My Lady Vampire (2 page)

His muscles tensed and his lips grimaced as his orgasm began.

It was time.

Thérèse released the darkness within her, fighting back a shriek of delight as her fangs emerged.

Jadranko exploded in her dark heat with a groan of pleasure, hammering his hips against her and driving her wild as his groin abraded hers with each stroke.

She soared high--higher--until she reached her peak and shattered into a million pieces.

The scream broke free and she cried out--just as she sank her fangs into Jadranko’s neck and bit him.

His blood pulsed into her waiting mouth and down her throat, filling her with heat and passion and desire. Her muscles spasmed as her lips sucked, a rhythmic counterpoint that finally quenched her thirst.

He staggered, his softening cock slipping free of her body, and she slid to the floor, standing once more in front of him. And still she drank. The sweetness of his blood was nectar to her starving soul and she wondered if she’d ever get her fill of him. Sadly she knew he would die long before such a thirst could be sated, but it would be enough--enough until the next time.

Suddenly a blast of sound disturbed her.

People--there were people coming toward the bandstand through the woods. People laughing, chattering, carrying lanterns--they’d see…

Thérèse ripped her fangs from Jadranko’s neck and let him fall in a heap. There was no time to ensure his death. No time to conceal his remains for the wolves or animals to devour.

No
time
.

Flushed with her feast and angry at her carelessness, Thérèse Osmočescu fled the small building, returning to the ball from another part of the gardens. She stayed only long enough to gather her cloak and make her farewells. The gentlemen were sorry to see her leave, admiring the bloom of color in her cheeks, but she would not be denied. An emergency, she’d said. The servants would see her safely home.

And as her carriage disappeared into the darkness of the forest surrounding Rogaška, something crawled to the densest shadows in the wilderness and sought solitude.

It had once been Jadranko Čzaplinek.

Now
it was a vampire.

Chapter One

England, ten years later

“There’s a storm at sea.” Jacob Trethearne stared out over the ocean as it reflected a shiny sliver of moon from choppy wavelets.

“Indeed there is.” Sidney Chesswell joined his friend at the edge of the stone parapet. The wind stirred his thin hair and he pushed it away impatiently.  “Won’t come this way though. It’s headed east, I’ll be bound.”

Jacob chuckled. “In the forty-odd years we’ve known each other, Sidney, you’ve never been wrong about such things. I’ll take your word for it. I still should be leaving though, storm or no.”

Sidney sighed. “I suppose so. I’m glad you had the chance to visit.” He would miss his old friend. St. Chesswell would be quiet once he had gone. Their day together had been a most pleasant break in his routine.

“You should remarry, Sidney. You’re still young enough to get yourself an heir.” Jacob turned away from the sea. “Do you really want all this--” he waved his hand around him, “to go to that wastrel second cousin?”

Sidney smiled patiently and walked to the glass door through which both men had come earlier to smoke their cheroots. “Don’t start that again, Jacob. You know I’ll not remarry. Not in this lifetime.”

Jacob moved through into the snug parlor and watched as Sidney closed and latched the doors. “She is probably dead, you know.”

Sidney nodded. “I know.” There was no more to be said.

Jacob took his leave, promising to visit again soon and as Sidney had expected, his home grew silent once more. He tugged on his greatcoat and moved to the front door, opening it with a heave on the ornate handle.

“Sir?” Old Cheverly, his butler since he assumed his title, appeared immediately as if awaiting this moment and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Got to breathe, Cheverly. Got to breathe. It’s stifling in here.”

“As you wish, sir. I’ll be leaving the latch off for you then, shall I?” With the ease of a long and comfortable association, the butler respectfully passed his employer his hat. He had been with Sidney Chesswell, man and boy. He, of all people, knew of Sidney’s need to “breathe”.

And breathe he did. Heedless of the wind that had picked up considerably, Sir Sidney strode down the narrow path to the Chyne and the stairs that would take him to the beach. His pace was that of a man half his age, and in truth his appearance gave the lie to the records in the local church. Yes, he had been born close to three score years before, in this very parish. Only his white hair would attest to those years, however. The rest of him was in very good shape indeed.

