by Radclyffe
“Is that a yes, Eris?”
Never in a thousand years would I have ever expected this to be happening, for Zaphara to be offering herself to me. Though I had known desire played in her, I’d never realized in which direction that desire had been directed during a scene.
“It’s not just pain and defiance for you,” I murmured, moving back to the couch. “I knew you enjoyed yourself, Zaphara, but you’re harder to read than most. I thought you envied my position.”
“No,” she said, “I envy your victims.”
I wasn’t sure what she wanted. Zaphara kept her shields tight, tight enough that it would have taken brute force and a battle of wills just to read her.
“What do you want, Zaphara?”
She smiled, and this time, it was purely predatory. “I want you to be strong enough to handle me.”
I sat down, watching her. After a moment, I said, “Take off your shirt. I want to see that moon-kissed faerie skin in the light.”
“Take off yours,” she said.
“So, this is an arrangement of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’?”
“I come to you as an equal. Take it or leave it, Eris.”
“If you get what you want, Zaphara, then it is only fair that I receive what I desire in turn.”
“What do you desire?”
“When I make a request, don’t argue with me.”
She considered me for a long moment, and then nodded once, sharply. “Done.”
I raised the curls of my hair, turning at the hips. “Unzip my bodice, Zaphara.”
She obliged without arguing, freeing my torso of the vinyl bodice, dragging it down my arms and tossing it aside. I had to bite my tongue on a word of praise, knowing full well she would not have taken kindly to it.
I reclined, catching her hands in mine and guiding her long pale fingers to my breasts.
Zaphara touched me for the first time with a look of something close to hurt in her, not at all like she was enjoying herself.
I cupped her face in my hand, feeling the sharp slant of her cheekbone. “What is wrong, Zaphara? Why are you shutting me out?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Myself.”
“Oh, Zaphara,” I brought our faces close, “then let me show you that there is nothing for you to be afraid of.”
“Are you so certain of that, Eris?” Her expression was menacing, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen anger and arrogance as a mask.
“Remove your clothes,” I said, “and I will show you.”
As she had agreed, she did not argue. She rose on her long legs and stood like a queen, cold, regal, untouchable…
But I would touch her. I would break the shell encasing her.
Sometimes, the harder the armor, the more tender one must make one’s touch to peel it away.
I went to her and we were close enough in height that the kiss was not awkward. Zaphara’s mouth tasted of warm pomegranates and wine. Her nipples stiffened against my breasts, the metal of her piercings nearly as cold as my own skin.
I lowered my gaze. “Well, well, well,” I said, “obviously, you like a bit of pain.”
“Some,” she replied, her eyes bright like gems.
I ran a hand down her lean body, reaching between her legs. “Mortals would weep for you, my dear.”
She gasped when I touched her, placing a hand on my shoulder. I explored her slowly, tracing the folds of her with nothing more than a fingertip.
I whispered against her mouth, “What do you want?”
“You.”
I took her hand, guiding her to the couch. Zaphara sat, allowing me to press her shoulders back until she reclined at ease. I raised my black skirt, gathering it in fistfuls and arranging the billowing material to pool outward like a flower around my legs. I knelt, pushing her legs open wide until every glorious silken fold of her was exposed.
Gently, I pressed my lips against the apex of her mound, sucking lightly where the most sensitive skin of her gathered and knotted. The muscles in her thighs tightened in response and I raised my eyes.
That awful wounded expression had vanished, replaced by a familiar dark hunger and fervent need. Her eyes shone like amethysts in moonlight.
Zaphara licked her full lips. “I beg of you,” she whispered.
“Mmm,” I murmured, bowing my head again, “since you’re begging.”
I scored her with my tongue, piercing the well of her with it, lapping at the honeyed dew that glistened there. Zaphara began to writhe, ever so slightly. I drew her clitoris into my mouth, grazing her skin with my fangs. Her hips jerked upward and a cry fell from her.
Yes, that was what she wanted.
