The Fertile Vampire

by Ranney, Karen

  “Is that your little charge, Niccolo?”

  I glanced across the room to see a woman standing there. I couldn’t help it, I stared. If I’d thought Il Duce was regal, his appearance was nothing compared to the woman in the doorway.

  She was dressed in white, the silk flowing from an off the shoulder drape to her ankles. Her upswept hair was the shade of old gold, her eyes a bluish-green I’d never before seen. Her face was a perfect oval, her cheekbones high, her mouth full and plump. She was the epitome of all things female.

  “I’m no one’s charge,” I said.

  She raised one fawn colored eyebrow. “Are you not? Did he not take you to be mentored when there were so many other, worthier, candidates?”

  “Enough, Hera.”

  Hera? Was that her real name or had she picked it out from a book of goddesses?

  I studied the long, ornately carved coffee table in front of me, wishing I could magically transport myself somewhere else. Back home would be nice, right in front of the refrigerator.

  Il Duce stood, facing her. “This is not the time.”

  “This is exactly the time, Niccolo.”

  I looked up, glancing between both of them, startled to realize I was in the middle of a power play. I could smell the pheromones in the air. Or maybe it was the woman’s syrupy sweet perfume.

  Hera’s expression changed, became less angelic. Her blond hauteur and Il Duce’s dark saturnine looks fit together like the yin/yang of perfection and power. They suited each other.

  I, on the other hand, was blessedly superfluous.

  “She looks very human,” Hera said. “I didn’t think she would be so…” She flicked a glance in my direction. “Insignificant.”

  Hera was jealous.

  The thought was so surprising I gaped for a minute. I was not the type to inspire jealousy. I never had before tonight. Okay, so I was looking good, but next to Hera I was a black sequined slug.

  “I would have expected you to glow at the very least,” Hera said, her exquisitely plump lips ruined in a sneer.

  “Why is that?”

  “Aren’t you the vampire wunderkind? Their savior?”

  I cleared my throat. “What do you mean?” I asked in the silence.

  “Don’t you know? Or are you just playing stupid?”

  Ms. Renfrew had told me of a legend, but dismissed it in the next breath.

  “We will talk later, Hera,” Il Duce said, his voice smooth, emotionless.

  Her stared at me, her eyes glittering with malice. I almost looked away but forced myself to face her. People like Hera, vampire or not, took delight in preying on the weak. Backing down in the face of her wordless challenge would make me submissive to her.

  I was damned if that was going to happen.

  Her lips curved in a smile.

  “She knows, Niccolo,” she said. “Your little charge knows.”

  “Hera,” he said, the word a warning.

  I kept my eye on Hera as she turned and made her way through the foyer to the stairs. She ascended them lightly as if her feet never touched the floor.

  “She’s your mistress,” I said as Il Duce sat beside me once again.

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  Nothing did, except the answer to one question.

  I turned and faced him.

  “What haven’t you told me?”

  “She’s being foolish,” he said, pushing the ends of my hair back behind my bare shoulder. I did move then. I hated people messing with my hair. I hated him doing it, since it felt proprietary.

  I didn’t belong to him. I didn’t belong to anyone but myself.

  His eyes glittered at me and I felt the tug of his compulsion again. I thought of my hand, held it up to block him. A moment later, the sensation eased.

  “You’re not susceptible to mesmerism,” he said, reaching over and placing a kiss on my temple.

  I scooted over. When he would have followed me, I frowned at him.

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Or what?”

  I glanced around, wondering how many staff he employed. Not one person would interfere if Il Duce wanted to drain me dry right here in his living room. Did such a thing happen from vampire to vampire?

  Why didn’t I know any of the answers to my questions?

  One fact was certain. I was in danger. Not just since the limo pulled into Il Duce’s driveway but since I was turned. I was different. I was unusual. I was something rare and Il Duce had known it from the beginning.

