Category Archives: Lover in Stone Serial

Public Thanks

Hi, Readers!
I’m caught in a wormhole and I’ve lost track of time. It’s been over a month since my release of Lover In Stone, and I owe each of you a thank you for your kind reviews of my latest book, especially since it’s so different from my first series The Luna Chronicle. Yeah, they’re both paranormal romance, but the similarities end there. I won’t bore you by listing all the ways the writing has changed because you already know them.
Instead, I’m going to share what Gemma Davis had to say:

Lover In Stone_FNL

“Well, S C Dane has done it again! This story is about Grotesques before they become encased in stone, kind and gentle beings forced to walk though hell, everyday and night. Is there someone to love them and show them the light of Earth again? By the end of the first chapter, SC Dane got you! Each of the new characters become real – you feel the Grotesques sorrow – their questions and their indecisions. By the end of the book you have met, loved and hated the characters. When you reach the last page, you’ll find a small smile on your face and then that smile turns upside down. NO! I have to wait for the next book to learn the fate of the other Grotesques! I would give Love in Stone – 5 Stars”

Pretty cool, huh? Gemma was a fan of my Luna Chronicle series, so to hear her say how much she liked Lover In Stone let’s me know I’m on the right track writing-wise.
Unfortunately, she’ll have to wait until next summer for Dark Lover, the second book in my Kynd series. This one will feature Darken, whom you all met in the first book (he visited Merrick at Hell’s Archway then gathered the other Kynd when he learned Merrick was in trouble.) If you visit my Pinterest page, you’ll find my inspiration for both Darken and his love interest, Daniela.
Right now, I’m working on the third book, which is all about the bear chimera, Urick, and his struggles with his love, Violet, who embodies everything he hates about himself. Such turmoil!
Anyway, it’s why I’ve been lost in that wormhole. If I can finish it by the end of September, it can be released just a couple of months after Dark Lover and you guys won’t have to wait so long to find out what happens with my gargoyles and chimeras!
Until then, let me say Thank You once again for your support. In my head, my characters are very much alive, so it’s a true pleasure to learn that my readers are as excited about finding out what happens to them as I am.
Have a wonderful day, All, and happy reading no matter what it is 🙂
My very best,
~S.C. Dane

Reviewers Needed

#reviews #romance #gargoyles

Hey, all! This might not be the place to invite my fans to read and review my new release, but screw it. If any of you have read my bio on my website you already know I’m not much on rules. So, here we are. My new book Lover In Stone, Lover In Stone_FNLa paranormal romance, was officially released on Amazon and I need reviews for it. I’m offering a free read in exchange for a review. It sounds like I’m bribing folks for five stars, but again, those who know me won’t hesitate to share their honest opinions. Because that’s what I want: Honesty. Short and sweet, too. Click how many stars you think it deserves and call it good. If you want to wax on about why you loved, liked, or hated it, go ahead. It’s up to you. Just bear in mind my writing is graphic. If you’re squeamish, you’ve been warned.
To get started, you can email me. I’m going to need to know who and where this free read is going to. Otherwise, nothing will happen. So, get in touch if you’re interested. I’m at scdane@yahoo.com.
I’m looking forward to hearing from you.
Here’s a blurb to whet your appetites:
To the world they are the Grotesques—hideous chimeras and gargoyles. But before they are locked in their stone prisons, they are Kynd——magnificent beings condemned to prowl the nightmares of every realm.
Their tortures will doom them.
The love of a Chosen One could save them.

Merrick has become a beast. Angelia has been chosen to save him. Will their fragile love survive the Hell the chimera is chained to?

