Halloween Night by Melanie Tushmore

HALLOWEEN NIGHT

A Crucifox Prequel

Copyright (c) Melanie Tushmore 2011

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the author.

This story is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, localities or persons, either living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Disclaimer:

This story features adult content and should not be viewed by anybody under the age of eighteen. 

 

This work contains adult references including the taking of psychedelic drugs that serve only as a part of this story. The author does not advocate the taking of drugs nor any unsafe behaviour whatsoever. Any unsafe behaviour within this story is written for fictional purposes only and should not be viewed as an example nor replicated in any way.

* * *

Saturday, and it was Halloween. Goth Christmas, they'd joked. Obviously they were all going to the Halloween special at Slimelight later. Brandon waited impatiently for his shift at the pub to finish, eyes darting repeatedly to the clock on the wall. It was still daylight and, thankfully, not busy yet. The gothic themed pub was as quiet as the proverbial graveyard.

“How can you not like Scotch eggs?” one of the die hard regulars asked, drawing out yet another tedious discussion topic.

Brandon turned his nose up. “I just don't.”

The man thought this was hilarious, and guffawed, “But you're Scottish!”

“I don't like eggs, man.” Brandon moved away from the bar, under the pretence of tidying up. After he'd cleared away the one glass lurking on a table, he gazed up at the clock again. Hours to go yet. And as if being forced to talk to drunk old bikers wasn't bad enough, the large windows at street level were even worse. The pub sat slap band in the centre of Camden town, and a Saturday afternoon meant that Brandon had to endure seeing the never ending procession of shoppers and revellers while he was stuck at work.

The people watching was hypnotic, if slightly encumbered by the cheap décor of fake cobwebs and rubber spiders. The sad fact was, that décor was there all year round. Occasionally a familiar face would stroll by, either forgetting Brandon was at work or blithely waving at him without stopping.

Not much later, one of his favourite familiars flitted past the windows. His friend and bandmate, Sky, slowed his step as he gazed into the pub, a cigarette between his lips. Brandon smiled. Likely Sky was looking for him. With the pub being so dark inside, it wasn't easy to see in from the street. Brandon waited, enjoying that brief moment of voyeurism before Sky spotted him. It was always a pleasure to look at Sky, he was the dictionary definition of pretty boy goth.

“Oh god,” Brandon's colleague and bar supervisor grumbled. “He ain't coming in here, Brand.”

“Aye, he won't,” Brandon said quietly.

Sky spotted him then. He held the cigarette in his fingers and pointed off to the side, toward the front entrance. To be annoying – and because he loved to play with Sky – Brandon pointed in the other direction, grinning. Sky responded by leaning into the window and opening his mouth. A blotch of steam appeared as he breathed on the glass, which was easily the most erotic sight Brandon had seen for some time. With his finger, Sky drew a crude symbol on the window, then pointed again to the entrance.

Brandon relented. He strode through the pub and slipped out through the heavy front door. Sky rounded the corner and appeared beside him.
“A'right,” Brandon greeted. “Unfortunately, they told me you're still barred so y'can't come in.”

“Really?” Sky snorted a laugh. “Well, in the words of The Anti Nowhere League, 'so fucking what?'” He extended an arm and tapped ash from his cigarette onto the pub's front step, to further his point.

Brandon chuckled. “It's dull as shite anyway, man.”

“I know, that's why I don't miss it.” Sky brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. “You coming out later?”

“Obviously,” Brandon said, an intentional mimic of something Sky would say.

“Oh, obviously?” Sky said, looking up at Brandon. “So are you tripping with us too? I'm picking up the tabs later.”

“Aye, g'wan then.”

“How many?”

“How strong is it?”

Sky shrugged as he continued to smoke. “All right, I guess. Won't know until we take some.”

“Get me two,” Brandon said. “But I've got an early shift Monday so I can't get too wrecked.”

Sky laughed. “Harsh.”

“I know. Hey, you dressin' up?”

“Obviously,” Sky replied, with a smirk. “It is Halloween.”

“What y'goin' as?”

“Aha.”

Brandon frowned. “Aha?”

“It's a surprise.”

“Oh, right,” Brandon quipped. “So no cuttin' holes in the bed sheets?”

“Huh?”

“For a ghost, y'know?”

Sky frowned. “I don't own white sheets, you knob. You know that.”

Laughing, Brandon nodded. He did know that, although not via the way he would've preferred to be acquainted with Sky's bed. Unfortunately for him, Sky was straight. Or so Brandon had assumed. It was hard to tell when Sky rarely stopped playing guitar long enough to so much as glance at anybody, let alone date.
“A pumpkin, then?” Brandon teased him.

“Shut up. You'll see later. In fact –” A smile tugged at Sky's pretty mouth. “– I'm off to get the finishing touch just now.”

“Thought y'were goin' to get the tabs?”

“Nah, later.” Sky flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out with his boot. “Right, I'm off.”

Brandon watched him walk away. “Aye, see ya.”

“You want two, yeah?” Sky walked backwards so he could flip two fingers at Brandon.

“Aye.” Brandon raised his hand and flipped two fingers right back. “Two's great.”

“Not four?” Sky flipped him off with both hands.

“No.”

Sky smiled as he turned away, still waving two fingers over his shoulder. Brandon chuckled.

Work was even more dull after Sky's visit. The pub began to pick up as the light faded to grey outside. Brandon was busy pulling pints when a knock at one of the windows caught his attention. It was Sky again, holding up a plastic bag.
Brandon watched with interest as Sky delved a hand inside the bag and brought out a small item. It looked like a bright red exotic flower. Sky waved it around whilst looking pleased with himself, then he was gone. Brandon didn't understand what that was all about but he was definitely looking forward to seeing this surprise outfit.

* * *

As soon as he got home, Brandon sprinted up the stairs and proceeded to hurl his entire wardrobe to the four corners of his room in an effort to decide what to wear. When he dived into the bathroom he was horrified to see that it looked like a bomb site. One of the many drawbacks to sharing with five other blokes; his four band mates and the man they called Spider. There was grease paint and fake blood spattered up the tiled walls, glitter in the tub, and a red lipstick kiss on the mirror. Brandon knew that Ritchie and Jamie had decided to go as zombies tonight, which explained the grease paint and blood, but the glitter and lipstick could have been Jez on any normal night.

Carefully navigating around the mess, he showered, then retreated back to his room. As Brandon sat at his mirror crimping his hair, Jez appeared in the doorway; the young bass player was a vision in shiny PVC, slashed up leopard print and safety pins. “See ya later, Brand.”

Brandon turned his head, with crimpers attached, to glance at Jez. “You not comin' to Slimelight, man?”

“Bugger that,” Jez scoffed. “I'm going to see a band. I might pop by later, if I'm not slaughtered.”

“Aye, a'right.” Brandon turned back to his mirror. “Have a good one.”

“You too.” Jez disappeared, clomping down the stairs in heavy buckled boots. “HAPPY HALLOWEEEEEEN!” His voice echoed through the house before the door slammed.

Brandon went back to his hair, crimping and spraying it to perfection.

“How long do we have to wait for you?” Spider's deep voice bellowed up the stairs.

“Haud yer wheecht,” Brandon muttered under his breath, then louder, “Aye, not long!”
He had make-up down to a fine art but tonight it didn't really matter if he was messy. Eyeliner, metallic silver eye shadow, lashings of mascara and a dab of glitter across prominent cheekbones. He carefully drew on dark red lip liner, smoothing creamy lipstick over the top.

Make-up done, now it was onto the fun part; the clothes. Usually Brandon liked to take his time getting ready, but tonight he wasn't afforded the luxury. He pulled on clinging, iridescent trousers over his long legs and tucked them into knee high PVC boots. An equally outlandish shirt, as delicately thin as cobwebs, was thrown on then covered by a waist cinching corset – pinched from one of his female dates – laced and buckled up the front. With his favourite duster coat, floppy velvet hat and skull topped cane, Brandon was ready.
He descended the stairs with a flourish, entered the living room and burst out laughing at the sight of Spider in a fancy dress nurse's uniform, white tights and all. “Ye look great, man!” he commended.

Spider looked Brandon up and down. “You look no bloody different.”

“Yeah Brandon,” Jamie, their drummer, piped up. He sat on the couch with Ritchie, their second guitarist, both of them covered in zombie make-up and grubby, ripped clothes for effect. “Thought you said you were gonna dress as a trendy?”

“Changed ma mind.” Brandon waved an unconcerned hand. “Are we goin' or what?”

“Going!” Spider said decidedly. “Let's move out.”

As they collected themselves together, Brandon looked around. “Where's Sky?”

“Went to pick up the tabs,” Ritchie explained. “He's meeting us there.”

Brandon grinned and pointed his cane towards the door. “Then let's go!”

The October air was dark and chilled, but the journey to Angel wasn't far. A short night bus ride later and they were striding down the dark alley near the tube station, towards the entrance to Slimelight.
It wasn't even midnight yet, but the club was filling up. It's monolithic, cave-like interior was clammy and warm. Jamie and Ritchie complained their zombie make-up was running as they made their way inside.

“Where are we meeting Sky?” Brandon asked, eager to party.

“Where else?” Ritchie smiled. “The goth floor.”

The ground floor of the club opened out onto the bar, a gloomy chill out area with seats and an old, stained pool table. The dance floor that was dedicated to goth music was through a set of swinging doors that slammed loudly every time someone walked through them, aiding the impression of dramatic entrance.

