THE NEXT DAY, Iliana drifted around her room, anxiously waiting for night to come. When she glanced down, she noticed her ring. Angrily, she yanked it off and threw it onto her table. She felt better, but it glittered brightly as ever, a drop of red against the table. Backing away, she bumped against a vase of white roses, knocking it onto the ground. Petals drifted everywhere, the edges brown and tattered.
When Iliana picked up the flower, a thorn sliced deeply into her finger. Blood welled up and trickled down her hand. Iliana cursed, putting her pricked finger in her mouth. She sucked her finger. The blood tasted curious, sharp and sweet. Her mouth tingled. Her teeth ached.
Disconcerted, she yanked her finger out of her mouth.
“Don’t be silly,” she told herself, gathering up the roses.
A bead of blood splattered onto a white petal and dribbled down, staining the white with a streak of red.
ILIANA DASHED ACROSS the wet grass, holding up the hem of her white silk nightgown. The forest was different at night. Crooked gray trees loomed over her like irate spirits. The gnarled roots twisted across the ground, resembling the arms of the undead. Iliana lifted up the canopy of leaves and ducked inside.
It was cold as a tomb, a globe of blackness where no animals stirred and no moonlight trickled through the leaves. Although Iliana lifted her little lantern, the circle of light did not extend far. The small sputtering fire was swallowed up by the thick tar-like blackness.
“Adara?”
No one answered. Iliana crept across the dirt, cold sweat trickling down her back. She smelled something sharp, sweet, foul.
Her foot hit something soft. She lifted the lantern, dread washing through her like a wave of ice water.
It was Adara.
Her wide eyes and parted lips were twisted in a snarl of fury and fear. Blood, wet and bright, stained her face and neck. The light flickered across her body, illuminating the hacked hole in her chest, gaping and black. Chunks of flesh, bits of skin, and broken pieces of bone spilled onto her bloodstained tunic. Adara’s hand was clenched around a dagger, her fingers biting into the edge of the blade.
Sobbing for air, Iliana collapsed onto Adara’s body. Adara lay in the bed of leaves and dirt, a gross imitation of a sleeping princess, waiting for someone to kiss her awake. Desperately, Iliana kissed Adara’s bloody, contorted lips again and again. Adara’s skin was still warm, still soft. Iliana shuddered with sobs, clutching Adara to her, gripping her, willing her awake.
And then, abruptly, she became aware of the taste of Adara’s blood on her lips. The sweet, heady, horrible smell that filled her nostrils, clogging her head, making her dizzy with that always-present aching hunger that now tore at her stomach ravenously, insistently.
Her teeth ached more than ever. Horribly, disgustingly, she felt her tongue dart out and lick her lips. Her vision blurred, then sharpened. Her gaze flitted to Adara’s wounds, even as the revulsion and grief made her tremble.
“It was a shame this had to happen.” Alexios seemed to come from the shadows, gripping a bloody sword and holding something in his other hand. A glinting red amulet swung around his neck.
“Betrayed by my own betrothed for my sister.” He shook his head, his lips curved into a bitter smile. He held something up, propped in his palm.
It was Adara’s heart, a wet, slippery, fist-sized lump that was patterned with blue veins.
“You cannot have her heart, for now I hold it.”
“Alexios, why?” Iliana choked. She stood up, quickly backing away from Adara’s body. She was so hungry. Her limbs trembled with the effort of holding herself still.
She focused on the rage, the horror. “You’re a murderer. You murdered your own sister.”
“She was a whore.” Alexios sneered. “Just like you.”
He twirled his sword, triumphantly, but the blade swung too far and sliced his hand. He hissed in pain and threw the sword petulantly onto the ground, then leaned over his wound.
