Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven)

by Rawlyns, Nya

  “She’s Roma.”

  “We know that.”

  “But she’s more.” Rinj slipped two pills onto his tongue and washed them down with the bourbon. He stood and came around the table to face his master. Untying the fabric belt he spread the jacket, revealing lean muscling with a soft patch of black hair trailing down past the elastic and rope belt on the cotton duck pants. “You need to see this.”

  Rinj untied the rope and slid the pants past an erection that had obscenely tented the soft material.

  “Jesus Christ, what in hell did she do to you?”

  “Other than the best blow job I ever had? If I had to guess, I’d go with venom or some other magick.”

  Samuels shifted back, uncomfortable at what his most trusted advisor was revealing to his eyes. He was repelled and curious and aroused, a fact he’d do anything to hide except that Rijn read every thought, felt every emotion.

  “We’re blood bonded. Why can’t I feel that too?” Samuels pointed to the weeping wounds, puncture marks festering and secreting dark fluid, more than, less than blood, so engorged it was nearly blackish purple.

  “Oh trust me, you do not want to feel this. Maybe then, but not now.”

  “Why aren’t you healing?”

  “Now there’s the real question, isn’t it? It’s been almost… crap, nearly six hours and I’m still swollen and leaking like a sieve and wanting to fuck the knotholes in that goddamn paneling.”

  With exaggerated care, the man drew the cloth over the sensitive flesh, moaning softly as he adjusted the material and tied the rope in a loose knot.

  Samuels pulled his cell phone out and flipped it open.

  “Wait, who are you calling?” Rinj’s voice held back barely contained panic.

  “Dr. Farnum. And then Damien.”

  “I don’t need…”

  “What you’ve got is priapism and if you don’t see to that…” At the question on Rijn’s face, he said, “We need Damien to feed you. I can’t because of our bond. And don’t argue.”

  Rijn looked about the room, eyes wild with fear. “What do they do for this, this … condition.”

  Samuels shrugged. “Aspirate it I guess.”

  Rinj stopped in his tracks, his demeanor morphing from abject terror to interest in a flash.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yes, Farnum will draw out the excess blood. You’ll be fine.”

  “With a needle… a really big needle?” Samuels shrugged. “Will it hurt?”

  Samuels stared at his friend, then smiled. “Yes, it will hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Now go downstairs and wait. I’ll send Damien and the doctor down when they get here.”

  Rijn gathered up the bottle and tumbler but Samuels snatched the pills away.

  “Too many of these,” he waved the vial, “and you won’t be able to feel a thing.”

  “Right. Can’t have that…”

  “Rinj? Damien hasn’t been forthcoming about his activities. As soon as you are able, I suggest we have a private get-together, just the three of us.”

  “What about Catrina?”

  “What about her?”

  “When will I be able—”

  “You stay as far away from her as possible. Now, get out of my sight or I’ll be tempted to cut that thing off and save us all a shitload of grief.”

  He waited until Rinj descended the stairs leading to the network of underground tunnels lacing through the East Side, then made the calls to the doctor and Damien. When he finished, he dialed Smithy.

  “Do we still have eyes?”

  “Yes, sir. Neither have left the building.”

  “Make sure they don’t. I need Damien without either of those bitches interfering. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  ****

  “I’m bored, Mags.”

  “Trina, stop your whining.”

  “All you do is play with the computer. Vhy can’t we go out vonce in a while. Have some fun.”

  Magda pounded a few keys on the laptop in frustration. In truth, she was bored senseless. She hated research. She hated big cities. She hated being cold… although that was a mental aberration, not a real feeling.

  I hate the MEMORY of being cold!

  She hated Damien being busy, constantly in meetings, filled with self-importance and purpose.

  She hated Samuels.

  She hated Rinj… more than anyone she hated the second-in-command. Samuels creeped her out with his sly glances, with the way he caressed her with his eyes, but Rinj was a sociopathic psycho of the first rank, corrupting everything in his path. Including Trina. She’d done nothing but act like a spoiled brat since they’d come to the Big Apple.

