The Dark Lord Soul Searches

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Dark Lord: Soul Searches Copyright © 2004 Carys Weldon Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.Extasybooks.com

Acknowledgments: Special thanks to the Extasy staff: editors Stef Kelsey and Sara Lunsford, as well as my cover artist, Martine Jardin.

Dedication: To Tony, master of my fantasies.

Introduction

M

ogda made love to his wife every night. That is to say...he appeared in her chamber after drinking up his courage. Once there, he divested himself of his clothing, went to the foot of her bed, stripped the blanket from her—climbed up between her legs and pumped his seed into her. It didn't take long. It is no surprise that she didn't really welcome the attention, and he didn't linger. They never talked of hopes or dreams. They never discussed the one issue between them; the fact that despite repeated attempts, they had no children. Forget the facts that she had never wanted to marry him, he had made a bargain with her father, bought her, and hidden her in a tower. Each time Mogda left her, Fayley rose, cleansed herself, and went naked to her prison's balcony—to let the winds wash the rest of his scent, and the memory of the event from her. She was so lonely, so sad, that she often cried to the Fates, “Please...let me die.” The breeze carried her words away, accompanied by her sweet moans of heartache. And if she closed her eyes, she claimed to hear a

voice answering... a man... asking repeatedly, “Where are you? My one precious... where are you? ” She believed he was real, that he was desperately looking for her. A small smile curled her lips. She answered the wind with, “I am lost. ” Some say that Fayley had lost her mind—talking to a voice no one else could hear. Her handmaiden said the conversation was always the same. Fayley would grasp the post, press her temple against it, with a single tear escaping down her cheek, and whisper, “Would you come for me? ” This happened right before dawn, of course. And before the howl of hell tore loose, echoing over the land in bellows of pure agony. That is the most terrible sound on all of Ziadore. It marks the morn and the last drip of moonlight. Sweeping out from the bowels of The Wretches, over The Boiling Salts, across all that is inhabited. The howl of hell is a grim reminder that the Dark Lord has searched again—and that victims of his fanged fury are going to be found in the light of day.

Carys Weldon

Chapter One

M

ogda knew his wife was fragile. Her skin was translucent, so much so that the blue veins beneath were easily visible. He feared for her health and safety. Locking her in the tower was simply his way of protecting her from disease and danger…and the Dark Lord. And it kept him from ravaging her more. He was consumed with the desire. Repeated attempts to show affection were not gaining him favor with her, though. Mogda was no fool. He realized that she took no pleasure from his ministrations. He also knew that his lack of selfcontrol was the problem. He never engaged in foreplay. Mogda paced his own chamber. In front of the mirror, he took stock of himself. He was a handsome man of good stature. By all accounts, save his wife’s, he was charming, witty, thoroughly attractive. Lifting his chin, he eyed the visage, “It is not the outer package that is the problem.” That led him to examine his equipment. Freeing his manhood from his trousers, he said, “The size is not unmanageable.”

1

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches Rubbing himself to erection, picturing his wife naked, he groaned in pleasure at the sure knowledge that his cock would erupt shortly. Indeed, it didn’t take much coaxing. He squirted the juices onto the floor with a smile, noting aloud, “It functions perfectly.” Then he frowned, “Why is my wife not pregnant?” Such a flower, the epitome of the perfect woman quiet, beautiful beyond words, dutiful surely she was not barren? He didn’t tell his wife, but he called the bone thrower to ask the question. Mogda wasted no words. “Hag, tell me if my wife is barren.” Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The slap of the old crone’s tongue went quickly against the roof of her mouth. The woman’s beady eyes darted back and forth in rapid succession. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Throw your bones!” Mogda was embarrassed enough to ask. He didn’t want to be assessed further or drag out the procedure. Already his desire to be with his wife again was making him antsy. He hated waiting for night to fall. The witch jumped, yanked her pouch of bones from her rope belt and pried it open, muttering under her breath. “Don’t curse me, old woman. Just throw your bones.” “I’ll throw them, I will.” She mumbled under her breath, “And I’ll curse you if I want.” She tossed the bones out, spying them with several minutes of hock and snort in her throat, disgusting Mogda a-purpose. When he demanded, “What do they say? Speak!” She spit on his floor, gathered her things, and said,

2

Carys Weldon “Queen will have a child.” Surprised, thrilled, Mogda strutted like a peacock—straight to his wife’s room—in order to give it to her at once, while the Fates willed it. Fayley rested upon her bed, being a creature whose nights ruled her world. Unsuspecting of the visit, she slept peacefully, dreaming of a dark and suave lover, a shadow that reached into her dreams, suckled her at every pulse point…caused her to arch in her lonely bed, like a wanton in the throes of passion. It was to this that Mogda walked in. Seeing his wife through the filtered sunlight of sheer draped curtains—for the first time in ages—in such a state of obvious passion…the likes of which he had never witnessed…Mogda paused in his purpose: the loosing of his vestiture. Fayley sighed to her sweet dream lover, “My lord…please…” She literally begged for more. She cupped her own breasts, drew the nipples to a peak. Mogda wasted no time crawling into his wife’s bed to do her bidding. At her command, he ran his tongue over nearly inch of her body, serviced her between her legs with it—repeatedly, and wet her nipples with his laving before he fell to the suckling she next pleaded for. Her soft whimperings drove him crazy. Drove him into her with abandon. And that is when her eyes flew open in shock. Her fantasy lover never took her roughly. Indeed, their affair never went that far. Mogda’s attentions were rough, his desire so fevered, that he had no control— and that is something the man of her dreams had more of than was reasonable. Or so it seemed to her.

3

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches Fayley suffered Mogda that one last time. From that point forward, she locked her door from the inside. It was just as well. Her courses never came again. She was pregnant. The handmaiden gave her lord the news. Mogda stopped coming to Fayley’s door, changing in the twinkling of an eye. And so did his fortunes. He had never been a poor man, but his coin grew and grew with his exaggerated confidence and reputation. He bought more land, and before long, he owned all that he could see—all the way to The Boiling Salts.

