Devoured - Sample

“Humans don’t believe in monsters anymore,” Nicholas tells me as he leans against the VIP balcony handrail looking down into the pit of seething flesh that the humans call a dance floor. I join him, resting my weight on my elbows and my fingertips dangling my glass of champagne negligently over the void. I can see Cain and Ellis amongst the dancers, hunting.

Nicholas is right. Humans don’t believe in monsters anymore, even when they are pressed up against one. When I was alive, fear of the monsters hiding in the shadows was a natural, sensible, way of living. We wore amulets and talismans to protect us from them, hung garlic over our doors, and sprinkled salt around our houses. Now, humans fear more mundane things. They fear germs. Taxes. Rising interest rates.

“And that is what makes it just so very easy to kill them,” I agree.

Monsters are just entertainment now. The humans flock to our shows, pressing their sweat-drenched bodies up against the barrier, fighting against the security guards, their hands outstretched wanting to touch the monsters gyrating on the stage. They like the pretense, the spectacle, the safety of knowing that it is just an act put on for their amusement…

Except it is not an act. We are monsters, pretending to be humans who are pretending to be monsters. It is after our shows when we discard the costumes and masks that hide our identities on stage, that we reveal the true monsters we are as we hunt in nightclubs and bars for our prey.

“Like picking lobsters from a tank,” Nicholas is revolted, not just by the club, but by our existence, and how easy they make it for us. His revulsion is not new. It is always there beneath the surface, waiting for his melancholy to bring it forth and give it life.

“That one… The brunette,” I spot him amongst the crowd and point him out, seeking to distract Nicholas from his melancholy. We both like long-haired brunettes. I like to wrap their hair around my hand as I hold them down and fuck them as I drink them dry. And Nicholas… It has been so long since he has taken a lover that I am not entirely sure what he likes to do with them. “I like that one.”

“Let me guess. Brunette, pretty, lean, and with sad eyes,” Rory drawls from the table behind us. His arms are spread wide over the back of the curved booth, and his blood slaves sit pressed to his side, their eyes locked adoringly on his face. Rory does not hunt his prey. He breeds and raises them like puppies. They are trained from birth to behave precisely as he wants them to behave, and that is to worship him as a god.

“A psychologist would have a field day with your fascination with killing yourself, Valentine,” Nicholas agrees.

“I can just imagine,” I laugh sourly under my breath.

“Is it that you find yourself so reprehensible that you kill yourself in effigy, like a sacrificial lamb?” Nicholas wonders, but I know that he is projecting his own self-loathing onto me.

“I think that he is just so narcissistic and self-involved that he likes to fuck himself.” Rory sneers.

“If it was that simple, he wouldn’t have to use a blood slave, would he?” Nicholas points out. “Casimir has a type, after all.” The five of us could be brothers by birth as well as by Casimir’s dark blood. We are all tall, leanly built, brunette, young and attractive.

“We tried that already,” Rory’s teasing has a knife blade behind it. “Fucking each other. I’m sure that my cock haunts Val’s dreams.” The last was almost a leer, and his eyes catch the shifting nightclub lights, flashing red as they meet mine.

It was Rory who had found me, and Rory who had introduced me to Casimir in my twenty-third year. Casimir had been on the lookout for a landed gentleman. Someone with a house and connections to help him transition into what he called the “New World.” In those days, the way into the fashionable parlours and events was by invitation only, and that invitation was only to be had through an introduction from someone already in the inner circle of society.

Casimir was looking for a blood slave, but when he saw me, he decided to make me a spawn, instead. I did, after all, fit his aesthetic. It was not a merciful decision. In many ways, a blood slave has a better life, albeit a brief one.

A chance encounter with Rory on the road had ended my life as a human and begun me on the path to hell that comes with being Casimir’s vampire spawn. In a sadistic twist so typical of his nature, Casimir had placed Rory in charge of my training. Although Casimir took pleasure in being hands-on at times, mostly he would sit and watch. And he liked to watch… He liked to watch me bleed and beg as Rory tortured me, but most of all, he enjoyed it when Rory wrapped his fingers in my hair and raped me.

Holding his eyes, I realize that there is fear hiding behind his words. Does he suspect that it is Rory in effigy that I kill, and not myself?

Nicholas places his hand on my arm. “Rory means nothing by it, Val. He just teases, doesn’t he, Rory?”

“Sure,” Rory rolls his eyes away from mine, turning escape into sarcasm. “I am teasing.”

