Once Bitten

by Lisette Ashton

  ‘I’ve heard enough to know the verdict,’ he announced angrily. ‘You’ve admitted to heresy: you don’t drink blood. That’s a crime that goes against all vampire lore. Now you’ve admitted to treason.’ The outrage in his voice began to rise as he continued to speak. ‘You talked freely with members of the legion of vampire hunters. You discussed vampirism with officers of mortal law. You even talked about our kind with a member of the church.’ He roared angrily. His eyes were burning coals of bloody crimson. ‘All of those crimes are treasonous. You’re guilty, Tessa Cameron. You’re guilty as charged and now you’re going to receive your sentence.’

  Tessa cowered from the anger in his voice.

  She could feel the weighty attention of everyone in the room.

  The jury glared at her with feral hunger. The occupants of the viewing gallery stared down on her with obvious condemnation. Even the pair who had been kissing briefly broke their exchange. From the way they sat in the shadows, she thought it looked like they were fixing her with a withering glare.

  And she understood her fate had been sealed.

  ‘Objection!’ Christine declared.

  ‘Overruled,’ the judge growled ominously.

  She stood up, waving an indignant hand. In her robes, and with her titian curls illuminated by raw flame, she looked truly beautiful. Glancing impatiently from Tessa to the judge she said, ‘You simply have to hear the rest of her story, darling.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything,’ the judge returned. ‘I make the rules in this court and I can certainly say whether or not I want to hear this creature’s prattling testimony.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Enough!’ His bellow was deafening.

  Tessa slumped against the cuffs that held her in the dock. She didn’t consider herself defeatist by nature but she could see that there was little hope of changing the judge’s mind. Her hopes of escaping the court unscathed now seemed facile. The belief that the judge and jury might sympathise with her plight and show mercy seemed as puerile as a child’s belief in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

  ‘Your honour?’

  A tall figure rose from the prosecution benches. Looking sombre in black, and casting a scurrilous glance in the direction of Tessa and Christine, he said, ‘Could it please be recorded that the prosecution would also like to hear the remainder of the defendant’s testimony.’

  Startled murmurings bristled from the walls.

  Tessa sat more stiffly in the dock, trying to get a better view of the prosecutor. There was something familiar about the man that made her uncomfortable. The shifting flames from the sconces stopped her from seeing his face with any clarity. But the broad shape of his shoulders, and the way he held himself with a confident slouch, all rang bells of recognition.

  ‘Are you insane?’ the judge spat. ‘You can see I’m going to declare the defendant guilty. Why bother listening to the remainder of her rambling prattle?’

  The prosecutor tilted his jaw. ‘I’d like to hear what she has to say about the charge of murdering a fellow vampire.’

  ‘And why should that concern you?’ the judge asked. ‘You’re not even one of our kind. Why should the murder of a vampire matter to a mere mortal?’

  The prosecutor turned to face Tessa before responding.

  For the first time she was able to recognise his face. If not for the cuffs around her wrists she would have raised a startled hand to her mouth. The one question that leapt to the forefront of her mind resounded over and over again. Why was Dean leading the prosecution council?

  ‘Answer the question, Detective Sergeant Wallace,’ the judge demanded. ‘Why should you care to hear why Tessa Cameron killed a fellow vampire?’

  Tessa’s thoughts worked at lightning speed.

  Her relationship with Dean had ended.

  They were no longer going out together. But she wondered if he had appeared as her prosecutor so he could exact a final act of revenge, or because he wanted to do something nice for her in the hope of reconciliation. She studied him keenly, trying to detect something from his body language. But the shadows and his poise stopped her from reading any of his motives.

  ‘I came here to prosecute because I wanted to ensure that justice was done,’ Dean told the judge. ‘I’ve heard the first half of her testimony and want to hear the remainder of what she has to say.’ He paused, glanced in Tessa’s direction and then turned back to the judge. ‘I assume she’s facing a severe penalty if she’s found guilty.’

