Diana paused, staring down towards the dim glow of fire in the valley below as they returned to their trucks.

"The fire looks pretty extensive," Duncan commented. "Do you really think it will be confined to only a thousand acres?"

"I'm afraid it will cause more damage than that," Diana answered gravely. "'Abruptly the poker of memory stirs the ashes of recollection and uncovers a forgotten ember, still smoldering down there, still hot, still glowing, still red as red.'"

"William Manchester," Duncan said, recognizing the quote.

"From "Good-bye, Darkness." I have the feeling that the darkness is about to greet us."

She turned back to her guest. "Well, ready for your history lesson?"

"I'm ready for anything you can teach me. I'm just not sure I can drive after that dessert. My legs are awfully shaky right now. I can't believe we just did that."

"Spontaneity is good for the soul. Are you complaining?"

"No. Just...stunned."

"I told you I liked a good stick."

"No kidding!"

"Don't worry. It's only another ten miles up the mountain." Duncan cast a leery eye towards the dark mountains. "Don't worry, I have eyes like a cat," she reassured him, unconsciously echoing his earlier thoughts. "I have driven these roads thousands of times in the dead of night. Just stay on my tail and you'll be fine."

"Oh, no problem. If I can keep your tail in sight, I'll follow it."

"Will it help if I go slowly?"

"Yeah, do that. Slow and easy."

"I can start off that way. I have a hard time staying slow, though. You get me going, and I just want to take off."

Diana led the way cautiously up through the twisting, dark terrain, deferring to her guest's desire. With seven miles behind them, the aspen and pines becoming interlaced with hemlocks and redwoods, she signaled a left turn. Duncan followed her onto a rutted dirt road leading deeper into the darkness. She stopped to open a pipe gate barring the road, then locked it behind them.

His understanding of her need to carry a weapon grew as they traveled through canopies of close-knit trees and past heavy boulders crouching like giant fat toads along the side of the road. The road looped through the woods, up and down steep hills, weaving between the boulders. Duncan's mind began to play tricks on him as he caught fleeting movement in the woods out of the corners of his eyes. Ghosties and ghoulies, he thought.

As they crested the final steep incline, Duncan's mouth dropped open as he beheld Diana's cabin. Built of diagonal redwood strips and native rock, the two-story structure occupied nearly 4000 square feet of space. Exterior lights glimmered through the softly waving limbs of giant sugar pines and redwoods that nestled the home. A deck ran along the circumference of the upper level, the multitude of windows overlooking the front of the house alight with a welcoming glow.

Duncan made out the outline of a small barn with an adjacent pasture, all enclosed with rail fencing. The gravel driveway ended at a detached two-car garage. The garage doors slid up effortlessly as Diana clicked her automatic opener and motioned for Duncan to park on one side as she guided her truck into the other.

"This is a cabin? More like a mansion!" The front landscaping was uncomplicated, a green lawn of hardy grass interrupted by aspen, ash, and pine trees. A trellis arched over the sidewalk, covered by a thorn-laced shrub which grew in a four-foot high border enclosing the front yard and continuing around the sides of the house.

"It started out as a very small cabin when my parents first moved here," Diana said, unlocking one side of the double front door, a massive solid oak barrier. "It burned when I was a child and this is what we replaced it with. We just always knew it as "the cabin."

Diana conducted Duncan on a tour. "Three bedrooms upstairs, two down. Mamma and Pappa were always ready for company. Then Gabriella came along, so there was plenty of room for the two of us."

The ground floor housed an airy kitchen with a center island and a well-stocked walk-in pantry, pine-furnished dining room, and two bedrooms separated by a wall of closets.

Taking up the middle ground was the living room, a cavernous chamber with pine plank walls and plush earthy carpeting. Heavy redwood beams soared above in the cathedral ceiling. A rock fireplace occupied nearly one entire wall, highlighted by track lighting. There were two small ovens set into the hearth which was punctuated by heating vents.

"Mamma loved to cook as well as paint. I would wake up to the smell of bread baking in these ovens. Not to mention how warm it stays in here during our winters."

A large portrait of a young couple was hung over the fireplace. "Your parents?" Duncan ventured a guess.

"Yes. Andrei and Adela Lorraine, soon after they were married. " Her father was dressed in an officer's uniform. Duncan recognized the symbols of the former Soviet Union on the man's sleeve and collar. He was blond and green-eyed, a thick mustache giving him a dashing appearance. Diana's mother was stunning, russet-haired, with high-flung cheekbones, a patrician nose, and almond-shaped copper eyes.

