Darker Edge of Desire Read online

  Praise for Darker Edge of Desire

  “Diverse, edgy, and infused with fantasy and horror, this chilling anthology of incendiary short stories is certainly not your typical Halloween romance anthology, but it will appeal to fans of the dark, erotic, and forbidden who don’t expect traditional love stories or ‘happily ever afters.’”

  —Library Journal

  “When your midnight cravings come calling, Darker Edge of Desire is the book you want on your nightstand. Wedged between these covers are fourteen tales of seduction and submission, from lust most carnal to virginal awakenings—and even (despite the title) moments of achingly tender sweetness. Darker Edge of Desire is a chocolate box assortment of stories that depict passion in all its varieties, most—but not all—of them with a supernatural twist, no two of them the same. Bon appétit.”

  —Alma Katsu, author of The Taker Trilogy

  Copyright © 2014 by Mitzi Szereto.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Tempted Romance, an imprint of Cleis Press, Inc., 2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: D. Sharon Pruitt/Getty Images

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10987654321

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-940550-05-3

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  Kate Douglas

  INTRODUCTION

  THE WICKED WIFE

  T. C. Mill

  “RED HOUSE”

  Zander Vyne

  SISTER BESSIE’S BOYS

  Gary Earl Ross

  REYNOLDS’S TALE

  Adrian Ludens

  THE DRACULA CLUB

  Mitzi Szereto

  MOONFALL

  Rose de Fer

  LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE

  Kim Knox

  THE WILDEST SPIRIT

  Sacchi Green

  BLOOD SOUP

  Benji Bright

  THE ALCHEMIST’S DAUGHTER

  Rosalía Zizzo

  THE HOLLOW IN THE BLACK CLIFFS

  Madeleine Swann

  DEVOURED BY ENVY

  Jo Wu

  THE HARDEST KISS

  Cairde Glass

  ZAPADA ALBA

  Tracey Lander-Garrett

  AFTERWORD

  Rachel Caine

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  If a thing loves, it is infinite.

  —William Blake

  FOREWORD

  Kate Douglas

  I am not by nature a fan of the Gothic tale or the truly dark story, not with my unwavering Pollyanna personality and unwillingness to connect with the darkness, and yet there are those times when I find the darkness appealing—compelling, actually. Those times when I see it as another side of the same coin—just as powerful, just as necessary, just as strongly desired. It’s as if those tales of death and demons, of devils and depravity touch a part of the soul that occasionally needs to be reminded evil does exist. That without evil, there would be nothing truly good because the one must flourish to give its opposite a reason to exist.

  A counterweight. The concept of yin and yang. The idea that opposites are interconnected, that you can’t have one without the other. It’s all about balance, and yet the one thing that can come closest to tipping that delicate scale is sexual desire: visceral, soul-searing arousal so all-consuming in its power that it can drag a soul from the heights of ecstasy into the darkness of absolute despair, or lift that same soul from hopeless desperation into unfathomable joy. The fascination lies in the journey, the choices that are made, the actions taken.

  Standing on the precipice, balanced precariously between good and evil, every protagonist in any situation has a choice to make—leaping one way or the other, toward the darkness or into the light. But when the lure of darkness is swathed in sexual desire and soul-searing need, the balance is compromised, especially when leaping into the abyss can bring pleasure well beyond any mortal concept of heaven. Love and desire can cruelly twist the best of intentions, or they can build armor impervious to whatever twisted weapons evil might bring to bear against them.

  Twisted? Yes, desire can be so intricately, beautifully twisted, so perfect in its dark and dangerous attraction that there exists no other choice but to follow that compelling lure, follow without regard to safety or personal danger. Arousal, the body’s clamor for completion, the mind’s desire for answers, the soul’s need for fulfillment—all acting in that unifying drive for consummation of desire.

  So often our everyday lives have become bland: a process of survival, going off to work, taking care of family, putting meals on the table, going to bed and then getting up and doing it all over again. The highs and lows, the darkness and the light have faded into featureless shades of gray and beige. But knowing the darkness is out there, believing in the sensual lure of danger and desire, that overwhelming arousal that heightens the senses and increases the heart rate—just knowing the darkness exists, gives reason for hope.

  Because if the darkness is there, tugging at the edges of the bland landscapes of our lives, then the promise of completion remains. The highs and lows, desires and fears that bring seasoning to a tasteless existence, are still swirling and seething—out there, yet still within reach. And if that seasoning exists, so does the hope for something more.

  Desire isn’t always fulfilled. It isn’t always perfect, and sometimes Darker Edge of Desire leads down paths better not traveled. And yet the lure is powerful, the path well marked, the warnings clear. Following that twisted, dark and dangerous way is rife with promise and tainted with despair, but always there is hope. Hope for something more, for something sublime.

  All you need do is put fear aside and step into the dark.

  Kate Douglas

  Author of the Wolf Tales series

  INTRODUCTION

  Desire. We’ve all felt it, experienced it, been tormented by it. It’s the most normal and natural of human emotions. Desire can be many things to each of us, appearing in various forms and at various points throughout our lives. Often it might just sit there, simmering beneath the surface until such time as it can be safely brought to fulfillment.

