by O. M. Grey
I will have her. Forever.
I had long since given up on the idea of turning a companion, as I became bored with most women after a few hours. I couldn’t imagine spending eternity with someone like Emily Bainbridge, but Avalon inspired me to think on it once again. And only after one meeting. What a remarkable woman. To spend eternity with that perfect face. To kiss the perfect “o” of her soft lips. I had been too young in my new life to have had the presence and foresight to turn Catherine before she married my brother. I’ve regretted it ever since. I had resigned to live this life in solitude of heart, if not in body. Now I could have both, but how to do it? Certainly I could force myself on her, by the time she knew what had happened, she would be on the road to turning herself. Still that was risky. For her to hate me for all eternity would be quite unbearable.
That would only be a last resort.
The gaslights on the street corners hissed at me as I passed. They gave off a fuzzy, warm glow through the fog and kept me on track, allowing my mind to wonder to Avalon again and again without fear of losing my way. Before long, I turned onto Gray’s Inn Road and slipped down the alley. The door to the brothel was well hidden. One had to know where one was headed to find it. It was not a normal brothel, if there was such an animal. This one didn’t advertise its presence, as it was of serious ill-repute. If London society knew what went on behind these doors...
I removed the wide black sash from my hat and covered my face with it, allowing only my eyes to show. Best disguise one’s appearance at such a place. As I entered, the door hit a bell suspended from the ceiling, announcing my entrance. The parlor looked like any other, albeit shabby and dank. It was decorated in deep burgundy tapestries and upholstery, lined with a faded gold. Few oil lamps, very dimly lit, barely kept it from being downright dark. A lone woman, old and wrinkled, with her features mostly hidden by a scarf, sat in a corner on a once overstuffed chair. Now it looked as tattered and worn and saggy as the woman herself. A retired prostitute, no doubt. She bore the look of one who had lived a very hard life. There weren’t many whores who lived to her age. Either from foul play or disease, whores usually died relatively young. But then everyone died relatively young compared to me.
“Good evening, sir,” she said in a crackled voice. She didn’t question my appearance, as it was understood here that discretion was of the utmost importance.
I nodded to her.
“What be your pleasure tonight sir?”
“Chamber of Horrors,” I said in a deepened voice, thick with an assumed Irish accent.
“It is occupied, sir. It is one of our more popular rooms, normally by appointment only.”
I took out twenty pound notes and slapped them down on the table next to her. She regarded them for a moment before speaking again, perhaps counting them in her head.
“For this you could buy a virgin, sir. A very young virgin.”
“Virginity is not necessary, and I like my women older.”
“Are you sure, sir? We have a newly acquired young virgin, fresh and frightened.”
“Quite sure. Give me one of your older ones. At least thirty, and I want that room.” I put down another few pound notes to ensure my request. Money, after all, meant nothing to me.
“Of course, sir. Give me a moment, and I’ll see what I can do.”
The old woman hobbled out of the room through the only other door, probably to construct some lie to the current patron, inspiring him to change rooms. I waited, looking at my dank surroundings. Wondering how many of London’s elite had enjoyed the dark pleasures of this place. A few minutes later she reappeared.
“This way,” she said to me, and I followed. She led me down a dark hall past many doors from which screams, not the pleasurable kind, could be heard mixed with the moans and grunts of ecstasy. A man, fat, rather old and saggy himself, and naked except for a covering on his face, came out of the last room on the left. A young girl, no older than fourteen, cowered in the corner, naked as well. Her face was stained with dirt cut through with tears. Her expression betrayed the knowledge of countless horrors, and at such a young age. Criminal, really.
“Out, I said, out!” the old woman cried to the cowering prostitute, who stood up, knees shaking, and ran out of the room. The man with the covered face grabbed her and threw her into the open room across the hall. I could plainly see that roughing her up excited him. I wondered who among us present was the true monster. He slammed the door and she screamed again.
“Right in here, sir. Someone will be with you momentarily.”
“Thank you,” I replied. The old woman closed the door behind her, and I looked around the room. It had been awhile since I had been here, but it was good to be back. The implements of torture adorning the walls and the rings hanging from the ceiling started the blood flowing southward. In the center of the room was a padded table that resembled a rack, that medieval torture device, as it had restraints at either end for the hands and feet and a leather strap across the middle as well. One could utilize the full length of the table or drop one or both of the leaves to keep the wench, at least partially, on her feet. This would be a great night.
I heard the door open behind me, and the woman standing there was definitely at least thirty.
Perhaps even forty, just as I liked them. Prostitutes were a little worse for wear than the elite by this age, however. This one was missing several teeth. The ones she did have were nearly black.
No worries, it’s not her mouth I was interested in anyway. At least not this time. Although I certainly had the means for a higher-class whore, and sometimes I certainly indulged in that, variety and all, I found this kind to be more willing for my particular type of debauchery. And it was important that they were quite willing to participate. After all, they all felt more or less the same. It was likely this one hadn’t had a customer for quite some time, as the current licentious trend among the well-to-do are very young girls, preferably virgins, often stolen right from their homes. I found it all to be quite distasteful.
