Karen Essex

by Dracula in Love (v5)

  My sister turns to me before she enters the flames and whispers, “If you wish for it, you will see the face of your beloved in the fire.” I give her an encouraging smile and start swaying, throwing my shoulders from side to side as she walks straight between the blazes, her red-gold hair indistinguishable from the flames, her long, black-clad arms twirling above her head, her talons reaching into the night sky. I wait for her signal and then join her in the fire dance, walking fearlessly ahead until our bodies meet. Face-to-face, we grind against each other, heads thrown back as if we are offering our faces to the flames in sacrifice. I feel the crushing heat, so hot that I cannot breathe, but I remember what I am supposed to do, and I hold the image of the Raven Lady foremost in my mind as my sister and I dance together between the fires. She is the first to leave, looking me straight in the eye before she dances away to safety. I know that it is my duty to stay in the center, and I spin and spin, holding my arms above me in prayer as I let the flames lick my body.

  From somewhere in the distance, I hear—no, I feel beneath my feet—hooves treading gently upon the earth, but because of my acute hearing, it sounds to my mind like rumbling. I know that a group of riders has approached, though they move stealthily. In my mind’s eye, or in the very flames, I have a vision of them as they dismount, tying their animals to trees, and creeping toward us, and I wonder if the Sidhe warriors have risen from the underworld. Over the cackle and roar of the fire, I hear them moving through the brush and see them standing behind the trees now, watching us. I feel eyes—intense, blue, curious eyes—upon me, and it breaks my trance.

  Now I feel the flames on me and I throw my body out of the fire and into the arms of my sister, who is waiting to catch me. She pats my hair, and I can smell that the fire has scorched it. She holds me in her arms, and I am dizzy from the heat and the dance and the broth. I close my eyes, but I hear the other women start to scream, and when I open them, I see you—the owner of those curious blue eyes—standing in the grove and staring at me. You stand alone, but others, perhaps a dozen warriors, soon emerge from the thicket where they too have been watching us, and they flank you. You and your men wear heavy riding cloaks, some trimmed in fur, all of a more luxurious kind than what we are accustomed to seeing, and I can tell by the reaction of the other women that none of us is sure whether you are mortal or from the other side of the veil.

  You are clearly their leader, and you hold my gaze and walk toward me very slowly. As you approach, I catch your scent—the musk and sweat of human male. The others stay behind, and they seem uncertain of what you are going to do. None of you have weapons, or if you do, they are not drawn. You come straight up to me, and the flames light up your features—enormous deep-set eyes beneath a strong, almost feral brow, your cheekbones rising up as if to meet your eyes. Your red lips defy the beard that surrounds them and protrude in a sensuous pout. Though you hair is long, I can see that it is clean, and that your curls have been combed in recent days. Beneath your coat, the flames highlight a low-slung belt of gold, something that looks as if you stole it from a god.

  The high priestess does not like your boldness, not in her sacred grove, and she begins the chant of the raven, a loud, croaking caw, shrill against the silence of the night. The others join her, their cries escalating as you come closer to me. The women begin to move toward me with their arms outstretched, fierce shrieks coming from their wide mouths. Though I am staring only at you, I can see my sisters in my mind’s eye with their teeth bared to you and to your men, who are slowly receding in the face of the priestesses’ threats.

  The women form a half circle around me to protect me, showing teeth and claws and chanting in a taunting chorus of tocks and cackles. Unflinching, you stand right in front of me, looking down at me, and I am trembling. I try to stand tall and regal to let you know that I am filled with the grace and protection of the Raven Lady. You watch me intently, unblinking, for a good long while, and then you drop to your knees.

  With this unexpected move, the women stop their cries. “Princess of the night, I have come to offer myself to you,” you say in French, the language of my homeland. “Come with me.” I am trying to look inside you, to foresee your intentions—lust, rape, or ransom—but your beauty clouds my sight.

  “Why should I go with you, stranger?” I ask, though I am thrilled by the candor of your request and the desire and enthrallment in your eyes.

