My Lady Vampire
Book One
Sahara Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
Cover art copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
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Acknowledgements
Nobody writes in a vacuum. There are always friends, conversations, ideas that take root in the mind. One such idea came from the photograph of a beautiful Slovenian spa and the reminiscences of a wickedly charming friend who visits there on a regular basis. It cried out for silks, lace and sensual European intrigue while begging for the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel and the rhythmic thud of horses’ hooves. It demanded moonlit nights and couples who disobeyed convention to lose themselves in darkened forests while exploring the heights of passion—or the depths of depravity. Thus the seed for this story was planted. Grazie!
(This book was originally published as “Flame of Shadows”.)
Author’s Notes
The word “Chyne”, used throughout this story, is more commonly spelled as “chine” today, and describes a steep sided river valley where the river flows through coastal cliffs to the sea. Its origin comes from “Cinan”, the Saxon word for gap or yawn. Chine is mostly used in central Southern England, especially the Isle of Wight, where there are nineteen chines, amongst which are the tourist resorts of Blackgang Chine and Shanklin Chine. In the past, they were much appreciated by smugglers and pirates for the shelter and concealment they offered on dark and stormy nights. Sadly, most chines are being constantly eroded, and many are now little more than small gullies leading to the ocean.
“Rogaška”—where some of the activity in this story takes place—is real, although I have taken a slight liberty with its timeline. A quite incredibly beautiful estate in present-day Slovenia, it gained renown for its healing waters during the medieval period. Converted into a proper health resort and hotel in 1803, it became one of the most fashionable and popular in Europe, helped along by the development of a more convenient railway system between Vienna and Trieste during the mid-1800’s. Its popularity fluctuated with the conflicts in Europe, but today it remains an attractive vacation destination, offering a variety of healthy spa treatments along with relaxing massages and many leisure activities. It also boasts a world-renowned glassware factory producing beautiful lead crystal, much of which is exported to the United States.
Prologue
An estate somewhere in Mid-Europe - late 1700s…
Her hair flamed in the candlelight, a flicker of red that shone brighter than the jewels around the necks of the other women. Each time he glanced into the massive ballroom, the flash of color caught his eye.
Other men were attracted too—moths to the flame. She danced with anyone who asked, heedless of protocol, ignoring the occasional frowning stare tossed her way by a wallflower.
She was elegant and lithe, her body beckoning the unwary to capture her, hold her close for a brief instant of time.
In an unusual fit of whimsy, he thought that she could have been a moonbeam in her creamy silk gown, had it not been for the slash of brilliance coiled atop her head. She was attending in the entourage of some minor Margrave, an overly obsequious lesser functionary whose sole purpose in life was to bolster the importance of Count Rogas, their host for this event.
The Count himself had performed his one duty dance with his wife, then retired to the card room, leaving the assembled throng to the music, the dancing and the flirting—an inevitable part of any such soiree.
Given that Rogaška was a huge and opulent near-palace, there were plenty of people left to enjoy themselves, and the Count’s absence was barely noted. Certainly not by her. Nor the several hundred other guests as they whirled through the dance, watched by the man standing in shadow outside a huge open window.
In spite of the crowds, his gaze inevitably found her. Thérèse Osmočescu. The beautiful red-headed Thérèse. And when her gaze collided with his, he nearly lost his breath. He’d expected a green glitter to shine from beneath her eyelids.
He was wrong.
She neared him, coming ever closer, and he fought to suck air into his starving lungs, choking down the bolt of lust that speared him as she fixed him with her gaze.
Her eyes were blacker than midnight, her irises indistinct from her pupils. They were so unexpected, so unusual, that for a moment or two he almost drowned in their shadowed depths. The massive ballroom splintered into a million shards of light, paling and shimmering next to those deeply disturbing eyes that pierced him to his groin and beyond.
His cock hardened as she walked towards him, not a word yet spoken between them. His skin heated then dewed with sweat and he swore he could detect her scent—even hear the swish of her gown against her thighs. She was a moving symphony of sexuality, a softly swaying invitation to sin.
And at this moment he wanted to fuck her more than anything else in the world.
Jadranko Čzaplinek ran his tongue over lips that were suddenly dry and stared as the object of his obsession drew nearer, a slight, teasing smile playing around the lush curves of her mouth.
She was definitely headed his way, and his mind struggled to absorb that fact. He was nothing—a minor landowner looking for a sponsor. No more than that. His presence at this function was a fluke, her interest in him astonishing.
When she held out her hand toward him, his heart nearly stuttered to a halt. But he took it nonetheless and drew her through the window onto the stone balcony. Surprisingly cool, her fingers lay across his palm—a kiss of chilled flesh against his heated skin. He shivered involuntarily and gazed uncertainly at her as she drew closer still, folding her hand around his. “I’m…”
“Ssshh.” One icy finger touched his lips, silencing him. “No words.”
He smiled at the slight accent that threaded through her speech. It was charming, appealing and heightened her sensuality.
Her hair caught a stray flicker of light, burning like an ember when exposed to a draft. There was a fire burning in her eyes as well, and Jadranko could only follow where she led. Now he was her captive, trailing the moonlit silk of her gown as she made her way through formal gardens, past hedges and fountains, and into the less well-tended section of the estate.
As if by instinct her feet found the path, and she sped to her goal—the small bandstand that sat deserted now in a clearing within the forest. Stepping inside, she released his hand and turned, leaning against one white painted column.
“I want you.” She spoke and the words flew to him on a breath that grazed his cheek with cool sweetness.
He swallowed. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Jadranko Čzaplinek.” She smiled as she carefully wrapped her tongue around the complicated syllables. “See? I know your name. You were watching me. I could feel your eyes on me.” Her laugh was light and carefree. “A woman always knows when a man is…interested in her. She can tell what he wants.”
“She can?” Jadranko found he was panting, though they had not exerted themselves. Not yet, anyway.