Some friends of theirs currently occupied the pool table. Spider and Jamie joined in the game, while Brandon caught up on gossip with more familiar faces. The distant strains of Gene Loves Jezebel could be heard, seeping in from behind closed doors.
Clubbers flitted through the bar, androgynous beauties of both sexes on their way to the dance floor. Ritchie bought a round of fluorescent green shots that glowed under the lights. The taste was sweet and sickly but Brandon gulped it down. That would be his dinner tonight.

As the death rock beats of Alien Sex Fiend drifted through the air, a pretty waif suddenly appeared next to them. It was Sky, dressed as a hula girl. Brandon blinked in surprise as he looked Sky up and down. He had on the full costume, albeit a very tacky one from a fancy dress shop; a synthetic grass skirt draped over the habitual black jeans and boots, brightly coloured flower garlands and a plastic shell bra on a pale, bare chest. A vivid red, plastic hibiscus clipped in his dark, wavy hair made Sky look even more effeminate than usual.
“Awright,” he greeted, a twinkle in those heavily eyelinered eyes. “Who's up for a trip then?”

Brandon nodded eagerly, holding out his hand. He usually said yes to whatever Sky suggested anyway. Sky's cool fingers felt for Brandon's hand and gently pressed a little something into it. “Have a good one.” He smiled, then moved between their friends to dish out the tabs.

Brandon tucked his cane under his arm, opened his hand to pick up the tiny tabs of paper there, and popped one into his mouth. He let it sit on his tongue before swallowing it down.
The others took their tabs. Ritchie tore one in half with his teeth, and muttered something about taking it easy tonight. Spider took Ritchie's extra half, as well as two more tabs. Sky had already taken his, and his eyes were growing wider by the minute.
They chatted together in anticipation as they waited for the acid to kick in. When things started to become a little blurry around the edges, Brandon knew it was working. He stared at their surroundings as if the very walls pulsed with music, and if he stared too hard, colours ran together.

“More shots,” Ritchie declared. He, Sky and Brandon edged in at the bar, which was becoming busier. It took longer than usual to get served, as they kept getting distracted, forgetting why they were at the bar in the first place. During a particularly intense discussion about what the colour green tasted like, another presence appeared at their sides.
Brandon didn't appreciate being interrupted while he was talking to Sky, and turned to view the person with a certain disregard. It was another of their acquaintances, someone they weren't that keen on, who demanded attention. Pervy Paul, as he was known, clearly wanted to show off his new outfit, which mostly consisted of ripped fishnet, PVC and buckles. Brandon thought he was trying hard to look like Johnny Slut, but had failed miserably. The added extra of fetish inspired cut-away arse cheeks in the back were just laughable.
Ritchie took one look at Paul dressed up to the nines, raised a quizzical eyebrow, then turned back to the bar to ignore him. Meanwhile Sky looked Paul up and down, then offered the flat comment, “You look like a right tit, mate.”

Brandon couldn't help but smile. Coming from Sky the hula girl, that had to hurt.

“Better than your cheap costume," Paul scoffed in reply.

Sky grinned. “I rock, and you know it.”

“Don't you mean hula?” Brandon chuckled.

“Precisely!” Sky agreed, as if they shared a private joke.

Paul huffed and turned on his heel. As he stormed off, they watched his pair of pale white buttocks wobble away into the club. Brandon snorted a laugh.

“What a tit,” Sky stated, knocking back another shot.

“Aye.” Brandon nodded. He didn't pick up his shot though. His limbs were starting to feel tingly, and too long for his own body.

“Let's go dance,” Sky suggested. He nudged Ritchie with his elbow. “Drink up, mate.”

Brandon watched Ritchie turn to them, leaning on the bar as if he might collapse at any second. The effect of that coupled with the ravaged make-up on his face gave Brandon the impression of a very convincing zombie. Made all the more realistic when Ritchie only offered a groan in response.

As a group, they negotiated their way to the dance floor. Ritchie leaned his limp body against the wall, and attempted to light a cigarette. Sky chatted to two friends dressed like extras from Mad Max and quickly got into a heated debate over something or other. Brandon watched this for a while, then gazed out amongst the dancing throng.
The heavy bass of Bauhaus proclaiming “Bela Lougosi's Dead” vibrated through his body, his very mind. When Brandon realised he was standing right in front of an enormous speaker, he made the decision to move away. Several minutes later, he did so, gliding across the floor and clutching his cane he waved his hand at the clubbers like visiting royalty.

“That's my corset,” one of the gorgeous girls he knew informed him.

The retort that it looked better on him was on the tip of his tongue, but all Brandon managed was a grin. She didn't really mind, not when he made up for it with an intense, heated kiss. She even let him kiss her best friend. Brandon didn't think it was right to mention that he'd already slept with said best friend. Surrounded by beautiful women, he was more than happy.
When a pair of beautiful boys dressed as women joined them, he was even happier. In their exquisitely decadent outfits, these boys looked even hotter than the girls. The usual club dramatics followed. They danced, posed, and chatted about nonsense in shaky voices and quick, buzzed words.
Brandon flirted with everyone that came near him, even disappearing into the toilets for whatever was on offer with whoever he fancied. The warm, pliable lips of another young man felt just as good as any other's, and nothing could beat a blow job whilst tripping your head off. The who part didn't matter to him, as it was all meaningless fun.

However, one of the girls became offended by his behaviour, and caused a scene. Brandon knew he was in no state to deal with a disgruntled woman; the acid had made his reactions too slow. When he couldn't respond to her accusations, she snatched his cane, then bumped him on the head with it. Brandon's surprise was eventually followed by pain as he made his escape, and staggered away. His feet felt like they were sticking to the floor and he thought people were starting to stare at him with accusing eyes. He got lost, and found himself wandering through the club and it's various rooms.

The sea of bodies blurred together. Occasionally a face he recognised popped up and said something he couldn't comprehend, their words a foreign jumble. He thought he saw Ritchie and Jamie amble their way past, but he couldn't be sure.

At one point, he looked out onto the dance floor and saw Sky dancing the hula to the industrial stomp of Skinny Puppy. Brandon stared, envisioning flowers and golden sands all around Sky, like an exotic paradise. Then he blinked to get the image out of his head.

Brandon wandered, lost, and his head thumped. Or was that the music? He was sure people glared at him now. The panic set in, and he cowered in a corner. The Sisters of Mercy filled his ears. He was lost, stuck fast, unable to move. He gazed down at the floor, watching people's feet waltz by as snatches of conversation buzzed around him like so many wasps.
Then, a familiar pair of boots appeared, and above them a tatty grass skirt over black clad legs. “I'm taking charge of your trip.”

Brandon looked up with sheer relief at his saviour, the diminutive knight in fancy dress. Sky didn't say anything, he didn't have to. Words communicated through their saucer wide eyes and Sky smiled, reassuring. “Follow me,” he said.

Brandon found himself on his feet. He was led through the dancing bodies, following the beacon of colour in front of him, as Sky guided him to the bar.

Back at the pool table, Brandon felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. Ritchie and Jamie played a game, snickering as they continually missed all their shots. Spider stood nearby with more of their friends, tutting at their efforts and offering advice. Faintly, Brandon could hear New Model Army playing. Sky removed one of his garlands, and placed it around Brandon's neck. He looked knowingly into Brandon's eyes. “Everything's all right now.”

The words he wanted to say were there, floating in his mind, yet all Brandon could manage was a smile. The thought stayed with him though.

Everything's all right with you.

* * *

Morning. The trick to leaving Slimelight on a high was to beat a hasty retreat while the going was good. The club closed at seven, but Sky began to round them up at six. He herded them all out of the door into the bright, unforgiving daylight. Brandon, Spider, Jamie, and the drunk girl who was attached to Jamie's hip. Apparently Ritchie had got lucky, and Jez had never shown up.

Once at home, and in familiar surroundings, Brandon felt more relaxed, if a little tingly. “My head hurts.” He frowned, feeling the lump that had grown somewhere under his mountainous hair.

Jamie snickered. “Yeah, that bird smacked you on the 'ead with your own cane.”

Spider reclined on a chair in the corner, the chair that no one else wanted to sit in. “Who've you upset this time, Brandon?” he asked.

“I can't remember.”

“The Scotch Pimpernel strikes again,” Spider quipped, as the others fell about laughing.

“Aye, hilarious.”

Sky put on a Killing Joke record before flitting away to the kitchen, muttering something about making tea. Jamie reached for the remote control and switched the TV on for Sunday morning cartoons. The loud, animated capering clashed with the chilled out ambience of the music, making Brandon wince.

“Jamie!” Spider barked. “Put that on mute.”

After some minor complaints, Jamie relented. He soon forgot the TV anyway, and was distracted by his date. The two of them kissed sloppily on the couch next to Brandon, as he tried his best not to look at them. Spider produced a small lump of hash and started skinning up. Brandon focussed on him instead, letting his mind wander.

When Sky reappeared, he'd shed the leather jacket he'd thrown on since leaving the club, and stood in the doorway twisting a lock of dark hair around his finger.

“Where's my tea?” Spider grumbled.

Sky looked up, eyes still saucer wide, and seemingly confused. Then he blinked, and grinned. “Oh yeah.” He flitted away again, grass skirt trailing behind him. Several long minutes later, he returned with the cups of tea. “Who's staying up?” Sky asked. He flashed a glance at Jamie, who was busy playing tonsil tennis with his girl. “Well, obviously not you two. Who else?”

“Me,” Spider said.

Brandon nodded, and mumbled, “I shouldny take anyhin' though. I'll just have a coffee.”

“You want a coffee instead?” Sky snatched up the mug Brandon was about to sip from. “I'll make you a coffee.”

“Aye, thanks.”

