by Sahara Kelly
Of course, not many Chesswells had devoted their studies to the unearthly, the unreal and the supernatural, even though legends of the same circulated around St. Chesswell’s Chyne like a flock of seagulls over a school of fish.
The “Curse” was only one of the many tales that time embellished into myths. Sidney refused to believe that red-haired women brought terrible changes to the place. It was far more likely that a bad love affair had started that particular tale.
Sir Sidney Chesswell disdained the title “warlock” or “wizard”. He regarded himself as a scientist exploring the unseen world he was convinced existed all around him. He’d read the scholarly treatises on the world of spirits, absorbed as much knowledge as he could find on the power of the human mind, and had attempted to meld these with the readily available folklore to create his own form of magic.
He knew of the light and dark sides to forces beyond his comprehension, and he believed strongly that both God and the Devil existed. There was no avenue of pursuit closed to him, because he was a man with an open mind.
And, indeed, an open door. But few availed themselves of it, and he relished his solitude and his studies, letting the world pass by his isolated portion of it. He needed few servants since he entertained so little, and even then only old friends who would not expect luxury. St. Chesswell was off the beaten track, and the Chyne scarring the coastline was barely accessible to adventurous beachcombers, let alone walking parties of geologists interested in studying its formation.
No, Sidney Chesswell had what he desired most--his privacy. And he guarded it fiercely while he delved into the mysteries of the supernatural.
The night held no terrors for him. He often walked the beach at this hour, enjoying the glitter of the night sky as it sparkled off the glassy waves lapping at his feet. This night was no different, except that the waves were choppier--an indication of how severe the storm out to sea had been.
This section of England’s southern coast was protected by the cushion of land known as the Isle of Wight. It took the buffeting from the fury of the English Channel, leaving only a pale echo to pound on Sidney Chesswell’s private beach. But the currents were strange entities, working according to a schedule of their own. Sidney had often found varied oddments washed up along the shore…clear evidence of yet another victim of Neptune’s fury.
Further west along the coast, smugglers were probably at work. For them, a night like this was a blessing, and a chyne a place of safe-haven. But not here. Not St. Chesswell. This stretch of water was well traveled by the revenue officers, and a regiment of the King’s Own was quartered not many miles from this very spot. Too close to allow any self-respecting smugger the peace of mind he’d need to operate efficiently and in secrecy.
The only traffic in these waters was legitimate, ferries to and from the Isle of Wight, and occasionally a large sailing ship or warship heading into the safety of Southampton Water. In times past there had been ships sailing to and from France, but now…
Sidney sighed. His thoughts had circled back to Josephine, since it was on one of these ferries that she’d stolen from his home and his life, returning to her native land and--according to her note--the one man she had truly loved.
That had hurt Sidney the most…knowing this quicksilver woman had only wed him for his title and his money. Not that she’d had the chance to abuse either. Their union had lasted all of two years and although he’d been happy loving her, she had never really returned his affection to any great degree.
He could accept this now, so many years later. He could not, however, quench the pain or fill the emptiness. He was reclusive and liked it. He had no interest in pursuing the life of a dilettante, or in bedding other women. He cared not whether he was talked about, only that he be treated with the respect his title deserved. He did his best to make sure his tenants and servants were well treated, and knew the local folk by name. The vicar had given up urging him to attend Sunday services, simply nodding politely when they passed.
Some might view Sir Sidney Chesswell’s life as empty. Others might wonder at his reluctance to live at all, at least by their standards. The man himself didn’t care one whit about any of their opinions. His life was exactly as he desired.
And this night it was about to change--permanently.
- - - -
An hour must have passed while Sidney walked his solitary trail along the beach and back, and the sparse lights of St. Chesswell were clearly visible when he noticed something along the high water line.
A large bundle, perhaps clothing washed overboard during the offshore storm and tangled with debris to end up soiling his pristine property. He sighed.
Then--incredibly--the bundle moved.
Sidney’s breath caught in his throat then gusted between his lips in a harsh grunt. There was an arm, a hand scrabbling in the pebbles. It was a man.
Hurrying over, Sidney marveled that this orphan of the storm was still alive. “Sir, good God, sir…can you speak?” He lifted the man’s head free of seaweed strands and watched as his eyes opened and he coughed. “Careful, man. You’re probably full of seawater. Easy now.”
The man’s skin was cold, clammy with the salty dampness of his clothes, and Sidney reached for his neck to check his pulse.
He couldn’t find one.
Sidney blinked as the man’s eyes opened slowly and focused directly on his face. “Where am I?”
The voice was accented, slurred a little and Sidney eased the soaked head back down cautiously before answering. “You are in England. The south coast. On the shore of my estate, St. Chesswell.”
Dark eyes considered Sidney, their color indistinguishable in the shadows of the night. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon momentarily, and Sidney shivered. There was something about that gaze…
The man coughed again and his chest heaved as water spurted from his mouth. “Your pardon.” He wiped his lips with his hand.
“’Tis no matter. You need help. I live nearby--let me get you dry clothes and food.”
There was silence for a moment, then a sound that might well have been a laugh. “I will accept the offer of clothes. But I do not think you would find my acceptance of food very healthful.”
