White Heart Ch. 02

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What is she?
3.7k words
4.65
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6

Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 07/15/2009
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(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story contains a child under the age of 18 who in no way participates in any sexual acts.)

*

Was she a succubus?

Was that the strange enchantment that came over him when he'd devoured her pussy? He'd lost all track of time and space and thought with his face buried between her legs. A thousand demons could've stormed his fortress and he wouldn't have had the wherewithal to remember his name let alone defend himself.

But would a succubus scream 'Enough'? A succubus fed on pleasure and Liam knew he had delivered plenty.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he'd felt the tremors of her body, known the tightening grip on his tongue for what it was. He'd simply been unable to stop, unable to consciously lift his head from her heated core. She was mana on his tongue, paradise in his mouth. In the long, lonely centuries of his existence he had never tasted a woman so divine, so consuming -- so innately succulent he'd forgotten even to breathe.

Now she disturbed his sleep. She disturbed his every waking moment. For all his meditation in the temple he found no respite from the brutal image of her splayed and chained across his bed, wanton, ready.

Had he ever seen a face so fascinating, breasts so ripe, legs as well turned and endless? And her bald, sweet quim...melting and sweet, so achingly beautiful stretched open to his gaze. She had been silky, pristine under his tongue; he doubted if hair had ever sprouted there.

Liam picked up his mead and hurled it across the room, watching the pale liquid bleed down the stone wall. He couldn't go on like this. This insistent vision, this carnal obsession, threatened everything he held dear.

To lie with a vampire...

Had he pledged and undergone the twelve trials only to be reduced to this? A man whose brains had toppled below the waist, led astray by his hungry cock. He was better than this.

He watched dispassionately as Carlos entered, salvaging the tin mug from the floor, swiping at the cider with a rag.

"Get out." The menace in his voice had his servant quaking with fear. Carlos disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Liam knew what his servants were thinking. How could he not when their minds were in turmoil, their thoughts screaming in the frigid silence. They wondered, no, they debated, why he had allowed her to live for so long. The fact of her devastating beauty had been noted, repeated as if of vital import to every available ear. Miserable gossips the lot of them.

One yardsman had dared to question if he was going soft -- not out loud, of course not out loud. The man was too afraid, too cunning to voice the sacrilege. He'd been sent packing, unaware of how close he had come to losing his head, but it wasn't Liam's right to take life for the sake of disloyal thought. Treachery had to be active, palpable before he could act on it.

Cunt struck.

They all thought it. And he...he knew the description was dangerously apt, too close to the bone for comfort.

But there was a deeper truth. Her abilities posed a conundrum. A man of God and science had a duty to test and conclude; an obligation to unravel the questions she broached.

"Master." The interruption brought a black scowl to his face. He turned to see Carlos hovering nervously in the doorway. "There is an emissary from Holfendren to see you. He brings a Lawman and six others. They have captured a witch."

"Damnation," he thundered. "Tell them to burn her in the customary way. There is no need to pester me with trivialities."

Carlos was prone, his nose brushing the cold floor. "She is barely eight years old my Lord."

Liam shot to his feet, icy contempt driving him forward.

Witchcraft was notoriously hard to prove, the accusation more often than not the result of a petty dispute or ignorant superstition. Even so, no-one knowingly risked a witch amongst honest citizens. One so devious could cause chaos.

Incineration was the only solution. If innocent they went to their Maker, content to be spared the toils of misery on earth. If guilty, who would despair the end of a twisted soul? Either way, no harm was delivered.

But killing a child... Killing a child was a swift route to hell. Thus, the cowards had brought the wretch to him. Better he should decide her fate and suffer the consequences.

The girl was ushered before him, quivering with fear. Her eyes were coal black, incapable of holding his. Blaring with guilt they flittered fretfully from side to side. She had dealt in magic; he could see it clear as day without need to examine her mind.

Some obtuse part of him refused to comfort the envoy.

"Leave her," he instructed, neither confirming nor denying their suspicions.

"But Lord, is she...?"

"Time will tell," he answered, ending the audience. Let them go home and worry their possible mistake. Let them think twice before they bothered him again seeking answers.