  I want, I want, I want, why can’t we…

  “Shit.”

  Catrina bounced on her toes, her expression hopeful.

  “You’re right. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of being in a prison, under constant surveillance.”

  Like I don’t know Smithy and his band of merry vamps aren’t positioned at every damn vantage point around the brownstone.

  Magda muttered to herself, her eyes raking Trina’s willowy body. “You’re taller than me but not by much. Damien’s clothes will fit us, at least close enough.”

  Trina clapped her hands. “I tink I know vhat you have in mind.”

  “Um, the only problem is…” she stroked Trina’s heavy platinum braids, “…this mess. We need to cover this up and somehow I don’t think a baseball cap will do the job.”

  “Oh, nu prietena problemă.” Trina grabbed Magda’s arm and dragged her up the stairs. “I take care of these devils.”

  Magda snorted, “Devils?”

  “Yes, you alvays say, ze devil, she is in the details.”

  “Yeah, I do, don’t I? Okay then, you do that juju that you do so well.”

  Catrina giggled, “I like that movie.”

  “So which club do you want to hit first? Fangs or that other one, what’s it called?”

  “Topaz. And we do both, no?”

  Double the trouble, yeah that’ll work.

  Magda stared open-mouthed at the most lickable six-foot male she’d ever seen in her life. Trina’s transformation was like watching liquid mercury form and reform with oily slick ease.

  “Jesus, darling, are you sure you want to go out? Because with you looking like that…”

  Catrina propelled her to the full length mirror on the closet door.

  “Holy mother of…” She was now a he, down to the tiniest detail, a detail that was swelling impressively in her silk trousers.

  “You vait for later, my Mags, and I vill show you tings you never imagine.” That thought sent a shiver of anticipation down Magda’s spine.

  They retraced their steps with Trina making small adjustments to the illusion, if that’s what it could be called. Magda felt no different, she moved the same, smelled the same. It was enough to make her head spin.

  Catrina said, “I tink de purse she will clash, no?”

  “Oh crap, you’re right.” Magda dug out her wallet and the Glock, unsure where to stuff the weapon in the form-fitting trousers.

  Trina sighed. “No weapons. Fun, remember. Besides. You have me. Is all you need, yes?”

  Yes, my beauty, you are all I will ever need.

  “Good. Is time for booty call. I’m hungry.” Trina looked at Magda expectantly, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah, babe, let’s blow this joint. I’m starved.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fangs

  Magda lounged against the stone wall, keeping an eye on Catrina endlessly circling the revelers and poseurs. She’d reverted, transformed, morphed—shifted—to her lithe form, the pale silver dreadlocks like a beacon in the smoky, liquid haze of hope and desire.

  In silhouette, like some exotic caged animal, Catrina stalked the basement den, a predator. The others followed, drawn to her like moths to the flame.

  The object of her pursuit was bein
g mauled by a sprite in bits and bobs of black studded leatherette, like a horse harness strung haphazardly about generous proportions, flesh playing peek-a-boo with the young man’s sultry blue eyes.

  Street tough, hardened, unformed … he was a man-child with endless possibilities, yet to fill out, the muscles sinewy as he leaned down, admiring the view.

  Scripted. Fake.

  Anxious. Unsure.

  With a start she realized this was his first time at the club, at any of the Havens. Fear leaked out his pores: fear of being caught, of being shown up, fear of not scoring. His balls had shriveled tight, yet he pressed his advantage, going for a slam dunk.

  What he didn’t, couldn’t, know was the Goth babe was a pro.

  He’d be rolled and shucked like an ear of corn and left bleeding way before he could unfurl his cock.

  Why Catrina wanted that one out of all the possibilities escaped her.

  ****

  “Do you have a name, sailor?” Voice breathy with a sly, knowing edge, the woman took advantage of the lull in the caterwauling of a band passing for entertainment to keep his attention on her.