  ‘She won’t get out of this courtroom if that happens,’ the judge confirmed.

  Tessa leaned closer to Christine. ‘Why is Dean prosecuting?’

  ‘He made a special plea, darling.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me about this?’

  ‘Would it have helped if I had told you?’ Cattily, she added, ‘And you’ve been listening to so little of what I’ve said that you probably wouldn’t have heard even if I had said something. I doubt you’ve even remembered the line I fed you as your closing argument.’

  Tessa dismissed Christine and turned her attention back to the exchange between Dean and the judge. Dean had approached the bench and looked to be in a serious discussion with the senior vampire.

  Rumblings of disquiet churned her stomach.

  Glancing at Christine she asked, ‘What penalties do I face if I’m found guilty?’

  Christine drew a sharp breath. ‘Heresy is an archaic charge that they tag onto every court case, just because it has an ancient feel to it. That can carry up to 40 lashes. Treason is more serious and can carry the death penalty. In your case that means you would get the 40 lashes for the heresy and then have a stake plunged through your heart.’ She flexed a tight and humourless smile in Tessa’s direction and added, ‘Under exceptional circumstances the heresy and the treason charges could be dropped, waived or simply tossed out of court. But, unless you can tell them a convincing story about the murder charge, you’re going to suffer a lot of agony before a court appointed executioner decides it’s time for you to die.’

  Tessa nodded grimly.

  The situation was as perilous as she had feared. ‘At least it won’t be anything worse than I endured beneath Carlos,’ she muttered.

  Her words were lost as the judge banged his gavel against the bench and called for order. ‘Tessa Cameron!’ he roared.

  She flinched. He used her name like a disappointed headmaster.

  ‘The prosecution council has argued to hear the remainder of your story,’ the judge informed her. ‘You can finish your version of events so we may best decide how to punish your guilt.’

  Christine sighed. Not bothering to lower her voice she told Tessa, ‘That simple-minded old bastard has already convicted you, darling.’ Her words carried easily across the courtroom. The jury shuffled with embarrassment and Dean raised a startled eyebrow that only Tessa noticed.

  ‘You’ll have to tell a pretty good story if you want any hope of getting out of here,’ Christine concluded.

  Tessa ignored her.

  Furrowing her brow, struggling to remember where she had been with her narrative of events, she drew a deep breath and said, ‘Carlos wasn’t at his home when I arrived back at his house. But his submissives were happy to keep me entertained.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Carlos said you’d come back.’

  ‘Carlos said he was the only one who could help you.’

  ‘Carlos said you would return.’

  It was difficult to tell the difference between the blondes. They each had very slight variations: one of them wore hoop earrings, another had a small oval-shaped mole just over her upper lip, and the third had thicker eyelashes than the other two combined. But those individualities were so subtle I had to make a conscious effort to tell the women apart. And, as they seemed happy to act as though they were different faces of the same person, I fell into the habit of treating them as the same woman.

  ‘Carlos predicted I would come back?’ I rais
ed an eyebrow in surprise.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Grovelling on your belly for his help and desperate to have some more time skewered on the length of his glorious cock.’

  I blinked at this last statement but, because the other two were nodding agreement, I accepted the remark without comment. The coarseness of the words seemed particularly incongruous because the three of them were dressed in 50s-style bathing costumes, complete with cloche caps that were resplendent with floral decorations. There were sandals on their feet, all of them had squeezed into identical floral swimsuits, and they looked too innocent to make such vulgar observations. Their clothes were not what I had expected the trio to be wearing. The corseted one-pieces were brightly coloured and painfully old-fashioned: emphasising each woman’s breasts and exaggerating her hips. Admittedly, the ensembles were modestly sexy. But they presented such a contrast to the way I had previously seen the blondes, I found the atmosphere disconcerting and surreal. It would have been easier to accept the trio if they had greeted me in their leather boots while they wielded whips and chains.

