One

Savannah, Georgia October 2005

The innocent was naked, resting on an elevated table upholstered in black leather, her wrists bound, her ankles tied. A black satin execution hood had been fastened under her chin, covering her face but leaving her neck bare. Staked down like a sacrificial lamb fit to be eaten, she could not see me. Yet in the silence of the well-insulated room I could hear her breathe, see the slight flutter of the satin as she panted, birdlike. And, in the small space, I could inhale her fear.

My hostess, Eleanor, the proprietress of the house on River Street, double-checked the girl's restraints, then pronounced with a low chuckle, "Dinner is served."

"Time for me to be the vampire," I answered, making the words sound flip, yet meaning every syllable.

The lamb on the table knew my voice. She arched her back with a restless sigh, pulling at the leather, offering, wanting.

The girl would have to wait. Waiting was part of the play, and I would not disappoint her.

I turned to my hostess and held her gaze. In response, my Eleanor, she who must be obeyed, lowered her eyes like a fainthearted human virgin. A ruse at best. She was human—but even if she truly feared me, she would never have shown it. Her lack of common sense was one of the things that had drawn me to her from the beginning.

"I'll be up shortly, when I'm finished with this one," I said. I used one finger to trace the edge of Eleanor's dress, then the tail end of the snake tatoo curling high on her breast over her heart. Her heartbeat fought the weight of my finger, anticipating our game.

She pulled away, turned with a swish of expensive lace, then looked back over her bare shoulder, her mouth dressed in the smile of the devil's own gypsy mistress. "Take your time. We have all night." Eleanor left the room, and the subtle musky scent of promised sex followed as she closed the door and locked it behind her.

I shifted my mind's deliberation back to the delicacy at hand. My body's hunger hadn't for one moment forgotten her. I could feel my own cool veins relaxing, warming, anticipating the feeding. Still, I resisted. Two slow steps brought me to the elevated table. "Hello, morsel," I said as I began to unbutton my shirt. No use bloodying the fabric; better to be flesh against flesh. Easier to clean up afterward—a courtesy to Eleanor's staff. I let the material slide off my shoulders and draped it across her bare thighs. She trembled at the contact.

"Hello," she answered in a faint whisper.

Lightly dragging my fingertips from her belly to her heart, I fondled her left breast. "Have you been waiting long?" I asked as I absently watched the nipple grow hard from the touch of my cool skin.

"Forever," she said in that whispery voice.

I eased my hand upward until my fingers encircled her neck. The fat carotid artery pulsed against my palm and I had to fight my own anticipation. I was exquisitely empty—needy.

And under her pale skin . . . blood. Warm and vital. The tiniest pinprick would bring it rushing into my mouth, filling me, intoxicating me, redeeming me. I bent my head to where her left hand was tied to a metal ring and took one of her searching fingers into my mouth.

She jumped, whimpering as I bit and sucked—a teasing taste.

"Please . . ." she pleaded.

She tasted like life—dizzying. My own skin prickled with lust and I shut my eyes against the barrenness inside me, clamoring for more. Take it all, I heard whispered in the relentless voice of my sire. And I could take it all, like a greedy child, and still not be filled. But I would not—for my own reasons. I ran my tongue over the small wound to close it, ready to move on to greater satisfactions. "Just please," I said. "Please what?" I asked, playing with her.

Not yet.

Copyright © 2006 by Raven Hart