Explicit THE STEFAN VORCLA CHRONICLES: THE TURNING - 1821 (Part 2)

[Vorcla]

A dying crimson ember blushed dimly as the sun sank beneath the edge of the earth, and the horizon faded to an indistinct silhouette. Rose and gold melted across a violet sky, deeply saturated with the hues of dusk. The first stars of evening gradually winked on.

On the opposite side of the world, the bloated disc of a full moon, the color of a sliced melon, lurched into the sky.

Justine Masterson reined in her dappled mare at the crest of the hill overlooking the castle and gazed up.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight," she recited. "I wish I may, I wish I might...be anywhere but here tonight."

The castle brooded in the gathering gloom on the wind-ruffled heather moors below her, its ancient stonework draped in a lattice of green English ivy. The structure perched on a rugged cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the North Sea. One day in the next few centuries, the sea would claim the edifice as the margin of the cliff face crept inland, undercut from beneath and washed away. Tendrils of glowing fog drifted in slowly and began to fill the valley, snaking between the bloody, moonwashed gravestones in the small cemetery at the property's edge.

"That's odd," she mused. "It was such a nice day today, and so dry."

The castle gave Justine a proper case of the shivers.

Why would anyone want to live here in this godforsaken place? And why, pray tell, would this client insist on inspecting the place at sunset? The castle had been built by an expatriated Wallachian warlord several hundred years earlier and constructed to his exact specifications, fashioning it into an exact replica of his stronghold in Romania, down to the last turret and battlement and dungeon keep.

Justine trotted her horse down the hillside to the main entrance. She would give the mysterious buyer ten more minutes.

Then she was heading home.

She blew out a frustrated breath as she brushed a wayward lock of long raven hair from her green eyes. She, as usual, was assigned the dirty work by her father William, who was a wealthy solicitor in Whitby.

Justine chafed at that. She had been well-tutored and had the equivalent of a university degree - which meant exactly nothing, because women were not permitted to attend university. Justine was good enough to do the menial labor, but not good enough to claim the privileges of her position.

Still, it wasn't all bad. She was well-paid, a rarity for a woman; she was independent, lived in a fine house and wore expensive clothes. She was young and beautiful, and had scores of handsome suitors. She was subject to no man, and answered to no one but herself. The men who desired her dealt with Justine on her own terms.

And when Papa passed away, she would be very, very wealthy. Her mother died years ago, and Justine was an only child. Despite her annoyance at some of the petty tasks he bade her to do, she loved him very much, and her father doted on her.

Justine didn't mind waiting for her inheritance.

Suddenly the odd dizziness that had plagued her all day seized her again, and she nearly slipped from her saddle. Gasping, she pulled herself back up by the reins.

Justine had awakened weak and ill and thoroughly aroused that morning, shivering in the chill air fluttering in through her open window. She had been with a man last night, but she couldn't remember it.

Or rather, a man had been with her.

She had awakened with the metallic taste of semen in her mouth, and a glaze of pearlescent, sticky wetness seeped from the most intimate recesses of her body, which were raw and sore and swollen, and a little bloody. Angry purple bruises mottled her breasts and buttocks and inner thighs.

Stewart was in London. It couldn't have been him; he had never been anything but gentle with her, much to her chagrin.

Who, then? The fact that she couldn't remember the episode terrified her even more than the thought of a strange man brutally ravishing her in her boudoir...

Because that thought was abnormally exciting. Her deepest, darkest fantasies involved a brutal lover who roughly handled her, and even tied her up and tortured her in some fashion. She had never been able to talk Stewart into that - and he never would have taken her up the bum as her visitor had done, never would have plunged his manhood into her most forbidden place, considering that to be far too depraved and filthy...

But her mystery lover had gone a bit too far in another respect.

The angry red puncture wounds on her throat had profoundly disturbed her. The sick blighter had bitten her and drawn blood! There were large brown splotches on the sweat-soaked tangle of her sheets, and a dried crust around her wounds.

Justine had been disoriented and lethargic, and frightened, and her memory blurred. But she also had never been so thoroughly satisfied in her life. Even in her weakness, she had been aroused, exhilarated, her limp, perspiration-drenched body tingling with desire.

She shivered with forbidden delight at the half-remembered sensations.

