This tale takes the reader on a journey with Count Vasilie and his "family" as they battle the Dark Church of Hekate.
Excerpt
Prologue
Knightsbridge, England
November 2005
It must be done—and soon, before I change my mind.
Vasilie fingered the aspen stakes inside his greatcoat pocket. So smooth and pale, just like Andora’s skin. Vasilie felt as if his heart were growing heavier in his chest as he pondered the task ahead, then proceeded to follow Andora to her apartment in Knightsbridge.
How could I have been so filled with lust that I didn’t see how evil she had become?
The demon inside Vasilie cackled. “How evil she had become? She was a mistress of the dark arts before you turned her, Vasilie!”
For the first time in many years, the demon spoke the truth. * * *
“Why Vasilie, what a nice surprise!” Andora opened the door in a diaphanous black silk and lace nightgown and peignoir. “Please come in, the night is rather chill.” Behind her, “Purple Haze” by Jimmy Hendrix blared from the CD player.
Andora’s nipples hardened beneath the thin fabric as he reached out to embrace her, trailing a hand down the length of her back to her taut bottom, pressing her against him.
“You are insatiable, Vasile! How many hours has it been since I took my leave of you? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get your fill before leaving me. Vasilie—you aren’t leaving England, are you?”
She extricated herself from his grasp, backed up a few steps to study his handsome face. He was a horrible liar, so if he were attempting to withhold something from her, she would know. But all she sensed was a deep sadness. So character-istically Vasilie. He was all heart, and this made him weak in her eyes—and yet, even though she had manipulated him countless times by this same weakness, there were other times, like now, when she appreciated his vulnerability. It was a rare trait among humans, particularly men. . .much more so among her kindred Nosferatu.
When had she ever felt such sadness, true sadness, much less vulnerability? Any time feelings such as these surfaced, she pushed them down, drowning them beneath a tide of belligerent superiority. Her mother had been a weak woman, given to compassionate acts in their village. What had it given her but an early grave?
Andora smiled, cleared her thoughts, fixed her gaze on Vasilie. His eyes were like scrying ponds and more guarded than usual. What might this portend for their evening together? Their future?
He grinned sheepishly. “It must be the moon. Can’t you feel its fullness tonight?”
Andora reached out to cradle his cock through the thick wool of his dark trousers. “Yes,” she licked then sucked her lower lip, “it is quite full. Let me close this door. The neighbors already think I’m a whore.”
Andora closed and bolted the front door. Vasilie walked directly into the living room where a fire was just beginning to blaze in the hearth. He sank into the plush leather couch, sighed.
Andora perched on the arms of the couch. “Your woolen robe is in the bathroom—just back from the cleaners. I’ll get it for you.”
“I’ll get it. First, I’d like to freshen up a bit.”
She tugged on a blue-black curl, wound it around a finger before releasing it. “I’ll get us some wine. I just uncorked a nice Bourdeaux. It takes time to breathe—but don’t be long.”
Vasilie walked down the thick carpeted hallway to the back bathroom. He ran hot water, splashed it on his face, looked into the mirror. If he could see his reflection more clearly, would he see a man ready to commit murder? No, it wasn’t murder. The uneducated would call it revenge and vigilantism, but to him it was restitution.
“Do it now, you coward. She already suspects something,” the demon cajoled.
Vasilie took off his jacket, hung it on one of the towel hooks. His grey cashmere sweater and silk undershirt followed. Should he keep his trousers on? No, he would go to her naked, his desire so obvious that she would be distracted from his true intent. One of Andora’s few weaknesses, he realized, was the chance to be locked in his arms. Even as his thoughts turned to the loathsomeness of her touch, his cock grew harder. It was ever thus with him.
Vasilie reached down to tug off his boots and wool socks, then slipped out of his trousers and long silk underwear, which stubbornly clung to his concupiscent member. Now naked, he reached inside the greatcoat pocket, removed the thin aspen sticks Guenther had so fastidiously filed to fine points. There were three of them, just in case. Pure genius, Vasilie had commended Guenther, as they were just long enough to penetrate through the skin, into, and through her black heart.