Iliana’s whole world narrowed to the thin stream of blood that trailed down Alexios’s hand. Her vision swam red, her whole body pulsing. She forgot everything else but the blood trickling down Alexios’s hand, the desperate rage that burned hot through her veins, the taste of Adara’s blood sharp and sweet on her tongue. She felt her canines lengthening, piercing her lower lip, making her own blood trickle down her chin. Propelled by some unknown instinct, she felt herself dart forward so quickly her legs were a blur. Her mouth opened, unhinging like a snake ready to take a bite.
“Give me her heart,” she heard herself say. Her voice was a stranger’s hiss that seemed to echo dreamily.
Alexios jerked his head up, caught midsnarl, but then, his eyes widened.
“Iliana, what—”
The last thing Iliana saw were the whites of his eyes, his irises swallowed by black, and then Alexios released a long, liquid scream of terror.
ILIANA KNELT OVER Adara’s body, gently, carefully placing the heart in Adara’s chest. Iliana wept, tears streaming down her face and dropping onto Adara’s tunic. Her tears were red.
She felt overfed, distended, but she leaned over and gently, softly nipped at Adara’s neck. She drank.
Adara’s blood tasted different, like clean sweat and sweet mead. She lapped a little, then leaned back onto her heels. Nothing happened.
Iliana’s protruding fangs had not retracted. They kept sinking into her lower lip, but Iliana still kissed Adara one last time. When she leaned back, she saw that one of her teeth had punctured Adara’s lips so they were painted with her own blood as well as Iliana’s.
“I am sorry, my love. Did I hurt you?” Iliana whispered.
Adara did not reply.
Iliana collapsed, her shoulders shaking with ragged, raging sobs.
She wept there for a long time, hunched over Adara’s body, until the night sky melted away into wispy, hazy blues and violets, weak, watery light filtering through the leaves.
Iliana haltingly pushed herself off the ground. The sunlight would burn her skin, maybe worse now that she had fed.
She could not bear to see Adara’s body again. She turned to leave but then heard a strangled gurgle
Adara was shifting very slightly. The thin skin over her chest strained, puckered with thick, wrinkled wounds that were still open. She was gaunt, pallid skin pulled tightly over her cheekbones. But she was alive.
She coughed wetly, choking until she turned her head and threw up bile, blood, and phlegm. Iliana fell to her knees.
“Adara,” she cried. “Adara.”
She cradled Adara’s head gently as her eyes fluttered open, focusing hazily on Iliana’s face.
“My lady,” Adara rasped. “Did you save me?”
Iliana choked out a wet laugh and gently wiped Adara’s face with her thumb. Everything was now sharper, brighter, fresher. Iliana had been right—Adara’s eyes were the green-gold of leaves dappled with sunlight.
“Are we to have a happy ending then?” Adara asked.
Iliana gazed at her, light-headed and weak-limbed with joy. Adara’s parted lips shone wet with blood, her fangs already peeking through, long and pointed. Iliana was drenched in her own blood, Adara’s blood, but mostly Alexios’s. It had dried in crusty garnet streaks over her ruined dress, clumped wetly in her hair.
What was left of Alexios was behind them. He was mangled, shredded, drained. His head lolled a few feet away from his body, which was covered in blotchy, purple bruises.
But Adara was alive—in a manner of speaking.
Iliana smiled, taking care not to stab her own lip with her fangs again, then kissed Adara.
“Yes, we are,” Iliana replied.
About the Author
A.D Song is a femme dyke who can be found in her natural habitat of used bookstores and bakeries. She is a writer, an artist, and a professional tease.
Email: [email protected]
Once Upon a Mattress
Mickie B. Ashling
Acknowledgemen
ts
Thanks to my faithful betas for cheering me on while I wrote this story. Because of my close relationship with several people who’ve been through the grueling in vitro process, I was determined to write my first mpreg story with a scientific—rather than paranormal—approach. I hope you enjoy this tale as much as I loved writing it.
Chapter One
SEBASTIAN
“Find a husband, or we’ll do it for you,” my father said, giving me the stink eye.
