Never to leave again!
Thoughts of never seeing his father again caused a pain to rip across his chest. The harsh ache caused his body to buckle and thrash wildly, until he lost control of his wings.
He began to fall.
Like a giant bird, he soared downward.
Turning, twisting.
The wind pushing at his back.
He passed through a thick mass of thunderclouds, and the sky became black. Lightning from an electrical storm sizzled through the sky, missing him by mere inches. Thunder cracked and shook the atmosphere. He continued to fall, his body turning, his arms and legs flailing. His wings were ripped from his back, and rain fell in sheets, soaking his body.
Everything went black.
Moments, maybe hours, of agonizing darkness finally gave way to a constant chirping. His eyes opened slowly, and he looked around. He’d landed in a bed of bushes, a nest of birds on the ground beside him. How had he managed to survive that fall? Was someone watching over him? His father, perhaps? Remembering their last encounter, he knew the answer.
The empty void inside him that his father once filled caused tears to fall from his eyes. He lowered his head in his hands as he agonized.
Who was he? What was he?
The Father of this world wouldn’t want him. His own father didn’t want him. Where was his world? Where did he belong? He remembered the last moments his eyes had met with his father’s.
He had said goodbye in that look.
He looked up into the sky and saw nothing but dark, threatening clouds. Even though a splattering of rain fell on his face, he knew the drops that drizzled down his face weren’t all rain, but tears.
He rose slowly and began walking along the leaf-strewn path, trying to orient himself as he looked for a way out of the woods. Hanging from the limbs of a tree, he saw his battered wings. He had just begun to remove them when he heard a chirp nearby. He looked down and saw a nest of baby birds lying on the wet, soaked ground. Judas looked up at the limb that had held their nest, seeing it broken. Like him they had fallen, and like him, they had no one.
He stared at them, anger building inside him. Why should he care? They were only birds, no feelings, no thoughts, nothing. He brought one foot forward and lifted it. He was about to bring it down and crush the birds when suddenly it stopped and hovered there. Everything within him wanted to lift the birds and place their nest back in the tree, but he knew if he could kill them, it would be a vile act that would show everyone he was evil, not fit for this world, not fit for any world except the Black Heavens.
And he could go back home.
His foot shook. He gritted his teeth. Do it. It would only take a quick movement to put these birds out of their misery.
He tried again and again.
He couldn’t kill them.
For anyone else, his father, for instance, it would be easy. He’d seen his father kill many times, the blood of his victim a medal of honor as he strode victorious back into the Realms of Royalty. He’d remembered the days of his early youth, the days his father had lectured him about being too soft. Now he knew it was true. He was soft. He didn’t belong in a place like the Black Heavens, and now as he looked at the birds, he felt the familiar compassion he always felt for those that needed help or were in pain. Slowly he pulled his foot back and crouched down to the birds and lifted them gently. He looked at them for a moment. This was a miracle of life you would never see in the Black Heavens. Even though this storm was one of great magnitude, and even though these little birds might be insignificant to some, to him they were a blessing.
He looked around at the storm. In the Black Heavens, the only rain they had was crimson rain or falling soot, and the only rivers and lakes were made of sulfur. Their mountains were burned-out cinders, their deserts burning ashes where a man could sink into oblivion. They choked on smoke, walked on ground that was black and hot. His world was bleak, the skies a reflection of the eternal fire that burned in the middle, their flames leaping up to haunt those who walked above. Was it any wonder that he was amazed by a small nest of birds, a skittering squirrel, a wiggling fish? Moving slowly, he lifted the nest and placed it securely in the crook of a sturdy, low-hanging branch. Just then he saw the mother bird flying home, carrying a worm in her beak. He was watching her feed them when he saw a light in the distance. It was the mansion that looked warm, inviting, like a port in the storm. Feeling drawn toward it, he quickly headed in that direction when he felt something. He looked down and noticed his flying suit was ripped and torn. Seeing that he was practically naked, he reached for his battered wings to cover him. After putting them back on, he saw several bloody cuts on his body. Curious, he reached down and slid his finger across one, and looked at the blood. It made him recall the blood that flowed from the scar around his eyes.
