NightWind 1st Book: HellWind Trilogy

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  A shaft of pain so agonizing rapped through him that it staggered him and his hand fell from her hair to her shoulder, sliding down her neck until his fingers curled around the slim column of her neck.

  “Don’t make me do this.”

  She pressed her body to his. “You love her, don’t you, Syntian?” Her hips ground against him.

  “Angeline, please.”

  “If you ever hope to have her, you had best pleasure me as I wish to be pleasured, my demon lover, or I will see to it that you never put your hands on Lauren Fowler this side of the Abyss!”

  “Angeline, I beg you. Do not make me do this tonight.” His voice was a throaty moan of protest and sorrow.

  “Do it, Syntian,” she warned him. “And do it gently.”

  With a sigh of defeat, his arms encircled her and his mouth dropped to hers, slanted across her lips with tenderness he did not feel. As her tongue flicked across his rigid lips, seeking, probing, he opened his mouth, accepting the torture she planned for him and let himself become lost in her vindictive embrace.

  He had no need to sleep. The dead didn’t sleep. His restless prowling at night amused her. She watched him from beneath half-closed lids as he stalked about her room, his body as rigid as stone, his eyes bleak and lost and hopeless. She saw him sit down in her boudoir chair, shift uneasily then come to his feet in a tiger’s leap of grace to stalk through the room once more. She saw him stop now and again and look back toward the bed where she lay and she saw the hate and the fear and the frustration. His teeth would gleam behind the drawn back curve of his snarling lips and he would commence his pacing once more, the low growl in his throat a warning sign of what he wished he dared do to her.

  “Find somewhere else to vent your anger, Syntian,” she told him and saw him spin around to glare at her. “I give you leave to find some enemy you wish to tear asunder so I may sleep.” She wiggled down beneath the covers. “But come back here as soon as you’re finished.” A sleek smile touched her lip. “But do clean up before you crawl into bed with me, lover. I don’t want blood on my sheets.”

  His growl of fury shook the room and Angeline saw him vanish in a swirl of violent light. Wind rushed through the room with gale force at his departure and she shivered, feeling vaguely sorry for whatever or whoever he got his hands on this night.

  Blair VanLandingham was bored. She looked about her at the other young men and women lounging on the hoods of their cars, necking inside the parked vehicles, or who wandered aimlessly about the river bank, arms around one another’s waists. It was always the same: every Friday night no different from the one that preceded it. It was all boring, annoying drivel that these southern bumpkins considered “fun” and that Blair considered to be brainless inertia.

  “Want a hit, BeeVee?” some stupid tenth grader asked her as she passed the front of his Nissan pick-’em-up truck.

  “Eat shit and die, yokel,” she snapped as she picked her way through the red clay muck that sucked at her Nikes. Her gaze scalded the longhair boy with disdain then jerked away to her objective: Briton Alexander.

  Brit was by far and away the handsomest boy Blair had ever seen. His golden blond looks and sky-blue eyes were enough to make the California-bred-and-raised teenage girl hot with anticipation. That he had continued to ignore her all night didn’t help Blair’s mood any and his intentional snubbing was starting to wear as thin as the herringbone bracelet clasped around her slim wrist. She made her way to his 1963 ‘Vette.

  “Are you planning on blowing this gig any time soon, Briton?” she asked in a waspish voice. As he glanced at her through the halogen glow of Jack Ritter’s El Camino lights, she could see his annoyance surfacing.

  “What’s your problem, VanLandingham?” he snapped at her as he slid down from the hood of his ‘Vette where he’d been sitting with Angel Ramirez, one of the halfbacks on the Milton varsity team. He flicked away a Coors can and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his 501’s. “You’re the one who wanted to ride out here.”

  Blair tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and rewarded him with a look she had perfected over her seventeen years that was meant to quell the strongest jock. Usually it worked, but with Brit, it only seemed to amuse him. “I’m so bored I could fuck a baseball player,” she grumbled. Her head jerked around at Angel’s guffaw and she fixed him with a deadly glare.

