Drawn to Darkness, my new erotic horror tale, is out November 7th at Noble Romance Publishing. Read this saucy excerpt to keep your excitement at bay:
To this day, vague rumors are all that remain of Mr. Delaronde. These stories are barely spoken anymore. The locals ignore the evil under the surface quite well. And it might have been possible for me to it ignore too, if I had not witnessed firsthand the path of the poor man’s undoing. It should be noted that Mr. Delaronde did not seem a terribly troubled man—at least not the sort who went permanently insane. He commonly took long walks around the grounds surrounding his manor, and I had often spied him pacing, ignoring the ghastly breeze and alternating glances between the gloomy distance and the loam beneath his feet. One fateful day, taking place shortly before what occurred to change me wholly and haunt my sensibilities forever, he happened past the window looking in upon the servants’ common room. Mrs. Garret was preparing to whip me for my latest indiscretion.
Earlier that morning my father, the head groundskeeper, had found a bottle of brandy under my bed. He quickly made it clear that sneaking spirits was unbecoming of a young lady. He harangued me incessantly, but I did not reply to the questions he asked. That my defiance be punished and my headstrong ways be dissuaded, he forthwith directed Mrs. Garret to whip me to a count of twenty.
Why might a young lady turn to sneaking liquor in her bedroom, in the dark, alone at night, you ask? Well, the only explanation I have to offer is that after a few months of employment in that place, the stagnant days and nights, imbued with an unease I couldn’t explain, drove me to seek meager comforts. I would drift off, eyelids heavy and warm, and fall to sleep dreaming things of which young girls ought not be aware. I daresay those ominous images and the desires they inspired in me were but impressions of something more sinister at work.
The servants’ common room was built rather crooked and so drably decorated and unpleasantly drafty that it was not welcoming in the least. The easterly windows overlooked the gray and rolling hillsides that extended away from the valley. The panes of unremarkable glass let in sufficient light, although grime had already gathered around their edges and the grit had begun to encroach on the vista. Mr. Delaronde had spent a small fortune refurbishing the rest of the manor, but had extended only the barest necessities to our little corner.
"A proper young lady does not drink spirits in her bedroom at night, Miss Margaret."
I sat on the edge of an old sofa chair, waiting for my castigation. Prideful, I made sure not to betray the least sense of anxiety. Mrs. Garret stood before me, carefully wrapping the stiff and disjointed bundle of sticks together at one end with a length of black ribbon she had retrieved from my own hair. My chestnut locks now flowed freely over my shoulders. The woman was a large, imposing figure to be sure, bulky from all angles, but I knew she was not callous at heart and after a moment considering poking fun at the matter, I thought better and simply said, "You are right Mrs. Garret. It was unbecoming behavior, and wrong of me."
No matter that the libation was the least of the unbecoming behaviors I accomplished while lying in the dark with my sleeping dress pulled above my waist and my head swimming with lewd thoughts.
Now my thoughts turned back to my lurking urges. My seventeen years had become eighteen in the months I had been here. My passing fancies, dreams that kept me company during hours of dull duties in the lonely rooms of the mansion grew more and more like those of a woman, and less like those of a child.
Once, dusting in the master’s study where the high walls were lined with books, I became curious and pulled what was clearly an ancient sort of book down from the shelf, lay the old duster in its place and flipped through the pages. It was a manuscript of drawings the likes of which I had never before seen or imagined. My fingertips passed over images of exposed women surrounded by lustful, half-human gargoyles. The large and engorged appendages of the male predators were not what struck me so and left unwholesome images burned into my mind—no, it was the looks upon the women’s faces. Clothes torn asunder, crouching on hands and knees or lying back with their legs spread, the women, wholly virginal in aspect, sat beholding their captors, consumed with nothing less than utter ecstasy. Their mouths curled in long smiles, their arms and legs were cast aside in surrender, and their eyes were wild with longing. The women welcomed their ravishment, if not demanded it.
My heart pounded and the space between my legs throbbed at the impressions. I became so enamored with the pictures that I almost jumped from my skin when Mr. Delaronde entered the study and caught me in the midst of my snooping. He stood, frowning, erect and tall in the doorway, his dark affect making my heart pound loudly in my ears. For a long moment we both stood still and regarded one another. Then his black cat happened in, slinking between his legs. The little creature began sniffing and scratching at the walls before finally going beneath the desk.
I closed the book, replaced it upon the shelf and grabbed up my duster. "Mr. Delaronde, forgive me." Headstrong though I was, and not easily cowed, I felt the weight of his gaze and my words left my mouth in a meek sort of way.
I hurried from the room, forced to brush my arm against his as I squeezed past him and out of the study. The feeling of it made my gut clench. I went to the servants’ room, which was unoccupied, and sat in the old sofa chair, trembling. It was common knowledge that the master sat in his study for hours at a time, pouring over his books. Mrs. Garret mentioned once in passing, as she was the one who brought him his afternoon tea, that he was forever studying texts on the history of the region in search of some small mention of his frightful heritage.
Now, awaiting my lashing, I imagined him studying the bawdy pictures of those women, and wondered how he might think of them, those whores of the infernal pit. Did they ignite his blood as they did mine, or did the beautiful shrews, sacrifices to some vice-driven god, provoke disgust and abhorrence in him as they might in a normal person? I was taken from my contemplation when Mrs. Garret spoke to me, having fixed the skeletal sticks together in a tight bundle.
"Now, Miss Margaret, over the chair with you. Raise up your skirts."