~S.C. Dane

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 21

INSTALLMENT No. 21 #lips #Angel #gargoyle
“Merrick?” Angelia’s voice quavered like the chicken she was, and she silently cursed herself. The Chimera needed someone sturdy, not some quaking ninny, so she’d better stiffen her Ramen noodle spine to be strong for him. Even if she had to fake it.
Her lips had not suddenly gone dry, dang it. But the swiping of her tongue to moisten them was like a slap to the face of her denial. Which she chose to ignore, and stood up, coiling her sweaty fist tighter with Merrick’s hold so he wouldn’t let her go.
Because she saw his agony. Heck, she felt it.
Whatever he did up on that Archway wasn’t good.
She’d seen the bony carcasses, so did she really want to know the gruesome details?
Yes. If it meant she could ease some of that drowning grief from his gray eyes, then yes. She wanted to comfort him so bad the need to do it quivered inside her, her body demanding she open up and take him into herself.
Acting on instinct, she reached out, pulling Merrick’s rough hand around her back and pressing her body to his.
He hissed as his arm drew her in tight. Through the opening of his unbuttoned leather jacket, she could see the hammer-like blows of his heart punching the thick muscles of his chest.
Jiminy, she could smell him, forcing her to remember there was a reason she’d let herself get squashed this close to Merrick, and it wasn’t to bask in that crystalline wildness. She was trying to give him solace.
“You stop souls from entering Hell, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question; she’d seen the evidence. But she wanted to come across as accepting, not as some dang coward.
He growled his answer, and Angelia closed her eyes as the scrape of it dragged delectably across her skin, erupting goosebumps in its wake.
“Yes.”
Ooh, she so, so, so loved his growl. Why didn’t she want to bask? She needed to dredge up every ounce of self-restraint she had to keep herself on track. But she would, for Merrick’s sake. “And humans without souls who wish to pass?” She knew such beings existed. They were the stuff of her nightmares from as far back as she could remember. They were the things the Gargoyles and Chimeras of her dreams protected her from.
They were probably why she idolized the Kynd.
His forehead pressed to her crown, his uneven breaths caressing her hair. “Angel, no more.” When he pulled back to look at her, he somehow plumbed a reassuring grin, and the sight of it made her go all gooey inside. Maybe it was because he seemed to be asking for mercy while his strong teeth reminded her that physically, he wasn’t vulnerable at all. “This Castle is probably the last beautiful thing you’ll see for a few days. You should be paying attention to that instead.”
Pfft. She highly doubted it. Merrick was beautiful, what with his black bangs curling in little spikes across his forehead, like a row of mini scythes, and cupping his smallish ear, which dragged her attention so her gaze followed the cords of his neck to the leather of his collar.
And he’d just called her Angel.
She bet he didn’t even realize it.
Besides, when she pulled her mind out of the sexual gutter, she noticed she was experiencing something far more beautiful than architecture or a sinful body: she was aglow from receiving the compassion of a Chimera.
Now that she knew how well-guarded a secret that was, she felt the privilege of his gift. He was treating her like Kynd.
Which made him irresistibly sexy.
Even to a virgin.
Her core squirmed again, but this time it pulsated, wetting her panties.
The muscles of Merrick’s broad shoulders bulged as he lowered his head to take a deep breath.
Dear God, he was sniffing her! He’d feel, too, the heat of her hand, the heat of her thighs, and she had to struggle not to place his hand where she readied for him, she had to resist the flaming urge to pull it between her legs and ride his rough palm.
His fingers gripped hers so hard she thought maybe he might break her bones. But she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering low, to watch his manhood thicken, stretching the leather of his leggings. Her tongue stole out to caress her lower lip, for different reasons this time.
“Come on, Angel.” As Merrick tugged at her to resume their march toward the Castle, she caught the glint of thick fangs. Which should have frightened the bee turds out of her. Seriously, what was he going to do with those? Bite her?
Oh, please, yes.
She ought to wash her brain out with soap. She wanted the Chimera to bite her? Maybe it was time to stop living with Vampires.
Kynd didn’t drink blood, she knew that much. But she couldn’t shake visions of Merrick’s sharp teeth pinching her nipples, or sucking her breasts in between them.
Gads. She wasn’t helping the situation here, not when her nipples went rigid with the promise of what Merrick’s mouth could do.
Turning her attention to where her feet were going would be far more helpful. Merrick was dragging her toward the Castle, so she shifted gears to follow willingly, and freed her mind from her breasts to think about the words he’d spoken as he’d pulled her with him.
He’d called her Angel again. Merrick might have spoken to her like his teeth were smashed together, but he had called her Angel.
An endearment, not a curse.
She knew that because he didn’t let go of her hand.
He kept hold of her.
And she took it for the truce it was.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 22 coming Saturday, April 11, 2015.

