The bar was that rarity in West Los Angeles: a dive. Dark, dirty and smoky, in direct violation of City Ordinance, the place was an anachronism, one that perfectly suited the two men seated at a back table.
"Look, I understand your concern, but all I am asking for is a little information-"
"Yeah, I'm quite aware what your kind do with information like that."
The older man leaned back, measuring his next words carefully. "Surely, Thomas, this situation is a threat to you and yours as well. If this series of murders and disappearances continues, it can hardly help but draw unwelcome attention upon you. I would think that it would be in your own best interests-"
The bearded man across the table cut him off. "Spare me the long- winded wheedling, Raban. I'll tell you what you want to know. Old Gareth Plays-With-His-Food is no friend of mine, I owe him no loyalty. At this point, no one does." He leaned his elbows on the table and stared into Raban's eyes. "But I want your assurance that this is as far as it goes. I don't give a fuck about your little Mage war, and I'm dead certain that Gareth is just a pawn in all this. You want to get rid of him, you go ahead. But that's it, Raban. My cooperation stops there."
Raban smiled slightly, reassuringly. "Understood, Thomas. I promise you-"
Thomas snorted disgustedly. "Yeah, right. Your promises ain't worth shit, Mage. Understand this - if this fight involves me or mine in any way after this, I'm becoming a participant. And it won't be on your side, got it?"
Raban's smile disappeared. "Got it. Tell me what I want to know and we both need never see each other again."
"Never'll be too soon. The last I heard of Gareth, he was getting his take-out at an underground club they run in West Hollywood..."
This early on a Saturday night, Club Babalon was pretty empty. Live music hadn't started yet, and the d.j.'s weren't set up. Toadies' new album played through an inadequate sound system. The large warehouse space would be full by two, but at ten o'clock the hundred or so revellers made the place look barely occupied. He leaned against a wall, eyeing the sparse crowd, looking, looking... The petite auburn- haired girl in worn leathers looked interesting, she was watching him - until a thin boy in tight jeans dropped to his knees in front of her, offering her a drink in a plastic cup. What about the little baby-doll in pink? Too fragile, she'd never last. He sighed, disgusted with himself.
He'd been without a lover for far too long, he was over-eager. The best thing to do would be to wait until the club picked up; anything he did now would be far too noticable anyway. He sipped at his watered drink and raked a hand through his thick, black hair, forcing himself to be patient.
He listened idly to the chit-chat around him- "Herbal Ecstacy bites, who the hell do they think they're fooling? I can get more fucked up on a double espresso at Darkwater-" "So then the robot says in a little-girl voice, `Daddy, the dog is sharp again-'" "Yeah, went to a Fakir Musafar seminar a year ago, been there, done that-"
A pretty, confident-looking girl in blue satin walked in, alone. She's lovely, he thought, as he watched her enter - then he froze as he saw the men who came in behind her. Three men, their dress shirts and khakis out of place here, their eyes scanning the club, looking for someone, or something - he opened up his senses.
The glow around the men was palpable, a sickening aura of human Power. Shit, shit, he thought as he retreated further into the shadows at the back of the warehouse. He avoided being spotted by moments. He felt himself tensing at the sudden scent of danger and took a precious few seconds to calm himself down. He bit back a snarl, the urge to take these men on almost overwhelming his good sense. I've got to get out of here, he told himself, taking several deep breaths.
A d.j. setting up the sound system passed him - and recoiled. Shit, my eyes, he thought, and pulled a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his brown leather jacket. He moved slowly back through the boxes, equipment and trash in the back, looking for a way out. A scent of night air, this way...an open door, leading onto an alley. He slipped out, breathing a sigh of relief- too soon. He heard running feet behind him just as he spotted a small woman at the end of the alley, pointing him out to two more hunters.
Then he was on the run, dashing through the deserted streets. A full moon shone down through the stifling, smoggy late summer heat which would not fade in this part of town until near morning. He quickly discovered that they had his jeep staked out, and he realized that he would never get out of this in human form. Damn it, he thought, there goes my favorite leather jacket. Dropping to all fours as his wolf form overtook him, he headed as quickly as he dared toward the Hollywood Hills. If he could make it, he could stay in hilly terrain until he got into the Santa Monicas, then he'd be home free. Crossing the 405 would be a bitch - maybe Mulholland - but the rest should be a piece of cake.
