Darkness Embraced

by Pennington, Winter

  I groaned as the tickle turned into that damned bruising pain. When I drew my hand away, there was blood on my skin.

  I tried to take another deep breath and winced.

  “Epiphany,” she said. I took the kerchief she offered.

  “Why are you being kind to me?” I asked.

  She shrugged as much as her position would allow. “Why not?”

  “I watched a man beg you for his life and you treated him as if he did not matter.” I set about wiping the blood off my hand. “Yet, here I sit, not begging for my life, and you show me compassion. Why?”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-four years of age,” I said. “Why?”

  “You are young,” she said, reaching out and brushing a damp lock of hair out of my face. “Too young, I think, to feel death’s touch so soon.” Her fingers brushed the curve of my ear. A strange feeling fluttered at the bottom of my stomach. “Sleep,” she said. “We will speak more after you have rested.”

  I closed my eyes. “You have not told me your name.”

  “Renata.” Her breath tickled my lips and I looked up. She smiled, inches from my face, holding the length of her body above mine.

  “Renata,” I whispered, “you do realize that my body is being taken by the consumption?”

  The low laugh she gave was like silk and velvet. Her eyes sparkled. “Ah well,” she said in a silky tone, “you’ve not yet been consumed.”

  Before I could speak, her hand slipped to the back of my neck. She pressed that sensuous mouth against mine.

  I had been kissed before, when I was much younger. I had been kissed by a girl before too. When I was a child, my friend Abbey and I had been playing blind man’s bluff in the parlor of my father’s estate. I’d gotten exceptionally good at catching her whilst wearing a blindfold. Abbey had a bad habit of giggling. Once, when we were nine, I caught her and she caught my face in her hands and kissed me, slipping her wriggling tongue inside my mouth.

  Thankfully, none of my father’s house ladies were in proximity of the parlor, or both Abbey and I would’ve endured a thorough scolding.

  This was so very different. Her lips parted against mine. Unthinkingly compliant, I opened to her. My hands trembled slightly at her shoulders.

  Her tongue slipped past my lips, spilling slowly into my mouth.

  It was nothing like the way Abbey had kissed me.

  Renata kissed me as if she meant to drink my soul from my body. If I had any thoughts, her mouth erased them. I found myself returning the kiss, as if it were natural, as if I’d done it more than once. I felt the tips of her canine teeth gliding across my tongue and paid no heed of them.

  Her kiss superimposed the tide of pain, masking it with pleasure.

  When she broke it, I was panting, mind boggled. My body no longer felt real.

  She licked her lips and smiled, revealing small, pointy canines.

  “What are you?” I breathed.

  “Your salvation, if you agree. I’ll return on the morrow’s eve.”

  “Agree to what?” I asked, but she had disappeared, leaving me with a fierce ache that burned between my legs.

  In time, I slept.

  True to her word, she returned the following evening wearing a gown of black velvet that laced between her breasts. Long sleeves trailed from her wrists, offering glimpses of blue taffeta nearly identical to the midnight blue in her eyes. Again, I was reminded that she seemed not to embrace the modern and ridiculous fashion of crinoline and corsets.

  “If you are a queen,” I said, watching her light several candles around the room, “where is your crown?”

  “I’ve no need of a crown,” she said idly.

  “That’s a rather odd thing for a queen to say.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “Power rests within,” she said, “not atop one’s head.”

  “You are not like the others who are afraid to come near and catch my disease.”

  “I am not like the others who can catch your disease,” she said in a manner of matter-of-fact tone.

  “How is that?” I asked.

  She stood, changing the subject. “Do you feel well enough to bathe?”

  I remembered Dominique’s words. If she has chosen you. A part of me wanted to question her until she relented, but a greater part of me knew intuitively she would not relent until she chose to do so.

  A bath was drawn and an attendant summoned. The attendant was a girl that appeared to be some two or three years younger than I was. She was gentle and quiet, with hair the color of dark honey. She kept her triangular face lowered while helping me into the tub. The water was warm and the waves of steam felt terribly good to my aching lungs.

  I placed a hand on the edge of the tub, sitting upright while she poured rosewater in my hair and attempted to scour my unruly curls with some vigor.

  She rubbed oil into my skin, and although it smelled better than lye, it was unfamiliar and I recognized only the mild smell of mint.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “It will help you breathe,” she said and I recognized the French accent to her words.

  It cleared my nasal passages but set my throat to itching. Once the oil was washed from my skin, I felt cleaner and more alert than I had in a long while. I toweled off with a bath sheet while the girl procured clean garb, holding open a white flax-linen chemise that she slipped over my head. The nightgown was in pitiful condition, soiled with sweat and dirt. In the low candlelight, my skin was visible beneath the white folds of the chemise.

  “It does not leave much to the imagination, does it?” I asked, looking at her.

  Her eyes flicked briefly to mine before she moved behind me, using the bath sheet to wring the excess water out of my hair.

  “It fits well enough,” she said.

  True, it did fit.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Justine.”

  The weight of damp hair fell against my back.

  “Why am I here?”

