Sacrificial Lamb: Sacrifice Tales Part Two
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
Sacrificial Lamb
By Mary Not Wollstonecraft
Description: Sacrificial Lamb is a gripping tale of love, betrayal, and desperation. Can a vampire’s thirst for blood be appeased? In 1896, the sleepy town of Lazarus by the Sea, Maine, feared the worst when the Anderson family disappeared. For months, the vampire Lazarus ravaged the community. Oddly, Lazarus’s interest changed from women to men after the Andersons vanished. Unknown to the town, Lazarus was gone, and Lacey Anderson, who destroyed him, replaced his terror with her own. On New Year’s Eve, 1896, Jamison Williams heard the call from a beautiful, mysterious woman who quickly captured his mind, body, and soul and made him her protector. Jamison discovered beneath her alluring facade the bloodthirsty vampire hungered for more than his blood and wealth. All too late, Jamison Williams realized he was a stepping stone, and she wasn’t interested in him. Lacey Anderson desired his only child, his son, Adam.
Tags: erotic soul interview, vampire erotica eroticism, romance fucking sex sexy, bloodsucker nosferatu, bdsm explicit horror, taboo hunter novel sexual, rapturous undead love, seductive ungodly sexual, bites vampiric femdom dominatrix, wild fucking supernatural
Published: 2023-05-01
Size: ≈ 5,153 Words
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Sacrificial Lamb
Her life is in your blood, your desire is in her body
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
© Copyright 2020 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously-any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Sacrificial Lamb
-Lazarus by the Sea, Maine-
Ezekiel Lazarus founded Lazarus by the Sea in 1610, a community on the northernmost coast of Maine. The tiny fishing village of Lazarus hugged the Canadian border, just shy of being in the country. One side of town faced eastward to the Atlantic, while the remainder of the community lay in a cove to the northwest.
Ezekiel Lazarus brought with him over 200 souls. Four hundred more followed, and 300 hundred more, and finally, in 1615, 1229 people called Lazarus by the sea their home. The winters were merciless, the summers pleasant, and the nights often filled with terror.
For a dark presence traveled with the first ship. A being who hunted by night. Draining the blood of its victim while their husband slumbered next to them. Sometimes, a daughter was taken to where no one knew. Once some disappeared, they never returned, and their bodies were never found.
But as some died, more came, for Ezekiel brought more. More laborers, more fishermen, more shipbuilders, more dock workers. He imported whole families to the little village. Husbands, wives, children, and parents, filled with joy at the opportunity of a new life in the new world. But Ezekiel Lazarus brought them to this place not for their skills but for their blood.
For Ezekiel Lazarus was a centuries old Nosferatu, one of the undead, feeding on the blood of the living. For life is in the blood.
They constructed a massive manor for Lazarus with a maze of tunnels honeycombed underneath. Over the centuries, those who disappeared found their final resting place in this labyrinth. Bodies were strewn about, with boxes of dirt stashed in this spot or that alcove. Fifty of them in all.
In the center of the tangle of dead ends, tunnels turning back to the main cavern, or winding up to secret exits, sat an oblong box with a large L in the center of the lid.
In the fall of 1896, Lazarus was no more. Though no one in the village knew this.
Even a vampire can lose himself when the fires of lust mingle with love. Or at least what one believes is love. A deceitful woman, determined to end his reign of terror, held him in her arms until the sun, shrouded by the morning fog, hung high in the sky.
The creature who authored thousands of deaths, created many other undead monsters, and ruled over this tiny village for 286 years, incinerated by the cleansing rays of the sun. But Ezekiel Lazarus’s blood, in her veins, turned her. And the vampire huntress became Nosferatu herself.
Life is in the blood.
The blood of others called to her. That gnawing necessitousness took its place in her body, mind, soul, and blood demanded more blood. The night she first awoke from death, Lacey Anderson called her father.
With the sun’s setting, the urgent need nagged her soul, and she rose. A thirsty, constant, shameless requirement demanded satisfaction. With her urgent yearning eating away inside, she thought of her father.
“Papaw, come to me. Now!”
With her voice inside his mind, calling him, Jason Anderson went to his daughter without thinking of his need or considering what danger there might be. With mindless abandon, knowing full well what his daughter had become, Anderson wandered with quick steps to the manor. She wanted him, needed him, and he realized she’d be his death.
In the grand scheme of things, what a small sacrifice to give one’s life to one’s progeny.
Everyone wondered where the two prominent members of the community were. They assumed Lazarus killed them. They were utterly wrong. In a strange twist of fate, the murders Lacey Anderson sought to end continued. The only difference, men died rather than women.