Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (13 page)

Stripped
of assets and contacts they’d roamed and pillaged using only his wits and her
blade, and the lush simpering heiresses with their tight corsets and tighter
cunts had hiked their skirts and bade him enter at his pleasure. Leaving her
with scraps, a mere taste of him mixed with the wanton flush of others’
passion.

Lost
in pain, she failed to notice his approach. She called it silent running, the
phrase a fanciful diversion from the hard core that encased her heart.

“Always
hopeful, Cher? When will you learn your place?”

He
stroked her temple, knuckles sharp, skin thinned with denial and discipline.
She pressed into the faintness, the paleness of promise.

“Submit.”

“I
cannot.”

“Then
you will never have what you wish.”

“What
is that, Sire?”

Damien
gave her a weary smile. “Not tonight my love. I’ve lost the taste for this
endless prattle, this fucking journey we’ve been on.”

If
only you meant that…

She’d
lost track of time. She wasn’t even sure where they’d finally landed.

Ancient
lands, ancient cultures surrounded them, a place and time lost to history. The
Roma taught him new perversions, new skills. Keeping watch, she’d guarded
against entry, shutting out the screams and moans of pleasure, his, always his.

She
said, “It’s still raining.” Obvious. Sheets of acid coated the thick panes of
glass, forcing back the night, pummeling the metal roof.

Damien
shrugged and paced away from her, circling about a rough wooden table with no
chairs.

“Perhaps
the lesson I needed to learn was … discretion?” He chuckled but the sound
grated, harsh, unyielding. It wasn’t often he admitted his own failings. But
only to her. At one time that made her feel special. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Rough
stone walls offered little surcease from the elements, the damp chill soaking
through their pores. She’d have killed for a cord of wood, a wick soaked in
oil, anything to dispel the gloom. The lack of warmth was merely a mental image
for she felt nothing, needed nothing. Yet still she recalled times of light and
warmth, long lazy days spent along the trails surrounding Sugarloaf Mountain,
her dad pointing out the unusual birds, his singular passion before the pox
took him and her sisters and infant brother, leaving her and a doddering aunt
to make their way to the coast.

He’d
found her in Savannah, servicing the sailors, the soldiers, the lost … wielding
her blade, making her way amidst war and devastation.

Towering
over her once more, he encased her breasts with cool disdain, massaging with
languid grace, teasing, bringing her into sharp awareness.

“I
see you remembering, Cher. Those were good days.” The pressure increased,
released. “I like when you wear a dress.”

He
peeled the shoulder back and down, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone.
She stretched to accentuate the notch, gulping air, swallowing his scent.

“Please,
Damien…”

“Please
what?”

“Stop.”

Don’t
stop.

“As
you wish.”

Taking
a step back, he caressed his swollen length, outlined in relief against the
thin material of the jodphurs, the lacing tantalizingly loose as he shifted his
hips in slow sultry sweeps.

She
spat out, “Whore.”

“It
takes one to know one,
bonne a rienne
.”

“At
least I was honest…”

He
stilled her with a glare, an ache, so much pain, so much anger she quivered and
fluttered like a virgin. Bitter, he hissed, “And that was
my
mistake…”
but halted mid-sentence, his eyes lowering, shuttering his thoughts.

“Ah,
fuck,
this is
de'pouille
. I’m sorry, Beb, come here,” he
held out his arms, conciliatory once more, playing her like a fine instrument,
knowing which strings to stroke.

There
was nothing but cold stone and splintered
Nuc Negra
, the dark wood
unvarnished, black as night, black as her soul. Damien lifted her effortlessly.
Despite her bulk and height, she was no match for his lean, lethal strength.

“Magda,
Maggie,” he cooed, the patois of his maman both coarse and slick like a
soothing salve. He mesmerized with his voice, deep, dipping into a slow-moving
torturous celebration of hot nights and torrid days, his bayou home and hearth
a distant memory, the long drawn-out breath…
Cher
… exquisitely refined,
agonizingly false.

“Something
to take the edge off…”

Spinning
her around like a boneless puppet, he palmed her head, forcing her down onto
the unforgiving table, her cheek raking across the rough surface, each knot,
every imperfection searing cheeks worn thin with need and desire.

I
won’t beg, not this time, not ever you sonofabitch, motherfu—

Damien
chuckled, “Someday you will, Beb, someday you will.”

With
his palm pressing with unrelenting force between her shoulder blades, he lifted
the skirt, a skirt she rarely if ever wore, preferring breeches and the freedom
to stalk and protect, the freedom to kill and preen and prove her worth.

The
penetration was swift and brutal, driving her blunt nails deep into the
unyielding surface, holding her body stock still, denying herself the pleasure
building with each stroke until he moaned with his release, withdrawing,
leaving her with flesh chilled at his retreat. Empty.

Setting
her to rights, he patted her hips, smoothing the fabric down and around her
legs.

Cruelly
he inquired, his voice a parody of the cultured affectation he sometimes
assumed, “Was it good for you, m’dear?”

Madga
stood upright, refusing to face him, not sure she could hide behind the
blankness, not this night.

“Maggie.”
It was a purr. “Cher, you know what you must do. I can give you such pleasure
as you’ve never known…”

She
turned, finally, head bowed, showing respect. It was the only submission she
allowed. The still warm semen trickled between her thighs, disconcerting,
distracting. If she looked into his pale eyes, she would see his hate. And
perhaps his pity.

Silence
sat in layered foreboding. They were running out of time.

“Feed
her, Damien. Now. Daylight approaches and we need to be quit of this place.”

The
man sighed, “I suppose you are right. Let’s do this thing, shall we?”