  He hesitated, then blurted, “Uh, Micah,” and barely avoided adding ‘ma’am’ to compound his list of deep shit mis-steps for the evening.

  Most of his friends had deserted him, leaving him to wander listlessly through a melee of strangers gyrating and cat-walking on stilts, the air thick with sex or the promise of it. How he’d ended up in a dank sub-basement masquerading as a medieval cloister he hadn’t a clue. Arches framed dim hidey-holes along one wall. Candles with weak flames flickering and wavering threw spotty lumens onto what might have passed as a dance floor. Thin, elongated shapes—skeletal, emaciated—humped hip-to-groin, the hissing of vibram soles and muffled groans indistinguishable as the chatter closed in like an invading army.

  Asking her name just merited a smile, the fangs fake and overly huge, protruding beyond puffy lips kolhed and glossed. She ran her tongue over the tips, tilting her head… was he interested?

  He was.

  He just didn’t know why. Not yet.

  And not with her, though the show was worth it, the plump mounds glistening, beading with sweat. Globules that trickled and trailed in the valley slicing through rosy flesh, the corset stiff and unyielding in strange counterpoint to the soft, juicy lushness beckoning his tongue.

  Did he want to explore, she asked with fingers stroking his hips, offering a quick fuck.

  That wasn’t why he came. He’d had all the ’hood’s brown sugar and facilona that swagger and bloody knuckles rewarded, but tonight he wanted… more.

  O’Hearn would have grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out of there, but he wasn’t here now. He’d escaped the tenements and the violence and the rank smell of puke and piss and hopelessness. Tom had told him—his best friend—that his time would come. He said he’d be back some day.

  He promised.

  Without Tom, Micah had no reason, no reason at all… and his old man finally saw it and eased off but the threat never did, so now it went both ways and he was finally free.

  Free to make his own choices.

  Free to pick the time, the place… and the punishment.

  She was talking.

  He didn’t bother listening.

  He was being watched.

  ****

  Smiling, Magda toyed with the pretty boy sidling against her, skimming a palm over his thin leather pants, tracing the outline of his erection. She was not impressed.

  He hissed and whispered ‘yes’, maneuvering her backwards through the arch, the space vacated yet the recent coupling remained, thick and fragrant with lust. She inhaled appreciatively, amused that her male form attracted so much interest, from both sexes.

  She longed for Catrina to return, to convert her back, but the girl was busy, concentrating on the sandy-haired lad pinned to the far wall by a midget of a hooker.

  She sensed him losing interest…

  Good boy.

  The tableau played out in slow motion… cloaked in blue haze. Catrina stalked with panther grace, dividing the whore from her quarry, stroking the boy-man’s untidy light brown goatee with a forefinger.

  She had his attention.

  But not quite…

  Eyes darting, he sought her out… questioning.

  She turned away. Hungry. But not for him.

  The zipper slid sweet hot, releasing male musk and desire, the heartbeat a solid thud in pretty boy’s chest, anticipation sending ripples of chills along pale skin. Easing the leather lower, she knelt and nudged fleshy thighs apart, tonguing the femoral artery and distending it with exquisite, slow pressure.

  The young man groaned, tangling stubby fingers in her short hair, pulling her head closer, begging with his hips.

  No… like this.

  Licking her lips, she guided his hand, cupping the thick length, stroking with him, up, down, up… her head bobbing in rhythm to their joint movements. They were barely visible, the light too dim for any but her kind, although she still needed to take care. Damien had taught her that much.

  Discretion.

  The one thing Catrina lacked. And it amused her, but not enough to break covenant with her Sire.

  Pre-cum oozed, a tantalizing lure. She flicked a fingertip, trapping it, then ran the sticky salty-sweet fluid along the artery in a single swift stroke.

  The aroma nearly broke her. She was starving.

  For Damien.

  But he would not have her.

  She kept her head bent, fangs in full extension. He was coming, she could feel the sacs tightening against her cheek, the orgasm building like scorching lava in a vent hole.

