Chapter Text
Maius - 20 A.E. (After Exodus)
Heated voices echoed off the stone walls of the study Shane used to hide in as a child. He mourned the loss of the tapestries that depicted their nation's history and the grace of their God. They'd muffled the sounds of the keep so well. Various parchment maps lined the walls now, no longer kind to Shane's hearing.
Once a place of solitude, it was now a place of war.
Shane resisted the urge to flinch when Father Matthews's nasally voice filled his left ear. The chain mail at his neck itched, his shoulders ached from keeping his back ramrod straight, and he felt dirty from training earlier that afternoon.
Worse, he didn't know why he was here. His mother hadn't been the one to summon him. He'd seen her eyebrows shoot up when Father Matthews brought Shane into the room. This had been happening more and more frequently—the orthodox faction trying to use him to bring legitimacy to their attempts to undermine his mother.
Discontent about a woman holding the title of First Minister had been growing louder. Shane wondered how long his mother could keep dismissing this as simply a fringe belief, refusing to acknowledge it as a symptom of the Hunters' growing loss of faith in her. Shane let his eyes drift from the spot on the map he'd been resting his gaze on, to avoid making eye contact with a dissenter who'd use it as an opening to draw him into the debate, to his mother's face.
She had the pinched "go to hell" expression that never seemed to go away now. Sensing his attention on her, Yuna flicked her eyes from his, down to his hands, then back to the council member she was verbally sparring with. Shane immediately stilled his hands.
No one could see that he'd been tearing at his cuticles under the table, but his mother always knew. Shane dipped his head almost imperceptibly, then settled his gaze back to the spot over his mother's head.
A faded, dashed line had been drawn on both sides of what looked like an old outpost—back when they'd had the manpower to actually man all of their western outposts. Clearly, they'd lost control of it at some point, with no one bothering to update the map and mark whose territory it actually was—
"—r son must do his duty to continue the line." Father Matthews spat, jolting Shane back to the present. "Your family is one of seven with the gift. It's a disgrace that—"
"That's quite enough, Father," Yuna shot back coolly. "If I recall, this council meeting was called to discuss our grain stores and rotating the crop fields the human settlements use. Neither of which involve my son siring children."
Ah, so it was this again. The magic seed theory, as Hayden liked to call it. At some point, the mythos of the seven families to lead the Hunters in the First War with the vampires several centuries ago had led to the (mostly discredited) belief that their bloodlines had been blessed. That the parents and children of those seven families had miraculously escaped the First War pretty much unscathed hadn't helped the rumors.
Shane was pretty sure his bloodline was the only one to never have had someone die in battle in the centuries following the First War. The fervent hope bleeding into the eyes of his contingent every time he led them out on a mission these days was . . . something.
There was little else to unite the orthodox faction behind his mother, the first female First Minister (say that five times fast), so she didn't do much to dispel the myth. After all, who would challenge one of the members of the seven—ordained by God himself?
(Or was it Herself? Shane was questioning a lot these days.)
His mother had made it clear before he joined the other children for primary school that he had no such abilities beyond what the Hunters already had over the humans. He'd still been asked about it, and lost a lot of new friends when they'd figured out he was nothing special.
Hayden hadn't, though. When Hayden had first come up to Shane, he'd tried to preempt the disappointment by blurting out that he didn't have any blessings. Hayden had only tilted his head in confusion and said he'd help Shane find some.
They'd been inseparable since.
"—want to hear what Brother Shane has to say for himself. He is of majority, is he not, First Minister?"
His mother tilted her head toward him in a "go ahead" gesture, and Shane swallowed. He hated this part of being her son. Why couldn't he just run his contingent and do his job like all of the other Hunters?
The practiced words flowed mostly smoothly off his tongue. "As with the rest of my brethren, I am dedicated first to God and second to the Order. While I am always looking for a suitable mate to fulfill my duty to bring more Hunters to the world, to one day end this war, I await God's direction on this matter, as with all things. He has not spoken to me yet."
Was that approval in his mother's eyes? Concern? There was too much tightly coiled tension in his body and anxiety buzzing in his brain to tell. His eyes flicked up to the spot he'd been resting his eyes on for the past half-hour.
Could he . . . ?