Watching them slink from his home with sycophantic speed, the light of hope was obvious in the child's eyes, only to extinguish with his next words.

"Put her in the dungeon with the woman."

He left before her childish heartbreak got to him, suffering a sickening lurch when he realised his mistake. The woman... He'd said the woman, not the demon, not the vampire, but...the woman.

After the episode of the pained tongue he'd had her moved to the dungeon, shackled to the wall with a foot of chain and nothing but a chamber pot and bucket of water for company.

In many ways this was the answer to his prayers. The vampire had had no sustenance for nigh on two weeks. Starvation was another tool to bring out the beast. The temptation of a young child in the same room should prove too much for her.

And when it did, he would be ready.

The sudden twist in his gut appalled him, the hope that sprang free in his soul -- hope that she proved him wrong.

***

He went to the observation room peering through the narrow aperture in to the dungeon. Knowledge of the woman's splendour had seared its way in to his blood, but fresh sight of her was wondrous. Dazed, he gaped at the scene below him.

Dishevelled, unbearably thin, a smear of dirt across her face not unlike the scar marking his own cheek, she exuded an aura of calm and patience, a quality of peace that had eluded him since their first meeting.

His servants had cloaked her and thoughts of her lush nakedness beneath the blue robe set his heart pounding.

Crying, the girl-witch huddled in a corner as the vampire crooned to her, words so soft he couldn't discern anything but her melodious tone. Slowly the child rose and walked over to the woman. Liam stood with baited breath waiting for the beast to strike.

To his utter surprise the woman pushed the girl's hair back from her forehead, wiped the tears from her eyes and engulfed her in a warm hug. Whispering, they sat together on the stone bench, the woman rubbing the girl's back for comfort.

If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would not have believed it. Part of him rejoiced while the baser, cynical aspect that ruled him demanded to know what she was really up to. Her actions flew in the face of convention -- the opposite to everything he knew about vampires. Like the slaughtered lamb on the first night, he wondered if the woman was playing tricks.

Slowly her head lifted, those dark-rimmed mysterious eyes so full of sadness, looking straight at him.

He reeled back as if she'd struck him. How did she know he was there? How could she be aware of him when he hadn't felt her psychic probe? Gathering himself, he strode down to the dungeon to confront her.

Stealth was impossible given the shriek of the heavy portcullis. He waited until the iron grate was clear then entered the room. One solitary torch burned in a sconce high upon the wall, the dank air was frigid, chilling his bones.

The child cringed back behind the woman burying her face in her hands.

"What is it that you two speak of?" he asked, his tone ominous as if they conspired against mankind, against him.

The vampire's unnerving, fearless eyes fixed on his.

"I tell the little one not to be afraid. That no harm will come to her here. That you will protect her and see her safely home."

A dangerous stillness settled over him.

"By what right or presumption do you make such promises on my behalf?"

"Please Milord, the child has done no wrong."

The vampire slipped to her knees, prostrating herself at his feet, her arm pulled back at a strange angle still cuffed and chained to the wall. Midnight black hair spilled over his boots and across the floor -- silk against stone. Sight of her genuflection made him angry.

"Get up!" he roared. Toadying from his servants was expected, but from her...from her it smacked of wrongness...of leverage.

She knelt up and he was treated to an unadulterated view straight down her robe, the tempting push of her pale breasts nestled in blue velvet.

"The child has done no wrong," she repeated softly, obstinately.

No. What was wrong was the sudden urge he had to lift her to her feet, pull open her robe and plunge his swollen cock in to her. To take her here and now. To sate the burning greed in him that grew stronger everyday.

Quickly, he looked away, his eyes resting on the child.

"You have practised witchcraft." It was a truth, not a question.

The girl-witch made to speak but was silenced by a sudden look from the vampire.

"Sir," the woman intervened. "The girl, Justine, her father died from plague. Her mother fell ill. She used herbs and tried a simple strengthening spell. The only power in her words came from childish need. There was no malice in her intent." She paused, her eerie gaze sweeping around the dungeon, taking in the instruments of torture hanging from the walls. "This is no place for a child. Especially when she is an innocent."

Innocent.

