Dominic

12

DOMINIC

1

Temple of Bacchus

Else World, 1837

"Her name is Emma."

The Facilitator’s voice echoed off the ancient stone walls, lending his words authority as he directed Dominic’s attention to the large, mirrored disk positioned prominently in the middle of the temple’s bloodied floor.

The image of a woman, who existed somewhere in a neighboring world, was reflected on the disk’s surface like a living portrait. Her countenance was serene, oblivious. For she was unaware she was being watched.

Carved from polished obsidian as black and impenetrable as the night, the six-foot mirror was encircled by nine more disks of lesser circumference. Each was concave and had been shaped from a disparate exotic stone intended to represent one of the lunar phases. All were set at an angle meant to capture the moonlight streaming in through an aperture in the roof and to direct it toward the central mirror where the woman was on view.

You expect me to rape her, Dominic stated, his voice flat.

The woman’s hand moved, and a page flipped. She was reading.

We expect you to do what is necessary. As always, the Facilitator replied, speaking for himself as well as the two silent Acolytes who flanked him.

At first glance, the woman appeared to be plain, unremarkable in every way. Dominic judged her to be a quarter of a century old like himself, perhaps a little older. Except for the occasional movement of her hand, she was utterly still. Her head was bent intently over a tome entitled The Fruits of Philosophy, which lay before her upon a polished desk.

She wore spectacles, and her profile was half turned from him, so that the shape of her delicate cheek was limned by flickering candlelight. Tendrils of ash-brown hair curled along a vulnerable nape.

The garment she wore was stiff and lengthy, and it almost completely hid her body from view. He’d heard that Earth-World females sheathed themselves in swaths of fabric impermeable to the masculine eye but until now had believed this to be only a rumor. Her breasts were full and her figure shapely. Why did she hide it?

You’ll bow to Our Will in this matter? prompted the Facilitator.

Dominic grunted a grudging assent. His hard, quicksilver gaze flicked over the woman again. He’d been required to do worse in his life. And he had little choice.

From the corridor behind them came the swishing sound of the votaries’ brooms. Solemnly they swept the sacred remnants of what had been a colossal statue of Bacchus into vessels that would later be placed in reliquaries.

Rage simmered in him. This hallowed sanctum—his home—had been brutally attacked. And to think that just hours ago he’d been out fighting the very beings who had taken advantage of his absence to defile it!

He resided here, alone for the most part, sleeping in an alcove with few creature comforts. Like a bird of prey, he swooped down on the enemies of his people by night and returned to the relative protection offered here in the temple to roost by day. But this attack had altered his schedule.

Seven were killed in the strike here last night, the Facilitator informed him, though he hadn’t asked. And the amulet in the statue has gone missing. We can only thank the Gods that the time involved in its removal prevented our enemies from reaching these mirrors.

Our ‘enemies,’ Dominic mocked, shooting him a cynical look. The stench of demons was everywhere, yet the Facilitator adamantly refrained from referring to them directly, as if doing so might somehow raise them in the flesh.

They weren’t ‘prevented,’ he informed his elderly companion. They came here with specific intentions. They destroyed the statue but painstakingly hacked its genitals and right hand off. The fact that they left only those pieces undamaged and to be discovered by us in this mess was no accident.

It had been a message directed at him, for those were his susceptible points.

The Facilitator’s placid gaze didn’t alter.

It’s widely known that these scrying mirrors allow us to see into the adjoining world, Dominic persisted. They were purposely left intact so that we might continue to do so. He jerked his jaw toward the woman in the mirror. Let me postpone this new duty until I can find out the reason behind this attack. Until I can hunt down the demons who were responsible.

The two Acolytes on either side of the Facilitator stirred for the first time, murmuring in distress. Whether in response to his suggestion of postponement or to his profanity in calling the demons by name, he neither knew nor cared.

The Facilitator calmed them with the lift of a hand, and then shook his head at Dominic. No. You will do as We have directed.

Dominic heaved a frustrated breath and stalked away. Standing in the arched entrance of the chamber, he watched the votives at their work. The twelve marble statues that ringed the room regarded him coldly, unspeaking. Accustomed to their unwavering, brooding gazes, he ignored them.

