Come to Me (2 page)

The young princes drank and thumped their goblets on the wooden table around Lucia, their lustful gazes centered on her—Dragosh's innocent, untouched, pure-minded sister.

Samira made the dream Lucia quiver at being the center of such crude male appraisal. The girl shivered in the cold, her nipples hardening, their points visible through the thin linen of her garment. She tried to cover herself with her arms, but the movement caused her shift to fall off her shoulder. Her hair draped against her cheek as she bent her head forward, leaving the back of her neck exposed.

There was something vulnerable and deeply sexual about her pose on the table. The sleeping Dragosh sensed it, and he flinched. He tried not to look directly at Lucia, her blatant sexuality touching on a deep taboo within him. She was his
sister
. His little sister. As far as he was concerned, she was a blank doll beneath her clothes. She did not have the body parts of a normal woman, and certainly none of the desires.

Samira watched Dragosh's reaction with amusement. He was bothered that it was his Moldavian enemies who surrounded Lucia, but even more disturbed by seeing his innocent sister in a sexual situation.

It was supposed to be the Moldavians who were the focus of the nightmare fear, but Samira was suddenly inspired by Dragosh's reaction to watching his sister. She decided to throw in a little extra torture for him, via Lucia herself. This could be fun.

One of the Moldavian princes grabbed hold of Lucia's hem, pulling on it from behind so that her breasts and the curve of her belly stood out clearly, as well as the smooth muscle of her thigh and the shadowed valley in between. Samira made the dream Lucia toss back her tawny lioness hair, a salacious glint in her eye, a hungry grin forming on her soft lips. She thrust out her chest, giving the Moldavian men a better view of her breasts.

A soft cry of distress escaped from deep within Dragosh's throat. He tried to lunge for the table and snatch his sister away, but he was held helplessly in place by Samira. "Lucia! What are you doing?" he cried.

His sister winked at him, then cast a come-hither look to one of the more handsome of Bogdan's sons. She slowly licked her lips.

Dragosh gasped, his body going tense. "No, no, no, no!" he scolded, and loudly clapped his hands together, as if startling a cat away from a bowl of cream.

Lucia gave as much heed as would a hungry feline.

The Moldavian prince pulled again on Lucia's hem, harder, and she dropped to her knees, grinning. The other Moldavian in front of her offered up his goblet, his eyes lightening to the golden tone of a wolfs. Lucia refused the goblet, laughing, shaking her head, but he grabbed her by the hair and tilted her head back, pressing the cup to her lips.

"Drink it, little cat!" the Moldavian ordered.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" his brothers growled, their sharp teeth shining, the thud of their own goblets on the table a drumbeat that matched the beating of Dragosh's frantic heart.

"They're filthy beasts, Lucia!" Dragosh shouted, and he fumbled at his side for the sword that wasn't there. "Don't let them touch you!"

Lucia pulled her mouth away from the edge of the goblet. She was smiling wickedly, her eyes shining. "They rut like beasts, too! They're animals, and hung like—"

Dragosh gave an unmanly shriek. "You stop that! You're a good girl! You don't know anything about men!"

"Hung like
bulls
."

"Lucia!" He gulped for air.

"And they have tongues like dogs."

"Tongues?" Dragosh asked, startled, momentarily confused. "What of their tongues?" His eyes were wild and fearful as he awaited her reply.

"They lick me, lick me, lick—"

Dragosh moaned in horror, squirmed and twisted, then shook himself all over. "Wicked child!"

"I am wicked, and I
like
it. Just like I like their huge—"

Dragosh yelped, and he tried to lunge again for his lecherous sister, tried to snatch her off the table, as if doing so could somehow turn her back into a good girl. Samira held him helpless, leaving him only the power of his voice. "Lucia! You don't like being touched! You're a virgin!"

"Where am I virgin? They've been
everywhere
!" she shouted in glee. Then she laughed, throwing back her head. The Moldavian prince poured the drink in her mouth, and as she swallowed in great gulps, one of the princes behind her pressed his palm to her buttocks, then slid his long fingers into the dark, damp place between her thighs. Her thin shift the only barrier between his hand and her flesh, Lucia arched back in pleasure.