Suddenly, a prolonged, keening wail drifted over the moors, far nearer than she would have liked. Justine shuddered as the mournful howl clawed at her, scouring her soul with terror. Her mind flashed on the two young men who had been found on the moors this morning, torn to pieces by some ravenous wild animal.

They weren't expected to survive...

The cry shivered again, closer now. Her horse whickered and reared up, bulging eyes white with fear.

"Easy, Starfire!" she soothed. "It's all right."

But it was far from all right.

They materialized out of the mists - twelve huge, gray shapes.

Wolves!

But these were unlike the scrawny specimens she had seen at the London Zoo. They were big, thick-chested and powerful. Amber eyes glowed in the dark. Snarling, drooling maws revealed long ivory fangs.

"Oh, G-God!" she moaned. "There are no w-wolves in Whitby! Where did they come from?"

She thought again of the two young men who had been attacked and mauled...

"Somebody...please help meeeeeeee!"

Her horse reared up again, violently this time, and in her weakened condition Justine could not hold on. She landed hard; she heard a brittle 'crack,' and searing, unbelievable pain streaked up her right leg. The terrified mare galloped away, whinnying, leaving her mistress to the mercy of the predators.

Justine cried out in agony and terror. She was certain she had broken her right ankle - and where would she have run, anyway? The wolves padded forward unhurriedly. A big male, the pack leader, walked right up to her and snarled in her face, his cold, wet nose bumping her chin.

She couldn't find her voice to scream.

Gravel suddenly crunched behind her. The big wolf began to slowly back away from Justine, his belly low to the ground and his tail between his legs. He whined piteously. Justine was astonished to see that the entire pack had assumed this posture of obesiance. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

Through a haze of pain, Justine could see that he was a young man, perhaps in his mid to late twenties. Tall and lean, he was impossibly handsome; his glossy black hair was long and parted on the left, and the skin of his angular face was pale as alabaster. The newcomer was attired in black from head to toe. He cut a striking figure in the gathering dusk.

But his eyes drew Justine's attention.

They were compelling; they radiated a savage power from within their glowing blue depths that said, 'You will obey me.' Justine could feel his icy stare penetrating her soul, eroding her will, and she shuddered.

The newcomer focused on the pack, and the wolves whimpered uncertainly. He spat out a word in an ancient Wallachian dialect.

The lead wolf broke and ran with a mewling little bark, and the others raced off after him.

They melted into the fog.

Justine heaved a sigh of relief. Then her gaze flicked up at his face and she was lost. She found herself being drawn into the depths of those crystal blue eyes. They still spoke to her, but now they said, 'Come with me. Be mine.'

It was a very calming, comforting feeling, and she could feel the pain in her ankle dissipate.

"Oh, thank you," she breathed, her voice quavering. "You saved me."

He knelt down by her.

"My apologies," he said. His silken voice, with just a beguiling touch of an Old World accent, seemed to shimmer like silver bells in the wind, and Justine shivered with delight or dread - she knew not which. "They are...pets of mine."

"P-pets?"

His smile was as charming a smile as she had ever seen, and her knees turned to water.

"Well...they are not exactly tame, but they won't hurt you. Nero - the pack leader? - is all bluff."

Justine shuddered. "He's an exceptional bluffer, then. My poor mare thought so, too - she's run off."

His smile widened.

"She'll be back - and Nero and his friends will not bother you again. I guarantee it."

"Really?" 'Justine's green eyes regarded him candidly. "And you are..."

"Forgive my poor manners. I am Nilos LaGory, and I'm here to purchase this property. You must be Justine Masterson." He kissed her hand. "I had no idea you would be such a beautiful woman."

"My, aren't we the flatterer, Mr. LaGory?"

"I am also in need of a personal assistant, someone who can help me with my financial affairs. I have...difficulty working in the daytime." His smile reached his blue eyes, and they crinkled at the corners. "Perhaps you would be interested in the position, Miss Masterson?"

"You don't waste time, do you?" she chided.

He suddenly seemed ineffably sad.

"Time, Miss Masterson, is something I have in great abundance."

Justine winced in pain suddenly as a twinge shot up her leg, and LaGory frowned.

"What is it?"

"I...my ankle - I think it's broken."

"Let me have a look."

The ankle was indeed swollen and purple, and misshapen. The bone was obviously out of place.

