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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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The Baron’s gaze drifted far way. “After she drained her victims, I covered up her crimes—sliced throats and removed organs as she directed.”
Phaeton sat up in his chair.
“You surmised correctly, Mr. Black.” The barest pinprick of light remained in the Baron’s eyes. “I am Jack Ripper.”
Mouths fell open as both young women gasped. America’s gaze shifted to Phaeton. “You knew of this?”
“I suspected the good doctor protected someone or some thing.” Phaeton noted a pale green mist crawling under the closed door of the dining hall as the shocking revelation continued to reverberate around the table.
Exeter also tracked the rolling bit of fog along the carpet. “And now that you know the truth, Mr. Black, what do you plan on doing about it?”
“Nothing, for the moment.” Phaeton matched the doctor’s concern with a flinty gaze of his own. “What exactly might I report to Scotland Yard that I haven’t already? Months ago, I advanced the idea the Whitechapel murders were committed by a savage fiend not of this world. The allegation got my employment contract cancelled. A second assertion could land me in Bedlam.”
He continued to study Exeter. “I take it your involvement stopped the murders. But the gods do need their ichors, and it seems you succeeded only in delaying her return to the streets. Which is where I came in, both of us chasing haplessly after the evasive little succubus.”
A faint tinkle of laughter echoed through the room and grew into the robust laughter of a mature female. A goddess materialized at the far end of the table. An immortal nymph the likes of which Phaeton had seen only glimpses of in illustrated books on ancient archaeology.
She sat motionless on the chair, arms placed formally to each side, like the giant seated statues of Luxor. Exotic eyes outlined in kohl shifted slowly. The stunning beauty studied her subjects at the table.
“Where is my husband?” Her gaze landed on him. “You are not my husband.”
“No, I am not. I am Phaeton Black. We have met before, Mrs.—?”
“
Fay-ton,
where is Anupu?”
“Anupu?” Phaeton repeated.
The Baron managed a strained whisper. “The designation early Egyptians gave to Anubis, god of the Underworld. To speak the name of the dead is to make him live again.”
Dr. Exeter leaned closer and whispered in his ear. Phaeton repeated the word aloud. “Qadesh?”
An appraising gaze slid over Phaeton. “I am Qadesh, one who rules over nature, beauty, and sexual pleasure.”
“Some of my favorites.” Phaeton smiled at her. “So, Qadesh. You search for your husband.”
“Long ago, I was like you. Not a god, but much desired. Anupu stole me away from two husbands, Reshep and Min, such a relief.” Qadesh shifted her interest to the women at the table. “Two men are a great deal of work for any female. No?”
Her attentions did not linger long before returning to Phaeton. “I was put to death for my disobedience, but Anubis gave me new life. I was reborn as I am now. A powerful night creature fashioned to reign over the dead at the side of my husband.”
“A rather sweet story, Qadesh. And where do you think Anupu might be found?”
All the fury of an unexpected, early spring storm rained down on the table. “This is what I ask you. Where is my husband?”
Phaeton reached out with his mind and connected with the temperamental vixen. Instantly she stopped her tirade and stared. He dared to probe, and she opened. A simple gossamer gown hid very little of her body. Phaeton’s gaze paused at her breasts, high and round. Answering his interest, the translucent fabric parted, exposing a firm mound. A golden loop pierced the nipple.
He blinked upward and locked eyes with her.
Do you wish to be pleasured, Qadesh?
“My dear boy, stay far away from her.”
The fickle goddess shifted dark orbs. A rack of wretched sounding coughs split the air. The Baron gasped for breath as a gurgle of foaming pink liquid drooled from the bandaged mouth slit. A cruel, violent force strangled him. The Baron reached out and gripped Phaeton’s forearm.
“Beware, Phaeton ...”
Exeter motioned to Grimsley. Prying one finger back at a time, a joint snapped, and a finger fell off. The gasping, desiccated man still managed to utter a cry of fear and misery. Briefly, Phaeton held the Baron’s hand in his, and then let go. The butler wheeled the chair away from the table.