"Your mother was a soldier?" Duncan asked, noticing that Adela Lorraine also wore a uniform.

"Yes. A very brave soldier."

"I can tell. Looks like she has more medals than your father."

"She fought in more battles. She, too, "got around." She went where she was needed. Leningrad, Minsk, Stalingrad-Hell in the middle of a snowdrift, as she called it."

"What did she do?"

"What every good Russian soldier did-she killed the enemy."

"This was painted by one of my mother's friends. They were able to smuggle it out when they escaped the regime and came to this country." Diana touched the frame gently.

"You said your cabin burned. How did the portrait survive the fire?"

"It was in Mamma's shop down in town. She had a studio down there before the fire. After we rebuilt, she brought it up here."

Two deep sectional couches were placed face-to-face in the center of the room, separated by a polished pine coffee table set neatly with magazines and a fresh arrangement of wildflowers. Wingback chairs stood against the walls, accompanied by brass reading lamps placed atop pine end tables. A series of landscapes decorated the walls. Duncan admired the bold colors, the scenes detailed enough to resemble photographs.

"Mamma painted those. She loved the mountains, said they reminded her of her home."

A sturdy oak bookcase housed a compact disc player and Diana's vast music collection which appeared to consist in large part of jazz, the blues, and classical music. Sliding patio doors opened up onto a western view, the horizon still glowing through the trees with a crimson sunset.

"Come on upstairs," Diana invited.

Heart thumping, Duncan followed her up the staircase, admiring the tight undulation of her ass beneath her jeans.

Built of thick wooden risers set into wrought-iron rails, the staircase led to a landing that overlooked the living room on all four sides of the upper level.

"This is where I seem to spend most of my time when I'm at home." Rooms were located at opposite ends of the home, with banks of windows running in between.

"This was Mamma's studio." A large room with windows on two sides and a skylight was occupied by an easel, a set of watercolors and sketch pencils laid out on a nearby table. "I draw a little myself," she said modestly.

Pointing to closed doors as they passed, Diana said, "Guest bedroom, with its own bath, and Gabby's room. She comes home once in awhile."

Diana's master bedroom suite was located centrally on the opposite side of the house. The king-sized bed promised either a good night's rest or a great night's romp, depending if the occupants were interested in all the reading material in the attached bookcase headboard or the view in the centrally inset mirror. A set of double French doors led to the deck along the back of the house.

"Nice bath." Duncan admired the shining double sinks and large shower. His attention was drawn to the sunken spa with its line of scented candles scattered along the rim. Bullets and bubble bath. What a woman.

He noticed that a trio of felines had taken up residence on the bed comforter-a tiny calico, a black-furred, green-eyed monster that must have weighed twenty pounds, and an elegant Siamese who stared at him with serene blue eyes. They eyed him with a sense of superiority and suspicion as he passed, their tails twitching slightly.

"You'll have to excuse my babies," Diana said. "They think that they are in charge. You may find them on your chest or pillow in the middle of the night-I hope you're not allergic."

"I, uh, didn't realize I was staying the night," Duncan stammered.

Diana faced him. "You don't think I'd let you go back down in this darkness, did you? That would not make me a polite hostess, now would it? Did you already make plans for a place to stay this evening?"

"I planned on heading out to the coast as soon as I was finished with my interview with Mr. Maston. I certainly appreciate your hospitality, but doesn't it make you the least bit nervous having a stranger staying in the same house with you?"

"You mean a stranger I just jerked off? Really, Duncan, you're no stranger. Your personality comes out strong in your articles and I know your reputation. Besides, do you really think that any woman who lives up here alone and carries this has much to fear?" she added, lifting her vest to show him her handgun, which Duncan could see was a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson.

"You act as though you've checked up on me," Duncan said with some resentment as they walked along one of the balconies.

"No, not exactly 'checked up.' In my pursuits, I find out a great deal about people. You and I have crossed paths many times over the years. I know you better than you think. Does that bother you?" Diana gazed at him ingenuously.

"Well, yeah, just a little. I mean, you seem to know a lot about me, but I know next to nothing about you-other than the fact you have a great set of hands."

"What would you like to know?"

"I'm confused by your name. Everyone calls you Miss Diana or Miss Lorraine, yet you have a daughter, but obviously no husband. And your parents are from what used to be the Soviet Union, but your last name isn't Slavic. "

"'Lorraine' is a bastardization of the original Russian family name. When they came to this country after the war, it was difficult to pronounce and spell our last name, so with great sorrow, my father changed it to something more acceptable to the Americans. He chose "Lorraine" because it as close as anything else to our old name, and Mamma liked the fact that the name means 'brave in battle.' She thought it was appropriate."

