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  LYCAN BLOOD: VOLUME THREE

  IF TRUTH DIES

  BY

  JANRAE FRANK

  ISBN 978-1-60089-137-3

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2007 Janrae Frank

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  PageTurnerEditions.com

  PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Fantasy

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  IF TRUTH DIES

  And if Truth Dies,

  Then all that is left of life

  Is Darkness and lies.

  -Padruig Fireborn Law Caimbeul

  THE EXILE'S CURSE

  When the Serpent comes, they all shall perish,

  The Redhands fall like sheaves of grain,

  Until only the Exile shall remain

  Of those who own their name.

  When Fireborn law breathes hot upon the root

  One born of fire shall perish for the truth

  The exile's victory shall be his pardon

  Those he claims will rule

  The prince from shadows shall emerge

  To sit a blood drenched throne

  ... Alistar Weems dying words.

  The First Mothers

  [The lycans have a primarily oral tradition, although increasing numbers of them are becoming literate. This is the first poem that a young boy apprenticed to a lawgiver learns.]

  We howled to the moon one winter's night

  And she howled back to give us might

  From all the packs gathered neath her light

  She chose among us one single wight

  Tala took that male to her silvery home

  She told the packs to hide, not roam

  From that mating, Navaryn came

  To make us men in more than name

  Navaryn, first mother to us all

  By her blood our shapes are tall

  Pandeena, second mother to us all

  When they howl, heed their call

  They gave us laws, the ways, and speech

  They changed all things within our reach

  The ways of culture we were taught

  To bring us from old Skawtsslund fraught

  By dangers vile and dangers fell

  So goes the ancient, ancient tale

  Navaryn, first mother to us all

  By her blood, our shapes are tall

  The woodland god, at their pleading,

  Opened a Gate Arcane to end our bleeding

  On the strands of Skawtsslund fraught

  With the dangers mankind brought

  Pandeena, second mother to us all

  When she howls heed well her call

  We passed between the pillars tall

  To these new lands beyond man's pall

  We settled here and built our lives

  Where lycan kind can grow and thrive

  In a new world of hope and promise

  Beyond the reach of murdering Thomas.

  THE THREE BROTHERS

  Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon the vampire, Isranon called the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits, and Waejonan the Accursed, first of sa'necari. Isranon defied his brothers and was destroyed, his descendants forced into the darkness.

  -St. Tarmus of Lorendon

  CHAPTER ONE

  DEAD WHORES

  At the time of year when the heat of summer wars against the chill invasion of autumn for custody of the land; a strong wind rose without warning, sending dark clouds skidding across the skies above the Waejontori town of Hell's Widow. Thunder growled and roared, followed by the dance of multi-colored lightning. The heavens opened and rain cascaded down in a blinding rush that drove all, save the most stalwart, from the streets to seek shelter wherever it could be found.

  Alexander Jondries grimaced at the rain, bowed his head to keep the water from his eyes, and continued along Skull Road. He knew better than to keep Lord Heironim Traxton waiting without an excellent excuse, and bad weather did not classify as such. A spindleshanks of a mon, the whores at the Crimson Lady Brothel often complained that they got poked harder by Jondries hipbones than his cock.

  Most people in Hell's Widow referred to this section of the town as the Blood District. In the beginning, the name had risen from the fact that the blood-drinking sa'necari aristocracy had built their elaborate homes and temples here. Over the past thirty years, the Sharani occupierssword-wielding viragoeshad either massacred or driven off all of the sa'necari from this region. The temples had been torn down, and the mansions and estates fallen to ruin, yet the name stuck as the surviving buildings were given over to far different purposes. Prostitution ruled. The surviving mansions had been turned into businesses such as the Scarlet Petticoats Brothel and the Red Buttocks, a bondage parlor.

  The Crimson Lady reigned as Queen of the District; the largest, finest brothel in the whole of southeastern Waejontor.

  The brothels were a gaudy island surrounded by the dregs of Hell's Widow's population. Every third house was derelict and the rest were rotting on their foundations. Stray dogs and cats took refuge from the rain beneath the cracked boards of neglected porches. Jondries noted with dour satisfaction that the rain had driven the rats from alleys and the drunks from the gutters and walkways.

  Jondries had developed a distaste for drunks, addicts of every stripe, and all varieties of the homeless. A sa'necari-born, Jondries had gained his fangs and appetites at puberty, and required a generous daily helping of blood straight from the veins in addition to regular food and drink to stay healthy. When he, Dorjan, and Nelek made the trip to Hell's Widow from the Tyrins estates in the north, the need for secrecy had been so great that the blood supplement to his diet had come almost entirely from drunks, addicts, and homeless; which had left the fastidious Jondries with a strong aversion to them.

  The Blood District had begun dying long before Heironim moved in. Drugs, drink, and crime had been taking their tolls for decades; but now death haunted the streets with greater frequency and savagery than it had ever known. Even the Sharani occupiers rarely walked these streets. The sa'necari had returned to Hell's Widow, using it as a secret base to attack Clan Red Wolf across the Eirlys River and spy upon the Sharani garrison for signs of troop movements.

