To Protect And Serve Ch 04

Proofread by FernieLyn

This story is a bit wordy and fairly long, so if you are looking for immediate gratification, you might want to look elsewhere.

The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between these character and events and any real person or events is strictly coincidental . . . and pretty darn impressive seeing as it is a science fiction story. Do not reproduce or copy this story without the consent of the author.

This story is based in an alternative universe, where history took a different course than the one we are used to. In this world, the creatures which we now believe to be legends have walked alongside man for the duration of our existence. Vampires, werewolves, wizards, witches, sorcerers, and a host of other beings share our world.

The following story contains, in one chapter or another, lesbian, homosexual, heterosexual, anal, group, sci-fi/fantasy, non-human, and BDSM sexual activity. There may be some erotic horror in there somewhere as well, but I haven't made up my mind.

---------------------- ------------------------

Shamira was pacing a trench in the area around the eighteenth green on Shane's golf course. It was bad enough that she had been a vampire for less than two weeks, a sexual submissive (in practice) or less than one week and that both things weighed heavily on her mind. She had just finished baring her soul about one of the most traumatic events of her existence, and now she'd met her first ghost who had an unbelievable message for her.

"Bullshit!" she shouted again.

"I assure you, that is the case as it stands."

"Samantha is even more skeptical about this mystical shit that I am! I mean was. She's a born-again atheist, so why would she be seeing some kind of psychic --"

"Medium," the ghost corrected her. "She is seeing a medium."

"What are they saying now?" Banshee asked. Of the four beings who were not ghosts present, only Shamira and the necromancer Lillian could see the ghost. Shamira could only see him because he had come to see her. Shane and Banshee had to wait for interpretations from Lillian.

"Whatever!" Shamira blasted. "Why would she want to talk to me? I'm dead!"

"Undead," Shane corrected her. "Technically and mystically, there's a big dif--" He stopped when Shamira glared at him. Dominant or not, he really didn't want to have her swinging fists at him.

"Dead, undead, why would she want to talk to me? What would make her do something like this?"

"According to the medium, your sister Samantha has been uneasy since your death. Did you and your sister have a special connection when alive?"

"Yeah, but that's because she's my damn sister! She was the only friend I had most of the time."

Lillian looked quizzical. "Did she ever just call you out of the blue because you needed to talk? Did she ever seem to know what you were thinking?"

Shamira eyeballed the redhead. She'd been thinking those exact things when she'd seen her sister after Shamira's funeral.

"I'm right, aren't I? It's not uncommon for siblings to have a special connection,"

"She said that she still feels your presence," the ghost said, "and she wants to know if you have unfinished business here or if your soul is tortured for some reason. She wants to know why you don't move on. Your sister seems quite tenacious."

Lillian was translating for Shane, and he and Shamira shared a look. It was a look, on Shamira's part, that said that she should have been allowed to pass on and that she shouldn't be dealing with all this pain and doubt now. And Shane's look was unrepentant. He felt that he had made the right call.

"If she's gone this far," Shamira said slowly, "then she won't stop. Is this dangerous for her?"

"I don't think so," Lillian responded, "at least not physically. "But mentally, this could turn into an obsession."

"Can you just go back and tell this medium to tell Samantha that I've moved on and she's hallucinating.?" Shamira asked of the spectral visitor.

"I cannot actually lie," the ghost said. "I just do not know how to answer this. These questions would be easy if you were actually dead or actually a ghost. Neither the medium nor I considered the notion of vampirism. This is kind of unprecedented for us. I should write a paper on it." The ghost seemed actually excited.

"A paper?" Shamira asked.

Lillian smiled. "The spirit world uses mediums to produce a yearly newsletter."

The ridiculousness of it actually made Shamira pause for a moment.

"Technically," Shane said, "you have NOT moved on, your spirit IS still in this plane of existence, and your soul IS troubled."

"Good point," the ghost said, then vanished.

"No!" Shamira said, staring at the spot the ghost had just stood . . . er, floated. The glare returned to Shane.

"Sir," Banshee said, interjecting herself between the two other vampires, "for a master who has been around for three and a half centuries, you sometimes show a profound lack of wisdom. And I say that with all due respect."

"You and Renata," Shane grumbled, staying on the other side of his assassin as Shamira contemplated obvious mayhem.

