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Beauty Ravished
by
Celeste Anwar
© copyright June 2004, Celeste Anwar
Chapter One
There was more beautiful male flesh on the estate lawn than you could see in a month of Fridays in any club in Atlanta. Cherry Roman had heart palpitations just looking at their bodies glistening in the dwindling sunlight on a white sandy beach. Sheri would weep when she found out what she’d passed up.
The horizon was beautifully striped in gaudy colors in every hue. The setting sun perched above the golden sea like a ball of fire, clouds rippling out from its center domination of the sky in bold streaks of scarlet. A breeze carrying the scent of salt and sand swept across her damp skin, offering some relief from the nearly unrelenting humid heat of a Southern summer. Though she was nearer to the equator here than in her apartment in North Georgia, the air coming off the water made the weather seem cooler than it actually was.
Her skin itched slightly from sea salt and dried perspiration, making her long for a shower. She could forget her discomfort though, gazing upon the scene laid out before her.
She hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder, leaving the dock and retreating ferry behind as she strolled up the pathway to the hotel that looked more like an enormous private beach house than a commercial property. There wouldn’t be another ferry until Monday--no going back now, not that she particularly wanted to. She thought perhaps Sheri was right in passing off her own invitation to Cherry--a weekend at this retreat would certainly put the hideous outcome of her life into perspective. Or, at the very least, there was plenty of eye candy to distract herself from her problems. She didn’t have to worry about work. She’d been laid off from her job indefinitely due to severe cut backs, but at least she had enough severance for this little vacation.
Cherry tried not to think about how dumb it was to spend any of it. She shrugged the disturbing thoughts off, determined to enjoy herself while she could.
She lost sight of the glittering beach and half naked men as she progressed up the hill to the lodge. The trees stooped and curled over the path like tired, noble sentinels, twisted from the heavy caress of ocean air. Traversing the lane, she could see a pine forest lay beyond the hill, and could make out the edges of a concrete patio and pool spread at the back clearing around the building. There, a buffet of undeniably male forms lounged, as well, soaking in the dying rays of sunlight. She frowned and quickened her step, cresting the rise to the hotel’s entrance, eager to check in and get started relaxing.
A large screened in porch, decked with padded, wrought iron chairs faced the view of the ocean. Ferns ascending the stairs in urns rustled in the shifting breeze, touching her leg as she passed too close. A porch swing hanging at one end creaked and slowly moved on its chains, as if recently vacated, but she saw no one enjoying the picture perfect view from the top.
Strangely enough, she hadn’t noticed any women on the island. Then again, she hadn’t come across any of the guests, just from afar. Of course, she and Sheri had assumed this invitation was to one of those parties where they tried to sell you expensive condos, so it could be the women were off touring while the men lazed about. Who knew?
Wide, glass paneled doors marked the entrance, and Cherry pulled them open and strode into the lobby. The large open area was filled with coral and sea foam brocaded chairs and couches arranged in small groups for private conversations. Muted bulbs lit the space, giving it a soft, welcoming glow. Along one wall stood a marble-top counter and luggage station, but she saw no concierge or bell hops.
Puzzled by the absence of hotel staff, Cherry headed for it anyway. She hadn’t taken but a few steps toward the empty counter when a soft, accusing voice spoke behind her, "What are you doin’? You don’ belong here."
The deep, accented baritone slid a frisson of alarm up her spine, unnerving her. Cherry turned slowly around, trying to appear as if she did belong. Maybe it was just supposed to be men here and they’d thought Sheri a man somehow?
Her heart seized as her gaze landed on the owner’s voice. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the baluster. She’d read clichés in books her entire life about meeting the man of your dreams, the epitome of how a man should look and move—and they were so true, down to the smallest reaction. She could barely breathe, barely comprehend anything around her—her entire focus was directed on the stranger. Even his accusation was lost as her mind stumbled around, taking in his every feature.
He looked like he’d just come from the beach, and she thought she could even detect the scent of salt water in the air, but surely it was her imagination. His skin was a dark olive, richly tanned and captivating against the open-necked white shirt he wore. He looked as though he’d just shrugged it on, for only half the buttons had been fastened, and even at the distance, she caught a glimpse of toned chest. His black hair was wet, finger combed back off his forehead, but a few random locks had escaped and fell across his brow in rakish disarray.
He sent her a narrow-eyed glare across the room. When she made no answer--or move to leave--he strode across the floor space and stopped directly in front of her, invading her space until she was forced a step back just to look up at him. Up close, he was fiercer than she’d imagined possible, potent, like the bars of a cage had just been raised.
"Excuse me?" she managed in spite of her suddenly dry mouth. Oh god. Green, intense eyes looked down at her beneath straight, angry brows. His was the kind of look that sent women in one of two directions—either straight to his bed or home to her own to huddle beneath the covers. She was torn. On the one hand, her galloping heart was commanding her feet to do the same and flee before she was devoured. On the other, the moment the word ‘devoured’ entered her mind, her pussy went into melt down and her knees turned to jelly.
She wasn’t sure why her reaction was so extreme, but she sensed that this man was dangerous in ways she couldn’t even imagine. Despite the trappings of civilization he seemed … savage, his manner inherently untamed.
