Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  Now I’m sick.

  I blame her for it.

  Just what is this? If it isn’t a punishment sent directly from God to me, if it’s something capable of affecting anyone, then what could she possibly be?

  Then again, the Devil can attack multiple places at once.

  Maybe in some sick, twisted way we all have it coming.

  Athaliah gets to the steps leading to her front door.

  My relief at seeing no one waiting for her is too profound. Almost enough to make me forget about all my physical ailments and the dark path my life is on.

  She takes the steps in those sinful, beige heels, hips swaying in that matching coat. Her keys jingle as she brings them out of her purse. Sliding the key into the lock, she turns it, unlocking the door, but pauses without going inside.

  I’m across the street, hands in the pockets of my hoodie, hunched over from the strain of controlling my shaking.

  And that’s how she finds me when she spins around.

  The lack of shock on her face is a blatant sign of recognition. My heart jackhammers in my chest. I’m like a criminal caught red-handed and sweat trickles down the side of my face from the fear.

  Not just that—I’m fucking hungry. Lightheaded. Hard enough to come at the sight of those pretty eyes on me.

  It’s not normal. It’s not normal. It’s not . . .

  Athaliah walks backward into the darkness of her home. It’s a path she’s walked many times and she’s able to clear the last step inside without looking back. Every one of her movements is taunting, meant to lure me into following her.

  And I almost do. God help me, but I take that first step toward her.

  Until I see her eyes flash that unholy light hazel shade, like the night she first entered my church.

  And the night in the confessional.

  Both instances were quick, too fast for me to believe it had been real.

  Not now. Her home is dark as night. I don’t see her, I don’t see her face, but I see those glowing eyes.

  I start shaking for an entire different reason.

  “Come.”

  Her voice is a reverberation around me, as if she’s somehow projecting it across the street.

  Inside my pockets, my fists tighten, nails digging into my skin. “N-no.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  I’m quaking, an earthquake erupting in my abdomen and spreading to my limbs. “You—you did something to me.” Even to my own ears, I sound just like the first John I saw her with. The sick guy.

  Her eyes glow brighter in the shadows. “You’ve done something to me, too.”

  But how? I didn’t do anything. I was immersed in my life of prayer and purpose. My holy relationship with the Lord and all the duties that came with them.

  She came into my church and ruined my life. “Make it stop. Please.” I’m speaking at a regular level, as if she’s standing next to me and not across the street.

  And she can hear me clear as day.

  Just like I can hear her.

  “I can’t. It’s beyond my control. But I can ease it for a while. Please . . . just give in.”

  Fury chokes me in a ravenous grip. “You’ve ruined my life!”

  Those nearly-yellow eyes flash. “Fine. Have it your way. You’ve ruined mine, too.” She slams the door shut, taking away my choice.

  Leaving me out here, slowly dying in the dark.

  Chapter Six

  I’m in the confessional tonight.

  Another week’s passed. Father Raul, Father George, and the nuns have all realized that I’m very, very ill.

  Yet I’ve managed to get the blood sweat under control without anyone realizing. After days of fervent prayer, it finally stopped, and I gained enough strength to leave my room.

  I’m pale to the point of resembling a severe anemic.

  The bags under my eyes are near purple.

  The shivers hit me out of nowhere, multiple times a day, and they’re almost impossible to hide.

  It’s a losing battle with this disease. Or whatever the hell it is. I’m beginning to run a fever, too, and it’s already inside my mind.

  Making me delirious again.

  The Christ on the cross in front of the stained glass window was crying tears of blood when I walked past.

  So was the statue of Saint Mary by the candle rack to the right of the nave.

  These manifestations of my delirium are too common, too much like the movies for me to take seriously. It’s clear that my mind is coming up with whatever bullshit it wants as it falls apart against my will.

  And there I go, fucking cursing inside the church once more.

  Just did it again.

  It’s scary how easily my brain realigns itself with the thought patterns of the past. Not just the cursing.

  The twisted sexual fantasies.

  Like the one where I have Athaliah face down in front of the altar and I fuck her ass hard.

  Oh God. Please forgive me. I can’t stop thinking like that inside the church.

  And my dick is beyond swollen. How I’ve managed to withhold an orgasm all this time is beyond me.

  I’m lying about that.

  Another sin.

  I’ve awoken every morning this week with my covers soaked from another wild dream featuring that woman.

  I’m coming in my dreams thanks to her.

  I shift on the seat of the confessional, sweating, and hoping feverishly that there isn’t blood mixed with it. My heart hammers in my chest. My vision blurs.

  The black walls of the confessional seem to close in.

  Just a stroke. That’s all it’d take. A single stroke, with her image in my mind, and I can finally have a moment of relief.

  My hands slam into the walls on either side of me. “No!” I shout to myself, forgetting that the confessional isn’t soundproof and there’s probably people outside—

  The curtain on the penitent’s side of the confessional is pushed aside. Someone rushes in and the shock of golden blonde hair I see out of the corner of my eye makes me want to give up on everything.

  This miserable test.

  My life.

  The conviction that’s ruled me since my brother’s death.

