Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven)

by Rawlyns, Nya

  Prologue

  He’s watching me.

  Again.

  From a distance, next to me, the paleness startling in one so dusky. Twin lanterns with knowledge passing for wisdom and I can’t give in, not yet.

  He comes and goes at will, I accept that, reject it, anger and need clouding judgment. Odd word that … judgment, implying more than I have to give, not today.

  Not when the rain blurs my vision, coating the glass in a tepid stream…

  It’s accusing, my fault, yet he left me, stranded and out of sorts and it’s perfectly fine, to be expected and I’m to yield but, oh, I think not, my mind whimpers because he’ll win, he always does.

  I can hear it now, torrents, slamming against the house. I cringe but he glowers and dares me to move out, go ahead witch he shrills … melt, dissolve because I own you.

  And he does, body and soul.

  He is me…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Turning Point

  “Well, Damien, how’s your new pet doing?”

  Magda sneered, knowing full well the answer. The screams, the terror, the anguish… something in the way the walls reverberated, the floor resounded and trembled under the onslaught, something that should have moved her to pity but she was too fresh, too jealous to care much one way or the other.

  Except for that need to remind the elegant man lounging artfully against the frigid stone, one booted foot crossed over the other.

  Riding boots for Christ’s sake. The man hadn’t ridden since… well, forever.

  Damien’s lips twitched, enjoying her discomfiture.

  Petulant, she growled, “She needs to feed.” That was self-evident. The fact he ignored her agony spoke volumes about him. A tidbit she’d learned the hard way.

  “Green becomes you, Cher,” he drawled, the soft vowels sweeping up and down her spine, buttery sweet, silky smooth.

  Feeling argumentative, she persisted, “She’ll end up like me if you don’t have a care… shugah.”

  I was his, his first, his only.

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

  Damien’s eyes swept her stem to stern, disapproving, and he’d always been such, never seeing the woman, just the warrior. For a time that’d been enough.

  Until the Roma showed him another way. And she could no longer compete or satisfy his lust.

  Feeling petulant and not caring, she whined, “I want to go home.”

  That touched a nerve. Damien glowered, glanced at his watch, shifted, composure dissolving, replaced with genuine irritation, the masque falling away.

  Needing to engage him, she persisted. “Why are we here?” A childish, stupid question, even she knew that. The Council decreed and whatever those aristocrats wanted, they got.

  Her maker had displeased and embarrassed the powers that be, risking exposure for all of them. Lessons needed teaching. Exile appealed, as if there’d been a choice. She’d followed, as she always did, content that she’d finally have him alone.

  Stripped of assets and contacts they’d roamed and pillaged using only his wits and her blade, and the lush simpering heiresses with their tight corsets and tighter cunts had hiked their skirts and bade him enter at his pleasure. Leaving her with scraps, a mere taste of him mixed with the wanton flush of others’ passion.

  Lost in pain, she failed to notice his approach. She called it silent running, the phrase a fanciful diversion from the hard core that encased her heart.

  “Always hopeful, Cher? When will you learn your place?”

  He stroked her temple, knuckles sharp, skin thinned with denial and discipline. She pressed into the faintness, the paleness of promise.

  “Submit.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Then you will never have what you wish.”

  “What is that, Sire?”

  Damien gave her a weary smile. “Not tonight my love. I’ve lost the taste for this endless prattle, this fucking journey we’ve been on.”

  If only you meant that…

  She’d lost track of time. She wasn’t even sure where they’d finally landed.

  Ancient lands, ancient cultures surrounded them, a place and time lost to history. The Roma taught him new perversions, new skills. Keeping watch, she’d guarded against entry, shutting out the screams and moans of pleasure, his, always his.

  She said, “It’s still raining.” Obvious. Sheets of acid coated the thick panes of glass, forcing back the night, pummeling the metal roof.

  Damien shrugged and paced away from her, circling about a rough wooden table with no chairs.