"I'm afraid I need a physician, Mr. LaGory," Justine said ruefully.

"Please - call me Nilos," he returned. "I might be able to help."

He gently gripped her ankle, and Justine gasped.

"Oh - I'm sorry, my dear. Did I hurt you?"

"N-no. It's just that your hands are so unusually...cold!"

He smiled. "Well, you know what they say - 'cold hands, warm heart.' "

'What a rogue!' Justine thought. How could he be any more charming?

Suddenly she jumped. She could have sworn she saw a blue spark leap from LaGory's palm. His hand was vibrating, and the swelling and bruising vanished almost immediately. The bone moved back into place shortly after. The last vestiges of her pain melted like a spring snow.

Justine's mouth dropped open.

"How did you..."

He shrugged.

"Just a little discipline I learned in the Far East involving touch and pressure points. Perhaps it was just a sprain. Shall we explore the castle?"

Justine glanced down at her ankle in wonder as she followed him. A miracle! There was no pain, and she could walk normally.

What had he done?

LaGory rushed up the flagstone walk, and Justine practically had to run to keep up with him. She unlocked the huge oaken doors of the main entrance. They creaked open, and LaGory hurried inside.

Moonlight filtered through the arched, stained glass windows. The high, vaulted ceilings vanished into the gloom overhead. LaGory nodded in satisfaction. He swirled his hand in front of him, and suddenly wall torches and racks full of votive candles ignited, flooding the empty, cavernous castle with an almost romantic glow.

He glanced up.

"Damn! There are a couple of candles that are unlit in that chandelier," he said.

Justine stared at him in shock.

"Don't try to tell me that's just another little discipline you learned in the Far East!"

His smile set her heart to fluttering. "I've always been something of an illusionist."

"Oh, don't give me that, Mr. Nilos LaGo..."

He was gone!

"Here's the problem, Justine," his voice announced from overhead. "The wicks are buried."

She gazed up and blanched.

Nilos LaGory crouched on the rim of the chandelier twenty feet in the air as he fussed with a couple of the candles. They suddenly burst satisfactorily into flame.

How had he gotten up there?!

"Much better!" he said. "A little dusty up here. We shall need to do some serious cleaning after we get settled."

Justine made a choking noise deep in her throat.

And then LaGory was sitting cross-legged on the long, massive dining table across the room.

"Dusty here, too," he said.

Justine paled, trembling in terror now. Who was he, or - perhaps a better question - what was he?

"You have nothing to fear from me," he suddenly whispered in her ear. Justine jumped and screamed.

Somehow, impossibly, he was right beside her!

He took her in his arms and their lips met, and all her misgivings melted away. Their tongues meshed; his calming presence in her mind settled her jangled nerves. She could feel herself responding to his deep, passionate kiss.

Finally he pulled away, and she opened her eyes.

She gasped again.

They were somewhere else now, in an enormous circular cell, a dungeon tower, built from heavy blocks of ancient, hewn stone. The dungeon resembled a deep well, its chimney mouth open to the night sky. Water dripped from the walls. The floor was covered with straw, and there were brass racks of flickering votive candles strategically placed about the chamber. Wall torches sputtered in sconces, fighting to burn in the stale air.

A massive altar of black onyx sat in the center of the cell.

"Ah, yes - just as I remember it," LaGory murmured.

"You...you've been here before?" a dazed Justine asked.

"Indeed...I built this place myself - in 1479!" he declared. "In a way it disturbs me to be forced to repurchase my own property. Perhaps we could come to an agreement of some sort."

Justine felt as if she was going to faint.

Nilos LaGory appeared to be dead serious in his declaration. He flashed his devastating smile at her, the smile that lit up his pale young face, but in an unguarded instant, she could really see into those hypnotic blue eyes. And they seemed as ancient as the world itself.

In that instant, she knew.

He did indeed speak the truth.

Justine Masterson was suddenly very, very cold.

"Oh, my God!" she quavered.

LaGory winced in pain.

"Let's leave Him out of this, if it's all the same to you." His smile quickly returned, and he said, "Ah - here's something that might interest you, Justine."

He indicated an upright rectangular wooden frame about eight feet high and four feet wide that stood near the altar.

"A rather fiendish device, actually. It's a whipping rack. I often used it to discipline disobedient servants."

"Why would I possibly be interested in that?"