4

Carys Weldon

Chapter Two

F

ayley took great care once she was pregnant. She listened to the witch solicitously, took her potions frequently. You see, Fayley had summoned the hag, too, on the same morn that Mogda did. Not long after, actually. Their meeting was much different, though, and representative of Fayley’s respect for others. When the hag first appeared at Fayley’s request, the handmaiden let her in. She could have been killed for it, if Mogda had ever heard. The queen was supposed to receive no visitors. But witches cover their deeds with spells, you know. And those who believe, and serve, are never done wrong. Fayley, dressed in a modest sheath with bell sleeves, gestured for her guest to sit. When the hag looked around, Fayley smiled and offered, “Please… this chair is most comfortable. Are you thirsty?” Before the witch could nod, Fayley poured her a drink. Then she dropped to her knees in front of the guest, and asked, “May I wash your feet?” It wasn’t a complaint against dirty, stinking feet, either. Fayley honored the hag for coming to her. The

5

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches bone thrower let her do it, watching with squinted eyes the whole time, and occasionally clucking her tongue on the top of her palate, but she didn’t say a word. Not until Fayley got to the business. “I need your help.” “Aye. I expected as much.” Fayley’s eyes filled with tears and she whispered, “I have no children. I am so lonely I could die.” The witch sniffed and puckered her lips in thought. “I will read my bones for you.” But the bones carried bad news. Fayley was not meant to have children. The witch had lied to Mogda in hopes that he would foolishly preen like a peacock—and never see his desire come to fruition. She wanted him to become a laughing stock. But now, the witch had care. She wanted the queen to have her heart’s hope. Sniffing repeatedly, the hag read the bones again and again looking for anything that would offer a possibility. Fayley, too, leaned over them—looking for the answer, hoping that the Fates had good news. But the witch finally had to sit back and say, “I am sorry.” Fayley blinked, “You are sorry? What do you mean?” Panic raced across her features. A sudden thought occurred to the witch. She put a finger in the air. It was unclean, crooked, and scarred. Her beady eyes shot in opposite directions then twirled cross-eyed in their sockets. She went into a trance. Fayley sat through the morning hours watching the hag who did nothing. The handmaiden came and

6

Carys Weldon went. Brought food, took it away. Returned with a fresh pitcher and clean goblets. Fetched clean water and toweling for Fayley to wash with. Washed her fingers and face when Fayley, too, appeared to be stone. The witch finally came out of her experience. She matter-of-factly stated, “We must do a ceremony.” The handmaiden was enlisted to retrieve supplies. Salt was poured in a circle around Fayley. Five candles were set at points along the circle. Before they were lit, the witch took Fayley’s hands and told her, “You can barter with the Fates. I will call them and you will be asked a single question. Think carefully before you answer. The Fates are tricky.” Fayley was so grateful, she hugged the witch. And then she raised her face to the rafters and whispered, “I am ready.” Muttering unintelligible things, the witch sprinkled something on the floor. Fayley never peeked. The powder formed lines between the candles, creating a star around the queen. “I am lighting the first candle.” More words that Fayley did not understand. “Fire, of course, so that we may clearly see.” She moved to the second, “With this one, I call the wind. It is your friend.” Fayley smiled. The wind had ever brought her pleasure. It carried the voice that gave her hope. “I am lighting the third.” Again, the crone said things that Fayley could not discern. “Water.” She muttered, “Cleanse.” Fayley nodded. “The fourth…is a candle for earth.” She didn’t

7

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches elaborate on the importance of that, but I will tell you…from the bowels of the planet come great power. It is where the Dark Lord resides. The hag moved to the last candle. “Fifth one is lit. Be still.” A light breeze rolled through the open balcony doors, swishing the fabric hanging there, swooping in and around the circle, causing the candlelight to ebb and flow, lifting the ends of Fayley’s hair, pressing her dress against her form, outlining the sensual curves of the dainty woman. Fayley heard whispers rise up around her. They asked, “What do you want? Why have you called us?” The witch prompted her. “Tell them your heart’s desire.” Fayley surprised herself by hesitating. Vacillating between asking for a babe, or the appearance of her dream lover, she allowed uncertainty to stutter her tongue. “Speak quickly. They have others calling.” Fayley blurted, “I want a child,” but a part of her pined for the other. “What would you give for it?” The Fates danced like sprites around her, skipping over the pentagram at her feet. Confused, Fayley frowned, repeating, “What would I give for it?” The witch hissed, “Careful.” Fayley didn’t know what to say, though. She answered simply, “My life? Anything I have?” “Done!”

8

Carys Weldon The breeze blew out the candles. It was over. Fayley opened her eyes and looked carefully around. The pentacle, at one point, had caught fire. She never noticed. It was merely ash now, a burn mark in the floor. The witch sadly shook her head, not looking Fayley in the eye. She collected her things and left, mumbling, “We should have waited until dark. We should have talked more—before.” So, the news that Fayley was with child was bittersweet. Fayley did not know how she would be asked to pay for the gift the Fates had given her. All she could do was love it while she drew breath. She made her handmaiden and the hag both promise that they would watch out for her child, if she died. But as time passed, Fayley let worry slip away.

9

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Three

T

he winds blew with fury the night Fayley birthed her daughter. Through great pain, all the long hours of the day, and much blood, she suffered. The torment was so awful, so terribly intense, that she cried at the top of her lungs, “Please…let me die!” The Dark Lord had searched to the far reaches of all that was. Every night, he looked for the one precious that spoke to him—even when he slept. And every night, when dawn approached, and his search proved futile once again, he roared with his fury and frustration. The howl of hell, they called it. Ringer of the dawn. He was heading for The Wretches one more time, anger welling up inside of him, when he heard it. The wind carried Fayley’s pitiful cry swept around the Dark Lord, driven by the Fates, who play tricks on men and demons alike. The Dark Lord made no mistake in discerning what the sound was. He knew her cry. He had heard it before. It echoed through the ages. Through the endless days and nights of his curse. A thousand years and he still had not found her the companion that could save him an eternity of the

10

Carys Weldon nightmare he'd lived. His one true love. He was running out of time. In truth, they were running out of time. For she was cursed, too. Her soul was endlessly looped to live again and again, in torment of missing his love… until he freed them. Fayley’s cry was one of pain, not a rapturous calling to her dream lover, and it was wrenched from the depths of her soul. Some say that it is this common anguish that called him. Others say that it was the scent of her blood that drew him to the balcony that night. After all, he was the king of vampires. Still, there are more that say the Fates laughed as they led him there by the wind. Imagine the anguish of a man, already cursed to rip flesh, suck blood…who has looked for this companion for nearly a thousand years—and the fury and pain he felt to arrive at her bed’s foot—to find her abandoned, dripping with blood. There was a horrible pool of it, they say. The Dark Lord waded through it, climbed right up into the crimson mess and drew her into his arms, cradling her with horror in his eyes. Now, this was the creature that ravaged innocents every night, that took life without a qualm, that sometimes got so angry that he ripped flesh from the bones of his victims, mauling them with his teeth until they were unrecognizable, slurping and lapping their blood greedily. But Fayley’s handmaiden said… “He was a man. A beautiful man, so handsome, so desperately in love— so tortured by the loss of….”

