Paranormal Fantasies: A Promotional Collection of 14 Erotic Supernatural Stories (21 page)

He’d seen movement on his left, and so he circled to his
right, keeping his blade ready. His steps took him outside of the
cave into the light drizzle of rain underneath the treetops. The
bear’s cave was a blessing in the ill weather, but he worried now
that it might have a different inhabitant despite the smells of an
animal being long diluted. Sword in hand, he ventured out, catching
a glimpse of something disappearing behind the rocks of his warm
shelter.

Already he knew the surrounding woods, having mucked through
them for dry kindling. There was a rock about ten feet off on his
right; he crept toward it now, not feeling safe to return to the
cave. He would leave his meal behind if he had to, not trusting
this dark, treacherous wood with its whispering trees. The bear’s
cave had been welcome comfort after a long day’s journey, and he
would miss it.

There was a flutter of wings and a bat’s shriek as something
black and ferocious leapt from the peak of rock above. He threw up
his targe in defense, wishing there had been a moment’s notice to
affix its spike to meet this manner of beast head on.

It came down on him, a fury of talons and leathery bat’s
wings, screeching its rage. The swordsman, the hunter, flung the
beast back and readied himself for combat.

“
Come beast,” he said. “Come and face death.”

The bat thing attacked, flapping its great wings and rearing
back to strike with its clawed feet. The hunter swung his
broadsword to keep it back, feinted left and dodged right as it
jumped through the air he had just occupied. They circled around
each other as the thunderclouds above broke and rain poured down
over them. The swordsman felt his hair go slack over his eyes, his
leather armor bouncing the assaulting rain off of his
body.

He watched, in horror, as the rain sizzled and refused to hit
the beast. It rolled off of it, like an invisible barrier
surrounded it, a few fingers width over its mangy fur. The daemon
thing snarled, screeched its sonic scream and bounded after
him.

The targe took most of the blow, and the swordsman pushed it
back, barely. His leather boots slipped and he stumbled for
purchase as it leapt forward, its heavy wings beating as it rose up
over him and dropped. His sword arm came forward to meet it in a
thrust, but it turned to fog before his very eyes, transforming
from bat beast to shimmering fog and he took the chance to pull a
dagger from his belt.

If he was to be without the shield spike, so be it, but he
would have his main and secondary weapons against so foul a thing.
He kept his eyes trained on the fog, trained on the thing, standing
at the ready. There was the snapping of a twig in his ears and he
looked for a quarter second. The fog shifted, swirling back into
the bat thing before it attacked. The second daemon thing, the one
that snapped the twig leapt up on his left. He doubted that it knew
he had his secondary in his hand. He moved, bringing the targe up
to deflect the first, spinning with it to get away with renewed
vigor.

His sword came down on the second, catching it in the wing,
slicing into the leathery stretching and causing it to shriek in
its pain.

Lightning flashed and he saw them both illuminated, two
horrible bat beasts, crying and shrieking their anger. The second
came at him again as the thunder boomed, pouncing high into the
air. He ignored his burning urge to use the shield this time,
thrusting his arm out to catch it in the throat with the rim of it.
The thing let out a choking cough and stumbled backwards, the
brother creature rushing forward with gnashing jaws, only to catch
the swordsman’s blade in its great maw. He shoved forward, slipping
in the mud, driving the sharp blade into its brain and killing
it.

The second brother jumped on him before the elder went into
death throes, but the swordsman’s blade was stuck deep. He whirled,
meeting the thing with his dagger, the short steel cutting a swathe
of flesh from its snout. It leapt back, thunder cracking overhead
at the same time its sister flashed across the sky.

Behind that wretched thing there were a dozen more, filling
the air with their mourning cries.

In the
back, there was a girl, the girl he was meant to save. Fair-haired
and pale-eyed. She looked at him with a trembling face and
quivering lips. A braid of rope bound her hands, and she was
emaciated, her complexion fraught with dark circles under the eyes
and high, but hollowed cheeks.