  “Logan,” Athaliah murmurs, her face near the grate. “This cannot continue.”

  Tell me about it.

  I shouldn’t look, Lord knows I shouldn’t, but her pull is too strong and I—

  Glowing eyes.

  Again.

  A scent that’s somehow overpowering me through the space separating us.

  I’m literally fucking melting from the heat, the bodily shutdown that her presence initiates.

  Sweat trickles down the side of my face and it’s tinged with blood. How do I know? Her hazel eyes track its descent, brow furrowed with concern.

  “You’re going to have to let me feed on you,” she whispers sadly. “The end result will be the same but at least your suffering will end.”

  “Let me feed on you.” What in the hell could that possibly mean?

  “W-why are you here?” Is the dumb question that leaves my mouth. Of all the things I could say—like demanding she leaves once more—that’s what I focus on.

  When I know the answer.

  But maybe that’s what I’m hoping to hear. Because most of me thrills at it. Because I want her to want me like I’m dying for her.

  Her fingers curl around the small divider plate. “This isn’t working. For either of us. I can’t find sustenance in any of them since I met you. It’ll be the end of you, but it’s the only way we’ll both find some peace.”

  The way she’s talking . . . something niggles at the back of my addled, fevered mind. Shaking, I wipe at my soaked brow and groan, “Ask the Lord for forgiveness.”

  Am I talking to her or myself?

  If I’m honest, I’m speaking to us both.

  Yet, her reply sends a rebellious bolt of glorious fire through my veins. “Let’s anger your God some more.�
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  I can’t be turned on by that. I just can’t. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “You’re dying, Logan.” She almost seems heartbroken at that little bombshell. “You’re dying and there’s no salvation for you. Only a quick death versus a prolonged, painful one. You need to stop fighting. Just give in. I promise it’ll be over quick after that.”

  Her words go right over my head, eyes frozen on that mouth and how perfectly her lips move while forming them. “I want to feel those lips on my cock.”

  The gasp that leaves her is nothing compared to the mountain of shock and guilt that lands on my head.

  I’m ready to give it to her. Right here, in the confessional.

  Right here, in front of Heaven, and Hell, my fellow priests, and the parishioners, if need be.

  I’ve lost.

  The test is over.

  I’ve failed.

  The inevitability of us is near cosmic. Undeniable. A force more powerful than any that could ever exist.

  “Not here.” Her eyes glow brighter, traveling my form with a vicious hunger. “I’ll give you that at least.”

  I’m a starving fool. A lost, damaged imbecile that’s ready to give it all up for a single taste.

  Weeks of torture from every angle led me to this.

  “Where, then?”

  She bites her lip; a fleeting move that leaves me coiled in my seat. “My house. Tonight. I’ll be waiting.”

  Like dust in the wind, she’s gone faster than I can hope to catch.

  But I will.

  I’ll catch her.

  I’ll have her.

  My Lord wanted me damned.

  He wins.

  Don’t know what I did to deserve it, yet I’m ready to embrace this destruction.

  Wherever it may lead me.

  It doesn’t even occur to me as I exit the confessional on shaking legs that her eyes were that light hazel shade the entire time.

  Unlike the others, when I blinked and it was gone, replaced by dark brown.

  Succubus.

  Somewhere along the way, between sneaking out of the rectory after midnight, and walking the Bronx streets as I hurried to her home, the word slipped into my thoughts.

  And it stayed there.

  It won’t go away.

  My symptoms resemble Stigmata, yes, but only barely.

  None of the scripture I’ve found ever described a Succubus effect like this, except for one detail:

  The hallucinations.

  The brutal need to fuck the creature responsible for them.

  Everything I consist of refutes this. Succubi aren’t real. They can’t be.

  Yet I can’t claim to honor my faith and refute proof of the darker side of it.

  Proof of a demon walking among men.

  Demon.

  Demon.

  Demon.

  Demoness, to be exact.

  I should be down on my knees before the cross, offering God any sacrifice he demands, in order to be saved from this.

  Instead, here I am, outside her door, poised to knock.

  I’ve deteriorated in the hours since our last encounter in the confessional. To the point that I hallucinated my brother in my room earlier.

  My brother.

  A pale, ghastly apparition, a ghost, begging me to walk away from the foolish journey I took in the name of my grief.

  Begging me to give in.

  To not suffer anymore.

  The reason I took on such a holy vocation pleading with me to give in to this evil.

  It’s heinous.

  Unthinkable.

  What her presence in her life has done to me . . .

  Yet here I am.

  Like everything else lately, I’m possessed by some external force that commands my body to do the opposite of what I should be doing.

  Even with the cold terror of my thoughts—my symptoms—and the image of my brother’s imagined ghost playing in my mind, I can’t stop myself from knocking on her door.

  It swings open. On the other side, Thali is within the dark hallway leading into her home. Her features are hidden by the shadows, her eyes velvet and brown.

  Brown. Not hazel.

  Not that it matters.

  “You wanted me here, you’ve got me,” I growl in a low, harsh voice, chest racing. “Go ahead and do what you’ve set out to do. Ruin me.”