Slamming the side of his fisted, gloved hand against a limestone column, he felt the familiar bolt of lightning zap up his arm, a cruel reminder of his duty. Free will was a luxury he had not enjoyed since the age of ten. The three males behind him ruled his sect, and he would obey their directive.

How am I to get through the gate? he gritted after a moment.

Ingratiate yourself with her husband. Cajole him into offering you safe passage. He’s one of the Earth World Satyr, but he serves here in our regiments.

Dominic’s brows rammed together, and he whipped around toward the female in the mirror.

She’s wed? To one of our fighters? he demanded. And you would have me usurp his rights with her?

Another page flipped under the touch of a feminine hand, reclaiming everyone’s attention. Gold flashed on the woman’s finger. She wore a wedding band.

She’s not of our blood, he was hastily assured, as if that would render the unsavory task he’d been assigned perfectly palatable. Her sister is King Feydon’s offspring. One of the infamous half-Human, half-Faerie brides wed to the three Earth-World Satyr lords. But this one— he tapped the mirror with a gnarled finger, causing the woman’s image to undulate for a few seconds, this one doesn’t share the deceased king’s blood.

How strong is the blood of her husband?

Him? He’s hardly fit to call himself Satyr, the Facilitator scoffed. "He boasts that he’s a quarter blood, but We believe him to be less. And he doesn’t ‘fight,’ as you assume. No, he serves himself up to the other soldiers in a base manner, as one of the cinaedi. You’ll find him in the regiment camped closest to the gate. He chose to be stationed there so that he might easily return to his world regularly at Moonful."

To fuck his wife, Dominic conjectured. As you would have me fuck her. Why?

The Acolytes whispered again, gently rebuking his plain speaking. The Facilitator overlooked it, preferring as always to gloss over the more sordid details of the sequential duties that made up Dominic’s existence.

She’s newly plowed. Her husband lay with her last evening, the elderly man remarked significantly.

At that, Dominic returned to stand before the woman, his eyes dropping to her waist. He opened himself to her for the briefest of intervals, learning what he could.

Her belly was not yet rounded, but even with a world of distance between them, his instincts quickly informed him that she did house another man’s seed within her womb—seed planted there only last night.

On the heels of that realization, another struck him with the impact of a giant fist. He staggered back from the mirror, his accusing gaze flying to his companion.

Yes, the Facilitator affirmed, refusing to meet his eyes. She’s with child.

A heartbeat of silence passed. Then another and another.

Not just any child, though, is it? Dominic inquired with soft menace.

His right hand vibrated as if the evil that dwelled in its palm had been agitated by his suspicions. He raised the hand between himself and the other man and carefully flexed it within its silver-threaded glove.

The Facilitator shifted uncomfortably. Darting a glance at the glove, he subtly distanced himself from it.

The Acolytes began to hum. Nervously they cupped their long-fingered hands together, catching the rays of the moon overhead in their palms—an act believed to ward off demons.

Dominic’s lip curled, cruelly voluptuous. His lashes lowered to shadow the slits of his eyes. And for just a moment he savored the latent power that made others—even these influential beings—fear him.

As you… The Facilitator cleared his throat in a rare display of uneasiness. As you’ve no doubt guessed, the child will be a Chosen One. Your successor.

A chill crawled up Dominic’s spine. He stared at the Facilitator, thunderstruck.

This can come as no surprise, the Facilitator rambled on. You were aware your replacement would be selected one day.

Yes, he’d known. But he’d been too engrossed in the never-ending hunting and killing that comprised his nightly routine to dwell on the matter. This news had taken him completely off guard. Did it imply that his death was imminent?

Now, then, you have four weeks, the Facilitator informed him crisply. With the coming of another Moonful, it will be imperative that you mate her in order to endow her child’s powers. Four weeks. Is it time enough to find her husband and secure an invitation to his world?

Dominic nodded slowly, his fascinated gaze returning to the mirror where it resettled on the woman. On the delicate blush of her cheek. On the inviting slope of her shoulder.

On her flat belly.

Like his own mother, she would have no inkling she was to bear a Chosen One. Wouldn’t be informed of her child’s destiny until Dominic’s eventual death.

