Irreversible Destiny

A/N: Hmm, it’s been a while I know. Been busy, busy, busy. Er…some weird stuff happens in this chapter. There’s a few interesting scenes between Cy and the Dementors and I’ll leave it at that, wouldn’t want to spoil what happens after all. 24 pages for you to enjoy.

Thanks to RandomDispatcher, Kenara, Lady Megsie and Alex for the Beta work and/or helping me figure out how things were going and sounding. You made writing this chapter considerably easier for me.

Parseltongue, foreign words, letters/articles etc.
Emphasized words, headings,
((d)) dream ((d))

Chapter XXI
Destiny

Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it,
to accept it, no matter where it leads him.
-Henry Miller, The Wisdom of the Heart
US author (1891-1980)

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Necromancer’s Spire
Eagle’s Spire, Devon UK
Thursday the 2nd of October 1997
1:32 AM

There were no rain clouds here; the sky was unveiled in all its star spangled glory high above him, even where he was sitting watching the heavens. Sprawled on the heated floor of a completed Summoning Circle, he sat slightly propped up against a mound of pillows. His only company was Atlanta who perched on the edge of the tower, observing him. In his right hand he cradled both a large glass of Firewhisky and a lit cigarette, alternating between them. Having woken up just a few minutes before one a.m. he found he couldn’t stay a moment longer in Riddle Mansion. The walls seemingly pressed in on him, threatening to keep him imprisoned so long that when he was freed no one would recall he had existed. So he fled to the only place he could expect to go without anyone following him and for the first time in months, drowned himself in liquor and cigarettes.

For the first time since he set foot in the Wizarding World, his mind was calm and uncluttered. All that was relevant in this world was the sky above him, the packet of cigarettes tucked next to him, the case of Firewhisky and the soft pillows cushioning him. He had pushed away the rampaging revelations, had shrugged off the hysteria that threatened to overcome him and had wandered into that wonderful state where nothing mattered and nothing affected him. Magic pulsed around him and did not distract him, even lying here on top of a burgeoning Necromancer’s Spire. The currents of Necromantic energy lapped at him, teasingly and he was as ignorant of its presence as a Muggle was ignorant of a Magical Creature standing a foot in front of it.

It was several hours later just as dawn was breaking the horizon, splashing the world with brilliant color, that something finally disturbed him. The night had been cool, the wind carrying the scent of winter but the sudden drop in temperature had him instantly alert, waking from his alcohol induced doze. Slowly reaching out with his magic to identify the sudden threat, he relaxed recognizing the gliding grace and rattling breath of his uninvited guests.

“So…this is where you have retreated to young Necromancer. The Serpent Lord’s household is in some disarray this morning, caused by your absence no doubt.” The Dementor Lord drawled with some amusement, his breath rattling.

Cyriacus slowly got to his feet and swaying slightly. glanced at the gray clad Dementor Lord- and the two regular Dementors flanking him. “How did you find me? No one should have been able to find me here of all places.”

One of the other Dementors drew a shuddering breath and when they spoke, it came out as a dry rasp. “Wizards blind.”

“And you are, excuse me- were not just ordinary Wizards, of course.” Cyriacus agreed putting out his cigarette. “That explains how you saw the Spire but not how you knew I would be here.”

The Dementor Lord glided forward and brushed his fingers along Cyriacus’s cheek. “As powerful as you are, whatever you have learned in the past few hours has broken even your ability to keep your emotions fully suppressed. To one such as us, you are tantalizing but now you are simply irresistible…”

Cyriacus didn’t resist as his face was tilted up and the Dementor Lord’s grip shifted, the clammy hand moving to cup the back of his head. Cold breath fanned across his face, as the hooded face loomed closer and closer to him. Something twisted inside of him and before he knew what he was doing, he had moved closer. An arm wrapped around his back, a cold hand settling on his hip, keeping him pinned in place. Something cold latched onto his lips and suddenly the whole world…shifted. As his eyes closed under the onslaught, his body surged with archaic power. Distantly he was aware of sharp stinging bites on his shoulders and arms, and the digging claw-like fingertips piercing the back of his neck and along the side of his hip. It was all too much, the bites, the sensation, the power! The icy thrust of a tongue breached his mouth and he was pulled into oblivion.

---

A dark blond haired man the Dementor Lord, slowly pulled away from the unconscious Necromancer utterly surprised. An olive skinned man with pitch black hair stood directly in front of him to his right and a fair haired man on the other side of the unconscious Necromancer. All of them looked shocked at their new appearance and the Dementor Lord picked up the Necromancer and laid him on the mound of pillows.

“What is he?” Gideon asked running his pale hands over his warm, toned body.

The dark haired Dementor shook his head. “I have never seen anyone quite like this one and you Ascyltus?”

Ascyltus Gildas, the Dementor Lord, turned to look at his companions. “I cannot say I have, in all my time, and I am among the oldest of our kind.”

“Are we truly Lichs then, brothers?” Gideon asked flexing his muscles with a look of awe on his face.

“It may appear to be so but I have my doubts,” The Dementor lord replied as he kneeled down to examine the young Necromancer. “He is alive, merely exhausted I would imagine.”

Fihr, the dark haired Dementor, glanced around the top of the Spire. “Quite accomplished this one is, at his age creating a single obsidian Summoning Circle would be quite a feat but to be able to create his first Necromancer’s Spire out of obsidian? Amazing!”

“True enough,” Gideon agreed.

“What magic do you harness within you, young Necromancer? To transmute the effect of a Dementor’s Kiss…” The Dementor Lord muttered softly as Cyriacus began to stir.

Sleepy dark green eyes opened and immediately focused on the not-stranger in front of him. “How…?”

“That is a question that even we do not know the answer to but perhaps if you could explain the recent upheavals, we might find an answer.”

Feeling remarkably…normal, his mind no longer plagued with heavy thoughts and the ominous feeling of impending doom had lifted and Cyriacus soon began speaking. The Dementors listened, exclaiming here or there and when he finished, they had all lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“What they did,” The Dementor Lord replied slowly. “Is not something I would have thought possible, though I freely admit as they are seemingly not as mortal as we are, there are reasons it may have worked. All these changes though, they have altered you, made you more than what is possible for a normal human and most definitely something that cannot be repeated again. There is little doubt why the younger Wraith has been shadowing your every movement, if you had died then all the years of work would have been for nothing.”

Fihr nodded and suggested, “Your power is different than any I have seen so far, similar to the Primordials but different also. The combination is very distinct; it attracts us like moths to flame as you saw earlier. Perhaps there is a form of magnetism? Your power draws us as our power entices you.”