  He wanted me, not in a physical way, but in a blood sense. He wanted whatever abilities I had and I suspected if he had to kill me to obtain them, he wouldn’t be adverse.

  Now he was being charming, but it masked a steely determination, not to mention raw power. I didn’t know what Il Duce could do - above and beyond sucking out all my blood - and I wasn’t eager to find out.

  “What haven’t you told me?”

  “Marcie.”

  I hated it when he used my name in that tone of voice. I hated being patronized, mentally patted on the head and told not to worry. Big Bad Il Duce had everything under control. I could take my weak little woman brain to the kitchen.

  “Tell me,” I said, adding a dose of my own compulsion to the order. I’d called him before. I’d summoned him to my side. Did I have any other power over Il Duce? I was tempted to give him another command as well. “Feed me.”

  I had to get a handle on this appetite of mine.

  He studied me for a moment, his eyes glittering. I was getting tired of being eyed like a piece of meat, or a delectable blood sack.

  Tell me. There, a full shot of compulsion, strong enough my eyes ached.

  “Are you certain?”

  That I wanted to know? Yes. No. Yes.

  I nodded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Just relax and enjoy it

  “You’re hungry,” he said, smiling.

  I only nodded. What would be the sense in denying it. If Meng didn’t report the growling of my stomach to him, he’d soon hear it himself.

  He pulled a phone out of his pocket - 21st century vampire - and ordered antipasto for me.

  “Would you like some fruit? Pears? Bananas?”

  I nodded again. Everything sounded good to me.

  In less than two minutes, which led me to believe Il Duce had planned for all contingencies, a tray was placed before me. I hesitated before eating, glancing at him. He only smiled and shook his head. Of course he didn’t eat.

  He watched me, however, and I could only wonder if he did so with envy.

  “Do you miss eating?” I asked after I polished off some Italian salami, dark purple Ponentine olives, and artichokes marinated in garlic and oil.

  “Yes,” he said simply. Then, as I chewed, he continued. “I like the dishes of my homeland. The pasta, the bread. I like sauces and gelato.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, genuinely meaning it. I’d never enjoyed eating as much as I had in the last four weeks.

  Il Duce poured me a glass of white wine which was crisp and clean like a fall day with hints of apples and currants. When I said as much to him, he only corked the bottle again and nodded, an Italian aristocrat in the line of his body and the tilt of his head. Machiavelli came to mind. Had Il Duce known him? Hell, had Il Duce been him?

  “Don’t you drink wine, either?” I asked. That night, at my apartment, I don’t think I’d offered him any, but I’d been a little angry and not the least bit concerned about being rude.

  All in all, Il Duce was a better host.

  “It does not agree with me,” he said.

  Now, that was a shame. It was agreeing very well with me.

  My nose was exceptionally warm, with my cheeks placing a close second. I could even feel my lips growing a little numb, which was a clear sign I should pace myself better.

  My eyelashes felt funny, almost too heavy for my eyes but the sensation wasn’t as disconcerting as the sudden heaviness in my
limbs. I was feeling hot everywhere.

  Il Duce stood.

  Reaching out with both hands, he grabbed my bare arms and hauled me up until I was standing in front of him, close enough the silk of his shirt brushed against my breasts. Close enough I could smell his scent, something expensive and rare like a fine brandy. Was his cologne developed especially for him?

  He tipped my chin up with one finger, smiling down at me.

  I lost every thought in my mind. Except for one and that didn’t give me any reassurance at all.

  I wanted him.

  The pulse beats low in my belly accentuated my emptiness. I wanted him to fill me up, make me scream in pleasure. I wanted him so much it hurt, made me ache.

  I pressed my hands against his chest, feeling the swell of muscle below my palms.

  Somewhere in the far off reaches of my brain where preservation and survival traits linger, I began shouting to my lust-filled self. This had happened once before. I’d lost myself to a vampire’s need and want, only to be awakened in the VRC.