“Practically undetectable,” Guenther had told him. “Gone are the days when we have to lug around chair and table legs. Just be sure you have a good grip on it before you drive it in. You wouldn’t want to poke or impale yourself in the process!”
Vasilie had laughed at this joke, gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. Little did he know that he’d be using them so soon—and on Andora. They rarely took the lives of their own these days…
As an afterthought, he tugged several pieces of tissue from the box she always kept in the bathroom. These he slipped inside his robe’s pocket along with the miniature stakes.
“Vasilie—what’s keeping you?”
“I’ll be there in a minute…I really want a quick shower.”
“Nonsense. I need you now.”
Vasilie opened the bathroom door to Andora’s bedroom. She was lying on the bed, one knee up, her blood-engorged sex spread open to him. He gasped, felt his cock lunge.
He tied the belt’s robe a bit tighter, felt the aspen sticks murmuring their dark purpose in his mind, as he dove between Andora’s legs, lapping at the moist folds of her flesh.
“Do it now!” The demon inside him howled.
Andora moaned, arched her back and pressed her sex against his greedy mouth. “Bite me, Vasilie. Bite me hard!”
In response, Vasilie pressed her legs further apart, lapped at the vein along her inner thigh. The skin had grown thinner there over the years, the veins less resilient. He sank his teeth into their hilt, sucked ferociously, gripping her hips in the vice of his hands.
“Stop Vasilie—that’s too much!” She struggled against him, but he didn’t let up.
“Vasilie—you’re going to drain me dry—“
Andora stiffened as the force of his purpose penetrated her mind. Panic slammed into her, but she fought it, realizing that she would need all her remaining faculties to persuade him to desist. Against her better judgment, she stopped struggling against him, fought to assume a calm tone. Did he know how depleted she was?
"You would never harm me, Vasilie," her voice low and soothing, yet laced with razored anger.
Surprised that she was still able to speak with such com-mand, he paused, reached into his pocket, fumbled about until he had one of the thin stakes between his right thumb and forefinger.
"You love me! You have loved me all these years, and now you come to destroy me?"
He straddled her, gripped his thighs tightly around her waist to subdue her, but she didn’t struggle against him. He doubted that she would accept her demise so easily. This wasn’t a woman who would accept such a betrayal.
“I’m sorry, Andora. I made you, and for that I am sorry, but”
“No buts—just do it!” the demon screamed. Vasilie fought the urge to cover his ears against the sound, forgetting for a moment, that he was the only one who could hear it.
“Who put this foul idea into your mind, Vasilie. Let’s talk about this. I’ll leave town if you so despise me. You never have to look upon me again, if that’s what you truly want.” She managed a sweet smile, but her lower lip still trembled.
Oh that she weren’t still so captivating! Except for a few lines at the edges of her eyes and lips, she was as beautiful as the evening he first laid eyes upon her in Budapestcenturies before. But it had to be done—and by him and him alone.
He dug an elbow into her soft stomach, that same tender place where he had laid his head so many times. Even though she was considerably weakened, she still managed to hiss and thrash as he plunged one of the aspen needles into her chest.
It broke in half.
Andora spit then cackled at him. “You are less than a man, Vasilie.”
The second one didn’t break.
Vasilie sat back on his heels, watched the amazement creep over Andora’s face. Her body shuddered uncontrollably, arched, then collapsed.
He rammed the third one in for good measure before he reached up to break her neck.
Someone was knocking on the window. Vasilie turned toward the sound to see Guenther. He had forgotten that his old friend had offered—no, insisted—that he be the one to sever the head from Andora’s body.
“That would be a great kindness, Guenther,” Vasilie had replied.
He climbed off Andora’s still twitching body; the first signs of shriveling had begun. He had drained just enough blood from her, but he wished he had drained more. To drink from her now would be suicide. . .It was bad enough that her essence still lingered on his tongue.
Vasilie fought the urge to vomit as he turned to look at Andora one last time. He unlocked the window, lifted it open enough for Guenther to enter.
“I’ll take it from here, Vasilie. What do you want me to do with the remains?” He unsheathed his kitana, a gift from a Japanese warlord whose village he had once rid of vampires. He allowed his mind to drift, to enjoy the memories from those days on the beach at Kamakura.
