Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Into the Shadows	By : Darksaviour03 Category: M through R > Night Angel Trilogy Views: 1396 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own the Night Angel Trilogy. I do own the Dark Savior Series. No profits have been made from this fan fiction.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
Chapter Four
Cyras looked down at the man beneath her, studying him briefly. She scanned him for threats, and while he was unarmed, she knew that he was highly dangerous even in the predicament that he was in now.
His eyes flashed with the experience that only a seasoned killer could recognize. Lithe muscles flexed and strained with the tension of a set spring. He clutched her delicate wrist, bending the bones beneath her skin painfully.
Fiery agony seared her mind, blinding her to her thoughts with pain. It clutched her heart and would not abate. She hated feeling helpless, but it was what she was feeling. In the face of this man, this unforeseen problem in her life, she tried to keep her wits about her.
Trying to put her location together, a single thought blossomed as if it were a rose opening to the sun. He understood her, so she must still be somewhere in the Olessan Empire, she reasoned. If she was in Glorendt, he would be talking in their language. If she was in the barbaric eastern kingdom, he would be talking more with his body than with his mouth.
While she knew she was still in the Olessan Empire, she didn't know exactly where. That revelation would come later. Looking up into his light colored eyes, she reckoned that that was not her immediate problem. Tigress would not allow herself to be disgraced by being killed while nude.
She had to think fast, to cloud his thoughts. Shame spread deep in her stomach, contorting itself with the desire to be free from the man who imprisoned her. Cyras was an assassin who prided herself in her work and never used her sexuality to do her job, but she had also never been this close to a threat without a weapon or plan. Being caught off guard, she was forced to go against her common practices to survive. In her mind, at least.
Looking down at the strange man, her expression changed. In that split instant, she recognized him for who he was. It both intrigued her and frightened her.
He was an ugly man, by all definitions: pointed features, dimpled scars on his cheeks, ragged beard. Still, there was an intensity in his eyes. It snared her attention and refused to let go. This man reminded her of Vaene. That made what she was about to do both easier and harder, at the same time.
As she thought of Vaene, the urgency to return to the capital overcame her. Morose flooded within her, blanketing her soul with the indisputable knowledge of her own failure. It tainted her and eroded her resolve away into nothing. If she did not return, she knew the consequences. Her love, the man she had devoted herself to, would die. That decrepit, old lecher would win.
Exorcising the ghosts of the past that haunted her present, she set her mind on the most obvious course of action. Cyras rolled her hips and leaned forward, bringing her face to within mere inches of his. She could feel his warm breath against her face, could smell the hint of garlic on it, as she steeled herself for what she was about to do. Abandoning any other possibility of escape, she closed the remaining space between them, pressing her lips against his passionately, violently.
Though it started as a feint to lower his guard, the kiss lasted longer, went further into the depths of passion, then she had intended. Cyras wondered why, and dismissed that wonder in the same moment. She was dangerously close to abandoning herself to a man she'd only just met, and that frightened and excited her in equal measure.
At least the kiss served its purpose; he released his grip on her wrist. His hand raced gingerly across the flesh of her arms, arcing to her upper arms, and drifting to her collarbone.
Her teeth nipped at his bottom lip, pulling the spongy flesh between her teeth. The tip of her tongue darted past her teeth and brushed against his, softly.
The steams of their passion rose and clouded the mirror adorned to the wall. In its reflection, she could see their writhing movements as their faces glided together.
Cyras was so engrossed in this stranger that she didn't notice it. She could feel the cool breeze from the other room on her skin and hear the livestock in one of the rooms adjacent to that one. To Cyras, this foreigner to the Olessan Empire was the only thing that mattered.
She wasn't concerned by the fact that he was a stranger. She'd fucked plenty of people that she didn't know when Niccolo forced her into whoring. Cyras wasn't ashamed or embarrassed, either. The thought that chilled her to the core was that she was enjoying what she was doing at that moment.
