by Sally Odgers
With that he lifted up, one hand pressing himself against my maidenhead. My groan was in equal measure the feel of hardness against my opening, and the damning flesh of his throat a breath from my fangs. Gods help me, the huntress would take over. I would lose virginity in two perverse rites at once.
He pressed the swollen bulb of his erection just inside me, piercing me with delicious, fiery steel. Exquisite pain bared my teeth. Ever so lightly, testing him even as he was me, we both sank in.
The reaction was immediate. He stiffened, gasping not in agony, but surprised pain and excitement. He did not yet understand.
But I did. The tiny trickle of molten perfection streamed into my mouth, shooting pleasure through nipples and clit. I trembled, wanting to extend this torture before succumbing to what must come.
The Prince, however, did not. The bond of pain between us exploded our sexual union, forcing a strong thrust from his loins. I sagged with painful delight, limbs quaking as I fought to retain his neck without pressing the matter of sacrifice further. We undulated and writhed as one, each roll of hips spiraling us closer to the moment of sweet—and likely fatal—release.
That it could be like this, I never dreamed. That it had to end, I could not bear. He shuddered, nearing the time. Slowly I pulled back, exposing fiery needle marks on his neck. I would tame the demon huntress; we would scream together in climax and I would tell him why I had come. I would save him—from Allura and myself.
"Well, well."
Prince Verrill froze, still buried deep. My eyes landed just inside the parlor door. Allura and Melisande stood, the former a vision of rage and the latter's mouth agape. My lips were still bared from my tender explorations; they retreated a moment too late.
"I would ask how you got here,” emerald velvet rustled as Allura slid forward, “but I see you've met with a deadly ... accident."
"Mademoiselle,” the Prince's panting attempt to inject breeding into his voice failed, “your interruption is not welcome."
She smiled. “Then perhaps His Highness should have closed the door. But as I've just saved your life, mayhaps royal thanks are due."
After a brief reassembly of his breeches, he faced my sisters. “What madness is this?"
"She is a vampire, Highness. You were to be her royal feast."
"Ridiculous,” he said. His eyes, however, held me in question.
"Shall we get a mirror?” Her voice dripped maple. “Meanwhile, dearly departed sister, I have business with the Prince."
"Indeed.” I stepped in front of him, blazing with a defiance I'd never dared in life. “Which is why I've come. I may be a vampire, sister, but ‘tis you who are the monster."
Verrill stared. “Vampire? Surely this can't be true?"
I sighed. “'Tis a long story, and we've but a short time."
"Truly,” Allura said. “As there are lessons I can still teach you, dead or not."
She withdrew a satin pouch from her bosom. Turning her gaze upward, she bellowed, “To fire and pain!"
Allura threw it.
"No!” Verrill flashed out before me, the cursing hit his chest in a cloud of bloody smoke. He dropped.
Allura hissed through her teeth. “Look what you've done! Worthless tramp! I'll—"
"Help! Guards!” Melisande finally found her voice. “The Prince has been attacked!"
I pushed past Allura, who flew aside easily with newfound strength, rushing out as guards charged the chamber. Intent on getting to Prince Verrill they passed me without thought, but this wouldn't last. Soon my stepsisters’ account would find my cleavage against the end of a stake.
Soon was impressively managed. A sentry shouted the order even as I raced down the front steps, and from too far I saw the iron gate descend. Horsemen and soldiers erupted from everywhere to shouts of, “Stop her!"
I would not make the gate, yet I kept running faster. My body refused to accept what my mind held certain. I prayed fervently for a miracle; an eagle to swoop me up, perhaps, or...
As I wished for the words, the ground fell back. With a clang the gate sealed, but I soared overhead into the countryside beyond. Leathery brown flashes passed in and out of sight, and I soon realized ‘twas I flapping wings in escape. I had transformed in the way of vampires, leaving no trace for pursuit save the stolen gown and my own modest slippers.
For an eternity I circled woods and the lands beyond in search of respite. They would invade the Manor at my sisters’ urging, and I'd nowhere else to go. How long my present state would conceal me was uncertain. Perhaps I should fly to the midlands, make a new start.
