Back Cover
Progeny of Evolution: The Other Kind
Paranormal Erotic Romance by Mike Arsuaga
Back Cover
With Samantha “Sam” Johnson, Dr. Jim White, a 130-year-old vampire, has the best sex of his life. It’s a shame she had to be his next victim. But she had a surprise for him. As a lycan, she hunted him as he hunted her. After discovering each other’s secret, they cannot resist the physical attraction. Together they hunt and reach out to others of their kind using technology to form a support group. Sam and Jim become the first lycan/vampire pair bond.
As a mathematics professor and man of science, Dr. Jim rejects the ways and lore of old in favor of modern solutions that, if not acceptable to humans, allow lycans and vampires, calling themselves The Other Kind, to live invisibly, because discovery is their worst fear.
They are a mutation within the human genome. No more than 700 have been alive at one time. They cannot breed with humans or within their own group, but when Sam and Jim get in a family way, a universe of possibilities opens for not only them, but all of their kind with the promise of life being more than hunting, hiding in shadows, and fruitless mating.
Progeny of Evolution: The Other Kind
Mike Arsuaga
MuseitHOT, division of
MuseItUp Publishing
www.museituppublishing.com
ADULT CONTENT: Contains graphic sexual content.
Chapter One
The Girl in the Library
I wouldn’t have met her if it hadn't rained. A spring thundershower swept over the campus. It was the kind that appeared from nowhere, to come and go in a noisy, drenching rush. I arrived at the main library of the southern university where I teach right as the storm hit. Inside, I killed time by wandering aimlessly among the various departments. I remember hearing a deep and lingering roll of thunder while I idled in the children's books section and thought of the bowlers from Rip Van Winkle. In the periodicals, I watched rain roll down the skylight in a solid sheet. The burning odor of disinfectant from the bathrooms in back made my eyes water. Presently I found myself in the lowest level, a space reserved for the oldest and most arcane books.
And there she stood.
Red hair, bright against the rows of dusty and densely packed volumes, caught my eye. The diminutive female under it occupied the top platform of a steel ladder, the heavy-duty kind with wheels for rolling up and down the stacks to reach books on the high shelves. She stood on tip toes, stretched as far as a five-foot, two-inch frame allowed, where a yellowed leather bound volume stubbornly remained a couple of inches out of reach. I took in a whiff. I filtered out the artificial scent she wore and concentrated on those nature gave her. She exuded the aroma of a healthy female near mid-cycle with a trace of cinnamon in her personal scent.
She was also not a vampire.
* * * *
I had almost finished my last prey—a prostitute I found on the coast eleven months ago, a tall woman with a young face. I first caught sight of her leaning against a street lamp on a breezy summer night, adjusting something on the heel of her shoe. I weighed the option of having her for sex only (as I never end a young life unless absolutely necessary), but when we arrived at her place, in full indoor light, the makeup smeared thickly on her face to cover the wrinkles and rough skin texture told me she was pushing fifty. Without an exchange of civilities, she unfolded a Murphy bed, flopped across it on her back, and unceremoniously spread her legs.
“Come on,” she snarled, sounding oh-so-much different from the sweet girl I met outside, “I ain't got all night.” By destroying the anticipatory fantasy I built around her, instead of a profitable and possibly enjoyable sexual encounter, she ensured herself a quick end.
I coldly surveyed the prostitute’s open legs with black stockings up to mid-thigh. They hooked up to a matching garter belt, sheathing the twin columns of custard white flesh, which came together at a black triangle of hair. From within the hair, glistened a yawning pink cavity of flesh. She had already grown moist, a fact I knew because vampires can smell a female’s arousal salivations almost before she knows she is making them. They give good indication of desire, as well as overall health. For Diedra, arrayed before me, the news wouldn’t be good. Besides untreated gonorrhea, she had an emerging case of hepatitis. Neither condition affected me. I presented a wide grin in no way meant for her heart. My eyes projected sensuousness—suggestive of another, darker, motive. Ignoring the warning signs, she pressed ahead. She could not have avoided what I planned to do anyway. The musky smell of her exposed sex filled the room as she rubbed the heel of her palm across the length of my shaft.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You are a big boy,” she said with apparent admiration, although there was no telling for sure. Hookers pay a lot of phony compliments in the daily plying of their trade. I’m used to it.
