Tag Archives: #gargoyle #vampire #freestory

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 8

Installment No. 8 #hell #gargoyle #vampire
That man makes walking look like a sport.
The kind of sport performed by Greek athletes back in the days when the Olympics were played in stone constructed coliseums. She wouldn’t sigh, gall-darn it. She peeled her eyes off the Gargoyle’s tight butt and watched Aro’s departure, instead.
Which was like switching TV channels from Skin-emax to PBS.
And she refused to think about the smug victory on the Vampire’s face as he hastened from the gallery. He parted with no words of gratitude, dispensed no advice, not a single word of warning for her.
Secretly? She’d enjoyed watching the guy bend himself in half, backwards, as the Gargoyle had threatened him.
Shame on her. Aro was her boss. He had offered her a place within the Literati, albeit more for selfish reasons than for her skills as a researcher. But, hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Besides, what words of wisdom could Aro have imparted? Her education with the Literati was supposed to have prepared her for such an eventuality as a trip into Hell.
Even if she could have never prepared for her guide.
Sure, she knew as the only human member of the Literati she’d be expected to enter into dangerous situations by herself, and she had readied herself for it. She had trained, honed her fighting skills and her body so both would be up to any challenges she would face.
Studying her butt off, she’d learned everything she could about the beings she’d grown up with, and the creatures she’d heard about while growing up with her Vampyre parents.
Just in case Aro forgave her for her first blunder.
But for all her lifelong fantasizing and wishing, she had never met a Gargoyle before. Not just Gargoyle, either, but a Chimera, a being made up of two other creatures he kept hidden away from the rest of them.
Merrick had her just as nervous as her impending excursion into Hell.
Well, there’s a fine line for you.
Not much separated Hell and the Chimera. Except she didn’t think Hell would have such a fine ass if it wore leather pants, nor would its long, muscular thighs flex suggestively, like the leather was a pelt aching to be stroked by her personally.
Oh yes, if she kept thinking along those lines she’d prove again she wasn’t worthy of the Literati.
She had to stop thinking about how sexy Merrick was, and start concentrating on the danger oozing out of him. She hadn’t missed the undercurrent of rage swelling into the room as he’d stood on the threshold.
The Chimera was menacing, and she’d agreed to walk straight into Hell beside him.
Had she been born without a brain?
Moot point now. She and Merrick would start their descent into Hell soon, and it wasn’t going to be an easy trip. She’d need every scrap of her fortitude, and her intelligence, if she was going to resurface with the Scriptum in her arms.
And only that book in her arms. Nothing else, she swore, even if there wasn’t a stack of Bibles on hand. There would be no sexy Gargoyle in her embrace. Wasn’t. Going. To. Happen.
She locked down on those thoughts like the doors on a submarine lest someone, especially Merrick, should read them. It was bad enough she felt the burn of embarrassment on her cheeks.
“Angelia.”
Nothing like a father’s voice to throw gasoline on the fire of her cheeks. Anton spread his arms wide for her, a faint smile of inevitability playing upon his lips.
“I’m sorry for this, Papa. Really, I am.” Of course, she meant the Literati thing, not her carnal thoughts. Of which, the Vampyre would pick right up on if she didn’t flush said thoughts straight into the gutter where they belonged.
Anton closed his arms around her. “Hush, now. I know. You’re a grown woman, my Angelia. It is time for a father to let his little chick go.”
Eek. He doesn’t suspect, does he?
He rubbed his cheek to her crown, as if savoring the scent of his little girl.
No. “But the price—”
“You never mind about that. From what I understand of fathers and daughters, it is a small price to pay to make my princess happy. Besides, I never paid a cent toward college tuition. Think of it as that, hmm?”
She nodded. Then her head went deer in the headlights as she felt Merrick’s shadow fill her personal space.
Surprise, surprise. That looming shadow didn’t chill her or shroud her with a sense of foreboding, despite the vibration of his simmering rage. She peered over her father’s shoulder to watch Merrick stride near, a leather backpack in each strong knuckled fist, his lips pressed firm on a locked, and square jaw.
Forbidding as all get out—but wicked fine.
Dragging her gaze from the bracing sight of Merrick closing down on her, she smiled bravely for her father. “I don’t have time to say anything to Mom.”
“She will be all right. Do not worry, chickie.” Her father dabbed her nose as he winked. “Or should I stop calling you that, now you’re all grown up and flying the nest?”
She loved that he smiled, showing her his luminous Vampyre teeth. She thought his smile one of his best features of so many great ones.