The stirring of a newborn day lightened the sky, reminding me that dreams of escape were folly. I had to fly home with all haste to survive the next few moments.
Banking over a cluster of trees, I sought the familiar grove of elm and pointed my nose downward. With a screech I descended, entering trees where I felt the magic barrier enshrouding my fate. I burst out of the woods near the back pond even as morning crested. Then I thudded into soft, dewy grass.
Breath came with bitter gasps of pain, and as I rose to my knees I knew three things. I was breathing again; Mikkhail's word was true. Despite this, the sound of horses on fast approach guaranteed a swift death. And the entire royal guard was about to find me squatting naked in the grass.
I slipped into the nearby pond just as voices approached.
"You there!” The crest on the man's helm showed him to be Captain. “Come out and show yourself at once!"
I did his bidding, a throng of men staring as I stood dripping at the water's edge. My cheeks burned with renewed modesty, and I crossed my arms where I could.
"What brings the king's guard at this hour?” I said. “Need of sustenance? Looks that you've been weary at chase."
"After you, as you well know.” Allura swept up behind them, still in velvet finery and clutching a swathe of gold brocade.
I swallowed. “Me? For what purpose?"
Her eyes rolled. “Your attempt to murder Prince Verrill, of course. The entire court saw you flee.” She held up the stolen gown. “This was found on the way. Now here you are, naked."
"Bathing, only.” I infused sincerity into my speech. “You know the well is dry. The pond ‘tis easier."
"Liar!” Her shriek averted several eyes from my glistening flesh. “You are a vampire. We saw the attack, and the marks on His Majesty's neck."
I laughed. “Vampire? What manner of jest is this?"
The Captain stepped forward. “His Highness’ life ‘tis no jest. We all witnessed your attempt at escape. Execution is to be immediate.” He nodded to a snout-faced guard, who stepped forward with sword drawn.
"Must be a wooden stake, no?” Allura's eyes gleamed.
"Beheading will suffice for a demon of night,” the Captain replied.
I made to back away, but had nowhere but water to go. “This is madness. I never attacked the Prince. And I am certainly no vampire."
"She lies,” my sister said. “Bring forth garlic, or a looking glass."
I stepped forward, lifting my arms into a bright shaft of sunlight. “Do vampires often bathe under a full sun?"
My executioner halted. Glances slid back and forth.
"How?” she said. “I saw you."
"Which attests to her guilt, demon or no,” the Captain said. “Proceed with the execution."
My stomach lurched as the piggish guard moved forward, the glint of steel preparing to slice the anatomy I myself had dared to mark on the Prince. My shoulders sagged. ‘Twas right, then, that I should die.
"Over here!"
A shout came from the Manor. A guard staggered out, blade in hand and blood running down the front of his tabbard. “She attacked me!"
With a snarl the Guard charged to converge on my home. I gasped at the sight just inside the threshold.
"Mother?” Allura rushed forward, where two men held my stepmother fast. Hair hung down in shreds, blood dripping over her chin as she evoked a night
mare hiss.
Mikkhail. My teeth ground together.
"Bring her forward,” the Captain ordered. Stepmother screamed, clawing and bucking as others joined the struggle. With a final thrust she was catapulted outdoors, erupting in flames. An inhuman wail ended her.
Allura turned on me with a murderous stare. “You."
I shook my head. “I'm no vampire. Could not have been I."
A thought pierced my haze. Perhaps my stepmother could help me in death as she could not in life.
"Don't you see?” I ventured. “'Twas Stepmother all along. She attacked the Prince."
"Don't be feeble,” Allura said. “We all saw ‘twas your foul face."
"There are all manner of strange conjures upstairs. I've long suspected her of witchcraft. She must have cast a glamour upon herself, to hide her true identity."
Afraid to say more, Allura held her vile tongue.
"'Twas likely the way of it,” the Captain said at last. “And the sentence has been carried out.” He nodded to one of his men. “Cover the lady."
As a cape found my shame, he bowed low. “My truest apologies, milady."
