Rhymer holds Shawna tight against him. She whimpers as if on the verge of orgasm. The blood rolling down her throat and dripping into the pale swell of her cleavage is as sticky and dark as spilled molasses.
Rhymer draws back, smiling smugly as he wipes the blood off his chin. 'It is done. You are now bound to me by blood and the strength of my immortal will.'
Shawna's lids flutter and she seems to have a little trouble focusing her eyes. She touches her bloodied neck and stares at her red-stained finger for a long moment. 'Wow' She steps back, a dazed, post-orgasmic look on her face. She staggers slightly as she moves to rejoin the others, one hand still clamped over her bruised and bleeding throat. Tanith and Sable eagerly step forward to help their new sister, their hands quickly disappearing up her skirt as they steady her, cooing encouragement in soothing voices.
'Welcome to the family, Shawna,' Sable whispers, kissing first her cheek, then tonguing her earlobe.
'You're one of us, now and for ever,' Tanith purrs, giving Shawna a probing kiss while scooping her breasts free of her blouse. Sable presses even closer, licking at the blood smearing Shawna's neck. Serge stands off to one side, nervously chewing a thumbnail and occasionally brushing his forelock out of his face. Every few seconds his eyes flicker from the girls to Lord Rhymer, who stands in the pulpit, smiling and nodding his approval. After a few more moments of groping and gasping, the three women begin undressing one another in earnest, their moans soon mixed with nervous giggles. Black leather and lace drop away, revealing black fish-net stockings and garter belts and crotchless underwear. At the sight of Shawna's pubic thatch mousy brown, as opposed to her fluorescent red locks — Serge's eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He looks to Rhymer, who nods and gestures languidly with one taloned hand that the boy has his permission to join the orgy.
Serge fumbles with his ornate silver belt buckle, which hits the wooden floor with a solid clunk ! I lift an eyebrow in surprise. While Serge is thin to the point of emaciation, I must admit the boy's hung like a stallion. Sable mutters something into Serge's ear that makes him laugh just before he plants his lips against her own blood- smeared mouth. Tanith, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips pulled into a lascivious grin, reaches around from behind to stroke him to full erection.
Serge breaks free of his embrace with Sable and turns to lift Shawna in his arms, carrying her to the black- draped altar, the other girls quickly joining in. There is much biting and raking of exposed flesh with fingernails. Soon they are a mass of writhing naked flesh, giggling and moaning and grunting, the slap of flesh against flesh filling the silent church. And overseeing it all from his place of power is Lord Rhymer, his crimson eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he watches his followers cavorting below him. To his credit, Serge proves himself tireless, energetically rutting with all three girls in various combinations for hours on end.
It isn't until the stained-glass windows of the church begin to lighten with the coming dawn that it finally comes to an end. The moment Rhymer notices the light coming through one of the windows the smile disappears from his face.
' Enough !' he thunders, causing the others to halt in mid-fuck. 'The sun will soon be upon me! It is time for you to leave, my children!'
The Goths pull themselves off and out of each other without a word of complaint and begin to struggle back into their clothes. Once they're dressed they waste no time hurrying off, taking pains not to look one another in the eye. It is all I can do to suppress a groan of relief as the last of the blood cultists lurches out of the building. I thought those losers were never going to leave!
I check my own watch against the shadows sliding across the floor below me. Now would be a good time to pay a social call on their so-called 'master'. I hope he's in the mood for a little chat before beddy-bye.
Lord Rhymer yawns as he makes his way down the basement stairs. What with the candelabra he's holding and the flowing opera cloak, I'm reminded of Lugosi's Dracula. But then, Bela Lugosi is dead.
The basement runs the length of the building above it, with a poured concrete floor. Stacks of old hymnals, folding chairs and mouldering choir robes have been pushed into the corners. A rosewood casket with a maroon velvet lining rests atop a pair of sawhorses in the middle of the room. An old-fashioned steamer trunk stands on end nearby.
I watch the vampire lord set the candelabra down and, still yawning, unhook his cape and carefully drape it atop the trunk. If he senses my presence, here in the shadows, he gives no evidence of it in his manner. Smiling crookedly, I deliberately scrape my boot heel against the concrete floor. My smile becomes a grin when he spins around, eyes bugging in fear.
'What —? Who's there?'
He blinks, genuinely surprised to see me standing to one side of the open casket balanced atop the sawhorse. I'd already caught the tell-tale smell of it when I first entered the basement, but a quick glance into the casket confirms what I already knew: it's lined with earth. I reach inside and lift a handful of dirt, allowing it to spill between my splayed fingers. I look up and meet Rhymer's scarlet gaze.
'Okay, buddy, what the hell are you trying to pull here?'
Rhymer squares his shoulders and pulls himself up to his full height, hissing and exposing his fangs, hooking his fingers into talons. His red eyes glint in the dim light like those of a cornered animal.
I am not impressed.
'Can the Christopher Lee act, asshole! I'm not some Goth chick tripping her brains out! You're not fooling me for one moment!' I kick the sawhorses out from under the casket, sending it tumbling to the floor, spilling its layer of soil. Rhymer gasps, his eyes darting from the ruined coffin to me and back and again. 'Only humans think vampires need to sleep on a layer of their home soil!'
Rhymer tries to regain the momentum by pointing a trembling finger at me, doing his best to sound menacing. 'You have defiled the resting place of Rhymer, Lord of the Undead! And for that, woman, you will pay with your life!'
'Oh yeah?' I sneer. 'Buddy, I knew Dracula — and, believe me, you ain't him!'
I move on him so fast it's like blinking. One moment I'm halfway across the room, the next I'm standing over him, his blood dripping from my knuckles. Rhymer's lying on the basement floor, dazed and wiping at his gushing mouth and nose. A set of dentures, complete with fangs, lies on the floor beside him. I nudge the upper plate with the toe of my boot, shaking my head in disgust.
'Just what I thought: fake fangs! And the eyes are contact lenses, right? I bet the nails are theatrical quality press-ons, too'
Rhymer tries to scuttle away from me like a crab, but he's much too slow. I grab him by the ruff of his poet's