Shane opened his mouth again, and the council seemed to take a collective breath. He'd never said much more than some version of the words he'd just uttered before. His mother's eyebrows jumped a hair.
"However, I have felt called to a sabbatical recently, and intend to ask God for direction on this matter."
His mother's face was tightly controlled, but he could still see the surprise flash across it before she smoothly followed up with, "Brother Pike will take over the unit while my son seeks direction for himself and for our people."
Yuna abruptly stood, planting both hands firmly on the table. "All are dismissed. Grain stores and crop rotation discussions will resume tomorrow. I will see everyone for evening repast—I hear the first-year children have learned a new hymn they are excited to share."
Audible groans drifted from the council members as they filed out of the room, and Shane watched his mother's lips twitch.
"You did that on purpose," he accused, once the heavy wooden door finally shut.
"We can only be so blessed as to have our children sing hymns to us at dinner," she replied with a perfectly straight face, before breaking into a genuine smile.
"Does Jackie know her class is going to be singing at dinner?" Shane asked, his own smile tugging at his lips.
Yuna shrugged before her face took on a more serious expression. "What is this I hear about a sabbatical to find a wife?"
Shane winced. "I was going to ask you if I could take a sabbatical tonight, but that seemed like a good way to appease Father Matthews and his followers." He said carefully.
Yuna's face remained unchanged. "I expect this will be another one of your solitary wilderness adventures?"
Shane nodded, and her expression grew pinched. "Take at least Hayden with you, I'll find someone else to lead the unit," She demanded quietly. "You of all people know how weak our border is, Shane."
"Moth—"
"Your father will worry," Yuna said softly, eyes pleading.
Shane raked a hand through his hair and pulled at the mail at his neck, which seemed to tighten the longer he sat there on the receiving end of his mother's undivided attention. "I can't. You know I can't," he entreated, staring at the pink, irritated skin around his fingernails.
He felt Yuna's heavy gaze on him for a moment longer before she let out a loud, frustrated breath. "You will not go anywhere near the border."
Shane nodded.
"You will wear all of your silver and return immediately to the keep if you feel like there is even a chance of encountering a vampire."
Shane nodded again.
"You will tell me tonight what it is that has you this agitated that you are running into the woods again." Her tone was noticeably softer.
Shane paused halfway through his reflexive nod, eyes jumping back up to see his mother's concerned gaze on his hands.
"Of course, mother."
***
Several hours into the cave system narrowing around him, Shane decided it was probably a pretty fucking stupid idea to enter the caves he'd partially mapped with only a vague idea of the direction the outpost was in that had caught his attention yesterday.
At least he wasn't the first idiot to go into the caves, and besides, he wasn't completely unaided. The cave system bore tool marks along narrow passages and what appeared to be a carved system of directional markings. Over time, he'd figured out the markings were related to the old language. Not that he knew enough of the pre-First War language of the vampires to understand it.
He guessed this was a relic from the days when Hunters and humans ruled the realm, and the vampires were forced to live in exile in the mountains. Their eyes were especially suited to the dark. His own eyesight was only moderately superior to a human's in true dark, but it was enough to explore without torchlight.
God, if only his mother knew what he was up to.
She'd never let him out of the keep again.
Shane suspected the Council was unaware of the cave system, or they'd have made more tactical use of it with the vampire royal family's winter palace only slightly further west of the outpost.
Or maybe not. The Hunters had to have given up an outpost that close to the royal family for a reason. Right?
His hasty, twenty-minute search of the keep's records hadn't been fruitful, and he hadn't wanted to tip his mother off by asking her.
What the Council wouldn't give to get their hands on the royal family's sons. The king rarely left the castle in Grigoryevsk (yes, the king named it after himself, and yes, Shane thought it was stupid) these days, but if their spies' reports were true, the youngest son had near-permanent residence at the winter palace.
Shane reached another fork and squinted as he tried to make out the markings on the walls. He at least knew cardinal directions in the old language, and was pretty sure "З" stood for "запад," which meant west.
Theoretically (and boy was that word doing a lot of heavy lifting), if he kept following the "З" markings, he'd end up on the west side of the mountain range where the outpost was.
Well . . . if he didn't accidentally end up so far west that he was squarely in vampire territory.
He took another left before he could overthink and agonize over the decision.
