Darkness In The Flames

by Kelly, Sahara

  To his astonishment, it didn’t happen. Her arm stayed held in his grasp, much like that of a mortal woman.

  “I—Rowan—” She stumbled over her words.

  He pulled her arm up and away from her mound, her moist fingertips catching on the silk of her gown and drawing it up at the same time. He drew in a breath at the skin revealed beneath the flimsy stuff—it was scarred and pitted, red marks that even now were fading as he stared at them.

  “What the hell…?”

  She tore away from him, freeing herself with her quick moves rather than any supernatural strength. “’Tis nothing. See? Gone already.”

  As she slipped the gown away from her body, Rowan saw she spoke the truth. The marks had disappeared completely, leaving her belly pure and white once more. Her breasts trembled.

  Instinctively he reached for them, cradling them, feeling the nipples budding against his palms. “Thérèse, what is happening?” He squeezed her breasts tightly. “Don’t lie to me. Please. I need to know.”

  She snorted. “You only need to fuck me.”

  Rowan held her fast. “That is not true. Look at me, look inside my soul. If you have any powers at all, you will see the untruth of your statement. I need more than your body…” He flicked a nipple with one nail. “More than your breasts and your sex. More than endless hours of fucking, pleasurable though they are.”

  “Yes. You need to feed from me.” She curled a lip.

  Rowan sighed. “You are blind, my sweet. So powerful and yet so blind.”

  She was staring at him, black eyes expressionless, lips parted. “I do not understand.”

  Rowan released her breasts, pushed her back onto the small bed and stretched out on top of her, letting her take his weight as he cradled his cock in the vee of her thighs. “You took my blood and my soul, Thérèse. We fucked like I’ve never fucked anybody before or since. You turned me into a creature of darkness like yourself. But you took something else that night in Rogaška.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.” Rowan found her hands, intertwined their fingers and drew them high above her head, holding her still as he lowered his face to hers. “You took my heart.”

  He kissed her, a strangely soft kiss, one that was almost sacred and respectful, giving no hint of the years of passion that lay between them. Cool lips met cool lips, a closed caress that opened as she tentatively invited him to explore within.

  Thérèse was still beneath him—a strange thing for him to realize. It was as if she’d never been kissed quite this way before. Perhaps she hadn’t. He drew back. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what happened.”

  He didn’t really know what he was asking—maybe just for words. Words that would help him understand this creature who held his love in a grip of blood and pain.

  She turned her head away. “I was…foolish. I did not move fast enough. I underestimated my enemies. ‘Twas nothing but a mere shower of…of…holy water.”

  Rowan guessed she was speaking of the scars he’d seen. “And they heal?”

  “Slowly. More slowly than they should.” She turned back and gazed at him. “Something’s changing, my Rowan. I am weakening, losing my strength.” Her black eyes turned hot. “Fuck me. Let me feed from you. Give me what I need, Rowan. You cannot deny me.”

  “I know. I can deny you nothing. I love you, Thérèse—you have only to ask me and I shall come to you. Give you anything at all…”

  He lifted his hips, letting his cock find the only home that suited him perfectly. As he sank his length into her cool slick darkness, everything else disappeared from his mind. He began to thrust, a steady pace that pleased them both.

  “How can you love me?” Her question was barely formed, as if a thought had escaped her mind and she’d spoken it aloud without realizing it.

  “How can I not?”

  Her hips lifted in response to his claiming, seating him deeper as he pushed hard into her body. “Oh yes, Rowan. Oh yes…this is what I need. Not your heart. I don’t want it. Give it to somebody else. Just save this for me.”

  “Too late, my love. ‘Tis yours. Forever.” He moved more quickly, pounding against her now, feeling her thighs slide up over his hips as she locked her ankles behind his back.

  “I do not want love. I cannot love. Do not offer something I will not ever accept…” She panted, sobs of breath he pushed from her body as his cock hammered deep inside. “Just give me this…fuck me. Pleasure me. Do not love me. Please…”

  It was a plaintive cry borne on the air they exhaled between their lips. She was nearing her peak, the shudders of her slippery sheath already gripping Rowan’s cock in a savage embrace that tugged his own orgasm along the path to completion.