Turning her head to the side, she pressed her lips against his and felt the sweet resistance of him against her. The light tang of garlic filled her mouth, searing the memory of the kiss into her mind. She didn't think that she would ever forget this man. How could she? Her mind's diversion reached into her, blocking her from any other thoughts.
Over the course of two decades of being forced to work the sheets, she had been with thousands of men. Like a sea of disgust, their many faces blended together into one shape. Not once did she allow herself to enjoy it. To enjoy it would mean to losing the one bit of her that was hers, the part that Niccolo had never defeated.
She was attracted to him, and she was never attracted to anyone before. The knowledge brought heat to her cheeks as he moved his mouth against hers, showing her the expertise that he possessed.
Well, with the exception of one man, she thought to herself.
Regret surged in her soul, grasping her within its sullenness. With this kiss and her billowing emotions, she was betraying Vaene and herself. She swore that she would never feel desire for another, especially after what he done to her.
With the stark realization that the situation was spiraling out of her control, Cyras pulled away, keeping a look of hot desire in her eyes to match his. She raised an eyebrow coyly, not letting on to what she was about to do.
Without giving a warning, she started to lean back, putting her hands behind her to tumble off of him. She felt a resistance at the apex of her thighs, but she thought nothing of it. Her only desire was putting distance between herself and the man that, inexplicably, made her feel things that only one other man had.
“No!” the man snapped. His voice rumbled gruffly in the darkness.
She tilted her head and look down at him, his smoldering, intense gaze clashing with hers. The only thing in her mind was removing herself from him. Cyras needed to stow the sensations that he gave her in a small box and shove it into the deepest recesses of her mind.
“Don't move that way!”
It was too late. She was committed.
As her back arched, her hands reaching for the floor behind her, she felt it, but neither of them was able to stop it. In abrupt suddenness, his new found excitement slipped inside of her.
A scorching pain erupted from her nether regions. It exploded outward, blistering into agony beneath her flesh.
Cyras inhaled sharply at the burst of sensation. Hesitating involuntarily, she couldn't help but notice that, despite her best efforts, her body responded with waves of pleasure. It hadn't felt this way with anyone other than Vaene. That terrified her, especially after what the king of the Olessan Empire had done to her.
For a moment, neither of them moved, too shocked from the suddenness of the penetration. They both became locked in an internal struggle over mastery of their desires. Cyras was slowly succeeding in that. It appeared to be different for him. At least, that was what she could see in his eyes.
His hands lurched, gripping onto the tops of her hips. The fingertips rested beneath the large pouches attached to her ebony belt, the only clothing that transferring through the misty portal.
“Let go of me,” she commanded, finally back in control. She pulled to try to get up, but he didn't relinquish his grasp. Trying to break free, she squirmed. Inadvertently, the motion sparked a resurgence of the unusual pleasure, radiating outward from her womanhood.
Fear spouted within her, spreading through her body like an acrid mist. She found herself recalling Niccolo and every facet of his aging skin.
“I mean it,” she demanded, keeping adept control of her tone and hiding the inflorescent trepidation beneath the facade. Her voice was flat, unfeeling, not even tinged with the slightest desire.
He responded by rolling her over, so that he was on top of her, staring at her with those determined eyes.
Damn his eyes, she thought. They may not have been the same color as her lover's, but the look in them, the passion and desire, almost made her forget that it wasn't Vaene.
Anger roiled within her, mixing with the dread, and threatened to overwhelm her. Her thoughts stumbled onto the king of Olessa, careening like an out of control carriage.
“You shouldn't start something with no intention to finish,” he growled, his voice thick with desire.
Shock roared through her, blending with the other alien emotions. The coldness of the wooden floor matched the iciness within her.
He thinks that I want this, she realized, appallingly. She conceived startlingly that her body's response was the main reason for that. It was eagerly accepting him, like a familiar lover.
However, he wasn't Vaene. Even if he was, she wouldn't have wanted this, not after what Vaene had done to her. He stripped her of her dignity, making her part of the common rabble. Yet, that was not the worst thing he had done.
