by Lucas Thorn
Rise of the Fel Queen #1:
The Satanic Brides of Dracula
LATERAL BOOKS
First Digital Edition Revised
published in January 2018
Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2018
ASIN: B078M5LMF7
www.lucasthorn.com
INTRODUCTION
I grew up in love with vampires.
I’m not sure how much that shows in my writing, but the first book I tried to write had vampires in it. I never finished that book. To be honest, it was awful. The horrible imaginings of a teenager hyped on too much angst.
I’m glad it’s buried somewhere in a rubbish tip.
The vampires I liked, however, weren’t the vampires you might necessarily recognise these days. Now, vampires sparkle. They’re sad emo High Schoolers pining for lost loves and resurrecting their feelings.
Ugh.
I loved Hammer Horror. I loved Dracula as a confident creature of the night who never questions the fabulous and dark joy of eating people’s throats.
I grew up loving Yorga and Radu.
I grew up reading Don Sebastian’s adventures.
I miss those melodramatic historical pieces with their special kind of surreal English and bodice-ripping adventure.
The Victorian age was a pleasure field of the Occult. A Golden Age of spiritualism and natural magic. A time when hoaxers and conmen lured rich men into secret societies and milked them for every penny they could.
A time of dark gothic horror.
And Hammer captured that better than anyone, I think.
This book you are holding in your hands is a love letter to those glorious Friday night horror movies.
It’s a gift to the classic monsters Universal couldn’t resurrect because no self-respecting monster would want anything to do with Tom Cruise.
It’s a gift to those who cried when they heard about Twilight.
Most of all, it’s a gift to those of you who wanted vampires to win.
PROLOGUE
Vasilja.
The name sends shivers down spines of men who lived to tell tales of her whispers. Whispers threading glittering holes between midnight and dawn.
Holes which bleed.
He knows her name. Knows it even as his mind searches for a way to deny it.
Her voice is mercury and honey. Equal parts a child’s innocence, a maiden’s charm, and a butcher’s icy cold. Each uttered word steals pieces of his soul.
She glides into the room on silent feet. Angel without wings.
White dress gleaming.
Pale skin shining.
Eyes alive in ways her heart was not.
Then the others came.
Pouring from shadows on seductive exhale. Blazing with hunger. Ruby red lips curled into lustful grins.
Senka, young and exotic. He caught his breath before there was time to draw it.
Hailwic, proud and withdrawn. Holding back. Smile only lightly planted on her pale face, but it was there. Cruel where Vasilja was comforting.
Senka approached first.
Impatient. Hungry.
A lunging wolf. Passion and frenzy sucking snarls from throat.
Glint of white teeth. Sharp.
Clawed fingers. Grab hold and never let go.
Clutch.
Scratch.
Pins him down and beats with fists.
Pants into his ear; “Fight me.”
Her mouth is a scarlet heart. Eyes blue. So pale they echo skies she can no longer recall. If she cares for the loss, it never shows as she ravages her prey.
Chuckle of delight like growl of lion.
He doesn’t fight back, so she hisses. Thrashes and snaps.
Howls for resistance. Howls for it.
He is bruised. Bleeding from dozens of raking cuts.
Bewildered by her savagery.
He tries to recover. Wants to crawl out from underneath her. A worm beneath hooked claws.
But it’s too late.
She tires of his weakness. Looks to Vasilja.
Who slides into the gap. Places cold hand on warm cheek and whispers.
Promises everything will be fine.
Kisses are given.
Ethereal flowers whose pale white thorns barely prick skin. And where Senka’s kiss raged with desperate need, Vasilja brings the gentle touch of a lover. A soothing taste of comfort.
Unwinding fingers.
Glide down swallow of throat.
Rests on neck. Crook of shoulder.
She presses her nose and inhales.
Sucking tang of sweat and swollen stink of fear.
Smiles.
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
His fear leaks away, and he wonders why it was there to begin with.
Hailwic waits.
She stands aside. Blonde hair loose around cheeks.
Watching.
There is light in the back of her eyes. A warmth which never escapes. Body tight with muscle. Dress worn like a suit of armour. She stands with a warrior’s pose. A soldier’s rigid spine.
Absent a sword or axe, she looks unsatisfied.
As Vasilja’s fang enters skin with the softest of bites, it is Hailwic who makes the first sound.
Quiet growl.
Panther roused from rest. Lifts her head. Stalks the edges.
Searching for the perfect place to pounce.
And when she finds it, she is swift.
Lips pull back to show fangs of purest white. A blur etched in moonlight.
Snap of jaws.
His life flees in terror as Hailwic gorges.
Vasilja flinches, raising her arm to avoid spray of blood across her eyes.
“You’re wasting it all, Hailwic,” Senka complains, still straddling waist. “You always waste it. You promised you’d be more careful this time. You promised!”
Aware Hailwic is lost to the frenzy, she darts in to lock mouth around wrist. Hunched and back curved over the body, Senka sucks deep. Eager to take her share. Drawing crimson flood quickly into her mouth. Almost choking on it. Glaring as Hailwic works deeper into his throat.