  “Why not, Thérèse? Why must I not love you?” Rowan’s words were harsh as his spine tightened, muscles clenching in anticipation of his release.

  “It…it…brings only pain…and death…” She bowed beneath him, fighting to hold him against her body, writhing and rubbing her hips frantically now as he took her to the very edge—and held her there.

  “Tell me.” His order was a fierce command, hissed out between teeth that clenched as he pushed deep and froze for a second. “Tell me and I’ll let you come.”

  “I cannot…oh dear God…do not ask this of me…” She cried out, her fangs emerging in a rush of white over lips that were red and swollen.

  Rowan’s own fangs were free, aching to sink deeply into Thérèse the way his cock was sinking so deeply between her thighs. Her body shuddered and her eyes shifted away from his, moisture gathering at their corners as she struggled to orgasm even while refusing his only request.

  He was pushing her too hard. But he had been able to push her—something that surprised him to his core. She was right. Something was different now, something that had done a little to level the playing field between them.

  Rowan knew he could not go further with his questions. His body was betraying him, screaming at him to come within the only woman he’d ever loved. “It’s all right, my darling. Come. Come with me.” He hammered into her again, loving the sounds their bodies made as he plunged fiercely into her.

  “Yes, oh Rowan…yessssss…” She screamed even as she frantically scrabbled at his shoulders, drawing his body near her mouth.

  He was ready. His own fangs found the place he knew would send her flying over and over again—a soft place at the base of her neck.

  And as they exploded into the physical release of orgasm, they fed from each other, exploding into another place where souls met and clashed, where blood flowed in a mutual exchange that defied explanation.

  But this time, Rowan took more than blood from Thérèse. He took—agony.

  As her blood cascaded over his tongue and down his throat, Rowan’s mind filled with a massive and overwhelming pain, an indescribable crushing weight that sent tears into his eyes and sucked the breath from his lungs.

  Darkness and horror filled him, a grief so shattering he wondered how he could possibly survive it. He shuddered from its force even as he drank, unable to stop the terrible waves of desperation and sadness.

  It was coming from Thérèse. Some floodgate had opened deep within her mind, some memory perhaps or some dark corner that she’d kept concealed from everyone—including most probably herself.

  With difficulty, Rowan withdrew his fangs, not yet sated but unable to feed to his fulfillment. Her emotions would have killed him had he stayed within their deluge. Would have drowned him in the agonies of such excruciating suffering.

  How could this be? “Thérèse…” He whispered her name. “My God, Thérèse…”

  She released him, her fangs withdrawing rapidly behind her lips. Expressionless, she gazed at him. “Now perhaps you understand a little of what love can do.”

  A sob caught deep in his lungs as the aftereffects of his feeding continued to wash over him—a flood of something so deep and tragic he could not put a name to it.

  “And why the one thing yo
u must never do—is love me.”

  Rowan awoke with the echo of her words ringing in his ears.

  The sob he’d held back broke free and he turned to find Marcus on one elbow, staring at him in concern.

  “Marcus…” Rowan threw himself onto Marcus’ chest and wept.

  *~*~*~*

  They rode hard.

  Marcus knew Rowan was driven now, driven by whatever it was that had made him fall apart in Marcus’ arms. He’d found himself at a loss to comfort his friend, simply holding him as Rowan sobbed great racking cries of grief.

  Then he’d withdrawn, allowing Rowan the time to collect himself and his emotions.

  “We must leave. Now. Tonight. We must get to St. Chesswell’s as soon as possible.” Rowan’s voice had been so distraught, Marcus had found himself agreeing without demur, packing his gear, settling their account and leaping into his saddle almost before he’d realized it.

  Since then, they’d spoken little, each man apparently deep in his own thoughts. Marcus’ thoughts could not be anywhere near as dark as Rowan’s, since he had no idea what had caused the pain his friend was clearly suffering.

