Bite Me: A Vampire Anthology

by Cain, Addison

And so it was that the peeler came upon them. A policeman, his uniform stinkin’ of sweat, of a long night roaming the streets, but most of all, the heady flavor of a woman, not even minutes old. Trouser snake still wet and ripe with lusty girth.

  He’d been a bad boy, he had. A man not quite as dedicated to his calling as he might otherwise pretend.

  Myron coughed, wheezing before he spat a glob of phlegm into the dirt, and said, “Evenin’, copper. Fine night for a walk, eh?”

  The bobbie squinted, adjusted himself, then fingered the polished wooden truncheon hanging from his belt. “State your business.”

  “Just had a bit of carriage trouble,” Myron drawled, gesturing at their disheveled appearance, the lie coming easy. “Damned horse lost a shoe, then broke its fool leg. Had to bash ‘is brains in with a rock, we did.” Teeth flashed in what might have passed for a grin, but wasn’t. “Poor fella. Took some doing.”

  The copper swallowed a grimace, moving to grip his truncheon with white-knuckled fingers. “An unfortunate loss, t’be sure.”

  Myron nodded, taking Axton’s elbow in a punishing grip that stopped the fledge from ruining his game. “Bought the ol’ nag with the last of my sterling.” He laughed, clapping Axton on the shoulder hard enough to make the fledge’s lips part on an emasculating squeak. “If I were a desperate man, I’d sell the boy ‘ere to the flesh mongers for bein’ careless with my property.”

  Face an unsightly shade of burgundy, the mortal man shook his head. “Got none o’ that sort in this town, gents. Ungodly, that. Prostitution.”

  At this, Myron made little effort to hide what he was. Trusting the shadows to keep his secrets, he said, “Ah. Hear that, my boy? A man of god.”

  Saliva pooling beneath his tongue, Axton’s chest began to rumble, too quiet to be heard by mortal ears, but rising in pitch all the same. The demon growing tired of this game his Dam had never made him play.

  The mortal cleared his throat, peppering the air with the mouth-watering stink of terror. “You’ll be wantin’ a drink at the tavern, I should think. Best to be off the road these days. Dangerous creatures about, lads. I’ll keep on and take a look at your carriage, eh? See what can be done afore mornin’.”

  Myron twiddled his fingers, and offered a hasty bow. “Obliged, sir. An’ if we were wantin’ something a little… more than drink?”

  “Tavern,” the copper said, gruff. Cheeks flushed with the pulse of blood beneath his skin.

  And with that, Myron bid the man adieu! Kept one hand on Axton’s elbow, while the other continued to play the invalid with his damned cane. It wasn’t until the mortal was out of sight that Axton said, “Why let ‘im go? We’ve no carriage, an’ he’ll know the lie in a few moments. We’ll have the law spoiling our hunt.”

  To this, Myron only grinned then dropped the ruse of weakness. Lashing at the underbrush with an otherworldly strength that was tempered by petulance, of all things. The careless behavior of a young boy scarcely out of his nappies, and not a night creature well into his hundreds. “Said you’d see, didn’t I?”

  Wary and weak with all that he’d lost, Axton held his tongue. Nearly chewed it in two as he watched his Grandsire through slitted eyes. Vigilant. Ready for any intended harm the master might inflict while separated from Selma’s loving—if sullied—embrace.

  “Don’t pout, m’boy. That lower lip gives me all sorts of nasty ideas…” Grinning, the bigger man clapped him on the shoulder, sending the fledge staggering forward. Arms pinwheeling. “’S’all about the hunt, eh? Said you’d learn proper-like. From a master,” he pressed, puffing out his chest. “Can’t have a lad of our noble line taught the womanly arts.” Myron laughed, jiggling his prick. “They don’t call me the Wraith of Galway ‘cause I dress the nancy ponce to lure in the poofs. No, you’ll see m’boy,” he said, wicked smile hanging from his lips. “You’ll see.”

  Just what Axton would see, he wasn’t brave enough to ask. But it was then, watching the mercurial shift of temper between man and demon, that Axton realized he might have an advantage over the elder after all. Oh, he was outclassed in strength and experience, no hope in arguing that for his ego’s sake. If Myron decided to end this charade and dispose of Axton in a flash of claws and teeth, there was very little to be done about it except suffer.

  But Myron’s demon was a churlish, petty thing seeming to exist with little regard for anything but inflicting suffering wherever it could.

