Blood Sacraments

They walk in the darkness, seeking their prey, driven by needs and desires they cannot control.

Their lust for human blood struggles with their desire for the body of a beautiful man—and if they are truly lucky, they can satisfy both lusts at the same time. In these tales of the gay vampire, some of today’s top erotic writers explore the duality of blood lust coupled with passion and sensuality, and the need of the vampire to take blood and give erotic delight in return.

Blood Sacraments

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Blood Sacraments

Blood Sacraments

© 2010 Bold Strokes Books. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-489-8E

This  Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: November 2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Todd Gregory

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri([email protected])

I.

I sense him before I see him. He radiates power the way a glacier exudes cold or a woodstove heat. There, that broad-shouldered silhouette, that gleam of pale hair and skin beneath a leafy canopy of vines, on the edge of Piazza Viminale. Ristorante Strega, says the sign. He’s sitting back in the quiet shadow of a remote corner—as my kind tend to—watching happy humans as they feast
al fresco
on aromatic Roman food and wine in the warm summer night. When a shapely waitress bustles over to seat me, all I have to do is murmur his name and she escorts me to his table. A man well known in Rome, it appears.

He rises, smiling down at me, and shakes my hand. Though, like me, he appears to be in his mid-thirties, I know he’s much, much older than I. He’s several inches taller too, easily six and a half feet, and more mightily built. “
Buona sera
, Derek Maclaine,” he says. His grip is strong, very strong. It makes me want to wince. Already he’s reminding me of my position. He is the lord here, and I the supplicant. Not only is he older and stronger, but this is his territory. I am a mere tourist.

My centuries in the American South have made my manners immaculate, despite the displeasure I’m feeling at being the less powerful in our exchange. I meet his blue-fire gaze, then drop my eyes. “I much appreciate this audience, Mr. Colonna,” I say.

“Call me Marcus,” he says, still gripping my hand, then turns to the hovering waitress and orders for us both. “My guest will have Romana Black, and I my usual.” Off she goes to the bright lights of the bar, leaving a hint of jasmine in her wake.

“She wears that scent for me.” Marcus turns to me, face shifting from an expression both stern and impassive into a barely perceptible smile and then back again. “Welcome to Rome, Derek Maclaine,” he murmurs, giving my hand another painful squeeze before releasing me and taking his seat. “Sit,” he says, and I do. The man was once a Roman senator. He’s accustomed to swift obedience. And in order for me to get what I want, I suppose I too must obey him.

As handsome as he is, my obedience might be more pleasure than pain. “Thank you, Marcus,” I say, studying the high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and shoulder-length ash-blond hair. His lips are red and full, his chin cleft, with the shadow of a goatee about his mouth. “It’s mighty fine to be in your great city at last.”

“Isn’t she luscious?” Marcus says, voice smooth as rose petal yet embroidered with a growl. “
Roma
, yes. But our waitress too.
Bella, bella.
Her breasts and hips…She is, as you Americans say, my type. Her name is Nigella. One night I will have her. But why rush?”

I smile. “I hadn’t noticed, sir, but yes, she is beautiful.” I can’t recall when I last called another man “sir.” Before I was changed, back in 1730? No, there was that Russian lord in St. Petersburg…and that Greek in Santorini, and, of course, the Scottish warrior who turned me.

“Ah, yes. You are a sodomite. Which will make your payment easier on us both, I suppose. I myself enjoy both the sexes, as lovers, slaves, and prey. What is your type, Derek Maclaine? And do you have a lover?”

“Yes, sir, I do. A human one, back in West Virginia. His name is Matt. He’s my type. One of my types. Shorter than I, burly, hairy, with a bushy beard. A country boy. From the mountains, like me. What we in America call a butch bottom. We’ve been together for almost a decade.”

“What is his age?” Marcus says. The waitress arrives, placing a slender glass of yellow liquid before Marcus, a similar glass filled with black liquid before me. “
Grazie
, Nigella,” Marcus says, voice soft. She smiles and departs.

“Matt is forty-one, sir.”

“He is your boy, yes?” A lock of yellow hair falls over Marcus’s brow; he brushes it back, takes a sip, rests his elbow on the table, takes his stubbly chin in his hand and rubs it.

“Yes, sir, though not my slave. He’s too—as we say in the mountains—too hard-headed and ornery for that.” I want to say,
You are almost as beautiful as he
, but I suspect, powerful as Marcus is, he can read my thoughts and can already feel my desire and the way that submitting to him both shames and arouses me.