Sidney was about to respond with a question when the moon reappeared. The man was lying still, his gaze fixed on Sidney’s face. But something had changed--his expression perhaps. Whatever it was, it stopped Sidney in his tracks.
Slowly, the man parted his lips revealing two long teeth. They shone in the muted glimmer and Sidney knew immediately who--or rather what--had washed ashore this night. “You are--you are one of them. The undead.”
In the blink of an eye the man moved, swiftly grasping Sidney by the throat. “What do you know of us? Are you one as well? Is this really England?”
Sidney choked, the grasp of the large hand uncomfortably tight and threatening to cut off his breathing. He gasped for air. “I have read…things…” Another gasp and the fingers eased their pressure slightly. “I have an interest in such matters. I am not one of you, and…yes this is England.”
“And you are not afraid?”
“Of course I’m afraid. But you could have killed me already.” The hand released Sidney’s throat and he absently rubbed the soreness with his own. “Why have you not fed from me? Drained me of my life fluid? If you were going to, you probably would have done it by now, not considered an offer of dry clothes.”
A deep sigh emanated from the ragged man. “I wish to end my existence--not feed.”
“You fell overboard. I would say that was coming close to answering your wish.” Sidney felt a tingle of anger. This young man had so much and yet wished to die.
“I didn’t fall.”
Sidney paused at that. “You tried to kill yourself?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t think that would work, lad. You’re already undead.”
“I have no home. No family, no friends. I have nothing. I am nothing. What else is there?�
�� He stared at Sidney. “Tell me, old man. Tell me if you know anything of these matters--for pity’s sake--how can I end this torment? How can I finally die?”
Chapter Two
It was very late.
Sir Sidney Chesswell sat in his favorite chair in front of the barely-glowing embers from last night’s fire and considered his “guest”.
The man had cleaned up very nicely indeed with just a towel and a spare dressing gown. Young--although given his nature that might be misleading--he looked to be in his late twenties. His hair was dark, but not so dark as to attract undue attention.
His eyes did that.
Irises so black that they blended with his pupils, giving him an unnerving stare and an unusual feature that would be remarked upon should he interact with others. His speech was cultured, he spoke English with the slightest of accents and it was a pretty safe bet that sometime in his past he’d been a member of the aristocracy.
Sidney nodded to himself. It was time to find out. “May I ask your name?”
Full lips curled into a bitter smile. “Once upon a time it was Jadranko Čzaplinek.”
“And if I may be so bold, would you share some of your story with me?” Sidney glanced at the windows. “Before dawn arrives. I assume you prefer the darkness.”
Čzaplinek inclined his head. “I do. I can tolerate small amounts of daylight, but the full light of the sun is anathema to me.” He sighed. “Just one of the things I lost through my own stupidity.”
Sidney raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Surely you did not choose to become what you are?”
“Of course not. What I did choose was to fuck a woman. And I chose foolishly, allowing myself to be attracted by her sexuality, her heat, her body. I paid no attention to her.”
“Young men seldom do.” Sidney could have pointed out an amazingly similar parallel in his own life but decided not to. This was Jadranko’s story, not his. “You said your name was Jadranko.” He stumbled a little over the pronunciation. “If I am correct, that is a Romanian version of Adrian?”
“Close enough.” Jadranko shrugged.
“Then Adrian you shall be. Easier for my old tongue to pronounce and less unusual in this neck of the woods.” He smiled. “But please…continue your story?”
Jadranko--no, Adrian now--stared into the dying fire. “She was all flames and savage passion and she devoured me. Literally.” He glanced up at Sidney. “That, in essence, is it.”
Sidney bit back a laugh. “Well, you certainly know how to condense a story into its fundamental points.” He sobered. “How long ago?”
“Ten years, give or take.”
“Good Lord.” Sidney was stunned. “How have you survived?”
“I haven’t. Survived, that is. In case you failed to notice, I am dead. That which was me is now possessed by a demon of the darkness. A creature from Hell, bestowed upon me by a vicious succubus of a red-haired temptress.”
Sidney shook his head gently. “Wrong, my dear Adrian. You are quite wrong. You are not dead, as we use the term.”
The newly-christened Adrian lifted his head and looked straight at Sidney. “I’m not dead?”
Sidney felt tears gather at the back of his throat and swallowed them down hastily. The pain he could see in Adrian’s eyes was almost overwhelming. He couldn’t begin to imagine what life must have been like for this young man in Europe over the last ten years.
And something deep inside Sidney responded to Adrian. They shared a similar pain, a similar loss. Both men pretty much considered themselves dead, albeit in different ways. Perhaps--they could help each other.
“I don’t believe you’re dead in the regular sense of the word, Adrian, no.” He noticed the first rays of light blooming into the darkened sky. “But dawn approaches. You need rest. If you would accept my hospitality, I have rooms I believe would suit you. They have few windows, and are heavily draped. Old buildings such as this tend to be drafty.”
Adrian looked around him. “’T’would be an unaccustomed luxury, I’ll confess, and one I would enjoy.” He stood and bowed correctly to Sidney. “My thanks, Sir Sidney. I will accept your offer. For this day at least.”
