by Ines Johnson
A row of bare asses salute us. Between the splayed legs are weeping pink cunts and leaking, erect dicks. Each cheek is stained pink as a leathered up Domme walks up and down the line taking a red-striped cane to the round flesh.
I am familiar with torture. I excel at it. Only, when I did it as an art form, it was not appreciated by the victims held in the Spanish dungeons awaiting judgment.
Beside me, Viri’s stomach grumbles. I doubt he’s remembering our time as henchmen in the Inquisition. No, his body’s needs are of the present.
“I told you to eat before we came,” hisses Gaius.
“I’m hungry now,” Viri says. But his gaze isn’t on the open play area. It’s on the bar where I can smell that fresh B-Negative is on tap.
“You’ll have to wait until the meeting is over,” says Gaius.
Viri sucks his teeth, but he falls in line. We make our way through the moaning humans on the floor, those screaming upon vibrating furniture, and a few panting while suspended from ropes. At the end of the room are a dais and throne. Upon the throne sits the man we are here to see.
“Salve,” calls Lucius Frangelico from his seat on the throne.
He doesn’t stand. He is king here. He holds out his arm, palm down, fingers touching. The salute was a sign of respect in ancient times. The vampire king is offering an olive branch to us today.
He turns his palm over, and I see that I am mistaken. He curls his slender fingers in a come hither motion. In my hand I hold the favor he asked for; a bottle of wine from the old country, from a time when we were all centuries younger.
Frangelico’s fingers curl around the bottle and his mouth splits into a true grin. The male has always made my skin crawl. Hopefully, this vintage bottle gets me out of his debt for the favor I asked of him last night.
“Nice touch,” says Gaius when I step back.
He doesn’t know that I had any recent contact with the Vampire King. I’d rather keep it that way. I don’t need any questions about the little human I sent away the other night. I have no plans to ever see her again.
“As I’m sure you know, we purchased a vineyard on the outskirts of town,” says Gaius. “It’s beyond the boundary of your nest. But we still wanted to make sure we pay our respects.“
Frangelico rubs his fingers over the ancient label. The wine is not only priceless, but it’s also old. It was from my parents' vineyard, making it nearly four hundred years old. His shrewd eyes get a faraway look. For someone his age, I wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes rolled back in his head. When he focuses back on us, his gaze is clear.
“My friends.” Frangelico stands now and addresses the crowd. “We have royalty in our midst tonight. May I present the Prince of Pain, the Lord of the Lash, and the Knight of Knives.”
Viri and I bristle at those monikers from our past. Gaius, on the other hand, does a turn so that his admiring audience gets a good look at him. In turn, I see Gaius’ hooded gaze take in the interested.
Most of the humans in the room are too blissed out to know what is happening. It’s only the vampires and few shifters that take note. They are the only beings old enough to know what those names mean; names whispered in dark alleys, names groaned in rank dungeons, names screamed for mercy during the Spanish Inquisition.
“As you can see,” says Frangelico, “your reputation precedes you.”
“It’s our shared past that concerns us,” I say.
I’m usually the quiet one. I have no head or patience for diplomacy. That’s why Gaius does all the talking for our business.
Frangelico’s gaze lands on me. Like Gaius, his scrutiny is laser-sharp. Unlike Gaius, Frangelico’s unblinking eyes do not squint. I have his full, wide attention.
He knows who I am. More importantly, he knows who I loved.
“The past is dead,” says Frangelico.
The hairs at the back of my neck bristle. My fingers itch to clench into fists. My fangs ache to pierce through my gums.
Gaius steps in front of me with a congenial grin. “Let not the sins of our sire be laid upon her sired. If that were the lay of the land, you’d be a dead man.”
Frangelico’s icy glare switches from me to Gaius. His predatory smile turns into something approaching friendly, as friendly as the smile of the scorpion who climbed upon the turtle’s back to cross the river. That story ends in a murder-suicide.
“Well said, my lord,” says Frangelico. “If I were held responsible for every dirty deed of my sireds, I’d have been roasting in the sun for a year.”