“What’s yer pleazha, gov’,” she said in a thick cockney, flashing her mostly toothless smile.
She opened her tattered robe, and I was pleased to see that her body was still quite nice, not at all as rough as her face. “I’ll do whatevah you like, m’lord.”
“Drop the robe,” I said.
She did so without hesitation and smiled.
I took the silk scarf off from around my neck and gagged her with it. She didn’t jump or even seem surprised. This was my kind of girl. After all, screams get old after a while. I lost that desire near the end of my first century. Consensual was always more fun, at least until the end, and that only rarely. Like the other night.
I hardened at the thought of that. Her skin had been so smooth and easy to pierce. Ah, the aristocracy.
“Anything?” I asked her, full well knowing the answer.
She nodded, smiling around the scarf stuffed into her mouth. At least I couldn’t see the toothless smile anymore. A definite improvement.
“Tonight, you’re Avalon,” I said to her, leading her to the padded table. I dropped both end leaves and strapped her ankles in one side and then, having her lie across the top and down the other side, strapped her arms in as well. She watched me as I walked around her. Perfectly compliant.
“Now, Avalon,” I said to the prostitute as I took a knife off the table of toys situated next to the padded table. It was filled with knives, pliers, saws, and other torture devices, some rather rusty. Fear flashed in her eyes. “I’m showing you this now so you will not be afraid. I won’t be using this or any other of these crude instruments.” I tossed the knife back onto the table with the rest. “I will, however, be using this.” I produced a silver ornament from my pocket and slid it over my right forefinger. It covered the entire digit, jointed in all the right places, as if it were silver armor. The pointed tip extended another two inches from my finger tip and was razor sharp. “I won't cut deep. I just enjoy some blood
with my fucking. All right?”
She nodded, relaxing a little. Judging from the scars on her back and legs, she wasn’t new to a bit of rough play. Judging from the ol’ chap across the hall, I was likely far from the most sadistic client she has had in her tenure.
I went over to her and whispered in her ear, using my special power of persuasion, “Do you trust me?”
She nodded again, and her eyes began to close. I wasn’t rusty at all.
Careful to keep the armored finger raised off her skin for the moment, I ran my hands up and down her back. She moaned through her gag.
“You will enjoy this immensely,” I breathed into her ear, bending over her and pressing my body fully against her entire frame, grinding my erection into her backside. She moaned again.
I stood up and pulled the sash down off my face, for she could not see behind her, so there was no fear of being recognized or later identified. I dropped my trousers to my knees, as I wouldn’t be moving from this position any time soon, and set the finger blade against her back.
She gasped and then giggled as the pointy tip tickled the skin on her back. I traced the blade down her back to her plump ass then down one thigh. As I came up the other leg, I slid two fingers inside her, feeling her wetness therein. She squeezed them tightly, using her skill, honed over decades. Yes. Something to be said for experience. Sliding them out and back in, I continued tracing the blade around her back and buttocks, heightening her and my anticipation for what was to come. She swelled up around my fingers and I moved them faster, inserting another. Her breath came faster and she drenched my hand with her juices. Appetizer done. Now it was time.
I removed my fingers and positioned myself behind her for the main course.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
She whimpered a reply and nodded her head. I slowly slid myself inside her much to both our delights and began rocking against her, shaking the table as I did so. The thrusts were slow and deep, making full contact with her at the end of each. One hand held onto her hips while the other continued to trace the frigid blade against her back. Simultaneously with a particularly hard thrust, I pressed down slightly and cut into her skin, just deep enough to draw blood. She gasped, tugged against the restraints, and squeezed my cock in the most delightful way. Blood flowed from the wound, accumulating in the indentation along her spine. I stopped and admired the dark red pool against her fair skin. Folding myself on top of her, I lapped up the dark drink and started thrusting again, harder and faster than before. When I could get no more blood from one cut, I made another, slowing down between each cut and then diving back into her as I soaked my tongue anew. With each cut she gasped and moaned until finally she came as I made the final cut, a little deeper than the rest, but by no means mortal. I drank deeply and slammed into her until I exploded inside. My mouth bathed with her blood, and my body anointed with our mingled juices. Her knees buckled and she relaxed against the table, catching her breath.
After wiping off my mouth and my nether regions with her robe, covering my face, and fixing my trousers, I shoved five pounds under her stomach, whispering, “This is for you if you stay right in this position until after I leave. Agreed?”
She nodded. Sweat droplets decorated her brow. Her fair back was mottled with drying blood, but the wounds had already begun to congeal. She would but need a rest, and all would be fine. I untied one of her hands.
“Count to twenty before getting up, then forget me,” I spoke softly, dropping the false accent, and brushed the hair from her face.
She nodded again.
She remained bent over the table until I was out of sight. Before she could’ve taken another breath, I was out of the building completely and halfway down Gray’s Inn Road. Once I was back en route to Knightsbridge, I uncovered my face and kept to the shadows, moving more quickly than human eyes could see. Well before dawn, I arrived home to a darkened house, got undressed, crawled into bed, and drew the curtains around it, satisfied. I settled into sleep, hoping to dream of Avalon.
