tagGay MaleEncounters with Evil Pt. 01

Encounters with Evil Pt. 01


Encounters with Evil © Copyright jvaughn, 2013. All rights reserved. Copyright violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.


Tigger focused carefully, squinting at the glass in his hand and willing his muscles to behave as he set the drink down slowly. In spite of his effort, he misjudged the distance and vodka and orange juice sloshed out, dribbling onto the black laminate which was already sticky with spilled drinks. He sat up a little straighter trying not to sway.

Once more he scanned the dance floor for Jon. Bodies undulated to the smoky beat, a jumble of hot sweaty men in provocative club attire, showing off cut pecs and six-pack abs. Normally Tigger would have appreciated the view, but at the moment he was too worried. How long has it been since I've seen Jon? he wondered. His befuddled mind slid to the next thought without answering the first. Oh, shit, I feel dizzy!

"Hey, little cutie! Want to dance?"

Startled, Tigger looked up into a pair of gray eyes. He took in light brown hair, a thin face, a tall stature. He struggled to focus at the same time he slurred, "No, than' you."

"Oh, come on! You've got such a sweet little ass, I bet you move like raw silk."

Raw silk? What kind of a pick up line is that? "N ... no. I can't." Normally Tigger loved to dance, but he was having trouble keeping his balance while sitting. He knew better than to dance. He just wanted to find his friend and go home.

Ignoring the man who continued to stand at his elbow, Tigger pulled out his cell phone. It took him several tries before he managed to pull up his text messages and click on Jon's last text. When he started to type, the letters moved around and blurred on top of each other. He couldn't make heads or tails of what he was typing and knew Jon wouldn't be able to either. He shoved his phone into his back pocket in disgust. I'm such a lightweight. How much did I have to drink?

Too much, his mind supplied right away. He really had no idea how many he'd had, but clearly he should have stopped a few drinks back. Drowning his loneliness in alcohol had seemed like a good idea a few hours earlier. Now he wished he hadn't. It really didn't help; it just made him maudlin.

I'm over Harold—I've been over Harold for a long time. Why am I acting like this? He had been heartbroken when Harold left him for the girl who was tutoring him in math. Harold was his high school crush and the only boyfriend he'd ever had. They had gotten together during their freshman year of college, but the long-distance relationship had only lasted a few months. That was more than two years ago. Harold was still dating Becky, and Tigger was finally getting over his hurt and anger. He and Harold were even on their way to becoming tentative friends again.

So why am I such a drunken sop tonight? A cynical voice in his head supplied an answer: because nobody wants you. Tigger knew that wasn't true. He was shy, but it wasn't as if no ever flirted with him. He had even dated a few guys, but nothing had ever lasted beyond a second date. It's me. I'm too picky. Something was always missing. Finding a guy who made his dick hard was not a problem—well, actually it was usually too much of a problem. Finding someone who made his heart flutter—that rarely happened, and when it did, the guy was never interested in anything more than a quick fuck. Tigger refused to settle for that—not for his first time. He and Harold had fooled around plenty, but they had never "gone all the way."

Am I the only guy in the world who wants a relationship? Or am I just attracted to the wrong kind of guys? He had asked himself those questions already a million times and had decided that both were true. Most guys his age did not want to be tied down, and the type of guy he was attracted to—big, muscular, dominant, and imposing—that type of guy in particular was not interested in a relationship.

Lost in thought he let his head slump forward and blond bangs fell into his eyes. He sat up and pushed them back with an impatient hand, following the movement automatically with one to settle his non-existent glasses back onto his nose. He was wearing his contacts tonight.

"Hey! Come on—let's dance!" Mr. Tall Gray-Eyes hadn't been easily discouraged and was still standing next to him. Now he grabbed his hand, which was still poised in mid-air confusion over the missing glasses, and yanked him up out of his seat.

Tigger let out a yip of surprise and struggled to keep his balance. He failed miserably and would have gone down if Mr. Tall hadn't grabbed him. Suddenly his nose was in a sweat soaked shirt and Mr. Tall's hands were wrapped around him. A spike of unease shot through him. This is so not what I want right now.

"Hey there, cutie. Careful." Mr. Tall laughed.