Four lefts later, the air felt lighter, and Shane was starting to think that maybe his half-baked plan was going to work out. Another two lefts, and Shane could see spots of sunlight speckling one of the walls.
The entrance, if he could call it that, was a vertical shaft twice the height of his body with enough rocky outcroppings that he easily scaled the walls. Dirt and debris rained down as he shoved at the collection of branches and detritus covering the narrow opening.
An accidental mouthful of dirt and leaves later, Shane was standing near a rocky outcropping, staring at the evening sun through the forest canopy above him. He pulled his map out of his pocket and hastily scrawled down what he could remember of the route he took, and wrote down some general observations of the area he left the cave system at. He then began painstakingly moving branches and leaves back into place to mask his presence, just in case he had in fact ended up in vampire territory.
There were maybe three hours of daylight left if he was lucky. Shane brushed the remnants of the forest floor off himself and set out westward again.
It didn't take long for the outpost to come into view. Stone walls rose above the treeline, with tattered sun-bleached flags drifting gently in the breeze. Shane circled the outpost from a distance, checking for traps and evidence of other beings, making his way closer and closer, until he had an unobstructed view.
It was a citadel. And it was beautiful. Tall, well-built, and best of all—solitary. Shane could spend the rest of his life here. The tension melted from his shoulders as he circled the perimeter of the building, making note of the doors, windows, and what appeared to be the remains of a garden.
He wasn't able to suppress the thought that he could run away and build a peaceful life here. He wouldn't have to be Shane Hollander here.
He offered a quick apology to his God for the treasonous thought. He'd been doing that a lot lately.
A shiver of apprehension shot down Shane's spine as the heavy oak doors opened on silent hinges. Either someone used the greatest oil in existence the last time the citadel had inhabitants, or . . .
Or, Shane wasn't the citadel's only visitor.
***
Ilya watched as the dark-haired man stilled halfway through his morning stretches and narrowed his eyes on the treeline where Ilya was hiding again. It was the third time in as many days that Ilya had been made, sort of, by the irritatingly beautiful Hunter who had taken up residence at Ilya's place of refuge.
He'd come back to the Winter Palace after dispatching yet another of his father's dissidents and immediately run straight to the citadel. Unable to bear living with the memory of his mother's ghost in the palace for even a day, he hadn't even bothered to drink from one of the humans kept there before running off.
So imagine his surprise when he'd run to the citadel, and there had been a fucking Hunter waiting for him there. Years of no one bothering that outpost, and Ilya's first visitor was a fucking Hunter.
The universe was laughing at him.
But even more surprising, Ilya hadn't done anything about it. Instead, he'd spent days watching the man train, sleep, clean, fix the parts of the citadel in disrepair, and pray. Ilya had almost convinced himself it was because he was studying the enemy—clearly a ranking one if the amount of silver the man wore, even as chain mail, was anything to go by.
His movements were so graceful and fluid. Nothing like the precise, brutish violence he associated with the Hunters. It didn't help Ilya's case that his face and body appeared to have been sculpted by the Hunters' god himself.
Ilya's breath caught as the man finally turned away and the morning sun lit his profile from behind. He almost seemed to be lit from within with divine light.
Clearly, his god's favorite.
Maybe Ilya's too.
Ilya worried at his mother's crucifix around his neck as he wandered further into the forest. He needed a new plan. Clearly, waiting out the Hunter wasn't working, and his princely sensibilities were going to be offended by another night in the woods.
His father would certainly be happy if he killed . . . whichever Minister's son that Hunter was.
Ilya snorted. He'd rather swallow silver than willingly please his father. Besides, the Hunter was too pretty to kill.
Maybe Sveta was right, and the lonely existence at the winter palace was driving him mad.
Just like his beautiful, sad mother.
He let his mind wander in more pleasant directions as he listened for the nearby herd of deer that made for a fairly decent blood supply. Human was best, of course, but deer were fine. One of the deer seemed closer than the others, and Ilya changed direction. Life was simple when his prey made it easy for him.
He idly wondered what the Hunter would taste like.
Ilya just barely dodged to the left as a stake sank into the underside of his right shoulder instead of his heart. He twisted sharply and spun to see the Hunter's pretty brown eyes narrowed on him. Another stake already in his hand.