  There was a long pause filled with silence. Finally, she said, “That is not for me to say.”

  I emerged from the bath to find the room beyond warm and heated by a brazier. Renata sat on the edge of the bed, gazing off into the distance. When I entered, she turned her head slowly to look at me.

  That one look made me stop.

  “You wish to know why you are here,” she said, rising. She stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look up at her. She was a good head taller than I. “If you were offered a second chance at life, would you take it?”

  It was a strange question, and I did not comprehend why she asked it. I only knew by her visage and the tone of her voice that she was not jesting.

  “There is no cure for what ails me, lady.”

  “Ah,” she said, lips curving, “but there is.”

  One moment I was gazing into the blue fragments of her eyes. The next I was falling into them, drowning in waves that crashed in my mind and thrummed against my skin.

  Ensorcelled by her, rationality left me. A carnal hunger sang through my veins, kindling a fire between my legs.

  I knew the kind of aching fervor that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with want and need and the dire urgency to feel her bare skin against mine.

  I pressed myself against her, molding the lines of our bodies. Her lips found mine, parting. Our tongues touched and I fed at her mouth. Her hands branded my skin, resting at the base of my spine. A flood of strange longing spilled from betwixt my legs, dampening my thighs.

  She drew away, breaking the kiss, breaking her spell.

  I cried out, falling to my knees on the rough floor.

  A great void nipped at the edges of my being.

  I was crying and shaking and did not know why.

  “Epiphany,” she said, her voice rendering a spark in the void. I raised my chin to look at her.

  “Do you begin to understand?” she asked.
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  “What are you?” The question spilled from my mouth in a breath.

  Her eyes glistened with amusement. “I am the one mortals pray their Gods will keep them safe from.”

  Her words made me think past the void. “And when they pray, whose side are you on?”

  She smiled. “Neither.”

  “There are stories,” I said, “stories of demon-women who crawl into one’s bed at night.”

  “Shall I crawl into your bed, Epiphany?” She closed the distance between us, touching my hair. “Would you have me climb atop your body and show you pleasure such as you have never known, such as no mortal lover can give you?” I turned my face into her hand, unable to resist the call of her skin. She traced my bottom lip with her thumb.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “This.” She trailed her hand down my throat, causing my eyelashes to flutter. I leaned my head back, arching into her touch. Her hand continued its steady descent, sweeping across my breast. My nipples stiffened like tiny dart tips against the chemise. “This is your own doing. I no longer hold you in thrall, and yet”—she caught my nipple between her fingers, sending a shock of pleasure and shame through me—“you sway at my touch.”

  She jerked the chemise out from under my knees, raising it. Her fingers traced the dampness at my thighs, and without thinking, I opened to her.

  Those fingers slid across the lips between my legs and I gasped.

  “You are a virgin, no?”

  Whatever she was, it did not matter. She parted me, brushing those fingers against the source of pleasure between my legs. Her fingers circled me, sweet and slow, summoning waves of honey and ecstasy from my withering body.

  I cried, albeit silently, joy and sorrow spilling down my cheeks. “Yes.”

  She drew her hand away and the void returned, threatening to crush my heart.

  “Epiphany,” she said, lightly touching my shoulders and coaxing me to her, “come here.”

  I went as she pulled me into her lap, arms encircling me. She stood and I wrapped my legs around her waist, feeling the fall of her silken hair against my face.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered, knowing full well we were moving toward the bed.

  Her reply, when it came, was a whisper. “Making you mine.”

  God help me, I wanted her to.

  Chapter One

  America, Present Day

  The air hit my lungs like inhaled fire. No amount of practice or centuries of experience could stop this. It felt like I was dying, but I wasn’t. I was waking. Although my body protested, I knew in my mind that I couldn’t die.

  I was already dead.

  I tried to think past what felt like a blowtorch being held against the inside of my chest.

  It was always like this at first.

  Then, the hunger, that damned gut-wrenching hunger hit like a fist. I doubled over as it sang through my veins like barbed wire. My hands clawed unwittingly at the silken sheets.

  Death, it was always death, baying at my heels like some ghostly hound.

  The intensity of the pain was mind numbing.

  A voice called from deep within my chamber, “Good evening, Epiphany.”

  I turned toward the voice, gazing at the black and leather clad figure that stood stoically at the end of my bed. Vasco often dressed like he was about to attend one of those human BDSM play parties. His long hair was braided neatly in what must’ve been a hundred little serpentine braids. There were threads of silver tinsel twined intricately throughout each braid. I knew that if there had been any light in the room it would’ve reflected off each thread, making him look like some gothic fallen angel with a twisted halo.

  “Vasco,” I said, voice strained as I waited for the pain to neutralize. “What are you doing in my room?”

  He spread his arms out fluidly, like some bird of prey ready to take its flight. “Our Mistress calls and I obey.”

  “Put the chivalry back in its little lace box.” If I had been human, my breath would’ve steadied as the pain began to mellow. As it was, my head was clearing.

  I got out of the large four-poster bed. The silk sheets and silk gown I wore helped give my body an added graceful slide.

