by Poppet
Addictive Gloamshade
by
Poppet
Book 2: The Addictive Series
A Thorstruck Press Publication
Published by Thorstruck Press in 2014
Copyright author Poppet 2013
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Model: Tobias Fahlen
Photographer: Andreas Gradin
Special thanks go to:
Scott McCombie
Chic McSherry
Monique Lomino
Kim McNiel
I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood
Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated
Those who wade out into battle
Wolf-skinned they are called
In battle they bear bloody shields
Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight
They form a closed group
The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men
Who hack through enemy shields
~ Skaldic poem by
Thórbiörn Hornklofi
Chapter 1
Out of the Icewaves issued venom drops,
Waxing until a giant was;
Thence are our kindred come all together,
So it is they are savage forever.
~ Völuspá the Less
(The Rime Giants)
She looks up the trunk to the bough, her flimsy dress sticking to her body, outlining every inch of her.
“Arrabella, please come down. Ksskss, come angel.”
The cat doesn't move from the thick lower branch, mewling pitifully while her mistress gets rain sting on her irises from staring up and coaxing.
This has been going on for half an hour and the patience of this woman impresses me. No anger, just encouragement. She has the disposition of a mother, and that is dangerously appealing to me right now.
The lady slumps in frustration, leaning heavily against the rough bark of the pine tree, drizzle veiling her with such enthusiasm her hair drips with it. Watching rivulets snake into her cleavage, I smirk, observing the damsel kicking off her shoes and climbing the tree with the ease of a tomboy.
That's what I was waiting for. Now she can't get down and hold the cat, she is perfectly prone, unable to escape.
Glancing away I'm appeased that there is no traffic traversing the A82. Looking the other way, the village is asleep at this hour, nothing stirs in the Glen of Orchy but the wind, and no movement to discern on the B8074 road either. We're alone Deliah. Do you think because you're in the countryside it is safe in the wee hours?
It's an obscure location and the new home to Deliah and her gray mongrel. The second she arrived the scouts spotted her, too tall for a normal woman she raised the alarm and piqued my interest. She's renting a cottage just up the hill until she decides where she wants to settle. Deliah's running from something and I plan to discover what.
We have excellent hearing and sight, the scouts gathered significant intel in the little time they've had. This close I can smell her name in her perfume and discern the savage in her veins curling her hair in sultry waves. I sense and smell things she'd wish no man knew, and in my knowing I own dominion over the lost. Now she's found and I know she is the progeny I've been looking for. A worthy opponent, a fight I anticipate with such stimulation she stirs my libido.
She's staying a hide's hair away from the railway station and down the block from the primary school. The fact that she's chosen the main road into the highlands and the railroad as close escape routes confirms to me that she's ready to bolt on the fly. And if she is truly desperate she could flee via the burn.
We're a good distance from my lair in Buachaille Etive Mor, but my itching palms confirm it was worth the excursion. We've shadowed her for days but now it's time to mark her, for life.
The pine forest on the opposite bank creaks and whistles with a fresh gale swooping down through the valley.
You can run Deliah, but you can't hide from the slithering night.
Stepping out of the shadows of the copse I stroll until I'm just in view if she glances down. She's a good run from her den as we're on the wrong side of the river, she'd have to sprint like the wind out of the wildwood, over the old stone bridge, and uphill to get to her lodgings, all while holding a cat. I'm tempted to laugh. It's never going to happen. She sacrificed the only flat stretch for the deeply shaded glade, which is where we wait in ambush.
Turning to the trees I flick my gloved hand. I don't need witnesses for this. Three male eagles fly off their perches, calling salutes as they arc into the night, off to clear out her cottage; tonight she vanishes like the Sidhe.
Her cat starts crouching at the eagle calls, staring up, afraid of what the low mist hides.
Your cat recognizes a predator, but you do not. A pussy and a kitty sitting in a tree, one for purrs and one for me.
“Bella, come baby,” she pleads, holding her hand out to her feline.
“You seem to have a problem there. Need help?” I offer, watching the woman lose her precarious balance in shock, snatching wildly at the rough bark she's straddling, her dress so hiked up now she looks like a sprite waiting for the moon to mirror down and lick her.
The haze swirls, pooling gloss on pale skin and glazing long brunette hair. If I was a wolf I'd have bitten her already just to taste the succulence of that magnificent thigh.
Her mottled cat is so alarmed it bales, right into my lightning quick grip.
“You gave me the fright of my life!” she warbles, clutching her chest as if to prevent her heart from bursting through the sternum.
Not likely.
Arching both eyebrows I cradle her cat in a death hold, preventing escape, smirking when the mite starts purring. “Need assistance getting down?” I ask, keeping my tone neighborly.
“If you can just hold her for me, I'll be down in a sec.”
