Gothic Heat

by Portia Da Costa

  'I thought this was a priory?' Rafe rubbed rain out of his eyes and peered at the structure. 'It looks more like a baronial castle than a religious institution. Love the kitsch Gothic style.' He pointed towards the elaborate building that seemed to sit and sneer at them from among seven circles of hellishly overgrown formal garden. 'Shit, it's even got a Rapunzel tower!'

  'It doesn't look as if it wants visitors, does it?' Paula followed Rafe's pointing fingertip to a peculiar tower, perched atop one corner of the rambling, black-windowed Priory. She'd never seen a less welcoming place in her life, and a tumbling festering structure that might have been a chapel, set to one side, didn't help matters. Flickers from the lightning seemed to suggest blue wraiths drifting in and out of its broken stones.

  'It doesn't look as if anyone's been here in decades.' Rafe blinked more water out of his eyes as it began to teem even more ferociously from the sky. 'Are you sure your friends are here?'

  'No, not exactly sure. But I can't think of anywhere else. They've disappeared from their workplace and their flat, and I can't raise them on their mobiles.'

  Indeed, it was just her assumption that Belinda and Jonathan had come back here. That, and an inkling she suspected she was getting from Isidora.

  Within the chill from her sodden clothing, a deeper, older chill gripped her innards, making her sway. Is this all a trick, you bitch? she demanded silently of her 'guest'. Is there something here you want?

  A lightning bolt crashed somewhere right over her head, and she shrieked with fear, tripping as eldritch laughter filled her head. But instead of hitting the sharp, wet gravel, Paula experienced a moment of total disorientation as she seemed to fly up into the air. Grabbing wildly for purchase, she realised that Rafe had whisked her up off her feet and was holding her cradled in his arms, leather jacket and all.

  'I'm all right! Put me down!' She wriggled, but his gentle hold didn't yield.

  'No you're not. You've hardly been sleeping and you're worn out.' Adjusting his grip on her, Rafe started off down the path that led to the house, carrying her effortlessly. 'We need to get in there.' He nodded towards the dark, Gothic building with its glaring blank windows that glittered blackly. 'Even if it is a ruin, at least it'll give us some shelter until this lot dies down.'

  'I'm not sure. I've got a bad feeling about this place.' God, how clichéd did that sound? Like something out of a low-budget horror movie. 'What if there's something even worse than Isidora in there?' Her arms tightened around Rafe's neck as formless fears floated through her imagination and she imagined that low voice saying, There isn't anything worse than me, you little ninny.

  'Don't worry, I'll protect you from the ghosts and ghou-lies.' Rafe sounded almost cheerful, as if being half drowned by a rainstorm amused him rather than pissed him off. 'I'm a big guy. I can handle myself.'

  'Oh, I'm sure everything will be just fine,' Paula shot back at him.

  Inside, though, she felt a slow, honeyed thrill. There was something primal about being carried in a big man's arms, and the heat of Rafe's body was both reassuring and exciting. He was strong, she had no doubt about it, and her desire, which had been doused by the relentless rain, came storming back. A swift, raw scenario unfolded behind her eyes as her body rocked to the rhythm of his long stride. She saw him kicking down the door of the crumbling Priory, laying her down right there in the entrance hall then ripping off her jeans and her panties and thrusting straight into her.

  Pressed against the hard-stitched denim ridge of her jeans seam, her clitoris throbbed and twitched like a little heart. She pressed her face against his short wet hair, breathing in the herbal scent of his shampoo. Even in the sheets of rains, the rich fragrance was still evocative. She snuggled closer to him, seeking the heat of his body.

  'Are you OK?' He paused momentarily in his yomp towards dubious shelter and Paula found herself looking up almost shyly into his eyes, convinced he could sense her fresh desire for him.

  'Yes. But you're right. We need to get inside.'

  He nodded and resumed his march towards the Priory.

  Paula closed her eyes, huddling close again, trying not to think about anything other than the sensations of being held and of desiring the man who held her. If she didn't think about Isidora, maybe the bitch would remain dormant. It was only a hope, but she clung to it as tightly as she clung to Rafe.