He crossed his arms over his chest, making his shirt gape. The movement drew her gaze like the needle on a compass. Her belly clenched as she stared at his pecs, sculpted to perfection, covered with a sprinkling of hair. "Why are you here?"
"I received an invitation—"
"No, you didn’t," he said impatiently, cutting her off.
"I did. How would you know that I didn’t? I have it right here," she said, rooting through her purse.
"‘Cause I’m the host, Nigel Francoeur."
Cherry stopped her search and looked up at him, feeling her face redden under his scrutiny. She would’ve rather had her teeth pulled than to have to admit that she’d crashed such an exclusive party, but there was no hope for it. That being the case, she summoned the ‘helpless female’. "I’m sorry. I admit, I wasn’t originally invited, my friend was." She held out her hand, which he ignored. "I’m Cherry—Cherry Roman. Anyway," she added, dropping her hand once more, "she couldn’t come, so she passed it on to me. There’s no harm in that, is there? And, I’m here now."
He was silent a long moment. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "You have to leave. Now."
The man didn’t have one sympathetic bone in his body. She’d spent much of her severance traveling here. Now she’d have to go back without even some pleasant memories to sustain her.
All of a sudden, everything that had happened beset her like a wall of dominos she’d carefully stacked to the ceiling. She’d done her best to look on the bright, keep her chin up, stave off the temptation to just fall on the floor and kick her heels and wallow in her misery. This trip had been her panacea, however. It was going to cure her ills. She was going to have a good time and relax and she’d figure out what to do when she’d had just a little breather from the battle she’d just lost.
Except now she wasn’t going to get it. Now, she was going to have to face the fact that she’d blown money she couldn’t afford to on a vacation she wasn’t going to get. It took a supreme effort of will to ignore the sting of tears in her eyes and nose. "I can’t," she said, her chin wobbling. She swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. "The last ferry is gone. I … I barely made it here as it is."
He closed his eyes as if searching for patience. When he opened his eyes again, he stared past her at the setting sun. His face tightened. He gave her a hard look. "It’s just as well. Come, I’ll show you to your room."
"Really?" She felt instantly better, even though he didn’t look like he was very happy about the fact that she couldn’t leave.
He glanced toward the glass doors again. "It’s gettin dark. It’s too late. You can’t leave tonight anyway."
He had his hand on the back of her waist, riding her hip, all the way up the stairs and down the hallway to the room he took her to. If it had been a cattle prod, it couldn’t have been any more galvanizing. It seemed to burn a hole right through her clothes, right through her flesh and forked outward to spear her erogenous zones electrifyingly. She didn’t know if it was that that made it so difficult to catch her breath, or the fact that she traversed the entire distance trying to outrun that hand.
The room was beautiful, far more elegant than anything she’d ever experienced in her life--it looked like the sort of room only the filthy rich could afford, from the elegant furniture, to the carpet that was so thick she felt like she was walking through water, to the king sized bed filled with pillows.
As chaotic as her emotions were after what she’d already experienced, she was still awed enough that it penetrated her emotional roller coaster ride, striking her deaf, dumb and blind.
"You will stay here. Is that understood?"
Cher turned around and gaped at him. "This is my room?"
He frowned. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the door and strode toward her. Cher blinked, too surprised even to think about retreating from the purposeful set of his face. He caught her jaw, forcing her to look at him--though why, she wasn’t certain. She’d looked up instinctively the moment he came to tower over her so threateningly.
"I must have your word that you’ll make no attempt to leave this room this night, chere."
Cher blinked at him, wondering idly whether he meant chere--as in, he was Creole, or Cajun, which would probably explain his devastating dark good looks--or if he’d somehow figured out she was called Cher--maybe she’d mentioned that?
She must have nodded. He seemed satisfied. After a moment, he released her and strode from the room. She was still staring at the vibrating door when she heard the distinctive click of a key turning in a lock.
That tiny little sound acted on Cher’s tumultuous emotions like a healthy dose of Metamucil on a clogged pipe line. She went stone cold sober on the instant.
She stared at the door disbelievingly. He’d locked her in! That dirty, low down, rotten, son-of-a-bitch had locked her in! He’d let her think she could stay after all and enjoy her vacation and then he’d escorted her to a prison cell!
She didn’t give a fuck how elegant the prison cell was!
Stalking toward the door, she grabbed the knob and twisted it a couple of times. It was locked.
She started beating on the door. "Let me out, you son-of-a-bitch!"
She pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear anything.
Small wonder considering the carpet in this place!
"Hey! You can’t do this! I had a perfect right to use that damn invitation!"
Sighing gustily, she gave up beating on the door. It hurt her hands, and it was obvious he had no intention of coming back.
"Some fucking vacation," she muttered, turning to survey the room. She was going to be stuck here all weekend--because the damn ferry wasn’t coming back before Monday!
Furious, she searched the room for a phone. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find one. Finally, she dropped her backpack on the bed, dragging everything out of it and eventually unearthed her cell phone. "Ha!" she said, dialing 911.
She got a recording saying her service had been disconnected.
"Shit!" She strangled the phone and then pitched it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thunk, but it didn’t damage the phone. Walking over to it, she smashed the thing with her heel until it was no more than fragments and then left it and went to sit on the bed to sulk.