  Heironim had sent Jondries a message to meet him for dinner at the Crimson Lady. The brothel had a bar and a fine restaurant as well as three dozen exquisite whores in residence. Well, mused Jondries, there are worse places for a meeting, and I can get my cock sucked when we finish.

  Jondries had a fair idea of why Heironim had called this meeting and why he had decided to hold it at the Crimson Lady. Two weeks ago, Heironim's favorite whore had vanished with only her jewelry and none of her clothing. Jondries had suggested to him that, being lycan, Ellie might simply have dumped her jewelry in a bag and wolfed it. However, Heironim refused to accept that Ellie would abandon him that way; and so here Jondries was on his way to yet another meeting over her disappearance. He wished Heironim would simply find himself a new favorite and get on with the important stuff.

  Caught up in his thoughts, he failed to see the drunk come barreling out of an abandoned house until the
y collided and went tumbling into the muddy street together. Jondries knocked the mon aside and sat up, outrage heightening the color in his copper-skinned face.

  "What the hell? Jondries grimaced at the ragged mon, and then at the mud coating the front his good clothes. Look where you're going, you stupid piece of shit."

  The drunk scrambled away from Jondries with the kind of clarity in his blood-shot eyes that suggested something had scared him sober. I-I'm sorry. Really, I am."

  "You ought to be."

  The drunk waved his bottle, mud oozing from the bottom of it, in wild gesticulation. M-murder ... tied to the bedposts...."

  That got Jondries attention. His people enhanced their powers through rites of rape and murder called mortgiefan. Tied to the bedposts sounded like it might be a sa'necari kill. The Butchering Serpent had passed down instructions through Heironim that all evidence of their presence in Hell's Widow had to be destroyed or covered up. They could not risk the Sharani guardsmyn stumbling upon it. He seized him by the shoulders and shook him. Shut up."

  The drunk blinked and cringed. There's been a murder."

  "Yes, yes. You've said that. Jondries pulled a tenpence from his pocket, which was enough to buy three bottles of cheap liquor, and waved it at the drunk. Show me, and I'll give you this."

  A crafty gleam replaced the fear in the drunk's eyes as he grabbed at the coin.

  Jondries closed his fist around it and drew his hand back. After you show me."

  The drunk pointed at a house.

  "Don't point. Show me. Jondries got to his feet and jerked the drunk up by his collar. What's your name?"

  "Timothy."

  "Okay, Timothy. Show me the body and I'll give you the coin."

  Timothy led Jondries to an abandoned house. The steps of the long covered porch creaked beneath Jondries feet. Timothy slipped inside after motioning Jondries to follow him. Jondries paused and peered through a grimy window, wondering what had happened to the people there. His sharp eyes made out the edges of the furniture. Whoever had once lived here must have departed suddenly, leaving with only the clothes on their backs because nothing looked out of order. Jondries stepped over the threshold and found Timothy standing in the middle of the living room, trying to wipe the mud off the rim of his bottle.

  "Where? Jondries demanded, his nose wrinkling at the thick layer of dust laying over everything and the odor of mold giving signs of the long absence of the inhabitants. He wandered into the kitchen and spied a pot on the wood stove. The contents of the pot had turned into a dry green dust. The possibility that this might be a trap occurred to Jondries. He extended his necromantic senses in a low-level scan and found nothing larger than rats in the house.

  Timothy trailed in after him.

  "Where is it?"

  "In the bedroom."

  Jondries shook his head in weary contempt. Show me."

  Timothy led him into a room and pointed at a bed that had huge sturdy posts and a canopy. In the middle of a disheveled pile of blood stained comforters lay a badly decomposed body fastened spread-eagle to the posts.

  "Pay me."

  "Ah yes. Payment. Jondries threw a lean arm around Timothy, pinioning him. Timothy's eyes saucered as he struggled to get loose. Jondries incredible strength held the drunk easily. He drew his long belt knife and shoved it into Timothy's side, hitting the kidneys with the perfection of long experience.

  Timothy gave a grunt of anguish, shuddered, and went limp in Jondries grasp. He pulled his blade out and wiped it clean on Timothy's clothes before letting the dying drunk fall.

  "Well, well. Jondries stepped over Timothy, moving to the bedside. He stared down at the maggot pond that had once been a living being and shook his head in distaste. Jondries had never liked dealing with the disgusting remnants, which was why he had never learned to create zombies and other forms of undead chattel favored by his peers.

  He extended his necromantic gifts in a focused scan of the remains. A dry chuckle followed his determination of the dead mon's identity. Well, well. Heironim will be so happy to hear I found you, Ellie. Now I'll not have to put up with anymore of these tiresome meetings."

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  Silkie Faggini, the Madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel, had once been one of the most beautiful courtesans in Waejontor. At forty-four years old, the angles of her light-bronze face had hardened, and the lines radiating around her eyes and the corners of her mouth had been etched deep by the harshness of the life she had lived. Yet enough traces of her fading aristocratic beauty remained to make her striking to look upon.