Chapter 6
I awoke the next morning to Cecil standing over me. Once my eyes focused, I could see just by his stance that he was quite cross. Hands on his hips, he stared down at me like an angry wife would to a lazy husband.
“What is it, Cecil?” I rolled over and covered my face with the blanket. Not my ideal morning.
“This,” he said, tossing the newspaper onto me. I picked it up and looked at the headlines: VAMPYRE STRIKES AGAIN.
“But...” I stammered.
“This is laying low, m’lord? Twice in two nights? Pardon me for saying so, m’lord but this is too risky. I like it here, and you’re jeopardizing our place.”
“Don’t be insolent, Cecil. I didn’t do this,” I said throwing the newspaper back and him and pulling the blanket over my eyes again.
“A whore–found in a compromising position in the Chamber of Horrors. Do you really expect me to believe that you didn’t do this? Do her?”
That got my attention. I sat up, alert, and wiped the blur from my eyes.
“I did. I mean, I was with a whore in the Chamber of Horrors last night, but I didn’t kill her.
She was quite alive when I left.” I snatched the paper back from him. This was no way to start a new week. “Just give me a moment to read the article, Cecil. I’ll have tea on the balcony in ten.”
“As you wish, m’lord,” Cecil replied and then left my bedchamber.
“And remember who’s lord of this manor,” I called after him.
He slammed the door. Getting more brazen by the day.
I read the article:
Police were called to the notorious Gray’s Inn Brothel, owned by Madam Jeffries, during the early hours this morning. There they found a prostitute brutally murdered. The woman in question was found by Mrs. Porter, the night attendant, strapped to a table in a compromising position with her throat ripped out and several superficial cuts upon her back. Police have yet to release any further details, but they mentioned that the scene was reminiscent of the previous murder at Lord Pemberton’s two nights ago. No other persons on the scene were harmed. Mrs.
Porter told police of a medium-height presumably Irish man who came in late last night and requested that room specifically. She said all of his face and body were covered except for his eyes. She added that this was not uncommon to their clientele, as many are prominent members of London Society. The only clue the police have to go on was the black scarf that gagged the prostitute’s mouth, assumedly left by the killer. Further details reported as available.
“How inconvenient.” I thought about the events of last night, certain I didn’t hurt her enough to kill her. Most certainly didn’t ‘rip out her throat.’ Not even a nibble. The only wounds I left were made with the finger blade. Confounded, I put on my dressing gown and went down to tea, taking the newspaper with me. The table by the window was already set. There were fresh-cut flowers in a vase and a plate of current scones, my favorite non-human food. Moments later, Cecil came in with the tea, poured me a cup, and turned to leave.
“I’d like two drops this morning, Cecil,” I said to his back.
“You’ve already had enough, m’lord,” he replied rudely without turning around.
“Now see here,” I said in a not too-friendly voice, rising from my seat. “This is still my house and you still work for me. Come back here, Cecil; I will not abide further insolence.”
Cecil returned like a petulant child and stood before me, obviously grumpy, holding the silver platter defensively over his heart, as if I’d pluck it out in my anger. I might just if he keeps up such behavior. I sat down again, shoving the newspaper into his hands.
“As I said in my room, I did not kill this woman.” We stared at each other intently, but I didn’t continue until he lowered his eyes. I shouldn’t have to play such alpha male games with my manservant. Indeed! “But it does seem that things do not look good for us, dear man. As you likely read in the article, I did have
my face covered, so I will unlikely be identified. The only people who knew I was at the brothel are in this room, and, quite possibly, the actual killer.
Perhaps there was another vampire in London. In fact, I would be quite shocked if there were not more of my kind in a city this large. Still, the article said nothing about fang marks, but rather said the poor woman’s throat was ripped out. Anyone, vampire or not, could’ve done that.”
“Indeed, m’lord. My apologies for my behavior.” Cecil bowed to me and resumed his normal demeanor. “I believe that you did not kill the woman, but as you said, it isn’t a good situation, for now the police no longer think this a random act of violence. They see a pattern, and there will be an investigation.”
“But there is nothing to tie me to the crimes.”
“Except your scarf, m’lord. Countless people saw you in it last night at the gala,” Cecil said.
“True, but I was hardly the only man there with black silk scarf.” Still, he did have a point. I would have to get a new scarf, identical to the last, before the next formal event. Thankfully, the scarf was simple and black, without a pattern on it, quite common in my circle.
“Let’s just wait and see how the investigation progresses before getting too nervous, shall we? After all, I’ve overcome far worse. Two drops, please. My tea is getting cold.”
With a sigh, Cecil obliged and left. I stirred my tea slowly and gazed out into the grey London day. My thoughts returned to Avalon. Such a dangerous place for a young woman, London. Especially a single, unmarried woman like Avalon. I must find a way to see her again and put all this murder nonsense behind me. She was by far more interesting.