Vasilja sighs.
Reaches for the other arm. Holds it up, but stops short of biting.
Looks at the blue face, its horror lost to the apathy of death.
Shakes her head. “I’m terribly sorry,” she says, wetting fangs with blood. “I didn’t actually mean to lie.”
Hailwic reels to her feet.
Wipes mouth on her dress. Closed eyes as vitality cruises through undead veins.
Vasilja rises next.
Giggles soft before moving away. She pulls a ribbon from a pouch at her waist and begins to tie her hair.
Annoyed at how quickly their prey has been dispatched, Senka can’t resist a few final savage attacks. She tears flesh.
Exposes gore.
Runs fingers through organs and wipes slender fingers across the walls.
The frenzy is gone, but fascination with the wreckage of life never left.
They’ve done this so many times it is a ritual. An order of destruction as calculatable as the tides.
White dresses soaked red, they stand in circle around the corpse.
Hold hands.
And let the warmth settle inside as hot blood dissolves icy hunger for a time. Moonlight spears the room. Startled dust motes begin to settle.
And silence creeps between frozen breath.
They do not speak.
They don’t have to.
A sound disturbs them. Someone is coming.
Shuffled feet.
They run together, giggles stifled and sharing quick glances laced with cruel humour.
Three malignant fairies teased by moonlight, they leap out the window. Soar into the sky, rising toward the stars with stained white dresses trailing past bare feet.
Then halt, shrouded in wind’s crisp embrace.
Look down at the house.
Holding breath. Senka presses fang to her lip. Looks to Vasilja, who smiles wider in return.
A candle is lit within.
Muffled voice calls a name. His name.
Calls again.
The vampires cling to each other.
Tremble with the thrill of anticipation.
Utter excitement flaring within dead hearts as, below, the body is found.
A scream splits the dark. A scream of horror and loss echoed by shrieking laughter as the Brides swirl into the wind’s invisible rivers.
On most nights, this is when they’d feel it.
The tug.
Pulling on ethereal cords which bind them. A bond formed in the darkest pits of Hell. And laughter would cease.
They’d look to one another. Eyes wide. Did they still feel a sliver of fear when they felt it?
Or was it simply the shock of its pull?
Even Vasilja wouldn’t admit to fear.
“He calls,” she’d say. “Why does he always call when we’re having fun?”
“We should make him wait,” Senka says. Bares her fangs. There is humour there. Nasty and vicious. “Why do we always do what he wants?”
But Hailwic makes the decision. “No. We go now.”
And they go.
Though Senka pretends reluctance, she keeps pace with her sisters. She shares a scowl with Vasilja, but there’s no emotion to it.
It’s simply the ritual.
It is always like this.
It is always the same.
But this night was different.
Because the tug did not come. And, as they waited in the winds for the Call, even Senka began to gnaw her fingernails.
She looked this way and that. Slitted eyes searching the dark horizon. Glancing more often to the castle high in the mountains.
“Something is different,” Vasilja said.
“Something is changed,” Hailwic agreed.
“Maybe he’s teasing us,” Senka said. Reared like a snake, twirling angrily. Brow pulled into frown. “We should find him. Bite him. I want to bite him.”
The moon shifted between clouds.
Thunder. Vast and terrible, hurled itself in the distance.
Flash of lightning.
Vasilja repeated herself; “Something is different.”
“Come,” Hailwic said. And even Senka didn’t argue as the blonde vampire turned toward home. “We go.”
Her words, at least, gave the comfort of ritual.
Hailwic moved fast. A comet through clouds. White dress reflecting bright. Strong round shoulders tense and writhing. Fists bunched at her sides. War in her eyes.
Just behind, Vasilja and Senka gripped hands. Mirror expressions.
Worry?
Concern?
Something was different.
Something had changed.
And the Brides felt true fear for the first time since daylight died.
CHAPTER ONE
It was Senka who touched ground first. Bare toes disrupted soil with a grunt of impatience.
Hailwic only just behind, but was first to sprint across the courtyard. A cat whose claws expected to sink into flesh. Didn’t look back.
Jabbed finger to her right.
Snapped; “Senka, east tower. Vasilja. Master chamber. I’ll take the Hall.”
Senka bit a reply. Said nothing.
Not this time.
Hailwic was a warrior. A fighter. She’d led an army before Dracula found her.
An army of men who killed on command and without question.
Such a wondrous thing, Senka thought.
She dreamed of having an army of her own. A horde of slaves who bowed and grovelled. Who begged for her attentions. Whose only desire was to feed their vampire queen with the rewards of savagery and slaughter.
She’d lead them across Europe.
Africa.
The world! Flood cities with death and destruction. Revel in flavours of barbarity and pleasure which can only be found in the madness of war.
Blood would flow in rivers and she’d drink it all.
In her mind, war was glorious.
Senka kicked into the east tower on the heels of irritation. She hated that Hailwic decided everything. Just once she wanted to hear the eldest say she didn’t know what to do.