  “You’d fuck anything that asked you,” Angel snorted, ignoring the look by lifting his beer up to his lips.

  “Anything except you!” Blair’s voice turned frosty.

  Angel turned his head and spit beer off into the dark. His broad Filipino face broke into a grin when he turned back to look at her. “I’d never ask a cunt like you to fuck my duck.”

  “Chill,” Briton mumbled to his best friend. He had brought the chick out here, might even be somewhat responsible for her, but all she was worth was a quick one wherever he could manage it. All the same, he didn’t want a scene between her and Angel that might escalate into something more than just that.

  “Keep your twat’s mouth shut, Brit,” Angel warned, sliding down from the hood and crushing his beer can in one powerful fist. “Or I’ll give her something to put in it.”

  “Duh!”

  “Knock it off, Angel.” Briton sighed. “I’m outta here.” He took Blair’s arm and pulled her toward the passenger side of his ‘Vette. He barely waited for her to adjust herself in the deep bucket seat before he slammed the door and hopped over the hood.

  “Make sure you got a cast iron white fish in your pocket, Brit.” Angel laughed. “That bitch’s been under so many dudes, she’s still dripping from two weeks ago!”

  “Asshole!” Blair shouted out the window.

  “Slut!” Angel called back.

  “Will you just cool it?” Briton snapped as he turned the key in the ignition and put the ‘Vette into gear. He flipped Angel the bird as he peeled away from the riverbank and could hear his friend’s hoot of derision: “Promises! Promises!”

  “I don’t know what you see in that Flip trash,” Blair grumbled as the red Corvette slid out onto the highway.

  “You wouldn’t,” Briton ground out. He reached down to turn on his Alpine stereo to drown out any further babble from his “date.” The harsh twang of Nirvana exploded from the speakers.

  Blair turned to look at him. His profile was crisp and clean, manly in the frosty green glow of the dash lights. He had a chiseled face, a perfect face, a face meant to rain kisses upon, but so far all she’d gotten from him was a poke and stroke, and not necessarily in that order.

  “Where are we going?” She had to shout to be heard over the volume of the stereo.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  Blair flounced in her seat, folding her arms over her more than ample chest. She turned away, glaring at the passing pines and scrub oaks along Highway 90. The scenery sped by as the ‘Vette reached seventy on the straightway; the white line on the road skipped like dots beneath the front end of the car.

  Briton felt like kicking himself. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed the little tramp to cruise with him tonight. All she’d done was cause trouble from the time he’d picked her up until now. It had been one thing after the other: at Wendy’s; at Wal-Mart; at the Penny Pantry when he’d stopped in for beer. He was in a mean mood and he didn’t feel like sitting here beside her all the way to Pace with her brooding. That tongue of her was going to flick out in a minute and she was going to lash into him like she always did.

  “Stop the car.”

  He turned and looked at her. In the faint light glowing from his dash, he could see the pout on her lips. “If I stop, I’ll put your ass out,” he warned her. They’d been through this before and he always wound up soothing her ruffled feathers. He wasn’t going to do it tonight.

  “Stop the car,” she repeated, never doubting that he would.

  “I mean it, VanLandingham. If I stop this fucking car, you’ll be fucking out on your scrawny ass.”

/>   She slowly turned her head and looked at him. “Stop the goddamned car.”

  He took his foot off the accelerator and geared down until he could maneuver the right front wheel off onto the shoulder of the road. They were in the middle of nowhere and there were no lights, no passing cars, no nothing. As he brought the car to a stop, he saw her push open her door and step out into the dark night. When the door slammed, he had the ‘Vette moving, back on the pavement and away from the stupid cunt as fast as its wheels could turn.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Blair shouted after him, never once considering that he had meant what he said. She took a few steps forward, saw his brake lights come on then smiled spitefully. “You’ll pay for that piece of shit, Briton Alexander,” she promised, expecting him to spin the car around and come back for her. But that wasn’t to be. The lights returned to their driving tint and then disappeared down the long stretch of isolated road.