Phaeton clearly saw the pale specter of death encircle the elderly man. With a certainty, the Baron was dying. His gaze lowered to the gauze-wrapped digit left on the table. He opened his palm and another piece of finger rolled onto white linen.
Exeter looked back. “I must see he is made comfortable upstairs.”
Phaeton stood up. “I will see the ladies safely back to their rooms.” At the far end of the table, the chair Qadesh had occupied was empty. The witch was gone for now.
The doctor nodded. “Remain vigilant, she will likely return.”
Chapter Sixteen
“M
MM
,”
SHE MURMURED
. How quickly this man could drive her to sighs and moans. He ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of her upper lip to accomplish his wicked goal. He made her tingle.
“Mmm, indeed, my lovely Miss Jones.” He continued sampling, tasting. “I shall return with an assortment of prophylactics for you to put to the test.” His words drifted over her cheek as he found the lobe of her ear and nibbled.
The door to her bedchamber opened behind her. She fell backward and would have toppled onto her backside if Phaeton had not steadied her. Startled, the little maid gasped. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. I was just turning down the bed.” She dipped a curtsey and slipped around them.
Undaunted by the interruption, his heavy-lidded gaze remained focused on her mouth.“Please change into the diaphanous little confection of a dressing gown and wear nothing underneath.”
“A great deal of effort wouldn’t you say?” She edged an eyebrow upward. “When you are just going to take it off.”
“And leave your hair up.” He kissed her briefly and reluctantly backed away. “I wish to take it down.”
She closed the door. How had this happened? Like a ship adrift in waters too deep for anchoring, she felt unbalanced, out of control, even captivated. America sighed. She had never intended an amorous interlude with the accomplished roué. Calmly, she reviewed what it would get her. Well, for one thing, she stood a very good chance of recovering her ships, even if the sinful Mr. Black wished only to assuage his lascivious needs.
She pressed her lips together. He also did a rather expert job at seeing to her pleasure. Her cheeks flushed with heat at the remembrance of his touch. He knew where to caress and how long, the very strokes to use and the variance of pressure. Phaeton was more than adept; he played her body like a maestro. Damn the devil or praise God. She hardly knew which expression to begin or end with.
Still, she suspected he was a rare man.
A pull to a chord promptly brought a maid, who helped her out of her gown and petticoats, bustle, and corset. She took a deep breath and exhaled. How she hated corsets. She soothed and softened her skin with a calming lotion and tied on the filmy negligee.
The shameful fact of the matter was she enjoyed bedding him. And, well, it didn’t matter. She would copulate with the devil himself in order to have her livelihood restored.
“You’re a survivor, Miss Jones.” She studied her reflection in the dressing room looking glass. There were hints of breast and a shadow of feminine triangle. She tilted her head. A freshly scrubbed face peered back at her.
She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips. Better.
 
Phaeton pulled off his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He yawned. Perhaps a short nap before venturing down the corridor was in order.
He sat on the bed and rolled onto his back. Thoughts of pleasuring his lovely assistant streamed in and out of his mind. Perhaps a kiss to each dimple above that round derriere. He could almost taste the salty sweet essence of her. He descended deeper into reverie.
Buttons popped and his shirt parted. He groaned as sharp fingernails scraped the length of his torso.
“Who comes calling at this late hour? Not the chambermaid, I suspect.”
He grinned, eyes closed. “The lovely Miss Jones, perhaps?” He sniffed. “No traces of lavender and the ocean at night—
le parfum du Siné.
”
Something closer to the smell of the air after a thunderstorm and sandalwood. An ephemeral breeze swirled the scent of burning incense into his nostrils as he breathed deep. A hushed voice whispered in his ear
. Fay-ton. Will you kiss me, Fay-ton?
Large ebony orbs returned his interest. She lay prone, floating in the air just above him. Straight, dark hair interwoven with hundreds of small gems flowed over her shoulders but did not cover her torso. His gaze lingered over exposed mounds, pointed nipples; rings of gold tempted him to use his tongue.