Sky returned just as Jamie and his date hauled themselves up. They left the room, with Jamie pulling a leery wink at them over his shoulder. Placing Brandon's new mug down on the table, Sky marched over to the TV to change the channel. Spider sparked up his joint and passed it around. Brandon was distracted by everything, and didn't pay much attention to which mug he picked up.

Once Sky had stopped fussing about, he sat down next to Brandon.

“Why are you still in your hula outfit?” Spider asked.

Sky looked down at himself, as if considering. When he looked back up he asked, “Why are you still in your outfit, nurse?”

Spider smirked. “It's comfortable.”

“What, those white tights?”

“Yeah, they cup my balls nicely.”

Brandon snorted a laugh into his coffee as Sky pulled a face. “I don't wanna know!”

“Gotta be more comfortable than that plastic bra you're wearing.”

“You wanna try it?” Sky smiled as he reached under his hair to pull the strings. Brandon watched the impromptu striptease as Sky took off his shell bra and the remaining garlands. It seemed a waste to look away. Sky swung the bra by its string and launched it at Spider, who caught it easily in one hand.
“This wouldn't even go around one of my nipples,” Spider said, dangling it from his fingers as he examined the item. “What was this, a child's costume?”

“Fuck off.” Sky laughed, getting up from the couch. He left the room briefly, and reappeared wearing an old black t-shirt. “Is this better, nurse? You can keep the bra, by the way. My gift to you.”

“I'll treasure it.” Spider laid the shell bra on the back of his head rest, patted it, then carried on smoking.
Sky picked up his acoustic guitar, and settled onto the couch, strumming along to the record. Brandon sipped his coffee. Spider smoked himself to sleep, despite claims of not being tired. He passed out in his chair, and began to snore lightly. Sky stopped playing guitar in order to drape the abandoned shell bra over Spider's face like a mask.

When the Killing Joke record finished, Sky asked Brandon what he wanted to listen to. Brandon realised he'd been drifting, and said he didn't mind. Sky put on The Virgin Prunes, and resumed his position on the couch.
Brandon watched Sky lounge back with his feet propped on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. He still had the grass skirt on over his jeans. As Brandon gazed at Sky's deft fingers plucking the guitar strings, he thought he saw the strings melt and drip down, but then he realised the long strings pooled around Sky's legs were in fact his skirt. That was strange, he thought. Brandon looked up at Sky, who was frowning at the TV, lips pursed in thought. “Um, Sky?”

Sky looked at him.

“Um, I feel a wee bit...strange.”

“Yeah? I feel like I'm sobering up.” Sky frowned more. His gaze focussed on their coffee mugs for a while. “Oh. Brandon, I think you drank my coffee.”

“Eh?”

Sky started to laugh. “You drank my coffee, you knob! I put another two hits of acid in there.”

“What?” Brandon panicked.

“Chill out, you'll be fine.” Sky seemed unconcerned. “Dunno what I'm gonna do though.”

“I've gotta work tomorrow, man!”

“You'll sleep it off.”

“Ach, shite.”

“Chill,” Sky ordered.

Brandon attempted to chill. He shifted around on the couch, suddenly uncomfortable and jittery.
Sky affected a yawn.
“I could go to sleep?” Brandon wondered aloud.

“Nah, you'll have freaky dreams,” Sky said. “Maybe if you smoked some more? Although one of us will have to grope Spider to find the hash.”

The mental image of doing so made Brandon shudder. “No way!”

Sky chuckled quietly. “Just relax then.”

“I can't!”

“What are you stressing over?”

Brandon swallowed, and the motion felt ten times bigger than normal. “You don't want to stay up baby sittin' me.”

“I don't mind.”

“Won't it be annoyin'?”

“You're annoying me by worrying about it.”

“Um...er....” Brandon fished around for what to say. He felt he would've had trouble with this conversation however wasted he was. “But...just the two of us?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Didn't you feel like pullin' anyone?” Before he'd even considered whether it was a good idea to mention it, the words had tumbled out of Brandon's mouth. He almost winced, but tried to keep his face neutral.
Sky's fingers faltered on the strings for barely a second before picking up their rhythm again. He shot a glance at Brandon. “No. Why, didn't you?”

Not in this state, Brandon thought. He didn't feel a great compulsion to bring anyone back to their home anyway. He enjoyed being in Sky's company, especially without anyone else around. Brandon worried that now he'd mentioned it and turned it into a big deal, he'd carelessly crushed it – whatever it was – before it had even started.

And he still hadn't answered Sky's question.
Brandon sat there panicking, trying to think of selective words that wouldn't give the wrong impression. The longer he took, the more he panicked. His own thoughts felt huge and amplified, loud enough for Sky to hear them. The silence between them was deafening.

Sky's fingers stilled, and the guitar went quiet. He looked at Brandon, eyes searching his face. Brandon stared back, wishing for his sober self and the capacity to deal with the dawning look that appeared in the eyes in front of him.

Sky blinked, and looked away. He placed his guitar on the floor, then got to is feet. “I'm gonna put the kettle on.”

Jerked back to normality, Brandon nodded. “A'right.”

As Sky left the room, Brandon heard the front door open, and voices materialise. The next moment their erstwhile bassist, Jez, and a few of his glam mates spilled into the lounge.
Sky stalked back in when Jez took the record off, and tried to put on a Wrathchild album. They proceeded to argue about music – a regular occurrence – but Brandon felt like he couldn't deal with these things today.
Somewhere in his mental wanderings, he made the decision to make himself sick, which would hopefully sober him up. Things didn't go according to plan. Brandon found himself in the upstairs bathroom, hugging the toilet, wanting to be sick, but unsure if he could cope with it. In the background he heard random sounds of noisy sex, which had to be coming from Jamie's room.

Sky and Jez soon crammed into the bathroom with him.
“This has to be the worst idea you've ever had,” Sky told him.

“Oh, I dunno,” Jez teased. “What about his suggestion for go-go dancers for the band?”

Sky snorted. “I've chosen to disregard that.”

Brandon groaned into the toilet. He couldn't make himself do it, yet he felt he should. Vaguely, he was aware of someone's hands in his hair, gathering the crimped mass back, holding it safely away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two pairs of legs, one pair clad in shiny PVC, the other in black jeans with the grass skirt still on top.
A hand patted his back. “Go on, Brand,” Jez encouraged. “Just think of a steaming, hot haggis. Then imagine Spider rubbing his hairy self down with it.”

Sky laughed at that, as Brandon groaned again. Eventually, he did manage to throw up. As he watched the contents of his stomach – which was mostly just brown liquid – wash down the toilet, he heard Sky complain about the waste of his LSD.

It took Brandon a while to get himself together. Sky and Jez looked after him in turns. When he felt better and ready for his bed, it was Jez looking after him. With a skinny arm around his waist, he guided Brandon out into the hall. On the floor, Brandon noted the abandoned grass skirt with a touch of disappointment.

“Where's Sky?”

“Think he's gone to bed, mate.”

Oh.

“Come on.” Jez deposited Brandon into his bed. “In you get. Night, night!”

Brandon grunted as he closed his eyes, and willed the streaming colours to go away. He must have dozed, or at least drifted, because something roused him to wakefulness not long after. A sharp pain cut into his head. Groggily, he reached a hand into his hair and pulled out the offending item, then sleep claimed him fully.

* * *

When Brandon woke later in the evening, his head felt thick, and thumped with hangover. The first thing his sore eyes focussed on was the vivid red of the plastic hibiscus cradled in his hand. He twirled the flower in his fingers as his muddled brain slowly replayed the events of last night. Brandon smiled.
When he stood up, he ignored the head rush that greeted him. He staggered over to his mirror, clipping the flower to its edge. Before he could dwell on it for too long, his stomach rumbled, demanding attention. He realised he felt completely empty.

Sounds from downstairs reached his ears at the same time his nose picked up the tell tale smells of something cooking. Drawn by hunger, Brandon vacated his room, thundered down the stairs, and to the kitchen. Sky was there, crouched in front of the oven's open door with Jamie behind him, leaning against the counter. They both looked up as Brandon hovered in the doorway.

“Ahh.” Jamie chuckled. “It has risen!” He took a bite out of some sort of confectionery, partially unwrapped and dribbling in his hand.

Brandon frowned in an attempt to focus his eyes. “What's that?”

“Choc ice,” Jamie said, with his mouth full.

“Ugh.” Brandon made a face. He didn't want ice cream. He looked elsewhere, eyes darting about for clues as to what was on offer. On the counter top, he could see an opened packet of bread, the almost finished bottle of Worcester sauce, the cheese grater, and a plate of grated cheddar cheese.

“What y'makin'?” he asked Sky hopefully. As if on cue, his stomach growled.

A smirk appeared on Sky's lips. “Cheese on toast. I suppose you want some?”

“Aye, too right,” Brandon answered, and his stomach eagerly agreed.

“Find a plate then,” Sky instructed.

Brandon strode into the kitchen, toward the sink, and crashed about with the pile of unwashed dishes until he found one that wasn't too disgusting. He wiped it off with his hand, then passed it to Sky.

“Oi, hang on,” Jamie complained. “How come he's getting some, why don't I get any?”

Sky threw Jamie a glare over his shoulder. “Jamie, I just watched you eat two bowls of cornflakes, followed by that choc ice.”

“Yeah, but I'm still hungry.”

“And why is that my problem?” Sky turned his attention back to the oven.

“Oh, go on, Sky,” Jamie whined. “I'm hungry.”

“All right, shut up a minute.” Sky held the plate ready and pulled out two piping hot slices of cheese on toast, cursing when he burnt his fingers. “Fuck, that's hot.” He brought his fingers to his mouth and absently licked them as he offered the plate.