  “Perhaps the lesson I needed to learn was … discretion?” He chuckled but the sound grated, harsh, unyielding. It wasn’t often he admitted his own failings. But only to her. At one time that made her feel special. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Rough stone walls offered little surcease from the elements, the damp chill soaking through their pores. She’d have killed for a cord of wood, a wick soaked in oil, anything to dispel the gloom. The lack of warmth was merely a mental image for she felt nothing, needed nothing. Yet still she recalled times of light and warmth, long lazy days spent along the trails surrounding Sugarloaf Mountain, her dad pointing out the unusual birds, his singular passion before the pox took him and her sisters and infant brother, leaving her and a doddering aunt to make their way to the coast.

  He’d found her in Savannah, servicing the sailors, the soldiers, the lost … wielding her blade, making her way amidst war and devastation.

  Towering over her once more, he encased her breasts with cool disdain, massaging with languid grace, teasing, bringing her into sharp awareness.

  “I see you remembering, Cher. Those were good days.” The pressure increased, released. “I like when you wear a dress.”

  He peeled the shoulder back and down, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. She stretched to accentuate the notch, gulping air, swallowing his scent.

  “Please, Damien…”

  “Please what?”

  “Stop.”

  Don’t stop.

  “As you wish.”

  Taking a step back, he caressed his swollen length, outlined in relief against the thin material of the jodphurs, the lacing tantalizingly loose as he shifted his hips in slow sultry sweeps.

  She spat out, “Whore.”

  “It takes one to know one, bonne a rienne.”

  “At least I was honest…”

  He stilled her with a glare, an ache, so much pain, so much anger she quivered and fluttered like a virgin. Bitter, he hissed, “And that was my mistake…” but halted mid-sentence, his eyes lowering, shuttering his thoughts.

  “Ah, fuck, this is de'pouille. I’m sorry, Beb, come here,” he held out his arms, conciliatory once more, playing her like a fine instrument, knowing which strings to stroke.

  There was nothing but cold stone and splintered Nuc Negra, the dark wood unvarnished, black as night, black as her soul. Damien lifted her effortlessly. Despite her bulk and height, she was no match for his lean, lethal strength.

  “Magda, Maggie,” he cooed, the patois of his maman both coarse and slick like a soothing salve. He mesmerized with his voice, deep, dipping into a slow-moving torturous celebration of hot nights and torrid days, his bayou home and hearth a distant memory, the long drawn-out breath… Cher… exquisitely refined, agonizingly false.

  “Something to take the edge off…”

  Spinning her around like a boneless puppet, he palmed her head, forcing her down onto the unforgiving table, her cheek raking across the rough surface, each knot, every imperfection searing cheeks worn thin with need and desire.

  I won’t beg, not this time, not ever you sonofabitch, motherfu—

  Damien chuckled, “Someday you will, Beb, someday you will.”

  With his palm pressing with unrelenting force between her shoulder blades, he lifted the skirt, a skirt she rarely if ever wore, preferring breeches and the freedom to stalk and protect, the freedom to kill and pre
en and prove her worth.

  The penetration was swift and brutal, driving her blunt nails deep into the unyielding surface, holding her body stock still, denying herself the pleasure building with each stroke until he moaned with his release, withdrawing, leaving her with flesh chilled at his retreat. Empty.

  Setting her to rights, he patted her hips, smoothing the fabric down and around her legs.

  Cruelly he inquired, his voice a parody of the cultured affectation he sometimes assumed, “Was it good for you, m’dear?”

  Madga stood upright, refusing to face him, not sure she could hide behind the blankness, not this night.

  “Maggie.” It was a purr. “Cher, you know what you must do. I can give you such pleasure as you’ve never known…”

  She turned, finally, head bowed, showing respect. It was the only submission she allowed. The still warm semen trickled between her thighs, disconcerting, distracting. If she looked into his pale eyes, she would see his hate. And perhaps his pity.

  Silence sat in layered foreboding. They were running out of time.

  “Feed her, Damien. Now. Daylight approaches and we need to be quit of this place.”

