Razor Blade Kiss

By Lysette Kennedy

“We are gods of the night” Lucas whispered.

Newly married Anna Swain thinks life is perfect. Well, almost perfect. She’s landed hunky Jackson, the man of her dreams, but life in a small town is can be pretty dull.

That is until dangerous Lucas Flynn blows into town ready to settle an old and mysterious debt with Jackson.

Next thing Anna knows, she being held captive in a rundown seaside town full of blood suckers. Worse, she’s beginning to like the taste of blood, the hunt, and the secrets only the night holds. Her only hope is that Jackson will find her before the old Anna is gone for good.

Razor Blade Kiss is the anti-Twilight. It’s hardcore vampire fiction, drenched in gore instead of glitter. It’s an unflinching glimpse into the shocking, brutal and erotic life of a vampire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naked Snake Press
• Release date: Feb 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310106026

Book preview

Razor Blade Kiss

First Edition

Published by Smashwords for Lilith Books

Copyright ©2014 Lysette Kennedy

Cover illustration copyright © 2014 Donna Burgess

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

*1*

February,1815

Ruth

Are you an angel? she whispered.

The man moved from the shadows of the hallway just enough to reveal his dark, haunted eyes to the slave girl. She moved back, frightened. Hovering a foot from the floor, he appeared like an angel or an apparition, depending on the disposition of the beholder.

The sound of laughter traveled from the parlor only a dozen feet away. It bounced against the walls, and then echoed down the narrow corridor.

Tonight, he was an angel, because that was obviously what the girl determined him to be. He moved closer to her, and again she backed away, the wall behind her stopping her. He caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, tracing the delicate line of the bone. She flinched as if she had been struck. Smiling, he studied her beauty as if looking at a fine piece of art.

Ruth, where are you, girl? someone shouted, clearly irritated. Then lower: That girl is incompetent.

Are you? she asked again, her voice lifting, hopeful. Her perfect English was a delightful surprise. It was a lovely sound, traced with some sort of accent, possibly French or Spanish. It was too faint to tell. But, she would make a fine companion.

Yes, the man lied. Yes. And you are the chosen one.

The girl trembled as he moved yet closer. Cowering, she had nowhere else to go. His head tilted, and he considered kissing her, but he moved even lower, to the cleft of her breasts. He savored the musky, sweet scent of her skin. His lips brushed over her skin leaving a small, damp trail.

Do you want to see eternity, Ruth? he asked, his words muffled, and nearly lost against her.

Yes, she answered.

She cried out as his teeth tore her skin.

*2*

June 1862

Lucas Flynn

Lying in the darkness of his tent, Lucas Flynn never guessed himself to be an evil man. Only afraid.

He hated, but didn’t all men?

It was not the mild sort of hate one felt nearly everyday, and forgot quickly. It was a deep-seated black hate that constantly dwelled in his mind. He hated this war—it was the cause of everything wrong in his life now, from his leaving his new bride to the shame he had caused his family for not volunteering. He despised the Confederacy for drafting him, and had quickly grown to hate its cause, although he had been a great supporter in the beginning, back when hearing the talk on the streets and reading about it in the newspapers was as close as he came to actual fighting. He hated the rich—those who didn't want to fight could pay someone to serve for them. And he hated those worthless Yankees for starting this whole damned mess.

But, he hated his fear of dying most of all.

His fear of death was so strong it made him sick until his belly tightened enough to make his muscles ache, his heart pounding faster than the steady beat of the troop's footsteps as they marched into battle. Death meant total blackness and cold. There was nothing beyond. Night after night, he lay awake in fear, dreading the sunrise.

He felt an odd mixture of envy and loathing for those in his regiment who were willing to die for the cause. The loathing had grown steadily since being drafted back in April. He enjoyed a guiltless victory every time he saw one of the brave soldiers go down. All the while he remained safely on the ground as if one of the dead, dodging the Union fire and not moving to fire back.

He’d married Bethany McBee, his childhood sweetheart. She was one of the two people in his life he did not hate. The other was Jake Meacham, his best friend who had been pulled into the fighting with him.

Bethany was a pretty little woman who, although she had grown up in a family just as poor as his own, walked the streets of Charleston with her head held high with pride and her steps full of grace. Their anniversary had been last week, the day of his last battle. They were married only four months ago.

He constantly thought of her, from the time he woke in the damp, hazy mornings until the hours in the night when he would lie awake in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the nearby forest and his own steady breathing. He longed to smell the clean scent of her hair again, to feel the warmth of her skin. In the dark he remembered being with her and his desire would grow so intense he touched himself, slow and secretly, curled up in his cover so that Gregory would not see.

