The Sons of Satrina: A Sons of Satrina Novel (3 page)

Kelton abruptly got up and headed over to the bathroom, leaving Kayleigh alone with her thoughts. They knew each other well enough that it was like living with an open book. She needed a few minutes to compose herself and Kelt
on was sensitive to her needs.

Damn it, he was one hell of a sexy man. Every fibre of her soul loved him and every inch of her body burned for him. They had never really grown out of their ‘honeymoon’ phase and for that, Kayleigh was grateful.  They couldn’t get enough of one another, whenever time allowed or his Academy and warrior duties didn’t get in the way. Which
, unfortunately for Kayleigh, was quite a regular interruption.  That just made their private time together all the more blissful.

The door from the bathroom suddenly flew open, banging on the
wall and making Kayleigh jump.

She couldn’t help bursting out laughing. Kelton stood in the doorway, hands on hips and he raised an eyebrow in question. He was the naked as the day he was born and an i
nane grin spread over his face.

“What’s so funny?” h
e asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before launching himself toward the bed. His every thought was intent on ravishing his female from dusk till dawn. Who needed sleep? He only needed her.

Chapter Three.

“More wine, Sire?”

With barely a glance at the hired help, the gentleman inclined his head ever so slightly and carried on reading the scattered paperwork that was spread out on the rich mahogany desk in front of him. There was a grim frown on his face.

Sipping elegantly at the refreshed drink, Bartholomew could taste the kick of blood that accompanied the red wine. Of course, he had his own donors that lived within the confines of his home, but this particular drink had a refined twi
st for a sophisticated palate.

Running a hand through his hair, he appeared for all intent and purposes to be a man drowning in the business world. Looks can be very deceiving.

The man sitting at the desk appeared to be as handsome as any model, with his brooding manner and traditionally tall, dark and ruggedly handsome good looks. He was like the poster boy of an aftershave or underwear campaign. With his good looks, it would have been easy to think that he didn’t have two brain cells to rub together.

In truth, he was one of the most influential and powerful men in the entire world
, both in physical and political strength.

Bartholomew was t
he leader of the Lamia Matris.

Sitting there in his red velvet, old style lounging jacket and smart slacks, surrounded by antiques, wealth and unimaginable luxury, it was hard to believe that the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. Shuffling through the assortment of papers and sipping at the spiked vintage red wine, the frown that had marred his good looks abruptly departed. The expression was no longer one of concern,
but of contentment.

Everything seemed to be running smoothly for once. The community was experiencing more peace than it had seen for several decades. The Mortuorum were lying low, which meant that finally, their warriors were starting to win their never ending batt
le against their mortal enemy.

The Lamia Mortuorum had plagued this eart
h since the beginning of time.

Bartholomew took great pride in his race and took great pleasure in leading them onto bigger and better times. The Matris were purebred, dating back to the time of Creation. They were not half breeds, tainted with impure and insipid human blood like the Mortuorum. Those creatures had been bitten, created. They were made out of weak, uninspiring flesh.  Th
ey were incomplete.

The Lamia Matris were supe
rior in every conceivable way.

All except for their numbers.

The Mortuorum had to prey on fragile humans, the only source available to them in their struggle for dominance, turning them into bloodthirsty monsters. They were always hunting humans and battling the Matris for supremacy. The Matris battled back with directed aggression, speed, strength and discipline. The warriors that protected the race worked endlessly to cut the lives of the monsters short. It was a never ending cycle – the Mortuorum creating new lives and the warriors ending them. The battle had been ongoing for centuries.

Sitting back in the chair that could have passed for a throne it was that huge, Bartholomew paused for a moment.  He turned to stare absentmindedly at the Kandinsky print that was hanging on the wall in his office. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. This was something that visitors to the luxury town house often commented on. Firstly, because the piece was so ardently sought after and second, it was in stark contrast to the rest of the décor in the house. Everything else was elaborate, lavish and traditional, with blood red brocade on the walls, highly polished wooden flooring throughout scattered with the occasion Persian rug, ornate gold decoration and gilding adorning the walls and ceilings.

Then, there was that Kandinsky. It was an abstract piece in a world dominated by organisation. Bartholomew loved it with a passion. It was that small bit of chaos that he was completely comfortable with. A piece of madness that he could call his own.

In addition, Bartholomew was a little like the painting in some aspects. He did not look like he belonged in a home like this. It appeared to be something a grandfather should have resided in.  Yet again, looks could be deceptive. The whole place and his lifestyle suited him down to a tee. Bartholomew was ve
ry old school and traditional.

“Sire?”

With an audible sigh, Bartholomew turned and glanced at the man standing in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in smart livery. The ageing process was starting to show rapidly on the old man, but he still managed to maintain the distinct stiffness of an English butler, although he spoke with an indefinable accent. It was easy to unwittingly lose one’s accent over the years. Living through so many different times and in different places can confuse a person’s original identity.

The ageing process for the Lamia progressed at different rates. Once they reach physical maturity, the process halts. It could be decades or centuries before the ageing resumes, looking etern
ally young until that time came. For Bartholomew himself, he had appeared to be in his prime for over a millennia now. He had lived so long that he had finally stopped counting the years. Birthdays came and went without a second glance. Rinse and repeat, same old, same old.

“What is it now, Marshall?” Bartholomew’s tone was tired and drawn. He did not like to be interrupted.  Marshall had worked for him for long enough to understand all of his little foibles. They had spent was seemed like an eternity together.

“Apologies for the interruption, Sire. There is an urgent telephone call for you.”