“Why not go and get your chosen for the night?” Nicholas encourages me, seeking to end the argument. “We can share him between us. I too,” his smile is soft. “Have a preference.”

“Soon,” I turn back to the balcony and sip my champagne, the rage boiling within me. “The night is young.” And my appetite has changed. One of Rory’s current favorites is brunette. His hair is not as long as I prefer it, and Rory likes his slaves more muscular than lean, but I can overlook those preferences for the night.

Blood slaves are, officially, communal property, but Rory and Ellis tend to prefer to keep their slaves for exclusive use, and mostly, when things are harmonious between us, Cain and I respect that. There is no shortage of prey when we are on tour, after all, and when we are at home, we keep our distance from each other as much as the house and Casimir’s visits allow.

Rory’s teasing is provocative. We have an unspoken agreement that we do not speak of the past amongst ourselves. Especially my past. While my vampire brothers each have their own story of woe and misery at Casimir’s hands – their suffering had been at Casimir’s hands alone and had taken place behind the closed doors of Casimir’s room.

I know why Casimir changed his methods when it had come to me – I had been arrogant, rebellious, and defiant. I had refused Casimir what Casimir had wanted from me – I had refused to sign my property over to him, and I had refused to introduce him to society. Casimir had already made me into a spawn, but I was not an obedient one. And so, he had set out to break my spirit.

Eventually, he succeeded.

That Rory had been the cause of my breaking changed the dynamic between us in a way that is not shared with any other vampire brother. We have spent most of three centuries tiptoeing around that, engaged in a battle of small one-up-man ships, testing the boundaries of our positions in the social pecking order of our vampire nest.

“Whatever you are thinking,” Nicholas says quietly, leaning so that we are shoulder to shoulder, his breath stirring my hair. “Unthink it. It’s not worth it, Val. It’s our last night, and then we’ll be heading home. Let’s not start another vendetta before we get there. Travelling is dangerous and stressful enough, without worrying about whether Rory has persuaded a blood slave to tamper with your coffin.”

“Don’t worry,” I soothe him and finish my champagne. I have spotted what I need in the crowd below. “Come hunt with me. I have something special in mind.”

“Why does that worry me?” He wonders as he follows me along the balcony, past the other booths and the occupants wealthy enough to hire them, and down the stairs, past the solid, black-clad security guard who mans the rope that separates VIP access from everyone else.

My nostrils fill with the stench of competing perfumes, alcohol, and sweat as we wind our way through the bodies. My eyes lock on hers as she turns in her dance and stops, her gaze heating with sensual awareness and her lips curling in invitation. Her friends look to see who has caught her attention and laugh and jostle each other, exchanging commentary on Nicholas and myself.

“Get the brunette we saw before,” I say to Nicholas through my toothsome smile. “And I’ll meet you at the car.”

Nicholas shrugs slightly and turns into the crowd, heading to the man we had spotted from above, while I step forward and draw my target to me. Within the restless ocean of flesh around us, we are islands to ourselves, moving to our own rhythm, our eyes locked as her arms wind around my neck and my palms rest on her hips.

We grind our bodies against each other, a primal communication of want and intent. I dance with her, following the rhythm of social niceties that dictates how long is long enough so that when I step away and keep hold of her hand, she blows a kiss to her friends and follows me through the crowd to the door.

Our breath steams the air as we step past the bouncers, off the red carpet, and onto the pavement. It has rained while we have been in the club, and the girl and I dance around the puddles as I lead her over to where the limousine waits. Steam rises from the exhaust. The driver is waiting, ready to go.

“In this?” The girl giggles, delighted, as I open the rear door for her.

As she slides in, I see that Nicholas has beaten us there. His dance of seduction has taken less time than mine – the difference between male and female victims. A man does not fear to the extent a woman does.

Nicholas and his brunette move to the other seats, and Nicholas leans over to the bar, opening the champagne.

As I close the door, the car moves away from the curb.

“Cain and Ellis?” I ask Nicholas.

“Didn’t see them,” he hands my girl a glass of champagne and one to his brunette man. “Rory can find his own way home.”

“Did you come with other friends?” The girl asks the man, assuming that he was with us. He looks rather like us, after all, just in cheaper clothing.

“I… ah,” he shakes his head and shrugs awkwardly, careful of the champagne he holds, a little flustered by the luxury of the limousine. “I don’t know them…”

“You will,” I smile at him wickedly. “Very well.”

“Is this, like…” The girl’s eyes flick between the three of us, and her cheeks flush as she simpers a little, liking the prospect of spending a night with all three of us as her lovers. “A group thing, then?”

