But when he changed sides to run his fingers up my right calf, switching to his lips to trace up my bruised right thigh, I made up my mind.
“Mmm,” I moaned, throatily, as his lips and magic found my aching flesh and healed me. And then those lips kept tracing upward, biting and licking till he paused above my undoubtedly dripping wet sex.
And then he used his thumbs.
Sweet jeebus, I thought, as he spread my lips apart gently to lick up the entire length of my slit.
I cried out, letting pleasure course through me even as I tamped down on any stray thoughts about how Anyan had become such a proficient licker.
All snark waves ceased, however, when he licked upward again, so slowly, before finding my clit with his teeth and tongue.
I was soon writhing, as he quickly stopped teasing. Instead, he worked my clit with his mouth as I felt two wide fingers slide into me.
“Oh, puppy,” I moaned, as he stretched me deliciously. When he added a third finger, curling them slightly to rub against my walls in a way that made me feel so very full, I swore again.
“So wet,” he murmured against me. “I love how wet you are.”
I gabbled something incoherent at him, which I think translated roughly as “You are the lord of my vagina!” before I came, nearly screaming my pleasure and collapsing in a sweating, sated heap. Anyan extracted his clever fingers, although his tongue was still busy lapping at me.
Whimpering, the sensation too much, I shoved weakly at his head. He let me push him aside, before kissing his way back up my body.
The smell and taste of myself on his lips as he kissed my mouth pushed one last, tired moan out of me. Then I flopped back on the bed, peering up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Ravish me?” I said, stifling a yawn.
Anyan chuckled. “I want you wet, begging, and—most important—awake when I ravish you, sweet minx.” He settled beside me, drawing me close.
“Sleep now,” he murmured, nuzzling my ear with that nose. “In the morning you’re mine…”
He may have gone into more detail, but I wouldn’t know. I was already fast asleep.
I awoke to gentle snores in my ear and a police baton pressed into the small of my back.
That’s not a police baton! my libido sang gleefully, way too awake, according to the rest of me.
I waited till my brain and body could catch up to my libido, and then I snuggled back in Anyan’s arms.
That really isn’t a police baton, I thought, wonderingly. Which might be a problem… I was, after all, part seal. And we had a long and sordid history with things the size and shape of clubs.
The hand that suddenly found my breasts, pinching gently at my nipples, effectively stopped my train of thought and I snuggled back again against the barghest.
“Morning,” he rumbled, kissing sleepily at the nape of my neck.
“Morning,” I purred, happy as a cat lounging in a patch of sun.
“You snore,” Anyan informed me, as he stroked his hand down my belly.
“So do you,” I said, and then moaned as—without wasting any time—his fingers eased between my legs.
“Mmm, still wet,” he said, as he moved his hand from in front of me to behind me, parting my lips as he slid a finger inside my warmth. I moaned, and his other arm, the one he was lying on, moved up so he could wrap his hand around my throat.
Easing my head around so his mouth could find mine, he slid up my body till I felt something other than just his fingers prodding at me from behind. Wanting him so badly, needing this after so long and after so many worries, I arched my back, whimpering for him, as I felt his cock part my lips…
And then Blondie apparated into the room, right in front of us.
“No time!” she shouted, flailing her arms. “No time! There’s no time!”
We both lay there, frozen, staring at her in disbelief.
“We have to go right now. What are you two doing? Don’t you know what’s happening?” I’d never seen the Original discomfited, let alone completely panicked. A chill slid down my spine.
“What’s going on?” Anyan asked.
She stopped her frenetic movements, really looking at us for the first time. I knew she was serious when she didn’t stop to say anything rude. Instead, her eyes were huge with horror.
“There’s going to be a war,” she said, her voice ominous. “And we have to win. You have to pack for a long voyage and chilly weather. Lots of layers. Now!” she shouted, when Anyan and I just stared at her. “We leave in a few hours!”
And with that she apparated me right back to my own bedroom. I landed with a thud on my twin-sized bed. My clothes, shoes, and the labrys landed with a louder thud on my bedroom floor just a few seconds later.
