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“You heard me. She’s pregnant with Mancini’s child.”
“Don’t you dare harm her, Garret, I swear, I’ll—”
“Just bring me the royal bitch!”
A Desperate Plea
Torin caught a red eye flight to Princess Royal Island off the North coast of British Columbia. He immediately checked into the King Admiral Pacific Lodge. He didn’t bother to unpack his black leather bag, but instead picked up the house phone and dialed the front desk to book another flight.
Twenty minutes later, with dusk falling he boarded a chopper, waiting patiently as the pilot radioed his credentials to a central office in Russia. After conversing in Russian, the pilot pulled off his earphones and nodded approval. He flipped a switch, the overhead rotor humming. The helicopter rose and like a bird of prey, spun midair, soaring down the eastern flank of the Inside Passage. Fifteen minutes later, gliding fifty feet over the rising swells, the pilot slowed, hovering precariously over a huge yacht with a blinking red beacon. After the chopper landed atop the railed deck with waves gently rocking the ‘Grand Presidential Yacht,’ Torin took a hasty exit. He bent his frame while running across the deck with turbulence from the rotor whipping his hair.
Downstairs he combed his hair with his fingers then smoothed his jacket as security in the form of two hulking Affiliates approached. “I’m Torin Mancini,” he said producing identification. One of the Affiliates sniffed him up close and personal, nose to skin. Finally, he backed off. “Welcome Mr. Mancini,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “The Duma Council is in session.”
Down one more deck, Torin was ushered into a room, which occupied the bottom floor. It was packed, some fifty or more men sitting on velvet chairs facing a white, ornate table with four Old World Siruns, who by sheer force and thousands of loyal Soviet Affiliates, controlled the world’s largest Iridescent army. Torin took a seat, listening to boundary disputes between Russian, Alaskan and Chinese clans. The arguments lingered and when the Chinese Affiliate turned hostile, arguing with the Duma’s final decision, an Affiliate Peacekeeper walked up behind him sword in hand and decapitated him. His remains removed, the session continued, business as usual. Twenty minutes later as Torin found his thoughts stretched between past and present events he flinched at the sound of his name.
“Torin Mancini, are you present?”
Torin stood up. “Yes.”
“Approach.”
Torin made his way through the rows of velvet chairs packed with Iridescents from around the world. Nearing the ornate table, he took a sweeping bow. Milos Puszecki, who was the oldest living Soviet Sirun, gave him a quick once-over, golden locks framing his masculine face. He was regal, with a square jaw and thin mustache, broad shoulders and perfect skin, quite dashing for a man older than time. “Mr. Mancini,” he said with a thick accent, “the Duma received an urgent message from the United States regarding international danger. What say you, sir?”
“Thank you, Siruns of the Duma, for having me,” Torin replied with a respectful bow. ‘I was sent by Antonio Naosoi, Grand Sirun of the U.S. New World Council with an urgent plea for assistance.”
Milos, who was scouring paperwork, retorted without looking, “Mr. Mancini, the Soviet Duma does not interfere with U.S. affairs.”
“I understand,” Torin said, “but this is not just a U.S. situation, it’s one that may well destroy our way of life worldwide.”
Molos’ head jerked up, annoyance bleeding from his eyes. “Enough speculation, Mr. Mancini, to what are you referring?”
“The Seventh Miigis.”
The room succumbed to noisy chatter, every eye on Torin.
“Silence!” Milos snapped. The babbles ceased. “Mr. Mancini,” he said with tight brows, “are you insinuating that the Seventh Miigis has returned?”
“I am.”
Milos rocked back in his chair with a boisterous laugh. “I must give it to you, Mr. Mancini, this is the best bullshit, which by the way, is a term learned from your own country, that I have heard in over nine hundred years.”
Torin shrugged. “I understand your skepticism, sir, I felt the same at first, but it’s true.”
Milos leaned forward in his chair. “You’re trying my patience. Everyone knows that the six spirits pulled him back to the ocean—”
“No,” Torin cut him off, “they pursued him, intent on ending his reign of terror and though he was stripped of most of his powers, he somehow managed to escape them. He has taken possession of an African Iridescent, Zaroc Mpufue with the intent of birthing a child by a Chippewa of the Durent Clan. If he is successful, he will regain his full powers and wreak havoc on the world. No one will be safe, not even you, sir.”
Milos pushed back in his chair and stood up, tall and muscular. He tilted his head with a stolid glare. “Do you have proof of this outlandish accusation?”
“Just my word, and that of Antonio Naosoi, Grand Sirun, who by association, you know to be an honest Iridescent. He fished in his vest pocket and produced an envelope. “If I may approach?”
Milos didn’t answer him, but instead winked at his trusted aide, a six-foot female, hot off the runway in Paris. She was a heart-stopping beauty, demanding of attention, a female no man could ignore. She sauntered straight to Torin and he caught her scent which reeked of blood and sex—fresh sex. She was obviously a Participant, one of Molos’ feeders which was not uncommon. Elites used them like disposable buffets, keeping their beloved Consorts under lock and key, safe from wandering eyes.
The Participant took the envelope, flashing her baby blues then spun, shimmering red locks bouncing as she made her way back to Milos. He scanned the letter, penned by Antonio, then passed it down the table to the other Siruns. A measurable silence fell upon them, all eyes locked on the last Sirun as he read the message. They leaned, ear to ear, sipping martinis, whispering. Finally, they turned their attention to Milos and like stone statues with lips tight, spoke by incessant flutters of the eye, Morse code, none could decipher.
Torin swallowed hard, desperately trying to read their faces.
It’s taking too long. Say something damn it!
