Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles (20 page)

Opening her eyes she smiled up into Terry
’
s blue sapphire eyes. There was a hunger, a longing that pained his features, widening her smile. She knew what he wanted and she was more than willing to give it to him. Terry was hers as completely as any mortal could ever be. She was his drug, and at his pitiful young age of seventeen she was hoping she would eventually be given permission to turn him.

His long corn silk hair and a face and body of an angel had drawn her to him the instant he had tentatively walked into
The Veil
. His tall, slim swimmers body titillated her and she knew she had to have him. That night she had danced the whole night with him, ignoring the rest. It was not long before he would come back almost nightly, dancing with her, letting her drink from him. She had read the Vampire stories and knew the terms mortals called such creatures;
pomme de sang, Renfield,
and others. The true word was
slave
.

She felt his need rise, pressing hard against her and she turned to face him without losing the beat. His breath came fast and hot on her face and she luxuriated against it, throwing her head back to expose the length of her pale neck and the full mounds of her breasts that pressed up from the leather bodice. The invitation was clear and he lowered his head to kiss them, his hands resting on her hips.

Opening her eyes, she did not care what occurred in the middle of the dance floor. Other Vampires took their pleasures as did mortals, though there were more private rooms for those more squeamish about voyeurs. She brought her head up and watched him enjoy himself. No pleasure stirred within her. That part was dead. It was the intoxication of aroused blood that lengthened her fangs.

Fumbling with the buttons of his leather pants she managed to free his stiff member. Its heat scalded her as it jumped to her touch. She would never let him enter her. Her body was her own. It was the taste of his orgasm enriched blood that drove her to sweep her fingers against him, making him dance to her beat.

A groan escaped him as he pressed close. Her hand found his sack and played with the delicate balls within before rising to find the tip of his shaft. He was closer, oh so close, and with her other hand she gripped his hair and yanked his head away from her breasts. His gasp of surprise coupled with the beginnings of his shuddering release. Her teeth set into his jugular as the first spill of his seed washed over her hand.

Sweet, sex flavoured blood pounded into her, riding out the music
’
s pulse. Only Terry
’
s orgasmic heart satisfied the longing in her soul. Each pulse, each spill, he gave everything he could and she received it. It was only when the throbbing of his member ceased that she pulled out, a rivulet of blood leaking from the two puncture marks next to all the old and new scars. All came from her. He was her property and all the other Vampires knew it.

Terry wobbled, his breath coming in quick shudders and he smiled at her as she licked his blood from her red stained lips. With a glance at his now flaccid member, his eyes following, he tucked himself away. He had done well, and as with any dog she threw him a bone. Leaning close, she pressed herself against him, depositing a kiss on his smooth cheek before turning away to lose herself in the rhythm of a new beat.

The tempo accelerated into a new song, sending the dancers into a frenzy of movement. With Terry
’
s blood warming her, she took up the dance once again. She did not care with whom she shared the dance, her body moved as her mind set itself free in ecstatic rapture. This was freedom. This was the life she was born to live and she excelled at it.

An unexpected tap on her shoulder brought her out of her trance and she looked behind to view the offender. If it had been most anyone else, she would have ripped out their throats. No one interrupted her dance. Lips drawn back, her fangs fully extended, she hissed at the man who had interrupted her pleasure.

“Give it a rest, Rose,” stated Brian Haskell, shouting above the din. His short dirty blonde hair was gelled back into a slick style and his storm grey eyes appeared bored. Dressed in black slacks and t-shirt, his muscular pale arms crossed over his chest, straining the cotton.

Halting her dance, Rose brushed her stray copper curls from her face before resting her hands on her leather miniskirt covered hips. “What does he want now?”

Brian crooked a finger at her and motioned for her to follow.

Huffing her displeasure at the interruption, Rose set her jaw and followed. The crowd parted to allow their exit. The music was too loud to converse over so she had no recourse. Brian had always been in her life since her birth over a century ago. Her initial memories had him holding her first meal. She had remembered how the creature had screamed before giving way to her feral need for food. It was only after she had wiped the blood from her chin that she realized it was a child. A part of her knew she should have been upset at the revelation, but the blood had tasted so good and its heat had enlivened her newborn body.

Brian was the first person she saw that night. His strong square face held a business like seriousness. It was he who had given her the handkerchief to wipe her dripping chin. No smile, only calm as he pointed with his chin to the one responsible for her birth. Now it was Brian who led her back to him, to Corbie Vale, the Father of her soul and the ruler of the Vampires since his own Mistress died at the hands of the despised Chosen. Of course, that was before her time. Curious about the strange creatures that threatened their very existence she would ask for more details, only to be told to hold her tongue.

Corbie had fled Europe, taking her, Brian and a few of his coterie to the New World, settling in Canada’s largest city whose inhabitants were ripe for the picking. He had hated his craven retreat, but word spread quickly amongst his kind and no matter where he ran the Angel followed. Each battle line he created, the creature decimated until nothing was left, not even bones. Even when Corbie ordered his coteries and their coteries to use their mortal slaves as a first line assault, it did not deter the Chosen. City after city, country by country, until backed against the Atlantic with nowhere else to go, Corbie had ordered her into the wooden freight and locked her in, doing so with each of his treasured first coterie until he was left.
It was he who brought them to the New World, setting the Vampires free to be themselves without the threat of the Angel and his Chosen to descend upon them.