Gregory. The very sight of the vile creature disgusted Lucas. Gregory was a fat pig who spoke in a sharp, nasally mountain accent. He snored like rumbling thunder and farted just as loudly throughout the night, waking Lucas from the infrequent heavy sleeps he enjoyed. He hated Gregory almost as much as he hated Jackson Swain.

But not quite.

Captain Swain was the troop's commander, an imposing character who, not unlike General Jackson himself, wore the gray with great authority. He never tolerated fear. But Lucas couldn’t help it. He was afraid.

Swain had caught Lucas twice already lying low under the path of bullets, his face buried in the dirt and his palms plastered to his ears. He’d ridiculed him so relentlessly in front of Jake, Gregory, and what was left of the unit that Lucas had crawled into his tent shaking, angry tears stinging his eyes.

There’d been three men in his tent at first. The other had been a younger fellow by the name of Lester, but he died last week. Now, only six days later, Lucas struggled to remember if that had been his first name or his last. Not that it mattered now. Men were dying around him at an alarming rate, many wounded in battle, but most succumbing to disease and infection. Lester had been a pleasant sort of man, small like Lucas, but with lank, straw-colored hair. He'd spent the evenings just before sleep singing hymns in a pretty, rich tenor. But, the songs grew tiresome to Lucas, reminding him that they would all be walking the streets of gold very soon. That was an idea he would have done better without. He doubted he would ever set foot on those wonderful streets. It depressed him. It made him want to run into the next patch of woods they passed and let the forest swallow him until he was gone.

Now the quiet of the evenings saddened him more than the hymns ever had. The extra space in the tent reminded him that death was always as close as just outside under the yellow moon. And there was extra space everywhere; more than half the regiment had been lost. He thought about moving over to Jake's tent and sharing this dreadful time with a familiar face, but he and Gregory were still together. Mostly out of habit, he guessed.

Besides, hating Gregory took up time on the quiet days when death was not so imminent.

*3*

Jackson Swain lay in his tent not ten feet from Lucas, watching the ceiling and remembering. The flickering fire outside made a warm glow of orange on the canvas, and the sudden movement of the limbs blowing in the breeze or of the watcher walking by for more coffee threw off strange shadows. The shadow of the night watcher, Willis, was lumbering, as frightening as a bear. Or might have been frightening if Jackson hadn’t known him. Now, it was only amusing. Willis was short and stocky and as jovial as a ten year-old boy.

Jackson felt almost content tonight, breathing in the cool air and thinking of Anna. Thoughts of Anna and home relaxed him, the anxiety melting away. He remembered the night when he’d told her he would volunteer. The fighting had been going on for nine months by then; he’d stood by long enough. It was his duty to stay loyal to his fellow Southerners and to his land, especially in bad times.

He’d stood at the window of their bedroom for a long time, staring out over the flatness of the fields, thinking. Frost glazed the corners of the glass panes like sugar. Behind him, the remains of a fire still smoldered, casting a faint orange onto the walls and Anna's bare skin, making her seem as warm as the glowing embers. As far as he could see was the light brown earth, lying under the ice-studded blanket of night, dead in the cold of January. By harvest, there’d be nothing but cotton as far as anyone could see. Brittle stalks bearing a crop of white goodness.

He prayed he’d be back by then.

***

Anna woke and sat up; the covers pooled around her waist. She yawned, stretched in her catlike way he admired, and then rubbed her eyes with her fists childishly. The gesture made him feel he had to protect her, as if she were a child. He liked to pretend she was totally dependent on him, but in his heart he knew she was not. She was a grown woman, capable of taking care of herself if she had to, capable of making sure the planting was done before too late. But, neither was a woman' s job.

Despite what was going on in the South, the Swain plantation was still running smoothly enough. But, there had been only one harvest since the outbreak of fighting. Their slaves were well treated and as a result, were loyal to the both of them. But, time had a way of turning things ugly. And nobody wanted to be a slave, no matter how well he was treated.

He told her simply: I have to go.

I know. She answered him quietly, and a single tear escaped the corner of her eye.

He’d expected more of a protest from her, and almost wished he’d gotten it. Possibly a big enough argument would’ve kept him at home.

But, instead she held his head against her naked breast, stroking his hair soft. They stayed like that for a long time, and she’d not cried anymore than that one tear that traced her cheek, glistening in the glow of the hearth like a drop of blood.

They made love slowly, and he remembered how she looked as she climaxed in the growing light of the early morning. It was somehow symbolic; he thought, how he had planted a single early seed.