“A Dementor’s Kiss is not so simple though,” Gideon pointed out. “There would have to be a reasonable explanation for that as well.”

Cyriacus looked around for his glass of Firewhisky and finding it broken grumbled as he snagged a fresh bottle and helped himself. “A Dementor’s Kiss is a form of Dark Magic; it siphons the very core and essence of the victim, leaving them a mindless shell. In a way, it is a curse to some effect. It traps the victim’s power and essence within the Dementor until the combined energy has been processed and used to fuel the Transcendence. I am a Blood Child, one destined for at least two Bloodbaths could it be that the weight of the Dementor’s Siphoning Curse is less than that of a Blood-born Curse?”

The Dementors looked thoughtful and finally after a few minutes Ascyltus nodded.

“That might be true. Deimos of Sparta, one of the greatest Necromancers said that ‘no curse was as heavy or as damning as that of the Blood Child’.”

Gideon shivered. “Even the Kin Slaying Curse bears no comparison to it…”

It took a few minutes for the words to sink in but when they did, Cyriacus threw his head back and laughed wildly. “Oh…the Fates are cruel bitches! That I should experience the most damning curses and come off none the worse for them because of what I am! The irony of it all…”

The Dementors watched him laugh; sinking into the mound of pillows as the hysteria and the slight breakdown he had shrugged off earlier clawed its way out. Twenty minutes later he had regained control of himself and smoothly got to his feet. The two normal Dementors had returned to their natural form as Dementors, neither seemed pleased with that development. The Dementor Lord however, was still human-like and watching him curiously.

There was something about his eyes, the Dementor Lord decided, he has made his choice and he will stand by it. Now at last we will see what he is and what he has decided to become…

“So I’m damned and the weight of being a Blood Child negates the Magical Curses experienced by normal Wizards and Witches. Best make use of it wouldn’t you agree?” Cyriacus said conversationally as he banished the pillows and empty bottles.

“What are you going to do?” The Dementor Lord asked cautiously.

Cyriacus drew a rune in the air with his fingers and eight Gatherers appeared, the spiders waiting for orders. Crouching he brushed his mind against theirs and after forming pairs they vanished into a shadow, their goals set. When Cyriacus got to his feet and turned to face the Dementor Lord, his face set and eyes glowing with power.

“What am I going to do? Why regain my health and vitality of course, if I have nothing to fear in the ways of Magical Curses, what prevents me from spilling mortal blood to meet my own ends?” That said, he stepped into a shadow and vanished, on his way to make his preparations for the Summoning.

---

The Strategy Room
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Thursday the 2nd of October 1997
7:20 PM

Voldemort calmly walked into the room, absently acknowledging his Death Eaters as he took his seat. A note from Cyriacus had arrived during lunch basically telling them he was fine and that he would arrive later at 7:30 to finish the discussion from yesterday. A casual glance around the room revealed anxious looking Elites who were all clustered around the end of the table near Cyriacus’s chaise, Nusayr and the rest of the Primordial Beings were restlessly walking around the room and the Inner Circle members were seated at the table, talking amongst their companions. A few minutes later, the door swung open.

Cyriacus stepped into the room, which fell silent, all eyes riveted on him. Voldemort and several others got to their feet, ready to rush over to him; but then he moved and they realized he wasn’t covered in blood, (at least not copious amounts of it) but it was his clothing! Voldemort had never seen anything like it before but he had heard of it, an ancient material made by a small clan of Blood Mages that lived somewhere in the heart of the Black Forest.

The robes rippled around him, giving the impression of flowing blood as the robes were elaborately dyed in various reds. He wore his hair tied back in a simple black braid, flecks of blood were splashed on his face and stained his fingers but he was uncaring. A strange dark blond haired man walked directly behind and to his side, followed by two Dementors.

The moment the door shut behind the strange group, Voldemort’s nose twitched as he caught the most unforgettable scent. “You’ve been practicing Blood Magic; you reek of its taint.”

Cyriacus slowly raised his left arm from his side and cast a spell untying the laces of his gauntlet. Once the ties were loose, he grasped the fingers and yanked, pulling the gauntlet off. He handed the black dragonhide gauntlet to the blond and grasping his sleeve, pulled it up revealing a completely healed arm covered in very light ripple-like scars.

“How did you-“ Severus began but his son cut him off quickly.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Cyriacus said eyes shining with an emotion everyone was hard pressed to name.

Constance frowned. “Is it completely healed?”

“As much as it can be,” Cyriacus replied, slipping his arm back into the gauntlet and using another spell to re-tie the laces.

Asadyl watched his Heir closely. “It was a Rite of Saqr was it not?”

“Yes.” Cyriacus replied flexing his fingers and arm. “As a Blood Child I have little to fear from other Curses.”

Kohinoor smiled slightly. “For you already bear the darkest Curse, yes.”

“Such is the way of my life, or so I am learning.” Cyriacus said crossing his arms over his chest, smiling sardonically.

“Why are you still wearing that glove?” Pansy asked pointing.

Cy frowned pensively. “Because my arm is only healed so much as it will ever be and there are side effects from the Purification Flame. I get the most annoying pins-and-needle sensation in my arm if I am exposed to areas that have an abnormally high concentration of magic. I’m hoping that enough exposure in small amounts will allow me to become accustomed to the feeling or better yet, tone down the sensation but at the moment, I will take precautions to stay safe.”

Asadyl gaped at him. “You were exposed to one of those Purification Flames and did not incinerate on contact?”

“Considering how badly burned I was for less than two minutes in contact with it, I’d say I was lucky.”

“Even then kyndrak, to be able to heal such damage!” Kohinoor breathed, awed. “All these years of waiting have paid off handsomely, you are perfection incarnate.”

Cyriacus raised an eyebrow, his face expressing skepticism. “I wouldn’t go that far. I have an unbelievable amount of power I’ll admit but even my body can’t harness it without severe strain. I’d be easy cannon fodder on the field after four or so Summonings, I imagine.” He paused, looking distant. “It’s why Necromancers rarely ally themselves with Dark Lords, without proper protections, that is. Very little, at the end of the day, is worth dying for.”

Voldemort glanced at him and shivered at the look in his glazed eyes. “Yet you were willing to kill me and be slain in the wake of my death.”