Brandon was momentarily distracted, staring at Sky's lips and the tip of a pink tongue that licked the grease from his fingers. All it took was that split second of visual to send his mind wandering.
Sky stopped licking and snapped, “Earth to Brandon!” He thrust the plate forward. “Do you want this or not?”

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, accepting the plate.

Sky rolled his eyes, then turned away to prepare another round of toast. Brandon watched him, quietly mesmerised by his movement and the meticulous way he lined up the bread. Sky always had a slight pout on his lips when he concentrated on something, no matter what it was. It was a very subtle pout. Brandon wondered if Sky was even aware that he did it.

“Are you still tripping, Brand?” Jamie asked.

Brandon blinked to right himself, and glanced at Jamie. “Eh?”

“You're just standing there like a dick, letting your toast get cold.”

“Um....” Brandon looked at Sky, who had paused to direct a frown at him. A frown that said: what the hell's wrong with you? “Um, no,” Brandon said. “I'm fine. Cheers for this.” He gestured to Sky with his plate.

Sky lost the frown and smiled, just a little. He went back to arranging his cheese and bread. Jamie offered instructions from behind him like some back seat chef. As they started to bicker over the amounts of cheese needed, Brandon decided to leave them to it.
He could talk to Sky some other time.

* * *

Fin

Read more about Brandon and Sky in the upcoming Crucifox Series

by Melanie Tushmore

Crucifox #1

Available from Storm Moon Press

January 2013
 

For updates visit  

melanietushmore.co.uk

The Vampire by Melanie Tushmore

Warning, Adult Content

The following story is a work of fiction. Any relation to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This is an original story by the author, you may not copy or reproduce any part without the author's written consent. The Vampire © Melanie Tushmore. Available to read online from July 2011.

Cover design by Ria Chantler.

www.melanietushmore.co.uk

* * *

I was having a dream, so vivid I would have sworn I was still awake. There was this man – I'd just met him, in fact – a very fine, elegant man. At first glance he appeared young but those eyes and knowing look he gave me suggested otherwise. He was beautiful, simply the most radiant vision of male I'd ever seen. And I'd seen a few, believe me.

He was dressed in tight leather trousers and a flowing silk shirt. My eyes, of course, were drawn to his crotch, tightly encased in black leather. It's usually the only area that holds my attention but the rest of this man had my eyes roving over him, and what I saw did not disappoint. He had a lithe, sleek body; the pale skin of his chest exposed by a deep open slit in his shirt, alluring in all the right ways.

He was resting against the door frame of the dressing room as he watched me. At first glance I mistook it for a casual pose, not the predatory stance it was. He looked young, which was disarming. Perhaps he was only a few years older than my twenty, but the way he held himself dripped with confidence. He knew he looked good, he had to. That beautiful face, and the hair that framed it a fall of hazel brown waves. Lush pink lips curled up in the barest of smiles. His eyes were golden yet tinted with green, and they danced with fire. Fucking beautiful. And he had come for me.

“Greetings, Jeremy Hart,” he said in a liquid smooth voice. It was lilted with accent. At a guess he was French. We were currently on the last leg of our European tour, having been in France for the last...I forget how many days. He was bound to be French.

I swallowed as I stared back at him. “Actually,” I said. “It's just Jez.”

“Yes.” The man's lips curled even more. “I know. I have been wishing to meet with you.”

His words were cute. The accent however, was pure sex. I could feel the blood rushing through my veins as I watched him, watching me. “Uh...meet me? Are you sure?” I attempted humour. “Usually everyone wants to meet Brandon, he's just down the hall –”

“I do not want your singer,” he interrupted. “It is you I want, Jeremy.”

“You want to try your luck with a bass player?”

“Let us say....” The light in his eyes was blazing. “I admire your rhythm.”

“Hah, funny. Didn't know you Frenchies had a sense of humour.”

A switch-blade smile and Frenchie was off the door, sweeping across the room. He planted himself directly in front of me, teasingly close. “That is what I love about you English boys,” he said. There was a trickle of amusement in his voice. “So quick at rising to the bait.” His hand, graceful fingers embellished with rings, reached out and delicately touched at my leg.

I stilled. I didn't exactly feel threatened, not yet, and the energy radiating off this man was turning me on faster than I'd been prepared for. As if sensing my consent, his fingers splayed out and dragged upwards on my thigh. A shiver ran over my skin. His touch came to rest at the waistband of my trousers. “You know,” Frenchie said, his voice lowering. “There is a long, long history of the English....” His fingers danced over my hip, onto my stomach. “And the French.”

“Hm?” I was totally distracted, and still bare chested from the show, having only stepped offstage minutes ago. I hadn't even cooled down enough to get changed and now this man – this intense, beautiful man – was raking his fingers up my naked chest, seductively slow.

“Years of heated conflict,” he went on. “And tension.” His hand flattened around the curve of my pectoral muscle, his thumb circled my nipple. It became erect instantly. The rest of my body desired to follow and a groan betrayed my composure. “So tempting,” he whispered. I barely caught it before he was on me, those lush lips covering my mouth. A soft, wet tongue swept past my lips, demanding, plundering. I felt the fingers around my nipple gather then pinch hard.

I yelped once into his mouth then leant back. I gazed into the face of this beautiful man and his wicked smile. I dared to ask, “Oh, you want to play, Frenchie?”

“Philipe.” His strangely coloured eyes sparkled. “Mais oui, English boy. I want you.”

“Philipe, huh?” My smile tried to match his own.

“Oui.” Philipe pressed into me, rubbed his body along mine and dipped his head against my neck. I swear I heard him sniff once, then twice. “You smell divine,” he told me.

I wasn't so sure about that; I was still glistening with sweat from the show, even my hair was damp. I was bound to smell salty and stale by now. Philipe obviously disagreed. He licked a wet line all the way up my neck, turning my skin to goose flesh. When his tongue connected at my lips he kissed me hard, ravenous. My tongue met his and was drawn into his mouth.

As we kissed I felt a sharp nick, like I'd caught my tongue on his teeth. I muttered vaguely and pulled away. Philipe had hesitated then also leant back. I lazily poked a finger to my own tongue to feel the cut. I thought I could taste blood but I couldn't be sure.

A small glass bottle was being brandished at me, a wicked smile sitting on Philipe's kiss swollen lips. “I'm not into wine,” I said.

“You will like this. It's a liqueur. I know you have a...sweet taste.”

“Oh right. Yeah, I do.” I wondered how he knew that. I watched Philipe unscrew the bottle and knock back a long swig. His throat, long and pale, rode back and forth as he drank. Then he handed the bottle to me. Couldn't hurt, I thought. I took the bottle, tipped my head to taste it.

He was right, it was sweet. I couldn't get enough of sweet things. Its taste was rich, with a glorious burning tingle. It wasn't a big bottle. I sank the lot. When Philipe came upon me again the bottle must have slipped my grasp, as I heard a faint smash. I was too lost in his lips and his tongue seeking entrance to my mouth. We kissed harder, I was fighting for breath. I felt him at my throat, licking and sucking.

Then he bit me. That was the last coherent thing I remember. Was it a dream? I didn't usually dream like this. Sex dreams, yes, all the time. Weird dreams? Again, yes. But periods of total darkness followed by flushing, vivid colours? Never like that. There were strange flashes of the dressing room, of Philipe, and of us together – very much together – against the wall, and on the couch.

Was it memory or...something else?

Only flashes, then a wash of colour, dazzling waves that preceded a pit of nothing.

My eyes opened blearily. My first thought was I need to stop waking up with a hangover. God knows what the other guys have done to me while I've been passed out.... 

Except I'm not in the dressing room, or on the tour bus. Or anywhere I recognise. I blink up at a foreign, papered wall. A gilt frame hung there, a portrait of an ethereal woman glaring back at me. I'm looking at it sideways. My vision burned as I took in more. The room – it is definitely a room – is lit by golden, flickering light. It isn't daylight, but perhaps soft candle. The wall-paper is a pattern of cream and blues, elegant and old. There is a vase sitting on a dark wood dresser, full of red roses. I notice the lines of soft covers and a bed suddenly come into focus, as I realise I'm laying sideways.

Sitting up, I expect to feel hungover; it's a relatively normal feeling that accompanies waking for me. I am a touring musician after all. But I don't feel groggy, I'm light, floating, yet strangely heavy and thrumming at the same time. My lips ache and my neck hurts. My fingers absently reach to touch at my neck, and at the same time I glance down. Upon this grand four poster bed, the bed of a king, I can see my shoes are missing, my feet bare. My legs are bare too, as my trousers have gone. What is covering me – and only just – is an oversized, floaty shirt. It isn't mine but looks vaguely familiar.

Where am I? I look up, my gaze scans around this insanely busy room full of paintings and furnishings of some regency period I'm not aware of, and then I see him. Philipe. He is draped upon an antique chair, a wine glass in his hand that he appears to be holding with little interest. I notice he isn't wearing clothes. A dark robe the colour of black cherry is barely pulled around his body, slipping off one pale leg and pooling on the carpeted floor.

He is the vision of elegance, the subject of a painting, especially in this plush, over the top room. I've never been inside anywhere fancy but from pieces of things I've seen and read, this certainly looks like a palace. Nothing modern but...old. Everything looks of a certain age, even Philipe. As if sensing me, his eyes and that intense stare snap up. His arm extends, placing down his glass.

“You are back.”

I try to ask what he means but it comes out as a whimper. This all seems a bit too weird, even for me. My eyes drop away as I try to swallow. I have to get it together, and Philipe is freaking me out. This whole thing is freaking me out.