“And is he graying yet?” Marcus takes another sip. I can smell the heavy scents of sugar and lemon.

“Yes, sir. His temples are streaked with silver. His beard is as well, and the hair on his breast. He is so handsome, so ripe, a man in the fullness of his years, but…”

Marcus shakes his head. “Yes,” he sighs. “
Trista
. I did that for centuries. Loved mortals. Now…not so often. Will you turn him?”

“No, sir. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Well, your other types?”

“Ah, Jesus lookalikes!” I laugh. “I like to ravish Christs. Slender boys with shaggy dark hair and beards. They make fine sacrifices. Occasionally, as understanding as Matt is of my feeding needs, they make him jealous. I do tend to dote on men such as they. Sometimes, when Matt’s away on business, I kidnap one for my amusement and keep him for a few days.”

“And have you had one of our Roman Christs yet?” His blue eyes flicker over me. Hunger is there in his glance, deep and fierce.

“No, sir, not yet. As you recall from our correspondence, this is my first visit to Rome. I only arrived last night, and I was told not to feed until…”

Marcus’s foot nudges my boot beneath the table. “Very good. Yes. It is well that you obey. I can tell from the gray in your hair that you need to feed. Soon, I promise. Meanwhile, please sample your liqueur. That is black
liquore di Sambuca
, which, according to the bottle, ‘captures the spirit and allure of the Roman night,’ a sweet, dark night such as this one in which we meet, Scotsman.” Another faint smile flickers around his lips. With the ball of his thumb, he rubs the tip of his right incisor: quick flash, sharp, white, anticipatory. “And tell me if tall blond dominant Roman aristocrats meet your fancy.”

Undead for centuries, yet I can still blush. No reason to lie. Old and experienced as he is, he could tell if I did. “Not normally, sir. I tend toward dark-haired men. But there are exceptions. You are indeed not what I expected of a Roman.” I take a sip—more sugar, the odor of anise.

“Yes, most of us are much darker than I. During my human days, my friends teased me for my fairness. They said that a warrior from Germania had infiltrated my mother’s bed. During my days with the army, my men called me
Aquila Aurea
, the golden eagle. Many of them loved me. My lovers called me
Splendidus
. From what I can sense, you might agree with them.” The faint smile goes broad only for a second before returning to that intense gaze, that impassive expression. “You will be my lover tonight, Derek? My boy? You will pay the price we agreed upon? In return I will share my city with you whenever you please.”

My face is on fire. I can only drop my eyes, sip my liqueur, and nod. The Sambuca is as rich, sweet, and thick as old blood, strong blood.

“Do you like it? The liqueur?”

“Yes, sir, I do. In future, when I drink it, I will certainly think of you. And you, sir? What is your type?” I lift my glass, stare into its blackness, then put it down.
Stop fiddling, Derek. Stop being such a bashful flirt.

“Ah, in men? Many, many kinds. Men both sleek like me and rough like you. Both young men and mature men. Both humans and vampires. Tonight, I want a man who is wild and proud and in need of discipline. I want a man accustomed to being in control to submit to me, to feed my strength. Have you ever known a man like that?” Marcus chuckles. “One whose manhood might be tempered and refined by submission?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s all I can do not to stammer. “I love those men too. It’s just that it’s been so long since I myself—”

“Relax, boy. We shall have a fine night on the Palatine Hill, there among the ruins of the Caesars. I will care for you well. I will not harm you…much. And you will be the stronger for it. I must admit, you are surprisingly handsome and well-mannered for a mountain barbarian.”

I look up and laugh. His blue eyes probe me. I can feel his thoughts rummaging through my head, turning over the mental stones of memory and motivation.

“Oh yes, a barbarian,” says Marcus. “You Scotsman were certainly trouble. Hadrian had to build that long wall against Caledonia.”

“Yes, sir. And you all never conquered us.” As subdued as my customary pride must be this night, I can’t help but remind him. “We Scots were about the only folks whose asses you couldn’t whip.”

Anger flashes in his eyes for a split second. Then he nods, another smile flickering over his stony features. “Not worth the trouble. Those thistle-sharp mountains? Those scruffy clans in their dirty tartans? Though you do present yourself well tonight.” He leans forward, his glance roaming over my black jeans, black T-shirt, black cowboy boots, and the thorny tattoos on my left forearm. “You are a fine specimen of a…redneck? That is the expression?”