Heart of Darkness

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Heart of Darkness Page 3

by Claire Marta


  Movements fluid, I strip out of my clothing and stand at the end of the bed.

  One thing my brides do so beautifully is accept what they are when hungry. Savage, monstrous, they never flinch. Never have. Not even when they were freshly turned vampires so awed with their first night as the undead. Every woman I have ever turned has always had a unique strength to survive. A determination to beat death.

  Wrapping my palm around my cock, I stroke the hard-satiny length. I’m aching. Ready to sink it between Mary’s cheeks and make her scream, but I know holding off will make it all the sweeter.

  Rising up on her knees, Madeleine stretches out toward me. “Let me, Master.”

  Removing my hand, I watch her take me deep into her throat. I let her take control for a moment. Listen to her gag. I’ve never been good with restraint when it comes to sex. My lovers have always obeyed my wants and needs. In turn, I have granted them theirs when it suits me.

  Fingers tangling her hair, I take charge over her pleasuring. Driving my hips forward, I fuck her face. Blue eyes now burning an unholy red, she keeps them pinned on mine. I crave her attention tonight. Their devotion. She let’s me use her. Spit drips from her chin, the corners of her mouth.

  When I feel the prick of her fangs, a growl vibrates from my chest. “Your dinner is waiting.”

  Releasing the end of my cock with a little plop, she smiles seductively. “And what a beautiful thing she is.”

  Crina slides free of Mary’s legs to allow Madeleine to take her place. For a brief second, I spy the girls cum drenched folds. The scent of her arousal is heady and strong.

  Madeleine wastes no time on fastening onto the tiny pearl between her thighs. She’ll be just as keen to make her come as her sister before her. To taste the chaste orgasm on her tongue. To savor the uncorrupted.

  Lathered in her saliva, I jerk myself off harshly, the pain taking the edge off to feed.

  Crina undresses, leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor. Making a start on Madeleine’s, she soon has the dress and undergarments joining her own. Pale limbed, flawless in every way, they entangle like serpents around their prey. Kissing, licking, breasts molding together as they continue rubbing Mary’s pussy and their own, prolonging their bliss. Wanton, sinful, and delightfully erotic.

  I pump harder, watching the three feminine bodies writhe. Their moans and whimpers music to my ears and only stoking my lust higher.

  Need engulfs me. The ache in my balls has becoming a torment.

  “Prepare her for me.”

  My brides obey quickly to the roughened command. Flipping Mary over, they maneuver her onto all fours. Dazed, she doesn’t protest, so trusting now and eager for more pleasure she lets them arrange her.

  I mount her from behind, thrusting to the hilt in one long slow push. Mary cries out as I take her. Faint, the scent of blood entices my senses. Virgin no more, she has lost her appeal to my brides. Gone are the passionate lovers of moments ago. Now their true natures surface.

  Madeleine strikes first. Sinking her fangs in deeply, she buries them in Mary’s slender wrist.

  Winding my hand in the girl’s hair, I drag her up by it still fucking her from behind. Now exposed and upright, Crina finds the other pulse point in Mary’s inner arm. Our plaything twitches with the combination of pleasure and pain. Lost in the overwhelming sensations battering her fragile human body. Moaning, she hangs propped between us.

  Tipping her head to the side, my tongue trails along the fragrant skin of her neck. Supple, tender, it yields with ease to my fangs when I pierce it to feed. I groan as the first drop of blood hits. Thick, quenching, it fuels my appetite. Biting deeper it spills from the tear gathered up by the suction of my mouth.

  Our young morsel doesn’t last long. After draining her quickly, the soft strains of her heartbeat soon cease into silence. Letting go of my hold, my cock slips free of the corpse’s body, still weeping and hard for release. Caressing the gaping wound I’ve left on the dead girl’s neck, I gather the last slash of red that we haven’t dined on.

  Madeleine rubs herself against my thigh cat like. Cupping her jaw, I paint her skin crimson. She moans in response, tongue darting out to meet my fingers licking them. Capturing her lips, I kiss her, delving into her mouth in exactly the same way she had inside Mary’s pussy. The musky flavor of our victim has me groaning. As she sucks my tongue, I taste the last traces of the sanguine fluid.