“And do you know how I would have killed you?” Cyriacus asked softly, his voice as soft as silk. “The Necromancer’s formally call it, Elsinore’s Sacrifice but the most common name is Bait. It’s a highly dangerous Summoning as the slightest error or lingering results in death. Sowing nothing more than a salt circle, I would pierce the veil between the Mortal Realm and the Nether Plane and create a Blood Orb to attract one of the Ravagers. The moment the Blood Orb is completed, I would then remove the main Orb of Stability from within me and force it into the Blood Orb and cast it at my enemy. The moment the two converge, forming a Vengeance Orb, the Ravagers would come pouring through the veil. I would then break the Salt Circle to prevent becoming eaten, and they would destroy the unfortunate being the Orb affixes itself within.”

Severus grimaced. “I imagine that isn’t a pleasant way to die?”

“It’s among the worst,” Cyriacus answered, lips curving in disgust. “Ravagers commonly eat energy; they’ll rip apart your Core and even your soul when it attempts to flee from its dying body. They’ll also settle for flesh and bone as well. Given a chance they’ll slaughter you in unspeakable ways…”

The blond behind him frowned. “I am unfamiliar with that technique.”

“It was created in the late 1200’s, well after your botched Transcendence.” Cy replied smoothly as he took his seat at his chaise.

Bellatrix glanced at the two men. “Who is he and what is he doing here?”

Cy gestured at the Dementor Lord. “You are already familiar with him and I imagine you’ll understand in the next ten minutes or so.”

A younger Elite glanced at him curiously. “Why were you practicing Blood Magic?”

“I assure you, I did not get back my health and vitality by natural means. Blood is the center of all things magical or otherwise. I have spilled much of it to get to where I am now, and I am under no illusions that I will not continue to do so.” Cy replied with a dark laugh.

“That is the way of our kind,” The Dementor Lord commented. “For knowledge, power, gain and our own aims, we have shed the blood of others and we will continue to do so. It is an unavoidable part of being a Necromancer; one has to be willing to sacrifice others and even oneself.”

Shifting on the chaise, Cyriacus waved his hand regally. “It is a path paved by blood and no doubt in its own way, a kind of damnation. Yet we are that which we were meant to be so in the end there is little use complaining about the inevitable.”

“You didn’t seem that accepting last night.” Draco commented.

“I wasn’t, I admit it, but in the grand scheme of things what choice do I have but to accept it? I have two Prophecies hanging around my neck like an Albatross and if I wish to stay sane I’d best get over it and figure out what my next move it.” Cyriacus glanced over to Asadyl and Kohinoor. “And if I want to be able to do that, I need to hear why exactly you chose to do what you did and just what I can expect to happen to me.”

The Chylla and the Wraith exchanged looks and Asadyl nodded slightly and turning to look at his Heir began his story.

“As Altaros told you, the fault lies with Imryn and I, and it all began over Miela. What I need to explain first is this; the Primordial Beings have existed longer than even the normal mortals that populate the world now. For a long time, several hundred years, we had no way of reproducing amongst ourselves but to our amazement, these fragile mortals could easily be impregnated or impregnate our kind. Balance was found and so we discovered that mixing our blood created beings that were neither of Primordial or mortal descent but something stranger and unforeseen.”

Nusayr interrupted. “Not all of them still exist now, it has been several thousand years after all, but quite a few of the intermixed hybrids still prosper. The most prominent of those that still exist are the Veela, Incubi and Succubi, Vampires and Werewolves.”

“In any event, our kind began breeding with the mortals and the half-breed offspring were highly sought by the Primordials as they often were able to breed true with others of our kind. Miela was one such example; she was the daughter of a mortal woman and a Deviant. To be brief, she had been promised to Imryn, who was the Revenant’s Eldest but was physically drawn to me. In the end I took her and she became pregnant with my child, the first child sired by a Wraith and highly prized. Trouble was afoot at the time, the first practitioners of Order Magic were causing some mischief amongst our kind and every child born or were on the way were much needed. Two months after my son Nazyh was born, I was called away to a meeting and Imryn stole my son. Several months were wasted attempting to reach an agreement for my son’s return but neither of us could agree to anything and then war broke out between the Wraiths and Deviants. Barely a year after that, we began warring in earnest with the Order Practitioners and our lack of unity brought about our banishment from this world.”

Kohinoor smoothly took up the next portion of the explanation. “Fortunately the Chylla are Gifted with skills in Divination and Foresaw this event before our banishment took place. It took two weeks but eventually, my Sisters and I were able to rally the Primordials once again and explained to them the Prophecy and our hope for salvation. After much discussion we came into agreement and decided on a very dangerous Blood Ritual. In order to achieve our aims, we took the blood of the three Eldest members of each group and infused the combined blood into Imryn’s youngest child Saphra. Then using a Dark Ritual that combined aspects of Chaos Magic and what you now call Lost Arts, we slew the three Eldest of the Deviants, Savages and Revenants. Twisting the power from their deaths and combining it with magic, we were able to force it into Asadyl’s missing son Nazyh. This was done as precaution, preferably we wanted to mingle the blood of the descendants of those two bloodlines but should one somehow become defunct, we would still have one bloodline to use to ensure our Prophecy came true.”

“In any case, we were forced into the Chaos Plane by the Order practitioners and the Chylla amusingly enough were allowed to roam as they pleased. That worked in our favor but was hardly fair.” Asadyl commented with some annoyance. “So we waited, biding our time.”

“We on the other hand, did not have as easy a time as Asadyl makes it sound. Keeping track of the descendants of Nazyh and Saphra proved to be a difficult task as well as manipulating their bloodline as often as we could to ensure purity. Years passed by with very few candidates being born who we thought might be the Prophesized one and our frustration grew as the bloodlines thinned and some were destroyed. Eventually, it came to be that your mother’s bloodline was all that remained of Sapphra’s descendants and only two bloodlines remained descended of Nazyh’s offspring. We believed it was a sign when both your parents ended up going to Hogwarts and soon enough, several of us had powerful Visions regarding your impending birth and the circumstances leading to them. Your father joining Voldemort only added to our plans, especially as Voldemort had become very enthralled at the idea of creating a Potion to create abnormally powerful children. In this, we saw to it that your birth became a surety. Nanaea, the second Eldest of the Chylla, collaborated with Voldemort’s current Potions Master and together created the Anguis Potion.”

Kohinoor’s explanation was cut off as the blond man gasped and became surrounded in a black mist. His breath came in short pants and then bone chillingly familiar rattles. When the mist faded, they saw the Dementor Lord standing in place of the blond man.

Everyone gaped and Voldemort glanced over at his lover. “How did he-“

“I’ll show you later perhaps.” Cyriacus answered rather impatiently. “Continue.”