  The man sighed, “I suppose you are right. Let’s do this thing, shall we?”

  With swift movements he removed the blouson shirt and tossed it onto the table.

  “Help me with these boots.” It was an order, not a request. Grunting, “Dammit,” he braced on the table as she guided the supple leather off his heavily muscled calves. He slid the jodphurs to the ground and kicked them aside. Already aroused, he turned in a slow circle, the peacock in full masculine array, the musk sitting heavy in the confines of the small room, almost overpowering her.

  “Now you.”

  Magda hesitated. “Me?”

  “Yes. I have something special planned.” He motioned for her to remove the offending garment.

  “Quickly, girl. We may have tarried too long.” Accusatory. Her fault.

  But of course. I live to fucking serve. Sire.

  She waited for the blow but he was too focused on the task ahead, desire and lust like a second skin on his lean frame. She followed him into the small room and carefully shut and barricaded the door.

  He advanced on the narrow bed with a reverence she hated.

  Why wasn’t I ever enough? Why her? Why not me?

  “Come closer, Beb. Look at our prize.”

  The young woman, barely out of her teens, lay cold, flesh ashen, pouty lips slightly open, a cool mist fluttering about her refined nostrils.

  Damien indicated she should prepare the body while he lit the candles in the wall sconces. Not that they needed the light, but the woman would until she adjusted. If she adjusted. If they were successful. Damien had no long history to guide him. She had been his one and only mistake as he so often reminded her.

  The woman was a freak with snow white hair in wild disarray about a narrow face, the cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper… or hearts. Thick dark lashes sat in stark contrast with pale skin. Her sire’d been greedy, feeding at will all over the woman’s tall body, not bothering to close the wounds, marking her as his.

  “Damien, are you sure about this? The Roma didn’t want her.” They’d had this argument half the night but she felt compelled to try one last time. “She was free, Sire. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Those people never give anything away.”

  What if she’s a witch… or worse?

  Damien grimaced and muttered, “She wasn’t exactly free, Cher. There was a price.” He paused, struggling with some inner demons, wary of revealing the details of a transaction that reeked of ominous. She knew him well enough to read that much on his handsome features. He finally said, “A prophesy.”

  “Prophesy. What the hell are you talking about?”

  And why am I just hearing this now?

  As usual, he ignored her and positioned himself over the woman’s prone body, his cock already probing in anticipation. He looked down with distaste, giving every appearance of having second, perhaps third thoughts.

  “You don’t have to do this.” Magda reached for an arm, trying to distract him.

  “We… I have no choice.” His voice cascaded into the singsong tones of his youth. “I gots an ahnvee. She puts da gree gree on me.” He waved her off, his voice soft with regret. “We no more vay-yay now.”

  It was what she feared most… a Roma curse, a defilement. And this girl, woman, ingénue, witch… she was his penalty, the price for whatever he agreed to.

  He mumbled, “Pic kee toi,” over and over, hips thrusting hard, mindless of the still form underneath him.

  Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

  She watched him tense, shoulders arched tight, arm extended.

  “Now, damn it, do it!”

  Madga sobbed a “no” but grappled with his wrist, fighting to bring it, and him, under control. Fangs fully extended, she sliced through fragile skin, ripping open a gash that spurted rich, thick blood, pumping in rhythm with his assault.

  “Hold… hold her up. Oh God, Cher, hurry.”

  With a sob, he braced his wrist against full lips, eyes rolling back in his head, moaning in ecstasy, pressing forward, pulling away.

  “Damien, Damien!” Magda screeched, yanking on his wrist, desperate to keep the flow trickling down the witch’s throat. She braced the woman’s torso, forcing her upright, head back in a silent scream.

  “Drink, damn you. Drink!”

  Damien gasped, “Finish it.”

  “Wha—?”

  “Do it.” He rolled out and away, collapsing over the woman’s legs, head turned in supplication. “It’s my gift. To you.”

  Horrified, confused, Madga stared at Damien, her maker, the love of her life, the demon who had condemned her to a loveless hell for all eternity. Her punisher. Her savior.