Ah. Not a deer then.
The Hunter.
Ilya grinned viciously and yanked the stake out of his shoulder, committing the unerringly steady heartbeat to memory.
The air was heavy with anticipation as both held unnaturally still, waiting for the other to make the next move.
This close to the Hunter, Ilya could see a constellation of freckles on his face. The thought that he'd like to trace his fingers over them floated through his mind before Ilya eyed the pretty white expanse of his neck.
No longer covered by the silver mail, it was a devastating temptation to behold.
Maybe he would get to taste the Hunter today.
The Hunter scowled when he realized where Ilya's gaze was resting and opened his lush mouth to say the stupidest thing Ilya had heard.
"Surrender now, vampire, and I will make your death painless." The Hunter stepped to the side, testing Ilya, and Ilya moved with him, maintaining their distance.
A real smile took over Ilya's face when they began circling each other. The Hunter's footwork was impeccable, and his footsteps nearly soundless. No wonder Ilya hadn't picked up on the deer being, well, a Hunter. Clearly a skilled opponent, if what Ilya saw in the mornings was anything to go by.
Ilya hadn't fought with someone of this caliber in far too long.
The Hunter made a sudden movement with a flash of silver, and Ilya's hand shot up to pinch a small blade between his fingers in front of his left eye. He tsked. "Well, that was not very nice."
The Hunter's scowl grew deeper, and Ilya couldn't help but think he looked like a small, angry kitten, posturing up to a bigger predator.
He ran his mouth before he could think better of it. "You are like small, angry kitten. And I am big, bad vampire. So I think you should surrender to me, yes?" Ilya pulled his lips back to show his fangs right as he stepped into the sunlight and stilled. He knew his eyes were shining like silver coins. The Hunter's heartbeat sped up the slightest bit. "I promise I will make it good for you," Ilya assured, lips twisting into a more lascivious grin that kept his fangs on full display.
The insinuation was enough to push the Hunter over the edge. Ilya dodged the stake coming for his chest and reached for the Hunter's arm. In a blur of barely perceptible motion, the Hunter slipped the hold before Ilya could lock his arm.
"Which one are you?" Ilya eventually asked, slightly breathless. They were circling each other again after the Hunter had slipped his hold for the third time. "Not Comeau's, too pretty to be his."
The Hunter let out a choked sound, and Ilya took advantage of the surprise by feinting and wrapping an arm around the Hunter's throat when he dodged right into Ilya's arms.
Ilya danced out of the way of the silver knife meant for his thigh without loosening his grip. "Matthews?" Ilya breathed into the Hunter's ear. His heartbeat stuttered, and the Hunter shivered.
Interesting.
"Prince Rozanov," Ilya stilled just long enough for the silver to find its home in his thigh—too close to his cock for comfort. Ilya shoved the Hunter away. "How does it feel to be at a disadvantage?" The Hunter asked breathlessly, crouched in a fighting stance and holding up the silver dagger now coated with Ilya's blood.
Ilya's eyes narrowed, thinking through the Ministers he knew. "Olsson?"
The Hunter's raised eyebrow was distinctly and familiarly condescending.
"Hollander?"
Shane fucking Hollander just shrugged at him and made a "come here" motion with the knife still dripping with Ilya's blood.
Fuck. There was no way Yuna Hollander's son was out here without this being some kind of a trap.
Before Hollander could blink, Ilya was gone.
***
September - 20 A.E.
Shane stilled just before the threshold into the citadel. There was a thin wire strung across the entrance just above the floor.
Sharing custody of the citadel had not been going well. The vampire was like a pest he couldn't get rid of. They'd fought several more times since their initial meeting in Maius, only for Rozanov to run off each time.
They'd taken to trying to kill or scare the other off from the citadel. Shane had realized Rozanov knew about the tunnel when he'd pushed the last branch covering the opening away, and popped his head out only to immediately duck as several cross bolts fired at him.
Shane had been repaying him in kind, since.
He probably should have told his mother about the tunnels at that point. But from what Shane could tell, the vampire only ever came alone, and his attempts to kill Shane were half-hearted at best. If Shane took care of him, he was pretty sure the information would die with Rozanov.
Then he'd still have a place of solitude when life got to be too much.
