Year 1885

It was midnight when eight-year-old Javier arrived at Roman’s secluded log cabin in the wild forests outside Montreal. All legs and arms, Javier stumbled through the front door, accompanied by a Rakum Senior student who had escorted him from their burned-out Group-Lair fifty miles South. The youngster took in the room with huge green eyes, his lips parted in a comical ‘O’. His overseers had trimmed his black hair short for the trip and his hand-me-down clothes were two sizes too big. Roman regarded the wafer-thin pup with an amused grin and shooed off his chaperone leaving the two of them alone.

Elder and proselyte.

Barely a proselyte, really.

At a new eight, Javier smelled more human than not and Roman breathed through his mouth more than once in disdain. He was not accustomed to such young ones, but soon enough, he’d begin to transform the boy properly. Purge the weak, beggarly elements and replace them with immeasurable, unstoppable Rakum gifts. Born to a mortal woman by a Rakum Father, Javier would grow much like a human boy until he reached thirteen. At that point, his metabolism would slow gradually until he aged only days as the years passed him by. As his appointed guardian and Elder, Roman was expected to prepare him for an eternity of life at the top of the food chain.

Little Javier stopped in the middle of the room, took in the four walls slowly, with his mouth agape, and then faced his superior. When Roman did not acknowledge him for several long seconds, he shifted his weight to one foot and bent his knee, throwing his balance to one side. He looked like a tiny gymnast, double-jointed and loose-limbed, perhaps able to contort himself into any number of odd shapes. Roman pondered all this as he watched the kid bear up under the scrutiny. He wanted to know what kind of pup they’d sent him. What was he up against with this orphan? This would be the youngest Rakum Roman had ever discipled. Yet he was up to the challenge. The Fathers requested him specifically, and that had to count for something.

Roman softened his gaze and attempted to send the boy a telepathic directive.

“Come close, Javier.”

Roman watched the kid’s face, but gauged no reaction. His eyes were wide and intelligent, taking in every detail; yet he heard nothing telepathically. It was not unusual. Most Rakum developed the more mystical skills as they approached puberty.

“Come close, Javier.” Roman said, his voice low, and the boy stepped up without hesitation. “What stage did you complete before your Group-Lair was destroyed?”

“Stage five, Sir.” Javier responded in a thick French accent.

“Parlez-vous du français?” Roman asked and the boy nodded shyly. “Quelles langues parlez-vous?”

If the kid spoke more than two languages, it would suggest a higher-than-average IQ. Roman spoke fifty mortal languages and was prepared to test the boy in each and every one if he showed a propensity for linguistics.

“English, German, Spanish, French and Hungarian.” Javier answered in accented English, attempting to dazzle his new Elder by his accomplishments. Roman nodded with approval.

“We will get along fine, young man.” Roman allowed a small smile and Javier’s eyes sparkled. Roman grimaced.

The kid was a romantic.

From that point forward, Roman made an effort to disguise his affection. Very rarely, a Rakum was born with an over-developed sense of joviality. Now he understood why the Fathers chose him. They wanted to test him. Roman had never missed with a proselyte and the Fathers were capricious. They sought to trip him up; or at least see if they could.

Roman cleared his throat gruffly and laid a heavy hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Stage five. How efficient are you?”

Stage Five was drawing blood from a human victim, eventually against their will. Even an eight-year-old Rakum was expected to procure his own food, and Roman wanted to know where to begin.

“Top of my class, Sir.” Javier responded, and puffed out his narrow chest.

“Are you ready for Stage Six, then?” Roman removed his hand from Javier’s shoulder and pushed up the sleeve on his right arm. Stage Six was initiated by an Elder’s blood. The immature Rakum would experience extreme pleasure at ingestion, but crippling pain as the Elder’s time-enriched blood seeped into his system. And the leeching effect of Stage Six lasted several nights.

Despite knowing all of this, Javier’s green eyes widened and he nodded his head.

“Let’s see. Show me.” Roman put out his arm and Javier hesitated.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Can I...les toilettes?” Javier frowned and took on a puppy-dog expression. Roman sighed and nodded.

He gestured through the hall door and watched the kid shuffle out of the room at a trot. He was cute and worse, he knew it. Roman shook his head. Why didn’t they send him a brute? A wild-child that no one else could control?

Roman looked up at the ceiling, memories of other Rakum he’d discipled over the years filtered down to him. There had been dozens. But somehow this one connected with him on a deeper level.

Roman closed his eyes.

Discipling a youth through First Ritual required vicious and violent instruction. It was easier with the brutes.

So much easier.