  Coiling my hand once more around my shaft, I coat it in blood, pumping the torrid flesh with an urgency that has me throwing back my head. I’ll have fucked both of my whores raw by the time dawn rises. I will leave them yearning for my return. Their Master. Their King.

  Madeleine breaks our kiss. Reclining boldly on the mattress, she plays with her breasts.

  Crina copies her, tweaking her own tight peaks, fondling and caressing. Neither of them cares about the corpse beside them.

  Finally, I find my release. Groaning I anoint their mouths and cheeks with my cum. Glistening in the lamp light, it paints their alabaster skin.

  Arms winding around each other, they strain, giggling to get closer kissing deeply, smearing my seed so prettily over their red-stained lips.

  Chapter 3

  Unlike the vampires beneath me sentenced to walk the night and shun the day for me, that is not the case. The sun is something I rarely tolerate. It may no longer have the power to destroy me as it had when I was younger, but it leaves me weaker than I would like. Yet for appearance sake, I am forced to go out in its rays. Pretend to be something that’s only a mask.

  The journey has been long and tedious. We’re fashionably late. The train station we arrived at was nothing like the magnificent stations of London. Even Dorian grew quiet after the first few hours. I wonder again why I ever let him talk me into this?

  Whitby Bay is nestled by the coast. A place situated at the mouth of the river Esk which runs through the harbor in North Yorkshire. High cliffs enclose the cove steeping it in mystery.

  “I’ve heard the town is quite popular. The coastline beautiful and they even have ruins of an old abbey,” my companion comments, stirring me from my staring of the rain-washed countryside outside the coach window. I see nothing just drab, grey, wet misery ahead of this stay. Our accommodation at the hotel is adequate, but nothing as grand as we’re used to.

  “All worth the trip, I’m sure,” I tell him dryly, playing with my freshly trimmed beard. Its softness is soothing. Well-groomed for interacting in society, it hides the warrior prince I once was. The wild spirit who crushed his enemies without a shred of mercy.

  Dorian chuckles at my sarcasm.

  If I were with anyone else, I would never have come this far. Grey, though, always manages to get what he wants. It astounds me sometimes what he can persuade others into. Not that I’m any different when using my suggestion on the weak willed. At last the tedious trip comes to an end. The carriage whisks us through an impressive pair of massive wrought iron gates to a grand house nestled among well-tended gardens. This must be the Westenra estate. Crème de la crème of society. I’m more than sure this gathering is little more than a ploy. A way to lure the most eligible bachelors available to present to a spoiled daughter. I have no interest in such things. As Dorian frequents the beds of most of high society’s wives, daughters and mistresses for his own amusement, marriage will not appeal to him. We all use others in one way or another, self-gain, status, to feel better about ourselves.

  We come to a standstill before some marble steps.

  A servant hurries down to open the carriage door, holding it for us. Dorian alights first with me in tow. Long-legged and skinny, Renfield, who’s been travelling up front with the driver, scrambles down as Dorian’s own manservant joins him.

  Pausing in the rain that hits my face and shoulders in a light patter, I take a moment to absorb the gothic features of the sprawling three-story building. A stone exterior, imposing steepled roofline, and an octagonal tower at one end, it looks as though generat
ions of Westenras have added to the structure.

  Trailing my companion up the steps, we enter an impressive hallway. A maid takes our coats while a solemn faced butler observes.

  “Your servants will be shown to the kitchen. In the meantime, Mr. Westenra and company are in the Living room. If you would follow me.”

  We’re bustled into a fashionable space. It’s crowded with men in fine suits and ladies in elegant evening dresses.

  “Ah Gray, there you are. We’re just waiting for a few others to join us before we go in for dinner.” A short portly man with greying hair approaches, hand outstretched in welcome.

  Dorian pastes a pleasant smile on his face and shakes his hand with gusto. “I hope you don’t mind I’ve brought a friend along. Sir Westenra, I would like to introduce you to Vladimir Tepes.”

  Sir Westenra eyes me jovially, his rounded cheeks flushed with red. “Ah yes, the Romanian. I’ve heard of you.”