11

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches Let me tell you this, the night that Fayley died—the howl of hell became howls. The handmaiden says that the dawn was almost upon them, that the Dark Lord was not moving to leave…that she feared the worst for him. She was forced into whispering, “The dawn, my lord.” Yes, she admits to lurking near the drapes, running for her life at the first sound of him on the balcony. Knowing what awaited him… it would have been foolish not to. She said his soulful eyes were dark and empty when he looked up at her. He didn’t care a whit about the dawn. He’d lost his precious…again. And worse, he knew she had suffered—worse than ever. You see, the Fates played this game over and over. One precious-her soul looped through endless bodiesprotected by the Fates from the Dark Lord until her dying breath. He had lost her again, but this time…it was true agony. This time, he’d been able to spend dreams with her. They had made love—a million ways—remembered the taste of the very thing they had been cursed for. Would the next body that held the one precious be able to communicate so freely? Less than twenty years before the curse became permanent—the Dark Lord dared not hope for it. He grieved. Where had they hidden his precious now? The Dark Lord sniffed Fayley’s body. Yes. It was her. The elusive scent that tortured his every waking moment, and all his sleeping ones, too. A soul trails its own signature, you know. The handmaiden felt obligated to press, “The

12

Carys Weldon dawn, my lord. It comes. You must leave.” Pressing a kiss to Fayley’s bloodless lips, running his thumb over the thin and veined skin at her temple, the Dark Lord whispered, breaking up in tears, “I came for you.” But he was distraught, broken. He was too late. The Dark Lord is human, I tell you. He is a man cursed. And a man that knows a love that we can not even guess at. The handmaiden claims that she went to the balcony, and screeched, “The sun! It comes! You have to leave!” And then she went to the bed and pulled Fayley’s body from his embrace, drew him by the arm to the balcony and urged him, “Please! The dawn!” Why would a handmaiden do this? Because she is a true romantic? Because she is a handmaiden to the Fates? And the Dark Lord’s story doesn’t end here? Perhaps all of the above. Fayley’s babe was taken from the chamber, swaddled, carried to her father along with the news that his wife was dead. There was no celebration in Mogda’s house. In the greatest trick yet, the Fates had sent the one precious into her own daughter’s body. The very house that the Dark Lord would never bring himself to enter again… was the one place where his precious drew her breath. And at his close proximity, she slept the restful sleep of a babe.

13

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Four

I

t took a long time for Mogda’s house to recover from the loss of their queen. In fact, the baby was never announced to the world. Like a miser, Mogda hoarded his daughter’s company. But that didn’t stop him from fearing the worst— that she, too, would be taken from him. Perhaps that is due to the witch’s parting words on the night that the Dark Lord graced Mogda’s lands. She said, “Send word out that you have been given a daughter.” Stubbornly, Mogda refused. “No.” “They will hear anyway. You can’t keep it a secret.” “Yes, I can.” The witch pursed her lips. She saw auras. She had been present at the birth. She witnessed Fayley’s soul leaving one body, entering the other. She assured Mogda, “She is precious.” He looked down at the little babe. Mogda didn’t realize the import of her words. “Someone will come for her.” Mogda’s head came up. “What?” “The coming of age will bring them. I have seen it

14

Carys Weldon in my bones.” Mogda didn’t understand her babblings. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—but I’ll keep her safe.” The truth is, Mogda loved his daughter on sight. As he truly loved Fayley. But he was cursed with impotent love. (That is another story.) “Fool. That child has a destiny. You cannot keep her from it.” “Cease with your threats, you crazy old woman.” Mogda squeezed his infant daughter to him as he stood up, but she didn’t cry, which made him pause to look at her with worry. He checked her clothing to make sure that it was not too tightly bound. Concern in his eyes, he never noticed the smile on the hag’s face as she turned to go. At the door, she hesitated, and looked over her shoulder. “The Dark Lord knew your wife.” Mogda, again, looked up at the hag. “She was a creature of the night—and you know it. She loved him.” That tainted Mogda’s small joy in his daughter. He always wondered if she were truly his. And the truth that she was a daughter of the night could not be denied. The girl slept all day and was up all night. “He is up in your tower now, even as we speak.” With disgust, the crone told Mogda, “If he knew how you kept her, he would kill you.” “Get out of here.” Mogda had enough recriminations. He didn’t want to hear more. She kept it up, “He would suck the blood from every throat in your house. He would shred you to pieces. He would—”

15

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches “Enough! Take her out of here!” Her wails of threats could be heard all the way down the hall. And that prompted him to order, “Stop her cursing tongue!” Mogda’s men interpreted it on their own. The crone never drew another breath. Guards confirmed that the Dark Lord had visited the house. Mogda decreed, “I never want to hear his name again! Ever! I’ll kill anyone who speaks of the fiend!” This, of course, didn’t extend to his own tongue. As his daughter grew, he told her terrible stories about the Dark Lord—all truths. His legend became worse by the day, as the thousand years drew near.

16

Carys Weldon

Chapter Five

S

creams of pain. The stench of death. Horror rose invisibly from the sweltering, folding fog of the boggy marsh leading to a place known only as The Wretches. Her wrists bound, a chastity belt heavy about her waist, Seerda feared her fate. Her gown, nothing more than a sheer, ankle length, chemise sheath kept tripping her up. Stumbling barefooted, dragged by her captors at a terse pace, tears leaking from her eyes…she gave up hope of rescue, stopped the whimpering sobs that had crawled from her throat for miles. The soles of her feet were painfully and repeatedly sliced by the rock shards littering the mossy thorn patches of land between the roiling geysers and stagnant ponding. A faint, bloody trail marked her path. But, at this point, numbness—her only solace—encompassed her. When they first entered The Boiling Salts, Seerda knew she was doomed. What hero could possibly rescue her from The Wretches? Seerda tripped to her face several times in a row, was yanked to her feet, and slipped again. She couldn’t help it. The ground between the rocks and thorns oozed slime from pocketed wormholes.

