Clerical Errors

(This is inspired, ever so loosely, on concepts in fantasy role-playing games. I firmly admit to and accept my inner geek. So here you have it... yet another vampire tale...)

It was a dark and gloomy night. Actually, it was a dark and gloomy dungeon, and Sinclair was tired of dark and gloomy dungeons. As a cleric, it was her job to hunt down the less-than-alive and send them to a final rest. She made a good wage, more than enough to keep her father warm and comfortable in his aging years, but she'd had enough of the places the undead seemed to favour. Being able to brew her own potions was helpful as one chill after another took her chest. Coughing destroys the chance of sneaking up on the little bastards.

This night found her armed to the hilt. She was in her best you-can't touch-me armour, carrying an enchanted heavy mace, with vials strapped to one thigh. A torch would have been lovely. A hot toddy and a good book would have been better. She took a deep breath and silently berated herself. This was her chosen job and she was damned good at it. Complaining only camouflaged her real worry.

One hand lifted to gently caress the long healed wound at her neck. There was no scar. No evidence of her dance with death. It was years ago, on her first vampire hunt. Ethan had talked her into it. Ethan. A paladin who was too good for this world. He had promised to take care of her, and he did. When the vamp jumped them and tore her down, he pulled the creature off and took it on solo. She'd barely had enough sense left to heal herself. She sat up just in time to see Ethan plunge a stake through the beast's heart, as the vampire ripped Ethan's throat open with vicious claws. Since then, she'd gotten very good at turning and destroying just about anything. Ghouls, wraiths, skeletons. Everything but vampires. She still shook at the thought of them. She was efficient enough, but more than one had smelled her fear and mocked her for it. That usually did the trick. Fury was good for overcoming terror.

Tonight, though, she had perhaps bitten off more than she could choke down. She wasn't after just any vampire. Oh no. Sinclair super-cleric was taking on Lord Mirath.

Lord Mirath was spoken of in tones of awe. He was several centuries old and for the most part, well respected. He kept a tight leash on his minions, forbade attacks on children and cattle, and charmed everyone who crossed his path. He was, in Sinclair's eyes, disgusting.

She couldn't say when she'd decided to go after him. There were no monumental moments that changed her life or gave her new courage. She wasn't even being paid for this job. Maybe the skeletons had gotten boring. Maybe breathing had gotten boring. Whatever the cause, here she was, in yet another dark and gloomy dungeon, making her way under Lord Mirath's lair. Well. Mansion.

Sinclair paused, tilting her head, listening. In her mental meanderings, she had reached what appeared to be a dead end. Behind a wall, though, and a bit above, came sounds of movement. Bingo. There had to be a switch around here someplace. She gave a silent thanks to the gods that her parents saw fit to let her be born at least half elven, and began a search. Moments ticked by, marked by the pounding of her heart. Her hand clenched around the mace, ready to break through the wall if necessary. And then she found it. A tiny bit of stone, coloured only slightly different from the rest of the wall. One delicate finger pushed against the anomaly and a door shimmered, then faded away. Mage-touched. That gave her about a minute to get through the opening before it closed again. It would be just her luck that the damned thing was timed and she'd have to come back another day. Not a chance. She drew a deep breath and stepped through, onto a plush staircase winding up.

Shifting her stance, she hugged a wall and started the climb. Slow. Careful. Listening until her ears threatened to twitch. Those sounds were still above, steady and undisturbed. That was good. Her life depended on her getting the jump on him. Before long, light first trickled then poured down the staircase. She eased to the top and stayed hunched in the shadows that were left, trusting to her skills to keep her hidden. Laughter spilled from the right, a surprising sound in the home of a vampire. She went the other way, creeping through the empty kitchen and through the servants' quarters. Her plan was to start at the top and work her way down, hunting him. A back set of stairs curled to the second floor, dumping her at the end of a long hallway. Most of the doors were closed, and she began quietly peeking in one after another. A utility closet. A water closet. A coat closet. A guest bedroom, cluttered with cobwebs.

The room behind the last door showed signs of use. Recent use. Thick, heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows, blocking out the impending daylight. Candles burned in wall-mounts, casting a soft glow over the room. She stepped in, easing the door shut, and looked around. Still hugging the wall, her gaze swept critically, taking in detail. Clearly he slept here, but the bed was empty. Perhaps under the bed? Or was this just for show? There were two other doors in the room. One might lead to his resting place. She stepped toward the closest one and bit her lip against a screech as a hand wrenched her arm behind her, forcing the mace from her grip.

A deep, knee-trembling voice slithered across her ear, the breath hot and spicy, "Welcome to my home, Cleric. I always enjoy meeting new... friends."

Sinclair groaned and cursed herself in several languages, for stupidity, and out loud. He chuckled against her skin, gripping a fistful of hair to yank her head to the side. She cried out soft, against her will, as pain shot up her trapped arm, and tried to twist free. She fought. She kicked and bucked. And eventually wore herself out, sagging against him, panting.

