Truly, Madly...Werely (Night Fall Book 9) Read online

  “Stop with the games,” he bit out. “Release me.”

  “I’m not the one holding you, Quen-tin. This is her world, her nightmare.”

  “But you’re playing inside it, twisting it.”

  “And so can you, but you must learn how.”

  He flexed his arms and jerked at the vines, but they only cinched tighter. “I want to talk to her. If what you say is true, why can’t I simply will myself to go to her?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to see you.”

  Quentin struggled anew, trying to imagine the vines falling away, but their hold didn’t ease. This wasn’t like any dream he’d ever had; he couldn’t influence the outcome—at least not consciously. Was that the secret? Did his own subconscious hold him back? He was frightened of facing her, of answering her questions concerning her child and his conduct bringing her to the Caymans. Was he subverting his mind to avoid the confrontation?

  “You come closer to the truth, but not quickly enough,” Kamaria rasped into his ear. Without another word of warning, she shredded his clothing with silvery, daggerlike fingernails until it fell in tatters around the vines. “Three times, you promised,” she hissed. “This time, I shall have full satisfaction.”

  Quentin’s skin grew clammy as his heart thudded dully in his chest. “Darcy is here. Not here. Please.” He hated begging her, hated giving her the satisfaction that even now curved her feral lips.

  “If she doesn’t see you already, perhaps she will never know,” she said in her wicked, lilting tone. “But you must remain quiet so that you don’t gain her attention.”

  Grinding his jaws shut, he wrestled against the vines, against the hands that tracked down his chest to his sex.

  Yes, he was aroused, but once again, not of his own choice. The bitch had used her weapons, her magic, to bring on a massive erection.

  “How can this be satisfying to you?” he whispered harshly. “You force me. You’ll have to climb over me to even get to me.”

  “But, darling, there will be no climbing…”

  The breeze picked up. Naked tree limbs creaked as they bent to the force. The vines around him tightened, binding his rib cage so that he couldn’t draw a breath. Then he felt himself tilting, being lifted off his feet until he was suspended by the vines wrapped around his hands and feet, his waist supported by another thick vine.

  Kamaria’s smile was eerie, her teeth protruding beyond her upper lip. Her face glimmered as though bathed in crushed, iridescent pearls. And then she was floating upward, her clothes torn away by the wind, her long hair whipping around her upper body like thick black snakes.

  She drew up her knees, spread them, then floated toward him, toward the cock that pointed toward the moon.

  Quentin bucked wildly against the vines, trying to avoid her, trying to rid his body of her as she settled above him, her legs hooking around his waist, her pussy shoving down his hard cock.

  She gripped his shoulders and began to rock. “Three times, you promised. If you make me come, there will only be one left.”

  Sweet Jesus, no! “Not here. Please not here,” he gritted out, trying to will his body not to respond. But his cock remained painfully rigid, tensing, pulsing in reaction to the strong caresses of her cunt.

  “She need never know,” Kamaria crooned, leaning closer to rake his skin with her teeth. “Shield yourself from her mind, hide from her. If you can.”

  His head turned to Darcy who still bent double on the bench and begged silently for her to remain in her pose, for her to wait to awaken until he could come to her.

  Then he turned back to Kamaria, a snarl twisting his lips, and forced his body to remain still, defying her the only way he could—every ounce of the wild fury roiling inside him, setting his body to quivering violently as she took him.

  Kamaria flung back her head and laughed, riding his fury, her cunt melting around him like honey, the liquid bathing his cock, his groin, and trickling downward to slick the crease between his buttocks.

  Then she was transforming, her body growing heavier, straining the bindings around his feet and hands, ridges pushing outward on her forehead, her teeth elongating—wings stretching behind her back, curling to capture the wind.

  “What the fuck?” he gasped.

  The wings cracked, angling downward, then wrapped around his body, their weight and strength holding him immobile.

  Something whipped behind her, long and dark—a sharp tensile tail lashing outward then flicking, cracking the air then folding, diving downward.