A sudden stab, a vision of bright blood smeared across his erection reared its ugly head. He had punished the woman and she had been innocent. The enormity of his discovery affected him more than he cared to admit. He made a decision that would likely send him straight to hell.

Within seconds a servant appeared in the doorway.

"Remove her," he pointed at the child.

"Grace," she screamed, reaching out for the vampire.

"Be strong sweetness," the woman crooned, tenderly brushing Justine's reaching hand as she was taken away.

When the girl's cries fell silent she asked, "What will you do with her?"

He hardly heard her -- he was frozen in a stupor. Grace. Her name was Grace...such a lovely name, a pretty name, befitting of her as a maiden, not so her vampire origins. He snapped himself from his pointless reverie, lust warring with anger, warring with self-contempt.

"You tell me," he drawled, a self deprecating curl touching his lips. "You seem to be the only person on this earth who speaks their mind to me. You tell me."

She stared at him for a moment. Once again he was struck by the notion that she pitied him.

"Justine has an aunt in Wintervaden. She would be safe and loved there."

He closed his eyes, wincing at her words. Once he had loved and been loved. Once there had been eleven others like him, all walking the earth in purity. Now the world had moved on and he barely thought of those days except to think of the slaughter as a lesson -- a lesson to guard against weakness.

His jaw tensed. "And what would be the benefit to you? What will you gain if I do as you suggest? Do you expect rescue from her fellow witches?"

His words surprised her; widened her eyes to two deep pools of startled green. Then suddenly she laughed -- the tinkling smooth, bell-like sound that confused him, aroused him, sent him crazy with visions of entwined limbs and heated flesh.

"Your home is known as the impenetrable fortress for a reason. Do you put such little faith in your own defences?"

Where his home was concerned, no. Where she, where Grace was concerned, he was starting to realise her abilities were so far reaching anything was possible.

"Why do you advocate for her?" he asked, more than curious.

"Someone must stand up for her," she replied, frowning softly as if the answer was self-evident.

For some inexplicable reason, sight of the furrows on her brow sent a sudden rush of blood to his loins. How long had it been in this mad world since he had witnessed a kindness? More...a kindness that was sincere.

"Milord," she said softly, catching hold of his ankle, that look of pity, no...of empathy, shining from her face.

He meant to step back, he wanted to step back, instead, he moved forward, the light in her eyes impossible to resist, the yearning in her voice speaking directly to his need.

Her hand gripped the back of his leg as she hugged his knees. Her face was so close yet too far away from the burgeoning part of him that longed for her, had hurt for her from day one. Her eyes lifted to his, trapping him in bottomless tranquil green.

Slowly she rose up on her knees and pressed a tender kiss to the hardening swell of his groin. His heart stilled then sped up, his lungs working faster as she nuzzled him, rubbing her soft cheek back and forth against him, lifting his steel to a painful throb, filling him with reckless craving.

A voice in his head screamed madness, this is madness, but sight of her pink tongue darting from her mouth, licking at her lips as she moaned softly, ended his control. Caught in the fatal grip of desire he gave in to the madness and eased his pants down over his hips, gasping at her keening whimpers as he held out his rigid flesh, guiding it to her questing tongue.

Gods! She tasted him from base to tip, long delicious laps that made him shiver and burn and catch hold of her head, running his fingers through the satin sensation of her hair. He wound the silken stands around him and stroked his length with them as she bathed the head of his phallus with her tongue. The guilty pleasure of it was agonizing. Letting go of her dark tresses, his hands strayed to her jaw urging her to take him inside.

Those scarlet lips were so delicate and pretty opened wide; they encased him, sucked him in to the warm cavity of her mouth, the hot, wet depths of her throat. His hips rocked forwards as he slowly began to thrust.

It was wrong, so wrong of him, but he couldn't pull out, couldn't stop himself from groaning aloud, from pumping in to her mouth with increasing abandon, all the righteous voices of conscience drowned out by his mounting desperation for release.

He knew he should desist, that what he was about to do was sacrilege, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't unlock his eyes from her gaze let alone remove his flesh from her exquisite mouth. Helpless, he shook and wrenched and shuddered, unleashing his sacred seed to the back of her throat with an animalistic howl.

