Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy

by Tracy St. John

  Dan pursed his lips. “You were found in the woods sixty miles from the nearest swamp.”

  I gave him a bitter smile. “Not too far for a well-fed bloodsucker to fly though, is it? Besides, as the saying goes, you don’t poop where you eat. It’s no surprise he dumped my body elsewhere. He likes his victims to be found, for his judgments to be seen, and the swamp is too good at hiding things.”

  Dan’s eyes widened. “The Judge is looking for an unknown vampire in the swamp. We need to warn him.”

  “Indeed he is. But there’s one last thing, Dan.”

  “What?”

  “After I died, you brought me to the hotel to meet with Tristan and his staff. Remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “That first meeting with the Judge, he called me a strumpet.”

  Dan stared at me. He shook his head slowly from side to side even as reluctant realization bled into his eyes. “It can’t be, Brandilynn. You’re wrong. Next to Patricia, he’s Tristan’s most trusted assistant.”

  “That’s why no one suspects him.” I gestured at the notes on the boards. “Look at the facts. Look at the personality. Then look at me. I saw his face, Dan. The Judge killed me and all these other women. Tell me you don’t believe that.”

  Horrified one instant, furious the next, Dan grabbed my hand. “We need to find Tristan and Patricia.”

  * * * *

  We popped into the King George, bugging everyone we encountered about Tristan and Patricia’s whereabouts. It was still early in the day, but we needed to find them before they – and the Judge – went vamp for the night.

  “What do you think will happen when Tristan finds out?” I asked Dan as we swept the hotel’s ground floor. I had to run to keep up with his long strides.

  “He’ll want proof. The Judge has been part of Tristan’s inner circle for only a couple years, but he’s trusted with a lot.”

  “A couple years, huh?”

  Dan tossed a glance at me. “Just about the time the murders began in Fulton Falls.”

  We didn’t check every single room, but we did look around enough and talk to plenty of people to be reassured the siblings weren’t at the hotel. Dan didn’t pause to think about his next move. “Let’s try the theater.”

  Before I could ask what he was talking about, he grabbed my hand and we blurred to that location.

  Fulton Falls’ Ritz Theater had been a crumbling wreck only ten years prior, its former grandeur losing the fight against neglect. The whole Main Street of downtown, once a hub of Woolworth’s and a drugstore with a real soda fountain, had gone the path of so many downtowns in the wake of the shopping mall and Wal-Mart. Then the Concerned Citizens Contingent, determined to restore the dilapidated area to its former glory, came at the county commission armed with petitions. Their biggest champion to the cause was none other than Commissioner Tristan Keith, who’d not only backed their plans, but led fundraisers to revitalize Main Street and bring the businesses back.

  Woolworth’s was gone, as well as the drugstore that had boasted a real soda fountain once upon a time. Alman’s Young Ladies’ Apparel, where my mother had bought my sister and I matching white lace dresses for long ago Easters, was also firmly lost to the past. Replacing them were locally owned restaurants, antique stores, a fine art

  gallery, and a really good wine and cheese shop. Tiny landscaped squares with fountains rose between the more widely-spaced buildings, and people often lingered there with picnic lunches, or buskers set up to entertain with music, magic and balloon animals.

  The Ritz remained, restored to its 1950’s glory. Even the original rusted marquee had been overhauled rather than replaced, and the big light bulbs shone at night once more when theater season got underway or when a musical recital was held there.

  Dan brought me to the old theater, and I gasped to find myself at the bottom of the Ritz’s grand staircase with the massive chandelier overhead. The mauve walls hung with original art and gold decorative trim were a sumptuous feast for the eyes. You could almost believe you would go from the lobby into the theater and be transported back to a time when vaudeville ruled. The Ritz was the crown jewel of downtown’s revitalization.

  A soaring soprano from the auditorium implored us to think of her, a song that was familiar but I couldn’t quite place. The season had ended prior to my death with a hilarious British comedy set in a fur shop. I couldn’t imagine why a musical would begin rehearsing in March when the new season didn’t start until October.

  It suddenly occurred to me that maybe the singer wasn’t among the living. We were above ground, but perhaps the Ritz had a second life, one not seen among the still breathing. “Shows are done here?” I asked Dan.

  He nodded. “We have quite an ensemble cast among the dead. They’re performing Phantom next month.”

  “How appropriate,” I sniffed, but I couldn’t deny I looked forward to it. I adore the theater.

  Dan led the way to the auditorium, where the only ones there were the singer and a man I supposed to be the director. The soprano sang to the empty seats as if an audience filled it, hanging on to her every note. The director sat midway in the seats, his eyes closed as he listened to her.

  Seeing no one else, we backed out silently. Once we had descended the staircase, Dan explained, “Tristan and Patricia love the rehearsals as much as the performances. I thought they might be here, but no sign of them.”

  “Where else could they be?” Weariness replaced my earlier excitement.

  “I can think of two more places. Hold on.”