Forty-five minutes later, in the hills above the city, he was beginning to wonder. Who the hell are these guys? he thought, as they tracked his steps at every turn. Gods, maybe they have some sort of way of tracking me- if that's true I'm dog food. Mulholland was being watched; he actually had to cross the 405 on the freeway, narrowly avoiding being hit. Well, there's one guy who'll have a hell of a tale to tell tonight- "No, babe, it wasn't a coyote, I've seen coyotes, this was a goddamned wolf!"
Once on the other side of the freeway the pursuers seemed to lose him, but it wasn't until an hour later when he was well up the coast nearing home that he slowed and relaxed a little. Damn, he thought, that was close. I'd better avoid the city for a while until the heat dies down. He slowed, feeling the wet air leave droplets of dew on his pelt, savoring the sounds of the nightime hills. It was cooler here and foggy despite the inland heat, the ocean's tempering influence, and the smog was absent as well.
Even this close to the city, the Santa Monica Mountains managed to retain their wilderness quality, their air of seclusion, in their winding, labyrinthine canyons. The scent of fresh water tantalized Gareth; he was close to a small year-round stream that most Los Angelinos had no idea even existed. His hopes for the evening dashed but still unwilling to return to his lonely cabin, Gareth trotted down the canyon towards the ruins of the old Roberts house.
As he picked his way, still in wolf form, down the hillside towards the creekbed, he realized that the sounds of splashing water were subtly different. Someone or something was in the stream. He stopped warily, unwilling to move any closer until he determined what he was dealing with. The scent - female. Definitely alone. He circled around, cutting across the foundations where the house had stood before it had burned in a mysterious (to some; not to him) fire. Crossing the creek silently downstream of the intruder, he loped quickly up the steps by the old grotto with its statue of Our Lady, and found a vantage point from which he could overlook the waterfall-fed pool.
Her pale, naked skin glistening in the moonlight, a slim, tall girl was sitting on a large rock in the stream, her legs drawn up against her chest, her light hair piled untidily on the top of her head. She was turned away from him, apparently watching the moonlight glisten on the tiny waterfall. She was utterly still, at peace in this tranquil spot. He grinned, his tongue lolling over his sharp teeth. He remembered the last time he had taken an unwary visitor from this place -- the way her scream had gurgled in her throat as he buried his teeth in it, how hot and slick her heart had felt in his hands. Maybe the night isn't shot after all, he thought, and he padded down the steps towards his prize.
Before he could reach the edge of the stream, she turned and saw him. He prepared to shift forms, to grab her before she could run, but before he could change, she did. He barely had time to take in the transformation as the girl on the rock was replaced - by a moon-white wolf with tawny eyes. His thoughts stuttered to a stop as he attempted to make sense of what he was seeing. A weir? What the hell would one be doing here, they know what happened to the last one who invaded my territory...he opened himself and Looked at her as she watched him, seemingly unafraid. A roiling blackness surrounded her - she was tainted with darkness. At first his mind recoiled instinctively, then a thought occurred to him- what must my aura look like, after all these years, after all I've done? Her soul is polluted- like mine, he thought. She's an outcast, probably loathed and reviled, despised for her differences, her needs.
In the few seconds that they stared at each other, yellow eyes into brown, thoughts struggled for primacy in Gareth's head. Kill her, I should kill her now, she's far too close to home - she's lovely, wolf or human, beautiful - I wonder if she's as lonely as I am. This last thought was his undoing, and before he could conciously decide, he found himself beginning the change back to his human form, showing her he meant her no harm.
When at last he stood, naked, on the bank above her, his dark hair plastered sleekly to his head with dew, she gazed at him for a long moment. Then she reverted too, compact, muscular wolf form lengthening, fur disappearing to reveal shimmering pale skin, until at last she rose from her crouch and faced him. Her eyes remained a warm, tawny shade, while his had gone from gold to gray. Her hair was light, probably a soft brown. Her chin was set, pride and defiance in every line of her stance. He knew she was waiting for him to speak.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice pitched low and reassuring (as he did with all his...lovers, the unwelcome thought came). "I didn't mean to intrude - I thought you were human. I had no idea you were weir."
She blinked at him for a moment, seemingly taking in his words. Then she smiled slightly. "I think it's probably me who owes you an apology. This is your territory, right? I was just trying to get out of the city for a while, it was too stifling."