“It will be,” I predict and lean over to kiss along her shoulder to her neck. Nicholas distracts the brunette as I drink from the girl, my hand capturing the champagne glass as her grip on it slackens. By the time I lift my head, she is unconscious, leaning against the side of the car.

“Oh dear,” I take a sip of the almost untouched champagne as I slide along the leather seat closer to where the brunette and Nicholas sit. “It seems our friend has had a little too much to drink. We’ll leave her to sleep it off, shall we?” I move to sit on the other side of the brunette so that he is between Nicholas and myself.

His breathing is unsteady, and his pupils are pinned. Even before I slide my hand over his thigh, I know that his cock is hard. He is aroused, excited, by the prospect of fucking Nicholas and I, with or without the girl.

Nicholas cups his cheek, turning his head so that they can kiss, and I move to my knees in the cramped little walkway to undo his trousers. As the kiss between the two deepens, I free his cock, stroking along its soft skin, before lowering my head and taking him into my mouth.

He moans into the kiss as I acquaint myself with the flavor of his flesh, the salty sweetness chased by the slightly bitter tang of precum on my tongue. His breath is sobbed in pleasure as Nicholas opens his shirt, parting the fabric to expose his chest, the skin bare of hair and his nipples innocently pink. The left one is pierced. His ribs suck against his skin as he gasps, his head rolling back on his neck, exposing the column of his throat, the hard cartilage of his voice box prominent.

A droplet of blood escapes Nicholas’ lips as he suckles at his throat, the coppery smell ripe and rich against the scent of skin as Nicholas’ thumb smears it away.

Under my tongue, the man’s cock swells with the frisson proceeding orgasm and he cries out as he begins to pump, the semen spraying against the back of my throat in squirts that I swallow down to mix in my stomach with the girl’s blood.

As I lean back licking my lips, I meet Nicholas’ eyes. The brunette has passed out, his head lolling on Nicholas’ shoulder and he idly strokes his hair as he watches me rise and refill the champagne, washing away the taste of blood and cum.

“Now what?” Nicholas asks, knowing that there is more to this than meets the eye.

“Now we take these two, and lay them on Rory’s bed,” I tell him, smirking over the rim of my champagne glass. “A new breeding pair.”

“Why?” Nicholas is confused.

“To mitigate his anger when I kill his favorite blood slave,” I explain.

“Val,” Nicholas sighs. “Why not just please yourself with these two and leave it as that?”

Like brothers, we bicker between ourselves. We are bound together in servitude to Casimir, after all, and not by choice. It will not be the first time that our frustrations with each other are expressed through the death of a blood slave, however, it always results in an ongoing battle, or vendetta, that plays out sometimes over decades, and Nicholas, the peacemaker, hates it when we argue openly amongst ourselves.

“Because that would be boring,” I reply honestly as the limousine pulls up at the house we have rented for this leg of the tour. The lights are on. We keep blood slaves both as a steady supply of food and because they can move about in the day and do those things that make our lives generally more pleasant like rent houses, and organize clothing, pay bills – but they keep long hours in order to serve us at night too, and while we have been out hunting, they have been packing, preparing for our departure. Now that dawn approaches, they too will begin to retire.

“Come on Nicholas,” I carry the girl from the car. “I promise I won’t let Rory know that you helped me.”

“He’ll know anyway,” Nicholas sighs but picks up the man, and follows me. “My scent is all over this one.”

We arrange the pair on the bed. As if sensing the danger that they are in, they curl into each other, embracing each other in their sleep. Perhaps they will continue to find comfort in each other as blood slaves. It will make things easier on them if they at least like each other if Rory breeds them together as the gift is meant to suggest that he should do.

“He will like this,” Nicholas comments, his hand resting on my shoulder. “He will pout and complain about the slave you take, but he will like this gift. It is a smart move, Val.”

“I didn’t do it to please him,” I sneer.

“I know,” Nicholas sighs a little. “You did it to prove that you are more clever than he is. That you can take something from him, something he values, without cost to yourself… Now, when he complains about it, the others will point out that you gave him something more valuable back. And every time he looks at this pair or the child that he makes from them, it will remind him that you won this round.”

“You flatter me, Nicholas,” I laugh as we leave the room, closing the door behind us. “You think I am more conniving than I am. I gave him these two just to distract him. When he returns home and finds them there, and smells us on them, he will need to take them for himself, to replace our scent in his room with his own, and his favorites will be sent out while he does. I will be able to take the one I want, and tomorrow night, when Rory wakes, I will have left the body at the foot of his door.”

