Chapter 1: Chapter 1 Prologue

The war had ended the year before.  This war had done what wars always do; made some people more powerful, others less so: some people richer, others less so.  That it had made a lot of people dead was of small concern to some of the people who had become richer and more powerful, because they were dead before the war started.  Vampires were very skilled at profiting from turmoil among the living.

The War of the Austrian Succession resulted in Maria Theresa remaining on the throne of the Austrian Empire.  The Empire was now smaller by the province of Silesia, a small cost considering that she had been pitted against the might of France and Prussia. They and their allies had backed a male candidate as a pretext for their land-grab, on the theory that a mere woman was unfit to wield the power of empire. That notion alone would have set the vampires laughing – they knew well that gender meant nothing when it came to power.  Some of the most feared among them were women, and to discount them for their femininity meant to be conquered by them.   If Maria Theresa could do the same, she was to be saluted.

The actual fighting had not come near the small town on the edge of the North Sea there in Lower Saxony.  Actually, most of the wars that had flared sporadically across northern Europe had bypassed the place; the town had an interesting reputation. As a medieval port with some small industry, it was known as a good place to do business, even in wartime.  But it was a very difficult place to approach with hostile intent. Generations of generals planned to avoid it; the troops tended to desert if forced near.  Small forces could approach, but they could not leave again, and the few escapees returned incoherent.   No one knew why.

Save for the vampires, and they weren’t telling.  They knew that this was the stronghold of a night hag, and the days were long gone when Morvoren’s castle could be overrun by hostiles.  The day had never existed when her keep could have been taken; she was well able to defend what was hers.

Not so the vampires of Prague.  The war had claimed them in 1744 when Prussian troops stormed the city.  The Master of Prague perished when his elegant half timbered house was shelled, letting daylight do what artillery could not.  The lesser vampires that did not burn with him never rose again, and many of the masters saw the sun in the looting that followed.  Of the few survivors, none was strong enough to survive as Master of the City once a small horde of would-be Masters arrived to battle for a prized territory. A victor had emerged from the carnage, and as was the custom, had sent out the invitation for followers.  Most kisses in Europe contained members from most, if not all the major lineages, and the repopulation of a major territory was serious business.

So serious a business, in fact, that it forced the Council to send representatives traveling, a chancy undertaking. So a Dutch fluyt that had sailed up the Seine to Paris had returned to the sea carrying La Belle Morte and her entourage.    The little ship steered to the northeast, bound for the port in Lower Saxony.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2 Visitors in the Castle

The halls of the castle were dim, the only light provided by torches stationed periodically along the walls.  The servants had concluded the bulk of their activities at sunset; all heavy work had to be done when the vampires would be undisturbed.  Only the occasional serving girl hurried by, carrying some comfort requested by her master or mistress.  Fear was palpable in their wake, now that the castle was filled with guests of unknown temperament.

Fear was the usual underlying mood of this castle; its mistress caused and savored this emotion, fed upon it.  The fear had a different flavor now, for so many new vampires could only present new ways to cause offense, new ways for those offenses to be punished.  The pleasures that the guests had also provided led to more fear; no one knew better than the servants of this castle how quickly sex could turn to pain. So far the guests had been gentle, causing only the little death of orgasm.  Everyone wondered how soon this would change, and for whom.

The visitors had come from France, from the courts, resplendent in the latest fashions, the most sumptuous fabrics, the amazing hairstyles, the heady perfumes.  They seemed bright birds amongst the ravens who lived here, who never had reason to feel provincial before.  If the castle with its thriving town was no Versailles, it was still prosperous and cause for pride, yet Belle and her company made the place seem somehow less for not being the ornate Rococo backdrop to which they were accustomed.

The effect was not lost upon Morvoren and her people; it was, after all, part of the jockeying for power so common among the vampires. But this was her place of power, and she would not easily be cowed, not with important matters at stake.

Not cowed, certainly, but she could become very irritable.  She had been irritable to begin with, because preparations for this visit had not been completed before the visitors arrived. The ghastly state of the mails was to blame; while letters and messages had been sent by land and by sea, the exact dates of this visit had not been confirmed far enough in advance. In fact, the letters of notification had arrived after the fluyt docked in the harbor, and one letter had actually been carried on this very ship.  The vampire messenger that had been the final redundancy had not returned from the last trip back to Paris and was presumed lost.

Belle had been magnificent in her condescension in letting the program of festivities be rearranged.  She expected that the negotiations regarding Prague could be twisted to her favor, since she had caught her rival off-guard.

The renovations that should have been complete before the visit were still in the final stages and the workers were being hurried. The irritability was thus flowing downhill, and not improving matters. The artist, Tiepolo, who was adding murals to the walls of the great hall, was so incensed by the hurry that he threatened to abandon the project and leave directly for Wurtzburg, where he had another commission waiting. Damian had to have a brief but serious talk with him, after which he returned to his brushes in better spirits.

The Viking remained uneasy, however, for more such troubles were possible, and he was not the only one of Morvoren’s kiss to be disturbed.  Unease was passing from the castle’s vampires to their charges, for each visitor had been given a companion, to be guide, concierge, and hunting partner.  Few of the visitors were actually involved in the Council’s business, it was intended to be a great social occasion, and they had had days to entertain themselves casually before the formal events were rescheduled to begin.

Damian touched down lightly in the courtyard, wind-blown from an evening spent flying with the guest in his keeping.  He and Jean-Claude had gone north-east up the coast, enjoying the moonlight upon the water and the contrast with the land. Jean –Claude had remarked on the beauty of the evening and clean scent of salt water, much more pleasant than the rankness that was Paris. It was now midnight: they had plenty of time to get ready for the banquet.

  **           

The Viking and the Frenchman had gotten to know one another over the last several days.  They were not directly concerned with the council business that had brought the French entourage; they had had most of the visit so far to themselves.  Given license to entertain his charge as he saw fit, Damian had taken Jean-Claude out into the countryside every evening after the official visiting was done. The banquet tonight had been scheduled far later than the less formal socializing; they had been having most of the nights to themselves.

The red-haired vampire was nearly drunk with unaccustomed privacy and a ready ear. He had been reticent at first, but the sincere interest offered by Jean-Claude had loosened his tongue.   They had discovered much in common as the subordinate members of the households of powerful ladies, and a friendship was growing.

The soil had been rather rocky at first. 

Their first evening of freedom had been spent flying inland to a warm spring.  Jean-Claude had wished to remove the stains of travel, but hot bath water was a luxury, and this night, he had not the rank to command it. Damian had seldom enjoyed it at the castle, but had discovered his own source.  Having sworn his guest to secrecy, he escorted Jean-Claude to a pool that was hidden in a mist of its own making, surrounded by a stand of oak and ash trees.