  I forced myself to blink, knowing he’d done something to me. Had there been something in the food? Or was he compelling me with his mind? Or was I simply this needy?

  Kiss me. For all the blood in the South Texas Regional Blood Bank, kiss me. Thrust your tongue in my mouth, replicate the act of mating.

  I swayed closer, breathing against his neck. The scent of his skin was delectable, chocolate and graham crackers. I wanted to nibble him all over, beginning with his lips. I wanted to suck him into my mouth and taste every part of him.

  I wanted him so bad I hurt with it. My sex grew swollen and moist. My body prepared to welcome him, but he stood there like a statue. I wanted to entwine myself around him, be a vine to his stake.

  I wanted him to take me.

  “Please,” I said, hearing my own voice tremble with need.

  He didn’t speak, only drew one finger over my heated lips. My tongue followed its passage. I leaned forward, grabbed his finger and sucked on it.

  “Please.”

  He took me by the hand and led me from the room to a small alcove. Once there he pushed a button hidden in the wainscoting. An inch wide panel slid to the side. He pressed another button and a door hummed open, revealing a small elevator.

  He entered and I followed, sighing with relief when he pushed me back against the wall, pressing his whole length against me.

  I was the desert and he was water. I was parched and he quenched me.

  He kissed my throat, palmed my breasts, each touch driving me higher and higher. I wanted more. I wanted to be naked. I wanted him to touch me everywhere, know me better than I knew myself.

  I knew, somehow, in a drugged kind of knowing, that I wasn’t acting right. I was a funnel of fire, all of it leading down to between my legs. I wanted him to touch me there. Just a small touch so I could explode. One finger, please. I wished I hadn’t worn underwear.

  I wanted to rub against him like a cat.

  “Marcie,” he said, his voice holding a note of humor. I vaguely registered it as he pulled my dress down and sucked on a nipple.

  I came, wedged in the corner of the elevator, only half noticing when he lifted me in his arms and carried me down the hall. The sensations were exquisite, the pain pleasure of the climax lingering to touch each separate nerve ending.

  Nothing had ever felt as good and I wanted it again.

  One breast was exposed, the air sliding across my wet nipple.

  A door opened and closed, the sound disturbing me. I felt something soft on my backside and opened my eyes to find him above me, his eyes intent, the points of his fangs indicating he was aroused.

  I grabbed him around the neck, pulling him down and kissing him, tonguing his fangs, sweeping in and dancing across his tongue with mine. I swallowed him and invited him to partake of me.

  Marcie, wet and more than willing.

  When he reached down and pulled the other half of my dress down, I arched up to give myself more fully to him. I wished he had two mouths - one for kissing and one for sucking my nipples.

  I moaned when he left my lips and moaned again when the point of a fang nicked my breast.

  His hand was suddenly below my skirt, tearing at my panties. I widened my legs, wishing them gone, wishing he would hurry.

  At his touch, I came again, the violent clenching of this climax wrenching a scream from me.

  He bit down on my breast and I cried out, not in pain but in surrender.

  He levered himself over me, entered me with both of us still dressed. I didn’t care. I would taste him later. For now, I had to have him. Had to have him in me. The first surge made me scream again. The second drove a third climax through me. I think I fainted somewhere in the next couple of minutes, but I remember it being accompanied by a bliss so sharp the pleasure drove through me like a spear.

  I heard his name leave my lips in a sigh. “Niccolo.” A benediction. A prayer. A demand for more of him. More of his touch, the dream and promise of it. I wanted him again, even as I fainted.

  Twice more, he took me. Twice more, he surged into me, bringing me such rapture I nearly died of it. But I wanted it and him. Only him.

  My hands slid over his now naked body, marveling at the chiseled perfection of it. He was a statue in marble, come to life for these special hours to seduce and love me. His buttocks were round and firm, a playground for my hands and lips. His cock was long and thick. I think I called it a club, a staff, the Penis of Pleasure, a dozen other names that made him smile even as he impaled me.

