For Love of a Wolf: Alric's Story

by SpikesKat

Chapter 8

Bob had just acquired a room for the night and was on his way back to the bank of elevators when the porter who had shown them to their room the other night – Jimmy, he suddenly remembered – began frantically motioning him over as he stood nearly hidden by one of the huge potted plants. 

“You’re Mr. Maximilian’s man, correct?” he asked.  

His gaze was darting all over the lobby and Bob tensed. 

“Yes… what is it?” 

“A man… he… he was asking about Mr. Maximilian a few minutes ago. Ms. Le Feuvre didn’t tell him anything, but I saw him corner another of the help. Information… it’s like… well, you can make a lot of money at it…” 

“What did he say?” 

“I don’t know… but, I heard Jonesy give the man Mr. Maximilian’s room number.” 

Bob had his cell phone out and was already dialing Alric’s number before Jimmy had a chance to finish. 

“Find me when your shift ends, Jimmy,” he told the boy and took off running towards the staircase. 

The phone rang five times before Bob gave up and disconnected. Cursing a mile a minute, he pocketed the phone and drew his handgun, praying he wasn’t too late. His feet were a blur of motion as he took the stairs two and three at a time as he raced up to the fifth floor. He crouched at the door leading out onto the floor and opened it slowly, his gun preceding him out into the hallway.   

His eyes took in his surroundings in a sweeping glance, his gun cocked and ready, a bullet already chambered. Nothing caught his attention, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, telling him something was… off. His shoes made not one whit of sound on the carpeted hallway as he walked stealthily towards Alric’s suite. 

A scream rent the air and Bob took off running. 

It had been the girl. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

The water was running when Alric entered the bedroom. He quickly stripped out of his clothes, tossing them haphazardly on one of the winged back chairs, and strode purposefully towards the bathroom. 

The girl’s leather thong lay discarded on one of the throw rugs and he figured she must still be wearing her jewelry since it was nowhere to be seen. 

His eyes were drawn towards the smoky glass surrounding the shower. Damn near drooling at the blurry image of her standing beneath the spray, head flung back so that the ends of her hair grazed her ass. The move thrust her breasts forward and if he concentrated hard enough, he could see the nipples hardening beneath the onslaught of the water beating down on her frame. 

His dick, already hard, swelled even more at the delectable picture she made. 

And she was all his. His to fuck with cock and fangs. His to protect. To cherish. 

She was just his. 

All the reasons why it was such a bad idea to claim her didn’t matter any longer. It was done now. A fait accompli. He’d never let her go. Just the thought of her ever leaving his side was enough to get his demon up, his human mask fading as its desire to claim her fully became prominent in his mind. To prove to her – and to himself – that she belonged to him. 

He opened the shower door with the intention of doing just that. Draw her out from beneath the water and take her to bed. He stepped in behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle, dragging her back against his chest. His cock, hard and heavy, was sandwiched between his stomach and her back; sweet blessed torture as he ground himself against her. Her moan was music to his ears. 

Alric lowered his head to the girl’s neck; his tongue darted out to lap at the barely healed marks there. Then couldn’t resist piercing her flesh and making them bleed again. The scent of her blood washed over him again. Strong, more powerful now that she was his – something akin to Buffy’s or even Spike’s.  

She cried out at the slight pain. Master. 

And he cringed slightly at the moniker.

He wanted it to be his name she cried. Alric, not master. She was no longer his slave – not that she ever was, at least in his mind – she was just his. 

Perhaps on the morrow he could explain that to her.

After he and his clan had seen to the Triad and brought down their operation. 

Alric drove his fangs deeper, unable to resist another long pull. She went limp in his arms, and he caught her easily, holding her close.  

Something – a sound, perhaps – caused him to still suddenly. He lifted his head and strained to hear. Nothing but the sound of running water and the girl’s accelerated heartbeat and breathing came back to him, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Someone was in his suite. Someone that wasn’t Bob. 