  “Because I am yours, whether you wish it or not. You enchanted me, with your eyes that hold the light of the moon within them, and your starlit skin that defies fire. Come with me, my lady, and I will give you all that I have.”

  I am gazing at you, weighing your flattery, when, from somewhere in the night, we hear the cries of a raven. Everyone looks around to see who is entering the grove. Suddenly, out of the night sky, a wide pair of black wings is soaring above us. The large bird penetrates the sacred space with its strident cries. In the moonlight, I can see its long, thick ruff of feathers and its spiky talons, as it swoops and soars above me.

  “She is warning us,” the high priestess says.

  In the distance, I hear hooves beating the earth, unmistakably coming our way, but louder this time than the approach of you and your men. This band on horseback comes not in stealth but announcing its arrival with music—tinkling chimes, pipes, and cymbals—drifting in on the wind, which picks up force and grows stronger, sweeping through the grove. “Someone approaches,” I say.

  “I hear them,” my sister says. “It is the Sidhe.” I can feel her exhilaration rise at the thought of seeing the fairy prince with whom she is in love.

  The women grow excited, but I know what this means for you, who are still in front of me on your knees. “Go!” I tell you. “Get your men out of here.”

  You stand, but you do not leave, though your men are calling out to you. None of them wants to do battle with the Sidhe warriors, but you do not move, and I wonder if this is the real challenge you have come for.

  “Come with me.” You try to take my hand, but recoil when you feel the talons on my glove. There is something in me that wants to go with you, but my sister is yelling at you to go away. She reads my mind and knows that you are tempting me.

  “Are you mad?” she asks me. She and I have discussed that mating with a fairy prince will deepen my powers and carry on our mother’s lineage. Tonight would be that opportunity. “Go away before they find you here,” she says to you. “My sister is not for you. Leave!”

  “Not without her,” you say, reaching into the neckline of your tunic, and I wonder if you are going to produce a weapon and try to take me by force.

  “You are wasting time,” I tell you. I do not know you, but I do not want to see you slain by the Sidhe. “It could cost you your life and the lives of your companions.”

  But you are not listening to me. You wrestle with your garment, pulling out a bejeweled cross that hangs on a leather thong. My anger rises at the sight of it. I grab the leather, clutching it around your neck so that I am choking you. Your eyes pop out and your face turns red. You are surprised to be attacked this way by a woman. “That belongs to my mother,” I say, hissing at you, pulling your face closer to mind. “You stole it from her.” My sister and I are exchanging thoughts and we arrive at the same conclusions—you are just another mortal who spied my mother in the woods; just another whom she has taken for a lover and cast aside, and you, vengeful, stole her cross. “Damned is the man who steals from the Sidhe,” my sister tells him, looking him up and down. Suddenly, though, she bursts out laughing. I look to see what she is laughing at, and I am amused to see that even though I mean to choke you, being this close to me has given you an erection.

  “Your father sent me,” you say. “He told me to find you and give it to you.”

  Now it is my turn to be shocked. I release you so that you can catch your breath. I have not seen my father in years but know from my inner sight that he left Aquitaine to fight in the Holy Wars. I do not know where he is, but I k
now that he is alive. But the cacophony of the Sidhe is upon us. The drumbeat of their galloping horses, the sharp barking of the dogs that accompany them everywhere, and their music that sounds strangely like the color silver grow louder and louder, and we can hear them singing one of their rowdy songs as they come in pursuit of pleasure with us.

  I have to make a decision. My heart is telling me to follow the man in front of me, the man who my father anointed to seek me out and give me this gift. But in the grove, the authority belongs to the high priestess. Reading my thoughts, she waves her feather-covered wand at us. “Go with him,” she says. “And hurry.”