My fingers do ball into a fist now. But thoughts of hurting Frangelico leave my mind. What fills my vision is my last sight of Domitia. Her beautiful face in tears. Her hands reaching for me, begging me to come with her.
But I don’t. I didn’t, and she slipped through my fingers as the sun’s rays consumed her body.
"We'd love to see your handiwork for ourselves,” Frangelico is saying as I come back to the present.
I blink, adjusting to the lighting in the dungeon. Looking around the large open space, I see many eager women and a few males. But I no longer deal in pain. Not since the woman I loved died.
"My friends will join you," I say. "I'll be out of your way."
I have no interest or desire to socialize or be a part of paranormal politics. I just want to be left alone with my grapes at night and wake early at dusk to give a middle finger to the setting sun.
Gaius has already picked up a flogger. Viri is at the bar placing his order. I head for the door, but a hand stops me.
I turn to see Frangelico. “I can’t say that I am sorry for your loss, being that Domitia tried to turn my sireds against me, steal all my wealth, and stake me. But I truly harbor no ill will to you.”
“Thank you for the loan of your shifters,” I say. “I consider any debt between us paid and I’ll trouble you no longer.”
“You know,” Frangelico continued as though I had not spoken, “I have everything in the world. But the one thing I lack is a true brotherhood like the three of you have.”
I look back at my brothers. We were born of different mothers in our human lives. But Domitia’s blood runs through each of our veins as the woman who gave us new life. Gaius, Virius, and I stuck by each other through the dark ages instead of killing each other off like many of Frangelico and his contemporaries. But I don’t bother mentioning that.
“Maybe one day we could even be friends. Fates know I could use a few after dealing with that Aleron problem.”
I can only stare. Frangelico’s fingers on my shoulder feel like a scorpion’s bite. I shake off his touch.
Frangelico shrugs, undaunted and unconcerned. One on one he would best me. He has over a millennium on me.
“If you ever have need again, don't hesitate to reach out."
Frangelico hands me a card with his name, a phone number, and an email address on it. For a man who guards his safety, he sure has a lot of ways to get in touch. I don’t want to be in touch. I just want to be left alone.
I am not the only one who desires to leave this place in a hurry and untouched. A tall man bumps into me on his way to the door. The human male turns to glare at Frangelico. I note that his eyes are the color of Chianti and I’m suddenly thirsty.
Not for him. When I did drink from veins I preferred my victims cowering in fear or screaming in pain. This man’s back is so rigid, his walks so stiff, I’m certain a stick is shoved way up his ass. He’d certainly taste like cold, unsweet, black coffee from a convenience store at best.
Not like the little human who I let escape my grasp the other night.
“Leaving so soon, Durand?” Frangelico calls after the man. “Was it something I said?”
Durand? Chianti colored eyes? I turn to ask Frangelico about the man, but his shrewd gaze has left the man and taken up interest in me.
I clamp my mouth shut and school my features. Whatever is happening here is none of my concern. Frangelico smirks at me, but he says nothing as I head out into th
e oblivion of night. I am determined never to ask the man for so much as the time of day ever again.
Chapter 10
Cari
The first ray of sunlight hits my cheek. The morning is cold. The star isn’t up high enough to warm me through.
Not that I could feel it in any case.
I open my eyes to see a beautiful day dawning. At 18,000 feet in the air, the view is spectacular. The sky is full of pinks and purples and oranges, like an artist dropped their paintbrushes on the floor.
Huh? That’s good to know. Though I’m an unfeeling thing, I can still paint a pretty picture with my words.
I look down and my breath catches. Finally, a spark of something in me. A slight jostle in this walking corpse that is my body. The shaky breath tells me I’m still alive.
Height: it’s the only thing that wakes up my senses. That and speed. Hence, being over three miles up in the air preparing to step out and take a walk on this glorious, sunny morning. Although, I would rather be in the arms of a certain talk, dark glass of wine with a proclivity to catch things that fall from the sky.