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 20

 

INSTALLMENT No. 20 #Angel #eyes #grenade
She spun around so fast he had to lean back or bump into her. “He’s Kynd?” Surprise brightened the blue in her dark eyes, her cheeks flushing with it.
And screw him, but he wanted those eyes grazing every inch of his body so his skin could bloom like that.
“Yes, unlucky bastard. My work is a walk in the park compared to his.” He smelled her heat rising between them, the tendrils of musk soaked within it. She was a fertile woman, sensual, inadvertently stroking his Kynd soul. He mourned the loss of her ink-like irises as she turned forward to watch where her booted, but dainty, feet were going.
She took mincing steps, as if she was reluctant to be far from him.
And I crave it.
When she spoke, every cell within him tuned into her. “I believe it, considering all you do is watch souls walk by. You don’t have to row.”
She jested, yet her words were the pulling of the pin on a hand grenade. His body stalled out as his rage exploded, swallowing him whole in its shrapnel cloud.
He knew she joked. He even saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She was kidding, God damn it. But he bristled anyway, like she snicked the business end of a knife across the meat of his heart.
Instantly, she noticed and stopped, like she was a frigging barometer attuned to him. Beautiful blue eyes blinking upward, she turned into the brunt of his fury.
Her breath clogged, and she took three steps backward.
Fear washed the earlier blush from her cheeks, and the sight of it ripped at him sharp, like a fist with talons. Merrick shook his head once, hard enough to rattle some sense back into it.
“I’m sorry,” he growled, trying to rein in that sudden outward surge of his rage. His muscles trembled with the effort. “I wasn’t expecting—”
He couldn’t breathe enough to form words. Hell, he hadn’t been prepared for her comment in any way.
“N-no, I’m sorry, Merrick. I wasn’t thinking.” Even with the pounding of the blood in his head, he heard the stammer in her apology, saw her hand lift like she was going to touch his arm, then drop to her side.
He watched that shining confidence leak out of her pretty eyes, and the sight of it hit him low in the gut. He didn’t like that her self-assurance could be so easily bruised. Then lost. As if it were a fledgling bird, easily battered by the winds assailing it.
Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to coddle her. She stood brave in front of him, he wouldn’t take that away from her.
What he could do was get a stranglehold on his rage and give her an explanation. One she deserved.
“It’s been too long,” he hissed like a leaking gas pipe. His knees unhinged as though they were suddenly tired from lugging their burden, and Merrick dropped his ass onto the nearest rock.
Angelia sloughed her pack, too, and sat on that. She kept her head down while she fiddled with a twig, as if acutely interested in the peeling of its bark. Merrick studied her profile, the delicate slope of her nose, the silken wisps of hair kissing her temple and cheek. The sight of her in that affected studious posture helped him get a grip, helped him to dredge up his confession.
“It’s been too long, Angel. I’ve done too much.”
She let out a breath without looking at him. Then, as if he hadn’t just alluded to his violent nature, she abandoned her pack to sit closer to him. Like it was safe to do so.