  Spurred on by the approach of the fairies, your men have readied their horses. One of them doubles up with another so that I can ride his horse, a moon-white stallion with a long mane. Before you help me mount, you pull the claw gloves off my hands, so that I can ride, and throw them into the bushes. As we start to ride away, the Sidhe warriors leap into the grove on their horses, slipping through the trees and the brush as if they did not exist, lighting up the dark space with their celestial glow. Glimpsing the dazzling Sidhe, with their radiant skin, bronze colored hair, and shimmering green mantles, I have a moment of regret, wondering what might have been.

  But there is no time for wistfulness. You come behind me and kick my horse hard, making him bolt away. Ahead of us, your men fly through the night, and we follow. The animals know the terrain and gallop down the path so that the landscape is a blur. My head is still clouded by the moonflower broth, so I close my eyes and make myself one with the steed until I can no longer feel my own body but have melted into his. I feel his animal strength infusing my body with his power, and his with mine, and when I open my eyes again, it is to look up at the stars, which swirl above in a greenish glow.

  After a time, we approach a stone castle guarded by men in the torchlit watchtower and surrounded by a deep ditch. One of the riders calls out to them, and they lower the bridge so that we can enter. Inside the gate, you, my blue-eyed captor, help me off my horse, and I fall into your arms, where it feels as familiar as if I have done this one thousand times and will do it one thousand times more. Someone lets us inside, and we pass through a large room with men sitting round a fire, who look at us as if this is just another ordinary sight. You carry me through a torchlit hall and into a bare room with a tall hearth and iron bars slashing the two windows high in the walls.

  You place me on a mattress on the floor covered in furs near the hearth, and I yelp in pain as a thorn in the back of my crown pierces my scalp. Gently, you remove the crown and kiss my wound. But as you toss the crown aside, another thorn tears your finger, making a slit in the skin that soon fills with red. We are both startled at the sight, but I take your finger into my mouth and suck some of the blood, savoring its fresh taste and your salty iron flavor.

  I want to show you my magic, so I when I have had my fill of tasting you and of watching your desire rise, I take your finger out of my mouth and show you the cut again. Then concentrating deeply, I run the tip of my tongue along the incision very slowly, first once, and then a few more times, sliding my tongue sensuously along the cut. In my mind’s eye I see you watching me in wonder, those gemstone eyes of yours sparkling with arousal.

  When I stop, I show you that the wound is closed and the skin, unbroken.

  I thought that you would be awed by my magic, but, instead, without a word, your lips are on mine. Your hands have untied my silver sash and are inside my robes, grasping greedily at my body. I feel your raw, human hunger and I answer it. It is not my first time making love with a mortal. I love the body heat that comes with palpable human desire, and the scent and taste of flesh and blood. Earth time collapses, and we enter a timeless space, kissing with great care, exploring every inch of our lips, tongues, faces, and necks. You discard your braies and hose and you pull up my dress to look at my body, touching the wine-red mark on my thigh, tracing its winglike shape with your finger.

  “The mark of the Sidhe.” Some ignorant men think it the mark of the devil, and I hope that you are not one of them. But your look tells me that you are feeling something else, something closer to wonder. Because I am infatuated with you, I cannot read you as clearly as I would like.

  “Why are you not living with the Sidhe?” you ask.

  “My human side enjoys earthly pleasure,” I say, and it is true. I like the solid beat of a human heart, the aroma of roasting meat, and the delicate tickling of rain on my face. “I am not like my mother who loves mortals but wearies of them. I have a different nature, and I am still trying to discover it.”

  “Are you immortal?”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “I can extend my life by spending time in the Sidhe kingdom. But whether I am forever, I do not know.”

  At this moment, my Sidhe blood is taking over as I inhale your scent. That small taste of your blood has aroused me, and I want to drink more, but I do not want to weaken you or kill you. My mother would be angry with me for these feelings. She hates me to question my nature.