Kohinoor blinked and then shook her head before continuing. “The Potion was difficult to craft, especially as we had to ensure that you would be the superior of all the other children who would be sired. We used infusions of Primordial Blood as well as a combination of other magical ingredients and distilling processes and after nearly fourteen months of careful brewing, it was ready.”

Severus frowned thoughtfully. “Would the infusion of Primordial Blood have anything to do with the number of complications at birth? I believe it safe to guess that you purposely destroyed the recipe of the Anguis Potion? When I took up the position of Potions Master after my predecessor was killed and Nanaea had ‘vanished’, I never did find any records of it. Though I imagine you also kept me away from the brewing process for exactly that reason as well?”

“Yes, only those who had some diluted Primordial Blood in their bloodlines would have given birth to a completely healthy child. To be honest, we had not expected so many children to be born and born whole. It is a pleasing result though; it simply means there will be more guards for the kyndrak.” Kohinoor smiled smugly and finished answering his questions. “You are correct; the recipe was destroyed to prevent any other attempts at tampering with the Potion. Mind you, it would not have worked without the exact infusion of Primordial Blood we used but you could have caused a great deal of problems had you attempted to modify it.”

Antares looked confused. “Why would he need guards for? He’s more powerful than all of us put together.”

Cyriacus interrupted, eyes dark. “But also more vulnerable as I recover my strength after using too much magic. You knew that would happen didn’t you? That’s exactly why Nusayr was charged to guard me, shadowing my every move. If I die, then all you’ve worked for goes to naught, I’m the last scion of Sapphra’s line.”

“What is most important is that you are the one who carries this Prophecy and your death now, is the death of our hopes to get out of that blasted prison!” Asadyl said gruffly.

If it was possible, Cyriacus’s eyes got even darker. “Yes, I’m just the pawn, the procurer of your freedom…nothing else matters beyond that point does it?”

Voldemort shivered at the way his lover was speaking, it was devoid of emotion yet at the same time so…cold.

“That is not what this is all about kyndrak; you are not a mere tool. You are more than that. When the time comes you will be the Dark One, Lord of the Primordials. It is a title of high honor, one with unimaginable power and it was created solely for you. My Sisters and I may have orchestrated events, but your coming was seen long before we began our task.” Kohinoor said firmly, attempting to steer him away from seeing himself as being born to be used. He had not been born to be used after all; he had been born to rule and born to save the rest of their kind from their prison.

Cyriacus didn’t comment, thinking her words over before cautiously asking, “And the Prophecy?”

“It is simple enough. It is through your diluted Wraith blood that allows you to pierce the veil between this realm and the other planes. When the Blood Ritual is completed and you become the Lord of Primordials in truth, there will be little stopping you from opening as many of these portals as you choose. As the ruler of each sect of the Primordials you may call them from their prison at your leisure. It was seen to take many, many years to free all our Brethren but it can be done and you will be the only one who may do this.”

“You think by completing the Blood Ritual, I will have enough power to sustain keeping a Rift open between the Mortal and Chaos Plane?! Are you crazy?” Cy exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

Asadyl frowned, “You’re power now is a mere trifle compared to what it will be a year from now.”

Cyriacus glared at his ancestor and with aggravation snarled, “I am not concerned about power! Power is not an issue in this matter, what I am concerned about is how likely it is that I will be able to live through the experience! Summoning Nusayr nearly killed me and the only reason I’m well enough today is because I slaughtered six mortals, in the prime of their life and in their top physical condition, and used the magic released from their deaths to rejuvenate my own body!”

“And that is partly why we risked creating a Blood Child. No Chaos Curse is near as damning as the taint of being a Blood Child. We created you to have a choice in making a more rapid recovery.” Kohinoor said flatly.

Voldemort inwardly winced at the sudden flare of power in his lover’s eyes; this was not going to end well. Clenching his fists, Cyriacus grit his teeth and attempted to stay calm even as his power began pooling around him, waiting to be unleashed. The Dementor Lord glided forward, stopping directly in front of the furious Necromancer. Everyone cringed, waiting for the explosion that was surely inevitable. Cyriacus slowly got to his feet and grabbing hold of the front of the Dementor Lord’s robes, jerked him forward. Voldemort gaped when he saw his lover smash his lips down onto the clammy, darkened lips of the Dementor Lord.

Ignoring everyone else in favor of the kiss, Cyriacus forcefully pressed himself against the Dementor Lord and made the first move, his tongue snaking into that cold mouth. Ah there it was! Cyriacus closed his eyes as held on more tightly as he felt that oh so familiar chill sweep through his body, taking away all the mixed emotions leaving him in a state of blissful calm and clarity. Those watching the kiss were horrified and slack-jawed at the unexpected action, wondering what could have possibly possessed Cyriacus to commit suicide. Staring in horrified rapture, they watched as the Dementor Lord slowly transformed from his skeletal, color leeched state to a healthy human glow. After what seemed like an eternity, the two slowly pulled away from each other, the Dementor Lord drawing quick breaths while Cyriacus looked stoic and calm.

Severus was the first to regain the ability to speak and with a growl demanded, “By Merlin’s staff, what the hell was that?!”

“A side effect,” Cyriacus answered coolly. “This is only a small fraction of the oddities I am capable of thanks to so much meddling throughout the years. I only discovered this ability earlier this morning and to be blunt, it works much better than the blasted Potions I’ve been taking to maintain my Numbing condition. This is more effective and in addition, is of more use as well. It seems we both give and take some kind of energy from each other and the Dementors are temporarily boosted to full Lich status for a short time. It will be invaluable during the War.”

The Dementor Lord nodded. “This ability of yours will almost guarantee you instant loyalty by the other Dementor Lords. If you are willing to use this power to create as many Lichs as you desire and if you can find a way to make it last longer, you will become even more formidable.”

Cyriacus shrugged. “We will see, it requires more testing and there is plenty of time for that still.”

Asadyl changed the subject. “Nusayr has told me that you will be attending a gathering of some importance with some of the mixed hybrids we mentioned earlier?”

“We will be leaving tomorrow afternoon,” Voldemort agreed.

“Then there is one last thing you need to be aware of before you go, my Heir. The mixed hybrids owe their allegiance to the Primordials as we are their forefathers and as the soon-to-be Lord of the Primordials, they will owe their allegiance to you as well.”

Cyriacus raised an eyebrow. “Will they even remember that promise and better yet, do they even remember you exist?”

“To them we are the Forgotten Ones and they very well know they are descended of our blood. They will know and they cannot refuse to obey you, they are our children and they have always heeded us in matters of the utmost importance.” Kohinoor added.