***

Five years passed and Roman recalled that first night fondly as he watched Javier endure First Ritual. The Ritual really began at birth, but by the time a Rakum youth reached his thirteenth year, he was expected to accelerate his training and hasten his development so that he could be released into the Brotherhood a fully functioning member. Ideally, a proselyte would progress from First Ritual onset to a fully graduated Rakum in four years.

By the looks of Javier’s first seven days, he was going to need a lot more time.

For the moment, Javier was lying on his bed writhing in pain; enduring silently, but just barely. The first tests of the Ritual were physical ones. Tests of stamina and fortitude. Various bones were broken, in a specific order, over a period of weeks. The bones would heal slowly at first, but as the weeks progressed, the young Rakum’s body would begin to heal faster and faster, until a broken bone meant no more than a sting from a mosquito. It took enormous audacity to submit to the tests, but tremendous courage to return the next evening for the next treatment. Thirteen-year-old Javier was on his seventh day of The Broken Bones.

Roman glanced at the axe handle he’d used tonight. The first few nights, he fractured Javier’s pointer fingers with his bare hands. But tonight, he was to snap the youth’s forearm with anything of wrought iron. Roman disregarded tradition and opted for the wooden handle hoping to lessen the discomfort, but Javier nearly fainted during the lesson. He did not cry out, but the pain in his eyes caused even Roman to wince.

He watched Javier from across the small room, twisting in agony, cradling his left arm. He was supposed to break them both, but he refrained. It was only day seven and he was altering the kid’s training.

Yet...he knew best.

Isn’t that why the Fathers chose him? Because he never missed?

“Oh.”

A small sound came from Javier’s direction and Roman got to his feet. Crossing the room quietly, he reached the side of the bed and looked down on the pitiful youth crying silent tears, bearing up under tremendous torture. Against his will, Roman’s heart went out to him and he whispered the boy’s name. Javier opened his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Yes sir?” He asked his voice raspy and nearly inaudible.

“Javie, put out your arm.” The nickname was born a few years earlier. Roman used it sparingly and usually unintentionally.

Javier carefully put out his slowly healing arm and watched with tearful but trusting eyes. Roman wrapped his own hands around the fracture and commanded the injury to repair itself. He had an extraordinary gift for healing and he did not let it go to waste this night. As the bones knit together, the pain subsided and Javier took in a deep and careful breath. Finished, Roman stood to his full height and managed a miniscule grin.

Javier blinked several times in succession and grateful tears filled his eyes. Roman held up his hand to prevent the boy from thanking him, but Javier’s gaze said it all. He motioned brusquely for the youth to sit up and Javier did so at once.

“Yes Sir?” His voice full of reverence, the youth clasped his hands in his lap and grinned ear-to-ear.

“We will revisit The Broken Bones later. The Stinging Sun is your next test. When was the last time you endured the day?” Roman took a seat next to him on the edge of the small bed. The youth came up to his shoulder already. He would be tall and he was filling out; no longer the bean-like character that arrived on his doorstep five years ago.

“Not since before I came here, Sir.” Javier’s accent was fading to Roman’s approval. “I didn’t like it.”

Roman chuckled and pushed up his sleeve. “I guess not.”

Javier eyed his bare arm and swallowed. Part of First Ritual was bi-weekly ingestion of a mature Rakum’s blood. With Roman being the only adult within a hundred miles, he put himself to the task of strengthening the boy in this way. The blood no longer pained the youth. In fact, now that his digestive system had matured, Javier desired Roman’s blood nearly as much as the occasional human that Roman brought near for feeding.

“Where’s your knife, Javie?”

Javier felt in both pockets and then hopped up to look around the bedclothes. After several moments he found the small blade hidden in a leather holster. He popped the knife free and waited for the invitation.

Roman thrust forward his arm and nodded his head.

Javier was an excellent disciple. Loyal and respectful.

It was good.

*** 

Javier’s mother was a Gypsy slave, purchased with gold by the Fathers with the sole intention of impregnating her. As far as Roman knew, after the live birth, she had been moved to America to serve another Elder. As a result, she was the farthest thing from his mind as he brought seventeen-year-old Javier into the village one blustery October evening.

The plan was to visit a familiar brothel where Roman could procure a willing blood donor for himself and the boy, but tonight, his regular girl was out sick and he settled for a replacement. Her name was Esmeralda and when she sauntered into their rented room a little past eleven, everything proceeded as expected.

She seemed to know the drill, which didn’t surprise him—after all Agatha might have shown her the ropes sometime earlier. But when she pulled out a small dagger she kept strapped to her thigh in a leather sheath, Roman suspected she was familiar with Rakum in general.

“Who would be first, Master?”

She spoke Hungarian in a dialect Roman had only heard once or twice and he strained to understand her. When she repeated herself more slowly, Roman gestured to Javier and the woman turned to face him in the dimly lit room.