Duncan interrupted. "Wait a minute! I thought you said you moved from there when you were four-you would be in your fifties if that were so."

"My parents lived here for many years before taking an assignment that brought them back to their homeland for a time. I was born and lived there for several years before they returned to California."

"I'm surprised that your parents were allowed back in by the Communists."

"My parents were needed ' even the Communists knew that. They were useful."

"You make it sound like they was spies or something."

"No, not spies. Their work was on the side of good, not evil. They were a team. What Pappa did, Mamma always was there to back him up. They were more than husband and wife, they were partners."

"As for my name, no, I did not have a husband, but I was engaged to a man, my Gabriella's father. He died before we could marry. The townspeople call me "Miss" out of respect for me and my family. We are very "old country" around here in many ways." Sadness clouded her face.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried."

"Never apologize for what you do, Duncan. We each have our places in this life, our pursuits. Sometimes they touch on unpleasant things, it's just a matter of life."

Diana led the writer into her study, a surprising riot of activity and furniture. A pine hutch housed a top-of-the-line computer set-up and another CD player perched on a bookcase loaded with compact discs and videos. The television set hid out in a corner, the screen in dire need of a dusting.

Duncan studied her musical selections, chuckling. "Classical and jazz downstairs, rock and roll upstairs. Quite a difference."

"I relax downstairs. Up here, it's another story. Nothing better to clear your head before settling down to work than some Zeppelin cranked up good and loud."

A multi-line telephone system on her desk blinked furiously with messages, while paperwork was piled haphazardly upon the desktop. Wood filing cabinets stood next to a single French door that led out to the deck.

Framed photographs of a young woman, strawberry blond hair falling over dark green eyes, a smart-ass smile curving her narrow lips, were scattered throughout the room. The lovely Gabriella.

"My inner sanctum," Diana explained. "Creativity and business at its best-or worst," she added, as two more furballs came barreling in between her legs, one chasing the other. The two newcomers were gray tabbies, kittens not much older than four or five months.

Gracefully bending at the waist, at which time Duncan admitted to himself that he was starting to really admire her tight ass, Diana grasped the furry tornadoes firmly, one in each hand, then nestled them close to her chest. As he watched her calm the kittens, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be those two faces nuzzled up against her breasts. He could feel an erection stirring in his jeans. The action in the restaurant had only taken the edge off his hunger.

Diana looked up and grinned. "You must be tired. Let's sit down in the library." Duncan followed her, trying to keep his eyes further north than the gently swaying rear end of his hostess.

She opened the door to a room the size of his living room in his rarely-used apartment in Chicago where his magazine was headquartered. Built-in bookshelves lined every wall, a much-used couch sat in the center across from a recliner, and a small fireplace nested in one corner of the room.

Diana opened the door to the deck, letting in cool air. Duncan could hear the sounds of crickets and marauding bats outside.

"Excuse me while I get comfortable, I've been on my feet all day," she apologized, slipping off her boots and vest. Duncan repressed a laugh as he saw her sock. They were orange, with a design of little black cats jumping all over the fabric. She caught his eye as she looked up and smiled. "Don't tell anybody you saw these. They don't exactly go along with this," she said, unhooking her holster and laying her weapon on the small side table.

Diana stretched out her legs and leaned back against a couple of pillows, stretching her arms above her head. Her breasts strained against the fabric and Duncan silently prayed for the miracle of a popped button or two.

"So, you want to know the history of Damon's Canyon. Do you want the sanitized version or do you want the truth?"

"How about both-one version for my readers, one to satisfy my mounting curiosity," Duncan answered, pulling his pad out of his bag, which he was at last able to remove from his aching shoulder and dump on the floor.

"I have the feeling it would take something more than a history lesson to satisfy you, Duncan."

"You would be absolutely right." Duncan felt a warmth suffusing his body.

Diana cleared her throat. "The clean version, first. Damon Benyu came from Sacramento to the area down below in 1887, ostensibly to find someplace where he could paint to his heart's content without the big-city interruptions, where he could "commune with nature." When he arrived, he had a common-law wife and her two illegitimate children. He, too, was a traveler, and had heard about the solitude and isolation of the canyons and mountains around here. The only other people around were remnants of the original Indian tribes and miners and loggers. Perfect for his purposes.