That was all that he saw in that burst of light, as the gods
wept high overhead. They dropped the tumultuous curtain of rumbling
storm clouds and hard sheets of ice rain down onto that good man
that night. He pulled his sword from their bat brother as they
keened, and the foul daemon things gave him time enough to steady
himself and affix his shield spike. They gave him time enough to
remember his training, remember his creed, and remember his name.
They did not, however, give him time to look up into the beautiful,
horrific sky and pray to the divines for their wisdom, courage, and
power. Those horrendous bat creatures made him a man before them,
but not a champion.

They flew at him in a rage, and the swordsman took a swipe
before he took off through the trees. He was fast, built for
combat, built for agility, and his legs pumped with a vigorous
adrenaline. But the shrieking things were faster. He met the elder
thing’s brother in a clutch of trees that would be soon stained
with blood. The creature chomped its jaw at him, the teeth gnashing
over his dagger with a show of spark. He gutted that one with the
broadsword, whirling to meet the next.

His shield blocked a blow and tore a gouge of flesh out as he
slammed a sinewy, musty beast back, and he spun to meet another,
his blood pumping. The swordsman danced with them, spinning and
parrying to evade their talons, his leather armor doing its best to
repel the hot, nasty breath that brought bile into the throats of
many a veteran warrior, to dispel their flying spittle and acrid
blood.

Talons raked into his back, smashing him to one knee, catching
the string of his bow and snapping it back on him. He roared as he
went down, eager to reach for a potion, remembering his poultices
back in the bear’s cave. Bravely, he rose from bended knee amid the
chaos, surrounded by the sonic shrieks and fluttering
wings.

Another came down on him, swooping low with talons
outstretched. His targe went out and he bent to protect himself,
whirling about in a blur to take one horrendous talon with his
newly sharp blade.

When it cried, they flew down upon him and one by one he
repelled their attacks, shield spike taking chunks of flesh, dagger
stealing grim chances at snouts and fangs, always parrying what he
could not block. The sword, however, did the most work that night,
letting blood and gristle and innards from their owners until he
found himself face to face with just one. Just the eldest. The
biggest, greatest thing.

It charged, reared up with its talons out, and when he swung
through it, a clean killing blow, it transformed into that same
mist, passed through him, around him. It chilled him, to know its
taint across his flesh and inside what makes men and women human.
He shivered with the feeling, spun to meet it again, and saw its
true form.

“
Come then, blood drinker.”

It snarled at him, he snarled at the swordsman. Bleeding and
keening with words that did not come from a human tongue. It passed
into its hound form and rushed him, with jaws snapping for his
throat. The blessed shield spike repelled that, and it came at him
again, with claws that would tear into his arm, sinking into his
flesh and setting him on fire, but he let his beloved dagger rake
along the thing’s side.

It backed away, afraid of his saint’s steel, afraid to be
undone by the powers of the divine. It misted, that suffocating
white fog fleeing into the sky before shifting into its bat skin,
running from the fight.

He pulled the bow and nocked an arrow after shaking his targe
away and dropping the blessed blade. He aimed as it grew distant
against the moons, ethereal and blue in the ice rain. Lightning
struck, blowing wood into splinters that whipped for almost a mile
around and his arrow struck true. It died before it hit the ground,
that blood drinking thing, fell end over end through the canopy of
trees, with an arrow dipped in poisonous wet of the divine through
its thick sinuous heart.

The swordsman took the girl, cut her free from her
enslavement, returned to the bear’s cave. She was grateful, but
scared. Abused and broken, a former slave to the blood drinkers,
and by the look of her pale, malnourished body, she had been in
their thrall for some time. She didn’t let him take her under his
arm as they trekked back to the bear’s cave in the dark, the
freezing sheets of ice rain pelting her with frozen pebbles at
times, and struggling to make off with her skirts at others when
ill winds blew up.