She scrambles down the tree, her dress snagging numerous times to give me a decent view of lithe legs, boosting to crouch at my feet when the drop is accessible.
I'm tempted to put my hand on her head when she impacts in front of my combat boots, as if kneeling to her god. Bless you my child.
Swallowing my laugh I watch her stand, adjusting her soaked frock which is unsuitable for a highland winter's night. Ample cleavage points pert interest at me and it's annoying to have to meet her dark brown eyes instead, muttering idle syllables of conversation, “And who might you be?” Pretending I don't already know.
“Deliah, and you're holding my little terrorist Arrabella. Thanks for the help.” She holds out her hands the way an orphan does when begging, expecting me to relinquish her runt, but I'm not in a charitable mood.
“Aren't you cold?” I ask, using the voice reserved for initiates. “You aren't suitably dressed for nocturnal adventures in the Caledonian forest.”
Her pupils dilate instantly as the bonding begins, and she shakes her head, “For some reason
I don't feel the cold like normal folks.” She gestures for her cat again and I simply hold it higher, enjoying her lack of confidence being short for a change. She's certainly not of common human ilk. Go on, jump for your cat so I can watch your voluminous bosom bounce again.
“Does your pussy usually run off gallivanting on dark nights?” I tease, the laugh in my timbre betraying the innuendo.
“Er...” Big expresso eyes glisten at me with precious guile, her response carefully measured, “She got frightened for some reason, and bolted. The traveling unsettles her, but I was worried wild creatures might be out here. She's got no street smarts.”
Wild creatures indeed.
Offering my appraising smile, I murmur, “Ah, so your pussy runs to the wild when it's afraid. Interesting...” A bit like her keeper. You and your kitty are too similar. You ran straight to me.
She's close enough for me to read her eyes, to delve inside her head, and the inner monologue stretches my enticed nerves even tauter.
That's a good little egret, come to your oligarch.
*
Deliah:
I'm six foot one. There aren't many men who stand head and shoulders taller than me. Now I know what five foot two feels like. It sucks.
Holding out my hands again, I reach for Bella, “You can give her to me.”
“Really? But it's such a delight when a pussy purrs in my hands, I rather like it.” He looks up, “And especially when the little thing is so wet. Let me comfort her.”
He gives me a mischievous smile and I can't help but like the audacious stranger.
“So? Do you like live here or something?” I ask, wanting answers about the intriguing Samaritan.
You don't look like a country bumpkin. All tall and substantial, in dark threads, cutting angles through the drizzle as easily as rocks through a river.
Water droplets shine diamonds on his closely cropped hair, it's so short it looks velvet.
“I live up the mountain. It's safer.”
Alarm dives deep into my marrow, “Safer? Is it dangerous out here?”
I thought it was the perfect nowhere to escape to while I plot my future. It's affordable too.
He steps closer and anticipation starts curdling my coherence, “You will come with me now. Put your shoes on.”
Blinking, I can't seem to dispute. Going with him sounds like the promise of a vampire, too good to resist.
I'm in a vacant headspace, one where instinct takes over and his enigmatic power secures slaves to their master. If it's safer up where he lives, I'm going.
Twisting back to face him, he takes off his black leather jacket, forcing me to don it, then places Bella inside the covering, shielding us both from the impenetrable fog which shrouds the world in selkie's breath.
I'm drowning in his clothing, it's been a very long time since I was made to feel petite.
“It's time you came home,” murmurs seductively in my ear as I'm scooped off my feet, my head dizzy and my thoughts jumbling up.
What's wrong with me? This is insane! Home? Like I stepped out for a spell and forgot my way home because the crows ate the breadcrumbs.
If he is a vampire shouldn't Arrabella be hissing and spitting at him? Yet she's balled up on my chest, my arms around her to prevent her running again, content, and not reacting defensively at all.
Staring up at the determined chin, I examine him.
You don't look like a vampire. What the hell? Vampires don't exist. Why am I even thinking such garbage? And how do you know what a vamp looks like?
“Shhh,” he whispers, looking down at me with eyes catching golden highlights from the ambient atmosphere.
A soft wind keens a ghoulish dirge through the wood, it's sad and melancholy.
The night seems too close, shadows obscure everything and the effect it has is soporific, sapping me entirely, my only lucid impression is that of warm arms holding me as easily as a child.
I've never met a man so tall before, it's nice. He doesn't make me feel like the ugly reject from the playground, the girl who could never get a date because I'm built like an Amazon and make most men look like they're prepubescent. I'm a genetic throwback.
“You're not a genetic throwback, you're mine.”
The voice caressing my inner ear is comfort and safety, seduction and charm, too easy to believe. He personifies an allure which drives the sane to lunacy inside a heartbeat.