Pushing her away for her own welfare wasn’t an option. Not when having her close eased him the way being with his Kynd did. Lord knew, he could use the frigging help.
Except with Angelia there was something more than what he shared with his brothers—a resonance. Which he didn’t want to look too close at, not when he could barely keep his shit together.
He let go of the breath he’d been holding, drawing in a hint of the honey-lavender sitting at his knees. He fisted his hands so he wouldn’t touch, wouldn’t stir her scent by dragging his rough fingertips across her soft skin.
No. Better he confessed, so she would keep a healthy distance away from him, no matter how badly he craved and needed her beside him.
Reluctant to cause the wariness he knew he should, Merrick’s words barely squeezed out through his clenched jaw. “It’s our punishment, Angel. Kynd aren’t Witnesses anymore.” His damned breath shook as he sucked it in. “We do things. Things we were never meant to do, but must.”
“But that would mean—”
“God is a rat bastard?”
The corner of her lip twitched, working miracles on his equilibrium. “Yeah, but I was going to say it would mean you don’t just sit on the Archway counting souls.”
Merrick didn’t answer her; he stared off at the Castle.
Because what could he say that wouldn’t frighten her more than she already was?
Nothing. No words could lessen the mortification of the slaughtering, of the butchering he’d done to guard Hell.
She placed her palm on the flat of his thigh.
Grounding him.
Offering comfort.
And picking at the scab protecting his heart from the colossal agony of his loneliness.
He hadn’t felt comfort like this for more than two thousand years, and it scared the shit out of him. His entire body went rigid trying to dam two thousand years’ worth of pain he shouldn’t release.
Certainly not onto an unsuspecting human woman who was only offering simple consolation.
Merrick gave a gentle squeeze of her fingers as he removed her hand to stand up.
But he didn’t release his grip.
He gazed down at the woman who had chosen to kneel beside him.
Angel.
She was, too, looking up at him with those dark blue eyes, as if she trusted him to a certain degree. But she held herself very still, lest one move from her unleashed whatever emotions he barely contained.
Pain. A lot of it. Fury. Confusion. He felt like a bomb waiting for one hair to detonate him, he was that tense. Hell, he’d already pulled one pin. Wasn’t he sitting on a rock bleeding all over himself from a recent discharge? The woman was smart to be wary; it was what he’d wanted.
Fear draped over her like a cold, damp blanket—he felt it in the icy chill of her fingers.
God damn him for it. Wary. He’d wanted her cautious, not terrified.
Merrick shivered, choking a firmer grip on the leash of his rage.
She might be human, but he wouldn’t make her his whipping post.
Because he would hate himself even more if he did. Which he hadn’t thought possible, but there it was. He was a violent beast, and had been for the last two millennia, laying waste to too many Others to count.
Ghouls. Demons.
Vampires.
What would she think of him then if he told her that? When he confessed to murdering the beings who gave her shelter, who lived amongst her as though she were one of their own.
Thanks to God and his divine punishment, Merrick had been reduced to a base and vile creature. No different from those he was forced to savage.
God bless him, he had become the very thing he’d been condemned to kill.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 21 coming Tuesday, April 7, 2015.