He propped himself up on his elbows. “Looking for a bit of relief? Can’t say as I blame you. How long has it been? Thousands of years, I expect. Quite a long time for a goddess who rules over sexual pleasure.”
Her lips blazed a trail along the small hairs that led to his navel.
“Ahh. Qadesh.”
Luscious ruby lips parted. Her laughter was musical, mesmerizing. The minx moved lower.
My desire sleeps.
Her eyes traveled through him into his mind. Probing. Penetrating.
You will awaken me.
An unnatural force pushed him down on the bed.
Close your eyes, Fay-ton, let me pleasure you.
“So, you want to be on top. Very good.”
The buttons opened on his trousers.
He sucked in air. “I am so easily seduced by a beautiful female—”
She hissed.
“Goddess.”
Even though he was sorely tempted, Phaeton could not shake the discomfiting idea that he was about to be supper. “Delighted as I am to be the recipient of your amorous designs, may I offer a suggestion?”
He tried rolling off the bed, but he could not get his body to move. Unable to flex his arms or legs, he struggled to free himself from invisible bonds. He broke out in a cold sweat. All he could do was lift his head. The little minx wanted him to watch.
He gritted his teeth. “Qadesh, let me help to you find your mate—I believe you called him Anupu?”
She snorted and snuffled like a bull before she yanked down his drawers.
With his shirt thrown open and his trousers down past his hips, she had him pinned and exposed. Cast in invisible bindings, there was something delightfully erotic about his state of being. With great concentration, he tried to hold back an erection. A warm breeze of goddess breath blew over his bare chest, past his navel.
“You cunning little trifler.” The beast sprang to life.
Qadesh appeared momentarily stunned. She turned her head, curious. “You are a god?”
Aroused and uneasy, he considered his answer. “Mother might have been the concubine of a god.” He offered a hapless sort of grin.
“Ahh.” Black eyes gleamed with lust. “Then your blood is of the gods.” Her lips curled back to reveal sharply pointed teeth.
He thought about going back and correcting his answer. Her fangs extended. Too late.
She lunged in for the bite. A searing heat ravaged his groin as her teeth sank through skin and sinew. He gasped as she gouged flesh and ripped into his mind. His head dropped back onto the counterpane as a delirious, thick fog dulled his faculties. Drifting out of his body, above the bed, he watched her take hold of his manhood and suckle. A thunderous sensation of pain and pleasure shot through his body, and he lost consciousness.
He tumbled headlong into the darkest corners of awareness. Laid out on a shallow barge on a river beset by fire, he floated in vaporous crimson waters. To each side, he was guarded by serpents whose tails wrapped around his ankles and his chest. He gasped for air that scorched his lungs. Emerging from the inferno were all forms of otherworldly souls blackened and burnished like writhing bronze statues; they rose into the atmosphere buffeted by flames and clouds of smoke.
Was he a dead man? Had his time come to cross the river Styx? Phaeton lay prostrate on the deck of the barge. His body had no weight or other equilibrium. All he heard were the shrieks and bellows of pain.
He opened his eyes. A great vessel in full sail churned flames into froth as it passed his barge. A cool breeze wafted over his parched lips, the simplest, sweetest relief. High above, she stood at the bow. He caught a glimpse of her before the ship vanished into the underworld.
He rasped out a dry whisper. “Miss Jones.”
 
America reached for another sweet from the box on the bed stand. Propped up in the sumptuous poster bed, she fidgeted in her new lace negligee. The gilt-edged card next to the truffles simply stated: For my chocolate dove. No signature needed.
She bit into an orange cream with a hint of cinnamon. Heavenly. Mr. Black had done a bit of shopping on his own at Harrod’s. A sapphire engagement ring, chocolates, an exotic assortment of condoms, indeed.
And where was he? He had promised to return with the prophylactics. She wondered how one went about finding such an item in a sundry goods store. Was there a gentlemen’s condom department? She thought it entirely more likely the man carried them about in his pocket, for that ever ready John Thomas of his. How utterly annoying.