17

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches Peering at it didn’t help. The fog wafted thickly in front of her eyes. Only when she was on her belly could she make out the terrain, see the bubbles and squirting geysers that had her soaked to the skin. Occasionally the fork-tongued slinkers peeked at the cause of quaking that her incessant falling created, but they didn’t rear their ugly, warted heads above the level of the earth. The wraiths snatched and ate them like snacks. Their scummy, jagged teeth made the sight stomach-curdling. More and more, the further they advanced into the bogs, the salty air slid down Seerda’s throat, coating the insides, forcing her to attempt the clearing. Every time she gagged, dry heaved or puked, the wraiths laughed. At one juncture, when her face-first landing resulted in a mouthful of worm waste, they gathered round, pointed, guffawed. Seerda was allowed to spit over and over again while they belly-patted, heads to the upper fog layers. The sound was nasty—a squealing echo bouncing around her. When it subsided, in a language Seerda couldn’t begin to guess at, the wraiths who’d stolen her from her bed discussed the price they would receive for the virgin daughter of Mogda. Their coming of age gift to the dark lord, like all the gifts being presented, would be rewarded. Her ears perked at the name of her father-the only word that was familiar. Seerda spit again, “He will kill you!” But she knew he wouldn’t. Her father was a weak, sick man—lying on his deathbed—not commanding his forces. And his chief guardsmen had joined leagues with his

18

Carys Weldon enemies. For a price, the oafs had been let in. Her father’s throat had been slit. No thought had been given to the keyed lock on her chastity belt. It didn’t matter, really. Behind her, past the waves of fog, her father’s house, and all his holdings, were charring in the high winds, fed by Fate. She was lucky to be alive, and didn’t even know it. She understood the response to her threat-well enough. The squeals rose again. The sound made her ill, sliced through her brain. Time lost meaning. Seerda became disoriented. She passed out to the tune. It was welcome relief. And there, in the oblivion, her consciousness found completion—something only found in her sleep. A shadowy lover appeared, whispered, “Where are you?” “I am lost.” The words tumbled from her lips without thought. The shadow drew closer, lifted her gently and whispered, “I told you I would come for you.” But it was just a dream, and too soon, Seerda woke. Forced to stumble on, she tried to lose herself in memories. Playing in the tower. Dancing on the star. Lighting the candles on its points every night. Twirling in the night, holding hands with the skipping Fates, her sprite friends. It was an odd thing, to travel with wraiths who found cover during the day and made ground at night. They could see through the dark. And when she didn’t move fast enough, they scooped her up and carried her. She often passed out in their arms.

19

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Six

S

eerda woke briefly at the gates of hell. The portal to The Wretches. Etched in stone, she read: THE DARK LORD DWELLS WITHIN. Of course, she fainted. The fount of blood waters was ignored. So, too, was the warning: NO UNCLEAN THING WILL SURVIVE THE DARK LORD’S WRATH. Nightmares assailed Seerda as the wraiths carried her body through the cavernous labyrinth of tunnels that led to The Wretches Proper. She twisted, writhed, suffered something akin to spiritual death with every level they dropped through. In the haunting visions, her imaginary hero wrenched himself repeatedly from her clinging arms. And then he was sucked out of reach altogether. She felt the desertion like a physical blow. Each time, it grew worse, pains sliced through her belly with more force. And each time, she thought she could not bear it again, but her mind’s eye searched the dark recesses for him again—ran to him, clung. Over and over it happened. By the time her escorts reached their destination, the light within her was all but snuffed. Her breathing

20

Carys Weldon shallowed. Her pulse slowed. In short, Seerda embraced death. Worm waste poisoned her, inducing a coma. It was only a matter of time. Taken to an altar room, Seerda’s body slumped where she was dumped, half on her side, arms draped in a flop over the edge. Her long, raven hair tangled everywhere, dripped down the sides of the altar in coils. Thick lashes fanned across pale cheeks. A ruby bow of lips accented the tint of her pallor. Oblivious to the care of a woman, or those susceptible to worm waste poisoning, the wraiths dropped to the dirt, rested against the cave walls, and waited for the time of the ceremonies. It was only by luck that a servant of the Dark Lord happened upon them. This would have been worse than the last, you know. Fayley’s death—literally at the edges of the Dark Lord’s dominion. But now—Seerda was actually being delivered into The Wretches itself. To find her dead—just outside his door—on the last day? You can only guess at what the Fates play. Clucking in disgust at the putrid stench the wraiths brought in from the bogs, the servant commanded in their tongue, “Fools. Did you not wash? Go back or die.” They grumbled to their feet, discussing the carrying of their gift back up the long and arduous path. That’s when he noted their offering. Click. Click. Pop. “What is this?” “A gift.” The squeals rose up. They were very

21

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches proud of themselves. Pop. Pop. “Stop. He will hear you.” Their noise ceased immediately. The servant lifted a coil of hair, leaned forward to examine the face, sniffed. “Is it for the feast?” The grumbling started up. One voice rose above the rest. “It is the virgin daughter of Mogda.” Pop. Click. Click. “Fools! You have killed it. He likes his food fresh.” Grumbling again, they gathered closer. Several leaned in, like he had done, they lifted her hair, sniffed around her, prodded her legs and arms. One pushed on her back. Seerda’s body lost its balance and she nearly rolled off the altar. The oaf that saved her, bruised her roughly with a fast hand to her sternum. Seerda’s stomach gave up once more, and by the Fates, she awoke in the midst of it. Eerie, blurry torchlight penetrated her wasted eyes as she tried to lift her head. Weak, she wondered if she was dead, where she was. In the waiting place, perhaps? In relief, she closed her eyes. A smile tipped her lips. She was grateful to be there. To be done with the ugly wraiths and their never ending journey toward hell. Click. Pop. “You must clean it.” Seerda’s captors grumbled. The servant shrugged. “Do not wash. It is your choice.” Leaving them, he clicked his tongue once more. “Fools. Clean the gift at least.” A wraith reached with a clawed, reptilian arm, stopping the servant. “Where? Do not tell me there is no fount of blood here. It rises from the bowels of The