He laughed and extended a hand to her to help her up onto the bank. "I understand that better than you know. I'm Gareth."
She grabbed his wrist with her wet hand and he pulled her up beside him easily. "Lara. No hard feelings?"
He smiled down at her warmly, planning his next steps- then stopped, reining himself in. This wasn't right, to treat her as he would a human. His lovers, his playthings, were nothing to him. He had few friends, and none whom he would trust any more than they would him. If he was to have a chance with her, with Lara- he forced his mind away from the thought. It had been so long, there was no real possibility for this, not now, not after all that had come before. He let go of her hand. "No hard feelings. Spend as much time here as you like - I'll leave you to it." He forced himself to turn, to start the trek home, and then he felt her touch, chill from the cold water, on his arm.
"Couldn't you...stay for a while? Or maybe I could go with you?" She sounded unsure of herself, anxious. She got a rueful look on her heart-shaped face, and shook her head in disgust. "Gods, that sounded lame, didn't it? Look, forget I bothered you, okay? Thanks for letting me spend time here, maybe we'll see each other again." This time it was she who let go and began to walk away.
He stared at her retreating form in disbelief. She wanted his company. His. So long, Gods, so long, that he had forgotten what it was like, to talk instead of seduce, to share instead of take...he had no idea what to do next. None. Except that he had to stop her from leaving. "Wait, Lara." He actually managed to sound calmer than he felt -- but not by much.
She turned her head. For the first time he admired her naked body -- the dimple at the base of her spine above her curved buttocks, the line of her small breasts in profile, the way stray wisps of her pale hair clung to her muscular shoulders. She was lovely, strong and more self- possessed than any human woman could possibly be. How could he have missed that she was weir? She watched him with unreadable eyes, waiting, utterly still.
He forced himself to smile, a warm, innocuous smile, and called to her. "Come back to my cabin, if you want. You could get dried off and warm up, I know you're cold."
She uttered a short bark of laughter, startling him, then she smiled back. "Sorry, I was just surprised at the invitation. I'd love to go back with you, Gareth. Thank you. How far is it?"
He sighed deeply in relief, then moved to join her. She looked up at him, inquiringly. "Not far, just up the ridge and over the other side about a mile. We can hike it easily just as we are. Where are your clothes?"
She pointed, then nimbly crossed the stream and leapt up the path to a tilted stone block, sitting down on it to draw on her clothes. She only had a black sweatshirt, jeans and boots, and it just took her a moment to dress. He walked up to her, and she stared at him quizzically. He looked down at himself and grinned. "I sort of... lost my clothes in a little contretemps in town. If you see anything you haven't seen before..."
"...throw your hat at it. My Grandma used to say that, too."
"One more thing we have in common. Ready?"
She stood. "Ready as I'll ever be. Lead the way, nature boy."
He laughed down into her smiling face. "Maybe we'd both be more comfortable if I travelled like this?" He dropped to all fours, his tall, muscular body replaced by a massive black-furred wolf.
She looked at him for a moment then shrugged. "Well, it'll put a damper on the conversation, but maybe you could catch a few rabbits on the way...wanna play fetch?" She picked up a stick and gestured as if to throw it. He snapped at her fingers and growled, and, laughing, she stood back to let him go ahead.
In less than an hour they had reached his cabin. As they drew near, he grabbed one of her wrists gently in his mouth to stop her in the shadow of the trees that ringed the little building. She paused and he let go, looking at her. "What's that, Lassie? You want to go ahead and check the place out first, while Timmy waits here? No problem." He slunk quickly around the cabin, anxious to get her inside. Her wrist in his mouth had been icy -- he had to warm her up.
The area was clear, no sign of intruders or anyone watching the place. He ran back to Lara, and she smiled. "All clear? Good boy," and she followed him to the door. He changed back on the front steps so that he could grab the spare key from under the rosemary bush by the door, then he unlocked it and ushered her in.
He turned on the light in the small front room, leading her over to the leather couch and gently pushing her down on it. He wrapped the cotton afghan tightly about her, saying, "Wait here and snuggle up a little. Will you be okay?"
She snorted. "I'm fine, nature boy. You're the one who's seriously underdressed for this party."
