Darkness In The Flames

by Kelly, Sahara

  He sighed and set about making his “home” more comfortable, dragging in some pine boughs for a makeshift bed. Brush was gathered and stacked near the door. Nick would conceal the opening before dawn.

  He could hobble his horse’s hooves—there was sufficient grazing to keep the animal content and he would not stray far. The sound of his movements would lead Nick to him on the morrow. Having super sensitive hearing also provided moments of usefulness.

  Done with his natural furnishings, Nick returned to his mount, untied his small bundle and tossed it into the barrow. It was time to water the horse and perhaps wash the dust from his own throat as well. The occasional draft of cool liquid was not unwelcome, even to one such as himself.

  A nearby stream offered both horse and rider refreshment. Sadly, the night stretched ahead of Nick, offering him little in the way of rest or entertainment. His mind was too busy—too troubled—unlike his horse which seemed content to be unharnessed and loosely hobbled. It sauntered to a likely patch of grass and nibbled peacefully.

  The crunching of equine teeth was the only accompaniment to Nick’s thoughts and not a very soothing one.

  On a whim he climbed the barrow and found himself staring at the stars through a gap in the trees. There was no moon tonight and clouds starting to build to the northeast. A storm perhaps—they were common at this time of year.

  Nick sighed and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head and lifting one leg to rest on the other.

  A quick glance and he would have resembled any gentleman taking a relaxing rest and stargazing.

  Only he knew the secrets buried within him. And so many were unfathomable, even to him.

  As if Verity’s passion had unsealed a door, Nick found himself revisiting his past, taking a new look at his situation and his despair. He did not think of Thérèse, still unsure of whether she could be summoned by such thoughts. It was something he did not want to risk.

  But the part of his mind that dealt with matters scientific once more sifted, sorted, categorized and analyzed his situation. He wondered briefly if there were others like himself. If the “incident” in Hampshire he’d read about on a stained scrap of London newspaper was the key to unlocking the reasons for his continued existence—or the unanswered questions about what he now was.

  Vampire. Creature of darkness. Blood-drinker.

  How he despised those terms, accurate though they were. He was indeed a creature of darkness. Exposure to sunlight was painful and caused burns, wounds as painful to the skin as caustic acid.

  Why? The scientist in Nick pondered the question. What had changed in the structure of his skin to result in such a reaction? Curiously, he raised his hand and licked his own wrist. Was there a tang of something more salty than usual? A metallic undertaste? Or was he imagining it?

  He sniffed at his arm. He could detect no immediate change, nothing that would signify a radical difference in the structure of the largest organ in his body. That which covered it and held it all together.

  Nick had discovered that any injuries he received healed in far quicker time than before. Other than the agonizing period he’d spent adjusting to his new form, he felt little pain and wounds disappeared within minutes.

  He was still scientist enough to realize that the structure of his body had been changed from that of normal humans. To understand that although blood still flowed through his veins and arteries, it was also different. His heart needed only the occasional beat to send it where it needed to be.

  He was not, as others would believe, dead. He could only describe it as undead. He lived in a state befitting his new physiology, avoiding that which threatened his existence—sunlight—much as any other organism would shun a threat. He fed on that which sustained his life—blood—much as any other organism.

  And he still felt the urge to reproduce—to fuck—as any other organism would do.

  And in that moment she came back to him, whiskey-brown eyes on fire. He could see her, skin glowing with heat, searing him as he pressed his own against hers.

  Verity.

  Nick stared at her, knowing she was in his mind not in front of him, but wanting to believe that she was really there.

  She smiled softly and held out a hand. “I shall need you, Nick. Stay…”

  Her breasts trembled with the breath she exhaled and in spite of himself, Nick reached out a hand to the vision. “I will.”

  It was a promise to himself and a confession. He could not leave her—not at this time. Something held him here. He would just have to see it through before continuing on his own journey of discovery.