She did not know the reasons behind the war or why they lost, only that the vile Chosen had discovered that they were not the real Vampires and took out their vengeance upon them. The young ones, born during the war and after knew one thing only – all Chosen must die. It was the precious few who made it to the Americas that held the secret of how it all started and no one was going to say anything to her.

The line in the sand was made in the depths of the Atlantic and that was good enough for her.

Through a hidden door at the back of the nightclub that led to a back door exit,  Brian paused long enough on the landing for the door to close and then led her down a stairwell painted in black.
Black floodlights illuminated their pale flesh and the faint outlines of the rickety old steps leading to the basement. She always hated the sudden reduction of sound and the boom of the solid steel door as it vibrated through her causing a pressure in her ears that quickly disappeared. Her thigh high black stiletto boots clicked against the wood while Brian’s black dress shoes whispered.

She knew better than to ask Brian why she was being summoned by the Lord of Valraven who was now known as Mr. Vale, owner of the Vampire sex club
Beyond the Veil.
Brian would ignore her as he always did unless he was ordered to involve himself with her, and then the condemnation and disgust written on his face was always evident. She wondered why     Corbie kept him around.

It did not take long to find themselves at another solid steel door with a punch code security device beside the wall. She knew the combination but let Brian do the honours. The lock gave way with a clunk and Brian pulled it open, standing aside to let her enter. Beaming a smug smile up at Brian’s stoic countenance, she walked past him and entered another world.

Where the club was dark with splashes of electric light, the lobby was filled with gold reflecting candlelight. Honey sweetened the air, hiding any taint that may have splashed upon the red laminate floor. A gold chandelier and sconces glittered in the brilliance with the assistance of melting beeswax. The walls were decorated with mirrors and paintings, many of them      gruesome, depicting horrific images of the human psyche.

She smiled as she passed
Saturn Devouring His Son
by Goya. Ah now there was a man who could paint to warm the cold heart of a Vampire.

It was the door to the left of the painting that she headed towards. She did not need Brian to tell her where to find her Father and Dominus. Opening the dark stained wood, she moved from the past into the future. Here white walls, floors and ceiling made a stark contrast to the previous room. The silvers of steel bordered and delineated the white wood desk. On a white leather chair, Corbie sat, his feet crossed, on the desk next to the white keyboard that sat beside the matching computer monitor. He did not see her as he held the newspaper out in front of him, reading.

She walked to stand before him, ignoring the two matching steel chairs with white cushions that were placed equidistant from one another. Behind Corbie, an array of twelve monitors lined the wall, each one flickering from scene to scene of the goings on of his nightclub.

“Go wash your hands,” ordered the Dominus of Vampires. He turned another page, refusing to look at her.

The door closed behind with a gentle click and Brian came to stand beside the desk, hands behind his back.

Confusion twisted her features at the strange request and she looked down at her hands. Strong, yet delicate fingers, nails painted crimson, appeared fine until she noticed her other hand. Sucking in her breath at the sight of Terry’s release still on her hand, she turned and all but ran to the bar nestled into the wall opposite to Corbie’s desk. Thankful for the white porcelain basin decorated with steel fixtures, she ran the hot water, scrubbing her hands until they turned slightly rosy.

Shaking her hands, she turned off the faucet and returned to stand before Corbie, her hands running through her hair to tame some of the curls. “I doubt that you called me here just to have me wash my hands.”

With a flip of the paper, Corbie folded it. Removing his feet from the pristine desk, he sat straight and laid the newsprint down where his feet had recently rested. His dark eyes came to land on her, a slight smirk pulling the corner of his thin lips.

Rose sucked in her breath. She did not find her lord and   master attractive, but he cut a nice figure in his grey turtleneck sweater and black slacks. His usually unruly black hair was styled back making his Roman features more severe. She hated it when he made her wait upon his pleasure.

“You know I wouldn’t call you from your enjoyment without good reason,” stated Corbie. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the paper, his eyes penetrating her.

Resisting a shiver, she shook her head and glanced away, hitching a shoulder with her arms crossed. She knew that at this he was truthful. After all she was his little flower. He had done everything necessary so she could have her own playground. The only thing he would not allow her, the thing that wedged a gap between them, was that he held back his permission for her to form her own coterie. That meant until he did Terry would always be her slave and not her servant, just as she was Corbie’s.

“Come here, Rose. I wish to show you something.”

The order hardened his voice and brought out an accent she rarely heard and could not place. The commanding tone lent no question of his authority over her, over Brian, and over all other Vampires. It is what forced her to take a shuddering breath, drop her arms and meet his liquid brown eyes. She wondered at the origins of the man who was her father and what he had been     before his own Vampiric birth. She would never ask. It was likely he did not remember, just as she could not recall who she might have been before waking in the oppressive womb of her coffin and clawing struggling through the earthen birth canal to the cold night and hot blood. The only hint she had to her own past was her fading Scottish lilt.

Taking the few steps towards the desk, Corbie leaned back, turning the newspaper around for her inspection. Her eyes landed upon the half page photo, her cinnamon brows furrowing.