  As the footing changed, her eyes snapped open and she looked around them. Rafe had long legs and a stride that ate up yards, and they were already through the bedraggled flowerbeds and approaching the heavy slab of panelled oak that was clearly Sedgewick Priory's grand entrance. Just as the rain-streaked windows had looked like menacing eyes before, now the door itself looked like a giant hostile face hewn from wood, sulking in the shadows of an overhanging portico.

  Well, at least they were out of the firing line of the rain now.

  The misshapen nose was a great brass door knocker that she half expected to be in the form of an ogre or a griffin or even the rampant cats from the gateposts. But it was simply a plain heavy ring, heavily discoloured and as menacing in its own way as a death's head or a gargoyle.

  Dipping down, Rafe set her gently on her feet and, as her jeans' seam chafed her clit again, Paula gasped.

  'Are you sure you're OK?' He touched a finger to her chin, making her look up at him. Cocking his head, he studied her, his brown eyes inquisitive. 'Just you in there? No visitors?'

  'Yep, just me. And we're all fine.' She gave a shrug, amazed that she could suddenly find a joke. Maybe the strange old house wasn't the Arkham Asylum that it appeared to be? Maybe it was having a benevolent rather than malevolent effect?

  Rafe laughed softly. 'Good!' The word was barely audible beneath another clap of thunder. 'Best knock then, hadn't we?'

  Grabbing the enormous doorknocker, he gave it a heavy, repeated rap. The solid slab of wood reverberated with a disproportionate bang at each stroke, and suddenly the pair of them were laughing.

  'What happens if Lurch comes to the door?' Despite her mirth Paula felt a twinge of fear. She slipped her hand into Rafe's and held it tightly.

  7 Across the Rubicon

  For a few moments, the only sounds were the raging wind and the rumble of suddenly receding thunder. But just as Paula was about to urge Rafe to knock again, there was a metallic rattle and the doorknob started to turn.

  A second later, the door swung open smoothly on surprisingly well-oiled hinges, to reveal a huge figure smiling benignly out at them.

  Looking like a cross between a Norse god and a WWF wrestler taking a country holiday, the newcomer was tall, massively built and clad in blue jeans and a white muscle vest. His broad face was handsome, his expression mild. Welcome shone in his clear, guileless eyes, and his blond hair was closely cropped to his scalp. Without hesitation, he threw the door open to its widest extent, then stepped back, ushering them inside with an expansive gesture.

  Paula hesitated, sensing a Rubicon yawning in front of her. Behind was the dark and storm, and the chance to make a run for it back to what passed for her normality. Ahead was a new unknown, a place she'd been told was the realm of baroque, alchemic magic if her estranged friends were to be believed. She spun around, seeking guidance from Rafe.

  For a moment, his expression was guarded, then he smiled.

  'Well, let's go in.' He took her hand, urging her forwards. 'We don't want to disappoint our friend, do we?' He nodded towards the giant who was still holding the door open, apparently unperturbed by her indecision.

  Paula stepped over the threshold and gasped at the tingle of electricity that zapped her as she moved from stone porch to black and white tiling. It was akin to the hit they'd taken at the gate, but more intense, shooting from her fingertips to her belly where Isidora's mark was sleeping, and thence to the quick of her sex.

  When Rafe crossed over behind her, she glanced round and saw his eyebrows shoot up as if he'd felt it too.

  'Weird,' he mimed, giving her hand a
reassuring squeeze. 'Keeps giving me the horn.' His mouth quirked as he glanced down towards his groin.

  Shaken, Paula returned her attention to their 'host'. His expression seemed innocent enough, but was there just a twinkle of sly amusement in there too? He was obviously aware of the effect that entering the great house had on people.

  The hall they found themselves in was spacious and softly lit. It was also far from the dingy decrepitude she'd been expecting. Mellow lanterns in ornate sconces revealed a haven of calm luxury that was at odds with the ancient festering exterior. The long room smelt of lavender polish, and the few pieces of furniture, all rather heavy and Gothic, had a rich, well-cared-for gleam. At the end of the long expanse, a huge double staircase with a gilded balustrade led to the upper floors, and the sombre wood-panelled walls were interrupted by several doors to other rooms.

  The bronzed giant made another of his strangely elegant 'come this way' gestures, and began walking towards a nearby door that stood open.

