The Dirigible Airship Disaster Read online

  “Get out. Put on a towel and wait for me on the bed.”

  I looked back at him with a furrowed brow and heat lapping at my cheeks. “I’d prefer to get dressed.”

  “You’ll regret it if you do.” He gave me a look hard as stone.

  I scoffed and got out of the tub. “Well, I’ll take my chances then.”

  “You love playing games with Death. It’s why I find you so bewitching.”

  I scoffed, pulling a towel off the washstand rack, and looked at him, scrubbing his hair with his back to me. The defined muscles in his shoulders flexed as the soap suds rolled down his arms. I gulped and left the room.

  Once in the bedroom, I took a deep breath, and frantically dried myself off with the towel. I heard the water sloshing in the tub as he moved, and I prayed he wasn’t done yet as I rummaged in my dresser for a tea dress. I pulled it over my head and it stuck to my wet skin. I looked down at the thin, damp material clinging to my body like a pathetic, thin funeral shroud. It did little to hide anything and exasperation scratched at my insides. I shrugged in defeat as he pulled the plug and the water began to drain in a suctioning sigh. My heart pounded as his feet hit the floor of the bathroom, and his long shadow began to eclipse the doorway. My exasperation turned to panic and arousal. Shame, excitement, a whole heady potion of mixed emotions swirled within me, and I bumped up against the bedpost as he entered the room, naked and dripping on the wood floor. His eyes immediately changed from green to red when he saw me, but his face held no emotion. A chill swept through me, like a gusting wind, blowing away all feeling. I froze against the bedpost as he stopped on the threshold, his gaze burning into me.

  “I asked you not to dress.”

  I swallowed hard. “You didn’t say ‘please.’”

  The air grew cold, thick and heavy like a snow as his feet pounded on the floor, and in between the frantic beats of my heart, I soon found myself face-down over his lap. On the bed. His hard cock against the front of my hips. I struggled against him, but he held me down with one powerful, clawed hand between my shoulder blades, and with the other he lifted my dress over my bare bottom. The side of my face was pressed up against the mattress, and my gaze was pinned to my locked, bedroom door. His breath quickened as he pulled the material up to the small of my back. I jumped, and he pressed me down harder. His hand was cold again, lightly sweeping over my sensitive flesh. I bit my tongue to keep from moaning.

  “It is you who will say ‘please.’”

  I stiffened in the yawning silence, and suddenly, the palm of his hand met my bare bottom with a swift ‘crack.’ It stung. It hurt. It felt amazing. He did it again, harder this time and I flinched. His cock swelled against the front of my hips, and I longed to rub against it. Crack, again, and I felt the tingle of blood rushing to my violated flesh.

  With a sharp talon, he traced a gentle, slow line from my knee, up the sensitive part of my inner thigh. I bit my lip, and found my legs starting to open. He stopped before touching the part of me that deliciously ached.

  “Beg me to stop,” he said, spanking me once more.

  I cried out, and tears stung my eyes. He smacked me again, and I stubbornly held out. Another sharp, painful smack.

  “You’re starting to bruise,” he whispered, gently sweeping the palm of his hand over my smarting skin. “The sooner you say it, the sooner I can give you pleasure and not pain.”

  I felt him raise his hand once more. “Please,” I whispered through the tears.

  “Please what?” He lifted his hand off my back.

  “Please stop,” I shouted, scrambling to get away from him. I pressed up against the vanity and the mirror behind me wobbled on its axis. He stood, and walked slowly, deliberately. I looked over my shoulder into the mirror. It was empty, for he cast no reflection. I was afraid, in pain, yet electrified. He stopped, towering over me, and his talons receded. I gasped as he lifted my dress again. He reached between my thighs, parting my legs. I longed to lean into him, expose my neck to him, feed him. My heart exploded as he slipped a finger into my most sensitive core. The corner of his lip lifted in a half-smile for a quick flash.

  “You’ve clearly enjoyed it.” He released me and walked to the window seat and sat in the moonlight.

  I pulled my dress down and glared at him, sitting there as satisfied as a fat house cat. He looked up at the moon and spoke.