“None at the castle know of this save you?”  Such a wonderful secret to have, thought Jean-Claude, as he watched the tendrils of mist rise.

“I have never encountered another vampire here, and of course if I asked around the truth would be out.  The shepherds would come here, but the sheep were spoiling the grove.”  Damian chuckled, “I began descending on them in a fury. I’d kick the camp apart, and feed, messily, on the man that ran slowest. I only have to do it once every twenty-five or thirty years, to renew the legend.   The place has a reputation for being haunted, it seems.”

“Imagine that.  How long did it take the area to recover from the damage?”  Jean-Claude knew something of the habits of sheep.

“Years. Destructive beasts-I like them best as cloth.”

Jean-Claude laughed. “An entire war has just been fought with a sheep-raising district for a prize, and you chase them away.”

“I’ll chase them all the way to Silesia if they spoil my grove again.” Damian meant it. This grove with its pool was one of the few joys of his life.

“What are we waiting for?”   The dark haired vampire began to shim out of his clothing, so impractical for a trip to the country.  He was down to his skin in a moment, and hung his clothing neatly on a branch.  Damian, too, had stripped, and was headed to the water, when a small sound made him turn.

“Did you say something?”

“No.  Just appreciation for the beauty of the scenery.”  Jean-Claude thought that Damian’s muscular shoulders and tight ass added a great deal to the little grove’s appeal, but did not say so.

“I sincerely hope that you do not consider me part of the scenery.”  Damian’s eyes narrowed.  Suddenly, bringing Jean-Claude here seemed like a very bad idea.

Since Jean-Claude’s body had already answered that, he didn’t try to deny it. “Would that bother you?”  His voice was mild.

"I do not care to be lusted after by another man.”  Damian’s hard-earned emotional control did not permit his anger to show in his voice, but it simmered below the surface.

“I do but notice what is before my eyes.  I assure you, I will make no advances, since you are clearly unwilling.”  Jean-Claude broke eye contact and headed to the water.  “Is there a drop-off here?  I am an indifferent swimmer.”  Perhaps the best way to defuse the situation was to turn away from the subject completely.  This would not be the first budding friendship to wither because of his inclinations.  He moved to the water, where he submerged to the neck with a small sigh, and did not look again at his companion.

Damian had been ready to defend himself against either seduction or rape, and was off-balance to encounter neither.  He watched Jean-Claude’ dark head move in the mist as he paddled in the shallow water. He was puzzled by the complete absence of discussion.  Never in his life as a vampire had this subject been dropped without completion or a fight once it had been raised. He shook himself, aware that it was he who was offering to be looked at by continuing to stand on the bank, and aware, too, that it was he who was staring.  Damian hurried to the water and eased into its warmth.

“I do not know what you have been told about my duties as your host,” he began, suddenly thinking that his guest may have been told to expect such favors.  Had he committed a faux-pas of dreadful proportions?

“Only that we would entertain ourselves as seemed agreeable.”  Jean-Claude looked at Damian, whom he was sure was completely submerged. Surely looking at his face would be acceptable?  “We now know one thing that is very agreeable,” he flipped some water at his companion, “and one thing that is not.”  He thought of the other possibilities.  “Were you commanded to bed me if I desired?”

“I was told that your whim was law.”  There was no inflection whatsoever in Damian's voice.

“My whim, non, my burning desire, was for hot water, which, by the way, is most delightful, otherwise, becoming naked with a new acquaintance would not have been my entertainment of choice.  Unless she was willing, for then I would not need to make pretty conversation.”

Damian was now completely confused.  “But you…” he stammered and could not go on.

“Yes, I looked. And I admired.  And I responded, first to what I saw, and then to what you said.   I have no taste for force.  And, unless I am compelled, I touch no man but Asher.”  Jean-Claude thought of the games his mistress liked to play, and how he could no longer enjoy them, only endure them. For Asher’s sake, he had to endure them.  His sadness must have shown on his face, because that was what Damian replied to.

“It sounds like you have your own experience of such.  No,” he held up a hand as Jean-Claude turned to him, “no, you need not say.  But we are alike in this distaste for force, and need not fear it from each other.”   Damian’s expression brightened.  “So let us enjoy the hot spring.  And it has no drop-off, it tapers to a depth of perhaps ten feet. If you go to the bottom, just stand and begin to walk uphill. Some things are so much easier if you need not breathe!”

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 Neck Deep in Hot Water

The vampires visited the spring each night, sometimes hunting in the town first, sometimes after feeding from the castle humans, blood for them both, sex for the guest.  Jean-Claude thought the warm spring was the most wonderful place, and his joy in it helped Damian past the regret of sharing the secret.  After that first tense night, Damian was even able to stop thinking about the fact that they were both naked, since Jean-Claude was so blasé about it.

The mist from the warm water in the cool air shrouded them further, and made it very easy to talk.   They would swim a while, then sit immersed to the neck and speak of anything that came to mind.  Trust was growing between them- they could speak of important things, as well as the trivial or amusing.

 They spoke in German, that being the language common to them.  Jean-Claude was aghast to find that Damian knew no French.

“How can you not know the tongue of the continent?  They speak French in the courts at Berlin, at Potsdam! They speak no Russian at the courts of St. Petersburg, they speak French!”

Damian was stung. “They don’t speak French around here. German, Dutch, Danish, yes, but no French. How could I learn it?”

“I must teach you, I see.  How else will you be prepared to speak to kings?”

“Ah, yes. I spend so much time speaking with kings,” Damian deadpanned.

Jean-Claude was not to be deterred.  “You might.  Has it not occurred to you that you might be sent to Prague?  That is what has brought us here, to determine who will represent each lineage.”

Damian went still, the stillness of the ancient vampire.  “That would be fortune beyond my wildest dreams.  Who is Master there now?”

“Suleiman, once of Budapest, of the line of the Dragon.  I know little of him, save that he is strong enough to prevail over others I knew.”  Sorrow colored Jean-Claude’s voice, those others had been friends. “Did you not know this?”

“No. My lady shares little with the rest of us.  But if French is spoken in Prague as well, then yes, I must learn it.” Damian sounded intrigued.  Jean-Claude suspected that he did not know much of the Dragon.

“Then let us start with the words of importance.”  Jean-Claude launched into a language lesson.   “The word for ‘blood’ is ‘sang’ and the first verb you must know is ‘mordre’, that is, to bite…”

Another night… They spoke of finances. Damian had little to relate; his mistress kept complete control of the finances of the kiss, making gifts where she pleased.  “Those of us who are not directly tied to her business ventures depend on her completely; a few are allowed to buy shares in cargoes, if she favors them.  It has made some of my fellows wealthy.”

