The Beast

Silly female. She confessed too much, transferring her power to him.

But that was a good thing.

Setting her aside, he tugged at the knot of his Hermès tie, loosening the silk. As he removed the length, she did a little spin and went across to one of the bedding platforms, lying out flat and stretching her arms over her head. With her body forming an erotic S-curve on the mattress, one breast popped out of its cup and her bare sex gleamed as she parted her legs.

Assail prowled over to her, all-fouring up her body until he sat on her pelvis, trapping her. Stretching the tie out between two fists, he stared down at her.

“You are so trusting,” he murmured. “What if I did something bad with this? No one would hear you scream or struggle, would they.”

For a moment, fear flared in her eyes. But then he smiled.

“It is a good thing I am a gentlemale, is it not.” He leaned down with the silk. “Close your eyes, my darling. And not to sleep, no, not to rest.”

He covered her eyes with the tie, knotting the silk into place. Then he looked over his shoulder and nodded for his cousins to descend upon her. They were, as ever, more than obliging, ridding themselves of shirts and slacks, getting naked before they reached out to touch and lick, stroke and penetrate.

As Naasha began to moan, he dismounted, grabbed the nearest wrist—Ehric’s, as it turned out—and scored it with his own fangs. Drawing the welling blood to Naasha’s mouth, the female gasped and latched on, nursing at the vein as her body began to writhe in ecstasy.

Obviously she was not living off the blood of her hellren—and Assail assumed that was why she required the likes of Throe’s company. But vampires, particularly horny ones, oft enjoyed partaking whilst in the midst of pleasure, even if they were otherwise well fed. Like alcohol or drugs, the drinking amplified everything in a most satisfactory way.

With his cousin’s blood in the air and on her tongue, she was so distracted, Assail was able to get over to the door without her being aware of his withdrawal. Reaching into his coat, he took out a tiny old-fashioned oil can, the kind with the poppable bottom and a short-necked nose.

Pocka-pocka. Pocka-pocka. Up above.

Pocka-pocka. Pocka-pocka. Down below.

The lubricant didn’t smell like much because he’d loaded the thing with brand new Pennzoil 10W-40 for motorcars—and after his ministrations, the massive door opened in utter silence. With a sly smile, he slipped out of the playroom and re-closed the heavy panels. Replacing his oil can into the pocket of his cashmere jacket, he looked both ways. Then he proceeded to the left, following the path Throe had taken the previous evening.

The basement walls and floor were made of rough-cut stone, with electrical lights tacked onto wooden ceiling beams casting dim shadows. He tried every door he came to and discovered storage room after storage room, some filled with lawn-care equipment from the forties and fifties, others with travel trunks from the turn of the twentieth century in them, and yet another with festival decorations that had wilted and spoiled in the damp and mildew.

No sign of Throe’s quarters, and that was truly not a surprise; he would not deign to stay down here in this window-less land of forgotten utility objects. No doggen, either, the house clearly having been modernized, with the supplies and sundries of the servants moved up to higher levels. No wine cellar, but then he would imagine that that, too, would have found a home on the first floor, closer to the hub of social activity.

All of which was why she had kitted that space out as she had.

There was privacy to be had down here.

Mayhap, like him, she did her own sheets from those bedding platforms? Perhaps not. The female probably had a trusted maid.

At the very far end, a second set of stairs appeared as the corridor took a turn, the stone steps so old they had wear patterns in them.

Ah, so this was where Throe had run off to.

Moving quickly, Assail was almost upon them when he came to a final door—which was reinforced like that of Naasha’s dungeon, as opposed to the flimsier ones of those storage areas.

The Master Lock upon it was fresh and shiny, and of the sort that required a specific key. On a whim, he patted around the molding, in the event such a thing happened to be hanging up on a nail or a hook, as some were wont to do. Alas, no. Whate’er was on the far side was something that was precious.

Or not for prying eyes.

Taking the stairs, he was quiet as a draft as he ascended to a door that, blessedly, appeared to be unlocked. He listened for a moment, confirmed that there was nothing on the far side, and opened the way with care.

It was the butler’s pantry, going by all the glass-fronted cupboards full of dishes, and the silver closet that was paneled in green felt and stacked with great stores of gleaming sterling.

Although he did not know the layout of the house, he was well familiar with the necessaries of great manors, and sure enough, an unadorned staff stairwell with bald wooden steps and a functional handrail was not far. As he continued onward to the second floor, he was forced to stop halfway up and flatten himself against the wall as, upon the landing above, a maid passed by with a load of laundry in a wicker basket. When she was gone, he closed the distance and sneaked out behind her into the staff section of the bedroom wings.

Following his instincts, he whispered to a wide door, one that was broad enough to accommodate all manner of ins and outs—and indeed, on the other side, the hallway became splendiferous, crystal and brass sconces lighting the way, thick wool carpeting cushioning the foot, antique bureaus and tables marking windows that no doubt had views of the gardens.