LUCIEN’S KHAMSIN
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
1056 Home Ave.
Akron, OH 44310
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0166-4
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
LUCIEN’S KHAMSIN Copyright © 2005 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Lucien’s Khamsin has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Lucien’s Khamsin
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Queen Mary 2: Cunard Line Limited Corporation
Mack Truck: Mack Trucks, Inc.
Prologue
13th Century Hungary
Lucien Korvina’s dreams were crimson-filled—the color streaking down walls, splashing upon doors and windows and floors, pooling upon the cobblestones, seeping into the earth.
Scenes from the village where he had been born and had lived the first thirty-two years of his life passed before him in a collage of painful memories—the bell in the church tower slowly ringing soundlessly for Sunday Mass, a kindly priest leading a quartet of alb-clad altar boys, little girls in white dresses and veils marching behind little boys dressed in ties and suits handed down from older brothers, parishioners silently laughing as they brought up the rear of the procession.
In his dreams he relived the entire Mass in which First Communion had been bestowed upon his daughter Lilly, his only child. He attended once more the all-day parties held at the homes of his cousins, his friends, his fellow workers whose children had partaken of the Holy Bread and Wine for the first time in their young lives. And into the early evening, he rejoiced once more with his wife Magdalena as they stood over Lilly’s bed and watched the pretty one sleep.
But then sound had returned with a roar of wind, a shriek of lightning, the thundering of horse hooves in the night. The ground trembled and the sound of breaking glass filled the night.
His dreams became prolonged with sound—a piercing scream here, a gurgling moan there, somewhere a pitiful cry of horror cut off in mid-vibrato, a frightened child’s whimper as her life was taken.
With hands arched into claws, Lucien grasped the blanket covering him and rent the fabric as his hateful dreams continued on unabated. It wasn’t until his own scream reverberated through the stone chamber that he woke with eyes flared, nostrils distended and mouth opened wide as he fought for breath, sucking in gasps that were loud and fluid-filled.
Throwing aside the blanket, Lucien rose and went to the window where thick drapes covered the small opening. He put trembling hands upon the fabric with the intention of throwing the panels aside, but a violent tremor overtook him so that all he could do was fall to his knees, the draperies closed tightly in his fists.
“Why won’t you let me die?” he whispered. “Why must I relive the horror every day?”
Off in the distance the angelus bell began to chime. The old priest would be up in his tower bidding what was left of his flock to repeat the trio of Hail Marys that would hopefully help to save their souls. The only trouble was there were no parishioners left in the village and certainly none in the mountain abode where Lucien resided. They were all long gone with only the feeble old priest to genuflect before the altar on arthritic knee, his mournful entreaties to his god unheard by any human ear save his own.
Lucien hated the sound of the bell and slapped his hands over his ears to block out the lonesome tolling. Three times a day the angelus rang—at six of the morning, at noon and at six of the evening. Though Lucien never heard the morning and midday tolling, his body—and what was left of his soul—absorbed it where he lay and the pain was nearly unbearable.
“Stop!” he shouted and bloody tears filled his eyes. Sinking to the floor in a fetal position, he writhed in agony until the last echo of the silver bell stilled over the valley.
Sunset was yet an hour away but already many of the inhabitants of Modartha Keep were rousing from their day-enforced slumber. The encroaching night beckoned like a sultry lover as the wind died down and nocturnal creatures ventured from their dens to scrounge. Soon, the thick draperies that covered the keep’s small windows would be thrown aside and the night air breathed in deeply.
And death on black-clad wings would streak across the land once more.
* * * * *
21st Century America
The missiles hit New York City on June 21, 2045 decimating the entire city and the entire eastern seaboard from Maine to South Carolina. Simultaneously, bombs exploded all over Europe, completely destroying England, France, Germany and Spain before the first retaliatory strike was launched into the Middle East from whence the destruction had rained.
Within a matter of hours, the world as it was known at that time was no more. Millions of people lay dead or dying, wondrous landmarks lay toppled in ruins or had been disintegrated upon impact. Rivers and reservoirs were contaminated with bodies and chemicals. Power stations had simply vanished with a push of a button. Those lucky people aboard airplanes or taking their ease upon cruise ships were spared the first wave of terror only to land at their destination and find their world destroyed by power-hungry men with no thought to the future.
