Authors: Linda Mercury

Dracula's Desires (5 page)

BOOK: Dracula's Desires

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Smooth as a tiger, John rocked them over to their sides. He slid down her body and took a nipple in his mouth. He shoved his thigh between hers as he sucked, nipped, and licked her already-tender flesh.

Limp, she sighed over and over, rocking against his thigh as his mouth lifted her higher and higher again. Who knew her nipple was so sensitive? The long-lost image of a woman with milk-wet nipples threw Valerie back into orgasm.

If a vampire could give milk, she would have at that time.

He lifted himself and with a single smooth move, settled his face between her legs. “Your little button calls me so loudly. I must answer.”

Sweet hellfire, the man didn't stop. She flew into the blast furnace of another orgasm.

John left the shades open as the sun set. The peach and orange illumination gilded John's white room with the warm colors of longing and domestic harmony. Valerie slept through the spectacular light show, her body limp as an exhausted kitten. Her hair flopped over her face until only her oft-broken nose emerged like a rock from a river.

At ease and momentarily sated, John crooked his finger and pulled the black strands away from his lover's face. He'd not lived with anyone before. It was as delightful as the view of the brown and green mountains rising over his town.

He had been reasonably content as a single man. Guides and Fallen Angels kept themselves a secret from the mortal world. If he kept out of long-term relationships, he could hide his gifts of foresight, quick healing, spiritual insight, and superior taste. Being French probably had more to do with the superior taste, though.

John tucked her legs under the fluffy cream comforter, watching Valerie's face the whole time. Regular vampire sleep was still a little-understood phenomenon. Some needed home soil for rest, some didn't. Some woke up at actual sunset, some slept in until astronomical twilight. Some vampires dreamed, some didn't. Some could function in dim sunlight, some not.

Even the oldest vampires had no answers for researchers. Bloodlines, age, dietânothing correlated into needs and habits.

His great-grandmother, Josephine O'Neill, had theorized that vampires were individuals, just like humans with different requirements. No one liked that answer, though, consistently ignoring her research. Stereotypes and racial profiling were so much easier to use.

John caressed the thin skin of his woman's inner wrist. If his nana could see how her former champion had softened, she would cheer for the victory of love over the evils of the past.

In her sleep, Valerie yanked her arm away from his tickling fingers. Changed, yes. Docile or passive? Never. John smiled. Thank God.

His five o'clock beard itched and forced him to face uncomfortable thoughts. One half of his vision had come true. Perhaps the summer would bring him the rest of his desires. The bitterness of winter was not easily shaken off, though. Would Lance ever reappear?

John wrapped his fingers around hers and stared off into space. No matter how loudly he asked, eternity did not answer him. How does one survive the absence of part of your soul?

C
HAPTER
8

U
nlike human depictions of Heaven, there were no fluffy clouds full of white-clad, winged bipeds playing on harps. Rather, eternity was everywhere at once. This made sense to Lance Soleil's partially expanded angelic consciousness, but left him with very few ways to describe his homecoming party. He was in a garden, by the ocean, on top of mountains, in fields, and at the bottom of valleys all at the same time. Add the improbable beverages he and the rest of the hosts had been consuming, and he was one disoriented angel. This longed-for reception should have been worth every grinding minute on the Wheel, learning to serve.

But Valerie wasn't here. Neither was John. Casually, Lance set his drink glass on something that might have been a tree trunk, a rock, or even a garden gnome. He ran, trying yet again to slip away from the wild bash. His attempts to reach Earth numbered in the thousands by now, but he was not allowed to leave. Frustration tightened his jaw.

“Hey, buddy, try this one!” The Angel of Fermentation shoved yet another tall chalice of something cool and fruity-sweet into Lance's empty hand. Lance's wings dipped in distracted thanks. Why were the angels persistently preventing him from seeking his lover?

“Guys, really. I want to go.”

Fermentation's headlike appendage swiveled back and forth. “Not yet, not yet. The timing must be perfect.”