A seed of spite gleamed in her heart as she made her way down the stairs. Gave up running and instead weaved weightless like a ghost down the winding passage. Hovering inches above the ground. Why the others chose to run all the time, she didn’t know.
Power of even such a simple thing as this was intoxicating.
Faint smell of brimstone. A reminder of the origin of all her strength.
She could feel the air ripple around her.
Felt also the warmth of fresh blood soak from her belly and into her bones.
Replenishing strength.
The door opened at her touch. An ancient enchantment laid across the carved stone face in runes delivered in the Devil’s own language across Dracula’s sigil. Each rune infused with the demonic energy of Fel. They flared green beneath her fingertip before the door groaned open on heavy stone hinge.
Today, she didn’t study the dragon’s silent snarl.
Didn’t smile at thought of carved blood streaking carved fangs.
Instead soared straight into the crypt and found three coffins undisturbed.
Hers.
Hailwic’s.
Vasilja’s.
Looking at the bright scarlet coffin Vasilja used, she remembered placing garlic flowers inside. It’d been worth the greasy feeling of revulsion carrying them down to witness Vasilja’s horror. Then Vasilja’s mad rush through the castle in search of a vampire hunter while Senka squatted on a beam above and cackled in wicked pleasure.
A heavy stone dais at the end was empty.
Empty.
The word rocked through her thoughts. Hammer ringing against an anvil.
And, though she would feel shamed by it later, her mouth dropped open and a shriek filled brittle air.
Hailwic came with a roar. Flying into the room and spinning through the air.
Sword in one hand. In the other, a heavy steel mace.
It’s why she took the Hall. That’s where her weapons were kept.
Seething rage twisted the eldest’s face and Senka shrank beneath the fury.
“He’s not here,” Hailwic spat. “He’s gone.”
“He can’t. He can’t leave us like this. What will we do?”
Hailwic turned head to the empty dais. Sword blade tapping against her thigh as thoughts raced. Turned and aimed a narrow gaze at her sister. “Vasilja. Where is Vasilja?”
“You don’t need to worry about me, Hailwic,” Vasilja purred as she cruised into the crypt. Dragging a hunched form. Which she threw into the middle of the room. “I’m here. I looked everywhere in the tower and I couldn’t find any sign of Dracula. But I think he left us a parting gift. That was nice of him, don’t you think?”
Senka shot into the air with a squeal of delight. “What is it? Is it young? Is it tiny?”
“No. It’s not very young at all, Senka. In fact, it’s the man. You remember the man. The one who’s been staying with us. Mister Harker.”
“Jonathan!” Senka whirled into the air, white dress flapping like angelic wings. Let out a mocking screech; “Oh, Jonathan. Save me, Jonathan!”
The man trembled at Vasilja’s feet. “Please. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone what I’ve seen. I promise.”
“Let you go?” Vasilja’s tone made his head droop. “Why would we let you go, Mister Harker? Weren’t you here to rescue us? That’s what you promised my sister. You said you wanted to save us. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?
And all we had to do was show you a little bit of gratitude and let you love us very much until the morning. Wasn’t that how you put it? But I don’t think you would like our kisses, Mister Harker. You were very lucky he showed up, you know. Senka can be very messy. And he does so hate messy floors.”
“I’ll love him,” Senka said. Licked her lips and showed sharp white fang. “Love him until dawn. Please, Hailwic. Let me love him.”
“Not yet,” Hailwic said. And Senka said nothing. She could hear the reluctance even in the eldest’s voice. They all wanted him in their own way. “Vasilja, take him to the cells. Lock him inside. Chain him if you have to. He’s not to leave. You’ll make sure of this?”
“Of course, Hailwic.” She raised an arm imperiously toward the door and sneered at her captive. “Run, Mister Harker. Run. I do so like to watch you run.”
Giggling, Senka started to follow, but stopped as Hailwic’s voice cut through her reverie. “Not you, Senka. You come with me.”
“But I want to see him run,” Senka complained. Tested her limits. Not too hard.
“I promise you will. But remember why we’re here. Dracula is gone. With the time we have, we must quickly search the castle. There may be some sign as to where.”
“Why should we care? He left us. Does it matter where he went? Let him go to Greece. To Germany. Russia, even. Good riddance to him. Now we have the towns to ourselves! We can feed on who we want to feed! And he’ll not stop us anymore. We can be sated. I want to be sated, Hailwic. I want to bite!”
“Our thirst can never be sated.” Hailwic looked down at the weapons in her hands. “You’ll learn this in time.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s true. Now. Come. He kept papers in the library. He’d need to arrange travel. There has to be letters there. He’d never leave without knowing which ship to board. Never risk leaving his body in a warehouse for some filthy dock rat to find. No. He has arranged this. Planned it. Planned for how long, I wonder?”
Senka pressed fangs to her lips. Stopped short of biting. To ask the next question was to invite ridicule. But she had no choice. She was the youngest.
“Has he done this before?”
“Four times,” Hailwic said. Heading toward the stairs. “That I know of.”
“What do you mean by that?”