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 19

 

INSTALLMENT No. 19 #skin #Aristotle #first circle of Hell
Angelia didn’t like the honesty chiming through the words he spoke. Merrick was dead serious, which quieted her all the way to the bone.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you back out before I do.” The Chimera’s moment of being unguarded evaporated as if it had never been. He was again the storm cloud passing over the sun.
And his snide comment pissed her off, a visceral reaction that rarely happened to her. Usually, she just got sad. But, maybe Merrick was right, and being in Hell did have its advantages.
Angelia balled up her sleeping bag and stuffed it into her pack while she indulged in a rare mental tirade.
Did he really believe she was so shallow that the only thing she could be concerned with was her own safety? Did he really think his choice wouldn’t bother his friend, Darken, either?
Merrick was the selfish prig, not her, believing that staying in Hell wouldn’t bother anyone.
How could he do it?
Yeah, she knew he harbored a thick rage he barely concealed, but still, it didn’t mean he had to dwell in this ungodly place.
She slatted at the drawstring of her bag, cinching it taut like a hangman who relished his job.
“Angelia.”
Merrick calling her name was just as enthralling as the voices in the river.
At least this voice she heard. Regrettably.
Swallowing a deep breath, she cocked a disgruntled hip. “What.”
Merrick ran his hand across the top of his head, mussing his black hair. He seemed frustrated with her, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His whole body tensed, his jaw clamping. She saw the slate of his eyes harden as his rage resurfaced.
“What?” She wouldn’t gulp, damn it.
The Chimera, still in his sexy Gargoyle form, drew up to her. He was a full head and shoulders taller than she was, and definitely twice as wide. Angelia’s head fell back, just so she could keep looking at him.
Towering over her, his body electrified hers. They weren’t even touching and her hips felt the pull of him, so that she had to fight to keep herself from slinking up against him like some big cat in heat.
Merrick glared down at her, the depths of his rock-like eyes fluctuating, plunging impossibly deep, then constricting till they were flat and shallow.
“The Castle,” he growled, lifting a muscle-roped arm with a clawed hand at the end of it.
Well, hookay. She couldn’t see the muscles rippling under his coat, but she sure as dogcrackers was imagining them. Angelia peeled her wanton gaze from Merrick to look where he pointed.
“Full of learned men, from before Christ.” His voice scraped thick, menacing.
Yeah, that growling factoid ought to register a little stronger than it did. She should be heeding the message, not the vibration.
The Castle housed the greatest minds of all time. Aristotle, Ovid, Socrates. Yet, all she could think about was the Chimera, who moved to stand behind her. Very close behind her.
He felt huge looming back there. She could smell the leather he wore. She could smell him.
What were a few dusty, old minds when she stood next to such heat? Such life? She didn’t want to meet the revered minds of history, she wanted to get to know this Chimera who delivered her to them.
She didn’t need a side trip away from this Gargoyle-shaped man.
Merrick lowered his head to drag his nose along her nape, erupting goose bumps over every inch of her skin. “Someone might know where the human who stole the Scriptum was headed.”
Dear God, she was practically panting. “Good point.” And oh yeah, it was a lead to follow, even if he’d said it to taunt her. Because they were on an important mission.
Except.
“Merrick?”
“Hmm.” Ooh man, she loved his growl.
“I’d rather learn about you.” There. She said it. Looking dead ahead and not at him, but she’d said it. Maybe her little fit of anger had given her the courage. She didn’t know, or care, but she would risk his denial.
****
Merrick’s heart pinged, then swelled, then constricted again, like it couldn’t figure out what its job was. His whole body went rigid, so Angelia’s softness, in contrast, seemed like a warmth cushioning the thin space of air between them.
He didn’t want to tell her a damned thing.
He didn’t want to refuse her, either. Not this angel who strung every nerve within him to singing.
She had given him something of herself when he’d carried her across the Acheron, even if she hadn’t known it, and had been asleep while doing it. Christ, she was giving him something now, a thrill in his skin he’d not felt since…
Never.
Merrick had never felt this taut sensation before. It maddened him, drove him wild. It was all he could do to rein in his urges. He could and should give a little something back to this woman, no matter how she tormented him. No matter if she was human, she deserved his consideration.
He wanted to give her more than his consideration.
Jesus. What was happening to him? A day ago, he wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about hurting any human’s feelings. Now? Now, he’d met Angelia, Anton’s miraculous, beautiful daughter, and his own emotions had somehow gotten tangled up with hers.
She wanted to know about him. The Vampyre’s adopted darling was looking beyond the Chimera’s thickening skin, past the rage simmering in his very muscles. Merrick knew how volatile he was, yet she was seeing beyond that.
No, she was coaxing him beyond his consuming rage, and it unsettled him.
So, for both of their sakes, he would opt to tell her something a little safer, a little easier on his baffled emotions, while he steered them toward the Castle.
He dared to brush his knuckles against the small of her back to bump her forward. Even through her clothing, his fingers measured the inward curve of her spine, the bowing out of her wonderful ass, and his hand curled into a tight fist lest it grope for something more.
“Kharon is Kynd, like me. That’s how I got you across the Acheron.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 20 coming Saturday, April 4, 2015.

