Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance

by Travis Luedke

  A cool damp mist swirled around the head stones and monuments. Edouard found it difficult to see his way. He was startled by a gargoyle protecting the dead encased in a mausoleum. Plaintive whimpering sent a sudden chill down his spine. Don’t be so stupid, it’s just the mist playing tricks as it always does.

  He walked through the ethereal fog clinging to the graves like the breath of the dead. He came upon his parents’ polished marble headstones, side by side, and laid a rose on each grassy mound with a quiet reverence befitting the moment.

  Edouard said a fond farewell and proceeded towards the entrance when something caught his eye. A specter-like figure, dressed in black, ran through the dusky mist. At this distance he was unable to make out the face but something was familiar – the red hair! His heart skipped a beat then raced full throttle. It was the same woman from the florist. It had to be.

  “No, Lucien!” she screamed.

  That name chilled Edouard’s spine. It was a name that haunted his night terrors. Fear momentarily overcame him. Her dreadful screams galvanized his legs into action to race after her voice.

  Edouard stumbled over something in the fog, falling heavily to the damp grass. His clenched lips smacked into a woman’s cold face, causing her eyes to open. Revulsion sent him scurrying away but the doctor in him forced another look. He checked for a pulse at her neck and this confirmed that she was indeed dead but not long as her unexposed flesh was still warm. His fingers felt wet. They were dripping dark syrupy blood.

  More screams shattered the eerie silence. To his utter horror, Edouard saw a tall, dark figure, partially concealed by the ground fog struggling with his dream woman. Edouard rushed to her rescue but was instantly paralyzed by Lucien’s hideous face sneering blood-stained fangs.

  “Fuck off, lover boy or you’ll be next.”

  Terror gripped Edouard with a primeval instinct to run for his life. It took over his body. His legs felt leaden like the deeply planted head stones. He whimpered at the vile creature menacingly approaching him with a bloody smile. The woman’s screams kick-started Edouard’s legs. He tackled the ghoul to the ground. The woman ran off.

  The two men tussled on the damp grass.

  Edouard stared in sickening horror at those fangs begging for his blood. With considerable effort, he managed to kick the creature off his body and roll to his feet. He stumbled away from the ghoul, scuffing his knee on a headstone. It hurt like hell but he dared not stop or he would surely perish.

  “You can’t hide from me, my Delicate Rose.” Hideous laughter followed those words.

  Edouard listened to the sound of the woman’s flight dwindling in the distance. He sprinted down a row of headstones, regardless of his poor vision in the mist-shrouded twilight. He crashed headlong into another figure dressed in a long black coat. Whatever it was fell to the ground, cursing in broken French with a Caribbean accent. Edouard’s lungs sucked in desperately-needed air, staggering to his feet. A massive black monster resembling a giant bat rose before him with a hideous growl.

  Edouard dodged through more headstones and continued right through the cemetery gates where he saw the black Mercedes. He skidded to a stop, catching his breath. He peered into the car, hoping to see the woman who had so easily captured his heart.

  Edouard jumped back from a screaming, pale female face hitting the window. She ran a grotesquely bloody tongue across black lips and licked the blood smeared on the window. He looked behind him to see the dark figure he had bumped into rapidly approaching.

  “I will rip out your fucking heart and feast upon it,” the creature said, snarling with intent.

  Edouard ran for his life in a state of confusion and despair with only one thought, to find the woman at the Ritz.

  Chapter 14

  A set of long, black-lacquered fingernails tapped in irritation on the dashboard. Lucien Dupont sneered at his reflection in the passenger window. His normally delicate features held a hideous shroud of death, so pale with white makeup. Anger and frustration contorted his face while the city flashed by.

  Lucien muttered under his breath, “You can’t run from me my pretty Little Rose. No matter where you go I will always locate your fear.” He wiped smears of blood from his mouth, slid the window open and tossed the ruined handkerchief. Where would she run and hide?

  The Count thought of medieval tortures to inflict on her for daring to escape. The punishment would be exquisitely painful. The vile bitch had not given her blood freely – something that now gnawed at his black soul. Her reluctance kept him in a permanent state of blood fire, dependant on taking her essence as a Suckling.

  The Count taunted Lucien for being so weak. “How could you depend on a miserable female?”

