Anna grinned. “So what is it like, to bed such a creature? To drink from him? I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“It is like . . . ” I closed my eyes. Remembering. The moment he entered me, the raw wound of desire suddenly healed. The way everything else in my overlong life folded away and ceased to matter. The look in his eyes as he recognized my slow, shuddering rise to climax, and how he knew the moment to lower his throat to my mouth. I wanted to share this with her, but I did not want to put that feeling into words: such a feeling went beyond words, could only be compromised by them. I opened my eyes and said abruptly, “Why call yourself a nightsinger? I never understood.”
“You don’t like the term?”
“It’s pretentious.”
She lifted her eyebrows in what might have been amusement. “Eros and Thanatos,” she said. “Love, which is the force of life itself, and destruction –”
“Thank you. I did not know this.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Everything you do, every choice you make, pulls you in one direction or the other. The nightsong,” she said, “is about life. Why not align ourselves with that? It’s as much of our nature as the rest.”
“But you kill, right?”
“Not always. The joops are testament to that. They don’t want to die, they only want the high that our bite can give them.”
“But from time to time. You kill.”
“Of course. “ She drew back a bit, looked innocent. “But it doesn’t have to be so . . . crude. We give appreciation. We respect and celebrate our connection to what we eat, we make the conditions as humane as possible. The nightsong has a place for all of us, the predator as well as the prey. We’re woven into its design like every other living thing.”
“We cannot make that claim to life. We are the eternal outsiders.”
“You are an outsider. You seem to like it that way.”
“I don’t like anything about it.”
“Need, then. You seem to need it that way.”
“I need him,” I said. My voice broke out of me. “I crave him every second I don’t have him. Do you know what it’s like, to be linked to someone in this way? There’s no room for anything, anyone else. It’s the loneliest thing I can imagine.” I hadn’t expected to say any of that. Tears were at my eyes, and I blinked them back with fury.
“That’s a fault of imagination,” Anna said, with such easy certainty that I wanted to strike her. “Your world is a bigger place than you think. You’re just too busy staring into this one little corner.”
“I can’t do this any more. I want . . . I want . . . ”
“What do you want, Vincent?”
“More,” I said, and couldn’t help myself: “more life. All he does is lift me on empty promises and take me apart. I have to finish it before it finishes me.”
“And you think he would just let you go?”
“Why wouldn’t he? It’s not like he sticks around.”
“Did it ever occur to you,” Anna said slowly, “that he’s as trapped by the limitations of his own nature as you are by yours? Whatever chain existing between you is locked around his throat, my dear. He’s your slave as much as your master.”
“How could you know this?”
“The myths. They get passed along – to some of us, at least.” She looked at me pointedly. “They’re like vampire fairy tales, or at least that’s how I always saw them . . . The allure that we have for them, the ones as fallen, in their own way, as we are in ours. We crave to bite, they crave to be bitten, and in the act of it both find a transcendence.”
“It’s an illusion.”
“Who’s to say?”
“Because I wouldn’t feel like this,” I said, “if that ‘transcendence’ were real. I would not suffer such an aftermath.”
“There’s always a price to pay,” Anna said mildly. “You’re just not used to being the one who has to pay it. Come with me. We’ll head out to the playa, meet up with the others. If you like them – and I think you will – you’re welcome to travel with us. We’re a fun little dysfunctional family, and it’s a lovely feeling,” she said, “to make yourself a part of something. You should maybe give it a try.”
I only looked at her. I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what I might possibly express. “Come,” Anna said, rising. “Come on,” she said again, and there was laughter in her voice. I did not take offence.
She took my hand. It was a foreign feeling, this hand holding, and seemed a little awkward, and yet I did not mind it. We threaded through the camps to the nearest road and walked to the beginning of the playa. We passed a small group of people chanting, “Save the Man! Don’t burn the Man! Save the Man!” and Anna tossed her head and laughed.