“But not you?

 “I have had nothing more than pocket money for many years, certainly not money in capital amounts, and to produce some now would bring me only the gravest difficulties in explaining. I have been promised a one percent share of a tea cargo, if I can retain her favor long enough for the ship to return. I have offended my lady prematurely for the last three seasons.  I have given up hope; I think she is just toying with me.”

Jean-Claude could sympathize.  "I, too, am financially bound to my lady.  Many of us invested heavily in the Mississippi Company.”  He sighed.

“Was that not a good investment?”  Damian had heard of this company only in passing, years ago.

“It was, for a time.  It was a wildly speculative company, we knew that, but we all thought that we could sell before the shares dropped.  My lady and Asher made tremendous profits, but I thought they had sold too early, and that I would wait, and grow wealthier. Alas, I waited too long.  The price of shares fell to nearly nothing, and I lost my original investment, and borrowed money besides.  That was nearly thirty years ago, and I am not free of debt yet, though I do tend to win at the gambling tables.”

“I’m sure you do.  Are the stakes not very high?”  Damian imagined that Jean-Claude preferred games of bluff to games of pure chance.

“Very high, the trouble is getting the nobles to pay up.”  Jean-Claude fell to brooding.

Another night…  Jean-Claude spoke of Asher, who had not been permitted to come on this trip.  He spoke with yearning, for his friend and lover, now so bitter towards him for being forced to survive.  He spoke with sorrow, of his own part in his lover’s disfigurement, and how he had bound himself for one hundred years, to ensure that survival.  “For if I did not,” he grieved, “then he would be beyond hope, and I cannot let that last hope go, though he hates me for it.  And what will happen after that century is done?  He may never speak to me, nor let me near him.”

Damian did not know what to say to any of this, so he patted Jean-Claude’s shoulder, splashing a little as he did.  The contact surprised the French vampire enough to bring him back to himself. He shot the Viking a look of gratitude, before plunging headfirst into the deeper water.  He did not surface for a long while.  Damian considered that others might have just as difficult a time as he, if differing in the details.

They spoke of life in the castle. Damian related how his lady had bullied the merchants of the Hanseatic League into using her small port for shipping, when so many harbors were more suitable.  She had amused and fed herself considerably in the process, alternately frightening and soothing the delegation, and the results had made her little estate quite wealthy.   “The burghers never did determine why they could only meet with her at night, nor why a mere woman could outmaneuver them in matters of business,” he chuckled.  “Nor did they ever determine why they felt so poorly afterwards.  They were tasty, though, from all that butter and cream and pork they like to eat.”  Jean-Claude had laughed, knowing that his own lady held much political power through similar means.

“Oh, we had to roll them into forgetting, lest their fear prevent them from returning as traders.  My lady had me escort them to the outhouse before all meetings, lest they soil themselves in her presence a second time.  I thought she should have sent them the fear once they were in the outhouse, that would have cleared them out, but no, I had to roll them into shitting.”

 Jean-Claude laughed so hard he submerged himself, and rose, sputtering. “Why did she have to frighten them so?  She had what she wanted, did she not?”

The laughter drained from Damian.  “She fed.” He saw his friend’s incomprehension.  “She feeds on the fear.  She sends fear until you think you’ll choke on it, and then she drinks, deeply.  She says it’s better than blood.” 

Understanding dawned.  Jean-Claude could only whisper, “That’s like my lady, like, like me.”  Again, he sought refuge at the bottom of the pool.  When he resurfaced, it was to find Damian playing a small bone flute.

“A lovely tune. It is new to me.”  Jean-Claude liked the lilting tune with its air of wistfulness.

“It’s an Irish piece, called Give Me Your Hand.”  Damian launched into the second variation.

“I thought you did not want my hand, or any other part of my body.”  Jean-Claude couldn’t resist teasing a little.

Damian glared at him out of the corner of his eye and missed a high note.  “Rory Dall O Cathain wrote it to say that there was friendship between him and another person, after a quarrel.”  He resumed the tune at the run-up to the high note.

Jean-Claude was abashed.  “I would have only friendship, and no quarrel between us,” he said softly, and watched as his friend’s eye crinkled a smile, as the melody rolled on.

“My cousin taught me to make these,” Damian explained about his flute.  He played another little tune, one that Jean-Claude recognized.  “Vivaldi should have written for the bone flute particularly; the range is too small for most of his music.”  He resumed playing.

His friend could laugh a little, again.  “Vivaldi never sounded better.  When did you learn it?” 

Damian stopped playing.  “How did I learn it, you mean?  On the sly, lest my lady think I was enjoying myself.  She has an arrangement with the Elector of Saxony, who sends her the new music.  His Court Composer does some lovely stuff, too, but she has to have her servant sort out the church music before we can even look at it.”  He squelched the memory of the hapless violinist who didn’t notice the title page before he began to play the Crucifixus from the Mass in B Minor.  At least the violin wasn’t singed, though the varnish bubbled. “The orchestra will be doing some of the newest pieces for the banquet tomorrow night.”  He played a few more notes before tossing the flute into the bushes.

Jean-Claude raised an eyebrow. “That was your flute.”

“That was an old mutton bone, with holes in it. I can make another, any time.  But I miss my harp.”  Jean-Claude made a small I’m-listening sound.  “I brought it back from Scotland, and taught myself to play it.  Nine strings, very nice, the others would sing in the evenings, and I would play.  Then the strings wore out, or broke, and none of us knew how to make more.”  He sighed. Some of his attempts to make harp strings had almost worked. He could get more now, but the harp had been ash for seven centuries.

“Didn’t you ask for extras when you bought the harp?”

“How old are you?”  Damian eyed his companion. He was fairly certain Jean-Claude was about two hundred fifty, which was still young enough to make his point.

“About one hundred sixty, why?”

“Then you clearly missed my people showing up in Paris, youngster.  I’m a Northman. I didn’t buy the harp.  I took it away from some blind man who was hiding under a table. We took a lot of things away from people.  Why do you think it’s called Normandy?  Why am I thinking so much about my first life lately?”  It was Damian’s turn to flee below the surface of the water.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 Up the Coast

The night of the formal banquet, the pair had elected to fly up the coast, rather than visit the spring, as Jean-Claude had been promised a hot bath in his suite. It was a wonderful night for flying; thousands of stars twinkling through the wisps of cloud.  A breeze blew in the direction of the North Sea, as the warm air over the land ran to meet the low pressure over the water.  Half a moon peeked through the clouds from time to time, casting more than enough light for the vampires to see anything of interest on the shoreline that presented itself; a rocky promontory, a partially submerged shipwreck, and once at a spot that only Damian could identify.  There, to Jean-Claude’s great surprise, he plunged naked into the seawater. He returned with a double handful of old Spanish coins, gold from the time of the Armada.

