Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

by Michael Thomas Ford

“No,” Joe said, fumbling for an explanation. “I was…”

  “You dog,” Harley said, breaking into a grin. “You found yourself a girl, didn’t you?”

  “What?” Joe said. “No. I mean…”

  “You did,” said Harley. He laughed. “I knew you wasn’t queer after all. Goddamn. Sylvie’s cards were right.”

  Joe had forgotten all about Sylvie and her cards. Now that Harley had reminded him, he realized that they had been correct. He had met his Queen of Cups and been forced to make a terrible choice. And now he was soon to face the devil.

  “Hell, I won’t begrudge you a twenty-four-hour screw,” Harley said. “But next time let me know. We thought you’d run off and died or something. I hope she was worth it.”

  “She was,” said Joe. “And next time I’ll be sure and let you know. Maybe I’ll even share.”

  Harley walked away, still laughing to himself. Joe immediately put him out of his mind and continued on his path to Emma’s tent. When he reached it, he paused outside, listening. Rough grunts reached his ears, the sounds of flesh against flesh. He knew Star was taking pleasure not only in Emma’s body but in at last conquering her will.

  Emma herself was silent, no thoughts flowing from her mind. She had closed it off, Joe thought, sealed herself in some protective circle where Star’s lust couldn’t touch her. What was it like for her? he wondered, to have those hands caressing her, those lips pressed against hers. What must it feel like to be invaded by him in such a way? His hatred for Star grew, and he came near to entering the tent, stopping himself just as he heard Star cry out, not in joy but in triumph.

  Then all was silent. There were faint rustlings from within the tent, and then Emma’s voice came softly out of the darkness.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”

  Joe wasted no more time. Slipping into the tent, he stood looking down on Emma and Star. Emma was naked on her chaise, her body covered by Star, who lay unclothed between her legs, with his head on her breast. His bare skin shone with sweat, his black hair plastered against his neck.

  “We must do it quickly,” Emma said. “While he still sleeps.”

  Joe knelt beside the chaise and looked into Star’s face. Then, without pause, he bent and sank his teeth into the flesh of his neck.

  Immediately Star awoke. He tried to push himself up and away from Joe’s bite, but Emma, too, had begun to feed, her mouth tearing at Star’s wrist. Pinned between them, Star could do little more than twist like an insect pierced by a pin. His mouth opened in a hiss, and his free hand tore at Joe, scratching wildly.

  Joe held on, feeling the strength in Star begin to waver. The taste of Star’s blood sickened him, as if it were diseased. Time and again his stomach tried to rid itself of the poison, but Joe continued to feed. Finally, he sensed that the fight had gone from Star, and he risked releasing him.

  What he saw made him fall back in terror. Star had been drained not only of blood but of substance. Lying against Emma was something that resembled a mummy more than a man, with browned skin and twiglike limbs. Joe turned and spit up the contents of his stomach. Star’s blood seeped into the ground, staining it black.

  Emma pushed Star away from her and grabbed something to cover herself with. Star was still, no movement from his body. For a moment Joe thought that they may have succeeded in bringing his existence to an end. Then the eyes opened and fixed themselves on Joe. The shriveled mouth opened, and Star spoke.

  “It is not finished.”

  “We must secure him,” Emma told Joe.

  “Where?”

  “We will lock him inside a trunk for tonight,” Emma said. “But tomorrow you will have to build him a prison, a casket with locks that cannot be undone by anyone but us.”

  She had grabbed hold of Star’s feet. Joe helped her, taking the creature’s shoulders. Between Star’s legs, his sex had withered to nothing. Joe couldn’t believe the body held any more power, yet he had seen too much not to believe Emma.

  Together they put Star into a wooden trunk that until then had housed Emma’s dresses. The body folded up like a piece of paper, the legs tucking up like a child’s as Joe put what remained of the vampire into its prison. With the lid shut, Emma produced a padlock and secured it.

  “Are you sure this will hold him?” Joe asked.

  “For a time,” answered Emma. “Enough time for you to go to Derry. If he stirs, I will summon you.”