  Quentin gave a muffled scream as it lashed his ass, leaving a wet, sticky trail as it drew back then came again, this time with the wicked, tapered end diving straight between his buttocks, burrowing, parting him. It pierced him there, entering him smoothly, wriggling its notched point into his puckered hole and thrusting deeper.

  Quentin fought to hold back his screams. The bitch, the fucking bitch wasn’t just a witch, wasn’t just another turned soul, but a goddamn Ancestor. One of the ancients, long thought extinct—unless, she was only using this night dream, this frightening nightmare, to manipulate his mind as well as Darcy’s.

  But he didn’t know how to manipulate this realm, couldn’t fight the beast sitting on his body, raping his ass while she used his cock to milk him of seed. It came in a flood that didn’t end, spurting hot and thick from balls squeezing so hard a vicious cramp began in his groin.

  He moaned, his body sweating, but she didn’t relent, didn’t let him finish—the hard, clamping cunt pumped his semen into her body until he thought he might pass out from the painful pulling suction.

  Then she screeched, flinging back her head, the snakes of her hair whipping his skin as she shuddered and squeezed and pumped…then at last fell against him.

  A scent like the ripest bordello surrounded them—sex, sweat, blood, urine. Her tail pulled slowly from his ass, scraping the tender tissues, leaving him shaken, his lungs heaving with the effort to draw a deep breath, his stomach clenching around the urge to retch.

  Her great black wings opened, flapped down once, and the beast lifted from his cock and his body, shooting upward to hover above the trees, her deep black glance raking him, a feral, gloating smile stretching over jagged fangs. Then she was gone.

  He fell to the earth. His body crunching on a bed of leaves. Quentin stared at the bright moon above him, knowing he could never approach Darcy like this.

  He curled his legs inward, hugged his knees and wept like a baby.

  *

  Darcy heard sobs in the distance. Harsh, hiccoughing cries that tore at her. She wanted to close out the sound, reenter the soothing darkness where pain was only a distant memory.

  Instead, she opened her eyes and found herself peering through thin fabric. She swept aside the gauzy cloth that cloaked her head, wondering faintly if it was a shroud and whether she was dead.

  She glanced around, looking for the source of the wretched cries. Moonlight bathed a clearing in silvery light.

  Why the weeping? Did someone mourn her passing?

  She shoved off the bench, following the sounds to the edge of a dark woods and found a huddled creature lying on its side, but the closer she drew and the more she focused her sight, she realized it was a man, his body curled into himself, his broad lean back stretched, shining with sweat, his buttocks damp, a trail of dark liquid dripping from a long shallow mark.

  A wound? Was he hurt? She hesitated, turning to stare back at her bench and wishing she didn’t feel obligated to investigate. She really didn’t want to think. Didn’t want problems, mysteries, to intrude upon her rest.

  But there was something about his voice. Although his sobs were harsh and ragged, something about them felt familiar, as though she should remember him.

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. “You’re making too much noise. Please be quiet.”

  His cries cut off, but a shudder shook the shoulder she clasped.

  “That’s better.” She started to turn a
way. “Are you cold?” Maybe she could offer him her shroud before she returned to the bench.

  “Don’t touch me,” he whispered.

  Her hand pulled back. “Fine,” she said. “It’s not like I want to, you know. Besides, you reek.” And he did, of sweat and sex—and blood. The scent filled her nostrils as she inhaled.

  Her mouth watered. She found it odd that she was suddenly hungry. She bent closer, taking another deep draw of his scent.

  “Get the fuck away,” he said.

  This time, his voice was stronger, thicker, with a delicious edge to it that caused a curl of heat inside her. “I didn’t invite you here. You’re the one intruding. What happened to you, anyway? Are you dead, too?”

  “You aren’t dead. Neither am I—although at the moment, I’m wishing I was.”

  He didn’t sound particularly distraught, more irritated than anything if she had to choose a tone—but she really didn’t want to think this hard. He needed to go away.