He shook his head and laughed. "Quite a prude for someone who was sitting naked on a rock about an hour ago. I'm going to go put on something less comfortable right this very minute. Okay? Okay." He went into the bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans, stopping to towel his damp hair dry, then he knelt by the hearth and built up a fire. He was happier than he ever remembered being, and more scared as well. There was something dark in her soul, something that seemed to be more `her' than this charming, witty girl, but it was not her darkness that frightened him. It was his. If she found out what he was, when she found out what he was, would she run? Would she try to kill him herself? He realized that he feared the first possibility more than the second.
He returned to the front room and took her hand. "Come into the bedroom. It's more comfortable, and I've made a fire." He led her to the fireplace and seated her on the corner of the fur-covered bed nearest it, then he handed her a fresh towel for her hair.
She rubbed her pale brown hair briskly between her hands, the curl coming back to it as it dried, and stared into the flames. "Do we really need a fire in September?" she asked, amused.
He sat on the floor near her, but not too near, watching her pale, lovely face avidly. He didn't want to move too fast -- maybe she only needed a friend -- Gods it was strange to put her needs first, strange to even consider them at all. "It stays pretty cool this close to the ocean, even in September. I always keep firewood and kindling handy. Besides, you little ingrate, I felt your skin before -- you were ice-cold. This is the fastest way to warm you up."
She turned her tawny gaze on him. "No, not really, Gareth. There are faster ways, shall I show you?" All of a sudden the sound of the fire seemed very distant. Her eyes were so beautiful, like sherry, a glass of sherry held up to the firelight, amber, red -- "Poor Gareth. You really should have remembered that there are things other than the weir that can take wolf form." Red, drowning in pools of red, then blackness, nothingness.
His wrists hurt. The pain was pulling him up, into the warmth and light. The darkness was being shredded like fog by the morning sun. Instinctively, he did not open his eyes. He knew, somehow, that there was danger here, as if he could smell it. He took stock of what he sensed, and what he remembered -- the fire, he had lit a fire, for Lara -- her voice intruded as if his thought had summoned her. "I can tell you're back, Gareth, don't bother playing possum."
He opened his eyes to find her leaning over him. Without even thinking he swung his arm upward to cuff her -- only to find that the pain in his wrists was due to the tightness of the manacles she had used to chain him to his bed. His own manacles, goddammit. He was furious, enraged. He bellowed his anger and began the change to his huge, monstrous half-wolf form, only to be brought up short by her thoughts clamping down on his.
"No, I don't think so, Gareth. For one thing, you'd break those lovely cuffs of yours. I won't ask what kind of leather they're lined with; I'm quite sure I don't want to know. But you see, Gareth, the other thing is, until I let you go, I control you."
He heard himself whimper as she forced him to look up at her. Her eyes were blazing more brightly than the fire. Whimpering, Gods, how pathetic. "You lost this game when you gazed so soulfully into my eyes. That was very romantic. I was touched. And it was also a perfect chance for me to get the hold I needed in your mind. Now, I'm going to let off, just a little, so we can have our evening together. Okay?"
He felt her control relax, and he prepared to make another attempt to break free. She snarled, baring perfect, snake-sharp teeth, and speared his mind with her thoughts, a white-hot blaze of pain filling his head. "You're only digging yourself in deeper, furball. Don't piss me off. I can make this infinitely worse for you, infinitely. Understood?"
"Understood, bloodsucker," he snarled. The pain eased as she extricated herself from his head. She smiled, the hellish light dying out from her eyes. Even knowing what she was, he still found her beautiful. --She'd look even more beautiful covered in her own blood, though-- he thought. --Except that these damned things don't bleed.--
"There, see? You can be pretty quick on the uptake when you want to be." She sat down on the bed next to him and smiled down into his snarling face.
He realized that his ankles were cuffed as securely as his wrists -- securely and too tightly. She obviously was taking no chances on his changing.
" So, what was your first clue, Sherlock? The perfectly normal red glowing eyes? Perhaps my definite lack of a pulse?" She laughed, an almost angry sound, and shook her head.
"When you called me a weir I nearly fell off that rock. They said a little naked flesh would bring you running, but they never said that shapeshifting would convince you we were kindred spirits."
He stared up at her, imagining his teeth ripping through her flesh. She'd be too cold -- maybe he should cook her first. "Okay, you undead bitch, I'll bite. Who the hell are `they'?"