  A stirring in the air, a swift and sudden breeze—and Nick knew the night was ending. It was time for him to seek his lair, to bed down and sleep away the dangerous sunlit hours. Although he noticed clouds building, so it was unlikely there would be much in the way of sunlight ahead.

  He checked his horse, still happily grazing. There was a thick canopy of evergreens amongst other trees, so the beast could shelter from any rains that might fall. In spite of what many said, Nick believed that horses were fundamentally bright creatures. He entered the barrow confident that his four-footed friend would seek what amenities it required during the day to come.

  For Nick it was the night to come.

  He unrolled his cloak and spread it on the makeshift mattress, finding comfort in the tangy resinous scent of pine needles.

  Within moments, darkness descended over his mind, his heart slowed to nothing and he lay as one dead. Such was the sleep of a vampire.

  Yet strangely his sleep was troubled.

  For on this particular night, Nick dreamed…of Thérèse.

  *~*~*~*

  A couple of miles away from Nick’s hiding place, Verity struggled to put him out of her mind for at least the twentieth time that day.

  He’d gone. There was no point in believing anything else. She’d not see him again—ever. It was quite obvious that whatever life he was living now had no place in it for her.

  She’d woken early with an empty belly, an empty heart, a genuine headache and a foreboding sense that decisions lay ahead. Nick’s intrusion into her bizarre existence had shifted things—enough so that she no longer felt resigned to her lot.

  Verity was nearing the time when her small cache of wealth might support her for as long as a year or two if she was frugal. And God knew she could be frugal when the occasion demanded it. A couple more forays into the desperate criminal world of the highwaymen and she could turn her back on the FitzAdamses forever.

  She planned on heading west, finding a small village, an even smaller room and then searching for employment. Perhaps as a teacher, since she’d benefited from excellent governesses as a child. Before her life had swerved off course. Before…

  Shaking her head a little she cleared her thoughts as she carried the customary breakfast tray in to the Dowager’s room. The old woman had rung a short while before, signifying she was ready to face the day.

  Verity braced herself as she tapped lightly on the door to the Dowager’s suite.

  “In.”

  Sharp and cold, it was the typical welcome Verity received from the cantankerous old bitch.

  “On this table, gel. Pour tea and make it snappy.”

  It was to be another in an endless stream of days that heaped verbal abuse on Verity’s head and annoyingly irritating chores on her shoulders. But it differed in that today Verity tolerated it a lot less than she’d done in the past.

  Nick’s loving had planted a seed of rebellion deep in Verity’s soul. If she was worth Nick Blaine’s sexual attentions then—damn it—she was worth more than being a drudge at the beck and call of a bad-tempered old woman. This was not how she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

  The Dowager was at her most unpleasant, reinforcing Verity’s resolve. There was no task too demeaning, no insult too vicious that it could not be flung at Verity. She got the sharp edge of her mistress’s tongue for simply being in the room, perhaps f
or simply being alive.

  By the time she querulously demanded silence for a nap, her exhausted and irate companion was quite ready to use a pillow over her employer’s face and assist her to take one for eternity. Creeping from the sleeping woman’s presence, Verity overheard voices and found herself shamelessly passing the bounds of polite behavior by eavesdropping.

  The housekeeper was distributing fresh linens and instructions to several maids.

  “Madam has informed me the guests will be arriving late this evening. They will expect their rooms to be ready for them. Change the beds, clean out the hearths and lay fires—but don’t light them until I tell you.”

  Nods were exchanged as Verity kept to the shadows of the small stairwell just beyond the little group.

  “Will there be anybody sharing rooms, ma’am?” One maid ventured the question.

  “The gentlemen, I believe, but they will not be your concern. Once the rooms are made up, you will not approach them. Do you understand?”

  There were murmurs of assent.

  “Lord and Lady Debenham will be in the Lily suite and Sir Charles Chiswick will have the Daffodil rooms.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burdock.”

