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“Duma Council,” Torin remarked, breaking all the rules for he was not sequestered to speak. The Siruns simultaneously directed their attention upon him.
“Forgive me,” Torin said, suddenly rethinking his outburst. He dropped his head, fearing punishment.
Milos cleared his throat. “Your anxiety is as palpable as your jugular, Mr. Mancini.”
Torin raised his head and met his gaze. “Fear will do that to you,” he whispered. “And I don’t use the word lightly. You must understand. The seventh is a sadistic demon who murders for sport. For now, it’s just the U.S. but he will eventually find his way to your consorts, your daughters and even your Participants,” he said, with a cursory glance to the redhaired beauty. He trailed their faces and met them eye for eye. “I beg you. Stand beside us and help us force him back to the dark veil from whence he came.”
Milos combed his thick, unruly locks with his fingers, glancing to the other Siruns, silent messages flowing, eye to eye. Finally, he leaned across the table facing Torin. “We will assist in this battle, Mr. Mancini, but heed my warning and take it back to your master. If this is a hoax, there will be consequences.”
~~~
Torin spent the next hour atop the yacht, pacing. Once the chopper arrived, he made the flight back to the hotel, his chest so tight he could scarcely breathe. Donja’s eyes danced in his mind, the feel of her skin and her taste driving him to madness. He grimaced with clenched fist, his anger supreme.
Pregnant.
His jaw tightened.
Hold on baby, I’m coming.
Nigh on dark, fighting tears he had not shed since Anstosa’s death, the chopper arrived at the Maldives Airport. Dismayed, with an hour layover before departing to Vancouver, he found a bar and took a table. He ordered a lime spritzer. Beleaguered by a sudden desire to feed, heightened by a group of females two tables over, one of which was menstruating, he tightened his jaw. It occurred to him that in the chaos of the last two days, he had failed to feed, Donja his only concern. He took a hasty exit and outside the bar, dug in his vest for his cell and phoned Val.
“Hello.”
Torin closed his eyes, the sound of the man’s voice who he considered a brother all but bringing him to tears. He could all but see him, giant that he was, three hundred pounds of muscle and blood, curly blonde mane and baby blue eyes that falsely set men at ease, just before he broke them half.
“Any word?” Torin breathed.
“No, sorry, man, but you hold on. We’ll get her back. You’ll see.”
“Val, she’s pregnant,” he groaned, “pregnant and I can’t even touch her, or tell her how proud I am or how happy she makes me. It’s killing me man…eating me alive.”
“I know but you stay focused, brother.”
“Whew! I’ll try.”
“That’s my man.” Val said.
“So how is everyone there holding up?”
“We got hit last night but we held our own.”
“How’s Antonio?” Torin asked.
“As well as can be expected. He’s sleeping on the couch and watches over Anna constantly.”
“I’m not surprised,” Torin said, “there’s no stopping the heart. He really loves her.”
“Yeah, but unrequited love’s a real bitch.”
“I’m gonna go now,” Torin said, “but tell Antonio we have reinforcements coming.”
“Fucking A!” Val gushed.
“Yeah, prepare yourself. War is upon us.”
Torin ended the call strolling the corridors with a temperature of 116, an indication of starvation. Seeing a men’s restroom, he took to a stall, locked the door and rolled up his sleeve. Fangs inched from his lips, eyes squeezed tight to hide the glow. He bit into his upper arm, blood blasting the back of his throat. A feeling of relief washed over him and though he knew it was but a pseudo calm, he rocked his head, his gut sucking up the warm nourishment. He checked his temperature, 107 which was near the norm. He heard the call for his flight. He took his leave a bit more in control.
On board the jet, he took a window seat and with his face pressed to the cold glass, closed his eyes, concern for Donja overriding reality.