Her stomach growled.
She was going to give that gorgeous asshole hunk a piece of her mind when he came to bring her supper.
If he came to bring her supper.
She realized after a little while that she was tired of sulking, and she was bored. Sighing, she decided to check out the bath. That’d be entertaining for at least ten or fifteen minutes.
There was a TV and a DVD player. She doubted, considering where they were, that the TV would pick up anything. Like she couldn’t watch frigging DVDs at home!
The bath was really luxurious. Despite her determination to feel abused, she felt her mood lighten a little when she saw it had a whirlpool . Adjusting the water, she left the tub filling and went back into the bedroom to rifle through the clothing she’d brought. She was irritated all over again when she saw the sexy undergarments she’d brought--just in case she ran into anyone interesting.
As if she was going to run into anyone locked in her room!
A twenty minute session in the whirlpool did wonders for her mood. By the time she finally crawled out, her muscles were like putty--not a tense one in her entire body. When she’d dried off, she pulled the under things on.
The under things consisted of a barely there thong and a nearly transparent bra.
She liked feeling ‘bad’.
Unfortunately, at the moment she felt more drained than like a femme fatale. Trudging back into the bedroom, she sprawled out on the bed and winked out like an extinguished light bulb.
She wasn’t certain what woke her. One moment she was dead to the world, the next she was conscious. Yawning, she rolled over and stretched, smiling faintly at the decadent feel of the thick, silk coverlet beneath her. Finally, reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
Nigel Francoeur was standing over her, a dainty tray with a dainty sandwich, obviously forgotten, in his hand.
The expression on his face sent a shock wave of heat through her. Her mouth went dry. Her nipples got hard.
His gaze moved to them as if he could see the transformation.
It was at that precise moment that it finally dawned on Cher that he could see the transformation. She was wearing her all-but-naked underwear and nothing else.
She jackknifed upright, glancing around for her clothes.
As if her sudden movement had finally broken the spell that had bound him, he set the tray down with a thud on the bedside table, turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Cher stared after him with her jaw at half cock.
"Wait!" she managed to get out as he jerked the door open and started through.
He paused, looked back at her, his gaze brooding and dangerous.
Cher gulped. "Why did you lock me in?"
Something flickered in his eyes. A predatory smile curled his lips. "To keep the big bad wolf away, chere."
Dream Shadows
by
Angelica Hart
© copyright June 2004, Cynthia DiSciullo
Chapter One
The dream closed around Violet with familiar warmth. It started a year ago and had increased as the nuptial auction drew near. She knew that it was only a dream, and that no one would save her from being coupled with a conjurer, a being whose power came from darkness and intensified in shadows. She was a creature of the sun, yet they kidnapped her to train her as a proper spouse.
Violet twisted beneath the coverlets as the truth emerged. She hadn’t been taken, simply sold, for despite the purity of her intent and soul, she had a rebellious streak that her family couldn’t abide once her father had passed. He wouldn’t allow her to be sold. She remembered his words before he died. "My daughter, you have a light within that none will quench. In that light, your soul will speak. In that light, your spirit will thrive. In that light, you will learn control and the true nature of being of the sun caste."
When he died, her relatives thought only discipline and training mentors were strong enough to turn her into a docile and proper mate. Violet showed an unusual talent for magic and that instantly propelled her into training for the arts. She fit well and outmatched her peers, but she never fully became the compliant lady that everyone expected. Oh, she faked it well enough. Even with her stubborn nature, she could only take so much torture before submitting. They never broke her spirit, and she hoped that spirit would one day set her free of the Seraglio.
But not tonight, tonight she wanted only to slip into the ecstasy of the dream. Everything around her turned to wispy threads of fog except for the brass bed, strung with gauzy drapery. It wasn’t the sensible iron bed of her cubicle. It belonged to the fantasy, where a sun mage claimed her in a world where the Seraglio didn’t exist. Since childhood, the mage invaded her dreams. She welcomed the specter first as a friend and mentor, and then as a lover. As always, he appeared within seconds. She couldn't make out his features, but she sensed power and confidence; experienced warmth.
She held out her arms, and he drifted into them. She still didn't know who he was, nor could she see anything that would define him. He existed in mist, and her loins burned for him. When his arms closed around her, she felt his hard flesh rippling over his long muscular frame. Felt his breath as it stirred the tendrils of her hair. Felt his hands as they moved over the feminine length of her curves.
Closing her eyes, Violet melted against him, lips parting, accepting the bold invasion of his tongue and offering her own exploration as she had done so many times before. He ravished her mouth with sensual expertise, and she surrendered her will, for here she could, here no one would know, here she was free to experience and capitulate without consequence. They tasted each other for long minutes, her body molding itself to his. She couldn't get enough of this mage and found her lips at his throat, marking him with succulent kisses.