She reached toward him, brushing his hair off of his face tenderly. He snapped at her hand and she laughed as she pulled it back. "I guess you will bite, won't you? Let's just say that you picked the wrong Little Red Riding Hood, and Granny called the hunter. Does the name `Camilla' ring a bell?"
Red hair tangled about a tear-streaked face; wide green eyes staring at him in fear -- and desire; iridescent blue nipple rings piercing perfect, full white breasts -- oh, he remembered. He grinned, trying to look more confident than he felt. If he could just distract her, get one hand free... "Not much point in denying it, I assume. Is that the problem, bloodsucker? Did I snatch some sadistic Mage's favorite little piece? She was willing, you know...she loved it. You tell your boss that --"
She cut him off. "I don't have a `boss', Fido. I free-lance, and my job is to find out who set you on Camilla. I doubt very sincerely that anyone really gives a fuck how you snuffed her, I think the idea is that they're seriously pissed that it happened at all." She stared at him, her eyes narrowed, and shook her head.
"It boggles the mind that you could have been so stupid, Gareth. I don't know what they teach your kind, but believe me, Vampire 101's first lesson was to avoid the powerful cattle like the plague. Dear Gods, there are certainly enough head-blind humans to choose from around here." She laughed ruefully. "You give us creatures of the night a bad name."
He could smell her, now: she reeked of carrion. How the hell did he miss it? He had been too busy seeing what he wanted to see, as so many of his lovers had. Well, here he was, and until he could get free, he was stuck. He thought about her words and they didn't make sense.
"Look, bloodsucker, no one `set' me on Camilla. I don't work for anyone, for any reason -- hell, most weir won't even acknowledge I'm alive. I'm sure you can tell how high a regard I have for your kind --" he sneered at her, "and what happened to Camilla pretty much demonstrates how I treat Mages. Who do you think could have sent me to take her?"
Her face went eerily blank, and she stared intently into his eyes. As her eyes began to brighten, to change, Gareth felt himself wince; then she was in his head, probing, searching...
Hell, she's reading my thoughts, he realized, and he saw Camilla again, standing chained to the wall, her eyes wide...heard Lisa's moans as she slumped tied to a tree, her belly ripped open....felt Katherine's mouth on his cock as she knelt in front of him -- She pulled out all at once, leaving him gasping at the feeling of being invaded, of being joined to her, and then emptied again.
She saw it all, he thought disjointedly, she knows everything. Despite what she was, he found this oddly distressing.
He snarled involuntarily, barely restraining himself from changing. "Stay out of my head, bitch, don't ever try that again --" She had closed her eyes as she left him; now she opened them again. They were that deceptively warm brown again, and weary looking. She stared at him expressionlessly for a moment, then seemed to come back to herself.
She smiled, a twisted grimace. "Or what, furball? It doesn't look like you're in any position to make threats -- and I see you don't have much information to bargain with, either." Some of the weariness, and another expression he couldn't define (sorrow?) faded, replaced by the cocky savagery he was learning to hate. "You really did off Camilla just for fun, didn't you? Amazing..."
"Don't presume to understand my motives, vampire. Hell, your kind, you're not even alive, how could you possibly understand --"
Her smile fell and her eyes became flat, cold. She cut him off. "Understand what, Gareth?" Her voice was very quiet. "Need? Loneliness? Sadism? Believe me, Gareth, I understand them all, better than you know."
He was transfixed by her gaze as she stared at him.
Suddenly her face brightened with an unholy glee. "But I think you will know, Gareth, soon. This was a two-part job. Part one, discover if anyone was behind your taking Camilla. Part two, see to it that it never happens again. I think we're moving rapidly into part two, don't you?"
Oh, Lord, those teeth, Gareth thought as she leaned over him and smiled. He knew that his own werewolf form terrified most humans, but he had never seen anything more horrible than those snake-like fangs sliding from their sheaths behind Lara's soft, pink lips. He gave up all pretense of coolness and thrashed in his restraints in blind panic as her mouth dipped closer, closer...
She was staring into his frantic eyes, smiling. Finally, unable to bear his fear, Gareth growled, "Do, it, bitch, just do it!"
