1 Dicey Grenor

by Grenor, Dicey

  Sleepy Willow’s

  Bonded Soul

  The Narcoleptic

  Vampire Series

  Dicey Grenor

  Dicey Grenor Books

  Published by Dicey Grenor

  Independent Author

  Diceygrenorbooks.com

  Copyright © Dicey Grenor, 2011

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Shayla “Bunny” Hebert and Sugarlanddesigners.com.

  Dedicated to: My three babies.

  The rest of the 4Ds.

  Danny, Dasha, Daijon.

  You make it all better.

  You make it all worthwhile.

  Acknowledgments

  Can’t thank my beta readers enough:

  Tasha Wilson, Tiffany Norris, Samantha Bagby.

  You three devoured this book

  And gave helpful feedback like ol’ pros.

  Most importantly, you supported my dream!

  Thanks to BJ Green and Danny Norris:

  For always being the voice of reason.

  The aloof. The direct. The technical.

  The exhorter.

  Thank you for being supportive,

  And ever-encouraging,

  And for NOT reading this book,

  Mom and Dad,

  MiMi and PawPaw.

  Trust me, you don’t want to.

  I’ll write one for you one day.

  Without vampires.

  Thanks for all your help:

  Kendralyn Padmore and Damiane Banieh.

  Always good to have

  Soldiers like you in my corner.

  Love you all!

  Chapter 1

  The club became completely quiet as I lay in my coffin, tightly wrapped like a mummy from my crown to my toenails. I knew it was packed though because I heard pitter-pattering of at least seventy-five racing hearts. Some sat at tables, some stood along walls, and VIPs watched anxiously from the balcony.

  Once I heard the smoke machine fogging the stage and felt the spotlight center on my coffin, I slowly raised the lid and held it there to give their human eyes a moment to adjust to the fog. To focus on me in the darkness.

  Couldn’t see Remi through the white wraps across my eyes, but I smelled him. Sensed his essence, his soul. He was alone at his usual table on the far left near the stage, wearing his usual intoxicating cologne. I smelled his cigarette in the ashtray and liquor in his glass. Knew I’d taste a hint of both in his blood later, but it would still be hot, thick and delicious.

  I waited until the deejay started the music then slowly lifted my upper torso to Marilyn Manson’s “You and Me and the Devil Makes 3”. Planting my palm on the coffin’s edge, I brought one stiffly wrapped leg up and then the other, draping them across the side facing the audience.

  Spilling out of the coffin like running water, I left a trail of cloth behind and landed on the floor gracefully. Then I rolled and rolled in time to the music, gradually unraveling layers of cloth until various parts of my nudeness peeked through. The white cloth looked like puddles with overflowing water glowing against the black coffin and black floor.

  My almond-shaped hazel eyes remained closed while I danced to the music and writhed on the floor, allowing my hands to explore first my plump breasts, then flat tummy, and lastly, my trimmed bush. I rolled again, allowing more cloth to fall away revealing more caramel brown skin.

  After slowly spreading my knees apart, I teasingly undulated in front of patrons closest to the stage while lust oozed from their pores. They were entranced by the gyration of my hips, the rhythm of the music, the fantasy of sex and death.

  My necrophilia clientele comprised of those aroused by corpses, death, near-death experiences, mutilation and…sometimes murder. Sometimes in self-inflicted circumstances. Knowing mummy wraps titillated them more than Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I rolled around in the cloth, letting some drape around me loosely. It fed their frenzy, their passion. Gave them the illusion of death coming to life. Of living deadness.

  Ironically, what they perceived as illusory was in fact, reality. The hallmark of my existence.

  As the song ended, I lay across the coffin lid intimately, as if it were my lover, and licked long strokes across the surface. Then I moved seductively until I straddled the coffin.

  In one swift motion, I pulled the wrap from around my head that released long black tresses unto my lower back and across my breasts. Leaning forward, I stretched until I got the dagger from my coffin bed and raised it skyward with both hands. I ground my hips across the lid as if I were fucking it and moaned loudly. When the music stopped, my moans took over, becoming the music, setting the tempo.

  Remi’s heart almost leaped through his chest with palpitations so loud, it must have been strapped to a microphone and amplifier. Since my finales were his biggest turn-ons, he’d make his way to a private room in back, if one was available, and jack off afterwards. He had enough social grace to do it in private, but at Pit of Hades Fetish Club, he really didn’t have to. Here, there was no shame, no taboos.

  Considering how often I’d performed sex and death scenes with guns, nooses, and swords, you’d think the audience would be ready for anything. But they gasped and screamed, and in some cases vomited, when I plunged the dagger’s stainless steel blade into my chest. They’d known it was coming, yet they were still horrified and awed. And ready to fuck.

  But it wasn’t an act.

  I grunted on impact. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I’d heal. Realism was most important in pulling off a death scene, after all.

  Once I withdrew the dagger, I plunged it again, and then again, grunting from pain each time the blade went into my chest. The sound of the hilt slamming into my skin repeatedly seemed to echo throughout the club.