His hoarse moan spurred her confidence. She wrenched open the billowy shirt, popping buttons as her tongue trailed downward, tasting hard nubs, then lower to swirl about his belly button, then even lower. Would she dare this in reality? Would she be so bold? She who barely knew the look of a man and had never held a masculine hand? Violet didn’t know. Perhaps she’d fight or run. It wasn’t what they were taught. The talented beauties of both sun and shadow castes had been pooled together as treasures for the gifted of the realm. The girls were taught sensuous, compliant positions and submissive stances, taught to be at their husband’s disposal in every way whether sexual, an assistant, a hostess, or a breeder. They were to be perfect in speech and manner and outlook, a reflection of their future husband. Violet could only be herself, and in her dreams she gave as she willed and the mage took all she offered. His breeches slipped down about his ankles as she found the male swell of him. She licked and teased and filled herself with his hardness, moving her head slowly back and forth, sucking as if she could devour the throbbing manhood of him.
He gasped, and then pulled her away, taking back control before she could utter any protest. Catching her up in his strong arms, he laid her across the bed, ripping away her nightdress as if it were no more substantial than the fog about them. He cupped her breasts, fondling them as his mouth once again found her lips. He wasn't in any hurry. It was as if she was a banquet and he intended to savor every morsel. And, oh how Violet yearned to be savored and taken with slow procrastination even as her body demanded instant release.
He took even more than she relinquished. He captured her wrists, holding them above her head as he spread her thighs with his knees. His mouth toyed with swollen nipples and his free hand played with the enflamed nub throbbing between folds of nether flesh. She arched to better feel his taunting. She begged for more with tiny whimpers and soft moans.
He obliged. His ravishment became rougher, more demanding. He squeezed her breasts with wild abandon. "More," she begged. "Please, more."
He didn’t disappoint her. He forced her knees to her breasts until she was totally exposed to him, totally vulnerable to his cravings and her needs. He positioned himself at her opening, the hard, vivacious tip of him ripping into her in one deep long thrust. She caught her breath for she had forgotten the size of him and how pain mingled with pleasure at that first invasion.
Suddenly, though, the sweet eroticism of the dream evaporated. Rough hands pulled her to wakefulness and tossed her across the tidy, sparse chamber as if she were lighter than parchment. She smacked into the wall and knew bruises would soon mar her pale flesh. She was going to remind Sir Venore, the lead eunuch, that it wasn’t wise to mark a lass so close to the nuptials, but seeing the extent of his fury, she thought better of it. Besides, they had balms that healed damages quickly.
"What is this?" Venore screamed as he held up a colorful rope that had taken her months to weave. Fibers borrowed, as she preferred to call it, from discarded rags and worn clothes to misplaced scarves and lost mittens. Well, at least her chamber sisters thought they lost a mitten or two.
Violet didn’t even blink. Instead, she gathered herself up stiffly and kept her gaze on Venore’s rather large feet strapped in leather sandals. She said, "It’s a rope, sir."
She stole an upward glance and noticed the vein throbbing under his monk-like cap of graying hair. A green cassock with a scarlet-lined hood covered his bullish form while a medallion with the house crest identified his rank. The eunuchs weren’t a religious order, but they were honored for their devotion to the training arts. Many saw it as a spiritual vocation. Violet doubted that any of the trainers chose to have his manhood eliminated. Their families had sold them, too. It always spurred a measure of compassion for them no matter how tough they had been on her.
"I know it’s a rope," he spat, spraying her with frustrated spittle. "I want to know what you intend to do with it."
"That isn’t what you asked," she responded with aplomb. Her sisters would have been in a pool of trembling tears by now. Violet refused to give him the satisfaction. She should have, though. Her continuous impertinence only enraged him more. "Considering the amount of times I’ve attempted escape, one would think you’d already know the answer."
Large, blunt fingers knotted a fistful of long, unruly blond hair and yanked her up off her feet. She expected something quite like this, yet couldn’t hold back a small yelp. It wasn’t enough to satisfy his rage, and he carried her by the roots of her hair through stone halls lit by torches whose walls dripped with condensation. There was a time when she would have kicked and screamed, hands ripping at his fingers to free herself, but it never did any good. At six-feet, five inches, and three hundred pounds of muscle and fury, she wasn’t even close to a match for his strength. All she could do was to press stiff palms against her scalp to lessen the pain.
Violet, so named for her unusual dark, purple eyes looked as delicate and fragile as her name suggested. At five foot, three inches, her full breasts contrasted nicely against a waist tiny enough to accommodate a man’s hand span. Slender hips tapered into tight thighs and calves. Her nose was a tender thrust of perfection while pink-tinged lips appeared just lush enough to demand a thorough kissing. Hair, twisted in an unrelenting mass of spiral curls, fell past her tiny, curved buttocks. It was those extraordinary eyes, though, dominating the heart-shaped countenance that could mesmerize any normal man. Those of the arts, though, weren’t of the norm.
"I do not know why we put up with you!" Venore exploded as he carried her without effort.
"Because I’ll fetch a fortune," she spat back through tears and whimpers, instantly regretting her remark as he shook her by the roots of her hair. Maybe her hair wouldn’t hold. Maybe he’d pull every strand of it out and toss her into the forest, bald and empty-handed. Somehow the thought wasn’t all that disconcerting. After all, at least she’d be free.
He froze, twisted her until she faced him, and with renewed rage, bypassed the instruction chamber where she had expected to be taken. Instead, he carried her up a flight of stairs until they reached the balcony outside the turret.
