“Role-play,” he mused. “I see.” Robert sipped his martini, looking her over. Grace was dressed up herself, though she wasn’t sporting a cape or plastic vampire fangs. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a French braid, and her face, always pale, looked paler still, offset against her red lips.
She was dressed simply in a black silk dress, cut high at the throat and clinging elegantly to her long, thin body. It fell to the calf, though now over her crossed legs, the long slit in the fabric showing her smooth thigh.
Robert boldly took appraisal of her, his eye following the line of her dress, past the high, firm breasts, the flat belly, the long smooth legs. She felt herself blush slightly and shifted, turning away from him a little. She was extremely conscious of her thinness but had no idea of her own beauty. He smiled, narrowing his eyes. “So I gather you regard this Coven Ball as just a bunch of playacting fools gathered together to dress up and bare their fangs and say, ‘I vant to suck your blood’.” He spoke the last words in a heavily accented voice, obviously trying to sound like Bela Lugosi in an old Dracula film.
Grace laughed. “Something like that,” she admitted. “I mean, no offense! It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it. Regan lives for these parties. You should hear her talk!”
“Your friend Regan obviously knows nothing about it,” Robert interjected, as if she had challenged him. “On the surface, these Coven Balls are parties, she is right. But they are much more than that, if you know what you’re looking for. There are many vampire circles or covens. These gatherings are a chance for the different covens to meet and exchange ideas. To connect with other vampires. I’ll grant you, many of the people here are playacting, as you call it. Dressing up.” He leaned over her conspiratorially, so she could smell the vodka on his breath. “But there are real vampires among us. There are people here from all over the country, even the world. New Orleans has long been a haven for vampires. My circle, the Red Covenant, is based here in New Orleans, but we have branches elsewhere.”
“And I suppose that you’re a real vampire?” Grace blurted, the disbelief evident in her voice. Could this guy be serious? There was no such thing as vampires, except in myth and ancient legends. Who was this guy kidding? And yet, even as these thoughts flickered through her mind, the scent of lemon and lust wafted past her, making her sit up straighter, licking her lips in anticipation of something she didn’t yet understand.
“I am.” Robert looked soberly proud. “I’m a sanguine vampire. That means that I need blood, human blood, to survive.”
Grace’s eyes widened. The constant quiet gnawing in her belly made itself known, as if his words had awakened something in herself. Robert went on, unaware of the effect his words were having. “We have all kinds of vampires in our coven. Sanguine, psychic and hybrid. As well as donors, or swans, as we call them. I am an Elder in my group, and thus am permitted to discuss the group with outsiders, or mundanes, as we call them.”
Grace found Robert rather amusing and yet was intrigued despite herself. Perhaps to impress him, or because she resented his derogatory implication that she was “mundane”, Grace began to talk about vampires. Not the modern-day clubs and fantasy that Robert thought of as real, but the actual history of the vampire and the associated legends and myth that had grown alongside it, becoming entangled, so that one no longer could distinguish the fact from the folklore. Her own years of casual study in the libraries of several universities had unearthed all sorts of esoteric knowledge that she now shared, in a summary fashion, with this Dracula-caped young man in white face paint.
Robert nursed his drink, at first interrupting, but then quieting as she warmed to her topic—her favorite topic, after all. When she paused to sip her own drink, he said, “You have surprised me, my lady, I confess. I took you for a fledgling, but clearly you are no novice, at least not to the history and story of our kind.”
“Robert,” Grace said, her natural inclination to be polite giving way at last. “Forgive me, but you can’t actually be serious. ‘Our kind?’ Do you truly believe you are a vampire? How can you honestly think that you are one of them? I don’t think they even exist anymore. It’s been hundreds of years since any properly documented sightings have occurred. Even if vampires did still exist, how could you possibly claim to be one?”