“The timing of what?” Frustrated and irritated, he took his first sip of the new drink. As with all of Fermentation's work, it was ridiculously intoxicating. The first flush of exhilaration brought a wave of heat into Lance's angelic form and then settled into a warm presence in his love center, what mortals would call his heart. Joyously, he swallowed the rest of the potion.

“Do you like it?” Fermentation asked. The bubbly, yeasty mass gestured to Lance's now-empty cup. “I call it God's Breath.”

“God breathes?” Lance had forgotten so much of what Eternity was like; he had to rely on human theories to fill the blanks.

Fermentation laughed. For some reason, everyone found Lance's confusion uproariously funny.

Death strolled over, twirling its scythe like a majorette's baton. “What hilarious thing is it this time?” it asked.

“You didn't hear that?” Beerlike suds splattered everywhere as Fermentation slapped Death on its shoulder. “He asked if God breathes. Next, he'll ask if God can build a rock âHe' can't lift!”

“Mortal philosophy slays me!” Death bent double as it wheezed laughter through its bony jaw. At Lance's blank look, Death uncurled and gasped for air. Calming down, he patted Lance's forearm.

“Be nice, Ferm. The poor boy has been gone a long time. He's still all literal and shit. Besides, he's champing to get going. Can't have that yet.”

Death and Fermentation laughed as though they'd heard the secret to creation. The buzz from God's Breath wore off, leaving him pissed off and belligerent. Lance elbowed his way past them, determined to find the entrance to Earth. The two angels grabbed his elbows and dragged him back.

“Trust us.” Death's teeth clattered in Lance's ear. “This is important. You must wait.” Distressed, Death rolled its scythe from one hand, across its body, and to the other. Lance and Fermentation ducked as the shining blade sliced toward their heads.

Fermentation nodded, froth splattering Lance's sweater. “You need to get acclimated again. It's all symbolic here, remember? The wings, the swords, the tools? All ways of expressing our essence.”

Death continued. “Sure, we can transport as fast as thought, blah, blah, but we aren't infinite. Remember?”

“Not really. I'm all literal and shit, remember?” Lance gritted his teeth.

“Good one!” Fermentation flapped its armlike pseudopods. “Welcome home, brother.” It turned to the assembled masses and crowed, “Cheers to the first to ascend!”

All the heavenly beings toasted Lance with another round of hooting and hollering. Resigned, he waved. Eternity had a whole new meaning when it involved trying to escape a party.

A group of angels enjoyed the constraints of corporeal form by folding themselves backward and attempting to dance under a stick that kept lowering toward the ground. The tinkling sounds of a steel drum band kept all the symbolic butts dancing.

Limbo. Angels had a strange sense of humor.

Too bad Lance had completely lost his.

“I'd stay, but I see someone with an empty glass,” Fermentation said, and took off, dripping yeast behind itself.

Lance's control snapped. His hand wrapped around Death's skeletal throat. “What is it I am waiting for?”

Death sighed. Its vertebrae separated and reformed a few feet away, leaving Lance's fist floating in the air. “You are vulnerable and not into your full powers. If you go to Earth, it is entirely possible that you may Fall again.”

Lance stretched his wings, crowding Death closer to the edge of whatever they were standing on. Bone-hard fingers pinched between his wings and neck, forcing Lance down.

“Listen.” Death's earthy smell invaded Lance's space. “We're not the omnipotent, omniscient ones. We have limits. You need your tools before you can go to them.”

“Then get me my tools.”

Death stroked its chin and tipped its head to the side.

“Enough with you.” Death stood straight and shifted its shoulders under its shimmering gray-black robes. “I'm going to go win that juggling contest. But since I like you . . .”

Death drained its enormous stein of God's Breath. It tossed the jewel-encrusted mug high in the air. As it spun and flipped in the heavenly air, the other angel threw its scythe after the cup. The sharp blade sliced the vessel in half. Death caught the two halves, one in each skeletal hand. The scythe whirled in the air, the magical edge shining in deadly, hypnotizing arcs.