Left homeless, the remains of humanity wandered from seaport to seaport, town to town in search of uncontaminated water and food. Many starved, many committed suicide for they could not endure the hardships facing them, and many simply vanished never to be seen again. Disease was rampant and one horrible, deadly virus sprang up to infect a third of the world’s remaining population. Simply called the plague, the disease spread from continent to continent and in its wake, bodies were left to rot where they fell.
There were amid the chaos of wandering survivors, those who had hidden for centuries—keeping to themselves lest their own sub-world be discovered and destroyed. They came slowly from their hiding places and ventured out to eke out their own existence.
Among those who made themselves known after the world had been thrust into nuclear winter and worse were the Revenants, a race of people who needed to consume blood to survive. Unlike their vicious counterpart—the v
ampires—the Revenants looked after their human herds, keeping them safe, taking only enough blood to keep themselves alive, providing food and shelter and food so the humans would—if not thrive—at least go on.
Chapter One
“We had a new shipment come in tonight,” Lord Petros Demakis informed Lucien. He consulted his clipboard. “Nine women and four men.” When his friend did not answer, Petros looked up.
Lucien was leaning against the window frame, staring out at the moonless night. His arms were folded across bulging pectoral muscles that strained his fine white shirt. Midnight black hair fell in waves to well below his shoulders and shown thickly from the deep V of the shirt. Though the pale green eyes could not be seen, Petros knew they would be cold as ice and filled with a bitterness nothing seemed to be able to alleviate.
“Do you want one of the women?” Petros asked.
A vicious snort began Lucien’s answer. “Do I ever want one of them?” he snapped.
“It has been many years, my friend,” Petros said quietly. “Surely you…”
Lucien turned his face toward Petros and the fury that tightened his handsome features flashed in the depths of his verdant eyes and in the white teeth that shown from behind lips pulled back in a snarl.
Petros bowed his head. “Your pardon, my Prince. Sometimes I forget myself,” he said.
Lucien rolled his eyes then returned his attention to the window. “What news of Stavros?” he asked.
“There is nothing to report at this time. They have been quiet of late. Nikos’ last raid depleted their herd so they’ve been required to go hunting for strays in the hills.”
“If he finds one stray, he’ll be doing good,” Lucien stated.
“Oh, yes. One of the new arrivals tested positive for the antibody,” Petros informed Lucien.
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Has it been cut apart from the others?”
“Aye, it has. Christina is very careful with her lab specimens.”
Lucien pushed away from the window and walked to his desk. “Any word from Sibylline?” he asked in a casual tone that belied the muscle grinding in his lean cheek.
“None.”
“She’s still pissed at me,” Lucien said then shrugged. “She can hold a grudge longer than any Volakisian bitch I’ve ever met.”
Petros smiled. Lucien and Sibylline had once been lovers but that had been nearly a hundred years in the past. Today, they were friends but it had taken decades to reach a calm plateau between them. In the past, their relationship had been a feast of unbridled sex as Lucien tried to bury his painful memories in the willing body of beautiful Sibylline. When the memories persisted and grew even more agonizing, the Prince of Modartha turned completely away from his mistress and withdrew into a strict state of abstinence.
“That is unnatural, Korvina!” Sibylline had shouted. “You need the release sex can give you.”
“You need the release, Pretty One,” Lucien had replied. “I don’t.”
Furious that her lover would deny her the use of his powerful body, Sibylline had withdrawn from Mordatha and had not been seen in many years.
Sitting down behind his desk, Lucien reached up to rub at the headache that had been plaguing him for several days.
“The pain is no better?” Petros asked.
“Worse if anything,” Lucien replied. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it was Sibylline hexing me again.” He frowned. “That’s something she would take great delight in doing.”
“Have you consulted with Christina?”
Lucien flung out a negligent hand. “She’d just tell me to get laid,” he complained.
“Isn’t that what cured the last bout of migraines?” Petros inquired.
Lucien’s frown deepened. “Aye, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give into that bitch’s punishment this time. I’ll endure it despite her.”
Petros had been lifelong friends with Lucien, having been the only other survivor of the massacre in the valley centuries earlier. Though they had played together as children, loved the same woman as young boys, and gone through the same torment as grown men, there was always the dividing line between he who had become a prince and the son of a lowly shepherd to stay Petros’ tongue. But the terrible pain reflected in Lucien’s eyes emboldened Petros for he hated to see his friend suffer.
“And if you can’t?”
Lucien drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. The pain had intensified as they spoke. It was almost as though he could feel Sibylline’s wicked hand twisting the blade into his skull just above the right eye. Soon, the brutal nausea would begin and he would be forced to take to his bed. Such weakness infuriated him.