  She shrugged off her shroud. “Take this and wrap it around you. Then leave. Please.”

  Dropping it on his shoulder, she waited while he reached a hand around to snag the fabric and wrap it around his shoulders and head. Then he slowly stood, his entire body trembling.

  “Not what I expected you’d want to cover,” she murmured, taking in his lower body in a curious glance. His cock was flaccid but long and thick—and gleamed with seminal fluid. Something about that cock pricked at a memory.

  Her gaze shot back up to his head, swathed in the gauze. “Take it off,” she whispered. “Let me see your face.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why?”

  His fingers clenched the edges of the fabric, holding it tighter. Then he slowly pulled, letting it slide from his head.

  Again, not what she expected, although she wasn’t quite sure what she had thought he might look like.

  A metal helmet completely enclosed his head.

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  From between two narrow eye slits, Quentin watched Darcy’s beloved face while she scrutinized him, her head canting as her eyes narrowed. He recognized that look. The shrewdness and natural curiosity he’d always admired still existed, even if it was a little fragmented.

  Then her gaze dimmed, and she looked over her shoulder toward the lonely bench in the center of the clearing again. “Go away.” She ambled toward the seat, leaving him behind.

  Because there was no way in hell he could do that now that he had her attention, he followed, winding the gauzy fabric she’d given him around his naked hips since his head was enclosed in the metal helmet.

  He didn’t know how he’d managed that feat. Hadn’t envisioned a helmet of any sort, but it was precisely what he’d needed to hide his features from her. The shield must have been pulled from deep inside his subconscious.

  Grimly, he shoved away the shame of what he’d endured. Kamaria would pay for using him that way. His body would heal. So would his pride. His injuries were inconsequential when compared to what Darcy had gone through.

  “Wait,” he said, tying a knot at his hip and rushing after her. At least her attention wouldn’t be focused on the hard-on he couldn’t keep from begging for her attention.

  She didn’t acknowledge his call, simply placed one foot in front of the other in a steady gait, her head faced unwaveringly forward. When she reached the bench, she lowered herself like an old woman and closed her eyes.

  Quentin would have liked to give her that moment’s quiet she seemed to crave because it offered him a moment to stare at her features, animated with a hint of color in her pale cheeks, so different from the slackened expression she’d worn since she’d slipped into her coma.

  But he didn’t know how long he could linger here. Didn’t know if Kamaria would return to tear him away and give him another dose of punishment for his past sins.

  His ass was still raw and sore from where she’d raped him with her tensile tail. His flesh stung from the wounds she’d opened as she’d whipped him.

  Despite the sting from the stretched and bloody welts, he knelt beside Darcy and reached for her hand, cupping it between his, warming the cool fingers that fluttered inside his grasp. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

  A frown pulled her dark brows together, but still she didn’t open her eyes.

  He tried again. “Can you tell me your name?”

  Her eyes sprang open. “What part of go away didn’t you understand?” she said testily.

  Quentin pressed his lips together to hide his smile. Warmth spread through him at her show of spirit. She’d been like this when they’d first met. Mouthy. Annoyed with his attentions even while her heart pounded as quickly as a bird’s because she’d been scared. After all, she’d thought all vampires were bloodsucking murderers.

  “I’m alone here,” he said, trying to appeal to her own loneliness—anything to reach her.

  Her eyes slowly opened, but her expression was heartbreaking, her eyes pooling with tears and her free hand pressing against her belly. “And I’m empty,” she whispered.

  Quentin’s heart thudded against his chest. Some part of her knew about the baby. The child he’d allowed to be taken while he’d tried to save the mother.

  Then her head turned toward the dark sky.

  “Darcy,” he whispered, sensing she was willing herself far away from him.

  A line, like jagged tearing paper, appeared at the top of her forehead and quickly fled down her neck, disappearing inside the filmy garment she wore.