“Here,” he said, “someone who could spend it should have it. For you there will be no questions. For me there would be no peace.”

Jean-Claude nearly gaped as he saw what was poured into his hands.  The thrice bedamned tailor would be satisfied, as would most of his other debts.  And a gift for Asher, who was bitter about being left behind. Little enough Jean-Claude could have done about him being stuffed into the cross-wrapped coffin, there to exist until the return of La Belle Morte.  She did not plan to spend the power to maintain him at a distance, and would not bring him along.  Yes, certainly a gift for Asher.  He tried to find words for thanks, but Damian had dressed quickly and taken to the air again.

Each time they paused on the shore, they had talked. At the rocky promontory, Damian had spoken of his life.

“I have passed into and out of favor with my mistress many times,” he had confided to Jean-Claude.  “To be out of favor is to work hard and be constantly cold, but to be in favor is to be frightened most of the time.”

“What sort of work?” This was a new thought for Jean-Claude.

“The Strength lends itself to building.  The castle is much larger now than when I first came, and I have worked on many parts of it.  The room I am using now is part of the tower I helped to build. That is how I learned stonework and masonry.  I also did carpentry and some fine wood working.  It was like the shipbuilding I learned as a boy.”  Damian dragged his thoughts from his youth, so long ago, in a far country, and those wenches were certainly dead.

“Your current chamber is not your usual chamber?”

“No.  My regular quarters are in a high tower overlooking the sea.  The view was sufficiently fine that I was moved so that some of your human pets could enjoy it.”

“Does not the view offer danger from the sun?”  Jean Claude preferred to spend the day below ground.

“Well, yes, and does not my lady enjoy my fear of it?  I built my own coffin to be sure it would not leak light.  I could not trust others with that task, if I wanted to survive in a room with windows.”   Damian had rolled up in a tapestry every morning while his coffin was in progress.

"You said you are in favor at this time, for at least until the clipper ships are due with the tea. Are you really that afraid?”  Jean –Claude thought Damian’s demeanor very calm and assured.

“At this moment, no. Ask me again after the banquet tonight.”

And then they flew on.  As they watched the waves break over the dismasted brig, they spoke further.

“What happened to the ship, do you know?” There was an odd odor in the air that Jean-Claude could detect even over the complicated scents of the sea.

“I know exactly what happened to this ship.” Jean-Claude looked at Damian sharply; his voice was very fierce.  “I wrecked it, or caused it to be wrecked.”  His face had elongated, his lips had drawn back in a snarl directed towards the broken hull.  “It was a blackbirder. A slave ship.  Humans.  They think we are monsters, and do not see the monstrosities they perpetrate.”  His eyes glittered a dangerous, pupil-less green.

Jean-Claude took a step back before he asked, “How did you accomplish that?”

Damian calmed himself visibly; his features returned to their usual handsome state before he replied.  “I used their own rules against them.  The ship had come from the Americas with a load of sugar, which they had gotten for the slaves.  They had intended to exchange that for trade goods, to take back to Africa for more slaves. Before they came into harbor, I flew to the top mast and tied a yellow flag there.”  His teeth showed, but it could not be called a smile.  “That means plague, or some other disease on board, and they cannot come into port for forty days.  But they didn’t know it was there, so in they came.  The Hansa warship was accepting no excuses, they would not let a plague-ship come to shore.  The warship chased them out of harbor, and it was no use them trying to talk to the warship, every time they tried to get near enough to hail, or to send a small boat, the warship fired on them, they would not risk the contamination.  The brig was run aground, the hull holed. The cargo was ruined, of course.”

Jean-Claude was fascinated. “What of the men?”

Damian spat, before he looked at his companion. “They tasted like the scurvy dogs they were.”  And again he was airborne.

Damian had declared a turn around point that would do to return them to the castle in good time for the banquet.   They lit on the boulder-strewn beach for a brief rest and conversation.

“My own mistress drinks lust as yours drinks fear,” Jean Claude wanted to explain why he had retreated to the bottom of the hot spring.  “As do I; it is a curse and a joy to feed this way from one’s lover.  And she can raise the ardeur, the sexual heat, in groups of people, to raise great power for the feeding. She might feed this way for hours before she is sated. Or her victims humiliated to her taste.  I would not wish to cause lust in one not inclined to me, but there are times…”

“You are her lover. Does she feed from you?”

“Yes, and I from her.  It seems to be the energy. And you?”

“She takes me.  I am not her lover.  There is no joy in it for me.” Damian tried to imagine his mistress using lust rather than fear, and shook his head.  To feed one’s master with something pleasurable seemed beyond dreams.  “It would seem you have the better of it, then.”

“I am not sure, though I may find out shortly. La Belle Morte has promised me to your lady for a night.”

Shock rolled through Damian. “Have you displeased your lady, then?”

“I had not thought so.  Perhaps I am but a guest gift.”  Fear began to bloom within the French vampire. He was so tired of being chattel, so often Belle’s use of him threatened his very existence. What new danger loomed in his hostess’ bed? His new friend was clearly disturbed, and not by jealousy.

“She may take you joyfully, if only for the novelty of it, and respect for a guest.” Damian thought back to the last night spent in her bed, not a joyful one for him. He did not wish to frighten Jean-Claude, nor to give him false hope. She- who- made- him was fairly consistent in her demands, more was the pity.  The vampires met each others’ eyes, and by unspoken consent returned to the air.  The rocky promontory drew them back, a last stop before they landed at the castle.

“You know this coast well,” Jean-Claude remarked.  He gazed into the night sky, bright with stars.  “Have you ever considered just flying on. And on?”  Such a daring remark.

“Oh, yes. And my freedom would last precisely until dawn.  I am no master; I would not wake again if my lady suspected an escape. I have thought, too, of flying out to sea and letting the sun catch me over the water.”  Such grief colored Damian’s voice that Jean-Claude was sorry he had asked.  “I would choose such an ending, if only I did not believe that one day, another way out, a way with a future, might present itself.  Change has come to me before. Perhaps I will be sent to Prague.” He looked at the breakers throwing up spray; it might have been that rather than a tear that ran down one cheek.

Jean-Claude could only place his hand on Damian’s shoulder in understanding, before the two took to the skies again.

The return flight was mostly silent, though Jean-Claude did offer his thoughts once.  “Change could come, in the form of joining my lady’s court.  She has a taste for handsome men of unusual coloring, she has noticed you.”

