Dreu’s not just a hybrid creature of the night: he’s a charming rascal, sometimes clueless, always randy. He’s on a quest whether he knows it or not.

From Book 3 of The Strigoi Chronicles: Michel.

The half-vamp, half-demon, all cleric Dreu is offered sanctuary in his father’s realms of Hel after Dreu’s were lover is killed by his own pack in an insane act of vengeance. Rafe, the Demon Lord’s personal physician, is tasked with seeing to Dreu’s recuperation. Rafe will obey his liege lord to the letter, but that doesn’t necessarily guarantee tender treatment for the hapless cleric.

EXCERPT:

Rafe huffed and minced no words. “You look like shit, man.” Peeling away the thin silver chains holding me in bondage to the hospital bed, Doc Demon exercised his rights to a medical opinion with, “I mean, really…” and let that trail off with a wrinkled nose and a call for backup.

Two nurses of dubious genders twaddled into the room armed with linens and bedpans.

Somebody had forgotten to let the dog out.

Nurse numero uno said, “He’s not supposed to…” and didn’t bother finishing the sentence because obviously wasn’t supposed to didn’t mean Michel du Velours’ one and only son, Dreu, couldn’t.

And I had. In stasis, no less. My Vampyr heritage had gone walkabout, leaving me with a rather disgusting metabolism and a need for adult diapers.

Eeuw, indeed.

Rafe instructed the demons-of-mercy to clean me up post haste and he’d be back.

When Kinky Nurse produced a clawful of dry brillo pads, I went to my happy place…

Rafe re-entered the room and paused, watching with interest as my errant body twisted with sniveling abandon, my head cocked in the direction of the door and my fists grabbing wads of cotton blanket.

Eyes locking with mine, he gave an uptick of a smile, no doubt curious about how I’d managed to impale my lower lip with fangs that threatened to eject from gums raw with lust and need.

Nurse Kinky had trespassed where no one had gone before, into uncharted territory, using a talon with a rough steel wad of stimulation massaging my prostate, a felony so intense I’d have paid currency to keep her in my service for the rest of hereafter.

Daddio’s man-of-medicine decided I’d had sufficient stimulation for the day so he barked, “That’s enough,” and made it clear to me that he was serious about denying my gratification.

The pathetic ‘thuth thuth thuth’ sounds of my wretched tongue prying lips apart, the ones for all intents and purposes stapled shut, over-rode the ‘OW’ growling deep in my throat as the Kinkster withdrew her affections, bowed and sauntered off, taking that bit of divine inspiration with her.

When the incisors finally retracted I muttered, “Damn,” and licked the bloody holes shut, enjoying the unusual fragrance of fear intermingled with my own spicy bouquet. Now that the makeshift sex toy was no longer providing pleasurable sensations, the realization that a brillo, applied judiciously, could indeed shave off and reduce a gland to which I’d developed a certain attachment hit with a jolt. And not in a pleasant way.

Thinking back on my last aborted visit to the realms of Hel, I recalled that there weren’t many female demons. The ones I’d seen had been on the butt side of ugly, which explained why Pops trolled the upper levels for companionship. I assumed that was the case across the board.

It might also explain why the s/hemales were routinely conscripted when torture was on the menu. Nothing said post-modern feminism like taking your patriarchal oppression and shoving it literally where the sun don’t shine.

I’d read Hélène Cixous and much admired her version of écriture feminine, being a man of letters and devoted to language and all things literary, including my vast collection of classical pornography, now forever lost in a dank Ukrainian cave.

The ladies of Hel seemed to favor a misandrist outlook, a word I’d had to look up after my father dropped it on the head of one of his servers like an eff-bomb. The s/hemale had simply bared her pointy teeth and bowed, not in respect, but in acknowledgement of the truth. S/he and her cohorts never had and never would have any love for their male counterparts.

Rafe crossed his arms and leaned against the far wall while my brain wandered off into pseudo-academic la-la-land. I was buck naked, with a deflated ego and a sore butt.  What was left of my heart had shrunk to the level of retribution and revenge.

Interrupting my reverie, Rafe said, “You told him you changed your mind,” and shifted slightly so as to watch both me and the doorway. As if we might be overheard. Through the open door. Obviously I was a long way from understanding demon psychology.

I answered, “Yeah,” and left what’s it to you hanging out there just for shits and giggles. When my prostate and I were on a voyage of discovery, I did not appreciate interruptions and withdrawal of affection.

The doc ignored me being surly and instead pressed for elucidation on the whole changing mind thing. As well he should. I had a bad case of tunnel vision.

Fane was dead, pitched over the side of a cliff, probably lying in a pool of black blood and splintered bones. An ignominious end to a pure and noble creature that cried out for payback. I said as much.

Not bothering to keep the snark out of his tone, he rejoined with, “Thought you wanted to die,” leaving the last word less a question, more like a dare.

“I do.”

He lifted a brow at that, as if mourning a lover wasn’t worth the time of day, that vowing to rejoin Fane in some fictionalized hereafter wasn’t just the stuff of overheated hormones and vapid teenaged angst.

He shrugged with that why don’t you just off yourself and save us all a boatload of trouble? His loyalties did not align with mine; that was clear enough. But if Pops said keep the kid alive, he would obey his sovereign to the letter of the law. It didn’t mean he had to like me.

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