Dragosh slapped his hands up over his eyes, unable to watch. This was his sister—his sister!—engaging in sexual acts. Samira forced his hands down, and he yowled in protest, squeezing his eyes shut, shaking his head in denial.

The Moldavian prince holding Lucia's hair tossed his goblet aside and lowered his head to her breast, his wet mouth sucking hard at her nipple through the cloth, while making animal noises of greed. Lucia moaned and rolled her head, her thighs parting in invitation.

Her face turned to the side, she opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of her mortified brother. "You gave me to them, and now I'm their whore," she said. "Thank you, brother, for I have sinned!"

"No! I forbid it!" Dragosh cried in his sleep, thrashing at the bedclothes, the sound of his cry echoing in the dark, cold room where he slept.

Another Moldavian prince lifted Lucia, straightening out her legs and then laying her back upon the table, the backs of his hands becoming coated with dark fur, his nails turning into claws. He shoved her shift up past her hips, exposing the dark golden curls of her sex. He lowered his face, its front elongating into the muzzle of a dog, and breathed in the scent of her. His tongue, long and pink, came out and lapped her through her curls. The hair on his face seemed suddenly heavier, his ears growing pointed, his features transforming into something half canine.

In the Waking World, Dragosh cried out again, his eyes moving wildly behind his closed lids as he was forced to watch intimate acts performed upon his sister by his monstrous enemies. His body tried to rise, but he was paralyzed by the bonds of sleep, and by Samira perched upon his chest, holding him in dream thrall.

Lucia cried out in pleasure, the fur-covered hands of the enemy princes slowly pulling her legs open yet wider. They fondled her breasts, and another long tongue plunged into her mouth. The prince between her legs latched his lips tightly to her sex, sucking and licking, shoving his face at her with a force to rock her hips and make her breasts sway with the movement.

Dragosh's entire body stiffened with revulsion; and the scene of the dream wavered as his mind fought with every ounce of its strength to destroy it, repulsed as much by seeing his pure-hearted sister in sexual acts as he was by who—or what—was doing them to her. Samira-clung tight to Dragosh, using all her powers to keep him locked in the horrifying dream.

Lucia raised her arms, and then wrapped them around the neck of the prince kissing her, her fingers digging into his hair to hold him closer to her as she took his tongue into her mouth. She parted her thighs wider, and lifted her hips to meet the mouth and hand of the other prince. That one pulled away, and one of his brothers took his place, climbing onto the table with his hose untied and down around his knees. An impossible, nightmare-sized erection, brilliant red, emerged from the pelt at his loins and stood stiff and ready.

Lucia moaned, lifting her hips, the lips of her sex wet with desire. The prince planted one hand at the side of her body, and he used the other to guide his manhood toward her waiting sex. He groaned his pleasure as flesh met flesh, and as his engorged head began to part her.

"Noooooo!" Dragosh cried in his sleep, thrashing at the bedclothes, the sound of his cry echoing in the dark, cold room where he slept. The wench beside him snorted and half-woke.

"They're
wolves
," Lucia said to her brother, grinning, her eyes glowing, the pupils turning into vertical slashes like those of a cat. "Dacian wolves. We're cats and dogs, and oh! how we snarl and fight!"

In the Waking World, Dragosh cried out yet again. The wench beside him stirred and opened her eyes, blinking somnolently at the dark room, then with eyes still full of dreams she made out the winged shape of Samira perched atop Dragosh. The wench shrieked as if the gates of Hell had opened before her.

The wench's shriek let Dragosh break free from the bonds of slumber. His eyes flew open and he screamed, sitting up in bed, the covers falling off his shaking body. The dream shattered, all images falling away into the night, their shards leaving deep gouges on Dragosh's soul.

Samira fluttered off the prince, hovering in the air. For a moment he looked directly at her, the fog of dreams that still lingered in his mind letting him sense her presence, or perhaps even see a beat of black wing or a brief glow of blue eyes. The wench in his bed was babbling in terror, but Dragosh ignored her.