Remember to buy Drawn to Darkness at Noble Romance on November 7th!
To this day, vague rumors are all that remain of Mr. Delaronde. These stories are barely spoken anymore. The locals ignore the evil under the surface quite well. And it might have been possible for me to it ignore too, if I had not witnessed firsthand the path of the poor man’s undoing. It should be noted that Mr. Delaronde did not seem a terribly troubled man—at least not the sort who went permanently insane. He commonly took long walks around the grounds surrounding his manor, and I had often spied him pacing, ignoring the ghastly breeze and alternating glances between the gloomy distance and the loam beneath his feet. One fateful day, taking place shortly before what occurred to change me wholly and haunt my sensibilities forever, he happened past the window looking in upon the servants’ common room. Mrs. Garret was preparing to whip me for my latest indiscretion.
Earlier that morning my father, the head groundskeeper, had found a bottle of brandy under my bed. He quickly made it clear that sneaking spirits was unbecoming of a young lady. He harangued me incessantly, but I did not reply to the questions he asked. That my defiance be punished and my headstrong ways be dissuaded, he forthwith directed Mrs. Garret to whip me to a count of twenty.
Why might a young lady turn to sneaking liquor in her bedroom, in the dark, alone at night, you ask? Well, the only explanation I have to offer is that after a few months of employment in that place, the stagnant days and nights, imbued with an unease I couldn’t explain, drove me to seek meager comforts. I would drift off, eyelids heavy and warm, and fall to sleep dreaming things of which young girls ought not be aware. I daresay those ominous images and the desires they inspired in me were but impressions of something more sinister at work.
The servants’ common room was built rather crooked and so drably decorated and unpleasantly drafty that it was not welcoming in the least. The easterly windows overlooked the gray and rolling hillsides that extended away from the valley. The panes of unremarkable glass let in sufficient light, although grime had already gathered around their edges and the grit had begun to encroach on the vista. Mr. Delaronde had spent a small fortune refurbishing the rest of the manor, but had extended only the barest necessities to our little corner.
"A proper young lady does not drink spirits in her bedroom at night, Miss Margaret."
I sat on the edge of an old sofa chair, waiting for my castigation. Prideful, I made sure not to betray the least sense of anxiety. Mrs. Garret stood before me, carefully wrapping the stiff and disjointed bundle of sticks together at one end with a length of black ribbon she had retrieved from my own hair. My chestnut locks now flowed freely over my shoulders. The woman was a large, imposing figure to be sure, bulky from all angles, but I knew she was not callous at heart and after a moment considering poking fun at the matter, I thought better and simply said, "You are right Mrs. Garret. It was unbecoming behavior, and wrong of me."
No matter that the libation was the least of the unbecoming behaviors I accomplished while lying in the dark with my sleeping dress pulled above my waist and my head swimming with lewd thoughts.
Now my thoughts turned back to my lurking urges. My seventeen years had become eighteen in the months I had been here. My passing fancies, dreams that kept me company during hours of dull duties in the lonely rooms of the mansion grew more and more like those of a woman, and less like those of a child.
Once, dusting in the master’s study where the high walls were lined with books, I became curious and pulled what was clearly an ancient sort of book down from the shelf, lay the old duster in its place and flipped through the pages. It was a manuscript of drawings the likes of which I had never before seen or imagined. My fingertips passed over images of exposed women surrounded by lustful, half-human gargoyles. The large and engorged appendages of the male predators were not what struck me so and left unwholesome images burned into my mind—no, it was the looks upon the women’s faces. Clothes torn asunder, crouching on hands and knees or lying back with their legs spread, the women, wholly virginal in aspect, sat beholding their captors, consumed with nothing less than utter ecstasy. Their mouths curled in long smiles, their arms and legs were cast aside in surrender, and their eyes were wild with longing. The women welcomed their ravishment, if not demanded it.
My heart pounded and the space between my legs throbbed at the impressions. I became so enamored with the pictures that I almost jumped from my skin when Mr. Delaronde entered the study and caught me in the midst of my snooping. He stood, frowning, erect and tall in the doorway, his dark affect making my heart pound loudly in my ears. For a long moment we both stood still and regarded one another. Then his black cat happened in, slinking between his legs. The little creature began sniffing and scratching at the walls before finally going beneath the desk.
I closed the book, replaced it upon the shelf and grabbed up my duster. "Mr. Delaronde, forgive me." Headstrong though I was, and not easily cowed, I felt the weight of his gaze and my words left my mouth in a meek sort of way.
I hurried from the room, forced to brush my arm against his as I squeezed past him and out of the study. The feeling of it made my gut clench. I went to the servants’ room, which was unoccupied, and sat in the old sofa chair, trembling. It was common knowledge that the master sat in his study for hours at a time, pouring over his books. Mrs. Garret mentioned once in passing, as she was the one who brought him his afternoon tea, that he was forever studying texts on the history of the region in search of some small mention of his frightful heritage.
Now, awaiting my lashing, I imagined him studying the bawdy pictures of those women, and wondered how he might think of them, those whores of the infernal pit. Did they ignite his blood as they did mine, or did the beautiful shrews, sacrifices to some vice-driven god, provoke disgust and abhorrence in him as they might in a normal person? I was taken from my contemplation when Mrs. Garret spoke to me, having fixed the skeletal sticks together in a tight bundle.
"Now, Miss Margaret, over the chair with you. Raise up your skirts."
Remember to buy Drawn to Darkness at Noble Romance on November 7th!
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