I lay there, blinking at the ceiling, while I adjusted to the idea that I would not be shagging Anyan in the next few minutes but that I would be going to war.
Sitting up, I looked around to muster the will to begin packing. Again. Then, overwhelmed, I stared down at my shoes, splayed out against the double-headed ax.
For starters, I mused, eyeballing my now filthy, battered, and holey Converse, war calls for a new pair of kicks.
I’m thinking a Champion wears red.
Look out for TEMPEST’S FURY,
book 5 of the
Jane True series,
coming in summer 2012.
Acknowledgments
My family gets first dibs, as always. Thanks to my mom and dad for always being there—up to and including coming all the way to PA to make spinach dip. Thanks to Chris, Lisa, Abby, and Wyatt for always making me feel I have a home.
Thanks to my friends whom I call when I’m lonely: Jana, Loren, Kristin, Ruth, Jimmy, Mary Lois, and Arlene. You’ve made another big move bearable and I’d be batcaca crazy without you.
Thanks to my new colleagues and students at Seton Hill University. I’m really enjoying getting to know all of you, and you’ve made my working life such a pleasure.
Thanks to all the amazing people at Orbit: Devi, you’re a marvelous editor and you’ve made me such a better writer. Jennifer, you get it done, lady, and thanks for all you do. Thanks to Alex and Jack for getting Jane’s face out into the wild, and to Lauren and Sharon for making that face so pretty. And thanks to Tim Holman for overseeing it all. I’m so proud to work for a company with Orbit’s reputation.
Thanks to my agent, Rebecca Strauss, who has to be the best agent ever in the history of the universe.
Thanks to my secondary readers: James Clawson, Christie Ko, and Mary Lois White, and thanks to Diana Rowland, my critique partner, whose own work always inspires.
Thanks to the League of Reluctant Adults. I don’t know what goddess was smiling on me when she sent me all of you, but I know she has a foul mouth and a snarky sensibility. I’m constantly, deliciously shocked by your shenanigans, and I’m honored to be one of you. Viva la League!
Finally, but with every bone in my body, thank you to my fans. The love you show Jane and me is outrageous, and we appreciate it very much. You really get her, and that pleases me immensely. Thank you for all the ways you support me: I couldn’t ask for cooler fans.
extras
meet the author
Nicole D. Peeler lives outside of Pittsburgh, where she’s a professor of English literature and creative writing in Seton Hills’ MFA in popular fiction. Yes, folks, she’s mentoring students in writing urban fantasy. Or, as she likes to say, “infecting them with her madness.” Equally infectious is her love of life, food, travel, and friends. To learn more about the author, visit www.nicolepeeler.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed EYE OF THE TEMPEST,
look out for
SOULLESS
The Parasol Protectorate: Book the First
by Gail Carriger
Alexia Tarabotti is laboring under a great many social tribulations. First, she has no soul. Second, she’s a spinster whose father is both Italian and dead. Thir
d, she was rudely attacked by a vampire, breaking all standards of social etiquette.
Where to go from there? From bad to worse apparently, for Alexia accidentally kills the vampire—and then the appalling Lord Maccon (loud, messy, gorgeous, and werewolf) is sent by Queen Victoria to investigate.
With unexpected vampires appearing and expected vampires disappearing, everyone seems to believe Alexia is responsible. Can she figure out what is actually happening to London’s high society? Will her soulless ability to negate supernatural powers prove useful or just plain embarrassing? Finally, who is the real enemy, and do they have treacle tart?
Miss Alexia Tarabotti was not enjoying her evening. Private balls were never more than middling amusements for spinsters, and Miss Tarabotti was not the kind of spinster who could garner even that much pleasure from the event. To put the pudding in the puff: she had retreated to the library, her favorite sanctuary in any house, only to happen upon an unexpected vampire.
She glared at the vampire.
For his part, the vampire seemed to feel that their encounter had improved his ball experience immeasurably. For there she sat, without escort, in a low-necked ball gown.