“Like this, then.”

She mumbled this time in broken English and sliced deep her forearm as she approached the youth. Javier lurched forward and brought her arm to his lips, dropping clumsily to his knees.

Roman shook his head in chagrin and watched the woman as she nonchalantly held the dagger above Javier’s back. As his vivid imagination pondered all manner of ridiculous notions, the woman bent at the waist and scrutinized the nape of the boy’s neck. As he watched, she transferred the knife to her donating arm and touched his hair with her now free hand.

“Szív és a rózsa…” She mumbled, returning to her mother tongue.

Hearts and roses? Roman stepped to her side and snatched her fingers from Javier’s head. Her only response was to look at him with huge, black eyes that filled with water.

“Hearts and roses. Roses!”

She cried now and Javier ceased his meal to look at the adults standing over him. Roman reached for her lacerated arm and covered it with his palm.

“What are you babbling about woman?” Roman asked, and removed his hand, her wound completely healed.

He was irked that she touched a Rakum uninvited and if she didn’t appear to be insane at the moment, he would have chastised her physically. But she mumbled the same three words a few more times in English and fell silent, her eyes glued to the boy. Leaning forward Roman saw what she was referring to; right at the boy’s hairline was a birthmark in the shape of a heart. It was a very deep red. Rose red.

Javier wiped his mouth with the heel of his palm, his expression open. He was about to ask a question, when Roman held up his hand to silence him. Roman buried his right hand in Esmeralda’s thick black hair and pulled her head backward forcefully. She whimpered, but angled her eyes so she kept the boy in sight.

“Hearts and roses! Mine.” She whispered, her larynx compressed by Roman’s rough treatment.

Roman froze, finally understanding what was happening.

A Hearts and Roses birthmark. Something she might have seen when the infant was pulled from her body seventeen years ago.

The woman, Esmeralda, was claiming to be Javier’s mother.

It was bad news and Roman’s mind raced over possible scenarios. A Rakum was never to meet his birth mother. Never. Without exception. An unavoidable weakening occurred when a Rakum looked into the eyes of his mother.

And Javier was weak enough already.

Decided on a course of action, Roman placed his free hand over the prostitute’s face.

“Javier! Stand outside.” He gave the boy a stern look that he interpreted as intended. Roman sometimes visited with the regular girl carnally, and Javier was accustomed to biding his time out of sight when necessary. Roman watched him exit and when the door was closed, he released the woman.

“Szív és —” she began and Roman cut her off.

“Listen witch—I will cut out your tongue if you say one more word. That Rakum is not your son. One more word and I will silence you forever.” Roman hissed in her face and he meant every word.

Esmeralda’s crossed herself and mumbled a prayer under her breath in her dialect. “Én baba…” she whispered, barely audible.

Baba—baby.

Roman clenched his jaw and violently shoved her to the floor. Esmeralda yelped in pain but stayed put, her eyes wide with fear.

Roman looked to the door and exhaled to calm himself. Why was she here? So close to where he lived and hunted and raised her son? Was it another trick of the Fathers? A terrific prank devised for their amusement? Were they even now watching him telepathically as they’d been known to do before?

Roman regarded the woman coolly and took a deep breath.

“Woman, if you leave this town in the morning and never return, I will allow you to live.” He took another cleansing breath and hardened his gaze. “But if I return and find you here, I will mark you. Do you know what that means? Are you familiar with this term?”

Esmeralda shook her head quickly. “No. No Nyúl. No Rabbit, Master. Please no.”

“No, if you leave town.” Roman switched to Hungarian and she understood him plainly. “Yes, if you remain. I will mark you as a Rabbit and then you will know hell like you’ve never imagined.”

The woman shook her head again and covered her mouth with both hands as she sat on the dirty floor.

Satisfied, Roman replaced his wide-brimmed hat and left the room. Outside of the building, sitting on a bench covered with snow, Javier looked up to see him approach.

“She leaving town then?” He asked his voice even and emotionless.

Roman’s lips parted to answer, but then he allowed a small smile. “What do you mean? You heard me instructing her to leave?”

Javier shrugged. “She’s my birth mother. I suppose it was an accident that brought us together and you’d want to be sure it didn’t happen again. Right?”

Still smiling, Roman nodded his head. “When did you make her?”

Javier got to his feet and dusted off his canvas trousers. “As soon as she entered the room.”

Roman’s mouth dropped. “And you fed from her anyway? Knowing full-well she was your blood?”

Javier smiled an impish grin. “I was hungry. Why not.”

Roman laughed and put his arm about the boy’s shoulders. “Indeed. Why not?”

He was a funny kid.

Strange, weak, unpredictable…but funny. Roman was glad to have him around. And he hoped the Fathers appreciated his performance.