“I imagine they will require some proof that the time has come for their allegiance to be called upon? They will not take me at my word without proof of some sort.”

Asadyl smiled, his violet eyes shining with dark humor. “Worry not, it is only a matter of time before they realize what exactly you are but the signs are already apparent to those observant enough.”

“Very well,” Cyriacus commented. “At the most, it will make them bide their time and wait to choose a side to serve. That will suit our purposes for the time being.” He glanced at Voldemort. “How goes the preparations?”

Voldemort smoothly answered, “Everything is prepared and my spies report that no further unexpected activity has taken place in Casablanca. We depart tomorrow afternoon by Portkey to a secured location in Morocco.”

“Have you selected our attendants?”

“We are allowed eight additional attendants, four each. Accompanying me will be Lucius, Rodulphus, Bellatrix and Rabastan. Who or what you choose to take with you, I leave to your discretion.”

Asadyl frowned. “Nusayr and at least one other Primordial will accompany you, I insist. If only based on your Savage tendencies last night, there is little doubt you will need at least two that you may Feed from.”

“I will take Nusayr as he has little choice in the matter. If Asaph and the Dementor Lord agree, I should like them to attend me as well.”

The Revenant agreed quickly, as did the Dementor Lord who had a slight smile on his face.

Voldemort frowned slightly at his choice but didn’t comment, not here anyway. “And your fourth?”

“I will see if I can get in touch with an acquaintance of mine. If he is unavailable on short notice I will find someone else. I have little doubt he will drop everything for me if I request it though,” Cyriacus smiled lazily. “There is very little he would not do for me if I ask it of him.”

“I see.” Voldemort said suppressing his jealousy at this unknown man his lover spoke of so fondly.

Cyriacus got to his feet and prepared to leave the room, Kohinoor stopped him. “Don’t you want to know what powers to expect from the Blood Ritual?”

Cyriacus graced her with a look so daunting that it had even the Primordials backing away from him nervously. When he spoke, his voice was soft as silk and dripping with malevolence. “I think my dear that I have heard enough from you for one evening. What I am is not something even you could explain, all your plotting has created something unexpected and powerful. What powers I have, no doubt, are mutated and I will learn of them myself over time. Your assistance regarding this matter is no longer needed or wanted. Might I suggest keeping your distance for the time being? My temper is so short these days and I find I have found a particularly amusing way to express my…misfortune. I should not want to kill you prematurely after all; your death has a use to me and I shall be ever so displeased if I were to waste it.”

Kohinoor didn’t dare move as Cyriacus bent closer to her, his eyes flat and lifeless. His lips pressed close to her ear and a tongue traced her earlobe. “Meddling bitch! I am not a tool to be used or manipulated lightly, think of this as a small sample of my…gratitude.” Cyriacus stepped back swiftly and with a snarl, lashed her four times with shimmering bands of his focused energy. Cyriacus watched her crumble boneless on the ground, blood soaking her once pristine white robes. Around him, he could smell the sudden tension and fear.

Flashing a feral smile at his audience he hissed, “And that is why no one should be stupid enough to think to manipulate me and pay no price. I always get my due.”

The Dementors were, once again, irresistibly drawn to him and Cyriacus didn’t even flinch when he felt them pulling up the sleeves of his robes their teeth sinking into his flesh. Ascyltus had pulled rank and for the first time in his Lich form, greedily kissed the Necromancer. Power flowed between them, filling hidden reserves within them until they were so full that pain raced through their bodies. The pain and the pleasure consumed them and it took the force of Gideon and Fihr tugging them apart to make them aware of the world around them. Gideon steadied the dazed Necromancer while Fihr gaped at his friend and leader. Ascyltus now looked far younger than he had a few moments before and if it was possible, even more human-like than before.

“Well,” Cyriacus commented slightly amused. “There’s a definite attraction of some sort.”

Ascyltus smiled in such a way that Voldemort had to restrain himself from doing something he might regret later. “There is plenty of time to investigate further.”

Shaking his head slightly, Cyriacus headed to the door. “I’ll be out of touch the rest of the night and be back sometime around ten tomorrow morning. Don’t Call unless it’s an emergency.”

---

Apartment 632
Seattle, Washing USA
Thursday the 2nd of October 1997
1:01 PM

Cyriacus adjusted his sunglasses as he stepped into the empty hall. Dressed in a coal colored Armani suit with a stylish overcoat, he fit right in at the upscale apartment complex. Striding through the hall as if he owned it, he headed to the end of the hallway. Stopping in front of the last door on the right hand side of the hall, he fiddled with his coat then knocked on the door four times. The door swung in a moment later and Cy quickly entered, closing the door behind him.

“You’re the last person I expected to see today.” A man drawled the slightest hint of an Irish brogue in his tenor voice.

Turning, Cy spotted the speaker leaning casually against the wall next to a grandfather clock. The other man had short glossy hair the color of dark chocolate. His skin was pale as though he spent little time out in the sun and his eyes were the color of a winter storm. Tall and broad shouldered, he was blessed with an average appearance which no doubt made his work easier. He looked exactly like he was posing as, a wealthy businessman. Cyriacus however, knew differently.

Cyriacus adopted an innocent expression. “Kieran my dear friend, you act as though you don’t wish to see me every now and then. How’s business?”

“So long as mortals feel greed, envy and hatred, business will always be good.”

“Didn’t I tell you the business here would be better?”

Kieran shrugged. “So you did, what brings you all the way out here?”

Cyriacus raised an eyebrow. “You may not attend the regular gatherings but I know very well you would have heard about the…sudden change in my allegiances.”

“As though you were loyal to anyone but yourself Cyriacus!” Kieran snorted derisively.

“Ah but they didn’t know that now did they?” Cy replied with a wicked smile.

Kieran shook his head, chuckling. Gesturing for Cyriacus to follow him, he led the younger Wizard through a large open living room they entered a well furnished office. Cyriacus took a seat in front of a mahogany desk while his friend poured them some brandy. They spent an hour chatting companionably, catching up about events that had taken place since they last spoke in June.

“So, what brings you to my door this afternoon?” Kieran asked, curious why his friend was here looking slightly frazzled.

“Kieran, I need your help.” Cy said bluntly.

Kieran threw his head back and laughed. “From what you just told me you don’t need just my help and expertise, you need the aid of at least three other Masters of my particular trade.”

“That’s true I can’t deny that, but I trust you implicitly which is more than I can say about some of the other Masters. Name your price and if it’s within my power, it’s yours.”

