Spell of the Dark Castle

by Lorelei Bell

  “Thanks, I don't think we have that much time,” she said, smiling. “But I can perform my magic inside?”

  “Yes. But you would not be able to penetrate through, from outside, you see? As long as you are inside, and I have invited you inside, you are unaffected by the talisman.”

  “What about the door? Walls?”

  “The symbol of the dragon is incorporated into every wall, door, and even window openings, as well as over the mantle of the fireplace,” he explained. “If you attempted to Evanish from here, you would have a difficult time of it, I'm afraid. In fact, from one experience, I recall that a sorcerer had tried it and was immediately transformed into a half-dog, half-man.”

  Zofia made a sound of slight horror. “What happened to him?”

  “I set him outside. Mind, he was not simply a dog with a man's head, or visa versa, he was actually disfigured, had one human leg, a part of the front leg was disfigured. He was not well off. So I set him out, allowed him to be found by the Knights. It was a warning to them.”

  “Ah. I see,” she said. “That's why they sent me to infiltrate your abode.”

  “Yes,” he breathed next to her ear, kissed her lightly, sending chills down her spine. “How clever of them. Little did they know what would happen between you and I.”

  “Mmmn,” she said, leaning into him as he trailed kisses along her neck and shoulders.

  His hands slid away from the warm spot they'd made on her belly. She grasped uselessly at them, trying to keep them where they were; she wanted to loose herself in the moment, the pleasure, and not be reminded that someone was out there hunting her.

  “I should start a fire,” he explained in her ear, his arms enfolding her once again.

  “I've got it. Oflamo oblamo!” she incanted, while thrusting her hands forward. Red Power bursts jettisoned from her fingers. Fire ignited in the fireplace.

  “I wasn't speaking of the fireplace.”

  She gazed back at him, the best she could. “Oh.”

  Releasing her, he moved beside her. “I weary of this chit chat,” he said and lifted her into his powerful arms and carried her across the room.

  “Oh, that's right. You said something about lust,” she said as a giggle escaped her.

  “No. I didn't say anything about lust. You, on the other hand, seem to revel in it.” He carried her up a few steps. Zofia laughed helplessly as he carried her into a very dark room.

  “Lights, please,” he said, pausing just inside.

  “Oh. Luminos!” Candle wicks leapt with flame, infusing the room with a warm, golden glow. She'd done a double whammy, and fire surged in the fireplace with a whoosh, to bring warmth to the chilly room.

  “Excellent, my dear,” he said as he carried her forward. The room felt like a womb. Quiet, dark, tranquil. Walls were covered in dark cherry panels. The ceiling gleamed of gold, rising to a pyramid point. She had wondered what his bedroom (and his bed) would look like. She wondered no more. For a small man, he enjoyed things on a large scale. His bed was massive—king sized they would call it on First World—with thick, spiral posts that supported a huge wooden paneled canopy.

  Without a word, he settled her onto the great bed. She watched as he kicked off his shoes, heard them thump dully to the floor. Eyes locked on one another's as he crawled toward her and she shimmied further back across the luxurious satin and downy comfort of the bed until she bumped up against the massive headboard and pillows that seemed to be made of clouds.

  He crawled forward still, and grasped her leg. She jerked from his sudden movement. His eyes flicked up from what he was doing back onto her face. “I'm merely taking off your shoes,” he said calmly, as he undid the laces of her suede boots. They each thumped to the floor as he freed her feet of them.

  “And to think I at first thought you were a vampire,” she said, feeling her stomach tremble with anticipation.

  Hands gliding up her legs beneath the dress he sought the tops of her stockings.

  “Where did you get this silly notion?” Finding the garter, he unfastened her stocking and rolled it down smoothly with expert hands.

  “I was told by my superior this. It was said that you took blood donations every now and then.” She reached down to undo the other stocking. He playfully slapped her hands away.

  “I will do this,” he said with a slight frown.

  She moved her hands back to either side of her hips where they had been.

