Books by Maggie Shayne (181 page)

It was as I contemplated these things in my rooms one night that a gentle tap sounded on my door. I didn't bother opening my mind to gather impressions, a mistake I made often, I fear, in my early days. I simply assumed it was 'fina and called, "Enter."

The door opened, and the serving maid I remembered from the late dinners where 'fina and I pretended to eat with our host and various guests, night after tiresome night, stepped inside. She wore very little. A nightgown of fabric so sheer that every inch of her warm mortal flesh was visible, and she carried a candle. Her hair, masses of it, honey blond and wildly curling, was loose and tumbling. Her lips wet and parted. Her body full and lush.

Forcing my gaze to her face, her eyes, I said, "What is it you want of me?"

"You've got it wrong, m'lord. I've come to ask that very question of you." Her accent was of the lower classes, though not quite Cockney. She'd trained herself to lose the harshest edges of her natural speech, I guessed. Imitating instead the more pleasing tones of her employers.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

She stepped farther inside, setting her candlestick on the bureau, closing the large door behind her and then eyeing me calmly. "I see the way you look at me, m'lord. At my breasts when I lean close to pour yer tea. And at my arse when I bend to pour anyone else's. I got tired of waitin' for you to ask, thought I might be bold and make the offer."

It was true enough. The wench wore necklines scooped so low I had wondered more than once how she kept those delightfully plump tits contained. They swelled above the fabric of her dresses, and she made sure to wave them under my nose as often as possible. I'd been tempted. I'd been intrigued.

"Surely yer not shy, now, are you, m'lord?"

"No. I'm not shy."

"You'll find I'm not, either." And she proved it, while walking across the room toward me, tugging at a tie at her neckline and shucking even the thin garment she'd been wearing. It floated to the floor, and she stood proudly naked, not a foot from where I still sat in a chair near the fireplace.

I could smell every scent of her. She was clean, freshly bathed, just for me, I thought. Her hair smelled of henna, her skin of aloe. And I smelled her arousal, too, and knew she was damp with the juices of it. And I'd yet to even touch her.

I licked my lips in anticipation. God knew it had been years since I'd known a woman in the way she wanted me to know her. I'd devoured many, yes, drinking from them in small, restrained draughts that left me craving more and left them quivering with desire. I went to them by night, commanded them to remember me as a dream.

Sarafina had told me I could do no more without killing them. I didn't believe her. Surely I could… touch…

The wench dropped to her knees, stroked her hand over my groin and felt my aroused state. She smiled up at me, then tore my breeches open and bent to lick at my root. I shuddered in pleasure, desire blazing through me at the first touch of her tongue, but then she took me into her mouth, warm and wet, took me deep. Her arms twisted around behind me to hold me to her, and she bounced up and down on my cock, sucking with all her might. Even as the semen rose in my rod, so the blood lust rose in my veins. I felt it, like a dark hunger, growing stronger with the pleasure she gave, until I could hear the blood rushing beneath her skin. I could smell it. I had to have it.

Gripping a handful of her hair, I pulled her head from me, pulling her onto her feet and forward, so she straddled me. I grabbed her hips and slammed her down, stabbing deeply into her, so deeply she cried out—in pain or pleasure or some mingling of the two, I do not know. I didn't care. Again she began bouncing up and down on me. I'd had her throat in mind, her sweet jugular, but the swollen mounds of those succulent tits bouncing in my face changed my mind.

I reached out and caught one like a prize, sucked hard on the nipple and then bit down. She shrieked in delight, and I pierced the very tip with an incisor and sucked hard at the thin trickle of blood that came.

It touched my tongue, and I was lost. Sensation, need, that powerful hunger that overwhelms all logic, burned through my brain as I sucked harder, bit deeper to increase the blood flow, ignoring her shrieks as I held her to me and took what I wanted, even then knowing it wasn't enough.