One breath in, and I look up. The words are on the tip of my tongue to ask where the hell we are, but I am looking at an empty chair. Philipe is gone. How could he have moved? I barely blinked and–

“You seem tense.”

I yelp in surprise. Philipe is inexplicably sitting next to me on the bed, calm and still. It isn't possible. I try to shift away from him. This had to be a dream. The smooth satin covers on the bed feel a little too real, my breathing, coming hard and fast, feels a little too panicked.

“What is wrong, Jeremy?” Philipe moves after me, languid and graceful like a cat. His eyes cause me to still. They hold me.

“I – I...”

“Don't be frightened.” His voice is like honey. “I don't bite....” He crawls over me, covering my body with his. I expect to feel warmth from him but don't feel any heat, only the cool brush of his robe against my bare legs. His eyes hold mine captive, hypnotic whirlpools of gold and green. I can't look away.

It's Philipe who breaks the spell, lowering his head slowly, eyes on me until the last possible second. When he at last looks away, bending to lick at my throat, the hold on me breaks. My voice appears. “You – you bit me,” I accuse.

“Mmm.” He breathes against my neck. I can feel his teeth nick at the skin. “I don't bite...hard.”

“Oh,” I gasp as he bites me. My vision blurs over and all I know is, I disappear. I have no idea what is happening, the darkness seems to last only a moment. The flashes of colour are back; vivid then blurred, a mixture of vision. All I can think is, this is truly nuts.

Then I'm back. I can hear Philipe before I realise he's there. He's speaking, that rich, foreign voice dripping like nectar. Something tickles at my chest. I look down to see what it is –

My hair. My own hair; a thick strand of bleached blonde hair tickling at my bare chest. My hand reaches up, pushes the long hair away behind my back. The touch on my neck startles me before I realise it's my own. Why do my fingers feel so icy? More to the point, why am I naked?

I stare down the length of my body. At least that is familiar and reassures me. My own body, slim and faintly scrawny with the tattoo on my chest, my cock – man's best friend – my legs and feet. I'm all there. Just me, naked.

Philipe is no more than a short distance from me. I look up at him, yet again stunned by how drop dead gorgeous he is. He's still wearing – almost wearing – that robe. It hangs open, a tantalising glimpse of pale skin as my gaze drops lower. “Hmm.” He glides towards me. “You like what you see, no?”

My eyes snap up. Philipe is staring at me with a faint smile and those beautiful eyes. I could gaze at him forever and yet I begin to feel scared. “I – I'm leaving,” I announce, my voice waking. The panic swells in me as I watch Philipe's eyes darken. His lip curls faintly and there is a sound, like a hiss. The very air around the man starts to tremble.

I don't want to hang around, but I'm torn between keeping my eyes on him and fleeing. Just as I fret over what to do, Philipe steps away. He fades into a blur and is gone. Assuming I must have blinked or perhaps gone insane, I stare hard at the empty space where he last was. A voice breathes directly into my ear, “But you do not know the way.”

This time I don't jump in fright. I'm simply too confused. This cannot be real. My reactions are slow and lazy compared to what I'm feeling inside. I turn my head to stare at Philipe. I seem incapable of anything else. He leans in and kisses me, light and teasing. His sudden gentleness is a spell, it draws me in, makes me want him.

Before I can think about it I'm the one kissing him roughly, holding onto him and the fine silk at his shoulders. I grasp the fabric in my hands, adoring its texture, almost as soft as his lips. His fingertips rake down my body. I can feel his nails, sharp and trailing fire on my skin. One of his hands slips behind my back while the other traces fingers down my hip, bumping over the protruding bone and skimming my thigh. All the heat in my body travels to my groin, but before my cock is able to completely take over my thoughts, Philipe's mouth leaves mine as he bends to my neck.

A worm of panic starts to rise as I decide that I definitely don't want him there. I push at him, feeling his body hard and unmoving, but when my eyes try to focus on him he disappears. My hands clutch at nothing.

This time I choose to act rather than stare blindly. Don't panic, I tell myself. Don't panic, just move. My eyes scan wildly as I decide which way to run. I must have turned my head too fast, or perhaps I hit it on something, because what I see is not normal, I know that much. What I see reminds me of an old movie reel that has snagged, clicking the same picture into place over and over again.

Maybe I did hit my head?

My vision washes back to something resembling normal and I realise I'm plastered to the wall, my eyes mere inches from this strange, decorative pattern. If there's a wall, then there's got to be a door somewhere nearby. My arms flatten on the wall as I feel my way along. I don't know what's wrong with me, all I can decide is it's not good. Not by a long shot.

As my hand gropes the wallpaper, pulling me forwards, a different texture appears. It feels smooth and cold to touch. I drag my gaze towards it and see this new thing in front of me. A flat surface, or a window? Some kind of room inside, with a person staring back?

I know I'm definitely not right when it takes me this long to realise it's myself I'm seeing. Something weird has happened to me; I should be alarmed yet am too distracted by my reflection, like Narcissus. That boy with the long blonde hair and back-to-front tattoo on his chest, that's me. My blue eyes have always been bright but in this mirror they look strange.

Then I notice my neck, and the nasty red marks against my otherwise pale skin. Okay, now I'm worried. The panic takes me slowly, starting to swirl in the pit of my stomach. It hasn't reached my brain yet so I place both my hands on the glass to steady myself, I need to look closer. Maybe I imagined it?

That's when I see Philipe standing in the room behind me, his lips curled in a smile.

He's only in the mirror. Panic rises in my chest. If I don't turn around then maybe he's not real. I stare at his reflection. All around Philipe the air turns dark, so dark I can see only him in the mirror. His skin faintly glows, the dark red of his robe absorbing all the light. The smile spreads across his lips and then he moves. It's too fast for me to see. He goes from being a few paces away to standing right behind me. My eyes are anchored to the mirror. It's like watching something unfold that isn't real. This can't be happening.

But then he touches me. His hand gently lifts my own, my fingers still stuck to the mirror with fear. I don't know what to do. All logical thought evaporates from me and now I can only watch. Philipe brings my hand down, holding it at my side as my shoulder drops with the motion. His other hand he reaches between us, carefully brushing my hair away. His fingers are icy cold and I shiver.

“Stay with me, Jeremy,” he whispers. His breath is by my ear. I watch as he tilts his head, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. He smiles, and as his teeth flash at me I catch the unmistakable glimpse of fangs. My heart wrenches, though in fear or desire I can't tell any more. His lips lock onto my throat. I can't move; I'm frozen in place. I feel his the sharp edge of his teeth as he nuzzles me, teasing before the bite.

When he does bite me it hurts. My panic tries to rise but it's washed away, sucked out of me and replaced by a calming euphoria. My insides melt and my pulse thrums loud in my ears. A pleasurable shudder runs through my body and I can only think of it as a very small orgasm. Insanely, it makes me want more. This doesn't make sense.

My brain shuts down, though my reflexes are still alive and trying to save me. My limbs act on their own as I attempt to twist away but Philipe holds me firmly in place. Fine, I give up. Suck the life out of me, as long as I get off. Our manager always said I thought with the wrong head.

Nothing new there.

I groan wildly. It's embarrassing how quickly I've come undone. Instead of twisting away I close my eyes and push myself against Philipe, demanding more. “Take me,” I plead.

His laughter is low as he pulls his mouth away. “Merci, Jeremy Hart. I will.” He gathers me into his arms. When I turn my face into him my lips touch his cheek. I'm surprised to find he feels hot. I open my eyes to see a faint flush on his pale skin. A subconscious thought tells me that if he is what I am starting to think he is, I should be scared. Scared as in running-for-the-door scared. But I can't. He's made me feel weak when he sucked at my neck. He's taken something from me without my permission, though be it blood, energy or soul I don't know. The haze of his spell makes me not care. I know I should but...it seems beyond me in this moment. I am truly lost.

The world leans on its side. I hold onto Philipe as he lays me down. The smooth bedding kisses my bare skin. I blink up at him, this gorgeous man smiling down at me with a voracious gleam in his eye. I have never felt so truly trapped. The fact that in this moment I do not care is what frightens me most.

His hands go to open his robe, shoulders rolling in a graceful movement as it drops away. Philipe's body is pale, iridescent. He is lean but faintly toned, with tight curves of muscle in all the right places. My eyes want to drop lower to look at him, but they are held by his gaze. He's used this spell before and even though I know this I'm still powerless to break it. His eyes burn at me, make me want to agree to anything. I reach up to touch him, wanting to feel the smoothness of his skin. His smile slides into a smirk then –

My hands grasp at nothing. I stare up at the ceiling, an empty space where Philipe had been. Before I can pine his loss, I feel him then, crouched between my legs, and the tickle of his cool fingers on my very naked thighs. It's only the barest of touches yet I feel commanded to obey. Like a wanton slut I part my legs for him, giving it all up without a fight. His touch traces over my hips. He takes it slow, making me wait. I swear I can feel the very air around us pulsing, thick with his command and my need. I want him. My cock swells in response, an urge so powerful I can think of nothing else. When I feel him touch me at last the touch is so soft I'm not sure if it's real or if my senses are fooled. My breath catches and I realise I can't take much more. My eyes blink shut and stay closed, yet I can still see the room before me, its creamy ceiling and the edges of paintings. Touch me, I want to say. Please touch me.

“There is no rush, Jeremy,” is his amused answer.

Did he hear me? I'm too lust-focussed to panic but my mind swears at him: Dammit, it's Jez! At the sound of his laughter I open my eyes, or perhaps they were always open. “But I like Jeremy,” he says. My breath puffs out in a snort, serving nothing more than to reassure me that I haven’t totally lost myself...not yet. Maybe I can handle this situation after all. But only when I'm not driven crazy with lust.

