Chapter 2 Inkletter Scribe Xii
Inkletter Scribe Xii
Crypt Castle, servants’ level
“I’ll tell you anything. Anything! JUST—DON’T—STOP.”
Ink stared down in detachment at the mindless vampire he was fucking. Nadje. His latest mark.
He moved with mechanical precision, his mind far from her flushed, vacant face and heaving breasts. This dolt was a mouth breather. And nothing was so unattractive as a befanged, mouth-breathing vampire.
Wet gasps through fangs. He stifled a shudder.
But his job as a spy often forced him to do things—and beings—he’d rather not do. Ink had danced rings around her before he’d even unsheathed his most persuasive instrument: his gorgeous cock, which was nearly a foot of madness-making flesh.
“More, incubus!” she cried, pale limbs twisting against his ebony skin. When he’d first begun his seduction, she’d twirled her dark red hair and asked, “Do they call you Ink because your skin’s so black?”
Vapid dullard. She had no idea the name Inkletter carried twelve generations of scholars—historians who’d chronicled the Ubus Peoples and all the Lore before the Exile from Gaia.
She moaned, mind fogged, body moving on instinct alone as she struggled to steal the relief he cruelly withheld. To wrap her nether lips around the base and root him fully within.
Her copious arousal drenched his shaft, glistening along the veins. He frowned inwardly. Harder than usual. And we have hours yet to go.
The servants’ level around them was a bruise of damp stone and stale heat, the air clogged with bloodroot incense. He would have liked her own scent to season his incubus meal, but that smoke smothered everything, even down here. Thick enough to blind the gods.
One level below them, the weavers’ looms made a ceaseless hum—warp and weft, warp and weft. Every vibration traveled through the floorboards and into Nadje’s bed frame, making the whole wretched room shiver as if the castle itself had a pulse.
Despise this place.
“Please,” Nadje whimpered. “Incubus, please!”
“Not quite, little flame,” he murmured, and she shuddered at the endearment, as predictable as gravity. “Not quite.”
A new royal attendant, the fool hadn’t even connected the timing of her appointment with his sudden “interest.” Nights of patient seduction—slow smiles, casual proximity, the careful drip of charm—and now, in her moans, she’d already spilled secrets worth her weight in Berserker gold.
The bears would pay handsomely for this intelligence. Something was brewing in Bloodreach, a plot centered on Emilia, Neculain’s youngest. Ink meant to uncover it, one thrust at a time.
A bell clanged faintly as weavers changed shifts. Somewhere in the corridor, boots passed, then faded. No voices. No laughter.
Servants knew better than to laugh.
In the throes, Nadje’s dazed eyes drifted to his throat. Her tongue brushed a fang. The insult flared like heat in his gut.
Though he too fed on others, he reaped pleasure, not death. And this vampire was plump, probably drank her fill of blood every night. But her eyes were clear, so she’d never drained a being to the quick. Not yet.
Bloodreach was a place where “yet” was a countdown.
What am I doing with my life? The thought came uninvited, bitter as ash. His true calling—chronicling the past, decoding the patterns of history—burned brighter than this sordid work. He was Inkletter XII, master scribe of the Skein, and whoever wrote history directed the future.
“Aren’t you hungry, Ink?” she begged. “Feed from me! Please!”
Greedy, foolish female. He plucked her pouting coral nipples and shafted her core, but not too deep. “I’ll take care of you, sweet. Soon…” he crooned with a voice that made females spasm from the resonance alone.
He hardly needed to try. Incubi fluid called stav did much of the work. A tinge of it in his pre-semen caused euphoria, but doses of it over three penetrations would make a partner dependent on it for life.
A quiet chain. Invisible. Unbreakable once clasped. Everything about me sexually slays her.
He should take a vacation after this job, a palate cleanser to wash away his debasement.
Umber’s vineyards ran purple this time of year.
Demons like him—magnificent, moneyed, powerful—were always welcome.
Even demonkin paused there, letting sunlight and sweetness convince them the world wasn’t always a battlefield.
“Gods, I’m going to come so hard!” Nadje clenched the rough woolen sheets of her squeaking bed, and her head thrashed as she neared her peak. “It’ll feed you well, incubus. I’ll feed you so good!” Her voice pitched into delirium. “So hard. So hot. Wet, wet.”
Bloodroot. Loom hum. Stone sweat. Nadje’s breath in broken little sobs.
“Not yet, my beauty.” He shallowed his thrusts with ruthless precision, making an immortal like her dance on the knife’s edge between release and carnal insanity. “I want to hear your voice in my ear. You said you’d tell me anything…”