Blood For The Vampiress Ch 03

Author's Note: I know it's weird to put a foreword on a third chapter of an ongoing series, but I feel it might be necessary in this case. Some "untoward" violence happens to more and more characters as this story goes along, so I feel I should warn any unwary readers who might stumble upon this tale of horror. If you're familiar with the Hammer Horror movies of the 60's, you may pick up on the kind of feel I am hoping for in this story. I count as some of my influences guys like Richard Laymon, Edward Lee, and Jack Ketchum. If you know who those guys are and you dig them, I have a feeling you might dig this story. If you don't know who they are, try it out and see what you think. If you know who they are, and you think they're sick fucks, well... then this isn't for you. Because, let's face it, those guys write 1000 x better than anything I could ever do. As always feel free to send me a line or leave a comment. I appreciate any constructive criticism you can give me, and while I may not get back to you right away, know that I am grateful beyond words.

If I haven't scared you off yet, continue...

And welcome to the horror.

***

The smell of bacon pulled Melvin out of bed. Only two things ever managed to force him from his love of sleep: his beautiful wife, Morgan, and bacon. Zombie-like, he clomped across the bedroom floor and into the hall. His stomach rumbled as he made his way down the stairs. The scent of bacon worked its magic fast.

Melvin rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and forced his thoughts to clear. He stepped into the kitchen and saw St. Graves and Morgan talking and looking groomed, dressed, and too awake for as early it was in the morning. Bridget, he assumed, must still be in bed. Alexandria stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. Melvin forced away the images that wanted to creep into his head: Alexandria riding the old man the night before, sweat glistening on her ebony skin, her eyes wild with lust.

St. Graves was saying, "... interested in Bloodless, Arizona for some time. Of course, they were all rumors. I only act on hard evidence, dear girl, and I stay too busy to go investigating every weird rumor I hear, no matter how plausible they may or may not sound."

Alexandria noticed Melvin at the door, turned and asked, "How do you like your eggs?" She looked like an Amazonian warrior-princess wearing an apron with cartoon chickens all over it; Melvin swallowed a giggle.

"Over-easy," he replied and took a seat at the table next to Morgan. She smelled like shampoo and flowery body wash, and Melvin took a moment to inhale without being conspicuous about it. He was still a bit pissed about what she had made him do in his boxers the previous night.

"Morning, babe. We were just discussing the next step of our journey," Morgan said and leaned over to give Melvin a kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt soft and cool.

"Coffee?" the old vampire hunter offered. Melvin nodded and watched as St. Graves lifted the pot next to him and filled an empty mug on the table. The mug read, "Mondays are FUN-days." Melvin tried not think about the old man fucking Alex, but it was hard.

St. Graves handed Melvin the steaming mug and resumed the conversation, "Alexandria and I are certified pilots, and I have a private plane. Getting to Bloodless will not be a problem. I know of a small airfield in a town not far from our destination. The problem will be what to do upon our arrival."

"We'll split up," Morgan said. "Melvin and I will see if we can pick up any information on Joey, whether anyone remembers him, that kind of thing. You, Alex, and Bridget can hit up the nearby archives and libraries; see if you can learn anything more about the history of Bloodless. We meet up, compare notes, then decide how to proceed."

"A simple but effective plan," St. Graves concurred, stroking his goatee.

Melvin sipped his coffee and tried not to grimace. A rancid bitterness drenched his mouth, his tongue and his throat. He forced a thin smile. His stomach gurgled.

"Good coffee," he said. ***

Rhianna swept the black dirt over her long, smooth legs and felt satisfied, her stomach full of blood, her lust satiated by the dark man, and a full day of sleep ahead of her.

A shifting noise to her left and a heavy sigh made Rhianna pause. Her hands full of dirt, her legs half-buried with earth, she sniffed the air like a dog and caught a familiar scent.

"Master?" she said into the darkness. Though Rhianna had excellent night-vision, Master could not be seen unless she so desired, and Master had a habit of watching when Rhianna least expected. A voice validated Rhianna's suspicious.

"Darling," Master said, and her red eyes blinked to life. They floated like night fires. "I was having trouble sleeping. The fresh blood of the outsider burns within me."