“Jeremy.” His voice pulls me back. He finally quits the teasing and really touches me, brushing his fingers over my length. A groan is dragged from my throat. I need more, and push against his hand, reduced to begging. My eyes aren't even seeing now, they flash around the room as all I can do is feel, want, need. Philipe.

“Oui.” His breath fans over my cock. “Mon cher.” He swallows me down and the sensation thrums through my entire body, right to the tips of my fingers and toes. I groan and gasp, thrusting into his mouth as he sucks on me. His teeth gently nip at my skin.

My eyes widen at the memory of those teeth, the teeth that bit me. Why, of all the stupid things I've ever done, have I let a man who likes to bite anywhere near my cock?

He must feel me tensing. His mouth moves, licking and suckling at my skin, down to my balls. The fear of being bitten has an effect on my erection. I don't quite know what to do. I'm still frozen on the bed, trapped by him and my own desire, not even sure if I want to move away. I just know I'm a little worried about receiving a bite down there.

There's a sound I'm not expecting. It's like...a click, or a pop. Before I register what it could be, Philipe's fingers are stroking behind my balls and along the crease of my body. There's something on them, cool and wet. The dawning realisation is slow. It reaches me about the same time as the gentle press of one of his fingers against my hole. I tense almost immediately. Although God knows why, I'm hardly new to this. Philipe is gently insistent. He curls his other hand around my cock, a possessive hold, slowly pumping. I can still feel his finger poised at my hole as he starts to speak to me in his language.

I don't speak French. He must know that. The words are breathy and seductive; soothing. The tension in my muscles starts to ebb away. When he lowers his head I assume – hope – he's going to suck me again. But instead he turns to my inner thigh and clamps his teeth down.

I let out a ragged cry. The bastard bit me again. I can feel his teeth prick my skin as he fastens his lips over the bite, sucking hard. My breathing becomes shallow. Belatedly I realise his finger is now inside me, must have pushed in when I was distracted by the bite. I groan as his finger moves, stretching me. He's in me now, he's won; and I don't care. My legs open wider, urging him on. He adds a second finger, pushing in and circling. My hands bunch at the bed sheets around me. I roll my hips down onto his fingers. I need this. I just can't believe he's made me want him so bad. I'm gasping his name, writhing for him.

He pulls away. When I realise he's disappeared I ache for the loss, the emptiness. I start to sit up but like a flash he reappears on top of me. My breath gasps in surprise before his mouth is on me, claiming a rough kiss. I moan into him, open my jaw, making sure I keep my tongue away from his sharp teeth. Before I become too lost in the kiss he pulls back, settling to a crouch in front of me. I watch him, captivated once again. His eyes hold my gaze as everything else around him turns dark. Philipe appears to roll his shoulders, his arms raise up and shudder out. I don't know if he's about to pounce or take flight. A dark suggestion of what could be wings flickers around him, just on the edge of my vision. If I stare too hard they vanish.

I blink and his arms are back where they were before, normal and human, groping over my body. The wings are gone. It should panic me – there is an unnatural being between my legs – but I'm more distracted by Philipe taking hold of my hips and pulling me into his lap. The touches that I feel don't seem to mirror what he does; I'm hypnotised as his hands trail over me and I can still feel their touch even after they've left. How can he touch me like this? Either he has a thousand invisible hands or I've truly gone mad. Perhaps he moves too fast for me to see. Although he doesn't look fast, he is fluid and graceful. Breathtakingly beautiful. If these are my last moments on earth, I guess I can't complain.

Philipe holds my eyes as he leans down, a tremble running across his lips. “Jeremy,” he breathes, planting a hand flat on the bed, near my shoulder. His other hand circles his cock, guiding it, the silken tip pressing against me. I want this. My body screams for it and he must know. I sigh against him, his name on my lips.

“Mon cher, let me fill you.” Philipe pushes inside me with one deep thrust. The air is forced out of me and I struggle to draw it back in. He rests both hands on either side of me, trapping me on the bed as he pushes forward. His cock feels so thick. He glides inside me like liquid but the size of it burns. My next gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses me. Philipe groans into my mouth. It's the first one I remember him making; I think I like it. His mouth becomes my focus as I kiss him back. His cock feels so big I'm unsure if I can take it all. I bite his lip hard, enjoying the surprised gasp I receive. Pain for pain, although what he's giving me is pain speared with pleasure.

He pulls his mouth away, leaning up on his hands. His eyes dance as he looks at me, a sly smile creeping onto his lips. He thrusts his hips hard, pushing so deep inside it makes me cry out. The look on his face tells me he's punishing me for the bite. That's hardly fair. My hands snake up his forearms, gripping hard. Please, I beg silently, not aware if I'm speaking or thinking. I need it slow, it's too much.

“Mmm, for you, mon cher, I can be gentle.” It sounds like a promise. A promise I wouldn't dare trust. Still, he appears to keep it as he begins to move more slowly, rocking us together. All the sounds that come from me now are low and guttural, the smooth motion of his hips my only saving grace. The feel of him inside is too intense, he is filling me too much. I scratch my nails down his arms and he hisses in response. He speaks in French, trying to seduce me with those sweet sounding words. He tilts his hips and the angle changes. This time when he presses inside me his cock nudges the spot that instantly liquefies my world. I growl and throw my head back. The blackness clouds me, and I'm lost. It's like such an intense head rush that I can't keep up.

My vision swims with flashes, Philipe on top of me, inside me, then lying next to me. He gazes at me with a smile, not sly like before, he looks almost loving. In his hand he holds a single red rose, and with it's petalled head he trails a pattern over my chest. I can hear him whispering as he watches its path. My eyes too, drop down to see. Everywhere the rose touches my skin it leaves an imprint of colour.

Red, dark red.

“Is this real?” I ask.

“What?” He looks up at me, his gold-green eyes seem confused. He appears vulnerable now as he stares back at me.

“The...um....” I stumble over what to say. We are lying together and he looks so beautiful.

He smiles at me and places the rose on my pillow. Then he opens his arms. “Don't worry, mon cher. You can stay with me.”

“Um....” No, I can't do that. I begin panic. I've got to get back. The guys will be wondering where I am. Or more to the point, what if they don't notice I'm gone? I had to get back before they left without me.

“Jeremy, it doesn't matter...you can stay here.” Philipe tries to lull away my worries, resuming his tender kisses, but when his lips latch onto my throat, I pull away.

No, I can't stay here. I see the wall-paper again, just as before when I'd tried to find my way out of this spell-bound room. What has he done to me? Groping forwards, I see a door ahead. I have to get there –

Arms wrap around me, steely cold hands clasping mine. Words are whispered that make no sense. They have the power to make me stop moving, to keep me frozen. The panic that's been lurking in my gut starts to roll in waves. I can't get out.

Philipe takes me back to his bed. He's lying next to me again, trying to kiss me as I turn away. My head moves too fast, I see the snagged film reel again. When I come round, I'm lying on my back, still joined to Philipe as he nestles between my legs with his cock inside me. I have a vague sensation that I'm back; back in the present.

What's going on? Had I seen a vision? And if so, what of? What is he doing to me? I stop contemplating and look directly at him. Philipe is balanced over me but gazing off to the side, as if distracted. What's he thinking about?

Then I panic, is he bored? I try to speak but only a whimper comes out. Philipe turns to look at me with a cool regard, as if he's forgotten I'm here, but when our eyes meet his flare up again; gold and green brilliance. His smile flicks on like a switch-blade knife. I don't have a chance to get any words out as he begins to pump his hips against me, rendering me speechless. All I can do is gasp and hold on.

I'm not sure I want this any more; my brain has finally caught up with the situation and for once we're both in agreement that this is damn scary. Unfortunately my body and it's primal urges are in control. There's nothing I can do, and with Philipe's now brutal thrusts hitting that tender place inside me each time, my fast approaching climax crashes through me so hard my mind is wiped of everything. A calm sea of white descends. I fear I may have actually gone blind. Vaguely I'm aware of Philipe crying out, pushing against me one last time and shuddering with the effort.

This is my chance. I try to blink my vision back to normal, while he's out for the count, I should make a run for it.

When I open my eyes I'm distinctly aware that quite some time had passed since we've had sex, if the dried, sticky mess all over my stomach is anything to go by. Great, Jez. Well done. I sit up, glancing to the side. Philipe is there, laid out perfectly, looking like the subject of a fine art painting again. Naked and glorious, propped up on one elbow, watching me. “Hello,” he drawls in English.

“H– hi.”

“How are you feeling?” Philipe keeps hold of me with his eyes as he raises up. I screw my eyes shut, turning my head away before he can cast his spell again.

“Yeah, fine. I'm leaving now.” I have to open my eyes to see where I'm going, but before I even swing a leg off the bed, Philipe has me. I'm laid flat on my back with such a fluid motion I don't even realise it's happened. Had I even got up or had I just imagined it? Either way, I'm now lying down with this man on top of me.

“You cannot leave yet, mon cher,” Philipe whispers, breathing his spell into my ears. His eyes, thankfully, are cast down as he nuzzles my neck. I can't keep doing this, I have to leave. My body stays rigid as my eyes tear around frantically. There must be some way to –

A lamp. On the night stand. A heavy-looking, golden, ornate lamp with a pearl-glass top. That will do it, but can I really contemplate hitting someone, especially someone like Philipe – who quite honestly scares the shit out of me – over the head with a lamp? What if he can hear what I'm thinking?

