(This is inspired, ever so loosely, on concepts in fantasy role-playing games. I firmly admit to and accept my inner geek. So here you have it... yet another vampire tale...)
It was a dark and gloomy night. Actually, it was a dark and gloomy dungeon, and Sinclair was tired of dark and gloomy dungeons. As a cleric, it was her job to hunt down the less-than-alive and send them to a final rest. She made a good wage, more than enough to keep her father warm and comfortable in his aging years, but she'd had enough of the places the undead seemed to favour. Being able to brew her own potions was helpful as one chill after another took her chest. Coughing destroys the chance of sneaking up on the little bastards.
This night found her armed to the hilt. She was in her best you-can't touch-me armour, carrying an enchanted heavy mace, with vials strapped to one thigh. A torch would have been lovely. A hot toddy and a good book would have been better. She took a deep breath and silently berated herself. This was her chosen job and she was damned good at it. Complaining only camouflaged her real worry.
One hand lifted to gently caress the long healed wound at her neck. There was no scar. No evidence of her dance with death. It was years ago, on her first vampire hunt. Ethan had talked her into it. Ethan. A paladin who was too good for this world. He had promised to take care of her, and he did. When the vamp jumped them and tore her down, he pulled the creature off and took it on solo. She'd barely had enough sense left to heal herself. She sat up just in time to see Ethan plunge a stake through the beast's heart, as the vampire ripped Ethan's throat open with vicious claws. Since then, she'd gotten very good at turning and destroying just about anything. Ghouls, wraiths, skeletons. Everything but vampires. She still shook at the thought of them. She was efficient enough, but more than one had smelled her fear and mocked her for it. That usually did the trick. Fury was good for overcoming terror.
Tonight, though, she had perhaps bitten off more than she could choke down. She wasn't after just any vampire. Oh no. Sinclair super-cleric was taking on Lord Mirath.
Lord Mirath was spoken of in tones of awe. He was several centuries old and for the most part, well respected. He kept a tight leash on his minions, forbade attacks on children and cattle, and charmed everyone who crossed his path. He was, in Sinclair's eyes, disgusting.
She couldn't say when she'd decided to go after him. There were no monumental moments that changed her life or gave her new courage. She wasn't even being paid for this job. Maybe the skeletons had gotten boring. Maybe breathing had gotten boring. Whatever the cause, here she was, in yet another dark and gloomy dungeon, making her way under Lord Mirath's lair. Well. Mansion.
Sinclair paused, tilting her head, listening. In her mental meanderings, she had reached what appeared to be a dead end. Behind a wall, though, and a bit above, came sounds of movement. Bingo. There had to be a switch around here someplace. She gave a silent thanks to the gods that her parents saw fit to let her be born at least half elven, and began a search. Moments ticked by, marked by the pounding of her heart. Her hand clenched around the mace, ready to break through the wall if necessary. And then she found it. A tiny bit of stone, coloured only slightly different from the rest of the wall. One delicate finger pushed against the anomaly and a door shimmered, then faded away. Mage-touched. That gave her about a minute to get through the opening before it closed again. It would be just her luck that the damned thing was timed and she'd have to come back another day. Not a chance. She drew a deep breath and stepped through, onto a plush staircase winding up.
Shifting her stance, she hugged a wall and started the climb. Slow. Careful. Listening until her ears threatened to twitch. Those sounds were still above, steady and undisturbed. That was good. Her life depended on her getting the jump on him. Before long, light first trickled then poured down the staircase. She eased to the top and stayed hunched in the shadows that were left, trusting to her skills to keep her hidden. Laughter spilled from the right, a surprising sound in the home of a vampire. She went the other way, creeping through the empty kitchen and through the servants' quarters. Her plan was to start at the top and work her way down, hunting him. A back set of stairs curled to the second floor, dumping her at the end of a long hallway. Most of the doors were closed, and she began quietly peeking in one after another. A utility closet. A water closet. A coat closet. A guest bedroom, cluttered with cobwebs.
The room behind the last door showed signs of use. Recent use. Thick, heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows, blocking out the impending daylight. Candles burned in wall-mounts, casting a soft glow over the room. She stepped in, easing the door shut, and looked around. Still hugging the wall, her gaze swept critically, taking in detail. Clearly he slept here, but the bed was empty. Perhaps under the bed? Or was this just for show? There were two other doors in the room. One might lead to his resting place. She stepped toward the closest one and bit her lip against a screech as a hand wrenched her arm behind her, forcing the mace from her grip.
A deep, knee-trembling voice slithered across her ear, the breath hot and spicy, "Welcome to my home, Cleric. I always enjoy meeting new... friends."
Sinclair groaned and cursed herself in several languages, for stupidity, and out loud. He chuckled against her skin, gripping a fistful of hair to yank her head to the side. She cried out soft, against her will, as pain shot up her trapped arm, and tried to twist free. She fought. She kicked and bucked. And eventually wore herself out, sagging against him, panting.
"Are you done, child?" The bastard sounded amused. She hissed in response, then froze as his tongue slid over the side of her neck and her legs nearly buckled. Heat lanced, cutting down her chest to her core. Her eyes widened, a new horror waking.
He laughed again, "Ahhhh. I can taste your fear like a vintage wine sliding over my tongue. Let me sip once more."
Another jerk of her hair bared her throat fully. She tried to twist again, nearly pulling her arm from the socket. Her efforts were useless. Sharp teeth grazed her skin, threatening. Tears slid down her cheeks as she thought of Ethan and how she was wasting the gift he had given her. A burn slid over her skin. Pain, yes, but not piercing. The bite she was dreading never came. He scraped her flesh open and licked gently, groaning, "So sweet, child. I am going to enjoy you."
The hand in her hair pushed her forward. She stumbled and fell on the bed as he let go. She flipped over, facing him. The first thing she noticed was a smear of crimson on his mouth. Her blood. A shiver danced over her arms. Then she saw the rest of him. He was every grown, experienced woman's fantasy of what a vampire should be. Tall, dark and handsome didn't begin to cover it. Midnight black hair fell past strong shoulders, tamed back by a thin strip of velvet at the nape of his neck. The silk spilling from his shoulders and crawling over a powerful chest seemed more an afterthought than an affectation. The same could be said for the black pants clinging to his hips, but Sinclair refused to look that low. Once her gaze flicked below his chin, they snapped back up. She didn't meet his eyes, for that would be the end of her. She focused instead on that fleck of colour marring his perfect mouth. Her heart raced faster. Her skin warmed. That mouth. What would it feel like to feel that mouth sliding over her again? It was so hot. So soft. Her own lips parted slightly. Her fingers lifted, reaching for her mouth.