  Slumping forward, I let my blood run down the sides of the coffin onto the floor, taking comfort in knowing Remi would replenish it later. I kept falling until I slid to the floor in a heap.

  Bright flashes went off left and right as people snapped pictures. Security was everywhere frantically grabbing cameras, admonishing patrons. This was a no-photo-taking establishment unless you paid the club’s photographer to take authorized still shots of or with entertainers in the designated booth. Performances were never recorded or photographed due to graphic content and patrons were never filmed unless they consented. The owner’s respect for privacy gave patrons freedom to let their hair down and enjoy whatever deviant sex they were in to. Everyone knew the rules. You didn’t get in without an invitation, signed contract and approved membership…and definitely no cameras. Violators had their memberships revoked immediately.

  I liked the rule. It prevented patrons from having incriminating evidence of my supernatural powers. So far, everyone assumed I used fake blood and props. Didn’t want anyone
to start thinking otherwise and having proof to boot. They’d wonder how I recovered from fatal wounds night after night. I could be practicing witchcraft or be some other legal supernatural being. But if anyone happened to suspect I was a vampire, I would be clawing myself from a pile of shit as deep as the Grand Canyon with nothing but a fingernail file as my tool.

  Suddenly, I felt strange. My fingertips numbed, my tongue dried. I began trembling and feeling light-headed, but I wasn’t alarmed. It wasn’t a reaction to me stabbing myself. It was my illness, my body’s inability to regulate its sleep cycle. My narcolepsy with a side of cataplexy was about to carry me away to a deep, short sleep.

  Considering I was at the end of my set, it was good timing.

  Hades was silent again as the audience held its breath.

  I inhaled deeply. Exhaled completely. Exaggerated several more deep breaths then spasmed wildly for the sake of dramatizing my finale, my death.

  Then, as if on cue, darkness engulfed me and my narcolepsy put me to sleep.

  When I awoke a short time later, the first thing I noticed was standing applause, cheering, whistling. Next, I noticed a commotion at the corner of the stage. Punch, Hades’s head of security, was dragging Remi back to his table, threatening to put him out. Remi’s jeans were undone and blood was smeared all over his arms and face. My blood.

  Remi had been a regular Saturday night patron for over a year and knew it was against the rules to touch performers while we were onstage. I just hoped he didn’t make Punch put him out of the club. Or make Punch beat him so badly I wouldn’t be able to take blood from him later.

  Punch was a huge Godzilla-size dude, nearly seven feet tall with biceps as wide as fucking watermelons. His smooth dark chocolate skin emanated a wild animal don’t-fuck-with-me warning scent. And though I didn’t know what he was exactly, I knew what that meant. It meant Punch was not someone Remi wanted to fuck with.

  I felt famished and Remi was supposed to be my dinner tonight.

  Shit!

  Chapter 2

  I lay on the floor motionless, eyes closed. I’d killed myself at the end of my set and the dead don’t look at you. Not usually anyway. No sense ruining my fans’ perfect fantasy by moving around now.

  Franco, the club owner, walked onstage with my skull tip jar in one hand, a microphone in the other. With his sexy Spanish accent he shouted, “Everyone show some more love for the luscious and deathly and oh so talented SLEEPY WILLOOOOW!”

  Applause and cheers and whistles erupted again.

  As I peeked at the standing crowd, Franco pointed to the deejay. A split second later, Marilyn Manson blasted through the speakers again and Franco, clad in tight black leather from neck to pointy toe, sat my skull down at the edge of the stage then backed away with his arms out. As he welcomed the audience to show their appreciation, fire shot out of gargoyle mouths lining the walls.

  I smiled inwardly as fans broke their necks to fill my skull with cash. I loved that they loved my performance. Made the pain worthwhile. Goes to show my aunt had been right about performing arts being my calling. That I should utilize my gifts regardless of what folks like my parents said. Too bad she would never see me onstage since she’d died several years ago after falling asleep behind the wheel of a car. She’d had narcolepsy also.

  Two bouncers wearing only leather jockstraps grabbed my brimful skull and dragged me backstage.

  Once we were hidden by curtains, I thanked them, collected my earnings and headed toward the dressing room. Bloody Valentina, Sweet Cinnabuns and Purely Onyx were standing along the wall clapping in unison. When Valentina playfully popped my ass with her whip, I remembered I was still buck naked. Still covered in blood.

  Valentina had chalky white skin that always smelled of sweat and leather, blue eyes with clumpy dark eyeliner, and platinum blonde, bobbed hair. She was wearing the same blood red patent leather Madame I’ma-whoop-your-ass outfit as she did every set, but it didn’t matter. Her fans didn’t come to critique her fashion versatility. They came to get beat, humiliated, dominated. Valentina was best at it because she was a true sadist and she just didn’t give a fuck.