Panicked, I turn my eyes back to Philipe, or what I can see of him. A pale arm and shoulder is near my face, the long expanse of his smooth back and the curve of his butt leading down to long, toned legs. Oh, he is exquisite. How can I want to leave this? His face is nuzzled into the crook of my neck, kissing and loving me. My eyes begin to close as I slip under. The sharp edge of a tooth against my skin breaks the spell.

My eyes fly open. I'm determined this time. No one is going to keep Jez Hart locked away, least of all some fancy-pants Frenchie. My hand shoots out on it's own accord, fingers scrabbling for a lifeline. When they find and close around the thick, brass column of the lamp, my heart jumps in my ribcage. Then my arm pulls, yanking the lamp in. It clunks against Philipe's head, a hollow thud. He slumps to the side, not making a sound. The lamp falls dully onto the bed beside him. Adrenalin pumps through my body, threatening to overtake my capacity to think clearly. I push Philipe off me, keeping my eyes on him even as I climb off the bed and back away.

He doesn't move. Have I killed him?

Movement to my side distracts me. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, relieved it's only my reflection. Then my gaze falls on my neck, on the ugly red welts there and the trails of blood down the skin. The panic rushes through me. I have to move. I can't tear my eyes away from the mirror.

Is it trapping me as well? Or is it –

I can see Philipe in the mirror. An ethereal shape behind me, grinning and snarling all at once. Speech is beyond me. A shallow intake of breath is all I can muster as the shock sets in. Luckily my legs carry me away, some basic survival instinct that knows I have to get the hell out of here. I find myself on a grand staircase. It is square shaped, the wood of the bannisters dark. There are paintings on the walls of portraits and they all seem to glare down at me, like they know what I've done. Are they Philipe's relatives? What if they come out of the paintings and beat the shit out of me?

My eyes fall in panic to the carpet, which is laid along the middle of the stairs. Thin golden rods with spiked ends hold the material on the indent of each step. The carpet is patterned and in my foggy mind, it swirls around in a sea. I worry I'll never be able to move. Has Philipe's spell bound me to his room? What will I do?

Then I see my saviour. A little lower on the stairs is a trail of garments. Two champagne glasses placed to the side, boots and trousers, two pairs of everything. My trousers. I fly towards them. I'd forgotten I'm naked. Not that it's an issue, but seeing something of mine – an ally – propels me forward. If I put them on I'd feel so much better. I struggle to get them over my legs. Sweaty old stage leathers aren't the easiest things to get on. Eventually I win the battle. Then I carefully edge my way down the stairs, descending into Philipe's castle.

I spend the next God-knows-how-long trying to find my way out, panicking the whole time. I think I hear footsteps above, and a voice. These propel me into making a decision and just going through the next door I find.

It's a closet.

After I negotiate my way out of the closet I struggle again over which way to go. When I at last find a small side door that has the first rays of daylight creeping around it's wooden frame, I burst my way through. I may well have torn it off it's hinges but I don't care. I'm free! Surely he can't follow me into daylight? I stumble out into nature, a bush hits me in the face and gravel cuts into my bare feet.

It's such a shock that it takes me a few moments to gather myself. Belatedly I realise I've run off without my boots. Should I go back in? What if Philipe is angry? Well, he's bound to be angry. I'd clocked him over the head with his own lamp. What if he came looking for me? The thought panics me into movement and I run. I don't have a fucking clue where I'm going either.

* * *

The sun is directly above me in the sky, beating down hot waves of heat. Which is just as well, seeing as I'm only wearing a pair of trousers. I've no idea what happened, as the sun hadn't even been visible when I escaped earlier this morning. I must have wandered away and passed out. I woke up under a bush with a thumping head; the hangover from hell. Now the sun is high in the sky and I'm still no closer to getting back. Fuck it. I can almost imagine what the others will say too. Bloody bassists, they'll grumble. Can't even keep track of themselves let alone a beat.

Yeah, that's what they'll say. If I ever see them again.

I amble past trees and through fields, cutting my feet to shreds. I feel strange. It isn't a normal hangover. While my temples pound with headache, my vision is glowing and lucid. Everything looks bright and fresh. If I stare at something for too long, it's edges start to dance. Really fucking weird.

After wandering around for what seems like forever, I stumble across a fence, wooden and old. I follow it along and at last come to a road. I say road...on closer inspection it's actually a small, rather beat up looking dirt track. I hope people still travel it. I tread my way along the dusty gravel carefully. The soles of my feet sting like hell.

Fortunately, fate smiles on me at last. I hear a soft rumble and see a shape appear in the distance. My this rescue comes in the form of a tubby, middle aged man named Gerard, with a classic horse and cart. In his limited English and my pathetic attempt at French, he agrees to give me a lift to the ville. I remember that word at least.

I sprawl out on the back of Gerard's cart with relief, relaxing into the somewhat itchy hay. The hot sun and the gentle rock of the cart help send me to sleep. I have strange dreams, of Philipe, and then suddenly I'm being woken up.

“Jez!”

“He's totally out of it, man.”

“Jez, you fuckhead! Wake up!” I'm being shaken none too gently. When my eyes open I see the faces of Brandon and our manager Doug scowling at me. Even if they're mad, I know I'm saved. I'm still lying on the back of the cart, but they've found me in the middle of nowhere. I cry out in delight and launch myself at them, hugging onto Brandon like I hadn't seen him in years.

“You found me! Thank God you found me!”

Brandon grumbles at me to get off him.

“Yes, thanks for that waste of a day, Jez,” Doug says in clipped tones. “Where have you been?”

“I was kidnapped by a vampire.”

“What?” Brandon and Doug's dubious expressions say it all. Behind them I see Spider, our roadie, and Gustav, our French tour promoter, giving me a look. Even Gerard has got off his perch on the cart to smirk at me.

“Honest, guys!” I say earnestly. “Look at my neck!” I push my hair away for them to see.

Doug and Spider lean in to inspect, as Brandon snorts with laughter. “That is one hefty love bite,” Doug states. “But I'm sure you'll live.”

“What?” My hand goes up to my neck, feeling the skin. “He bit me, he was a vampire!”

“Sweet Jesus,” Doug mutters, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Just shut up and let's get back to the others. Maybe we can catch an hour's kip before the ferry leaves.”

“Honestly, guys, he fucking bit me!”

“Aye, I'll say,” quips Brandon.

“Who's got a mirror?” I ask. “I want to see!”

Spider shrugs at me. “We're all fellas. Why would any of us have mirrors?”

“I've got a mirror,” Brandon declares happily, digging a compact out of his pocket. No one is surprised. “And,” Brandon adds, as he passes it to me. “I want to see the look on your face when you check out these so-called bites.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, flicking open his girly compact to have a look. I angle the mirror to see, holding it close. The skin at my neck is red and sore with some scratch marks and not one but several giant bruises. But...just love-bites. Huh. Everyone crowds round me, barely contained grins on their faces. “I I don't understand.” I frown. “He was...he bit me, he had fangs, and...he....”

“I told you what would happen if you read all those trashy vampire novels,” Spider tells me. “Am I going to have to read you a fairy tale at bedtime so you don't get nightmares?”

I glare at him. “Shut up.”

“I'll tell you what happened,” Brandon says. “The last time I saw you, Jez, was when you careened past my dressing room after the show last night and said – in your own words – I've just dropped three hits of acid and I'm off to have sex with this hot French guy.”

“Oh,” I say flatly. Funny how things suddenly click into place. Brandon's words jog my drug-addled memory and sure enough, he was right. After I'd drunk more of that sweet French liqueur last night, I think it was even my idea to take the acid, convincing Philipe to join me. “Um...yeah, I think I remember now.”

“You eejit,” Brandon says, taking the compact out of my hands. “Stop taking drugs.”

“Pfft!” Doug snorts. “Look who's talking. All you lot could do with a long overdue sobriety break.”

“Um, guys...?”

“Don't have a go at me, Doug!” Brandon snaps.

“Guys?” I say again.

“Lead by example.” Doug has his lecturing finger out, jabbing it in Brandon's direction. “He's the youngest and he's only following what you do.”

“Ach, he's no angel!” Brandon shouts, his Scottish accent creeping up several notches. “Fuckin' nose like an industrial strength hoover, this one.”

“GUYS!” I shout at them.

“What?” Brandon turns on me.

“Um...well I....”

“What, Jez?”

“Well it's just...I think I might have sorta, accidentally....” My voice drops to a mumble. “Killed that French guy.”

Doug goggles at me. “What? What happened?”

“I thought he was a vampire,” I defend. “I thought he was trying to kidnap me...so I kinda um, clubbed him over the head and left him unconscious.”

“Oh for God's sake.” Doug's face is in his hands.

“We'd better get the fuck out of here then.” Brandon looks worried. Spider nods in agreement.

“No,” Doug holds up his hand. “We're gonna go and have a look. Where the hell were you last night, Jez?”

“Um...a castle?”

“Gustav?” Doug turns to our promoter. “Can you ask that chap where he found Jez?”

Gustav begins speaking in French with Gerard. I wonder how he is phrasing it. As in, sorry mate, but where abouts did you pick up this half naked idiot covered in love bites and scratch marks? This whole scenario reminds me why I need an entire team of people to navigate my way through life. After we get directions we say goodbye to Gerard, and Doug parts with some of his precious money as a thank you for finding the dumb rock star. Then we pile into Gustav's spacious people-carrier. It has air con, I'm a happy man. Well, for now. Until I go to prison for the murder of Philipe.

Gustav follows Gerard's directions back down the path. Brandon and Doug bicker the entire way there while Spider ribs me for being an idiot. It's like being in a tiny, tiny version of our tour bus. Wonderful.

