A final summoning

This snippet is from Sins Of The Sire, in which Ninian has physically called up his demon friend while preparing for Carl and Craig’s visit–

“The guests should be here momentarily,” he muttered. “They’ll just have to witness the aftermath.” He extended his index finger to the sigil and started to trace it, bringing up an image in his mind. Andromalius usually appeared to him as a tall, handsome man in a dark blue robe, flowing long hair the color of cornsilk, his ever present familiar wrapped around his arm, tail around his waist. The demon was never without his reptile, they seemed to be bound, feeding off each other, and he supposed they did. Hence the leftovers for the familiar. Andromalius was more prone to feeding off souls—human souls, and Ninian certainly couldn’t help him there.

Ninian closed his eyes, feeling the sudden vacuum of air that preceded his friend.

“Greetings,” his mind’s ear heard, a grating, peculiar tone, he had to admit. “What do we have on the menu for today? My familiar is famished.”

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Portrait of Count Andromalius by theDurrrrian @ Deviant Art

ars_goetia___count_andromalius_by_thedurrrrian-d9o96cy

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Summoning a Demon

This snippet is from my completed WIP (ahhh finally) Sins Of The Sire, in which Ninian contacts his otherworldly acquaintance for support in helping him with Carl–

Ninian concentrated, willing the demon to answer.

“Andromalius, hear me, hear your friend and cohort, I wish to speak to you.” He waited, and his fingers on the page only trembled a little. Soon enough, he heard a curious rumbling in his ear, like nails on a chalkboard, and he smiled, wondering once more how such a beautiful being as that demon could have a voice that made even a vampire shiver.

Hello, my friend, It’s been awhile. To what do I owe the pleasure?

He couldn’t help smiling wider.

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What Happens After

I posted a rainbow snippet yesterday, and a Sunday snippet quite a few months ago on what happened after, but here is the entire passage from the time Alasdair greets Edgar. It’s a little lengthy, but worth it, I hope:

“Allow me to introduce myself. I can‘t have you staring at me all night without doing something about it, now can I?” he says, bowing slightly from the waist. “I am Alasdair Connery, and you are?”

“Edgar Carstairs, sir. I apologize for staring, but you are a cut above the usual, I must admit.” Edgar bowed himself. “I am at your service.”

“At my service? That sounds intriguing.”

Edgar gives him a hooded look.

“I only stare at things that intrigue me, sir.”

Alasdair smiled. “Please call me Alasdair,” he says.      “You look like you belong in the movies, Edgar. You are a singularly attractive young man.”

“Yes, Alasdair, I think I do.” Edgar thinks Young man? He looks but six years older than me, seven at the most.

“And thank you for the compliment.”

Alasdair’s lips are parted, showing his rather prominent eyeteeth, and Edgar blinks, suddenly nervous.  Is this what he wants after all?

“Would you like to come upstairs to my suite and talk about it? Perhaps we can be at each other’s service.”

Edgar nods, afraid to speak.

Alasdair takes his elbow and brings him up to his luxury suite. He puts his arm around his waist and walks him over to the edge of the bed, which is covered in sumptuous velvet. Edgar takes off his jacket and Alasdair unbuttons his shirt for him.  His eyes drift shut.  Neither one of them speaks, there’s no need. He didn’t think he would be enjoying it this much.

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, then unbuttons Alasdair’s shirt, letting it fall to the ground after he pulls it off. He reaches out his hands, finding Alasdair’s chest.  Edgar strokes him up and down with trembling fingers.  He opens his eyes, looking at this beautiful man as Alasdair leans over, putting his lips on his chest, smelling him with flaring nostrils. They sit on the edge of the bed and touch their lips together, their tongues meeting, running their hands over each other. Edgar watches Alasdair undressing him, even getting down on one knee to remove his shoes.  He watches as Edgar raises his hips, then he gently tugs down Edgar’s trousers. Alasdair reaches to his own slim waist to unfasten his kilt.  Edgar helps him, trembling and eager, until they are both totally nude. He tries to hide his small love handles, but Alasdair holds his arms.

