He fingered the yellowed pages of the diary, his mouth watering to read the family secrets that had been kept from him for so long. But it would have to wait, at least until he could have Scarlet translate for him. Placing the diary at the head of the coffin, Vince jumped up and settled inside, pulling the cover shut.
***
“I love you, cherie." Sebastian kissed Scarlet.
So strange, she thought, as he grazed her lips with his teeth, that his mouth gave her the utmost pleasure, yet had also hurt so many people.
She pulled him on top of her as they lay in the sweet summer grass behind Vince’s mansion, allowing him free rein over her body as his passions provoked his hands to travel over her stomach and breasts. Her body tingled from his touch but she knew that it was also the intense invigoration she still felt from killing Francesco.
“So what happens now?”
“That depends,” he said. He placed an elbow to either side of her shoulders and hovered over her. “On how you answer the question.”
“What question?”
He gave her a mock pout, pushing out his bottom lip. “Did you forget already? I can’t believe it. I’ve only been waiting for an answer for centuries.”
Scarlet tried to divine what was going on behind the silly grin. What question was he talking about?
“Yes or no?” he persisted.
She shook her head. Was this some kind of test? “What question?”
“Scarlet, centuries ago I proposed to you before you so hastily took your leave of me. I’ve been waiting for an answer. So what’s it going to be? Will you marry me?”
Her heart thudded against Sebastian’s chest when she realized that he still wanted her to be his wife. But wouldn’t it be redundant now? They were already bonded in blood and soul, each being the creator of the other. What good would a marriage vow do when she had already signed her love over to him the night she had let him drink her blood?
“If you remember, Sebastian, you proposed to Elisabeth. Besides, what would be the purpose now?”
The shock on his face was a surprise.
“Scarlet? You mean, after all we’ve been through . . . after I have pledged my eternal and undying love to you . . . and we have shared each other’s blood . . .” He jumped to his feet and stepped back, looking past her to the house and up to the sky littered with stars. “How can you possibly jest?”
Scarlet rolled over and pushed up, brushing a few squished blades of grass from her elbows. She had wanted to accept his marriage proposal when she’d known that there was a possibility that she would never see him again. But now everything was different.
She had a vast lifetime ahead of her, an unfathomable amount of time that promised centuries of learning and new experiences. It was as if when Sebastian had given her the vampire’s life, she had somehow been re-born.
There was so much to do and discover now. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be married. No, she was sure. She couldn’t marry Sebastian. Marriage, and the lifelong dependence on another person, would only ground her before she had a chance to spread her wings.
“We are already married in body and blood.” She caught the shock in his eyes as Sebastian crossed his arms. “I just think it silly to sign a piece of paper. You’ve introduced a whole new world to me, Sebastian. And right now I feel so invigorated. Like there’s nothing I can’t do! I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring.”
She scanned the stars, wanting her life to be as free and unrestrained as the heavens. Sure, she would live with Sebastian. It was unthinkable not to, with the way she felt about him.
She looked back to him, hoping to lift his sinking spirits. “I do love you Sebastian, and I will for all eternity, or . . . for as long as eternity is for us.” She ran a finger along the v-neck of her sweater and batted her lashes, hoping to get him off the subject of marriage. “Can’t you accept that and take me home?”
“But don’t you see?” He took her in his arms. “I want everyone to know. I want our love to be official. Do you actually think that marrying me would keep you from learning and living as you wish? I want you to revel in your new vampire life, Scarlet.”
Though he was trying not to plead she could sense the urgency in his voice.
Eternity was a long time. And a signed marriage contract would certainly tie her down, even if Sebastian didn’t think it would. She knew better. Not that she intended to stray from him . . . but who knew what the future would bring? Could one stay madly in love for centuries?
“You know, you . . .” Sebastian started carefully. “. . . you are my blood child. And I am your . . .” he faltered looking away.
“My master?” She grasped his chin, forcing him to look at her. “I can’t believe you would say something like that, Sebastian. You, who wants me to revel in my vampirism, and to enjoy all life has to offer?”
“Scarlet—”
"My master!” She said through gritted teeth, and then stepped toe to toe with him, matching his gaze with a powerful strength. “If you remember correctly, I am also your master. It’s a damned unbelievable twist of fate, I’ll grant you that, but the facts are there. And if we’re speaking historically, and chronologically, then that would prove me to be the first master.”
"Cherie" He held up a placatory hand and shook his head. “I did not mean to imply that—”
“But you brought it up.”
“So I did. I am sorry. Mon dieu, is there nothing I can say to prove my love to you?” He walked a few steps away with his hands on his hips, muttering French curses under his breath. But suddenly he stopped, turned, and rushed back to her.
“Scarlet.” He pulled her hand up and pressed it to his chest. “You are my heart. We share the same soul. And so... I ask for nothing more than to possess the love of your heart and soul. But promise me I will never feel the pain of losing your love.” He swallowed. “You are free, my love . . .”
His head dipped and she gently touched his face. “I love you, Sebastian DelaCourte.” He nodded but she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, since he wouldn’t look down to her. “So much has happened, but my love will never cease, you must understand you have possession of my heart and soul, as I yours.”
