Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) by If Angels Burn Page B
Authors: If Angels Burn
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knows how to make a proper cup, bless her.” He set the cup down. “During the Middle Ages, we priests were the only light in many places. We battled plagues, petty tyrants, thief lords, and territorial wars. The pontiff himself tried to control politic elements in a dozen different countries, mainly to keep them from collapsing. Threats sprang up in the most unexpected places. The actual power of the church at the time depended heavily on the stability of sympathetic governments, and they were frantic about these
maledicti
. The threat of the accursed ones still exists today, so we hunt them.”
“Accursed ones?” The side of John’s mouth gave a bitter hitch. “Who were they? The Lutherans?”
August refilled his cup. “We hunt
vrykolakes
.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I see you know your Latin better than your Greek.” The bishop gave him a complacent smile. “The
maledicti
are accursed because they are the evil undead, John. They are vampires.”
----
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
M ichael Cyprien knew the danger of thrall and rapture. He had never made the mistake of thinking himself immune to the dark dance between Darkyn predator and human prey. He merely avoided losing control, in the same way he avoided copper, fire, and anything that would separate his head from his neck.
His mistake was in assuming that control was wholly mental and not physical.
Not feeding before the surgery had been imperative. The only way to submerge into the recesses of his mind and stay there while the doctor operated was to abstain from all forms of nourishment. It was the same discipline that had enabled him to endure his torture at the hands of the Brethren. Yet the effort it took to remain in that semiconscious state until she finished had pushed him into a realm of need he had not experienced after the torture, or in seven centuries since he had risen from his grave.
Seeing Alexandra for the first time brought it all home. How stunned Michael had felt, to open his eyes to the sight of her standing before him in her bloodstained gown. Phillipe had told him that she was small, but he had said nothing about the proportionate perfection of her curves. Not a word about the slender column of her throat, the sweet rise of her full breasts, or the elegant lyre of her hips. Not a syllable about the grace of her hands with their clever, tapering fingers.
The hands that had given him back his face.
The top of Alexandra’s head hardly reached the center of Michael’s chest, and as he had looked down on her, the light coaxed a thousand glints of gold and red in the loose crown of her dark spiraling curls. Titian would have adored her hair, and her eyes, although they were so plainly brown that they should have seemed mundane. Perhaps it was seeing in them the calm dignity and dreadful experience that she possessed that so fascinated him. Even her flower of a mouth, with its petal-soft curves that brought the ache of other hungers, could not distract him from her eyes.
That had been another mistake, and he had known it as soon as the scent that induced thrall and rapture began rolling off his skin. No one knew what mysterious bodily process produced the Darkyn’s individual, intoxicating scents, but once his body took control, there was little that he or his victim could do to resist it. She had been his before he had risen from the operating table to take her.
Yet by the time Michael realized what was happening, it was too late. She called him, he looked upon her, and the deadly dance had begun.
He had never fought thrall, but he had never realized it brought hungers so exquisitely painful that they all but tore him to pieces.
Feeding on her. The tear of flesh, the gush of blood. Even as he made it happen, he knew it would kill her. Then he was filling himself with her, leading her down into the blood dreams, where the dance would slow and finally end. Once there, however, guilt and outrage—he had not attacked her
maledicti
. The threat of the accursed ones still exists today, so we hunt them.”
“Accursed ones?” The side of John’s mouth gave a bitter hitch. “Who were they? The Lutherans?”
August refilled his cup. “We hunt
vrykolakes
.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I see you know your Latin better than your Greek.” The bishop gave him a complacent smile. “The
maledicti
are accursed because they are the evil undead, John. They are vampires.”
----
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
M ichael Cyprien knew the danger of thrall and rapture. He had never made the mistake of thinking himself immune to the dark dance between Darkyn predator and human prey. He merely avoided losing control, in the same way he avoided copper, fire, and anything that would separate his head from his neck.
His mistake was in assuming that control was wholly mental and not physical.
Not feeding before the surgery had been imperative. The only way to submerge into the recesses of his mind and stay there while the doctor operated was to abstain from all forms of nourishment. It was the same discipline that had enabled him to endure his torture at the hands of the Brethren. Yet the effort it took to remain in that semiconscious state until she finished had pushed him into a realm of need he had not experienced after the torture, or in seven centuries since he had risen from his grave.
Seeing Alexandra for the first time brought it all home. How stunned Michael had felt, to open his eyes to the sight of her standing before him in her bloodstained gown. Phillipe had told him that she was small, but he had said nothing about the proportionate perfection of her curves. Not a word about the slender column of her throat, the sweet rise of her full breasts, or the elegant lyre of her hips. Not a syllable about the grace of her hands with their clever, tapering fingers.
The hands that had given him back his face.
The top of Alexandra’s head hardly reached the center of Michael’s chest, and as he had looked down on her, the light coaxed a thousand glints of gold and red in the loose crown of her dark spiraling curls. Titian would have adored her hair, and her eyes, although they were so plainly brown that they should have seemed mundane. Perhaps it was seeing in them the calm dignity and dreadful experience that she possessed that so fascinated him. Even her flower of a mouth, with its petal-soft curves that brought the ache of other hungers, could not distract him from her eyes.
That had been another mistake, and he had known it as soon as the scent that induced thrall and rapture began rolling off his skin. No one knew what mysterious bodily process produced the Darkyn’s individual, intoxicating scents, but once his body took control, there was little that he or his victim could do to resist it. She had been his before he had risen from the operating table to take her.
Yet by the time Michael realized what was happening, it was too late. She called him, he looked upon her, and the deadly dance had begun.
He had never fought thrall, but he had never realized it brought hungers so exquisitely painful that they all but tore him to pieces.
Feeding on her. The tear of flesh, the gush of blood. Even as he made it happen, he knew it would kill her. Then he was filling himself with her, leading her down into the blood dreams, where the dance would slow and finally end. Once there, however, guilt and outrage—he had not attacked her
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