Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong (14 page)

Toran watched as the sparkling gems popped against the surface only to sink softly to the bottom to join the untold millions of Venn Dom’s lost wealth.
 

“I’ll give you your six months,” the spellcaster said as his face contorted into a sinister grin. “But let’s make it a bit more interesting…”

Toran shifted in his boots.

“What the hell are you talking about, Feliks?”

“Let’s just say that each and every day you wait, the protection spell will weaken by a certain, unknown degree…”

“Feliks,” Toran exclaimed. “You can’t…”

“Can’t I?”
 

In the tick of a heartbeat, the sun disappeared as a scorched and shrieking wind screamed in Toran’s ears.

“For centuries, I have been more than patient with your ridiculous dual council rule.” Feliks’s voice rose above the howling gale, his cat-yellow eyes flashing crimson in the dark. “But now, my patience has worn as thin as a noonday shadow. I am done dealing with the Vimora’s crap.

“The clock starts ticking… now.”

Fucking Sorcieri and their fucking games.

Glancing around the small, sterile office, Toran barely had the strength to stifle back a groan.

He had never imagined he could be rendered so weak by sheer stress alone. But, after this godsawful day, his gut ached with it.

What he faced now, though, promised to be the most distasteful, certainly the most mortifying, conversation of his life. But it had to be done if Toran had any chance of living up to his duties before Venn Dom’s protection spell could fail.

Godsdamned Sorcieri.

When the doctor finally arrived nearly an hour later, Toran figured she could count herself lucky her hospital still stood.

Somehow, he had resisted the urge to destroy the place.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he yelled.

“And, hello to you, too.” She shifted sideways, passed his body and circled around behind her desk.

“Cut the shit, Anara,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Are you injured?” she asked with a worried frown. She started back towards him.
 

“No, I’m not injured.” He stepped away and waved her off. “I need something from you.”

“Okay. What?” Folding into her desk chair, she nodded towards one of the two guest chairs in front of her.
 

Toran ignored the invitation.

“As you know,” he said as he began to pace as best he could in the small confines of the room, “the faine has been returned to me.”

“Yes, I had heard that congratulations are in order. Everybody’s talking about it.” Anara folded her arms across her chest. “In fact, I had the pleasure of meeting her this morning.”

“Meeting who?”

“The faine,” she answered dryly. “Liv is absolutely fantastic. I think she’ll be great for Venn Dom. In fact, we spent much of the day at the children’s home.”

“So?”

“So, that’s the perfect place for her, don’t you think?”

He jerked back his chin. No, that’s not what he thought. Her place was with him,
in his…

Fuck!

He resisted the urge to pull at his hair.
 

Or jam his fist through a wall.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Anara,” he managed to answer instead. “I’m not here to discuss the faine.”

“Hooo-kay. What do you need?”

“I need to know when…” Gods, it was humiliating to have to discuss such things with anybody, let alone a female. Sucking it up, Toran said, “I need to know when it will be safe to bed my female… now that the faine has been returned to me.”

“Hmm… so I see we are talking about Liv.”
 

Toran could feel her cool, assessing gaze.
 

He hated being assessed.
 

“I’m not sure I can give you an exact answer to that,” she said at last. “As you know, what’s left of the texts are unclear.”

“Well, I need you to be clear.” Toran finally sat heavily in a chair and stretched out his legs. “My bride awaits me.”

“The date’s been set?” Anara asked with surprise.

“It has,” Toran said with a nod.
 

More or less.
 

“And, I need to be ready to take her,” he continued, not liking the judging expression in the doctor’s eyes.
 

It rankled.

The doctor sat silent. When she finally ventured to speak, she asked, “Does Liv know exactly why she’s here?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tor, Liv was only fourteen when she escaped Venn Dom!” Anara exclaimed. “She was too young to have learned about her duties. You owe it to her…”

“I owe her nothing,” he interrupted with a snarl.

His outburst was met by more silence.
 