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 18

INSTALLMENT No. 18 #Acheron #Hell #sleeping bag
Angelia stirred as she awakened, snuggling deeper into Merrick’s arms, closer to his chest. The sleeping bag she was cocooned in seemed thicker than a pillow, dulling the delicate feel of her body against his.
Which shouldn’t matter. But still, he found solace in the wafting of that honey-lavender scent billowing from deep inside the warm nylon of the woman’s bedroll.
Not once did he put her down, not even during the crossing of the Acheron. Holding her had replaced his instinctive urge to take Kharon in his arms, to crush the other Kynd to him in a desperate hug to assuage his longing for touch.
To make up for his selfishness, he’d pressed close to Kharon, unabashedly sharing himself without having to put Angelia away from him.
Much to his surprise, the Ferryman peered down at the sleeping woman without saying a word. A strange light suffused the Kynd’s expression instead, and he reached out to caress a stray lock of her golden hair from her forehead.
Merrick’s whole body tensed, as if to lunge.
At what? Kharon, his brotherkynd?
Thankfully, the other Kynd had chosen to ignore the base growl seeping up out of Merrick’s lungs, and for his part, he’d done his damnedest to shove it back down where it boiled up from.
He was not furious that Kharon touched the human he held in his arms.
But the Ferryman curled his rough-tipped finger into his palm just the same, and drew his hand away.
Respecting my possessiveness.
Merrick apologized by clasping that retreating hand in his, holding it tight for the rest of the trip downriver. Angelia slept like a swaddled babe the whole time.
Even now as they traveled on firm ground, she wasn’t fully awake. But he felt her soft gaze on him, and he glanced down to steal a precious glimpse of those twilight eyes, which were lazy with sleep.
The small body he cradled in his arms stiffened under his glancing scrutiny, the woman’s senses firing to full alert. He didn’t relinquish this stolen chance to hold her, but drew her tighter against his chest to still her.
And his thoughts, which kicked like the hobbled horses they were. He refused to delve into his reasons for not setting her down, preferring instead to fall back on the excuse of who he was. Kynd needed touch almost as much they needed air to breathe, so of course he stole physical contact where he could.
Liar.
Ignoring that, too, he squeezed out the hint of a smile.
Which she ignored. But she no longer squirmed to get out of his arms. Now that was a gift. He could enjoy the feel of her a little longer, even if she didn’t care whether he offered her a rare smile or not.
“Where are we?” Angelia craned her neck to get a better view of their surroundings.
“Nearing the Castle of the First Ring.” His attention forcibly returned to the path before them, Merrick thought again of the Scriptum, and how it had made it through Kharon’s scrutiny, too, even though the Ferryman had seen the soulless man with the relic.
Maybe it does have a mind of its own.
What was it about that damned book that another Kynd would let it slip beyond his grasp? Well, Merrick wasn’t going to find out as soon as he hoped, which also meant he hadn’t been able to indulge in the company of his fellow Kynd beyond the length of the boat ride.
He and Kharon parted with longing hugs, and said nothing about Angelia beyond the obvious. Merrick figured Kharon felt bad enough as it was, that if the human woman in Merrick’s arms was the only one to retrieve that book, then the Ferryman wasn’t going to deny her passage.
“The Castle? I missed Kharon?” Angelia’s dismay yanked Merrick into the present. “How could I have missed a whole darned trip down a river?”
Merrick had known she’d be disappointed, but he still hated the sight of it. Wasn’t too fond of how it clenched like a vise on his heart, either.
Exactly where it shouldn’t.
“I figured the river would do its thing as it had done with Dante. It knocks humans out, makes them swoon.” He shrugged. “Or sleep, as it was in your case.” Even with his leather jacket acting as a buffer, he still felt the slide of her sleeping bag in his arms.
“But not you?” God, he didn’t want to see such disheartening failure crowding into those blue-black eyes, but there he was gazing down again just the same.
“No. The river doesn’t have the same effect.” If only she’d leave it at that. But he knew better. She was a scholar, wasn’t she? It was her nature to know, even if she wouldn’t like his answers.
“Go on.”
Merrick stared straight ahead, watching the path in front of him so he wouldn’t have to look down at the woman he pressed close to his chest. He’d been enjoying his hike with her in his arms. While she slept he could indulge his senses, could even pretend she wasn’t human, that she was an angel sent down from Heaven to bestow upon him some quiet moments of peace.
Which she had done. For a little while, the fomenting fury that pressed from the inside out of him, toughening his skin, abated, giving his body a break from its inexorable transition into stone.
Even now, she didn’t fight to get out of his arms, and Merrick savored the feel of her, which unleashed his tongue so it roved like a stray dog.
“The river has a voice—many voices.” He risked another peek down over his cheekbones to view the woman he carried. “Its flowing is like breath passing through the voice box, making sounds. The pitch is too high for human ears, so they can’t hear what’s being said. But on a subconscious level their brains are getting flooded, hypnotized. Which is why you swoon, or pass out.” Could he blabber on just a bit more?
“And you hear these voices?”
He nodded, not daring to look down again. Besides, awake, her body was heating up the sleeping bag she was in, as though the speeding up of her pulse warmed her from the inside out. “They’re mesmerizing, spellbinding.” Shut up, Merrick. “They make me want to stay, to enter into Hell and stay here.”
“But you can’t.”
Merrick snorted. “Yeah, well, it’s easier than you might think.”
At least, it had been easier, until he’d met the woman he now carried in his arms. He set her down, steadying her as she shimmied out of the constricting bedroll.
She clutched his arm as she did so, and the grip of it shot a twinge straight to his balls.
God Almighty.
He’d have to take her back to Acheron just so she’d pass out again, so he could function normally.
“But now that you’re away from the river, surely the urge is gone? I mean, you can’t want to spend the rest of your life in Hell.”
“Why not? It certainly has its advantages.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 19 coming Tuesday, March 31, 2015.