Sebastian smiled and patted her hand, but Scarlet saw the tears in his eyes.
“I do understand, cherie.” He sighed. “I have given you the moon and the stars. My blood runs through your veins and my life is yours, but you are right. These things are only the beginning of a love that will endure forever. There are many wonders for you to discover.”
He hugged her, lifting her feet from the ground and Scarlet laughed as he twirled her around. “Yes. Let’s do things your way for now.”
"Soul mates," she said.
"Yes, soul mates."
She hugged him as the moon and stars spun above their heads. To new beginnings, she thought. And to life everlasting.
Chapter: Wicked Angels
Sequel to Dark Rapture
by Michele Hauf
Originally digitally published 2010
Copyright 2012 Michele Hauf
Prologue
Slowly, gracefully, the rhythm starts as a gentle lull as sleep struggles to capture the semi-reverie state of dreams. A vision of enchantment dances into his peripheral view. Skirts of brilliant crimson sweep across the stone floor in a wide brushing arc as she twirls. The music of his guitar urges her on. It is the farruca flamenco, a song danced and played from the heart of the gypsies.
One with the music, her arms stretch above her head. Her hands twist and rotate sensually upon her wrists. Crimson lips part in silent exaltation.
The guitarist closes his eyes, his head nodding to the rhythm of the song. He can envision her dark, sweet-smelling hair pulled away from her face, save a long black curl that spirals across her cheek, underlining the brilliant emerald sparkles in her eyes. But her eyes are closed too, as she divines the music into her soul and becomes one with the guitarist as they work their magic.
<
br /> The pace increases and the slippery swishes of the dancer’s ruffled flamenco skirt blur into a frenzy. The guitarist, the dreamer, does not need to look up again. He knows another has come.
She is twirling in the arms of a stranger now, his dark-haired angel tangled in Satan’s net. She reaches out for the safety of his arms, but the guitarist does not see. Spun about, her crimson skirts skim the air like blood-seeking bats on wing. The stranger presses close, pulling the rhythm from her body, until he too matches the pulsing tempo of the farruca.
A scream gurgles up her throat. The frenzied notes cease. She does not fight him; he envelops her in his dark clutches easily. Bent backward across the intruder’s arm, her arm splays out to her side where a long trail of crimson flows down the inside of her white flesh.
The stranger laughs and crushes her to his skeletal body. His laughter grows louder as the guitar falls from the guitarist’s hands and shatters into splintering pieces across the stone floor. Sprays of blood splatter about the room, staining the floor stones in vicious disregard as he sinks his fangs deep into the pale flesh on her throat.
“Nooo!”
Sebastian’s forehead hit against the soft padding inside his coffin, jarring him from his manic thoughts. Punching upward, the cover flew open. In a rage, he sat up, thrusting his legs over the side of the coffin.
Alone in the darkened depths of the castle dungeon, his rampant breathing is his only companion. His heart clenched and expanded as he ran his fingers through his hair, riddled with beads of sweat. He swiped a hand across the blood that spattered his cheek. But...there is no blood. There never is. It was only the dream.
Again.
Part One
And forever and forever, and knowledge?
No never.
Chapter One
Diary entry ‘slightly illegible for a water stain‘, possibly August 1632.
I am Alexandre Adrian Lyons II, progeny of Vincent Amandus Lyons and unknown maternal blood. I begin this diary with great enthusiasm. For centuries the history of my bloodline has been passed down through the spoken word. Compelling and dramatic history of a story I fear may someday become lost. Forever cached in the mind of one never given the chance to orally relay his tale.
Not that I fear a sudden death or extinction of our bloodline. It just won’t happen.
I choose to physically record history for future generations so that the true story will remain intact. With written proof no man can deny the existence of our race. And it is our existence, the very fact we walk this earth amongst the mortals, that is our legacy.
For those who shall come upon my words, please allow me the indulgence of my narrative. As these bits and snippets of my ancestors were passed on to me by the flames of midnight bonfires and the quiet solitude of cool summer nights beneath the full moon, my mind would weave the spoken words into pictures, filling in the missing dialogues and emotions that were often glossed over. I fancy myself a storyteller. And so, I pray my scribbles illuminate vivid images for one and all.
But will my embellishments not change the entire story? Make great dramatics for the purpose of my own glory as the writer I propose to be?
Perhaps.
Alexandre Lyons II
***
Cantabria Mountains, Spain - 13th Century
The coffin maker rechecked his measurements, then went back to finishing the pine box. This was the eighth he’d made this year. He had been employed only to make the coffins for the Prince’s wives.
As it was, he was kept quite busy.
“And where are ye off to so early in the morn, good man?”
Rogero reined his horse to a slow cantor besides Paquita, the castle chatelaine. Her face glowed like an apple to match the bushel in her basket, and her pies were always equally as welcome. He tipped his hat to her.
“Milord’s lady wife took her death last evening. That means I’ve work to do. Hate to rise before the blessed sun but if I’m to return before nightfall means I’ve got to be on my way. I’ve myself a shiny silver coin this morn from ole’ Willie in the stables.”