“Oh yes.” She raised her chin. “You want me, Jadranko. You want this.”
His lungs seized as she grasped handfuls of her silken skirts and slowly raised them higher and higher until he could clearly see the bright red curls that shielded her pussy. Catching the dim moonlight, they burned as hotly as his blood.
“You want this, don’t you?” She purred out the question, parting her thighs very slightly to emphasize her statement.
Jadranko nodded. “Yes.” His cock was pressing harshly against his trousers. He wanted her all right. He had done so ever since he first set eyes on her.
“Then take it, Jadranko. On your knees and worship me first. With your mouth. I like that.” She settled herself more comfortably, gown held high, thighs and hips a white gleam in the shadows.
More than willing, Jadranko dropped to his knees before her, letting his hands slide over the pure shining skin of her legs. He eased them apart to reveal moist and swollen flesh. Her scent teased his nostrils and the little sigh of pleasure she gave was music to his ears.
He bent to her and sank his mouth into her pussy.
This was truly a miracle of unheard-of proportions, and Jadranko obeyed the urging of his desires, feasting on the cool body of Thérèse Osmočescu until she was heaving with arousal against his face.
He was in heaven.
- - - -
Thérèse smiled as hot lips sucked ferociously at her cold pussy. Her senses were aroused, her juices flowed and a delightful lassitude spread through her body. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, relishing in the sensations this energetic young man was producing.
He had been a good choice. An outsider, not part of a large circle or group of guests at the ball. Unlikely to be missed by anyone, certainly not until she was long gone from this place.
She felt a tingle, a tensing within her sheath, and reached for his head, pulling his mouth away. “More, Jadranko. I need your cock now.”
How biddable he was—how ready to fuck her. Within seconds his cock was freed from his imprisoning trousers, a hard and aroused length, swollen purple at the enlarged head. Just right to give her pleasure as they fucked.
“Mmm.” Thérèse smiled once more as he stepped between her legs and slid his arousal through her juices. So that he would be in no doubt of her intention, she lifted one leg, allowing the inside of her thigh to brush upward over his now-naked hip. Trousers in a wrinkled puddle around his feet, Jadranko groaned as he sought the entrance to her sex, his cock rooting hungrily through her flesh.
“Lift me, my strong Jadranko. Lift me so you can fuck me deeply. Be with me in the flames.”
Willingly his hands cradled her buttocks and without hesitation he took her slight weight, raising her to exactly the right height. Her breasts grazed his coat, the roughness of the simple fabric abrading her sensitive nipples through the fine silk. It was but another step in her arousal.
This was what she craved, needed with a desire so fierce it nearly choked her. She had desired it at regular intervals for nearly a hundred years now.
And when it came from a handsome young man like Jadranko, so much the better. Her last time, several months ago, had been with a not-so-handsome partner. The smell of the stables had been all over him and had clung to her nostrils ever since. She’d had a hard time getting the taste of him out of her mouth.
But this one? He was perfect.
With one supremely accomplished thrust he took her, sinking his cock deeply inside her body. She could feel the heat from each ridge and valley along its hard length. It warmed her, filled her, drove her wild with desire, lust—and hunger.
Risking a glance at his face, Thérèse saw his eyes close and his lips part as he began to pound into her, seeking his own release but managing skillfully to encourage hers as well.
Oh yes. He was good.
She let herself go, enjoying the feel of him fucking her, and the knowledge of what was yet to come. She ignored the hard wooden column against her spine, and barely felt the night air against her buttocks. It was all about her inner sensations and her need—to orgasm.
To survive.
He was close, very close to his peak now, as was she. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and she licked it—her first taste of him. Sweet yet salty, he was as richly satisfying on her tongue as he was between her thighs.
His muscles tensed and his lips grimaced as his orgasm began.
It was time.
Thérèse released the darkness within her, fighting back a shriek of delight as her fangs emerged.
Jadranko exploded in her dark heat with a groan of pleasure, hammering his hips against her and driving her wild as his groin abraded hers with each stroke.
She soared high—higher—until she reached her peak and shattered into a million pieces.
The scream broke free and she cried out—just as she sank her fangs into Jadranko’s neck and bit him.
His blood pulsed into her waiting mouth and down her throat, filling her with heat and passion and desire. Her muscles spasmed as her lips sucked, a rhythmic counterpoint that finally quenched her thirst.
He staggered, his softening cock slipping free of her body, and she slid to the floor, standing once more in front of him. And still she drank. The sweetness of his blood was nectar to her starving soul and she wondered if she’d ever get her fill of him. Sadly she knew he would die long before such a thirst could be sated, but it would be enough—enough until the next time.
Suddenly a blast of sound disturbed her.
People—there were people coming toward the bandstand through the woods. People laughing, chattering, carrying lanterns—they’d see…
Thérèse ripped her fangs from Jadranko’s neck and let him fall in a heap. There was no time to ensure his death. No time to conceal his remains for the wolves or animals to devour.
No time.
Flushed with her feast and angry at her carelessness, Thérèse Osmočescu fled the small building, returning to the ball from another part of the gardens. She stayed only long enough to gather her cloak and make her farewells. The gentlemen were sorry to see her leave, admiring the bloom of color in her cheeks, but she would not be denied. An emergency, she’d said. The servants would see her safely home.
And as her carriage disappeared into the darkness of the forest surrounding Rogaška, something crawled to the densest shadows in the wilderness and sought solitude.
It had once been Jadranko Čzaplinek.
Now it was a vampire.
Chapter One
England, ten years later
“There’s a storm at sea.” Jacob Trethearne stared out over the ocean as it reflected a shiny sliver of moon from choppy wavelets.
“Indeed there is.” Sidney Chesswell joined his friend at the edge of the stone parapet. The wind stirred his thin hair and he pushed it away impatiently. “Won’t come this way though. It’s headed east, I’ll be bound.”