Her eyes darted desperately around the dungeon, searching for a way to escape, but the only way out appeared to be a heavy wooden cell door with a barred window about thirty five feet up the side of the wall.

But there was neither a ladder nor steps up to the door that would free her from this evil pit.

"Oh, come now, Justine," LaGory chided. "I can tell what you're thinking. You're intrigued and curious. You know you want to try it out."

"Not hardly!" she snapped.

"Oh, but I insist!"

LaGory waved a hand, and in the blink of an eye, Justine was suddenly naked and spreadeagled and bound to the whipping rack, and the chill air raised gooseflesh on her skin. Her clothing and boots were neatly folded on the altar. Leather straps secured her wrists and ankles. The wrist straps were attached to an overhead beam on the frame which could be raised to stretch the victim. The straps about her ankles fastened her to the upright posts on either side of her body.

She was helpless.

"How dare you!" she gasped. "Free me at once!"

Justine's outburst earned her a vicious slap across the face. She tasted blood. A strange thrill of...eager anticipation?...coursed through her body. A flame burned deep inside her, growing brighter. She was helpless; he could do anything he wanted to her.

Anything...

That thought perversely excited her.

"No woman ever addresses me like that," LaGory hissed menacingly. "Don't ever do that again."

He gazed at Justine in lustful appreciation.

She was indeed beautiful. She was slender; her waist was tiny, and she had long, tapered legs and lush hips, and smooth, creamy thighs. A thatch of thick, blue-black curls nested between her splayed legs. Her breasts were large, tipped with dusty pink nipples that were hard and begged to be teased and played with.

LaGory put his hand between her legs and stroked her. She moaned and squirmed in delight, and he was not surprised when his fingers came away wet.

"So...the thought of the lash kissing your naked flesh excites you, eh?" he asked. "Naughty little minx! Be careful what you wish for..."

LaGory cranked the winch on the whipping rack, and with a chorus of popping tendons and snapping ligaments, he stretched Justine's lissome body as far as it would go without causing permanent damage. Her earsplitting screams echoed in the silent chamber. She hung there, panting in agony.

"P-please let me go," she sobbed.

"Now, my dear, you know you want it rough," he whispered. "You certainly did last night."

Her pain wracked eyes widened.

"Th-that was you? I...I don't remember anything..."

"Yes, love, that was me - and let's just say you were a true hellcat." The charming smile broadened. "I have been watching you for weeks. I had thought of making you one of my brides, but I realized you would be even more useful to me as a human intercessor, a go-between. Someone who could take care of my day-to-day business affairs. I have an...aversion to sunlight. You're very intelligent and have a wonderful business sense. The fact that you are beautiful beyond description and have...shall we say...rather depraved sexual proclivities only intensified my interest in you. Then last night, your...urges were stronger than ever - so I decided to come to you."

Suddenly his smile shifted into a feral grin as his incisors elongated into razor sharp fangs, and his eyes glowed red, like those of a wild beast. "And you were...delicious, my dear."

'Oh, God save my soul!' Justine thought 'He is a vampire!'

Justine screamed in terror as LaGory's hideous transformation continued. His skin took on the hue of a fish's underbelly, and his lips curled back over his fangs in a snarl. He struck, expertly finding the puncture wounds he had inflicted on her neck the night before. Justine shrieked in agony, but her pain was immediately supplanted by a pleasure such as she had never known. As he sucked her blood, something trickled into her bloodstream that made her feel wonderful, and sexually aroused beyond belief.

And now all fear of him was driven from her mind, replaced with lust and longing. She only wanted to please him, to serve him. Justine squirmed in frustration. She wanted to touch herself, wanted to do anything to relieve the sudden molten fire in her wet loins.

"Oh, Nilos!" she gasped. "Ohhhh...please...hhhhhhh...take me!"

He pulled away finally, and blood streamed over her breasts and belly from her torn throat. LaGory caressed her wound, and the bleeding stopped. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief as his features assumed their handsome human aspect once again.

"I shall take you in due time, my dear, but first I must pleasure you with the whip. You know it has always been one of your fondest desires - to be bound and tortured."

LaGory peeled off his shirt, and Justine admired his compact, well-muscled arms and torso. He chose a lightweight whip from an instrument rack.

