by Ann Vremont
“The Kashmari,” Sara answered, childhood tales told by her mother surfacing in her memories. “The Blood Wings.”
“It’s time you told your secret to me, Sara,” Mathias demanded. “I know you understand this better than we do, and I want you to tell me now.”
Sara shook her head and tried to step from his hard embrace.
“You will tell me,” he persisted, oblivious to the small crowd that had gathered around them.
“No,” she said, “but I’ll show you.”
Epilogue
Within their rooms, Mathias moved inside Sara, filled her with his blood and cock. His back was against the headboard, Sara atop him, mouth to neck to mouth as the blood flowed in a perfect circle. Outside their rooms, confusion filled the compound as news of the discovery spread. But in their rooms, nothing existed but their bodies, the blood, and the link between their minds.
Sara opened to him, showed him her grandmother as the old woman had been on the last visit Sara and her mother had taken to Ireland. She guided his hands down the old woman’s misshapen back as her mother had done with her. And, just as her mother had done when tucking Sara into bed, she told him about the Kashmari, winged creatures that could carry you to heaven while you slept, or steal your blood and consign you to hell.
Heaven, Sara, Mathias sighed as he moved inside her, his hands massaging the small of her back. I’ve wanted you like this for so long.
Yes, she acknowledged, her muscles contracting around him as she pulled him deeper inside her, to the core of the mystery that surrounded them. You have waited so long, far longer than I have had to wait. I’m sorry for being angry with you, my love.
Mathias groaned against her, reached with his mind to kiss her soul. “I’m ready,” he whispered, his lips playing over her breasts, teasing the nipples to hardened tips. Their bodies balanced together on the sharp edge of orgasm. “Show me.”
Sara pulled his hands from her back and placed them palm forward against her still flat stomach. Something millennia in the making recognized his touch, quickened against his hand. Here, she urged, her body beginning the slow shudder of climax. Here is the answer.
About the Author
Who Ann Vremont is depends on which of her many personas you happen to ask. She’s a mother and wife, a licensed attorney, a high school dropout, and a former Russian linguist. She’s called bingo for a living, waitressed at a strip club, scooped ice cream, and conducted political surveys. Now, when she’s not working to pay off her student loans or spending time with her family, she can be found writing at that juncture where modern meets myth, playing with graphic art programs, or updating her web site (http://www.hyperfic.com) for her own personal amusement.