With another exaggerated sigh, Bartholomew nodded and Marshall walked forward with a cordless telephone on a pristine solid silver tray and bent forward slightly at the hips to allow his master to retrieve
it. Without a sound, Marshall then stepped back to give Bartholomew the illusion of privacy, whilst still being near if he needed assistance. Stepping outside the room, he was only a call away.

“
Yes? Hello? What is it? Hello?”

Bartholomew barked another ‘hello’ down the line and then looked at the digital black handset in annoyed exasperation. There was no one there.  All that had greeted him was a dead dialling tone. He despised the use of modern technology, but he also knew that he and his race had to keep up with the times.  It was a necessary evil that they had to endure. Not that he didn’t voice his complaints, loudly and regularly.

“Dammit. Marshall! Get in here!”

The liveried man rushed into the room.  “Sire?”

“Obviously, it was important enough to interrupt me, but not so vital that they actually wanted to converse with me.” Bartholomew banged the handset back down on the tray, cracking the plastic casing and returning to pointlessly shuffle the papers in front of him. “Whom did they introduce themselves as when you received the call?”

“Sire, they said that they were from the Sons.” Marshall stuttered. He was much older than Bartholomew and age was finally catching up to him after all those years of youth. It was slowing him down and affecting his reflexes. Marshall was eternally grateful that their leader had kept him in employment.  Without his work, he had no idea how he’d exist. He lived to serve.

Bartholomew scowled up at him. “I gathered that. I more meant, who in particular was it calling from the Sons?” he rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get them back on the phone and see what they wanted.”

The Sons were the only ones with that particular phone number with which to contact him.  It was important to keep the lines of communication open between them. However, Bartholomew could not imagine what was so important to have them ringing so close to dawn.

Marshall quickly backed out of the room and Bartholomew stood to stretch his legs. There was no point in going over the paperwork any further.  Everything was looking good for once. After all those years of trouble and strife, he was willing to luxuriate in the peace. Short lived as it was sure to be.

Hearing a crash of glass from out in the foyer, Bartholomew cursed under his breath. What priceless antique had been destroyed now? You really couldn’t get the staff these days. No one had the manners or the pride in their work as they had in years gone by. Marshall was certainly the best of a bad bunch.  He was old school and very proud, but even he had his faults in abundance.

Stretching out his back and hearing his spine crack loudly in response, Bartholomew strolled over to the large double doors made of rich, carved mahogany.  Throwing them wide open, he stepped out into the hall.

Looking over towards the main entrance, his eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion.  He saw that the ornate stain glass window next to the front door had been smashed.  Shards and splinters of
coloured glass littered the marble floor of the entry hall. Frowning in concern, he glanced about. Where the hell was all his staff? Where were his guards? There should have been two men stationed outside his office doors, as they always were. Wherever he went, at least two of his men shadowed him closely while several others watched over him from afar. That was the life of a leader – he had to remain in a safe, isolated cocoon.

An annoyed growl
vibrated deep in his throat and he strode forward to find out what the hell was happening in his home. After a few paces, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There was blood.

A lot of blood.

Spinning on his heels, Bartholomew turned back to head towards his office, racing down the corridor. He needed to get the Sons of Satrina on the phone and quickly. Then, an unexpected blow to his temple sent him crashing into the wall, taking an antique mirror down with him. They crashed to the floor together, blood splattering up the walls and shards of mirrors splintering all over the rug where he fell. Stars were swimming in his vision as he turned to defend himself when more blows rained down on him. Red liquid clouded his sight, but his hearing was as sharp as a pin. Bartholomew heard a low, menacing chuckle.

Rage ran through his body like a lightning bolt, more than annoyed that he had been caught off guard.  Rage that they had managed to knock him to his knees.

“So?” a
voice said. “This is the great leader.” It was not posed as a question.  They knew damn well who he was. It was spat out like a snide comment with a scathing, sarcastic emphasis on the ‘great’.

Hazily, through the fountain of red, Bartholomew could see a young man standing to attention in from of him.  He was clad in tattered denim and battered leather. One glance at the guy’s teeth told him everything he needed to know.

This was when he knew.

His time had finally come.

This really was the end for him. Somehow, someway, they had found him. They had entered his home.  They were here for him. This was an assassination mission for them.

They were the Lamia Mortuorum.

“You thought you were so untouchable, hidden away in here from the world in your safe little bubble. Bet you don’t feel quite so untouchable now, do you?” and with a sharp laugh, a swift kick was delivered to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Bartholomew curled up on the floor as pain coursed through every single inch of his body.

Feeling hot breath on his cheek, one of the assailants whispered into his
ear, “Any last words, old man?”

Bartholomew almost laughed at that. Or would have if he could have, but his mouth was rapidly filling with blood. He had only very recently started to show any visible signs of ageing.  Only the creaking joints and the salt and pepper in his hair gave any indication to his waning youth.  But, he still had plenty of vigour in him to go down with dignity.

Just as the resolve to fight back started to stiffen his spine, he felt the cool pin prick touch of the sharp end of a blade pressing tightly to his throat.

Bartholomew knew that this really was the end for him now. A sudden rush of price for his race ran through his veins and with blood streaming down his face, he smiled courageously.

“You are an abomination. You will never succeed. We will never surrender. You may take my life. You may destroy my flesh. But, you will never take my words. We are mortal beings, but our words remain immortal. My legacy is everlasting. We will prevail.”

Bartholomew ignored the blade as it sliced a shallow gash in the tender flesh of his neck and knelt up.  He straightened his posture and waited for the final blow. With certainty, he knew that he would now be united with his Goddess, Satrina.  He would die safe in the knowledge that the Lamia Matris would continue after his departure from this world and would continue to reign supreme.

Closing his eyes, he welcomed his fate.

It was time.

“Screw you, old man.”

And Bartholomew felt nothing as he passed on.