Jacob chuckled. “In the forty-odd years we’ve known each other, Sidney, you’ve never been wrong about such things. I’ll take your word for it. I still should be leaving though, storm or no.”
Sidney sighed. “I suppose so. I’m glad you had the chance to visit.” He would miss his old friend. St. Chesswell would be quiet once he had gone. Their day together had been a most pleasant break in his routine.
“You should remarry, Sidney. You’re still young enough to get yourself an heir.” Jacob turned away from the sea. “Do you really want all this—“ he waved his hand around him, “to go to that wastrel second cousin?”
Sidney smiled patiently and walked to the glass door through which both men had come earlier to smoke their cheroots. “Don’t start that again, Jacob. You know I’ll not remarry. Not in this lifetime.”
Jacob moved through into the snug parlor and watched as Sidney closed and latched the doors. “She is probably dead, you know.”
Sidney nodded. “I know.” There was no more to be said.
Jacob took his leave, promising to visit again soon and as Sidney had expected, his home grew silent once more. He tugged on his greatcoat and moved to the front door, opening it with a heave on the ornate handle.
“Sir?” Old Cheverly, his butler since he assumed his title, appeared immediately as if awaiting this moment and raised an eyebrow at him.
“Got to breathe, Cheverly. Got to breathe. It’s stifling in here.”
“As you wish, sir. I’ll be leaving the latch off for you then, shall I?” With the ease of a long and comfortable association, the butler respectfully passed his employer his hat. He had been with Sidney Chesswell, man and boy. He, of all people, knew of Sidney’s need to “breathe”.
And breathe he did. Heedless of the wind that had picked up considerably, Sir Sidney strode down the narrow path to the Chyne and the stairs that would take him to the beach. His pace was that of a man half his age, and in truth his appearance gave the lie to the records in the local church. Yes, he had been born close to three score years before, in this very parish. Only his white hair would attest to those years, however. The rest of him was in very good shape indeed.
Except for his heart. That had been irreparably broken the day Josephine left him.
The memories flooded back at Jacob’s words, swamping his thoughts with remembered images. Josephine laughing, Josephine riding with long black hair flying free in the wind, Josephine naked on their bed—and Josephine crying.
She’d laughed less and cried more as their life together continued, until finally she’d left, taking Sidney’s heart with her. Mercurial, highly-strung and nervous, her moods changed as rapidly as the skies over St. Chesswell’s Chyne, and it wasn’t long before Sidney knew their marriage was doomed.
He couldn’t love her enough. Or perhaps he loved her too much. Either way, he couldn’t hold her. One morning—one bitterly cold November morning—he’d awoken to a sense of unease, of knowing something was wrong.
It was. Josephine had gone.
He’d never loved another woman since then. And he’d never seen Josephine again.
Absently, Sidney avoided the rippling waves at the water’s edge as he strode along the beach. The wind was stronger now, forcing him to stop and settle his hat more firmly. His coat flapped freely, lifting like the sails of some landlocked vessel anxious to set sail.
Casting his memories aside with an oath, he walked on, turning his thoughts to his latest find—a unique and ancient copy of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. This parchment, alleged to be a copy of the original papyrus, had cost him a small fortune, and Sidney was convinced it would be worth the expense.
His knowledge of the occult would be increased tenfold and perhaps his powers might be enhanced. He could even hope that one of his spells would be successful, even though he hadn’t quite managed to get an incantation working yet. He would persevere. Chesswells always did.
Of course, not many Chesswells had devoted their studies to the unearthly, the unreal and the supernatural, even though legends of the same circulated around St. Chesswell’s Chyne like a flock of seagulls over a school of fish.
The “Curse” was only one of the many tales that time embellished into myths. Sidney refused to believe that red-haired women brought terrible changes to the place. It was far more likely that a bad love affair had started that particular tale.
Sir Sidney Chesswell disdained the title “warlock” or “wizard”. He regarded himself as a scientist exploring the unseen world he was convinced existed all around him. He’d read the scholarly treatises on the world of spirits, absorbed as much knowledge as he could find on the power of the human mind, and had attempted to meld these with the readily available folklore to create his own form of magic.
He knew of the light and dark sides to forces beyond his comprehension, and he believed strongly that both God and the Devil existed. There was no avenue of pursuit closed to him, because he was a man with an open mind.
And, indeed, an open door. But few availed themselves of it, and he relished his solitude and his studies, letting the world pass by his isolated portion of it. He needed few servants since he entertained so little, and even then only old friends who would not expect luxury. St. Chesswell was off the beaten track, and the Chyne scarring the coastline was barely accessible to adventurous beachcombers, let alone walking parties of geologists interested in studying its formation.
No, Sidney Chesswell had what he desired most—his privacy. And he guarded it fiercely while he delved into the mysteries of the supernatural.
The night held no terrors for him. He often walked the beach at this hour, enjoying the glitter of the night sky as it sparkled off the glassy waves lapping at his feet. This night was no different, except that the waves were choppier—an indication of how severe the storm out to sea had been.
This section of England’s southern coast was protected by the cushion of land known as the Isle of Wight. It took the buffeting from the fury of the English Channel, leaving only a pale echo to pound on Sidney Chesswell’s private beach. But the currents were strange entities, working according to a schedule of their own. Sidney had often found varied oddments washed up along the shore…clear evidence of yet another victim of Neptune’s fury.
Further west along the coast, smugglers were probably at work. For them, a night like this was a blessing, and a chyne a place of safe-haven. But not here. Not St. Chesswell. This stretch of water was well traveled by the revenue officers, and a regiment of the King’s Own was quartered not many miles from this very spot. Too close to allow any self-respecting smugger the peace of mind he’d need to operate efficiently and in secrecy.