Hope dared to flare in Damian’s heart.  “I could lust for your lady.”

“You would. She would see to it.” Honesty compelled Jean-Claude to add, “You would lust for her, for me, for le Comte d’Artois, for anyone to whom she decided to send you.  She would compel what you do not want.”

“I am not a lover of men, and I have had a bellyful of being forced.” Damian’s voice was so flat and forbidding that Jean-Claude spoke no more.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5 Preparations for the Banquet

Author's Notes: The Russian vampires, Sergei and Piotr, are meant to be speaking with bad grammar- I use it to convey their lowly origins and their disdain of trying to fit in by speaking properly. Their grammar hurts my ears, but it is part of the characterization.

Jean-Claude landed in the courtyard next to him, pushing his hair away from his face.  He looked at the sky, which told him ‘midnight’, then at Damian.  “The banquet is set for two of the morning, non?” Damian nodded assent, at which Jean-Claude looked stricken. “I must make haste, there is barely enough time to become presentable!” Such is the cost of elegance.

Damian turned. “There is a shortcut to your chambers. I will take you there.”

The vampires melted against the wall, where Damian ushered his guest through a concealed door into a servant’s passageway. They were striding up the hallway when Damian pulled Jean-Claude into a nook and motioned for stillness and silence.  They remained frozen as voices boomed out.  Two enormous, brutish vampires passed down an adjoining hallway, away, fortunately, from the pair in the shadows.  They laughed coarsely, and one said. “Maybe I gets to be the one tonight, I do good hurting…”  That earned a punch in the arm from the other, which staggered him, and a honk of laughter.  Further ribaldry sounded as they moved away. “Oh, yeah, you does good hurting….”

Damian and Jean-Claude remained still until the noise dwindled into the distance. Jean-Claude followed his guide swiftly and silently until they reached the guest chambers.  Damian pulled Jean-Claude into the sitting room, and bolted the door behind them.   He turned grave green eyes towards his companion, and grimaced.

Jean-Claude cocked one eyebrow in question.  “And who are the charming persons from whom we have just fled?"

 “I had hoped that you would not have encountered those two during your stay here.  They are particular pets of our lady’s; she likes them for the talents they were bragging about.  Those who know them fear falling into their hands.  They are not inventive, but they are thorough.” The look on Damian’s face suggested personal experience.

“Have they names?  Even beasts have names.”

“Beasts, yes, they are beasts.  Sergei and Piotr.  At least they are not masters. They are so strong even as lesser…”

“They had odd accents.  Where did they come from?” Jean Claude was curious.

“When Tsar Peter came by on his way home from France, not all of his entourage completed the journey with him.”  Damian was still listening hard, he looked wary.

“I think I remember them, or at least the group of them.  Tsar Peter’s men did tremendous damage while they were at Versailles. The barbarians thought it entertaining to dance in hobnail boots on the parquet floors, and to ram the shrubbery with wheelbarrows. And the Tsar was as bad as any of them.”  Jean-Claude made a noise that might have been a snort had it been less elegant.  “How many of them did you end up with?”

Damian sighed.  “Too many. These two are the last of them; they did most of their fellows in.”

“My lady might like them.  She goes for the peasantry as a diversion.” A matched pair of brutes might keep her entertained for quite a while.

“My lady will not touch them.  She says dogs should stay in their kennels.”  Damian thought that a good, strong kennel, preferably one that caught the morning sun, would be an excellent place for those two.

A  knock at the door produced a start from both vampires.  Damian took a long sniff, clearly nervous about the Russian vampires, and moved to shoot back the bolt.

It was a young woman, human, wheeling a hot water can. “I was watching for your return, Herr Jean-Claude.  I have water for your bath.”  Jean-Claude expected to become very familiar with the contents of the can; it would be his for several days, but only hot tonight.  She passed through the sitting room to the dressing area, vampires drifting in her wake. “I was given instructions to pass on to you, Damian.  You are to feed early, before the banquet.  And I left fresh clothes for you in the bathing room.”   She smiled shyly.

“Ah, the bathing room. The source of all the frigid water one’s heart could desire.”  He winked at the French vampire, before turning to the young woman. “Thank you, Ulrike.  Please, pour out the hot water for our guest. I will find food, and dress.” The Viking nodded politely to her, and turned to the door.

The young woman coughed and stammered. ‘I, uh, I would feed you. If you liked.”  She blushed and began to pour the hot water into the hip bath in the corner.  Pink showed brightly against her blonde hair, even as grey eyes sought the floor.

Presented with this offer, Damian considered where they might go for feeding. Ulrike had fed him a few times before, and she had shown him small kindnesses in the past; perhaps this time she would agree to a bit of privacy for taking blood.

Taking his pause for rejection, Ulrike said, in a small voice, “I’ll go, if you don’t want me.”

“Oh, but I do!” Damian was quick to speak. “I was just thinking of where we might go.”  She lifted her face to him and smiled, careful not to meet his eyes, as she had been trained from childhood.

Jean-Claude cleared his throat. “If I may, I would point out that a bedroom lies beyond that door, and I have all I need for my toilette in here.”  He caught Damian’s eye, and winked. “I am notorious for the amount of time it takes me to dress.”

Damian looked a quick question at Ulrike, who looked surprised and pleased as she nodded. 

“We thank you, Jean-Claude, and we will try not to disturb you on our way out.” Damian could not believe his good fortune.  He followed the young woman through the door, smiling.

Jean Claude began to unbutton his lacy shirt, eyeing the steam from the hip bath.  Given how Ulrike had practically run into the bedroom, he had no doubt but that he, too, would feed.  The closed door provided no real barrier to the ardeur.  He hoped only that one of them would think to remake the bed.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6 The Banquet Begins

Fed, dressed, and combed, Damian made his way to the banquet hall, there to act as host.  He had done this many times at occasions for lesser personages. He was glad to have fed early; there would be no time during the banquet to break his duties for more than a snack.  He knew he would be busy mingling with their guests, and hoped there would be no trouble.   The mood in the castle was growing even more tense; he was grateful that he and Jean-Claude had been able to spend most of their time elsewhere. At least the scaffolding was down from the walls of the great hall, though the odor of wet paint remained. Tiepolo had apparently finished the murals and decamped.  Damian hoped the artist got paid before he left.

There were few people in the banquet hall when he arrived, mostly servers and musicians.  He spoke to the string players, asking them to omit certain fast dances and to change the order of a few others.  At least he could reduce the chance of the guests falling from their fancy high heeled shoes.  He was very much looking forward to hearing the new orchestral suites sent by the Elector of Saxony. That J. S. Bach fellow wrote lovely music.