  Joe nodded. Giving the trunk a final look, he left Emma’s tent and ran through the fairgrounds to Derry’s trailer. Already in his head he was planning the box he would build to hold Star. Its doors would be sealed with steel bars and intricate locks, the designs of which he sketched in his head. It would be his greatest machine ever, a machine built to house the creature for as long as it took him to return to the earth.

  But first there was Derry. Joe reached the boy’s trailer and opened the door. Inside, Derry was stretched across his bed. A white sheet covered his lower body, and one arm rested across the expanse of his stomach. The other was thrown over his head.

  Joe stood for a long time, watching him sleep. Then, slowly, he removed his clothes and dropped them to the floor. When he was naked, he went to the bed and, lifting the sheet, slid in beside Derry. His sleep disturbed, Derry stirred. Rubbing his eyes, he peered at Joe sleepily.

  “I thought you’d gone,” he said.

  Joe shook his head. “I could never leave you,” he said. He kissed Derry gently.

  Derry kissed him back. Then he turned and pressed his back against Joe. Joe put an arm around him and drew him in closer. His face pressed against Derry’s neck. He closed his eyes and imagined staying that way forever, sleeping every night with Derry in his arms.

  But Derry wouldn’t live forever. He would grow older and someday would die, while Emma and Joe continued. Then Star would have succeeded in separating them, and Joe would have ages to spend grieving his loss.

  He couldn’t allow that. He’d given up too much to keep Derry, to lose it all to something as insignificant as death. No, he would not allow it.

  Cradling Derry in his arms, he kissed his neck.

  “Hush, little baby,” he sang softly. “Don’t say a word.”

  THE VAMPIRE STONE

  Timothy Ridge

  Prologue

  Paris, 1583

  “Just take the boy and leave, Favreau,” Margaret said, turning toward the rumpled bed.

  Favreau had his arm slung over the boy’s right shoulder and bent around the boy’s neck. The boy looked to be in his late teens; his dark eyes were moist with tears and filled with fright. He looked at Margaret as if she had betrayed him. He could not struggle in Favreau’s grasp; he was overpowered physically and mentally.

  Favreau was tall but solidly built. His movements were elegant and light. He seemed to shimmer in the air, as if he were only a dream briefly visiting the earth. His long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, held in place by a simple red silk ribbon. His skin seemed like parchment, but he looked ageless.

  “What are you so worried about, my dear?” he said, drawing out the last bit in a mocking tone.

  “If Henri, my husband, comes in and finds the two of you here, I’m finished.”

  “Catherine was not nearly so timid,” he taunted, speaking of Margaret’s mother. “She would have told your father to find a mistress and call it even.”

  Margaret screamed and grabbed for the object closest at hand. The ivory comb whirred through the air and fell at Favreau’s feet as if it had hit an invisible wall. Favreau leaped toward her, dragging the boy behind him by the neck. He pushed Margaret onto the bed and forced his free hand under her jaw. He snapped her head back and exposed the softest part of her neck. He could see the artery pulsing beneath her delicate skin. She breathed heavily, terrified to be in Favreau’s grasp. He was suddenly monstrous; his greenish eyes flashed. His lips became pink and parted slightly. He leaned down. Margaret could feel his cool breath on her neck. Sh
e whimpered. He heard footsteps approaching along the stone hallway floor, toward the chamber door. He raised his lips to Margaret’s ear.

  “I won’t forget your insolence, but someone is coming and I can’t be seen here.”

  Favreau released Margaret as if she were a rag doll. She turned over and pressed her face into the pillow. She was crying. Favreau pushed the boy against the wall by the open window. A gentle breeze fanned the velvet drapery inward. Favreau reached into his coat pocket and removed a small object.

  “Ma chere,” he called lasciviously to Margaret, “a trinket for a trinket.”

  Favreau tossed a small wooden box onto the bed beside Margaret. It was a gift, in exchange for the boy, who had been one of her many lovers. He had been her favorite lover, in fact, the bastard son of a German lord, born to the now-ostracized Comtesse Rocerres. As Margaret looked at the box, which had been carved on the top with the letter “V” surrounded by vines, the chamber door swung open with a violent crash against the wall.