The only traffic in these waters was legitimate, ferries to and from the Isle of Wight, and occasionally a large sailing ship or warship heading into the safety of Southampton Water. In times past there had been ships sailing to and from France, but now…
Sidney sighed. His thoughts had circled back to Josephine, since it was on one of these ferries that she’d stolen from his home and his life, returning to her native land and—according to her note—the one man she had truly loved.
That had hurt Sidney the most…knowing this quicksilver woman had only wed him for his title and his money. Not that she’d had the chance to abuse either. Their union had lasted all of two years and although he’d been happy loving her, she had never really returned his affection to any great degree.
He could accept this now, so many years later. He could not, however, quench the pain or fill the emptiness. He was reclusive and liked it. He had no interest in pursuing the life of a dilettante, or in bedding other women. He cared not whether he was talked about, only that he be treated with the respect his title deserved. He did his best to make sure his tenants and servants were well treated, and knew the local folk by name. The vicar had given up urging him to attend Sunday services, simply nodding politely when they passed.
Some might view Sir Sidney Chesswell’s life as empty. Others might wonder at his reluctance to live at all, at least by their standards. The man himself didn’t care one whit about any of their opinions. His life was exactly as he desired.
And this night it was about to change—permanently.
- - - -
An hour must have passed while Sidney walked his solitary trail along the beach and back, and the sparse lights of St. Chesswell were clearly visible when he noticed something along the high water line.
A large bundle, perhaps clothing washed overboard during the offshore storm and tangled with debris to end up soiling his pristine property. He sighed.
Then—incredibly—the bundle moved.
Sidney’s breath caught in his throat then gusted between his lips in a harsh grunt. There was an arm, a hand scrabbling in the pebbles. It was a man.
Hurrying over, Sidney marveled that this orphan of the storm was still alive. “Sir, good God, sir…can you speak?” He lifted the man’s head free of seaweed strands and watched as his eyes opened and he coughed. “Careful, man. You’re probably full of seawater. Easy now.”
The man’s skin was cold, clammy with the salty dampness of his clothes, and Sidney reached for his neck to check his pulse.
He couldn’t find one.
Sidney blinked as the man’s eyes opened slowly and focused directly on his face. “Where am I?”
The voice was accented, slurred a little and Sidney eased the soaked head back down cautiously before answering. “You are in England. The south coast. On the shore of my estate, St. Chesswell.”
Dark eyes considered Sidney, their color indistinguishable in the shadows of the night. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon momentarily, and Sidney shivered. There was something about that gaze…
The man coughed again and his chest heaved as water spurted from his mouth. “Your pardon.” He wiped his lips with his hand.
“’Tis no matter. You need help. I live nearby—let me get you dry clothes and food.”
There was silence for a moment, then a sound that might well have been a laugh. “I will accept the offer of clothes. But I do not think you would find my acceptance of food very healthful.”
Sidney was about to respond with a question when the moon reappeared. The man was lying still, his gaze fixed on Sidney’s face. But something had changed—his expression perhaps. Whatever it was, it stopped Sidney in his tracks.
Slowly, the man parted his lips revealing two long teeth. They shone in the muted glimmer and Sidney knew immediately who—or rather what—had washed ashore this night. “You are—you are one of them. The undead.”
In the blink of an eye the man moved, swiftly grasping Sidney by the throat. “What do you know of us? Are you one as well? Is this really England?”
Sidney choked, the grasp of the large hand uncomfortably tight and threatening to cut off his breathing. He gasped for air. “I have read…things…“ Another gasp and the fingers eased their pressure slightly. “I have an interest in such matters. I am not one of you, and…yes this is England.”
“And you are not afraid?”
“Of course I’m afraid. But you could have killed me already.” The hand released Sidney’s throat and he absently rubbed the soreness with his own. “Why have you not fed from me? Drained me of my life fluid? If you were going to, you probably would have done it by now, not considered an offer of dry clothes.”
A deep sigh emanated from the ragged man. “I wish to end my existence—not feed.”
“You fell overboard. I would say that was coming close to answering your wish.” Sidney felt a tingle of anger. This young man had so much and yet wished to die.
“I didn’t fall.”
Sidney paused at that. “You tried to kill yourself?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t think that would work, lad. You’re already undead.”
“I have no home. No family, no friends. I have nothing. I am nothing. What else is there?” He stared at Sidney. “Tell me, old man. Tell me if you know anything of these matters—for pity’s sake—how can I end this torment? How can I finally die?”
Chapter Two
It was very late.
Sir Sidney Chesswell sat in his favorite chair in front of the barely-glowing embers from last night’s fire and considered his “guest”.
The man had cleaned up very nicely indeed with just a towel and a spare dressing gown. Young—although given his nature that might be misleading—he looked to be in his late twenties. His hair was dark, but not so dark as to attract undue attention.
His eyes did that.
Irises so black that they blended with his pupils, giving him an unnerving stare and an unusual feature that would be remarked upon should he interact with others. His speech was cultured, he spoke English with the slightest of accents and it was a pretty safe bet that sometime in his past he’d been a member of the aristocracy.
Sidney nodded to himself. It was time to find out. “May I ask your name?”
Full lips curled into a bitter smile. “Once upon a time it was Jadranko Čzaplinek.”
“And if I may be so bold, would you share some of your story with me?” Sidney glanced at the windows. “Before dawn arrives. I assume you prefer the darkness.”
Čzaplinek inclined his head. “I do. I can tolerate small amounts of daylight, but the full light of the sun is anathema to me.” He sighed. “Just one of the things I lost through my own stupidity.”
Sidney raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Surely you did not choose to become what you are?”
“Of course not. What I did choose was to fuck a woman. And I chose foolishly, allowing myself to be attracted by her sexuality, her heat, her body. I paid no attention to her.”
“Young men seldom do.” Sidney could have pointed out an amazingly similar parallel in his own life but decided not to. This was Jadranko’s story, not his. “You said your name was Jadranko.” He stumbled a little over the pronunciation. “If I am correct, that is a Romanian version of Adrian?”