“Thank you, Guenther. Make an example of her. I don’t care how you do it.” Vasilie went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and vomited long past the time his stomach was empty.
* * *
Vasilie hurried from the apartment and along the snow-covered streets of Knightsbridge, leaving Guenther to the final task of dealing with Andora. Knightsbridge, England, part of the city of Westminster in London, had been the scene of the Knightsbridge security deposit robbery on July 12,1982. This, with the Banco Central at Fortaleza, and the $900 million stolen from the Central Bank of Iraq in 2003, are said to be the largest bank robberies in history.
Tonight, however, the only thing to happen in Knights-bridge had been the staking of a vampire. . .
Chapter One
London, England
December 2005
December was a cruel month, but thankfully, it was nearly over. Vasilie wouldn’t have to look upon the gaudy, flashing Christmas lights for another year. He didn’t mind the freezing weather, or even the slush, but he’d been worried for days that they wouldn’t be able to leave for the States as planned. Now that the brisk wind was finally beginning to let-up, his fear was beginning to dissipate, and in its wake, a wave of relief.
It was like a caul, this snow, but he’d experienced more than his fair share of bad weather in his unseasonably long life. Sometimes, memories of brutal winters in his rural Carpathian mountain village resurfaced, and it was difficult to convince himself that it was just snow, a natural phenomenon, and not a portent of doom. Fortunately, he was still able to chuckle at an occasional bout of superstitious thinking. Old habits were difficult to break.
The bright multi-colored lights in the store windows were reflections of a simple, yet temporary, happiness that he often felt was most surely lost to him and his kind. And yet, there was a false gaiety and emptiness to this season. People exchanged over-priced gifts instead of love and acts of kindness. Whatever happened to a generosity of the spirit?
Soundless steps carried Vasilie along the streets until he found himself standing before a great church with towering spires. His longing to go inside was centuries’ old.
“Oh, to light candles, to kneel and pray,” he whispered aloud, but the demon inside him cackled, "No!" At any other time, Vasilie would have ordered the vile parasite into submission, but this time, the foul Incubus was right.
Big Ben sounded midnight, the Witching Hour, as Vasilie made swift progress through Highgate Cemetery. He paused at The Sleeping Lion, stroked its marble mane. The evening mist surrounded its maw as if it, too, was attempting to expel a lingering chill.
Vasilie moved through the dirty snow on the pathway. He needed hours and hours of dreamless sleep; perhaps then he would feel refreshed. And yet, he knew the dreams would return to hold him hostage. There would be no release for him now. Not for a long time. Not until he was able to put Andora out of his mind, move on to another chapter in the unnatural book of his life.
Perhaps he would sleep better once he and his family left London. He’d been fortunate to find passage on a cruise ship bound for the States. The change would do them all good, he mused. It was time to move forward. Yes, they would put London—and what remained of Andora—behind them.
Vasilie entered the chamber beneath Highgate Cemetery, careful not to wake the two caretakers who were bundled-up against the chill night. He opened the heavy door slowly, but it still made a horrendous creaking sound. One of the men mumbled something in his sleep; the other seemed immune to external sounds, continued his incessant snoring. They deserved their rest after hauling the heavy palettes to The Legend of the Seas, bound for Boston, Massachusetts, to the United States, still a land where a person, no matter what their origins, might lose their past and so begin a new life.
Once instead the crypt, Vasilie’s eyes fell first upon Hatshepsut. He studied her exquisite face in the flickering candlelight, noting that she was engulfed in a deep, deathlike sleep. Hatshepsut was queen, priestess, heir to a power, a magic, never known to most modern day witches and warlocks. The room literally pulsed with her presence. It was amazing to him how she radiated power even in sleep. After nearly a hundred years, she was still an enigma to him. He rather liked this, as no matter how long they were friends, there was still much to learn about—and from—her.
One of Hatshepsut’s thin black braids had fallen across her cheek while she slept. Vasilie smoothed it back behind an ear, lightly brushed the side of her face. Still so lovely, he sighed. It seemed but moments since they first met in a Stuttgart alleyway, where he had rescued her from a disgusting drunk intent on having his way with her.