  “It is true,” he said. “Individuals donate willingly.”

  “So, it's true?” she asked watching him slip the last stocking off her foot and toss it to the floor to join their shoes and her other stocking.

  “I do. But I am not a vampire,” he said watching her reaction intently.

  “I know. I saw you walk out into the sun that first day I met you. You didn't burn. I thought you would, but you didn't.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  She frowned. “That you didn't burn? Of course not!”

  “No. That I am not a vampire.”

  “That's a silly thing to say.”

  “Are you?” he pressed as he still held the one bare foot in his hands.

  “Am I disappointed that you're not a vampire?” she repeated, wondering why he was asking this, so very aware of his hands smoothing over her leg—which needed a razor really bad, but here on Euphoria leg hair was allowed to grow—as well as other places.

  “Yes. You told me your husband was one before you changed him back. You have the marks on your neck, as well as wrist. One needs not be psychic to understand you two made love while he was a vampire.”

  She swallowed. “Well, yeah.”

  “Then there is the matter of”—he brought her foot up to his lips and pressed them to the top of it, bringing on a terribly ticklish sensation—“the demon who took you by force.”

  “Well, yes. There was that.”

  “Any mortal man would feel as though he could not stack up to all that delicious rapture given the erotic foray of a demon, and the forbidden gratifications a vampire can induce.”

  Wow. He had a point. She'd never thought of it that way.

  And just as she was pondering these things, he ran a tongue over the bottom of her foot, making her shriek and yanked her foot out of his hands. They stared at one another for a long moment.

  “What is the point of my making love to you, if you have known such attentions?” He was crawling toward her across the bed, until his knees were between her legs, hands parting them as he moved slowly forward. Zofia felt her breath become raged. Her own hands went to undo the ties on her bodice. He slapped them away.

  “I'll do that,” he said. “What was the name of your demon?”

  “I don't dare say his name. It will be like a summons, and he will be able to step into this realm,” she explained as he slid his hands up her bare legs, until her skirts were bunched up across her thighs, giving her goose flesh, anticipating his next move. When he didn't go any higher, she was slightly disappointed.

  His brow arched. “How did he come to you? Did you call him to you?”

  “No. It's a long story. But he had my son's soul. I went to his demon place and demanded it back.”

  “Ah. And he wanted a trade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sex was the trade,” he concluded correctly. “And what went wrong?” His eyes flicked over her bodice as he undid the tie with the flick of his knowledgeable fingers and it fell loose, freeing her bosom. “Did you back out?”

  She nodded, feeling his weight press into the bed, making them sink even more. His hands ran up her thighs with agonizing slowness, his eyes holding hers captive.

  “And so, he forced you to have sex with him.” Fingers slid inside her undergarment, drawing it downward just enough so that it cleave to her hips, just at the very edge of her womanhood in a teasing manor.

  Eyes slipping shut, she nodded. What was he doing? Trying to make her go mad with desire? He was doing an excellent job if that was
his intent.

  Fingertips brushed across her womanhood and she trembled and lifted herself, seeking his tender touch. Damnit! He's driving me mad! He drew his hands away, leaving her aching. Grasping the petal soft satin in both fists she gripped and pulled at it while arching her back in a seductive way. On his hands and knees he peered down at her.

  “You did not ask what I did with the blood,” he said, eyes flicking back up to her face. “Any other woman would be curious, maybe even slightly abhorred by it. You are not, however; it almost agrees with the fact you've given yourself to a vampire at least once, and was a demon's conquest. What of the god, Stephen? Is he your lover as well?

  She went slack, and frowned up at him.

  “Stephen is not—I repeat—he is NOT my lover.”

  A satisfied smile tipped one side of Saint Germain's lips. “I see, but he has made attempts at wooing you?”

  She felt her own lips quaver at this. How could he know this? How? She made a snort of indignation.