22

Carys Weldon Wretches Proper.” He snarled for accentuation. Click. Click. The servant’s gaze narrowed. Click. “The altar stone covers a blood bath.” They let him go. Without ease, Seerda’s limp body was dragged and dropped, the four-inch stone of the altar table’s top was forced aside and wraiths leaned over the open bath. Bubbling red waters swished, a tail of something within sliced through the surface ripples. They backed up, debated the placing of their gift in such a pot. To it all, Seerda was oblivious. A noise from outside the chamber prodded them into action. Seerda was lifted and unceremoniously splashed into the murky depths. As a group, their claws pushed her under completely, held her there for a soak. Drowning, sucking in the blood waters… that forced Seerda’s lids open. Terrified at this latest torture, she fought for freedom—and air. They held her down with laughing squeals. She pried at their claws with her own slim fingers, which were still bound. And rising from the depths, came the serpent of the blood fountain. She opened her mouth to scream at the toad headed kelpie—a creature she’d never seen or heard of—with eyes as big as her fist and lips that stretched wide—as if to eat her face. It blew down her throat, then sucked—cleansing her—saving her life. She stopped fighting. And the wraiths dragged her up. Right before her lips broke the water, the serpent

23

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches let go of her and dove for the bottom. Seerda sputtered. She did some clawing of her own, desperate to get free of them all. Their paws were everywhere. Seerda gasped, “Let me go!” They grumbled. One deciphered her words and gave a command. As a unit, they released her. She almost slipped back into the bath. With a squeal, she clutched at the side. “Help!” Another grumbling, pawing bit of assistance ensued. Finally, they yanked Seerda out of the waters completely, held her aloft while the top was replaced, then dumped her once again onto the cold slab counter. Her chemise, now tainted red, clung to her form. The full round of her breasts were nippled from the cool waters, but the wraiths never noticed. Shivering, her knees drawn up, she watched them. Her lips trembled. She licked them and managed to ask, “Where am I?” “Wretches.” Seerda sniffed, turning her head to the one wraith that spoke her language. “Why?” “Gift.” Closing her eyes, Seerda tried to make sense of it all. Snatched from her bed, dragged through the bogs, poisoned, nearly drowned. Brought to The Wretches. Gift. She asked, “For who?” Grumbles. “Dark Lord.” Fear strangled her. Seerda’s eyes widened. She begged, “No! Please…” The servant interrupted. Click. Click. “Good. It is clean. He waits. Bring.”

24

Carys Weldon Once again, Seerda suffered the manhandling of the oafish wraiths. She pleaded repeatedly, crying for mercy, but to no avail. At the door to a closed chamber, the servant turned and demanded, “Cease!” Seerda’s lips snapped shut. So did her eyes. She did not want to see the Dark Lord. He would probably eat her in a vicious attack. He was an ogre with no mercy. Everyone knew that. Her father had uttered those words a million times.

25

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Seven

T

he Dark Lord had another name. He had many, actually. Monster. Beast. Fanged One. Those were among his reputation. He preferred to be called Master by most. And truth be told, he could not remember what he was called before the curse. When the vault opened, and Seerda was brought forward, Master had grown bored. A long succession of deliveries had stolen his interest. He did little more than quirk a brow and tweak a finger—for the last gift and bearers to be removed. He had lost hope and interest in everything. But the stench from the wraiths was unmistakable. It would have raised the dead. Indeed, it did. Master’s head came up at the second the door cracked. His nostrils drew in tightly, and he sat forward, eyeing the miscreants with disfavor, sniffing with sudden interest. A quick glance at his servant, the one whose only job was to remind the visitors to wash, assured him that they had been told. He knew that many of his minions could not read, or were too stupid to heed the written warnings at the portal. Fair enough, he gave them the one last opportunity to cleanse for his

26

Carys Weldon presence. Seerda’s constitution was at its most vulnerable. At the sheer thought of being gifted to the Dark Lord, she passed out again, just as the door was pulled upon. Reflexive action—maybe. Whatever caused it, she was brought lifelessly before Master, placed on the silk sheeted steps near his feet. More concerned with the wraith’s apparent lack of manners, and their smell—which teased Master’s senses enough to make him sneeze several times in quick succession, he commanded, “What is this?” Grumbling. “Gift, Master.” Servant muttered, “Fools.” The wraith’s swiveled their heads toward the servant. Master raised his hand, and they were mown down by something they never saw coming— something so horrible and final—so quick, their ashes were swept from the room in a burst of energy that blew the doors wide. Master waited for the disgusting waste to be removed completely, and the doors to be closed again, before he glanced down, assailed by another bout of sneezes. And only then did he look— because Seerda moaned. With a slow tilt of his head, the handsome Dark Lord set eyes on the one gift of the day that had any value to him. It was clean—evidenced by the damp pink of chemise fabric, the still wet coils of ebony that covered the steps, dripped across the silk and trickled into a tiny low spot. Master’s lips popped open with an inner tsk of wonder. Seerda’s lashes fluttered. Her tongue slipped

27

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches through her lips to gingerly wet the ruby bow. She moaned softly once more. And, surprise to all who remained in the chamber, the Dark Lord dropped to one knee—to examine this prize that had been laid at his feet. The servant clicked. “It is the daughter of Mogda.” “Shh.” Master’s expression was filled with wonder. Never had he seen such a creature. Pale as alabaster stone. He reached out and touched her cheek. Cold. His fingers strayed to the ringlet closest. Silk strands. A rope dark as his favorite place. The place where no one watched him. She moaned again. His head jerked. So did his hand. When she didn’t move, he slid his thumb across her mouth, noting the color. Thinking…Lips like fire. Without another word to his minions, Master lifted his precious from the steps and carried her to his private chamber. As he carried her, she stirred. Her bound hands fisted, clutching at his surcoat. She whispered, “Please… Let me die.” Butterfly lashes skittered, then rose as her head fell back and she took her first look at the Dark Lord. His jaw clenched. His grip tightened. He strode with purpose. Her ear against his chest-she heard no heartbeat. None but her own. And it thumped a tremendous beat, pulsing through her, thrumming to her core. Master’s appeal was compelling. Even without a look. Before they ever tasted of one another… She whispered, “I am lost.” Master paused then, and looked down at her. A silent tear trickled over her cheek. He watched it

28

Carys Weldon gather, bubble at the corner of her eye and make its way over her skin. There was romance in the look, the contemplation he gave it, in the ache that filled them both at that moment. For the truth was, they were both lost.