Anastasia had taught me how to be cruel, how to break the heart, mind, and body simultaneously. For so long a time, too long a time, I’d walked beneath the cloak of her nightmare. I had lost myself, once, lost myself in power, in Anastasia’s touch.
It made me all the more careful with my patrons, knowing intimately what my power could do to them.
Zaphara’s hips bucked against my face and I surrendered my mouth to her, coaxing Eros cries from her lips.
“Eris,” she moaned, “Eris, let go.”
Equals. Were we, really? If I released complete control, would Zaphara make it unscathed? Would I?
“Eris,” her voice was drawn tight, indicating she was close to release, “now, curse you! Let go!”
I did as asked, throwing my hands off the reins of power, releasing every wall and bar that had held it locked tight within me.
Zaphara came, thrusting her power and energy into me so fast and hard that I clawed at the cushions to keep myself upright, to keep my mouth against her.
The heat of her filled me like a soft sunset. I could taste warm honey and pomegranates upon my tongue. Our powers met like the crashing of firestorms. It knocked the breath from me, made me tear my mouth from her mound and cry out in ecstasy. Then it seized us both. Zaphara gripped my hair, bringing my mouth to hers. We became heat, flesh, passion, and senses, spilling back on the couch in a mess of limbs and fingers. Every touch, every brush, every stroke made my skin burn with a heat that was nearly painful.
My body screamed for more, for a thousand hands, a thousand mouths, a thousand greedy fingers. My darkness, a void of unquenchable yearning, a beast never satisfied.
Zaphara stripped me of my skirt, flashes of reality breaking through. Her fingers found me, pierced me, filling me to the core.
More.
Instinct drove me as I opened my mouth, sinking fangs into whatever bit of flesh was closest to my face.
Her blood spilled into my mouth like divine ambrosia. I sealed my lips over the wound, unsheathing fangs and drinking her sweet, sweet faerie wine.
The orgasm rushed through me. When it was done, Zaphara collapsed on top of me. Her body nestled between my thighs; her long hair with its purple highlights glistened like a veil of dark water over my skin.
Somewhere in the midst of our chaotic lovemaking, I must’ve torn loose the binding that had held it.
I buried my hands in all that silk, bringing her mouth to mine and kissing her lightly.
“How do you feel?” I murmured.
“Spent,” she said.
I raised my brows, dragging my nails lightly across the slope of her rear until she shivered. “Is that a compliment coming from one of the Daione Maithe or are my ears playing tricks on me?”
Zaphara offered simply, “It was,” and then stood to pull on her clothes. I watched her in silence. She pulled her long-sleeved black shirt down, tucking it into her dark jeans.
“You are a mystery, Zaphara.”
She smiled, a dark curling of lips, and said, “My prerogative.”
I laughed and rose, stretching, feeling the aftermath of the energy crackling in my limbs. “As you wish,” I said, setting about retrieving my discarded attire and dressing.
If I had thought I’d glean more fr
om Zaphara by bedding her, I’d been mistaken. The Daione Maithe was careful, too expertly guarded.
Perhaps, in time, she would come to trust me, to reveal more of herself to me.
I caught her gaze while she held the door open, waiting to escort me out.
Then again, perhaps she did trust me. Perhaps she had revealed as much of herself as she ever would.
We made it to the hallway that led to the main ballroom area of the club. Zaphara halted before diving into the throng of dancers. Her eyes lifted toward the second floor lining the dance room.
Lenorre stood at the top of the stairs, the train of her dress draped loosely over one arm. Her attention was fixed on some happening near the double doors that spilled into the club’s lobby. The curls of her ebony hair were secured by a clasp of diamonds and amethysts, catching and reflecting the throbbing light, making the jewels glitter like stars. Lenorre glided down the steps, disappearing effortlessly into the throng.
Zaphara nodded lightly toward the doors, her attention pinned on a petite woman huddling against the wall.
