Vampire$

And fearful.

“Master…” he all but whined.

Ross put down Evelyn’s body and stood up. He eyed Pough menacingly for an instant, then opened his mouth to speak.

But… “Ross!” sounded out from the front entrance and all present were silent.

“Ross Stewart!” then sounded out. And again, as before, it was from another Voice.

Davette watched Ross start toward the sound, then stop, find something to wipe his mouth, then continue. He paused at the step to the entryway and Davette felt sure he wanted to turn and look to her. For what? For reassurance?

Maybe.

Then he was out the front door and it closed behind him.

When she awoke, late the next afternoon, she found someone had put her in her bed. Her first thought was of the look on Ross’s face as he had stepped toward the door. But her second was the look he’d had as he’d raised his fangs from the feast.

He had been drunk. On the blood.

Dinner on the terrace just after sunset. Candlelight, flowers, fine wine. Just the two of them. Just Davette eating. Ross wore a tuxedo and Davette, under orders, wore her glittering best.

And that part had made her feel better. Not dressing up. Ross often made her dress up. He liked to look at her, liked to show her off. Liked to make her strip. No, it wasn’t the dressing up. It was that it didn’t take two hours to do it like it usually had.

Because she would… just… sit… there… in front of her dressing table and she would reach for something, a comb or a brush or some perfume? Maybe? And… by the time… her… her hand had… reached out… for it… she had… forgotten what it was she was reaching for.

And then she would have to just sit there for a second until she remembered what she had been trying to do and to do that she would have to look in the mirror to see what was still undone and she hated looking at herself these days, hated it so much it would often make her cry and… And she was too tired to cry, too exhausted, too drained.

So she would just slump there and the dry sobs would rock her shoulders for a while. Sand-blasted by horror and fear and shame.

And then it would be time to continue getting dressed. And she would sit herself up, and reach for something, reach fast, before she forgot, and sometimes she missed and Pough spent a lot of time cleaning up broken bottles.

But tonight had been… okay. Not great, not the way she used to feel. But better.

Then she knew.

He hadn’t bitten her in a week.

I’m recovering, she realized. I’m coming back.

And then she thought, looking directly at him, Whom do I kill first? Him or me?

He had started talking about high school. Not just about the school but about old friends from school and old events and old dances and parties and the way they used to dress and how everyone from those days was doing — well or poorly — and how much he thought of them and how much he missed them and…

And on and on and it came to her, suddenly, what he was trying to do.

And she also knew why.

Ross was scared.

The other Voice had scared him, made him realize he was not all-powerful to everyone, just to mortals. So he was retreating, now, back to the mortal he held most firmly in his palm. And pretending she really wanted to be there.

It was disgusting.

And worse, much, much worse, it was effective.

For Ross had turned up the heat again, the distant warmth of his Voice. His looks had become more pointed, his gestures more graceful and casually touching. And despite her best efforts to remember her hatred and fear, she was giving in to the vampire’s magic.

When he reached out a perfect white hand to gently palm her chin she managed to mutter “damn you” before his skin touched hers and her breath caught and the awful wicked excitement stirred within her, fluttered from deep within, sprinkling up her arms and through her shoulders and…

And she did just what he said to do.

She stood up, in front of the servant-slugs, in front of Pough, and slipped her dress off, exposing her naked body underneath. And she did slide her manicured nails along her hips and thighs and she did tease her diamond-hard nipples and…

And oh God! but she enjoyed it as much as ever before, enjoyed the wanton, whorish nastiness of it all, the shameful, rutting depravity of it all.

She loved it, God help her.

But even more, she loved his laying her, with her eager consent, across the top of the quickly cleared dining table and opening her thighs to his exquisite, monstrous, bite. And she loved the sounds she streaked up through the leaves and clouds at the moon.

Perhaps she would not have hated herself so had she known it would be the last time he would do this to her.

By 7:30, he had lain her in her bed, saying something about an errand he simply had to run. Even as she dropped off, she could tell he was trying to be too flippant. That this was more than an errand.

In her dreams she heard that other Voice again and again and again.

“That was the night,” said Jack Crow suddenly, “that he came up to Bradshaw and killed my men.”

“Yes,” said Davette quietly. “Only he missed you because he got there too late. Pough got lost. And then… Well, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“What did Ross do to Pough?” Kirk wanted to know.

“He had bruises all over his face when he came back. And he limped.”

“Did Pough enjoy his pain?” asked Father Adam quietly.

Davette looked at him, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

The young priest shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Just a feeling,” was all he said.

“What about,” asked Felix leaning forward, “the wound?”

“Yes,” added Cat eagerly. “In his forehead…”

“From the cross…” finished Carl Joplin.

“The Holy silver cross,” amended Father Adam.

“Yeah.”

“Oh!” sparked Davette, remembering, “It hurt him. It really hurt him… He thrashed about on the silken sheets of the huge bedroom suite he had furnished deep in the basement, wallowing in pain and frustration. And it was impossible to restrain him, with muscles hard as a bronze statue come alive and hurting and… angry!”

“DO SOMETHING!” he raged and they tried, Davette and Pough, they really tried, but the wound would not stop bleeding. The thick, heavy vampire mucus continued to ooze, rhythmically, with his panting dead man’s pulse. And every time a new surge of matter pushed its way out, the monster howled and grabbed his head, or ripped the sheets with his long nails or tore one of his brand new tailored silk shirts from his chest or…

Or lashed out. At the walls, at Davette, or at Pough, who was either too stupid or too masochistic to step beyond his reach. The first time Davette went down was from being struck by just the edge of his hand. That blow had sent her rolling onto the floor and from then on, whenever she saw the glob begin to form at the wound’s opening, she would step quickly back while the vampire raged in agony.

But then she would jump quickly back onto the bed an sop up the stuff before it rolled heavily down his forehead and got into his eyes, because that seemed to hurt him more than anything else. When the mucus hit his eyes he would shriek!