Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (23 page)

“Too many of these,” he waved the vial, “and you won’t be able to
feel a thing.”

“Right. Can’t have that…”

“Rinj? Damien hasn’t been forthcoming about his activities. As
soon as you are able, I suggest we have a private get-together, just the three
of us.”

“What about Catrina?”

“What about her?”

“When will I be able—”

“
You
stay as far away from her as possible. Now, get out of
my sight or I’ll be tempted to cut that thing off and save us all a shitload of
grief.”

He waited until Rinj descended the stairs leading to the network
of underground tunnels lacing through the East Side, then made the calls to the
doctor and Damien. When he finished, he dialed Smithy.

“Do we still have eyes?”

“Yes, sir. Neither have left the building.”

“Make sure they don’t. I need Damien without either of those
bitches interfering. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

****

“I’m bored, Mags.”

“Trina, stop your whining.”

“All you do is play with the computer. Vhy can’t we go out vonce
in a while. Have some fun.”

Magda pounded a few keys on the laptop in frustration. In truth,
she was bored senseless. She hated research. She hated big cities. She hated
being cold… although that was a mental aberration, not a real feeling.

I hate the MEMORY of being cold!

She hated Damien being busy, constantly in meetings, filled with
self-importance and purpose.

She hated Samuels.

She hated Rinj… more than anyone she hated the second-in-command.
Samuels creeped her out with his sly glances, with the way he caressed her with
his eyes, but Rinj was a sociopathic psycho of the first rank, corrupting
everything in his path. Including Trina. She’d done nothing but act like a
spoiled brat since they’d come to the Big Apple.

I want, I want, I want, why can’t we…

“Shit.”

Catrina bounced on her toes, her expression hopeful.

“You’re right. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of being in a prison,
under constant surveillance.”

Like I don’t know Smithy and his band of merry vamps aren’t
positioned at every damn vantage point around the brownstone.

Magda muttered to herself, her eyes raking Trina’s willowy body.
“You’re taller than me but not by much. Damien’s clothes will fit us, at least
close enough.”

Trina clapped her hands. “I tink I know vhat you have in mind.”

“Um, the only problem is…” she stroked Trina’s heavy platinum
braids, “…this mess. We need to cover this up and somehow I don’t think a
baseball cap will do the job.”

“Oh,
nu prietena problemă
.” Trina grabbed Magda’s arm
and dragged her up the stairs. “I take care of these devils.”

Magda snorted, “Devils?”

“Yes, you alvays say, ze devil, she is in the details.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I? Okay then, you do that juju that you do so
well.”

Catrina giggled, “I like that movie.”

“So which club do you want to hit first? Fangs or that other one,
what’s it called?”

“Topaz. And we do both, no?”

Double the trouble, yeah that’ll work.

Magda stared open-mouthed at the most lickable six-foot male she’d
ever seen in her life. Trina’s transformation was like watching liquid mercury
form and reform with oily slick ease.

“Jesus, darling, are you sure you want to go out? Because with
you
looking like that…”

Catrina propelled her to the full length mirror on the closet
door.

“Holy mother of…”
She
was now a he, down to the tiniest
detail, a detail that was swelling impressively in her silk trousers.

“You vait for later, my Mags, and I vill show you tings you never
imagine.” That thought sent a shiver of anticipation down Magda’s spine.

They retraced their steps with Trina making small adjustments to
the illusion, if that’s what it could be called. Magda felt no different, she
moved the same, smelled the same. It was enough to make her head spin.

Catrina said, “I tink de purse she will clash, no?”

“Oh crap, you’re right.” Magda dug out her wallet and the Glock,
unsure where to stuff the weapon in the form-fitting trousers.

Trina sighed. “No weapons. Fun, remember. Besides. You have me. Is
all you need, yes?”

Yes, my beauty, you are all I will ever need.

“Good. Is time for booty call. I’m hungry.” Trina looked at Magda
expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, babe, let’s blow this joint. I’m starved.”

CHAPTER NINE

Fangs

Magda lounged against the stone wall, keeping an eye on Catrina
endlessly circling the revelers and poseurs. She’d reverted, transformed,
morphed—shifted—to her lithe form, the pale silver dreadlocks like a beacon in
the smoky, liquid haze of hope and desire.

In silhouette, like some exotic caged animal, Catrina stalked the
basement den, a predator. The others followed, drawn to her like moths to the
flame.

The object of her pursuit was being mauled by a sprite in bits and
bobs of black studded leatherette, like a horse harness strung haphazardly
about generous proportions, flesh playing peek-a-boo with the young man’s
sultry blue eyes.

Street tough, hardened, unformed … he was a man-child with endless
possibilities, yet to fill out, the muscles sinewy as he leaned down, admiring
the view. 

Scripted. Fake.

Anxious. Unsure.

With a start she realized this was his first time at the club, at
any of the Havens. Fear leaked out his pores: fear of being caught, of being
shown up, fear of not scoring. His balls had shriveled tight, yet he pressed
his advantage, going for a slam dunk.

What he didn’t, couldn’t, know was the Goth babe was a pro.

He’d be rolled and shucked like an ear of corn and left bleeding
way before he could unfurl his cock.

Why Catrina wanted
that
one out of all the possibilities
escaped her.

****

“Do you have a name, sailor?” Voice breathy with a sly, knowing
edge, the woman took advantage of the lull in the caterwauling of a band
passing for entertainment to keep his attention on her.