When Gustav pulls up to a grand-looking French château my heart starts pounding. This must be it. “Look familiar?” Gustav asks me in English, as we all clamber out. I don't want to leave behind the bliss of the air con but I have to check if Philipe is all right.

Standing outside in the hot sun, I stare up at the place. It's built of stone, pale grey. It isn't enormous like a castle, but it's still impressive. It even has turrets; rounded curves on each end of the premises. All the windows have fancy shutters on them, even if they do look old and sun-parched. I still don't recognise it. “Um...er....”

Brandon rolls his eyes. “You haven't got a clue, man! Spider, ring the fuckin' doorbell.”

“There ain't no doorbell,” Spider grumbles back, inspecting the porch.

“Allow me.” Gustav sweeps him aside and raps on the door. As we wait, Doug's stomach makes a churning noise, probably from hunger. My own stomach is flip flopping with nothing but nerves. “Oh God,” I whisper to Brandon when several moments have passed. “He's not answering, he's dead. I've bloody killed him!”

“Shh!” Gustav hushes us. A lock creaks, and the door opens. We all hold our breath. But it isn't a man, it's a petite woman wearing a white apron over a pale blue smock, holding a cloth. “Bonjour,” she says. “Puis-je vous aider?”

Brandon and Spider haul me to the front and prod me into saying something. I'm acutely aware of being dressed only in a pair of trousers in front of the lady, but the slight widening of her eyes is her only reaction. “Um, er, hi,” I say awkwardly. “Is um, Philipe...?” Alive? Dead?

She frowns slightly. “Ah, Monsieur de Courcillon?”

“Um...?” I shrug.

The girl holds up her finger, then pushes the door closed. Spider is chortling. We wait for endless minutes, and Doug starts to mutter under his breath. We all shift impatiently. Then the latch clicks.

Everyone is quiet as the door opens and my heart shoots up to my throat, choking me.

Philipe! He's alive! He stands in his doorway, wearing what look like brocade trousers and a dark red smoking jacket. A mug is in his hand, emblazoned with some sort of family crest, which he holds up as his other arm crosses underneath. He looks directly at me, spearing me with those gorgeous eyes. I'm pleased to see he's as stunning as I remember, even with the slight shadow under his eyes and the rather unattractive pink band-aid stuck to his temple.

At least I hadn't killed him.

“Jeremy,” he greets, not sounding too impressed.

“Um, h-hi.” I falter under his gaze, feeling about two inches tall. “Are you...um, okay? I'm sorry I...er, hit you. And stuff.”

Brandon and Spider snicker behind me. This is humiliating but I deserve it. Philipe raises one finely arched brow as he continues to look at me, ignoring everyone else. “I have a headache, Jeremy. No long term damage. Dare I ask, why did you hit me?”

My heart thuds away in my throat as I open my mouth to answer. Brandon beats me to it by muttering, “He thought you were a vampire, man.” I jab my elbow back to shush him, keeping my eyes on Philipe and affecting a nervous smile.

“I um...I'm sorry. I think I got confused.”

“Huh, that's an understatement,” Doug snorts. Philipe's eyes slide towards the source of sound over my shoulder, barely acknowledging it before focussing back on me. They appear to soften as he exhales audibly.

“Would you like your boots back, Jeremy? You left them here.”

“Oh! Um, yes please.”

He disappears, retreating behind his door. I glance back at Brandon, who simply shrugs. “Go on, we'll wait here.”

“Okay.” I step over the threshold, slip through the door and push it to. I gaze around at the house; definitely not as monstrous as my hazy memory recalls, but every bit as grand. I recognise certain places: the part of the wall I'd leant against, the staircase where I'd felt trapped. Apparently, all the product of an over active imagination on LSD.

Philipe had swept away but returns just as quickly, holding my pair of cowboy boots in his hand. “Um, thank you,” I say meekly, taking them. I cradle the boots against my chest as I look at the floor, noticing the carpet pattern that had intrigued me last night. I am so embarrassed.

“Was that all, Jeremy?”

Philipe's voice is still sexy as hell. My eyes automatically drag up the length of his body in answer. He's dispersed with his mug, his arms folded in front of him. I can't see much through his clothes but I can remember. Or at least, I hope I remember right. That milky smooth skin, the softly toned muscle and that rock hard cock between his legs. Philipe shifts under my gaze. “Is there...something else you want?”

When I dare to look up at his face I am relieved to see that familiar wicked smile. Oh, yeah! There is a sharp clap as my boots drop to the floor. I don't care because I'm in his arms; that embrace holds me and the cool brush of his clothes tickles my bare chest. This time I'm lucid enough to feel the heat coming off him in waves. His skin is warm. My hands inch up to his shoulders as his snake around my back, pressing his nails in. He doesn't kiss me yet, he simply looks at me. I stare back, lost in his eyes. “Hm,” I wonder aloud. “They really are.”

His strange-coloured eyes blink at me, searching my face. “What, Jeremy?”

“Gold and green,” I try to explain. “Beautiful.”

A gentle rush of air escapes him. He is laughing at me but I don't mind; it makes his eyes sparkle even more. I don't know how I got it into my head that I needed to escape this man. All I want now is for him to imprison me again. For as long as he wants.

Philipe tilts his perfect face to kiss me but then those full lips hesitate, as if he were unsure. Or maybe he is worried I'll club him again. Before I totally lose my head I pull back a little. “Um, show me your teeth?”

“Pardon?” he asks, his accent very pronounced.

“Your teeth?” I feel stupid to ask but I have to see, I have to know.

He sighs. “Whatever you desire, Jeremy.” My eyes are glued to his mouth as I watch him purposely pull his lips back, smiling wide. His eyes flick upwards, as if saying that this little exercise is beneath him but he's willing to humour me. I stare at his teeth. They look like normal teeth. Maybe the upper canines are a little sharper than normal. Absently, I run my tongue along my own teeth. How was I able to cut my tongue on his teeth? Had I just been clumsy?

“Satisfied?” Philipe drops his smile and resumes that sexy pout. The look in his eyes is suggestive, but I have one more question for him. “Philipe, why did you bite me?”

“Bite you?” he appears confused, but I don't buy it.

“Here.” I twist my neck at him. His gaze scans the marks there, admiring his handiwork.

“Mm, Jeremy...because you asked me to.”

“Um, I did?” I didn't remember asking that.

“Mm, oui.” His lips brush over mine, teasing. A low noise, something like a moan breathes out of him. I can almost taste his breath, feel it, like it slips into my mouth and coils down inside me, spreading the desire through my body. My pulse quickens, beating hard. I want him, I want him bad. The look in his eyes tells me that he's noticed. “Jeremy,” he says quietly, though his voice is commanding. His fingers dance up and down my back. “Why don't you stay with me...for a little while?”

“Um....” Yes! I make the decision in a split second. “Okay, hang on.”

When I poke my head back outside into the warm French sun and the faces of my companions, I have a huge grin on my face. From behind Philipe's door I ask, “Doug, are we on days off yet?”

Doug's eyebrows knit together. “Yes, three. Then it's the welcome home gig in London.”

“Right. Um, what day is the gig?”

“Friday, you idiot.”

“Right,” I say again. “All right if I stay here then? I mean, I'm sure I can get back to England on my own.”

“Hah!” Brandon scoffs, while Spider shakes his head.

“Jez –” Doug begins.

Gustav stills him. “Doug,” he says calmly. “Allow me to collect Jez in a couple of days and put him on the ferry myself. There is another band I must meet in London, so I may as well combine the two journeys and join you for the Crucifox show while I'm there.”

Doug gives in. “God, all right then. But Gustav, don't bloody lose him!”

“You have my word.” Gustav gives me a wink.

They turn to go. Brandon has a frown look on his face. “You sure, Jez? What if you like, freak out again?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” I reassure him. “No more acid. I'll just stick to booze.”

“Good idea,” Spider agrees. “C'mon, Brandon, let's go. I'm starving.”

“Aye, a'right. See you on the other side, Jez!”

“Bye, guys!” I wave them off. Then I shut the door. Strange, but as the wooden frame creaks into place it seems all that golden daylight is sucked away. My eyes have to adjust to the sudden gloom. In the softly flickering light I see Philipe, see him and think it strange that the darkness seems to gather around him. As if the only light in the room were him. He is glowing, ethereal.

I blink the vision away. Acid flashback? I can't be sure; once I blink the room returns to normal, albeit rather gloomy. And Philipe is there, eyes flashing, lips wearing that wicked smile in the second before he's on me. I'm back in his arms, his lips at my ear. “Jeremy,” he whispers, as I cling tight and melt against him. “Are you mine now?”

His voice makes me shiver. My pulse chases itself around my veins; my body rushes to answer him. Before words leave me completely I manage to say, “Yes...well, for three days anyway. If you want me.”

“Mm, I want you, Jeremy.” His lips brush down my cheek, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Three days to play with you.” His lips trail lower, mouthing along my neck. I tense, expecting to feel the sharp edge of his teeth. My immediate response is to silently plead, don't bite me.

Philipe's breathy laugh teases against my skin. “Do not worry, Jeremy. I told you I don't bite...hard.”

FIN

Read more about Jez and his band-mates in the upcoming Crucifox Series

by Melanie Tushmore

Crucifox #1 expected release December 2012

from Storm Moon Press

For more information visit

melanietushmore.co.uk

Disclaimer:

This story features adult content and should not be viewed by anybody under the age of eighteen.

This work contains adult references including the taking of psychedelic drugs that serve only as a part of this story. The author does not advocate the taking of drugs nor any unsafe behaviour whatsoever. Any unsafe behaviour within this story is written for fictional purposes only and should not be viewed as an example nor replicated in any way.

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