Bite Me: A Vampire Anthology

by Cain, Addison

  Whimpering, the youngest female in the Anuris line stepped back from the edge as her Sire bade. “He’s gone! My Chyld. My Axton. Gone. Took ‘im away and left ‘im to his ashes, those nasty, nasty humans.” She hissed, pacing until Myron caught her shoulders and forced her to still. Sniffling, she allowed the elder to fold her into his embrace. Even reached a hand between them and absently tugged at his sleepy prick. As if the action was a comfort lacking any and all sexual connotations. “Was mine, Daddy. Now… Won’t have the strength to make another for ages! Ages and ages and ages!”

  Myron guided his Chyld to the back of their sanctuary. Placing his hand atop hers as he began to harden under her ministrations. “The wait’ll be over afore you know it, pet. You’ll see. And we can pick a worthy one together, hmm?”

  At this, Selma snarled, claws sweeping dangerously close to his sack with her temper. “You didn’t like my boy. Wouldn’t even give ‘im a chance.”

  Stifling his irritation with the simple chit, Myron peeled her fingers away from his tender bits, and said, “He was a fine lad. If he’d been able to prove himself worthy of our ignoble blood, I’d have welcomed him with open arms, I would.”

  Hiccupping, Selma turned watery eyes up at him. “Really, Daddy?”

  Oh, he had her now, he did. The last time his Chyld had looked at him with such devotion, he’d had her enthralled for nigh on half a century! He’d only lost her in the riot of 1780, when he’d picked his maker over her—a debt Myron hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven, for nobody walked away from him without suffering the consequences. And oh, how she’d suffer!

  Guiding her down, to her knees, Myron worked himself properly stiff, imagining all the ways he’d make his Chyld beg and scream. He’d have her completely enslaved once again before the summer heat kept them pinned beneath the earth… And then…

  A thick shadow darkened the mouth of their cave. The figure standing there so wide, it very nearly shrouded the demons in false night—and certainly put a stop to obscene play.

  Instead of speaking, Myron let loose a truly vicious snarl. One sure to frighten off any wayward children out for a noon adventure, and the vast majority of adult men.

  But the figure stepped o’er that threshold. Entered their den of sin and debauchery with a peppy flourish.

  “What foolery is this?” Myron hissed, thrusting Selma away as he gathered his wits. Ready to attack.

  Though the figure appeared to limp, it surprised him again, and turned on itself. Ripping and clawing, it flung great chunks all over the place. Overpowering the scent of raunchy fucking with that of blood and battle. It wasn’t until the figure had shed its many layers that Myron realized the truth of the thing, but it was Selma who squealed and clapped.

  “My boy!” she said, scrambling up from the dirt where Myron had left her. Flinging herself into scrawny, singed arms of the Chyld she’d thought dead. “You taste of ashes!” she said, laughing. Licking at his cheeks and face, marking him thoroughly with her scent.

  “It’ll wash off, princess,” Axton returned, sweeping her off her feet. And, twirling her about as if they were at a private poncy ball, they waltzed clear of the piles of ruined, smoldering clothing that had protected the fledge from certain death beneath the sun’s rays. Dancing without so much as a stitch of clothing between them. “You should have seen me!” the fledge crowed, coming to an abrupt halt, mid-twirl. “It was six on one, it was. Each of ‘em larger than the last. But none of ‘em a match to your boy. Did you proud,” he said, voice intimate and low before he cut gleaming eyes toward his Grandsire, who’d done him dirty.

  “Well done,” Myron said. Clipped. Short.

  Selma twirled around and around, catching her Sire’s hands in hers, then said, “With open arms, Daddy! A welcome for my boy, who braved the nasty sun to come back to Mummy.” Her face scrunched, the demon taking the place of her dark beauty and replacing it with something feral. Something hungry. “You smell delicious,” she hissed, turning gleaming eyes upon the fledge whose skin was charred in places. Shoulders, face, chest and back. Even through all his layers, he’d burned—but there he stood.