Except for his heart. That had been irreparably broken the day Josephine left him.

The memories flooded back at Jacob’s words, swamping his thoughts with remembered images. Josephine laughing, Josephine riding with long black hair flying free in the wind, Josephine naked on their bed--and Josephine crying.

She’d laughed less and cried more as their life together continued, until finally she’d left, taking Sidney’s heart with her. Mercurial, highly-strung and nervous, her moods changed as rapidly as the skies over St. Chesswell’s Chyne, and it wasn’t long before Sidney knew their marriage was doomed.

He couldn’t love her enough. Or perhaps he loved her too much. Either way, he couldn’t hold her. One morning--one bitterly cold November morning--he’d awoken to a sense of unease, of knowing something was wrong.

It was. Josephine had gone.

He’d never loved another woman since then. And he’d never seen Josephine again.

Absently, Sidney avoided the rippling waves at the water’s edge as he strode along the beach. The wind was stronger now, forcing him to stop and settle his hat more firmly. His coat flapped freely, lifting like the sails of some landlocked vessel anxious to set sail.

Casting his memories aside with an oath, he walked on, turning his thoughts to his latest find--a unique and ancient copy of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. This parchment, alleged to be a copy of the original papyrus, had cost him a small fortune, and Sidney was convinced it would be worth the expense.

His knowledge of the occult would be increased tenfold and perhaps his powers might be enhanced. He could even hope that one of his spells would be successful, even though he hadn’t quite managed to get an incantation working yet. He would persevere. Chesswells always did.

Of course, not many Chesswells had devoted their studies to the unearthly, the unreal and the supernatural, even though legends of the same circulated around St. Chesswell’s Chyne like a flock of seagulls over a school of fish.

The “Curse” was only one of the many tales that time embellished into myths. Sidney refused to believe that red-haired women brought terrible changes to the place. It was far more likely that a bad love affair had started that particular tale.

Sir Sidney Chesswell disdained the title “warlock” or “wizard”. He regarded himself as a scientist exploring the unseen world he was convinced existed all around him. He’d read the scholarly treatises on the world of spirits, absorbed as much knowledge as he could find on the power of the human mind, and had attempted to meld these with the readily available folklore to create his own form of magic.

He knew of the light and dark sides to forces beyond his comprehension, and he believed strongly that both God and the Devil existed. There was no avenue of pursuit closed to him, because he was a man with an open mind.

And, indeed, an open door. But few availed themselves of it, and he relished his solitude and his studies, letting the world pass by his isolated portion of it. He needed few servants since he entertained so little, and even then only old friends who would not expect luxury. St. Chesswell was off the beaten track, and the Chyne scarring the coastline was barely accessible to adventurous beachcombers, let alone walking parties of geologists interested in studying its formation.

No, Sidney Chesswell had what he desired most--his privacy. And he guarded it fiercely while he delved into the mysteries of the supernatural.

The night held no terrors for him. He often walked the beach at this hour, enjoying the glitter of the night sky as it sparkled off the glassy waves lapping at his feet. This night was no different, except that the waves were choppier--an indication of how severe the storm out to sea had been.

This section of England’s southern coast was protected by the cushion of land known as the Isle of Wight. It took the buffeting from the fury of the English Channel, leaving only a pale echo to pound on Sidney Chesswell’s private beach. But the currents were strange entities, working according to a schedule of their own. Sidney had often found varied oddments washed up along the shore…clear evidence of yet another victim of Neptune’s fury.

Further west along the coast, smugglers were probably at work. For them, a night like this was a blessing, and a chyne a place of safe-haven. But not here. Not St. Chesswell. This stretch of water was well traveled by the revenue officers, and a regiment of the King’s Own was quartered not many miles from this very spot. Too close to allow any self-respecting smugger the peace of mind he’d need to operate efficiently and in secrecy.

