Prologue:
One Year Ago
Music had never been his thing, especially not classical music. As the heir to the Vitality Brumal Mafia, Baikal Void had better things to do with his time than sit around listening to anything that wasn’t the sound of a person taking his fist or his cock.
Or, at least that’s what he’d thought initially when his Scientific Theory professor had announced they’d be required to sit in on Friday’s recital. The music program at Vail University was so good students came from all over the galaxy to attend, and even then, the spots were limited, but that was the extent of knowledge Baikal had when it came to it.
The music building and the business building were on opposite sides of their large campus, so he never crossed paths with any of them, and on top of that, his social circle tended to be of a particular breed. Everyone at Vail University knew who he was but that didn’t mean he’d bothered getting to know any of them, and it would have stayed that way if not for this stupid assignment.
He’d mostly zoned out for the previous twelve or so performances, only staying awake because sleeping in a public space would leave him vulnerable and he’d learned from a young age that wasn’t something a person in his position could afford being. His cousin, however, didn’t seem to care as much and was busy snoring at his side.
As soon as Baikal took the position of Dominus from his father, he’d name his cousin, Kazimir, his Underboss. Which meant the guy really needed to start getting his shit together and soon.
Not that Kazimir—or anyone else for that matter—was aware of just how close that actually was.
At the reminder that his father was dying, Baikal clenched his hands over his thighs, that urge to wreak havoc on the world around him momentarily blotting out everything else. He fought against it, knowing this wasn’t the time or the place to cause a scene. Still wisps of shadow spiraled out of his closed palms, his power getting away from him.
Shouts had the ability to manipulate the elements, but only one per person. Originally from another planet far from here, Baikal’s ancestors had all been Shouts, each with a specific gift of their own. His father could control the temperature of things, freezing them at a mere touch.
Kal’s power was a bit different. He could manipulate and create shadow, an ability that hadn’t been witnessed for a couple of centuries, long before the Void family had relocated to Vitality.
Their professor, seated down on the end of the row, had yet to notice Kazimir napping, but when the final performer was announced he made a big deal of alerting his students to pay attention. The finale was traditionally done by the most promising pupil, and according to their professor, this particular person was the whole reason he’d dragged them there in the first place.
Baikal had been prepared to listen just enough he’d be able to successfully answer questions afterward, but only just. That plan changed rather quickly, however, when the last performer made his way onto the stage.
He was beautiful, and beautiful wasn’t a word Baikal often threw around.
Since it was a recital, they were all dressed in classical white, the gauzy long-sleeved shirt hugging the man’s graceful frame as he walked to the center of the stage, an intricate instrument clutched in his left hand. His pants matched the same snow color, though made of a thicker material, and he was wearing leather boots that stopped at his ankle.
Every single performer thus far had been dressed in a similar fashion and Baikal hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash, but now he found himself gazing appreciatively across the auditorium, taking in everything down to the most minuscule of details.
Like how the man’s hands shook slightly when he finally lifted the instrument and rested the wider end of it against the top of his left shoulder. Or how his strawberry-red lips thinned as he clenched his jaw a moment before he noticeably gulped. His spine remained straight and when he lifted his arms he was poised and ready. He appeared as though nervous and lost, yet confident and strong all at once, and the juxtaposition caught Baikal’s interest like a sharp gambrel hook in meaty flesh.
That agitation within him seemed to lighten and dissipate the more he watched the musician. That feeling he’d been carrying around for a few months now, ever since his father’s diagnosis, was suddenly replaced by an all-consuming need to know more.
To know everything.
It took Baikal a second to place the instrument, having overheard others in the audience chatting amongst themselves about a special performance by a prodigy or whatever. They’d mentioned the beiska and he’d conjured a vague image of one in his head at the time. Looking at it now, it was clear that was what the attractive man held.
The beiska was a rare instrument that only a small few could play. It had a similar appearance to a violin but with six strings. Two on the outside were gold, and four on the inside were silver. The body was made of solid star crystal, a material as hard as diamond but completely clear like glass unless it hit the light just right, then it had rainbow refraction. There were just as few musicians who could master it as there were instruments created in the universe, and while he’d heard they had one on planet, Baikal had never been interested in learning more about who that may be.
Until now.
The man’s silver-white hair sparkled as the lights shining down on the stage dimmed, casting him in a pale glow similar to moonlight. That seemed to be the signal he’d been waiting for and he lifted his right hand and brought it over the strings, the tips of his fingers only barely making contact as he began to play.
The notes started slow and almost dreamy, melancholy in their lilt, as a complete and total hush fell over the entire audience. The beiska, like most string instruments, created sound through vibration, but what set it apart from others was the way it connected with its player and, through them, could produce colors to accompany the sounds.
Soft wisps of neon green and blue seemed to trail off the strings like smoke, twisting and tangling in the air as they floated upward and dissipated. Each one was quickly replaced with another, until a dozen or so of them moved around the man and his instrument, the dim spotlight and his white clothing allowing them to stand out more vividly. As the notes changed, the speed of his playing increased, and so did the colors, until shoots of electric pink and buttery yellow joined in with the blues and greens.
Baikal leaned forward, completely enthralled as he watched the performer.
A range of emotions passed over his face, each one every bit as intriguing as the colors and sounds he was manipulating with his deft fingers. With that crystal on his shoulder, he controlled the mood and emotions of every single person seated in the audience, almost as though he’d become their master and they his slave.
Even Baikal felt a prickle at the center of his chest, and without thinking he lifted his palm and pressed against that spot. A warmth there he hadn’t felt in a long time took bloom, spreading throughout his entire system the longer he sat there and watched. Life had become heavy as of late, and it’d gotten more and more difficult for him to find anything to look forward to, let alone actually enjoy.
Though he’d always been a fan of patterns in the past, the consistent routine of home, school, and gym had become tedious on top of it all. Even trips to the clubhouse had proven uneventful, and he’d come close to causing trouble for no reason other than for a change of pace on more than one occasion in the past few months. It’d gotten to the point he’d truly believed he was going to be resigned to a fate of soulless existence, forced to grin and bear it for the sake of his last name and all the responsibility that came with it.
He wasn’t feeling that way now, however. In fact, a million and one emotions seemed to be going off within him all at once, vying for attention, with one, in particular, raging louder than the others.