  So Axton held his silence and kept his eyes lowered. Assumed the air of a submissive, terrified sop, and ignored the screaming hunger chewing holes through his stomach.

  The moon was cresting the rooftops when Myron slipped into a side alley beside the tavern the copper had directed them to. And when the elder finally hunkered down behind a heap of trash and other refuse, Axton was barely a step behind. Curious as to how his elder could justify his manliness while skulking in the gutter with the rats.

  “It’s simple maths, m’boy,” Myron cooed, settling in for what looked to be a lengthy stay. “A numbers game.”

  Axton lifted a brow, waiting for the other to continue this infernal lesson.

  Nothing else was forthcoming, it would seem. And for a time, it was deadly quiet in their alley, ‘cept for the rats and the wriggling maggots.

  When the mouth of their alley darkened, Myron uncoiled at last.

  It was a strumpet, her posture crouched and twisted. Hunched with disease gained by her unsavory trade, to be certain.

  Lip curled, Axton clung to the shadows in the vain hope that Myron wouldn’t be tempted by this strumpet, wishing for his Dam’s discerning palate. She’d never dare to feed him gutter trash! His darling night princess’s tastes leaned toward the finer sort. The blue bloods, with their fancy powders and sweet perfumes. Those who were too refined to scream, even when she suckled away at their essence.

  Limping once more, Myron made himself small. Appearing weak, though if the moonlight had been just right, the street urchin might have seen the truth.

  But it was too late.

  “Penny to strum the goods?” she croaked upon noticing them. And, without a moment’s hesitation, lifted her skirts. Displaying a vulgar glimpse of her molted quim. Unleashing a stench unholy enough to make even a demon recoil. A stench thick with the salty scent of the very lawman who was surely looking for them, even now.

  Myron was utterly unconcerned. Throwing off the cane with a flourish, he approached the woman with open arms. “Have a bit of a chore for you, poppet,” he said, pulling her deeper into shadows. “A bit o’ nasty unpleasantness, but it’ll be over right quick.”

  Swiping at a running nose with the back of her grimy sleeve, the urchin went to her doom with a spotty brown smile. “Two of you, eh? ‘S fine.” She spat in the palm of one grubby hand, lifted her skirts anew, then smeared the brackish liquid over her cunny. “Gonna cost two pennies. Fer each of ye.”

  Disgusted, Axton gave over to the demon to spare himself this unpleasantness. Feeling the man’s mask fall away as the demon rushed forward. Fangs extending, his flesh grew tight with the change.

  “Oh, lord above,” the prostitute gasped. “Jesus in heaven. Help—”

  Before she could muster a proper scream, however, Myron’s claws split the skin wrapped tight around her windpipe. Spraying Axton’s face, chest, and arms with gore. Ambrosia, no matter the disease and the rot.

  Unleashed, the fledge indulged himself. Caught the twitching strumpet, and with nary a moment’s hesitation, sank his fangs deep. Pulling the last dregs of her life through the gash where her scream gurgled and hissed.

  “That’s a good boy,” Myron cooed, stroking his fingers through Axton’s hair. Smearing blood all over the fledge, then wiped his hands clean on the back of Axton’s shirt. “Drink up, boy. Take it all, or you’ll create a Drudge. That’s it. Don’t stop.”

  Growling at the larger male, Axton gulped down the nourishment as the other paced around him. Sending the Chyld into the possessive rage of a feral dog o
ver its kill.

  Relenting, Myron backed off and headed for the mouth of the alley with a dance in his step. “All yours, m’boy.”

  Lost to it, Axton replenished himself. Taking great, sucking gulps while his Grandsire stood guard.

  It wasn’t until the blood began to clot and cool that his good sense returned to him. Wasn’t until the demon had been soothed, and the man took the reins, that Axton began to suspect something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  Wasn’t until the first blow came that he even realized the shadow standing at the mouth of the alley wasn’t his Grandsire.

  It was a gaggle of coppers, all shouting and screamin’ their horror at the scene they’d stumbled upon.

  Cringing and confused, Axton covered his head, spattering those fancy blue uniforms with droplets of gore even as the billy clubs began to fall…

  Chapter 6

  Coming fresh off a feed, the fledge gave over to the demon.

  He snarled, lips peeled back from gore-soaked fangs. Slipping beneath a swinging arm, he dodged a meaty fist, then hopped over the upswing from a well-aimed kick.

