Immortal Prey

by Diana Ballew

  He grumbled, shot up from the chair, and paced the room. “No, no, it’s not that. I didn’t turn away. I couldn’t turn away. I listened to her moans of pleasure, sounds she had made with me. I watched the strapping young man mount her repeatedly in every position imaginable. Witnessing such a thing would be bad enough for any reasonable man, don’t you agree?”

  Before I had time to answer, Franz stopped in mid-step and stared me dead-on. “But that was not the worst of it.”

  My heart stopped. I marched up and seized his shoulders. “What happened? Tell me now.”

  “Rage seized me, King. Before I was aware of what was happening, I shifted below her window among the sharp thorns.” Franz closed his eyes and bit down on his bottom lip.

  “What happened next?” I asked, my voice sounding like I had swallowed grit.

  Franz gazed at me with moist eyes. “The lovely creature never knew it was me.”

  My arms fell limp to my sides. “Dear God, Franz. What in God’s holy name did you do?”

  His words came at me in a slow wave as he told me how he had lunged through the opened window and torn out the throat of the man heaving above her. Franz ravished the woman, and while she lay begging for mercy, he ripped her to shreds, tearing her limbs from her torso with fanged teeth, and then tossed the dead, mutilated bodies into the Thames.

  I gnawed on my thumbnail, pacing the room, my mind racing in every direction imaginable.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “He was a lout and she a whore, King. Perhaps their bodies won’t be found, or nobody will notice they are missing —”

  “Christ in heaven, Franz, think! They were mortals. Someone will miss them!”

  His shoulders slumped. “She was a lovely girl — whore or not — I truly cared for her.”

  I sat in the chair and planted my face in my hands, trying to remain calm. Then a horrifying thought surfaced. My mouth went so dry I could barely form the first word. “Franz.”

  A moist, soulful gaze stared back at me. “Yes, my King.”

  “What happened to the gift — where is it now?”

  Franz scrunched his eyes shut and sighed heavily.

  “Oh, dear God,” I mouthed. “You left it there?”

  He nodded.

  The news of the prostitute’s grisly demise made headlines in the newspapers. Apparently, the woman had left behind an infant daughter and hailed from an affluent British family. A handsome reward was offered to anyone who could bring the evildoer to justice.

  According to the papers, the brazen suspect had left a clue — a small velvet box with emerald combs inside in the shape of dragonflies. Tucked within the box lay a bloodied message that read, “Life is the childhood of our immortality,” signed simply with the letter “F.”

  Bobbies and detectives, as well as average men seeking the monetary compensation, scoured the city looking for the heinous person capable of such a vicious crime, all while trying to decipher the “hidden message.”

  Her death had not been premeditated, nor was there a hidden message. Franz had merely meant to give the young woman a thoughtful poem by one of Germany’s most renowned poets, Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, along with the gift. Nothing more.

  Our volatile beasts lurked within our human forms night and day, always on the hunt, forever ready to seize a moment of weakness. This was exactly what we feared most, an unbidden shift brought on by raw, palpable emotion, capable of unleashing our inner demon, with no regard for time, situation, or setting.

  It was only a matter of time before the unique combs would be traced back to Franz. For the survival of the pack, I insisted we separate until I came up with a plan.

  Franz headed to Belgium, Edgar and Charlotte for Paris. Others in the pack headed for the small villages to which they had been accustomed during their early mortal lives. Gregore and I remained in London.

  Influenced by 17th-century French and Italian masters, Gregore became an accomplished artist in both oils and sculpture. His works were invited to the finest galleries in London. I apparently had skills of another kind — for business. After paying Gregore back his initial investment, it took me only twenty years to become wealthy.

  I owned two theatres, several flats, and a large country home in Gloucester. Still, with my newfound wealth and an increasingly busy social life, my heart ached for Ersule.

  So many years had passed, but I could still smell her freshly washed hair laced with the scent of sweet rose, still see the glowing sparks of dancing candlelight in her emerald eyes after we joined in tender, passionate lovemaking, still feel her delicate fingers upon my skin.