She leaned sideways to turn the lamp down. A sudden shift under the bedcovers caused her to start. Lately, she paid close attention to those blurs at the corner of the eye. Holding her breath, she waited. A large lump at the foot of the bed inched closer.
She froze.
Something nibbled on her leg. She squealed. Drawing up her legs, she threw back the covers.
A serpentlike tail whipped about as the small grey gargoyle cringed. Golden eyes blinked. The creature emitted an odd whimper and panted softly.
America stifled a cry and swallowed. “Edvar?”
Before she could jump out of bed the little fiend landed on her knees. She could not help but let out a series of yelps as she wrestled the creature off her person. Its skin was cold and leathery and thoroughly off-putting. She recalled the snake handlers in Marrakesh as she gingerly removed his tail from her ankle with two fingers. Ick.
Feet tucked safely under her dressing gown, she stared at the fuzzy outline of the nearly transparent creature. She patted the sheet. “Sit.”
A shadow curled up beside her. Slowly, the little savage revealed details of himself. His face was more like that of a hound with sharply pointed ears and a protruding overbite. And those yellow eyes like beams from a lantern, large and liquid. The little monster yelped a growl, leaped off the bed, and scrambled toward the door.
A rapping came from the hallway. The grey-skinned imp jumped aside as the door drifted open.
America narrowed her eyes. “So, it was you, Edvar.”
“Are you all right?” Mia stood in the hall clutching her wrapper tightly around her. “I heard a scream.”
She cringed. “I’m fine. A bit of a tussle with a gargoyle.”
Mia hesitated, then cleared her throat. “I heard some strange noises coming from Mr. Black’s room.”
America pulled on a robe and hurried down the hall. At his door, ungodly human groans wafted into the corridor. Was the philanderer having a go with one of the upstairs maids?
Frigid air emanated from the room. Mia shivered. The gargoyle quivered on a hall table and wrapped a long slithering tail around himself.
“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” America read the energy clearly. This was Qadesh. No matter how much he might be enjoying himself, Phaeton was in trouble. She gnawed a bit on her bottom lip.
The gargoyle whined like a puppy.
“Hush!” She held a finger to her lips and glared at the puckish goblin.
Shivering, Mia looked behind her and back again. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
America nodded. “I am not sure if I can manage this alone. Run and get the doctor.”
“I shouldn’t leave you.”
“Go!”
Mia scurried down the corridor.
She placed her hand on the knob and eyeballed the little devil. “And you stay out here.” Who was she fooling? Mother had taught her well as a child, but she was no match for this powerful she-demon, who would quickly overshadow her feeble powers.
America took a deep breath and steeled herself. She would need all the
gris-gris
she had ever been taught by the voodoo witches of ’Nawlins.
“Never be afraid to fight dirty.” She whispered the old seafaring advice and turned the knob.
The door was locked.
“Open up.” She beat her fists against the door. “Let him go, Qadesh.” She rapped on the door again and rattled the knob. A pale grey shadow moved under the threshold. She held her breath and heard the latch move. Edvar.
America turned the knob and pushed the door open. Inching into the room, she disturbed thick clouds of low hanging pale mist. The two of them were splayed out across the bed. Phaeton lay in a stupor, incoherent and deathly pale, while Qadesh stroked the impressive mortal breeding weapon and replenished herself.
America’s lips curled back. “Get off him.”
She grabbed the closest thing to her, an expensive looking Chinese urn, and threw it at the bloodsucker. The ceramic vase bounced off the bed and broke into a thousand pieces on the floor.
The succubus turned her head and hissed. Red dripped from the sides of her mouth. Thick droplets stained the crisp white tails of Phaeton’s shirt. The Egyptian goddess appeared euphoric—bloody stewed, all right.
America looked around for weapons. An iron poker leaned against the hearth. She placed one foot behind the other and backed her way over to the fireplace. She tried to remember the old vauda curse for a sorceress stick.
BOOK: The Seduction of Phaeton Black
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