She drew back a little, her eyes very bright. He could feel his anger building, sustaining him, as he went on, taunting her. "If you plan to get anything done with those pathetic little fangs, you'd better start now."
At this she laughed and sat back. "I guess compared to what's in your mouth when you rip out some girl's throat, my teeth are pretty pathetic, huh? But Gareth, you forget -- I have other talents, other ways of getting what I need." She smiled a little, enigmatic smile, then abruptly rose from the bed and left the room.
He could hear her moving around in the front room; he immediately tried to begin his change, only to feel her mind wrap around his and stop him as she called out, "What makes you think I have to see you to know what you're doing?" He slumped back on the bed, panting. The fur coverlet beneath his body was wet with his sweat, and he stank of fear. Fear, oh Gods, how he hated to be afraid. She returned to the bedroom, carrying candles, which she set up on the mantle and the floor. When she had lit them, she turned off the lamps he had lit, and went out again.
Think, he told himself, how the hell can I get out of this? Useless ideas ran through his mind as he heard her shuffling through his cd's. After a few moments, Cowboy Junkies began to play on the stereo, quietly. She reappeared in the doorway and leaned against it for a moment, watching him as he craned his head to glare at her.
"You have really lousy taste in music, Gareth. All that industrial and goth stuff will rot your brain, don't you know that? No Eagles, no Warren Zevon...but I guess I'm dating myself, aren't I?" She laughed, low, seductive, and walked sinuously towards the bed.
He could see a change in her -- all of a sudden she was languid, fluid, her eyes half-lidded, her voice soft. And she was very beautiful, her skin gleaming in the firelight, her hair falling softly about her neck... He shook his head, hard, and stared at her through narrowed eyes as she chuckled. "Don't fight it, Gareth, I'm told it's pretty much impossible. My fangs may be little tiny things, but my will, oh, that's another matter."
He snarled in frustration, trying desperately to overcome the attraction he was feeling for her. She's making you feel this, goddammit, don't let her do this, he told himself frantically. He was breathing heavily, almost panting, with his efforts to fight her. Stop this, Gods, you've got to stop her!
His voice when he spoke was too high-pitched as he struggled for his self control. "Real impressive, leech." He managed a shaky laugh. "I get the idea. You can rape my mind, take over my thoughts -- but what the hell does that prove?"
The waves of power flowing off of her lessened and he drew a deep breath, trying not to show his relief. She looked at him quizzically and he laughed again sarcastically. "I dragged Camilla here, but I made her want me. And Katherine and Lisa chose to come to me. Your lovers never get that chance, do they, bloodsucker? Have you ever looked into their eyes and seen an emotion you didn't plant there?" He shook his head in mock pity. "Pretty pathetic."
He heard a breath hiss in through her teeth as her eyes widened and flashed crimson, the unnatural color fading almost before he saw it.
Then she smiled, wryly, and nodded once, as if acknowledging that his attack had struck home. "Okay, furball, have it your way. It might have been easier on you, my way -- but I'm multitalented. I can adapt." She grinned widely, showing off her elongated canines, then moved to stand at the foot of the bed. She gazed at him for a second, her head tilted to the side, then she knelt on the bed between his spreadeagled legs -- and leaned over to unfasten his jeans.
Now it was his turn to draw in his breath in shock. He groped for some way to stop her. He was panting again; he found it hard to talk.
"Get it over with, bitch. What the hell do you need my pants off for? Does blood taste better from below the waist, or have you changed your mind about raping me?"
She looked up into his face as he leaned his head forward to see her, and she smiled, slyly. "I like to combine business with pleasure, Gareth, as do you. Since my dinners aren't tax-deductible, I've learned to reap what benefits I can. But don't worry. I promise you it won't be rape." She pulled his pants down around his ankles, ripping them down over his ass easily even has he tried desperately to force his hips down against the bed.
He wore no underwear; his limp cock flopped against his thigh. He found himself tossing his head from side to side in panic, and forced himself to stop -- but not before she noticed. She said nothing. The expression on her face said it all. And then she ran one well-shaped fingernail along the join between his body and his leg, towards his groin.
He jumped at the sensation and growled when his cock twitched slightly. She put her finger to her mouth and sucked on it, then repeated the caress with her wet fingertip. He bucked, seeking some escape, any way out of this.