Robert’s countenance darkened. “We are always doubted by the mundanes. It has been ever thus.” Again, she was forced to suppress a grin at his stilted language style. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. But since you are so learned in our ways, I will deign to continue.” The man was too silly. And yet, for some reason, she wanted to hear more. He continued, “I was ‘awakened’. It happened when I was sixteen. My latent vampirism came to the fore. As I told you, I need human blood. I crave it.”
Grace flashed back suddenly to her own pubescent yearnings but shook her head, banishing the thoughts. “Well, how do you get it? Do people line up to donate? Is there a vampire blood bank, and you make deposits and withdrawals?”
“Sneer all you like. As I already mentioned, we have our donors, our swans. These are humans, mere mortals, who share their life energy without obligation. Many donors enter into partnerships with vampires. These partnerships are often also sexual in nature, although they don’t have to be.”
He peered now at Grace, licking his lips a little as he eyed her breasts. Grace flushed as he continued to lecture. “Many swans prefer to be monogamous, offering themselves to just one vampire at a time. Some swans will offer themselves to entire covens, provided their offerings are appreciated and not abused.
“In fact, we are meeting next Saturday. My coven that is, the Red Covenant. I am willing to allow your presence, if you care to attend. Perhaps you would even like to be a donor? To spill a little life’s essence for those with whom you claim such fascination?”
He slipped a card from a little case in his pocket. Taking a pen, he wrote something on the back and then handed it to Grace. Numbly she took the little white card. She was being invited to watch people suck each other’s blood. To participate, if she had a mind. The years of “academic interest” suddenly seemed to be falling away, tattering like ripped curtains against the window of her denial. The gnawing in her belly was a sharp bite now, instead of the usual dull pain.
The chance to taste it again! The sweet, heady nectar. There seemed to be no oxygen in the room suddenly. She had to get out of here. She’d been here long enough. Why had she even come? This man’s offering now frightened her, as it threatened to burst open a dam of blocked feelings and needs.
Standing, she said, “I’m not well. Forgive me.” Indeed, she was even paler than usual, the skin beneath her eyes looking bruised. She swayed slightly on her high heels. Robert looked concerned, dropping for the moment his persona of Lord Vampire. Solicitously he asked if he might escort her home, but she shook him off.
“No, no, thank you. I live close by.” The room was closing in upon her. She had to get outside to the moist, fresh air. “Please tell my friend Regan that I had to leave.” She clutched the little card in her sweaty palm.
“Call me!” Robert shouted after her, as Grace literally ran from the room. He no longer sounded like the pompous Elder of some secret blood cult. He sounded like a young man with a crush on a young woman who might be stepping out of his life forever.
But she wasn’t. Far from it. She knew, even as she hurried to her little apartment on Washington Avenue, that she would be there, at the next meeting of the Red Covenant. And it wouldn’t be as a donor. No. She was going to taste human blood again at last.
Chapter Four
Robert Dalton—Elder, Coven of the Red Covenant. It was neatly inscribed on one side of the card. On the other, in a thin angular scrawl he had written, 124 Charles Street. Saturday, 9:00 p.m. Beneath it was a telephone number.
Grace fingered the little card. It was printed on fine, heavy stock, the lettering engraved in embossed shiny red. She was lying in her daybed, staring out the window. He
r room was hot, despite the best efforts of the ceiling fan overhead. The little window-unit air conditioner in the adjoining room was wheezing its best effort to cool the place, but the tropical summer balm of New Orleans won out.
Grace sat in her panties and bra, her elegant black dress and high-heeled sandals tossed aside. Lifting her heavy French braid, she piled it on top of her head a moment, letting the wet breeze from her open window blow gently against her neck. The thick, waxy leaves of the magnolia tree outside her window were dripping with the recent rain shower. She’d just missed getting wet as she hurried home from the party, her mind reeling, her heart racing.
Why was she acting this way? It certainly wasn’t Robert Dalton. While reasonably attractive—he was not her type. She preferred a more restrained sort of person. Someone more modest and less ostentatious.
No, it wasn’t the man.
It was what he had offered.