Night hovered over the valley like a stalking creature. Not even the moon creeping in and out of clouds dispelled the ominous shadows, nor did it illuminate the nocturnal crawlers that kept the villagers snug around hearths and under well-lit lanterns. Being born in a sun clan, shadows and darkness unnerved her. She preferred the sky littered with bright stars. Now, though, it wasn’t just the unrelenting night that provoked a sensation of sand ants crawling under her skin ready to devour their prey from the inside. It was the chilled wind throttling her body. It was the emptiness beneath her feet. It was the moat far below riddled with carnivores.
Even more, it was Venore’s fury-induced words. "Perhaps you are not worth the profit after all, Violet Haze."
Blackthorne’s Light
by
Marie Harte
© copyright June 2004, Marie Harte
Prologue
With a husky groan the shadowed figure continued to feed, his mouth moving hungrily over the smooth white neck of the limp woman he held tightly in his arms, his body primally thrusting into hers, hungry and ecstatic to feed on both her blood and her sexual essence.
He groaned as he sucked at her neck, his teeth keeping her veins open as his tongue laved her lifesblood like cream. His hard body drew moans and gasps of delight from her, even though she surely knew she would not survive this night. Her red hair swung like a bloodied scarf from her wan features, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy, her lips pale and trembling under the constant pleasure-pain of his touch.
And as he climaxed, drenching her womb with his fiery passion, he drained the last drop of bright red blood from her body as she found her own fulfillment. He released her and watched as the sated woman cried out for more, needing his body in hers like a starved addict. But he could only watch as her body suddenly lost its golden glow of life and faded under the inky blackness of her dark soul.
Like a flickering light, he watched as she passed into the world beyond, where those better than he would judge her. His eyes darkened in pain but not regret. He knew his course in this world, and only prayed he would gain enough redemption to save himself such misery in the next life.
Chapter One
"Ms. Vansant? This is what you wanted, right?" the young woman asked in a husky voice as she cracked her gum. She handed Adara a leaflet showcasing the hottest club in town.
Adara glanced at the page and smiled, then handed the desperate young woman a twenty and left the small porn shop where she’d been doing some of her research. Now won’t this make a fantastic article, she thought to herself as she narrowly avoided tripping over a homeless man lying on the sidewalk.
She tossed a bill out of her pocket to him with a small shake of her head and quickly moved out of this section of town. She didn’t exactly scorn the nightlife, but anyone stupid enough to foray around this area of Rathan after dark was begging for trouble.
She glanced up at the glimmering moon, taken with the dark blue blanket of sky fading to black, the indigo clouds racing with the wind in the chill October air. Shaken out of her contemplation of the night sky by a few lewd propositions, Adara quickly hopped into her car and drove towards her home. She had enough material to start this new journalistic endeavor and felt a strange excitement. She had a feeling that this story would definitely cap all the others.
As Adara passed several better neighborhoods, she sighed at the disregard that had caused the western part of Rathan to fall to shambles. A good-sized suburb just north of Philadelphia, Rathan had both its good and bad sections of town.
Adara lived in the nice section, the part of town where the middle-class lived comfortably and longed to join the wealthy in Society Hill. Unfortunately, layoffs and business closings had contributed to the neglected western half of town, the half that lately had been attracting a very dark element.
She pursed her lips as she drove down her street, a quiet neighborhood of smaller houses catering to singles and newly married couples. Adara left her car and unlocked her front door, bitterly aware that no one awaited her return.
She grabbed the mail that had collected on the ground under her mail slot and shuffled through the bills and advertisements with a huff.
"Nothing," she told her dark haired reflection in the mirror above a small wall table. She tossed the mail on the table, replayed her answering machine and managed a small grin at Maria’s message.
"Your article idea seems interesting. Go for it," her editor’s voice grumbled. "But let me know if you find anything out there that leads to better orgasms. Quite frankly, I’m getting tired of Herb."
Maria and Herb had been married for over twenty years, and happily so, Adara thought enviously. Yet it was Maria’s quirky sense of humor and candid speech that had made her an instant friend. Maria had taken to Adara upon first meeting her and the business they did together blossomed as quickly as their friendship. Maria edited for Chic Ventures, a racy woman’s magazine that had begun undertaking more serious topics of late.
Maria, however, maintained that as long as Chic Ventures continued to talk about sex, sex, and more sex, the magazine would never go out of print.
Adara threw a frozen dinner into the microwave and tossed her satchel on the kitchen counter. As she waited for the meal to cook, she eyed the newspaper article that had sparked the interest for her next story. She read again the news that a fourth woman had turned up missing in the past two weeks, making that now sixteen women in the last four months in the lower southeastern corner of Pennsylvania that had disappeared.
Apparently the few ties the women had were that all of them were quite beautiful, and none of them were particularly well-liked or behaved in life. Several of the lewd women, some prostitutes, drug users and a few alleged criminals had mysteriously vanished, no trace of their bodies ever found. The author of the article had nicknamed the case The Evils of Beauty, and the police had no leads on the crimes.
The microwave beeped and Adara grabbed the hot tray with a muttered curse. She ate hungrily, resolving tomorrow not to skip lunch and settled down at the table. She had tossed the idea around in her head several times. Most of these missing women had been speculated to visit the seedier side of life. Since Adara and most of the women she knew rarely ventured into the dark worlds of sex and eroticism, she thought she might generate a bit of interest in the subject with her article.
