Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Ellis
I hate traveling Candy style. I’ve done it more than my fair share over the years. By horse-drawn carriage, by sea, on rails … I’ve watched air travel go from something only the rich could afford to something families do, crowded into sardined chairs with their squalling kids.
Give me a zipping vault any day of the week.
But who knows when … or if … I’ll get to travel in the relative luxury of a magic book depository again?
Security at Copenhagen airport is taking forever. And I don’t need time to be stuck in my head.
But shit me to tears, my brain will not stop thinking about Farida. I don’t even care that Yuvan basically kidnapped me … and not in a sexy way, mind you, in an ‘I’m going to use you as collateral to negotiate for the Drinker I really want’ way.
What has me pissed is that Farida knew, before she sent me to the airport to be abducted ( not sexily), that he was looking for her. And that she had every intention of going with him.
She blindsided me. A little heads up that the one constant in my life, outside of Roman, was about to give herself up to the enemy for crap knew what purpose would have been nice.
I’m holding onto my pissy attitude because if I don’t … then I have to feel all the other things I know are lurking under the surface. And I’m really shitting scared of those feelings.
“God morgen!” the security dude calls out, waving me over. Finally, it’s my turn to make my way into the land of the Vikings … and of the Hot Bear Shifters.
I roughly shove all thoughts of Farida down deep in my ‘let’s not think about it, shall we?’ box.
“Howdy!” I simper at the guy. He’s hot, but not Hot Bear Shifter hot. Not that I would know because I’ve never met the White Bear of Copenhagen before. I’ve heard he’s stacked, manbunned, tattooed … sounds pretty darn hot to me.
I’m playing up the American accent because I’m traveling on my American passport this time around. I’ve got passports for just about every nationality. Date of birth? Around twenty-one years ago. Means I can drink in any bar in the world.
The tall security guy narrowly avoids rolling his eyes at me. Another thing I’ve learned over the years—American travelers are not people’s favorites. Suits me fine, hopefully it means he stamps my passport and doesn’t want to ask questions.
“Reason for your visit to Denmark, Miss Forbes?” he asks. His accent is thick and lilting. I like this accent. I might have to add it to my repertoire.
“Pleasure,” I coo, batting my eyelids.
Pleasure is definitively not the reason for my visit … but given the location of my business here, I plan to make it a welcome side effect.
I need to let off some serious steam. The last couple of months have been a literal shitshow. And I am horny as hell. I’ve walked in on everyone I care about going to Pound Town at some point over the summer. Even Farida and that Shifter alpha from Greenrock … God rest his beastie soul.
Nope, we are not thinking about her! We are doing our job, the mission someone finally gave us responsibility for!
The security guy fiddles around with his computer, asks a few more questions, checks a bunch of boring stuff, and then waves me through. I scuttle away, thankful that I only have my carry-on luggage.
I peer around for Greta and Grace—we decided it would be best if we pretended not to know each other until we were safely through customs.
I know their boss—Hot Bear—is sending someone to collect them from the airport. But I can’t decide if showing up with them to Tit-voli Gar-Den of Sin (that’s the name I’ve decided to give his unnamed dirty sex club underneath Tivoli Gardens—honestly, what is with these immortals not giving their awesome establishments names?)
Anyway … I kinda feel like I should make my own entrance. I don’t want him … Hot Bear, I mean … to be swayed by their presence. It’s stupid and very egomaniacal of me … but I desperately want this alliance to be all my own doing. I don’t wanna coast through the exam by copying off the Shifter twins. I want everyone to know that I, and I alone, aced this test.
This is my chance to prove that I’m not just the comic relief. That I’m a badass motherfucker in my own right who can come up with plans, and execute them, and help the people I love to make this world a better place. Because the world will absolutely be a better place with Fortis’s head detached from his body.
And it’s proven a very slippery head over the decades.
So, I do something that is peak me. I follow my heart, and I give the twins the slip. I head quickly and quietly out to the taxi stand. A little thralling of the unsuspecting Candies gets me to the front of the line, and I hop into a taxi.