“The wolf Lenorre has been watching,” Zaphara said, her voice reaching my ears despite the pounding music.
I focused my senses, trying to tune in to that part of the club. They exchanged words that were washed away by the flood of music.
I managed to catch Lenorre saying, “Kassandra Lyall,” before the music drowned them both out again. We may not have known what exactly Lenorre wanted with the woman, but I knew desire when I saw it. Lenorre was proficient at guarding her facial expressions and body language. I needed neither as an indicator. The one thing Lenorre could not hide was the intensity in her gaze when she locked eyes with the woman. And though the woman fought both her beast and herself, there too was a responding intensity in her.
The length of white in the woman’s black hair stood out starkly. No doubt the humans believed it to be the by-product of something intentional, but Zaphara and I, like Lenorre, knew what it meant.
It was the mark of the woman’s beast, the snowy fur of the wolf hidden within. Even across the distance, I could sense the energy of her beast like a heavy magnet.
“And so their dance begins,” I said.
“Lenorre will seek her aid tonight,” Zaphara responded almost idly.
“You’ve really no idea what has happened to Rosalin’s brother?”
“None,” she said. “Though Lenorre has her suspicions.”
“Ah,” I said, realizing, “but matters of the wolves stay with the wolves.”
Lenorre, being Countess, presided over the preternatural community as a whole, but her reach only extended so far. Who better to infiltrate the Blackthorne Pack that Beta werewolf Rosalin Walker belonged to than another wolf? Lenorre’s spies within the city could only penetrate and gain so much.
“Clever,” I said, smiling in amusement. “But there’s definitely more to it than that.”
“What Lenorre does is her business,” she said, finding a break in the crowd and leading us through to the rear exit.
So it was. Regardless, I found myself curious to know what exactly Lenorre was about.
“Eris,” Zaphara prompted me.
“Yes, Zaphara?”
“What happened earlier,” she said when we stepped out into the cool night.
“Worry not, Zaphara. I’ve no trouble keeping secrets if that’s what you’re requesting.”
“I don’t want things to become complicated.”
“Oh, my dear,” I said with a smile, “I assure you, they’re not.”
Blood Moon
Yolanda Wallace
My name is Alexandra Whitney. My friends call me Alex. My enemies call me much worse. Unfortunately, my enemies outnumber my friends. I’m a vampire hunter. If you think vampires are limited to the confines of cable TV shows, thick YA novels, and old black-and-white movies starring Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee, think again. They walk among us. And there are more of them than you think.
Before I go any further, I need to get a few things off my chest.
First of all, those of us who do what I do get a little annoyed when people mention the B words. The Bs, in this case, being Bella and Buffy. I’m not even going to discuss Bella Swan or her (lack of) taste in men—I so would have picked Jacob over Edward, and I don’t like werewolves any more than I do vampires. Both have control issues I’d prefer not to deal with. As for Buffy Summers, she was just a character on a TV show. Okay, a less than memorable movie first, then a TV show. A surprisingly good TV show, but a TV show nevertheless. In other words, Buffy wasn’t real. I am.
I wouldn’t put a stake in Sarah Michelle Gellar’s heart for eating crackers in bed, but the diminutive actress isn’t the first person I think of when I’m searching my brain pan for someone to have my back in a fight. And when I’m kicking vampire ass, I don’t take time to compose cutesy nicknames for the villain o’ the week. Glory? The Master? The Trio? Please. That’s what writers are for.
Second, I am a hunter, not a slayer. A slayer sounds like someone who lies in wait. I don’t like waiting. I’m a woman of action. I don’t sit around twiddling my thumbs until the undead return to their lair, toss their keys on the counter, pour a warm glass of type O, put their feet on the coffee table, and say, “Here I am. Come and get me.” My approach is completely different. I track them down and eradicate them by any means necessary. If that means leaving the environs of fictional Sunnydale or, in my case, a very real, a very hot, and a very humid Savannah, so be it.