"Are you done, child?" The bastard sounded amused. She hissed in response, then froze as his tongue slid over the side of her neck and her legs nearly buckled. Heat lanced, cutting down her chest to her core. Her eyes widened, a new horror waking.

He laughed again, "Ahhhh. I can taste your fear like a vintage wine sliding over my tongue. Let me sip once more."

Another jerk of her hair bared her throat fully. She tried to twist again, nearly pulling her arm from the socket. Her efforts were useless. Sharp teeth grazed her skin, threatening. Tears slid down her cheeks as she thought of Ethan and how she was wasting the gift he had given her. A burn slid over her skin. Pain, yes, but not piercing. The bite she was dreading never came. He scraped her flesh open and licked gently, groaning, "So sweet, child. I am going to enjoy you."

The hand in her hair pushed her forward. She stumbled and fell on the bed as he let go. She flipped over, facing him. The first thing she noticed was a smear of crimson on his mouth. Her blood. A shiver danced over her arms. Then she saw the rest of him. He was every grown, experienced woman's fantasy of what a vampire should be. Tall, dark and handsome didn't begin to cover it. Midnight black hair fell past strong shoulders, tamed back by a thin strip of velvet at the nape of his neck. The silk spilling from his shoulders and crawling over a powerful chest seemed more an afterthought than an affectation. The same could be said for the black pants clinging to his hips, but Sinclair refused to look that low. Once her gaze flicked below his chin, they snapped back up. She didn't meet his eyes, for that would be the end of her. She focused instead on that fleck of colour marring his perfect mouth. Her heart raced faster. Her skin warmed. That mouth. What would it feel like to feel that mouth sliding over her again? It was so hot. So soft. Her own lips parted slightly. Her fingers lifted, reaching for her mouth.

She gasped and snarled, shaking her head to break the effect. Both arms raised, words of angry power painting the air. Concentration etched across her forehead, but the accompanying surge of divine might was absent from her hands. Slowly, with an infuriating smile, Lord Mirath held up her holy symbol, dangling from its leather thong.

"Missing something?"

Sinclair scrambled back across the bed and leapt to her feet. She whirled and aimed for a door. He was blocking the path out, but one of the others must surely lead to the hallway eventually. She knew the chances of making even the first were slim, but she had to try. For Ethan's sake. For her own sake. She gripped the handle and wrenched it, tumbling through. She yanked it behind her, panic removing reason, and quickly assessed the room.

One look and she knew she was screwed. There were no other exits. This room was a private library. Bookshelves with seriously old tomes lined the walls. She had a passing thought of wonder. Such treasure that could be found here. Perhaps long forgotten spells, potion recipes, enchantments. She scowled again, breaking the moment. Any second now, when he stopped laughing, he was coming through that door, and she would be trapped. Her eyes fell on the fireplace and the used bits of wood.

When he finally opened the door, evidence of his amusement still twitching his mouth, he burst into fresh laughter. Sinclair stood, her chin raised high, her holy symbol drawn on the hardwood floor around her. The charred stick she had used as a pencil was clenched firm in one hand.

"You can't cross this, no matter how powerful you are." Her belief was strong in her voice. Fear had left her. Mostly.

He cocked his head and chuckled. "True enough. But how long can you stand there? Eventually, you will tire. Grow hungry. Feel the need to tend the private issues of the living. How long, little cleric, before a single toe breaks the line?"

She quivered, and recovered. "I can stand as long as it takes. You have to sleep some time. And when you do, when your true nature takes control of you, I'll be free." She jerked her chin up again, and in a moment of bravado, looked him square in gleaming emerald eyes. "To kill you."

He smiled, "So we are at a standstill, yes? I can't get to you, you can't get to me until I rest. I am very old, child. I can go a long stretch before my bed becomes a siren's call I can't avoid. " He stepped closer. "I cannot cross your lines. But you can."

He held out one well formed hand and a shock rippled through her chest. His voice lowered, seemingly coming from within her. His eyes began to dance, flecks of gold rising and falling as he coaxed, "Come to me. Come to me. Now."

Somewhere deep inside, a distant voice screamed in horrified denial as one foot shifted, then stepped over the line. Locked in his gaze, she laid her hand in his, caught as surely as a butterfly in a spider's web. His smile grew gentle as he pulled her close against him, arms wrapping warm around her. He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers, barely touching and never breaking eye contact.

"There now. This is much better, is it not?"

Again came that voice, fighting and screeching. But it was far away and fuzzy. Sinclair was far less interested in trying to focus than in what his hands were doing to her back. He stroked and a languid heat spread heavy over her mortal flesh. Her head drooped, seeking the strength of his shoulder, but his fingers under her chin prevented her motion. To do so would pull her eyes from his and he couldn't have that. Not yet. He kissed her again, backing slowly out of the room. One arm twined around her waist, lifting her. Of their own accord, her legs echoed, wrapping around him. She clung, whimpering as he devoured her mouth. Looking away was no longer an option. He had her, entirely.

