When she was fairly certain that she wasn't about to meet final death at
the hands of a ruddy-blond haired man who she'd assumed, up until a few
moments previously, was simply an army priest a little antsy about sharing
his world with the kindred, Irene took a seat on the edge of the VIP cot
and let the charged emotional frenzy of the space between them cool down
and settle into its new configuration.
She thought over the sight of his aura, and had to give herself a mental slap on the wrist for her desire to indulge in viewing it again. It wasn't as if her husband was sitting by her side to shake her awake if anything untoward should happen. Alone, and left to her own devices, she could stare at the pearl-fire wisps of ether all night long; although she was fairly certain that, in common parlance, she had him by the throat, she wasn't sure how long the effect would last, and she couldn't risk being in a prone state of dazed reverie when the man of God shook off her spell and continued his... jihad. No, no time for Irene's inner patron of all things good and beautiful to come out; time was of the essence, and if there was one thing about which Father Mulcahy had been absolutely correct, it was that, from time to time, vampires needed to get nasty if they're going to survive.
By the throat, yes, that's how the vampire held him, or by the heart, perhaps. It was rather hard to tell, as Mulcahy's heart had leapt up into his throat when he realized that he was about to kill the most sublime creature to ever tread the face of the planet.
Creature? No. No creature. Goddess. The God he served, just now benevolent and righteous, faded, obscure, severe and heartless before this idol of immortal femininity, flesh, and blood. The chaplain was in love, completely and utterly bewitched.
"Father..." Irene began, slowly.
Mulcahy lowered his head in supplication, and, though he could only scarcely force himself to speak unbidden, the appellation and its implication that he would ever worship anything other than this Love itself grated on him, "John, please, dear miss, John," he asked, mild as a dove.
The surprise lifted Irene's chin in notice. This man's will was indeed strong. But she didn't let it show through, a warm and somewhat wild expression coming over her face. You catch more flies with honey.
"Yes, if you wish, then, John. Come sit by me, and tell me what's become of our Scourge, please."
Without a second thought he came to her side and sat, looking down at his feet momentarily before his eyes were drawn back up to the radiant being next to him. He wanted to touch her. But he didn't dare. Not until she told him to. Until that, he watched her with yearning, and the story of the previous night's encounter came flowing from his lips, the words coming forth of their own accord to please his newfound love.
Irene listened. Within a few moments she got the gist of what he was going to say, but she didn't stop him from going on at length about the conversation and decapitation that the priest was reciting with no obvious notion of what he was saying, but with a lust burning in the way he looked at her which, granted, she'd seen in a good number of individuals, but which seemed incongruous in this man's features. Unable to help herself, sure of her self-control, she let the white flames reappear in their swarths around him, and soon found herself gazing as intently at him as he was of her.
So intently was she enjoying the sight of his aura that she hardly noticed when the story was done. She stared into his face, and he into hers, each entranced by the other, one by means of the Toreador's charm, the other by means of Toreador's curse, the curse leaving her unable to move, the charm making him move only slowly. He inched closer, and, finding no resistance, and, moreover, a quite fond gaze in his vampiric lover's eyes, pushed his awkward virginal lips to her quite experienced ones and held there.
That woke her. She shut her eyes briefly, letting the patterns of god-fire leech out of her retinas, then pulled back and opened them. She cleared her throat significantly at him and gave him a look of severity. He shrunk back away from her.
"I'm-- I'm sorry..." he mumbled, confused at her mixed messages. He wasn't very experienced at love-affairs, after all. But if she would just tell him what she wanted him to do, anything at all, and he would do it. Anything.
"No, no, don't apologize, it's my fault," she sighed, and, in the manner of a little girl on the playground, wiped her mouth off on her shirtsleeve as she went deep into thought. Then, looking up, she smiled, causing a responding smile to appear on the dazzled hunter's face.
"Look, Father," she insistently called him by his given title, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman." She giggled briefly, then frowned a bit at the dashed look he was giving her.
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," she frowned more deeply. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."
Mulcahy's forehead wrinkled in consternation and he stood up, his spirit trying to pull itself from her power, but failing miserably and falling ever deeper in love with her. How honest she was, how virtuous.
"Sit down, please."
He did so.
"Thank you. I can't have you deciding to hurt my husband, myself, and your former commander when I go and turn my back on you for a moment. I'm afraid I'll have to take more permanent measures. Please have it in your heart to forgive me one day. I know you're just trying to be a good man, and your good opinion would mean a lot to me."
He lifted a hand, trembling in sheer admiration, and, with the air of a worshipper meekly touching the lovely ankle of the Goddess Venus, felt a lock of her hair. "Could I ever have otherwise than a good opinion of you?" he whispered, the notion of this concept beyond him at the moment.
She cleared her throat and pulled back her hair from his touch, "Yes, I think it's possible, dear," she stated bluntly, "But not for a while, at least."
As if in explanation of her last statement, and in reply to the questioning expression the doting hunter gave her, she let her fangs grow into razor-sharp implements, thin and long, and, bracing herself, bit down on the heel of the palm of her hand.
She told her thrall to drink, and held her palm, drizzling the vile, red, angry liquid, to his mouth. He drank, and the potent excitement of the foul blood roused his senses, made his desire for her and her lifeblood all but overwhelming. She held him back with the force of her arm, and he seemed to grow attached to the limb, a sensual parasite clinging to the wound and drinking from it until she willed it to close.
Mulcahy broke away when he found no more of the vital liquid forthcoming. Her blood raged in his veins and made him feel more alive than ever. He watched her, wide-eyed as he imagined the sheer power she held within her.
"Good," she uttered tentatively, standing up. "Now, wipe your face, we've got to go see about you with my husband."