"She won't stop digging around now!" Shamira growled. "What if she tries to dig up my body? Think about that? How do we explain it if I'm not in my damn coffin!"

"Your coffin is actually in storage --" Shane started to say. "Sorry. Not relevant."

"I can't let this happen. I'm not going to let this ghost give her the wrong impression. I won't let her go through this," Shamira said, more stammering than speaking. "I need to go to Huntsville. Find this medium and stop him or her from saying anything."

"You don't even know how to find the medium," Shane pointed out, "and you have duties here."

"Duties?! This is my sister we're talking about! And I wouldn't even be in this mess if it weren't for you!"

"She has a point," Lillian said. She looked nonplussed when Shane tried to glare at her. "I'm sorry sir, and you can punish me however you like for saying this, but your impetuousness is what got her killed in the first place, and now it's set the ghost off to deliver a partially true message that may cause Shamira more problems and heartache."

Shane grimaced. He wouldn't punish Lillian for this. Well, not in a bad way or unless she asked for it like Renata had. His necromancer was right; his decisions had made life more difficult for Shamira, though bringing her over wasn't something he could bring himself to regret. "If you really think that you can stop this from getting further out of hand, then do what you feel you must. Just remember the rules and risks about involving mortals in our affairs."

Shamira nodded. "I need to go to Huntsville," she said.

"I'll alert the ruling authority in that region. It's actually an alpha werewolf named Clyde. Yes, Clyde. No, don't make fun of him." Shane looked towards the house. "Take someone with you, just in case." He raised his hand before Shamira could speak. "Yes, you can take Clara if you want. I'll call you while you're on the road and let you know where you can meet Clyde. It's traditional to greet the ruler of an area when you're in his or her territory. Clara has been an ambassador before, so follow her lead on dealing with him. Use it as a learning experience."

"Thank you sir," Shamira said. "I'll straighten this out."

"I believe you will," Shane said.

That made Shamira feel better. For all her foibles and problems, it was nice for someone to give at least lip service to having confidence in her. She hurried over to the house, tearing to her room to pack a small suitcase. Then she realized she didn't have a suitcase, so she went looking for Clara. The Native American was in the security control room, glancing at monitors and chatting with Raul about getting infrared sensors on the perimeter.

"Hey," Shamira said, feeling like she should be out of breath.

"Hey, what's going on?" Clara asked. We were scanning the golf course cameras earlier and you and Lillian were talking to thin air and Banshee and Shane were looking confused and --"

"I'll explain on the way," Shamira interrupted. "I need a suitcase to go see a werewolf about finding a medium in time so that my sister doesn't think I'm not totally dead yet."

"That didn't make a lot of sense in any language I speak," Clara said with a grin.

Shamira slowed down, feigned taking a deep breath, then explained what had happened with the ghost. "Shane said I could take someone with me and I was wondering --"

Clara grabbed Shamira by the arm and pulled her to a large closet that was chalked full of community luggage. "Grab a small bag, go pack, and meet me at the garage," she said. Clara looked excited to be going on a trip. "Meet me in the garage, and pick a car that screams 'redneck.' Clyde will be impressed, and it'll make things go smoother." She kissed Shamira on the cheek, then grabbed a suitcase and vanished.

Shamira packed in record time, just grabbing handfuls of stuff out of the drawers of her room and realizing how little practical clothing she owned. Except for her sweats, she didn't have much 'driving clothes.' 'Maybe that's not what I need?' she thought. She grabbed her western wear, including hat and boots and whips and was ready to go. She looked pretty redneck herself. She bolted to the armory, picked up a specialty Desert Eagle and gun-belt, then headed to the garage and had a look around.

"How many cars does he fucking own?" she asked of no one, walking through the airplane-hanger-sized structure. "Hummer? Nah, too pretentious. No sporty cars, no over-priced SUV. He's probably die if he saw the Prius." Her eyes stopped when they hit the blue, mint-condition 1973 Plymouth Roadrunner. "Ooh, momma likes," she said, tracing her hand over the hood.

"So we're taking that one?" Clara asked from the door.

Shamira just grinned and threw her suitcase into the trunk, closing it after Clara had done the same. Then they were off, with Clara acting as navigator. She'd apparently made the trip several times and knew her way.