Kieran studied him silently and Cy sat patiently waiting. After about ten minutes Kieran nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Cy let out a relieved breath. “Great, what do you want in exchange?”

Kieran’s lips twitched. “I’ll waive my payment until after the world’s conquered.”

Cy burst out laughing. “That’s fine.”

“So when do I start…boss?”

“Immediately, think you can be packed up by midnight?”

Kieran smirked. “No problem at all.”

“I’ll meet you back here at eleven o’clock then, I have another visit to pay.” Cyriacus said smoothly getting to his feet and vanishing into a shadow next to a bookcase.

---

The North Tower
Arcanum Institute of Magic, Unplottable, Unknown
Friday the 4th of October 1997
3:10 AM

The hallways were empty; Cyriacus noted absently standing in the shadows at the foot of the North Tower. Casting a quick Containment Spell followed by a few Banishing Spells on his clothes, he quickly Transformed. It took barely two heartbeats now and the pain was barely even noticeable as long as he remembered to take off his shirt. Another quick Cleaning Charm took care of the blood splatters and dismantling the Containment Spell, he lazily stretched his huge wings as he stepped out of the shadows. Exquisitely crafted Dragons guarded the entrance to the stairs leading to Morgan’s Tower, both were slumbering their heads pillowed on their arms.

“Wake guardian and taste of my blood and magic,” Cyriacus said formally, voice pitched so his words wouldn’t disturb the portraits hanging along the hallway but loud enough to draw the attention of the statues.

Yawning, the Dragons woke and looked at him curiously, obviously never having seen anything like him before. Holding out both his hands, Cyriacus allowed the Dragon on the right to bite his hand drawing blood and tasting it while the other Dragon examined the small flicker of power he had allowed to pool at the tips of his fingers. Once both were satisfied that he was someone who was allowed entrance into the rooms above, they both backed away, revealing a large stone arch and a torch-lit staircase.

“My thanks,” Cyriacus rumbled, folding his wings on his back so he could duck through the entrance. The statues re-took their place once he was inside the Tower and Cyriacus shook his head and began the laborious climb to the Tower rooms above. Normally he would have spared himself the 1,437 step climb but tonight he was in a strange mood. Exchanging energy with the Dementors not only freed him from the annoying emotional restraints from his Numbing condition but it seemed to give him a great deal of mental clarity and dare he say it? A sense of inner peace and well being that had noticeably been absent for as long as he remembered. It was dangerous though, it could become far to easy to become addicted to the peace of mind those Kisses gave him and he would resort back to his normal ‘fix’.

Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that he had been drawn here today, his life after all, had changed the moment he had set foot in this building. Morgan hadn’t been lying about his condition when he had arrived, he had hardly been aware of anything around him when Dumbledore and the others had handed him the Portkey. He had been hopelessly lost, his psyche threatening to shatter from the stress and trauma of the Third Task. In addition, his Numbing Condition had suddenly emerged and was slowly destroying his ability to feel anything, emotionally or physically. Just thinking about those first days made his throat tighten with emotion, he had been so raw and so fragile when he had arrived. It was here that they had discovered how far his relatives had gone, it was here that they had allowed the mask of the Boy-Who-Lived to be ripped away and had allowed him to be willing to show how weak and human he truly was. And it was here that they had made him whole in body, mind and spirit.

It hadn’t been easy and the stress alone probably would have broken him completely if they hadn’t had him dosed to the hilt with all sorts of Mind Controlling and Mind Altering drugs. They put him under a suicide watch when they started him on the first of his Potion regimes not because he would have killed himself, but because the only way to recover from Numbing was to do damage to oneself in an attempt to become aware of the pain. Too many who had not been under close observation had died, totally unaware of their lifeblood seeping away.

The Potions regime had fixed his Numbing, temporarily as they later learned, but it could do nothing to destroy the guilt of Cedric’s death. When they realized that none of their Potions could possibly delude his mind long enough for him to escape the nightmares and none of the best Mind Healers could reason with him, they had given him the only absolution he would accept, a la Dursley. They hadn’t wanted to do it but in the end when his own Survival Magic gave way, they played along with his delusion, allowing him to believe that somehow he was bleeding away the poison that had been consuming him for so long.

It was after he recovered from that horrible lashing that he became malleable and more than willing to be changed, to learn to be strong on his own and to allow the careless words of the Wizarding World to wash over him. As he had said before, it was a long time coming but so overdue! Stabilized at last and as recovered from his ordeal as much as could be expected, he threw himself into his studies striving to become, not the pawn, but the player. So he learned to harden himself physically, emotionally and morally as well. He shed blood, killed when necessary and pushed himself as far as his body and mind would go. Though he had made friends and allies, he had learned to depend solely on himself and to be willing to sacrifice even the closest friend in the heat of battle. He had become the hero the Wizarding World had desired for so long, albeit a very cold-hearted and brutally mercenary one.

Cyriacus shook his head and pushed away the memories, now was not the time to reflect, he had a few small matters to discuss and then he needed to get a few hours of sleep. Stopping in front of an ornately carved oak door, he knocked twice and waited. The door opened and he entered the room. Silently, they passed through her richly appointed living room and into what appeared to be a large, meditation room. Potted plants added color to the otherwise drab space, scented candles were lit all along the room and a fountain trickled soothingly along the left wall. The right wall was completely covered in large windows and no doubt framed a wonderful view of the grounds.

Morgan, dressed in gold nightdress with a royal blue night robe over it, took a seat on a plush cushion in the center of the room and waving her hand, conjured another directly opposite her about a foot way. Cyriacus carefully sprawled on the cushion, folding his wings and settling them more comfortably on his back. Morgan studied him curiously, sensing the strange mixture of emotions emanating from him.

“It is, of course, good to see you mon cher but I must wonder what brings you to my rooms so early in the morning?” Morgan said at last as it seemed Cyriacus was not quite ready to speak.

Cyriacus sighed. “It’s been a…rough couple of days I suppose you could say. So much has happened and I have learned more about what I am than perhaps I would have liked. For me, everything that is of true importance happened here and I begin to think that I long for the days where, although I was in danger I was relatively safe to live my life as I desired. I never thought going back to Great Britain in July would change so many things but…maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised being what I am.”

“And what are you, Prince of Dragons? What troubles you so?” Morgan asked softly, sincerely interested.

“The question isn’t so much what I am, but what am I not? I was so angry when I learned of it all, so furious I could have shredded everything in the room! And instead of dealing with my feelings, I took the easy way out and let his Kiss wash everything away. How did I become so weak, Morgan? So weak I can’t bear to deal with my own feelings or even channel them into something useful?”