  “Lady Hawthorne will be on the other side of him in the Paris suite.”

  There were other instructions, but Verity didn’t listen to them. An idea was brewing in her mind based on the information she now had in her possession. She was familiar with the names of the expected guests from the Dowager’s conversation, although she’d not met them personally.

  Lord and Lady Debenham were from London—the lady having been a close friend of Isolde’s. There were whispers about exactly how close friends they’d been.

  Sir Charles Chiswick and the newly widowed Lady Ann Hawthorne were disgustingly blatant lovers—again according to the vicious tongue of the Dowager.

  Vicious or not, she was probably accurate in her assessment. These guests, realized Verity, were coming to enjoy the privacy of the Towers, not to mention Isolde’s company.

  Her heart thudded at the mere idea of a room full of people intent on pursuing pleasure in ways unacceptable to the commonly held standard of behavior.

  And her brain started to whirl at the possibilities of a carriage bearing four wealthy and dissolute arrivals having to negotiate the rough woodland road as it left the main turnpike and turned on to the deserted track to the Towers.

  There was at least three miles of poorly kept lane between the London road and the FitzAdams’ front gate. Many dark and shadowed twists and turns. At least a dozen places where the way ahead was obscured and—

  Verity straightened. This was her chance for freedom. A final outing to secure her future and add whatever she could to the cache for her fellow riders. She would not be needed this night, since guests were arriving. The household would be busy, the family together awaiting their visitors.

  Although nearer home than she preferred, in all other ways it was perfect. And by this time tomorrow, she might well be many miles away from this cursed place.

  And her memories of one magic night with Nick Blaine.

  Swiftly, Verity withdrew from the main part of the house and crept outside to the stables. She carried with her a small black ribbon, similar to one a man would use to secure his hair for riding.

  Not too far was a tree with a trunk twisted in a peculiar way and within that trunk a small hole. When the black ribbon appeared in the hole, a small band of villagers would recognize the call to action.

  Tonight the Masked Shadows would ride once more.

  But this time—although they would not know it—they would not be alone.

  *~*~*~*

  A distance away in the darkness of his lair, Nick lay still, his body a barely moving corpse-like shadow muffled within a nest of pine bedding.

  His mind? His mind was in Rogaška.

  “Hello lover.”

  The too-well remembered voice aroused him from the mists. Thérèse.

  “It’s been too long, my sweet.”

  She sat gracefully on a rock surrounded by the swirls and eddies of a steaming pool, one of the mineral springs, perhaps—Nick wasn’t sure.

  He stared at her, unwilling to give life to this vision by responding.

  “Oh come along, darling. We both know you’ve missed me.” Her hands lifted to her dress and she unfastened the bodice, revealing her perfect breasts. “Missed this.”

  Nick shivered. “Where am I?”

  “With me. Does anything else matter?” Red hair shook as she laughed at him. “Poor darling. You must forgive me. I have many friends to visit. You must all take your turn.”

  Slowly, she stood and stepped forward, the waters moving around her ankles and dragging at her skirts as the gown fell unheeded into the pool. Her nakedness was brilliant, a blinding glow of white skin and red curls, a lure and a temptation that would have appealed to even the most jaded soul.

  Nick was, as always, helpless against her wiles. His cock stirred in spite of his apprehension.

  “I need fucking, Nick. And you do it so well. Even here in this…this…vision of ours.”

  “Ours? It’s not ours.” Nick fought against the urge to go to her. “It’s yours, Thérèse, not mine. I would not come to you willingly and you know it.”

  Her steps faltered for a tiny moment but Nick saw it. He’d touched a sore spot perhaps, forced her to face a knowledge she disliked. “I would not be here had you not invaded my rest. I would never touch you, never look upon your body. You are nothing to me but the source of a curse.”

  She smiled. “Rant on, my darling. I like it when you get angry with me. You fuck me harder. Make me come harder. Yes…” She ran her hands sensually up her stomach to her breasts and pinched her nipples. “Yes, I like it hard. I like the pain.”

