PADDINGTON STATION, 1933
Graham Fitz Clare was a secret agent.
He had to repeat that to himself sometimes, because the situation seemed
too ludicrous otherwise. He was ordinary, he thought, no one more so,
but he fit a profile apparently. Eton. Oxford. No nascent Bolshevik
tendencies. MI5 had recruited him two years ago, soon after he’d
accepted a job as personal assistant to an American manufacturer. Arnold
Anderson traveled the world on business, and Graham—who had a
knack for languages—served as his translator and dogsbody.
He supposed it was the built-in cover that shined him up for spywork,
though he couldn’t see as he’d done anything important yet.
He hadn’t pilfered any secret papers; hadn’t seduced an
enemy agent—which wasn’t to suggest he thought he could!
For the most part, he’d simply reported back on factories he and
his employer had visited, along with writing up impressions of their
associated owners and officials.
Tonight, in fact, was the most spylike experience he’d had to
His instructions had been tucked into the copy of The Times
he’d bought at the newsagent down the street from his home.
“Paddington Station,” the note had said in curt, telegraphic
style. “11:45 tonight. Come by Underground and carry this paper
under your left arm.”
Graham stood at the station now, carrying the paper and feeling vaguely
foolish. The platform was empty and far darker than during the day.
The cast iron arches of the roof curved gloomily above his head, the
musty smell of soot stinging in his nose. A single train, unlit and
silent except for the occasional sigh of escaping steam, sat on the
track to the right of him. One bored porter had eyed him when he arrived,
shaken his head, and then retired to presumably cozier environs.
Possibly the porter had been bribed to disappear. All Graham knew for
sure was that he’d been waiting here fifteen minutes while his
feet froze to the concrete floor, without the slightest sign of whoever
he was supposed to meet. Doubly vexed to hear a church clock striking
midnight, he tried not to shiver in the icy November damp. His overcoat
was new, at least, a present from the professor on Graham’s twenty-fifth
That memory made him smile despite his discomfort. His guardian was
notoriously shy about giving gifts. They were always generous, always
exactly what the person wanted—as if Edmund had plucked the wish
from their minds. He always acted as if he’d presumed by wanting
to give whatever it was to them. The habit, and so many others, endeared
him to his adopted brood more than any parent by blood could have. The
professor seemed to think it a privilege to have been allowed to care
for them. All of them, even flighty little Sally, knew the privilege
Though Graham was old enough to occasionally be embarrassed by the fact,
there really was no mystery to why Edmund’s charges remained at
home. Graham’s lips pressed together at the thought of causing
his guardian concern. If tonight’s business kept him waiting long
enough to have to lie to the professor about where he’d been,
he wasn’t going to be amused.
Metal creaked, drawing his eyes to the darkened train. Evidently, it
wasn’t empty. One of the doors had opened, and a dainty Oriental
woman was stepping down the stairs of the central car. Her skin-tight
emerald dress looked straight out of wardrobe for a Charlie Chan picture.
Actually, she looked straight out of one, too, so exotically gorgeous
that Graham’s tongue was practically sticking to the roof of his
He forced himself to swallow as her eyes raked him up and down.
“Hm,” she said, flicking a length of night-black hair behind
one slender shoulder. “You’re tall at least, and you look
Graham flushed at her dismissive tone, and again—even harder—when
she turned her back on him to reascend the stairs. Holy hell, her rear
view was smashing, her waist nipped in, her bum round and firm. Graham
knew he wasn’t the sort of man women swooned over, not like his
younger brother, Ben, or even the professor, whose much-younger female
students occasionally followed him home. No, Graham had a plain English
face, not ugly but forgettable. Normally, this didn’t bother him—or
not much. It just seemed a bit humiliating to find the woman who’d
insulted him so very attractive herself.
That green dress was tight enough to show the cleft between the halves
of her arse. His groin grew heavy, his shaft beginning to swell. The
sight of her lack of underclothes was so inspiring he forgot he was
supposed to move.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said impatiently over
her shoulder. “Follow me.”
Shoving The Times into his pocket, he followed her, dumbstruck,
into a private compartment. She yanked down the shades before flicking
on two dim sconces.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the black leather seat opposite
her own. Her hand was slim and pale, her nails lacquered red as blood.
Graham sat with difficulty. He was erect and aching and too polite to
shift the cause of the trouble to a different position. Hoping his condition
wasn’t obvious to her, he wrapped his hands around his knees and
The woman stared at him unblinking—taking his stock, he guessed.
She resembled a painted statue, or maybe a mannequin in a store window.
In spite of his attraction to her, Graham’s irritation rose. This
woman had kept him hanging long enough.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
She leaned back and crossed a pair of incredibly shapely legs, a move
that seemed too practiced to be casual. Her dress was shorter than the
current fashion, ending just below her knee. Graham wasn’t certain,
but from the hissing sound her calves made, she might be wearing real
“We’re giving you a new assignment,” she said.
“A new assignment.”
“If we decide you’re up for it.”
“Look,” Graham said, “you people came to me. It’s
hardly cricket to suggest that you’re doing me favors.”
The woman smiled, her teeth a gleaming flash of white behind ruby lips.
Graham noticed her incisors were unusually sharp. “I think you’ll
find this assignment more intriguing than your previous one. It does,
however, require a higher level of vetting.” She leaned forward,
her slender forearm resting gracefully on one thigh. The way her small
breasts shifted behind her dress told him her top half had no more undergarments
than her bottom. Graham’s collar began to feel as tight as his
crotch. The space between their seats wasn’t nearly great enough.