“You are beautiful, Edgar. Do not hide that beauty,” Alasdair tells him, his striking eyes sparkling, hypnotic.

“Alasdair, I–”

He puts his finger on Edgar’s lips, then runs that finger slowly, sensuously across them.

“Shhhhhh. Let me show you how beautiful you are.”

Edgar closes his swimming eyes.  Alasdair runs his finger along his cheek, then he feels himself being pushed gently down on the bed.  He feels Alasdair’s mouth on his erection, tugging, insistent. He gasps with pleasure, his hips moving, and he is well on his way to a rocking orgasm when he feels a sharp pain on his chest.  He looks down, puzzled.   Alasdair has moved his lips upward, and he is kissing his left breast while he fondles him.  The pain comes again, so much softer, so–pleasurable, he finds himself drowning in the sensation, the sheer excitement of it.  His head falls back, feeling Alasdair’s lips against his warm skin, drinking him in.  Then, as if he were floating in a red fog, he feels Alasdair rubbing fragrant oil into the cleft of his behind, then entering him, lifting his legs over his shoulders and making them curl around his neck.  His heels drum a frantic rhythm onto Alasdair’s back, feeling him moving slowly, then faster as he reads Edgar’s responses.  Alasdair’s long, heavy braid is hanging over his shoulder, gently brushing Edgar’s face with every forward rocking thrust he makes into him, into the very core of his being.   He hears himself groaning, begging, almost screaming with the sheer pleasure of it, then screaming in truth as his back arches with the most intense climax of his life, his muscles clenching so tightly that the bones in his entire body feel like they are being crushed.  He relaxes, shaking with his hitching breath as he feels Alasdair slipping away from him.

He is left empty, hollow.

He raises his head, giving Alasdair a pleading look, and two large droplets slip down his cheeks into the corners of his parted lips.  Alasdair stares in his eyes then, holding his tear-streaked face in his strong hands. He looks back at him, trembling.

“I–I love you, Master–please–”

He looks at the small smile on Alasdair’s beautiful face and knows he will follow this man–no, this being-anywhere, do whatever he wants, be whatever Alasdair–Mr. Connery–wants him to be.  In return, he will be well taken care of.  And he has been.

For almost a hundred years and counting.

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Their first meeting

This snippet is from The Ancient where we meet up with Edgar; he spies Alasdair at a long ago party in Hollywoodland:

There he is, standing alone with a drink in his hand.  It wouldn’t do to be seen with just anybody. It’s best to work the room solo in case someone interesting shows up, but when he sees Mr. Connery, he knows that he isn’t just anybody.  He stares as the man stands separate from the hangers on, gently deflecting unwanted attention. He’s exotic and mysterious with that kilt and that braid. Edgar listens to the whispers about him that he’s an extremely wealthy businessman who wishes to invest in the movies, and he’s looking for a rising star.  Sleep his way in? There won’t be any sleeping if he can help it.

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Smokey’s

Here’s a snippet from Talk Of The Town where Carl brings Craig to his favorite vamp-friendly coffee shop–of course, Carl never drinks–coffee 🙂 :

“Hi Carl, you want that special?  How about your friend?”

“Yes, thank you, Gil, and this is Craig.”    Gil gave a second look, then smiled.

“Craig Hanson, the talk show host? Welcome to Smokey’s.”  He pointed to the muted television mounted in the corner, where there was a rerun of a popular episode playing.   Craig was reveling in all his abrasive, glamorous glory, trying to put himself between a drag queen and an older woman.  The queen had taken off one of her high heels, ready to fling it at her target. Size 12, by the look of it.      Craig smiled at the memory.

“Thank you Gil, great programming choice. It’s nice to meet you.“

Turning to Craig, Carl asked “What would you like? They have a full service coffee bar, and tea as well.”