As casually as he could, Alric cut off the taps and opened the shower door. He guided the girl out and wrapped her in one of the huge hotel towels hanging on the rack, hastily running his tongue over his latest marks before leading her cautiously out into the bedroom. The bathroom, though larger than most, was too small to maneuver in if it came down to a fight; the bedroom was more than ample to fend off any attacker, and since he was more familiar with the layout, should give him a distinct advantage. Plus, there were things scattered about that he could use as makeshift weapons in the event he was unable to reach his katana – which he’d stupidly left on the dining room table. 

“On the bed, pet,” he told the girl, wanting her as far away from him – and the open bedroom door – as he could get her. 

The words had no sooner left his mouth than the demon – the one that had stared him down at the Golden Phoenix – charged into the room. Right behind the dagger that he’d thrown and was now protruding from Alric’s chest. 

Alric roared in pain, but it was drowned out by the girl’s scream. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Buffy was standing next to Spike in the study as he went over the game plan when she suddenly clutched her stomach and fell to her knees. 

“Alric,” she whimpered. 

Spike was no less affected as he dropped to the slayer’s side and carefully drew her into his arms. He glanced up at the others, not surprised in the least at seeing feral eyes gleaming with concern and sudden bloodlust. One of their own had been hurt. 

“Call Bob,” he ground out; Adam was already dialing. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Joyce wandered around the Tate Modern, pausing every now and then before a painting or sculpture that caught her eye.  

She’d arrived in London early yesterday afternoon and booked a room at the quaint Regent Palace Hotel. It wasn’t a five-star by any stretch of the imagination, but it was perfect for what she needed – especially the location.  

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a girl about her daughter’s age; blonde, too. A wave of loneliness swept over her so she failed to notice the sudden tittering sweeping amongst the crowd at the latest arrivals to the fifth floor. She breathed deeply, struggling to keep a tight lid on her emotions; it wouldn’t do to start crying in public. 

Another breath and she felt safe to move on to the next piece. She read the placard and barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Definitely in the beholder, this one was, Joyce couldn’t help but think. She grinned at the thought and made to move off, but a voice stopped her. 

“You simply must tell me what you find so amusing about this piece,” the woman gushed. “I fear I can’t find the appeal, myself.” 

Joyce snickered, then bit her lip, embarrassed at being caught out. 

“I… nothing. I was thinking of something else,” she finally replied. Wouldn’t do for her to project her opinions on another. Art was art after all, even grounded up pieces of dried clay that was categorized as abstract, as the piece she was standing in front of was. “Please, excuse me.” 

Joyce made to move off but was stopped by the other woman’s words. 

“Come now… don’t be shy. I’d like an honest opinion. You’re from the states, yes?” 

“Yes. I just arrived yesterday. How did you know?” 

“Your accent.” 

“Oh… of course. Silly me.” 

“What brings you to our lovely city? Vacationing?” 

“Actually, I’m here on business, though I do hope to get a bit of sightseeing in while I’m here. I’m looking for some pieces, possibly an artist or two to showcase at my gallery.” 

“Oh, see, Matthew… I knew she had a look about her,” the girl told the man standing quietly at her back. “Your own gallery! That makes you somewhat of an expert, does it not?” 

“Not an expert…” Joyce hastened to correct the woman. “Just… an opinionated person, I guess you could say.” 

“Posh!” she leaned in conspiratorially. “So… tell me… is it bad?” 

Joyce bit her lip, debating whether or not to give her opinion of the piece. For all she knew, the girl was the artist. 

“It’ll be our secret. And, truth be told, I could use a laugh right about now. This showing, I’m afraid, has been rather dull.” 

Joyce could feel herself wavering, finally deciding once seeing the slight twinkle in the girl’s eyes. She leaned in and whispered, “I was just thinking to myself that that piece of… um… clay. Well, you know the saying ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’? That one definitely qualifies.” 