  Above all else, I missed her unconditional love.

  After centuries of gloomy existence, my life had grown comfortable while the clock ticked away, counting down to the rebirth of my precious wife. Now, every evening before the setting of the sun, I sipped exquisite brandy, smoked fine cigars, and remembered Koenig’s words to me.

  Three hundred years. Perhaps more. Perhaps less.

  Two hundred and ninety-eight years had passed since I had taken her life, and as each day drew closer to three hundred, I prayed Koenig spoke the truth.

  But a full three hundred years need not pass.

  The miraculous day arrived in late October of 1887.

  While I reclined in a chair with a sharp blade grazing my throat, held by my Parisian barber, a potent scent blasted into my nostrils.

  My eyes flew open wide, my gaze darting around the small shop. When I realized Monsieur Beaudin had not spilled a bottle of heady cologne, I shot to my feet. “Oh, dear God!”

  The barber seized his blade in a flash, but not before nicking my neck. “Monsieur Rudliff! Je suis désolé ainsi! I’m so sorry!”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed his cheeks, smearing foamy blotches of shaving cream on his thin, wrinkled face. I ripped the towel from my neck, dropped coin upon the table, and fled as fast as I could down the outside stairs to my awaiting carriage.

  “But Monsieur!” he called from the open window above.

  I could barely hear his words, for I was consumed with the intoxicating scent — Ersule’s scent — her same sweet fragrance of olden days, only more powerful, more seductive, unrelenting.

  While my driver hastened home, I held my head out the carriage window, drawing in the familiar scent following me, calling me, beckoning me.

  “Ersule,” I whispered. “My precious Ersule.”

  The aroma shadowed me everywhere, every hour of every day. Within the month, I was able to narrow her tiny infant presence to somewhere in North America.

  Still, my heart felt as heavy as the sack of flour I had retrieved from the mill all those many years ago in Bedburg. I would need to wait twenty-three years before I could claim my beloved wife and make her my queen.

  Gregore and I had attended the opening of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West at Earl’s Court as part of the American Expedition for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. Soon thereafter, he had suggested we visit America sometime soon. While I had entertained Gregore’s idea, it was not until the rebirth of my beloved bride that I realized destiny had intervened.

  But I feared leaving for America too soon, afraid if I caught sight of Ersule, even as a small child, I would not be able to resist the temptation of approaching her.

  After much drink and deliberation, Gregore suggested we stay in London, accumulating our wealth for America a little longer while enjoying the social scene of England’s most vibrant city.

  I knew what Gregore suggested was logical and precisely what we must do. Simply put, with Ersule’s unrelenting scent compromising my rational thinking, I could not be trusted.

  But we should have left earlier than we did.

  One night, I attended a lavish party. I spent much of the evening talking with a fellow German who had immigrated to America years earlier and was currently on holiday in London. The elder gentleman spoke excitedly about the prosperous brewing company he owned in the city of Baltimore,
Maryland.

  America. Again she beckons.

  My mind bursting with the countless possibilities the elder man had mentioned in America, I retrieved my coat and hat from the attendant. Just as I was about to take my leave, the man approached and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “There’s a woman in the library,” he said. “The lovely creature says she wishes to speak to you directly.”

  Curious, I obliged, and he led me to the grand hallway and pointed me in the direction of the library.

  “There you go, ol’ boy.” He patted me on the shoulder and winked.

  I entered the candlelit room and upon seeing no one, I frowned and turned around to leave. I froze in place when I caught the familiar scent.

  “Do you still not know royalty when in their presence?”

  My heart stopped dead, resuming seconds later with a massive thud against my vest, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. I closed my eyes and slowly turned.

  Regine Delacour emerged from a darkened corner. Her long red hair was piled high on her head with ruby-jeweled combs woven throughout. Her perceptive brown eyes gazed at me with measured gentleness.

  I closed the door and stiffened my spine. “My God, what are you doing here?”