Morgan closed her eyes and wished that she had intervened earlier, had brought him here when he was younger, before those Muggles had irrevocably broken something inside him. She was honest enough to know she bore some of the blame; she had fused the broken pieces of him back together and in the process had created new flaws he had yet to deal with. “You cannot be invincible; it is not possible even for someone of your power and character! Why you insist upon thinking yourself so weak is beyond my ken. The things you have learned the last three months are enough to have broken lesser men and yet you still persevere, you adapt to the situation and choose to accept it and live your life regardless. For someone with such a brilliant mind, I have to wonder if you ever took our talks seriously Cyriacus!”

“You know what I was like when I came here and I think you know better than most the way I dealt with my feelings. You told me once that you would always be here, willing to do what was necessary if I felt as if I would break.” Cyriacus said softly. “And I don’t feel as though I am just going to break Morgan, I feel as if I will shatter into a million pieces and no one will be able to put me back together.”

“Why can’t I fix you?” Morgan said at last, drawing a harsh breath. “We made you stronger, smarter, quicker, cautious and sly, all because you desired to become something better than you were, something that was you and not just the expectations of so many. It took us months of careful planning, months of meticulous Potion regimes and highly dangerous Magical Rituals but we were able to make you into what you desired to be. You became stronger and faster, with reflexes and thought processing higher than most humans and yet, nothing we could do could change that one little flaw!”

Cyriacus smiled bitterly. “It’s not a flaw…not as I have learned. It is nothing more than what I am, what they made me.”

“W-what?” Morgan asked shocked.

“I’m a Blood Child…a tool born to fix the error of my ancestors, and a tool born to fulfill yet another Prophecy. I…I can’t deal with this any longer, Morgan! It’s going to destroy me, I will go crazy unless you pull yourself together and do as you promised! Don’t…don’t make me beg for it.” Cyriacus said flatly, cheeks flushing with humiliation.

Morgan stared at him for a very long time and sighing, got to her feet. “Very well…let us go to another room.”

Cyriacus followed her out, Transforming back to his normal form. They Flooed down to an unused dungeon room and once again, Arcanum’s infamous banshee ghost made his presence known. This was the only time he allowed himself to truly feel and not just suppress his feelings, he gave himself the luxury of being able to voice his pain in more ways than stifled whimpers and soft moans. The pain of the lash cutting into his flesh, blood dripping down his back mingled with sweat. This was his release from everything, his failure, his weakness, his selfishness and his fear. Blood dripped from him and the oppressive weight of everything that bore so heavily on his mind and spirit was lifted, forgotten if only for a few precious hours. It was a reminder of what he was; he was no Saint, no invincible Immortal being, just a broken very twisted individual who would spill blood as readily as he shed his own, to bleed away his own guilt and failures.

Lashing was the only acceptable absolution he would ever have, and how amusing he found it that Morgan was the only one who could stomach giving him what he so desperately needed. Arcanum trained strong Wizards and Witches, who were ruthless while pursuing their goals and yet of those who taught here, only Morgan could cross the line, and cause deliberate harm to an ally. Of course, Voldemort had tortured him the night of the Summit and though Cyriacus had not asked for the release all that bloodletting gave him, he had appreciated it and found himself rather disgusted with himself. That had been purely for show not for release and yet he had enjoyed it, that had made him feel extremely twisted resulting in his lover’s belief that his action had caused the reason for Cyriacus’s sudden strange shift in attitude. Now this was a secret he was more than willing to keep from his lover, his father and the rest. This was his absolution and none of them needed to know of it. They would view it as not only a very strange, twisted desire on his part but also see it as a weakness, and he would not be exploited for the strange methods in which he found release and kept his sanity.

She had always been able to give him what he needed, no matter what he had needed from her and no matter how much it cost her. Cyriacus gasped as he felt his Survival Magic finally yield and then Morgan picked up a furious pace, lashing him wildly as though furious with him for what he required of her. And maybe she had a right to be angry, maybe this wasn’t normal for most people but this was what he needed to stay sane. This was what he needed to remind him that he was human, that he was mortal, in whatever ways were left to him. It wasn’t a personal flaw; it was what simply what he was…this was the price of being born a Blood Child.

---

The Kitchen
Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London UK
Thursday the 2nd of October 1997
11:32 PM

Dumbledore watched as the room filled with Order members. They trickled in twos and threes, chatting softly or heatedly, some sparing him concerned looks and others glaring at him. It had been weeks since his trial and earning back the trust of some Order members still proved difficult. Sighing, he waited patiently pondering how things had suddenly gotten out of control. He had made mistakes in the process of doing the ‘right’ thing and he was willing to admit he had done some extreme things, had done things that Harry had the right to hate him for. Where did everything begin to go wrong, had it started when Lily and James had gone into hiding? Had an irreversible chain of events been set into motion that fateful Halloween night?

Minerva tapped him on the shoulder, alerting him to the fact that everyone had arrived and were ready to begin the meeting. Dumbledore gestured for Amelia Bones to begin her report and she explained the new training regime all the Aurors and Unspeakables were being put through. Moody and Shacklebolt added to her report, explaining how the training was going and the state of the new recruits. Other Ministry employees explained about recent events between the Defense League and the Ministry. The St. Mungo’s staff spoke of new shipments of Potions and recent medical discoveries as well as how many wounded the hospital would likely to be able to treat. Bill and Fleur speculated about the sudden strange behavior of the Goblins, who appeared to be both nervous and snappish the last week as rumors of a Goblin gathering had been whispered about.

Dumbledore pondered that and then noticed Severus making impatient gestures to give his own reports. “Yes Severus?”

“I know exactly why the Goblins are as tense as Weasley and Delacour have noted. The Dark Congress has been called this weekend, somewhere in India I believe but I am not certain.”

Silence.

“Are you sure Severus?”

Severus snorted derisively. “Do not mock my skills Albus; the Dark Lord and the Necromancer were discussing it at tonight’s gathering. By Monday next, the balance of power will have been decided and at this particular time, I have little doubt most if not all will side with the Dark Lord.”

“What makes you think that?” Amelia demanded.

“As far as they can tell, we have no weapon now that the Dark Lord has killed Potter. Everyone knows that he as been winning most of the recent skirmishes and he has managed to acquire a most formidable ally in the Necromancer.” Severus paused deliberately and then followed Voldemort’s order and dropped the proverbial bombshell. “I have recently learned a few more details about the…Necromancer and they are all quite troubling.”