  Cocky. Full of vigor he’d stolen from mortal men, the fledge offered his throat to his Dam. Groaned when she lunged and sank her fangs deep into the pulsing artery below his jaw, cockstand growing thick and obscene.

  And through it all, the fledge held his Grandsire’s gaze. A challenge met and overcome.

  “Quite the impressive act, m’boy,” Myron cooed, stalking closer. His presence at Selma’s back a sickly shroud of death, for the demon had heard the fledge’s battle cry, and risen with a vigor. “Why don’t you show ‘im some Anuris appreciation, my pet. Give him a proper welcome to our family, hmm?”

  Selma’s eyes gleamed with the signature amber shade of their line. And, lifting her leg, she obeyed. Took her Chyld’s shaft in hand, lined him up, then took him to the root in one breathless shunt.

  “That’s a good girl,” Myron hummed, beginning to pace. Shrewd gaze missing nothing of the lewd scene unraveling before him. “Don’t let him cum now, pet. Daddy has a wee homecoming reward to give first, eh?”

  Flinching, the fledge tried to turn. Tried to twist free of his Dam’s teeth embedded in his throat, and stop the elder from finding a vulnerability.

  Too late.

  Pushing the amorous couple to the ground, Myron grinned. Thrilled by the grunt of pain-laced satisfaction as the fledge landed atop Selma, plowing deep as he could go into the willing cunt wrapped around him. Any sense of danger fled as the instinct to fuck overtook him.

  And for a time, Myron was content to merely watch. Lazily pumping his erection as he watched Axton’s buttocks flex and strain. As he listened to the delightful squelch of cream frothing between Selma’s slick thighs.

  But he could only appease the demon with mere watching for so long before it grew hungry for more… after all, he couldn’t tolerate anyone touching what was his without exacting a certain payment for services rendered.

  With a snarl, he lunged. Teeth landing at the fledge’s nape—opposite the hold Selma had claimed. Weight pressing Axton to fall deeper into pained bliss, even as he poked at an orifice not meant for entry. Especially not the violent sort Myron so cherished.

  “W-Wait,” the fledge gasped, shivering and squirming in the most delightful way. “Myron, no—”

  Neither the demon nor the man could be forestalled any longer, and lining himself up, Myron said, “Well done, boy, you win,” and bore down. Barreling through that tight ring, even as Axton shrieked and thrashed. His violent revulsion to buggering only spurred the elder on. Dragged a hearty sigh from the bottom of his lungs as he felt Axton’s anus crack and split, offering the first drops of lubrication and the metallic tang of spilled blood. “Welcome to the family.”

  Chapter 8

  Axton waited until the first rays of dawn had seared away the evening dew before he dragged his aching body away from his elders. Tore free of sleeping, clutching fingers slick with unspeakable things, and crawled into the dark to nurse his wounds—of which there were many.

  Myron had spared him nothing. Had roared about debts owed and paid as he rutted above him. In him. Utterly destroying the man that had been and replacing him with a creature born merely trying to survive the darkest taboo with some part of him intact. And when the abuse was drawing to a close, when the elder male grew impossibly thick in anticipation of slaking his unholy lust, Myron whispered, “This is the price of Selma’s sweet cunny, boy.”

  The fledge knew then, what this was.

  An induction to his unlife as a fledgling demon. The truth of his accursed inheritance was pain. Suffering at the hands of those who were strong, only to offer the same to those weaker than himself.

  That was the gift of the Anuris line.

  Breath fetid and moist against his nape, Myron had seen Axton’s realization for what it was. He’d seen it and laughed. Clawed fingers biting deep into the shredded muscles at Axton’s hips,
he’d reared back, and said, “Now, Selma my pet. Give him release as a reward for servicing me so well. I’d have him milk me dry.”

  Cooing, Selma hadn’t offered so much as a moment of hesitation. She’d caught the tearful gaze of her Chyld in a glare meant for prey, and ordered him to, “Spill for Daddy. Show ‘im you’re winter-ripe so we can be a family.”

