The Kindred Vampires, Book 2
by Celine Chatillon
eBook ISBN: 978-1-77111-302-1
In Liverpool, Edwin Carstairs finds desire in the arms of the sensual Ophelia Jones and her darkly exotic employer “Hamlet”. When a vampire hunter threatens Hamlet, the three lovers’ blood bond is tested. Can Edwin save his sire and return home in time for the 1904 World’s Fair?
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April 3, 1904
My dear George—
Please don’t think this missive a misguided attempt by some unknown person or persons to comfort you during a time of great loss. I swear to you that I am your brother Edwin. The date above is correct. You will notice that my handwriting is as it has always been—horribly formed and rather hurried in its execution. This letter is no joke, no mean-spirited prank. I am very much still here on earth with you and Mama and Papa, but it will take some explaining to tell you why I am writing you at this time rather than immediately coming to see you all in person…
Liverpool, England, ten months earlier
Edwin Carstairs swallowed hard as he looked up at the forbidding edifice in front of him. Such a long way from home… Why had he agreed to travel to England from St. Louis to aid his distant cousin’s business? He was a recent college graduate in architecture, not a shipper and financier like his father. What could he possibly learn from this experience overseas? What could he do to help his relatives’ flagging commerce? Design a new office building?
“Eh, guv’ner, you that Carstairs bloke they’s been expectin’?’
Edwin turned around and stared at the dirty-faced, rag-tag urchin with the horrendous Liverpuddlian accent.
“Yes, I’m Carstairs. Do you work for Mr. Beecham?”
The boy of about twelve shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Edwin didn’t know how to interpret that comment. The urchin turned and dashed down the street toward the docks, yelling, “He’s here! He’s here!”
A moment later a rather roundish gentleman in a bowler hat came strolling casually up the street. There was little denying the family resemblance, as they shared the same light brown hair, gray eyes and fair complexion despite the Englishman’s stoutness and well-developed waistline compared to Edwin’s tall, thin carriage. His cousin removed a stump of a cigar from his fleshy lips and thrust out a pudgy hand.
“Bertram Beecham, at your service. You’re my long-lost American cousin, I take it?”
“Yes, I am.” Edwin tried in vain to slip his hand out of Beecham’s monstrous grip but to no use. Beecham pumped his arm more vigorously than a rusting water pump on a thirsty summer’s day. “I believe my father wrote and told you I was coming?”
“Good ol’ Edgar—how is the bastard?” Beecham smacked him on the back, spat in the gutter and grinned. “‘Ere! Don’t act so shocked, son. Eddie was great imbiber and gambler. We had a grand ol’ time last time he was in jolly ol’ England, grand it was.” He put an overfriendly arm around Edwin and lowered his voice. “You don’t mind if I call you Eddie as well? You can call me Bertie.”
Edwin didn’t care for casualness from perfect strangers, no matter if they were distant relations or not. But he dare not make an enemy out of Bertie Beecham on the first day, as Edwin knew his father would hear of it if he did. There would be no end to the scolding. He took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“That’s fine by me.”
The first day he struggled, the first week he managed okay, and by the end of three weeks Edwin had learned to work beside his English cousin with a minimum of grief. Eventually he had been given a project that he could really sink his teeth into—designing a new dock for Beecham’s Trans-Atlantic Shipping. Happy to finally be able to use his newly gained knowledge of architectural design, Edwin decided he’d celebrate that evening with an extra pint or two at the corner pub.
“You sure you’ll be able to get to your rooms, son?” Bertie asked as he gathered his hat and umbrella after sharing a quick pint. “My missus will be expecting me home soon. Sunday church tomorrow, you know.”
“No problem, Bertie. Just one more round of darts, and I’ll be out of here.”
But one round went to two then three… and Edwin lost count of how many pints of bitter he had consumed. By midnight he felt so relaxed and happy that he’d lost all sense of caution. He strolled out onto the dark, rain-slick street, whistling a merry tune.
Suddenly he saw her standing under a lamppost… the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Hello,” she said in a voice as smooth as silk. “My name’s Ophelia Jones. What’s yours?”
“Eddie—Edwin C-Carstairs,” he stammered.
Her dark eyes radiated pleasure; her full red lips looked like cherries to be sampled and savored. The weak light of the streetlamp highlighted her waist-length, blue-black hair to perfection and bathed her milky white skin in a golden glow, changing her from a mere mortal to a goddess. She flashed a dazzling smile and boldly took his hand.
“Well, Eddie-Edwin, would you like to go somewhere warm?”
He meekly nodded. Before he knew what was happening he found himself being led among the twisting and turning back alleys to the steps of a grand mansion sitting behind a high, wrought-iron fence. It seemed to be on the wrong side of the Mersey, as the dockside was not the most prestigious of addresses in Liverpool, but perhaps its owners didn’t wish to hobnob with the snobs on the other side of the river?
“Who lives here?” Edwin wondered aloud. “It looks a photo I saw once on a stereoscope slide. I know—it looks just like the Taj Mahal!”
Ophelia tossed her ebony locks over her shoulders and laughed. “Very good. My dark prince, Hamlet, did say he was once a Rajah from Hindustan. Care to come inside?”
Edwin knew he should go home immediately and sleep off the drink, but the double enticements of a voluptuous woman and a magnificent example of architecture tempted him far beyond his ability to say no. He nodded yes and quickly followed the dark-eyed angel up the steep steps and into the mansion.