  I incline my head in greeting. “Pleasant things I hope?”

  “Indeed, they are.”

  “When do you plan to hold the séance?” Dorian inquires eagerly. His tastes for dabbling in the occult and mysticism are well known among the members of the Hellfire club. Not that I see any here to tonight. Those whose sensibilities are easily offended are not even considered to be recruited. Only the elite are picked. Those of like-minded ideas.

  “That will be tomorrow evening,” Westenra informs us. “Come, let me introduce you to my daughter.”

  We’re directed to a group deep in conversation. From the snatches I’ve heard with my sensitive hearing, it’s regarding the social season. The most exclusive events held in the town mansions of leading members of the aristocracy. A chance for debutantes of marriageable age to seek husbands.

  “May I introduce Dorian Gray and Vladimir Tepes.” Sir Westenra cuts in with excitement, his cheeks becoming redder with his enthusiasm. “This is my daughter Lucy, Sir Malcolm, and his Wife. Mr. and Mrs. Migrove.”

  At the sound of her name being spoken, a beautiful blonde turns to greet us. She must favor Westenra’s late wife as she’s nothing like her father.

  Brown doe eyes sweep over us both with feminine interest. Her dress exaggerates her narrow waist, the rich layers of silk skirts tumbling to the floor. Hair braided into a bun, ringlets curl around her creamy cheeks. My gaze flicks to the generous bosom on display where her bustline dips scandalously.

  “Gentleman, ladies,” I murmur politely.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Miss Westenra.” Dorian’s eyes are only for our host’s daughter as he lifts her hand to kiss it.

  Pink rushing into her cheekbones, a smile trembles on her lips as she flusters. “A pleasure to meet you, gentleman.”

  “Mr. Mortimore and his Fiancé,” her father continued to point out others congressing within the space. “The Smythes are over in the corner with the Blakes. Dr. Jekyll I believe you already know.”

  Dressed immaculately in a brown suit, hair threaded with silver, the older man turns toward us at the sound of his name. He peers at us over his wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Dorian’s expression lights up with delight at seeing another member of our Hellfire band. “Henry, it’s good to see you!”

  A faint flush creeps into Henry’s face as he joins us. “And you, Dorian. I’m surprised to find you here, Vladimir.”

  “Ah, that would be Dorian’s silver tongue.” The warmth in my smile is genuine for once. “You know how he can talk almost anyone into anything.”

  Eyes sparkling behind his spectacles, the good doctor takes my hand in a strong shake. “No Victor?”

  “I believe he said he’s working on something very important at the moment and couldn’t possibly leave London.”

  “I’ll have to pay him a visit when I return then.”

  “Ah excellent, the last of my guests have emerged.” Sir Westenra’s excited voice snags us from our conversation.

  Stepping to the door, he shakes the hand of a tall slender stranger who’s just entered. Dark skinned, he holds a regal bearing with an exotic handsomeness and velvety brown eyes. “Amon Jahi.” His accent is pronounced, unlike my own, as he introduces himself to the interested crowd.

  I incline my head at him in greeting. “Egyptian?”

  “I am recently arrived from Cairo.”

  An ancientness shrouds him. Far more so than the centuries I have lived. A creature I have never encountered before, but something that hovers between worlds, like myself. Undetectable to the humans around us but potent to my enhanced senses.

  Death.

  I sense he is no stranger to it either. A predator of a different caliber.

  His eyes gleam as he takes the measure of me. Does he sense another immortal in his presence? From the faint curl of his lips, I presume he does.

  “How exciting!” Lucy exclaims, breaking the brief connection. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.”

  “My home is a very beautiful place,” he tells her, attention drawn to her smiling face. “Full of awe and splendor. Blessed by ancient gods.”

  “Nothing but heathens and heat,” says Sir Malcolm, one of the guests, as he makes his distastes known.

  Amon’s expression shifts subtly to guarded. “Egypt is the cradle of where civilization began.”

  “Of course, it is,” Sir Westenra humors him in with a goodhearted chuckle. “But now England is the center of the modern world.”

  A cold unseen aura encompasses the Egyptian at his comment, making those closest to him shiver. “For now, yes.”