29

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Eight

T

he moment of connected souls was abruptly cut short by the entrance of a servant. Pop. A series of quick clicks-in consternation. The jerk of Master’s gaze. A quick retreat. Mumbled apologies. Swoosh and crunch of the door closing hard and fast. Seerda watched the snap of the Dark Lord’s head, the clenching again of his jaw. His arms readjusted beneath her. That’s when she became aware of her state of dress. Mortification stole through her. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against him in defeat. She had no pride left. He moved again, hesitated, then gently laid her upon a soft pallet. For several minutes, he looked down at her. She steadfastly kept her eyes closed. But her lips parted and she licked again. She breathed as discreetly as she knew how. The Dark Lord emanated a scent… that seemed to spiral through her senses, titillating nerve endings. She sighed. She didn’t want to fight it, whatever it was. Master reached out. Once again, his finger slid into a dark coil. He rubbed the ends of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. He wondered aloud, “The

30

Carys Weldon daughter of Mogda. What is your name, I wonder?” Tightly, she fought the urge to look at him. The pressure of his body easing onto the mattress beside her strained her resolve. The feathery touches to her cheek, again, almost undid her teary dam. It was too gentle. Where was the monstrous temper, the fury? She dared not look. Surely it was coming. Master surprised her. His slim fingers wrapped over hers. His one hand encompassed both fists, and reached almost to her wrists, but the hold was light. She felt the weight of him as he leaned over her. Seerda knew he was smelling her. He took his time about it. Once or twice, she felt his nose skim her skin and hair. His breath…yes…his breath whispered temptingly over her lips several times—as if he considered kissing her. When the hovering ceased its roving, and centered over her lips… She couldn’t resist any more. Looking up at him, she wondered at the drugged feeling in her veins. As if under a spell, she sighed, “Seerda.” Master smiled. His pitch eyes hooded. His nose moved ever so slightly—drawing in the scent of her again-drawing her breath—parting her lips of their own volition. She arched, rising up to meet him, but he didn’t close the gap between their lips. He kept the distance even—a mere breath—and Seerda realized it was probably the most inciting thing he could have done to her. Endless seconds ticked by. Their locked gazes spoke more than their lips could ever have said: desire smoldered between them, confusion snaked its

31

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches way, and the living thing between them begged to be uttered, demanded to be taken hold of. Seerda waited for him to say something-to touch her more. Master recoiled, regaining his equilibrium. He withdrew his hand from hers, closed his eyes and asked quietly, “Do you believe in Fate?” He believed this to be one more of the cruel tricks the Fates offered. Of course he was attracted to the daughter of Mogda—and his one precious. No wonder he smelled her at every pore. He wanted it more than anything. Enamored by the aquiline features of the Dark Lord, the thin but sexy lips, the thick lashes and cleanly defined brows… Seerda took her time in answering. Finally, she told him, “Yes.” It was a defeated admission. He peeked at her through narrowed lids. His lips curled in slight distaste, then pursed. Getting up abruptly, he turned his back on her. “You did not choose to come here.” Seerda licked her lips, worried at this turn in his demeanor. He seemed angry. She swallowed the saliva pooling at the back of her mouth. Master tipped his head. That slight sound had reached his ears, gave him pause…teased him. Once again, his jaw tightened. He snugged his surcoat down, examined his wardrobe. The Dark Lord’s outline was lean. His shoulders were relatively broad for the trimness of his form. Seerda was surprised to note his pristinely starched collar and white puffed sleeves. They stood out

32

Carys Weldon against the black that filled the room; that covered him and the bed. Even his hair. He reached up and slid a hand through it. The ends curled just over his collar. Seerda smiled at that. He surprised her, catching that expression, when he spun on his heels to look at her again. “No one told me Mogda had a daughter.” It was an accusation. He added, “A beautiful daughter.” Seerda had no doubt that heads would roll for the omission. She wondered aloud, “Would you have come for me, if you’d known?”

33

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Nine

“N

o.” Master lied. Hurt flashed over Seerda’s features, struck her to the core. Master turned away from her again. She became angry. Gall and fury, much more than sense, garnered her words. “You are right. I would never have come to you willingly.” They were even. They were both lying. With that, she lifted her hands and tried to chew through the leather bindings. He could hear her. Every rustle of fabric against her skin, the fall of her hair as it wafted around her, the clench of her teeth on the dried animal-flesh ties. He refused to look again. Needing distance, he said, “You are obviously hungry.” As he headed for the door with those words—to call someone to bring her a meal—she grunted something insulting. Once again, she stopped him in his tracks. Master couldn’t help but spin again. That ceased her chewing. The insult rang familiar in his ears. He narrowed his gaze on her, and that’s when he noted the red marks edging her lips from her gnawing on the

34

Carys Weldon leather. Shaking his head, he went to her, dropped onto the bed and, with irritation, said, “Do not be foolish.” He reached for her hands. She pulled them away from her teeth and out of his reach. Master had to half crawl over her to get hold. The weight of his body on hers forced her into the pallet, crushed the breath from her. She stopped fighting him, but she continued to pout. So did he. Without much tenderness, he undid the lacings at her wrist. The second they were free, he let go. She demanded, “Get off of me.” Ineffectively, her hands pushed at his chest, pummeled him when he didn’t move right away. Master grabbed a hold of her fists. “Do not make that mistake again…Seerda. My patience has ever been thin. I would have thought my reputation preceded this meeting.” Through gritted teeth, she rejoined, “Your reputation, My Lord, is that of an ogre.” Cricking his neck in a tempered stretch, Master worked for self-control. His dark eyes bored into the crystalline blue of hers, through the dark-pupilled centers, into her soul, before he said, “I am an ogre.” They both knew it was true. He had done unspeakable things. With every turn of the moons, Master earned his place. He told her with a sneer, “My appetites define me.” Barring reason from her brain, Seerda asked, “What are you hungry for, my lord?”