  Sobbing and enthralled, Axton had been helpless to disobey. Pulsing and jerking, he’d spilled anguish between Selma’s thighs. Clenching around Myron’s girth as he fought to sink deeper, to crawl inside her and hide from the hurt.

  Milking Myron dry, just as his Grandsire had commanded.

  Snarling, the elder male lunged for the lacerated wounds at his nape, and sank his fangs deep into the vein. Gorging and messy, Myron came with a roar. Splashing Axton’s bowels with the salty spray of betrayal, he fucked into the mess until he’d gone soft within him. Limp and spent.

  But Axton had still been enthralled, and through it all, he’d been unable to stop shuddering in agonized bliss. Hating himself for succumbing—hating them for their sick games.

  It hadn’t ended when Axton’s reserves were depleted, oh no. He’d been left in a heap, dripping in fluids as Myron mounted Selma and started it anew. Snarling at the stench of another male buried in her sweet, beloved cunt, the elder had worked to erase all trace that Axton had ever been there. Seeding her again and again as he drank all that she had to give. Until she was just as limp and saturated as Axton himself had been. Only then did Myron let her feed, offering enough to keep her lucid as they curled up in each other’s arms—and left Axton in the cooling puddle leaking from his abused rectum.

  He’d waited for their heartbeats to slow, waited long enough to be certain they slept before he dragged his ruined body to safety. Following his nose until he found Myron’s thralls.

  Those poor wretched creatures with eyes swallowed by blackness. So unlike a true demon, whose eyes appeared human until they were ready to feed and their true nature was revealed.

  Cringing back, the thralls hissed in tandem. Clinging to each other in the presence of a male who was not their master.

  But Anuris blood ran sluggish through Axton’s veins, and he quelled their rebellion as easily as Myron had plumbed his depths. “Submit,” he hissed, voice an inhuman rasp. He caught the blonde’s forearm and jerked her against him. Sank his fangs in deep, and fed. Messy and uncontrolled, he drank until he could feel his flesh begin to knit. Until his torn innards squirmed with a sick feeling he took to mean they were mending the damage wrought by his Grandsire’s cock.

  “You’ll kill her,” the brunette whispered, placing a delicate hand on his bare shoulder—mere inches from the spot where Myron’s teeth had pulverized muscle.

  Flinching, the fledge took a breath, and let the thrall slip from his grasp. Unconscious, though her chest rose in shallow, fluttering pants. “How does he make your kind?” he asked, and stood on legs that shook the very breath from his lungs.

  “We feed,” she replied, voice an ethereal gust. “We provide.”

  “And when he tires of you?”

  She lifted a slender shoulder, face void of emotion. “We die.”

  Pursing his lips, Axton considered. Thralls. Creatures kept as pets when the summer’s heat kept the demons underground unable to feed. Made by ingesting nothing but their maker’s blood, they were neither Chyld, nor Drudge, but something in between. Something he could manage, if the circumstances were right and his novice plan was worthy of pursuing, for Axton could endure much to bask in the love of his Dam—but he would not endure Myron.

  Vengeance wriggled through his intestines, o’ertaking the sick and the hurt. Feeding the demon and nursing the man. And though he’d been ridden hard in obscene fashion, he grew thick and heavy. Cockstand showing proud through the cum-matted curls plastered to his sack. “Tell me,” he said, prowling toward the remaining Thrall. “What do you know of the Slayers?”

  Thank you for reading Enthralled! Axton's story is far from over, but will our fledgling demon be able to break free of his sadistic elders and find some semblance of happiness? Or will he fall victim to a Slayer's holy wrath? If you pray hard enough, you might just find out in October...

  About Myra Danvers

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  in Dark Romance & Horror.