* * * *
I scrubbed the kitchen floor, blowing away strands of gold hanging over my forehead. A dull ache shot up my arms as I worked. I no longer had requirement of chores, but I had need of them.
'Twas a fortnight after the royal ball. A bitter truce had forged. My sisters desired no further inquiry into the household's store of black arts, and I wished for no greater interest in disproving my story. I had my life and freedom, but naught else. The Prince believed his passion had been for another; a false love, conjured by a murderous vampire. I could ne'er afford to reveal otherwise. He recovered his health under triple guard, and I existed.
Considering my narrow escape, gratitude should have been my companion. There was but one problem. I was in love with Prince Verrill.
He had stood falsely accused, yet roused a woman from my maiden's sleep. Love consumed me whole, before he threw his soul in front of me in valiant defense. Nights were a restless torment, filled with dreams of thrusting to near release, only to watch my lover fly into dust. I awoke each day alone and unfulfilled. And so I scrubbed, washing away the dust my passion had become.
The gallop of hooves gave me little wonder. ‘Twas midweek. I rubbed chapped hands on my apron and went out to greet the latest delivery of baked goods, then stopped short at a snowy steed adorned with the royal crest.
The Prince hopped down with practiced ease, brushing dust from travel raiment's as he approached. A trio of guardsmen held their saddle.
Keeping my jaw hinged, I bowed low. “Your Highness.” My voice trembled. “To what does our humble Manor owe this honor?"
"Forgive my intrusion,” he said. I avoided the stormy sea of his gaze. “I have come to seek the maiden whose face was shown me in murderous deceit. If you will give me leave, and not think me too morbid."
I remained bowed, eyes focused on his boots. “Whatever His Highness desires."
"My view would be eased, were you to rise and look your Prince in the eye."
Your Prince.
I stood, forcing myself to enter that gaze. There, I saw everything. He knew. He knew me, and no doubt would exact vengeance for my crime against the throne. My heart raced like an unbroken stallion longing for escape, but ‘twas not to be. In death or in life, Verrill held my heart prisoner.
His gaze fired me beyond the shadow of my dreams. “Leave us."
I blinked, then realized he spoke to his Guard. The Captain appeared most displeased.
"If I may say so, Your Highness..."
"You may not. Give us leave."
Hooves turned and trotted a begrudging distance away. “Thought I'd ne'er see you again."
A trap to gain admission? I swallowed. “'Tis good to know your health has returned, sire."
His eyes dropped to where my heartbeat betrayed any sense of calm. “I've ... felt you here. I knew ‘twas not you who perished, as the guards said.” He stepped closer, grasping reddened hands. “Nor that the woman who stirred my passion was a haggard forgery."
Our lips fused, melding our desire. I snaked a hand through black hair, pulling his kiss deeper. If ‘twas to be my undoing, so be it. I felt the animal then; a faint growl from the feral sex demon laid to rest with Mikkhail's spell.
Our hands roamed for a minute, remembering each sinew and curve. Then the Prince drew back, voice a ragged whisper. “We are bound, you and I. Since that night. Your bite had ... effects. The most agonizing was to sense you—taste you, yet not have you near."
My breath caught. I failed to consider what fate my bite could bestow. Yet he, too stood in daylight. Many things about creatures of the damned—or, mortals enchanted to be such—were cloaked in mystery.
He fixed his brow. “But you are ... mortal?"
I nodded. “A temporary conjure ‘twas fated upon me, by which I meant to save you from a darker fate. A long tale."
"One I would hear,” he said, “when we return to the palace."
He dropped to one knee, reaching behind his back. My eyes flew wide as two plain black slippers fell into my outstretched hands. A smile broke the last barrier of fear and doubt I ever knew.
"You seem to neglect your attire quite often,” he said, eyes molten jade. “'Tis a habit I should like to see much, but only in my royal bedchamber."
My heart leapt as he continued on bended knee. “Sinda Ella, you are my temptress, my entwined fate, and my truest love. I bade you, be my princess. Together we will discover what magic and love has wrought."
And so we did.