35

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Ten

M

aster’s anger emanated from him in waves. His grip on her hands twisted as he grappled with it. He reasoned, “You want me to kill you.” Seerda lifted her chin. A small smile crossed her features again. He was almost out of control. She would get her wish. She was sure of it. Taunting him, she licked her lips, “How long has it been, I wonder…since you feasted on…such as I?” Master exhaled harshly several times. With every breath, he drew in her virginal scent, and his gaze narrowed more. “Go ahead.” She grinned fully. “I won’t stop you. I couldn’t if I wanted to.” Master roared then. Lifting his head to the rib of his cave in soulful unleashing, he let out the howl of hell. It empowered Seerda. She laughed. And that was her mistake…because it sent the Dark Lord beyond reason. Pressing into her with his full weight, he pushed her down into the pallet, showed her his physical strength. She tried to tighten her body, to push him away, but Master nosed against her neck, licked her

36

Carys Weldon jugular, and clamped onto that vein. The lick, the pinch, and the sting were so brief Seerda barely registered them. What she noticed immediately was the return of the feeling of drugged release, only stronger. She ceased her fighting, went limp beneath him, and let her head fall back into the bedding, allowing him room to readjust his position. Master scooped her to him, sucked greedily at the life fluid. He, too, felt euphoria. He sucked and sucked. And somewhere in the middle of the ravenous feeding, the Dark Lord heard her whisper, “Yes!” Master slid sideways, ever so slightly, dropping a leg between her thighs, pressing it without thought to the juncture of warmth the chastity belt protected. Ever so sensitive to heat and cold, to nuances of noiseMaster couldn’t mistake the gasp that breathed in shock, rising and falling, ruffling the hair at his temple. Or the second to her yes… “Do it.” Likely the hardest thing Master had ever done… he released his hold on her, pried his teeth from her throat, and looked down at the puncture marks where puckered droplets of blood. Enamored dog that he was, he licked her there—repeatedly—until the wound healed. Seerda never opened her eyes. She felt the caress of his tongue, the lap of his affections, and sighed, feeling cheated-yet oddly satiated in a drained and relaxed way. She let go of emotion. His tender ministrations, the cradling in his arms, washed over her, eased her into a nether world of peace.

37

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Eleven

M

aster worried over her: soothed her brow, kissed her forehead, and her cheeks and lips, again and again. Clinging to her, actually, he rocked her, whispered to her. “Seerda. Wake.” Eons passed. Or so it seemed to the Dark Lord. Torches in the room began to flicker. When the last one went out, his eternity would be set. He had run out of time. He had been tricked by the Fates. Sadly, he mourned his failure. Sliding her over the top of him, resting her cheek against his chest, and drawing her leg up with a hand under her thigh, Master explained to her deafened ears, “I have to sleep, Seerda. Above The Wretches, at this very moment, a terrible sun looms just beyond the fog. Sometimes it cuts through. We are safe here, though, in my refuge, but its very presence lulls me.” His keen eyesight allowed him easy vision in the growing dark. “You will come to like it here, despite the lack of light.” Curling her coils around the hand he had on her back, Master put his chin to the top of Seerda’s head. “I cannot tell you…what your arrival

38

Carys Weldon means. I loved your mother’s soul with all that I am.” The Dark Lord turned his head once again to the rib of his cave. This time he didn’t howl aloud. He pondered this gift, this precious thing that the oaf wraiths could not have understood. He wondered where Mogda had been the moment his daughter was snatched from her bed. And more, he wondered how such a creature could have walked the surface, and he have not heard of her beauty. To that thought, he found his rest. For the first time in ages, Master slept peacefully. Seerda’s pure blood flowed through him, gave him her sweet memories, teased his senses, stirring latent, long thought dead urges in the Dark Lord.

39

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Twelve

M

aster’s preferred darkness enveloped the bed, embracing the couple in its privacy. Nothing dared stir in his chamber. Not insects, nor rodents. A thousand years of searching…hoping…had come to an end. And they had not fulfilled the last requirement. Consummation. How could they? He believed she was merely a sip of the source, the one last trick. Through his darkness came trumpeting minions, followers of the beast that he’d become. His coming of age, they had called the day. Worshippers of the vampire king. The parade of gifts he’d enduredreplayed. In turn, the terrible things he’d done in the last thousand years came to mind, rushing him in bloody accusation. His desperate wanderings had turned to feastings, every time. Artery-ripping blood lusts with no care to his victims. He deserved eternal hell. He was an ogre. The Dark Lord looked down at Seerda. Even in the pitch chamber he could make out her pale, effervescent complexion. He touched where his fangs had found purchase, where her heart faintly

40

Carys Weldon threaded. Sickened, he said, “I could have killed you.” His thumb razed across her cheek, strayed to the carotid pulse time and time again. It comforted him to feel the beat of her heart there. That lulled him to resting his eyes. Master hadn’t dreamed in a long time. He’d forgotten life as a mortal, what it was like to love. And he had long since stopped dredging up those old wounds. The oblivion was a comfort. Hours into his sleep, the coursing blood of Seerda made its way, warming his chest, feeding the synapses of Master’s brain. Her soft whispers echoed in the dark. “Please… let me die. I am lost. Would you have come for me?” Cranking like a vice about his chest, his reply, “No. No. No,” squeezed the breath from him. Even in his sleep, Master was tender as he lifted her briefly to relieve the pressure that threatened his very being. The Dark Lord was anything but a liar. Honest to a fault. A thousand years and more, he had been true to his word. He had searched in every possible moment. Even in his sleep, his mind had reached for her. In a few brief moments, the one precious had twisted a lie from his lips. He would have come had he known. How could he have guessed that Mogda harbored the one torture his soul had been reaching for? How long had she walked in the light? Penetrating flashes, lightning rods of pain, seared through Master’s temples. Seerda’s memories… blinding visions of dainty, white flowers rippling under a breeze that wafted through her hair, tickled her with the end strands. Intertwined crowns of

41

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches delightfully colored flowers, with trailing ribbons…. Master fought the vision. He didn’t want to remember daylight, nor the smell of flowers under the heat of the sun. But she reached for him in her sleep. Sighing against his chest, Seerda cuddled to her Dark Lord. Her fingers slid up to cup his cheek and draw him down for a kiss. You see, their souls knew what their waking selves would not admit. They were meant for each other. Drawn to lace their future toward something prophecies had never uttered. Their lips met under sleepy pretenses. With eyes closed, mouths parted, they tasted the breath of destiny… and it sucked them in.