Vampires were entering the banquet hall, fashionably late, some with humans trailing respectfully behind.  Damian drifted from group to group, speaking politely with both the visitors and his colleagues, being charming and sometimes issuing instructions.  His lady entered and caught his eye; Damian flinched reflexively, but she smiled and apparently approved of his social maneuvering.

There were easels and small tables set up here and there around the great hall, covered with linens, shapes showing beneath the cloth. These were the guest gifts that were to be officially exchanged tonight.  Those trimmed in green ribbons were gifts from Morvoren to Belle, those trimmed in red, from Belle to Morvoren.  One of the preparations not yet completed when the fluyt made harbor were certain of these guest gifts. 

The banquet flowed on, more smoothly than Damian had dared to hope.  Some of the conversations were quite vicious, but no overt arguments had broken out, and none of the food humans had expired before being removed from table.  That was a damnable nuisance, they tended to lose bowel and bladder control, so Damian kept a careful eye on them and their handlers.  One of the guests, Musette, he thought, kept leaving them dripping.  He permitted himself an internal chuckle. He might not know much French, but he did know his Bach, and he wondered if she knew her name meant “Bagpipe.”  After a brief chat with her he decided to never, ever, mention it; she seemed very dangerous, and not one to take the joke well.

“Damian! Come here!”  Greta called to him playfully. She was one of the lesser vampires of his kiss, perhaps half his age, brunette and sleek, though not so handsome as to arouse the ire of their lady. Tonight, she was a vision in violet silk, a dress Damian was pleased to see; those wide skirts flipped up so nicely.  He and she were not so much lovers as casual bedmates, seeking each other out when no better partner beckoned. “Tell Angelito about the monstrous animal!  He does not believe a word I say about it.” She flipped her fan coquettishly.

“The rhinoceros, you mean?”  Damian came to join them.

Angelito glowered at him.  “What would you know of the rhinoceros? It only came to Paris this winter!”

“This is a seaport.  The rhinoceros came here three years ago, before its handlers started trundling it all over Europe.  An amazing beast; who could believe in it without seeing it?”  Damian had been fascinated, and had peppered the owner with questions.

“And I suppose you know all about its natural history and habits?” Angelito seemed more antagonistic than a chat about an exotic animal would warrant.

“I watched it eat greens,” Damian responded politely. He suspected that he was being used to toy with Angelito, that Greta was furthering her own agenda here, and he did not care to play the game.  He started to excuse himself from the conversation when his eye was caught by a nearby linen covered table, dressed with a green ribbon.  The shape was entirely too familiar, shrouded though it was.

Greta followed his line of sight. “Oh, Damian, so clever of you to have that ready in good time for our visitors!”   She smirked behind her fan.  “But I had to find it for our lady, since you didn’t put it in the correct storeroom. Such a mazik* you are, stashing it away like that.”  Her eyes, peering over the fan, were much harder than her lighthearted words.

“How careless of me.” His words were completely without intonation, the closest he could come to showing anger.  Damian wasn’t sure if Greta had absconded with his work to suck up to their lady, or out of some sort of spite, but did it matter? His work was as good as gone, out of his hands, no hope of retrieval.  “Perhaps our visitors will find some merit in it.  Excuse me, please.”  He had to get away before he lashed out at her. He would have revenge, but later, when he had a chance to plan something suitable.  Two years of work she had stolen, it would have to be subtle and stinging.

**                                                                                **

The guest gifts had been unveiled, with all due ceremony, and the speeches made regarding them.  Damian had used all his control to remain calm as his name was announced as the artist, and to accept the applause as the linen cloth was lifted.  He had intended to keep this one work for his own pleasure; now he would bid it farewell.

Jean-Claude joined him as he stood before the carved wooden figure of a nude woman.  Her arms were lifted upwards, palms to the sky, her face raised also, hair flowed down her back.  She seemed to be offering herself to the welcome spring rains. She stood perhaps twenty two inches high, and she was glorious.  The French vampire studied the figure, then studied his friend.  He started to speak but thought better of it. He returned his gaze to the statue, and then melted into the crowd. He would not intrude on this private sorrow.

Damian found Jean-Claude later, as he came away from the buffet table, dabbing the blood from his lip with a snowy napkin. Their eyes met, and without words they turned as one to the table where the nude figure stood.

“If I cannot keep her, it is well that she go to your household.”  Damian spoke at last. “She was driftwood that I found on the beach; see how her arms were a fork in the main trunk.  When I started to carve it was as if she sprang from the wood…” His voice trailed off with the memory.

Jean-Claude could say only, “You released a dryad from her tree.”

They drifted around the great hall together, looking at and commenting on the other guest gifts.  They stopped before a large painting on an easel, which bore the red ribbon of a gift from Belle.  It showed a laughing woman in a blue dress playing on a swing, and a man leaning against the tree, watching her approvingly.  The skin tones were lush, the fabrics fairly glowed, and the foliage was luxuriant. Damian glanced at Jean-Claude, silently asking for information.

“Francois Boucher painted this.”  Jean-Claude’s face was unreadable.

Damian studied the picture. “The man; that is you!”

“And the lady in the swing is the incomparable Belle Morte.” Jean-Claude laughed without mirth. “We had to pose at night, of course.”  He looked at the scene that everyone but he found charming.  “So in a way, I will always be here. Standing in sunlight.”

 **                                      **                                                **

A/N Mazik- Yiddish word meaning a mischievous person, a prankster   

Chapter 7: Chapter 7 From the Frying Pan

Author's Notes: Sergei and Piotr are Russian peasants.  They speak ungramatically as part of the characterization.

 A firm grip on his arm stopped Damian as he moved to look at another of the guest gifts. Damian turned to find a tall, dark vampire leering at him.  “I think you should meet me in my chambers, perhaps a quarter hour from now?” He winked; Damian’s stomach turned.

“I fear I would not please you greatly.  May I introduce you to Gerard or Reynold?” Damian named fellow vampires whom he knew took male lovers.  He could not accept this invitation, yet he could not risk causing a scene.

“I have met them, I have tired of them.  I wish for you to join me.”  The leer had become a flat stare.

Damian kept firm control of himself, to panic would be fatal. He didn’t see many ways to talk his way out of this one, yet he had to try.  “I have no skill in offering you pleasure.”

“Skill is not required.”   The flatness of the visitor's voice promised pain.

“Oh, but it is! Such lovely carvings adorn my chamber!”  Jean-Claude had swooped into the conversation.  He took Damian’s arm and steered him towards the far wall, which had a door. “Oh, escuse moi, Paolo, I insist that Damian do as he promised, he is almost a Grinling Gibbons!” he called over his shoulder.  “You simply must show me the other fine carving that you have done!  Come, come!”  Jean-Claude towed his friend away from the astonished Paolo, whose face darkened.