By the time we reached the dense walls of crowd, the Man was on fire. I could hear the flames, see the light cast into the sky, but my vision was blocked by the people in front of me. The art-cars and pirate ships – there was more than one, apparently – were parked along the crowd’s perimeter and people filled the decks and roofs, or sat on each other’s shoulders to get a better view. As Anna wove her way through the throng and I trailed behind, I caught the sense of restlessness beginning to sweep the crowd. “The damn thing won’t fall,” someone muttered, and someone else said, “They made it too strong, this is taking way too long.”
I turned my head.
It was the kind of gesture you do for no reason, on impulse or instinct, only to lock eyes with someone who’s been looking right at you.
He was standing about fifteen feet away from me, light from the nearby pirate bus falling over him.
His eyes were hooded, his face slack, as if he was held in a trance, and I felt my body and face mirroring his until I floated in a trance of my own. We moved forwards at the same time, and although I was not aware of crossing the space between us, suddenly I was bumping into his chest. My eyes fixed on the ground. I couldn’t look up at him, didn’t dare. I didn’t know if it was shyness or submission or even naked fear. But then his hands were on my shoulders, and he dropped his head towards mine. I could see the wound on his throat; I had marked him, put my name on him.
His breath at my ear, and then he spoke.
“Love,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and ancient and thick, and I knew he wasn’t suited to language, had to fight to trespass this limitation. “Love,” he said again, and very gently kissed my forehead.
His hands slipped off my shoulders and he backed away from me. I could no longer locate my knees; they slipped away; I was down on the ground. People, laughing and shrieking, two of them wearing angel wings, fell into the space around me. I was trembling. I cast about for Anna, but couldn’t find her.
I found, instead, the vermin who had pursued me on the playa. He was huddled against a rock, clutching a blanket around his thin shoulders. I noticed how people were keeping a certain distance.
Something inside me shifted, broke open. I can’t explain it any better than that. It broke open and spilled all through me: an ache and a tenderness and a kind of breathless awe. It filled me up. I looked at the joop and I realized that I was in him and he was in me. I let my gaze wander through the dense gathering of onlookers and understood that I was in all of them and they were in all of me. I had worlds within me.
The joop glanced up as I approached. His eyes widened as I lowered myself beside him and he started to speak, but I pressed my finger to his lips. I flinched at the contact, at his sick-sweet cancer smell. But I knew what it was within my power to give. I took hold of his wrist and brought it to my mouth. He drew breath. “Only a little,” I warned him, “I will only take a little,” and, closing my senses to the foulness of it, I sank my teeth into his underwrist. A cheer rose from the crowd, followed by yelling and whistling, the blowing of horns. The Man had started to fall. I listened for a moment, then began to drink.
Point of No Return
Jennifer St Giles
Chapter One
England, 1808
A stormy wind spewed from the North Sea, whipping up the craggy cliffs and punishing the dark walls of Castle Rue Morte before raking across the Yorkshire moor. Its chill stole what little warmth Christine Webber had gleaned from the late summer sun and she shivered. Since a child of ten, she’d often thought of exploring the abandoned castle and disproving rumours of its ghastly hauntings, but that day never seemed to dawn. The necessities of others always took precedence over her desires.
She pulled her worn cloak tighter and hastened her step as she gave a wistful glance at the castle and the rich, lavender blooms of heather stretching across the moor to its iron gates. Today being her afternoon off, she’d planned to explore a little and fill her basket with the sweetly pungent flowers, but her employer’s regularly orchestrated crises always whittled away her personal time. Today was no different. This morning’s errand for Lady Stafford to the neighbouring village of Scarborough had taken the entire day. And perhaps it had been necessary considering the enormous luncheon she was holding tomorrow to celebrate Lord Stafford’s birthday. Since he was often too far into his cups at night, Lady Stafford didn’t dare host a party after dark.