  But there are times when that desire becomes darker and more forbidden. And then it can be so much more…

  Gothic literature has always possessed a dark attraction ripe with the promise of the forbidden and the sensual, using desire as its key motivating force. This theme has been successfully explored in my anthology Red Velvet and Absinthe, though with a slightly gentler touch. In Darker Edge of Desire, I have taken the sexualized Gothic and ratcheted it up a few notches into the danger zone, opening the door to a side of lust and love that only the most courageous dare to venture through. Here you will find stories with some very sharp edges as well as those that possess the haunting subtlety of the classics.

  In these fourteen tales love and lust know no boundaries, and all forms of creature—from the corporeal to the supernatural—can be found. Darker Edge of Desire will introduce you to demons, shape shifters, werewolves, immortal beings, automata, ghostly spirits, vampires and even creatures never conceived of in your most disturbing dreams. You will also be introduced to everyday women and men who have found themselves walking down a pathway into darkness. And indeed, there are even some who prefer to remain there!

  Passion is the drivi
ng force behind each story, leading to events that don’t always end well, though there are still some happy endings to be found. We see this passion revealing itself in such places as a candlelit cellar featuring strange erotic rituals; a woodland populated with howling coyotes; a mysterious underworld filled with steam and fire; the isolated villages and cemeteries of Transylvania; a castle made from rose-colored glass; the teeming streets of nineteenth-century Baltimore; old New England with its spells and potions; and even the segregated American South. And let’s not forget those classic Gothic favorites, the drafty old manor house and Victorian asylum.

  Darker Edge of Desire contains an international and diverse cast of writers, resulting in a unique and exciting collection of sexy Gothic tales guaranteed to titillate and thrill as they take you into dark places you’ll not easily forget.

  So turn up the light in your oil lantern. It’s time to get reading!

  Mitzi Szereto

  (Writing from an undisclosed location in the Carpathian Mountains)

  THE WICKED WIFE

  T. C. Mill

  She looked forward to her wedding night with Andrew Cobalt as she never had with her first husband.

  Aria sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Uncut since before her first marriage, it fell to the floor in a rich, satiny river the color of oak wood. Andrew came in silently, without the train of revelers customarily accompanying a bridegroom, but she saw him in the mirror.

  She thought of him as young, though he was only so by comparison. Gray frosted his thick black hair. His whippet-thin body was a scholar’s, but kept fit by frequent exercise. His open collar revealed a tanned chest, rippled with patterns of muscle.

  She turned to greet him. “Good night, Andrew.”

  “Good night, Berengaria.”

  “Please, call me Aria. Berengaria is a long-dead queen.”

  A tight smile crossed his face as he went to the bed. He lay down, opening his collar farther—idly, for his own comfort. He waited, neither summoning nor inviting her. He knew she would come.

  Aria put down her brush and said, “This is a lovely house.”

  “Purchased from a recluse, or perhaps his executors. It has been well kept, and the solitude may be welcome.” Wiry fingers traced the embroidery on her pillows. “Does it please you, Aria?” A slight hesitation before he said the name, but his fingers never stopped stroking, petting insensate silk.

  She rose and came to him. “It does,” she said.

  Andrew undressed, pulling the shirt over his head before she could reach for it. This bared more of the compactly powerful build she’d glimpsed—along with, in a jagged line across his lower ribs, a silver scar.

  Aria traced it, raising shivers, until he captured her hand. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  She looked into his eyes—dark, and with a gleam like new ice over deep water. “And now…?”

  He bent forward to kiss her and reached for the hem of her nightgown.

  His fingers skimmed her flesh with the same ungentle, almost impersonal touch with which he’d graced the coverlet. Not that he was brutal or cruel; the pressure became lighter, slower as he skimmed her private folds, slipped between them to massage the threshold of her channel. Aria spread her legs, smiling simply, honestly, at the pleasant sensation. She’d never felt anything like it before except the weak enjoyment she’d given herself, when her previous husband snored loudly enough that she knew it wouldn’t disturb him. Andrew moved with more surety and skill, and complete concentration.

  The smile melted away as his thumb rubbed her rosebud swell in small, sweet circles that brought the heat pooling between her thighs. Desire was a heavy ache; dew beaded over his stroking fingers. Andrew’s breathing changed as he felt it, becoming shorter and harsher.

  Aria opened herself to him, and once his finger pressed inside, right where she wanted him, she reached down and grasped his wrist, guiding. Between the two of them they soon had her riding his hand. She had never, ever done anything of the kind before, but it was natural, obedience to an irresistible impulse. No doubt Cobalt was surprised to discover he had such a wanton wife—though not, Aria thought as she caught a glimpse of his expression through the haze of her own pleasure, disappointed. His fingers flexed inside her, stealing her breath, but it was too late to try to tame the creature they’d let loose—if he even wanted to try.