Once out the door and down a hallway, Jean-Claude released Damian’s arm and let his shoulders slump every so slightly.  “Let us hope Paolo does not become friendly with your Russian beasts.  The whole world would be in pain,” he murmured.

“Thank you.  I do not think I would have escaped him.”  Damian was shaken by the close call.

“Unfortunately, few escape Paolo forever, but perhaps you can delay until we sail for home. There will be hell to pay, but pay it later rather than sooner.”  Jean-Claude set his jaw in a way that made Damian bite back what he planned to ask.

While they discussed the best way to return to the banquet while evading Paolo, they did not see the angry vampire speak with La Belle Morte, who then spoke with their hostess.  Morvoren in turn summoned the hulking Sergei and Piotr, whose faces lit up when they understood their tasks.

**                                                                          **

The music, which had been a background to the feeding and conversations, provided their entrance back to the great hall.  The sounds of the initial sarabande cut through all the babble, summoning the partiers to the dancing. Damian and Jean-Claude took their places in the ring of those watching the dancers, glad to see Paolo in the center, bowing to Musette, twirling gracefully to the sounds of Handel. If Paolo was dancing, he was doing nothing else.

The sarabande gave way to a bouree, a much faster dance that required four couples in each pattern.  The men and the women moved fluidly around the square, touching only at the hand, smiling smiles that were more a part of the dance than any real expression of enjoyment. Damian found himself smiling at Belle as he came to her in the pattern, watching her spin gracefully under his arm in her wide skirts. She looked at him in a way that brought heat to his loins, and then she passed to Angelito on his left, peeking back at Damian through her lashes.  Angelito had deliberately come near Damian when the dancers were forming into patterns; why, he could not say.  For his part, he would have been glad to give Musette’s servant wide berth.  He was scowling at Damian, and every time Greta passed him in the dance, he scowled more.

When the dance steps brought the men into the center of the circle, Angelito landed a quick kick on Damian’s ankle and snarled quietly, “Clumsy fool!”  He seemed to expect a retort, but Damian disappointed him with a murmured “so sorry.”

This time a gavotte, where the men and women formed lines to dance the quick little crossing steps. Damian made sure there were several men between Angelito and himself; he wanted no incident that might incur his lady’s wrath. He wondered just what Greta had been telling the man.

Jean-Claude found himself on the end of the line, opposite Morvoren, leading the dance. Too much the courtier to do anything else, he smiled as his feet tapped heel and toe, dreading the kiss that was choreographed into this dance.  The kiss came far too soon for his comfort, and he had to touch Morvoren’s shoulder as he reached for her cheek with his lips.  She turned to meet him, and caught his mouth with her own, taking advantage of the music to flick her tongue quickly between his lips.  Jean-Claude’s face didn’t change as he received this salute, but Damian’s heart sank as he saw it from his position five couples down the line.  The gavotte required that the lead pair dance down the line, the man kissing each woman, the woman kissing each man. When Morvoren danced her way to Damian, she brushed her lips against his cheek and whispered, “I’ll taste your friend tonight,” and laughed as she turned to Gerard.  If Jean-Claude had to spend the rest of this night in the torment that was her bed, it would at least be over sooner than if she started early with him tomorrow.  Damian found that thought small consolation.

When the music changed to three beats per measure, Belle took the honor of the first minuet, no doubt to show off the latest variations danced in the French courts. Paolo joined her, knowing those steps, and the rest of the dancers formed circle around them to watch; only one couple at a time would dance the minuet.  Damian melted away from the circle, intending to visit the buffet table for a little snack.

No sooner had he turned away from the young woman with the glazed expression and the multiple punctures to wipe his mouth, he was accosted by one whom he would prefer to avoid.

“Message from the mistress.” A copper ring was pressed into Damian’s hand, proving the source. He turned to see Piotr grinning unpleasantly.  “Change of plans, Red. You get to be part of the entertainment tonight after all.” Damian’s heart sank. He had hoped his role as host would insulate him from that.  “Mistress says, go to the retiring chamber and peel down. You gonna do it, or do I get to drag you? I wanna drag you.” Piotr licked his lips.

He had been dragged, more than once, fighting all the way.  The punishment that would go with causing a disruption at this banquet would be brutal, he knew, and he could be sure of losing his lady’s favor and any chance of going to Prague.  Returning the ring to his thuggish messenger, he merely said, “I will do as our mistress bids,” and turned to go. It was the smallest of satisfactions to see Piotr’s face cloud with disappointment.  He moved very swiftly, lest Piotr try to drag him anyway, frightened of what was to come. Public nudity always meant something bad. The music changed, this time to a gigue, which would be the last dance of the suite.  It wouldn’t last long; Damian hoped fervently to hear another sarabande start a second complete dance suite.

                                                ***

Damian sat on the bench in the retiring room, his folded clothes in his lap.  He had not been on the entertainment list this time, dammit.  He knew he was to stay there until summoned, and his imagination was not his friend.  Allowing himself some deep breaths, he slowed his heart rate and tried to blank his mind.  He wished to show only composure to the assembly, no matter what happened.  That would be a feat this time; his mistress would wish to show off. Then he wondered if this change of plan was meant as a test, to see if he could comport himself well enough to be chosen to represent his lady’s line in Prague.  He held to that thought for strength, because he knew what entertainment had originally been planned.  He wondered if he would survive the spectacle, and if the prize would be worth it.

The dance music ticked off the time, all too quickly.

The door opened, showing Piotr.  “C’mon, Red, to the dance floor.”  He looked hungrily at the naked vampire, who did not let his shudder show in his flesh.

Damian rose gracefully, six feet of pale muscle, red hair flowing like blood down his shoulders.  The candlelight flickered over him as he strode out the door, pushing past his tormentor. He held his head high; he was a warrior, and he would not give him the satisfaction of his fear, not now.  Later, there might not be a choice.

And then there was Damian, entering the hall, nude. He stopped well short of the dreadful table, the Russian vampire trailing in his wake.  Face expressionless, he hoped fervently that he was not to be disemboweled again; that hurt so much, both in the doing and the healing.  Last time, they had wrapped his guts around him, binding him to the table, then released the shackles and left him to free himself.  No, if the guests liked lust, it would probably be rape.  Shit.

Morvoren’s voice rang into the silence.