  Myra Danvers is best known for her compelling mix of unique science fiction and dark fantasy worlds that feature feisty heroines, antihero men, and of course, proper villains. Though you may not always know who is who until the final pages…

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  Also by Myra Danvers

  Swallowed by Darkness (FREE)

  Imprisoned… Starved… Weak… He’s a warrior caged in the armpit of the universe, a man of worth who owns nothing but his pride and a thirst for vengeance. So why had they sent her? A human. A pathetic, fragile creature full of madness and lies, burdened with an impossible ultimatum—contend with the monster in the dark, or die.

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  Tasked to hunt me down and dress me in chains, Captain Asher Rawlings is relentless. One taste, and he hungers for my submission above all else… Only one thing is certain—he’ll either put me on my knees, or I’ll kill them all…

  Delirium (Atom and Evil Book 1)

  Addicted to opium, running from a past drenched in Evil, Iris clings to her mundane life hauling freight to distant colonies. Content to tinker and rot away in silence, even though she knows he’ll come. Knows he’ll come lookin’ for what she stole, what she refused to give up when everything went to hell. Won’t find it, of course. There’s nothing left but a pipe full o’the good stuff and the dregs of the past that refuse to die…

  V is for Vampire

  A Blood Accord Prologue

  Eris Adderly

  Chapter 1

  Kitamura, November

  DOB 11/04/2348

  22V: Positive

  Clearance: GateSec 0433, U-Seattle, WA, US

  November swiped her ID bracelet, and the control panel at the northernmost cargo gate of Underground Seattle chirped and lit up with her data. The display blinked, info loading on her Surface partner, so the guard pair could sync for start of their shift.

  When the face and name flashed into place, November cocked her head.

  The fuck is this guy?

  She put her thumb to the bottom right corner of the display. After a haptic buzz signaling the mic was open, November hefted the strap of the UV-80 on her shoulder and leaned in to speak.

  “Hey,” she said. “What happened to Rosales?”

  Someone young and male on the other side of the reinforced doorway cleared his throat. A match for the image above her thumb, no doubt. “Um, transferred?”

  November squinted. “To where?” Rosales had never said anything to her about a transfer.

  “I … don’t know?” He sounded unsure. Not about his information—or lack thereof—but of what stance to take with her, now. November had that effect on people. Especially negs. “Maybe S-Norfolk? I heard there was some kind of emergency back east.” The guard tried to give her something, to placate. She couldn’t tell if the reaction came from a general uneasiness around vamps, or if he’d already seen her name and searched her GateSec records.

  One little felony and suddenly everyone’s all jumpy.

  Or maybe it was the age gap? From his details on the screen, this new surface guard—if she was doing the math right—was only twenty-seven. At fifty-one, November had just about zero seniority as a vampire, but somehow her age kept at least some of the negs granting her an authority she hadn’t earned. At least not as a gate guard.

  “Alright then.” She eyed the display. “Welcome to Four Thirty-Three. Boring as shit up here, just telling you now.”

  “Um. Well, thanks.”

  She took her thumb off the mic, but stood and scanned her new gate partner�
��s static ID photo. He had a high-and-tight military look about him, but something a little too hopeful in the lack of a scowl that didn’t seem right for his age. Warm brown skin, too young yet for any major lines, and short-shorn dark hair that looked like it would curl wildly if he let it grow. Hazel eyes stared back at her from under handsome brows.

  Croix, Leonide

  DOB 07/07/2372

  22V: Negative

  Clearance: GateSec 0433, S-Seattle, WA, US

  He was V-negative, of course, to be a surface guard. Everyone with the vampire gene had migrated below ground at least three hundred years ago.

  November snorted at his last name. ‘Croix.’ Like the Reverend. He probably got shit for that from his buddies all the time.

  With a final shake of her head, the underground gate guard settled in for the start of her shift. Gate 0433 was likely the quietest station in Seattle, both above and below the surface. It was one of the older cargo gates; therefore, smaller—the newer carriers couldn’t get through the low clearance, and the subfloor wasn’t weight rated for more than twelve tons.

  Quiet could be good. Lower incident rate, more time to fuck around unsupervised, if she were that kind of guard. Quiet could also be mind-numbing torture. Loafing around for eight hours. No one to talk to.