Shadow Guardians: The Key

The first thing on everyone’s mind when they landed in the vestibule of the upper floor of the manor was getting clean. Washing off the ash and the gunk of evil. Then they went down into the dining room for dinner. Roast beef, baby potatoes, roasted squash, rice, and gravy. It was exactly what Katherine needed.

Along with the sound of baby gurgles.

Ophelia came in with Amielle in her arms, who restlessly squirmed around. “She wants her Daddy.”

Zachiel’s grin might’ve stretched all the way from one side of the globe to the other. Ophie handed the three-week-old babe over, and he brought her close to his neck so she could smell him. She squirmed happily.

“Don’t you say hello to her when you come home?” Katherine asked, forking up a baby potato.

“He doesn’t want the ash getting on her, so I leave the room while he showers.” Ophie said, sitting herself down to get started on her own food. “Of course she gets restless then, because she knows he’s home and she wants him.”

Amielle gurgled and stretched out a tiny hand over her father’s jaw. It was like a giant holding the mouse, considering all three males wore something like XXXL sized shirts, and that was all muscle, except for Magnus, who was a size larger still.

Zachiel nuzzled his nose into her face, no doubt receiving a ton of babyspit kisses, and Katherine thought it was the most beautiful thing, the threatening warrior being so gentle with such a tiny being.

“I don’t want that corruption anywhere near her,” Z said.

It made sense. Ophelia had very nearly lost her only weeks before she had to be born. It was hard for vampires to carry their younglings full-term, so every birth was celebrated for exactly what it was - a miracle.

“He’s going all sappy on us now,” Draven said. He moved the food around on his plate but didn’t seem all that interested in it. How beautiful it was, he thought, to have that kind of connection. A mate and a daughter. The union of family, blood of your blood. He yearned for it, but it didn’t seem destined for him.

“How you feelin’, Cassanova?” Magnus asked, noticing that he wasn’t eating.

Draven clenched his jaw only for a second, but it passed his brother by. He hated the name now. He wasn’t even that anymore. And he didn’t need the extra nancy-scene that happened in the alley tonight. He hated that they thought something was wrong with him, probably because something was wrong. He didn’t need his shit dragging them down.

“Fine. Tired. I think I’m going to bed early. I’ll ah, see you guys later.”

Zachiel’s brow crinkled very slightly. He glanced at Magnus, who was reaching for his wine glass, not making eye contact with Draven. But he saw the same suspicion on his face.

“Sure. Let us know if you need anything. We’ll be in the library, doing homework.”

“Yeah.” Draven got up and excused himself from the table. I need you to beat the living shit out of me because I’m craving pain. “Night,”

Much as he hated being the weak one at the moment, at least it allowed him an escape from research duty. He really wasn’t in the mood for that at all.

As he wandered down the hallways to his living pad, he was grateful that there were no other women up here. Not normally, anyway. He stayed away from downstairs, too, as much as he was able. His head was still fuzzy from the amount of blood he’d lost. He’d probably need to feed again soon, but bags were preferable to women right now.

He opened the door to his living pad and willed the candles to life with his mind. He startled when he saw the redhead waiting for him on his circular canopy bed with its black silk sheets, dressed in nothing but strappy red lace lingerie.

Draven wanted to throw up. Right here, right now. His stomach actually lurched, but he swallowed it down.

“What are you doing in here?” He demanded, pissed off at his own reaction.

She wore a confused expression. “I’m Sami. My sister’s Brittany. You spoke to her about me that one time, remember? But I was away.”

Draven’s singular working braincell kicked into gear. “Right. Sure.” He’d invited her. Before his dick decided it didn’t want to be in the game anymore.

“Yeah, listen, I’m gonna need you to go because this isn’t happening.” He said coldly.

She rolled onto her belly, brought a hand to her taut ass. He didn’t feel a thing.

“You sure? I’m good at blowing.” She winked and rolled her hips.

Draven merely opened the door wider and waited. She rose with a pout and collected her gown. “What’s the matter? Us girls not good enough for you anymore?”

You have no idea. And right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care if he scared her out of her wits.

His mouth drew into a malicious smirk that actually made her take a step back. Draven wasn’t great to look at. He had a nasty scar over his face, one green eye, and one blue eye, which was generally seen as a defect in the species. The only thing that softened his ominous appearance somewhat were the long locks of black hair, and only if they were loose. If they were tied back, as they were now, they would only make his face harder.

She left without another word, but she held her head high and kept her dignity in tact. He slammed the door shut behind her, which made her hop in the hallway.

Draven sank down into the Victorian-style armchair in his room, closed his eyes. Yeah, no lady was good enough for him. His worst nightmare had come true. He can’t even get it up around them anymore. The first freak-out happened when he discovered, on his last sexual ‘adventure’, that he’d finished and hadn’t felt a thing. Nada. Zilch. And then the next time, he was all over the girl in the club, and his body didn't respond at all.

Some man he was. Now he really was going to be alone for the rest of his life, however long that may be, and since he wasn’t always so rubbish in battle, it might be very, very long. He didn’t survive for more than three centuries by chance. A vampire male without a mate was like tepid beer on a hot summer’s day. It sucked.

Sure, he had his brothers. They were still his family. But he knew it was different to have a female by your side. They cradled your soul when you were battle-weary in a way that no amount of liquor or bro time could.

And his face was probably part of the problem. Because he just so happened to get captured by demons long ago, who tortured him and found it fun to rub salt into the marks their talons had left over his face, marking him forever.

Well, if he was an unattractive, probably infertile freak, then he might as well complete the look. He was tired of the females hounding him anyway. And he’d been thinking of a way to get rid of them. He had the cassanova reputation, except the cassanova might as well be a fucking eunich right now. And every time one of the females came knocking, he was sorely reminded of it.

He surged to his feet and made his way into the bathroom. He took out a pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet and started snipping. Locks of midnight-black hair fell to the floor. When they were short enough, he took his electric shaver and trimmed it down nearly to his skull, leaving only about a centimeter of hair left.

No beauty or softness for him. Only anger, pain, and loneliness. And he had to be the special snowflake with the eyes, too. One blue eye from Magnus and one green eye from Z. Maybe he’d get that tattoo on his forehead after all.

Yeah, maybe not. Whatever. He trimmed his stubble, then put the shaver away and cleaned up the hair.

He went to the cabinet next to his armchair, poured himself some brandy. The more time he spent around his brothers and their females, the more he yearned for the same. Z and Ophelia had gotten together when he hit the century mark. Hell, Magnus got lucky twice. And here he was, having had nothing but fucks for giggles his whole life.

He thought back to how the demon attacked him in the alley and the wounds he’d suffered. Suffered wasn’t really the right word for it.

He liked the pain. It was something tangible in his body, unpleasant, but it made him feel alive in that moment. And he could channel his anger at what had happened to him into killing the demonic bastards for the reward of a brief moment of satisfaction.

He threw back the brandy and poured another. Yeah, his hard and scarred look fitted him like a well-tailored suit right now. He kept going with the brandy. Eventually he hit the bottom of the bottle, and since he didn’t have more, he fell down onto his bed, arms and legs spread out like he was on a torture table.

His throat felt dry, and his body’s batteries were running low. He was thirsty for blood, not brandy. Which was such a chore, and he wasn’t into it right now. He turned onto his belly and covered his face with his pillow. He closed his eyes and thought back to when the demons had captured him. They’d whipped him. Back then, he prayed to be found.

Now, he craved to be whipped.