"Okay, first rule of diplomacy is to know that every area ruler isn't the same. This guy we're meeting, Clyde, is a hell of a lot smarter than most people think when they first meet him, and he cultivates that image. He wouldn't have held on to his territory as long as he has."

"If holding territories is so damn dangerous, why do people want the job?"

"Power for some, money for others. The rulers and lords get a small amount of tithing from the magical beings in his or her area. And some people, like Shane, really just believe in keeping the peace."

"And Clyde? What's his motivation?"

"He's a good guy most of the time. He seems to find the whole thing . .. amusing."

"Yeah, this whole Disney magical world crap is a riot," Shamira replied bitterly.

Clara looked slightly slightly saddened. "So nothing about your current situation is even vaguely pleasant?"

Shamira grimaced, managed to make it apologetic. "You've been great. I'd probably be even more of a basketcase than I am if it weren't for you. And Shane. No, he's making me a basketcase," she said.

That elicited a little grin. "Don't be too hard on him. His life . . . this world . . . it's complicated. He wants to do right by you. Actually, he wants to 'do' you too, but who doesn't?"

Her friend rolled her eyes. "Is that all anyone around Shane's house ever thinks about?"

"When we can." Clara's hand fell on Shamira's legs, caressing the inner part of that denim-clad thigh. "It's much more fun than stressing out about things we can't change."

The presence of Clara's hand in its present location was making Shamira's skin tingle all over. "I wish I could just let go like that and not worry about it."

"Why can't you?"

"Emotional baggage, I guess." Shamira wasn't sure why, but she knew that she wanted to tell Clara about Jimmy Fisk. Shane had almost had to drag the story out of her, but Shamira trusted Clara in a way that no one else had reached. "Because I can't help but think that I'll miss something, and someone will get hurt because I wasn't able to protect them." Then she told Clara about Jimmy, the object of her first childhood crush who had died because that scared fourteen-year-old girl had stuck her nose into the affairs of bullies and hadn't been able to stop Jimmy's persecution or the subsequent "accident." By the end of the story, Clara's head was resting on Shamira's shoulder and that caressing of the thigh was more for comfort than arousal.

"Is that what you and Shane were talking about on the golf course that got you so upset?"

"Yeah."

"Did he tell you that there was nothing you could have done, that it wasn't your fault, and that you shouldn't be beating yourself up about it?"

"Effectively."

"And me repeating that stuff won't make you feel better?"

Shamira actually whispered, "It might."

Clara repeated everything that she had just said, then kissed Shamira on the cheek. "I'm glad you told me. I know that 'I'm sorry' probably doesn't cut it. But Shane is right. Use him as your strength. It's not wrong to mourn a friend, a lover, or idol, but you could live forever. That's a long time to let this weigh on you."

"How do I get past it?"

"You don't. You just have to decide HOW you want it to weigh on you. I mean, it's obvious that you had a crush on him for a reason. Think of those things."

Shamira smiled. "He had this dumb grin . . . I don't think he knew how to turn it off. He loved to talk about anything and was constantly learning. He had this imagination, you know? He'd see someone walking down the street with a limp, and he would come up with this hour-long story of how the guy got it. It usually involved giant space-bugs, but it was always entertaining. And he listened to me, even though I was just a dumb bratty little sister to one of his friends. And he'd listen to me, no matter what my drama was." 'Kind of like you,' Shamira thought.

The next few hours were surprisingly tranquil for Shamira, considering her emotion unloading and the fact that her sister, who was supposed to think that Shamira was dead, was apparently trying to communicate with her from beyond the grave. They stopped in Rome for coffee, then Clara insisted on stealing a Confederate flag throw rug she saw being sold outside a gas station just inside of the Alabama state line. They stopped again to throw it into a swamp, then got slushies. Thirty minutes outside of Huntsville, they got a call from Shane.

"Yeah?" Clara said, answering the phone. "Things are set? Where? You're kidding?! You're not kidding? Like we don't get enough of that in Atlanta. I don't really see why . . . Yes sir, we'll do it." She paused. "No, she hasn't said anything, but I think that this counts as a mission, doesn't it? I'll tell her." Clara rolled her eyes. "Check your desk drawer. No, the top one . . ." She covered the phone with her hand. "He needs to bribe a public official and he can never remember where he keeps the checkbook." She lifted her hand. "Good. Okay, we'll call you after we've talked to Clyde. Yes sir, I understand."