Master stepped out of the dark, and Rhianna's eyes widened. Master had changed; her hair was fuller and longer, sweeping from her skull in flowing white-blonde locks, shimmering with new life. Her body had strengthened, and her muscles were tight and drawn, her curves more defined. Her breasts had grown round and full, no longer drooping. Master had rediscovered a beauty she had lost for a time.

Food was hard to come by these days, after all.

"Do you approve?" Master said, her voice husky and seductive, more youthful.

"The changes are all... good," Rhianna breathed.

"There will be more, when his friends come for him." Master's eyes flamed as she spoke the words as if the mere thought stoked her inner fire, and Rhianna could not help but become sexually aroused, her nipples hardening, her crotch tingling. The arousal was part of Master's power over her, over all of their kind. Rhianna was but a slave to it.

"I smell your lust," the Master said and pointed a finger at the glistening wetness within the tangle of Rhianna's lower red curls. "Do you desire me?"

"Yes," Rhianna responded in a small voice. Her hand crept down and touched her slit. Her fingers came away oily and wet.

"Then come. Taste," Master ordered. She bent her knees and spread her naked legs in invitation. Her lips peeled back over sharpened fangs like a curtain opening for the first act. Her smile was hideous. Gruesome. Irresistible.

Rhianna crawled from under her blanket of black dirt and on her hands and knees and slowly made her way to Master's sweetness. Burning red hair framed a face of unblemished white skin and Rhianna's emerald eyes glittered as they peered deep into the hell of Master's own.

"Do I please you, Master?" Rhianna said coming to a stop, her head looking up at her mistress with eager desire.

"There's a reason you're my favorite," Master said and ran a hand through Rhianna's blood-red hair. "Beautiful." The word was a foul breath in the mildewed dark of the basement.

Rhianna dipped her head into the mound between Master's legs, her pink tongue slipping out and sliding up one muscular inner thigh. The hand in her hair clenched when the tongue met its destination, and Master heaved a deep sigh. Long nails scraped paths across Rhianna's scalp.

The one called Master admitted that the girl had talent. She did not choose her favorites hastily. The last had not even been a vampire, and he had more than proved useful in and out of bed. If she didn't need him taking care of certain business outside of town, the dark man might still claim his place as her favorite, however, as things currently had turned a different course, she needed him to use his talents to lure more unsuspecting pray...

Her thoughts broke off, and she shuddered as Rhianna's fingers began to pry her open, the redhead's tongue wriggling inside of her like a live animal.

Seeing that her actions had bore beneficial results, an encouraged Rhianna exchanged fingers for tongue and delved deeper and faster with her inserting fingers, her lips wrapped over Master's vaginal lips, Rhianna's wet tongue seeking the budding clitoris hidden under them. Responding, Master grabbed the sides of her head and pulled Rhianna harder into her, the young girl's nose mashing against Master's soft flesh.

Rhianna hoped that she could bring Master to climax. Too much time had passed since the last. The feeding seemed to have rejuvenated her in some way. Rhianna hoped that the outsider's friends would prove to be as nourishing.

Pleasure coursed within Master like fresh energy; coupled with the blood of the outsider, Master had not felt so well in ages. Memories paraded through her mind, marching like soldiers through a receding fog. She recalled forgotten lovers and friends, men and women whose lives she stole, sucked away, filling her own empty veins with their juicy pumping blood. Faces came and went. Names dredged up out of the mud like buried artifacts. Events Master thought she would never recall again, they came back to her as fresh as the meal still digesting in her stomach.

Rhianna lapped at her; her fingers burrowed deeper and slid in-and-out. She gained momentum. Master shuddered above her. She felt the oncoming rush of orgasm roar like a tsunami above, its shadow looming like an angry titan.

And then it hit Master, crushed her, swept her into its depths and drowned her with a scream of passionate joy. A violent female ejaculation splashed from out of her, splattering Rhianna's face with syrupy blood.

Somewhere, within the mindless recesses of the climax, Master remembered her name.

Mina.

***

The plane touched down in the middle of nowhere; at least, this is what it looked like to Melvin as he strode down the metal stairs and squinted against the scorching Arizona sun. White-blue sky above orange-red landscape; jagged peaks of rock jabbed out of the earth like straining erections. The ground was cracked, dusty, and sun-baked. Melvin wondered mildly why anyone would want to live out here.