  Lucy flutters the fan she’s had hanging from her dainty wrist. “How long are you staying in Whitby Bay, Mr. Jahi?”

  “I have not decided yet.”

  The oddest sensation tingles through me. Something familiar but of what I’m not certain. Scanning the group, my attention settles on dark hair. Back turned to me, the woman’s fashionable dress shows off an elegant figure. I’m not sure when she appeared, but I know we have yet to be introduced.

  “I see you’ve found some sport,” Dorian murmurs softly with a smirk.

  “Perhaps.” My gaze lingers on the curve of a creamy neck. Her pulse beats steadily, rousing my predatory instincts. I’ll need to be careful, but this trip will provide a fresh source of necks to feed from. Blood has never been in short supply. Variety is the spice of life, and perhaps Whitby will not be as boring as I first suspected.

  As if sensing my regard, the woman turns. Eyes the color of soft blue petals flash warily in my direction. A bow mouth and a pert nose, freckles dusting the bridge; each one forever etched into my memory. The sound of my own blood roaring in my ears deafens me to all else while I stare at a face I never thought to see again. A ghost from the past long ago buried.

  Elizabeth?

  Am I hallucinating? The resemblance is uncanny.

  For a heartbeat, I’m rooted to the spot, riveted to her profile. Painful memories claw up with melancholy, but I push it aside. Like a beautiful, fragile butterfly, she flits to another group, her skirts swishing along the floor.

  Not a ghost.

  Her interaction with those around me shows I have not lost my mind. Whoever this female is, she’s real.

  “Who is that woman?”

  Sir Westenra glances in the direction that holds me so avidly. “Miss Mina Murray. A dear friend of my daughter’s. She’s a teacher at the local school. A very head strong young lady and engaged to a fellow in London.”

  “Mina.” I savor the sound of it on my tongue.

  “I see you’re quite taken with her, Mr. Tepes,” Lucy observes with an impish smile.

  “She reminds me of someone I used to know.” A dainty hand finds the crook of my arm and tucks itself beneath it.

  “Then I should introduce you.” Lucy’s lovely expression is purely sensual.

  I see clearly the lust lurking beneath her fine façade. Her attraction toward me. She also desires several of the married men throughout the room. I’ve seen the glances, the b
rief touches. Miss Westenra has wickedness harbored in her heart. One that with the right measure of persuasion could be exploited. Perhaps Dorian will bed her. His interest has been sparked by her big brown eyes and golden hair.

  Lucy strolls with me across the room, my heart beating faster the closer we get. My stomach feels strangely knotted, head buzzing with possibilities and uncertainties. For once I am at a loss. Centuries of living life without limits and I am reduced to feeling like a young, awkward boy. As we draw to a halt beside her, the woman’s scent fills my senses. Delicate, feminine, laced with something flowery.

  “Mina, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Vladimir Tepes,” Lucy’s tells her friend with a look of affection.

  “How do you do?” Mina stares up at me with heartachingly familiar eyes. There’s no spark of recognition. No love. Nothing. All she sees is a handsome, dark-haired stranger.

  Taking her hand, I raise it to my lips, dusting her knuckles with a kiss. “I am your humble servant, Miss Murray.”

  She shivers at my deep, accented baritone, the touch of my beard brushing her skin. Her breath hastens, heartbeat picking up to a faster tempo. I’m temptation itself. Tall, muscular, my form appealing to the opposite sex. Captivating to their eyes.

  “Charming, isn’t he?” Lucy pretends to swoon, giving her a flirtatious grin half hidden by the fan shielding her face as she flutters it.

  The blue in Mina’s irises darken with yearning as she smiles shyly back. Not for me but the woman hanging on my arm. An innocent infatuation for her friend.

  “Dinner is served.”

  The bland voice of the butler snaps me from my staring. “May I escort you ladies in?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tepes.” Mina slips her arm through my other. The contact sends tiny shocks through my system. I feel as if I’m in a waking dream. One that at any moment could be snatched from me.

  Directing both the women through the doors, we trail the rest of the guests into the stylish dining room. The dark wooden table at the center is adorned with fine china, polished cutlery, and pristine napkins.

 

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