Baptism in Blood
Millie Dynamite
Baptism in Blood
An Erotic Horror Tale
Millie Dynamite
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© Copyright 2017 by Millie Dynamite
Published by Red Kitty’s Publishing
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Shiloh Young
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under the age of 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.
Baptism in Blood
A cold chill ran up my spine as we passed through the ornate iron gate. It was like the way the spray of moisture cools you when you cross a bridge in the mountains over a babbling brook. I put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, then withdrew my touch. He slowed the car to a crawl and turned his attention to me. I knew he sensed my unease. I shook my head. Still, the tremor traveling up and down my spine wouldn’t wane. A feeling of dread overwhelmed me as we approached the massive structure.
The old gothic mansion looked like a nightmare come to life. Overcome with emotion, I let out a sharp, raspy, “Oh,” when I first saw the building. Thomas slowed the car to a stop, then pushed the gear shifter into park.
“We can just go,” he said. “No pressing reason to meet my mother and sister … yet.” Fear had clutched me since we decided to make this visit. His last girlfriend died in this old, battered home. She suffered a stroke brought on by acute anemia.
“I’m fine, just chilly,” I lied, though I couldn’t even tell you why. “Besides, you told them we would be here for the weekend.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t be a big deal if we don’t stay. I’ll drive back tomorrow, give them a jazzy song and dance, and everything will be all right.”
“No,” I insisted. “I’m okay, dear.”
My heart pounded hard. So intense it hurt from how it throbbed in my chest. I wasn’t okay at all. The pressure inside my head pulsated, trying to explode. Even so, I had to go through with this meeting, lest for the third time, I turned chicken and ran. His mother is intimidating, a member of a royal family from Romania, Estonia, Hungary, or some place around there.
A countess, beautiful, seemingly eternally young. The Countess had this regal bearing and appearance. I saw pictures from a few years before of his mother and sister at some fundraiser. Butterflies battled in my stomach as we neared a large covered section in front of the main entrance. Two formidable statues of unearthly creatures stood guard above the covering. The beasts were complete with snarling fangs, claws to snatch with, and horns high on their heads.
The gray stone structure and these horrendous gargoyles could frighten The Wicked Witch of the West. Thomas Baorti grew up in this place, this dreadful dwelling. If this nightmare of a childhood home didn’t scare him, why should it alarm me? It shouldn’t. It’s just a house, a massive structure, to be sure. Still, only a stone-and-mortar abode.
When we pulled to a stop, he turned to me. His beautiful gray eyes locked on mine. His will penetrated me, demanding me to be calm. My heart slowed, my breathing returned to normal, and the gooseflesh disappeared. His look did that to me. His mere gaze made everything all right.
Thomas’s gray eyes captivated me the first time we met. I felt drawn to him, like the song in that play. We saw each other across a crowded floor. I felt this calling deep inside me. We’ve been together ever since. In truth, we are almost always together. We don’t cohabitate, but once his mother gives her blessing, we will live together.
An elderly gentleman descended the stone stairs, leaving the front door ajar. He pulled my door open and held his hand to me. He was a stern-looking man with gray hair and reddish-brown, steely eyes. The old fellow’s face looked like a weather-worn landscape, with deep wrinkles and a few scars showing great mileage.
“Ma’am,” he said, helping me out of the car. “Master Thomas, your mother wants to talk to you in her chamber. Miss Lancer, I think you will find Master Thomas’s sister in the drawing room. Follow me. After I show you to the drawing room, I’ll attend to the luggage.” The man’s accent was thick and foreign.