  “I won’t take from you what you do not yet wish to give me.”

  “How generous of you.” I rolled my eyes, my words laced with frustration.

  His head snapped in my direction. He nodded and sucked in a sharp breath. “But I will feed from you. That you will not deny me.”

  I rolled my eyes, pulling my dress tight around me and began to pace the room.

  “I know you desire it.”

  I stopped and glared at him, my face tight and my head dizzy.

  His eyes began to glow brighter, and his skin appeared ghostly in the moonlight. “Now that my maker is dead, I shall have my fill of the choice vein of your neck.” His fangs grew, and his nostrils flared. He started to salivate. A shot of panic leapt through me.

  “Do not fret. I would never kill my bewitching doll. But you will tell your woeful tale, and you will be mine, for I know you deeply desire it,” he hissed. His fangs grew longer, and his eyes began to turn red and spin like a kaleidoscope of murderous determination. He was no longer looking at me, but through me, to some far off, megalomaniacal dream.

  My breath came out in sharp little huffs and my fingers and toes went numb with fear. I gulped and he seemed to hear it. His eyes flicked to me and started to go green again. His fangs receded with a quick snap and he stood. He was impressive with the moon at his back, like a sculpture come to life, his skin smooth, luminescent and cold as marble. He gave a wave of his hand, pulled his shirt from the back of the chair and headed into the bathroom. I heard the rustling of his clothes and the jingling of his belt buckle as he dressed.

  “You may lie down,” he said through the open door.

  I cleared my throat, searching for my voice. “Will you hit me if I don’t?”

  He suddenly appeared in the doorway, his chin tilted, and the smooth skin between his eyebrows wrinkled. “I was going to help you relax.” He shrugged, buttoning up his shirt. “But if you want all pain and no pleasure, who am I to deny it?”

  I rolled my eyes again.

  “You may sit where you wish. But remember, I only have all night.” He quirked an eyebrow as he fastened the last button on his shirt.

  I marched to the window seat he was so very fond of, and sat down on the warm, smooth wood.

  He entered the room. The corner of his lip lifted for a moment when he saw me.

  My curiosity piqued, and I took another chance at boldness. “I’ve never seen you smile,” I said.

  “Hm.” He nodded, sitting down on the bed. He fluffed the pillows, then aligned them at the corners, at perfect right angles, before reclining his head on them with his bare feet on the bed. He crossed them at the ankles.

  My lips pursed in annoyance at how comfortable and smug he appeared.

  “I cannot remember the last time I smiled. But this is the most fun I’ve had in decades,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I scoffed and shook my head. A piece of damp hair fell into my eyes, and the memory of how Samuel used to brush my hair aside stung me full of sorrowful venom. Dr. Henderson must have sensed it. I glanced over at him and his face had softened. I blinked hard a few times at the sudden, unfamiliar change in his expression.

  “Remember, I can end your agony. I do not wish to be the cause.”

  I looked away from him and out the window at the dark, empty lawn below. The silence between us stretched on. An owl hooted in the distance, and a peal of laughter from several streets over echoed in the night.

  “Tell me what happened. When you tire, I will switch you places and you can rest.”

  I gave a rueful half-grin and looked back at him.
He got up from the bed and I flinched at his sudden movement. He headed into the bathroom and turned the spigot on, then off, and came out with a glass of water. He carried it to me. I stared at it, then at him, and our fingers met for a moment as I took the glass. His brief, nurturing touch invigorated me, and I took a sip as he returned to his reclining position on the bed.

  “Four years ago?” he asked, his eyebrow raised.

  I took another gulp, stalling for time, my hands and voice shaking as I began to tell him all my secrets so he could fill his gun with the bullets of my shattered hope.

  Chapter 2

  Four Years Prior

  The Residence of Lord Mangus and Lady Persephone Delafayette

  Mr. Arthur Pembroke, eyeing the time on his open pocket watch, twitches his nose at the hour so late in the day. He clicks the watch closed and returns it to his breast pocket. Faded patches of sunlight filter through the muntined windows in Lord Mangus Delafayette’s study. Pembroke takes a cigar from the box on the desk, cuts the end and lights it. He puffs the smoke out in half-formed, pathetic rings, waiting for his business associate to return with the latest amicus brief.