"What's up?"

"He found the checkbook. And he wants to know if you've decided on what to do about submissive sex. And we're meeting Clyde at the Waffle House."

"Did he say what my options were?" Shamira asked nervously.

"I think they have a menu," Clara replied.

"Sigh. I meant about making a decision?"

"Nah. But you're off until we get back from this, so you've got some breathing room. So to speak. Unless you don't WANT a break," Clara cooed, her hand stroking Shamira's inner thigh again.

"Driving!" came the reply, though her body seemed uninterested in Clara's hand being removed.

"I'm aware of that. Too bad we're almost to Huntsville, otherwise I'd say we pull over and --" She wiggled her eyebrows.

"Do you ever think about anything else?"

"Only when I'm working. Sex equals fun. You have been having fun, haven't you?"

"God yes," Shamira gasped as that hand rubbed her crotch through the denim. She had been having fun. It was just the post-being-dominated guilt that was the problem.

"Then stop worrying about it," Clara crooned. She wasn't sure why it was so hard for her to keep her hands off this woman, but being around Shamira just drove her horny. Well, hornier than usual. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," came the honest reply, "but it'll be hard to talk to a werewolf with a straight face if I've got a cum stain in my jeans."

Clara grinned. "See? You're thinking on your feet. Maybe afterward, I'll see how you think on your back."

A little while later, they pulled into the parking lot for the Huntsville Waffle House, Clara still making sexual innuendos. Shamira wondered how many of them the younger-looking woman was willing to back up later.

"I haven't eaten at a Waffle House in . . . I can't remember how long," Shamira said, holding the door open for her friend.

"Why? Besides the fact that they're tacky?"

"Hard to keep down to competition weight and body-fat percentage if you even walk near one of these?"

"So this is your competition body?" Clara asked.

"Nah, this was my regular percentage."

Clara's mind was trying to process Shamira being more muscular when she stepped inside. It was almost midnight at the twenty-four hour establishment, but there was a reasonable crowd inside. The ancient woman standing behind the counter looked their way, then nodded her head towards an empty table at the back of the restaurant.

"Have a seat, ladies," she said, looking disapprovingly at the two provocatively dressed women.

"So," Clara said, looking around, "how many do you think are Clyde's people?"

Shamira figured that her friend knew the lay of the land better than she, so figured this was a test. "I'd figure all of them. If Clyde is worrying about trouble and if he is a 'good guy' like you said, he'll make sure that there aren't innocents around."

"Good call," Clara said, waving at a couple of young men at another table. "Take a breath, identify scents. We aren't as good as weres at it, but see if you can make distinctions."

Shamira did as she was told, closing her eyes to help her concentrate. Identifying smells didn't come easy, as it wasn't something she was used to doing too much when human. "Something . . . woodsy. Like pine and musk. So THAT'S what 'musk' smells like," she muttered. "Something else smells . . . stale and thick and coppery."

"Weres tend to have earthy smells," came Clara's voice, and the 'thick and coppery' thing is likely vamp. Blood smells coppery, and vampire blood is a richer version of that. You're doing good. Anything else?"

"One smells lighter and coppery, so I'm thinking human. And one . . . damn, someone's wearing a fuck-ton of Old Spice."

"She IS good," came a new voice, edged with a southern drawl.

Shamira opened her eyes to see Grizzly Adams, or a pretty close approximation thereof. He was a large man, standing easily six feet four inches tall, with a bushy beard, long wild hair. He had a caveman forehead, but the eyes sparkled with both amusement and insight. And he was built like an Arkansas razorback, meat and muscle and more than a hint of danger.

Clara wrinkled her nose. "Did you bathe in the stuff?" she asked.

"One of my kids likes it, so I wear it." He shrugged those enormous shoulders. "What can ya do?" He extended a large hand to. "I've met Clara b'fore, but you're a sight for these old, sore eyes."

"Are you calling me an eye-sore?" Shamira asked, giving a firm grip.

"I ain't that dumb, and I sure ain't blind," the large man said. He opened up a menu, and the girls did the same.

"Why does a triple-stack of pancakes sound so good right now?" Shamira muttered.

"I'm not sure, but you'd better brush your fangs before we make out later," Clara responded.