"Damon built a little rustic cabin down in the canyon that we saw burning today. There was once a stream nearby, long dried out, and there was plenty of wildlife and vegetation for food supplies, not to mention the nearby logging and mining camps if Damon needed anything of more sustenance."

"Things were just to his liking for several years, then more artists found out via the grapevine about Damon's canyon and the beauty of this place, especially when his works were displayed down in the cities. So they started moving up here, a few families at a time, building their quaint artists' shacks. That's about all they were at first, just small shacks, with enough room for their families and the tools of their trade."

"Pretty soon, the park system was organized, and more modern roads were built to get to the parks, roads that led directly through the artists' colony. The turn of the century came around, and residents decided it was time to set up some sort of government and incorporate the town, so they elected themselves a mayor and named the town in honor of its first settler and settlement, Damon's Canyon." Over the years, they built up quite a community along the main highway to draw tourists and to provide for the residents. Country stores, post office, even the school system, all along the highway."

"They've had quite a few well-known artists come through the town over the decades, but mostly it was the lesser known, struggling artists who settled there. Good people just trying to escape the evils of the city and develop their skills, sell their artwork, raise their families."

"About fifteen years ago, the Mastons and my mother and a few other people got together and set up the Fourth of July Festival. Its purpose was to promote Damon's Canyon as a tourist spot and to raise funds for local needs like the schools and the fire department, even needy families. A portion of the proceeds goes into a public fund for which organizations and individuals can apply."

"Good works," Duncan interjected.

"Very good works. It's been a success every year since its inception. Did you get a chance to visit many of the shops and studios?"

"Not as many as I planned. I started out with a few first and left my interview with Mr. Maston until last. I especially enjoyed watching the woodcarver with the big bear out front."

"Jacob Carpenter. An apt name for his business."

"He's very old, I tried to get some stories out of him, but he wasn't talking much."

"He is old-his father was one of the original settlers here. He's very protective of this town, especially since he's the mayor."

"He's the mayor?"

"Has been for twenty years. He's highly respected here."

"You make the history seem all rather cut and dried. What else is there for me to know?" Duncan quizzed.

Diana arose and searched through one of her bookcases. She returned with three thin leather-bound volumes and handed them to Duncan.

"The History of Damon's Canyon, Canyon Memories, and Local Artists and Their Work," Duncan read the titles and looked askance at Diana.

"The official propaganda. All written by our local, esteemed, and politically correct, if somewhat inaccurate, George Sampson, our unofficial town historian. "You can borrow those for your article if you'd like. Get them back to me, though."

Diana sat back on the couch, massaging her neck.

"Looks like you could use a massage."

"Are you offering?"

"Trade you one massage for the real scoop on the town. Deal?"

Diana patted the cushion next to her and nodded. "Deal."

She maneuvered her lean body between Duncan's outstretched legs as he kicked off his shoes and settled in behind her, his back resting against the wingback of the couch.

"What I'm going to tell you is something that very few people around here know. They've forgotten or they've just swept the truth aside like dust. It's too obscene for memory. You must never print what I'm going to tell you. Do you understand?"

"Got it." Duncan felt a chill run along his spine.

Down below in the canyon, the entombed writhed in his stone prison, the last vestiges of his fetters burning in the flames.

Diana closed her eyes and began her tale as Duncan plied her muscles with his powerful fingers.

"Damon's Canyon is also a bastardization of the original name. After Damon Benyu had been there for ten years, it was known as "Demon's Canyon." When I said that the loggers, miners and Indians were available for sustenance, I meant just that. They were the sustenance."

"What do you mean, he was a cannibal?"

"Much worse. He preferred liquid refreshment. There are many names for someone such as Damon Benyu: upir, vircolac, drakul, vampyr."

"Vampyr-a vampire? You're crazy! Vampires are legends."

"And where do you think legends originate, Duncan? They come from out of the past, from history passed down from generation to generation, altered and diluted over the years, but with grains of truth. Damon was not a vampire in the Hollywood sense of the beast. He was more nosferatu-"plague carrier"-than debonair bloodsucker. In the old legends, the nosferatu fed off its own family. That is where Damon Benyu started, with his wife and her children, who were actually servants. The three of them all disappeared within the first five years of settling in the canyon. Then he moved on to the miners and loggers and Indians. He killed as the Black Plague killed, quickly, horribly, striking fear into the populace. As the colony grew, so did his hunger. But the people did not know it was Damon who was killing, they thought it was the Indians or some crazed logger. At first, they even thought it was the mountain lions around here. You have to remember they didn't have all the forensic technology we do now, fingerprints, those sorts of things. The Indians thought it was a white man's demon, sent to destroy what was left of their tribe. Bodies were found mangled, throats torn out, blood drained, many of them in the canyon where Damon lived. Hence, the name, Demon's Canyon."