"No one does," Morgan said behind him, reading his thoughts (literally). She wore a yellow short-sleeved shirt buttoned up to a V at her bosom, a white t-shirt stretching behind it, and khaki shorts. She had pulled her hair back in a long ponytail; it bobbed as she treaded down the stairs behind Melvin.

"That's why St. Graves chose here to land. We're looking to make a subtle entrance. Less likely to arouse any suspicion that way," Morgan continued. The horizon reflected off a pair of large sunglasses. Melvin wished he had a pair of his own as he squinted back at her.

"Don't vampires sleep during the day, anyway?" he asked, motioning to the burning orb of sun with a sweep of his hand. He felt beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The desert heat didn't play around.

"They have eyes everywhere," Morgan replied. "At risk of sounding like an X-Files repeat, trust no one we meet here."

"What about St. Graves and the queen of the Amazons?" Bridget Briswell said as she caught up to them on the tarmac. "Can we trust them?"

Bridget wore a cargo shorts and a khaki shirt. Her blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight and swung at her shoulders with every step. On her feet, flip-flops clomped on the cracked asphalt, and she hoped they wouldn't melt on the hot desert floor.

"They're hard people, but they have to be hard to do what they do. The moment you let down your guard in their business, you're dead," Morgan replied.

A chubby man with a doughy face and shit-eating grin jiggled his way across the airfield and towards them. Straggly brown hair covered his forehead and hung down the back of his neck, and his forearms appeared to be just as hairy if not more so. A torn white t-shirt and raggedy jean shorts seemed painted on his jelly-like body; the seams looked fit to burst at any given moment. Crusty mustard and ketchup stains blotted the straining shirt.

"That's a lot of hot dogs and beer in motion," Morgan said as the fat man approached.

"Where's Doctor St. Graves?" the man said, stopping in front of them and gasping for breath. His voice was as light and jolly as he looked heavy and stupid. He thrust out a flabby hand.

"Julius," the man offered, and Melvin took his hand. The hand felt dry and dirty and looked oil-stained.

"Melvin McMuffin, and this is my wife, Morgan, and Bridget Briswell."

"Good flight?" Julius huffed, looking them over and holding his sides as if he was afraid they might collapse. Melvin noticed the man paid particular attention to Morgan's and Bridget's breasts.

"A little bumpy!" St. Graves bellowed in his distinguished voice and appeared behind the small group, Alexandria Knight in tow. Several bags were strapped around the tall woman's shoulders, and she carried two heavy looking suitcases in her hands. Melvin assumed they were filled with things like Bibles, holy water, and stakes. Knight's muscles rippled under a tight green shirt. He thought again how easily Alexandria could kick his ass.

The old man clapped Julius on the shoulders in a friendly manner and began walking him towards the flat building that Melvin assumed to be the fat man's living quarters. A small control tower rose next to it like a double-wide trailer on stilts. A hawk soared circles above them.

"Did you get the vehicles I asked for?" St. Graves said.

"Doctor, have I ever let you down?" Julius returned and heaved a great belly laugh.

***

As previously planned, they split into two groups. The old man, his apprentice, and Bridget would scour the local archives while Melvin and Morgan checked out the local bar and see if anyone recognized a description of Joey. They rode away from Julius and the airfield in two separate Jeeps and towards the closest town to Bloodless.

This town was aptly named Left, Arizona.

Upon arrival, Melvin and Morgan pushed through the swinging doors to the only drinking establishment in Left, a squatting cement building with the single word, "SALOON" painted in faded red letters across the top, and walked into what could only be described as a decaying dream of redneck heaven. A rusty mechanical bull sat silent and brooding at one side of the room, a dusty jukebox with a cracked glass faceplate on the other. Years of unswept peanut shells littered the floor like fallen leaves. The head of a snarling coyote adorned the wall at the rear of the bar above shelves of bottles that all looked to be whiskey. Stools, only a few occupied and those by weary looking men, wavered on unsteady wooden legs at the bar, and Melvin and Morgan took seats on two of them.

"Is that legal?" Melvin said, straightening his glasses and pointing up at the dead animal head. The bartender glared at Melvin with two squinty eyes as he rubbed the inside of a shot glass with dirty-looking towel.

"Who are you? The fuckin' E.P.A.?" the bartender said. A mustache like a fat black caterpillar twitched on his upper lip.