  Paula felt that someone really ought to say something.

  'Er, I'm Paula Beckett and this is my friend Rafe Hathaway. We're looking for Belinda Seward and Jonathan Sumner. I believe they stayed here a few weeks ago, and I was wondering if they'd come back.'

  Their host nodded.

  Was that a 'yes? Or just an acknowledgement? Or was he just humouring them?

  'Well, are they here?' She stayed put, aware she'd sounded a bit stroppy but getting fed up of his mysterious silence.

  'Excuse me, but the lady asked you a question.'

  Rate's voice was cool, but his expression and body language were pure alpha male. If the situation hadn't been so weird, Paula would have found this juxtaposition of two splendid and impressive men deliciously exciting.

  For the first time since they'd first set eyes on him, the blond man looked discomfited. He shrugged his enormous shoulders and with a slightly wistful expression on his face, made a curious chopping gesture against his throat.

  What did he mean? Was it a threat?

  'I'm sorry, mate.' Rafe stepped forwards, comprehension on his face. 'We didn't realise you couldn't speak. That's rough.'

  The silent giant shrugged again, and repeated his indication that they should follow.

  The room they entered was a library. Warm opulence reached out to envelop them, generated by the tall stacks of hide-bound volumes that covered the walls, the rich carpeting beneath their feet, and the pair of leather chesterfields that flanked the big carved fireplace. Unusually for summer, there was a cheerful fire burning but, after the drenching rain, its golden glow was so welcome that Paula sighed and hurried towards it.

  'Thank God for that.' Shrugging off Rafe's leather jacket as she approached the flames she could almost imagine her jeans and T-shirt beginning to steam. As she held out her hands towards the glow, her eye was caught by a portrait that hung above the fireplace. It depicted a breathtakingly handsome man with the most startling blue eyes. He was dressed in old-fashioned clothing but his expression was timeless and challenging.

  When Rafe said, 'Cool. Thanks,' she tore her eyes away from the oil painting and turned round to see their blond companion pointing to a well-stocked drinks tray set up on the antique sideboard. He seemed to be suggesting that a brandy might be in order and Paula couldn't think of anything that she'd like better right at that moment.

  Well, she could, actually.

  Looking at the two tall, disparately handsome specimens of manhood, she could almost see the mists of testosterone. The silent blond giant was an enigma, but Rafe's feelings were pretty manifest. The caveman in his forebrain was intent on defending his claim on his woman.

  For the first time in a while, the voice in Paula's own forebrain – or wherever – suddenly stirred.

  See them. You could make them fight over you, she whispered creamily. Or you could have them both. Two men pleasuring you at once, how would that feel?

  Paula shook her head, trying to dislodge her intruder or at least shut her up. Both Rafe and the blond alongside him turned sharply as her wet hair swished through the air.

  'Water in my eyes.' She shrugged and squeezed at a hank of her hair for effect. 'Er, what about that brandy, eh? I could really use one.'

  Utilising more of his strangely expressive gestures, their host indicated that they should help themselves – and wait. Following a hand-sign that could have meant five minutes or five hours, he nodded and left the room, striding purposefully.

  'Well, we've met Lurch. Who's next?' Rafe grinned as he sat down on one of the chesterfields beside Paula, handing her a brandy balloon containing a huge measure.

  'Don't be awful. He seems nice.' She took a sip and, though the fiery spirit packed a hit worthy of the lightning bolts outside, it was exceptionally smooth. It warmed her throat as it slid down, making her shudder.

  Rafe shrugged and seemed grudgingly to concede. 'Well, I can't fault his hospitality. A roaring fire, Napoleon brandy, no questions asked. I wonder where he's gone now? To fetch your friends? He seemed to know their names.'

  'Yes, I guess they are here.'

  They sat in silence. The transition from the wild lashing storm to the calm, luxurious tranquillity was a shock to the system. Paula felt stunned and she sensed Rafe felt much the same. She hadn't the energy to hold a conversation but, at the sound of running footsteps in the hall beyond, she felt disappointed that their tiny interlude of peace and quiet was over.

  Jonathan Sumner almost fell into the room.

  It was several weeks since she'd last seen her old friend and their parting hadn't been comfortable, but the sight of him now was so welcome that she sprang up and rushed over to him. Without speaking, they gave each other a hug.