Vasilie closed his eyes, returned to that day in his mind. He had been peering into an antiquities shop window, fascinated by the assortment of junk and treasures, wishing that he could go inside, perhaps add something to his collection, when he heard the man’s slurred speech.
“Vat do we have here?”
Vasilie tensed as the image appeared in his mind of a work-roughened hand reaching out to grab a young woman by the shoulder.
“Ach, du bist sehr schön—you are a beauty. Wie viele—how much for a—“
The man’s leer quickly disappeared as Vasilie shoved him against the stone wall.
“Leave her alone, or you will regret it.”
This was all it took for the man, despite his bulk and level of intoxication, to scamper down the alley, his whimpers giving way to violent retching when he was a safe distance away.
“Fraülein, you are far from home, are you not? How may I be of assistance?”
Queen Hatshepsut looked up and into Vasilie’s warm, obsidian eyes. Such a handsome man, she noted and managed a wan smile. Unable to find her voice, she cast her thoughts into his.
We are kindred beings, yes? I have no idea what this place is. I have just awakened from a long, long sleep.
In a brilliant flash of amber light, her thoughts were his thoughts of a land known as Egypt, of shimmering sunlit sands, pyramids, palm trees, and the oldest name of Khemet. Here was the beginning of the Queen-That-Would-Be-Pharaoh, whose lust for power would end her mortal life, and thus begin her twilight existence as the vampire Pharaoh Hatshepsut.
Vasilie steadied Hatshepsut against him. “You are safe now. Come. You may share my home until you are ready to travel.”
So much had transpired between them since that night in Germany. And here they were, still together as friends, and embarking on yet another journey. Vasilie closed his eyes, returned to that day in his mind. It was during the summer festival in Stuttgart, one of Germany's most delightful city festivals with the white pavilions, countless fairy lights and lanterns.
Vasilie stripped off his clothes, climbed into the huge stone crypt next to the triplets, Ganymede, Edron, and Dorian. They still looked like the youths they were when he rescued them from the Turkish soldier who would have been exceptionally well-rewarded for turning them over to a slaver. Vasilie shuddered at the horrors they would have endured if he had not intervened. These were his sons now, blood of his blood.
Had it been four-hundred years since he was in Constantinople? Yes, at least that. Tales had been circulating about the Infidel Mehmed II’s cruel reign, and he had been curious to see if they were true. It didn’t take long, once he’d arrived, to learn that the rumors weren’t exaggerated. If anything, the truth was far worse.
Vasilie had watched, undetected, as enraged at being captured, Ganymede spat upon the soldier. Taken by surprise at first, the soldier did not know whether to strike the boy or to pull his sword and end the little wretch’s miserable life.
“Don’t hurt him!” Edron and Dorian yelled out as they stumbled from behind a pile of rubble, their hiding place revealed.
“There are three of you? The master in Istanbul will be very pleased. You!” The soldier yanked Ganymede to his feet, handed him a length of rope. “Tie yourselves together. You are coming with me. And no tricks, my pretty one! The master will whip that rebellion out of you. Once you are serving in the house of some fat-ass Caliph, you will learn to obey quick enough.”
Vasilie descended from behind the soldier, wrapped himself around the Bulgarian dog. “Server of infidels!” his voice as fierce as winter’s wind-born sleet, and just as brutal. Ganymede and his brothers, Edron and Dorian, sprawled on the debris-littered street. The stench that surrounded them was maddening, but it helped keep them alert as the stranger wrestled with the soldier. His accent was unfamiliar, but his voice, deep and commanding, cut through their fear and inaction. “Leave the city now!” he yelled to them. “Go to the caves by the summit. I will find you there.”
Leaping to their feet, the triplets raced for a hole in the wall that had once protected Constantinople for centuries. They watched as Vasilie broke the Janissary’s neck.
“Not so fierce now, are you?” Vasilie said as the man fell to the ground, his eyes wide with shock. Vasilie rose into the night air, turned around for one last look at the burning city. The senseless ruin of a great empire saddened him. Yes, the truth was far worse. King Constantine XI had fallen in battle defending the city gates. The Christian cross had been defiled, and now the sign of the crescent flew over the city. An empire’s demise by blood and fire.