“I’ll have a vente mocha latte with extra foam, please, thanks, Gil.”  Nodding, Gil left the table and went behind the bar to give the order to the barista, then went in the back, returning with a tall covered cup. He picked up Craig’s order and returned to the table.      “Here you are, gentlemen. Enjoy.” Gil watched as Carl took a sip.

“All right, Carl?”

“Perfect.  Thank you, Gil, just the proper temperature.”  Gil inclined his head and went back behind the bar, wiping the counter and checking out the clientele. Craig looked at Carl’s cup.

“That must be some special order, him having to go to the back room to get it.” He wondered silently if it was blood, his lips turning up at their edges.

“Yes, it is–and to answer your unspoken question, yes it is.”

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Almost Over

This is from Sins Of The Sire, which I’m hitting hard this weekend; I hope to finish the first draft by tomorrow afternoon. In this part, the allies are getting help from an expert, accompanied by some appropriate refreshment:

“This is something you’ve been wishing for, that all of you have desired, but once again, Ninian is at the heart of it. He will do anything to get you back, Carl, but he has no idea of the things I’m capable of.” He turned then to Leah.

“You, my dear, also have a place in the aftermath of this, but will not be participating. You will offer comfort to Oz.” Leah shrugged her shoulders, her sad eyes downcast.

“I can do that.”

 

Nothing could be heard then but the quiet murmur of their voices plotting their plans as they drank their tea and Sang de Cougar..

 

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Bruce Remembers

This snippet is a little long, but it’s one of my favorites–couln’t make myself cut it down 🙂 Bruce is with Alasdair, and he’s rmemebering what it was like to feel too much sometimes. Our Bruce is a bit of a sensualist–

Against his better judgment, he closed his eyes, aware of Alasdair staring at him, almost willing him to remember, to picture his thoughts.  He gave in to him and let his mind wander.  He had always been sensitive even as a kid, loving the smells of the lakeshore at his childhood home in Granby, the crunch of fall leaves under his feet, the banter of people fishing on the dock. He remembered running through the woods in summer wearing just shorts and tennis shoes, jumping over rocks and logs, feeling his body singing, the wind he generated rushing through his hair. He could do the same thing in winter ice skating on the lake, just flying, stretching out his arms.  He would come in from outside and just stand in the kitchen sniffing the air while his mother was cooking, tasting it and smelling it at the same time, until she kicked him out to take a shower.  That was a treat for his senses on another level altogether.  And the dishes.  Bruce always did the dishes from the time he was barely four years old, right after supper with no complaints, because he enjoyed it, enjoyed the smells, the soap and hot water, the clang of the pots and pans.

When they had gone to Mass on Sundays and holy days, he was never banished to the children’s area, where all the other young kids had to go.  His mom had tried it once, but he had pitched such a fit that they had to take him back with them. His parents shook their heads in puzzlement, because he quieted immediately when they sat down in the pew. He was too mesmerized by everything to even think about misbehaving.  One of his earliest memories had been the smell of the incense in the swinging censer at midnight mass on Christmas Eve, listening to the rising and falling chants of the priest in his rich embroidered vestments and the answers of the parishioners.  Mom had even taken him to a Tridentine mass once after his confirmation when he had turned thirteen, and he had been in heaven listening to the unfamiliar Latin tongue, not even wanting to genuflect and stand with his mom and dad.  He had sat in the pew with his eyes closed, almost swaying back and forth, and his dad kept shoving him thinking he had fallen asleep—

Then another picture came, a picture of him with Jeffrey in the soft bed of their off campus apartment in the winter of his junior year, both of them covered with that huge faux fur quilt, holding each other. His lover’s auburn head rested on his chest while he stroked his hair, curling his fingers around its softness while Jeffrey’s fingers traced the slight curve of his waist–feeling Jeffrey’s soft lips resting on his skin, his breath stirring the soft hair there–

He could feel the tears starting.

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