His own predecessor had been unknown to him, for the demonhand—quite literally a hand that held demons—didn’t pass to a successor through bloodlines. It selected its hosts seemingly at random, one after another. Only once in a generation was a single child given the power—the curse—that had been bestowed upon Dominic as a boy. A mirrored palm.

Excellent. The Facilitator nodded to his two companions.

Snap!

At the sharp sound, the woman’s image wavered as if it were a reflection on the surface of a pond that had been abruptly disturbed. Then it shrank to a pin light. And then she was gone.

The distant, tranquil scene had evoked a peculiar fascination in Dominic, and he found himself strangely sorry to see it go. His own world was in constant turmoil. Perhaps this woman’s son might be the one to ultimately bring peace. Something Dominic had failed to do despite his dedication.

The two Acolytes extended their right hands to the Facilitator and then to one another. Palms came together in the traditional way that served as both greeting and farewell.

As the moon reflects the sun, their three voices droned in harmony, signifying that this meeting was at an end.

No one offered such a gesture or valediction to Dominic, nor did he expect it. No one ever touched him voluntarily. Not once they realized what he was.

Without another word, he turned and made his way outside. Soon his boots were striking the nine marble steps in front of the temple with determined, resigned thuds. The votaries scurried from his path, dropping their brooms and falling over themselves in their efforts to avoid him. Though he disguised himself from the rest of the world, members of his own sect recognized him for what he was.

The fact that they so obviously spurned him—they whom he protected with his very life—might have destroyed another man. Fortunately he’d been hardened to such scorn long ago. But with the coming of this new child, he was reminded that his time as protector would one day draw to an end.

At any moment, he could be demolished by demons—like the statue that had stood for centuries before this temple, the remains of which now crunched under his boots. Then, like the statue, he would simply be swept away. In favor of the next Chosen One.

Until such time he would continue to be a repository of evil. One of a kind. The most valuable, dependable, and vicious weapon his people possessed.

And like any well-honed weapon, his thoughts now trained themselves on reaching their assigned target, the woman in the mirror. The woman whose unborn son would someday wear the glove.

His right hand clenched tight. When it uncurled, the single, fingerless glove he wore seemed to melt away, revealing a mirrored palm instead of flesh. He closed and reopened his fingers again and the slick mirror that shielded a cache of terrible evil disappeared from view as well.

He raised the disguised hand in a brief salute to a soldier he passed and received an easy wave in return. Pausing a mile or so later, he assisted a farmer in righting a wagon with a load that had slid askew and threatened to topple it. Afterward he was heartily thanked. The man even went so far as to attempt to shake the camouflaged hand, a gesture Dominic evaded.

Satisfied that it appeared to everyone save himself that he was an ordinary Satyr, he made his way toward the region just this side of the interworld gate.

His features remained undisguised. But he’d bespelled them as usual in such a way as to leave a vague impression that none who saw him would later be able to recall. So that no portrait or depiction of him could ever be created and given over to hands that would do him harm.

Within two hours, he’d located the regiment fighting closest to the gate. Within three, he’d traded his pants and jacket of black leather for their gray woolen uniform.

At sundown, he met the woman’s husband, and within the week the man was indebted to him for saving his life.

By the time Moonful neared, his new acquaintance was half besotted with him.

Though his new comrade rarely spoke of his wife, Dominic continued to carry within him the image of the tranquil scene he’d viewed in the obsidian mirror.

Emma.

She’d roused something in him he’d thought long destroyed. Something he’d pushed deep within himself where his enemies couldn’t exploit it.

A longing.

Though he knew such an emotion weakened him, the desire to view her face and her body in the flesh and to hear her voice increased by the hour. With each kill—with each battle he undertook—his anticipation of the night he would at last touch her clean, soft sweetness grew ever stronger.

She had no idea what was coming.

2

Satyr Estate in Tuscany, Italy

Earth World, 1837

"Damned beasts."

It was Carlo.

Emma had been listening for his arrival. She’d monitored his forward progress by the staccato sound of his sneezes. He was allergic to Lyon’s panthers.