  Every fiber screamed for retribution. She could deny him this one thing, this gift he called it. She knew it for what it was. He was asking, no… demanding she share in whatever cursed, heinous act he’d performed. He was committing her to the prophesy, trapping her, damning her. Because she refused to submit to his perversions, refused to relinquish that last bit of her soul to his black evil.

  She would not, could not submit. But she could never say no. He was hers, body and soul, they were one, maker, child, lovers, enemies.

  Quivering, the woman’s instincts sought the life force, a slight whimper, barely audible, escaping her luscious lips. Damien’s eyes bore into her own, commanding her respect, her allegiance, her sacrifice.

  With a growl, she tore open the blue-lined vein in her right wrist and pressed it tight, feeling small even teeth scrape and suckle, then draw down hard and fast. Light-headed, she tried to stay in the moment, to enjoy the glorious needles piercing flesh from the inside out, the fragile nature of pain and pleasure, unsure where one ended and the other began.

  Damien, crooned, “Do you see how it can be, Cher?” as he extended his arm, the blood still dripping, plink, plink, plink on the woman’s lovely flesh. “Drink from me, now. We shall come full circle, the power of three… you, me, Catrina.”

  Catrina.

  Magda hissed, “Embrasse moi tchew,” but leaned down to mouth his wrist, tentative at first, then greedily, losing her inhibitions, herself, in a final capitulation.

  Damien laughed out loud. “I will be happy to do more than kiss your lovely ass, Cher.” He eased alongside her, nuzzling her neck.

  The woman, Catrina, pulled away, eyes still at half mast, her face relaxed, post-coital. She mumbled, “Vreau mai mult. Please, I vant more…”

  He comes and goes as he pleases, we know not where. Trina’s sweet caresses comfort and sooth my broken heart for he loves her not and that is the tragedy I feared. He is incapable of emotion, preferring his games and petty posturing.

  We hunt and nurture and pleasure together. To him I will never submit.

  Trina found the missive, on formal parchment, like an antique Egyptian scroll, the fi
gures inscrutable, writ out in an ancient tongue older than time. We, the three of us, have been recalled. He is relieved.

  I am not. I fear the Council, I fear his city, I fear the dark juju that is the heart and soul of New Orleans.

  And I fear for my child, my beloved.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Summons

  “A cemetery, Damien? Really?”

  “Hush, Cher, this was not my idea.”

  They approached the crypt cautiously. The council allowed one and only one bodyguard at a clandestine meeting. Magda would have preferred a battalion of her kind, warriors all, skilled with blades.

  “You did come prepared, am I right, Beb?”

  Damien seldom called her ‘Beb’ anymore, taunting her instead with the hated ‘Mags’. But tonight he was nervous, out-of-sorts. She could get down with that. The aristocrats had a way about them, an ancient way. Powerful influence-mongers. Purveyors and dispensers of perversions and pleasures. And endless pain.

  Some of their Havens were organized like co-ops, with enlightened leadership and a very brotherly love vibe. Damien’s stake in New Orleans was definitely not one of those. Up until then he’d been a golden boy, a veritable cash cow. But something changed and he, they, were on their way to the proverbial woodshed.

  The Council only summoned. They did not make personal visits. Ever.

  Damien cocked an eyebrow, still awaiting confirmation that she was indeed prepared. She doubted he understood, or cared, how much that insulted her.

  She fingered the pouches on the fishing vest, worn as a fashion accessory although anyone who knew her well realized that being fashionable was the last thing she could be accused of. Catrina had cleverly disguised the shurikens with a variety of artful touches, albeit sewn with an eye to functionality in terms of ease of reach and not protection from exposed skin. Madga’s flesh pricked and prickled with every movement of her upper body.

  She could not risk more weapons than that.

  The grounds were eerily silent, not even spring peepers gave voice to the warm sultry night. Damien pointed to an undistinguished block building sporting an ornate latticework wrought iron fence, almost like a mock porch.