The waste of Christine’s day didn’t matter as much now as it did this morning when the sun was bright. With the coming squall, she wouldn’t have had much time anyway and might have even been trapped at the castle until the storm abated – a thought that foolishly intrigued rather than frightened her.
Leaving the moor behind for the encroaching forest, she made her way along the gravelled path with a flutter of anticipation in her breast for what lay just ahead. She could already see him in her mind. She likened his magnificent form to that of a Viking or Roman warrior from ages past. Even Zeus maybe, for he had stolen his way into her heart like a powerful god and captured her imagination and desires.
Thickening trees eased the sting of the biting wind and deepened the evening shadows surrounding her as she made her way. The moment she rounded the bend into the graveyard and passed the eight-foot cross marking the entrance, she saw him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked as if he could slay dragons with a single blow from the sword he held. She slid back the hood of her cloak, feeling the chill of the restless breeze upon her face as she breathed in the scent of the approaching rain. Glancing quickly about to assure no one else was around, she sauntered forwards with a saucy swing to her step.
When she reached the bronzed statue, she angled her head back and slid her palm against its chiselled cheek. He stood, a lone warrior guarding over the dead as if he alone could keep the devil at bay. Such courage, noble bearing and – heaven help her – forbidden sensual appeal filled every contour of his likeness. How much more so had the man been in real life?
“Would that I had lived during your time. I would have loved you even if only from afar, as I am a servant and you must surely have been a lord.”
She couldn’t stop herself from sliding her hand down to press against the smooth curve of his breast, where she imagined his heart would have beaten passionate and true. Deep within the secrets of her heart dwelt the dream that one day he’d become real and steal her away from the loneliness and drudgery of her life. The warrior stood naked, save for his loin cloth and weapons, and she knew him well. Her hands had touched every part of him many times in her quest to draw him perfectly upon the page.
No one knew who the model was, but he’d certainly inspired the sculptor who fashioned him so perfectly in bronze, and drove Christine’s hand to recreate him in the pages of her sketch pad. One day she hoped to learn to paint and bring one of her many renderings of him to colourful life upon canvas. He was unlike any man she’d ever seen, and especially unlike the odiously obese Lord Stafford, whose ogling gaze grew bolder every day.
Christine seriously wondered if she would have to leave Castleborough and her beloved moors for the stench and grime of London’s streets – the one place she could assuredly disappear from Lord Stafford. In any place smaller, she would be noticed for the vibrant red of her hair which marked her like a scarlet letter.
Inwardly sighing, Christine dearly wished that her mother’s beliefs in otherworldly magic were true and that a cache of heather would be enough to protect her from men like Lord Stafford. If it was true, she’d go pick several baskets despite the storm in order to weave a suit of armour to wear.
Thunder ripped through the air and an icy gust blew up her skirt, giving her a sharp reminder that she had to hurry. She didn’t want to draw any more attention from Lord and Lady Stafford by being much later.
“A kiss to hold you until I return again, my warrior.” She lifted her lips to the strong breeze and waited a moment, imagining what she would feel if he kissed her. Then she patted his thick thigh and stepped back with a wink, before turning to leave. The path would take her past the church, the village, and on to the Staffords’ estates. At one time there had been a church adjoining the graveyard, but it had burned down and those trapped inside had died. Instead of rebuilding on the same spot, the villagers had built the large memorial to honour the dead and moved the church closer to the town.
Aerick the Eternal waited in the shadows, watching the red-haired beauty as he had too many times to count. Frustration and longing pulsed with every beat of his heart. He knew her well. The scent of her blood, the fragrance of her skin, the softly sensual lilt of her voice. From the darkness of the memorial-crypt in which he stood, he’d often watched her with his bronze likeness across the graveyard. The way she spoke . . . the way she touched. And like a love-starved fool, he’d often stolen into her room during the dark of the night just to see her sleep, breathe of her essence, and imagine her touching him.