  I danced around the bed, licking and nipping at him, desperate for him. When I tasted blood I didn’t care whose it was, mine or his, only that the taste was part of the sacrifice of sex with him.

  He kissed me and I came. He mouthed me and I screamed his name to the ceiling. He scratched me with his fingernails and I reciprocated in kind, making him laugh until I sat atop him and mounted him as my prize steed, riding him until he was drained.

  He had me on my hands and knees, coming into me from behind. He had me on my back, supplicant and suppressed. He had me sitting on him, impaled by a dragon’s staff.

  He had me any way he wanted me and I was powerless to say no.

  When I woke, I realized I hated him more than any creature, alive or dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  How do I hate thee - let me count the ways

  A few hours before dawn, I woke, staring up at the ceiling and feeling empty. No, I felt worse than empty. I felt shamed, as if I’d stolen something, beaten my grandmother, or shot someone. What I’d done was so intrinsically wrong it tasted like bile on the back of my tongue.

  Sitting up, I tried to hide I was trembling. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling as if my body wanted to split into a thousand pieces, a super nova of Marcie. I’d shoot out into space, to the place where comets form, becoming one with the stars. Having no consciousness, no stomach curdling flashbacks of the past few hours, no wish to scrub the touch of him from my skin.

  The light on the night stand was on, casting soft, intimate shadows through the room. The walls were covered with a textured brown covering that looked like leather. The space was filled with large mahogany pieces - a triple dresser, an impressively carved armoire and the king size bed on a pedestal, complete with four posts and blue velvet draperies. Maddock must like glass, because two intriguing pieces sat on the dresser, their blue, red, and white swirling stripes reminding me of pieces I’d seen from Murano.

  I could do a lot of damage with the one that looked like an elongated bottle.

  “What did you give me?” I asked, when I was in control of my voice enough to speak.

  He was standing at the window, watching the darkness, his soul as black as the night surrounding him.

  When he turned, I looked away. At this moment I didn’t want to see him. The look of triumph in his eyes would always be emblazoned on my brain. The chuckle as he’d tucked me up into his bed enough of a memory to ha
te him for the rest of my life.

  “What did you give me?” I asked again.

  “Does it matter?”

  Yes, damn it, it mattered.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Why?” I asked, when I was certain my voice wouldn’t sound like tears. “Why me?”

  “You’re a very special woman, Marcie,” he said, coming nearer.

  I wanted to hold up a hand to keep him at bay, shout to him to keep his distance. I did neither, merely kept my eyes closed.

  A strange time, perhaps, to pray, being in bed in a vampire’s lair. Maybe God would think it akin to the lion’s den. He’d helped Daniel, hadn’t He? I couldn’t remember. Maybe He’d given Daniel some advice: don’t fight it, son. Sooner done, sooner over.

  “Why me?”

  Marcie Montgomery, crack investigator, determined adjuster, insistent paper-pusher, obstinate bureaucrat, that was me.

  “You have had your menstrual cycle. You are fertile.”

  Not quite yet, but I remained silent, shocked he knew.

  “Are you going through my garbage?”

  He didn’t answer, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Just how many of my neighbors were spies for Maddock? What else did he know?

  “I also know you went to see Miss Renfrew.”

  Evidently Maddock really could hear my thoughts. I was going to have to stop thinking around him.

  I closed my eyes again, grabbing the sheets with both hands. The sense of danger returned in full force, undiluted by whatever drug he’d given me.

  “You have no sense of your own power, Marcie.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. I slid over a few inches until he stopped me by placing his arm on my other side.

  “You are capable of so many wondrous acts,” he said, his words a breath against my cheek.

  “Do tell.”

  His finger stroked down my chin. I flinched and turned my head away.

  “You are impervious to summoning. You have the ability to bear children. You can place thoughts in the minds of others. You can eat, Marcie.”