The Dare of Truth [slash]

Chapter 1

Dear readers, this is the sequel to "Secrets". If you haven't read that story, please do so first, or this won't make any sense. Once again, the story is set in Xenobia's Wyndrah universe.

The Dare of Truth

Chapter 1

Fyn Sheldon sighed angrily for the umpteenth time. He had been doing that all morning while he ate breakfast and got ready for work, and it didn't make him feel better at all.

His new assignment was just a bad joke. Here he was, one of the best investigative journalists in Valkyrie Falls, and he had to write for the culture, society, and sports columns until further notice! In the last two years, he had uncovered six scandals involving high society members, among them politicians and other influential citizens. But now… two weeks ago, the "Valkyrie Times" had gotten a new editor-in-chief. Jordan McKenzie had a lot of associates and friends among the people touched by the exposed scandals, and his first order had been to lay low the investigative journalism for a while and "concentrate on more important things," as he had put it.

Important things? The lifebearer snorted. McKenzie was just afraid that more dirt on his buddies would be discovered, maybe even something on himself. And if there had been a newspaper equal to the "Valkyrie Times", Fyn wouldn't have hesitated to quit his job there. But as things were, he had to grit his teeth, play nice for a while and then hopefully get back to what he was really good at. Or he would help out his sire for the time being, at least with the research. Private investigator Sheldon was the best there was, and Fyn had learned a lot from him for his own trade like building information networks and asking the right questions at the right time.

In truth, Fyn would have loved to follow in his sire's footsteps. He would have also gone to the police academy or even join the Alliance as an Ulvari agent. The young lifebearer was a ruthless researcher, had lots of contacts, and, since he had been training in Martial Arts since childhood, he could also hold himself very well in a fight. But a PI, a police officer or an agent had one more thing in common: they had to be able to outrun others. And that was the problem.

"Damn it," Fyn grumbled as he pulled on his jacket and then sat down to carefully lace up his boots. As a toddler, Fyn had fallen down some stairs due to an accident, and the bones in his lower right leg had suffered a complicated splintered fracture. The doctors and physiotherapists had done everything they could over the years, but now, at age 39, Fyn still walked with a very slight limp and was unable to run fast or for long distances. And when the weather changed, his leg ached like the human old-age disease called arthritis.

It had just been a series of very unfortunate circumstances. Normally, lashran healed much faster than humans, but that didn't do any good if the bones didn't mend the way they were supposed to. Fyn had also grown very rapidly at that point, giving the healing bones even more problems. It was far better now than it had been when he was a little child, and the leg had gotten strong enough again for him to learn Martial Arts. But there were some things Fyn could never do. So he had decided to fight for justice and truth in another way and became a journalist.

And even that was now almost being taken from him!

Fyn finished lacing up his boots, grabbed his keys and exited the apartment. It was a rather stylish loft since his job paid very well and he was frugal in his lifestyle. No car, since there weren't any parking spaces around the "Valkyrie Times" building, no parties and no fancy clothes for clubbing since dancing was awkward with his leg, no big trips since Fyn loved the city. The only thing the young lifebearer bought with almost an obsession were books, so almost every wall of his apartment was covered with a full set of shelves.

Directly outside the building, there was a bus stop, and Fyn arrived there just in time to be taken a few blocks downtown to the "Valkyrie Times". As always during this hour, the bus was full of school kids, loudly talking, laughing or having their earphones on deafening volume to anyone sitting nearby. And as always, Fyn got hit on.

"Hey cutie, are you going to Hilltop High as well? I haven't seen you before, but I'm usually not on this bus…" A young sire, maybe sixteen, all gangly limbs from a growth spurt, said to him. He grinned at Fyn expectantly.

Fyn rolled his eyes. Really, if the bus wasn't so convenient… "I'm not into jailbait, 'cutie'."

The boy didn't give up. "Wow, you're eighteen already? I would have thought you were younger than me. But I don't mind, we could…"

The bus stopped. "I've got to go to work," Fyn declared with mock-regret. "And you should go hit on someone who's not more than twice your age."

The boy gaped at him as he exited the bus.

Fyn was just glad that school holidays began in a few days, and then he would be spared those endless pick-up lines from those babies. And all this because of his looks.

The lifebearer sighed - again. In these moments, he felt like he was cursed. As if the leg wasn't enough…

Fyn entered the building, flashed his employee card to the janitor and took the lift up to the fifth floor, where his office was. The lift had a big mirror, and Fyn scowled at it. His reflection, a very pretty, tiny lifebearer who looked to be barely out of middle school, pouted at him in the most adorable way. He had huge pastel green eyes and a pixie-like face with lots of freckles over his button nose. Curls of unruly platinum blonde hair had escaped his ponytail and framed his face.

"Don't worry, in a few years you'll look more mature," his father always assured him. But it hadn't happened so far. Fyn looked exactly the way he had looked when he was fifteen: women and lifebearers wanted to pinch his cheeks and give him sweets, and every decent man or sire his age he had met somewhere had avoided him for fear of going to jail for statutory rape. The only guys who openly showed interest in him were perverts to whom he would give a swift kick in the crotch.

With a 'ding', the lift stopped, and Fyn stepped into the busy writing department of the "Valkyrie Times". Everyone greeted him with a smile, and he forced himself to smile back. Those people had accepted him after long months, sometimes years of trying to be taken seriously despite his looks. Among them, he was just another journalist who worked hard to get his job done the best way he could.

"Mr. Sheldon!" The lifebearer had just reached his office when a young woman with short black hair rushed toward him. Celia Warren was an intern, and despite being exploited as an unpaid worker, she was always helpful, eager to learn and quick. Fyn had already told his superiors that he wanted her as his assistant in case she applied for a real job after finishing college.

"Good morning, Celia. Did you get the reports?" he asked. Fyn had sent her to the archives for some old reports he wanted to review.

"Yes, they're on your desk. But there's something else. Mr. McKenzie's secretary gave me a note for you. I don't know why she didn't just send you an email, but here it is." She handed Fyn a hand-written note. He read it, then read it again. And finally, he scrunched it up.

"Are you alright?" Celia asked with a worried tone.

Fyn nodded. "It's nothing. Come on, let's get to work. I'll go read those reports, and you can find me some upcoming events in the culture department. I won't stoop so low as to do sports reports. Art and music are at least something I like."

"On it, boss!" the girl grinned and ran off. Fyn had never seen Celia walk slowly. She was like a little whirlwind, full of energy. He was almost a bit envious, although he knew humans lived for a far shorter lifespan than lashran and had to make the best of it. Fyn himself had all the time in the world, decades and centuries to do everything he wanted to.

But there were some things he'd never have.

To be continued…