This is the proof, he thought as he looked at the blood. This was mortality smeared on his fingertips. There would be no instant, miraculous healing for him. If he was cut deeply enough, he would die. It was a strange new truth to him, but instead of hating the fact of his mortality, he came to accept it. After all, look at what he had. Blue skies instead of red, beautiful mountains and valleys instead of a bleak, ruined terrain. Green grass and flowers instead of a dark, ugly, burned-out cinder. Yes, it was a beautiful world. A world full of mortals like him.
* * * *
A dark figure streaked through the night seeking something, anything, he could use to do battle with a werewolf. Since he didn’t have any wolfsbane or garlic like they showed in the old movies he’d seen, he could only think of one thing, which is what brought him out on this dark night to sneak into his own church to get to the wine cellar. He wasn’t sure if what he had in mind would work, but he had no choice but to try. Grabbing a bottle from a filled rack, he held it tightly and began to pray, even though he doubted that he still had God on his side.
The bottle burst.
Father Jon felt a cut on his thumb. He looked down at the spilled wine and glass shards. “What the hell…?” He reached up to get another, only to have it burst as well. Father Jon looked around. “What the hell is happening?”
“The faithful pray on bleeding knees.”
“What?” Father Jon said, looking around to see who had spoken. He saw no one in the webbed darkness. The atmosphere was close and quiet, dust motes floating heavily in the air.
“Bleeding knees.”
The words reminded him of how his knees had begun to hurt when he knelt before God on many occasions. He had gone through quite a struggle to renew his faith, but it never happened, so he finally gave up and turned degenerate. Now he was back, asking God to help him. What gall he had. Why would God help him, a corrupt priest? He timidly reached up and took another bottle of wine, almost expecting it to burst as well, but as he moved it downward with hands that shook, the wine bottle managed to stay in one piece. Once he could pray and be sure that his prayers brought sanctification, but not now.
“Bleeding knees.”
He looked over at a chipped, old figure of Christ on the cross and suddenly knew what the words meant. He slowly sank to his knees, wincing while the pain bled through his muscles and tendons, and began his prayer of consecration.
“Sanctus, pleni sunt caeli et terra…” He paused for a moment, but nothing happened, so he continued.
Chapter 22
Lazy peals of thunder raced across the sky, the rumbling sound reminiscent of a hungry cat stalking his prey. The clouds were black and swollen with rain, but becoming ragged and frayed at the edges as they stretched across the sky. Far into the distance, beyond the winding, snake-like highway, was the hard, gray skyline of Savannah, with spiked skyscrapers made of glass and steel reaching up into a hazy, rain-soaked sky.
The high winds blew through the French doors of Sugar’s bedroom, whipping the curtains wildly, but Sugar was indifferent to it since she was caught deep in a spell cast by Lupercus. She sat in a chair facing him, staring steadily into his siniste
r eyes. Although the wind had finally brought the lashing rain, she was in a fog and heard only his voice. His suggestions dug deep into her psyche, and she felt what he wanted her to feel.
“Now,” he whispered huskily. “Now is the time. You will be changing soon. You know where he is. You must go to him and drink his blood.”
* * * *
Upon his dark command, Sugar rose from the bed slowly and began to walk stiffly down the semi-darkened hallway, her eyes looking straight ahead of her. Heavy silence permeated the long, eerie corridor. No sound, nothing, no one about on this moon-cursed night but those with evil on their minds.
And then she saw it, the door.
It was open slightly, a golden light falling lazily into the hall. She walked until she stood at the threshold. She saw him looking down at his hand. When he raised his thumb to his mouth, she sucked in her breath and licked her lips.