“We have an unplanned treat in your entertainment tonight, my dears.  Before you we have one who would be choosy about his partners. He would pass over the men here, without due consideration of their charms. Is that not a shame?”  The audience murmured their condemnation of this shame.  “We will teach him the error of his ways, nein?  We will teach him the pleasures he would refuse untried.  One of our guests shall bring him to completion before us, that we may know he has learned well.  And if he does not show himself well-schooled, he shall be punished, then schooled again, until he learns.”

Damian could pick out faces in the crowd as Sergei and Piotr pushed him towards the table.  Paolo, mouth open in anticipation, Jean-Claude, shocked, La Belle Morte, wearing a feline smile, Greta, triumphant, others, eager; all registered as the pair of thugs dumped him roughly on his back and fettered his wrists and ankles to the table’s corners.  Voices rose and fell as wagers were placed.  Then silence, as She-who-made–him spoke again.

She turned towards her principal guest. “Madame, may we have one of yours to do the honors?”  Paolo started towards the table, but stopped at his hostess’s upraised hand, disappointment written on his face.  “Jean-Claude, if you please?”

Chapter 8: Chapter 8 Into the Fire

The crowd began to buzz as all heads snapped around to look at Jean-Claude.

 “It may be that our chosen teacher is ineffective in his methods.  Therefore, he shall have three lessons, and if he cannot bring our student, he shall share the punishment, to teach him the value of thoroughness.  I shall call time in my own unmistakable way.”   Morvoren smiled her sweetly toxic smile.

Paolo changed his look of outrage to one of calculating pleasure. Jean-Claude knew he would like nothing better than to see the two of them punished for daring to thwart him.  He might think it would be even better than playing with Damian himself. And he might be allowed to help.

Belle Morte looked into her vampire’s expressionless face.  “Go, mon cheri, show them your skill.  Shall I take any bets for you?”

Barely moving his lips, Jean-Claude said, “I cannot do this to my friend.  He does not want me this way.”

“Would he prefer Paolo to you, do you think?  Would you prefer Paolo to him?  Both can be arranged.”  Belle could not believe what she was hearing, did not bother to keep her voice down.  Did her pet think to argue with her?

Clearly Damian had heard that, for he looked over his arm with wide eyes to meet Jean-Claude’s eyes, and formed the word “No” silently with his mouth.

Jean-Claude kept his face impassive as he moved towards the table. He thought furiously how to accomplish this dreadful task, to cause at least the semblance of pleasure in one who bore him no desire. Perhaps to spare them both the punishment, Damian could bring himself to cooperate?  He could hear the babble of betting behind him: Musette’s voice rose shrilly as she offered ten livres for success in the second round.  There would be retribution to face from those who lost their bets, as well.

Bending to place his lips near Damian’s ear, he could smell fear; he hoped it was fear of failure, not fear of his touch, but he could not be sure.

Damian whispered, “We are fucked.”

“We are? I thought you were a Northman.” Jean-Claude whispered back.

“I am; what does that matter? We are so fucked.”

“I thought that meant you were a warrior.”  Jean-Claude persisted.

“It does.” Damian glared at him, hard to do at such close range, but he was angry and upset enough to show it.

“Perhaps seven hundred years ago.” Damian’s eyes narrowed further.  “Now you surrender without a fight.”   Jean-Claude pulled back enough to give Damian his mocking blue eyes.

“I surrender nothing.”  He was furious, at his friend, and the situation. Why was his friend assaulting his honor?

“Then you fight at my side?”  Up went one eyebrow.

“We fight.”  Damian understood battle. “We defend ourselves.  But this is the damnedest battlefield, and unfamiliar weapons.”

“It is my battlefield, my weapons. We can prevail.”  Jean-Claude put all his confidence into that statement.  “Trust me to be your captain, and let there be a little pleasure that there may not be great pain for us both.”

Damian could see Sergei and Piotr through the curtain of his friend’s hair.  They were nearly drooling with anticipation; they certainly believed they would have the two at their mercy, and Damian knew they had none.  Something Jean-Claude said earlier nipped at his memory, perhaps they could prevail.  He swallowed hard, and whispered back, “Captain, I am unblooded.”

“Open your mind to me, I can ease this.”  Jean-Claude rose the few inches needed to look into anxious green eyes, and willed his friend to calm.  He was rewarded to see tension leave the shackled body below him.  “I will accomplish this with as little damage to your sensibilities as I can, but there must be some show, or my own mistress will not be satisfied.”

“She did not say how long we would have for each attempt.”  Damian tried not to look at Jean-Claude.

“Then I must begin now. Do not think of me; think only of what I make your body feel.”  Jean-Claude began to run one hand down Damian’s torso, the other through his hair. Merde, the man was stiff as a board, all the parts of him save the necessary.  “I can make your body feel very good, indeed.”  He looked into Damian’s eyes again, and rolled with a bit more force. Good, he felt more like flesh and less like marble.

Jean-Claude ran his hands up and down Damian’s chest, fingers stroking softly, occasionally flicking a little against a pale pink nipple.  Damian twitched with each flick, eyes closed, trying to ignore everything except sensation. Jean-Claude hoped he was ignoring the low comments from their rapt audience.  There was a running commentary on the successes of his efforts.

“Yes, he’s hardening, I saw it move.”

“Not very fast though.”

“But it’s happening, I never thought it would.”

 “Maybe it’s just us; maybe he likes the visitor better.”  Jean-Claude shot a quelling look at that last speaker, hands never stopping their slow dance.

 “Maybe this guy is just that good…”

 “Maybe this guy isn’t hurting him, bonehead.”

 “Maybe I like hurting better than anything else, schweinhund.”

Definitely a response here.  Jean-Claude took a step to his left, to run his hands across Damian’s hips and thighs.  This would be a pleasure in itself, were not the stakes so high. His fingertips skirted what was blooming before his eyes, which would be such a fine sight on any other occasion.  Damian’s manhood lay against his belly, long and straight, hard enough to please any lover. Jean-Claude wrapped his hand around the shaft, eliciting a low moan.  He stroked gently, daring to murmur a few words of encouragement.

“Ah, oui, mon ami, give yourself to the pleasure.”

But Damian only shushed him, never opening his eyes.

So Jean-Claude fell silent, pumping with one hand and continuing to stroke hips and thighs, thinking this might work out after all.  Damian moaned softly, when abruptly he screamed.  Jean-Claude screamed as well. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, striking his chin on the table, forcing a fang into flesh.  His bitten lip was lost in the wave of fear that rolled over him, drowned him like surf.  As quickly as the fear washed over him, it passed, leaving him panting.

“Time,” said Morvoren sweetly. “The first attempt to educate Damian has proven a failure, though not a complete failure, it would appear.”

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 On the Hot Coals

Chapter 10: Chapter 10 Calm Before the Storm