“Close enough.” Jadranko shrugged.
“Then Adrian you shall be. Easier for my old tongue to pronounce and less unusual in this neck of the woods.” He smiled. “But please…continue your story?”
Jadranko—no, Adrian now—stared into the dying fire. “She was all flames and savage passion and she devoured me. Literally.” He glanced up at Sidney. “That, in essence, is it.”
Sidney bit back a laugh. “Well, you certainly know how to condense a story into its fundamental points.” He sobered. “How long ago?”
“Ten years, give or take.”
“Good Lord.” Sidney was stunned. “How have you survived?”
“I haven’t. Survived, that is. In case you failed to notice, I am dead. That which was me is now possessed by a demon of the darkness. A creature from Hell, bestowed upon me by a vicious succubus of a red-haired temptress.”
Sidney shook his head gently. “Wrong, my dear Adrian. You are quite wrong. You are not dead, as we use the term.”
The newly-christened Adrian lifted his head and looked straight at Sidney. “I’m not dead?”
Sidney felt tears gather at the back of his throat and swallowed them down hastily. The pain he could see in Adrian’s eyes was almost overwhelming. He couldn’t begin to imagine what life must have been like for this young man in Europe over the last ten years.
And something deep inside Sidney responded to Adrian. They shared a similar pain, a similar loss. Both men pretty much considered themselves dead, albeit in different ways. Perhaps—they could help each other.
“I don’t believe you’re dead in the regular sense of the word, Adrian, no.” He noticed the first rays of light blooming into the darkened sky. “But dawn approaches. You need rest. If you would accept my hospitality, I have rooms I believe would suit you. They have few windows, and are heavily draped. Old buildings such as this tend to be drafty.”
Adrian looked around him. “’T’would be an unaccustomed luxury, I’ll confess, and one I would enjoy.” He stood and bowed correctly to Sidney. “My thanks, Sir Sidney. I will accept your offer. For this day at least.”
“Good, my boy, good. Let’s go and see if the rooms suit. I expect they’re a bit dusty…”
Sidney Chesswell led his new vampire guest through the silent corridors of St. Chesswell and saw him settled in one of the empty suites. They had fallen into disuse because they were so dark, but in this instance Sidney was glad of it. “Sleep well, lad. We will talk more when you are rested.”
“Thank you.” The words were spoken awkwardly, as if they had been unsaid by those lips for many years.
“Think nothing of it.” Sidney left the room and closed the door, reminding himself to let the servants know not to disturb Adrian.
Then he sought his own suite of rooms. He had much to consider.
A plan was forming in his mind—and his heart. A wild and risky plan, yet one that would bring a little pleasure back into what remained of his life. There were details to be resolved, issues to discuss and a lot of talking to be done.
He stared at his bed and accepted that he was exhausted. Yet there was an exhilaration running through his veins in unaccustomed glee. He had a task, a challenge before him, the likes of which he’d not imagined in his wildest dreams.
Sidney turned his back on his inviting bed and quit the room. He was seeking his sanctuary, the study that overlooked the ocean.
It was there that he kept his most precious possessions—his books. And it was there that he found the one he was looking for…a fifteenth century grimoire written in almost undecipherable Latin.
It dealt with the creatures known as Mortuus Victus.
The Dead Who Live.
- - - -
Her hair dazzled him, shards of flaming heat that pierced his eyes. He watched her helplessly, unable to look away.
As he had done for close to ten years now, Adrian tossed in his sleep, moaning a little as images of Thérèse plagued him. A vision that was as fresh and as distinct in his mind on this day as it had been the day after she had “turned” him to the darkness.
A part of his mind knew what this vivid nightmare meant—he would need to feed soon. She always appeared to him more strongly around the time his body began to crave fresh sustenance.
He wished he knew more about the whole process. About how he had been made and how he could be un-made or at least die. All these questions danced in the back of his mind, but in his somnolent state she danced in the front of his mind, obliterating most everything else in the way of coherent thought.
She moved before him as she always did—naked and sensual, an invitation that could not be ignored or declined. There was no music and yet he could hear a melody in the movement of her limbs as they sinuously wrapped around her own body, stroking, caressing—gliding over skin he knew too well—all silk and cool cream.
She spun and twirled and touched her breasts, a smooth slick of her palms—no more—but it was sufficient to arouse her nipples and send a bolt of lust through Adrian’s body to his loins. His cock was growing harder by the moment and the urge to take her, to plunge his swollen length into her cool pussy and ravage her, built inexorably within him.
He felt the strain of his need lying solidly down one thigh, rigid evidence of her presence within his dreams. He was somewhere between wakefulness and sleep—in a twilight world where temptation played and evil knew no boundaries.
Adrian sighed as Thérèse slid her hand slowly down over her abdomen to the icy red fire that glowed between her thighs. Long white fingers threaded through shining red curls and she spread them apart to reveal the glistening shape of her clit, which stood out wetly from her swollen pussy lips.
She smiled, a gleaming white spread of teeth, and made sure he saw her fangs as they protruded over lips as red as any ripe apple. He knew what was to come—and it wasn’t him.
She beckoned and sure enough a figure appeared. As if drugged, the man—he was a pale blond this time—staggered into Adrian’s vision and collapsed at Thérèse’s feet. His cock was solidly erect and with much sensual writhing, she sank down and straddled it.
Adrian could almost feel the embrace of her velvet sheath, the touch of her thighs and the grasp of her fingertips. She made sure he could see the shining length of cock as she raised and lowered herself on it. She gleefully shared the pleasure she was experiencing, her mind playing tricks with Adrian’s and arousing him to the point of painful ecstasy.
Finally she broke, shuddering into her orgasm and turning her head to stare into Adrian’s eyes at that exact moment. Then she lowered her head, and without breaking eye contact, she bit into the neck of her victim.