Nicholas’ sigh this time is heavy and dredged from deep within. “I prefer my version,” he says as he opens the door to his room. “Try not to get yourself killed by Rory before I see you again,” he says before closing it behind him.

“I won’t,” I murmur and find myself a spot to wait. It does not take long before Rory returns to the house. Within moments, his favorites leave him to his new entertainment, closing the door behind them.

“Thank fuck for that,” the other one says under his breath. “I am exhausted.”

“Get some rest,” the one I am after replies with warmth. “I won’t be far behind you.” My target heads to the office on this floor and opens the laptop on the table there. He makes himself comfortable and begins to watch a TV show.

I walk up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder, letting him know that I am there.

He looks up at me, surprise and wariness crossing his face. “Master Valentine?” He asks.

“Come with me,” I gesture for him to rise with two fingers curling towards my palm.

“Oh… but…” He knows that this is wrong and that Rory will not like it – but he knows that he cannot deny a vampire and if he does, I am within my right to kill him. He is dead anyway, but he does not know that.

“Come with me,” I repeat, and reluctantly he does, closing the laptop on his show, and following me across the landing to my room. I close the door and stand with my back against it while he looks up at me uncertainly. “Undress.”

“Master…” He obeys but his hands shake. “Master Rory…”

“Is not here,” I cross to my chest and open it, lifting the false top out to expose the array of BDSM contents within. I take out the black rope. It is not the same, but it will be enough to send the message, and Rory will know what I have done. “Hands out,” I cross to stand before the naked slave.

“Master?” He is hesitant.

“Doesn’t Rory ever tie you down while he takes you?” I arch an eyebrow. “I doubt that very much.”

“No,” he says in barely a whisper. “He does not like to tie us, or to be tied.”

Interesting. Perhaps he had tied me down at Casimir’s demand, or because I was a fighter? I bind the slave’s wrists together as I contemplate the past, before dragging out the desk. “Lean over this.”

“Master…” He has begun to be afraid, perhaps sensing his demise. “Have I displeased you in some way?”

“No,” I soften my expression, and stroke my fingers through his hair, cupping his cheek on the palm of my hand. “You please me a great deal.”

“Okay,” he relaxes into a smile, leaning into my hand and closing his eyes relishing the touch. “I am glad that I please you.”

I do not have it in me to cause him pain, and, after tying him over the table, I take him gently, pressing kisses over his shoulders, caressing his skin, before using my grip in his hair to turn his head, exposing his neck to my teeth. I bring him tenderly to orgasm as I reach my own. He does not know it when he dies, going gently into death on the final shudders of pleasure, his heart stuttering out from the blood loss. I lie over him for a long time, glutted with blood, fighting to keep it down, my stomach feeling stretched and swollen, before easing free of him carefully.

I keep his wrists bound but free him from the table, lying him on the bed. His expression is peaceful. It is as good a death as death can be. There had been no pain, only pleasure.

I shower my skin free of him, and dress, before wrapping him in a blanket, and I carry him across to Rory’s door. I have to dodge the sharp rays of dawn that pick their way through the curtains as I return to my room and lie in my bed staring at the ceiling sleepless.

Regret. I do not feel it often after feeding. It is something more akin to Nicholas than to me, but I feel it now. It will be better when Rory wakes, I comfort myself, and I can revel in his outrage and pain.

Eventually, I slip into sleep, only to be woken by Rory’s roar as he unwraps my present. It is early evening, the sky orange and pink, its power over us lost, and the household is awake. I can hear the motors of the vans and cars coming to collect our possessions and take us home.

I stay in bed until the door is flung open and Rory storms in, the slave’s body held in his arms. “You cunt!” He is caught between rage and pain, his eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. “You fucking arsehole, Valentine.”

I yawn and stretch, before folding back the covers and rising elegantly from the bed. “What is the problem, Rory?” I sneer at him. “It’s just a blood slave. I felt like a midnight snack, and he was convenient.”

“He was mine,” Rory says through his teeth, spittle foaming. “And you knew that. You took him because of that…”

“Did I?” I smirk dangerously. “And why would I do that, Rory?”

His nostrils flare, but sense has fought its way through his grief. “Fuck you,” he says and turns, taking the slave with him.

I breathe in, closing my eyes, enjoying his pain, before releasing the breath. Yes. That was better. “I win.”