Undone By Blood (The Vampire Flynn Book 5)

by Peter Dawes

  “That depends. What do you consider to be ‘a proper date’?”

  Humming, I shrugged noncommittally. “Oh, I do not know. Perhaps a movie? Whatever it is the young ones are doing these days.”

  “You’re so full of it.” Her smile betrayed her words. Something about the playful way she issued them inspired me to circle her within my embrace. She and I worked to close the distance between us until our noses could touch. “You need to shrink,” she said. “Or take the lifts out of your shoes so that you’re easier to reach, one of the two.”

  “If I had lifts in my shoes, this would be that much worse,” I replied, my smile broadening. The sultry way she moved against me prompted me to stir. My hands settled on her back, pushing her that much closer. “It is moments like these in which I am tempted to keep you all to myself.”

  “Maybe I’ll just handcuff you to the bed and walk away.” She nipped playfully at my bottom lip as I breathed a light chuckle. The mood of the moment shifted, the air around us turning electric again as seemed to happen frequently those days. She taunted me toward the bedroom, repeating her threat, and only after we had sated ourselves did we venture out, still smelling of sex. I wore the scent unabashedly, as if claiming her had become a badge of honor.

  She was ours, both assassin and seer agreed. Ours and ours alone.

  The sentiment came closer to explaining my initial reservations with sharing her, though I felt content baptizing it under the noble cause of keeping her safe. For as much as that had been true, I forced myself to come to terms with the seeds of possession which had taken root within me. Whether or not they found their genesis from Flynn, I still experienced the palpable way my instincts both craved her and damned the world to hell should they touch her. In hindsight, this should have been my first hint that I, as I young vampire, had not reckoned with myself enough to be a sober master.

  Instead, I convinced myself that I had every right to share in embracing her newfound state. While the instincts driving my feelings of possession lingered, I felt more at ease when we joined Angela and Martin in their room the next evening. The former greeted us, a woman of Ophelia’s height with long, blonde hair and features which suggested she had been in her early twenties upon being turned. “Come in,” she directed, moving to the side to allow us entrance. “I’m glad you both finally decided to join us.”

  “I was being the antisocial one,” I confessed. “Monica has spent the entire time since you approached us attempting to wear me down.”

  “He told me he’s always been a homebody,” Monica chimed as I walked ahead of her. “I can see why he claims that.” While she lingered behind me, conversing with Angela in the doorway, I allowed myself to drift toward the other occupant of the room, spending the intervening moments admiring what I could of their private quarters.

  The room boasted a similar layout to ours, furniture arranged in almost the same fashion. The pair had customized their quarters beyond this, however, and as a man slightly shorter than me closed the distance between us, I took notice of a glass coffee table with a bottle of wine on top of it. Martin Connelly had hair the same color as mine, with eyes that matched his hair and a stockier build than me. He smiled like a politician when my attention shifted to him, leaving me to wonder what he had accomplished in his brief years before becoming immortal.

  “They warned us that inviting you guys might be a fool’s errand, but we decided to try anyway” he admitted while shaking my hand. “Thank you for proving them wrong.”

  “Always a pleasure to keep the others on their toes,” I said, withdrawing my hand once it had been released. Casually, I wandered to the couch, sitting when Martin lowered himself into his own chair. “Amazing that I have a reputation without having spoken to many people in the coven.”

  “They just notice that you’re never at our get-togethers, though I think the only reason why is because those eyes of yours stand out.” His smile took on an undertone I could not properly describe. Despite the absence of anything indecent about what he said, his grin almost appeared to be suggestive. “Isn’t it funny, though, how you can live under the same roof as someone and barely know them?”

  The friendly smile I offered made up the extent of my ability to mirror his sentiment. “I suppose I am used to it, having been reclusive in my previous coven. It took nearly a year for me to learn the names of all my immortal brethren.”