  Her hand reaches out and she fists my shirt. “I told you: it’ll kill you. But neither of us have a choice.”

  I’m pulled inside with surprising strength, dragged into the place where she’s lured so many other men before.

  Chapter Seven

  Athaliah’s leading me deeper into her place, yet the lights remain off and I can only see bits of it highlighted by moon.

  Not that it matters. She’s the center of my focus. The further we walk, the more I’m consumed by her, and the illness that her presence births grows stronger.

  “You’re shaking so much,” she murmurs with what sounds like concern, and runs a hand down my chest.

  “Your . . . your eyes changed.”

  She tugs down my zipper and sighs softly. “Had to feed before you. Didn’t want to consume you and kill you too quickly.”

  What?

  Can’t—can’t concentrate. What the hell does that mean?

  And she’s mentioning me dying again . . .

  Heck. It certainly feels like I’m on the verge of doing so.

  My hoodie hits the carpeted floor. I’m steered toward the couch and urged to sit, the wheels in my mind grinding.

  Fed.

  Fed?

  The others. The men I’ve seen her bringing in here, just like I am now.

  Did she sleep with someone else before I arrived? Is that what she fucking means?

  Succubus.

  The word echoes through my skull, a cruel, irrational taunt.

  Head tilted back, I just sit here and watch her as she massages my shoulders and lifts a leg to straddle me on the couch.

  Athaliah is wearing a silk, black robe, and it parts with the movement, baring her thighs.

  I’m stupefied.

  Still perplexed . . .

  Pissed as all fucking hell.

  My hand shoots into her hair. Fisting it, I drag my eyes up to her face. “Are you telling me you slept with someone else earlier?”

  “Shhh.” Her hands caress my jaw lovingly—soothingly. As if a simple touch can erase the heinous fact. “I had to make sure it wouldn’t be too quick for you. It didn’t mean anything.”

  Fury parts my lips and like some possessive asshole, I intend to let her know exactly how I feel about th—

  Her lips.

  The shock of them connecting with my own derails all thought processes. Her tongue slides into my mouth, caressing mine, and it’s the final trigger.

  Her taste.

  Her scent.

  The way she feels on my lap.

  Arms snapping around her, I crush her to me and groan into her mouth as I trip clumsily over that edge.

  Red-hot, wicked pleasure.

  Pulsations without end.

  I’m coming beneath her, grinding into her frantically, wild with the sensation as I give into it.

  Our kiss is a wet, uncoordinated mess, and when she rips her mouth away from mine, inhaling a sharp gasp, her eyes are glowing in the darkness once more.

  “Gods damn, you make me starve,” Athaliah growls, pushing me back into the couch with surprising strength.

  Did she just say gods? As in plural?

  In a blur of speed that I can barely process, she’s on her knees. My pants are torn open and I can almost swear her nails have become as long as claws.

  My slick erection, covered in cum, is brought out and the last thing I see are her hazel eyes lighting up even more.

  Then she lowers her head to my lap, using that same unnatural, inhuman speed, and she takes me into her mouth.

  “Fuck!” I shout, head slamming back into the couch. My vis
ion disappears, body arching—

  That first suck, combined with her hungry, lapping tongue, rips another orgasm out of me.

  Gripping her head, I can do nothing but surrender to this madness and fuck her mouth, flooding it with wave after wave.

  She takes each thrust, each gulp, humming happily as I give it to her.

  I have no idea how long it goes on for, yet when I manage to pull her off my dick, right as she has me on the precipice of a third orgasm, her eyes are no longer glowing.

  Chocolate brown stare at me from the shadows, sated. Pleased.

  Because she’s fed.

  Just like she did before I got here.

  “You’re the most delicious one I’ve ever had,” Athaliah moans.

  Another reminder.

  Possession is a vile, evil force that chokes me from the inside.

  Out of my mind, I snap into action.

  Fisting her hair, I force her to her feet and rip that silk robe off her body.

  Her stunning body.

  Lithe curves. Full tits. Smooth little cunt glistening with arousal.

  I yank her to me and bend down to take her nipple into my mouth. I’m not nice about it, sucking hard and using my teeth on her, and I hate that she seems to fucking love it.

  When all I want is to punish her right now.

  “Logan,” Athaliah whimpers, fingers raking into my hair.

  I switch to the other breast, biting it harder, and she arches her back, moaning.

  Growling again, I grab her by the hair and lead her to the couch, where I manhandle her into position, face down.

  Ass in the air.

  Pussy and both tight holes bared to me.

  I want to fuck her in each one, and that only infuriates me more. “You’ve ruined everything.” I tug the shirt over my head and let my torn pants fall to the ground.

  She presses her hands into the couch and tries to rise up to look at me.

  Grabbing my throbbing dick, I slam it into her pussy instead.

  Athaliah screams into the couch.

  I arch, sliding deeper, and moan her name toward the ceiling. “Athaliah.”

  Her hands claw at the couch, slick walls fluttering. “Thali, baby. Call me Thali.”

  She’s lucky I’m willing to give her whatever she wants right now.