Adrian howled silently, his cock rigid and aching, his mouth opened wide and revealing his own fangs. He hungered for her, and for the blood she was taking. Maddened by the twin desires he struggled against himself and—as always—awoke, a cry trembling in the back of his throat. He was erect and throbbing and—as always—unfulfilled.
How he kept his sanity was a mystery to him at moments like this. He sobbed for breath and gulped in air, wishing just for once he could either come and relieve his desires, or sleep without dreaming.
He’d tried masturbation after the first dreams began, but within seconds of waking his cock would soften, leaving the ache of unrelieved arousal behind. The only thing that could harden him to the point of orgasm other than the dreams was the act of feeding. Then he could bring himself to climax and release his pent-up yearnings. He would not fuck his prey. He dared not.
Adrian wished he knew if this was customary for his kind. He had nobody to ask. He’d been forced to find his way blindly for the past ten years, doing his best not to kill and yet driven by forces he did not understand to prolong his own existence.
He hated rendering his victims unconscious, taking as little of their blood as he could, and then fleeing the site of his “crime”—never knowing if he’d gone too far and killed by mistake. It was a terribly sordid life, a subculture he’d been compelled to live in, and one that he abhorred.
Looking around him now, he realized it was the first time he’d awoken in a proper suite of rooms in more years than he could remember.
He had certainly found a welcome at St. Chesswell. And possibly a friend in Sir Sidney. Maybe there was still a miracle left in the world with his name on it. And maybe it was time to go and find out.
- - - -
“That will be all, Cheverly. We will have a tea tray later. Nothing else.”
Sidney ignored the frown on his butler’s face. He was dismissing the entire concept of dinner and offending not only Cheverly but probably his kitchen staff as well. He didn’t care. This night was important, too important to be concerned about mundane issues such as food.
“I take it that meals are unnecessary?” Sidney glanced across at the man leaning casually against the mantelpiece, to see him nod his head in agreement.
“Very well. Please be seated and we shall talk.” He waited. “I’ll get a crick in my neck if you don’t sit down. Stop looking so nervous, Adrian. There is much to discuss and some of it might be to your liking.”
With a shrug, Adrian sat in the matching chair and crossed his long legs. The clothes Sidney had obtained were a good enough fit, clinging to long muscular thighs and revealing the strength of the body they covered. Adrian was a very good-looking man indeed.
His black basilisk eyes remained fixed on Sidney’s face, and Sidney was in no doubt that Adrian needed to talk—and to listen. There was still pain and suffering in those dark depths, but perhaps there was a flicker of hope too. Or maybe Sidney was just reading his own wishes into Adrian’s gaze.
He marshaled his thoughts. “You have been in this condition for ten years now, am I correct?”
“Yes.” A short word of agreement, clipped and precise.
Good. “And you were…made…if I may use that expression, by a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Then we shall assume that she was an experienced vampire. One who knew how much of your blood to take, and how much to leave.”
Adrian shook his head. “That is an unwarranted assumption. I remain convinced to this day that had she not been interrupted, she would have killed me. After I had…after we had…” Adrian’s voice faltered.
“Come along, man. These are facts we must discuss. I am no prurient busybody. I am a scientist. Tell me as much as you can—use whatever words you must—but tell me.”
Adrian looked away. “If you must have it all, then so be it.” He swallowed. “After we had fucked and I had spent my seed within her, she did not break away. She did not release me, but continued to feed, to drain me. I became lightheaded, my vision blurred and I thought I would vomit. That’s when I heard something—noise, people—I don’t recall exactly.”
He shifted in his chair and glanced at Sidney as if asking for permission to continue. Sidney tried to pour encouragement into his expression, but said nothing.
“I collapsed and everything dimmed around me. I-I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—I wanted darkness, craved it actually.”
Unconsciously his fingers scrabbled against the arms of the chair, and Sidney had no difficulty recognizing the crawling movement.
“I managed to creep into the shadows of the forest. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but eventually I recovered into the beast you see before you.” His lips curled in self-disgust.
Sidney stroked his chin. “So you were, in effect, a mistake?”
Adrian snorted. “Some mistake. But probably…yes.” He licked his lips. “I survived. I don’t know how or why, but I do remember finding prey in the forest.” Another grimace of self-disgust. “I always enjoyed a good meal of fresh-caught game. I do not enjoy it this way.”
Sidney waved his hand dismissively. “Look, you survived. You did what you had to do. Tell me of now. How often do you feed? How do you feel? And most importantly, tell me about human blood and how it affects you.”
Adrian turned his head and Sidney caught his breath for a moment at the translucent beauty of the young man’s features. He must always have been handsome, but his new condition had brought a luminous and incandescent glow to his face.
For the only time in his life that Sidney could ever remember, his cock stirred in response to the presence of a man. The overwhelming awareness of Adrian as a sensual spirit bypassed the concepts of mortal sexuality.
Adrian was a walking invitation to sin.
And Sidney Chesswell was about to make an outrageously sinful suggestion.
Chapter Three
“What?” Adrian’s jaw dropped and he stared at Sir Sidney.
“I want you to feed. From me.”
Adrian shook his head, speechless for a few moments.
“I’m serious, Adrian.” The old man leaned forward. “You clearly cannot take much blood from me—I don’t have lots to spare. And you can only do this once, since I am not willing to die beneath your fangs.” He pierced Adrian with an intense stare. “I am offering you a chance to sate the hunger you feel. And don’t tell me you don’t feel it right now. I can sense it.”
Adrian gulped. “How? How can you sense my…my need?”
Sidney leaned back in his chair again, relaxing a little. “I’m not sure.” He paused as if in thought. “Do you know who St. Chesswell is?”
Adrian shook his head.
“Well, St. Chesswell was a monk who lived in this place centuries ago. It was rumored that his interests were not quite as ecclesiastic as they should’ve been, and his studies got him exiled to a small hut next to the Chyne that bears his name.”