“And, Anara, understand this,” Toran continued on, his voice laced with quiet menace. He knew the doctor well. Given her nature, he had no doubt she’d be tempted to intervene between him and his faine. “Under no circumstance are you to discuss my personal affairs with the faine. I’ve made this known to my men, and I’m telling you now: we will do this my way, and only my way. Do you understand me?”

Anara waited a beat before nodding her assent.

“Now, I ask you again,” Toran continued when he was a bit calmer, “when will it be safe?”

They stared at each other for long seconds before Anara gave an answer. “Based on what I’ve been able to read,” she said, “I might be able to determine approximate timing based on certain factors. But, I can’t know for sure.”

“You’re wasting my time, Anara, with your equivocation. I suggest you get to the point.”
 

“Okay.” She came around to sit against the edge of the desk. Pausing to flip a lock of her dark mane behind her shoulder, she crossed her arms against her chest. “How busy has your schedule been?”

“Are you asking how much I fight?” He lifted an eyebrow. “As you know, my services are always in demand. Between my mercenary work and ongoing training, I remain very active.”

She nodded.

“How long has it been since you’ve taken on any significant amount of new venna?”

“Five weeks ago,” he answered evenly. “Lorenz the Reaver passed.” The old bastard had been the latest in a long line of Elden Kellen had gutted over the past couple of centuries. “Before that it’d been nearly six months since I’d taken on the venna of Elden blood.” Since natural death was rare amongst the near-immortal Strong, Toran had been lucky that Kellen had shown restraint in his kills, waiting months, sometimes years between them.
 

It was obvious the daemon knew nothing of Toran’s curse.

“Lorenz was ancient,” the doctor said. “I’m guessing his venna was relatively weak.”

“It was.” Toran jerked a quick nod. “I’ve felt pretty even-keeled for quite a while now.” But that clock was apparently ticking if he couldn’t get his hands on Kellen.

“How often do you masturbate?”

He shot out of his chair.
 

“What the fuck?”

“You’ve asked me to determine timing.” Anara shrugged. “To do so, I need to know certain things.”
 

“I’m not answering that question.” As far as Toran was concerned, that whole sorry subject was completely off the table. He resumed his pacing, hoping to soothe his temper, his venna thrumming in equal agitation. “Get on with it, doctor.”

As she followed him with her gaze, he was overcome with the urge to leave.
 

To return to his faine.

Instead, Toran stopped to face her dead on.

“What else?” he growled.

“It’s not just where you are physically with controlling your venna, Toran.” At his involuntary flinch, the doctor gentled her voice. “As you know, the faine are a particular breed of psionic vampire; they feed on the life-force of others. In the faine’s case, their food of choice is venna. To utilize her most effectively, you will need,” she paused briefly, “substantial contact with the faine.”

“How much?”

“Daily, I would think,” she answered. “As much as possible.”

“Does it have to be physical contact?” His body tensed, his mind racing back to his uncle’s words.

You must touch her.

His cock pulsed at the thought, which just served to piss him off further.
 

Toran prayed Anara had a different solution.

“Well?” he barked when the doctor didn’t answer.

“That, I’m not sure,” she finally conceded.

So much for that.

“I need you to be sure.”

“Okay.” She bowed her head in acquiescence. “I’ll go back through the texts.”

“Good.” He gave a sharp nod. “Now,” he said, “for the third and final time, I’m going to ask you this question: How… long… is it going to take?”

“Tor, I’m telling you that I can’t possibly answer that question.”

The lights overhead dimmed and sputtered before returning with a pop to a full-strength blaze.

“How long?”

“Six months,” she guessed. “Maybe longer, if you choose to avoid her touch.”

“I don’t have that kind of time.” If Arman was right about Sarai, Toran would need to be ready long before then.
 

And, now, there was the matter of the assassins.

Not to mention Feliks’s godsdamned games…

“How much time are we looking at?” the doctor asked.