  'What are you doing here? Are you OK? I guessed it must be you when Oren let me know we had visitors.'

  Jonathan's dark eyes were worried and he looked dishevelled. It was obvious he'd come straight from his bed because his dark curly hair was standing up in tufts and he was wearing a silk dressing gown, and what she suspected was very little else. His wiry legs were bare and he had nothing on his feet.

  'Sorry, I ... I was taking an afternoon nap.' Hot pink flushed into his smooth cheeks and he twisted at the cord of his gown. 'But, seriously, why are you here? Is something wrong? I mean, well, I know we had a row and all but we have been worried about you and hoping you were OK. We were thinking we might...' His eyes suddenly darted over her shoulder and his voice petered out as Paula sensed that Rafe had moved quietly to stand behind her.

  She turned to him, and found him watching and wary.

  'God, I don't know where to start.' She took a step to the side. 'Jonathan Sumner, this is Rafe Hathaway. He's, um, helping me.' The two men continued to eyeball each other. 'Rafe, this is Jonathan, who I told you about.'

  There was a terse handshake and inwardly Paula sighed. Her relationship with Rafe was so brief and had sprung up in such turmoil that she didn't really have the measure of it yet. The last thing she needed right now was another show of macho possessiveness and dick-waving.

  'Where's Belinda?' she asked, to move things along.

  Jonathan's face crumpled. 'She's sleeping. She does that a lot of the time these days.'

  'What's the matter with her?' Alarm raced through Paula. Not Belinda too? She wracked her brain, trying to remember how her friend had seemed when they'd visited her in hospital.

  'Nothing. Well, not really. It's just something happened during the ritual we told you about, and we're sort of waiting to see if the effects are going to wear off.' He pursed his lips, his fresh young face troubled. As if whatever it was wasn't wearing off as fast as he'd hoped.

  'Do you want a brandy, mate?' said Rafe suddenly. 'Let's all have a drink and you and Paula can bring each other up to speed, eh?' As his hand settled lightly on her shoulder, Paula sensed the combative vibe was gone. She turned and smiled at him gratefully, and he smiled back with a wry little shrug.

  'Right, you first,' she suggested to
Jonathan when they were all settled in front of the fire. Jonathan sat alone, leaning forwards, cradling his brandy, while she and Rafe shared a sofa. His arm felt warm and comforting around her shoulders.

  Jonathan's tale was wild and strange. A fuller and more lucid account of what she'd dismissed as a cock and bull story in hospital. Knowing what she knew now, she believed every mad, unlikely word.

  The silent Oren returned with a groaning tray laden with sandwiches, cold cuts, pastries and coffee, but nobody seemed to have much appetite, and neither she nor Rafe interrupted the story of how Jonathan and Belinda had fetched up at this strange priory during another thunderstorm and gradually been drawn into the web of Count André Von Kastel, its mysterious yet benign owner.

  'That's him.' Jonathan gestured to the handsome oil painting. The striking blue-eyed aristocrat in eighteenth-century dress who seemed to stare down at them as if he were a living, breathing entity.

  Paula glanced at Rafe and then at the count. Though the hair was different, there was actually a superficial likeness between the two men. Some quality in the elegant cheekbones and the jaw, and the set of the shoulders.

  'And he was ... is ... two hundred years old.' Jonathan was continuing the story, and suddenly Paula felt Rafe's arm tense around her. It was momentary but quite distinct and it puzzled her as she listened to her friend's fantastical account. A yarn that made her head reel and Rafe hold her tighter, for comfort now rather any reason of his own.

  Isidora, the bitch! What she'd done to Count André and his beloved was horrific. Condemning them to an eternity apart, with Arabelle confined as just a spirit in a bottle and André compelled to seek sustenance from the sexual energy of human lovers.

  Paula turned to Rafe again. What was he making of all this? Did he believe it? He'd certainly seemed to believe her own story.

  Finally, Jonathan came to the solution. The arcane ritual – presided over by Michiko, the Japanese white sorceress – that had freed André and Arabelle from their separate state and sent them onwards to another plane of existence. Or whatever. And Jonathan's own part in the event, running interference by having sex with Isidora while the rite was taking place.