  She maintained an attitude of arrogant indifference, indurate to the vicissitudes of life while Heironim Traxton raged through her office, throwing books and papers about, smashing her fragile treasures. She clutched her murdered lover's words to her heart: Don't let them see you cry.'

  "Where's Ellie? Heironim seized a delicate blown-glass bird from a shelf.

  Silkie planted her gaze on the door as her stomach souredher son given her that bird when he was nine. Cullen had taken their son shopping to buy her a birthday present. She remembered the joy on their faces as they had watched her unwrap it. I'm not going to cry, Cullen. I promised you I wouldn't let them see me cry. I don't know."

  "Who was her last customer? Heironim smashed the bird against the wall.

  "I told you. Eideard Doyle."

  "Did Kynyr Maguire send him to talk to her?"

  "How would I know?"

  "You spent an hour talking to him."

  "He wanted to know about Cullen. I didn't tell him anything."

  "Doesn't matter whether you did or didn't. A thin sneer crossed Heironim's face. Kynyr Maguire is dead."

  Silkie's tough façade cracked. You killed him."

  "Of course."

  She spit in Heironim's face.

  Heironim raised his hand to strike her and Silkie laughed at him. I'm pregnant, remember? The Serpent will not be happy if you cause me to miscarry his son."

  "Bitch!"

  "I wish. Silkie turned the insult into a double entendre, because lycans called their females bitches.

  "Heironim! Jondries entered the office and stared at the destruction. I found Ellie."

  Heironim lowered his hand and turned toward his lieutenant. Where is she?"

  "Dead."

  Disbelief flashed across Silkie's face and then she began to laugh.

  Heironim glared at her. What are you laughing at?"

  "An eye for an eye. No one does it better than a lycan."

  * * * *

  As soon as Heironim and Jondries left, Silkie kicked her way through the debris and dropped the bar across her office door. Her throat felt tight and tears lurked behind her eyes, telling her that she was not as tough as she had once believed.

  At twelve, Silkie had fled her sa'necari family who planned to sacrifice her to the hellgod Bellocar for failing to inherit the recessive sa'necari gene, and had become a child prostitute. By the time that Silkie reached the age of thirty, she had become hardened and calculating. She established the Crimson Lady and felt completely safe and beyond the reach of her family and the rest of the sa'necari.

  But then she had made a mistake. Silkie had fallen in love with a lycan courier, Cullen Blackwood, eleven years ago, borne him a son named Cooley, and counted herself happy. Three months ago, the sa'necari returned to Hell's Widow. Heironim and his employer, the Butchering Serpentwhose face she had never seentortured and murdered Cullen in front of her. She had sent their son, Cooley, to Cullen's friend Kynyr Maguire, begging for help just before Heironim's net closed like a spider's web around her, robbing her of contact with the outside world. Kynyr came two weeks ago, and promised to return with sufficient help to get her out. But Heironim killed him.

  "An eye for an eye, Heironim."

  Silkie reached her desk, shaking so hard at the memories, that she could barely lower herself into her chair. With Kynyr dead, the only options left to her were measures so desperate that she had alwa
ys prayed that she would never need them.

  She jerked open the middle drawer of her desk, causing it to land in her lap with a thunk. The drawer was shorter than the shelf that held it. She shoved the drawer onto the floor with a flash of anger, leaned down, and fished around the back of the shelf until her fingers brushed against what she was looking for: a black velvet pouch that contained a wooden box.

  In her youth, Silkie had risen to the highest levels that a prostitute could hope to reach, and become the highest priced courtesan in Torment Lake, the ancient capital of Waejontor. Her clients and lovers had included mages of every stripe and the magic-obsessed aristocracy. They had all given her gifts, dangerous giftsand they were all in that box.

  Silkie grasped the drawstrings on the pouch, and drew it out of its hiding place. She took the ornate box from its velvet shielding and set it on the table before her. Silkie's hands trembled as she stroked the leaves, vines, and flowers carved into the lid. A sense of melancholy resignation replaced her anger and her fear as she spoke the word that would release the mage-lock on the box.

  The lid came free.

  "You told me that one day it would come to this, Brandrahoonmy undead dragon of damnation. I did not want to believe you then. Now I know you were right."

  Beneath a layer of enchanted jewelry and arcane stones, rested nine vials wrapped in black cloth. One by one she unwrapped them, lingering over a vial of crimson fluid with an elegant B and runes of preservation upon it.

  She remembered his words and the look in his eye as the oldest and greatest of the Lemyari vampires handed her that bottle.

  "You are so beautiful, My Silkanna, My Lady of Silken Grace. When the vicissitudes of life engulf you beyond all hope, drink this and die. Then come to me and I will vanquish your enemies and wrap you in my love, forever. You are my Amalthea returned to life."

  She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself, twisted the golden top of the vial to break the seal, and drank it. The liquid burned her throat, yet she swallowed every drop of it. Silkie tasted more than blood in it. She tasted something sharp and sweet, and the tingling of a spell at the back of her throat.