“Take me to the fanciest hotel in Copenhagen,” I announce to the driver, who eyes me like I’m crazy. I turn the thrall on him, too, and his eyes glaze over, and he does as he’s told.
I slide back into the seat, letting out a sigh.
Fuck, I love being a vampire sometimes … although I would never, ever let Roman hear me use the dreaded word. He hates it.
Honestly, I hate it too because it gives the impression of black cloaks and coffins and pasty skin and weird-ass widow’s peaks and greasy hair—the ‘I vanna suck your bloOooOoOood’ kind of vampire.
Or even worse … the sparkling kind.
Cringe!
Candies have done us so dirty over the centuries. But I kind of get it. I mean, until recent history, Drinkers hunted humans like they were rabbits. They’re abundant, and they make an easy, delicious food source.
Not that I agree. We don’t need human blood to survive. We don’t even need animal blood … just the blood of another Stranger. Joined couples very rarely eat anything but each other. And I mean that in all the filthy ways, too. Damn it, I’ve been living alongside a newly Joined porn-fest for months, so I’ve had all the ways shoved in my face.
But I can totally understand why Candies turned us into creeping, undead villains who come out only at night, lurking in the shadows … preying on the innocent. If they have stories that make us terrifying, it’s easier to get their loved ones to take precautions. To use that fear to make others safe … but also to justify killing us in kind.
Still, it’s a little bit cool that we have entire legends about us … ones that are blown so out of proportion they make us into myths to most of the population. The vampire myth allows us to move around completely under the radar, because who expects to see a vampire wandering around in broad daylight?
No one.
The cab drops me off in front of an uber-modern monstrosity, and it’s a matter of a quick thrall of the concierge and the tall, mildly stupid blonde at the reception desk, and I’m being shown to the penthouse suite.
Ah! This is just what I need. Luxury and a view of the harbor, with its bobbing sailboats and brightly colored, postcard-perfect buildings. And a giant, sunken bathtub, perfectly situated in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.
I salivate looking at that bathtub, and immediately I’m filling it, turning the spa jets on, frothing bubble bath everywhere.
I haven’t had a proper bath in months. The Vault is totally primitive in that aspect for a magical moving library. If you need a bathroom, one will appear, but it’s never something you’d want to do anything more than quickly scrub away the day in. Definitely no relaxing is had in the Vault bathrooms.
Not that there has been much time to relax of late.
Nope. We’re not thinking about that!
I’m going to have a proper bath and get myself all dolled up. One does not simply walk into a sex club straight off a plane. I’ll need to primp and preen, do my hair nice, get my makeup just slutty enough to titillate without looking desperate. Choose which tiny dress I’ll wedge myself into.
First impressions count. Hot Bear’s first impression of me needs to give off ‘fuck with me and die … but maybe also just fuck me’ vibes. I think he will respect that, the upstanding Renegade and owner of a dirty, dirty sex club that he is.
T he middle-aged taxi driver pulls up outside Tivoli Gardens at one in the morning and flicks me honest-to-God side-eye. He doesn’t speak much English, but I can tell from his look that he thinks I’m either a hooker (not a bad guess, honestly) or completely insane.
I hop out with a bright, “Aw shucks, mister, thanks so much!” and toss some US dollars in the window at him.
“Miss,” he coughs out, and I turn. He’s looking at me with worry in his eyes. “You be … safe?”
I throw him a simpering smile, waving my fingers in an Obi-Wan impersonation. “I’m not the droid you’re looking for.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost the plot, and I realize that I forgot to use my thrall along with my awesome Star Wars misquote.
“You can go about your business … move along,” I add, making the intense eye contact that always ensures the thrall sticks to Candies like glue.
He blinks, nods once, and pulls away from the curb, leaving me in sky-high black heels and a blood-red, skintight minidress (because let’s own the whole Drinker thing). I don’t have much cleavage to work with, so this dress is modest at the neckline but utterly filthy at the hem. I’m talking, there might be a peeking cheek (and a hint of a thong when I bend over).
I follow the instructions Jack left for me, finding the hidden entrance through the fence and clip-clopping my way along the narrow paths of the amusement park.