She knew it was ridiculous. Why was she now suddenly allowing adolescent fantasies to run amuck in her head this way? She’d held such a tight rein for so long on feelings she had almost come to believe were nothing more than the feverish imagination of a young girl.
What had he said? “To spill a little of life’s essence.” Yes! That’s what she felt now. A desperate longing for some of that promised “essence”. Her own essence was flattened, she felt—a dried and sputtering spirit, left starving and hollow from years of denial and neglect. His one whisper of the chance for blood had set her body trembling, aching for it.
Yet, surely it was all a game? How could it be more? What was wrong with her? Had she read so many tomes about the creatures of the night that now she actually believed she was one? Ridiculous! Even if they did still exist, surely she would have known such a thing about herself. It would have manifested itself before now. Where were her fangs? The elongated canines reported in legend and exploited in Hollywood movies?
Parting her lips, gingerly she touched the pointed little teeth that could pierce skin and sinew with ease, if she were a real vampire. Lifting a thin white wrist, she bit gently against it, wondering what it would be like to actually puncture another’s flesh. To pierce the vein and watch the glorious red tide flow from it, waiting for her special kiss. Was it her imagination, or did her canine teeth suddenly seem longer, sharper?
A bottle of wine stood next to her bed. A half-full bottle of cabernet sauvignon she’d grabbed from the kitchen counter on her way to her bed. She pulled out the cork and poured a glass. Lifting the glass goblet, she tilted her head back to take a long, deep drink, savoring its sweet burn.
Grace sighed, the image of a pale throat offered sliding unbidden into her consciousness, even as her fingers slipped down to her panties. She finished the glass and poured another, drinking it quickly. She realized she wanted to be drunk. To give herself permission in this way to do what she knew she was about to do.
So tight had been her own censorship of her true feelings that she rarely allowed herself the fantasy that was now stealthily easing its way into her brain. That pale throat, bared for her. Dark black hair curled in tendrils around it. The throat was strong, sinewy with corded muscle. It was a man’s throat. Whose it was did not matter. It was an image that had floated through her dreams many times before.
Only now did she allow it to come through her conscious thought. She focused on it, imagining the face that would go with such a sensual and exposed throat. A strong jaw, a cruel mouth, but softened when it smiled. Lips ruby red, parting, revealing the elongated canines of her lover…
Her lover! Grace’s fingers found their mark now, pushing aside the silky fabric of her panties. Her pussy was wet, eager for her touch. She rubbed and swirled in little arcs against her sex, moving toward the center and then away, wishing it was someone else’s touch.
The wine coursed through her veins, giving her permission to explore the secret fantasy more fully. Recalling a half-forgotten dream, Grace closed her eyes. The dream brightened—its colors and feelings vivid in her mind’s eye. It became more real than her narrow daybed in her small apartment, or her simple, rather dull life. For just that moment she didn’t feel weak or in pain.
She could almost smell her lover now—the scent of exotic lemony spices and heat she’d experienced at the Vampire Ball. The lover of her dreams—with his dark hair and cruel smile.
They were naked, lying together on a large featherbed in the middle of a dark warm forest. He was leaning up on one elbow, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheekbones, her lips. Slowly she felt his soft mouth edge down toward her throat.
Her golden auburn hair was loose around her head. She moved it herself, giving him access, desperate for what he was going to do. Yes, she thought now, yes, do it. Take me. Claim me. I want it. Grace moaned aloud as she rubbed herself, slipping a finger into her cunt as the dream image of her lover bit her neck, making her gasp.
He suckled at her throat, pressing his long body against hers. She shifted, her mouth watering, as she smelled her own blood on his lips. Silently she told him it was her turn, and he lay back, baring his own throat for her. She leaned over, dropping her head down, covering his face with her hair as she licked his supple flesh. In her fantasy she bit down, while in real life she only moaned, writhing against her own fingers, the sweet rusty taste of blood almost real to her.