“OMG, what am I doing?” The girl next to me squeals. She’s a talking texter, so I only understand about half of what she says.
“WTF though. Sometimes you just gotta YOLO.”
I nod at her nonsensical abbreviations. I feel as though I’m being treated as a child by an adult who spells out the bad words. I’m pretty sure she’s older than me. Her hair is a riot of neon rainbow coloring, so bright it actually hurts to look at.
“We’ll be LMFAOing after this, right, Cari?” she says as she grips her pack.
Instead of talking, I raise both my thumbs. I’ve learned silence doesn’t shut her up. I’m sure she’s one of those chronic texters that will keep bubbles popping up until the other person responds. The only thing that works with a chronic texter is an emoji. Hence the head nod and thumbs up.
I step away from her wishing there was more space. My fingers are numb as I pull at my restraints. I am strapped down tight. I won’t be escaping anytime soon. All the sensation I felt yesterday after waking from my time with Hadrian has gone. I’ve come up into the sky because I need a fix and I need it bad.
The binds cross my spine, pulling my back straight. They crisscross over my breasts. The straps reach around my thighs, riding up to my crotch like a lover's caress. Or, perhaps, a possessive grip. Much like it had felt when Hadrian had carried me through his vineyard and into his bedroom. My nipples had strained for his touch.
I am not flat-chested, though the straps do their best to flatten my girls. My nipples press into my mounds. It’s not erotic. But I do feel high. I am high.
Beside me, I hear a snort.
“Sup, Cari.”
Tate wipes a speck of powder off his nose and gives me a cheeky grin. He is my age, but he looks much older. There is a strain to the light in his eyes. A permanent wrinkle mars his brow.
Tate has been on most of these adrenaline adventures with me. From bungee jumping to base jumping, from zip-lining to diving with sharks. We’ve done just about all of it. But for different reasons.
Tate is trying to forget his past. I’m trying to remember mine.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
I nod. Then remember I’m not speaking to Chronic Texter. “Yeah. You?”
“Always,” he says, giving me a wink.
I know he’s interested in me. But sleeping around isn’t a risk I’m willing to take. Well, maybe with Hadrian. But definitely not with Tate the Druggie Daredevil. Condoms are probably an afterthought for a guy who engages in behaviors that could end his life.
“You look nervous,” he says.
I’m not. I’m eager. Eager to get started. Eager to feel the wind on my face. To feel the air slip through my fingers. To feel the pressure drop and my heart rate increase. I am just eager to feel.
The two others who are with us, Chronic Texter and her porcelain skinned, kohl-eyed, black nail polish boyfriend, are both attached to tandem divers. Tate and I aren't. Like I said, it isn’t our first rodeo. This is a weekly occurrence for us. While Tate was snorting up his feelings, sometimes I came twice a week. This is my drug of choice.
Not that I do any drugs. My therapist tried putting me on meds after our third session when I told her about my latest hobby of drag racing. I thought that was pretty ludicrous since she’d been the one to suggest exposure therapy in the first place.
True, she only prescribed getting in the car with a driver. Her thought was to get me back behind the wheel after the accident. What I noticed was that it wasn’t driving that scared me. Nothing scares me. That is the problem.
I wait now for the others to jump, wanting a bit of the sky to myself. The Chronic Texter’s and Goth Guy’s panicked screams have died away. Tate’s war cry echoes in my ears. And then there is silence. Just me in the clouds.
After my mom died, my dad told me she was in heaven. When I asked where that was he pointed up. I’ve looked up into the sky since I was a little girl and I’ve never seen her. But she died when I was five, so I barely remember what she looked like.
I’ve been coming up here for the last six months. Flying through the clouds where he told me Heaven was. But I haven’t seen him either.
I step to the edge of the open doorway. I know this is crazy after what happened last night. There is a tinge of fear, but it’s the anticipation that pushes me forward. Usually, I hope to hear my dad’s voice in my head. To feel his arms around me as the air pushes back at my falling body. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I do, that’s when I see Hadrian’s face.