After taking a steadying breath, Toran answered, “I’ll be married sometime at the first of the year.”

“That soon?” Anara’s voice rose with surprise. “If that’s the case, you really need to consider all your options…”

The lights sputtered and popped again, the air above Toran’s skin shimmering a bright electric blue.

“Okay, okay,” she offered up in surrender. “I will look at everything again and will get back with you as soon as possible.”
 

“Good,” said Toran. “Let me know what you find.”

He barely had the door open before the doctor called out to stop him.
 

“Oh, Toran. One more thing.” He looked back to find Anara safely tucked back behind her desk. “I understand that you believe this to be completely beyond the realm of possibility, but…” she paused until she knew she had his full attention, “…should temptation somehow strike, you need to be careful should you choose to bed the faine.”

The words had barely left her lips before a blue haze impinged his eyesight, every hair on the back of his forearms rising in time with his ire. Stepping back into the room, Toran slammed the door shut behind him.
 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” A shot of venna shook the photos on the walls. The crack of breaking glass sliced the air as a vase shattered, petals and stems scattering as water dripped down the table legs to pool on the floor.
 

Anara ignored the chaos.
 

“I mean exactly what I just said. You need to be careful. As heir apparent, there is no room for indiscretions.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “If you don’t want to get Liv pregnant, you need to make sure she isn’t fully satiated with your venna for any sustained amount of time.” She ignored the next shot of venna that nearly took down the walls. “Look, Tor. As your doctor, I have an obligation to point this out to you.”

He marched towards her desk and leaned across to get right up in her face. Though she angled away from him, she looked him directly in the eye.

“You need to remember your place, Anara.” He stabbed at the desk with his forefinger. “You owe everything you have to me, and I will not tolerate your disrespect.”

At his haughty choice of words, Anara rolled her eyes. That was the thing about the doctor. She didn’t fear him.
 

Or anything.
 

“The prophecy defines the means with which you must procreate to best affect the future,” she answered calmly. “But it doesn’t dictate with whom. And, Liv
is
of purest blood.”

Toran blinked.
 

He blinked again.
 

Plaster dust fluttered from the ceiling as his anger rocked the building, his fury rearing up in spades.

“Don’t be fucking absurd,” Toran hissed. “The prophecy says of ‘
like
and purest blood,’ doctor.
Like blood
. You know this.”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts, Anara.” Toran swung the door open. “Just find out what I’ve asked for so I can get this done.”

Every day spent in Venn Dom, Liv grew steadily stronger. This despite the fact that Toran never came to let her feed.

His behavior was odd.

It was obvious that he made a point to make his presence known to her several times throughout the day.

His venna was freely given as promised… from a distance.
 

He would sit with her at breakfast. He’d show up on her many walks and accompany her home. Once, he came to observe her work at the children’s home, his keen eyes assessing the positive changes she brought with her calming presence. They also sat together each night in the den outside their rooms before she went to bed. She would read a book or magazine while Toran watched the news, Wolfie happily asleep pressed against his thigh or hers. Then, invariably, he’d stand and nod a terse goodnight before pulsing off to gods knew where––probably to the warm bed of a daemoness.

Over the weeks, they had somehow managed to settle into a sort of life together… except for the enormous chasm of nothingness that gaped between them.

No matter how hard Liv tried to cross that distance, to throw a lifeline to draw him out of his carefully constructed defenses, Toran refused to be moved.

Only once had Liv braved broaching a topic of any consequence––the matter of his uncle. The old daemon’s every visit to the castle was an uncomfortable affair that fanned her misgivings. Though Arman’s emotions never once hinted at the nefarious slyness she’d felt that one time before, she was convinced he was bad news. Perhaps what she was sensing was simply his long-held hatred for her people; it didn’t matter. She had felt compelled to bring it up. Toran had dismissed her concerns outright, his venna registering his unmistakable displeasure. Fearing she’d lose even an inch of hard-fought ground, Liv had never brought his uncle up again.