As her sharp little teeth pierced the flesh, the impossibly rich red blood gushed like two little fountains of life against her mouth. She pulled back, trying to catch the flow, not wanting to waste a drop of his essence. It tasted better than anything she’d ever experienced in real life. It was more than drink, more than food. It went beyond mere sustenance. It was, quite literally, her life’s blood.
Oh! It felt so real, just for that moment.
With a cry she came, jerking in uncontrollable little spasms, as her fingers drew out the last bit of pleasure. She fell on her side and her hand flew out to steady herself, knocking the bottle of wine from its perch, and onto her white sheets. The wine spread in a dark red pool. Grace didn’t see—she was asleep, lost in blood-drenched dreams.
* * * * *
Julian moved swiftly through the throng now, trying to catch the scent again, without success. Whoever or whatever had been here had vanished. Julian felt an actual physical pain, like an ache in his chest at the loss.
Foolish man, he admonished himself. It was probably nothing more than someone’s perfume. They could do anything with scents these days. But he knew he was lying to himself. Something had been there. Someone. He would stay in this town a while longer at least, and see if he couldn’t discover its source. He had nothing, if not time.
Sighing a little, he consciously rearranged his features, smoothing the troubled thoughts from his mind. This was after all a gala event. The ball had reached its zenith, with many couples twirling and dancing in the center of the room to music played by a reasonably decent jazz band, which periodically exploded into Zydeco.
Julian allowed the sound to wash over him. He infinitely preferred this colorful music that evolved from the Creoles in the ‘30s and ‘40s to the technobabble that had been blasted from the speakers before this new band took the floor. The beat shifted from the two-beat Zydeco riff to a twelve-bar blues and Julian found himself swaying to the compelling rhythms.
Moving to the bar, he decided to take some refreshment. He didn’t actually need food and drink to survive, but his body would tolerate it, and he could digest and excrete it the same as any human. He had found over the years that very few foods actually tempted him though he did enjoy a fine wine. Champagne remained his weakness, reminding him of his father’s vineyards of long ago. The bartender seemed impressed with his choice as he popped the cork expertly into his waiter’s towel and poured some wine into a chilled fluted glass. As Julian savored the tart explosion of bubbles against his tongue, he leaned against the bar, lifting a black-booted foot to press against it for balance.
Three young women approached him, giddy with drink, t
heir faces flushed, their eyes bright. His eye was drawn to their pretty throats and he licked his lips, aware of his own constant pulse of desire.
Suppressing it, he lifted his glass toward them in greeting and smiled. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, his French accent only very slight. “What are you drinking?”
“Oh! Are you buying?” one of them said, leering suggestively at him. She was young, perhaps mid-twenties, with short-cropped hair dyed an unnatural black. Her face was heavily powdered—no doubt to create the impression that she was a “creature of the night”. It was a sweet face, if a little plump, and her large blue eyes would have been pretty, once the heavy black makeup that ringed them was removed. As it was, she resembled nothing so much as a raccoon.
“It would be my pleasure,” Julian responded gallantly. What the hell? He was here—why not see what the night held? He wouldn’t take blood tonight. Not now that he had decided to stay in this city for a while. No point in arousing suspicions. The taking of blood would be carefully planned. He would find someone homeless. Someone who, if they were coherent enough to report it wouldn’t be believed—just the drunken ramblings of another crazy street person.
No, no blood tonight. But one of these three young women might provide some diversion at least. Their nubile bodies were fairly bursting from their tight, black garments. Their expressions as they gave him the once-over spoke clearly of their own wanton desires. Why not a bit of gratuitous sex?
“Well, in that case, I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” said the girl, who introduced herself as Tina. The other two girls both asked for rum and cola, a drink that Julian abhorred, though of course he refrained from comment.
As they clustered around him, Tina said, “I don’t remember seeing you at any of the other events this year. Are you new to the area? Or did you fly in for the Ball? This is just the hottest Vampire Ball, don’t you think? I play on the Masquerade site and I got a personal invitation from an Elder of the Red Star House, who actually plays online, too! How about you? Who invited you?”
Sacred Circle Page 4