"Hold on, if this Damon was a vampire, a plague carrier, then were there others? Did he create a whole line of vampires from his victims?" Duncan slid his hands down to her shoulders and biceps, the sound of his fingers whispering across the taut fabric of her blouse making him keenly aware of the closeness of their bodies.

Diana shook her head. "No. Now that is myth. In the scheme of nature, it doesn't make sense to create your own competition for food. The vampire's victims are simply that: victims . They are a food source, drained dry and discarded."

"Okay, so where do the vampires start?"

"Legend says that they are caused by being born with a caul or teeth or a tail, or by excommunication from the church, by suicide, or by being born the seventh son of a seventh son or the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, by dying before baptism, and of course, by being bitten by another vampire."

"I prefer the term eretik - it means "heretic." They are ones who have fallen away from the true faith, who shun the Light of God, possessed of Satan's demons to strike fear into people, to destroy their faith. In a way, they are carriers of a plague-a plague of terror and destruction."

"So what about Damon Benyu-where did he come from?"

"One would think from Hell itself. There is documentation that shows a Damon Benyu in existence throughout the past three centuries."

"Three hundred years...oh, come on! It had to have been sons, just named after their father."

"Afraid not. You see, another interesting thing about the vampire in general, and the nosferatu in particular, is that they were impotent in the broadest sense of the word. Couldn't get it up, couldn't reproduce. With one very rare exception."

"Which was?"

"If he could seduce a woman of absolute faith, he could draw her blood while they were having sexual relations, while they were both in orgasm, she would become his mate. Only then could they reproduce and have children, who would then become vampires such as themselves."

"Hold it, how could he have an erection if he's impotent?"

"His power comes from the ability to turn a woman from her faith in God; it excites him, and the corruption of her flesh and soul breeds the plague of offspring."

"So you're telling me that Damon Benyu has been alive for 300 years trying to get a piece of ass?"

Diana sighed. "Yes. But not any piece of ass. The prime piece of ass, someone whose faith he can utterly destroy and bring into the darkness with him. Oh, yeah, right there," she murmured as Duncan's fingers crept to her upper pectoral muscles.

"That would seem to be an easy task for a man who is charming enough, to seduce a woman."

"You don't understand. The seduction has to be more than sexual; it has to be a complete demolition of her soul. Damon tried for three centuries, but the women he chose were not true believers to start with. Many were already fallen women, prostitutes, whores, women who claimed to be churchgoers, but who were in fact lacking in true faith. We have diaries, eyewitness accounts of friends and family members of these women..." Diana stopped. She arched her breasts upward as Duncan's fingers traveled down to where he could feel the outline of her bra cups.

"We? Who's we?" Duncan asked softly in her ear, gently massaging the warm weight of her breasts.

"Those of us in the business. Aahh...I told you I deal with the dead quite often. I run across a lot of...mmm... historical documents and literature in my hunts."

"Uh-huh. Anyway, this Damon Benyu was three hundred years old and very horny. So what happened to him? Did they kill him with a stake through the heart or something?"

"I think the rest of the story is going to have to wait a few minutes," Diana said quietly as she ran her hands along Duncan's well-sculpted thighs.

"You think so?" he breathed into the hair along the side of her face. He slowly unbuttoned her blouse as she closed her eyes and leaned back into him.

"Definitely. Speaking of stakes..." She reached between his legs and rubbed the hardness she felt beneath her ass.

"I've got something to drive into you, Diana." Duncan pulled her blouse out of her jeans and began working on her belt and zipper with one hand as the other expertly undid the front hook on her bra.

Diana slid out of her jeans and turned on her knees to face Duncan, straddling his outstretched legs. She was wearing a black thong beneath her jeans. She leaned forward, balancing herself with a palm pressed into the arm of the couch on either side of Duncan.

"You've been staring at these all night. Do you want a close-up view?" Diana teased, her heavy breasts freed from their silken confines and slightly bouncing at the writer's eye level.

"It's not the view I'm interested in. It's the taste," Duncan responded. He cupped her rose-nippled globes, kneading the warmth and smooth skin. Diana laid her head back on her shoulders, hair falling back in a sheet like the rising dawn. Duncan tasted her breasts, darting his tongue around the protruding pink nubs that swelled beneath his sucking. Diana made a purring noise deep within her throat.