Dumbledore took a deep breath. “Go on, Severus.”

“I have learned through a great deal of trouble on my part that the Necromancer claims to be the Heir of Blaze Hawthorne, the Illusionist himself. It is also whispered that he or she, is not only a First Tier Lord of the Guild of Necromancy but the Guild’s Lord. We are dealing with no newly robed Master and based on the creatures I have witnessed keeping guard of his or her person, the Necromancer is not someone to be crossed.” Severus said simply, inwardly amused at the expressions on the faces of his ‘colleagues’.

“The Heir of Blaze Hawthorne, by Merlin’s staff, the power in that particular bloodline! I was not even aware that it still existed, but without a doubt it is among the oldest lines of the Great Wizarding Houses of Britain.” Dumbledore commented, dazed.

Moody shook his head soberly. “This…is not good news.”

The room was quiet and for once, no one had anything to say.

---

The Dining Hall
Riddle Mansion, Little Hangleton UK
Friday the 3rd of October 1997
8:07 AM

Those present at breakfast the next day were treated to an intriguing spectacle. The Dining Hall was filled near to bursting as everyone ate breakfast before either leaving for work or for a mission. It was surprising to all when the Necromancer strode into the hall, followed closely by a grim-faced man who was heavily armed. It was rare for the Necromancer to take meals in the Dining Hall and the fact that he was followed by a person who was quite obviously not a Death Eater was shocking. No one who did not bear the Dark Mark should have been able to enter the Mansion. Ignoring the sudden hush, the Necromancer calmly made his way to the Dark Lord’s table.

“Necromancer Ruin,” Voldemort greeted with a nod.

“Dark Lord,” The Necromancer said with a nod.

Voldemort glanced at the stranger who obviously was Cyriacus’s fourth attendant. “Your attendant I imagine?”

“Yes, you may call him Scourge.”

Lucius who was sitting on Voldemort’s right, sputtered. “Did you just say Scourge?”

Kieran smirked slowly. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“The Scourge of Dalhoor is now a bodyguard?” Rookwood exclaimed shaking his had with disbelief.

“Reputations can be made or broken by choices and I assure you, Scourge here has made a most…beneficial choice.” Cyriacus said rather sharply.

Voldemort looked amused as he enlarged the table. “Join us.”

They took a seat at the table and ordered their meal using a menu guide. Conversation was light and covered various topics. Cy and Kieran ignored everyone else in favor of having a quiet conversation about weapons.

As the room began to empty, Voldemort glanced over at his lover. “We will meet in the Strategy Room at noon and depart an hour after.”

Cyriacus nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

---

Kieran looked around the messy Common room, observing the noisy teenagers and instantly dismissing them as a threat to his charge. Even blindfolded and drunk Cyriacus could take all of them with both hands tied behind his back and under the influence of a Befuddlement Charm. They stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room and ignored the shocked gasps.

“You’re back.” Draco commented simply.

Cyriacus raised an eyebrow. “Well I do live here too, sometimes.”

Valerius snorted. “We can’t all be so fortunate as to have earned a suite on the Fifth Floor.”

“It’s not that great,” Cyriacus replied shrugging. “No windows and I’m in the room next to Voldemort’s suite.”

“Ah.” Pansy said knowingly.

Altair looked him over curiously. “Shouldn’t you be packing?”

“There’s only one trunk I need to bring with me and that has all my Necromancer robes and regalia in it. I’m going incognito, if you’ll recall.”

“What brings you here then?” Flint asked, glancing up from sharpening a pair of very sharp daggers.

Cyriacus looked mildly irritated. “I go where I please but for your information, I’m waiting to see how long it takes Nusayr to track me down and glue himself to my side.”

Blaise snickered, “You have more guards than anyone I’ve met.”

“Tell me about it.” Cyriacus lamented, dropping down into a leather armchair, while Kieran took a place behind him, close but with enough room to draw any of several different kinds of weapons at his discretion.

Draco glanced from Cyriacus to Kieran and back. “Is he really the Scourge of Dalhoor?”

Kieran snorted. “Why is everyone so disbelieving? It’s true I’m an Assassin mostly and that I’ve killed my share of important people but I’ve been offered the most opportune job a person like me could hope for.”

“But a bodyguard? That seems so…out of place.”

“Not really, especially as it’s Cy here.” Kieran said affectionately ruffling Cy’s hair, ignoring the grumbling of the younger Wizard. “Trouble follows him around like the plague so I’m bound to have a good time trying to keep him alive and in one piece.”

Cyriacus batted away Kieran’s hands which were now idly toying with his raven hair. “I’m so pleased to provide you with such a marvelous challenge.”

Kieran chuckled. “Pretentious prick.”

“Muggle weapon toting hitman.”

“Masochistic Necromancer.”

“Ancient bloodsucking corpse.”

Kieran moved so fast that one minute they had only been aware of him standing behind Cyriacus’s chair and in the next; he was straddling the younger Wizard, mouth pressed against the side of Cyriacus’s throat. “Was that an offer? You smell mouthwatering…”

Cyriacus laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line, old friend.”

“Who else have you been allowing to Feed from you?” Kieran asked slightly jealous.

“I’m afraid that not only are there a few who have Fed off me but that I also occasionally Feed off of others as well.” Cyriacus murmured, eyes glowing slightly as he nuzzled the side of Kieran’s throat.

Just as he was about to sink his fangs into Kieran’s neck, a familiar voice spoke up behind him. “I would not do that if I were you, my Lord. You require Primordial blood until the rest of the Blood ritual is complete.”

“And you will give yourself to me then?” Cyriacus asked voice rough with sudden need, his stomach tightened with revulsion at what he desired but it couldn’t be helped after all.

Nusayr’s gold eyes shined with a mixture of devotion and obedience. “I live to serve you, in whatever ways you require me.”

Cyriacus smiled and nodded slightly as Kieran traced his tongue over the perfect spot on his neck. Pain flared briefly from Kieran’s Bite and Cyriacus happily sunk his own fangs into Nusayr’s offered wrist. As the hot blood poured over his tongue and down this throat, that raw hunger inside of him faded away. For the time being, he felt as content as a person in his position could be. He had everything he needed and he could not expect or ask for more.

TBC…

---

That’s it for this chapter; do let me know what you think of things as they stand. Next chappie is Dark Congress, expect intimidation and possibly hot smuttiness depending on if I can get Smut!Muse to stick around long enough.

Over 800 reviews! Thank you so much! This definitely isn’t possible without your wonderful words of encouragement!

-SheWolfe7 (9-13-05)