The triplets were dazed, but grateful for their rescue. They needed to believe that Vasilie meant them no harm, that this strange man was a sign of hope amidst so much loss and despair. Later, freshly bathed and dressed in fine clothes, they gorged themselves on roast lamb and pilaf, along with large mugs of a very intoxicating local brew. After they passed out, more from exhaustion than drunkenness, Vasilie gave each an immortal kiss, placing near them the remnant of a lost empire, a small Byzantine Cross. He said a silent prayer that they would be grateful for this so-called kiss of eternity, and that they would not fear it—or him—as a harbinger of dark intent.
“They are delicious young men. Why not sate your hunger?”
“Be silent, demon! You know that is not my way.”
The demon coiled up within him, snickered.
Vasilie longed for the day when he would be rid of this demon inside him—but how to cast it out? Where once he believed in fate, he now believed in karma. While rescuing the triplets had been instinctual, he often hoped that this and other deeds would eventually cast out the demon within him. That, and he hoped to one day be born again to human form.
When the triplets awakened, it took some time to convince them of their new state-of-being. Fright and anger lingered for a time, especially with Edron, but eventually they realized Vasilie had bestowed a great gift upon them.
Vasilie sighed. His memories were keeping him awake yet again. He couldn’t help but wonder if these events were what really happened, or whether he was weaving tales to give his life meaning, purpose, value? He needed to believe that he was doing the right thing for them all. Not just for him. They needed to leave Europe, to move forward by moving away, and so turn their thoughts toward building a new life. What could possibly be gained by dwelling on the recurring nightmares of their near and distant past? Yes, it was good they were leaving Europe. It was a place that held too many bad memories. They would create new ones on their voyage and once they reached The United States. First, a ship to Boston, Massachusetts; then, a plane to Seattle, Washington. His good friend and assistant, Henry, was awaiting him. Awaiting them all. Yes, they would have a new home, a new life.
Vasilie felt more hopeful than he had in months, as the gory images of Andora’s death surfaced for but a moment, and then he was finally fast asleep.
Chapter Two
Chelsea, England
December 2005
The buff Italian smiled seductively as he began to strip. First one button, then a long seductive pause before moving on to the next and the next, until he eased the blue silk shirt off his broad shoulders. He posed for a few moments, encourag-ing the women to admire the exquisite contrast of his dark skin against the white linen slacks. With dark lashes lowered over darker eyes, he teased the zipper down an inch, then back up, then all the way down. With a little tug, the slacks were around his ankles at last. He stepped out of them, turned around like a silly peacock to show the women how his thick cock strained against the black silk thong. He flexed and released his tight buttocks for their amusement as well.
Else gathered her honey-blond hair up into a bun, fastened it in place with an antique tortoise shell hair comb. She glanced at Mora, a sultry redhead, who revealed a faint gleam of pearly white fangs when she smiled. Mora nodded, and Else reached into her blue jean pocket for the thick roll of pound notes. She laid them on the freshly polished coffee table, the scent of lemon oil still in the air. The Italian grinned at the wad, reached for it.
“Not yet. Not ‘til we’re finished.” Else rose from the couch, seductively unbuttoning her sheer fuchsia blouse to reveal plump breasts with engorged nipples. She pinched one, then the other, for effect. The Italian trembled; beads of sweat began to glisten on his freshly-waxed chest.
“You want some of this, don’t you?” she cooed, sliding a hand slowly across her belly, undoing the buttons on her jeans. Mora came up behind her, tugged her pants down, then slipped a hand inside Else’s panties, fingering her hard clit. Else moaned, spreading her legs to allow Mora’s fingers to pene-trate her moist folds.
The Italian licked his plump lips as he knelt down before the two women. He tugged Else’s panties off, pressed his hands against her swollen mons to separate the folds, sighed with delight as he plunged his tongue inside her. She pressed into him as he suckled at her sex.
Ohmygod he’s good, Mora. Maybe we should keep him as a play thing.
I thought you said you were hungry.
Oh all right—
Else moistened her garnet-hued lips with her tongue, as sharp, wolfish fangs descended just above her lower lip. A gurgling sound rose in her throat. Thinking she was about to cum, the Italian sucked her clit harder, grabbed her hips tighter as he slipped a thick finger into her anus and circled it around.
