Chapter 4: Daughter of Blood and Fury

Lights flickered in the transportation's hull. Blood decorated the vault. The two guards, half of them smashed by the thick tomb, laid over the vault's decorative lid, the life of them draining away in a red flow of thick essence. The blood seeped into the vault's crafted fissures, vents that served its purpose once mortal blood was met. Zamson, having been tossed about from the crash, growled awake.

The vault began to stir, cracking open. Zamson recovered himself, turning to witness the vault open like a complex art puzzle. Each latch and intricate lock releasing until the lid came apart, oozing a flow of thick white mist that soon filled the hull.

Naturally, Zamson growled in warning. The vault bore a familiar look, but the savory scent of the steam proved a different matter. With one with of his canine nostrils, Zamson became hooked. The scent was enticing and it attracted him enough to raise every bit of black hair on the werewolf.

The vault was familiar to him. What emerged from it rose something else to be concerned for.

Claws slipped out of the vault. One nailed digit at a time gripped the vault’s stone ledge, perfectly shaped nails white as pearls. The sight forced Zamson's furry brow to narrow. The vampyrial female lifted from her tomb as if death itself had arisen, but her skin was not as pale as the color of death, but warm, a pleasant peanut butter truffle.

Anyone of ignorance would have assumed her human if they overlooked the ghastly, liquid-like flow of her cherry-red dreadlocks cascading like bloody tentacles.

Her ears, far from human-shaped, were furry and feline. They twitched and struggled to make sense of the sounds flooding her mind, and her nostrils flared and snorted. Her dark purr a guttural groan similar to the stir of a big cat coming out of a coma.

Then came a burst of moondust, which changed everything.

Zamson had turned human. The sharp scent of moondust triggered another irritable snort from the vampyrial female as she slipped from her tomb, shooting a brute scowl towards the male. Her thick brow was so intense that it nearly wrinkled the strange red mark, some odd red disk, marking her forehead.

They were locked in warring sight, Zamson noting her every move, expecting the worst. She was nude and curvaceous, perked breast round and profound, sitting firm and pretty like two ripe melons and even perkier nipples as dark as the look in her golden, cat-like eyes.

Zamson’s wulvyn scent became a pestering aroma, but one look at him, how handsome he appeared, forced her many fangs to reveal behind thick pink lips.

A bloody smile that meant one thing.

Hunger.

A sweet melody reached Zamson's ears. Honeyed tunes of pleasantries and pleasure molested his mind and groped his inner senses. It was a rush, an unexpected thrill of delight and need stroking him in ways that not even simple touch could ever assemble—a bottomless need that seized Zamson still, unmoved, rooted, snared by the vampire's spellsong.

And her kiss. So swift that it was uncertain as to when it began, and how it shall end.

The awakened vampyrial was too quick. Zamson failed to gather how long her lips locked to his; tongues felt as if they mingled for eternity. For a vampire who slept for eons, her wet mouth tasted like sweet nectar.

Her rough tongue was strange but far sweeter as it taunted Zamson's taste buds, capturinging him to taste more of her. To kiss her. To grope her skin, her thighs, her fat, heart-shaped bottom so perfect and soft that his fingers vanished in the plush of her fine rear.

She felt so good. So wonderful. The mission at hand crumbled under the sultry weight of lust as Zamson desired to claim this provocative creature from the inside—just as she now held dominion over his mind.

No. This was not part of the mission, nor Zamson's intent to be conquered and drained of his wulvyn blood. It would be the last time she sampled this one. Her cat eyes shot wide open once her throat felt the pressure of Zamson's iron grip. What thoughts she slid into his mind, ceased at a second's hold from his strong fingers.

It was then that her impressive face of delicacy and allure shifted under the sting of the wulvyn threat to her vampyrial nerves. In that lethal second, a monster took over her appearance, a ferocious mutation of unchaste horrors. Her face turned into that of a lioness, and her claws thickened and spiked at the tips.

She reached for Zamson’s wrist to end his grip on her throat—her red hair dreadlocks latched around his arm in a flash like swift tentacles that wasted no time squeezing his muscular limb. To no avail, Zamson refused to let go.

The vampyrial let loose a bitter hiss. Finally, Zamson lifted her off her feet. The enraged vampyrial smashed her legs in protest as she eyed him from above. Her dreadlocks stretched to a new goal: his neck, but she found her goal lost to the void as Zamson sent the ancient flying against the cargo doors.

Conquered by a mere werewolf was the greatest insult. It spelled ruin for Zamson. The ancient recovered immediately, her feline face scowled pure death.

Zamson grunted and grasped his throbbing forearm. The restraint behind her ropy hair was something to avoid. "Your trickery don't work on me, b*tch."

That must have been a classical insult for her, for an untamed roar hit her throat like a hot furnace—her golden glare now scorching embers. A hellcat removed of her slumber. Her alluring form tightened at the muscles and what once was skin turned into bright golden fur.

The wrath of an ancient, the firsts of vampyrial kind—Naia; ascendant of the red night, daughter of blood and fury—had awakened.