  That it had to do with Thérèse—well, there was no doubt in Marcus’ mind. But that it had caused Rowan to toss and stir from his usually quiescent “rest”—that was most unusual. As was the consequent pain that still crossed Rowan’s face, an expression of distress that kept Marcus in the saddle and beside Rowan as they rode faster than he could have imagined through the soft Hampshire night.

  Finally they eased their pace, Rowan drawing in his reins and stretching, lifting his face to the breeze. “I smell the sea. We are near.”

  Marcus wanted to stretch too, but was afraid something might crack if he did. He was bone weary, had lost track of the miles they must have covered during their desperate ride and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a day or two. But he held his counsel, knowing whatever aches and pains he might be experiencing, Rowan’s were far worse.

  “Good.” Marcus managed to keep his voice level. “I shall be glad to get there.”

  Rowan glanced over. “As will I. And I have pushed you too hard, Marcus. For that I am sorry. But…” He paused. “It was necessary. Is necessary.”

  Marcus nodded. “Do you think I don’t realize that? I am with you, my friend. Journey’s end is in sight. We shall both cross the threshold of St. Chesswell’s. Do not think to leave me out of it.”

  For the first time a slight smile curved Rowan’s handsome features. “I never doubted it. Forgive me, Marcus. What I dreamed…what I felt…” He shook his head. “Even now I can find no words to explain it. But I know it’s damned important.” Rowan stared off down the road to where the sea was beginning to slick its dark glitter across the distant horizon. “Just as I know it’s important for us to get to where we’re going.”

  “I agree.”

  Rowan clicked his heels, spurring his horse onward as Marcus did the same. This time they kept to a more sedate pace, constantly surveying the land around them. “’Tis that way, I believe.” Rowan pointed to the right.

  Saying nothing, Marcus merely followed, waiting to see if Rowan might reveal a glimpse of his nightmare. He was very curious, of course. But also possessed of patience and an affection for Rowan that precluded his prying into matters his friend was not yet ready to share.

  They rode over the top of a rise to see the ocean before them, a glittering expanse of softly rolling whitecaps that reflected the moonlight back into the night sky. Silhouetted against the water was a house—or more correctly a mansion—solidly built and lit from within, casting its own glitter onto the surrounding downs.

  “There. St. Chesswell’s.” Rowan breathed out on a sigh of relief. “We’re here.”

  “Indeed we are.” Marcus pulled up his horse. “Now what?”

  “Um…” Rowan paused beside him. “We go and knock on the door?”

  Marcus grinned. “And say something like…hello, we’re here to see if you know anything about vampires?”

  “Hmm.” Rowan considered the notion. “Well, it’s honest. That is what we’re here for. But perhaps we can couch our questions in a slightly more subtle fashion.”

  “At least they’re awake. That’s a good omen.” Marcus stared at the impenetrable walls with their windows alight. “And that place looks like it’s been here for hundreds of years.”

  The full moon flared from behind a few clouds, illuminating a landscape dotted with smooth hills and the occasional slash of a valley. The sea obviously dominated here, licking at the shores, welcoming the small rivers that flowed inexorably to mingle with its salty depths. The sound of waves and wind was unique to the coastline and Marcus breathed in deeply, enjoying the moment of communion with nature—something he’d forgotten during his extended stay in the city.

  “Well, we have nothing to gain by lingering here.” Rowan squared his shoulders. “’Tis time to visit St. Chesswell’s. Time to find out what awaits us within its walls.”

  “Very well, my friend. But let me do the talking, all right? I don’t want us turned out on our ear five minutes after we step foot over the threshold.” Marcus chuckled.

  Rowan’s chuckle answered him as both men began the descent to the neat gravel driveway leading to the main doors. “It’s all yours, Marcus.”

  Together they cantered to the entrance, dismounting before a set of well-worn steps and tethering their mounts to a convenient post.

  The door was ancient, aged and impressive, the knocker emitting a solid clang as Marcus let it drop back with a thud. It opened shortly thereafter to reveal bright candlelight and an elderly retainer.

  “Good evening. May I help you?”