He looked around when he heard a sharp intake of air and saw her watching him. Putting his bleeding thumb behind him, he said, “Sugar. Come in.” With the other hand, he reached for the bottle of wine, poured her a glass, and passed it to her. “I’m having a glass of wine. I hope you’ll join me. You do drink wine, don’t you?”
Looking down at the glass in her hand, she turned it slightly. The light shining through it reflected a red hue making her think of blood. “Yes, I drink…wine.”
Father Jon smiled. “I love wine myself and drink it every chance I get.”
“It looks like blood.” The words coming from her were strangely seductive.
* * * *
Father Jon watched her closely as she drank the liquid down.
As soon as she replaced the glass, she reached for his wounded thumb, dazzled by the sinfully rouged sight. “You’ve cut yourself.” Hunger, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes as she lifted it and slowly drew it across her lips.
A shiver of panic stabbed him, and he quickly pulled it away. “Yes, it happened earlier.”
“No! Don’t!” she said, grabbing it back and bringing it up to her lips once again. Her tongue automatically flicked out to savor it before she opened her lips and took his thumb inside her mouth and sucked it erotically. The sucking motion caused the cut to reopen, and the sweet metallic taste of blood raked across her sensitive taste buds and seeped sweetly down her throat.
Her eyes turned upward and saw his slumberous eyes become full of languid desire as he watched her. She could almost read his mind. In his eyes, his thumb in her mouth became his cock, and the sexiness of her bloody lips sucking it made his groin burn. She knew man was a rough, brutal, primal animal, and an erotic picture where blood and sex played a part would get them every time.
Father Jon slowly withdrew his thumb and looked down at it. Blood dribbled out of the cut. “I guess this is what they call ‘kinky,’” he whispered huskily.
“I guess it is,” she said with a slow smile. She lowered her mouth onto the cut once again and let her tongue sweep away the bubble of blood. The odor of his rich burgundy essence drove her passionately into his arms. Her hand reached into his crotch, awakening Father Jon’s awareness, and he immediately pulled away.
“Slow down. I’m a priest. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Does it mean anything to you?” she whispered as her hand circled his cock and began to rub hard.
“It should, but…”
She watched his eyes close as the illicit thrill blazed in his groin.
“Hell, Sugar, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. I know I’m weak, but I thought you’d have more sense.”
“I tried, but,” she gazed through the French doors and saw the full moon breaking through the dark clouds and beginning a cursed shimmer, “it seems I can’t resist you.”
“An old dog like me? What could I possibly have that you would want?”
“Don’t you know?” she whispered as her eyes furtively slipped down to his neck and saw his blood pulsing to a primal beat. The sight caused a lusty, immoral heat to flood her groin. The beast inside her began to stir at the sight of his blood, so warm and alive. Losing what reserve she had, she reached around his neck and brought his lips down to hers, covering them hungrily with her own. “Oh, Jon,” she whispered into his mouth, “Oh, God, Jon, fuck me!”
She was beautiful with her eyes closed in passion, her moist, shining lips open and waiting for his, her hair disheveled. She was the picture of sin, like the woman caught in adultery hanging on the cross. God, how he’d always wanted to fuck that bitch. Now, with his favorite fantasy whirling around in his brain, his hips pushed against her, his bloated cock getting harder and harder as it pounded against her hot, dripping cunt.
But suddenly she went limp in his arms.
The power of the wine had finally conquered her.
Now she lay sprawled across the bed, her glorious white-blonde hair scattered over the pillows. He was to simply feed her the wine and watch it do its work, but she had tempted him beyond his endurance. A chill grabbed him when he considered what he might have done if she hadn’t passed out.
The worst part was, Judas had trusted him to keep an eye on her while he was away, and he had betrayed that trust. He lowered his head in his hands, thinking about what he might have done…about how he would have put his own perverted needs above hers. She could never have a normal life because of what she was. She would never lie with any man just because she was attracted to him physically. Her blatant seductions would be all about blood, and no man would ever survive an encounter with her. He looked at the glass she had drunk from and realized he had just observed a miracle. The wine had been blessed, as if it were to be used in the holy sacrament, and entered her body as the blood of Christ.