  Lucien’s rage fanned the flames of his desire to kill. And so the blood hunt was on – for Lucien relished the hunt, it meant one thing – blood – and there will be torrents of it.

  Lucien grinned with an image of the first place she might seek help. It was a place he had taken her on the occasions he had decided to let her out. He shouted to Jacques, “La Rotonde!” He hated the avant-garde set known as the Modernists. They had descended upon one of his favorite haunts and ruined everything with their insidious artistry. Fuck it! At this time of night the place would be bursting at the seams – all friends of his Delicate Rose.

  Jacques nodded his head and hit the pedal to the floor. The car lurched off.

  “It’s on the Boulevard du Montparnasse!” Lucien offered.

  ~~~~

  Lucien, Jacques and Claudette entered the fashionable café, dressed like three undertakers attending a wake. An immediate hush befell the establishment. All eyes fixed on the strange trio but in an instant the cacophony of pleasant chatter resumed.

  Lucien’s amplified hearing picked up pieces of boring conversation from vintages of notoriety well-known to him. He smirked at the dire conversation and grimaced at all those boring females adorned with items of Chanel.

  He easily sensed Soo-Soo’s hatred of him and so decided to tease the infamous actress. He sauntered up to a couple occupying a discreet table in a shadowy corner, snatching the chair from under the man. The man fell on his backside. Here it comes.

  Soo-Soo leapt to her feet in anger. She marched up to Lucien, wagging an angry finger in his face. “I’ve had quite enough of you, Dupont.” Her bright red upper lip curled with distaste. “You’ve been warned for the last time.” She placed hands on hips and glared defiantly. Everyone clapped slowly to Soo-Soo’s outburst, egging her on.

  Lucien leaned up close and kissed her on the lips. A hush overcame the café.

  Soo-Soo wiped the kiss from her mouth, smearing her lipstick. She trembled with hatred. All eyes were upon her. She was dragged back to her table by Coco Chanel.

  Lucien laughed out loud and occupied the table now so recently vacated. He searched the room for his Petite Rose. The clutter of rampant humanity made this impossible.

  Claudette and Jacques slithered onto chairs next to Lucien. She immediately lit a cigarette rammed into her elegant holder and he eyed up the flesh on offer.

  Lucien captured brief thoughts of disgust emanating from the Modernists while a waiter tended to his needs. He was well aware that the waves of outrage hid their fear of him – fear of his vast wealth that prevented them from touching him. But that distinctive taste of her fear was not among them. Her sweet siren-song was silent. He wanted to scream out her name. He needed to for the urge was overpowering.

  Lucien clenched his teeth and inwardly apologized to The Count for his one weakness – his love for his Petite Rose. Perhaps he would never see her again – this second time she had finally succeeded in escaping his smothering grasp.

  He sat in miserable silence, nursing his glass of Armagnac and decided to leave for the Moreau’s apartment. The only other time she had escaped, he had found her with that damnable artist, Ellise. He leapt to his feet – galvanizing his comrades but faltered with a look of complete awe. Lucien trembled with ad
ulation, his eyes locked on a strange-looking bald man entering the café.

  The middle-aged man walked through clouds of smoke, towards the bar like a ship drifting through fog. His grace didn’t match his grim appearance. He snapped his fingers for a drink but was diverted by Jean Cocteau.

  “Hey, Max ... over here.” Jean indicated with a wave of his hand.

  Lucien stood transfixed by Nosferatu himself. All thoughts of his mistress evaporated from his dark soul to be replaced by adolescent worship. He shuddered with unbearable excitement at being so close to his idol, keeping eyes on Max Schreck proceeding to Jean Cocteau’s table. Lucien leapt into action.

  Max turned to look into the gaunt, white face. “Yes, what is it young man?” Max frowned.

  “Please, Mr. Schreck, excuse my manners, but I ....” Lucien turned to his comrades. “.... We would be deeply honored if you would sit with us and entertain us with recollections of Nosferatu.”

  Max Schreck stared into a pair of deathly cold, blue eyes then down to the hand still clenched to his arm. Max glared at the long, black finger nails, stained with grime.