I got up, my cock still embedded in her, her legs anchored around me, her bleeding nipple tight in my teeth, and I walked to the bed, tumbled us both down onto it crossways, landing hard atop her. I let her breast go at last as I rammed myself into her so powerfully the heavy bed thumped and jerked, inching across the floor with my thrusts. She was crying out now, too loudly not to be heard in her passion. I silenced the wench with a hand to her mouth and sank my teeth into the other breast, biting deeper this time, plunging both fangs in to the hilt and drinking, sucking. I fucked her hard and sank my teeth into her delicious flesh over and over again, her shoulder, her arms and, finally, her throat. My razor-sharp teeth sank through her flesh as if it were butter, broke through the cartilage with a popping sound, and then the jugular gave up its bounty. I drove my shaft to the hilt as her heart pumped the blood into me in willing sacrifice. I devoured her and I climaxed, and it was magnified a thousand times from the climaxes I'd known as a mortal. A million times. My body nearly shook itself apart. I was momentarily blind. Deaf. My entire being was focused at the two places where we were joined—my cock inside her and my teeth in her throat. Between the two arced bolts of lightning. And that was all I was. Sheer mind-bending pleasure so intense it was agony. I cried out with it, releasing her throat, drawing my head back to roar in savage delight.

When the sensations finally waned, I still lay there on top of her, relishing the feel of her Life thrumming in my veins and the satisfaction of sexual release. I was high, soaring on the aftermath of such intense gratification. I was warm, her blood pumping through me, empowering me.

Gradually I became aware of a slow, rhythmic clapping from somewhere in the room. Bunking out of the buzzing energy in my head, I lifted my eyes, focused them, and saw Sarafina standing on the far side of the room, applauding. "Well done, Dante. Very well done."

I looked down at the woman beneath me. Her eyes were wide open and glazing already. And her throat—God, I hadn't simply punctured it, I'd torn a wide, gaping wound. I'd ripped her flesh, severed the vein, torn through the muscle, baring her windpipe. I scrambled off her, backing away, but I saw it all. There were smaller wounds on her breasts, her arms, her shoulders, even her jaw. They'd bled, but only a little. I hadn't let much of that nectar escape my hungry mouth. Her center was torn, bloody from the force with which I'd pummeled her.

I brought a hand to my mouth in shock, but it came away with traces of scarlet adorning it. It was on my face, I knew. I'd buried my face in that wound, slavering to get more of her into me. And I must be wearing a lot of the evidence still.

It was on my hands, my chest.

Turning in shock to Sarafina, I whispered, "Why didn't you stop me? Why?"

"Stop you?" She shook her head. "I sent her to you, Dante. Some lessons are only learned by doing. Now you know what will happen if you spend your passion on a mortal. Save it. Slaves or other vampires are the only safe options if you're determined not to kill. Then again, perhaps you've changed your mind about that, now that you've seen how good it is."

"I don't kill."

"You do now. Like a wolf or a shark or any other predator, you've had a taste of it, Dante. You'll do it again. We're predators. It's what we do. But that argument is for later. Now we must leave this place before tonight's work is discovered. Wrap the slut in blankets and go wash yourself up. I'll gather our things."

"But—"

"But nothing. She already composed a note, informing the household that she has run away with a stable boy. I actually had her believing you would want to take her away with us once you'd sampled her luscious body." She tipped her head back, laughing delicately. "I vow, Dante, you did her nicely. I had no idea you were such a stallion."

"Shut up, 'fina," I saw where her eyes were and righted my breeches. "You're my aunt, for God's sake."

"God has nothing to do with it, boy. And I'm not only your aunt—your great-great aunt—I'm also your mother and your sire and your sister. The blood ties of the past mean nothing. We are a new kind of family now. And I could take what you gave to her and more without sustaining any damage at all."

I stared at her coldly. "The blood ties of the past still mean something to me, Sarafina. And I promise you, we will never be together in that way."

I saw the hurt and the anger in her eyes. Perhaps she had been undead for so long that the propriety of mortals meant nothing to her, perhaps she had even forgotten it. But I hadn't. I hurt her with those words. But I meant them. And while I hated what she had done to me that night, I knew that I had learned an important lesson.

Never to have physical relations with a mortal.