  Some men would be uneasy at awakening such passion in a woman, something they couldn’t control. Aria’s first husband would have been, if he’d ever managed. But Andrew Cobalt caught fire from it. After withdrawing only long enough to strip off his trousers, he kissed her—briefly, but not dispassionately, with soft lips—and pressed her inner thighs, spread her folds. His thumb met her nub again as he sheathed himself, toyed with her as she exclaimed, riding out the new sensation. Just as they built it, the rhythm fractured, ceased as he lost himself in her. Bewildered herself, Aria slid her fingers down between their bodies to finish the job as her other hand grasped his hip, urging him on until her nails dug in.

  He had not exactly proven a biddable husband so far, except in this. And here was one task—now that she had such a handsome, vibrant partner—where she could not be a demure bride. Yet it seemed they were both satisfied. She mused as she lay with Cobalt’s arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band, his head pillowed on her breast and one hand stroking her long hair, which lay over their naked bodies like a blanket. Yes, this could be quite a satisfactory marriage. Well worth replacing her old one.

  Aria hadn’t planned to marry again after her first husband’s death. It had been such a strain to her, frankly, that once it was over she desired nothing more than peaceful retirement on the simple estate he left her, having no other heirs. Seclusion came naturally—never having a chance for sociability as Bannerman Lowell’s wife, she found her few acquaintances melted away as the whisperings started.

  Poison, they said. Well, of a sort. The old man’s aversion to walnuts proved rooted in sound sense, as the chopped handful in his tart of one evening cut off his breath with alarming swiftness. Aria had not put them there, and was disgusted at the insinuations that she had, frustrated that civility dictated she must never mention those rumors, enraged that no one would believe her disavowal, anyway. What sort of woman would murder her husband just because he bored her?

  Yet it was true she had kept quiet about the cook’s mistake. The poor man had suffered enough—and even worse had been the lot of his daughter, the laundry maid that Bannerman had taken to visiting of nights. It had been a relief for Aria, spared that tedious duty. But unkind to the girl—she could admit that now, after it was all past.

  Andrew Cobalt had come up to the secluded township with a friend for the autumn hunt, and chance brought them near Aria’s cottage. She offered the men refreshment, and they’d spoken of the weather, of luck with the game.

  Cobalt listened more than spoke, but sat up straighter when he heard her name: Berengaria Lowell. He’d heard the rumors, perhaps. His friend cared nothing of them, because her ale was good (and he could stomach walnuts, he’d once told her with an irreverent laugh, without trouble). But Cobalt seemed the sort to care—and not distracted by the quality of the ale—and so once he left, Aria had not expected to see him again.

  It disappointed her.

  Yet, not many days later, a servant came to her door with a message from Andrew Cobalt, asking permission to visit. Aria granted it. She drew more drink from the cellar. She combed out her hair and braided it with two spans of scarlet ribbon.

  Surely Cobalt noticed, but he was not rude enough to stare. They spoke of inconsequential things—how his hunt had gone, prospects for the harvest. She served him cool cider with her own hands and he did not hesitate to drink it. When he was gone, she spent the evening reliving the sound of his voice as he said unimportant words.

  And then he came again.

  They spoke more, laughing sometimes. They drank and ate together. And it was after several weeks
of this that he asked to marry her.

  He asked. Aria clung to this proof that he wanted her, the man she wanted more than she’d ever imagined wanting a man before, and he wanted her despite the ugly, dogging rumors.

  He’d proven passionate in her bed and kindly enough elsewhere. His courtesy, she felt certain, was sincere; at times that was all that differentiated this marriage from her first. That and the fact that he seemed disinclined to bother servant girls.

  Days passed in which they said not five words to each other, despite nights in which they knew each other as if they were the last two creatures on the earth. When she came upon him in a room he looked up as if at an interruption, and though often he smiled afterward, it was clear the interruption was unwelcome. Even after they made love, he would not lie long in her arms before moving away with a sigh; in the morning a gray and melancholy mood would hang around him. Once she tried to tease him out of it, asking his help to comb her long hair. He gave it, moving the brush in long, firm strokes, letting the rich strands fall between his fingers. But then he left, and the look on his face was such that she never dared ask him again.

  That was new; her presence never had made her last husband gray and melancholy.

  It was almost a relief when Andrew Cobalt took a hunting trip in the month after their wedding. For the next six or seven days, Aria would be alone in truth.

  She decided to spend the time exploring the old manor house. Andrew offered her a tour on their first day as man and wife, but it only covered the main living quarters. There was so much left unseen, perhaps even places he did not yet know.

  Well then, Aria thought, I’ll be the one leading the next tour. If he trusts me enough to follow me into shadowy spaces.

  The house seemed made of shadowy spaces. Windows, even in the library, were few and thin, while ancient tapestries and heirloom portraits made the walls thirsty for any drop of light. She lit a candelabra from the silver pantry and carried it with her down the west corridor. Many rooms opening onto it were empty, though some, startlingly, teemed with sheeted furniture like ghosts of old occupants.