  Soft laughter sounds from somewhere down the hall of the country estate, followed by the dulcet, plucked strings of a harp. Pembroke leans back in his chair, crosses his legs and tips the ash of the cigar into a crystal tray. The beguiling scent of the tea olive, in full bloom just outside the open window, fills the air, creating a lurid mix with the cigar smoke. His eyelids begin to droop, the cigar tipping loosely in his hand. The sound of parchment slaps across the desk, and he jumps to full alertness, nearly burning himself with the lit cigar.

  “Ah, Arthur! How many times have I told you not to smoke and sleep? Remember that time you almost lit the dormitory on fire?” Mangus flashes a sardonic grin beneath his neat, charcoal grey mustache. He takes a seat at the desk, opposite Pembroke.

  Pembroke’s lips purse as he brushes a dusting of ash from his pant leg and straightens in his chair. “I did no such thing. What do we have here?” Pembroke asks, pulling the papers to him. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose for a better look.

  “What we have here is courtesy of Rueben.” Mangus leans back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face as he takes full liberty of the armrests.

  Pembroke flips through the pages, his mouth hanging open and the space between his brows knitting. He takes another puff from the cigar. The plume of smoke curls over the edges of the paper. Soft ‘hms’ and ‘ha’s!’ emit from his lips as the studies the brief.

  Mangus nods as he regards his associate and lifelong friend. A twinkle beseeches his grey eyes. “I will announce Rueben’s partnership at next month’s charity gala. That is, if you have no objections.”

  Pembroke’s mouth closes and he sets down the papers, taking another long drag. “I must admit, his acumen for the investigative is astounding, considering his rather humble beginnings.”

  Mangus scoffs. “More than that, Arthur. He has a cooler head than either of us combined.”

  Pembroke smirks and taps the cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “That is something we need going forward.”

  Mangus’ face darkens. “Yes. I would like him on equal footing with us when we get in front of Judge Cochran for the precinct 48 case. I’ve reached out to Senator Custus on the matter.”

  Pembroke’s eyes narrow as he regards Mangus. “How deep does this go?”

  Mangus looks out the window at the fading daylight. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “I fear it goes much deeper than we’d initially thought, if Rueben’s findings in that brief are any indication.” He nods at the stack of papers between them. “I want as many trustworthy influencers in the higher echelons of government backing us as possible.”

  Pembroke exhales the last bit of his cigar and snuffs it out. “I’ll put in a few calls tomorrow.”

  Silence fills the air as the two men gaze out the window.

  “Delafayette, Pembroke, and Ezekiel’ is quite a mouthful. How much did Watson’s charge per letter for the sign again?” Pembroke looks at Lord Mangus with a curious grin on his face.

  Lord Mangus returns the grin. “Well, imagine the cost of the wedding invitations, Arthur. ‘Elyse Christine Delafayette Ezekiel.’” Lord Mangus shakes his head, the twinkle in his eye brightening to a flame.

  Pembroke scoffs. “The Mrs. Rueben Morris Ezekiel, indeed.” He stands, leaning across the desk and holding out his hand.

  Lord Mangus rises from his chair, takes Pembroke’s hand and slaps him on the shoulder.

  “Congratulations on the newest addition to your family, and partnership,” Pembroke says, breaking their embrace.

  “Our Partnership. Shall we join them in the solarium?”

  Pembroke nods. “Yes, and I think a celebratory brandy is in order.”

  “Brandy first and then solarium, in that order.” Lord Mangus pours their drinks from a decanter on the side table, inlaid with ivory and recently purchased on Lord Mangus’ latest expedition to the Far East.

  The two men traverse the hall to the solarium, their languid footsteps clipping against the rose parquet floor. Lord Mangus takes a sip of his brandy. He holds it up in a kind of acknowledging salute as he passes Mrs. Vera Ewee, the household servant, dusting a bust of Abraham Lincoln. She gives a small nod in his direction, her eyes flitting to his tumbler, and she smirks.