The Maramuran prince stumbled to his feet, his pale body ghostly in the moonlight, his bare feet as bony and white as a skeleton's against the stone floor. He ran to the door, his long gray hair wild about his head. He hurtled by within inches of Theron, who watched in surprise as the haunted man passed.

Dragosh pulled the door open, startling the men on guard outside. He ignored their queries, running naked down the shadowed corridor, his flabby buttocks quivering with each slap of his feet upon the floor. His men followed in confused pursuit.

Theron and Samira followed. "What did you
do
to him?" Theron asked.

Samira shrugged, amazed herself at the dramatic effect of the nightmare.

Dragosh came to another guarded door, which he pushed open without ceremony, stopping on the threshold. His breathing was labored and rough, catching on sobs, and he stood and stared with the eyes of a madman into the darkness within.

Samira peeked into the doorway over his shoulder, and with her perfect night vision she made out the slumbering form of a young woman—a girl, really, no more perhaps than fourteen human years of age. The browned-honey tangle of hair on the pillow told her that this was Lucia.

After a long moment, Dragosh's breathing quieted as he gradually realized it had all been a dream, and that his sister remained as yet untouched by the bestial hands of his enemies.

In Dragosh's heart, though, Samira knew that his sister was no longer innocent. He now believed the wickedness of Eve to be a seed within her, awaiting the chance to sprout and grow.

Although the dream had been nothing more than a made-up story, it had touched him deeply enough that he would take it as a warning from the heavens. There would be no convincing Dragosh that Lucia would remain chaste if given the least chance to do otherwise. He was certain that a nymphomaniac lurked inside her, awaiting the chance to break free and rut with beasts and Moldavians.

The aging prince turned away from the doorway, and with glazed, sightless eyes walked slowly back down the corridor toward his own room. His movements were stiff, as if he were made of wood, and the dry skin of his soles rasped against the stone floor as he shuffled along. He moved as if something within him had broken on this night.

A whisper of human regret pierced Samira where her heart should have been. She saw that Dragosh's love for his sister, restrained and conditional as it had been, had yet formed the purest part of his soul. It had been as if Lucia were the chalice that held what remained of his own innocence, his own belief in what was good and right. Now that chalice had been spilled.

Every time he looked at Lucia now, he would see the wolflike sons of Bogdan lapping at her breasts, pulling at her clothes, and her ecstatic acceptance of their touch. Innocent though Lucia yet remained, in her brother's eyes she was tainted.

Samira wondered what frightful changes might happen in Dragosh himself, now that she had destroyed the one pure place in his heart.

She was surprised by her concern, her own sudden sense of guilt. It wasn't her way to feel such things. It wasn't any succubus's way. Then again, neither was it Samira's way to break the rules of the Night World.

"Go," Theron said, interrupting her thoughts.

She looked up at him, a question burning inside her. Was Theron's bargain worth the price they had just made Dragosh pay?

Theron touched her hair, his long, strong fingers combing through a silken red lock, and then he let his hand rest heavily on her bare shoulder. He had never touched her before. She felt his sexual power coursing through his hand, setting off involuntary responses in her body that were echoes of the responses he had roused in thousands of sleeping women throughout the centuries. "You did as I asked, and I thank you. Now go." His hand tightened. "This shall not be spoken of beyond you and me. Promise me that."

Samira shivered, aware of what Nyx, the Queen of the Night, might do were she to discover this deed they had done and all the rules they had broken. When she nodded her agreement to be silent, he released her. Samira's shoulder stung where he had touched her, seared by the unexpected power in his hand, even as her sex throbbed in the shadow of stolen mortal desire.

She was eager to be away from both Theron and the scene of this misdeed, as if by escaping both she could forget it had ever happened; forget that she had spoiled the protective love of a brother for his innocent sister; forget that she had driven him half mad, and seared images into his memory that he would never be able to forget. She began to slip away into the plane of the Night World, but before she was gone she glanced back, once.

Theron stood on the threshold of Lucia's doorway, his glowing eyes gazing intently upon the sleeping, innocent princess of Maramures.