  She was up next once the stage was cleaned and new patrons entered, old ones left. Normally, I’d stick around to watch her show since her bondage demonstrations promised bloodshed. It was disappointing to see all that blood wasted, but eating them wasn’t her thing. It was mine. And tonight, I didn’t trust myself not to pounce on her masochistic volunteers when she lashed their delicate skins with her whip.

  “Woohoo! Way to go, girl!” Cindy said. Her stage name was appropriately Sweet Cinnabuns because she had a fat booty and I swear she smelled like cinnamon. “I don’t know how you did it, but it looked real as hell.”

  My colleagues and I didn’t bother questioning each others’ trade secrets. Best to leave each performer to her mystery…

  Suddenly, my nostrils flared. I licked my lips. Stopped in my tracks.

  Before I knew it was happening, my fangs started protruding. My mouth watered so badly I was afraid to speak, scared saliva would spill out.

  In an effort to redirect my attention, I started thinking about lightening storms, toilet bowl cleaners, lice…anything to get my mind off my bloodlust. It was taking over and I couldn’t let that happen.

  But she wasn’t making it easy tonight.

  Underneath the smell of all that sweet cinnamon was the undeniable salty smell of her blood. She was menstruating and damn it, I wanted to bite her, see if she tasted as good as she smelled—sure sign I’d gone too long without feeding because friends didn’t eat friends. When controlling my urges got to be this hard, it was trouble. I was trouble.

  Cindy was a gorgeous Latina with shoulder-length brown and blonde mixed curly hair, coffee brown eyes and edible lips. But more than anything, I loved her sweet Latina scent. Made me want to stick out my tongue and lick the air whenever she was nearby.

  No wonder she specialized in sitophilia…food fetishism, that is. She sure made me hungry.

  Feeling like myself again, I turned to face them. “Thanks, guys. Thanks for wrapping me up, Cin,” I said once my fangs retracted. “The audience loved it.”

  “Yeah, especially that Remington guy,” Onyx chuckled and the other two joined in.

  Damn it to hell, she wasn’t looking too bad her damn self in her pleated mini-skirt, black-rimmed glasses, ponytails, and Lolita knee-high socks. While she didn’t fuck kids or anything (not that I knew of anyway), she catered to men who liked young, innocent girls. Pedophilia and bestiality were my least favorite fetishes because they didn’t involve consenting adults, but Onyx was one of my favorites at the club.

  There was just something about her I couldn’t put my finger on.

  For one, Onyx was the only woman I knew who could play a teenager at her age. She must have discovered the fountain of youth with her slate gray eyes, smooth pecan brown skin, layered black hair with highlights and firm, voluptuous body. But she was a long way from high school, closer to forty. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was a vampire. Thing is, she hated blood and violence, which meant she usually stayed far away from Bloody Valentina and a fair distance from me.

  Secondly, she took her innocent girly role too damn seriously. Said she felt she was doing a service to the community by letting men take their fantasies out on her and helping them stay away from real girls.

  Fine. Didn’t mean she had to act virginal twenty-four-seven though. Never sitting with her legs uncrossed. Never a drop of makeup. Never a curse word.

  Corrupting her then eating her up would be ideal, but tonight I’d settle for a bite of her neck…or lower.

  I’d walked up close to Onyx without even thinking about it.

  All three women were staring at me, waiting to see what I’d do next. Onyx’s heart was thumping wildly and she looked scared. Valentina looked amused, Cindy, curious. I shook my head, stepped back, and went to clean the blood off me.

  I needed to find Rem
i and feed ASAP.

  By the time I got out of the shower, my wounds had healed. I donned a black sweat suit with sneakers, put my hair in a ponytail and pulled the hood over my head. Dressing blandly was one of the ways I blended in when I wasn’t onstage. As a human, I was cute. As a vampire, stunningly flawless. That just came with the territory.

  Don’t get me wrong—I enjoyed being physically impeccable and sexually irresistible, but there were downsides. Back when we were legal and public, humans had discovered a lot of our hidden talents. Amongst other things, they’d discovered the same magic that kept us undead also gave us perfect looks every single night. We didn’t age. Didn’t get pimples or wrinkles. Never had a bad hair day. So we’d become easier to spot. And that’s not good when being spotted carried a final death sentence.

  Armed with my mini-phlebotomy kit in my pocket for safely withdrawing fresh blood, I headed in the direction of the private rooms. I hoped Remi was in one and not on his ass in the parking lot asphalt. Lot of good he’d do me there.

  I peeked in a few rooms and saw all kinds of nasty sex, but no Remi.

  “Sleepy Willow,” a masculine voice called from the other end of the hall, “I’ve been looking for you.”

  I froze. That wasn’t Remi.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I enjoyed your show tonight. Was hoping I could enjoy some private entertainment,” he said.

  He hadn’t answered my question. He’d told me what he wanted instead. Bad sign.

  “Hades isn’t that kind of club, Mister, uh…”

  “I’d really like to spend time with you. I know you girls are encouraged to…mingle.”

  “I’m not an escort or a prostitute, but I’m sure you’ll find someone to indulge your fantasies in the Graveyard room.”