Asil’s Fifth Date Scheherazade #4
“That doesn’t matter,” he responded kindly. “I assure you I am not here for the money.”
“Enough of that,” she said grimly. “We have a charity ball to get through.”
She took refuge in describing what the duties of a gigolo were at a charity event where her absent husband was still the most important person. She did not use the term “gigolo,” so maybe it was an old-fashioned word that had not survived the twentieth century the way “swinger” had.
He listened patiently until she was finished.
“Tell me, Mrs. Alvarez, who are your parents?”
She blinked at him. “That is a very personal question.”
“The rules for my dates were not made by me,” Asil said, not-lying with all of the skill of one of the Gray Lords of the fae. “I require certain information.”
“My father is an Italian businessman. My mother was a casual lover who had no more interest in raising a baby than he did. I never met her—I understand that she died a few years ago. He paid for nannies, boarding school, and education. Then he married me to his very good friend.”
The last sentence was spoken so neutrally that it must conceal a tide of emotion.
She is Mariposa’s daughter, growled his wolf with something akin to desperation but closer to rage. We do not feel sorry for her.
Asil ignored the wolf. Her father was Italian. Italy was a populous country, of course. There was no need to jump directly to a specific Italian. Except, maybe there was.
During that business where Bran disguised himself and ran around Italy like an idiot who wanted to cause the downfall of stability for the whole of the supernatural world both here and in Europe…
Asil controlled himself and continued the original thought…
during the time Bran had spent in Bonarata’s court, he had seen a witch-spelled collar that allowed Bonarata to control werewolves.
A collar that sounded like the ones Mariposa had made to control the big cats.
Had Mariposa provided controlling collars to Bonarata, or had she learned how to make them from whoever provided Bonarata with them?
If there were many witches who could make such collars, Asil would have heard of them.
Mariposa and Bonarata?
Bonarata is not this woman’s father. The wolf’s voice was dark.
And correct. Vampires did not have babies in the conventional sense. That didn’t mean that they couldn’t claim them. Bonarata, the Renaissance condottiere who ruled the vampires, collected helpless creatures he thought would be useful to him.
Asil wondered if Bonarata had been hoping for a witchborn baby to raise as his own and gotten this—
He looked at the child—all of twenty-three years—who sat so stiffly beside him. Had Bonarata been disappointed because he’d gotten this innocent helpless human girl? Or perhaps he had gotten a witch so powerful that she had deceived Asil, the way that the witch in Spokane had deceived him?
Without a word, Asil took the girl’s wrist—not ungently, but not allowing her to break free, either—and brought it to his nose.
His thumbnail, sharper than it had been a moment ago, lightly broke the surface of her skin, releasing a drop of blood for him to taste.
Blood could not lie. It burst onto his tongue, iron rich and full of information for him to sift through.
She made a distressed sound. Like prey.
His wolf lunged.
Asil was aware, dimly, of her struggling to free herself. Of the car swerving. Of horns and shrieking brakes around them. Of an urgent conversation. But he was preoccupied with his maddened wolf.
When he was done, he was in control. But his wolf was tangled back in the familiar ball of incoherent rage that had been his state for centuries. No more words.
Asil tried not to feel guilty about that.
“There are iron filings in my bullets,” growled the driver; Asil was pretty sure it wasn’t for the first time. “And I will kill you if you make it necessary. Let her go.”
Asil had closed his eyes while he battled his beast. Not only to hide his wolf but to concentrate.
He had made the deliberate choice to control his wolf and hope that the two vampire-kissed strangers in the car with him would not attack while he was distracted—risking his life in order to save theirs.
He had driven his wolf back into incoherent unspeaking rage from which it might never return. All to keep himself from murdering Mariposa’s daughter.
Time to see how that would work out for him.
Asil opened his eyes, knowing that his wolf was buried deep enough that not a hint of gold would show. They were in the deserted parking lot of a small neighborhood park. The pouring rain was doing as much as the night and the darkened windows to keep them secret from the world.
And the driver—by now Asil was starting to capitalize that in his head as if it were a proper name—The Driver was turned around, kneeling in his seat, to allow him to take a proper shooting pose.
That would not do.