  “And yet your husband—your ex-husband—has given him permission to take you to his bed chambers. I am curious as to why you have not reciprocated his desires. Is the man ugly? But I can hardly think so, since gods are the total embodiment of the perfection we alchemists have tried to achieve with the Philosopher's Stone towards omnisensory. What is it then? You squirm so. Why?”

  Crossing her arms, she turned her head away from his inquisition. “It's none of your business!”

  “I see. That is alright, Zofia. You have feelings toward him you do not wish to acknowledge.”

  She glared back up at him, mouth falling open at his statement.

  He leaned back on his haunches and rubbed his hands together, as though to create warmth in them.

  “You dare to say such things to me?” she finally spat at him.

  “You still have not asked what I do with the human blood I collect. Aren't you even the least bit curious?” Hands settled upon his thighs as he leaned back to take her in.

  “Okay, what the hell do you do with the blood?” she asked loudly, arms still crossed over her chest.

  He moved quickly then. Grasping her wrists, he wrenched them up above her head as he drew over her, the only points he touched were her arms, and her thighs where his knees were. His breath feathered over her face. “Are you sure you wish to know?”

  She blinked at him. “You're the one who wants to tell me. I don't really care what you did with it.”

  “Ah, but you must. You must wonder how I, a mortal man, can cheat death.”

  “I thought it was the—”

  “Philosopher's Stone? That is only part of it. Blood is the other part. Blood holds the magic, my dearest heart. Men of ancient societies often smeared themselves with blood and sometimes drank it so as to become strong. It is a source of vitality, strength, but more; it is the life.”

  “So, you—you—”

  “I drink it. Yes. It goes into the Elixir of Life. It is one of the main, and most secretive ingredient.” His face dipped toward hers and he gave her the barest of kisses on her lips, and went to each cheek and then to her nose.

  “But if it's something that goes into the Elixir, then you still collect it?”

  “I do,” he breathed, lips alighting softly upon her face, and then going lower to her neck. He brought both of her hands together to grasp with one strong hand, and his other went to the edges of her camisole and pushed it further down off her collar as his kisses feathered down along her collar bone, and over the swell of her breasts, then up again to the hollow of her neck. She arched toward his seeking lips, almost stir crazy he wouldn't allow her hands to freely roam his solid body in turn. Lifting his head, he asked, “Do you think me evil to take the blood of the living?”

  She stared into those compelling shards of obsidian, which held a fire in them. What sort of game was he playing here? Whatever it was, it was driving her mad. He settled his weight upon her, pressing against her in a provocative way that both relieved her fiery need there, but kindled it anew.

  “No,” her breath caught in her throat. Eyes closed, she lifted her hips into his hardness. “Please. Please?”

  “My love,” he said against her throat. “I am only a mortal. How would I hope to please you if I do not bite to bring you to release, or torture you with rape?”

  “I want you, Franz,” she said, her voice trembling as a tear escaped her lid. Why was he grilling her so?

  “And tomorrow will you want me still?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “No other shall you seek?”

  She stared up at his face. “Why? Why would I?”

  “My heart, I am only a mortal man who has lived beyond my God-given time on Earth. What do you find in me that is so special that you would not look for another's attentions; gods, wizards and vampires to name only a few?” Ah. Now she realized why he was saying all those things. He thought he was below her, that he couldn't satisfy her because he was a mere mortal man.

  “Because! You said it yourself. I didn't understand before. I didn't realize why when I first saw you, it was as though I have known you all my life, even before that.” She swallowed against her tears, voice still trembling. “I don't understand it. But I can't deny it. I love you.”

  He smiled, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “That is all I wished to hear from your lips, for I love you too. More than I can ever express.”

  “Franz, I fear tomorrow, and the next day after that, what is to happen? To me? To you? Everyone?”

  “All we have for certain is today. Tonight. This moment together,” he said low into her ear.

  “But the storm keeps me here, and the sorcerers know where I am. I can't stay here forever, Franz.”