Tigger steadied himself with difficulty and tried to pull away. Mr. Tall held him tightly.

"Let me go!" Tigger protested. Shoving hard and twisting, he managed to extricate himself from Mr. Tall's grasp. He staggered a few steps and grabbed onto the railing that ran around the edge of the bar area to keep from going down.

Mr. Tall was right behind him. "Looks like someone's had a wee bit too much to drink," he observed, a smirk in his voice.

The alcohol had stripped away Tigger's emotional filters, and anger over the man's condescending tone washed over him. He glared at the man, a retort on the tip of his tongue. The predatory gleam in the gray eyes stopped him. His heart skipped a beat. Shit, I need to get away from him before he takes advantage of my drunken ass—literally. Adrenalin coursed through his veins, and he was instantly steadier on his feet. He took a deep breath, located the door, and headed quickly in that direction, focusing on keeping his balance.

Before he knew it he was outside, breathing in the cool air. It had been a warm day, but even in June, Seattle nights were often chilly. The humid air felt good on his bare arms. He started walking fast, glancing behind him to make sure Mr. Tall wasn't following.

He hadn't gotten very far when he remembered Jon. He'll will just have to get by without me for the evening. He paused on a street corner and pulled out his phone. Struggling to focus, he didn't even try to text this time. Instead he pulled up his favorites and, after a few moments of squinting to make the letters quit dancing, he managed press the button for Jon. He started walking again as he listened to it ring. When it went to voicemail, he hung up. He'd try again in a little while.

He headed toward home. It was a long walk, not quite two miles he guessed, but he thought the walk would do him good. The adrenalin had worn off and he weaved back and forth, barely staying on the sidewalk. A few minutes later, his stomach rebelled. When he realized he was going to lose his dinner to the street, he dodged into the nearest alley. Shadows deepened as he made his way past the first dumpster on unsteady feet. The scent of rotting vegetation and decaying flesh assailed his senses, making the need to expel the contents of his stomach urgent. He put his hands against the nearest brick wall, leaned over, and emptied his guts onto the pavement.

Why, oh why, did I drink so much? He felt like the worst kind of low life. Am I such a loser that I'm dead drunk and barfing in an alley?

When his stomach settled, his head felt clearer. He spat repeatedly, wishing he had some water. Finally he gathered himself together and headed back toward the street. That's when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He spun around and was hit with a wave of vertigo. Stumbling backwards, he wind-milled his arms to keep from going down.

He didn't go down. Frigid hands grabbed him as if he weighed nothing and flung him against the wall of the building behind him. His head slammed into the brick and his world dimmed for a moment as pain shot through him.

When he could focus again, he found himself staring into a pair of cold black eyes that were bottomless pits of utter darkness. He'd never seen eyes like that; there were no irises, only blackness. His chest tightened painfully as terror gripped him, spreading through his body in a flash, tensing every muscle down to his toes, turning him to stone. This can't be real. No one has eyes like that!

He was peripherally aware that the man's angular face was unnaturally pale, framed with straight black shoulder length hair. A sharp, acrid smell permeated the air. The hands that held him pinned to the wall were colder than ice, causing a chill to emanate from his arms into his core. His body began to shake uncontrollably. He felt his eye's stretch wide in a completely useless defense mechanism.

Instinctively he put up his hands up to push the apparition away. I must be hallucinating. I wonder if someone slipped a roofie into my drink. The creature—he couldn't possibly be a man—grabbed his wrists with icy hands and yanked them over his head, forcing them painfully against the rough wall. He heard himself whimper softly. He was sure his heart had stopped beating.

The apparition's thin lips curled into a cruel smile as the unfathomable eyes shifted downward. Tigger could feel his gaze as it traveled slowly down his body as surely as if the man had been touching him with his eyes, undressing him. The hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood on end, giving him the sensation of tiny bugs crawling over his skin.

This can't be happening.

He then heard what could only be the snick of a switchblade sliding out. The bright steel in his attacker's hand reflected the distant street light. Oh god, this is it! He's going to kill me now. He felt the cool blade against his cheek and he had to clamp down hard to stop himself from wetting his pants. Some cool distant part of his mind told him that it didn't matter—he wouldn't be embarrassed after he was dead.