“His studies?”
Sidney chuckled. “Yes. He studied the black arts, which wouldn’t have gone over very well with his Abbott, I should imagine.”
“I should think not.”
“St. Chesswell wasn’t a necromancer, however. He simply had an insatiable curiosity into the mysteries of nature, and thought the darker side of people’s beliefs had just as much right to be part of his studies as did the teachings of his Church.”
“A man of great perspicacity.” Adrian’s interest was caught and held by this strange little story.
“Indeed. Well, as the tale goes, one stormy night the earth moved and released a great evil from the depths of the Chyne. The local villagers became its prey and they died, felled where they stood by the creature’s foul breath.” Sidney paused.
“What sort of creature?” Adrian breathed out the question.
Sidney grinned. “Great tale, isn’t it? Don’t take it literally. Anyway, to continue—St. Chesswell was among the few unaffected and he managed to cause a landslide which blocked the creature’s stronghold, entrapping it beneath the surface once again and saving the community.” He chuckled. “Who were appropriately grateful and sanctified the poor man after his death. Lot of good it did him at that point.”
Adrian couldn’t stop the smile that followed Sir Sidney’s tale. It was a rather rusty smile, and for a second Adrian thought perhaps he’d forgotten how, but no. There it was. And it felt good.
“Well, the point of all this local lore is that St. Chesswell’s Chyne developed a reputation for its association with the mystical, the magical—and even the satanic—from that point onwards. We Chesswells have amassed an interesting library on the dark arts over our generations as stewards of the Chyne, and your humble servant is no exception.” He graciously inclined his head.
“So you are knowledgeable about these matters in a way unusual to men of your…your position?” Adrian struggled for the right word.
Sidney shrugged. “It’s more than a hobby for me. More than a pastime. I am no magician, Adrian. I am a scientist with a thirst for information. And I too have a boundless curiosity.”
He straightened in his chair. “I have read much of your kind. Of your needs, your hungers, your desires. I have dismissed that which I consider to be hyperbole. But there remains a fundamental truth—you exist. You move as a mortal moves, think as a mortal thinks, do all the things mortals do, with very few exceptions. And when you hunger—your eyes reveal your need.”
Adrian blinked. “They do?”
Sidney nodded. “Yes.” He stood, and Adrian stood with him, some reflex making him responsive to this gentle man with his amazing mind. “So that is why I am suggesting you feed from me.” He reached for his cravat and tugged it loose, baring the soft and lightly tanned skin of his neck. “There is one other thing.”
“What is that?” Adrian’s head was buzzing a little. The scent of Sir Sidney’s blood was too near, and his hunger erupted within him like the red flames of an inferno. Truly his need was burgeoning, helped along by this unusual conversation.
“This feeding will, I believe, bind us to each other in a way unique to your kind.” Sidney reached out a hand and rested it on Adrian’s shoulder. “I would ask that once you are sated you give serious consideration to staying here.” Sidney paused and moved closer, tilting his head and revealing the throbbing pulse at the base of his neck
“Stay here, Adrian. Stay with me. As my son.”
- - - -
Sidney watched Adrian’s face as the impact of his words sank home.
The hunger he knew was there remained, but became tempered with surprise, astonishment and finally—oddly to Sidney’s way of thinking—grief.
The black eyes filled with glistening tears and Adrian swallowed, still staring deep into Sidney’s face. “Do you know what you are saying? What you offer?”
Sidney nodded calmly. “Yes. I have spent the last hours thinking of nothing else. I am alone, Adrian. As alone as you—albeit for different reasons. I have need of an heir to secure St. Chesswell for the future. I can offer you sanctuary here, and a name. A life of sorts.”
He sucked in a breath. “It will not be all to your advantage. I ask that you be a son to me, and also a companion. We understand much about each other that the outside world would not comprehend. I wish to explore your condition. I shall possibly ask you for your blood. I have some ideas, some things I would like to try.”
Sidney tried to gauge Adrian’s response. “Will you permit this?”
The younger man tore his gaze from Sidney’s face and turned, stalking across the room and running his hands distractedly through his hair. “I don’t know what to say. How to answer.”
“’Tis simple.” Sidney responded quietly. “Say yes.”
“Have you thought this through?” Adrian could not, apparently, say such a small word without qualifying his response.
“I have.” And indeed Sidney had. The pieces had fallen into place very neatly—almost as if designed by an unseen hand to complete the puzzle that was Adrian’s and Sidney’s lives.
“I shall announce that my wife has passed away in Europe and her dying wish was to reunite me with my son. I shall produce you and show you off with all due joy and fanfare. I shall also mention that you have contracted an unfortunate ailment that makes you susceptible to the damaging effects of sunlight. Thus you will be excused daytime appearances. I shall be congratulated, you will be lionized for a time, and probably fussed over by those who believe that all evil emanates from Europe.” He grinned. “We can thank Napoleon for that.”
Adrian nodded. “’Tis a well-thought-out notion.”
“And from now on, I shall devote my researches to your condition, in an attempt to resolve it.”
“Resolve it?”
Sidney remained focused on Adrian. “Yes. When we met on the beach you asked me if I knew how you could die. I don’t. I would rather help you live. But if I cannot do that, I shall attempt to at least answer your original question. I shall try to find out if there is any way for you to die. Fair enough?”
He extended his hand to Adrian, hoping and praying that his argument, simple and succinct as it was, would be sufficient to persuade this…this vampire…to become his son.
In making this offer, Sidney Chesswell had finally acknowledged his own loneliness and the emptiness of his life. He did not feed on the blood of helpless victims like Adrian. He fed on the knowledge in ancient tomes instead. Neither man was complete, both men needed more than the sustenance they received.
Sidney could see how clearly they needed each other. Could Adrian see the same thing?
When Adrian’s hand came out to clasp Sidney’s with cool fingers, Sidney heaved a sigh of relief.