Angelia blushed. “I’ll always be your chickie, Papa, you know that.”
Anton placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead at the same time she felt Merrick’s heat closing over her.
****
Saps.
Yet, Merrick felt the weight of his longing, the sharp bite of its teeth, and suppressed the resistant growl brewing in his thick chest. He’d been without the comfort of another being for more than two thousand years, this familial scene would not bother him. He couldn’t let it. Remembering how it used to be among his Kynd, the way they once touched to give solace to each other, would only puncture holes in an already faulty dam barely keeping his rage from spewing outward.
Merrick squeezed his eyes shut and gave a sharp shake to his head. Setting it straight. His lot was what it was, and he wouldn’t let this blatant display of affection rattle him. The two doing the lovey-dovey thing weren’t even Kynd, for Christ’s sake.
“Hate to break up the sloppy good-byes, but if you’re going…” He held Angelia’s pack out for her, then let it drop just as she was reaching for it. Her father snagged it before it touched the stone floor, lancing a wrathful, silver-eyed glare at him.
Promises, promises. Merrick smirked, welcoming the stab of his antagonism as it buffeted his leaky defenses. “You won’t be there to catch her when she’s too slow, Vampyre. Better she learn right off she’ll be no chickie on this trip.”
He intentionally goaded them, he couldn’t help it. Not when his insides betrayed him with odd feelings of seeing her so vulnerable in her father’s arms. She should be looking at him like that, not some other man.
Aw, Jesus. If only he could slip out of his Gargoyle body. It acted funny around the woman, made his chest ache as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. He needed to get moving, to get his mind on something else besides this human.
Although he knew that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He was stuck with her for the next seven days, at least. He wasn’t heading to Hell, he was already there. “Grab your pack. Let’s go.”
Sticking around to catch her reaction was a bad idea. It was torture enough to have the smell of her curling around him like it moved intentionally, as if it was some kind of magical serpent taunting his stiffening cock.
Christ Almighty. Merrick almost cupped his balls in a bid to make more room. Instead, he forced his hands to stay busy shouldering the bag he’d picked up for the trip, not the one God had given him. He did not look back to see if Angelia followed. He didn’t have to—he could feel the warmth of her soul swirling across his back.
As if his skin wasn’t thick at all.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 9 coming Tuesday, February 24, 2015

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 6

INSTALLMENT No. 6:
Cramming his anger deeper into himself, Merrick freed his curiosity from its coffin. He had to see how this unusual sitch played out, so he ventured deeper into the room.
Was the woman the Vampyre’s lover?
His full Chimera seethed to be let loose from its singular Gargoyle form, and Merrick pushed aside the unfamiliar fluttering of his gut. The female put her arm across the ancient one’s back, and gently caressed her cheek along his shoulder.
No. There was nothing sexual about the woman’s giving of comfort. This was Anton’s human child, the one he and his wife had found and raised as one of their own.
Ignoring his relief, he stifled a derisive grunt. Well, not exactly as one of their own. She was human, not Vampire. She had been raised on milk and solid food, not blood. Quite the sacrifice for a pair of leeches, considering the babe would have made a delicate meal.
A smear of blood on Anton’s pallid cheek had Merrick eyeing the ancient one a little more carefully.
The Vampyre wept.
He’d seen many things in his long life, but never that. Maybe he felt a little sorry for the guy.
Just a little, though. He wasn’t about to go overboard with the sympathy.
“Merrick, you’ve come. We thank you.” Godrick’s voice chimed like a crystal bell, arresting everyone’s attention, including that of Anton’s daughter. She lifted her gaze to Godrick while she still hugged her father.
Worry flashed in those dark blue eyes.
What fine, dark eyes they are. Nearly black, but with enough blue to make Merrick think of iridescent ink, reflecting the reds and golds from the flames of the wall sconces.
A man could get mired in those liquid pools.
If one were just a man.
Merrick again rolled his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his leather coat, and returned his attention to Godrick.
“You summoned. I answered.”
Anton gently extricated himself from Angelia’s embrace to take his place upon the dais with the rest of the Triumvirate. The human woman moved to stand closer to Aro and his nearsighted crones.
She settled herself a little off to the side, and Merrick thought her a flowering apple tree in an orchard of shriveled trunks. She wasn’t tall, but she had soft curves that caressed his sharp eyes. Her scent wafted toward him like nectar, squeezing his ball sac with an urgency he’d never known.
Rather than think on that gripping conundrum and gnash his teeth into powder, he diverted his attention to the dynamic duo, the two Ghouls sitting with the head of the Literati.