“It goes with those lovely large hands,” she added.
I put my hands under her hips to position her for penetration, the dimpled flesh of her ass warm and pliable. She raised wide hips and a well-defined pelvic cradle toward me, offering it as if it were a valuable gift I should appreciate. I entered her unceremoniously, in return for the way she spread her legs a few minutes earlier, sinking into her hot passage as far as anatomy allowed. I felt the burn of a wet internal fire. With each thrust I reached deep inside, exploring the nuances of her female cavity, and felt the muscles weakly massage my cock. She uttered faint gasps, building toward the obligatory, most likely false, orgasm designed to expedite my climax and complete our transaction.
As our bodies slapped together, my groin tightened with building tension. Wave after wave of, as yet, ungratified pleasure gathered throughout my body. My muscles strained with urgency, like a locomotive pulling its train of cars to the top of a summit.
“Do it,” she gasped between snatches of breath. “Do it!” I reached into her as deeply as I could and found release. She appeared to drink in the savagery of my orgasm. If she faked it, she did a darned good job. As she threw her head back, exposing the full length of her neck, I went for the jugular throbbing faintly beneath the tight skin of her throat.
The scent of her arousal racing at supersonic speed through her bloodstream inspired my morph. Her eyes widened when I grew a few inches taller, accompanied by a crunching sound in my joints as bones expanded to accommodate the new growth. They sounded like cracking knuckles. Red pigment filled my eyes. The change of skin color, to something like old parchment, contributed to the effect. Fangs shot down from my upper jaw, appearing out of nowhere they always got the prey’s attention and inspired the most fear. It never ceased to amaze me how much strength a human mustered when they realized all the tales were true and incautious disbelief would be their doom. But I was stronger, and when the sedative from my saliva hit the bloodstream they quieted down in a hurry.
For the most part, kills were no longer the bloody scenes the movies portrayed. We naturally produce trace amounts of a chemical in our saliva. A powerful sedative called Kutzu, named after its discoverer, a vampire, Anton Kutzu. In 1909, he invented the compounds we take to stimulate its production in practical quantities. He also perfected its use in preserving prey and shared the knowledge with as many of us as he could find. His accomplishment revolutionized the hunt for prey and saved our kind.
* * * *
As I said, I had almost consumed my last prey. I continued to check out the young woman on the ladder and debated my options. My last three kills came from various locations on the coast. Going back a fourth time might garner unwanted attention. Laura Teague, a former exotic dancer and recent widow of a p
rominent attorney, topped my list for local prey. I previously screened her, an ideal candidate without family or complicated social ties, but she left town on an extended cruise to spend part of her new inheritance. My choices narrowed to a hunt on the coast or exploring possibilities with the girl on the ladder.
Normally I checked out a female from the top down, pausing at the usual places, but given our relative positions I started from the feet. She showed perfect symmetry from the ankles to the shoulders. Her legs and arms were a uniform creamy golden texture, the color of tea lightened and thickened by a lot of milk. Two small feet in tan loafers stood together on tip toes. They came out of the shoes, showing a smooth curve of arch, like a diver poised on the edge of the high board right before she flips into the air. Above them, legs the people who mold the mannequin legs for Victoria’s Secret might have shaped. Two inches below her butt cheeks the hem of a white denim miniskirt made an abrupt horizontal cut, precluding further visual exploration. The denim skirt stretched tightly across slim hips and a firm behind. The girl worked out. Letting my gaze drift farther up, I observed a small waist that I found myself wanting to span with my two hands. Her reaching caused the white chiffon blouse to come unpinned from the waistband of the skirt, revealing glimpses of midriff and the underside of small firm breasts standing erect without the assistance of a bra. I contemplated adjusting my position to get a better perspective for visually exploring the wonders hidden above the hem but thought better of it. I had made up my mind to know her better in the vampire, if not the biblical or social, sense and did not want to blow it by getting caught peeking up her skirt.