  Marcus moved forward. “We understand this is St. Chesswell’s. We seek Sir Sidney Chesswell. The hour is late, but might we inquire if he is still receiving visitors?”

  Sharp eyes surveyed them for a moment or two, then the man nodded and opened the door wide. “Indeed he is, gentlemen. If you’d care to enter? I am Cheverly, butler to Sir Sidney.”

  “Thank you, Cheverly.” Marcus and Rowan entered the grand hall, awed for a moment by the solid gray stone more suited to a castle than a private home. “This is Rowan Selkirk and I am Sir Marcus Camberley.”

  “Very well, Mr. Selkirk, Sir Marcus. If you’d be good enough to wait in the small salon, I’ll inform Sir Sidney of your arrival.”

  Ushered into a comfortable room, Marcus and Rowan glanced nervously at each other. “Seems well enough?” Rowan’s tone was less than confident.

  “Indeed. Just as it should be.” Marcus frowned. “Except for the fact that we’re arriving at an ungodly hour, you’d think we’d been expected or had arrived at the house of a friend.”

  His gaze wandered around the room. “Nice place too. Everything as befits a country gentleman.” He paused. “Except for—that.”

  Rowan’s eyes drifted to where Marcus was staring. “Good lord.”

  It was huge. A massive broadsword lay on the stone mantel over the fireplace, as if placed there while the owner did other things. It was not mounted or displayed in any way, but something about it dominated the room. Completely without ornamentation, Marcus could easily envisage a Viking raider wielding the weapon while doing some pillaging, plundering and maybe a bit of marauding at the same time.

  “That’s no ceremonial job, is it?” Rowan stood a little way away as Marcus neared it and took a close look.

  “No, definitely not. This is the right arm of a strong warrior, I should say. And damned ancient too. But look at it, not a spot of rust on it anywhere.” He looked at the handle, worn by time, weathered by use and shining with a dull patina that revealed the workmanship used to create it.

  Rowan stepped closer. “I can sense something in it, Marcus. ‘Tis most strange…”

  Marcus tilted his head and glanced at his friend. “Sense something? Something like what?”

  “I—I don’t quite know…” Rowan hesitantly reached out a hand,
then gasped. The sword was beginning to glow a little.

  Rowan backed away in a hurry. “It’s—it’s hot, Marcus.”

  Marcus reached out and touched it. “No it’s not.” He was puzzled, unable to explain his friend’s response or the odd flicker of light he thought he’d seen when Rowan stood before the sword.

  “Well, it was.” Rowan sounded defensive.

  Marcus shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. I did think for a moment there I saw a…”

  “A what?”

  “A flash? A light? Something out of the ordinary?”

  Rowan blinked. “I can’t describe it. But I will certainly guarantee that this is no ordinary sword.”

  “You are absolutely right.”

  The words came from behind the two men who spun in unison to face the speaker.

  “Good evening. I am Sidney Chesswell.” He stood, awkwardly leaning on a cane, with his butler behind him.

  “This is Mr. Rowan Selkirk and Sir Marcus Camberley, sir.” Cheverly’s tone was respectful. “Gentlemen, may I present your host?”

  Marcus was the first to move, approaching the older man with hand extended. “Sir Sidney. A pleasure to meet you. I hope you can forgive our untimely arrival…”

  Sir Sidney smiled and shook the proffered hand. “Not at all, Sir Marcus, not at all. We’re used to comings and goings at odd hours here at St. Chesswell’s.” He looked at Rowan. “And you must be Mr. Selkirk?”

  “Rowan, please.” They also shook hands. “We read about you in the London papers, Sir Sidney—your recent lecture—”

  Sidney nodded. “Ahh, yes.” His sharp eyes roamed over their faces, coming to rest on Rowan’s once more. “I wondered if you’d answer my summons.”

  Marcus frowned. “Pardon?”

  Sir Sidney’s gaze remained on Rowan. “’Twas a gamble that brought you here, Rowan Selkirk. But a gamble that paid off.”

  Rowan stepped nearer Marcus. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Sidney smiled. “You will.” He turned to Cheverly. “Rooms are prepared?”