  He transported us next to the county commission offices. Only daytime denizens haunted those hallways. Our next stop was a real surprise.

  Sea breeze made the leaves of the giant Southern oaks rustle, but they didn’t dare fall on the pristine carpet of trimmed lawn. I looked out at the yachts plying the waterway before me, at the cyclists rolling down the shaded bike path that wandered the nearby waterfront. We were on Goose Creek Island, a state park and former playground of train barons, financiers and shipping magnates.

  I turned to look at Sanderson Cottage behind me. Imagine the most precious Victorian dollhouse ever constructed, with cream-colored gingerbread trim, sapphire shutters and roof, and carnation pink walls. Now blow it up to life size, and you have

  Sanderson Cottage, the turn-of-the-century winter home of Josiah Sanderson, the former king of shipping for the eastern seaboard. One of a dozen cottages that dotted the north end of the island, it was a popular tourist attraction.

  The ‘cottages’, which were bigger than most people’s houses, all belonged to the state now. As I watched, a trolley full of tourists pulled up. People tumbled out, snapping pictures of pretty Sanderson Cottage and the large hump of ground that rose improbably on the otherwise impeccable front lawn.

  The tour guide, a long-limbed tanned blonde, called out as people posed in front of the oversized dollhouse. “The mound you see in front of the Sanderson Cottage is known as the Indian Mound. The Native Americans who lived on this island before the area was settled by Europeans would harvest oysters from the water right over there and dumped the shells in a pile here. Eventually, the oyster shells were overgrown, resulting in this mound. Come on in, and I’ll show you folks around the cottage, where we have a lot of the original furnishings that belonged to Josiah Sanderson.”

  Like ducklings following their mama, the tourists trooped into the cottage, chattering, oohing and ahing as they went.

  I’d done the tour. Three times. Getting a little impatient with our lack of progress, I turned to Dan. “What are we doing on Goose Creek Island?”

  He nodded at the cottage. “In life, Tristan and Patricia worked for the Sandersons. This place is special to them. Let’s see if they’re home.”

  Oh. Now that wasn’t in the tour guide’s rap. I wondered if it was common knowledge that the Keiths had such a link here.

  We transported in rather than walking and dodged around the group ogling the grand piano
in the conservatory. Sure, we could have walked through them, but that was just weird to do. Even with my aversion to passing in and out of the living, I couldn’t help but brush against the close-packed group. I passed right through one man’s camcorder and energy sizzled through me. The camcorder died with a tiny beep.

  As we left the knot of people behind, I heard the man exclaim, “Hey, my battery just died, and I swear someone touched me. You got ghosts in this place?”

  “Oops,” I said to Dan and giggled, a little giddy from the hit I’d gotten.

  Dan snickered. “Don’t worry about it. The belief that Sanderson is haunted helps bring tourists in and makes the county money.”

  We searched both floors with no sign of Tristan or Patricia roaming their former stomping grounds. Dan was fit to be tied. “Damn, where are those two?” Catching my glare, he held both hands to placate me. “Language. I’m sorry.”

  He wrapped an arm around me and transported us back outside. We stood atop the Indian Mound, looking out over the water. A sailboat wafted down the current, and I caught the sound of laughter. A horse pulling a romantic open carriage clomped by, and I watched with real envy as a young couple held hands and pointed out the sights to each

  other while the top hatted driver clucked gently to the horse. The tourists spilled out of Sanderson Cottage and crowded back onto the fire-engine red trolley, chattering happily as they trundled off to the next point of interest.

  Mundane people living their mundane lives, unaware of how bright and beautiful their simple pleasures really were. To Dan I said, “They have no idea how fortunate they are.”

  He held me close and kissed the top of my head. “We took it all for granted, didn’t we?” I hate crying. I hate being weak. But sometimes, you have no choice but to do what you despise because it won’t be denied. Leaning my forehead on Dan’s shoulder, I finally gave in and let the tears flow, let all the grief of my unrealized, too-short life spend itself. He said nothing, just held me.

  I drowned in sorrow as I put to rest the dreams that had gotten me out of bed each and every morning. My life was done, and all the wishing in the world wouldn’t give me a second chance. Now all I had left was the hope I could put an even greater end to the monster who’d taken it all away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At some point during my emotional storm, I became aware that Dan had sat down on Indian Mound, settling me on his lap. My face burrowed into his neck as he gently rocked me like a baby. One hand stroked my hair, and he murmured wordless noises of comfort.

  I let him soothe me. The ratcheting sobs petered into shuddering hiccups. I didn’t feel better really. Emptied. A husk of who I’d been. So much for the healing power of tears.

  As I quieted, Dan spoke. “Shh, Brandilynn. It’s going to be okay, baby.”

  Pain welled anew. He meant well, but platitudes weren’t going to cut it. I pushed against him. “How can it be okay? We’re dead!”

  He nodded sadly, looking remarkably similar to a depressed basset hound. “I know, but at least we don’t have to pay taxes anymore.”