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Manhunt
by
Sally Odgers
I am a fairy, a fully paid-up member of the Unseelie Court. As you see, I have the slightly insectoid cast to my features that many of my kind possess. I have the wings, more bat than butterfly; that mark a select few. My hair is longer than Rapunzel's and redder than a bell pepper. My name is my name, and it is my business, not yours. I have—hmmm, I think that's enough for now. I am going to tell you a story, Melita. Listen.
Imagine, if you will, an alleyway, tucked away in a city behind a pub. The ground is wet, glistening with the iridescence of spilled oil and rain. It smells as unwholesome as it looks. I swoop in to land, and my toes recoil from the dank chill. Can you see me? What, you might ask, is a fairy doing in a place like this?
I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm on the hunt.
I pick my way past cardboard boxes, dark and sagging with the wet. I avoid slick black rubbish bags, pregnant with all the stuff you humans collect and waste. A door opens suddenly, flooding the alley with a wedge of light. I shrink into a corner, and pinch my nose. Faugh! Some bloke is peeing against the wall, adding his acrid mite to the gathering string of puddles.
"Go,” I tell him, crossing two fingers on my free hand and waving him away.
A cold wind wrinkles his willie and he curses and backs inside. The door closes, the light retreats, and I am alone in the alley with my prey.
This a young man, tall, loose limbed and huddled inside the porch. He's conscious, because he moans when I kick him.
"Sit up,” I say, poking his biceps with my toes. “You with the death wish—sit up before you die of double pneumonia."
He shifts uneasily, and groans something unintelligent and unintelligible. It sounds like ‘Bucket'. Perhaps he wants to throw up. Puck's whiskers, these humans can be fools.
"Up!” I insist. “Wipe the drool off your chin."
I kick him again, and he starts to use his elbows to walk himself into a sitting position. I conjure a little winklight so I can see more clearly. Expectedly, he's a mess.
"Spit,” I tell him, holding out his own handkerchief.
He spits.
"That's it,” I encourage. “Now I can clean the smudge from your cheek and comb your hair out of your eyes and see what you look like."
I make him ti
dy, muttering soothing nonsense as I go.
"Green eyes?” I chirp, as they blear at me. “My favourite kind. Freckles? Ah, diddums! Irish, are you? Sit up, Paddy, and point both your eyes this way. That's it. Now, focus.” I snap my fingers under his nose, and move my hand from one side to the other, up and down in the sign of a cross. His eyes track left, right, up and down, and he smiles.
He mumbles something. It sounds like ‘Bess be guarder binned'.
Hungarian? It doesn't matter. It's not his nationality I need tonight.
I inspect him closely, and nod. He might be drunk as a leprechaun on St Pat's Day, but under the grime and the disgrace I see a strong, healthy example of human stock. He'll do.
Pulling my ragwort stem out from under my flimsy gown, I balance it on the air, its roots pointing south and its defiant crown of blossoms heading north.
Paddy stares at it, and says it looks wee sick. Or maybe he's trying to tell me he sees a weed stick.
"Up you get,” I urge. “Horsie, horsie."
Helped by the point of my toe, Paddy elbow-walks himself up the wall some more until he's balanced on two flat feet. I turn him sideways and scoot the ragwort stem between his legs. Then I suggest it would feel more at home in a meadow.
Look, I know you expect magic to be fizz-whizz-bang, but it's really more of a suggestion, or a nudge. Consider the ragwort plant. It has sweet yellow flowers and bitter green leaves. It seeds and reseeds itself all over the country, offering sweet greetings for the bees and bitter danger for the sheep. It wants to do this. It lives to do this. So, if the only way it can get to the wide green pastures of conquest is by ferrying a drunken Irishman, that's what it will do.
Ragwort, fairies and humans all do what they need to do to survive.
In an hour or so, Paddy is tumbling into the long grass by a rippling stream. The sun is just rising, and I can finally get a clear look at my prize.
The sight makes me sigh, strip off his clothes and souse them in the water. Then I give him a bath and do my feet as well.
Faugh! How I hate the stink of the city!
I sit beside Paddy in the grass, and wait for him to wake and take lucid notice.