This turned out to be a smart move because suddenly she whipped around and overlarge almond-shaped green eyes glittered with aggravation from beneath fiery hair twisted in a coil above her head. They suggested the aloof self-assurance of an animal. Something feline, I thought. Her clean features included a straight nose, except for where it turned up at the end, a wide mouth with thin red-painted lips in a small, oblong face. She stood, small tan fingers clutching the rail of the ladder platform, and leaned toward me. I caught a glimpse of cleavage before she abruptly straightened, realizing what she put on display. “Are you going to just stand there or help me?” she demanded.
It took a second to disconnect from the fantasy of running my hand lightly up between the smooth polished thighs and gather myself. “Be right there,” I said. As good as my word, I bounded up the ladder and fetched the book.
“My name is Samantha Johnson, but everyone calls me Sam,” she said, extending a hand angled slightly downward in the way women have when they want to be noncommittal about an introduction.
I took her hand, small and firm like the rest of her. “Jim,” I answered. “Doctor James White. I teach Tensor Analysis and Freshman Calculus at Carter Hall.”
I still held the book Sam sought. She eyed it pointedly. I took the hint and handed it to her, but not before noticing it was a reference on vampire and werewolf legend. “Is it for a class?” I asked.
“Yes, It's for my Masters in Occult Studies.”
“I don't know much about werewolves, but vampire mythology is a hobby of mine. Perhaps we could compare notes sometime.” I immediately regretted making the offer. Besides the possibility of discovery, I didn’t like to encourage or even have anything to do with the old practices, permanently etched in the legends humans knew and wrote about. I came by enough of those from a segment of my vampire correspondents on the Internet. They wanted to make each feeding a fresh kill in the old bloody way, but humans had become too numerous and technologically advanced. Most vampires accepted the modern hunting methods. They understood the future for vampirism lay in research and science, to find ways to feed that, if not acceptable to humans, at least went unnoticed. If we were to flourish, the answers would not be found in stories of violent kills and old wives tales.
But I made the offer. I could not gracefully back out.
Sam's face brightened. “That’s so fortunate for me. All of my expertise is about werewolves. Will you really help me?”
Still, I thought myself lucky. It had been over forty years since a situation with a woman as interesting and desirable as Sam fell so completely into place. In the other instance, I stayed with her for nearly ten years. Vampires and humans cannot interbreed. When we didn’t have children, she and her devout Catholic family wanted to know why. I didn't dare tell them the truth, and my lie ultimately caused our break up.
Her name was Lois Sutter.
“I'd be glad to,” I answered, deciding further investigation of what might happen between me and this exotic little bundle all wrapped up in chiffon and white denim outweighed concerns of discovery. We climbed down from the ladder and headed toward the library entrance. The rain had stopped. The sun emerged, high and bright in the clearing sky. Humidity hung in the air, weighing it down. Steam rose in silver swirls off the pavement. Before going outside I put on a set of sunglasses for the light. “How do we begin?”
“Let’s go to my place. It's only a few blocks.” She stepped out ahead to lead the way. I hung back, telephoning the office to rearrange my schedule, as I appreciated the wondrous reciprocal motion of Sam's hips and butt flowing smoothly under the denim skirt. She showed a graceful, but purposeful, gait as her small loafer-encased feet clicked down the sidewalk.
Sam's apartment occupied part of the second floor of a duplex, a three room walkup on a quiet, tree-lined street. She slipped in the key and the door sprung open. The inside took me by surprise. She had drawn the shades, admitting almost no outside light. A strong smell of candle wax dominated the interior. Every object in the apartment reeked of it. Every one, that is, except Sam.