  At first she couldn’t really believe he had left her. When the realization that he wouldn’t be back finally penetrated the fog of surprise surrounding her, she stomped her foot like a child and let out a howl of fury.

  “You prick!” she screamed into the darkness. “You limp-dick butt-wipe!”

  That was what she got by going out with a hillbilly, redneck Cracker, she thought angrily as she kicked at the dirt beneath her feet. Varsity quarterback or not; Captain of the debate team or not; best-looking boy in Santa Rosa county or not! She shouldn’t ever have gone out with the jerk. After all, his Daddy wasn’t anyone! Not like hers.

  Tiffany Blair VanLandingham spat a mouth full of vengeance at the asphalt in front of her and began to walk. The closest service station was a good way off, but at least there was a phone booth there where she could call her father to come get her.

  “You just wait, you cotton farmer,” she mumbled as she stomped down the road. “When my Daddy gets through with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

  And her Daddy was just the man to do it, Blair thought with a smugness that had been fed to her with a silver spoon. Men like her Daddy could do anything they set out to do. You didn’t become a Rear Admiral by sitting on your ass or kissing other peoples’! Rainor VanLandingham was the kind of man whose ass other people kissed.

  A sneer formed on Blair’s pretty face and she flung her hair back over her shoulders. “You just wait, Briton. My Daddy’ll have you on your knees apologizing to me!”

  The roar of the car engine blared out of the darkness behind her and Blair turned to see twin high beams leaping over the hill toward her. Whatever the car, it was powerful and it was expensive by the sound of its engine and the howl of an excellent stereo system fanned out toward her with the sharp electric sounds of Guns ‘n Roses Blaze of Glory.

  Blair stopped, shading her eyes as the headlights bore down on her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the car was slowing, the engine gearing down; the music was so loud, she really couldn’t tell. For a moment, she felt fear, the cautions of her mother and every grownup rushing through her head, but she ignored them and stuck her thumb up, cocking her tightly clad, jeans-wrapped leg out at a saucy angle. She smiled. The car was definitely slowing down.

  The motor purred like a giant cat as the sleek dark car slid to a smooth stop beside her. Blair watched as the passenger window slipped down. Inside the car, two bright, feverish eyes glowed at her from the light cast from the dash lights.

  “You going to stand there all night, baby, or do you want a ride?

  The voice was like molten gold: rich and warm, with just a faint hint of an accent.

  “How do I know you aren’t Ted Bundy’s twin?” She kept a safe distance from the car’s door. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but those eyes were latched on her like cockleburs on corduroy.

  There was an amused snort from the interior of the car then she saw his hand reach down to the dashboard to flick on the overhead light. What she saw as the light fell down on the man’s face made her smile.

  “Well, hello there,” she said, putting her hand on the doorknob.

  Angeline Hellstrom sat up in the bed, unease shifting through her. She looked about her, felt the cold permeating the room. He was not in the room, but the essence of the great evil he was capable of doing clung to the walls like a rime of frost. She shivered, drawing the coverlet up to her throat. She searched the room, but without getting up to go to her conjuring room, she couldn’t tell what he was up to, what he was doing. But she knew, without being told, that whatever it was, and whoever was on the receiving end of his fury, would not live to regret it.

  You gave him your permission. You told him to take his anger out on something. “I was afraid he’d take it out on me,” she whispered to the empty room.

  A quiver of dread ran through her and she lay back down, pulled the coverlet to her chin.

  “God help me,” she mumbled, feeling his icy fury invading her body. She sank further down in the bed, bringing the silken coverlet over her head in denial of what he was making sure she felt.

  Blair looked down as his hand slid over to her thigh from the gear knob. The fingers were strong, powerful, and his touch was unlike anything any boy had ever bestowed on her. Where he touched her, she felt a warmth and trill of excitement and wetness began to form at the juncture of her thighs.

  “My name’s Blair,” she said, looking from his caressing hand to the strong profile that faced the road.