  She was in front of him now, her hands still cupping full breasts, pussy scenting the air with that unique fragrance of her arousal. “Come. Let me see that fine cock of yours. Touch yourself while I watch. A hard man and a good fuck. It’s life to me, Nicholas. Give me life.”

  Her dark eyes flashed and his clothing vanished, leaving him as naked as she. His cock was hard since he could not deny the arousal she always brought forth from his guts with her incredibly sensual beauty and uninhibited sexuality. He was, beneath the trappings of his nightmare existence, still a man.

  And he could not disobey this demon. He could not refuse her command.

  His hand dropped and he found his cock, cold and slick as he began to stroke himself.

  “Oh yes, that’s right. Like that, Nick. Just like that.” With hunger in her eyes she watched him, watched the movements of his fist as he found the rhythm that would bring him to his peak.

  She licked her lips. “So long. So thick. You’re a good fuck, Nick my sweet.” She stepped even closer, forcing him backward, laughing a little as he nearly stumbled on a grassy bank. “Perhaps you should lie down.”

  He tumbled, cock in hand, to his back as she loomed above him, all red hair and black eyes. As he stroked his body responded, leaping to a sexual plateau that ached for release.

  “Let me help.” Thérèse dropped to her knees and forced her way between his thighs. “God, you are such a man, aren’t you?” Licking her lips she dropped her head and sucked him, pushing his hand away with a quick move of an arm so slender and white it always surprised Nick when he rediscovered the strength it concealed.

  Her mouth was cool but talented, an undeniable fact that sent the fire of lust rushing to his balls. He groaned as she found the right places to graze with her tongue and pulled hard, slipping and sliding over her own saliva as she worked him.

  Hands crept over his body, pinching, scratching, always stimulating to the point of pain, adding their own melody to the symphony of oral pleasure she was composing. She found his balls and fondled them delicately then more roughly, sending a chill of fear curdling through Nick that blended with his excitement and took him out of mortal experiences into the bizarre
and terrifying realm of sex with Thérèse.

  She squeezed him and he cried out, then sobbed as her hand found his arse and probing fingers slipped inside to move and tease and arouse. She knew all the ways to touch him and more. She found places that even he did not know about, fondling him with skill and demand, insisting that he respond.

  The knowledge that he had no control over this situation was frightening, but that fear, coupled with her actions, sent his body into spasms of sensation. It was a ride he hated yet was helpless to avoid.

  They would fuck, a mind-fuck of cataclysmic dimensions. It was a foregone conclusion. He would not enjoy it, but would be sated by it. A contradiction that shook his soul and distressed him on a fundamental level.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Thérèse knew all these things and adored the power she wielded with her lips, her tongue, her fingers and her breasts which she was presently grinding against his thighs.

  “Mmm.” She slid her mouth off the tip of his cock and licked the little slit clean of moisture. “Tasty as always, Nick. And yet I believe this big lad has been playing in other cats.”

  Nick stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been doing some fucking without me, lover.” She sucked him pensively, all the way down to the root, teasing him as the back of her throat rubbed against his tip.

  A brief swallow abraded the most sensitive place but then she pulled her head back once more. “Yes, definitely.” Her fingers thrust deep into his arse and spread apart, stretching him, sending a shimmer of painful pleasure into his groin. “Not that I mind, of course. If you wish for a human playmate, who am I to gainsay you?”

  Nick tried not to think of Verity. The mere notion that Thérèse might instinctively react to the presence of another woman in his life, or what passed for his life, was untenable.

  “I see I shall have to put thoughts of her out of your mind, my love.”

  Effortlessly, Thérèse slid up over his body, scraping him with hard nipples and even harder fingernails. She stopped when her knees hit the ground beside his ears and straddled him. “Your mouth, Nick. I want your mouth. You know what to do with it.”