  The three of them crowded me, invading my personal space, and touching and stroking my arms and shoulders. The welcome would have been unsettling if their attention hadn’t been delivered with such enthusiastic care and obvious consideration.

  ‘You look like you’ve had a rough day.’

  ‘You look hungry.’

  ‘And thirsty.’

  I twisted my head to glance at one and then the other. It seemed impolite not to look at whoever was talking. I gave up when I eventually began to grow dizzy with the effort. It was easier to direct general comments toward them without making eye contact.

  ‘I could seriously use a vodka,’ I ventured.

  The words urged them to disperse.

  One of them rushed to fix me a drink while another led me through the house to a massive conservatory at the rear. A canopy of glittering stars shone through the glass ceiling above, and the balmy fragrance of night crept through the open doors that led outside. But I was more interested in admiring the ostentatious swimming pool. The pool was large, set in a floor of cool, blue tiles, and surrounded by lounge chairs and a couple of tables. I was encouraged to lie back on a recliner while the third blonde placed a 45 on the battery-operated record player they were using. Black vinyl discs in coloured cardboard sleeves covered the table beside the record player and I realised the trio had been enjoying an authentic 50s-style pool party when I interrupted.

  The party was certainly rich in detail. I would not have been surprised to see a Rock Ola jukebox in one corner and a stretched Cadillac sedan parked by the side of the scene, with James Dean or a young Brando leaning indolently against the bonnet. When Frank Sinatra began to sing That Old Black Magic I felt as though I had fallen backwards through time.

  ‘Where is Carlos?’ I asked.

  One of the blondes handed me a tall, cool vodka and orange. It had been served with a long straw and decorated with a tiny, plastic cocktail umbrella. For some reason the subtle touches made me feel as though I was a genuinely welcome guest in the home.

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Private business.’

  ‘But he’ll be back before dawn.’

  One of them giggled. A hand fell on my thigh and a face pressed close to my ear. A sultry voice whispered, ‘We’ve got plenty of time to play while he’s away.’

  I’d noticed that the blondes were able to excite me previously. But, on that occasion, I had thought that it was a combination of the mood and the moment. Now, sipping my vodka, and aware that all three women watched me intently, I began to realise they were exerting some sort of control.

  I’d come to Carlos’s home because I had no other option. I was only there because no one else would help to rescue Mel. His offer of an exchange of favours was my last remaining hope. I didn’t doubt he would want something kinky and demanding, and the wariness that came with that thought was not particularly arousing. Yet the three blondes managed to excite me with that one whispered sentence.

  We’ve got plenty of time to play while he’s away.

  I sipped vodka and orange through the straw and relaxed.

  ‘I like playing.’

  Frank Sinatra continued to insist that: that Old Black Magic had him under its spell. I sipped a little more from my glass and then placed it on the tiles by the side of my chair. It crossed my mind that I could possibly be under the influence of some sort of black magic.

  More likely, I thought, it was the vodka again.

  Whatever the reason, I knew the idea of playing with the blondes inspired a raging and demanding heat between my legs.

  Two of them danced together, by the side of the pool. The show was a deliberate attempt to arouse me and it worked with fantastic effect. They each had a hand on the other’s hip. Oblivious to the music, they sashayed together with a rhythm that was thinly disguised foreplay. Holding hands in a posture reminiscent of a waltz, they smiled hungrily at each other and blew occasional air kisses.

  It was a weak thing to stir my excitement. The swimsuits were flattering but not particularly sexy. The music was enjoyable but far from being conducive to erotic thoughts. Yet I was still taken by a maddening desire to possess them. When the third blonde crouched down beside me, returning her hand to my thigh and smoothing her fingers against the fishnet stockings, I shivered.

  ‘Do you like dancing?’

  I responded coolly. ‘Is that an invitation?’

  She blushed and stood up, offering me her hand.