Damn it, I’m going to have to come back here in opening hours! That rollercoaster looks ah-mazing! I love thrill rides. There’s just something special about that ‘I’m about to poop myself this is so scary, but I also might spontaneously orgasm from the G-force’ feeling.
I take a deep breath, walking purposefully towards the Japanese Pagoda.
Head in the game, Ellis. You’re on now. You are a Swiss Army Knife. You have many tools at your disposal, and they’ve all been hidden inside their little sheathes. It’s time to get those bastards out!
I strut through the empty restaurant and make my way down the ladder under the trapdoor. I am so goddamned impressed with myself for navigating that ladder in these heels!
The passageway is warm, and I hope I’m not sweating through my dress. At the end, I press my hand to the panel, and the door opens to a tall, black male. A sexy, tall, black male. A shirtless, sexy, tall, black male. With dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail.
“Well, hellooo,” I say, eyeing his impressive pecs. He sees me looking and twitches them. A giggle bursts out of me.
Remember the number one reason you’re here!
I clear my throat. “Is Asbj?rn around, by any chance?”
The hottie eyes me, one dark brow raising. Wow, and it’s sexy. This male is only capable of doing things sexily, I decide.
“Who’s asking?” he rumbles sexily.
Shit. Do I give him my real name? Roman is kind of notorious in Renegade circles. He put Fortis out of action long enough for us to escape the Stronghold. No one else has done that before or since.
Peak me comes out to play again.
“Trixie LeStrange,” I trill, the lie trickling from my lips like honey.
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Thorsson?” he asks. Sexily.
Hold up, did he just say Thorsson? As in, son of Thor? Damnit, I should’ve picked a fake name from the Marvel Cinematic Universe and not Harry Potter!
“He’ll want to see me,” I purr.
“I have no doubt that Mr Thorsson would love to see you … Trixie … but he’s not meeting with anyone outside of scheduled appointments tonight.” Mr. Sexy Dreads winks sexily at me. “Please feel free to … enjoy the club, though. I’m off work in an hour.”
Well, soak my panties, I’m going in!
“How can I say no to that?” I ask, and he grins sexily, holding up three rope bracelets. One is white, one is blood red, and one is black.
“White means you’re just here to watch. Red means you’re DTF on the main floor.”
I’m practically panting at this point. “And … the black?” I whisper.
Mr. Sexy Dreads leers at me, his teeth dazzlingly bright. I sniff the air. He smells of … damp fur.
Shifter. Ooh, I bet he’s a horse Shifter. And hung like one, too … oh God, I hope so. I desperately need a good dicking down tonight!
“The black is for the ones who want to play in the private rooms.”
I swallow. Why does my thong suddenly feel too tight?
I’ve been known to enjoy a bit of slap and tickle in the past, the odd orgy or two. But it’s been a very long time since I’ve partaken of the peen … or of the puss for that matter … in the sorts of scenarios I’m picturing in the private rooms. I should probably work my way back up to that.
Besides, I’m here on a mission. And if Hot-Bear-Son-of-Motherfucking-Thor isn’t taking unscheduled meetings tonight, he might still wander around the main floor of his own club. I need eyes on him. I need a plan to get on his radar.
“Well, I need to match my dress,” I giggle, plucking the red one from his fingers and slipping it over my wrist, tightening the straps.
“No direct drinking from our Candy staff without their prior consent. If you drain a Candy inside … just don’t, alright? I don’t want to have to deal with the mess the boss will make of you. Candy blood is available in shots or as a mixer at the bar if you’re worried you can’t control yourself tapping a vein.”
I giggle again, trying to hide my sudden nerves. “Oh, I don’t do Candy blood. I’m just here for O’s … and to see Mr. Thorsson, of course!” I add hurriedly.
Mr. Sexy Dreads grins, tugging open the door, and I step into Tit-voli.
And boy, are there tits! Tits everywhere. I feel overdressed, despite my ass practically hanging out of this tiny little dress. Big tits. Small tits. Bouncy tits.