Thus, his latest trap had been designed with lethality in mind. No more oddly lonely vampire prince, no more compromising information about how to directly access Hunter territory without getting caught by their patrols. No more lingering shame . . .
Shane was eager to see if Rozanov had sprung the cross bolt he'd rigged with a stake.
He tracked the wire Rozanov had strung to where it was attached to a . . . goblet of water? Shane kicked the wire and watched as the cup fell on the spot he would have been standing in, had triggered the wire upon entering the citadel.
The distinct smell of consecrated oil filled his nostrils as he leaned to smell it. Tiny, crudely carved wooden crosses littered the floor where the oil spilled.
Well, that answered the question of what happened to the cross bolt.
Clearly, the vampire thought he was fucking hilarious.
***
Martius - 21 A.E.
Shane marched up to the citadel armed with an old ritual book and a bag of salt he'd sanctified. Today was the day he was getting rid of the vampire for good.
It had been a hard winter, with little for Shane to do other than obsessively train and research vampires in the library. He'd eventually found a neglected corner that housed old, banned ritual books, from when the Hunters had worshiped the old god, and had squirreled the books away in his room.
He'd also spent too many months secreting away extra salt from the kitchens for this not to work.
Shane painstakingly lined every windowsill and entrance to the citadel with the salt before he stepped outside again.
He cracked open the ritual book and began reading the Latin from the page he'd marked in a strong, clear voice. He ignored the spring breeze tickling the hair at the nape of his neck and nearly dropped the book when a low accented voice asked from behind his shoulder, "What is this?"
Shane turned and glared at Ilya Rozanov. The vampire had an open, nonthreatening stance and was staring at the book in Shane's hands with obvious curiosity. The sun glinted off his blond curls, giving him a halo that Shane knew was anything but angelic.
The vampire was more beautiful than any angel he'd ever seen.
Determined to get this over with, Shane ignored him—and the disconcerting thoughts about the vampire's attractiveness—and began reading from the beginning again. There was a blur of movement and then several seconds of peace before Rozanov was standing in front of him, holding a palmful of salt.
Shane stopped reading and stared balefully at the salt that was definitely not burning Ronzanov's perfect, golden skin.
Maybe he needed to wait until the ritual was complete for the salt to work? Shane ignored the outstretched palm and stomped into the citadel. It took him several minutes to find the spot Rozanov had swiped the salt from, but he had it refilled in no time.
Rozanov hadn't moved from the spot when Shane marched outside again. Standing closer to the citadel, Shane began reading again.
A slight breeze and a gentle warmth behind him told Shane that Rozanov was reading over his shoulder again. It should probably bother him more that a vampire was standing behind him, but Rozanov had demonstrated an unwillingness to kill him, for whatever reason.
"Is some kind of surprise for me?" Rozanov asked, breath brushing over Shane's neck.
Shane resisted the urge to shiver and kept reading. When he got to "expellere," there was a loud snort over his shoulder.
"Ah, all this is for me? I am so touched, Hollander," Rozanov mused.
Shane kept reading.
"You think about me all winter? I did not know you spend all this time thinking about me."
Shane just raised his voice.
When he finished reading, there was a long moment of heavy silence before Rozanov asked, "So, you think this will work?"
"Why don't you try and find out?" Shane gritted out, thrusting his hand at the front doors.
Rozanov sauntered up to the doors, took a theatrical breath, and pulled them both open. He threw a smile over his shoulder that twisted something in Shane's stomach, before stepping over the threshold.
Shane held his breath, waiting to see if Rozanov would burst into flames like the little ritual book illustrated.
He did not.
Fuck.
"Mmm, you chose good salt, too!" The fucking asshole vampire called from inside, "You must let me take some home!"
"You don't even eat food that requires salt," Shane yelled back.
Fucking hell.
***
Julius - 21 A.E.
Despite Shane trying to mask his heartbeat with the nearby herd of deer, Rozanov had somehow anticipated his ambush.
Again.
Shane twisted his body as Rozanov caught the wrist holding the stake Shane had just tried to stab him with. In a split second, Shane dropped the stake, caught it with his left hand, and thrust it up toward Rozanov's heart again.
Rozanov caught that wrist, too.