Each one had devoted his immortal life to knowledge, and the Ghouls’ bodies had withered in their pursuit.
Would this be the woman’s fate?
He surely hoped not. Idiot. He was being an imaginative fool. What did he care? He may have stood in that room looking like a human male, but he wasn’t.
Not even close.
So he could drag his eyes off Anton’s daughter for two seconds and pay attention to the Triumvirate and the mission they’d hired him for.
Yet, his tongue slid across the bottom of his sharp teeth as he thought about what he’d like to do to that woman’s skin, which seemed creamy as, well—cream. A lustful twinge gripped his balls anew.
Christ.
Forcing him to adjust his stance to ease the crush of his stiffening erection in his leather pants. Godrick blabbered on about something. Merrick tilted his head to focus on anything other than the bulge growing behind his buttons.
“You have agreed to descend the Circles of Hell to retrieve the Scriptum?”
“I have,” he growled, biting down on the Your Excellency part. The Vampyres weren’t his, and they sure as hell weren’t excellent.
“Good. Then you and the human woman Angelia will depart as soon as you collect the supplies we have prepared for you. We expect you to return to the surface within seven days’ time.”
The room bloomed red before his eyes, his strident erection forgotten.
What? The Triumvirate and Literati expected him to tote a living human through Hell? Were they daft?
Such a risky undertaking had only been done three times before, and two had been under God’s protection. Well, Virgil’s more precisely, but Dante’s guide had been acting with permission from the Big Man Himself. The third brainfart had just been one lucky son of a bitch.
And these morons expected him to lug around a human female as he navigated The Circles?
“You’re out of your blood starved minds.”
Two members of the Triumvirate stiffened, while Anton drew his palm across his eyes, his distress evident. But it was Aro, the scrawny head of the Literati who whined in his ear.
“Our like cannot touch the Scriptum. It will only allow itself to be handled by humans. You will need her, Gargoyle,” he sneered, his contempt for the Kynd advertising like a red button blaring for Merrick to punch it.
Which gave Merrick just the little push his rage needed to resurface. He flashed his fangs, his sheer size cowering the bloodsucker as he lunged, halting a paper’s thickness from Aro’s stricken face. “You take that tone again when you say Gargoyle, leech, and you won’t have eyes to read your precious Scriptum.” His words were barely audible within his guttural threat.
Aro cringed from Merrick’s crushing weight, bending backward on one supporting leg, cutting a fabulous imitation of a café table.
It was all Merrick could do not to twist Aro’s anemic neck in his hands. They itched to do it, too, his claws emerging to better hold the skinny straw in his grasp.
Wresting control from God only knew where, he turned his attention back to the three on the dais, forcing his seething fury back into its cage.
“With all due respect,” he snarled, not caring that he patronized the ruling Triumvirate. He barely respected the ancient Vampyres. He was as old, if not older than those three who presumed authority over him.
Merrick only answered their call out of concern for his Kynd. Because if the Scriptum held the secrets rumored to be etched upon its pages, then they had as much, if not more right to it as the Literati. He would return it to that order of haggard crones only after his brethren had their chance to study it.
Maybe not even then.
“I can’t drag a human through Hell,” he argued.
Even if she smells as good as she does. “It will be dangerous enough without having to keep something–” Merrick ground his teeth and cleared his throat, his derision clear. “I mean, someone else alive while I’m doing it.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 7 coming Tuesday, February 17, 2015

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 5

Installment No. 5
#chimera #gargoyle #vampire #romance
Anton stood up and gazed down on his daughter. He watched Angelia straighten her shoulders, saw the moment her determination stole over her.
The sight of it crushed him, and he stepped off the dais to hold her, proper decorum be damned. The moment he opened his arms, she fell into them.
Only this time, it was he who sought comfort from her, his precious daughter.
“I am Literati, Papa, it is my foresworn duty.” Her voice, singing upon his ears, wrung his heart. She brushed his hair from his collar, and Anton’s breath betrayed him, damming at the knot strangling his throat.
He could not agree to this madness. He would split the Triumvirate with his disapproval. Anton had known this day could come to pass years before when his daughter had informed him of her swearing in to the Literati.
He had nearly killed Aro back then for allowing the abomination, for the lesser Vampire’s cunning. Aro had known his Angelia’s value, that as human she could pass through realms shut off from the Vampire. She was the Literati’s best weapon in their arsenal protecting the ancient canon.
