Kaen Yblis is a man with a past – if only he could remember it. He lost his memories in a duel with another vampire, and for centuries he has been alone, not even aware of all that had been torn from him.
Until he meets Gregor Vladescu, a young human who stirs desires and emotions that Kaen didn’t know he had, and whose blood brings back fragments of memories.
As Kaen returns to his ancient home, a threat from his past arises and threatens to once again tear away everything that is precious to him. Will ancient blood and ancient soul bond be enough to save them all or will they be the very things that destroy them?
Kaen could sense a lingering uncertainty: it was in Gregor’s breath, in the way he held his body. “There is something else, isn’t there?”
“Yes sir.” He looked down for a moment, gathering his courage, then looked up and met the captain’s gaze. “I – I know what you are.”
Gregor’s voice was an odd mix of nervousness and confidence and Kaen raised an eyebrow. He knew that there were numerous rumors about him, each more outlandish than the last, and he had heard them all. Most of them were wildly untrue: a few brushed against one truth or another, but none of them even came close to the reality of what he was. And no one had ever had the courage to voice any of those rumors directly to him.
“Oh? And what am I?”
“You’re a vampire.”
Kaen’s body twitched. “That’s a new one,” he said. “No one believes in vampires anymore.”
“I do,” Gregor said. “The old tales – the old ways – have been kept alive in my family.”
Kaen studied him in silence. “You say I am a vampire,” he said at last, “yet you do not fear me?”
“Why should I?” Gregor asked, holding Kaen’s gaze steadily, a feat few men were able to accomplish. “I believe in vampires, not fairy tales.”
Kaen laughed. “So, Mr. I-believe-in-vampires-not-fairy-tales, what do you intend to do?”
In answer, Gregor reached inside his belt and withdrew a small golden dagger. “Do you recognize this?”
A slow tremor ran through Kaen’s body as he stared at the blade resting on the palm of Gregor’s hand. He had never seen it before and yet he had… “Yes.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Then you know what I am offering.”
“Yes.” Kaen could not seem to look away from the blade: less than four inches from tip to heel, it held him, entranced, mesmerized. It drew him from behind his desk and he reached out and stroked one finger along the intricate etchings in the handle. Anticipation tingled through his flesh and he licked his lips slowly, barely daring to breathe.
“Do you accept?”
Kaen pulled his gaze away from the knife to stare into Gregor’s eyes. The man’s gaze was calm and steady: he knew full well what he was doing, what he was offering to the vampire and Kaen felt a thrill of anticipation run through him.
A Blood Slave… A willing Blood Slave…
Kaen could not remember ever dreaming, but he was certain that he was doing it now. Gregor was offering his blood. Gregor…
Gregor pulled his sleeve back and drew the blade across his wrist. Kaen watched as the blood welled up, the sight of the rich dark liquid filling his vision as the scent – the overwhelming heady aroma of it – flooded through him. He could hear the man’s pulse and the rhythm echoed through his body until he was nearly mad with need and desire and lust and it was all he could do to restrain himself.
“I offer freely that which you need.”
Kaen barely heard the ritual words through the demands running through him.
“Drink deeply of my life, my lord.”
Gregor raised his wrist and Kaen grasped his arm with both hands, steadying it. Closing his eyes he wrapped his lips around the wound and drew the blood into his mouth, moaning deeply in pleasure. He swallowed and felt the power flow through him, overwhelming him. He raised his head and stared into Gregor’s eyes for a moment: they were glazed with the pleasure of a vampire’s taking, and he smiled, then traced his tongue over the cut, sealing it.
He straightened and Gregor stepped closer and tilted his head, his gaze never wavering as he cupped one hand behind Kaen’s head and drew his lips down to his exposed neck. “Take that which is yours, Master.”
There was no pain as the vampire’s fangs sank into his flesh, only an explosion of pleasure that grew unbearable, and then a sensation of falling into an endless blackness.
P.T. Wyant is a writer of fantasy and bad poetry, at least duringApril. She is also a nurse, a counted cross stitch addict, “mom” to a mischief of rats, and an expert avoider of housework.
And she hates writing about her self in third person, so…
I read once that “A writer never takes a vacation. A writer is always either writing or thinking about writing.” That’s me in a nutshell. (Some people would say I belong in a nutshell, but we won’t go there…)
Someday I’ll find the perfect organizational system. Until then I should be banned from office supply stores and any place that sells tote bags or other “things to put things in.”
Mundanely, I’m an only child with three brothers. I live in a small town in Western Pennsylvania and share an apartment with Sue, who has been my best friend since college. (My mother says she has two daughters: one genetic and one generic.)
And that is pretty much me in a bigger nutshell. I like the bigger nutshell — there’s room to decorate.