"A perfect choice," he murmured. "Very painful, but will not cause much in the way of lasting damage. Forty lashes for the naughty little girl!"

He suddenly snapped the tip of the whip mere centimeters from her face, and smiled when she flinched and whimpered in delighted terror.

"Shall we begin?" he asked in a silken voice. He retreated several steps.

Then he cocked his arm and struck.

A spray of bright red blood spattered Nilos LaGory's face and bare chest as the echoes of Justine's agonized screams racketed around and around the circular walls of the dungeon tower...

*****

He was running...

No.

He was loping, inexplicably, on all fours through the night, a dark, massive shape against the moon shadows. The forest yielded all of her secrets to his extraordinarily keen senses. He could see the world in hues of violet and blue, in sharp relief, as if the woodlands were lit up by the noonday sun.

His amber eyes glowed unnaturally in the silver-blue darkness.

Every minute detail of the forest floor leaped out before his enhanced eyesight. He could hear a mouse rustling on the moors three miles away; his ultrakeen sense of smell sifted through thousands of scents wafting through the air until he sorted out the one for which he had been searching.

His prey...

He burst out onto the moors, racing over the heather, relishing his powerful new predator's body. He exulted in his speed, in his sleek muscles, solid as rock, under his thick, sandy pelt. Impatient power surged through his body. The creature he had become pounded noiselessly over the soft carpet of vegetation. The town came into view, and he entered and padded quietly along the alleys and back streets, clinging to the shadows. The bright light of the full moon was even stronger out in the open.

Her scent was pungent now; she was close by.

He found her. He recognized the building she had left; he had visited there many times in his human form, seeking the pleasures of the flesh. Her musk was strong, aroused. She had mated many times this night, and she stank of the mingled seed and sweat of the men who had used her.

His hunger was overwhelming. His massive chest and throat trembled as a deep growl rumbled out. She turned at the sound and screamed when she saw him, but when she tried to run, she tripped over the hem of her dress and fell.

He slaughtered her in a tidy English garden, behind a hawthorn thicket, tore into her body and gorged on her flesh. She came apart under the onslaught of his lethal fangs and talons, and her blood glistened on the ivy.

Then thick clouds passed in front of the full moon, and he shifted back into his human form. As he remembered who he was, he glanced at the slashed, torn face below him.

A face he loved...

"NO!"

Stefan Vorcla's eyes snapped open. He stared wildly around, dazed and disoriented. He felt sluggish and weak, and feverish.

Where was he? From the looks of things, he was apparently in an infirmary or hospital.

He shuddered. A nightmare - a horrible nightmare! Already it fled from his subconscious, like quicksilver slipping through his fingers.

Within seconds he could remember none of it.

Then he remembered something else... the moors...the beast. How long ago...

Ian!

He groaned aloud. Gods - at least he was still alive, but Ian Quimby had been all but torn apart by the thing. He hoped his good friend had died quickly.

"Stefan!"

He turned his head and struggled to focus.

The beautiful, tear-streaked face of a young woman swam into focus. Her eyes were smudged with dark circles; she looked as if she hadn't slept for days.

Tess!

"Oh, d-darling, I was so worried!" she sobbed. "I've been here sitting by your bedside since they found you. It's a miracle - how quickly you're h-healing. When they brought you in, I was sure you were going to...going to..."

She couldn't finish. She leaned over and gently kissed him.

Touched by her concern, Vorcla reached out weakly and stroked her soft, smooth cheek.

"Tess." His voice was a hoarse croak, barely more than a whisper. "I must know...when is Ian's funeral?"

"You son of a bitch!" an equally raspy voice complained. "Can't you at least wait until I'm dead before ye start throwin' dirt over me?"

Vorcla turned his head and gasped, his eyes widening.

"Ian - don't be offended," he began, "but why aren't you dead?"

Ian Quimby lay in the next bed, swathed in bloodstained bandages. There were still a few fading claw marks on his face, but that face had been nothing but bloody ribbons after the attack. He looked a damned sight better than he had the last time Vorcla had seen him lying on the moors, clawed into a lump of torn, unrecognizable flesh.

"I...I don't know," Quimby replied. "My belly wound has sealed up and I'm on the mend. All my wounds are healing, and so are yours. It defies explanation."

"Did you see what attacked you?" Tess asked quietly.

Vorcla shuddered.