Good girls weren’t supposed to engage in sex without a relationship presumably leading to marriage. Adara smiled grimly to herself. But then, good girls didn’t always get Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome all wrapped up with marriage in a bow. Sometimes Mr. Handsome slept with your best friend. Sometimes his complaints about boring sex with his fiancée sounded because he was too tired from a previous fling with said best friend earlier that day.
Adara swore again just thinking about how blind she’d been. Today she felt more than glad that she’d found out about Marci and James’s defection. Her sex life hadn’t been all that great with James but she had thought, naively, that with time they would grow closer.
She wondered again about her article. Maybe the ‘bad girls’ in life had it right. They played by their own rules and didn’t get hurt as much, well, with the exception of the missing women. But, she thought wryly, it’s not as if she planned on robbing or killing anyone. And who was to say that enjoying one’s body was a bad thing anyways? She grabbed her notebook out of her bag off the counter and stared again at the leaflet she’d been handed.
She had a list of several well-known nightclubs but this one, she tapped the red paper, this one had a reputation all its own. Known for its Goth-dressing patrons, vampire hopefuls and no-holds-barred sexual dalliances both in the bar and in the back rooms behind it, Vampland had become the new underground hot spot for singles wanting sizzling, steamy sex and few strings attached.
Adara nodded. Yes. This would definitely be a piece that drove her readers wild. After all, it took a lot of guts and very little fear to enter into a world where anything was allowed.
The Dark One
by
Goldie McBride
© copyright June 2004 by Goldie McBride
Chapter One
The tour guide had touted it as one of the most haunted places in western Europe. Samantha Lancaster felt a delightful shiver skate down her spine as she studied the ancient chateaux. Her mother would’ve loved it.
A wave of loss washed over her at the thought. Resolutely, she dismissed it. The two of them had planned the trip together. She was determined she was going to enjoy it to the fullest for both of them. She knew in her heart that her mother would’ve wanted it that way. Her mother had spent most of her adult life yearning to visit Europe, to track down family roots, if possible, but more importantly, to visit every reputedly haunted site on the continent.
The Chateaux du Beauchamp had topped her list.
A sense of excitement replaced her melancholy as she studied the stone building in the fading light almost with a sense of awe. It never failed to amaze her that people had managed to build such masterpieces of architecture centuries ago with the most primitive of tools.
The closing of a door drew her attention from her study of the gargoyles that guarded the chateaux’s roof top. She turned to look toward the front door of the chateaux. A young man, dressed in what looked to be
authentic late medieval clothing, was striding rapidly toward her. He stopped beside the car and Samantha rolled her window down, looking up at him questioningly as he said something to her and gestured toward the side of the building. She hadn’t a clue of what he’d said, but the language and accent sent a thrill of pleasure through her. She hadn’t been in France a full day and she still wasn’t used to finding herself in a world where no one spoke her language. She’d found she didn’t particularly care, though. She loved the French tongue. They could say shit and it still sounded beautiful.
"I’m sorry," she said apologetically. "I don’t speak French." She’d studied French in high school, but that had been almost ten years ago. She hadn’t used it since she graduated and she didn’t remember enough to do her much good.
"American?"
She nodded.
He pointed to the narrow driveway that wound around toward the back of the chateaux. "You must leave the automobile in back. I will take your luggage, if you like."
Samantha smiled at him gratefully and got out so that he could reach the luggage she’d piled in the back seat. He grunted as he unloaded it, straining much as she had when she’d loaded the suitcases in.
Packing light wasn’t her forte`. She hadn’t been tempted to change her ways when she was traveling all the way to Europe.
Finally, he had all of the bags out and stacked. "I see you brought everything," he commented.
She supposed she should have been insulted, but she couldn’t help but laugh. "Believe it or not, I probably missed a few things."
Climbing back into the rental car, she started it up again and pulled around to the back of the chateaux. A gravel parking area had been added just beyond the cobble stone courtyard that stretched from the back of the chateaux to what must have once been the stables. She pulled the tiny car into a space between a sports car and another compact like the one she was driving and got out.
The chateaux was almost as beautiful from the back as it was from the front, she decided appreciatively. Glancing around at the outbuildings, she saw with a twinge of disappointment that it was going to be too late by the time she registered and settled in her room to do any exploring until the following day.
Heaving a sigh, she crossed the cobblestone courtyard and climbed a set of stone steps that led up onto a verandah. Several French doors let out onto the verandah where tables were scattered here and there for outdoor dining. The glass-paned doors undoubtedly led into the dining room, she decided, and turned toward the only wooden paneled door, more than half expecting to find it locked. It opened easily, however, onto a dim hallway lit only by a couple of wall sconces.
She ran smack into the man just inside the dim interior, a gentle collision that nevertheless plastered her full length against a hard, muscular body. Embarrassed, she took a step back. "Excuse me," she muttered, barely glancing at the man as she rushed past him.
To her relief, she found that the corridor led to the front desk.
The man at the desk looked at her in surprise as she appeared out of the darkened corridor. "Sorry. I guess I was supposed to go around to the front?"
His brows rose. "Are you checking in, madam?"