“May I take your coat and hat, sir?” She cocked an eyebrow and gave him a good look over as she helped him out of his outerwear. In the light of the chandelier in the grand entrance he took in the whole of her outfit. Her burgundy organza gown fit snuggly around the bodice and long white gloves stopped just shy of her capped sleeves, revealing a tantalizing inch of smooth, ivory skin. No proper young woman would dare to be seen walking alone so close to the dockyards, in such a shockingly plunging neckline with loose flowing hair, and without a cloak?
Edwin slowly licked his lips. He had seen young women like Ophelia before…in St. Louis. They weren’t the type of girl his mother would want him to converse with, but they were the type of girl his brother had tried to introduce him to once.
His older brother George had taken him to a house of ill repute, insisting that he take one of the girls upstairs and become a man instead of a whimpering brat. He had been only sixteen at the time, and terribly shy around the opposite sex. He had turned and fled the scene, the prostitutes laughing at his cowardice.
Seven years later, Edwin still felt rather shy and awkward around females. A nagging feeling that his parents wouldn’t approve of him picking up a lady of the evening kept him from getting any closer to his hostess.
“Something to drink?” she asked as she removed her gloves in a slow and hypnotic fashion. Edwin felt his heart race and his underclothes become too binding. She motioned him toward a drawing room with plush high back chairs placed next to a blazing fire.
He shook his head and backed away from her. “I’d better not. I’ve had more than my share of the devil’s liquid refreshment tonight already.”
Ophelia laughed, a warm, sensual laugh, at his use of his mother’s favorite term for alcohol. She grinned wickedly and grabbed his hand. “Come on. Once you’ve entered the devil’s lair it’s impolite to refuse his hospitality.”
At the touch of her hand his better sense left him. She had entranced him. He followed the buxom black-haired beauty without hesitation to the plush high back chairs, gratefully sinking into soft, red velvet fabric with a sigh. Ophelia sashayed her hips as she walked to a small sideboard and poured a brown liqueur in a snifter, presenting it to him as she sat on the floor at his feet.
“I hope you like it. It’s from the reign of King Louis XV.”
Edwin let the brandy slide down the back his throat and send tingles of warm deliciousness coursing through his veins. He sighed and relaxed.
“Hmmm… Where did you get one-hundred-eighty year old bottle of cognac?”
“My Hamlet received it as a gift from the king himself.”
“No, silly! King Louis. They were very good friends I take it.”
The alcohol must be interfering with his hearing. “You must be mistaken. That would make your friend well over two hundred years old.”
Ophelia rubbed her hands slowly against his thighs. “My Hamlet is older than he looks, he says.” She knelt and laid her head upon his knee and peered up with a look of what Edwin could only describe as pure lust. She wanted him? She actually wanted to go to bed…with him?
Edwin Carstairs had been raised gentleman, and he had come from a good home. He couldn’t allow himself to do this. He knew he shouldn’t. What would his mother say, or his father, or his brother?
“Why do you call your friend ‘my Hamlet’?” Edwin said, trying not to fall under the spell of Ophelia’s darkly sensual charms. “Is he your benefactor or your employer?”
She smiled sensuously at Edwin and began to stroke the inside of his thighs. “My Hamlet is both. He found me, a lost soul wandering the streets of Liverpool far from her home in Wales, and took me in and gave me a home and clothing and gainful employment. I call him Hamlet because he has never told me his real name.”
Edwin began to perspire. The wonderful sensations from his groin threatened to overwhelm him. His cock began to swell and rise of its own accord until it noticeably stretched and threatened to pop his fly buttons. Ophelia began to lick her red lips as if she thirsted for the taste of him.
“You finished with your drink?” she asked in a husky tone.
He meekly nodded and handed her the glass to place down beside the chair. “How can you accept such gifts from a man whose real name you don’t even know?”
She shrugged. “Once you’ve met him, you’ll see.”
“Um, shall I meet him soon?”
Ophelia laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s out tonight. We have the place to ourselves—all to ourselves.” And with that she quickly pounced upon his pants buttons and released his hard member to the mercy of her eager hands and lips.
Edwin gasped, but he did not force his beautiful young hostess’s attention away—instead he caressed her thick mane of hair and pressed her face closer still. Her velvet tongue licked and lapped at the head of his cock while she slipped her hand through his fly and gently stroked his balls and sac. He groaned and sank further into the plush chair.
Such exquisite torture! Edwin had never experienced anything like it before. He felt his blood tingle, the world shrinking to just the two of them, his cum rising. He didn’t know what to do. Very rarely had he allowed himself the mercy of release while pleasuring himself in the bath and even then he felt guilty and soiled. To allow this temptress to take his seed in her mouth… That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of him, would it?
“Oh, Ophelia, you mustn’t. You have to stop now. I… I’m about to…”
Her reply to his weak plea came in the form of taking his penis even deeper into her throat. She sucked harder and caressed his scrotum, as if begging him to share his cum with her .
Wouldn’t George be proud if he could see his baby brother now?
With that thought, Edwin obliged her without further hesitation. He shouted and thrashed about in his seat. Undeterred, she continued to lap his ejaculate as it shuddered forth from his cock, draining him of all resistance.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked as his orgasm waned. Ophelia raised her face and smiled saucily up at him, licking the last bit of his semen from her wet, red lips.
With a sigh he closed his eyes and stroked her silky hair. Minutes—or perhaps hours—later, he knew not which, Edwin allowed himself to be escorted upstairs and into Ophelia’s bedroom.
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