But they made it to the bear’s cave, and the grouse was
perfect, juicy and tender. The swordsman gave the girl the dark
meats and although grateful, she ate little. Originally, his plan
had been to go looking for the beasts in the day, to save half of
his bird for the next morning and sup lightly that night. But his
fight had left him ravenous, and while the girl ate in nibbles he
almost made a show of pulling the meat from its bones with his
teeth.

The girl giggled at him, and as she warmed by the firelight,
her legs tucked underneath her, he realized that she was no girl.
The color was returning to her face, bringing out the eyes from
their dark hiding space, and the scraggly, white blonde hair
transformed into glowing locks that framed a delicate heart shaped
face.

“
Let me treat your wounds, hunter,” she finally said. Her voice
was a lilting, cheery, personification of a lark’s call.

“
I am fine, madam.” He said to her after a moment’s hesitation.
“They’ve stopped their bleeding for the night.”

His charge rose to her feet in the flickering warm of the
fire. She took light steps around the circle of stones he had made,
drawing her skirts up to the ankle as she paced around the
crackling fire. She sat further back than he, behind him, but off
to one side.

“
My father and brothers are hunters,” she spoke. Her hands were
already taking stock. She counted his rolls of bandage aloud, and
gathered his healing poultices without having to ask which were
made from perfumed grasses and which came from ground fats and
spices.

She took off his armor, sitting behind him on her legs, rising
up on both knees to take the pieces he offered and talking about
her family. They were what she missed the most, these days, she
explained, the entire reason that she never gave in, why she never
let anything beat her. She whispered, “I will see them again one
day,” with a wavering voice.

“
Your back has not stopped bleeding at all, sir.” She said as
she helped him out of the leather jerkin. His shirt was torn, and a
circle of blood had seeped into it. “I should call you a liar, but
I don’t know you by name. I’m afraid that the title wouldn’t
stick.”

“
Dalin. Of the Creed.”

“
And rightfully so, sir. Only a Creedsman could do that work,
two and twelve blood drinkers in the span of an hour.” She moved to
take his shirt off of him, but he did not budge.

“
Madam…” he started.

“
No. Take this off. You need to be treated, or fever will take
you, Creedsman.”

Together, they worked the shirt off of Dalin, and his charge
took it upon herself to work poultice and bandage over his wounds,
binding him tight to keep infection from spreading. Her hands
worked over his back with a gentle touch, loosing tension that had
built up in his many seasons of courageous adventure. When her
hands danced over his neck, Dalin decided he’d had enough of her
for one night.

“
Madam, your hands are like magicks, but I am full and the fire
warm. You have made me content and I thank you, but let us sleep,
we will set from these woods with the sun.”

“
You speak true, sir,” she whispered near his ear, “but I owe
you my life. Let me keep you company tonight.”

“
Madam—“

“
Miss,” she corrected. “Anessa Curtis, of the
Plains.”

She planted a kiss on his neck, letting herself linger over
his warm flesh. One of her hands wrapped around his torso, feeling
the corded muscle of his chest underneath dainty
fingertips.

“
Miss Curtis, I don’t think it wise. I’ll prepare bedding for
you.”

“
Don’t bother,” Anessa said. She pulled Dalin back toward her,
laying him down against the warmed rock of the bear’s cave. Her
hands went to his pants, hovering there above the closure. Dalin
barely felt her hands working to loose him, lying there, looking up
at the illumination of her legs beneath her skirts. She was smooth
and pale, and although her closed jacket held her bosom close and
covered, he imagined that her breasts were firm, the size of small
apples, with pale nipples the hue of milky pigeonberry.

Anessa took him into her hands and moved to bend over him. She
used her tongue to wet her fingers before rubbing her thumb over
the head of his shaft, watching it grow in size as she manipulated
it. Her fingers gripped him firmly, her mouth nibbling near his
base while her fingers worked over him.