eyes fixed on him with some awe.
“Such control,” she said, to answer his question.
“What I mean to say—”
He waved her off.
"We've arrived,"
he said.
The helicopter swept past
its last ice-covered summit and plunged down toward an immense stone structure
whose great towers and bulwarks burned with light from within. The castle sat
embedded in the side of the approaching mountain like an iron thorn. Like a
torch blazing on a catacomb wall.
"My God," she
whispered. "It's beautiful …"
Francois smiled as he
watched the looming castle from the eyes of the human pilot. Coldly grandiose,
his home looked. Mysterious in its bed of stone.
They approached it
cautiously. From a distance it really did look like a cluster of sharp iron
thorns embedded in the mountain's side, but as they drew nearer it seemed more
like a flower, the cold battlements rising like deceptively delicate-looking
stems into the freezing, snow-blasted night. Landing wasn't going to be much
fun under these conditions, but a visit to Roche Sarnova always tended to be
dramatic.
Tensely, under partial
mind-control from Francois Mauchlery, the pilot approached a battlement that
doubled as a helipad and landed. The machine rocked back and forth on the icy
surface.
The deafening roar of the
rotors wound down as three figures on the stone platform ran carefully toward
the black helicopter and accepted the emerging couple as the doors were flung
wide and Francois and Victoria stepped down. Wind blasted them without mercy.
"Ambassador
Mauchlery!" shouted a ranking general and member of the Dark Council, the
leader of the welcoming party. "Wonderful to have you back! Welcome
home!"
The Councilman led the way
toward the battlement doorway and out of the freezing snow. The cold didn't
disturb Francois, but he respected the needs of the others.
Inside, he was made to feel
at home (which it was) as he was courteously led to his chamber. He looked
fondly around as he went—the wide crimson drapes, the flinging snow against the
courtyard windows, the warm torchlight along open halls. The comforts of the
modern world too nestled snugly amidst the splendor of the old ways: the
electric elevators, indoor saunas, and cellular phones against the backdrop of
stone and tapestries.
He found himself running
his hands along the familiar walls and smiling to himself as his manservant led
the way.
Finally, they arrived at
his suite, and the servant opened the thick mahogany door and showed the way
in. Francois followed the young one into his room and turned to dismiss him.
Once alone, Francois saw
the cart of champagne in its silver bowl of ice. The accompanying meal could be
smelled from the bedroom. He laid his attaché case on his dresser and followed
the smell down a short hallway into his bedchamber.
Tied in white silk bonds to
his bed, a beautiful young woman struggled on his satin mattress.
The girl couldn't be eighteen,
and her flesh was warm and supple. Her luscious figure, bursting from silk
panties and brassiere, was emphasized even more by her thrashings. Golden hair
fell about her head and over her wide blue eyes. Caucasian, Francois mused;
some length must have gone into fetching her. Her breasts rose and fell quickly
with her frightened gasps. Her long legs squirmed to and fro. Sweat glistened
on her thighs. The smell of life rose from her sweetly and Francois inhaled it
with a sad smile.
His fangs lengthened.
“Ah,” he said. “It’s good
to be home.”
* * *
The dining hall was immense, all mahogany walls and
burning incense. The seemingly endless dining table stretched on forever in the
grand hall. In its life the table had risen heavenward from its soft bed in the
redwood forest of northern California,
but, like everything else in this room, the table had moved beyond mere life. It
was law that nothing mortal should pass into this room, except the food.
Dozens of beautifully bound
mortals wriggled hysterically
“Such control,” she said, to answer his question.
“What I mean to say—”
He waved her off.
"We've arrived,"
he said.
The helicopter swept past
its last ice-covered summit and plunged down toward an immense stone structure
whose great towers and bulwarks burned with light from within. The castle sat
embedded in the side of the approaching mountain like an iron thorn. Like a
torch blazing on a catacomb wall.
"My God," she
whispered. "It's beautiful …"
Francois smiled as he
watched the looming castle from the eyes of the human pilot. Coldly grandiose,
his home looked. Mysterious in its bed of stone.
They approached it
cautiously. From a distance it really did look like a cluster of sharp iron
thorns embedded in the mountain's side, but as they drew nearer it seemed more
like a flower, the cold battlements rising like deceptively delicate-looking
stems into the freezing, snow-blasted night. Landing wasn't going to be much
fun under these conditions, but a visit to Roche Sarnova always tended to be
dramatic.
Tensely, under partial
mind-control from Francois Mauchlery, the pilot approached a battlement that
doubled as a helipad and landed. The machine rocked back and forth on the icy
surface.
The deafening roar of the
rotors wound down as three figures on the stone platform ran carefully toward
the black helicopter and accepted the emerging couple as the doors were flung
wide and Francois and Victoria stepped down. Wind blasted them without mercy.
"Ambassador
Mauchlery!" shouted a ranking general and member of the Dark Council, the
leader of the welcoming party. "Wonderful to have you back! Welcome
home!"
The Councilman led the way
toward the battlement doorway and out of the freezing snow. The cold didn't
disturb Francois, but he respected the needs of the others.
Inside, he was made to feel
at home (which it was) as he was courteously led to his chamber. He looked
fondly around as he went—the wide crimson drapes, the flinging snow against the
courtyard windows, the warm torchlight along open halls. The comforts of the
modern world too nestled snugly amidst the splendor of the old ways: the
electric elevators, indoor saunas, and cellular phones against the backdrop of
stone and tapestries.
He found himself running
his hands along the familiar walls and smiling to himself as his manservant led
the way.
Finally, they arrived at
his suite, and the servant opened the thick mahogany door and showed the way
in. Francois followed the young one into his room and turned to dismiss him.
Once alone, Francois saw
the cart of champagne in its silver bowl of ice. The accompanying meal could be
smelled from the bedroom. He laid his attaché case on his dresser and followed
the smell down a short hallway into his bedchamber.
Tied in white silk bonds to
his bed, a beautiful young woman struggled on his satin mattress.
The girl couldn't be eighteen,
and her flesh was warm and supple. Her luscious figure, bursting from silk
panties and brassiere, was emphasized even more by her thrashings. Golden hair
fell about her head and over her wide blue eyes. Caucasian, Francois mused;
some length must have gone into fetching her. Her breasts rose and fell quickly
with her frightened gasps. Her long legs squirmed to and fro. Sweat glistened
on her thighs. The smell of life rose from her sweetly and Francois inhaled it
with a sad smile.
His fangs lengthened.
“Ah,” he said. “It’s good
to be home.”
* * *
The dining hall was immense, all mahogany walls and
burning incense. The seemingly endless dining table stretched on forever in the
grand hall. In its life the table had risen heavenward from its soft bed in the
redwood forest of northern California,
but, like everything else in this room, the table had moved beyond mere life. It
was law that nothing mortal should pass into this room, except the food.
Dozens of beautifully bound
mortals wriggled hysterically
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