In this particular case, what he did not know could hurt him. For Miss Alexia had been born without a soul, which, as any decent vampire of good blooding knew, made her a lady to avoid most assiduously.
Yet he moved toward her, darkly shimmering out of the library shadows with feeding fangs ready. However, the moment he touched Miss Tarabotti, he was suddenly no longer darkly doing anything at all. He was simply standing there, the faint sounds of a string quartet in the background as he foolishly fished about with his tongue for fangs unaccountably mislaid.
Miss Tarabotti was not in the least surprised; soullessness always neutralized supernatural abilities. She issued the vampire a very dour look. Certainly, most daylight folk wouldn’t peg her as anything less than a standard English prig, but had this man not even bothered to read the vampire’s official abnormality roster for London and its greater environs?
The vampire recovered his equanimity quickly enough. He reared away from Alexia, knocking over a nearby tea trolley. Physical contact broken, his fangs reappeared. Clearly not the sharpest of prongs, he then darted forward from the neck like a serpent, diving in for another chomp.
“I say!” said Alexia to the vampire. “We have not even been introduced!”
Miss Tarabotti had never actually had a vampire try to bite her. She knew one or two by reputation, of course, and was friendly with Lord Akeldama. Who was not friendly with Lord Akeldama? But no vampire had ever actually attempted to feed on her before!
So Alexia, who abhorred violence, was forced to grab the miscreant by his nostrils, a delicate and therefore painful area, and shove him away. He stumbled over the fallen tea trolley, lost his balance in a manner astonishingly graceless for a vampire, and fell to the floor. He landed right on top of a plate of treacle tart.
Miss Tarabotti was most distressed by this. She was particularly fond of treacle tart and had been looking forward to consuming that precise plateful. She picked up her parasol. It was terribly tasteless for her to be carrying a parasol at an evening ball, but Miss Tarabotti rarely went anywhere without it. It was of a style entirely of her own devising: a black frilly confection with purple satin pansies sewn about, brass hardware, and buckshot in its silver tip.
She whacked the vampire right on top of the head with it as he tried to extract himself from his newly intimate relations with the tea trolley. The buckshot gave the brass parasol just enough heft to make a deliciously satisfying thunk.
“Manners!” instructed Miss Tarabotti.
The vampire howled in pain and sat back down on the treacle tart.
Alexia followed up her advantage with a vicious prod between the vampire’s legs. His howl went quite a bit higher in pitch, and he crumpled into a fetal position. While Miss Tarabotti was a proper English young lady, aside from not having a soul and being half Italian, she did spend quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong.
Miss Tarabotti leaped forward—as much as one could leap in full triple-layered underskirts, draped bustle, and ruffled taffeta top-skirt—and bent over the vampire. He was clutching at his indelicate bits and writhing about. The pain would not last long given his supernatural healing ability, but it hurt most decidedly in the interim.
Alexia pulled a long wooden hair stick out of her elaborate coiffure. Blushing at her own temerity, she ripped open his shirtfront, which was cheap and overly starched, and poked at his chest, right over the heart. Miss Tarabotti sported a particularly large and sharp hair stick. With her free hand, she made certain to touch his chest, as only physical contact would nullify his supernatural abilities.
“Desist that horrible noise immediately,” she instructed the creature.
The vampire quit his squealing and lay perfectly still. His beautiful blue eyes watered slightly as he stared fixedly at the wooden hair stick. Or, as Alexia liked to call it, hair stake.
“Explain yourself!” Miss Tarabotti demanded, increasing the pressure.
“A thousand apologies.” The vampire looked confused. “Who are you?” Tentatively he reached for his fangs. Gone.
To make her position perfectly clear, Alexia stopped touching him (though she kept her sharp hair stick in place). His fangs grew back.
He gasped in amazement. “What are you? I thought you were a lady, alone. It would be my right to feed, if you were left this carelethly unattended. Pleathe, I did not mean to prethume,” he lisped around his fangs, real panic in his eyes.