I knew I was in trouble whenever he used the royal “we” instead of the less formal “I.” Granted, His Royal Highness, Prince Emile of Sendorra, had every right to call himself whatever he wanted, but I bristled on the rare occasions Papa treated me like a subject instead of Heir Apparent to our small principality tucked away in the mountains between Spain and France.
“You’ve been given enough time to play the field,” my mother, Princess Alexandra, seconded in a prissy voice that set my teeth on edge. “Every gay man of child-bearing age within our borders has seen fit to grace your bed, and yet you remain single. It’s high time you get serious, Sebastian. You’ll be twenty-five in a month, and our patience has run out. The stakes are too high.”
“I’m aware of my duty, Mama. You don’t have to remind me that Sendorra reverts to Spain if I don’t crank out a kid before Papa dies.”
“Must you be so crass?” she shrilled.
“The subject at hand lends itself to prurient remarks,” I argued. “Stop treating me like a prized bull.”
“Bash,” Papa said, using my nickname in a conciliatory tone. “You know that’s not the case. We’ve respected your wishes, allowing you to find a love match, the perfect partner who would provide the requisite child but also one who’d bring joy into your life. Ruling is hard enough without the right person by your side, but it’s been three years since this quest started.”
“Tell me about it,” I grumbled. “If I were to judge someone on physical attributes alone, the nursery would be full by now. But you’re asking for the impossible, Papa. Making me swoon in bed is only part of this mythical person’s job. Granted, it’s a necessary component, but I’m not marrying a booty call. My special man needs to be princely, and someone with an engaging mind, as well as a body that’ll make me stand up and take notice.”
Mama gasped and covered her mouth with a shaky hand.
My eyebrows shot up when I realized what I’d said. I’d forgotten my mother was a bit of a prude. Poor father…. It wasn’t surprising I had no siblings.
Clearing my throat, I tried another approach. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mama, but it usually boils down to one thing. The lookers are almost always vapid and the brainiacs leave me cold. I’ve exhausted the available gene pool.”
“Nonsense,” she argued. “There has to be someone out there who will meet your specific criteria. We should have a ball to celebrate your birthday. Send invitations to royal families all over the world. Surely someone suitable will turn up.”
“Why limit our selection to royals?” I asked. “No disrespect to either of you, but I think I’ve already checked out the small group of blue bloods, and none of them have passed muster.”
“You’d consider a commoner?” she asked, looking horrified.
“Get real, Mama. There’s too much inbreeding as it is. What I need is someone intelligent and healthy—regardless of his pedigree—who is willing to be my consort with all the bullshit it entails. Put your scruples aside and think of the possibilities.”
I could practically see the gears in her brain whirring with images of wedding invitations, flower arrangements, and ultimately, the cooing fat-cheeked grandson she could dote on.
“If we agree to your terms,” Papa said evenly, “I expect a viable candidate by the end of your birthday festivities, or the decision is out of your hands. Do we have a deal?”
“Absolutely,” I lied. Anything to get them off my back.
In truth, there was every possibility this would be more of the same—failure but on a grander scale. What if I changed things up? Do some prep work before the actual event. It would give me the opportunity to study each candidate, go beyond the physical, and put the contenders at the front of the line. There was no harm in wanting to learn more about someone who’d be sharing my life. After all, this was a forever match, not a one-night stand. Most dating sites demanded full disclosure; why shouldn’t I?
Choosing my Prince Consort wasn’t just a question of chemistry. He could be the best fuck in the universe, but what if he hated kids? More importantly, how would he feel about getting pregnant? Breeding between two men was generally a complicated business and required medical intervention. Not everyone was willing to be benched for months. Mr. Right had to be smart enough to know the end game would be worth the aggravation, but some guys were squeamish and unwilling to take the risk regardless of the payout. Granted, male pregnancy was dangerous, but fortunately, they’d made great strides in the last few years. There were far more successes than failures, thank Christ, which made my situation less of a problem. If not for the remarkable changes that had taken place in the last decade, I’d be married to a woman for the sake of our small country. Not that I had anything against females in general. I enjoyed their company, but never in my bed.