  I gaped at him, my tears ending like someone had switched off a faucet. Anger warred with angst for a brief moment before shocked hilarity bubbled past both. I shrieked with laughter at my gorgeous jackass. It made me mad that he’d interrupted my pity party, and for some reason that only made his stupid observation even funnier. I laughed and slugged his chest all at the same time. He bore it with a big, goofy grin.

  “You are such an idiot!” I yelled, jumping upwards to straddle his hips so I’d have a better angle from which to punch him.

  Chuckling, Dan grabbed my shoulders and yanked me close to deliver a lip-smacking smooch. I stopped pounding on him and wrapped my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss until we both gasped.

  I tugged at his collar. “Clothes off, you big jerk. I’m getting me some payback for that one.”

  Dan fell back naked on the grassy mound, his arms splayed wide. Sotto voice, he called,

  “Oh, help. I’m being ravished. Oh, won’t someone save me?”

  My clothes melted away just as fast. “Shut up and take it like a man,” I growled, positioning myself over his ready length.

  I slid over him, moaning unselfconsciously as he parted my folds. Once I’d fully enclosed him, I sat still for a few moments, enjoying how he felt inside me.

  I only now acknowledged where we were. Outdoors on the front lawn of Sanderson Cottage, with tourists and cyclists all around. Naked and making love. I had to laugh at the blatant spectacle we would have been making had anyone else been able to see us.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” Dan asked, the twinkle in his eyes telling me he only teased.

  “You be quiet and accept what you’re given. Let’s see how you like being dominated for a change.”

  “What’s my safeword?”

  I grinned evilly at him. “You don’t get one.”

  I ground my hips in slow circles, eliciting a delighted groan from him. Propping my hands on his chest, feeling the crinkle of his light sprinkling of hair, I moved up and down, around and around on his eager length. Dan sighed, his eyes glazing over. His big hands found my breasts, which fit his palms perfectly. He rubbed the pebbled tips with his calloused thumbs, sending shivers down to my clit.

  I rode him slowly so I could feel every luscious inch filling then drawing out of my clutching sheath. Watching Dan’s face soften with pleasure let me know he enjoyed it too. When I flexed inner muscles, tightening my flesh all around his, he groaned.

  I could have lingered like that all day, gently raising and lowering over him, watching his bliss slowly climb in response. Dan didn’t have that kind of patience, however. After awhile, the slow intercourse made him eager for more. Just as I knew it would.

  “Faster, Brandilynn,” he breathed, his eyes half-closing in anticipation.

  “I’m in no hurry,” I answered. I kept the steady pace I’d established.

  “Come on, baby girl,” he urged. “I know you’ve got to be on fire too.”

  I was, but he didn’t need to know that. “No topping from the bottom,” I chastised, pinching the flat disc of his nipple. “Be a good boy and mind me.”

  Dan growled at me like a shifting were. I grinned and moved slower still. If Dan was half the Dom I thought he was, he wouldn’t put up with this much longer.

  What most don’t get about the BDSM dynamic is that it’s the submissive who is in control. We can stop an encounter at any moment with our safewords. And we can drive a dominant lover into doing exactly what we want without making a single demand. Dan was about to learn a very important lesson.

  “You’re not having fun?” I asked him, grinding a slow circle and constricting hard around him. I reached beneath my rear to caress his balls, which were drawing tight to his body. “I know I am. I should top more often.”

  Dan’s jaw clenched. His grip on my breasts squeezed until a slight shock of pain sizzled down to my sex. Yes, my big, bad man was getting riled.

  I rose until only the head of his cock remained inside me. I went completely still. Sneering down at Dan, I gloated, “You’re such a girl. Next time, I think I’ll make you wear a pink tutu and fairy wings.”

  “Brandilynn.” His teeth gritted around my name.

  “With sparkles. And lip gloss.”

  Dan reared beneath me, a low roar pouring from his lips. His hands clasped my hips hard enough to have left marks on living flesh. He yanked me down brutally, spearing me with his rigid length, and then pushed me up again. Using that granite

  muscle of his, he powered me up and down, taking me with amazing force. His cock found that beautiful spot inside me that lit me up like the Fourth of July.

  I came hard, flopping over his driving body like a rag doll. He didn’t let up for a second, piledriving like he’d batter a hole right through the top of my skull. My shrieks rang through the sea-salt air as more fireworks poured through me.

  Dan shouted as h
is rhythm faltered. He shouted again, his hips lifting me high off the ground while his hands pulled me down, making me take him as deep as I could. His cock jerked hard inside me as if trying to bash its way out. I came again.

  I sagged over Dan, tiny orgasms tickling me in response to his sex’s every little twitch. His hand cracked a sharp report against my buttocks, sending more lovely ripples through me.

  “The only lip gloss I’m wearing is what your mouth leaves on my cock. Understood?” His voice was raw from bellowing his climax.

  “Yes Sir.” I smirked against his chest so he couldn’t see.