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No.17

 

INSTALLMENT No. 17 #blood #vampire #hell
…God in Heaven, he could cast aside his resolve as easily as he could steal a forbidden taste of her, so he backed off, biting down on a frustrated snarl.
He wanted her as desperately as he wanted to stay in Hell.
Merrick took a steadying breath, then crammed his wanting down into the same abyss where his fury swirled. He gathered their things, then gently plucked Angelia off the ground, sleeping bag and all, and started down the path toward the Ferryman.
****
Death trailed the Vampire.
Aro could feel it in the throbbing of his veins as he followed his victim.
He was too hungry. He’d waited too long to feed, so his control was a little flimsy at the moment. Putting it off hadn’t been his idea, though. Dealing with the Triumvirate had taken more time than it should have.
Fucking Anton.
So, if Death followed him along this backwater excuse for an alley, then so be it. The specter could belly up and watch. Besides, it wasn’t as if the man he was following could serve Aro’s business purposes any longer. He could afford to drain the victim’s body dry now that the human had played his part in connecting the Vampire to the soulless thief.
Just so long as he didn’t get caught with the corpse stuck to his fangs.
Aro and his kind weren’t allowed to kill their sources of food anymore, not since the Triumvirate had wrangled Vampires into a tidy community of pansy ass do-gooders.
The three Vampyres, older than dust itself, had been more than capable of doing it and, damn them, the strength to maintain the edict.
Except Anton, the rotter. Who grew soft because of his affections for the human child.
Letting that old wound fester, Aro turned his ear to the squish of the footsteps ahead of him. The man he pursued was speeding up, as if he knew he was being followed.
Clever.
But then, Aro hadn’t hired him because he was an idiot.
Well, the fact the man haunted this pathetic excuse of a town weighed against that, now didn’t it? The Vampire was getting mud on the cuffs of his fine slacks, and all because he had to finish business.
Aro’s own blood slipped fast through his veins as the man broke into a run.
Oh, he loved a good chase.
The damned Triumvirate. They’d all but eliminated that thrill from feeding. Shadow your victims, make sure they remember nothing, heal the wound you leave. Sniveling diplomats. They took the fun out of being Vampire.
Although Aro might be one of the selected Vampires to deal with the Triumvirate on a regular basis, it didn’t mean he was a cowering mutt who did his masters’ bidding.
Quite the contrary. Aro had killed too many of his victims to bother counting. Tonight would be just one more body in a sea of blood. And he was going to happily glut himself till he was half drowned.
As if his dull instincts had kicked it up a notch, the human broke into a dead run. Aro could hear his breaths chuffing in the crisp evening air, his footfalls heavy and slapping. Smoke much? The man wasn’t accustomed to sprinting. But the plus side? His running enflamed his blood.
How glorious. A warm feast that would shotgun straight down the Vampire’s throat. Aro could hardly wait just thinking of how it would spew forth in heated torrents, stuffing his mouth so fast he wouldn’t be able to swallow it all.
Oh, the chase!
His skin tightened, his fangs stretching long, throbbing hard in his gums.
To cap off the excellence of this hunt, the tang of tree resin flowed like floral blood upon the spring night. The kill would happen in a backwater town, which tended to have trees in the unlikeliest of places. Slap-shod buildings were rarely far from some forest, poverty cutting the hamstrings so towns like this one couldn’t quite edge their way out of the primal dirt.
With the lovely scent of spring wafting on the breezes, this was turning out to be a good place to dine, after all.
His dessert? Shutting the human’s mouth up forever.
Stay with me Death, don’t be lagging back.