Yet, the truth riding upon Angelia’s soft breath nearly buckled his knees. She wasn’t just Literati. She was his daughter. He loved her as if she were born of his blood. He had given his heart to her the day she had lain cradled upon his forearms.
His Angelia, the angel who had gazed up at him with eyes so blue to be almost black, her human mother’s blood caked to her nubile skin.
“Your mother,” the knot in his throat released his anguished sigh. Yet, he and Angelia both understood his lament was not for the human woman who had died in childbirth twenty-eight years before.
Anton fretted for the vampire mother, the one who had clutched the soiled babe to her breast as if she herself had labored to bring the creature unto this earth.
Marguerite would be devastated, ruined.
And that would be the final blow to the ancient Vampyre. He could not bear to lose both wife and daughter. The Triumvirate meant little in the face of such yawning loss.
Angelia caressed the silk of his jacket, as if cherishing the line of his muscled back with the pads of her fingers. He had ever been her strength, the fortress who protected her, provided her every need, every want.
He doted upon her, spoiled her. Her mother had been the enforcer, the one to shoulder the guilt of admonishments because he could not do it. Marguerite had been firm, but overly kind, unable to shield her adoration for her human daughter in her blazing, Vampire eyes.
“She will understand the duty to my position, Papa. She will know.”
“She will be crushed,” he bit out, his fangs clamped tight together.
****
Angelia sucked in a breath, alarmed by her father’s grief. They were not alone. The rest of the Triumvirate awaited Anton’s final decision.
Aro, too, would wait, following the ancient protocol no matter his posturing. Respect for the tradition and power of the reigning Vampyres ran soul deep in their kind, and her father had been chosen centuries ago to rule. Not because the blood coursing through his veins mandated it, but because of the terrible power that very blood wielded.
Anton was a formidable and terrifying Vampyre.
That she should be the one to cut him to his knees frightened her. “Papa, please. I will be well guarded by the Chimera. He won’t let me get hurt.” She fervently hoped so, anyway. Yet, she had no more time for reassurances, for in he walked.
Merrick the Chimera, appearing in his Gargoyle form, shoved open the double doors to the gallery as if he entered a room teeming with vipers—and his sworn duty was to decapitate every writhing one of them.
****
Merrick knew what he was walking into, which meant he wanted nothing more than to give himself a swift kick in the ass for allowing the man to slip into Hell in the first place. Without trying, he could recall the face of the one who’d stolen the book. Yet, he couldn’t remember the soul. There hadn’t been one to log into his memory.
The human had been born without his flame. Made not in God’s image, but lacking. And for this, blood would be shed.
Merrick felt the familiar twinge of sympathy for the Angel below. Again, their God betrayed them, turning His back on the suffering, and leaving a mess to be cleaned up by others.
So Merrick, his mistake at overlooking the soulless thief grating him hard, wasn’t in a rosy mood when he stepped through the threshold to answer his summons from the Triumvirate and the Literati.
He barely suppressed his rage. He could feel the push of his claws against his fingertips, his mane thickening behind his ears. Shrugging his Gargoyle shoulders to deter the emergence of his wings, he adjusted his leather coat, which draped his wide back, and encased the thick muscles of his arms.
For this, too, he let his anger simmer just under his skin. Having to parade in human costume, pretending as if he had been made in His image when he had not. Merrick would never forget the day he and his Kynd had been cast from Heaven, along with the Arch Angel Lucifer.
The Kynd, the Witnesses, had not taken sides when Lucifer had pushed for his power play and lost, when Heaven had spewed Its traitors to damnation.
Yet, still God had relegated them to Middle Ground.
An intentionally ironic punishment underscoring where the Kynd had preferred to stand during the colossal struggle. To them, God and Lucifer had both been right. And they had both been wrong. When the War was over, God condemned the Kynd to Hell, Earth, and the Other realms for all time.
And in more than two thousand years, as Hell’s gatekeeper, Merrick had witnessed a lot.
But he wasn’t prepared for what he walked in on. Never mind that an ancient Vampyre leaned against the far wall, frozen and searing simultaneously with anguish. Merrick’s senses were riveted to the creature consoling the stricken blood sucker.
A human woman.
Consoling a Vampyre. Not just any Vampire, either. One of the Triumvirate: Anton.
Merrick’s spine straightened, his blood ripping through his veins so his skin heated. Maybe he hadn’t seen enough, after all. He sniffed the stuffy air of the gallery to make sure his senses weren’t screwed up.
Because mystery, apparently, came packaged in the twin scents of honey and lavender.
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 6 coming Saturday, February 14, 2015