  And then it began.

  Axton pounced, launching himself over six startled, helmeted heads, and landed on the largest of the coppers. Buried his teeth in the soft bit beneath scruffy, fleshy jaw, and drank. Pulling mouthful upon mouthful of tangy bliss through his teeth, the fledge purred as he gorged. Growing thick and sated, even as the bloodlust o’ertook him.

  With one gleaming, demonic eye fixed to the remaining humans, he flexed his jaw. Making sure they saw the truth of the thing when he crunched.

  The monster.

  Pulverizing bone and sinew, Axton twisted his head back and away. Spraying the cramped quarters with the unholy scent that sent him into a blind rage. That saw his cockstand bulge, even as he leapt from the first and landed on the second’s chest.

  This one fell to his claws, and though the stink of terror caught the demon’s interest, a mighty crack landed at the back of Axton’s skull before he could have ‘imself a taste.

  Roaring, the demon spun.

  Clawed hands caught sweat-slicked cheeks and twisted. Not stopping until the sounds of shattering bone saw the policeman crumple, limp and danglin’ in his hands. This one, Axton noted, would wait until he’d dispatched the rest, for not a drop of that precious crimson delight had been spilt while the heart still fluttered and kicked. Paralyzed, but still breathing.

  Had himself a tasty little snack, once the fun had ended.

  Ripping and tearing, the fledge moved on. Slashed. Pulled. Rent flesh from bones and made ribbons of muscle.

  Took some blows, too, for one of the coppers was a seasoned veteran. Agile with his billy club in a way that made the demon slow, take note. Appreciate.

  Twas a thing of raw beauty, that. Deadly and fierce, the man moved with a grace worthy of pause, despite being a brute. A mountain, easily twenty stone or more in weight.

  A dual-toned growl rattled through Axton’s ribs. An inhuman thing that perfumed air already saturated with the earthy scent of death, for there was only one man standing between he and freedom—and he reeked of terror. Only one obstacle remaining before fledge could return to the nest and confront his Grandsire for setting this most devious trap.

  “I seen your like before, demon,” the human said, voice a deep, battle-hardened rumble that spoke nothing of the fear Axton could taste.

  “Never one like me,” Axton returned, sidestepping a knee twisted out of joint.

  The giant adjusted his grip. “Ye might kill me this night, ‘tis true. But your kind never lasts long. You’ll run into a slayer. She’ll balance the scales.”

  Axton licked his palm, slurping up the blood of this man’s comrades. “A slayer?”

  “You are an unseasoned one, eh?” A laugh that had no rights to exist burst from the giant’s lips. “Perhaps I’m not quite done after all. Yer only a wee baby demon, an’ I’ve kilt many o’ those in my day.”

  “Come on then,” Axton purred, head cocked. Feet braced. “Let’s have us some fun.”

  * * *

  “Where’s my sweet boy? My lad. My Chyld,” Selma asked, voice a satiated sing-song Myron hadn’t heard in far too long.

  “Off to prove ‘imself worthy of our line, he is. If the poor git isn’t back by sun-up, well”—the elder spread his hands. Shrugged—“we shall find you a new pet. A better one. An’ this time, you’ll pick one with a tight little cunny for Daddy, hmm?”

  Selma slid from her perch, brushing one of the thralls aside as she approached her maker. “But I trained my boy to use his hands, just so.”

  Tangling his fingers in her hair, Myron licked the slender column of her throat. Leaving his scent to mark his claim. “An’ I said we’ll get you a better toy in the next town over, pet. A nice thrall to do exactly as you say. Keep us fed when the pickins is sparse.”

  At this, both thralls dropped to their knees at Myron’s feet. Wrists splayed atop their thighs. Demure and submissive—just the way a woman ought t’ be.

  With a careless swipe of his forefinger, Myron opened a vein on either wrist for his girls. Purring when they rushed to feed. When their blunt human teeth nipped and teased.

  “Don’t want a nasty thrall,” Selma said, succumbing to a proper pout. “My boy is winter-ripe, Daddy. You’ll see.”

  Offering a sinister smile, Myron cut the thralls off with a shrug. Stretching, he arched and twisted, then caught his Chyld by her forearm. “Go on an’ wait for him, then. I’ve other things to occupy my time with.” He crooked a finger at the thralls, grinning when they fell in line. Crawling after him on hands and knees.