Time seemed to slow, the air about him thickening to treacle as his mind left his body and soared high above him, observing him from a distance, his spent flesh still juddering in the aftermath, his stomach clenching in lust and anguish as she daintily swallowed his deposit -- something he hadn't let happen since Ariel died.

Conscience and sanity returned, slamming him back to earth with a distressing thud. Hanging his head in shame he stepped out of her grasp, resettled his trousers about his waist and listened with shock to his own rasping breaths, his bewildered, tumbling thoughts.

He'd fed a vampire the seed of life, violating the laws of his kind. And she had suppressed the rules of her very own nature. She could've bared her fangs and shredded his manhood. Why hadn't she?

Falling to his knees before her, he clasped her luminous face between his hands.

"Why?" he gasped. "Why didn't you hurt me? You must be starved for blood."

Her eyes were bleak, her skin tightly bonded to her elfin bones, her fragility from lack of nourishment suddenly blaringly obvious. "My hunger for you has nothing to do with blood."

As if a crazed stranger possessed him he lifted his wrist to her mouth. "Here," he offered. "Drink."

She wrenched away from him, climbing on to the stone bench and bringing her knees to her chest. She was shaking, her head moving frantically from side to side. He went after her, pulling her ankles to the ground and forcing her legs open, kneeling between her feet.

"Drink," he demanded, exposing his neck to her, ignoring the dark warning in his head that screamed cunt struck, subordinated, brought to your knees by a coarse, common orgasm.

Bending her head she lowered her lips to the beating pulse in his throat and kissed him. "I will not. I cannot," she whispered against his skin.

He tugged her head back and stared in to her eyes, strengthening his mind and pushing forwards in to hers. Again the sensation of blinding white but this time he was prepared for it. He searched her motives seeking deception and found something unbelievable yet irrefutable.

She was telling the truth. The truth from a vampire!

And more.

Like the shocking discovery that she had been a virgin, he found another glaring inconsistency. She had never tasted human blood. His mouth fell open in wonder, his mind grappling with the warped reality before him.

"How...how," he stuttered. "How is this possible?"

She smiled wistfully, her angelic face so sweet that it caught his chest in a vice and squeezed.

"That is a long, long story..." her voice trailed off. A story he wasn't yet ready to hear. She continued, "Justine needs to go home, she needs you to take her."

He stood immediately. "I will go now."

But before he left he lifted his hand to her face and gently wiped the smear of dirt from her cheek.

***

The child cowered on the floor in the small chamber. A meatless little thing with stick-like limbs, she eschewed the comfortable bed, the warmth of the fire, the thick pile of the rug, to hunch on the cold stone behind one giant urn.

"Come out," he ordered, not meaning to sound so stern but it had been an age since he had dealt with a child.

Justine's ragamuffin face peered around the corner, terror shining in her eyes.

"I will not hurt you," he said gruffly, gritting his teeth in annoyance.

She stared for a moment then pulled her head back in, whimpering in fear. Grace had made her feel safe but this man was a monster -- huge, forbidding, fierce.

Liam growled with impatience. Damnation, if she wouldn't come to him he was compelled to go to her.

Lowering himself to the stone in front of her he tested a kindly smile that resulted in her cringing even more. His grin was grizzly, the result of muscles long unused. Had he stared in a mirror he would have been horrified at the grimace on his face.

Without preamble he examined her mind. Her aura was yellow-orange, the typical range of a child, but there were splashes of red, markers that told him she was no stranger to pain and suffering. Evidence of black magic was nowhere to be found. Grace had told the truth. Again. Except...

It was only because Justine's thoughts were open and laid bare that he became aware of what had truly occurred in the dungeon.

When he had scanned Grace he had seen only what she wanted him to see. He hadn't noticed at the time that the rest of her was hidden, kept secret. And when she had mentioned the child he had obeyed immediately, not stopping to question or press her for further answers.

The realisation was like a deluge of ice water down his spine, freezing his blood to the core, settling like an iceberg in the pit of his stomach. Was she controlling him, using him, lying by omission? Remembering her unearthly healing powers he suffered another nauseating lurch. Did she have the ability to repair her own hymen?

12