  “Who was in here?” demanded Henri, Margaret de Valois’ husband and king of France. He looked around the room, now empty save for Margaret.

  “No one,” she protested.

  “Liar!” he screamed, and rushed toward her, snatching the box from the bed, then shaking it in her face. “It was that bastard again. I heard voices.”

  Henri dropped the box back onto the bed in disgust. He spit on Margaret as she sat up to face him. Favreau’s defaming words stuck in her head; he had accused her of being weak. She stood from the bed, taking the box in her hand. She felt a sudden rush of power move through her body. Before she knew what she was doing, she slammed the box on the side of Henri’s face. He fell backward, catching himself on the edge of the vanity by the door.

  “You must leave Paris at once. Be a whore in some other town.”

  “You will regret this, Henri. I will prevail.”

  Favreau now had the boy back in his chambers on the other side of Paris. He held the boy at arm’s length and looked at him, admiring his soft beauty. He wanted the moment to last: he did not want to rush this one. He did not want simply to kill him and leave him for dead. For the gendarmes to find him and wonder about the small wounds in his neck. He wanted to keep this boy with the auburn hair forever, as if he were a porcelain figure. He stroked the boy’s head.

  “Don’t be afraid, Monsieur Rocerres. It will be a little painful at first, but you’ll get used to it. Eventually, you’ll feel nothing at all, except fully and completely alive.”

  Tears gushed from the boy’s eyes and ran down his face. Favreau lowered his head as he pulled the cotton shirt down over the soft shoulder. He pulled the shirt quickly and effortlessly away from the boy’s body, revealing a firm torso that quivered at Favreau’s slightest touch.

  “Please,” the boy begged.

  Favreau looked into the boy’s eyes again and put his lips to Rocerres’ moist cheek. He felt the sting of salt. He hungered violently. He ran his hand down Rocerres’ back, feeling every muscle tighten as he followed the path of the spine. Then, the unexpected.

  Rocerres suddenly pushed against Favreau with all his might. Favreau reeled backward, arms flailing, but never completely losing balance. He floated above the floor for a second. Rocerres made a dash for the window and leaped through it, breaking the glass as he went down, landing just feet below the window. The boy took off down the cobblestone street.

  Favreau moved to the smashed window and looked out, smiling. He was now utterly infatuated with the boy. He needed him and was even more aroused by the fact that he fought back. Even a vampire loved a challenge. He reached out to a shard of glass that stuck out of the side of the window frame. It was dripping with Rocerres’ blood. Favreau covered the tip of his finger with the blood and placed the finger in his mouth. He was wild. He bit down on his own finger and groaned. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the boy. Flashes of the boy’s life filled his vision. He saw him doubled over in ecstasy with men and women of the court. He had been the lover of many, not just Margaret. The longer Favreau concentrated, the closer he came to Rocerres’ present, until he could see where the boy was at this moment.

  In the next arrondisement, Rocerres ducked down in an alleyway behind a tavern. He was doubled over, breathless. He pulled pieces of glass from his shoulder and arm. He winced as a large piece came free from his right side. He thought he was going to pass out from the pain, and from the stench of human and animal offal decomposing in the gutters.

  Then he froze in absolute terror. A voice spoke inside his head. It was Favreau.

  “My precious, precocious boy. Come back to me, my love. Let me show you a magnificent life.”

  Rocerres began to sob. He knew at that moment that he was doomed, and as every second passed, he felt himself giving in. The decision was no longer his own.

  He walked out of the alley and into the dark, cloudless Paris night and headed east toward Favreau’s manor.

  Chapter One

  The naked man in the daguerreotype appeared stiff and uncomfortable. His head faced slightly away from the camera. His right arm and right leg were extended. His lazy, uncircumcised cock hung straight down. His body was toned but not muscular, typical of mid-1800s men. The lighting made his skin look like silk: inviting and smooth. I was nearly in a horny rage from staring at this old collection of naked men. I turned the plate over and stuck a small sticker with a number on the back, then wrote the number in my ledger. Next was an eighteenth-century etching depicting two men of godly stature holding tight to each other as a battle raged in the background. I cataloged this one as well, then pushed away from my desk.