Had he ever believed it actually turned to the blood of Christ?
Did anyone?
Someone did.
God.
Chapter 23
Finally giving into the temptation, his hands moved as if they had a will of their own. He gently removed her clothes, leaving her dressed only in a black lace bustier and a black slip that rode seductively up her thighs. On her feet were black stiletto heels with straps that wrapped around her legs several times. That night she’d been dressed for seduction, coming to him to satisfy herself with blood and sex. He looked at her porcelain beauty and knew there was no way in hell he could have resisted her.
After taking off her heels, he looked up and saw his own image in a mirror with his two hands reaching beneath her slip. The wicked light played along the planes of his face, making him look like a sex fiend ravaging a young woman.
God, how had he come to this?
He jumped up and ran out of the mansion, feeling an evil kinship with the night. A stiff breeze was blowing with a distant growl of thunder and the smell of rain. Heavy, ragged clouds lay darkly across the moon. Waves beat restlessly against the beach as though shuddering from the power of the storm. Feeling the surf pool around his feet, he fell to his knees and lowered his head in his arms.
He travailed before God, confessed his sin with tears and remorse, and waited, but there was nothing. No sign of forgiveness, not for him. Feeling as if God had abandoned him to a life of debauchery, he rose slowly and trudged toward the water. It was the only answer. He stumbled heavily through the sand until he felt the water reach his ankles, his knees, his hips. The waves whipped at him, knocked him over, consistently throwing him back on the shore. He tried, over and over again, but death wouldn’t take him.
* * * *
Judas was stumbling up the portico steps when he saw someone lying on the beach. He felt a chill dance up his spine when he recognized Father Jon. He turned quickly and ran toward him, stumbling in the deep sand. As he ran, his silhouette resembled that of a giant bird, the wind fluttering through his ragged wings and the tangled strands of his hair.
He crouched down beside Father Jon, checking his vital signs while the midnight fog softly brushed his naked cheek, coiled around his sandaled feet, and kissed th
e muscled hardness of his legs.
Father Jon opened his eyes to a huge disarray of hair that billowed out like a lion’s mane. “My God, what—”
“It’s me, Judas. Are you all right?”
“What the hell is that you’re wearing?” Father Jon asked as he lifted himself up.
“It’s what’s left of my flying suit and wings. A little ripped and torn, but that’s another story.”
Father Jon sat up wiping the sand off him. “You look kind of beat up. I hope the other guy looks worse.”
“It wasn’t a fight. It was…well, never mind. How’s Sugar? Is everything okay here?” Judas frowned when Father Jon didn’t answer. “Is something wrong?” Judas asked, becoming alarmed.
Instead of answering, Father Jon lowered his head. “She’s fine, but it’s certainly not due to my expert care.” He looked up at Judas, his eyes shimmering with tears. “You should never have left me in charge of someone like her. I made a fucking mess of everything.”
“Like her?” Judas repeated. “What do you mean…like her?”
“I’m only human, Judas. I—”
Judas glared at him, suspecting the worst. “My God, she isn’t dead, is she?”
“No,” Father Jon said, shaking his head, “she’s alive, but she might be better off dead. Since you’ve been gone, there’s not a moment she isn’t on the prowl for blood. It’s not the full moons now. It’s Lupercus. He’s controlling her, and he sent her to me last night. I knew what was going on and was waiting for her. I thought I was so damned clever, too damned holy to be seduced, you know? I did one thing right, though, I fed her some wine from the church, sanctified, and all that, but…” He hesitated as he looked up at Judas. “The wine worked, but I…I…You put me in charge of Sugar because you thought I was honorable, responsible. You thought a man of the cloth could be trusted, right?” He sniffed, and wiped his hand across his nose. “Wrong!”
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