Soon she was panting and soaked, and it was her turn to beg him. “Adrian, enough. Your cock. Please. Now.”
“Hmm.” He quirked a teasing eyebrow at her. “I suppose I too should make sure your saddle is ready before your ride.” And his glistening hand moved from between her legs to his cock, smearing her juices over its length and readying it for her possession.
She reached to help him, but he stopped her. “Not this time, Kat. I’m too close.” His fangs were free, shining as brightly as the passion behind his gaze.
He pushed himself upwards, holding her where she was, until she was straddling his lap and his chest was squashing her breasts in the most deliciously abrasive fashion.
“Goodness.” Kat wriggled, examining the possibilities. “This is interesting.” She shifted her legs awkwardly, but then finding the perfect position as they enfolded his hips to lie on the bed behind him. Her sex was stretched wide open, a complement to his cock which already lay hard against her pussy.
He lifted her a little, stared deep into her eyes and thrust forward, seating his length inside her to his balls.
They froze, locked in each other’s gaze, joined in an age-old link that no evil could ever undo.
“I love you, Kat.” Adrian whispered the words as his hips rubbed against her, gently touching her protruding clit.
“I love you, Adrian.” She tightened her inner muscles, rubbing him back in her turn.
Katherine’s arousal deepened as Adrian moved, spreading upwards through her body to the very top of her head. She relaxed into it, realizing as she did so that a new and erotic element was now part of their loving.
She could feel Adrian’s thoughts. As she relaxed, her mind opened, admitting his emotions. Most of which were centered where their bodies were joined.
It was heady and amazing, and Katherine’s eyes widened as she felt him tremble in her arms. “I can feel you. Your mind…” She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken the words or thought them.
“Me too.”
“Oh Adrian…” His name fell from her lips as they moved together, each knowing the other’s responses and adjusting their positions accordingly.
It was a duet that became a complete solo performance, two bodies, two minds, two hearts linked as one.
And as Katherine felt the moment of release tickling the base of her spine, she instinctively followed Adrian’s lead. She leaned forward, opened her mouth and for the first time Katherine Byerly Chesswell bit her husband.
And fed.
They both exploded.
Adrian’s brain flew out of his head, or so he thought, as Kat sucked on him, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence.
He dipped his mouth and found her shoulder, permitting himself the smallest pinprick, yet unable to resist as her blood flowed freely. He drank, knowing that this was a shared privilege, a loving exchange that would never ever end.
His cock pulsed and throbbed and as her taste seared his tongue and spread its sweetness down his throat, he let go, flooding her shuddering channel with his seed. He thrust, fierce movements, guaranteed to push her higher, thundering into her clit and making her moan around his flesh.
He could feel her orgasm and knew she could feel his.
It was unique—this mutual explosion that rocked them both with an eruption of physical sensations so incredible that it mattered not who was spasming or who was spewing.
It was the two of them, sharing.
Loving.
As he eased away from her skin and licked the remaining droplets clean, Adrian released more than his seed. He released his pain at what he had done and how he had lived. He surrendered his anguish and forgave himself for that which was not of his doing.
He had not chosen to become what he was. He had simply chosen to fuck the wrong woman.
Now he had chosen to love the right one, and she loved him back. That love empowered him, lifted him from the darkness in which he’d existed, and revealed a new future before him, one that he’d not imagined could ever apply to him.
He held Kat tight as she too released her fangs, shaking a little in the aftermath of their shared passion. It was the beginning for them, when he’d truly believed he had no future left.
What lay ahead was in the hands of a greater power than his. He could now simply appreciate the gift he held in his arms.
And she was in the mood to do some appreciating of her own.
Stiffly, she moved her legs. “Good heavens, Adrian.” It was a sigh of exhaustion and they both tumbled into a sated lump of shuddering, useless muscles. “You do taste rather nice, you know.”
Adrian licked his lips tiredly. “As do you, my love.” He settled her more comfortably. “We won’t need to feed very often. Most of the time it’ll be just ordinary lovemaking.”
She chuckled. “My dear, lovemaking with you is never ordinary. If I had a jot of strength left, I’d demonstrate the truth of that statement.” She yawned. “And I am looking forward to making my point for many years to come.”
“Are you?” He couldn’t help the question.
“Adrian.” Kat dragged herself up on one elbow and leaned over him. “I want to be with you and love you for the rest of my life. If it turns out that we have an eternity together it still won’t be long enough. Do I make myself quite clear?”
He reached up and trailed a finger down her cheek. “My Kat. My fiery passion. How did I survive without you? And what did I do to deserve you?”
She snorted and tucked her head back down beneath his chin. “Go to sleep, silly thing. Even us vampires need our rest.”
All was quiet for a few moments, then she shifted back up onto her elbow and looked at him once more. “You know, this means I won’t have to endure all those endlessly awful vicarage tea parties. They always hold them in the afternoon. In daylight.” She giggled. “We’ll have to tell everyone that you infected me with your disease. They’ll assume the worst, of course, and never bother either of us again.”