Samantha blushed again, this time with a pique of annoyance. She wasn’t married, wasn’t wearing a ring, and she wasn’t even twenty eight yet. Surely she deserved a ‘mademoiselle’?
On the other hand, she’d had a mature look about her her entire life. She supposed it was her narrow face and the high cheek bones. If she’d had rounded cheeks, people might’ve thought she was younger.
She forced a smile. "Yes. .. uh … Oui. I’m Samantha Lancaster. I was supposed to be here earlier today, but the flight was delayed and then I had trouble getting the rental car…."
She allowed her voice to drift off, looking around at the room she found herself in as he nodded and began thumbing through a file on the desk. Undoubtedly, the area had originally been part of the great room that seemed typical of most castles. Now, it was a guest lounge and office.
The walls were wainscotted in a dark, rich looking wood. Above the panels, the walls had been covered in what looked like silk, but was probably just wallpaper made to look like silk. She wondered if it was anything like the original or if they’d opted for the pale blue watered silk to lighten the area.
She jumped when she saw the man staring at her from across the room. Dressed in clothing somewhat similar to the ‘bellhop’ who’d first greeted her and taken her luggage, she assumed he must be staff, but if he was, he was brazen.
He was propped against a wooden column that doubled as a newel post for the stairs that wound upwards from the great room to the balcony above. His expression was a mixture of boredom and annoyance.
Dark and brooding, her mind supplied descriptively.
Despite his unwelcoming demeanor, the man had a ‘pant’ factor of ten on a scale of one to ten. His hair was black and undoubtedly long, swept back from his face and tied behind his head. His complexion was swarthy, his features almost classically refined, but there was something about him that made her think of gypsies. Maybe the devil may care attitude?
He was tall, lean and well shaped. She had a feeling he was tautly muscular, lean rather than merely slender, but she wasn’t certain why … until it occurred to her that it was the same man she’d run into as she was coming inside.
Smiling at him a little uncertainly, she returned her attention to the concierge as he called her name for the second time, blushing when she realized that neither man could be in any doubt that she’d gone into zen meditation when she caught sight of the hunk lounging against the wall and burning holes in her with his gaze.
"I have found you," the concierge announced, smiling faintly. "We were not certain that you would come when you did not arrive this morning, but we are slow now. We still have your room."
An uncomfortable jolt of panic and irritation went through Samantha at that calm pronouncement. It hadn’t occurred to her, before, that she might’ve lost her reservation, but there didn’t seem much point in dwelling on the fact that, if they’d given her room to someone else, she might’ve had to drive miles and miles to find somewhere to stay—it wasn’t like the chateaux was close to a major city. She supposed it didn’t matter now, but it was unpleasant to think she’d had such a close call through no fault of her own. "I did say that I might be delayed," she pointed out.
"No harm." He struck the bell on his desk. "I will have Antoine take your bags up for you and show you to your room."
Antoine, it transpired, was the young man who’d greeted her upon her arrival. He didn’t look terribly enthusiastic about lugging her bags up, but hefted two of the three and started toward the stairs. Samantha did her best to ignore the dark man—whom she saw was still giving her that enigmatic examination—as they approached him where he stood by the stairs. Despite her determination, she found she simply couldn’t resist glancing up at him as she came abreast of him.
He was taller than she’d realized. Something about his build had suggested that he was probably no more than medium in height. She saw now, though, that he must be at least six one or two. She was short and she was used to looking up at people, but even so, she noticed when she was around anyone taller than average.
She couldn’t have failed to notice the man in any case, even if he hadn’t shown so much interest in her. There was something about him that went beyond his physical appearance that was purely magnetic.
He was, she discovered, looking directly at her when she glanced up. Their eyes met for what might’ve been a half a dozen heartbeats if Samantha’s hadn’t paused painfully in her chest, forcing the air from her lungs as if some unseen arm was squeezing her chest. His eyes were an eerie, pale blue that sent a jolt through her like an electric current.
With an effort, she looked away, stumbling slightly as she misjudged the height of the first stair. Fortunately, she’d gripped the banister and caught herself. Ignoring both men now, her heart beating unpleasantly fast, Samantha concentrated on each step as she carefully made her way up to the second floor. She paused at the top, waiting for Antoine to take the lead and show her the way to her room.
The room he led her to made up for the disconcerting beginning she’d had. As she moved to the middle of the room and stared up at the ceiling, a sense of wonder filled her. The painting—a depiction of some mythological tale-- had deteriorated over the years, but it was still beautiful. Plaster moldings of intricate design framed the ceiling painting. The upper portion of the walls were covered in the same blue, watered silk as the great room below. The paneling below that and the molding had all been painted a creamy white, giving the room the intricate charm of a fancy gift box.
The stone mantel piece that surrounded the fireplace, supported by a pair of snarling griffins, was the crowning touch.
The room’s furnishings, lavishly carved and made of some gleaming, well polished, dark wood, were almost certainly reproductions. Though they looked to be antiques from several different periods, she could hardly credit it.
On the other hand, antiques in Europe, because of their long history, weren’t quite the same as American antiques. To them, the room might be furnished with nothing more than second hand castoffs.
The clatter of her suitcases hitting the floor drew her attention away from her study at last and Samantha looked around in surprise to discover that she’d been so enthralled Antoine had already made the trip downstairs and back with the rest of her luggage. Digging in her purse, she produced a tip and thanked him.