“Better to have Petros send you one of the new arrivals now and get it over with,” Christina said from the door.
The men looked over at the dark-skinned healer, each feeling the tightening in his groin as he took in her sultry beauty. Both looked away, ashamed of their physical reaction for Christina embraced only women in her pursuit of relationships.
“Do you have a suggestion?” Lucien growled, knowing she did.
“The one who has the antibody is a quite lovely specimen. Intelligent, too, from what Marcus said.”
“I hear she is very pretty,” Petros agreed.
“And very spirited,” Christina said.
Lucien leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “That might prove interesting.”
“This one will give you a run for your money, Luc,” Christina laughed.
“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Petros suggested. “Sight unseen.”
Slowly switching his gaze to Petros, Lucien smiled nastily. “Is that a challenge, Demakis?”
Petros cocked a shoulder. “You can take it as such if you like, my Prince.”
“Oh, ho!” Christina said with a chortle. “When he calls you that he has thrown down the gauntlet, Lucien!”
“Aye and he’s done it twice in one night,” Lucien complained.
“Oooh, how interesting! So what’s it to be?” Christina asked. “Will you accept his challenge or take to your bed until you realize you can no longer endure the pain?”
“I am surrounded by peasants aching to know the kiss of the cat,” Lucien grumbled.
“As though you’d order it,” Christina scoffed.
“I might surprise you one day, Healer.”
“She has blonde hair,” Christina told him. “And blue eyes.”
Lucien sighed. “All right.”
“A tiny waist and large tits. Long legs and…”
“I said all right!” Lucien growled. “Don’t belabor the point, Tina!”
Christina and Petros exchanged a triumphant look.
“If you high-five him, I’ll have you flayed, Liatos! I swear I will,” he warned the healer.
“Promises, promises.” Christina laughed as she headed for the door. “I’ll even make sure the little bitch is bathed, shaved and perfumed for you, sweet Prince. How’s that for service?”
“You’re becoming a regular procurer, Tina,” Petros joked.
“Better a procurer than a horny Revenant who hasn’t sunk his cock into a female in the gods know when,” she responded.
Petros started to chuckle but broke off into a pretend cough when he saw the murderous glower shooting from Lucien’s eyes. He put his fist to his lips though his hazel eyes were snapping with humor.
Christina wagged her lush gray eyebrows and exited the room, laughing as she went. She had no compunction about showing disrespect to her prince.
“One of these days I’m going to hammer a stake through that witch’s black heart,” Lucien swore, rubbing at his temple.
“Why don’t you take a cold shower instead?” Petros asked. “Doesn’t that usually help?”
“I don’t think it will tonight,” Lucien answered. “I’m starting to see that damned aura thing.”
“Then go lie down,” Petros admonished. “I’ll go
find this new one and bring her to you.”
Lucien didn’t reply to the light command. He simply turned and went into his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind him. That he didn’t slam the portal was a good indication the man was in acute pain.
Petros gave orders to the guards outside Lucien’s door that the prince was not to be bothered again that evening. Making sure the men were well-armed—their pikes as sharp as a needle—he left in search of the new addition to the herd.
The pens were on the lowest level of the keep, enclosed within the inner bailey. The compound smelled rank. As Petros passed through the main gate into the women’s corral, he wrinkled his nose for the scent of unwashed bodies and the tart odor of menstrual fluids made his belly turn. He’d never noticed a smell before and grew a bit concerned.
“How many are having their flow?” he asked one of the herders.
The man looked at a list hanging upon the wall of the guard hut. “Five are just starting, eight are in the middle of their cycle, and two are on their last day if all goes well.”
“What of the new ones? Any of them bleeding?”
“No, milord. Of the nine, two have had their female organs removed and five are nearing their cessation time. The others are of childbearing age but are supposedly weeks from their cycle.”
“Five nearing cessation,” Petros said, shaking his head.
“We harvest what we can find, milord,” the herder apologized.
“Aye, well, blood is sustenance and we take what we can while we can, eh? How many are in the herd now?”
“Fifty-nine, milord. That includes the ten we were able to rescue from Prince Stavros.”
Petros waited for the herder to open the gate to the pen, casting a practiced eye about him at the females huddled along the high barbed wire fence. Most turned away, hiding their faces from him, but two glared back at him with impotent, undisguised rage. Neither of the angry women had blonde hair.
Lucien's Khamsin Page 1