Adrian grinned. “True.”
“This could actually work out rather well…” Kat’s voice faded as she drifted into the silent and unmoving slumber she would now enjoy.
Adrian prepared to follow her. He didn’t know if it would work out rather well, if it was a miracle sent from Heaven, or if it was part of the Curse of the Chyne. He didn’t know anything except that his father was alive, the woman he loved was cuddled in his embrace, and they’d vanquished the demon that had haunted him for so long.
For now, that was enough.
*~*~*~*
Tucked securely in his study, Sir Sidney Chesswell was also sleeping, but not quite as soundly.
His dreams were a little perturbed.
“Nice job, there, Sidney.” A voice echoed hollowly around him, but he could not sit up.
“Who’s there?” Sidney blinked as a glow started in the vicinity of his feet and expanded
“It’s me.”
A figure took shape, tall and robed in a simple fall of white cloth, tied at the waist with a cord. The shaved tonsure and the large cross at his breast revealed his identity.
“Good grief.” Sidney felt his eyebrows lift. “It’s you. Er…Saint Chesswell.”
“Actually, my name was Torquil. But you can call me Saint if you want.” The man glanced around him. “Nice place you’ve built here. And thanks for the legend. I rather liked the tales that have grown up around my name. “
He moved to sit next to Sidney, resting his backside on the chaise and sighing. “I never did fuck that bitch, you know. She tried. Oh yes, she tried very hard. All her tricks and smiles and those breasts…” St. Chesswell coughed and stopped as he caught himself outlining an imaginary female form with his hands.
He looked a little embarrassed as he glanced down again at Sidney. “Well, I wasn’t a saint back in those days. And before I took my vows I had a healthy…er…nevermind.”
He straightened. “I never touched her. I knew she was evil, she stunk of it as clea
r as if she’d rolled in the midden.” His hand rested on Sidney’s knee, sending a soft white heat through his leg.
“And now she’s come back. I’m glad you found my sword, Sidney. You will need it again. Or somebody from this place will.”
Sidney found his voice. “Why? Did we not destroy her?”
Sadly, St. Chesswell shook his head. “Alas, lad, ‘t’will take more than that to completely destroy such a one. You’ve damaged her, pushed her back into her hole. She’ll not risk coming here again. But she still survives.”
He fiddled with his robes. “I have something for you. Now where did I put it?”
Sidney felt the glow from this apparition warming his face. Was it real? Was he dreaming?
“Yes, you’re dreaming. But when you wake, I want you to read this book. Pay attention to the third chapter, fourteenth stanza. Can you remember that?”
Sidney nodded. “Chapter three, fourteenth stanza.”
“Good lad.” Paternally, the Saint patted Sidney on the head. “You’ve done well by your son. He’s strong. There will be others just as strong. You’ve earned your reward, Sidney.”
The vision shimmered and was replaced by the image of Josephine, smiling and beautiful and holding out her arms to him. “Sidney, I’m sorry.” Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, misting her smile. “Forgive me. I was a fool to leave you.”
“Josephine…” He croaked the words as she faded back into the light, to be replaced by St. Chesswell once more.
“Let her go now, lad. She’s in a better place. But she did regret her actions. I thought you might like to know.”
“Thank you.” Sidney blinked through his own tears. “Thank you.”
“Don’t forget…Chapter Three…”
“Stanza fourteen. I remember.” Sidney stared as the glow faded and he found himself alone.
With a start he awoke, almost expecting to find St. Chesswell still sitting and chatting next to him. Instead there was an old volume there, and Sidney awkwardly heaved himself into a sitting position.
There was a message for him in the text and he couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
The pages were fragile, the lettering old-fashioned and blurred in places, and it appeared to be another grimoire, but from where or when Sidney could not immediately guess.
He simply turned to Chapter Three.
And stanza fourteen…
”To Free The Mayde, The Mayker Muft be Un-Mayde.”
His brow wrinkled as he considered the words, but his fuddled and exhausted brain could make no sense of them. He was too tired, and in too much pain to think clearly. The message would simply have to wait.
He sighed. It would seem that their task was unfinished. So much horror, innocent lives lost, and still the evil survived.
Sidney leaned back and closed his eyes. That was a fight they would continue on the morrow. And with their new knowledge, they had a better chance of success.
For now, he simply wanted to rest and enjoy the warmth of knowing his own love hadn’t really left him for good. She had passed away, but he knew he’d see her again, some place and some time otherwhere.
There were some mysteries not meant to be known by mortals. That was one of them.
Love, however—well that was a mystery that defied all efforts to defeat it.
It would never, ever, be vanquished.
Epilogue
The sun was setting over London, casting its final rays through the smog and haze that drifted over the capital city.
A man stirred, lazily stretching, then stilling as his leg met warm flesh.
Sir Nicholas Blaine realized he was not alone.
He quietly moved, sliding from the bed with scarcely a whisper of cloth to mark his passage. Staring around him, the bile of disgust rose in his throat.