She sent him a letter. She was pregnant, due in November, around the harvest. The crop was in the ground, and everything was still well there. He’d held that single sheet of paper for a while, just staring at her tiny, pointed writing, not reading it. He’d tried to imagine her writing it, sitting at his desk in the library, holding the pen awkwardly in her left hand, her skin glowing with health, her belly rounding with his child underneath her gown. He’d brought the letter to his face and breathed it in. Under the odor of the ink was the scent of her perfume so faint he couldn’t decide if it were really there or if he’d imagined it.

*4*

Oh God! It hurts! It hurts!

The screaming jolted Lucas from a broken sleep, and quickly, he tried to remember where the hell he was. The too-bright morning sun poured into the open tent flap like an unwanted guest. The thick, sickening smell of shit filled the stagnate air. He struggled out from under his blanket, stood up and buttoned his trousers. A slime of sweat covered his skin.

It was Gregory. That bastard was always waking him up. He turned to say something cruel, but stopped himself before the biting words jumped from his tongue.

What hurts?

He looked to the space where Gregory should have been. His blanket lay alone in a tangled little heap. In the tiny space of the tent, it took Lucas maybe thirty seconds to find him while his eyes adjusted to the glaring sun.

Gregory was curled up in a tight fetal position, his shaking hands pressed to his middle. He rolled his eyes up at Lucas in the way a helpless, dying dog might do before you had mercy on it and put a bullet in its head. His dry lips peeled back from his yellowed teeth in a grimace that made Lucas want to stand over him and kick him until he was a mashed, bloody pulp.

Help me. I think I'm dying, he whispered. He’d used the last of his strength with his yelling.

Lucas looked down at the man, searching for a little compassion. All he found was disgust. The shit had soaked through Gregory's trousers and stained the floor of the tent in a spreading brown pool.

He tried to climb to his feet. He reached for Lucas to take his hand, but Lucas only stepped back. He hated Gregory with a passion.

He shit himself like a sick dog.

Whatever Gregory had might be catching, and bolted from the tent. Gregory called again weakly, but Lucas didn’t look back.

This is not going to be a good day, he told himself, and nervously ran his fingers through his dirty hair.

*5*

The Yankees surprised them not long after noon. The heat was stifling as they shuffled along the dirt. The sun beat down on top of bare heads from a plate glass sky.

A single shot sounded, a dull, flat noise, and Jake Meacham gasped. It was more a surprised sound than one of pain. A moment later, the firing came in a flood, popping like hundreds of tiny firecrackers. Lucas kneeled behind his friend, cowering like a child in a thunderstorm, pressing his trembling hands to his ears and crying, wanting it to end. Thoughts passed through his head as quickly as bullets themselves: today is the day it ends!

Jake had taken a slug in the chest. He staggered comically, and then tumbled backward over Lucas.

It was nothing like Lucas thought it would be, being shot. He had imagined a small, bloody explosion from where the bullet would hit, as if striking something not quite solid. An almost inaudible THUD. He’d spent much of his time thinking of the shots, at night when he couldn’t conjure up any better thoughts. But no. The bullet went in as easily as a knife slicing into a fresh sweet potato pie. The blood came; forming a slow spreading stain on Jake's tattered gray coat. It seemed like an eternity before it came; Lucas felt as though part of him was waiting for it, wanting to see the dark, growing pool, to breathe in the wild coppery scent. But, when it finally did come, it was repulsive.

He moved closer to Jake, edging over the dirt on his belly like a snake.

Men went down everywhere, their blood wetting the sandy earth. The shots came from a small patch of forest surrounding the field they were crossing. The Yanks weren’t more than eighty feet away. They’d walked right into an ambush. He would run, he decided. If Jake died, he would run alone.

Lucas cradled Jake' s head in his arms and pulled him close. Jake' s body was as limp as a sack of grain, his skin gray and cooling already. His dark eyes stared up at Lucas almost accusingly. Lucas the coward. When he spoke, he startled Lucas so badly Lucas almost dropped him from his arms and fled.

Don't run, he whispered. Bloody spittle formed on his mouth in threads. Lucas leaned closer, trying to hear over the firing and the cries of death.

Don't run away, Lucas. You'll be better off if you— He was gone.

How did he know? How the hell did he know?

Lucas wanted to scream.

Lying in his arms, dusky and still, Jake had ceased to be a person. The Jake Meacham he had grown up with was still back in Charleston, working in his daddy's sawmill, smiling and talking, enjoying himself as he worked. This was not his friend; this was a horrible, all-knowing monster!

This death was a hard fist to his belly. If he’d not dropped down, he’d be the one lying dead in the dry dirt of an empty cotton field now. The thought was darkly triumphant and he smiled a smile that was more a grimace of shame than a look of pleasure. He thought of death again, but the way he as a child had seen it: darkness and horror. Never a Heaven, only a Hell.