Jocelyn couldn’t help it; she tilted her head back and laughed outright. She could certainly see where Buffy got her spunk from.

The woman’s sudden laughter was what made Joyce look at the woman more closely. And the more she did, the more she felt she’d met her somewhere before. Her features seemed familiar, yet, judging by the woman’s clothes, she could tell she was from money. Old money. Her gaze sidled up to the man by her side, and she couldn’t help but gasp. 

She’d definitely seen him before. 

“Hello, Joyce,” Joseph murmured just loud enough for her to hear but not be overheard by the people milling about. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“I know you,” she whispered. She turned back to the woman, staring hard as she struggled to place her. 

“Jocelyn Allen, Countess of Hastings,” the woman replied, extending her hand. 

Somehow, Joyce’s hand found its way into the other’s and shook it briefly. She couldn’t let go, however, as she stared at the woman – vampiress – thoughts of her daughter suddenly overwhelming her. She was talking, introducing her date. Not as Joseph Maitland, which was the name she’d known him by, but as Matthew Spalding, a New York businessman. She nodded and forced herself to release Jocelyn’s hand in order to shake the other’s. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Summers.” 

“I… uh…” 

“Would you join us?” Jocelyn cut in smoothly. She could see one of the gallery’s managers bearing down on them, most likely to give her the “royal” treatment – something she could certainly do without. “We were about to go up to the restaurant. Have you eaten yet?” 

“No…” In truth, she’d not had much of an appetite this past week. Between packing and missing her daughter, food had been the furthest thing from her mind. She found herself suddenly ravenous now. Like the appearance of the two vampires had released her from her melancholy.

“Then you simply must join us,” Joseph confirmed, taking the hand she’d yet to remove from his grasp and tucking it into his elbow. He offered his other arm to Jocelyn, and together the three walked off towards the elevators. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

All through dinner, the three talked of mundane topics – her reason for visiting, what she wanted to see, do, and the like. At one point, the chef had come out to inquire as to their meal, blushing profusely when Jocelyn exclaimed over the seabass with cherry tomatoes. Then the restaurant manager had come by, and again she’d complimented the entire staff on the service. 

Now as they sat there sipping their coffees, or in Joseph’s instance, an after dinner brandy, Joyce couldn’t help but bring up her daughter. 

“Buffy’s fine,” the vampiress assured her. “She and the others are at my estate, though I expect them to— Joseph, are you alright?” Jocelyn glanced sharply at the vamp, not missing how his eyes gleamed an unnatural yellow; his demon was close to the surface. 

“Fine,” he hissed, struggling to keep his human mask. “I’m just…” He stood and indicated the men’s restroom behind him. 

“Of course.” 

“What is it?” Joyce asked once he’d gone. 

“I’m not sure.” Jocelyn’s eyes strayed towards the doors where Joseph had disappeared. Something had happened. Something bad, given his brief loss of control. As much as she enjoyed the exclusivity of being Renee’s childe, she longed for the connection the others had. It was a subject neither she or Renee had broached yet. But then, much had happened in the past week and she’d been forced to remain in London almost the entire time, while her sire was with Spike and the others in the country. “We should probably be going. Will you be staying in London for awhile?” 

“A few weeks. It depends.” 

“Give me your number. I believe Buffy and the others will be journeying to London in a few days to take care of some business. But once they’re back, safely ensconced at my estate, I’ll have you out for a visit.” 

“That… that would be lovely.” 

There were tears in her eyes as Joyce stood. She shook the woman’s hand as Jocelyn stood too. Not stopping there, she drew the vampiress in for a brief hug – she was technically now family, however convoluted.

“Give Joseph my best,” she murmured and stepped back, gifting her pseudo-daughter with a wobbly smile.

“I will. Take care, Joyce. I’ll be in touch.” 

“I… I’ll wait to hear from you.” 

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Jocelyn to wonder at Joseph’s odd behavior and his prolonged absence.

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