  Lucien removed his hand and smiled. “Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Schreck.” Lucien pointed to his table.

  Max turned to Jean Cocteau, Pablo Picasso and Sergei Diaghilev, shrugging apologetically. He joined Lucien at his table.

  Lucien waved down a waiter and ordered a glass for Max, he knew what Max liked. He poured Armagnac into Max’s glass. He and Max proceeded to empty the bottle over a dissection of F W Murneau’s greatest creation – Nosferatu. What locations – the director – and why did Bram Stoker’s family refuse the rights to make Dracula?

  Lucien just had to know. “Have you really tasted blood, Max ... as a vampire?”

  Max looked askance at Lucien and gave a wicked smile. “Am I not Nosferatu?” Max hissed and curled his fingers.

  Lucien was hooked. “Is Dracula your favorite book?”

  Max shrugged. “But of course, dear fellow. It is the bible of vampiric lore.”

  Lucien whispered in Max’s ear, “I’ve dedicated my life to the vampire’s blood bible ... and to your film. Blood is life. Life is blood.” Lucien grabbed Max by the arm and looked earnestly into his eyes, “I even sleep in my own coffin, custom-made of course.”

  Max gave Lucien a shrewd look, bordering on condescending. “You do realize I am an actor ... Nosferatu isn’t real, you know?”

  Lucien went rigid with rage. He had to take a gulp of brandy to steady his nerves. His angry tears left streaks of betrayal down his white face. “Nosferatu is real Max. You are real. I am real. Vampires exist. We are all proof of that.”

  Max raised his eyebrows at the young man’s tirade. The entire café fell silent.

  The Count looked all around and focused on Soo-Soo’s glare of ridicule. “That needs to have her throat torn out!”

  She shouted out, “What have you done to my Petite Fleur, Dupont? We haven’t seen her in weeks.”

  The Count imagined how lovely she would look with her throat slashed from ear to ear. He could see her hot blood spraying between frantic fingers. The Count’s imagination ran riot as the whole café became awash with gore. “Kill them all!”

  Lucien snapped out of his trance. His temple throbbed with agitated blood surging like a tidal wave to drown his fevered brain. He poured the bottle of brandy down his throat. By the time he thumped the empty bottle back onto the table, the café had resumed its joyful mood. The room breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Please excuse my outburst, Max ... can I call you Max?” Lucien’s heart soured when Max agreed with a shrug and nod. “As you can see, I am quite passionate about vampires.”

  A slim young woman, dressed in black Chanel and her equally beautiful boyfriend appeared at Lucien’s table. “Are you the Max Schreck?” they asked simultaneously.

  Max opened his mouth to reply but Lucien placed a hand on his arm to say nothing with a shake of his head. This was his chance to prove to Max what he really was.

  “Come, join us,” Lucien offered, licking his lips in anticipation. “But beware ... you dance with the Devil ... you sleep with the Devil.” A ripe pair of beauties, Lucien mused while the attractive pair searched for spare chairs.

  Jacques played gentleman and snatched two chairs recently vacated.

  The young woman sat beside Lucien and giggled. “Ooh ... the Devil you say. Been there ... done that.” She nudged her partner and winked.

  Lucien drank in the obvious wealth the couple exuded. Gold jewelry was on display everywhere, right down to her ankle bracelet. In no time Lucien and his friends were plying the couple with copious amounts of freshly opened Armagnac and Pernod.

  Lucien quickly deduced the couple’s intentions, taking the liberty to stroke the delicate underneath of the woman’s knee. He was gratified to see her quiver with delight. His vampire senses reacted in kind when her skin rippled with goose bumps.

  Her secret dark desires, locked deep within her heart filled him with a terrible longing. A rush of sexual perversion of orgiastic pleasure blending with his own sanguineous needs created a heady cocktail in Lucien’s mind. He ached for his cock to impale her at the same time his fangs drained her. Without hesitation, he sprayed her face with Forbidden Kiss.

  Lucien eyed the man who didn’t seem to mind at all what Lucien was doing to his woman. He was more concerned with wrapping Claudette’s pouting lips around his own. The young man instinctively placed a hand to his groin and massaged.

  Claudette’s hand joined in the fun. Her other hand sprayed his face with the nerve-toxin.