After finding out who she was, he withheld the love he felt deeply for her. Even after all the abuse from her tormentor, Cyras thought herself impervious to that kind of pain. Like a parasite, Vaene had wiggled into the center of her heart, sucked all of the life from her, and left her to die. He simply did not care enough.
The thought immediately cooled her desire. She tilted her head back and stared at the high ceiling.
At the moment, this man was no different than the nameless others she had been intimate with. She knew what he wanted. It was what every other man, including Vaene at one point, had wanted from her.
“Just be quick about it,” she uttered, stolidly. Ice coated her tone as if it were frost on a sharpened blade. Her limbs splayed like a lifeless animal.
A heavy, rough sigh expelled from his lungs and forced itself pass his lips. The sulfuric smell of garlic fanned her cheek, causing her to turn her face to the side and away from the odor.
“Don't make too much of a mess.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, exasperated, as he rolled off of her. “All I wanted was to take a bath. It's a rare occurrence that a naked woman should materialize from the air in my bath.”
The cool air quickly forced itself onto her flesh. She shivered in disappointment from the lack of contact.
He muttered something underneath his breath. The words came out as gibberish to her. She couldn't understand the dialect, tone, or meaning.
“What?” Cyras asked, having heard his utterance but still not comprehending the strange language.
He looked at her, surprised that she had heard. In her line of work, she perfected her ability to hear the conversations that others wished to be secret.
Of course, he didn't know that about her. There were things that even her confidant didn't know. None could understand the feelings that were lurking deeply iwithin her soul.
“Not important,” he responded, offhandedly.
Not important? she chided, silently. Of course, it was important. He had to know that she didn't recognize his language. Frustration ate away at her, and she wondered at that emotion. Cyras prided herself in her calm demeanor. There was only one other who could strip away her facade.
As her blinding ire mounted, she could not help but notice the similarities between this man and Vaene. They both had caustic personalities. Like her love, this one seemed to want to skim away the fatty layer of meaningless details and get to the meat of the matter.
“I'm going to be asking the questions. We'll start with something simple. What's your name?”
Cyras put on an air of confidence, cloaking herself in bravado, in spite of the fact that she was still naked. His intense, soul rending glare was fixed on her eyes, anyway. It was strange for a man to be staring into her eyes instead of her other, more noticeable assets.
Taking a deep breath, she determined it safe to offer up the requested information in full, for now. If they were in the Olessan Empire, or one of the neighboring kingdoms, one name was attached to the other, thanks to Vaene.
Agony twisted within her as she remembered Vaene. As she lay there, on the washroom floor with this foreigner, Niccolo's plan was likely in motion. While she had warned Vaene about the threat he was under, he was still in great danger. Her sister was not as skilled as she was, but Violetta could maim or kill the Olessan King.
Gazing into his light blue eyes, she tried to forget the anguishing guilt. To get home to Olessa, she needed her wits about her.
She would not give away all of her identities to this stranger. Cyras knew that she had to ensure some type of innominate titles. If she needed to slip away from him, she would use one of those so he couldn't find her.
“I am Cyras Covelli of Lucci, once Duchess of Lucci and Stewardess of the Olessan Empire.” she answered with a twinge of pride in her voice. She tilted her head to the side, turning her chin up at the title. “I am, also, known as the Black Tigress. That is why I am duchess and stewardess no longer.”
“Sounds like there's a story there,” he probed.
“Not important,” Cyras mocked, feeling slightly dismayed. It was clear that he didn't recognize the title. Disbelief sank into her like the teeth of a haunting predator. She knew immediately that she wasn't anywhere in the Olessan Empire or the surrounding areas.
It wasn't the only reason that she didn't want to answer him. Cyras didn't want the anxiety of Vaene's rejection to surface again. She knew she needed to have a clear mind to get out of this situation and return home. Because of her attack, her master would set his plans into motion sooner than he had previously planned
“I'll decide what is and isn't important,” he snapped, “and I am asking the questions.”
“Do you have a name, or should I just call you Inquisitor?” she asked, ignoring his outburst.
“If you must know my name,” he drawled as his stare flicked down to her body and back briefly, “I think it's a fair trade for what just happened. I'm Durzo Blint.”
