Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (69 page)

Finally, she took notice
of the horrendous cold and the stinging wind as it lashed large
globs of snow about her face. She thanked the Great Maelstrom
himself that her robes were woven of thick wool of the finest sort.
She was grateful their many layers succeeded in keeping most of the
freezing temperature at bay.

She calmed her stomach
beneath her hands and struggled to peer about. Immediately, she
could see she was in some sort of temporary courtyard outside of
her father’s ancillary keep. This was the one he had seldom used
and only visited when he traveled near it. That was why, even in
her mind, it was a good choice to have it transmuted from back home
rather than the other various monstrosities he owned.

It was small, compact, but
still large enough to house them in comfortable fashion. It
heartened her to know it would be her current home for the
foreseeable future. Her babies would be born within it, if all went
as planned.

I pray this war will be
brief
, she thought to herself, but
stopped. She was nervous the moment she realized her father was
standing before her, three cable-lengths away. He wore long flowing
robes of red as well, identical to hers. She knew from her
teachings, he too would be nude underneath per the Code of the
Ambalaj. And, he would be wearing slippers much like hers as
well.

He looks
tired
, she surmised as he raised an arm
and reached out toward her.

She glanced about at the
Jötunae and other Swüreg guards assembled for her protection. There
were a few Nixae and their vile Prēost masters behind the ranks of
the gray-skinned Swüreg.

Missing from the small
gathering though was her aged ancestor – Malik-Käi. Her grandfather
had told her he had traveled here a few days prior.

She walked across the
snow-covered court alone. None had come with her, not even the
messenger her grandfather had planned to send days prior. This was
to the Code as well, it was proper she present herself to her
father alone, head held high and ready to fulfill her
destiny.

She took hold of her
father’s large hand. His large body stood head and shoulders above
her own. His broad shoulders and thick muscles bulging under the
voluminous robes he wore. He seemed to radiate masculinity at her,
her nostrils flaring at the scent of him.

He held her hand and
breathed in deep as well. He took in the smell she emitted. They
were the pheromones necessary to fire his blood and make his own
body suitable for a successful mating. He would have to breathe in
her sexual vapors for a few hours in order for their coupling to
prove fruitful.

Thus, she would stay as
near to him as possible until he could bare the smell of her no
longer. She would then let him remove her garment and she would
remove his and they would begin.

He gave her hand a slight
squeeze, bringing her from her reverie.

She looked up at him with
different eyes than she had before. Back home she had seen him as
just her father, her protector, the leader of his Familie. Now, she
saw him a manner askew from the one she had before. He would be her
mate. She would be his Birth-wife. And though he may have many,
many mates, it would be she that would ensure the bloodline of
House Kór remained strong and pure. Only offspring from the two of
them would undergo consideration for rule. Even then, the first
candidate would have to compete every day of his life with every
other male Vülfen she pushed from her womb. Being firstborn had
little to do with who would one day rule supreme over the Ambalaj.
That individual would have to gain the approval of every member of
the Vülfen Kur Consiliu to sit upon the throne.

All the others would be
servants, well cared for and pampered, but servants just as
well.

She smiled at him,
crooked, her nerves still overpowering all her attempts to make it
otherwise.

He seemed to read her
mind. “Do not worry about being apprehensive, my sweet Frumasia. I
am more nervous than I can ever remember, so you are not
alone.”

His voice was deep and
rich like she recalled. She heard the familiar lisp all Vülfen
possessed when their tongues rolled over their large teeth. Hearing
it this time was somehow comforting for her.

Her smile became more
regular, losing its’ deformation as her mood eased. She squeezed
her father’s hand as he had hers. “Thank you, Father.”

He clasped his other hand
over hers, peering into her eyes. “From the moment your body began
to enter estrus, I was your father no longer. I am your
Birth-husband. You are my Birth-wife, forever – nothing can change
that. Understand?” His voice was gentle, but firm.

She knew from then on, he
no longer wanted her to think of her as the one who helped conceive
her, but as her mate.

“
Yes, my husband,” she
replied like a dutiful wife.

“
Should we go in? If not,
I am sure we will both catch a death of cold out here.” He stepped
to the side, motioning toward the great double doors of the
keep.

“
Please, I am about to
start shivering any second now. I would not want to mar the
occasion by making a fool of myself,” she said, a bit of her normal
personality coming to life.

“
Come,” he beckoned and
placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Together they walked into
the keep.

“
Where is our uncle?” she
asked trying to make conversation.

There was a brief silence
before her husband answered her, but the pause was long enough for
her to notice.

“
He is... indisposed this
afternoon,” was all he said.

“
Oh?”

That surprised her,
especially since their mating was House Kór family business. The
Code required Malik attend the First Meeting with her as the
daughter/bride and Fenris as the father/husband. Someone from the
Familie had to be present as a witness.

What could have happened
to him that would have kept him from the First Meeting?

“
We have a visitor, my
wife…,” he began.

Was he really reading my
mind?

Then, he went on to tell
her who.

She felt her heart sink in
her chest.

When the Seeker showed her
face, it was usually not a pleasant experience.

Frumasia began to wonder
if her aged elder was still alive.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

Part Four:

Awakenings

What can we take on trust
in this uncertain life?