~
She thought over the sight of his aura, and had to give herself a mental slap on the wrist for her desire to indulge in viewing it again. It wasn't as if her husband was sitting by her side to shake her awake if anything untoward should happen. Alone, and left to her own devices, she could stare at the pearl-fire wisps of ether all night long; although she was fairly certain that, in common parlance, she had him by the throat, she wasn't sure how long the effect would last, and she couldn't risk being in a prone state of dazed reverie when the man of God shook off her spell and continued his... jihad. No, no time for Irene's inner patron of all things good and beautiful to come out; time was of the essence, and if there was one thing about which Father Mulcahy had been absolutely correct, it was that, from time to time, vampires needed to get nasty if they're going to survive.
By the throat, yes, that's how the vampire held him, or by the heart, perhaps. It was rather hard to tell, as Mulcahy's heart had leapt up into his throat when he realized that he was about to kill the most sublime creature to ever tread the face of the planet.
Creature? No. No creature. Goddess. The God he served, just now benevolent and righteous, faded, obscure, severe and heartless before this idol of immortal femininity, flesh, and blood. The chaplain was in love, completely and utterly bewitched.
"Father..." Irene began, slowly.
Mulcahy lowered his head in supplication, and, though he could only scarcely force himself to speak unbidden, the appellation and its implication that he would ever worship anything other than this Love itself grated on him, "John, please, dear miss, John," he asked, mild as a dove.
The surprise lifted Irene's chin in notice. This man's will was indeed strong. But she didn't let it show through, a warm and somewhat wild expression coming over her face. You catch more flies with honey.
"Yes, if you wish, then, John. Come sit by me, and tell me what's become of our Scourge, please."
Without a second thought he came to her side and sat, looking down at his feet momentarily before his eyes were drawn back up to the radiant being next to him. He wanted to touch her. But he didn't dare. Not until she told him to. Until that, he watched her with yearning, and the story of the previous night's encounter came flowing from his lips, the words coming forth of their own accord to please his newfound love.
Irene listened. Within a few moments she got the gist of what he was going to say, but she didn't stop him from going on at length about the conversation and decapitation that the priest was reciting with no obvious notion of what he was saying, but with a lust burning in the way he looked at her which, granted, she'd seen in a good number of individuals, but which seemed incongruous in this man's features. Unable to help herself, sure of her self-control, she let the white flames reappear in their swarths around him, and soon found herself gazing as intently at him as he was of her.
So intently was she enjoying the sight of his aura that she hardly noticed when the story was done. She stared into his face, and he into hers, each entranced by the other, one by means of the Toreador's charm, the other by means of Toreador's curse, the curse leaving her unable to move, the charm making him move only slowly. He inched closer, and, finding no resistance, and, moreover, a quite fond gaze in his vampiric lover's eyes, pushed his awkward virginal lips to her quite experienced ones and held there.
That woke her. She shut her eyes briefly, letting the patterns of god-fire leech out of her retinas, then pulled back and opened them. She cleared her throat significantly at him and gave him a look of severity. He shrunk back away from her.
"I'm-- I'm sorry..." he mumbled, confused at her mixed messages. He wasn't very experienced at love-affairs, after all. But if she would just tell him what she wanted him to do, anything at all, and he would do it. Anything.
"No, no, don't apologize, it's my fault," she sighed, and, in the manner of a little girl on the playground, wiped her mouth off on her shirtsleeve as she went deep into thought. Then, looking up, she smiled, causing a responding smile to appear on the dazzled hunter's face.
"Look, Father," she insistently called him by his given title, "I know you might feel like... that... now, but... well, you won't, always, and you don't want to do anything that you'll regret for the rest of your life. Okay? Besides which, you're forgetting: I'm a happily married woman." She giggled briefly, then frowned a bit at the dashed look he was giving her.
"I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it will, later, when all of this will go away," she frowned more deeply. "And I'm explaining it now because you might be too angry with me later to want to speak to me and let me explain myself. So I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for what I'm going to have to do to you."
Mulcahy's forehead wrinkled in consternation and he stood up, his spirit trying to pull itself from her power, but failing miserably and falling ever deeper in love with her. How honest she was, how virtuous.
"Sit down, please."
He did so.
"Thank you. I can't have you deciding to hurt my husband, myself, and your former commander when I go and turn my back on you for a moment. I'm afraid I'll have to take more permanent measures. Please have it in your heart to forgive me one day. I know you're just trying to be a good man, and your good opinion would mean a lot to me."
He lifted a hand, trembling in sheer admiration, and, with the air of a worshipper meekly touching the lovely ankle of the Goddess Venus, felt a lock of her hair. "Could I ever have otherwise than a good opinion of you?" he whispered, the notion of this concept beyond him at the moment.
She cleared her throat and pulled back her hair from his touch, "Yes, I think it's possible, dear," she stated bluntly, "But not for a while, at least."
As if in explanation of her last statement, and in reply to the questioning expression the doting hunter gave her, she let her fangs grow into razor-sharp implements, thin and long, and, bracing herself, bit down on the heel of the palm of her hand.
She told her thrall to drink, and held her palm, drizzling the vile, red, angry liquid, to his mouth. He drank, and the potent excitement of the foul blood roused his senses, made his desire for her and her lifeblood all but overwhelming. She held him back with the force of her arm, and he seemed to grow attached to the limb, a sensual parasite clinging to the wound and drinking from it until she willed it to close.
Mulcahy broke away when he found no more of the vital liquid forthcoming. Her blood raged in his veins and made him feel more alive than ever. He watched her, wide-eyed as he imagined the sheer power she held within her.
"Good," she uttered tentatively, standing up. "Now, wipe your face, we've got to go see about you with my husband."
~