They’d never warmed to him either. Not in the entire year and a half since Nicholas had found and brought Carlo to the estate. Even now, the sleek black animals paced just behind her husband at the edge of the tree line, grumbling as if to warn her of his approach.

Liber. Ceres. Away, she ordered softly. At the sound of her voice, Carlo’s head lifted. His eyes narrowed on her where she stood in the doorway of their home.

The hopeful thrill that had always zinged through her when she caught sight of him was missing this time. Yet she’d waited for him tonight as anxiously as always, half fearing he wouldn’t come. Her relief now that he had shown himself was tinged with dread. It was a curious reaction, and one for which only she and he knew the reason.

Carlo stepped out of the late afternoon shadows and next to her beneath the portico of the carriage house. Adjacent to that of her sister’s lavish castello, it had been converted into their home upon their wedding. But though Emma resided here, her husband had visited only twelve times during the entire year of their marriage. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d returned to bed her. As he would do tonight.

Their eyes met—hers a wary ash brown, his a boyish, confident blue. His smile was warm, false, familiar. Frightening.

I’ve missed you, he said, reaching for her.

So he thought they would both pretend.

She pulled away. Don’t touch me, she warned coolly. Except as necessary. Later.

He feigned astonishment. What’s this? Where’s my usual affectionate welcome? Do you wish me gone again? Shall I leave? He turned on his heel as though to depart.

No! She took a hasty step forward and put a staying hand on his sleeve.

He smirked. I thought not. Dropping his bag on the porch, he snaked an arm around her, drawing her so close that she felt the hard weapon he wore at his hip.

Cupping the back of her head, he pressed her soft cheek to the coarse wool of his uniform. She inhaled the peculiar scent of that other world in which he dwelled. That world into which she could not trespass. That world she used to despise because it kept him away from her.

Now she could hardly wait for morning, when he would return there.

Don’t. She wedged her elbows between them, trying to nudge him away.

His grip on her tightened, and she winced as the beading along the back of her gown punished her skin.

I didn’t mean to hurt you, Emma, he murmured, refusing to release her. His breath was cool against her neck. Can’t you let it go?

At his words, hope tried to flicker to life within her. Had his ill treatment of her last month been an aberration? Would this sojourn from the war in Else World signal a new beginning for their marriage? Hope—foolish hope—brightened her heart, just a little. She squashed it.

Carlo drew back, and his satisfied gaze fell to her swollen waistline.

You’ve grown fat in the past month, he teased.

And whose fault is that? she told him, forcing herself to match his light tone.

An odd expression shifted in his face, gone before she could decipher it.

Mine, I suppose. But motherhood agrees with you. He found his usual smile once more. The one that made him so deceptively attractive and which had lured her into wedding him.

Did you tell your sister? he asked.

No, Jane noticed my condition without my having to do so.

In a gesture that had become habitual over the last four weeks, she smoothed a hand over her rounded abdomen. It had grown to this size within a single month, the entirety of the period necessary for the gestation of a child of Satyr heritage. The bulge was only half the size of her sister’s or of her two aunts’ by the time they’d given birth.

She predicts our first child will be a small one.

You misunderstand, said Carlo. I meant to inquire regarding whether or not you told her what happened between us.

Emma arched a brow. Do you refer to my reluctance to conceive and your insistence? she asked. She refused to pretend it had been something else. If so, no. I saw little point. However, you should be aware I’ll not tolerate a repeat of your brutality.

Brutality? Come now, you overstate the case. You know how my blood stirs under a full moon. He pulled her close again and bumped his forehead to hers, his pretty eyes willing her plain ones to offer forgiveness.

She simply stared at him, stunned anew at his refusal to concede that there could be no excuses for what he’d done.

It’s unnatural for a woman to thwart her husband’s efforts to beget heirs on her. Why did you do it, Emma? Why didn’t you want my child?

Because this child shackles me to you forever. Makes it more difficult to leave you. Unaccustomed anger surged in her, but she tamped it down. Just get through tonight, she reminded herself. Tomorrow will be time enough for frank words.

A squeal of delight had them both turning. Emma’s older half sister Jane had peeked into the hall and seen them.