“Good, my boy, good. Let’s go and see if the rooms suit. I expect they’re a bit dusty…”
Sidney Chesswell led his new vampire guest through the silent corridors of St. Chesswell and saw him settled in one of the empty suites. They had fallen into disuse because they were so dark, but in this instance Sidney was glad of it. “Sleep well, lad. We will talk more when you are rested.”
“Thank you.” The words were spoken awkwardly, as if they had been unsaid by those lips for many years.
“Think nothing of it.” Sidney left the room and closed the door, reminding himself to let the servants know not to disturb Adrian.
Then he sought his own suite of rooms. He had much to consider.
A plan was forming in his mind--and his heart. A wild and risky plan, yet one that would bring a little pleasure back into what remained of his life. There were details to be resolved, issues to discuss and a lot of talking to be done.
He stared at his bed and accepted that he was exhausted. Yet there was an exhilaration running through his veins in unaccustomed glee. He had a task, a challenge before him, the likes of which he’d not imagined in his wildest dreams.
Sidney turned his back on his inviting bed and quit the room. He was seeking his sanctuary, the study that overlooked the ocean.
It was there that he kept his most precious possessions--his books. And it was there that he found the one he was looking for…a fifteenth century grimoire written in almost undecipherable Latin.
It dealt with the creatures known as Mortuus Victus.
The Dead Who Live.
- - - -
Her hair dazzled him, shards of flaming heat that pierced his eyes. He watched her helplessly, unable to look away.
As he had done for close to ten years now, Adrian tossed in his sleep, moaning a little as images of Thérèse plagued him. A vision that was as fresh and as distinct in his mind on this day as it had been the day after she had “turned” him to the darkness.
A part of his mind knew what this vivid nightmare meant--he would need to feed soon. She always appeared to him more strongly around the time his body began to crave fresh sustenance.
He wished he knew more about the whole process. About how he had been made and how he could be un-made or at least die. All these questions danced in the back of his mind, but in his somnolent state she danced in the front of his mind, obliterating most everything else in the way of coherent thought.
She moved before him as she always did--naked and sensual, an invitation that could not be ignored or declined. There was no music and yet he could hear a melody in the movement of her limbs as they sinuously wrapped around her own body, stroking, caressing--gliding over skin he knew too well--all silk and cool cream.
She spun and twirled and touched her breasts, a smooth slick of her palms--no more--but it was sufficient to arouse her nipples and send a bolt of lust through Adrian’s body to his loins. His cock was growing harder by the moment and the urge to take her, to plunge his swollen length into her cool pussy and ravage her, built inexorably within him.
He felt the strain of his need lying solidly down one thigh, rigid evidence of her presence within his dreams. He was somewhere between wakefulness and sleep--in a twilight world where temptation played and evil knew no boundaries.
Adrian sighed as Thérèse slid her hand slowly down over her abdomen to the icy red fire that glowed between her thighs. Long white fingers threaded through shining red curls and she spread them apart to reveal the glistening shape of her clit, which stood out wetly from her swollen pussy lips.
She smiled, a gleaming white spread of teeth, and made sure he saw her fangs as they protruded over lips as red as any ripe apple. He knew what was to come--and it wasn’t him.
She beckoned and sure enough a figure appeared. As if drugged, the man
--he was a pale blond this time--staggered into Adrian’s vision and collapsed at Thérèse’s feet. His cock was solidly erect and with much sensual writhing, she sank down and straddled it.
Adrian could almost feel the embrace of her velvet sheath, the touch of her thighs and the grasp of her fingertips. She made sure he could see the shining length of cock as she raised and lowered herself on it. She gleefully shared the pleasure she was experiencing, her mind playing tricks with Adrian’s and arousing him to the point of painful ecstasy.
Finally she broke, shuddering into her orgasm and turning her head to stare into Adrian’s eyes at that exact moment. Then she lowered her head, and without breaking eye contact, she bit into the neck of her victim.
Adrian howled silently, his cock rigid and aching, his mouth opened wide and revealing his own fangs. He hungered for her, and for the blood she was taking. Maddened by the twin desires he struggled against himself and--as always--awoke, a cry trembling in the back of his throat. He was erect and throbbing and--as always--unfulfilled.
How he kept his sanity was a mystery to him at moments like this. He sobbed for breath and gulped in air, wishing just for once he could either come and relieve his desires, or sleep without dreaming.
He’d tried masturbation after the first dreams began, but within seconds of waking his cock would soften, leaving the ache of unrelieved arousal behind. The only thing that could harden him to the point of orgasm other than the dreams was the act of feeding. Then he could bring himself to climax and release his pent-up yearnings. He would not fuck his prey. He dared not.
Adrian wished he knew if this was customary for his kind. He had nobody to ask. He’d been forced to find his way blindly for the past ten years, doing his best not to kill and yet driven by forces he did not understand to prolong his own existence.
He hated rendering his victims unconscious, taking as little of their blood as he could, and then fleeing the site of his “crime”--never knowing if he’d gone too far and killed by mistake. It was a terribly sordid life, a subculture he’d been compelled to live in, and one that he abhorred.