He hesitated, then blurted, “Uh, Micah,” and barely avoided adding
‘ma’am’ to compound his list of deep shit mis-steps for the evening.

Most of his friends had deserted him, leaving him to wander
listlessly through a melee of strangers gyrating and cat-walking on stilts, the
air thick with sex or the promise of it. How he’d ended up in a dank
sub-basement masquerading as a medieval cloister he hadn’t a clue. Arches
framed dim hidey-holes along one wall. Candles with weak flames flickering and
wavering threw spotty lumens onto what might have passed as a dance floor.
Thin, elongated shapes—skeletal, emaciated—humped hip-to-groin, the hissing of
vibram soles and muffled groans indistinguishable as the chatter closed in like
an invading army.

Asking her name just merited a smile, the fangs fake and overly
huge, protruding beyond puffy lips kolhed and glossed. She ran her tongue over
the tips, tilting her head… was he interested?

He was.

He just didn’t know why. Not yet.

And not with her, though the show was worth it, the plump mounds
glistening, beading with sweat. Globules that trickled and trailed in the
valley slicing through rosy flesh, the corset stiff and unyielding in strange
counterpoint to the soft, juicy lushness beckoning his tongue.

Did he want to explore, she asked with fingers stroking his hips,
offering a quick fuck.

That wasn’t why he came. He’d had all the ’hood’s brown sugar and
facilona
that swagger and bloody knuckles rewarded, but tonight he wanted… more.

O’Hearn would have grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and
dragged him out of there, but he wasn’t here now. He’d escaped the tenements
and the violence and the rank smell of puke and piss and hopelessness. Tom had
told him—his best friend—that his time would come. He said he’d be back some
day.

He promised.

Without Tom, Micah had no reason, no reason at all… and his old
man finally saw it and eased off but the threat never did, so now it went both
ways and he was finally free.

Free to make his own choices.

Free to pick the time, the place… and the punishment.

She was talking.

He didn’t bother listening.

He was being watched. 

****

Smiling, Magda toyed with the pretty boy sidling against her,
skimming a palm over his thin leather pants, tracing the outline of his
erection. She was not impressed.

He hissed and whispered ‘yes’, maneuvering her backwards through
the arch, the space vacated yet the recent coupling remained, thick and
fragrant with lust. She inhaled appreciatively, amused that her male form
attracted so much interest, from both sexes.

She longed for Catrina to return, to convert her back, but the
girl was busy, concentrating on the sandy-haired lad pinned to the far wall by
a midget of a hooker.

She sensed him losing interest…

Good boy.

The tableau played out in slow motion… cloaked in blue haze.
Catrina stalked with panther grace, dividing the whore from her quarry,
stroking the boy-man’s untidy light brown goatee with a forefinger.

She had his attention.

But not quite…

Eyes darting, he sought her out… questioning.

She turned away. Hungry. But not for him.

The zipper slid sweet hot, releasing male musk and desire, the
heartbeat a solid thud in pretty boy’s chest, anticipation sending ripples of
chills along pale skin. Easing the leather lower, she knelt and nudged fleshy
thighs apart, tonguing the femoral artery and distending it with exquisite,
slow pressure.

The young man groaned, tangling stubby fingers in her short hair,
pulling her head closer, begging with his hips.

No… like this.

Licking her lips, she guided his hand, cupping the thick length, stroking
with him, up, down, up… her head bobbing in rhythm to their joint movements.
They were barely visible, the light too dim for any but her kind, although she
still needed to take care. Damien had taught her that much.

Discretion.

The one thing Catrina lacked. And it amused her, but not enough to
break covenant with her Sire.

Pre-cum oozed, a tantalizing lure. She flicked a fingertip,
trapping it, then ran the sticky salty-sweet fluid along the artery in a single
swift stroke.

The aroma nearly broke her. She was starving.

For Damien.

But he would not have her.

She kept her head bent, fangs in full extension. He was coming,
she could feel the sacs tightening against her cheek, the orgasm building like
scorching lava in a vent hole.

The bite was brutal, puncturing through yielding flesh as she
clamped down viciously, scalding blood gushing in a torrent, delicious and
fragrant… yet so unsatisfying she nearly wept in despair. She drew down,
twisting, sucking until nothing remained but the slime of saliva and chewed
flesh. Ignoring the scream of ecstasy echoing in the fetid air, Magda took her
fill and then more, letting the injustice and the jealousy run their course.

The body slid to the stone floor in a heap, his bare torso coated
with semen and sweat, shallow ragged breaths attesting to a post-coital
euphoria. He would spend the rest of his days chasing a homoerotic fantasy.

Sated, she closed the gaping wound and left the young man to his
illusions and his ruined future.

It was time to watch a master at play.

****

“You are Micah, no?”

“Yes.” He felt a frisson of… something. Not fear. Not exactly.

Mischievously she grinned, flashing delicate tips, the fangs
pearlescent against pale, transparent skin drawn knife-edged tight over
prominent cheekbones.

She said, “I am Trina,” rolling the r’s, the accent vaguely
familiar, like she belonged out by Brighton Beach and the Eastern European
enclaves.

Backing away, she cocked her head, raking strange silver blue eyes
up and down his frame, assessing him. The others, fanned out behind her like
butterflies, suddenly dispersed as if doing her bidding. Mesmerized he followed
as she backed toward tables hastily shoved together, the chairs dispersed along
the wall, church basement style, leaving room for blue hairs to set places and see
to the feast. An altar to fellowship and neighborhood bonding.