  The bite was brutal, puncturing through yielding flesh as she clamped down viciously, scalding blood gushing in a torrent, delicious and fragrant… yet so unsatisfying she nearly wept in despair. She drew down, twisting, sucking until nothing remained but the slime of saliva and chewed flesh. Ignoring the scream of ecstasy echoing in the fetid air, Magda took her fill and then more, letting the injustice and the jealousy run their course.

  The body slid to the stone floor in a heap, his bare torso coated with semen and sweat, shallow ragged breaths attesting to a post-coital euphoria. He would spend the rest of his days chasing a homoerotic fantasy.

  Sated, she closed the gaping wound and left the young man to his illusions and his ruined future.

  It was time to watch a master at play.

  ****

  “You are Micah, no?”

  “Yes.” He felt a frisson of… something. Not fear. Not exactly.

  Mischievously she grinned, flashing delicate tips, the fangs pearlescent against pale, transparent skin drawn knife-edged tight over prominent cheekbones.

  She said, “I am Trina,” rolling the r’s, the accent vaguely familiar, like she belonged out by Brighton Beach and the Eastern European enclaves.

  Backing away, she cocked her head, raking strange silver blue eyes up and down his frame, assessing him. The others, fanned out behind her like butterflies, suddenly dispersed as if doing her bidding. Mesmerized he followed as she backed toward tables hastily shoved together, the chairs dispersed along the wall, church basement style, leaving room for blue hairs to set places and see to the feast. An altar to fellowship and neighborhood bonding.

  Where the hell did that come from? Altar?

  Sacrifice?

  Micah was aware of movement, of the soft shush of fabric and a raw chill of conditioned air sweeping across his naked body. He lay stretched, bound, his arms pinioned above his head, the manacles unforgiving with razor sharp edges. If he struggled there would be blood. Apparitions danced on a wall, not the one with the arches, not the alcove where he’d glimpsed his stalker, his shadow doppelganger.

  Trina. Who is your friend? Why won’t he come near?

  Hands clasped his ankles, pinning him in place. The anticipation was almost as good as the first crack, the leather strips flicked left, right. The first t
ouch was a mere a prick, a promise. The second brought tears and released an ache he’d hidden for years.

  Eyes squeezed shut, he lifted his hips, letting it happen, blocking out the soft scuffling, chairs and footfalls receding away from consciousness, leaving only sensation.

  A voice like an angel trilled in his ear. Child-like, the words made no sense and he couldn’t be sure they were meant for him. Her dreadlocks brushed his nipples and dragged lower, blanketing tortured flesh.

  More. I want more.

  Hot chill and icy heat spilled over his belly, inching close, closer—the odor of wax assaulting his nostrils. At first impact he whimpered and the gallery sighed its pleasure.

  More movement, somewhere near his head, yet he dare not look…

  “Where—?” He broke the rule and paid for his insubordination, the taste of silicone vicious and unexpected, gagging and balling the bile, locking his throat in a rictus of panic. The leather strap pinched as a minion tightened it down, encircling his scalp.

  There’s nothing to fear…

  You want this, you’ve always wanted this…

  Bucking against the restraints, twisting, moaning low in his throat, he yearned to submit, to give in to the dark pleasure of pain.

  Bless me, father, for I have sinned…

  ****

  Shaking his head, the physician instructed Damien and Samuels to hold a wriggling Rinj steady while he performed the aspiration and irrigation.

  “Normally I wouldn’t recommend such an invasive procedure but unfortunately neither phenylephrine or epinephrine will work as vasoactive agents…”

  Damien glared at Samuels over Rinj’s head as the doctor rattled on about complications and the potential for impotence. That last had Rijn nearly apoplectic, a condition that usually bode ill for his human staff.

  Rinj’s temper and employee turnover rate were notorious in the Big Apple.

  Damien mouthed ‘how’ but Samuels shook his head, not willing to discuss the fine points with Rijn’s manhood facing a 25 gauge needle and a thoroughly baffled urologist.