With the scent of Death in his nose, Aro craved the inevitable, the excess. His vision bloomed red with his lust. Now the slapping footfalls were united with their runner, and in a blur, the Vampire snatched the man’s collar in his fist. The pungent, old-onion odor of the man’s sweat assaulted his senses as Aro tugged him close.
So base are these creatures. Nose curling, his stomach heaved a slow roll before settling. Always it was thus when he dealt with the filth.
But a meal was a meal when one was very hungry. Beggars not being choosers and the like.
But first.
“Uh-uh-uh, Mr. Smith. Not so fast.” Aro twisted the collar until the fabric cut into the rubbery skin of the man’s neck.
Bulging his carotid artery.
Salivating wasn’t good manners, but then neither was eating while standing up. His fangs singing so hard they hurt helped to kick his etiquette out on its prissy ear. Like his hunger needed backup?
But first.
“Where are we off to in such a hurry, Mr. Smith? To count your money?”
Mr. Smith shook his head.
Tsk, tsk.
Mr. Smith nodded.
The fool. Perhaps he’d overestimated the man’s intelligence. It was good he felt Death so close.
“You have the key?” Unfolding his empty hand, Aro thrust it under the man’s crooked nose. “Hmm?”
The human fumbled at the waist of his jeans, twisting his legs to jam his meaty fists into his linty pockets. He was a big man, by human standards. Strong shouldered, muscled.
Stink or no, Aro was going to enjoy this meal.
A skeleton key, pinched between white, shaking fingers, bobbled upward into his line of vision. The rank tang of fear punctured through the old onion, forcing the Vampire to fight his own shivers.
So close now.
Aro plucked the iron key free, and it disappeared into his sleeve as if palmed by a street magician. He tilted his chin so close to the man’s ear his cool lips brushed the slippery skin, so intimate he could feel the slush of his victim’s banging pulse.
His own blood raced through his veins, nearly distracting him from the reason he stood in a filthy alley in the first place.
Business. Ah, yes, there was that. Along with what it all meant.
“The Guardian of Hell may just well be permanently removed, thanks to you and your partner, Mr. Smith. You’ve both done well.”
So they had. Because of Laurel and his sidekick Hardy, the Scriptum was coursing a sweet descent into the bowels of Hell, with the human woman and her Chimera escort blithely chasing their merry way after it.
The Vampire’s plan to remove the Guardian permanently couldn’t have gone better. Aro’s gamble that the Scriptum would lure the Chimera away from that damned Archway was paying off better than even he could have hoped.
He had seen Merrick’s distraction with the human woman, and was glad he’d decided to sacrifice her. Finally she could be put to some use. Another fortuitous break? When the Scriptum literally unfolded itself to reveal secrets of the Kynd to her, and therefore to Aro, head of the Literati.
It was as if God Himself aided his plan!
That the Vampyre’s daughter was the only one within the Literati able to decipher the text? Utterly priceless, and a stroke of luck that carried with it the force of a sledgehammer. Anton despaired, which made him weak.
Angelia could be replaced. But Anton? Never. The Triumvirate would falter.
And now this unexpected cherry on his blood sundae? Perfection.
Aro squeezed his long, strong fingers around the man’s shirt collar, lifting his Wal-Mart boots out of the mud, then pressed the hulk of his victim tight to the plank fence lining the grass clumped alley.
Never mind a preliminary lick of skin along where he intended to sink his fangs. It was a meal he wanted, not a dining experience. Still, the popping of punctured skin dragged a moan up Aro’s throat, while hot blood slid down it in choking gulps.
The Grim Reaper hovered, waiting. Patient.
Invisible to the living, Darken stood at Death’s heels, his huge fists clenched to keep his shrieking silent while the Vampire spoke of Merrick.
Death sidled in tight to the human, preparing to extract his soul from his dead body. Darken readjusted his grip on the scythe.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 18 coming Saturday, March 28, 2015.