Death kicked the scythe handle like a hacky sack, forcing it to land, handle first, in the soft ground. It stuck there, quivering, as Death faced Lance.

“Won't Fermentation want its cup back?” Lance asked, his mind a blank.

Death grinned smugly. “For us, energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed.” With that, the cup shimmered and fused into a large magnifying glass with a jade handle and gold scrollwork holding the lens.

Lance wrapped his fingers around the heavy green handle. When he rotated it in his hand, it transformed into a sword with a blade as black as Valerie's aura. “What is this?” he asked.

“The obsidian sword will cut through illusion and false notions. The glass is for looking deeply into the heart. You need nothing else except your desire to reunite and your love of humanity. I send you to your first assignment, Angel of the Lost.”

Lance sheathed the sword. “What is it, then?”

“Prophecies tell of a time when Hell will open and the Fallen will walk the earth, tormenting and tempting. It has begun.”

What the fuck? Lance jerked his head back. “Why are we not forming our legions instead of playing”âhe glanced around at the still-raucous partyâ“lawn darts?”

Death scratched its back with the handle of its scythe. “Oh, it's happening. Just not how anyone expected.” It clasped Lance's elbow and walked them toward a quieter corner. “The Fallen are on Earth, but they are tormenting in order to get killed. If you, Valerie, John, Glenath, and Anthony end them, then our former colleagues bypass the Wheel and ride an express train home.”

His loved ones were in danger while he had been drinking divine beer? Lance's sword appeared in his hand. “Why?” he demanded.

“You are the Angel of the Lost. You are the one who can find them. The others?” Death sat on the floor of what was now a grand ballroom and laid its weapon across its lap. “Each has been in contact with a potent nascent Power. Valerie will fill you in on that.” With a languid wave of its bony hand, Death said, “Good luck.”

With that, Death, the Host, all of Heaven disappeared. Ripples of the cosmic laughter lifted Lance's wings until he landed.

He was on Earth, in a gravel parking lot, standing next to a gleaming black Shelby Mustang with white Le Mans stripes.

C
HAPTER
9

A
nthony O'Neill, one of the four vampires left on Earth, hero of the French Resistance, recent instrument in the downfall of a presidential hopeful, and currently on his honeymoon, found his wife stoned out of her mind in an Amsterdam coffee shop.

The establishment was nice enough, at least, instead of one of those tiny ones that used cracked red plastic banquet chairs for seating. Glenath Tempesta, the love of his life, and her flowing skirts were draped over a worn velvet sofa. “Have some of the space cake. I haven't had anything this good since the sixties,” she giggled.

Her long, wild gray hair framed her sensual face and heavy gray smoke framed her luscious reclined body. Young skinny males buzzed around her, each vying for his darling's attention. Even in her sixties, Glenath turned men's heads with her sensuality and earthy style.

“What am I going to do with you?” He couldn't help the big grin crossing his face at the reminder of their radical pasts. They had met in the 1960s when she was a newly ordained minister and determined to end the discrimination between mortals and paranormal creatures. Crazy in love, crazy over the possibilities before Anthony's maker forced them apart. It took forty years of struggle, but finally, he and his bride could celebrate their nuptials.

“Sit, smoke with me,” she cooed, patting the seat next to her. The young men glared at him resentfully. He grinned. Anthony knew damn well he was the luckiest man in the world. What would it cost to humor her?

He took an experimental breath in and gagged at the overwhelming skunklike odor. Yeah, no go on that plan. Human recreational drugs didn't sit well with the undead.

“I'm taking you to the hotel,” he stated.

“You used to be
fun
,” she complained, her eyes rolling to the ceiling in stoned exaggeration.

A challenge, then. Without a change of expression, he bent down and picked her up. “I'll show you fun.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Glenath tasted like chocolate and the lingering residue of peyote. The chemicals swimming in her mouth made his tongue and lips tingle. He felt the hallucinogens race through his body, promising a dangerous ride.

Just like the woman in his arms. Glenath Tempesta was alive, vibrant, soft, and the wildest woman in the world. And she was all his.