  I allowed myself to be helped from the chair and then we were in each other’s arms and stumbling inelegantly to the rich orchestra that accompanied Frank. The music was slow enough for me to follow. The vodka had helped to lighten my mood so it didn’t seem too unreal to be dancing in the arms of a woman in a swimsuit, by the side of a swimming pool, as though we had stepped back in time to a party thrown by my grandparents. When she moved her face close to mine, close enough so that her hoop earring brushed my cheek, I was unperturbed to hear her whisper the words, ‘I want you.’

  ‘I want you back,’ I replied.

  Saying the words made me thrill at my own sense of daring.

  She pressed her body closer and gyrated against me with a sly and sensuous grace. My arousal heightened when she curled her fingers around the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss.

  Frank Sinatra came to the end of his song with a typical flourish.

  We carried on kissing.

  ‘No fair,’ one blonde exclaimed.

  My partner was pulled rudely away from my lips.

  ‘You kept her to yourself the last time she was here.’

  I could sense an argument brewing and hurried to smooth over the rift in the mood. The blondes were elegant and feminine but I sensed, if they began to argue, it would soon turn vicious and unpleasant. ‘I thought we were all going to play,’ I said calmly.

  The potential for hostility lingered for a moment. Large blue eyes glimmered with flecks of crimson. Richly painted lips threatened to peel back and bare vampire teeth. Because the swimsuits revealed the women’s arms and legs I could see their muscles were taut. Each of them had her hands hooked into talons.

  ‘Bitch,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘Harpy,’ another returned.

  ‘Lezzer.’

  The last comment forced them all to laugh and the threat of antagonism disappeared as though it had never been there. Two of them rushed off to put another 45 on the record player while I was taken in the embrace of the blonde with ultra-thick eyelashes.

  This time it was Elvis. The tempo slowed as he sang Love Me Tender. My dance partner pressed close and whispered, ‘You won’t have to be tender with me. I like it rough.’ Her breasts crushed against mine. The floral decorations on her cloche bathing cap tickled my cheek.

  Arousal forced my stomach to fold as I clumsily tried to match her dance steps. I had some reservations a
bout taking advantage of Carlos’s hospitality – I didn’t want him to return and angrily discover I’d been enjoying myself with his harem – but those worries were easy to brush aside. Falling into the mood of carefree abandon, I relented to kissing the woman who danced with me and we smooched lazily around the side of the pool.

  Her arms were behind me.

  I thought she was caressing me through the fabric of my dress but, when the garment suddenly came loose, I realised she had been releasing my zip. The slinky black dress hung awkwardly from my shoulders and, deciding I could manage as easily without it, I shrugged it off and continued to dance.

  ‘Wow!’ my partner muttered.

  I glanced down at myself. Aside from the hold-up fishnets and the heels, I was naked. The accelerated healing that came with my vampirism had already worked its magic. None of the day’s torments were visible on my bare flesh. My breasts looked pale, pert and perfectly rounded. My legs looked smooth and wickedly exciting in the black stockings.

  ‘Wow yourself,’ I returned, grinning.

  ‘You’ve shaved,’ my partner exclaimed. She moved slightly away from me and then pointed at the bare flesh of my sex. Her finger lingered dangerously close and I tried to remember how she knew I had shaved my pussy. It was only when I recalled she had been in Carlos’s playroom that morning that I remembered she had already seen my bare body prior to my depilation. I marvelled that the incident had happened so recently, yet it was already close to becoming a fading memory.

  ‘Do you like the shaved look?’

  ‘It looks very sexy.’ She regarded me through fluttering lashes and said, ‘It makes me want to kiss you there.’

  I held her gaze. Boldly, I said, ‘I’m not stopping you.’

  She hesitated for a moment and then fell to her knees. By the side of the record player I could see the other two blondes were embraced in their own passionate clinch. One had her arm around the other’s back, holding her so tight I could imagine their pelvic bones grinding together. They kissed with an obvious use of tongues that was almost like a pantomime. Yet the sight remained darkly exciting. I saw inquisitive fingers explore the tight breast of a swimsuit and heard the enthusiastic moans of mutual encouragement.