Carlo straightened, drawing Emma into the curve of his arm. Making a pretense that all was well.

You’ve returned at last, Carlo. How wonderful! Jane said. I’ll summon the others.

Do! I’ve brought news of matters on the other side. Carlo glanced behind himself, through the open front door. The air shifted as her sister departed in a swirl of skirts, and candlelight from the hall sconces rose for a moment, flaring across his throat. Angry scratches striped the flesh there and on his collarbone, spidering even lower within the concealment of his uniform.

You’re hurt! Emma said, impulsively reaching to inspect his injuries.

Shhh! Carlo grabbed her wrist, rejecting her touch. His mood had altered like lightning, transforming him into the monster she’d glimpsed only once before. A month ago.

He’s here! Oblivious to any undercurrents, Jane had already departed. Her footsteps and voice receded down the corridor toward the dining room.

Emma tugged at her arm, but Carlo held her fast in an intentional show of strength. With his free hand, he fastened his collar over his injuries, firmly shutting her out.

The distant scrape of chair legs against wooden parquet indicated that the rest of the Satyr clan would soon come rushing out to join them. Her time alone with her husband was at an end. At least until they retired together upstairs.

His grip relaxed, and she pulled her wrist from his hold and stepped away, rubbing it and surveying him through downcast lashes. Panic beat its delicate wings in her chest.

Should she speak to Jane? Or to one of the others? Tell them what he’d done to her last month? No. She wouldn’t tell them, for the same reasons she hadn’t told them before now. Carlo had gone to great lengths to obtain what he wanted of her—a child. It was unlikely he would chance harming it when they were alone.

And, regardless, the rest of the family would soon be incapable of protecting her. When the full moon came, all on the estate would fall under its spell.

Say nothing of this. There’s no need to alarm the family, Carlo instructed. She shot him a sharp glance, wondering if he’d read her mind. But he only touched his throat, indicating his injuries. We’ll speak more of my wounds privately. Later.

He brushed past her, his boot heels tapping across polished Italian travertine.

Jane returned and dashed forward on silent slippers, taking him by surprise and enfolding him in a sisterly hug. He was too well mannered not to allow it. But Emma read the tension in him as he endured the affectionate clasp.

The hall was narrow, and their presence temporarily trapped Emma just inside the front door. Watching them, she fidgeted, smoothing her long, rustling skirts. Jane had insisted that she begin preparations for this momentous homecoming weeks ago, helping her in the selection of this extravagant gown as well as new nightclothes.

They’d spent today together, making sure she would look her best to greet her husband on the night they would become new parents. Emma hadn’t had the heart to protest to her sister that she was attempting to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. While Jane was beautiful and skilled at enhancing her beauty, Emma was plain and devoted little care to her appearance.

The splendid taffeta gown she wore was adorned with intricate tatting at its hem and delicate Venetian glass beading at its neckline. It had been designed and delivered earlier that week by the most skilled dressmaker in all of Florence. Her hair had been brushed and styled, with fluted ribbon woven through her brown curls.

All in preparation for her husband’s homecoming. All for a man who had no love for her, except as a means by which he could produce his progeny.

Welcome, Carlo! The deep, masculine voice belonged to Jane’s husband, Nicholas, who’d joined them. He was followed by his younger brothers, Raine and Lyon, and their respective wives, Jordan and Juliette. The entire family had gathered here tonight to wish them well on the night their first child would be born. The other three couples resided in the original castellos on the ancestral estate, which made visiting convenient.

As they all crowded into the hallway, Emma allowed herself to be shunted aside. It was natural for everyone to be excited, for they rarely saw Carlo. He had been at war for so long, returning intermittently, only to bed her with a regularity dictated by the carnal stirrings of his Satyr blood.

The last time they’d coupled had been exactly one month ago. It had been a Calling time. The moon had been heavy and ripe, bursting with light. As it would be again tonight.

He’d been tardy in coming to her bed that awful time four weeks ago, waking her sometime around midnight. The moon had risen hours earlier, and she’d long since cried herself to sleep, assuming he’d found another outlet for his passions and would not come. For once dusk fell on a Calling night, rituals commenced that engaged a Satyr male’s mind and body