Excerpt from WIP, Revenant: Futanari Vampires 2

Excerpt from WIP, Revenant: Futanari Vampires 2

 This is from my current WIP, Revenant: Futanari Vampires 2. There's no sex in this scene, but a different kind of wickedness. Musette is searching for the revenant, a vampire drained of all blood and imprisoned in a kind of suspended animation as some kind of punishment. She's in the American Southwest among the iconic mesas and native peoples reservations. It's a group of the latter she runs into, and damn is she thirsty...


 

Back in the time Jakob had lived here hundreds of years ago, the Hopi natives were prevalent and strong. Now, they were but a shadow of their former selves. However, over the years this area had come back into their ownership. You were simply not allowed to freely enter and roam about as you wished unless you knew the right people—especially if you were white. This ended up being great for Zan protecting his master's abode, because it meant no one would ever find or disturb it.


No mortal, that is.


As she climbed down from the SUV and shut its door she heard footsteps behind her. No doubt the Hopi here kept an eye on the roads leading in just for cases like this one: some white person with the audacity to sneak in. Four men in Western shirts and Wranglers strode towards her. She could easily outrun them but she stood her ground. They all carried shotguns. Three of the two had long black hair and one of those three wore it down instead of in a ponytail. The one with the shortest hair also looked the fittest and most aware among them, although it was clear by their body language the long-haired one was their leader. 


“Were you not told to expect me?” she said, “White girl with long red hair? Very white, very red?” 


The men said nothing as they adopted poses and stared at her.


“I was told arrangements were made,” she said.


“We have decided to unmake them,” said the long-haired one, the one standing in their center and posturing the hardest. “I know nothing of this arrangement supposedly made by my ancestors. All white man’s lies.”


“You know,” said Musette casually, “the last group of people who shot me couldn't kill me, and they weren’t even mortal. So I don't know what makes you think you can do it, but you're welcome to try.”


The men looked among themselves but only stood there, as if waiting for something else to happen.


“Well?” Musette held out her hands, palms up. “I'm waiting. Shoot me or leave me be.”


“You're crazy. Nobody is crazy like how white people are crazy.”


“You have no idea,” said Musette, grinning. “I haven't had a single drop of blood to drink, tonight, because I was in a hurry, but here you all are, smelling very tasty. I don't want to hurt you but that want is growing fainter by the second.”


“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You should run. Now.”


The man scoffed.


Musette screamed as her wings and horns broke out of her with bone-crunching, crackling sounds. She flashed her fangs at them and roared at the top of her lungs: “RUN!”


At her transformation they started. She stretched out her claws and strode closer to them. The short-haired one didn't hesitate in the least: he spun around and ran. The other three gawked in astonishment. They hadn't time to grow truly scared, yet, but as Musette snarled and stretched out her wings, it caught up with them. They juddered and danced as though poked with a cattle prod and finally they turned and ran.


Musette laughed, and gave chase. She caught up to the one who'd styled himself the leader of their little pack. Before he could react she'd plucked his shotgun from his fingers. She fired a spray of buckshot into his lower legs and feet that flung him face down onto the rusty ground. The sound of the gunshot rolled slowly through the valley and Musette wondered what lightning would sound like out here. The other men must have assumed the man was firing at Musette and they stopped and turned to watch. Musette spread her wings and arms, beckoning to them.


“Put your guns down and come here and I will not harm you,” she called out clearly to them. “Keep running and I'll catch and kill every one of you, the choice is yours.” The looked among themselves and set down their shotguns. Slowly they came closer, but not close enough.
“Come closer, my pets, you need to see this and never forget it.” The men took a few more cautious steps, standing around her in a half circle. Zan had told her about the arrangement Jakob had once had with the tribe’s elders, passed on generation to generation. 


“You should have listened to your ancestors,” she said, “they spoke the truth, and now you're going to see that truth with your own eyes.” She had to speak somewhat loudly, as the man she'd shot kept screaming in pain.


She grabbed him by his long hair and pulled him up so that his head bent back. Slowly, she bared her fangs and lowered them to the man's flesh, letting the others see her clearly and making eye contact with each of them in turn. The rose-tinted light from her eyes lit up faintly her white cheeks and nose. A low growl rumbled from the back of her throat, almost like the slow purr of a large cat. The men stood, transfixed by the spectacle of her.


Musette's fangs punctured the skin and his blood surged up into the roof of her mouth, out in front of her in random sprays. It pattered up upon her nose and forehead and ran down her face in warm red trails. Blood ran into her eye and she blinked it away but kept her eyes open as she drank. The other men stood before her watching as if they gathered around a fire and were spooked by their own ghost stories. Musette just became the best spooky story they were going to have for the rest of their lives.


It was difficult to keep her eyes open. She wanted to close them and swoon under the blood rush she felt as she drank, as though blood was a drug and she needed her fix. But she knew if they saw her eyes close, if they saw those glowing filament circles of rose light falter, they'd see it as weakness, as an opportunity to strike. If they were brave enough, that is. The truth was she wasn't sure if she could survive a shotgun assault from all of them at once. 


If these guys were all to land lucky shots on her, she might be left for dead with no ability to seek protection from the sun. She didn't want to put that to the test. She had shit to do, as they say. Frightening them into compliance and taking one of them, however, fit with her plans.
She thirsted, anyway.


Somewhat sated (it never seemed enough) she threw the drained corpse at their feet. They looked at it for a moment but then their eyes were back on her. She stood tall and proud and wiped blood from her chin with the top of her hand, which she then licked off, again letting them see her fangs.


“Now, do you believe?” she asked, tilting her head to one side and holding out her bloodied hands to let them know she expected an answer. Her voice now had that demonic undertone to it. They nodded. Their eyes were open wide and they were alert. Her predator's senses told her their breathing was shallow and quick, their heart rates were elevated. 


“Go back to your families and be glad you live,” she said, and leaped away from them at speed, leaving them with their dead companion.


She moved in the direction of the mesa of Jakob's hidden lair. The mesa looked closer than it was. Musette received no cell signal out here at all but her phone still displayed the time, of which she needed to remain aware, being a vampire out-of-doors. The problem was the landscape. In a city, she could flit from building to building, flap her wings at times for a bit of extra velocity, glide, leap, and climb. Here, she was reduced to merely running, and, to use Ashlyn's American vernacular: it sucked. She briefly tried running on all fours like a gargoyle, thinking she could get purchase with her claws in the hard earth and scrub brush, but no. 


One thing Musette found about being a vampire is that exerting herself didn't make her tired like it did when she was mortal. Instead, it made her thirsty. Even though she'd just drank. But that drink had not sated her. It wasn't the most satisfying meal in terms of volume or… she almost thought nutrition but that seemed like an almost comical concept to apply here. She'd never really thought about it, much: she drank blood to make the cravings for blood go away and she continued to live, and that was it. That was her world, her life—or, perhaps, her living death.