Happiness, greatness, pride
- nothing is secure, nothing keeps.
-Euripides,
Hecuba

Man's yesterday may ne'er
be like his morrow;
Naught may endure but Mutability.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Mutability"

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 39 ~

Undelivered

Sunday, November
28
^th
,
10:31 pm…

It had been another long
day at work.

He should have been at
home with his feet up on the armrest of his parent’s couch. He
should have been enjoying his fourth and final day of the extended
Thanksgiving weekend. Instead, he was out late delivering
pizza.

He did not hate his job
per se. He liked it in fact. Seeing the faces of his customers
light up when they opened their doors to him, always made him feel
good inside. When they got that first wondrous whiff of a steaming
hot pie, he could not help but smile. His friends would say, “Well
that’s how Miles is. He might be sloppy. He might always dress in
the same jeans, white ‘T’ and a flannel shirt. He might wear that
hideous zippered-up-the-front, jean jacket he wore on cold days.
But, he was kind, borderline generous even. More than a touch
sensitive for a guy who stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred
pounds.

He flirted with the chubby
side of large with dark brown eyes, surrounded by a loose-jowled
face. His chin seemed to disappear into the skin of his neck. He
had dyed-black hair down to the middle of his shoulder blades,
which was currently pulled back over his head, held in place by a
hair net. On top of the net, he had on a baseball cap with the logo
of his father’s pizza business emblazoned across the front.
Novello’s Italian Paradise
.

The name had always made
him snigger. Though the family name was Novello, they were not
Italian. And, the ramshackle pizza joint on Colorado Boulevard was
about the farthest thing from paradise that he could
imagine.

“
We’re Mexican, Dad. We
should take the “Italian” out of the name.”

How many times had he told
that to his father over the course of the past few years? Too many
to count, right?

And how many times had his
father said right back,
“Your great
grandfather opened this establishment over seventy years ago,
Miles. He was Italian, so the name stays!”

“
But, Dad, we’re
Mexican!”

His father would squint at
him, through hard eyes.
“We’re Italian
enough to make the best freakin’ pizza on this side of the
city!”

And that would be that.
The conversation was over.

He smiled as he turned
from Highland View Avenue, making a lazy right onto Hill Drive.
This was the so-called swanky street running perpendicular to the
134 freeway. It was the reputed area where all the wealthy people
in the neighborhood lived.

After all, his father was
not lying. They did make the best pizza this side of downtown.
Everyone knew it. That was why he was out so late, on a Sunday and
on a school night. He delivered pies all over the small communities
nestled against the hills about Glenoaks Canyon. Northeastern Los
Angeles was their turf. The restaurant was filled to capacity when
he had left and it appeared as though he would be out on the
streets until well after they closed.

“
It
makes sense, though,” he said over Kurt Cobain’s forlorn tones. The
long-dead performer sang his way through
Heart-Shaped Box.
“People don’t want
to go out, especially now.”

Ever since the happenings
surrounding what the government (and the media) had labeled, The
Event, their business had tripled. His parents had to call in his
younger sister and cousin to help wait tables. Something he did on
occasion when the delivery schedule was light. Not so now. He’d
been racking up miles for more than five days now. He had even
delivered three extra-large pies all the way out to Montecito
Heights. This was so far out of their area, his father had to
charge a premium fee upfront. The customer had not even twitched
over the cost.
Yeah, people are staying
the fuck put.

Don’t think about them,
Miles!
he ordered without speaking. He was
all too aware any stray thought about the occurrences of the day
before Thanksgiving would steer him down
that
path. He did not want to think
about all the friends he had lost over the course of the past four
days. Anthony’s disappearance had left him near-comatose for
thirty-six hours. If it had not been for the near violent uptick in
his father’s business, he might have sunk into full-blown
depression. Working as hard as he had been this past weekend had
its’ perks after all it seemed.

You’re too sensitive, you
fat ass!

He made a left onto
Vincent Avenue where the multi-million dollar homes stood. His mind
pushed his thoughts aside as he marveled at the veritable mansions
he was driving past.

He frowned, making his
face bunch-up. He felt awkward motoring his age-old Nissan
alongside all the BMW’s, the Porsches and the Mercedes-Benz’s. They
seemed to grow on trees in this part of Eagle Rock.

It did not take him long
to locate the proper address.

He slowed, doubled-checked
the receipt and then found a suitable place to park the hoopty he
was driving. He got out, gazing over the eight-foot-tall, rod iron
fencing and the manicured lawn beyond. The house itself was set
back a ways, a meandering stone walkway lead from the main gate to
the front door, a football field in length.

God damn!
he thought.

He folded the front seat
forward, reaching into the back of the vehicle. He pulled forth a
large pouch containing three medium pies. Within were your standard
cheese, a pepperoni and sausage, and one Meat-lover’s with extra
meat. That one had to be for the man of the house, or maybe an
eldest son. No woman in her right mind, figured Miles, would
attempt his family’s beef, chicken and ham laden pizza.
No way! She’d have to be bigger than
me.

He chuckled, slamming the
door, not bothering to lock it. Only a rich lunatic would attempt
to steal his Nissan. He figured, up here there were few wealthy
whack-jobs on the loose. The rich would have them all locked up
tight in some attic or some shit like that. They'd be a family
secret guarded jealously from the outside world.