Resolved to make this work, I posed the question. “Would you consider it a breach in etiquette if we have our guests fill out a short form prior to receiving invitations to the ball?”
My mother’s blank look was frustrating. “Whatever do you mean, Bash?”
“I’d like to hear more before I decide,” Papa interjected.
“Gladly,” I said. “I’m as tired of these never-ending first dates as you are. Meeting someone for the first time—with hardly any pertinent information—and expecting me to propose marriage within a few days is unrealistic. A questionnaire will help me weed out the losers before we issue invitations to the party. Plus, it’ll cut down on costs. Why spend money on a lavish event when we’re only seeking a handful of potential candidates?”
“People will think we’re destitute if we don’t have a large ball,” Mama whined.
“Your mother’s right, Bash. We mustn’t put ourselves in that position. You’re the Crown Prince and deserve the best celebration money can buy. This selection process needs to be discreet, and it can’t happen with a bloody questionnaire.”
“Could you possibly put your scruples aside for one time and consider my request?” I begged. “Let’s make it a masquerade ball, and then we can disguise the questionnaire. Make it more about their needs than ours.”
Puzzled, Papa asked, “How on earth will you be able to vet contenders with a one-size-fits-all form?”
“I’ll throw in a few key questions only gay men will understand.”
My mother grimaced.
“Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t ask for dick pics.”
“Bash!” she squealed indignantly.
“Sorry,” I said, stifling a grin. My poor parents were trying their best, and I was being a total shit. “I promise to keep the questions as polite and impersonal as possible.”
“I insist on seeing them first,” Papa said. “Have them on my desk by tomorrow.”
“Your wish is my command.”
This time he growled at me. “You’re an insufferable boy. I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Because you love me,” I sang. “You really, really love me.”
“Oh, Bash,” my mother chimed. “You know we do.”
Ashamed, I stepped forward and hugged her. “I know, Mama. I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. Isn’t there some magical way to figure this out?”
Pushing me back, Mama huffed indignantly. “Weren’t you the one who forbade the use of magic in selecting your consort?”
“Yes,” I conceded. “But my methods are failing on all fronts. Perhaps one of your magic potions might do the trick. Nothing drastic, mind you, but a little nudge in the right direction?”
Mama’s stiff composure broke, and the regal features so similar to mine changed dramatically. Sapphire eyes twinkled with excitement and her mouth curved into a smile, causing the dimples in her cheeks to make a rare appearance. Even her normally drab blonde curls took on an effervescent quality.
My mother was one of five sisters born into a powerful family of witches; however, she’d shelved her talents in favor of marriage and motherhood. Papa had insisted she curb her natural inclination to “fix” problems with a flick of her wrist after a disastrous event at court. She’d turned several villagers into braying donkeys when they’d demanded he lower their taxes. Mama had panicked when she heard the raised voices and inadvertently caused quite a scandal. On another occasion, she’d refurbished the décor from stodgy to ultramodern giving Papa hives. He’d walked into his library in search of a good book and his favorite armchair but ended up having to make do with a giant flat-screen TV and console filled with gaming paraphernalia. His favorite recliner had been replaced with a squishy bean bag that was as uncomfortable as it was ugly. His indignant roar was heard through the thick walls, and after Mama set everything back to normal, he insisted she never use her magic again.
It had been a bone of contention for a long time, but eventually the urge went away, and Mama had learned how to live as a mere mortal. Which is why she was delighted when I asked her to crack open her book of spells for the greater good.
“Remember what I said, Mama. A subtle sign is all I want. Don’t go overboard.”
“Very well,” she said, bobbing her head in agreement. “I’ll be a model of discretion.”
Papa gave me a look that spoke volumes.
“I know what I’m doing, Papa. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
“I only hope she doesn’t turn my future son-in-law into a prancing unicorn.”
“Emile, really,” Mama fumed. “Have a little faith. I’m as invested in this project as the two of you.”
Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One Page 39