She spoke in a low tone, almost more to herself than to him. "I love women, they're so soft, so very vulnerable in many ways. But men are, ultimately, the more vulnerable sex, aren't they, Gareth?"
She glanced at his face for a moment, then turned her attentions back to his crotch. She lifted his penis gently, cradling it in her hand, then let it drop onto his leg again. Despite himself, he couldn't avoid finding the sensation arousing, and his cock began to stiffen slightly. She reached underneath him and stroked the area behind his balls, gently at first, then with growing firmness. Since that first touch, she had kept her fingernails well out of the way.
"Men just have so much...equipment, with so little protection. And when they're aroused, they can't lie about it, can they? That's why I prefer them to girls." She glanced up at him again, her eyes glowing faintly now, taking in his sweating brow, his furious expression.
"You really should have tried taking a man once or twice, Gareth. Or perhaps you did?"
He shook his head quickly in denial before he could stop himself from responding, and she laughed.
"Too bad. Well, I don't suppose you'll get the chance now..."
With no warning, she lowered her mouth to his groin. He writhed and twisted in his bonds mindlessly, knowing he could not get away, but unable to force his body to keep still. He could feel her hair brush his hips gently as her head dipped lower, lower... The first brush of her icy lips on the inside of his thigh made him cry out.
She murmured an apology. "Sorry, love, I know my skin temperature bothers you. We really must do something about that, first..."
Her voice trailed off as she pressed her lips firmly to the inside of his thigh. His mind warned him of what she was doing just before her teeth closed on the skin over his artery.
The pain was not, in and of itself, severe - just a deep, intense sting and then gone - but it was so close to his cock, too close, and he heard himself shout hoarsely. Then he felt the drawing pressure of her mouth sucking deeply on his upper thigh, her hair falling down to cover his cock and his balls, the weight of her head resting on his leg as she drank. And he moaned low in his throat.
It seemed like an eternity before she lifted her head. He was, by now, humiliatingly erect, his large, thick cock jutting out from his body towards his flat belly. Her eyes were a mad red, her mouth the same -- smeared with his blood. He snarled in fear and panic, only her rein on his mind keeping him from changing. He was incoherent now, barely rational, and when she spoke he realized that she was almost entirely controlled by her passions now as well.
"Lovely, Gareth, you taste perfect, so perfect..." She was purring her satisfaction as she licked his blood from her lips. She regained a little of her composure and laughed. "You finally warmed me up, Gareth. Now I can do what I wanted to, before." Then Lara lowered her mouth again -- onto his cock.
The first caress of her now-warm lips on the head of his penis made him arch his back at the pleasure of it -- then he was thrashing, wildly, trying to get himself out of her mouth, away from those teeth. She lifted her head, clamping one hand firmly around his balls to hold him still, and looked at him, her expression amused.
"Don't worry, love, look." She opened her mouth. Her fangs were retracted into their sheaths. "Nothing Freudian to worry about -- I'll keep it soft and wet. Promise." Then she engulfed him.
At first she used her tongue and hands as much as she used the depths of her mouth and throat. She caressed him, licking him in long, slow strokes sometimes, or flicking back and forth on the little ridge under his cockhead. In mere moments she had him moaning and writhing, unable to control his responses to her ministrations. One of her hands gripped the base of his cock, the other rubbed insistently at his perineum, his legs and his balls. He was lost, the rising tide of sensation pulling him under, all thoughts of who she was, what she was, all thoughts of escape and survival, lost in his need and her wetness.
His head tilted back against the pillows, Gareth squirmed in pleasure as she sucked him. Soon her moans of ecstacy joined with his as she began to move her head back and forth, rubbing it against his thighs, overcome by passion. Gareth barely noticed; the sensations in his cock overwhelmed all else. He thrust his hips up as best he could, feeling himself slide home into her throat, feeling the ring of muscle close around him as she gagged a little. She nuzzled his pubic hair, rubbing her face in it, and eliciting a growl of desire from him. When she finally pulled her mouth from him, he gasped "Lara, please..." before he could stop himself.
Her face was transformed by passion. She looked soft and yielding, her eyes bright, her lips reddened and swollen from sucking him, her cheeks flushed slightly, flushed -- with his blood, Gareth suddenly remembered, as she quickly removed her clothes. By the time she mounted him, guiding his cock into her wet cunt, Gareth had recovered a tiny bit of his self-control. As she slid down on him, slowly, his moan and hers filling the room as he entered her, he was able to hold onto a trace of his own thoughts.