"A thing from hell..." he murmured.

His eyes drooped.

"I am so very, very tired," he said. "I must sleep. So much to think about...but I must sleep now."

"Yes, darling," Tess whispered. "Sleep. There will be time to talk later. It's a miracle..."

Vorcla yawned.

A miracle indeed - but there was something unsettling, something sinister, about it. How could this be? By rights, he and Ian Quimby should both be dead.

But they weren't.

His head flopped to one side, and a large rectangular window came into view. Outside, in the gathering night, a pale yellow full moon floated in the sky.

Stefan Vorcla stared at it, riveted. The golden orb seemed to be calling to him; his blood tingled, and his skin writhed and itched. The moon stirred something deep inside him, and he could almost imagine there was a presence, another consciousness inside his mind - waiting, watching...

He gazed at the moon until it faded to a ghostly white and climbed beyond his view.

Then he fell asleep...



To be continued...



Link to part 1:

http://www.storiesmania.net/communit...-part-1-a.html

[Dark-huntress]

A dying crimson ember blushed dimly as the sun sank beneath the edge of the earth, and the horizon faded to an indistinct silhouette. Rose and gold melted across a violet sky, deeply saturated with the hues of dusk. The first stars of evening gradually winked on.

On the opposite side of the world, the bloated disc of a full moon, the color of a sliced melon, lurched into the sky.

First of i loved how you began. I liked it better then part one of Stephen vorcla to be quite honest. this one is beautiful imagery and very mysterious...has a touch of fairytale to it or an epicness. and her reining her horse and that beautiful imagery it looks like an image from the lord of the rings or david eddings story.

Still, it wasn't all bad. She was well-paid, a rarity for a woman; she was independent, lived in a fine house and wore expensive clothes. She was young and beautiful, and had scores of handsome suitors. She was subject to no man, and answered to no one but herself. The men who desired her dealt with Justine on her own terms.

And when Papa passed away, she would be very, very wealthy. Her mother died years ago, and Justine was an only child. Despite her annoyance at some of the petty tasks he bade her to do, she loved him very much, and her father doted on her.

Justine didn't mind waiting for her inheritance.

a background to her character. who she is & what kind of person she is. good.

"Oh, my God!" she quavered.

LaGory winced in pain.

"Let's leave Him out of this, if it's all the same to you." His smile quickly returned, and he said, "Ah - here's something that might interest you, Justine."

lets leave him out of this. haha. witty. love it. that why i like your characters.

okay i loved it better then previous one. very rich in detail and the writing. excellent as usual. but i got to say i still love the dracula story above all else! because you left the reader hanging . suspense and mystery and the characters. love them. but still this was still good. you don't need me to tell you that your a good writer.

[Nathan]

The plot thickens... :Evil:

As always, a nice addition to the Vorcla series. The only thing that didn't really sit well with me is:

There were still a few fading claw marks on his face, but that face had been nothing but bloody ribbons after the attack.

Now, it could just be me, but it doesn't quite seem to sit right. Maybe say

"claw marks on his face, but it had been nothing but bloody ribbons"

or something like that, but it's up to you.


Nilos LaGory. He's back, again. He seems to hang around like a bad smell, always showing up right when trouble is about to start. He's a very well written character; his personality, his sense of humour. He seems easy to get along with, but you'd never really trust him, whether you knew his true side or not.


I look forward to reading the next chapter.

[Vorcla]

Abuel - As always, thanks for taking the time to read and comment, hon, and for the kind words. Much appreciated, Shimmee.


Nathan - Well, the "face...face" is repetition for emphasis. I do it quite often. Everyone has a different way of looking at stuff like that. It's a judgement call. Glad you liked. And LaGory is the baddest of the badasses. He's bad news. Hopefully we'll get to Part 3 soon. Thanks for taking the time...

['Ginnis]

It couldn't have been him; he had never been anything but gentle with her, too, much to her chagrin.

Is the too necessary? Adds for some pretty awkward sentence structure...

"They are children of the night, and they are...pets of mine."

Love the reference to LaGosi, but considering you've created your own version of Dracula and the possibility of copy-right infringement...you may want to cut the children of the night line.

I had thought of making you one of my brides - I lost one recently

Tends to happen a lot...


God bless the victorians and their sexual depravity. Sado-masochism...old school style.