42

Carys Weldon

Chapter Thirteen

S

eerda had ever desired a lover. Her father’s chastened prisoner, she could only dream of the pressure of a man’s touch. And so, when the Dark Lord drew his hand over her thigh, curving her buttocks with a firm and possessive clasp, she pressed her body against his—just as the pressure invited. She reached for her dark lover, turning her face to his with expectancy. He had never disappointed her. Shadowed though his face may be, he had always tamped her desire to be held, put his arms around her, kept her safe. But in this dream, for the first time, Seerda’s lover had a face. And he spoke with a voice she recognized, telling her with no uncertainty—in barely veiled threat “My appetites define me.” It thrilled her. His lips found hers, unerringly, and drank her in, but it wasn’t enough for either of them. Hungry for the unmentionable, their fingers roved, yanked, clutched, managed to expose his upper torso, and slide her chemise down her arms, releasing them as she reached to rake through his hair with both hands. Squeezing her curves, pulling her ever closer, a

43

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches rumble rose within Master’s chest, while gasps escaped her lips between the kisses. Whispers of desire trickled from her, telling her dark lover what she needed, rousing him from his fragrant dreams of meadows and flower fairies. Plaintive in her sleep, she begged, “Release me from this chaste state, my lord, please…I cannot bear it a minute more.” Her hand found his in the dark, pulled it fleshwise under the gathered folds of her clothing, to the belt at her waist. She plucked and pressed, alternating her insistence as she danced kisses over his lips, across his chin. At the very moment when she managed to drag his hand between her thighs, her lips found his throat. Master’s eyes popped open. His precious was sucking at the precise spot where once his pulse had thrummed heavily. That is when he, too, began to gasp with erotic groans. Tangling his hands in her ebony tresses, he whispered, “Seerda, my precious… I am your slave.” If she had been awake, she would have seen the firelight that leapt into the dark recesses of his eyes, that peered through the chamber with a desire of such madness, such glowing lust that words can not adequately express it. That pre-empted the rolling possession that came next. That is the moment when the Dark Lord succumbed to Seerda’s charms. The moment before Fate’s last trick was made known.

44

Carys Weldon

Chapter Fourteen

M

aster rose to his knees on the bed, reached out with a command of the elements and lit a torchthe better to see her by. He reached down and ripped her chemise asunder, so he could look at her supine form with all the feral desire that welled up inside of him. Possession was the only thing he could think. How to claim his queen? How to mark her as his. He vested himself of his shirt and surcoat completely, tossed them aside, never letting the vision of her from his sight. On her back, exposed from the waist up, Seerda felt the draft of his leaving. Her eyes fluttered to an open state. She whispered, “My lord, do not leave me.” Reaching for him, she entreated, “Suckle my breasts. Love me, my lord… please.” Torn between their worlds, Master’s hands took hers and guided them to his chest, which he leaned over her. Choking out, “I can not. Not really.” He scooped in for a kiss, plunging his tongue into the recesses of her mouth in an act that was instinctive— brought back to him in an instant flash. He dropped his chest to hers, felt a surge of stirring loins—and

45

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches Master froze. So, Seerda put her tongue to work, dancing around his, until she caught his attention again. The Dark Lord, rejuvenated in a way he never would have dreamed, made man again by the coursing of her blood in his veins, and her body beneath his, renewed his possession—and began to wonder if he could perform a task he had not committed in a thousand years. The slightest humor crossed his mind. How many times had he thought it was as good as rotted off, for all the good it did him? Now the thing was beginning to ache, pulsing with the blood flow. He pulled away from his precious, to release himself from the trousers that contained his organ. Her lips clung, though, and she rose up in an arch beneath him, reaching again. Briefly, her fingers skittered down his front, found his attempting to undo the closure on his pants. With womanly precision, she managed to free him. Groping in the dark still, she clasped onto his erection, and tugged. The flickering of light illuminated her face at that precise moment—when the Dark Lord looked up to see her reaction. She smiled at him, and whispered, “My lord…” She did not go on to express her appreciation, but he felt it. No. Seerda simply tugged him toward her before begging again, “Please.” Master dropped his hands to her waist, in order to draw her chemise down her lower body. That’s when

46

Carys Weldon he fully became aware of the device which protected her virginity. Slithering from the bed, down between her legs, he pulled the dress from her, then he crawled up to examine what her father had done. His breath, now warm, groaned against her crotch, seeping around the edges of the armor. Master chuckled. It wasn’t pleasant. Seerda’s fingers combed through Master’s hair. She arched her pelvis and asked, “Why are you stopping?” The Dark Lord groaned again. She asked, “Can you not tease me with your tongue…at least?” A thousand dreams, and more, sprang between them. Master expelled air from beneath his breastbone, “You do not know what you are asking.” But he did his best. Lapping along the edges of the device, sparing kisses to her inner thighs, he asked with a frown, “Tell me, Seerda…” “Anything.” She gasped some more as his tongue nearly tickled her…at the very edge of where she needed it. “How do you relieve yourself?”

47

The Dark Lord : Soul Searches

Chapter Sixteen

S

eerda’s eyes popped open then. And she realized, fully awake, that her dream was no longer a dream. You can say she knew all along, but you haven’t been tasted by a vampire. The effects: euphoric, numbing, sensory titillating. Disorienting. They are overwhelming. She queried carefully, “My lord?” He asked, “A key?” Lifting himself from between her legs, he demanded, “The key. Where is it?” Seerda propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Master. The flickering light worriedly danced between them. Instead of answering, she said, “Tell me the oafs brought it with them.” Whether they had, or not, did not matter. The Dark Lord had disintegrated them, and all that had been on their persons. He countered, “Tell me there is more than one key.” Seerda clearly, and succinctly, said, “Tell me there is a locksmith here.” Master gravely replied, “There is nothing locked in The Wretches.” Seerda corrected him, “Do not lie to me, my lord.”

THE END 48

About the Author

C

arys Weldon writes her romantic tales from a hollow in the Ozarks. She loves variety, whimsy, shadows and suspense. She also loves to paint— whether on canvas or on paper. She says, “A vivid picture is worth—taking a second look at. Go ahead, search for hidden meanings in my work. I love innuendo, subliminal messagery, and anything ponderous.”