Purring vibrates my ribcage and the comfort lulls me into the realm minds flee to when they've ingested hallucinogens, into the dark night reeking of myths and inspiring druidic poetry. I try to speak, to lift my head, to interrogate because on a primal level I know this should be alarming.
When I open my eyes everything is so black I know I must be dreaming already. Gloom swallows us whole as if we walk through a labyrinth of underground tunnels.
Nothing drips, the wind doesn't blow, the air isn't damp, it's a cocoon of cosmic nothingness.
Maybe he's the master of umbra, the addictive gloamshade of the Highlands, the darkness is his ally, where no one has a shadow, and no one can interfere when he smuggles me to safety.
Safety.
I do feel it, and it feels so good.
A furry tale curls around my neck, a warm scarf, fooling me into believing this is all a dream, I'm at home, in bed, and we're cuddling until dawn sings.
Submitting to the sensation I snuggle deeper, exhaling my woes, surrendering to the reassuring drum of a heartbeat beating against my ear while whiskers stroke my cheek.
Chapter 2
In the branches of the tree Yggdrasil
sits an eagle that knows many things.
~ Edda
Deliah:
Sitting up, my heart hammering, I look around the unfamiliar place with alarm drumming my veins numb.
Where the hell am I?
The room is domed with rustic walls of glossy black, the only light coming from a fire so yellow it looks like an eye of brimstone in a charred face. The hearth and walls are so very smooth they appear lacquered, but uneven with the odd undulations you see in ice caverns when they've melted and refrozen.
Panic dances the highland fling across my neurons, bashing my heart so hard it feels like I'm about to have a seizure. I'm bloody shaking like a cobweb in a typhoon.
Get a grip. It can't be him.
Slipping silently off the bed, the floor is gritty, crunching silt under my soles as I sneak to the wide arch leading out of the strange room. My legs wobble as dread robs me of strength; terror coming on strong.
Think Liah, think!
If I was kidnapped and drugged by Dias, I'd have not been left with an open door and freedom of movement. Expecting a swift delivery of volts, or a gun barrel shoved in my face, I peek around the lip of the wall into a dark deserted passage.
It looks just like a gnome's underworld tunnel, the length of it arched and smooth with the same black ice effect as the room I woke up in. Except instead of lights, or torches, approximately every four meters stands a thick column of yellow quartz which is internally lit, imbuing the channel with a sickly sulfuric glow.
I'm in hell.
Am I dead?
Tremors debilitate me as I slide down the wall in the vacuum of unholy silence. Tears dribble hotly down my cheeks as I try my damnedest to remember how I got here. Kneading my temples with enough pressure to stall the violent tremors, my sob echoes back and forth in a mocking ricochet of solitary confinement.
It's not hellishly hot, so maybe this isn't the worst level of hell. Maybe I'm just in … like … uh … purgatory, or something.
How did I die?
Touching my face, my neck, my arms, I still feel like me. Scowling so hard my head starts to pound, I jam my finger against my neck and am reassured by a solid pulse drilling my skin in desperation.
Would I have a heartbeat if I was dead? Would I still get an effing headache 'on the other side'? Yeah, I guess you would in hell. Hell would be hunger, and itching scabs, and relentl
ess chicken pox, and migraines, and toothache, and brain freeze, and every digit would throb the way it does after you've accidentally slammed your fingers in the car door, mutilating them and leaving them raw and swollen, bleeding and so agonizing it incinerates every nerve in your body.
All I have is a headache … still … why the hell am I even here if I'm not dead? And if I am dead where the heck are the angels, or demons, or the people who come to chastise you for nicking apples off Mrs Collins tree, the spiritual 'guide' to give me my options? I don't have a holy aura shining my way through the underworld, all I have is a fucking long corridor of black ice.
The floor is hewn, perfectly flat, and dark as carbon. The walls are freaky is what they are. Akshly, I'm leaning against one and it's not like lying on a mortuary slab. Twisting, I place my palm against the rippled surface. It's a devilish mirror of inky onyx stuff. And it's not cold.
So I'm not on ice, instead I'm in Satan's test tube. Giving it a sharp rap, the sound is swallowed, deadened on impact. Screaming would be useless then. How convenient.
Jesus, if this is Dias's new playground I am never getting out alive.
The thought spurs me, fizzing wildfire panic down every capillary in my body, pillaging my breath and giving me an immediate whirl of vertigo.
Oh god. I have to get out before one of his goons comes to check on me. Shoving to my knees, I crouch, willing myself to stand even though terror has me by the eyelashes and is pulling so hard my corneas sting.
Which way?
Yanking a hair out of my head, I dangle it in front of me with tweezered fingertips to discern which direction the air is moving.
It hangs limp and immobile.
One lone strand saturated with unique DNA can announce so boldly, 'you are fucked'.