Her thighs settled around his hips and she rested her fine-boned hands on his chest, leaning down to gaze into his sweat-streaked face, smiling. She began to rock on him, slowly, and he watched with slitted eyes as her own desire took hold. She was so wet inside, so sleek and warm (my warmth, he reminded himself) -- her body felt perfect on top of his as she began to stroke at his flat nipples with her fingertips. Losing it, I'm losing it...he tested at her control a little with his mind. She didn't react; her own climax was building, as was his, and she was in its thrall. He knew that any attempt to change completely would rouse her, and he would lose his only chance. But one hand, one paw...
As he was struggling against the rising tide of his orgasm, trying to obtain enough control to make this minor shift without tipping Lara off, she lowered her head to him, licking his nipples for a moment, swirling her tongue around them as she had his cock. Almost there, I'm almost there, he thought, not sure if it was his orgasm or his chance he was looking forward to -- and then she kissed his collarbone, murmured something incoherent in his ear, and embedded her fangs in his neck.
The pain was strangely sweet; it increased his desire, his need, tenfold, spreading throughout his body like a drug. At the same time her hold on his mind slipped further, sending him spiraling back into the memories she had roused in him, earlier. They were memories of other women, on this bed, in this room, women moaning, crying and screaming beneath him, as he ministered to them with his cock, his body, his teeth. As Lara was ministering to him. Gareth could hear her now, suckling at his throat like a baby at the breast, cooing and purring her pleasure.
His climax was nearly upon him, and he could feel her cunt beginning its first brief convulsions around him. When his paw finally slipped free of the cuff, Lara lifted her head at the movement -- and did nothing to stop him. Her mouth was again coated with his blood, her eyes filled with hunger and lust, her teeth extended fully. The expression on her face was ecstatic and resigned at the same moment; she knew that she had lost, that now he would write the script, but in that moment, he saw.
She cared as little for her death now as his lovers (your victims, a voice in his head screamed) had when he had finally finished them, after he had taught them through pleasure and pain that they were nothing but his pets. He could take her and she would not protest. She gazed into his face, her blood-red eyes filled with pleasure, sadness, surrender, a deep loneliness about to end. He brought his hand, now returned to human form, up -- and cradled her head, bringing it back to his neck.
Lara moaned deep in her throat. The climax he had forestalled took control of him now. Now that he had renounced his long and miserable existence, his loneliness, his hatred and his fear, all that he wanted was Lara, her teeth, her mouth, her cunt. Hers, he was hers now. Absurdly, the thought made him feel very safe, safer than he had felt since he was driven from his home, made outcast. Distantly, he felt his cock spasm deep inside her, filling her cunt with his sperm even as his blood filled her mouth and veins.
She shouted her own climax against his throat mere moments later, her cunt contracting hard around him, holding his now limp cock firmly within her. His body was growing numb, now. All he could feel was her weight on top of him and the sensation of being drawn out, drained through the tiny wounds in his neck. Her moans subsided, turned into quiet whimpers as she sucked the life from him. He was making no noise at all.
The firelight was fading, his sense of reality and position following it, when Lara lifted her head and looked into his glazing eyes. He could see tension in her face, some unpleasant emotion -- fear? Desperation? He couldn't tell; these were really just words to him, now, he was leaving such things far behind him. Suddenly, with a little shriek of anguish, Lara tore at her breast with her nails, opening a gash, the blood, his blood now flowing through her veins, streaming down her flushed skin. Leaning over him, calling his name, she lifted his head and pressed his mouth to the wound.
He tried to turn his head away instinctively, but he could not find the strength. At last the familiar taste of blood overwhelmed him, and he wrapped his free hand around her back and pulled her closer to him, worrying at the wound with his teeth.
As a savage fire began to flow through him, scalding him, a small part
of his mind wondered dispassionately what sort of unspeakable thing
he would be in his new existence. Another part asked why, why Lara
would do this, why she had not killed him. But even as the agony
overcame this last, small part of his mind, he knew. They were two of
a kind, Lara and he. Monsters, mockeries of the human form, outcasts.
And now that she was no longer alone, she would never let him go.
Her chains, far more cruel, more strong than his manacles, bound him
to her -- forever.