And finally, fictional characters or not, I could never do what Bella and Buffy did. There is no way I would ever allow myself to fall in love with a vampire, no matter how brightly she glitters in the sunshine or how much product she uses on her hair. (Two things. Point one: For the last time, vampires don’t glitter. They’re not freaking pixies covered in sparkle dust. They’re cold-blooded killers. Killers do not glitter. Point two: For me, the whole Angel or Spike debate is easy to solve. I’d stake them both.) When it comes to vampires, I think of the bloodsucking leeches as prey, not potential bedmates. I’m not here to suck face with them. I’m here to send them to hell. I’m not simply good at what I do. I’m the best. This is not a game for me. It’s a way of life. And death.
Tonight is Halloween. I’ve been invited to a get-together at a friend’s house, but I’m not going to be able to make it. Mia’s going to love hearing that. She already complains that I don’t get out often enough. “Your twat’s going to dry up, turn to sawdust, and blow away if you don’t use it once in a while, Alex,” she tells me every other day.
It’s kind of hard to get laid when I’m patrolling the streets from dusk to dawn seven days a week, but that’s not the kind of information I can share with friends. Not if I want them to stay alive—or if I want to keep them as friends.
Being a hunter is a lonely existence. Like vampires, we’re solitary creatures. My fellow hunters and I are each other’s family. As dysfunctional as we are, though, we can’t be counted on to remember birthdays or holidays. Oh, yeah. Just like a family.
My latest refusal to get in touch with my inner party animal will surely add fuel to Mia’s fire. Not that she needs much kindling. She’s enough of a firecracker as it is. She’s the life of every party, whether she’s throwing it (like this one) or arriving fashionably late (like all the others). I’m not much of a social butterfly, so I will readily admit that some of my other reasons for turning down her invitations were frivolous at best. But not this time. Aside from St. Patrick’s Day, the annual three-day bacchanalia that takes place in town each spring, Halloween is my busiest night of the year, when it’s even harder to tell the good guys from the bad ones.
The full moon isn’t going to help. Humans are bad enough on most days. When the moon is full, their quirks are magnified tenfold. What do you think happens to preternatural creatures? It definitely doesn’t make them any more of a pleasure to deal with, let me tell you. Now you see what I’m in for. On the other hand, tonight
’s blood moon—the first full moon after the harvest moon—is also known as the hunter’s moon. Is this the day my kind takes back the night once and for all? Time will tell.
But that’s later. Right now, it’s still early. I should be resting for tonight—preparing my mind and body for what’s to come—but, unlike vampires, I have a hard time sleeping when the sun’s up. I have a hard time sleeping when the sun’s down, too, but that’s a story for another day.
I wrap a scarf around my neck to ward off the slight chill in the air. Cold weather won’t take hold here in the Deep South for a couple of months yet, but I can tell summer is long gone.
My shoes crunch on fallen oak leaves as I walk through Johnson Square. Downtown Savannah is built around dozens of squares—Johnson, Ellis, Reynolds, Madison, Franklin, Wright, and Chippewa, to name a few. Tourists love them for both their moss-laden beauty and their historical significance. Locals hate them because, thanks to all the one-way streets, it takes us twice as long to get where we want to go. When I’m on foot, though, as I am now, I don’t mind as much. Walking around, I have more time to enjoy the architectural wonders of this nearly three-hundred-year-old city than I do when I’m dodging drunks and shutterbugs in my car.
I head to my favorite park bench. No matter how long or how bad my Friday is, I spend every Saturday morning downtown. I come for two reasons: the people-watching and the free concert. The first reason is self-explanatory. The second requires a bit of background.
Franklin Helms plays his saxophone in the park five days a week. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he entertains the lunch crowd from the nearby office buildings. On the weekends, it’s the tourists’ turn. He doesn’t ask for money or take requests, but if you happen to drop a bill or two into the open case next to his Stacy Adams–clad feet, he won’t chase you down to shove it back into your pocket, either.