The only traffic in these waters was legitimate, ferries to and from the Isle of Wight, and occasionally a large sailing ship or warship heading into the safety of Southampton Water. In times past there had been ships sailing to and from France, but now…

Sidney sighed. His thoughts had circled back to Josephine, since it was on one of these ferries that she’d stolen from his home and his life, returning to her native land and--according to her note--the one man she had truly loved.

That had hurt Sidney the most…knowing this quicksilver woman had only wed him for his title and his money. Not that she’d had the chance to abuse either. Their union had lasted all of two years and although he’d been happy loving her, she had never really returned his affection to any great degree.

He could accept this now, so many years later. He could not, however, quench the pain or fill the emptiness. He was reclusive and liked it. He had no interest in pursuing the life of a dilettante, or in bedding other women. He cared not whether he was talked about, only that he be treated with the respect his title deserved. He did his best to make sure his tenants and servants were well treated, and knew the local folk by name. The vicar had given up urging him to attend Sunday services, simply nodding politely when they passed.

Some might view Sir Sidney Chesswell’s life as empty. Others might wonder at his reluctance to
live
at all, at least by their standards. The man himself didn’t care one whit about any of their opinions. His life was exactly as he desired.

And this night it was about to change--permanently.

- - - -

An hour must have passed while Sidney walked his solitary trail along the beach and back, and the sparse lights of St. Chesswell were clearly visible when he noticed something along the high water line.

A large bundle, perhaps clothing washed overboard during the offshore storm and tangled with debris to end up soiling his pristine property. He sighed.

Then--incredibly--the bundle
moved
.

Sidney’s breath caught in his throat then gusted between his lips in a harsh grunt. There was an arm, a hand scrabbling in the pebbles. It was a
man
.

Hurrying over, Sidney marveled that this orphan of the storm was still alive. “Sir, good God, sir…can you speak?” He lifted the man’s head free of seaweed strands and watched as his eyes opened and he coughed. “Careful, man. You’re probably full of seawater. Easy now.”

The man’s skin was cold, clammy with the salty dampness of his clothes, and Sidney reached for his neck to check his pulse.

He couldn’t find one.

Sidney blinked as the man’s eyes opened slowly and focused directly on his face. “Where am I?”

The voice was accented, slurred a little and Sidney eased the soaked head back down cautiously before answering. “You are in England. The south coast. On the shore of my estate, St. Chesswell.”

Dark eyes considered Sidney, their color indistinguishable in the shadows of the night. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon momentarily, and Sidney shivered. There was something about that gaze…

The man coughed again and his chest heaved as water spurted from his mouth. “Your pardon.” He wiped his lips with his hand.

“’Tis no matter. You need help. I live nearby--let me get you dry clothes and food.”

There was silence for a moment, then a sound that might well have been a laugh. “I will accept the offer of clothes. But I do not think you would find my acceptance of food very healthful.”

Sidney was about to respond with a question when the moon reappeared. The man was lying still, his gaze fixed on Sidney’s face. But something had changed--his expression perhaps. Whatever it was, it stopped Sidney in his tracks.

Slowly, the man parted his lips revealing two long teeth. They shone in the muted glimmer and Sidney knew immediately who--or rather
what
--had washed ashore this night. “You are--you are one of
them
. The undead.”

In the blink of an eye the man moved, swiftly grasping Sidney by the throat. “What do you know of us? Are you one as well? Is this
really
England?”

Sidney choked, the grasp of the large hand uncomfortably tight and threatening to cut off his breathing. He gasped for air. “I have read…things…” Another gasp and the fingers eased their pressure slightly. “I have an interest in such matters. I am not one of you, and…yes this is England.”

“And you are not afraid?”

“Of course I’m afraid. But you could have killed me already.” The hand released Sidney’s throat and he absently rubbed the soreness with his own. “Why have you not fed from me? Drained me of my life fluid? If you were going to, you probably would have done it by now, not considered an offer of dry clothes.”