  “Everyone’s always forming cliques,” Angela chimed, strolling over to the sitting area with Monica in tow. She sat in the chair opposite Martin and crossed one leg over the other. “It’s the dirty side-effect of living with so many people.”

  “Truth be told, I had nothing in common with my vampire siblings, though my separation from them had more to do with the role I played inside the coven,” I said. Glancing momentarily at Monica when she settled next to me, I felt our sides touch, though when she met my gaze, I saw the closeness for what it was – an attempt on her part to help me relax. I thanked her with my eyes, reaching out for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze of appreciation. Her magic worked, as she knew it would, and within a few minutes I lapsed into conversation.

  While I had spent the period of time before our visit wondering how vampire couples amused themselves, I rapidly discovered that time could pass without much effort given over to it. Between the four of us, we depleted the bottle of wine, not much worse for the wear afterward aside from a mild amount of intoxication. Monica and I reflected afterward upon our natural kinship, and while we had acknowledged the social rule not to stray from light banter, I felt much more at ease later that week, the next time we crossed paths with them.

  The instance was a brief meeting, Martin and Angela stopping us on the main floor with their coats on as if they intended to venture outdoors. They invited us to accompany them on a hunt, and while I found the request peculiar, nothing about it struck me as having ulterior motives. We declined, despite the interest Monica showed in accompanying them. I promised her that next time, when I felt even more settled around them, we would accept.

  It was not our next gathering that explained the glint of intrigue I saw constantly in their eyes, nor the time following. Rather, it took an additional visit to their quarters – after we had entertained them twice in ours – for the mood to settle enough for our masks of composure to slip. Rather than drain one bottle of wine, we did two, and as we lit cigarettes and lounged in their sitting area together, Angela became the boldest of us all.

  She disappeared downstairs, leaving us to continue a discussion centered around the era in which each of us had been turned. Martin flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, into a tray on his glass coffee table, pausing before reflecting further upon returning home from World War II. “Thought it was pretty ironic, when I met my maker, that I’d survived Belgium only to die back in the States,” he said.

  I arched a brow, unable to contain my smirk. “Is it poor of me to admit that my father served in the same war?”

  Monica blurted a giggle. Martin hung his head, shaking it while I joined in the laughter. “You’re horrible, Peter,” he said, finally lifting his head to look at me again. “You know, in my defense, I was pretty young when I first signed up. Damn kids.”

  Reaching forward to extinguish my cigarette, I managed, “A likely story,” before the door to the room opened again. Angela strode in, carefully holding a carafe nearly filled to the brim she balanced in order to shut the door behind her. I recognized its contents nearly immediately, flicking a glance at Monica when I saw her posture straighten in my periphery.

  Angela grinned and set the blood almost nearly in front of Monica. “Enough of the alcohol,” she said. “Let’s make this party a little more interesting.”

  Martin whistled, but offered no further commentary. As Monica drew a deep breath inward, I looked at Angela, not sure whether or not I should by offended by her presumption. “A dangerous thing setting that in front of a neophyte vampire,” I remarked, my gaze shifting back t
o our host.

  She chuckled. “I didn’t put it there for her not to touch, Peter. I just thought it was time to break the ice a little.” Whatever look of confusion I wore on my countenance only served to intrigue her. Angela shot a quick look at Martin, who waved his hand at her as if to encourage. While I could not read either one’s intentions, the way she strode toward us made me feel akin to prey. The blonde vampiress made a show of strolling past me before sitting on the table, facing Monica.

  Angela reached for the glass that Monica still held, taking it upon herself to drain the rest of its contents before lifting the full carafe with her other hand. “I know Monica hasn’t ever hunted with someone else, but when’s the last time you have, Peter?” she asked.

  I watched her fill Monica’s glass, transfixed on the sight at first. “A few weeks, and then with my brother,” I said, both curious and unnerved with regard to the direction the conversation had taken.

  “You and your brother are pretty close then.” Angela looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  I saw a question laden in her eyes, but could not determine what she might be asking. “Yes, you could say that,” I muttered, at a loss as to how I should respond.