“Do you have anything I could cover myself with, Durzo Blint?” Cyras asked, feeling very naked after the glance, however brief it was. He was privy to all of the scars that Niccolo had inflicted upon her. Even under the best of circumstances, she hated to be exposed. These were far from the best circumstances.
The blood that had oozed from the wounds on her face and shoulders had begun to congeal. Pain radiated from the injuries, crawling beneath her flesh like burrowing maggots. She felt emotionally exhausted, as if everything was too much to take.
“Where am I?”
“More questions.”
“Forgive my inquisitiveness, my lord,” she sneered. Her green eyes lit with an internal fire. He was increasingly frustrating her. Anyone else would have been promptly dealt with. She had a feeling that this man was important to discovering where she was, a perhaps, how to return.
“Yes and Cenaria,” he stated. “My turn. Where did you come from? Where were you precisely before you came? What were you doing? What do you remember? Tell me everything. There are towels over there.” He nodded to the left.
Cyras stood, carefully trying to remain modest in her movements. The situation had quickly spiraled into a land of confusion, and she was lost within it. Her mind stumbled to come to terms with what she had learned. It was just a small fact, but it was soul shattering to her.
Cenaria? She questioned herself. Flashes of the gilded map of Arathea in the order's hideout glided through her thoughts like ribbons on a dancer's body. She knew that there was no city of that name in all the areas surrounding the Olessan Empire. Even the Great Empire, where numerous cities dotted the landscape, did not have a one by that name.
She could feel his gaze on her backside. She felt awkward before Durzo. Always, when she was naked before a man, she was completely in control. It was the only way that she felt safe enough to do what Niccolo commanded of her. Cyras always held the advantage, even when it didn't seem so. They may have possessed her body, but she would always control the movements and her mind.
Vaene was the only other that had caused her to feel so vulnerable, until she encountered this man. She didn't think that she shared the same feelings that she latched onto with the king of Olessa with Blint. For one, she had just met this stranger. Emotions, with the exception of what she felt for Arturis, couldn't develop so quickly.
Secondly, Cyras was never an emotional woman. To perform her job with the excellence that added to the legend of the Black Tigress, she neither loved, nor hated her marks. Any sort of emotion could make her feel pity for those that were to die and cause Cyras' blade arm to stall. After her botched contract with Vaene's son and wife, she never failed.
Turning her back, she searched for a towel. The linen sheets felt rough beneath her fingers. She wondered how many bars of soap he had. It would take more than one to wash her until she was acceptably clean after what had happened to her.
Knowing that he would have a perfect view of her backside, and the many scars on her back, in the lamplight, her face burned. She had to bear it, however. It was much better that he see her ass than her reddened face.
She was glad to get away from that damned gaze, those eyes that spoke of boundless wisdom. Cyras knew she couldn't pretend or lie to those eyes. They could see right through her, and it terrified her beyond all measure. She hated being under that scrutinizing gaze.
“Wait!” Durzo barked.
Cyras jumped, feeling the harsh word bite at her insides. She winced, chastising herself internally. Like an immovable stone, calmness always radiated from her. Of course, the stillness within her was a farce. As much as she hated to admit it, Vaene had released something inside of her. She couldn't capture and hide it away again.
Damn Vaene to the Death-plane, she thought to herself.
“You're going to have to wait. I don't want you bleeding all over one of my towels. Let me clean your wounds. Your shoulder looks like it needs stitching.”
Her heart raced, beating as if it were trying to rip out of her chest. Fear fluttered in her belly, growing wings as he sat up. Never before had she had someone care to her wounds. An assassin that couldn't was a dead assassin. Cyras was too skilled for that to happen.
No, her mind protested. He would not see to her wounds; she wouldn't allow it. Cyras would take care of her own injuries before she would allow another to touch her.
“I suppose Kylar might have a change of clothes here,” Durzo added as if thinking aloud. “If he doesn't, I'll have to box his ears for being under-prepared.”