  “I could be asking you the very same thing.”

  I was at a loss for words as my gaze involuntarily wandered the length of her curvaceous body. She was lovelier than I remembered, and with the passing of time, my anger toward her had softened.

  With the flick of her finger, she closed a book and placed it back in place on the library shelf. “Much time has passed, King, and our territories are no longer an issue.”

  She turned and stood before me in a red velvet dress, her breasts like two ripe melons spilling from the tight bodice. She took my hand in hers, and I instantly felt defenseless.

  “It has been a long time, you and I,” she whispered with a purr. “Come sit with me.”

  She led me by the hand to the divan. My pulse hammered like thunder against my throat. “Regine, I … I must go.”

  “You will not go.” She gazed into my eyes. “You know I am a queen. You have no command over me without the full power of your pack to protect you.”

  “But —”

  “Don’t deny it, King. You need not try to convince me otherwise.”

  She was right. Without the full powers of my entire clan nearby, I was defenseless against an ancient Queen with the powerful influence of her female pack.

  I took a deep breath and sat next to her on the divan.

  She placed a hand on my knee. “You have not asked about your son.”

  “I have no son,” I said, surprised my voice quivered.

  Her ivory fingers slowly inched upward along the wool fabric of my trousers, toward my thigh.

  “Ah, but you do have a son.”

  My shoulders slumped. I inhaled sharply and lifted my chin, trying my best to defy my overwhelming sense of defeat. “How can that be, Regine? A Were is the age they are turned forever. Is this son still a newborn infant? It’s nonsense.”

  Her eyes softened with empathy at my apparent ignorance.

  “Ah, I see. You do not know the details. I understand, King.” She moistened her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. “The Were child I carried within my womb would grow to be my age if female, and no more, and resemble me. If male, he would grow to his father’s age, and no more, and resemble you.”

  Determined not to let her feel my growing arousal generated by her devilishly meandering fingers, I sighed heavily and inched away. “And you say you did indeed have this Were child?”

  She drew closer, smiling, and leisurely adjusted my collar. “You know I did.” She leaned in and whispered against my ear. “His name is Rudolpho. He is a noble wolf, King. Truth be told, he reminds me very much of you.”

  My hazy brain reeled with a muddled mixture of yearning, confusion, and dread. “Regine, I don’t know what you want of me, but —”

  “Ah.” She placed a finger to my lips. “I have not come to fight with you — quite the contrary. I have come to make peace.”

  “Peace,” I murmured, suddenly relieved.

  She slid her fingers between my thighs. My limbs instantly tightened. She moved closer, her ample ivory breasts nearly spilling from her gown.

  She angled her chin and quivered her ginger lashes seductively. “I want you to make love to me, Derek.” Her fingers trailed within a breath of my hardening cock. “It’s not so very hard for you, is it?”

  Christ in Heaven.

  The queen had overwhelming power over me, and she damn well knew it. I closed my eyes, but despite how hard I tried to push the thought of ravishing her like a wild dog from my mind, I grew so hard, I throbbed with pain.

  “If you make love to me, I will never ask again,” she whispered in my ear, her accented words caressing my earlobe like warm silk. She slid her palm over the obvious bulge in my trousers.

  A husky, involuntary groan escaped my lips.

  “More importantly, I won’t divulge to the Royal Court you are the true father of Rudolpho. They believed me when I told them that he was sired by a mere commoner in Paris who ravished me after deceiving me into believing me he was a Celtic Were king.”

  “And the Court believed you?” My mouth hung wide open. God, how I feared the existence of the Royal Court, the shadowy faction of ancient Weres governing each and every Were clan on the European continent. From everything I had heard over the years, if they summoned a visit, chances were you would not survive to tell of it. Somehow, Regine had managed to survive. But knowing firsthand Regine’s capabilities in her devious, insatiable quest for power and dominance, nothing about her surprised me anymore.

  “Come now, King. ’Tis only you and me tonight. No one need know.”