The wind hits me in the chest as I tumble through the sky. I don't fight gravity. I learned that being tense only brings pain whether you’re slamming into another vehicle at sixty miles per hour, or falling through the sky at one hundred and twenty miles per hour.
And so I let go. I let go of it all. All the responsibilities I want no part of. All the cares I no longer have. All the fucks I no longer give.
The free fall continues. I know the clock is ticking. I have less than a minute before I need to deploy the chute.
Thirty seconds pass as I tumble through the sky. A bright light flashes in my eyes. It’s not Hadrian’s Italian tenor in my ear. I hear my dad’s voice.
Forty seconds pass and I continue to accelerate. In my mind’s eye, I see my dad pump the brakes of the car. But it doesn't matter.
Fifty seconds have passed as I free-fall down to the ground. The crash sounds in my ears. My father moans a sigh and then his final words.
Get free, Carignan. Live.
The wind whips about me, trying to knock some sense into my thick skull. I’m a good girl. A daddy’s girl. I do what I’m told.
Finally, my fight or flight responses engage. My heart rate increases. Blood pumps through my sluggish veins.
Conscious thought turns off. My reflexes click in. My adrenaline spikes. I imagine it's like a shot of pure, undiluted heroine. I should ask Tate. He would know.
My eyes slam open. I grip my harness. My fingers search for the pull and I give it a yank.
My breath catches, wondering if it will open this time. Wondering if I want another accident. Wondering if I want to hit the ground or fall back into strong arms.
There is a jerk as the chute deploys. My harness tightens around me. It tugs at the V of my thighs, the straps giving my ass a swat. It heaves over the flesh of my breasts, giving my nipples a firm pinch.
I sail through the air in this tight cocoon of sensation. Sensations that zing up and down my legs. My breath comes in short, needy pants. I feel alive.
But the ground is fast approaching. It never lasts long enough. Already, my senses are going dull. My fingertips are numbing. My toes feel detached. Paralysis spreads down my spine. And my mind, my heart, they’re becoming indifferent once more.
I kick my feet out, coming to a running stop. The fabric of the parachute falls around me, like a funeral shroud. It’s over.<
br />
I am the walking dead again. I am a senseless woman. I am a lifeless corpse that survived a crash without a scratch while her father’s spine was broken in three places along with massive internal damage.
In the distance, I can see Chronic Texter is tangled with her tandem diver. There are scrapes on her cheek and forehead. Her goth boyfriend moans as he holds his foot. It’s likely broken. Tate takes a tumble, adding to his collection of bruises.
Once again, I walk away unscathed.
Chapter 11
Hadrian
I pull open the stainless steel refrigerator. The day workers we hired have restocked the shelves. The top shelf is filled with O-positive; the most common blood type of humanity. On the second shelf, there’s a large stash of A-negative bags; the second most common of blood donors. In the pull out shelves which are reserved to keep fruits and vegetables crisp is a small supply of B-negative, one of the rarer blood types.
Taking a bag from the crisper, I marvel at this modern convenience of humanity. Refrigeration units are one of the few human technologies I actually enjoy. In ancient times we could never store blood outside of a live body. At least not for long. Especially not without keeping said body incapacitated.
Vampires prefer to drink from the living. When the heart stops, the blood coagulates and the consistency of the fluid becomes curdled. Much like cheese. But trust me, topping fresh fruit with clotted blood like humans do cottage cheese is not a thing for vampires.
I pour the blood bag into a coffee mug and toss it into the microwave. As I detest the taste of cold blood, the little electric oven is another favorite technological advance. Even though the radiation does make the blood taste a little funny. But it’s my only option. It’s too easy to scorch blood on the stovetop. Plus I hate what blood does to the pots and pans and the dishwasher.
After the beep, I remove my warmed mug. It’s a bit too hot. Burning the tip of my tongue would be an annoyance that would heal in a matter of seconds, but I am thirsty. So, I blow off the steam for a few seconds before it’s safe to take my first sip.