  “How close?”

  While she still had me mired in confusion, the pointed way she delivered this inquiry served to clarify it. I laughed, only hearing the tension rife within my voice as an echo. “He and I are not intimate, if that is what you are asking. While he has taken male lovers, I have not.”

  Angela peered at Martin, who shrugged, nonplussed about my response. “He’s young,” she said.

  “Oh, I just found out I’m old enough to be his father,” Martin retorted.

  She laughed, and when she looked back at me, I saw her eyes alit with mischief. “Well, your brother has the patience of a saint,” Angela said, directing her attention to me with her words while her eyes settled on Monica. Extending the glass, she waited for Monica to take it and deliberately brushed fingers with her. “You see, we were asking you two if you wanted to hunt with us, but there’s a reason why. Usually speaking, when we decide to hunt in packs, it’s not just for safety.” Her tongue dragged across her lips, chin tilting upward while Monica brought the glass close to her lips. “Seems like blood goes hand-in-hand with something else.”

  When I directed my focus to Monica, I saw her gaze darken, as fixed on Angela as the other woman was on her. She drank her first sip of blood slower than usual, seeming to draw it out intentionally until her instincts got the better of her. Even I could not help but to react to the insatiable way she consumed the contents.

  It raised my hackles when Angela encroached in her personal space, but any argument I felt compelled to offer died the moment Monica freed a hand, reaching out for the other woman. In that moment, I was stuck between my own sense of possessiveness and another, more decadent, urge to watch what might happen next. My fangs ran down, compelled by both warring factions, and against my libido’s better judgment, I reached for Angela’s shoulder, stopping her before she could encroach further on Monica’s personal space.

  Rather than be annoyed, she turned her head and looked at me, a smirk that could have made Satan blush dancing across her lips. Her own fangs extended, a partial response to the presence of mine. “I only want a taste, Master Peter,” she said, as if recognizing the authority I had attempted to assert, “Nothing more.”

  Monica whimpered, bringing our attention back to her. Her hand still hung in midair, some desperate need being asserted in her eyes I knew belonged entirely to the newborn vampire wanting to test her boundaries yet again. For as much as my instincts told me I should decline, I heard Ophelia’s admonition beckon, telling me not to hold my child back if it would not do any harm to her.

  ‘In case you were wondering,’ Flynn chimed, ‘The urge to rip apart Angela is coming from me.’

  I winced, watching the two women drift closer and frozen when Angela set aside the carafe and directed her focus back to Monica. ‘We did far worse things,’ I responded. ‘With much higher body counts.’

  ‘Is that you speaking or your cock?’

  ‘That is me responding with the truth, Flynn. You did not seem nearly so offended when we used to kill the women we screwed. Lower your stone before you shatter the glass surrounding you.’

  ‘Very funny. The compromised one is trying to call me a hypocrite.’ He slunk back, as if damning me to my own devices, leaving me without the voice of caution which had tried to argue for my sobriety. Whatever devil had perched on my shoulder continued to repeat the mantra that we were changed creatures and as Monica shut her eyes, her lips meeting Angela’s, I surrendered to it. Drunkenly, I watched as Angela perched herself on Monica’s lap. As the two women relished each other, I sensed that Martin and I could have very well left the room and they would have continued to savor the moment.

  Perhaps that was what made watching them such a delicious experience.

  The older, more experienced vampire led the dance which commenced. Her hands were the ones which traversed my wife’s body, palms pressing against the fabric of her shirt while Monica tensed and melted into the stolen touches. As Angela kissed down her neck, she tilted her head obligingly to the side, a moan of encouragement passing through her lips. I jumped, startled, when Monica held my hand, her fingers tightening the moment Angela’s teeth pierced her skin.