Cyras cast a quick glance over the wound on her arm. It stung painfully now that she had noticed it and the rush from her ordeal had passed. The agony crawled under her flesh, raced down her arm, and arced around her fingertips like lightning.
Containing the turmoil inside, she removed any hint of emotion from her gaze. Cyras wouldn't show weakness before someone, specifically if it were a man. She would seize control of the situation and hold onto it with steadfast determination. Even when there was no clear threat, she was always looking for advantages. Even with those few she called friends, when she was around them, she would visualize the most effective and efficient way to kill them at all times.
“It's barely a scratch,” she scoffed.
The wounds, themselves, looked far worse than they were. Flesh gaped raggedly along the edges of the wound on her arm. The crimson tissue beneath would show itself when she moved her arm, peeking out like the meat of a clam. Still, Cyras had suffered far worse at the hands of her master. A scratch from a barbed bolt would not hinder her.
“I can take care of it. I take care of myself just fine. I certainly don't need some pig of a man to take care of me, thanks.”
Durzo raised an eyebrow, obviously seeing that, while he was the immediate target for her insult, he was not the fuel behind it.
It didn't matter much to her what this fool wanted or thought of her. He was a stranger, someone who would be out of her life in the blink of an eye.
“Are you a homosexual?” he asked. Sternness coated the edge of his voice.
Cyras stopped cold, stunned by the forthrightness. While Vaene and Niccolo were blunt men, they had never accused her of being a lapwhore. No one had the audacity and courage to call the Black Tigress a homosexual.
“Are you fucking stupid?” she spat, the indignity lining her tone in a protective layer.
“It's just a question,” Durzo responded as he stood up. His muscled stomach rippled in the movement. He crossed over to her, gesturing her to show him his arm. Tilting his head down, his gaze pierced into her, reaching deep, and refused to let her go.
With him towering over her, she suddenly felt more vulnerable than ever. It was his damnable eyes. They seemed to see inside of her. Again, she was reminded that there would be no hiding truths from him. There could be no deceiving this man. She meekly offered her wounded arm.
“That's a bit more than a scratch,” he said as he turned the arm in his hand. “It cut into the muscle. I'll stitch it up for you.” He paused, waiting for an objection.
Pain radiated from the wound, making her breath hitch in her throat. She did not want to rely on anyone to take care of her injuries. After all, she was capable of doing it herself.
No, she thought. She wouldn't protest. He wanted to sew her wound closed, and while she was not used to such a desire from a man, she would be a fool to overlook it. Another person could treat the injuries better.
“Who hurt you?”
Cyras looked down, hesitant to answer the question. Her confrontation with Niccolo had been for nothing. All her preparation was wasted. Nothing came of it. Somehow, despite her planning, he had survived the encounter. This doomed Vaene, cinching his fate like the last lacing on a corset.
A pain spread through her chest, and she quickly suppressed it. She wasn't going to think about Vaene. Even after he took everything from her, she tried to save him. Now, he was lost, because he let himself be lost. She couldn't be held responsible for what was going to happen.
The agony erupted in her chest again, threatening to release a sob from her throat. It was not exactly right. As much as she liked to pretend that Vaene's fate meant nothing to her, sorrow colored the edges of her perception.
“It doesn't matter,” she murmured without looking up.
“There won't be any secrets,” Durzo said. “You're dangerous enough as it is without them.”
While he spoke, her thoughts were not with him. There was a slim possibility that she could return in time to save Vaene's life, still. Doing so, there would be no encounter with Niccolo this time. She would have to deal with her own flesh and blood.
“Now, I'm going to ask you again. Who did this to you? Was it Khalidorans?”
“No,” she answered, not knowing what a Khalidoran was. Her eyes darted around as she worked at the answer to his question. She'd worked herself up to face Niccolo, but the fact remained, with him alive, she was terrified. He managed to escape her blades. Niccolo was still alive. She didn't know where she was. Cyras never heard of Ceneria. That didn't mean that Niccolo hadn't.