Alexia, finding it hard not to laugh at the lisp, said, “There is no cause for you to be so overly dramatic. Your hive queen will have told you of my kind.” She returned her hand to his chest once more. The vampire’s fangs retracted.
He looked at her as though she had suddenly sprouted whiskers and hissed at him.
Miss Tarabotti was surprised. Supernatural creatures, be they vampires, werewolves, or ghosts, owed their existence to an overabundance of soul, an excess that refused to die. Most knew that others like Miss Tarabotti existed, born without any soul at all. The estimable Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), a division of Her Majesty’s Civil Service, called her ilk preternatural. Alexia thought the term nicely dignified. What vampires called her was far less complimentary. After all, preternaturals had once hunted them, and vampires had long memories. Natural, daylight persons were kept in the dark, so to speak, but any vampire worth his blood should know a preternatural’s touch. This one’s ignorance was untenable. Alexia said, as though to a very small child, “I am a preternatural.”
The vampire looked embarrassed. “Of course you are,” he agreed, obviously still not quite comprehending. “Again, my apologies, lovely one. I am overwhelmed to meet you. You are my first”—he stumbled over the word—“preternatural.” He frowned. “Not supernatural, not natural, of course! How foolish of me not to see the dichotomy.” His eyes narrowed into craftiness. He was now studiously ignoring the hair stick and looking tenderly up into Alexia’s face.
Miss Tarabotti knew full well her own feminine appeal. The kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was “exotic,” never “lovely.” Not that it had ever received either. Alexia figured that vampires, like all predators, were at their most charming when cornered.
The vampire’s hands shot forward, going for her neck. Apparently, he had decided if he could not suck her blood, strangulation was an acceptable alternative. Alexia jerked back, at the same time pressing her hair stick into the creature’s white flesh. It slid in about half an inch. The vampire reacted with a desperate wriggle that, even without superhuman strength, unbalanced Alexia in her heeled velvet dancing shoes. She fell back. He stood, roaring in pain, with her hair stick half in and half out of his chest.
Miss Tarabotti scrabbled for her parasol, rolling about inelegantly among the tea things, hoping her n
ew dress would miss the fallen foodstuffs. She found the parasol and came upright, swinging it in a wide arc. Purely by chance, the heavy tip struck the end of her wooden hair stick, driving it straight into the vampire’s heart.
The creature stood stock-still, a look of intense surprise on his handsome face. Then he fell backward onto the much-abused plate of treacle tart, flopping in a limp-overcooked-asparagus kind of way. His alabaster face turned a yellowish gray, as though he were afflicted with the jaundice, and he went still. Alexia’s books called this end of the vampire life cycle dissanimation. Alexia, who thought the action astoundingly similar to a soufflé going flat, decided at that moment to call it the Grand Collapse.
She intended to waltz directly out of the library without anyone the wiser to her presence there. This would have resulted in the loss of her best hair stick and her well-deserved tea, as well as a good deal of drama. Unfortunately, a small group of young dandies came traipsing in at that precise moment. What young men of such dress were doing in a library was anyone’s guess. Alexia felt the most likely explanation was that they had become lost while looking for the card room. Regardless, their presence forced her to pretend that she, too, had just discovered the dead vampire. With a resigned shrug, she screamed and collapsed into a faint.
She stayed resolutely fainted, despite the liberal application of smelling salts, which made her eyes water most tremendously, a cramp in the back of one knee, and the fact that her new ball gown was getting most awfully wrinkled. All its many layers of green trim, picked to the height of fashion in lightening shades to complement the cuirasse bodice, were being crushed into oblivion under her weight. The expected noises ensued: a good deal of yelling, much bustling about, and several loud clatters as one of the housemaids cleared away the fallen tea.
Then came the sound she had half anticipated, half dreaded. An authoritative voice cleared the library of both young dandies and all other interested parties who had flowed into the room upon discovery of the tableau. The voice instructed everyone to “get out!” while he “gained the particulars from the young lady” in tones that brooked no refusal.
Eye of the Tempest (Jane True) Page 27