  Lucien returned to the female who was now rigid with eyes wide open. He ran his fingers up her thigh and slipped a finger into her moist folds then sank his fangs into her neck.

  Claudette knocked back her Pernod and wantonly massaged the young man’s twitching erection. She slithered onto his lap where she ground her behind on his firmness while drinking blood from his neck.

  Jacques sat brooding, drinking his Armagnac with a petulant pout. He gave Max a shrug and a sigh but his bloodlust got the better of him. He latched onto the woman’s wrist with gleaming fangs.

  A few lustful moments later, Lucien suggested, “Come on Max, join us.” He looked desperately to see no sign of the German actor. “How could he leave like that ... without taking a drink?”

  Jacques replied, “Perhaps he changed into a bat and flew off into the night.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Lucien grabbed Jacques by the throat and squeezed. “What’s so fucking funny?” He pushed Jacques away with a snarl.

  Lucien sprang to his feet and left with Claudette and Jacques in tow.

  Lucien breathed deeply to divert his rage. He walked briskly down the boulevard to see Max happily chatting with Picasso and his sponsor, Diaghilev, before strolling off with them. Lucien and company followed at a discreet distance.

  Arm outstretched, Picasso hailed a taxi. “The Ritz!”

  Lucien’s brain was kicked back into gear by The Count.

  “The Ritz you fool!”

  Lucien, Jacques and Claudette rushed to the Mercedes parked in a side street.

  That was it! She had to be there with Sebastian and Ellise Moreau. Lucien’s heart raced for a brief moment before returning to its monotonous thud.

  During the trip to the Ritz, Lucien closed his eyes and allowed The Count to show him images of the man named Fabian, they left in a comatose state at the café. Lucien sighed, knowing he had triggered destiny to follow the path The Count ordained.

  The Count showed Fabian embracing death. He loved conflict. He loved blood. “You, Lucien, forged him into a man.” Fabian scaled mountains without ropes. He canoed flooding rivers. Strange as it might seem, Fabian used a canoe to navigate the sewers of Paris. Lucien was in awe of The Count’s all-seeing insights.

  Fabian persuaded the Parisian Resistance leader to use the ancient catacombs snaking through the sewers of Paris as a base of operations. Lucien saw German soldiers
massacre thousands in the name of their Fuhrer. Fabian rallied resistance and fought hand-to-hand with the Boche, freeing Paris in the summer of 1944.

  “A true hero! Conflict is everything. I must have conflict,” The Count insisted.

  Lucien snapped out of the trance with reverence for The Count and his far-reaching influence. He turned to Jacques to see the Haitian giving him a peculiar frown.

  Chapter 15

  4th June

  A massive door of shimmering gold beckoned Edouard into the Moreau Suite. It was the most extravagantly opulent place he had ever seen. Edouard wasn’t poor by any standards but he gasped to see waiters offering food and drinks on gold platters.

  He admired many paintings from the brush of the celebrated artist, Ellise Moreau, while he sauntered over to the expansive gold-plated cocktail bar littered with bottles for every taste both demure and exotic.

  Edouard was stunned to see several bottles of Absinthe. Where did the Moreau’s get their hands on the Green Goddess, a banned substance? Money had its privileges. A gold phonograph played Camille Saint Saens’ Danse Macabre on the bar’s black marble counter top.

  He settled at the bar and pointed to a bottle of brandy. The bartender – a muscular black fellow, dressed like an exotic Arabian prince, poured the fifty year old Armagnac into a large glass. He handed the brandy to Edouard giving him a raised eyebrow.

  Edouard looked down at his attire and shrugged an apology. A gasp escaped his lips upon seeing Picasso walking by chatting with Sergei Diaghilev, founder of the Russian Ballet. The noisy crowd parted like the Red Sea for the two impresarios to pass through them.

  Edouard’s heart missed a beat when his eyes discovered his dream woman seated on a sofa at the far end of the living area. She was laughing and chatting with an elegant man and a stunning woman, the Moreaus.

  His gaze met his dream woman’s eyes across the crowded room. He watched her sip her red wine. She jolted with recognition. Her smile became lustful. It was now or never. Edouard plucked up the courage to declare his love to her but his romantic thoughts rapidly turned into a nightmare of mindless terror when the door allowed entry to that fiend.