With
swift movements he removed the blouson shirt and tossed it onto the table.

“Help
me with these boots.” It was an order, not a request. Grunting, “Dammit,” he
braced on the table as she guided the supple leather off his heavily muscled
calves. He slid the jodphurs to the ground and kicked them aside. Already
aroused, he turned in a slow circle, the peacock in full masculine array, the
musk sitting heavy in the confines of the small room, almost overpowering her.

“Now
you.”

Magda
hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes.
I have something special planned.” He motioned for her to remove the offending
garment.

“Quickly,
girl. We may have tarried too long.” Accusatory. Her fault.

But
of course. I live to fucking serve. Sire.

She
waited for the blow but he was too focused on the task ahead, desire and lust
like a second skin on his lean frame. She followed him into the small room and
carefully shut and barricaded the door.

He
advanced on the narrow bed with a reverence she hated.

Why
wasn’t I ever enough? Why her? Why not me?

“Come
closer, Beb. Look at our prize.”

The
young woman, barely out of her teens, lay cold, flesh ashen, pouty lips
slightly open, a cool mist fluttering about her refined nostrils.

Damien
indicated she should prepare the body while he lit the candles in the wall
sconces. Not that they needed the light, but the woman would until she
adjusted. If she adjusted. If they were successful. Damien had no long history
to guide him. She had been his one and only mistake as he so often reminded
her.

The
woman was a freak with snow white hair in wild disarray about a narrow face,
the cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper… or hearts. Thick dark lashes sat in
stark contrast with pale skin. Her sire’d been greedy, feeding at will all over
the woman’s tall body, not bothering to close the wounds, marking her as his.

“Damien,
are you sure about this? The Roma didn’t want her.” They’d had this argument half
the night but she felt compelled to try one last time. “She was
free
,
Sire. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Those people never give anything
away.”

What
if she’s a witch… or worse?

Damien
grimaced and muttered, “She wasn’t exactly free, Cher. There was a price.” He
paused, struggling with some inner demons, wary of revealing the details of a
transaction that reeked of ominous. She knew him well enough to read that much
on his handsome features. He finally said, “A prophesy.”

“Prophesy.
What the hell are you talking about?”

And
why am I just hearing this now?

As
usual, he ignored her and positioned himself over the woman’s prone body, his
cock already probing in anticipation. He looked down with distaste, giving
every appearance of having second, perhaps third thoughts.

“You
don’t have to do this.” Magda reached for an arm, trying to distract him.

“We…
I have no choice.” His voice cascaded into the singsong tones of his youth. “I
gots
an ahnvee
. She puts da
gree gree
on me.” He waved her off,
his voice soft with regret. “We no more
vay-yay
now.”

It
was what she feared most… a Roma curse, a defilement. And this girl, woman,
ingénue, witch… she was his penalty, the price for whatever he agreed to.

He
mumbled, “
Pic kee toi
,” over and over, hips thrusting hard, mindless of
the still form underneath him.

Fuck
you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

She
watched him tense, shoulders arched tight, arm extended.

“Now,
damn it, do it!”

Madga
sobbed a “no” but grappled with his wrist, fighting to bring it, and him, under
control. Fangs fully extended, she sliced through fragile skin, ripping open a
gash that spurted rich, thick blood, pumping in rhythm with his assault.

“Hold…
hold her up. Oh God, Cher, hurry.”

With
a sob, he braced his wrist against full lips, eyes rolling back in his head,
moaning in ecstasy, pressing forward, pulling away.

“Damien,
Damien!” Magda screeched, yanking on his wrist, desperate to keep the flow
trickling down the witch’s throat. She braced the woman’s torso, forcing her
upright, head back in a silent scream.

“Drink,
damn you. Drink!”

Damien
gasped, “Finish it.”

“Wha—?”

“Do
it.” He rolled out and away, collapsing over the woman’s legs, head turned in
supplication. “It’s my gift. To you.”

Horrified,
confused, Madga stared at Damien, her maker, the love of her life, the demon
who had condemned her to a loveless hell for all eternity. Her punisher. Her
savior.

Every
fiber screamed for retribution. She could deny him this one thing, this
gift
he called it. She knew it for what it was. He was asking, no…
demanding
she share in whatever cursed, heinous act he’d performed. He was committing her
to the prophesy, trapping her, damning her. Because she refused to submit to
his perversions, refused to relinquish that last bit of her soul to his black
evil.

She
would not, could not submit. But she could never say no. He was hers, body and
soul, they were one, maker, child, lovers, enemies.

Quivering,
the woman’s instincts sought the life force, a slight whimper, barely audible,
escaping her luscious lips. Damien’s eyes bore into her own, commanding her
respect, her allegiance, her sacrifice.

With
a growl, she tore open the blue-lined vein in her right wrist and pressed it
tight, feeling small even teeth scrape and suckle, then draw down hard and
fast. Light-headed, she tried to stay in the moment, to enjoy the glorious
needles piercing flesh from the inside out, the fragile nature of pain and
pleasure, unsure where one ended and the other began.

Damien,
crooned, “Do you see how it can be, Cher?” as he extended his arm, the blood
still dripping, plink, plink, plink on the woman’s lovely flesh. “Drink from
me, now. We shall come full circle, the power of three… you, me, Catrina.”

Catrina.

Magda
hissed, “
Embrasse moi tchew
,” but leaned down to mouth his wrist,
tentative at first, then greedily, losing her inhibitions, herself, in a final
capitulation.

Damien
laughed out loud. “I will be happy to do more than kiss your lovely ass, Cher.”
He eased alongside her, nuzzling her neck.