He would come for me, Cyras thought. Like any of his horses, his estate, and the guild, itself, Niccolo owned her. She knew that he would stop at nothing to possess her. Niccolo would follow her to the ends of Arathea if it meant reclaiming his most prized possession, his precious Black Tigress.
She realized that she was staring directly at Durzo's crotch. She averted her gaze as her face flushed.
What the fuck's wrong with me? she interrogated herself. Coming to the conclusion that it must have been an aftereffect of what had happened to her, Cyras pushed the thought away. It surely wasn't her normal behavior.
“My master's men did it to me,” she confessed at last. The words seemed to pull from her mouth on their own. “You don't need to know his name.”
His brow furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled.
“Answer me one more question. Where is Cenaria? Are we close to the city-state of Olessa? Are we close to the Olessan Empire?”
“There is no Olessa or the Olessan Empire, not in the entire world,” he said with a shrug. “Let me see your arm.”
Disbelief shot through her. It amplified as time passed. Shadowing the pain spreading from her shoulder and cheek, she stared into the man's glittering gaze.
“What do you mean 'there is no Olessa or the Olessan Empire?'” she murmured. The skepticism coated her voice as if it were a thick poison. She elbowed him in the solar plexus. “I was just there!”
“You are on the continent of Midcyru. There is no Olessa. I've never heard of such a place. What do you call the world there?”
Cyras was growing more frightened by the moment. The fear of Niccolo was being inexorably replaced by the fear of the unknown. She was in some mysterious place, possibly another world all together.
Her heart raced in her chest, threatening to burst from her ribcage. Breathing in deeply, she tried to keep the world from spinning.
Arathean beliefs spoke of other planes of existence. First, there was the mortal plane, the Arathean-plane. It was comprised of the physical world. It was here that people lived and loved, worshiping their chosen deities. Even then, the vener would shape their lives.
The Death-plane contained all of the deities and mortals that defied the Great Ones and the vener. It is there that the damned would burn for eternity as torture was inflicted upon their souls. The ven, the soul's life energy, would be drained away at an agonizingly ponderous pace.
Ven existed in everything in the Arathean-plane and the Death-plane. However, on the Ven-plane, the vapors are more prevalent. It is a garden of paradise, the place that a soul stops before it is born again onto the Arathean-plane.
Was this world one of the planes? Perhaps, she did die at Niccolo's hands. For her crimes against Vaene, she would have been cast into the Death-plane and tortured. Was this man, whose intensity reminded her of Vaene, her torturer? There would be no escape for her. That scared her more than thoughts of Niccolo.
No, she challenged without a word to him. If this was the Death-plane, he would call it as such. Instead, he had called it Midcyru.
Widening her eyes, she continued to stare at Blint. Even as he held her, Cyras' body shook, swaying back and forth as if she was a delicate sapling in the middle of an autumnal gale.
What had the power to shift her from one plane to another? A vener, perhaps, or one of the Great Ones. The fact that she had drawn the attention of such a being chilled her to the bone.
“We call the world Arathea,” she responded at last. Her voice grew low, almost as if she was speaking across the Planes of Existence, themselves. Her throat ached, her mouth drying like a snail in the summer sun. “This isn't Arathea, is it?”
“Ah, you're a smart one,” Durzo replied. “Figured it out faster than the last one.”
Her mind had about enough of his brash demeanor. Wetting her mouth and lips with her tongue, she turned to the side and studied the peeling paint on the walls. While what he said was obvious, she could not comprehend that there was someone sent to that world before her. Why would they be? Was she sent here to bring them back?
“Last one?” she queried; her voice oscillating softly.
Would the earth open up and swallow her whole? Cyras would rather have been propelled to the Death-plane than another world entirely. Another world? It was possible that this was another plane of existence that the sages and magi hadn't discovered yet.
“That's not important right now,” he dismissed the question.
Durzo was becoming a thorn in her side. Like Vaene, he had the ability to get under her skin rather easily. It would seem like Vaene opened a doorway to her emotions that had remained shut tightly throughout her entire life.
“Let's focus on this,” Blint gestured to her arm, “then we'll talk. No secrets. Agreed?”
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Into the Shadows