“Ooh baby, you know what I like,” Else moaned, extricating herself from his grasp. He sat back on his heels, nodded to Mora.
“You are next, no?”
Smirking, he watched Mora step out of her black lace panties, kick them aside. Else moved to the side, her eyes emanating a glassy green glow. She hadn’t really had a good look at him before. Oh, was he handsome! Jet-black hair, sculptured moustache—and built like Adonis. Else pulled her hair pin out. Thick blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She picked the money up from the table. “Now it’s time to get what we paid for.”
The Italian reached into her hand for the money, grazed her palm with the side of a finger nail. As he turned to slip it into his discarded pants on the floor, Mora pushed him down onto the rug. Fangs flashed as they fell on him, sinking their teeth deep into the male whore’s jugular vein.
Else accepted the hot blood as it gushed into her mouth. She swallowed and gulped some more. Claws ripped down the hustler’s back as Mora lapped at the rich liquid. The stupid manwhore didn’t even have time to scream as they each tore bloody chunks of flesh from his throat to get closer to his luscious blood.
Staring at the remains of their passionate feast, Else made a mental note to savor her next meal, to play with it a bit before succumbing to her incessant hunger. She was a bit concerned with her lack of restraint these days, but there was so much going on, and she was totally stressed. Who had time to ponder their actions these days?
I’m going to have a shower. Join me? Else didn’t wait for a response, but padded down the hall to the bathroom. She could hear Mora moving about in the living room, as she fidgeted with the shower nozzle. We’re just too busy. No time to relax, to really enjoy the finer things in life. Not even time to really enjoy the steaming water and the soothing fragrance of bergamot soap. She scrubbed, wishing Mora were there to wash her back, until all traces of the pig whore’s blood and sweat were erased.
After her shower, Else dressed in a simple black frock with matching pumps. She ran a brush through her hair, wound it up into a loose bun, which she fastened with her favorite tortoise shell comb. No time for further fuss, she thought, grabbing her purse from the foyer table, and pausing briefly to survey the living room. All traces of their feast were gone. Mora had done a superb job of cleaning up. The Italian had certainly been tasty. The vampire’s version of fast food. Amused at her clever turn of phrase, she walked out, closed and locked the door behind her.
Mora was waiting in the car, partially hidden by the shadows near the Villa. It was still an hour or two before dawn, so with the exception of a few cars further up the road, the streets were empty. Else slid into the front seat, closed and locked the door.
“What did you do with him?” Else turned around to look in the back seat. It was empty.
Mora slipped the key in the ignition, grinned. “Don’t worry. No one will find him. I hid what was left in an old graveyard just outside the city.”
Else smiled. “Well, we’d better get the hell out of Rome anyway. She jiggled an unfamiliar set of keys. Mora raised her eyebrows.
“Cassandra’s cottage in Greece,” she grinned, holding up two first-class plane tickets.
Mora giggled. “Greece it is.”
“Perhaps we could do a bit more exploring this time,” Else said. “I’d really like to see what we can find out about those Greek legends of the Empusae, the demon daughters of Hekatae. Andora does so go on about them.”
Mora shrugged her shoulders, shook out then rewound her tussled hair into a chignon. “All that scholarly stuff is so bor-ing. I really don’t see why you bother.”
“It’s church business, I suppose.” Else mused, slightly defensive, remembering a time when she would read a lot, but had simply given up the habit when she met Andora and joined The Church.
“Whatever!” she brightened. “Let’s get to the airport tout suite! I do hope we find some lovely girls to play with in Greece.” She rolled the window up, fastened her seat belt, and reclined her seat, sighing in anticipation.
“You really are insatiable, Else. It hasn’t even been an hour since we had Italian, and you’re hungering for Greek!”
“Let’s ring ahead,” Mora added. “Perhaps Hekatae’s demon daughters will welcome us with open arms—and legs!”
Else began to giggle, and Mora joined in as they sped toward the airport.
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
After Satan negotiates a pact with God and unleashes his army of demons, a secret sect battles a diabolical prophecy that threatens humanity.
Release Date: November 21, 2018