"Such a pretty face." The man's voice sounded like rustling leaves. He had an accent that Tigger had never heard. He slid the blade down the side of Tigger's face, not cutting him, he was pretty sure; there was no pain. The knife slithered slowly down to his throat to rest against his jugular.

"It would be so easy," the creature rasped, sliding the blade lightly across Tigger's neck. Tigger was so frozen with terror he hadn't taken a breath in minutes. Now he hoped he would pass out soon from lack of oxygen and save himself from having to witness his own death. "But I have other plans for you, yes," the fiend rasped. "No easy death for you, my friend."

Tigger whimpered again, and it sounded pitiful even to himself.

"Let's see what that tiny body looks like." The knife was suddenly no longer at his throat. Tigger took in a huge gasp of air and let it out on another whimper as the creature sliced the front of Tigger's jeans and briefs wide open in one quick long swipe that continued down one pant leg to his knee. Tigger felt the cool night air rush over his genitals.

"Well, look at that," the creature said. Moving the cold blade under Tigger's balls, he used the flat of it to lift them up and bounce them gently a few times.

A fresh wave of terror exploded within Tigger and the world began to fade out around him. All his muscles, which had been fully tense, suddenly went limp. He would have fallen if the creature hadn't had his hands still pinned against the wall over his head. He heard himself moan softly as he sagged. Unfortunately he didn't actually pass out and his head started to clear immediately. He wanted to close his eyes and pray, but some fierce part deep inside of him insisted that he pay attention so he wouldn't miss any chance to escape. There won't be an escape, his thinking mind told him. There is no way you can get away from a demon. He wasn't sure what the creature was, but not a flesh-and-blood man, he was positive. He was supernatural—and exceedingly evil.

The demon had finished playing with his balls and moved the knife back to the top of his chest. Catching the edge of his tight T-shirt with the blade, he sliced slowly downward, the fabric falling open as he went. Tigger felt the sting of the knife biting into his bare skin. Looking down he watched the monster create a long shallow gash, from his collarbone to his navel. Blood began to bead into it.

The sight of the blood caused something inside Tigger to shriek with terror. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt as if he were in a nightmare where he couldn't scream or run. This can't be real. Demons aren't real. I must be dreaming. But the cut on his chest began to burn with an intensity that belied illusion. It felt all too real.

The creature's nostrils flared and his bottomless eyes began to glow with a faint amber light. He leaned over, stuck out a long tongue, and licked the blood off Tigger's chest in a long slow swipe, letting out a low noise as if he was savoring something delicious.

Tigger shuddered with horror at the demon's touch. The monster's tongue was as frigid as his hands, and the noise that he made shattered something deep inside Tigger—possibly his sanity. The scream that was inside Tigger came out then, long and loud.

The creature began to laugh, a cruel, chilling sound, but what plundered the last vestiges of Tigger's wit was the glimpse of fangs that he saw in the demon's mouth. His canines were long and sharp, and they glinted even in the meager light. Vampire! some part of his mind supplied the demon's designation, but his reason had already fled and he couldn't process what that meant.

Something in the vampire's face changed in that instant. He dropped Tigger's hands and spun around. At the same time Tigger heard a low whistling sound that ended in a quiet thwack. The vampire's tall, thin body went suddenly rigid, and a heartbeat later all the tension evaporated from it as he collapsed, falling boneless onto the pavement.

Tigger found himself sitting on the ground, his back still to the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was shaking uncontrollably. He had no recollection of his legs giving out and his body sliding to its current position.

The sense of relief that enveloped him like a warm river was arrested in mid-flow as a huge shadow materialized out of the darkness, moving toward him at a rate that was too fast to be humanly possible. Chapter Two

Tigger stared into the darkness, straining to make details out of shadow and movement. The figure racing toward him was a man, or at least man-shaped. He was big, even bigger than the vampire. He moved with uncanny speed and a grace that denied his size.