  “It suits you,” he answered in that honey-lined voice that sent shivers of pleasure down her spine.

  “What’s yours?” She placed a jittery hand over his and felt his fingers clutch her thigh and still.

  He turned and smiled. “Syn.”

  Her lips formed the word and she smiled back at him as he returned his gaze to the road. She was beginning to feel a very strong sexual arousal and she knew before this ride was over, he’d be hers.

  “Where you heading, Syn?” Her fingers stroked his until his hand slid over her thigh and to the V of her legs. Her indrawn breath was loud enough to be heard over the wail of the tape in the player. The warmth of his fingers oozed through the tight fabric of her jeans as his hand curled under her and he squeezed.

  “Where you wanna go, baby?” he asked, rubbing his hand between her legs.

  Blair groaned, thrilling to the feel of his hand on her, the heat of it through the fabric making her pant. She opened her legs further, wanting more of him to touch more of her, and she heard his low chuckle of satisfaction.

  “You like that, baby?” he asked in that mellow, slightly accented voice that drove her wild.

  “Um,” was all she could say as his hand shifted up to the button of her jeans. As it came undone, her breath caught in her throat and his fingers began to expertly lower the zipper. The tight constriction of the fabric loosening sent more moisture flooding through her lower body and she jerked, whimpered deep in her throat as his hand dipped down into the opened fly and his fingers tangled in the thick thatch of tawny hair above her vagina.

  “You want it?” she heard him ask in a husky, throbbing voice.

  She turned her head on the seat and gazed at him with lust. “Any time, any place, any part of my body,” she answered and drew in a startled breath as he withdrew his hand.

  She was about to protest, but saw that he was slowing down. She watched him gear down with the expertise of a racecar driver. She saw him glance behind him then he turned into a dark lane off the highway. As the car moved under the canopy of the spreading live oaks, she reached out to put her hand in his lap. When she felt the bulge under the soft leather, she smiled, molding her fingers to him.

  “Looks like you want me,” she said in a coy tone of voice.

  “More than you know.” He slid the car beneath a low-slung branch of oak and cut the engine. Pushing off the lights, he turned in the seat and grabbed her, pulling her over the gearshift toward him in one mighty movement and pressing his body down hard atop hers.

  Blair had never felt such raw, n
aked hunger in a man’s kiss before. It both thrilled and alarmed her. His hands were on her, along her back, at the nape of her neck, and his mouth was covering hers completely, his tongue thrust so deeply into the recesses of her mouth, she could barely breathe. As his hand came up and grasped at her breast, squeezing urgently, she managed to pull her mouth from his feverish suction.

  “Do you have a blanket?” she breathed, panting like a dog in heat.

  He let go of her and reached into the backseat, snagging a wool blanket. He was out of the car even before Blair could react to his timing. Even as she turned to the passenger door, he dragged it open and his hand was on her arm, urging her out of the car.

  “Eager little bugger, aren’t you?” She laughed as he dragged her behind him to the base of the sprawling live oak. Batting Spanish moss out of his way, he let go of her long enough to flick the blanket open, spread in on the ground and reach for her blouse.

  Syn’s fingers snagged in the fabric at her throat and in one powerful flick of his strong wrists, rent the material down the front to her waist, sending buttons flying about them.

  Blair gasped with outrage. “Now, wait a minute!” she tried to say before his hands were on her naked breasts beneath the torn fabric and his callused palms were scraping sensually over the suddenly erect peaks of her nipples. His arms went around her, drawing her to him and his head dipped at the same time until his eager mouth was fastened as firmly on her breasts as it had been on her lips.

  A ripple of staggering lust shot through Tiffany Blair VanLandingham and she lifted her hands to thread them through the dark silk of his long hair, pulling it free of the band at the nape of his neck. She threw her head back as his teeth grazed her nipples, bit lightly at her flesh, and his tongue spiraled like molten fire around the puckered tips of her breasts.

  “Oh, my God!” she gasped, feeling his tongue flicking up her bare chest to the base of her throat.