She brought her head forward and watched as he tasted her, one hand leaving the arm of the couch to enmesh itself in his thick hair and encourage his exploring mouth.

"Aren't you getting a little warm?" she asked.

Duncan stopped for a moment and looked up at the fiery siren, his eyes glowing with excitement. "I've been hot all night, woman."

"I know. Let's see what we can do about that." Diana unbuttoned his shirt as Duncan massaged her breasts, loathe to loose contact with them. She sent the shirt sailing into a distant corner of the room, then slowly, teasingly unfastened his belt and jeans. She slid them down his long legs, her amber eyes lasering into his cobalt irises. He held his breath as she reached up and peeled his shorts from his hips. She slipped those off as well, then repositioned herself to straddle his thighs. Still gazing into his eyes, she untied the side ties of her thong.

Duncan's focus swept down to what was revealed as she removed her underwear-a plush bush of coppery pubic hair nestled below her taut abdomen. His rod began the joyous dance it had performed earlier in the restaurant, elongating and straightening as Diana moved her furry triangle closer to him.

"I've been on the road for months. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed the pleasures of a woman," Duncan said. He laid his hands along her hips and pulled her closer to his shaft.

"I've been traveling my road for years, Duncan, without the company of a good man. I have been waiting."

"For what?" Duncan slipped a finger into the tight crevice of her pussy. Diana moved, ever so slightly, canting her mons pubis enough to allow another finger to join the first.

"Not for what, for whom. Damon Benyu is not the only one who has been waiting for the right one." She slid forward and poised over Duncan's cock as he played with her moist cave.

"How do you know that's me?" Duncan withdrew his fingers and swept his hands around to grasp her firm ass.

"Pure animal instinct." Diana raised up his penis with her long fingers and slid herself onto him, tightening her thighs against his hips.

Duncan grunted and leaned back as Diana levered up and down on his shaft with her strong quadriceps. He played with her pendulous breasts, teasing the nipples between his fingers and thumbs. As she rode him, her flaming hair rippled about her swaying neck and shoulders.

He could feel a change in her rhythm as her climax neared its zenith. She tightened her thighs and clung to him tightly, leaning into him with her hands on his shoulders.

"Damn, you're strong, baby!" Duncan managed to gasp as she clasped and grasped with her hungry vaginal muscles.

Diana suddenly arched her back, her sumptuous breasts rising up like the prow of a ship as she cried out, nonsensical words and animalistic moans erupting from this wild woman. Duncan could feel the warmth of her ambrosia pouring along the length of his shank. She collapsed onto his chest and he deftly wrapped an arm around her and flipped her onto her back while remaining inside her heated pussy.

"My turn, wildcat..." he panted into her ear. In response, she laid her mouth into the hollow of his neck and bit him. Just a little nip in the throes of passion, but it was enough to draw blood.

"Hey, you've spent too much time reading those vampire stories!" Duncan raised up on his elbows and stared into her sienna eyes, half-mast in their ecstasy.

"Sorry," she murmured. "You're just good to the last drop, what can I say?" She smiled up at him slyly, but in apology, wrapping her long legs around his waist.

"I'll show you the last drop, you little beast!" He began to piston into her liquid-filled grotto, flicking his tongue into her ear, down her neck to her nipples. He could feel her body respond, gathering in the tempo of his probe as he writhed in her saddle. The room was filled with the sound of their exhalations and groans as they converged in a single, explosive orgasm.

"Fuck, oh baby, oh yeah!" Duncan shuddered as he expelled the last of his cream into his partner. He lowered himself along her heated skin, hot like a fireplace. They lay together in silence, trying to catch their breath.

From outside, a scream arose like that of a woman being brutally murdered. The hair on the back of Duncan's neck stood up and gooseflesh broke out on his arms. Diana rolled over, throwing him off her as she arose from the couch. Diana yanked her gun from its holster, chambering a round as she strode out onto the deck. She yelled into the ebony velvet of night in her native tongue, a harsh and grating sound. From his landing spot on the carpet, Duncan could make out the word "strigoy" which she repeated several times before re-entering the room and slamming the door behind her, locking it securely.

"What the hell was that?" Duncan demanded.

"Voice of the screech owl," she said, scowling. Her bronze hair streamed, Medusa-snaked, about her head and shoulders.

"That was a bird? What did you call it, "strigoy"?"

"Strigoi mort, the dead vampire, the undead one who rises from its grave to feed on the living."