How...uhm...well, nice certainly isn't the word. As usual you excel at being both disturbing and intriguing all at the same times. I've pulled out a few things up there that were "eh" but the rest was very well done. Word of caution, I'd still be a little careful with the dialogue. You transgress into a slightly modern dialect between Justine and LaGory. It's incredibly difficult when you're doing a period piece to keep the dialogue realistic. Your use of formal titles when they addressed one another was great but some of the other stuff, particularly Nilos' coarse dirty talk is pushing it...he may be fulfilling her sexual desires and fantasy's, but you have to keep it appropriate for the times. Him calling Kara a bitch would make sense...there are other salacious names that would better suit Justine. He's been around and seen a lot, we know this as authors, keep that in perspective when you're writing his vocab. He's thoroughly dangerous and has a brutal temper, but likewise he's a time tried gentleman, a deceptive facade that makes him even more dangerous.

Bravo.

[Vorcla]

Made suggested changes, dear. I wish I had time (and you had time) for me to run these past you - especially the dialogue - before I turned them loose. I always learn something.

As always, thanks for taking the time to read and dissect, Kara.

[jeannerené]

Rick,

I will be back tomorrow for a second read and comments, but first ... instantaneous impression... "love it" ...

I'll be back to tell you why ....

.j.

[jeannerené]

Hi ... sorry I didn't mean to be gone to long ...

First, the entire write is filled with wonderful descriptive images and settings.

A dying crimson ember blushed dimly as the sun sank beneath the edge of the earth, and the horizon faded to an indistinct silhouette. Rose and gold melted across a violet sky, deeply saturated with the hues of dusk. The first stars of evening gradually winked on.

On the opposite side of the world, the bloated disc of a full moon, the color of a sliced melon, lurched into the sky.

Justine Masterson reined in her dappled mare at the crest of the hill overlooking the castle and gazed up.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight," she recited. "I wish I may, I wish I might...be anywhere but here tonight."

The castle brooded in the gathering gloom on the wind-ruffled heather moors below her, its ancient stonework draped in a lattice of green English ivy. The structure perched on a rugged cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the North Sea. One day in the next few centuries, the sea would claim the edifice as the margin of the cliff face crept inland, undercut from beneath and washed away. Tendrils of glowing fog drifted in slowly and began to fill the valley, snaking between the bloody, moonwashed gravestones in the small cemetery at the property's edge.

"That's odd," she mused. "It was such a nice day today, and so dry."

The castle gave Justine a proper case of the shivers.

Why would anyone want to live here in this godforsaken place? And why, pray tell, would this client insist on inspecting the place at sunset? The castle had been built by an expatriated Wallachian warlord several hundred years earlier and constructed to his exact specifications, fashioning it into an exact replica of his stronghold in Romania, down to the last turret and battlement and dungeon keep.

Wow ... fantastic intro to the Second Part. I was immediately lost in your world and your century.

The entire section is filled with captivating (and deliciously naughty at times) sights, sounds and scents. It is "alive" and your characters dangerous and beguiling.

The possibilities of which way this story will develop would keep one on edge ... more... more please!

The reader is very "full" after reading .... but still wants another helping and dessert too!

I really am enjoying the chronicles...

.jeanne

[Vorcla]

Wow - I'm flattered, Jeanne. Description is one thing I pride myself on, and I'm glad I succeeded here. Poor Justine, I'm afraid, has some harrowing times ahead of her. I'll move on to Chapter three as soon as I can. Again, thanks for the read and comment! Much appreciated...

[dearest]

Hello there! ^_^ Finally, I get a moment to sit down and read this

snaking between the bloody, moonwashed gravestones in the small cemetery at the property's edge.

I mean, I know it's a vampire's property, but are the gravestones really bloody (or are you trying to say that the moon makes them appear bloody)? A little confusing.

That's the only nitpick I saw. And, you know, I know that I've read this before. Maybe my comment didn't take last time, I don't know. Well, I'm perfectly happen to read it again and I hope that bringing this back to the surface will help alert other SVC readers that there's a new chapter. ^_^ Again, great work.

[Vorcla]

Yeah - the moon was the color of a sliced melon. I was going for the color of the tombstones being enhanced by the color of the moon. Maybe too subtle.

Thanks for the read and comment. Much appreciated.