“You want a trip? I'll show you a trip.” He bit her lip, drawing tiny dots of blood. Anthony suckled the potent blood. Reeling from the contact buzz, he carried her downstairs and into the rain. Still kissing, he walked them to the nearest red-framed window. A young woman sat on a stool, checking her phone.

“I don't do girls,” she warned as Anthony walked into her room.

He dug into his back pocket and threw a wad of cash at her. “Go get something to eat.”

There was more money in his roll than she'd make on this quiet weeknight. She flipped off her light, put on her coat, and waved good-bye. “Have fun.”

“Oh, we will,” Glenath mumbled around Anthony's fangs, making his cock buzz even harder.

He shoved Glenath against the window, pinning her against the cold, condensation-laced glass. “A vampire on drugs going to fuck you against the wall of a brothel.” Arrogantly, he forced her legs wider to accommodate his thicker thighs. “Fun enough for you?”

“Groovy,” she moaned as he pulled her fuchsia peasant blouse down her torso.

The vampire kissed her nipples, sucking and tugging until she swore and forced his head deeper into her breasts. They loved until the moon hung low in the sky and the first yellow light of predawn shook the city awake.

Anthony's face hurt from smiling. His balls hurt from coming. Boneless from delight, the two flopped on the small bed in the prostitute's room.

“Damn.” Glenath moaned, holding a cold handkerchief against her pussy. “I really missed you.”

“If I could move, I'd have you again.” Anthony caressed her abdomen, tickling her navel.

Glenath snorted in laughter and futilely pushed at his hand. “If
I
could move, I'd have you again.”

Pleased with themselves, they exchanged goofy grins. A blast of sulfur permeated the room.

“Ugh,” Glenath said, fanning her hand in front of her nose. “I thought vampires couldn't do that.”

“It's not me,” Anthony retorted. He knew Glenath hadn't dealt it; he would have felt her stomach move.

“Ha!” An eight-foot-tall, bright green woman with four arms blasted through the doorway. Her blue teeth curled like tusks under her chin and all of her arms flailed in random patterns. “I did it. Prepare to die!”

With a slow, shuffling step, the Fallen Angel squished herself into the room. “Ow,” she muttered when her head slammed against the less-than-six-foot-tall ceiling.

“This is the weirdest assassination attempt I've ever experienced,” Glenath whispered.

“Yeah.” Anthony stared as the green woman crouched against the corner.

“I will kill you,” the demon mumbled around her tusks. “I threaten you with the unending torment of Hell. Prepare to defend yourselves.” The Fallen waved one of her hands in a “get on with it, dummy” gesture.

Anthony grabbed the first thing at hand and waved it overhead as threateningly as he could. “You haven't a chance against a vampire and the Bishop Tempesta, evil one,” he retorted, glancing at his chosen weapon. Nothing like an extra-large bottle of lubricant to send chills of fear through the apparently suicidal ancient enemy of mortals.

“I will fight by your side, my darling,” Glenath pronounced, keeping her face as straight as if she held the Host before a congregation. She whispered a few words toward the bottle. “You have no defense against our holy, um, water, you fiend!”

With a mighty squeeze, Anthony squeezed the blessed lubricant all over the Fallen's conveniently outthrust chest.

“Argh! I am slain!” The four-armed monster waved four thumbs-up at them as she crumbled into a mass of lube and ash.

The two lovers stared at the slick, disgusting mess on the floor. “That was weird,” Glenath announced.

Anthony moved the wreckage of the door. The early sun pinched his eyes, but he could still see the stone-walled canals and the bright green of the overhanging trees. “Huh. That's not the weirdest thing.”

His wife wrapped a sheet around her and peered out the door. A line of Fallen Angels wrapped around the block. When they saw the two honeymooners, they cheered and screamed as though they were teenaged girls who had just seen the Beatles.

“We're going to need more lube,” Anthony muttered.

“Hell.” Glenath placed her hands on her hips, her wrists facing forward. “I'm going to need more drugs.”

BOOK: Dracula's Desires

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