The image, along with the heat, and the thick stench of blood, made him sick to his stomach, and he began to retch. What little he had eaten this morning was now burning his throat and threatening to come up. It was a losing battle, and his stomach contracted into a sore knot. He hated the sight of blood. It seemed that the life had escaped his friend in the dark molasses that oozed from the hole in his chest.

Some of the blood had gotten on his hands, making them red-stained. His fingers stuck together as though he had dipped them into a jar of Bethany's strawberry preserves. It seemed nasty, like dying was contagious. He dropped his friend. Jake's head struck the ground, sending up a small cloud of brown dust, then swiveled to one side as it never would have in life.

Horrified, Lucas left him running, doubled nearly in half to dodge the raining bullets, wiping his hands on his trousers so furiously that he forgot his rifle. He had to get away from this field; he was a dead man here, out in the wide open. He felt like a tiny animal, almost paralyzed with fright. He would feel better once he got to the forest and let the thick evergreens and cottonwoods block out the sun and cool his burning skin in their shade.

To his left he could hear Captain Swain shouting something he could not understand. To hell with him, he thought. To hell with him and with Jake. He would run, and it did not matter if he were a coward. At least he would be alive. And soon he would be with Bethany again.

He dropped behind the carcass of a horse to catch a sweltering breath, and looked back over to where he had left Jake. Someone had already taken his boots. One large, dirty toe poked its way up from a tear in his stocking. Lucas felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat and covered his mouth to stifle it.

Swain was just a few feet away. Lucas hoped he’d have the pleasure of seeing him fall from his mount as a bullet exploded into the side of his skull. The sight of his blood would not be nearly as bad as the sight of Jake's. He didn’t think it’d be bad at all, seeing him get his. Lucas hated everything Jackson stood for, his courage and wealth. He was a fool for his bravery, and it was sickening. But, he could never see himself crossing him. Jackson was respected by most of his men, but when he was pushed, his temper was as ugly and violent as an animal's. Lucas often wondered if that respect was really just intimidation.

When Lucas was first drafted, a man named Emmett Addams refused to follow a simple order. He was quickly sorry. Jackson took Emmett (who stood at least six-four and weighed a good 275) out away from the camp, down into the shadows of the forest. Ten minutes later they returned, Jackson's knuckles swollen and bruised and both of Emmett's eyes black and puffed nearly closed. After that, Emmett took to calling him sir and volunteering for everything from watcher to cook. No, Lucas would never cross him, but he would not mind corning up behind him one dark night with a sharp blade glimmering in the moonlight.

The muscles in his legs were so tense that he was suddenly afraid he wouldn't be able to move. The screams behind him were so horrible that they chilled his blood. He began to count to himself, his trembling lips mouthing the numbers silently, his fingers drumming his thigh with each beat. Then, he was away; the paralysis in his legs broken. His booted feet sank into the fine earth as he ran, refusing to take traction. The slick, hard soles slipped down from the small amounts and into the valleys of the field. He was getting nowhere.

From behind, two bullets hissed passed him like tiny missiles. One grazed his left ear and brought a warm, trickling flow of blood to the side of his neck.

Where the hell are you going? It was Jackson. Do you think you ‘re just going to run off and leave these men?

Lucas stopped, turned to face him, and dropped to his knees. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it hurt.

Jackson was on foot now. His horse had been shot from under him and was already drawing flies in the heat. He stalked toward Lucas, taking large steps in the dry soil, easily covering the ground that Lucas had struggled across in his panic. He walked straight upright, seemingly unmindful of the bullets buzzing by him.

Lucas didn’t move. He couldn’t. Jackson’ s face was a mask of rage, his brows knitted together, his eyes slits against the sun, his mouth pressed into a thin, white line barely visible through his heavy beard. His rifle swung at his side as he walked, his grip so tight his knuckles stood out white.

You cowardly bastard! he shouted. He was only feet away now. The sun was a ball of fire behind his head. His shadow was a looming giant as it fell across Lucas. Where’s your gun, boy? His voice rose until it carried over the sound of the shots. Where’ s your goddam gun?

Behind him, the Union troop rose up from its hiding place in the trees, firing wildly. Jackson raised his rifle, and Lucas froze. His mouth dropped open slightly, and he uttered a small, pathetic cry.

Jackson’ s finger was on the hammer. Jackson's stomach did a slow roll.

I'm... Jackson began. After a moment, he added, I'm sorry.

***

Jackson broke for the woods, running in the same path Lucas