Adrian had seen the opportunities that lay ahead for both of them, and recognized the benefits of Sidney’s plan.
With a firm handshake, the matter was sealed and two futures were forever altered from their original destinies.
Now it was time to undergo the first experiment.
It was time for Adrian to feed.
- - - -
The world spun dizzily in Adrian’s head as he stared at this man who was offering so much more than Adrian ever imagined he’d possess again.
A name. A life.
It would not be easy, nowhere near as easy as Sir Sidney made it sound. Adrian knew it and knew that the other man knew it. But the fact that he was willing to try, to want this enough to create the whole crazy scheme—something stirred inside Adrian’s heart and made him long to be the son Sidney Chesswell deserved.
“You should feed now, Adrian. While the hunger is still within your control.” Sidney’s voice was businesslike. “Am I correct that this is so? You can control this urge up to a certain point?”
Adrian nodded. “Yes. I need this sustenance no more than three or four times a year. That is the bare minimum for my survival. I would like it more, of course, but I dare not indulge those wants. If I wait too long then my thirst becomes uncontrollable and I take…too much.” He closed his eyes for a moment, praying once more that he’d never actually killed.
“There are so many things I do not know, Sir Sidney.” It was an anguished cry from his soul, and Sidney recognized it as such, acknowledging it with a fleeting brush of his hand against Adrian’s arm.
Adrian felt comforted. “I should warn you that feeding seems to be allied with…with certain responses…physical responses…” He stumbled.
Sidney was unconcerned. “Yes, my reading material made the connection between feeding and sexual arousal quite pointedly on many occasions. Do not be disturbed, Adrian. We are both men. We have both been aroused on many occasions, and will be again, God willing.” He smiled ruefully. “Although you probably more than me at this point.”
Adrian felt an answering smile curve his mouth. “You are quite sophisticated about this.”
“On the contrary, I am scared. But I trust you. Don’t ask me why. You are a vampire who washed ashore on my beach. And soon you will be my son. There are many who would call me insane, and they may be right. I have no idea. I do trust my instincts, however, and I have very strong instincts where you are concerned.”
He looked intently at Adrian once more, then turned away and tilted his head to one side, offering his neck. “I do not believe you will harm me. And if you feel the need to satisfy your arousal yourself, I shall understand. What happens here in this moment will never pass beyond the door.”
Adrian could no longer resist the need welling through him, the scent of Sir Sidney’s blood was strong as was the sound of his heart beating. The slight sting of his fangs as they lengthened across his lips warned Adrian that the time was near.
“Will it hurt much, d’you think?”
The quiet question pierced Adrian to his heart, for in truth he had no answer. “I do not know.” He whispered the words around his fangs then closed the distance between them, grasping Sir Sidney’s shoulders with his hands and bending forward.
It took no time at all to pierce the soft skin and find the hot pulse of blood that flowed luxuriously over his tongue and into his body. There was scarcely a jump from the man whose neck he was biting, so a part of Adrian’s mind deduced there was little if any pain involved.
And oh what joy. To feed from an aware, warm, willing body. To sense much of that person’s essence as their life fluids spurted freely into his mouth.
Adrian felt Sir Sidney—his warmth, his charm, his pain and his heartbreak. All the emotions flooded into Adrian as he drank. The sexual arousal was there, his cock hard beneath his breeches, but it was manageable. Had he been feeding from a woman things might be different. But tonight—well, it was manageable.
Heat seeped into Adrian’s muscles, vitality wound its way through his body, and the simple pleasure of quenching a savage thirst bathed him in its glow. Sir Sidney was a good man, and that goodness flavored his blood, making it all the sweeter to Adrian’s jaded tongue.
Finally, Sidney shivered a little, and Adrian knew he’d taken enough. He quickly slid his fangs free and watched as the droplets of blood began to congeal. He kept a firm grip on Sir Sidney, sliding one arm around the man and holding him tight, just in case there were any unexpected after-effects.
But none came. “I am all right. You can let me go.” Sir Sidney’s voice was weak, but not fainting, and he moved away, standing upright on his own two feet, although holding on to the back of his chair for a moment or two as if to get his balance. “How about you? Have you quenched your thirst sufficiently? Do you need to…er…”
Sir Sidney’s fingers cupped an imaginary cock and he looked embarrassed.
Adrian smiled. “Later. For now I am content to be well-nourished.” He looked at Sir Sidney, knowing he was about to take the biggest step of his life.
“Thank you. Father.”
Chapter Four
The following months were a joy for both men. The announcement that the long-lost heir to the St. Chesswell estate had been found and reunited with his father had brought much local interest and gossip, as Sidney had predicted.
The ladies of the area found Adrian to be fascinatingly handsome, but after the initial surprise and newness of his presence wore off, they returned to their pursuit of others more sociable and inclined to flirt.
Adrian had the looks, but his personality was unique. He knew he should play the game—tease and laugh at the small local gatherings he and his father attended. He was sought out often enough, and not only by eligible misses. Several older, more sophisticated women had done their best to cast out lures, but Adrian refused to respond, sending them on their way with a disappointed sigh.
There was that rumored disease, too. The mysterious ailment that made the poor man allergic to strong sunshine. Who could consider seriously pursuing someone not able to attend the myriad daily excursions and functions? His appearance was wickedly delightful, but his constitution rendered him pretty much ineligible.
He was one of those people who was a pleasure to look at, but who managed to hold the world away from him. He had effectively created a barrier through which none could reach him.
No one, that is, except his father.
The initial distrust that had permeated Adrian’s existence soon melted before Sidney’s obvious affection. And truthfully, there were times when Adrian admitted to himself he could have asked for no better father. He did not remember much about his own—in that very formalized style so typical of mid-European aristocracy, the man had left his children to their mother and a series of nannies, tutors and educators. He knew that to them he was certainly dead.
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