  As he watched, horrified, her skin slid away from the tear, opening and falling to either side until her body slid in a loose skin sack to the bench. From inside the gaping hole, a bird fluttered its wings and took to the dark sky.

  Quentin backed away from what was left of her body, shocked, grieving, and unable to touch what remained of her, because he knew it wasn’t really her. Knew she wasn’t there with him anymore. If she’d wanted to stay on this bench in her dream world, he would have remained with her for however long she needed…until they both faded away into the darkness.

  Then he heard the bird’s piercing cry in the distance and closed his eyes as the significance of her choice of escape pierced his sadness. All was not lost. She’d chosen the body of a tern to escape inside. The same as the birds she’d told him about every day after she’d returned from her solitary walks on the beach back home.

  She remembered them even though she’d reacted with pain to his presence and his questions. She might think she wanted to float away in this dream world of hers, but she’d already felt more emotions in the few moments they’d been together than she was comfortable with. Darcy was no longer numb.

  Satisfied that he’d accomplished at least that much, he shoved up to his feet and wondered how the hell he was supposed to wake up now.

  As soon as the thought entered his mind, he was back inside the bedroom in Kamaria’s house, seated beside Darcy’s still body. He was still clothed, his body unscathed. The candles the witch had lit had long since sputtered out. Kamaria was gone. Thankfully, so was her young boy-toy bodyguard.

  Because he wasn’t ready to face her, and because he wasn’t ready to lose the connection he’d made, at last, with Darcy, he swept the candles from the bed and crawled onto the mattress beside her to sleep.

  *

  Emmy bent over the concierge she straddled, enjoying one last draw of the lovely man’s blood, rutting her sex against his clothed cock as his pulsating orgasm waned.

  Her belly was full, but her appetite was far from appeased. She was horny now. The dark man beneath her with his short, spiky locks and lilting voice had unleashed her hunger so quickly she’d risked discovery behind the counter as she’d lowered herself on him and begun her feast.

  “Emmy, we do have work to do,” Dylan groused. “Quit playing with your food.”

  She ground down on the man’s spent cock, eliciting a long, tortured groan.

  “No more,” the
concierge moaned. “Gone dry.”

  Emmy giggled and pressed her lips to his. “Thanks, hon, but you’re not gonna remember a thing even if you do wake up sticky.”

  She gave Dylan a heated glance over her shoulder and slowly climbed off the concierge’s lap. Lifting her hand, she fluttered the card key she’d gotten from him before she’d asked him if he’d ever done “it” sitting.

  Not that he’d had any clue what she’d really meant.

  “I have Quentin’s room key. But he’s moved out. Someone came and cleared out his things yesterday.”

  Dylan raked a hand through his hair. “Not good, love. Did he say anything about a woman with Quentin?”

  “He didn’t know if he was alone or not. Quentin never allowed housekeeping inside the room.”

  “We’re going to have to hit the courthouse or library and try to follow the clues to the witch’s whereabouts. Try to piece it together from Joe’s dreams and the things Quentin let slip about his time here. Maybe we can find Louis’s old estate, and then follow the beach to get to the hut.”

  “Do you really think she’d be in the exact same place?” Emmy asked, feeling frustrated and knowing Dylan’s emotions had to be that much more disturbed. Quentin was his best friend.

  “If she was waiting for him to return, wouldn’t she want to make it easy?”

  “But it was so long ago. Wouldn’t she have moved on?”

  “This bitch is vengeful, but she didn’t hunt him. My bet is that she knew some day he’d need something from her. And aren’t all women better strategists than men?”

  Emmy arched her brows. “If it had been me, and Quentin had left me, I’d have followed him to the ends of the earth.”

  Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Got a thing for Quentin, do you? I could be all right with that.”

  The low growl underlying his casual words made her pulse leap. “You’re just horny. Any mention of perversion will appeal.”

  “Well, daylight is approaching,” he drawled.

  “Not much we can do until we can get to the library or city hall or whatever,” Emmy said, loving the hunger glittering in his eyes. “And I have this teeny-weenie card…”