  The Delafayette’s, here in Savannah since the early 1700s, were abolitionist sympathizers, and at great and perilous danger, have always taken the side of the downtrodden, voiceless; the forgotten.

  Lord Mangus Delafayette, the latest in this long line of humanitarians, was told at such a tender age by his father that such people as he—the kind, empathetic, intelligent and most importantly, the wealthy, must put their gifts to good use, or else it was a cosmic waste of talent and good fortune and an unforgivable tragedy. Lord Mangus, never one to woefully waste, followed in his ancestor’s footsteps. Now the leading attorney for the region’s most prominent law firm, Lord Mangus has continued the family legacy of humanitarian work. Pro bono cases, plentiful when first starting out in his law career and now at the end of it, have taken the forefront of his roster.

  The seemingly linked disappearances of the poorest residents of Chatham county have not gone unnoticed by the firm Delafayette and Pembroke. In fact, Delafayette and Pembroke have ample reason to believe, in thanks to the ambitious investigative work of Rueben Morris Ezekiel, that the local police precinct has some nefarious ties to the disappearances, and may even be compelled to supply a renegade hive of vampires with the blood of these poor retches.

  Lord Mangus would do anything to protect his family and the city he loves from the unholy and the undead. Vampires, having long been excised of their empathy, would do anything to satisfy their bloodlust, including the enthralling of entire armies, hence the cause of the War Between the States, the war of brother against brother.

  The two men take sips of their brandy before entering the threshold separating the ambient, exotic solarium from the sage and unwieldy remainder of the house. Patience, Lord Mangus’ youngest and resembling him the most right down the twinkling grey eyes, stands when she sees him, and rushes to a warm embrace.

  Elyse though, his eldest, is just like her mother; reserved, dark, green-eyed and petite. But just like her namesake, she had inherited her father’s compassionate nature. Still seated at her harp, she smiles at her father, and gives a cursory nod, which he returns over Patience’s shoulder. And the cool, honey-voiced Persephone, matriarch of the Delafayette family, is far too absorbed at the davenport desk in sheets of music, blotting out whole notes and subdividing them into sixteenths. She glances up for a moment.

  “Evening Arthur, I didn’t hear you come in.” She scratches out another offending note, her nose wrinkling.

  Mangus takes a seat on the inlaid settee, Arthur following him. Patience settles onto the window seat, the fronds of a Boston fern rustling against her ey
elet dress. The setting sun illuminates the solarium in soft tones of orange and yellow.

  “I’d just come to congratulate your husband on the newest edition to the firm, and your family.” Pembroke takes a sip of his brandy.

  Elyse flips the pedals on the harp to the key of B major, never glancing up from her task, but the bridge of her nose and apples of her cheeks flush the harshest shade of scarlet.

  Persephone grins at her. “Rueben’s been family since we rescued him from that understaffed, terribly parochial grammar school in the foothills. Why, his marriage to my eldest is practically incestuous at this point.”

  “Mother!” Elyse turns green at the implication.

  Pembroke and the rest of the family laugh. Elyse puts the harp back in its case, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “It’s an excellent match, dear,” Persephone says, stacking the sheet music and placing it into a drawer.

  “I’ll take this upstairs.” Elyse picks up the harp in its canvas bag and leaves the solarium.

  Her stockinged feet almost slip on the polished floor as she winds her way through the estate. Never one to take the main stairwell, Elyse keeps to the small, narrow corridors, disappearing behind a sliding panel next to the kitchen. The servant’s stairwell is well-lit with milk-glass sconces, and her unwieldy harp case bumps against her knees as she ascends to the second floor.

  She slides open the top panel, the door whispering the house’s secrets against its metal track in a subtle sigh. And he is there, Rueben Morris Ezekiel, leaning against her bedroom door in the dim hallway, his harlequin eyes brightened by the west-facing rose window at the far end of the corridor. The breath leaves their lungs at the sight of the other. Time stops, but who will move first?

  It is Rueben. He crosses the hall, his ink-stained hand outstretched for hers, and she takes it; ivory against toffee, the shades of their skin a tantalizing juxtaposition. He kisses her forehead.