Disclaimer: the concepts of vampirism as portrayed in Gothic Nights are the intellectual property of Adam Darkmoon, and used here without permission. (And you know I haven't got any money, Adam, so don't sue!) I wrote this purely for my own amusement, I'm not making any money off of it.

A Gothic Nights story
by Jacynthe Demorae

Brenna Chapel sat on the edge of the bed, combing out her long dark hair. Behind her, the husky young man she'd picked up coming out of the Chinese place snored insensibly among the scattered pillows. The drug she'd slipped into his tea--show a little cleavage, and most men wouldn't notice you holding a sledge hammer over their heads--had at last taken hold. He'd sleep through the night and wake with only a slight headache that could be easily explained away by over-indulgence.

The modern era certainly made feeding easier.

The air smelled strongly of recent sex, mixed liberally with the waxy scent of the votives in their blue glass holders and the young man's aftershave. Stetson, she thought it was.

She stood up, shaking her hair back. A pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt lay discreetly on the chair before her make-up table, hidden by the absurd ruffled skirt covering the table's legs. Catching them up, she moved out into the hall, heading for the small bathroom. A twist of the taps, and fine needles of water jetted out from the showerhead.

Brenna stepped into the tub and turned under the spray. Picking up a bar of soap, she worked up a thick lather, smoothing it over her skin, massaging sore muscles. No finesse, these young ones. He might've left bruises on a mortal woman. The water washed the sudsy foam away, sluicing off the remains of body make-up and the semen that still clung to her thighs. When she felt clean again she turned off the water and stepped out onto the cold tile floor. She toweled off and dressed in the clean clothes, pulling denim and cotton over her still-damp skin. Tugging her hair out from her collar, she padded out to the kitchen.

The clatter of glass warned her she wasn't alone. She paused in the doorway, studying the man scrubbing out the kitchen sink. Ink-black hair curled over a crisp white shirt collar, just a fraction too long. By his employer's standards, anyway. In the nineteen sixties, it had been too short. Gray dress slacks emphasized trim hips, fine black stripes drawing the eye downward. His suit jacket lay on the table, a casual disregard for the expensive fabric. Her young man's university jacket hung on the back of the chair beside it.

"Eating in tonight, I see," he said in the northern English accent that had turned her knees to water forty years ago.

Brenna leaned against the table and picked up his jacket. "Yes, as a matter of fact. A little something I picked up from the Chinese place on Fourth."

"You might have warned me, Brenna." He gave the sink-scrubbing more concentration than it really deserved. She raised a questioning eyebrow and folded his jacket over her arm.


He flung the sponge down and whirled to face her. His eyes, still hidden by contacts, seemed a pure, human blue, but even the colored plastic couldn't hide the fire rising in them. "Yes!"

"That's pointless, Nicholas. Would you rather I starve?"

"No! No..." He dragged his fingers through his thick hair. "It's just...easier when I have some warning."

"I'm sorry. But you know there's no other way for us."

"I know." He reached for her and she went to him.

They fit together as if they'd been made for each other, the top of her head tucking neatly under his chin. He stroked her hair, fanning out the damp strands.

"At least you don't smell like him." he said at last.

"I would never do that to you," she reminded him.

He sighed, his breath stirring her hair. "When did this become so damn difficult?"

She had no answer for him. Five tribes of vampires among the Undead: the Gothic Children, the Rakishi, the Bean Sidhe, the Carpathian...and their tribe, the only one without a name. Five different methods of feeding. For Brenna and Nicholas, their blood-drinking must be sweetened with sex. Endorphins, they called them now. Hormones. The complex chemical cocktail released by human glands at the peak of orgasm.

The Succubi and Incubi called it Nectar, and would wither and die without it.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him.

"No." His voice thickened, his hands coming to rest at the small of her back.

She smiled into his shoulder and waited.

His hands slid up under her thin t-shirt, gliding over her back. "How long will he be out?" he asked her.

"The rest of the night," she assured him.

"Then it's my turn."

She reached up, cupping his face between her hands. He still wore the heavy make-up they both had to wear while moving through the human world. Waking their demon nature had a profound physical change: it darkened the eyes to onyx, turned the skin palest blue. They had both lived long enough to find the change beautiful.

Nicholas covered her mouth with his own, teasing her lips apart, eager, hungry. She curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She felt the prickle of fangs against her tongue, and pressed up againsthim. They fit together as if made for each other--but then, that was part of their power, to make another's fantasy flesh.

His hands trailed up, along her ribs, to cup her breasts. She broke the kiss with a gasp, closing her eyes, a soft groan escaping her as Nicholas turned his attention to the slim line of her throat. She quivered against him as he teased her flesh with tongue and teeth. Never quite hard enough to break the skin, but leaving a trail of tiny marks along her skin, the deepest along her collar bone.

Her own hands went to work at his shirt buttons, swearing good-naturedlyas some of the tiny bits of plastic refused to slip through the buttonholes. She slid the material off his shoulders. Wherever the shirt had covered him, his skin gleamed a light blue, like a pearl viewed under seawater. A sprinkling of dark hair over his chest lured her in. She pressed her mouth against him, warm flesh flavored by the sweat of the day. She scraped her teeth over one nipple, felt him flinch and gasp in pleasure.

Reluctantly, she leaned back and raised her arms. He drew her shirt up and over her head, casting it aside. Brenna reached for his belt buckle, working the belt loose so she could get at the fastenings. "Tsk, I think you need to change dry cleaners."

"What?" He stared down at her, eyes glazed.

She licked her lips, slowly, smiling as he watched, fascinated. "These seem tight, love." She glided a hand over his groin, smile widening as he shivered and groaned. "Perhaps they shrank."

He growled in her ear, lifting her up to rest on the table. "I think not."


He tugged at the button of her jeans, a low sound of satisfaction escaping him as he peeled them down over her hips.

"No," he said, hitching her up a little higher against his thighs.

She could feel the heat in him now, pulsing against her. Not quite yet... Nicholas' hands returned to her breasts. Brenna closed her eyes-then choked back a cry as his mouth closed over one nipple, suckling her gently. One arm curved around her, supporting her, cradling her as if she were something infinitely precious. And against her most delicate flesh, she felt fangs press against her.

Her blood raced like fire under her skin, and she pulled her lover closer, whispering encouragement. Nicholas settled between her thighs, loosely wrapping her legs around his waist. He thrust into her, strong and fierce. Brenna's spine arched, and she clutched his shoulders. His mouth came down on hers, swallowing her cry. Tongues probed and tangled.

Tension built inside her, until she quivered, taut as a bowstring. And still he moved inside her, touching deep. Brenna moved against him, feeling his muscles quiver under her hands. Almost...

Nicholas buried his face against her throat, and bit deep. She cried out, convulsing against him, shuddering as he drank greedily. Her joints went liquid and she let him support her completely, lost in the swirl of sensation.

At last, he raised his mouth from her, but not without reluctance. Still, the more blood he took from her, the sooner she would have tofeed again. He moved out and off of her, drawing her close and settling on the floor.

Bit by bit, Brenna's senses returned to her. Her head rested on Nicholas' bare shoulder, and his fingers stroked through her hair. The terrible price for taking one of their kind as a lover...it spoiled you for anyone else. Sex they might find with anyone--but for Nicholas and Brenna, satisfaction could only come from each other.

"Marvelous invention, beds," she murmured. "We really must try one again, sometime."

Nicholas laughed softly and kissed her temple. "Sometime...soon," he agreed.


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