And dick! Dicks being sucked. Dicks being ridden. Dicks spraying cum over greedy faces. Two dicks are sharing a pussy. I watch that until she comes, and it’s all over for both the dick owners. They’re blowing their loads immediately. I turn away to see a dick pounding into the ass of another dick owner, who is begging for it deeper as he strokes his own dick. And then there’s just the dicks walking around, hard and hot, and begging for attention.
Merry Dickmas to me!
If there is anything that could distract me from the shitshow of the last few days … it’s tits and dick.
I smack my lips and dive into the fray.
A n hour later, and I have no idea where my thong is. My ass is no longer playing peekaboo in my dress—it’s all out there, both cheeks on full display. Because I’m bent over one of the tables, dress hiked to my waist, tits squished against the cool timber, arousal literally gushing down my legs.
And Mr. Sexy Dreads is eating me like I’m his first meal in months. Like he’s a starving man, and I’m a rump roast.
Like my clit is his favorite lollipop.
And fuck, I’m about to come. I’m so fucking close.
“Sexy Dreads, you are wild!” I groan, my legs shaking. He responds by shifting his tongue. And thrusting it inside me.
Holy fuck! Is he a fucking Giant Anteater Shifter?
His tongue is insane!
I’m shuddering and clenching around his long, muscular tongue, and I’m screaming like I don’t even care that there is an audience surrounding us, cheering and applauding as his dick-sized tongue slips out of my quivering pussy, and he spanks me, and I’m groaning, my nails digging gouges in the tabletop.
And then he’s flipping me over onto my back, spreading me wide. The crowd behind him watches avidly, and I am here for it! The exhibitionist in me has spent too long hiding out, and boy, is she letting loose tonight!
“You’re so wet for me, you filthy little Sucker! You’re ready to take all of this, aren’t you?”
I glance down, my eyes bugging out.
He’s not a horse cock … he’s a rhino cock! Do you know those things are close to two feet long? And that’s not even taking the girth into consideration! That thing is … I think even miss two-dicks-at-once would look twice before taking this beast on.
“I … let’s take it slow?” I say, gulping as he notches the head against my entrance. He leans closer so only I can hear.
“I’ll only give you what you can take, I promise. I’m just playing it up for the audience. Relax, and you’ll be able to take a lot more than you think.”
I nod, giving him a slightly nervous smile. He swirls the head around my soaked pussy, and I spread wider, enjoying that sensation all too much.
“You could come just from the head of me, you horny little whore,” he growls, and then he pushes forward, just a little, and holy hell, he’s stretching me, and I feel like I do when I ride a thrill coaster. I might shit myself, but also, I’m about to …
Oh, Jesus Motherloving Christ, I’m about to—
“Get the fuck off her!”
The crowd disperses faster than I can say, ‘fuck you, I was about to come!’
I blink, frowning as Mr. Sexy Dreads backs away from me like I’m radioactive or something. His big body is blocking my view of the jerk who just stole my O.
“Get dressed and get out of here. Consider your employment terminated effective immediately.”
Sexy Dreads nods once, his dreads bobbing against his back. Who the hell is this dick? It’s a fucking sex club, we were having sex!
I sniff deeply, about to give this deep-voiced, bossy asshole a piece of my mind when my nostrils fill with … leather and that almost too-sweet scent of pink musk sticks. My favorite candy of all time. Even better than Candy …
This cannot be happening. No. This can’t be happening. I have a mission to complete. I don’t have time to smell …
Mine …
I blink up, and there he is.
Blond, bearded, man-bun. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Muscular, tattooed arms poking out of rolled-up shirtsleeves.
No.
Or maybe … yes! This could be perfect.
It’s got to be Hot Bear Shifter! The White Bear of Copenhagen.
And he’s Mine!
This mission is one hundred percent in the bag!
He’s standing so still he could be a Greek statue. If I can smell him, there is absolutely no way he can’t smell me. I’m spread out on a table, my soaked, one bean-flick away from another orgasm pussy emitting all the pheromones.
His jaw clenches. His eyes go icy.
“Get the fuck out of my club,” he snarls.