Shane's surroundings blurred before his back hit a tree hard enough to force the breath out of his lungs. The vampire pinned his captured wrists over his head and leaned in with a languid smile.
Shane kicked, knowing it was futile, and was unsurprised when Rozanov dodged, then trapped Shane's legs between his thighs.
Shane's heart skipped a beat when he realized he was entirely at Rozanov's mercy again. Rozanov smiled, and Shane's heart began to race.
They'd done this song and dance several times now, with Shane usually wounding the vampire who pinned Shane in return, before something unnamed heated between them, and Rozanov ran off. It was easy to blame his racing heart after these encounters on the adrenaline from the fights.
Shane refused to examine why he'd begun ignoring openings in Rozanov's guard that he could probably have used to kill him, and end . . . whatever the hell this was.
"I don't bite," Rozanov whispered, leaning more of his body weight against him, "hard." Shane shivered as lethally sharp fangs scraped across his neck.
He'd dreamed about this sensation since the first time Rozanov had done this. His prayers for guidance throughout the winter as he woke up hard, morning after shameful morning, went unanswered.
He felt blood rushing through his body as his cock began to harden.
Rozanov must have noticed it too, because Shane felt the grip on his wrists loosen the slightest bit as he pulled back to stare at Shane with an intense expression.
Rozanov's unoccupied hand came up to Shane's chin and tilted it up. Shane's mouth parted as his thumb gently traced his lower lip. This close, he could see the silver of Rozanov's eyes retreat as his pupils dilated.
Shame and desire burned through him, lighting his skin on fire. The grip on his wrists disappeared completely, and Rozanov planted the hand that had been holding Shane's wrists on the tree.
Shane, unsure of what to do with his arms now that they were free, settled them on Rozanov's chest. At least this way, he could push the vampire away?
He didn't want to.
"Pretty, pious Shane Hollander," Rozanov murmured, "will you let me kiss you?"
Shane's yes was swallowed by Rozanov's mouth descending onto his.
It was like nothing Shane had ever felt before.
Rozanov wound his hands in Shane's hair and tugged, making Shane's back arch. He let out a choked gasp, and Rozanov pulled back, studying Shane's face.
Shane swayed into Rozanov, chasing his lips before realizing what he was doing. His cheeks heated, and he looked down, eyes catching on the prominent bulge in Rozanov's pants.
Fingers danced along his jaw, down his neck, and Shane felt a slight tug at his throat before the white priest's collar Rozanov had hooked his finger under gave, and fell to the forest floor.
Shane brought his eyes back up to see Rozanov's puzzled expression, and he let out a breathless laugh.
"Is not full circle?" Rozanov asked, disappointment coloring his voice.
"No," Shane laughed.
Rozanov seemed to get over the disappointment when he brought his hands back to Shane's hair and tugged, tilting Shane's head further back.
The delightfully painful sensation made Shane gasp again, and he caught a glimpse of a smirk pulling at Rozanov's lips before his mouth was on Shane's again. All coherent thoughts fled.
Shane didn't know how long they stood there in the forest, kissing. His legs were hiked up around Rozanov's hips, and his hands were buried in Rozanov's soft curls. Tugging at them, he'd discovered, elicited low groans that Shane felt vibrate through his own body.
They were both breathless when Rozanov finally set Shane down and took a step back.
Shane barely resisted the urge to grab hold of the collar of Rozanov's shirt and yank his mouth back down onto his.
The haze of desire cleared as Shane's eyes landed on the crumpled, white collar, abandoned on the forest floor just behind Rozanov.
God, what had he done?
Rozanov turned to see what had caught Shane's gaze and stilled. When the vampire turned back, Shane turned his head away, unable to stand the sight of either reminder of his failure.
Shame burned in his chest.
He was thankful when Rozanov disappeared in a blur of motion, like he always did at the end of their encounters.
Shane stared at the crumpled, no longer perfectly white collar where it lay on the ground, having been trampled by their careless footsteps, for far too long.
A sickening pit suddenly opened in his stomach, leaving him breathless with nausea. Like the collar, perfect, pious Shane Hollander was no longer pure. His throat tightened painfully as the sounds of the forest around him faded. Shane's hand met air as it tried to loosen a collar that wasn't there.
What would his God think?
What would his mother think?
He lurched to the side and dry heaved into the bushes.
