Page 19

How the hell am I gonna explain this?
Sixty miles later with picturesque views of Lake Huron visible between breaks in the dense forest, Torin slowed the Ferrari and took a sharp right, easing into a scenic overview. He noticed a black Mercedes, a silver Jaguar and a navy blue Porsche. He parked and got out, the scent of spruce and honeysuckle wafting, but the scent that held his attention was that of ten Iridescents, immortals who like himself, were known to his lineage as Affiliates. He set his path, aware of their eyes, and though they were out of sight he could visualize each of them by their scent. Down a set of steep wooden steps, he crisscrossed the forested hillside to a rocky overview. His stride faltered, Lake Huron before him. Magnificent. He took a breath, crisp and fresh and just offshore spied a yacht, one of the more expensive ones. Like a queen to the throne, she rode the swells, a Canadian flag her crowning glory. He took a deep breath, the scents of Affiliates and Council members aboard the yacht adrift in the breeze. At the shoreline, he stepped into an aluminum craft, a two-seater and after a brief glance to the Affiliate behind the wheel, sat down. The Affiliate fired the engine and the craft lunged, waves splashing as it cut a path toward the yacht.
On board, Torin was immediately frisked by two dark skinned Affiliates. They escorted him amid shared utterances in French, below deck.
“Merci,” Torin said as he bypassed a door with heavy muscled guards. He entered the hull of the yacht which was large, with an expansive table that monopolized one end. Six rows of velvet padded chairs spanned the breadth of the room. He smoothed his vest and a cursory glance to the wall revealed hulking Affiliates, killers, a needed necessity should tempers flare. He took note of a small bar with six barstools and a bartender in solid black, tall and lean. En route to the chairs, he noticed two Council members, better known as Siruns, seated at the table and though his pulse quickened, as it always did in their presence, he forced it to slow, a physiological ability he had mastered over the years. The Siruns, who were, the supreme elites of all Radiant Iridescents, eyed him aggressively as he took a seat at the back. He leaned back in the chair, eyes steady, hopeful of an auspicious meeting, though truth be known, the palpable tension warned of impending angst. He scanned their faces.
Only two Siruns, there’s usually five. Wonder where the other three might be?
“Torin,” said one of the Siruns, a polished man, dressed to kill in a three-piece suit. “We appreciate you arriving on time,” he remarked sarcastically.
Torin dipped his head respectively then locked eyes with the Sirun as an Affiliate, tray in hand served him, as well as the Sirun at his side, a cocktail. He was a hulking man, with dark, ebony skin, often referred to as ‘Garret the Great,’ a title used disparagingly by Lesser Iridescents who either feared or despised him. He had an air of superiority, demanding of attention, though Torin doubted it was worthy. Rumors circulated that he was a scoundrel, a womanizer and that he frequented brothels worldwide, devouring females like candy. Gossip of late depicted him to also have a fancy for oriental boys, young boys, ten and under, not for sex but male blood not yet tainted by testosterone. It was a strange delicacy and the thought made Torin’s skin crawl, but he didn’t dare show disrespect, none would, for death would surely follow.
Garret sipped his drink, ice cubes clinking. “Before your untimely arrival,” he said, “I was hearing from the Michigan Peacekeeper, that to his knowledge, you have not yet apprehended the rogue Iridescent.”
“That’s true,” Torin said.
“Disappointing,” Garret replied, his shaved skull reflecting the overhead lights. He finished off his martini.
“Do you have any leads?” Antonio, the second Sirun asked.
Torin met his gentle eyes, thick brown curly hair trailing his back, and noticed his jaw which twitched, but it wasn’t nerves, nor fear. This Sirun, weighing in at no more than one hundred twenty pounds was by far the most powerful U.S. Iridescent alive. He was a true elder, the ‘Grand Sirun,’ rumored at eight hundred and ninety years of age, though others argued he was much older.
Torin dipped his head out of true respect, then slowly raised his chin to meet his gaze, carefully choosing his words. “I have his body scent, thick with pheromones as well as the sour waft of his semen. I have imprinted his teeth marks which he left to taunt me on his victim’s skin. I have his hair color which is as golden—”
“You have one of his hairs?” Antonio interrupted.
“Yes, thanks to my associate Gage and I assure you, sir, that by this evidence alone I will know him on sight.”
“And this hair you speak of, did it lend evidence to his lineage?” Antonio asked with a tilt of his head.
“Regrettably no, just that he is old. Very old.”
“Well,” Antonio said with a haunting tone. “I must agree with Garret. This is disappointing.”
Torin blinked warily. “I understand your feelings, sir, but this has a been a challenge and just so that you’re aware, I was only called for the second and third victims. Adam, the Michigan Peacekeeper investigated the first,” he said, with a fleeting glance to a dark-haired man seated to his side.
“He’s correct,” Adam Mason, a full blood Chippewa, seated not two feet from Torin’s side spoke up. “As I told you earlier, I, along with detective Moyle examined the first victim near the International Bridge in Michigan and Torin the second, outside a nightclub in Ontario. I believe the third was in the heart of downtown.”
“Correct,” Torin said.
“Interesting,” Garret said, “he obviously roams both countries, killing at will.”
“For now,” Torin said, “but this evening, I will be out and about the Canadian Soo and if he makes the night scene, I will find him.”
“I have no doubt that you will, Mr. Mancini,” Antonio said as he quaffed his cocktail and placed the glass on the table.
“Come now, Antonio, you give him far too much credit,” Garret countered. He raised his empty glass to the waiter, motioning for refills.
Antonio stood up and smoothed his dark suit. Ignoring Garret’s comment, he eased around the table and marched toward Torin.
Torin rose to his feet as Antonio extended his hand. “Always a pleasure,” Antonio said.
“The pleasure is mine,” Torin said, towering over him as they shook hands. Antonio leaned in. “As a Peacekeeper, I know you understand the delicate nature of this situation, Mr. Mancini. Take care of it—quickly. We can’t have a rabid dog drawing attention to our kind, now can we?”
“I will do my best, sir.”
Antonio gripped his upper arm. “I know that you will and now, if you don’t mind, my daughters waiting.”