  Glaring, Selma did as commanded and stomped to the mouth of their cave with nary a stitch to cover her creamy flesh. Arms crossed beneath her meager bosoms was the only thing that saw those gentle swells bulge—the lack, her most grievous shortcoming, so far as Myron was concerned.

  Purely for spite, Myron claimed a generous handful of titflesh from his blonde thrall while Selma watched. Crushing the fatty bubbies—one after the other—until the little slag mewled for him to stop and his Chyld turned away with a sneer of disgust.

  “Ready her for me,” he barked, narrowing his eyes at the brunette. “I’ll be takin’ her ass.”

  Bending to her work, the brunette obeyed. Spreading the blonde’s cheeks, she gazed at her master with eyes that shone with adoration and called on Myron’s prick to swell. Enthusiastically.

  The demon broke through his grin, its appetite for hedonism bottomless. Freeing himself, Myron stroked his length as he watched his pets play. Watched a pink tongue wriggle through what had once been a tight ring of muscle before he’d had his fun.

  Tugging on his sack, the master pulled his whole package to sit atop his breeches. Knees spread. Fist pumping. And when that first drop of dew glistened at his helm, Myron stood, pleased when the brunette fled his approach. Leaving a hole gaping in wait for him to fill it.

  Snarling, he seated himself in one. Balls tightening at the pained squeal he’d forced from the blonde’s throat, and shamed t’admit, he spilt and gushed on that first stroke. Only a drop, twas true, but enough that he couldn’t stop himself from taking more.

  Withdrawing, he spread those creamy globes until just his helmet remained. Watching for a moment as his thrall clenched, as her flesh went white ‘round his tip as she tried to swallow him whole and keep herself full.

  “Greedy girl.” He plunged forward. Hard enough that his balls mashed against sodden quim—listening as the demon whispered depravity, etched it into the very bone inside his skull.

  Twas what Myron lived for.

  “Up here,” he snapped, taking the brunette by her hair, forcing her to mount the blonde so that he might see all the holes available to him as he worked toward orgasm.

  Mewling, the thrall obeyed, her eyes going glassy as she spread. As she rubbed her juicy little cunt across the prominent ridge of the other’s spine. Working not for her own
pleasure, for that was not a thrall’s purpose, but for his. To entice her master. To show him every forbidden inch of her body was for his amusement, his perusal.

  His to soil.

  Competition was a healthy thing. Kept the thralls interesting before they began to look too much like supper, and of this, Myron took full advantage.

  Pumping, he let his claws sink into slender hips, using her bowels as carelessly as he’d used his own fist. And when that first whiff of blood peppered the air, Myron’s release came quickly. Dumping great, heaving spurts, he emptied his sack with a snarl. Hunched forward and sank his teeth into the brunette’s nape without so much as bothering to find a proper vein from which to feed.

  No, that sort of elegance was for seduction. Not for raw buggering in a damp and musty cave.

  When he began to deflate, Myron played in the slippery mess for a moment longer. Drinking as he fucked. Knowing each movement was laced with stinging pain made his climax all the sweeter, but knowing Selma’s brat lay broken beneath half a dozen billy clubs?

  Ambrosia.

  With a sigh, he straightened. Slapping the brunette’s rump as he pulled free of the other’s rear end. Thrilled by the river of cream that gushed from an abused bottom, he took a handful of blonde hair, forced her to remain on hands and knees, then fed her his length. Making her choke and gag as he wormed down her throat. He didn’t stop until his balls made a pretty bow tie ‘round her lips, and she coughed. Forcing a bubble of sperm out through her nose.

  Well and truly satisfied, Myron let her breathe. Tucked himself away with a jaunty little hop, then jerked his thumb at the brunette and spread the blonde’s cheeks once more. “Off with you, then. Supper is served.”

  Chapter 7

  The sun was high. Hot and hated as it glared down at the demons nesting in their dank hidey hole, commanding the lone, naked female standing sentinel on the edge of darkness to stay where she was, or burn.

  Sprawled in squalor, Myron stretched, disturbing his thralls where they had curled up at his feet. Rising, he kicked at the foul wraiths until they slunk back into the shadows where they belonged, then turned his attentions to his Chyld. Selma, suffering her vigilance and the mild burns of secondary sun-exposure. “Come,” he said, and extended his hand. “Sun’s well o’er head, Selma. Have a nip t’eat and waste no more time on the boy, eh?”