Paquita propped her basket on an amply endowed hip and cast Rogero a curious nod. “What for, you been picking up some extra work?”
“Nay. I and a handful of others always make wagers on how long the new mistress will last. I could tell right away, the poor lass was so thin and dreadfully quiet, she didn’t have more than three weeks on her head.”
“God rest her tainted soul.” Paquita crossed herself and Rogero nodded agreement.
“I’m off. I have a half day’s journey ahead of me. Good day to ye, senorita Paquita.”
***
“Bring me an angel,” Rogero muttered his master’s words. “Hair as brilliant as the sunlight and eyes as blue as the skies. The same thing every time. I must have an angel!” he called out dramatically to his horse. “Hair like sun, eyes of sky. Bah! I’ll give him a dash of sunlight one of these days, and he’ll never live to order me around again.”
Rogero’s shoulders slumped as he anticipated finding what he searched for. Ah well, it was his job. He shouldn’t complain; the coin filled his purse nicely. And though he knew his task to be wrong—sinfully wrong—he carried out his orders with no questions asked. As did everyone at the castle. For if they did not provide the master with his required virgins then he would look elsewhere for his sustenance. Elsewhere being the people of the castle.
***
“Esmarelda!”
The sound of father’s voice drove Esmarelda straight up amidst the hay she had scattered for the last remaining cow. She shielded her eyes from the bright sun to see him marching toward her. Just beyond him sat the shack they called home where her younger sister, Margarita, ground wheat for bread. Hobbled beside the stone shack stood a horse and rider.
“Papa, who is here?”
“Esmarelda, I’ve good news.” His face beamed as he pulled her close.
Esmarelda pushed away from her father and scanned his eyes. He never showed affection toward her, other than to tell her she’d look good with her hair pinned to her head. ‘More boyish’, he’d say with a gaze down her body that told her he was wondering if he could pass her off as a male. Would be much easier to find work in the village if she were not a woman.
“Papa, what is it?”
He took her by the shoulders, his jaw growing firm. “Esmarelda, remember I’ve always taught you to be brave and never judge another man until you’ve lived a year in his troubles. I know I’ve not been the best father a daughter could have over the years…hell, you know I’d much preferred to have a son…”
“Si. You needn’t apologize, Papa. You have taught Margarita and I good values and I have tried desperately to help around the farm.” She glanced aside to the scattered hay. She wasn’t much as a farm-hand. Lately her thoughts had been occupied with dreams of her future. “But tell me what it is. Who is here?”
“A man from the Castle Trastamara has come. Esmarelda, I’ve made a decision. He’s offered me fifty crowns for your hand in marriage.”
“Marriage! Papa, how could— But I haven’t even met him.” Esmarelda glanced around her father’s head. All she could make out was a silhouette of a man standing next to the horse. A rather plump silhouette.
“Esmarelda, now don’t be vigoroso with me. I am your father. I’m doing this for your own good. You know we won’t be on this land much longer without the money. And it is high time you married.”
“Si,” she acquiesced. With the money, her father and Margarita would eat well for some time. “But—”
He pressed a wrinkled finger to her lips. “But you’ll listen to your father now. You’ll hold your head high and do this for me. Courage, Esmarelda. I do love you, you know that.”
“Si.” She walked past him out into the sunlight. It shimmered across her hair, setting each strand ablaze. A sparkle to match her dreams. Dreams of someday marrying a handsome and brave man whom she could care for and love. “If he is
paying you, then I should be thankful for that.”
She squinted but was unable to make out the man’s features. Slumped shoulders, not young, from what she could determine. Her heart sank to know her dreams of a handsome husband would never come true. Pray he treated her kindly. “How old is he?”
“Oh, he is not the one.” Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. “He is just a messenger. You are to wed a prince.”
***
Los Angeles - Present day
Cooling summer air filled and burst with a thunderous clatter. Narrow velvet leaves shivered on the olive trees as unnatural vibrations taunted them. Small animals and birds fled the scene as the hysteric crash of rock n’ roll took command of the night.
Rising amidst the rumbling din, a man, his arms spread wide in worship to the moon, his thin shirt rippling in the breeze and pressing tight to his flesh in waves of purple silk, raised his head to the sky, and closed his eyes. Long torrents of his golden hair blew across his face. Spreading his legs to secure position upon the crumbling stone ledge between the castle battlements, his body was suddenly illuminated by a fierce beam of moonlight, a spotlight crowning his head.
Below him, drums thumped steady and loud, an army of leathered, metal-studded soldiers marching steadily onward. A bass guitar matched the drums in an evil chord of resonant harmony, while a spiral of vicious electric screams spun into the night as the lead guitarist’s fingers raced into action.
The golden man, a brat prince among his peers, looked down from the heavens and cast an evil sneer into the camera. “Cut!”
Vince Lyons jumped from the castle wall, pushed past the perturbed cameraman, and cast a nod toward Sebastian DelaCourte, who checked his watch and signaled back. Vince grabbed a thick towel, offered by the makeup girl, and swiped it across his face, removing most of the heavy pancake that kept the spotlight glare from his pale complexion.
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