  Vasco strode to the corner of the room. His knee-high boots were silent against the carpeted floor. A light sprang to life between his fingers as he lit the only oil lamp. I preferred the dark but didn’t complain. The mirror behind it sent a flickering flame dancing throughout the entirety of the room. The pain in the center of my body had subsided, but not by much. Instead of the sharp pain it had been, it was now becoming a dull and persistent ache.

  I watched as he leaned his tall frame against the wall, crossing his legs at the ankles. He was waiting for me.

  “Vasco…” I let the suspicion cloud my tone. “What’s going on?”

  “Tonight is the night, colombina.”

  I gave him a sullen look.

  “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” I asked. “A dove I am not.”

  His lips broke into a wide grin. The grin was wide enough to show the elongated canines curtained behind his lips. Vasco was probably the least dangerous of the Elders, at least toward me. He was also the most androgynous Elder in our clan. In the years that I had been with them, I had heard but a few that were brave enough to call him childish names behind his back. In all honesty, I think most of the male Elders envied him, for Vasco was comfortable with not only his femininity, but with his sexuality.

  “You’re a dove of peace to my soul, colombina. You need to ready yourself,” he told me.

  “I’ll dress once you tell me what’s going on.”

  He sighed and let his arms fall down to the sides of his body.

  “How she forgets this night is coming is a mystery to me,” he said talking to the ceiling.

  “What night?” I was about ready to throw one of the pillows at him if he didn’t start talking. Why some of the other vampires made it a habit to be so vague all the time I’d never understand.

  His azure gaze held mine. “Your challenge, Epiphany, your test.”

  “Oh. After two hundred years the mind forgets,” I murmured kneading my temples with the tips of my fingers.

  “Ah,” he said, “but you knew this night would arrive.”

  “Did you tell her that I have no desire to become an Elder?”

  His shoulders rose in a shrug. “Unfortunately for you, colombina, it does not matter what you desire or do not desire. Our Queen has given you the gift of immortality. Thus, you are obliged to stand amongst her ranks.”

  “As a henchman,” I said, “and only that if I pass her tests. She will not allow us to strike out on our own.”

  He pushed off the wall, quick in the way that vampires are quick. One minute they’re there, the next they’re not. I took a subconscious step back.

  I hated it when he did that, when he used his speed against me. It was always a reminder. Granted, it was a very subtle reminder that there were others that were stronger and faster than me. I knew why he did it. I knew that Vasco put me in my place for a reason. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t necessarily even a power play. He never told me why. He didn’t have to tell me. I just knew.

  Vasco wanted to see me stand on my own two feet. When the rest of the Rosso Lussuria was either cruel or cold to me, Vasco had become my friend and in some respects a mentor. Just like any good friend and mentor, he wanted to see me succeed. Then again, the random thought that it was a lot like a mother bird shoving the baby out of the nest before it’s ready also occurred to me.

  There were times when you either sank or soared.

  “You know what happens to a vampire that breaks the binds of clan,” he said.

  “They are declared Il Deboli,” I whispered. The Weak. Being declared Il Deboli meant that any other clan within the territory could slaughter another vampire in our modern world caught without a clan’s aid. It took extreme measures in vampire society to keep the peace. We were a selfi
sh lot, an arrogant lot, and most vampires left to their own devices had a tendency to go on some major power trips. There was nothing that would bruise a thousand-year-old vampire’s pride more than having to share territory with Il Deboli. This was why the society was carefully established. Only the strongest and most powerful of us held a throne within each clan.

  Therefore, if the need arose, each clan had a leader that could knock any naughty little vampires silly. Beneath the throne sat the Elders, which Vasco was among. The Elders were the voice of the clan as a whole. Underlings did not have much of a voice. We served those more powerful.

  Ultimately, true power rested with the Queen. Yet, the Elders were granted courtly privileges that we were not. Underlings were to be unobtrusive, to go about tasks quietly, carefully keeping our eyes averted. The only time Underlings would raise their gaze was when they were directly spoken to. To do so when you were not spoken to was to challenge another.

  “Sì,” he said and the sadness in his tone made my heart ache.

  One of Vasco’s powers was that he was a master at projecting his emotions onto another.

  Unfortunately for me, I was a master at absorbing those emotions like a sponge. Empathy, they called it, the ability to read and sense the emotions of another. If I had not already come into my power before I turned two hundred, I would not be offered the chance to become an Elder. Powers were a finicky thing; some vampires gained them and some did not. Yet, among the Rosso Lussuria, a vampire had to have power in order to protect herself. If you did not, you were automatically at the mercy of someone who was more powerful. For nearly a hundred and fifty years, Vasco’s friendship had given me a measure of protection from the Elders.

  I shook my head, as if that one small gesture would shake off the emotions he’d projected.

  “I don’t know if I can do this, Vasco.”

  “Do what, bellezza?”

  “You know,” I said softly.

  How could he not know? He, like every other vampire in the Rosso Lussuria, knew what I had once been. He, more than anyone, knew what such a trial would cost me.

  “Her?” he asked.