Claire awakens in a hospital room to find a man sitting quietly, waiting for her.
Except that he is no ordinary man, adorned as he is with dark wings and burning in black flames.
Is it the angel of death, come to take her away at last? Or is he the lord of all vampires, come to steal the prize from his adversary, the Messenger, the being who has healed Claire's blindness?
Flying high above the city lights in his cold arms, Claire shall find herself brought to a lonely fortress where blood drinkers await her and werewolves roam the darkness, all of them waiting for the ravishment to come.
Warning: Please be advised that this story of 8,500 words contains graphic sexual scenes that are described in an explicit manner. It is intended uniquely for those persons of 18 years of age and older.
The wolf ran with its nose close to the forest floor. Wide paws flew to the ground with unerring precision, finding firm footing in an eerie silence. If it had been observed, one might have said that the beast flowed rather than moved as it passed under and through thick underbrush.
The night made of it silver and gray. In daylight, its coat held ruddy colors tinged with an almost fox like red. But the moon overhead betrayed none of its true colors under the cloak of darkness, keeping its pact with the creatures that rendered up homage.
The animal crested a small rise then lifted its muzzle into the air. Large narines flexed as it scented the air, then its mouth dropped open, its jaw chuffing lightly over the night odors like a wine taster might savor a fine Bordeaux.
There was cold power drifting down from the sky. A power tinged in raw blood. And, within its grasp fluttered a small, warm heart, beating rapidly, birdlike.
Yellow eyes scanned the horizon and, then, swiveled hard at the same time that its great ears pricked up to the sound of muffled wing beats. Following the track of the sound, the wolf saw the dark form of a woman fall from the sky toward a country manor across the valley.
Never before had the wolf been able to discern the presence of the power that dwelt within those walls. However, this time, there was no mistake as the woman struggled in the arms of an otherwise invisible being.
The wolf knew the demesne well. It had been charged with surveilling the environs, and nothing escaped its notice. Great hounds ran within as guardians, yet daylight hours held no sound beside them. The night, however, was another matter for it was then that the blood drinkers rose to life.
At the last moment, the woman that fell from the sky swooped up in a long lazy curl, then settled down behind the high stone walls that surrounded the manor.
The wolf stared, waiting with unnatural patience, and then it stretched out its forelegs like a lazy hound. The scent of musk and rich forest soil rose in the air, thick and redolent. Heavy, wide paws grew long, the dewclaws descending to oppose the lengthening digits. The muzzle of the creature drew in, flattening, while exposing the enormous canine fangs within its jaws.
With practiced ease, the animal rose up on its hind legs in the same moment that those limbs changed proportion, thighs running long and heavily muscled to knees that gave way to thickly veined calves.
The werewolf named Clash held his transformation at the midpoint, as was his preference. To pass entirely to human felt weak and pointless to him. And beside that, the signal must be given in the voice of a wolf, powered by the great lungs in his cavernous chest.
A howl rose from him to echo in mournful notes across the forest....