  Her posture straightened, eyes rolling back as much more emphatic moans rolled from her tongue. As little as I had minded being the detached observer, Monica’s touch made me a more present participant, as if our clasped hands had made everything she did an extension of me. I watched Angela push up the fabric of her shirt, reaching behind Monica to unclasp her bra, I assumed. Monica released her hold on me, if only to lift the offending garments over her head.

  Angela grinned again when she caught my eye, her gaze settling on me while her mouth continued lavishing on newly-exposed skin. I tensed when her lips wrapped around one of Monica’s nipples and the way my wife quivered made my throat run dry. The older vampire shut her eyes, but freed one hand to clasp hold of Monica’s arm, directing her palm back to me. Taking a sharp breath inward, I realized what she meant to do and lingered in the moment between epiphany and feeling Monica’s fingers settle between my legs. This time, the voice which moaned belonged to me.

  I lost all concept of Martin, and how captive of an audience he continued to play to the events unfolding before him. As Monica took my length between her fingers, her palm began to slide upward before making a slow, emphatic trek back down it again. My eyes shut and for a moment, I lost track of anything else the women might have been doing, lost inside my own pleasure until I felt the pressure building from groin to stomach. As Monica’s hand lifted, I swam back inside my senses, taken to the verge and prevented from seeing my way to the other side.

  It mattered little, for everything took on a manic pace in an abrupt fashion. Through the haze swirling around me, I became aware of Monica standing and noticed it was Angela who had pulled her to her feet. When Monica turned to face me, she grinned and removed her skirt, stepping out of the fabric and kicking it aside along with the slip-on shoes she wore. Her greedy hands reached for my shirt first before divesting me of the remainder of my clothing. Monica did not stop until we were both completely naked and even then, demanded I remain exactly where I was sitting.

  My mind spun dizzy, consumed shortly by the sensation of Monica settling on my lap. As I slid inside her, I clutched onto her hips, opening my eyes long enough to see Angela and Martin likewise lacking clothing. Angela bent in front of Martin, still on our side of the coffee table, her fingers continuing to traverse Monica while my wife moved over me. Martin kept his eyes focused on Angela. Reaching for the table, he shoved it out of the way, his vampire strength ensuring that however the piece of furniture ended up, it would undoubtedly land upended. I lost track of it before I could discern its fate. Martin slunk behind Angela and within the space of a breath, he slid insid
e of her, linking us all together in some fashion.

  Nothing could have prevented the need which swept over me. In fact, the louder my immortal nature clamored, the more the debauchery surrounding me ensured I would remain a prisoner to it. I lost track of which woman my hands touched and at the moment when I could hold back the inevitable no longer, I was certain I had one hand on each. We descended into incoherent noises, the scent of the room radiating blood from a spilled carafe and the evidence of our combined pleasure.

  It was the single most decadent thing I had ever done without murdering a human.

  As I waded back from afterglow, I realized two hands had taken hold of either side of my head. I blinked, realizing that Monica had invaded my thoughts, taking the example I had set the countless times I had showed her our life together and using it to join me in the moment I had just experienced. I thought little of it, even apt to joke with the others about what had transpired while enjoying the surge of hyperawareness which followed. We collected our things and while I questioned my part, I determined not to overthink it until I had a chance to rest. Monica and I settled into our own quarters, barely dressed and apt to strip our clothing the moment the door shut behind us.

  I held her in my arms after savoring another, more private, round with her.

  Monica rested her head in the crook of my shoulder. My fingers traced across her skin, drawing patterns in it as sleep began to carry over me. As my eyelids became heavy, I heard her speak, her voice leaden with fatigue.

  “Peter?” she asked. “Would you tell me who Flynn is?”

  Chapter Five

  I could only guess that being inside my head had prompted the question, though she was too tired to explain what in particular had provoked it. “Later, Dearest,” I murmured, both too tired to explain and, now, too awake to stop my thoughts from spiraling. Monica fell asleep with little prompting, accepting my promise that we would discuss it when we rose again. Despite this, it took at least another hour before the urge to rest became impossible to ignore.