Morgan closed the book, blinking in shock. There had been exceptions. Something about slaves, which she didn't find the least appealing. Something about "the Chosen," which she understood even less. And other vampires.

Nothing about how one made other vampires. Nothing about anything helpful—except that she now knew why Dante refused to sleep with her.

And she thought it might be for the best. She certainly didn't want him to kill her.

She glanced down at her attire, licking her lips in trepidation. Quickly she jumped to her feet, returned the journal to the safe, closed and locked the door, and then closed the false bookcase over it. Then she ran out of the study, hurrying up the stairs to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She had to change. She didn't want to tempt him to do… to do
that
to her.

But the moment she closed her bedroom door, she heard him. Not aloud, but, in some strange, fascinating way, inside her mind.

Morgan.

She ignored the voice in her head and tugged open a bureau drawer.

Morgan!

The French doors flew open, blasted by a gust of wind. She spun around, gasping in shock. But he wasn't standing there on the balcony, as she had half expected. Trembling, she went to the doors to pull them closed, and that was when she saw him. He stood on the back lawn, halfway between the house and the sea. And she felt him looking right at her.

Come out here to me. Now.

Could she really be hearing him without a sound? She thought about calling down that she would be just a minute, but the final word came again.

Now.

It compelled her. She couldn't convince herself not to obey. Turning, Morgan walked out of her bedroom, down the stairs and through the house to the back door. She stepped out onto the flagstone patio and down three more steps, until her bare feet were sinking into the damp, cold grass. It sent a chill through her, and still she walked on. She walked until she stood facing him, an arm's length between his body and hers.

His gaze slid down her body. She felt it like a touch, shivered with cold and with awareness.

"Now we have time. All night, in fact. And you're going to tell me, Morgan, how you know about me."

She met his eyes and found herself incapable of coherent thought. There was nothing in her mind beyond submission. Obedience. It took an act of sheer will to break the hold of those eyes on hers, compelling her to tell him everything he wanted to know, but she did it. She looked away, past him at the sea.

Her mind whispered that if she told him about the journals, he would take them away. And, God, she couldn't lose her only link to him.

Or
were
they her only link to him?

"How did you do that?" she whispered.

His eyes closed for a moment as he sought patience. "Summon you here?" he asked, and when she nodded, he sighed. "I'm a vampire. An old one."

It wasn't an answer. "So you've learned mind control over the years?"

"To some extent, yes."

"Then you could summon anyone to come to you, make them come even if they didn't want to?" She was looking at the ground now, anywhere but into his eyes.

A finger hooked beneath her chin, tipped her head slowly up. "You wanted to."

A shiver worked through her body.

"It's more difficult to convince someone to do something they don't want to do. But I have the feeling, Morgan, that I could convince you to do just about anything I asked."

"I… " Her breathing quickened, and he noticed. She knew he noticed—she saw it in his eyes—and she almost thought he could hear her heartbeat speeding up, too. "I heard your voice in my mind. As clearly as if you were standing beside me, speaking to me."

He nodded.

"Does that happen with everyone, too?"

He broke eye contact this time but didn't look away as she had done. No, he just shifted his gaze to her lips. "I came here to ask questions, not answer them."

"I have questions, too," she said. "And I need answers as badly as you do."

He squared his shoulders. "Your conditions have changed, then?"

"I don't… "

"Last night you offered to tell me everything I wished to know if I would take you. Tonight you're ready to trade information instead of sex."

When he said the words "if I would take you," a shiver worked through her and heat pooled in her center. It brought vivid images to mind.
Take you
. It implied her submission, willing or otherwise. His mastery, his possession of her in any way he desired. She wanted it, and more. She craved it. She could see it so clearly in her mind. His hands holding her wrists, his mouth moving over her body, kissing and tasting and nipping, sampling her flesh and her blood while she whimpered in pain and pleasure.

"Stop it!"

His voice, harsh and sharp, brought her to attention. He had turned away, his hands pressed to his temples and his eyes closed.

"I can see your thoughts as clearly as you can, Morgan. And I warn you, my restraint is running low."