Asil released the girl, took the man’s gun, and pressed the magazine release and racked the slide, dropping the disabled gun parts on the floor. He did not damage the man’s hand when he took the gun. And he did it very swiftly. Very swiftly.
The scent of fear filled the car, and Asil’s wolf—mindless and reduced to instincts—threatened to come out and kill them all. Again.
“Hello,” Asil said to the frightened people trapped in the car with him. “I am Asil Moreno, better known to my people as the Moor. I think it is time we become friends, no?”
He looked at Mrs. Alvarez and held out a hand for her to shake.
She straightened her purely human spine—the human part verified by the blood Asil had taken.
Then she bravely reached out and shook his hand with her own, the one that still bore the scratch of his claw.
He was pleased to note that there were no red marks that would become bruises.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her more than necessary.
“I am Mari-Brigid Bonarata Alvarez,” she said, answering two questions with that statement.
First, he’d been right about Bonarata. His instincts were usually faultless. Second, she needed help so badly she was willing to take it from a scary monster she did not know. Brave and desperate.
Asil held his hand out to The Driver. That one took a long look at Asil and didn’t move.
Asil sighed. “If you had shot me with your gun and its iron-impregnated bullets, I would have been annoyed, but no more. I am not fae.” He spread his hands as if to showcase the gift that was the Moor. “I am here to help you. Mashallah.”
Properly he should have said that last word with more enthusiasm. Perhaps even exclaimed it. Behold! Allah has accomplished this great and marvelous thing! But even Asil couldn’t tell for certain if he meant it ironically or not, and that blunted his volume.
“What are you?” Mari-Brigid asked, still mostly pressed against the far door despite her brave handshake.
“I am an old enemy of your parents,” he said, ignoring the fact that Bonarata wasn’t technically her father, because the vampire had claimed her by giving her his name.
The man who fathered her biologically was not important.
“I was present, though sadly not responsible, for your mother’s death a few years ago.
I live for the day I can say the same of your father. ”
It told him a lot that she relaxed somewhat at those words.
“Yes,” she said. “Me, too.” Then added, “About my father. I never knew my mother. I suppose she was a monster also?”
“Yes,” Asil said, though he thought she would consider him also a monster. Who knew what measuring stick Mari-Brigid, raised in boarding schools paid for by the Lord of Night, used for determination?
By any measure, Asil was a monster.
“What about her husband?” The Driver asked. “Mr. Alvarez. You gonna watch him die, too?”
“That might be exactly why I am here this night,” Asil admitted genially. “Tell me why that would be a good idea.”
“Not yet. Answer Mrs. Alvarez’s question, please,” The Driver growled. “What are you? Why do you think that you are up to facing off with a three-hundred-year-old vampire?”
“Alvarez is the vampire to whom you refer?” asked Asil. It was better to be clear on things than to find out one should have asked different questions.
“Alvarez,” The Driver agreed.
Three centuries was a very old vampire. Seventeenth century…no, eighteenth century. When did that happen, that three hundred years meant the seventeen hundreds?
“You should go to the ball and then leave town,” The Driver said. “If you aren’t a Gray Lord, you don’t stand any more of a chance in moving against him than Mrs. Alvarez or I do.”
Asil debated what to tell The Driver. It wouldn’t do any good trying to explain what Asil was to someone entirely ignorant of his story. Stories about the Moor had power only if they were told by someone other than the Moor himself.
He would tell him instead the results of being the Moor and let The Driver judge for himself.
“I am far older than three hundred years, and I have not survived by being stupid. I have killed old vampires before and I will live to do it again. If I say, then, that I can help you, you should believe me. Come, children, tell me your stories. Once I know what I am dealing with, I can be of more use.”
Mari-Brigid stared at him. “What are you?”
“I am a monster,” he told her truthfully. If a fae were asked the same question three times, they had to answer truthfully. For some of the fae anyway. “Tell me about your monster.”
“All right,” she said, her voice rising to his challenge.
The Driver shifted his weight, but subsided when she shook her head at him.
“It doesn’t matter if he knows.”
After a moment, the man nodded.
“My husband prefers that I sleep with other men,” she said.
Asil raised a single hand to indicate that he knew that already. That was, presumably, why they were on this date.
“He usually arranges something—like tonight. He dresses me as he pleases and sends me out.”