  The desk was loaded down with a private collection of valuable erotic art, which belonged to my client, Clive Tarry. Most of it was rather tasteful, but I’d stumbled upon a few pieces that would, even by modern standards, be considered snuff. There was no denying that they were the most valuable, due to their rarity. So far, the collection filled six pages of my ledger. Unfortunately, I would not benefit from a sale, only from what he was paying me to appraise and catalog for his insurance. His collection of books also loomed over me from behind, gingerly packed in boxes by the doorway of my office.

  The office was a model of organization. I’d built great metal-and-glass cases into the wall to the left of my desk to temporarily house items of value. The last case held my private collection of books, the only antiquities that held real value to me. Generally, I was hired to track down rare pieces of furniture, art, and occasionally books, which were really my forte. Appraising, though, was my favorite task. I got lost in the research; sometimes an entire day would pass and I wouldn’t stop to eat or smoke.

  Unfortunately, business had been rather slow, and the bills piled up. I did not lead an extravagant life. My social circle was very small, and my family and I barely spoke. When we did, it was cold and terse conversation. I lived alone in a house that had belonged to my uncle in the town of Irvington, New York. It sat rather mournfully on the shore of the Hudson River. I could barely afford the upkeep, but I was determined not to let it slip out of the family. I was convinced that someday, hopefully soon, I would make the sale that would change my pauper-like existence. Most of the furnishings came with the house. My uncle had had exquisite, if dark, taste.

  The office was just as I had found it, aside from the metal cases and the computer, which hummed monotonously on the corner of my desk. The dark burgundy drapery, the behemoth mahogany desk, and the Oriental rug were as they’d been when I inherited the house. I knew that I would be set for some time if I sold the house and its trappings. The last time it had been appraised, the figures made my jaw drop. Selling it was out of the question, though.

  I stood and walked out of the office and into my bedroom. The French doors that led onto the balcony overlooking the river were open, and I stepped outside. I lit a cigarette and propped my tanned arms on the iron railing and admired the graceful vine pattern that led from the brick on which I stood to the
six flower bud finials that ringed the iron railing. I inhaled deeply and watched as a barge moved lazily downriver toward Manhattan. The sound of the commuter train whooshing past from the other side of the house barely reached my ears. It was muted and somehow comforting.

  There was a slight knot in my stomach because today marked the last day that Kyle and I would spend together. I anticipated his arrival, but not with excitement. It was a somewhat anxious feeling. My only friend from this town was about to depart for Westport, Connecticut. Of course, this wasn’t so far away, but it meant that there was one less person in my nearly empty social circle.

  Kyle was much like me in that he led a rather reclusive lifestyle. It was a wonder to most people why he would be so antisocial. He was a good-looking man, with dark hair and large, brooding blue eyes—not sky blue, but more like the deep blue of indigo ink. It was unsettling to stare into his eyes for too long; they were almost unnatural. I adored his body, especially in the winter months when he became pale, as if his skin were vellum stretched over taut bundles of rope.

  While I was rather dour of mood most of the time, possessed of a macabre sense of humor, Kyle was all lightness, no deeper than a puddle after a rain shower. Despite that, he never failed to put me in a good mood with his childlike sense of humor and refreshingly naive view of the world. He was a house painter by profession but longed to be an artist, or rather, fancied himself to be one. I’d seen the canvases he had stacked in his cluttered little apartment, but found few of the abstractions aesthetically pleasing, preferring the realists and impressionists. None of this mattered to our relationship, if it could be called that. We merely enjoyed each other’s presence and satisfied our desire for sexual contact. By no means were we romantic.

  I snubbed out my cigarette, nearly burned to the filter. I heard the squeal of brakes to the right of the house, then an engine cutting off and a door slamming shut. I knew it was Kyle, playing out the routine we’d developed whenever he came over during the months when it was warm enough to keep the balcony doors open to the world. I caught a flash of his white shirt in the gap between the giant cypress and the rear of the house. In a few seconds Kyle came bounding down the garden path, then stood beneath the balcony. He looked up at me with a giant grin on his face.