  “Shh-shh,” he said releasing her hands and one finger pressed against her lips. “One problem at a time.” He replaced his finger with his lips and kissed her deeply. She moaned into his mouth. Hands seeking his chest, they slid up and around his neck to pull him toward her, press him tightly against herself. “Don't leave me,” she whispered desperately into his ear.

  “I will stay with you for as long as I can, my heart.”

  “Don't leave me!”

  He smiled down at her. “What the heart desires is not always the best, my heart. Let us merely be happy for what we have and make the most of it.” He kissed her then, wrapping his arms around her as tightly as he dared to squeeze her. “We are not the authors of our tomorrows, but we might be able to bend it to our advantage.”

  Chapter 38

  The yapping dog woke Zofia. The image of a small white dog filled her mind. Lolly's dog.

  “Shhh,” she said, rolling over on her side. “Quiet!” she muttered into the pillow.

  The barking quit.

  Zofia opened her eyes. Was she dreaming? Memories of last night's lovemaking swirled in her mind like a hazy, half-remembered dream. She turned over, expecting to see him under the covers next to her—somewhere. The large bed had given them plenty of room for sleeping as well as wild sex, last night.

  But she didn't see anyone beside her. There was no one in bed with her. He'd gotten up quietly, probably not wanting to awaken her. Maybe she'd transferred the sounds he'd made to those of a barking dog. She imagined he was probably trying to set up a meal for them both in his living room. She wondered if Percival had been able to rustle something up for them, despite the lack of electricity. She halfway wanted to believe that somehow her letter had gotten through, and Stephen had brought a league of Knights up here, and dispatched Phineas and his cult, by now. She could go on to live here with Saint Germain, for as long as she lived.

  Somehow, though, she was sure that her utopia would come crashing down, very soon.

  Clutching the heavy quilt to herself, she sat up. “Franz? Franz, are you there?” she called out, unable to see much of the room because of the curtains being partially drawn on the end of the bed. There was a master bath (she had used it at one point last night), just to the left of the bed. Perh
aps he was in there.

  She thought of using the comforter to cover herself, but it was way too big to drag all around the place. Scooting herself across the bed, she searched the room for her clothes. They were strewn all over, on the floor, mostly. Spying both her camisole, and her bloomers, she wiggled into them quickly. Tip-toeing, she first checked the gracious living area. Everything looked as it had last night, only the candles were all out. It was nearly dark in the room. Surely he couldn't be in there.

  “Franz?” she called.

  No answer.

  Turning about, she retraced her steps back into the bedroom. Her feet were beginning to feel the chill of the stone floor. She didn't have slippers to slip on. She didn't have time to worry about her feet. Where was Franz? She called to him again, as she made her way across the room to a white and gold gilded door. Heart pounding, she opened the door, knowing almost at once he wasn't going to be in there.

  His bath was no less luxurious than the rest of his apartment. It was tiled in black and white marble and abalone shell. It was a breathtaking room. The sink was an actual giant shell, spigots were made of gold (First World made). The toilet was the same sort of odd fish-shaped ceramic bowl, with the water tank above as she'd already come across. Cold marble chilling her feet, she took the single step to the bath-shower. She checked to see if it was wet. It was dry. So were the towels. But Saint Germain's clothes, the ones he had been wearing last night, were all in a pile on the floor nearby. Of course, he would have donned clean ones, but would he not have taken a bath, or a shower beforehand? The towels hung neatly on the racks, unused.

  Stepping quickly out of the chilly room to step onto the warm, thick rug of the bedroom, she wondered what Saint Germain had done, and where he had gone. Had he left her a note, possibly telling her what he was up to and not to worry? She spent a few moments trying to locate a note, either on his pillow, on the nightstands, on the dressing table. No note.

  There was one narrow window in the room, covered by thick gold drapes—the dominate color of the whole room. Curiosity made her step toward them. She wondered what would meet her eyes. Standing before the window, and feeling slight trepidation, she reached, and opened the drapes.