian Circle has been hunting our kind for centuries. They... use dark magic, blood rituals that…” She shudders, her eyes dark with memories she’d rather forget. “They drain us, harvesting our essence for their twisted spells. If they have Varys, every second counts.”
Her hands clench in her lap, and I can see the faint tremor in her fingers as she struggles to maintain her composure. “Ourmagic is pure, healing,” she continues, her voice barely more than a whisper. “In the wrong hands, it becomes a weapon of unimaginable power.”
I feel a dark thrill pulse through me, and I let my expression harden, my gaze boring into hers with an intensity that makes her squirm. “And you believe the Obsidian Circle has your brother?”
She nods, her chin trembling as a tear escapes and slips down her cheek. “It’s the only explanation. Please, we need your help. The Crimson Brotherhood is our only hope.”