Early fathers of the Medieval Church learned how burnt candle wax thwarted our sense of smell. As a result, vampires avoided churches where they lost one of their great survival advantages. This gave rise to the belief we were unholy. Well, that and killing humans for food.
Sam picked up a matchless igniter from a side table by the door and started approximately twenty small candles. In seconds a smell of freshly burned wax reinforced the older odors. On the walls, illuminated by the shimmery scarlet light, were pictures of demons, monsters, and occult scenes, all reprinted from popular novels and texts. Copious and detailed notations, handwritten in marker pen, liberally covered all of them. Dozens of Post-It notes augmented and cross-referenced the topics. Stacks of texts and paper covered a small beat up secretary desk by the opaque living room window. I could not resolve the image of the perky, tight-bodied redhead with the Goth apartment, but I admired the dedication she put toward her field of study. By now, she definitely owned my interest.
“Care for some tea?” Sam asked as I sat on a black vinyl couch to the sound of a tired and musty exhale from the cushion.
“Yes, thanks,” I said to her retreating form, already on its way to the kitchen. “Interesting decorating scheme you have.” A minute later she returned, carrying a tray and tea set. I could tell the set was old, perhaps as much as a hundred years. “Family heirloom?” I asked as she poured a cupful.
“Sort of,” she answered vaguely, taking a seat next to me, surprisingly close considering how recently we met. Even if the candle wax blocked her scent, a hundred and ten years of active sex life taught me to recognize the overture of a come on.
She took a sip, put the cup down, and removed the library book from her backpack on the floor at her feet. “Now, Doctor White, tell me all you know about vampires.” She crossed her legs with a generous display of thigh, leaned forward, and fiddled with a small tape recorder. It rested on the coffee table. I hadn’t notice the device. The unconventional lighting caused it to blend in with the tabletop, but I took full notice of the small round breasts presented by the décolletage of Sam’s blouse. “I'll be recording,” she explained. “I hope you won't mind.” I said I didn't and told her to call me Jim. “For the record,” she continued, “I am recording Doctor James White.” She raised her eyes to me and
winked. “Known as Jim to his friends. And how old are you, Jim?”
I paused, trying to recall the date on my most recent birth certificate. “Thirty-six,” I said.
“You are not being graded on your answers,” Sam said, kidding me about hesitating and patted me briskly right above the knee. “And you were born where?”
“In a little town in Louisiana called La Rose Cutoff.”
When I needed to create an identity I always went to small, out of the way towns.
“His field is mathematics but vampirism is a hobby.” She continued, “The purpose of this interview is to record his perspectives on the vampire lore. How they’re created? What kills them? How they feed? These and other questions we will explore.” She paused, placing the microphone between us on the coffee table. “You're up Doctor Jim.”
I moved closer to Sam, so close I could hear the steady beat of her heart and the other routine noises of life all humans make. “These are only theories of mine based on studies I have made as a hobbyist,” I prefaced tentatively. Sam’ eyes floated a twinkle of encouragement my way. I glanced at the curve of thigh pressed tightly against the white denim skirt and tried again to pick up her scent. I couldn’t. Resigned to proceeding without the advantages my sense of smell gave, I took a breath and pressed on. “My image of a vampire is significantly different from the one most people know. My readings and research, though amateur, suggest vampires, if they exist, are a mutant strain within the human genome, a different branch of humanity. They age slowly and live a long time, but not forever. Maybe two hundred and fifty years.” A small index finger shot upward, signaling me to stop. The tape ran out.
“I’m sorry, Jim.” She stood to get another from the old secretary. I spotted my opening and came up behind her, putting my arms around her tiny waist. “Oh, Doctor Jim, I never suspected,” she flirted, grazing her butt across my building erection as she slipped from my hold. She returned to her seat, popped in a new tape and restarted the recorder. “Please continue,” she requested.
The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series) Page 1