Before Tigger could move, the man-thing was in front of the demon. He bent over the still form and removed something from the vampire's neck, dropping it into a small container that disappeared back into his jacket pocket. He was wearing normal clothes, if all black—black leather jacket, black jeans, black shirt, black boots. His enormous bulk seemed to be solid muscle. The most unusual thing about him was that he had an eyepatch. His close-cropped hair was dark, and Tigger noted that he had a wide, masculine jaw and a strong nose.

As soon as he finished with the vampire, the man turned his attention to Tigger. His one dark eye glittered coldly as it swept over him. "Get up," he ordered. His voice was low and gravelly.

When Tigger didn't make a move, he reached down and grabbed him by his arm, yanking him to his feet. Tigger was relieved to feel that the man's hand was warm. His relief vanished as he saw his naked cock bobbing up and down before him. Sitting with his knees to his chest, Tigger had forgotten that his clothes were in shreds. He couldn't help the whimper that came out of him as he realized how exposed he was in front of this stranger. He tried to shield his nakedness with this hands.

The man didn't stop to admire him; he began to drag Tigger further into the alley. Tigger's pants tangled around his ankles and he would have gone down if the man didn't have a strong grip on his arm.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" the man growled, obviously frustrated with him. Tigger let out a yip as the stranger picked him up, slung him over his shoulder, and started running down the alley. He panicked, letting out a bloodcurdling scream at the same time he began to beat on the man's back with his fists. He might as well have been hitting a brick wall.

The man pulled him off of his shoulder and set him down in front of him, holding him firmly with one large hand while the other clamped over his mouth to muffle his screams. Tigger was used to being shorter than everyone, but he was usually at least chin-height. With this man, Tigger found himself eye-level with the middle of his massive chest. It would do him no good to struggle.

"Hush! I'm rescuing you!" the stranger said in an urgent whisper.

His words didn't register; Tigger was only aware that this giant, who had him in his tight grasp, was angry with him. He stopped screaming because it seemed to be what the man wanted and he didn't want to antagonize him. The big man removed his hand from Tigger's mouth, but his single eye bore into him with a ferocity that made his heart stutter—and not in a good way. Terror shot through him.

"Please," Tigger managed to gasp out. "Please don't hurt me."

The fire in the man's eye faded and his face softened a bit. Or maybe that was Tigger's imagination; he still looked like he was made of granite. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly. "Please try to calm down." Tigger saw that, although the man's iris was very dark, he did indeed have one. He did not have the black-hole eyes of a vampire.

Tigger's heart started beating again, albeit rapidly. He glanced around and realized they were at the far end of the alley. The man still had ahold of his arm with one hand, and he urged him a few steps over to a large, sleek motorcycle that was parked there. The man opened a compartment on the back of the bike and pulled out a helmet—all black, of course.

At that moment Tigger's body adjusted to not being in imminent danger of death, and his stomach turned inside out. He fought the sensations, swallowing rapidly as saliva flooded his mouth. He leaned over with the excuse of tugging up his shredded jeans, but even after he had pulled them up and covered his nakedness as best he could, he stayed bent over, breathing deeply.

"Are you okay, kid?" the man asked, his voice was surprisingly gentle. He didn't let go of his arm, but now Tigger felt a hand on his back. He flinched and then settled as the man rubbed his back soothingly. After a few moments he said with urgency, "You done, kid? We don't have much time."

"He's ... he's not dead?" Tigger stammered, standing up slowly. He seemed to be having trouble getting his brain to work.

"No, he's un—." The man stopped whatever he'd been about to say, and said instead, "I just stunned him. He's going to wake up soon. We need to be gone before that happens."

Tigger let out a low, terrified moan and started to tremble. He couldn't stop his body's visceral reaction to another encounter with the demon.

"I got you," the man said soothingly. Scooping Tigger up, he hugged him to his chest as he straddled the bike, and then he settled him in front, facing him. He pulled Tigger's thin legs over his own muscular thighs, placing his feet on the seat behind him.

Tigger was afraid of this large, gruff man who was manhandling him without his consent, but he was terrified of the vampire. His chest still burned with a horrible, stinging pain, and the only reason he wasn't crying out was because there was so much else to occupy his mind. He was in survival mode; his pain, sharp as it was, was a background noise to the worry for his life which was all-consuming.

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