  A warm hand cupped my shaft, straining against my trousers. She gently squeezed, and my breath hitched. “You … you will never ask this of me again, Regine? Never?”

  “Nevvver,” she whispered.

  I trembled, breathless from her seductive touch. “You know I will always belong to another. Always.”

  Her eyes narrowed, golden sparks radiating from within the smoldering gaze. “I promise. I will never ask this of you again.”

  We left in my carriage. The entire ride home I gazed out the window, breathing in Ersule’s scent, wishing it were she sitting beside me, dreaming it was her I would make love to rather than a woman I despised.

  Arriving home, I immediately opened a bottle of wine. I needed the calming effect of alcohol on my rattled nerves. After pouring two glasses, Regine grabbed the remainder of the bottle and led me by the hand down the hallway in search of my bedroom.

  She guided me upon my bed. I sat and drank liberally of the wine, watching as she slowly padded across the room, lighting candles, blowing each long match out seductively, while leisurely undressing herself down to sheer underclothes.

  Hypnotized, I set my glass down and lay across the bed, my arm draped over my eyes. “My God, Regine. Do you not know the spell you have over a man? You could have any. Why must it be me?”

  Warm hands slip up my legs to the buttons of my trousers. I removed my arm covering my eyes.

  Regine was naked, long red hair spilling across her pale breasts capped with strawberry nipples. With a seductive smile no man on the planet could resist, she took my cock in her hand and gently stroked.

  “I want you, King.”

  A hesitant groan caught deep within my throat.

  “I have had no other since you,” she whispered, her breath close to my shaft. “Do you know how hard that has been for a woman like me, my King?” She flicked her tongue out, moistening my tip.

  I shuddered, the temptation almost too much to bear. “Regine, I —” She took me inside her mouth. “Oh, my God, Regine.”

  The woman was the devil, and I knew it, but I had no power to resist her. “Damn it to hell!” I swore under my breath, ripping at my clothes, my shirt buttons
flying from the fabric, like spinning tops racing across the marbled floor.

  With a smile as mysterious as that of Mona Lisa, Regine watched as I came unglued, flecks of gold flashing in her triumphant eyes.

  I tossed my trousers across the room and grabbed her shoulders, hard, tossing her to the bed.

  Lying naked on her back, she yelped playfully. “Tell me, King. Tell me this is a night I shall never forget.” She arched her back and moistened her lips.

  Every muscle in my body yearned for this She queen, but I would not — could not let her have such power over me. I would not allow her to rule me.

  Not now. Not ever.

  I forced a smile. “Oh, you most certainly will not forget this night, Regine. This I promise you.”

  In a flash, I flipped her onto her stomach. Her fiery hair hurled, settling like a red theatre curtain draping down her ivory back. With one hand, I pinned her wrists together and yanked her up by her waist to her knees at the end of the bed.

  “Oh, my King!”

  I planted my feet firmly in place at the edge of the bed. I spit on her arse, took aim, and dove deep inside her with a single hard plunge in a place she would never forget.

  “Damn you!” Her head arched back, and she roared. “Damn you to hell, Derek!”

  I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You will get no seed of mine in your womb ever again, Madame Delacour, do you understand? Not now — not ever!” I grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. “Do you understand?” I hissed between clenched teeth.

  The She vixen did not put up much of a fight for a woman who only moments earlier had been screaming for me to go to hell. In fact, she rode against me, laughing, mocking me. The damn feral bitch was fully enjoying herself.

  “Go to hell, King,” she laughed. “Go to hell!”

  “You first!” I shouted, heated anger swelling inside me. I plunged deeper, harder, and I knew if I did not finish quickly, I would shift from blinding rage.

  She cried out, her waves of passion gripping me like a throbbing vise. I yowled like a beast as I climaxed, and my knees all but buckled beneath me. After I had had my fill, I sat on the bed, shaking my head.

  She lowered and rolled over to face me, her eyes moist. “No matter what you may think of me, I had no intention of forcing you to sire another royal Were.”