The bed lay firm under her back. He leaned over her, slowly removing her clothing, while she arched into his touch. Every time her eyes fluttered, he drew her gaze back. His smile was lazy as he worked. Time lost all meaning, her world reduced to glittering eyes and impossibly warm hands. He peeled fabric away as if unwrapping a treasured gift, his fingers doing the seeing for him. She spiraled into need. He leaned back, then stepped away from her. Cool air licked at naked flesh. She watched, aching, as he stripped away fine attire. She wanted so much to drink in the view, but the malachite prison held her firm. Her hands reached for him, craving given sound from parted lips.

"Invite me."

Clarity is a perfidious creature. It comes and goes of its own accord, often at the worst of times. It came back to her with a roar, causing eyes to widen and limbs to freeze. She found her voice, somewhere in the vicinity of her toes, and squeaked, "No."

His laughter was soft and indulgent. He took a single step toward the bed, power rippling off him.

"Invite me, Cleric."

Green eyes darkened and glowed, reasserting control. She groaned, turning her head away, then groaned again. She could not break eye contact and that was her only hope of salvation. Phantom hands roamed her body as he stood watching. Gliding over bare skin like a soft summer breeze and just as sweet. A swirl settled between her thighs, ruffling the tangle of dark curls. She cried out, parting her legs, biting her lip against the words battering free.

Once more, he came to her, touching and soothing. She shivered as his body slid over hers. His fingers stroked up her arms, to her cheeks, splaying across her temples. And once more, his voice resonated through her, this time accompanied by an insistent press of his hips to hers. That spectral touch continued to play havoc. It pressed and whirled, wiping away the last of denials. When he whispered again, staring at her so intently, she could breathe but one damning word.

"Yesssss..."

Sleek, as if she had been made for this very purpose, she lifted her hips and he slid easily into her. He paused, buried completely. His smile was as maddening as ever, but she couldn't find the will to mind. In response, she clenched, tightening molten muscle around his shaft. It was his turn to groan, hers to smile, and as he began to rock, gently at first, she forgot to be frightened. Her arms ran along his back, holding him closer. He shook his head, a hint of steel sliding into emerald. In the space of a pounding heartbeat her hands were pinned over her head, his fingers biting almost cruel. At her whimper, he increased the pace of this taking, still watching. Always watching. Clarity again dawned late. She was drowning in heat, falling at a deadly rate into primal lust while he remained calm. He wasn't entirely unaffected. Somehow, the colour in his cheeks was heightened and his skin was gleaming with a fine layer of sweat. But he wasn't diving as fast as she was. He was holding back for something. And she couldn't take it, couldn't bear to be alone on this journey. Her soul may be at stake, her life and everything she had worked for, but if she was going down, she didn't want to be alone.

Sinclair wrenched her gaze from his, snapping her eyes shut and arching hard against him. Her legs tangled with his, to pull him deeper. When he resisted, she threw back her head and surrendered, knowing what he needed. Her neck was bared to him, the pulse offered freely now as her voice crashed on the shore of release.

"Please!"

Her body seized around his as bright pinpoints of pain lit behind her eyelids. Sharp teeth sank into her neck. Agony fused with pleasure, blurring the lines until she could only shake beneath him, fingers curled into impotent fists. He drank his fill, keeping her on that shattered edge. Darkness nudged at her, beckoning. Her body felt liquid, melting into the bed as she gave in to this too.

When she woke, she was disoriented. She opened her eyes carefully, recognizing the room. One hand slapped to her neck. Already the punctures were closed, tiny welts giving truth to what she was hoping had been a dream. She was still naked, but her clothes were laid over a chair.

Her body still hummed with satisfaction, betraying the storm in her mind. She snatched her shirt up, reflexively catching her holy symbol as it popped in the air. A torrent of multi-lingual cursing peppered the air while she dressed. When she sat down to haul on her boots, a wave of dizziness struck, forcing her to lean back against the chair. Her eyes drifted to a small table. A sheet of parchment was leaning against a glass of wine. Oh gods, she hoped it was wine.

"Cleric,

Truly, when we meet again, you must tell me your name. I cannot keep calling you that. Drink the wine. It will help you regain strength. You are free to return as you like, through the front door if your reputation will not suffer too greatly for it. Through the basement if you prefer. You are mine now. Do not forget it. I will see you soon.

-M"

Sinclair crumpled the paper in her fist. His. Not a chance. The sore spot between her thighs flexed and she hissed. She was stupid this time, but she knew his game. She wasn't about to let it happen again. Even if it felt so...

Quickly, the lure of the bed and the memory of his touch pulling, she slipped out of the room. With luck, it was still daylight and she could get to the relative safety of her home. Every entrance was warded heavily against his kind. She could sleep in peace and figure a way out of this after some distance. When they next met, she would tell him her name. And kill him. It wouldn't happen again. Not again. No. Way.