A whore lay snoring on the pillow, her snuffles a soft accompaniment to the noise from outside the stew where they’d lain. The room was sparsely furnished, filthy, and Nick knew at that moment he could sink no further.
This was the end.
His scientific brilliance had faded, his fortune had dissipated long ago, and his very existence had withered into the occasional nocturnal foray to sate his appetite–and his strange sexual desires.
He was cursed, doomed to wander the nights—a foul presence unfit to breathe the air of his homeland. Simply because he’d succumbed to the lures of one incredibly beautiful redhead. They’d fucked and slept and fucked once more.
It had been a night of vivid and violent sex, a night that had reshaped his thoughts about all things erotic, even while it was reshaping his destiny.
He hadn’t known that, of course, until he’d tried to rise the following day, only to learn what he now was. A horror, an abomination, a walking ghost of his former self.
And all because of one spontaneous trip—to a charmingly elegant and beautiful European estate called Rogaška.
As he dressed he felt a vague presence behind him. He prayed once more that it was not her.
“There are others like you. Find them.”
He spun on his heel, but there was no one there. Blinking, he tried again to relax his mind, a trick he’d begun to practice when he’d discovered that occasionally he could sense—something. Most often it would be the lust in whomever he was fucking at the time, but now…
“Go south.”
The voice was clear as a bell, and yet the room bore no traces of another, no sign that anyone was there. Least of all her.
Was it a vision? Or was it the result of his disordered brain finally breaking down into what he’d always feared—the depths of insanity?
His gaze caught a scrap of newspaper, torn to wrap some unspeakable piece of offal that the woman had probably shared with her colleagues. It was from several weeks ago, and he scraped off the grease to read the headline beneath.
“Curse of the Chyne claims a New Victim! Horrid Death in Hampshire!”
There was a short and lurid paragraph following, detailing the passing of one Arthur Byerly who had met his end in a particularly unpleasant fashion.
Nick read the piece through, frustrated that the final sentences had been ripped away. But there was enough information hidden between the exaggerations. Enough to tell him that perhaps he should indeed follow the voice’s instructions and head south.
To Hampshire.
And this strangely named, allegedly cursed place—St. Chesswell’s Chyne…
TO BE CONTINUED…
My Lady Vampire Anthology
Book Two - Nick
Author’s Note
The “clothes pegs” mentioned later in this story are not the metallic-spring, plastic or wooden clips we see today. In the past, our foremothers used pegs cleverly carved from a single piece of wood, split up the center and smoothed, with a knob on the top. They would be pushed down over the clothesline and a corner of the clothes, securing them in the fresh air to dry. They were often peddled by gypsies traveling the countryside in exchange for food and other goods. Today they are mostly collectors’ items, prized for their workmanship and the smooth patina of age, although many families still cherish one or two handed down from mother to daughter over several generations. These pegs are also sought after by craftspeople, since their shape is perfect for converting into small dolls.
Prologue
Somewhere in the south of England,
October 1816
“Sshhh…”
Tim Cooper obediently closed his mouth on the words he’d been about to utter. The stink of gunpowder enveloped him, his heart pounded as his ears rang with the echo of the shot and he knew without a doubt the blame would be assigned to him.
A harsh voice bellowed around the darkly shadowed patch of road. “Yer riches, man. Quickly now, lest there be more bloodshed this night.”
Inside the carriage there were faint sounds of distress, a whimper and a moan from a voice soft enough to be a woman’s. On the box, the driver sat immobile, eyes wide as he st
ared in shock at the five horsemen surrounding the coach.
Beside him—the ultimate horror. His companion, shot in the belly, crumpled in a still and bloody heap on the wooden seat.
The highwaymen held silent as the occupants of the coach readily saved their skins by divesting themselves of whatever valuables they had with them.
Finally it was over and the carriage waved away, accompanied by sighs of relief from just about everybody involved. It had been an abortive robbery involving bloodshed, something that had never happened in the past and shouldn’t have happened on this night either.
And it was all Tim Cooper’s fault.
“Back to the inn.” The voice was low and commanding. It was also tightly furious, and Tim felt a shudder of apprehension shoot down his spine. Then he lifted his chin. There was no way these unimportant country bumpkins would intimidate him. He’d get his share from tonight’s haul and be off in the morning to London. Somewhere his good looks and talents would be appreciated.
Firm in his resolve, Cooper turned his mount and followed the others as they swiftly took to forest paths only they knew, vanishing into the darkness like the wraiths from which they took their name.
The “Midnight Shadows” had claimed another victim—but this time they had broken their steadfast rule of no violence. Blood had been spilled. Their leader knew that such an occurrence would not bode well for their future as a functioning band of highwaymen. It would attract untoward attention, something they’d tried and succeeded in avoiding up to now.
The cellar beneath the inn housed many secrets, not the least of which was the cache of riches they hoarded, only taking what was needed and even then only using the most bland of their pickings. Jewels were carefully wrapped and stored, the first of their haul having been taken to London and fenced over a year after their acquisition. Gold could be melted down in small batches—and, in fact, was “cooked” quite regularly by the blacksmith in their midst.
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