Obviously pleased with the offering, he glanced around the room. "The Chateaux was occupied during the war, first by the Germans and later by the Allied forces. It survived the war with only minor damage. It was restored in the early 1900’s and some modernization was added, but it remains today much as it did during the life time of the Count du Beauchamp, who was reputed to be a very powerful witch."
"Warlock?"
Antoine’s brows rose, but he nodded.
"He died before the revolution, didn’t he?"
"Oui et non. The count was defeated in a duel between himself and another powerful warlock. He was cursed, madam, and never seen again. The portrait in the corridor is believed to be a likeness of him.
"Many believe the Chateaux itself was enchanted, for it has survived much turmoil since his time and remained virtually unscathed, even by time. It has been vandalized and looted many times, but somehow the original furnishings always seem to find their way back to the chateaux."
Samantha thanked him again for the brief history lesson and smiled dismissively. Shrugging, he pointed out the room’s amenities and left, closing the door behind him.
She’d read most of what he’d told her in the guide book, which was why her and her mother had chosen the Chateaux to begin with, but she was curious to know how much of it was ‘invented’ history, and how much was actually true. Dismissing it finally, she lugged a suitcase onto the bed, extracted her toiletries and a change of clothes and went into the tiny ‘modern’ bath that had been added…she supposed when the chateaux had been renovated into a bed and breakfast landmark---or maybe not.
Either they’d gone out of their way to find antique fixtures for the bath to make it as unobtrusive as possible, or the bath had been added at least a hundred years earlier.
It worked reasonably well, though, and that was all that really mattered. She’d rented the room for the atmosphere, and the thin hope she might actually encounter the ghost. If opulent accommodations had been the object, she could’ve stayed at one of the modern luxury hotels.
When she’d freshened up, she left the room, locking the door behind her. Instead of heading down to the dining room immediately, though, she went in search of the portrait Antoine had mentioned. She found it about halfway down the corridor. There was no missing it, for it was very nearly big enough to be a life sized portrait, and framed in an ornate picture frame that looked as if it must weigh every bit of a hundred pounds.
The corridor was dim and the portrait dark, but she noticed at once that the clothing the man wore was very similar to that adopted by the staff. He was seated in a chair of the Louis XV variety, as ornately carved and gilded as the picture frame, his posture casual rather than formal, one knee bent, the other leg sprawled casually. His arms were resting on the arms of the chair, but in one hand he held a cane topped by large crystal.
The lights in the room below brightened as she peered at the painting, illuminating the portrait, and she stepped back so that her shadow was no longer blocking her view.
Her heart skipped a beat as she raised her eyes at last to study the face.
He looked uncannily like the man she’d seen downstairs when she checked in.
Samantha frowned, wondering if it was merely her imagination running wild, or if it was no more than a trick of the light—or perhaps a strong strain of genetics? People had never really moved around a lot, historically speaking, and after generations of people in a particular area had intermarried, family traits had a tendency to show up.
Of course, he’d been an aristocrat and they never married beneath them, but from what she knew that had never stopped them from sleeping with the lower classes, and breeding with them. Maybe the man she’d seen below was the great, great grandson or something like that?---from the other side of the blanket, most likely. The French had pretty well disposed of their aristocrats during the revolution—all of them that hadn’t had the good sense to run, and most of them had apparently been too arrogant to flee in time to save their necks from the guillotine.
Despite her preoccupation, Samantha sensed that someone had come up as she stood examining the portrait. When several moments passed and the newcomer neither turned away nor passed by her, she glanced absently toward him.
A jolt went through her. It was the same man she’d seen earlier. This time, however, he spoke when she looked at him. His voice, deep and resonant, washed over her like a caress. Goosebumps rose on her flesh. She gaped at him incomprehensibly when he stopped speaking. "Uh… I don’t speak French."
One dark brow arched, the other descended as if he wasn’t at all pleased with the fact that she was a foreigner. "You are English?"
Samantha bit her lip, but couldn’t help but chuckle. "American by birth, southern by the grace of God. You’re probably the only person in Europe who’d mistake my accent for English. I can’t even understand the English accent half the time … or vice versa."
She gestured toward the portrait. "It looks like it could be you."
A gleam of amusement entered his eyes as he followed her gesture. "I, myself, think it is a poor likeness."
Samantha shrugged. "I suspect it didn’t do him justice. I think a lot of the artists way back then were more into developing a particular style than actually capturing the person’s likeness. I mean—either half of Europe was related and looked like it—or they just painted everybody to look that way. Except for the clothes, they all had bug eyes and thin lips."
"Back then?"
Samantha shrugged. "I’ve never been much for history, except where it has to do with reputed hauntings, that is, but even so I have a hard time with dates. The count lived way back before the revolution—at least three centuries ago, I think–more or less. You probably know a lot more about it than I do. You work here?"
"Non. I live here—in a manner of speaking."
Samantha glanced toward him in surprise.
"You don’t work here, but you live here?" she persisted, frowning.
A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth. "I am Gerard, Count du Beauchamp."
Samantha felt her jaw go slack with surprise, but that was as nothing compared to the jolt that went through her when he abruptly vanished.
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