“Tell me, Graham,” she said, her index finger almost brushing
his, “what do you know about X Section?”
“Never heard of it,” he said, because as far as he knew,
MI5 sections only went up to F.
“What if I told you it hunts things?”
“Unnatural things. Dangerous things. Beasts who shouldn’t
exist in the human realm.”
Her face was suddenly very close to his. Her eyes were as dark as coffee,
mysterious golden lights seeming to flicker behind the irises. Graham
felt dizzy staring into them, his heart thumping far too fast. He didn’t
recall seeing her move, but she was kneeling on the floor of the compartment
in the space that gaped between his knees. Her pale strong hands were
sliding up his thighs.
“We need information,” she whispered, her breath as cool
and sweet as mint pastilles. “So we can destroy these monsters.
And we need you to get it for us.”
“You’re crazy.” He had to gasp it; his breath was
coming that fast.
“No, I’m not, Graham. I’m the sanest person you’ve
Her fingers had reached the bend between his legs and torso, her thumbs
sliding inward over the giant arch of his erection. She scratched him
gently with the edge of her bloodred nails.
“Christ,” Graham choked out. The feathery touch blazed through
him like a welder’s torch. His nerves were on fire, his penis
slit weeping with desire. He shifted on the seat in helpless reaction.
Her mouth was following her thumbs, her exhalations whispering over
his grossly stretched trouser front.
“I’m going to give you clearance,” she said. “I’m
going to make sure we can trust you.”
He cried out when she undid his zip fastener, and again when her small,
cool fingers dug into his smalls to lift out his engorged cock. Blimey,
he was big, his skin stretched like it would split. She stroked the
whole shuddering length of him, causing his spine to arch uncontrollably.
“Watch me,” she ordered as his head lolled back. “Watch
me suck you into my mouth.”
Graham was no monk. He watched her, and felt her, and thought his soul
was going to spill out his body where her lips drew strong and tight
He didn’t want to admit this was the first time a woman had performed
this particular act on him. He could see why men liked it. The sensations
were incredible, streaking in hot, sharp tingles from the tip of his
throbbing penis to the arching soles of his feet. She was smearing her
ruby lipstick up and down his shaft, humming at the swell of him, taking
him into her throat, it felt like. Her tongue was rubbing him every
place he craved. The fact that she was barking mad completely slipped
“Oh, God,” he breathed, lightly touching her hair where
she’d tucked it neatly behind her ears. The strands were silk
under his fingertips, so smooth they seemed unreal. “Oh, Christ.
She didn’t stop. She sucked and sucked until his seed exploded
from his balls in a fiery rush. He cried out hoarsely, sorry and elated
at the same time. And then she did something he couldn’t quite
She bit him.
Her teeth sank into him halfway down his shaft, those sharp incisors
even sharper than he’d thought. The pain was as piercing as the
pleasure had been a second earlier. He grabbed her ears, wondering if
he dared to pull her off. Her clever tongue fluttered against him, wet,
strong ... and then she drew his blood from him.
He moaned, his world abruptly turned inside out. Ecstasy washed through
him in drowning waves. She was drinking from him in a whole new way,
swallowing, licking, moaning herself like a starving puppy suckling
at a teat. All his senses went golden and soft. So good. So sweet. Like
floating on a current of pure well being.
He didn’t know how long it lasted, but he was sorry when her head
“You’re mine now,” she said.
He blinked sleepily into her glowing eyes. Was it queer that they were
lit up? Right at that moment, he couldn’t decide.
“I’m yours,” he said, though he wasn’t certain
he meant it.
“You’re not going to remember me biting you.”
“No,” he agreed. “That would be awkward.”
“When I give you instructions, you’ll follow them.”
“I expect I will,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her winglike brows furrowing.
“I will,” he repeated, because she seemed to require it.
She rose, licking one last smear of blood from her upper lip. As soon
as it disappeared, he forgot that it had been there.
“Zip yourself,” she said.
He obeyed and got to his feet as well. It seemed wrong to be towering
over his handler, though he couldn’t really claim to mind. She
handed him a slip of paper with a meeting place in Hampstead Heath.
As had been the case with the note tucked into his paper, the directions
were neatly typed—no bobbles or mistakes. He had the idle thought
that Estelle would have approved.
“Tomorrow night,” the woman said. “Eleven sharp. You’ll
know when you’ve seen what we need you to.”
“Will you be there?”
He thought this was a natural question. Any male with blood in his veins
would want to repeat the pleasures of this night, if only to return
the favor she’d shown him. But perhaps he wasn’t supposed
to ask. She wrinkled her brow again.
“I won’t be,” she said, “but chances are our
© 2009 by
Emma Holly. It is illegal to
reproduce or distribute this work in any manner or medium without written
permission of the author.
in England isn't all tea and crumpets. Powerful vampire Edmund Fitz Clare
knows this better than most. He's adopted a trio of humans, orphaned in
the last Great War.
They've grown up adoring their eccentric “professor” father,
and he loves them more
than he imagined his cold heart could.
Redemption seems within reach . . . until a dangerous new enemy threatens
to expose the truth of who and what he is.
"An epic that in true Emma Holly
fashion will wrap you in sensuality and mystery from the first page .
. . will leave every fan breathlessly awaiting the next installment in
this magnificent saga!"