  “You have endangered yourself by bringing me here,” I say. I am looking at your bare legs, and they draw me like a magnet. I push them apart, my fingers slowly creeping up the length of your thighs as I lick my lips, anticipating the thrill of tasting you. Your eyes are wide now, straining to see what I will do to you, but I have paralyzed you with my touch. Without warning, I bring my mouth to the muscle at the innermost part of your thigh, surrounding the flesh with my lips, teasing, licking, kissing, and nibbling, first one side of the groin and then the other. You open your legs wider, making yourself vulnerable to me. You let me take more of your inner thigh into my mouth, so that my cheek rests on your sac, and I fondle it very gently with one hand while the other holds your bare, tense buttock. You close your eyes and moan with pleasure and anticipation. But I use that moment of weakness to break your skin with my teeth and bite into your tender flesh, taking what I want from you while you cry out in ecstasy and surprise. When I am done, you are panting and glowing with your own sweat.

  But unlike some of the others I have been with, you quickly recover. “You are not ordinary,” I say.

  “I am accustomed to danger and practiced in the ways of mysticism. Even if I were not, a night with you would be worth my life,” you say.

  I fold my arms around you and pull you toward me, taking your lips and tongue into my mouth. You kiss me back with ferocity, and I see that you have not been weakened by me. Indeed, your erect penis is stabbing at me, looking for entry, and I realize that indeed you are a mortal like no other. The taste of your tongue pleases me, and I want to bite your lip, but I refrain, instead wrapping my legs around you to invite all of you to come into me. You enter me slowly, a man familiar with women’s pleasure. I wait for you to thrust hard into me so that I can meet your passion, but you barely move, and your body trembles. I remember that I do not feel like an ordinary woman to you, and you must grow accustomed to the hum of my body. You hold my hips tight against your pelvis as if you are trying to consume me. I feel you steady your breathing and your heartbeat as if you are preparing for battle, and, reading your memories, I have flashes of the kind of warrior you are—fierce and unfazed by your enemies. When you are ready, you pace yourself, moving in and out of me rhythmically until you reach the end of your control and explode inside me in a series of frantic thrusts. I wait while you recover your senses, and then you whisper into my ear, “I want to drink from you.”

  I push your shoulders back so I can look you in the face. “You do not know what you ask,” I say. Few humans know the secrets of the blood, and I wonder where you have obtained such knowledge.

  You look as if I have insulted your manly pride. “I have drunk the blood of others and have only grown stronger.” Your blue eyes are angry and indignant.

  “But I carry the blood of the Sidhe. You may grow stronger, but you may also weaken and die. There is no way to tell. Even the soothsayers and seers have failed to predict who will die from our blood, o
r even from making love to us.”

  “I can only stay with you if I am one of your kind. Otherwise, you will tire of me.”

  I know there is truth in what you are saying. I often reflect on the cruelty of mortal life, how all things of beauty fade into decay and death. Looking at you, I cannot bear the thought of your degeneration, of the daily pain of watching your skin and muscles shrivel, your spine bend, and the fire fade from your eyes. This could happen to me too, if I give into my mortal heritage, but I have the refuge of my mother’s kingdom to keep me young. You must be reading my thoughts because you take me by the shoulders. “Lady, I am not afraid. Test my strength. If I am too weak, I deserve to die.”

  I have enough magic in me to open a place at the base of my throat with a light touch of my fingernail, an incision just big enough for your mouth. I let it fill with the red substance that is my blood. It is brighter than mortal blood, the color of cranberries, and more luminous, and I see that this surprises you. Without giving you a chance to change your mind, I press your head to my throat and let you drink.

  Chapter Sixteen

  31 October 1890

  Every nerve in my body was on fire as I felt him pierce my skin and sink into the tender flesh at the base of my neck. I threw my head back and held him close to me, a fistful of his hair in my grip. His hand was between my legs, fingers inside me, making me reach for a climax, while his mouth brought something close to agony, but it was nothing I wanted to stop. I surrendered all of myself to him. His mouth kept pace with his hand, and when he felt my insides tighten around his fingers, he bit harder into my neck. The world went blurry, and I was afraid that I was going to die; but in the moment, it seemed better to let this wild passion be the wave I would ride out of this world and into the next one. Even if all were darkness after this, it did not matter, for what could compare?