"Don't mind him. He's a bleedin' heart animal lover. How do you think he lost his virginity?" Morgan replied with a lovely laugh, and the bartender joined her, his beady eyes twinkling. Melvin frowned, playing his part. Once the bartender warmed up to Morgan, she'd have no problem getting answers to any questions she might ask.

"What'll you have?" the bartender said, smiling at Morgan.

"Whisky for the both of us," Morgan said. "And maybe a little help?"

"Depends on what you're looking for," the bartender said.

"Just a little information. We're looking for a friend," Morgan said and proceeded to flesh out a description of Joseph Gray. Melvin let his eyes drift around the saloon, glancing at the men in jeans and flannel with their tired eyes and forlorn expressions. Melvin thought that vampires weren't the only things that could suck the life out of a man, and something about this town was just as deadly as whatever awaited them in Bloodless.

"Yeah, I remember somebody like that," the bartender said and nodded. He finished pouring the shots of whiskey and slid them in front of Morgan and Melvin. "He came in, had a long talk with Ol' Karl."

"Ever see him after that?" Melvin said. The bartender shook his head in the negative.

"Nah, they call this town Left for a reason. You either come and stay or go and never come back. This friend of yours, he went. Won't ever see him again, not in Left. Same as you. Once you hit the town limits, you won't ever come back."

"Tell us about Karl," Morgan said. She threw back her shot of whiskey with a tilt of her head. Then she thumped the glass upside-down against the counter top and smacked her lips.

"Ol' Karl knows everything there is to know about these parts, or at least thinks he does. Talked your friend up about some treasure or some such nonsense. Your friend seemed mighty interested in Ol' Karl's fairy tales," the bartender said and poured another shot for Morgan. He slid it in front of her.

"This one's on the house," he said.

"Thanks. Does Karl come in here often?" Morgan said and threw back her shot.

"Wait long enough, and he always does," the bartender replied.

Melvin finally tossed back his own shot and felt a scorching fire roar a path to his stomach where he fought to keep it down. His breath felt like car exhaust, fuming with pollution as he exhaled and coughed. He gagged, and the world went gray for a few seconds. He heard Morgan and the bartender and maybe even the coyote head laugh at him.

"They call that the devil's piss," the bartender said, and Melvin knew why.

***

A phone shrilled to life, lighting up like Christmas morning and squealing musical chimes in alarm. A shadowy hand detached from the darkness and lifted it to an unseen ear.

"Yes?" said a low, smooth voice.

"They're here," said the man on the other end. It was the voice of too many hot dogs and beer. The voice of a man who loathed himself and hoped for something more from life. The voice of a man willing to make a deal.

"Good." The hand put the phone back on the receiver and slid back into shadow.

A smile creased the dark.

***

Left had no library, and the reedy woman at the reception desk of Town Hall told them that the archives were located in the basement. Giant glasses with coke bottle lenses magnified owl eyes like lighthouse beams over St. Graves and the two women with him.

"The basement it is then," said St. Graves in his most genteel voice.

"Looking for anything in particular?" asked the owl-woman, sweeping her beams over the group as they made their way down the stairs into the archival. It appeared to be comprised of tall metal filing cabinets lined in rows and not much else. A long reading table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the filing cabinets like dominoes. Bridget Briswell felt a strange urge to push down one and watch them fall in tandem.

"Anything on Bloodless, Arizona would be delightful," St. Graves replied. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and polyester pants. Bridget thought he looked like most of the professors she'd had during college. The only thing missing was a pipe, and she had a feeling he probably had one packed amongst his belongings. The professorial figure did not match the memory she had of St. Graves firing a gun into a vampire's head the day before. A chill ticked Bridget's spine. She hoped to forget those images as soon as possible, as soon as they found Joey and got the hell out of there.

"Bloodless," the owl-woman said, her face turning pale. She raised a hand to her throat and looked from side-to-side, uncomfortable like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

"Is that a problem?" St. Graves asked. He raised a wispy eyebrow and exchanged a look with Alexandria. His apprentice raised her own eyebrows in response.

"No, no, let me just go see what we have," said the woman and scurried away.

"Well, that was definitely sketchy," Alex said in a low voice. Her dark brown eyes swept over the room with caution. "Any one else get a weird feeling about this place?"