She was an innocent angel of fiery light whom he could only love from afar even though she bore the tiny birthmark of a vampire’s mate – an hourglass – upon her neck. But with each passing season his resolve grew weaker, for his body throbbed to know hers from the tip of his fangs to the depths of his immortal soul. He would never claim her for his own with a blood oath, though. To condemn her to a life spent only within the darkness of the night would be a sacrilege. No sunrises, no sunsets, no heated kisses of nature’s light – only a pale moon and the distant stars to illuminate, night after cold night. But even more importantly, his race was under siege. The slayers he battled grew in number every year and the prime vampires roving free upon the earth were few. Most now lived in asylums deep within the earth, giving up freedom for safety, and only having one child, if any. Aerick feared the vampire race would soon face extinction, despite the war in which he led the Blood Defenders.
The scrolled iron doors of the crypt and the confines of his hooded cloak kept him from seeing as much of her as he wanted, but he was close enough to breathe in her soft scent and sweet blood. It was a torture he couldn’t resist. Fisting his hands, he sank his fangs into the flesh of his mouth as desire rushed through him in a hot, muscle-hardening wave of desperation. From the moment he’d seen her several years ago, he’d been unable to assuage his need with another, mortal or immortal. He often paced the halls of his castle with her on his mind, eating at his sanity. The place truly was haunted now.
He should be known as Aerick the Foolish for hanging himself within this tormenting limbo. Were she a widow, he could at least share the pleasures of the flesh with her. But he couldn’t conscience taking her virginity without the honourable intent of marriage. He should leave Rue Morte and cut himself off from her forev–
A bloodthirsty howl roared over the echoes of thunder ringing in the air. A slayer! Aerick had centuries of practice in discerning their cry from that of a true Lycan. Vampire and Lycan had lived in nocturnal harmony until the form-stealing slayers crawled their way from the depths of hell by making a deal with Satan. Since the vampires and the Lycan refused to annihilate mortals for Satan, he sent slayers, beings that shifted into any form they chose. The slayers had brought about the War Of Distrust between the vampires and the Lycans, and preyed upon mortals in both the vamp
ire and Lycan forms. Now, although they’d only ever protected them, humans thought of all vampires and Lycans as monstrous beasts of evil.
Aerick grabbed the metal bars of the crypt with gloved hands as he watched his red-haired angel stop on the path and glance about for danger. Though the storm had darkened the sky into a roiling brew of thunderclouds, there was still enough sunlight clinging to the day to painfully sear his skin. Aerick didn’t know if the slayer was on the hunt for him, just prowling the area, or after the woman, but he knew without a doubt that the evil shifter would ravage and kill her if he could.
As he stepped from the crypt into the rapidly fading light of the day, his skin stung despite the heavy leather of his hooded cloak, boots and gloves. Ignoring the discomfort, he rushed forwards, unsheathing his sword – a Blood Defender was always armed to the fangs for battle. But his usual confident calm escaped him. Knowing he was seconds away from meeting his angel for the first time left him as vulnerable as a babe.
The slayer let out another blood-chilling cry, closer this time, coming through the forest. The bastard was hunting her and she knew it, even though the slayer wasn’t in sight yet.
“Oh God!” she cried out and ran down the path to the church, leaving the darker shadows of the graveyard for the brighter light of the path. Huge droplets of rain splattered down and grew in force by the second.
Aerick cursed under his breath and raced after her, his skin burning despite the cooling rain and the protective clothes he wore. He reached her just as the beast broke from the trees in the form of a giant werewolf, saliva running down its fangs. It was hungry to kill.
Her scream rent the air and she fell back in horror. Coming up from behind, Aerick caught her and had a moment’s rush of touching her for the first time before he thrust her behind him. He raised his sword, ready for the slayer’s attack.
The towering beast sniffed the air and then laughed. “A bit early for a prime to be roaming about, isn’t it? Your cloak won’t hold in a fight, fool. I’ll rip it and you’ll burn to death watching me slake my appetites upon her.”
Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2) Page 47