When the world’s first vampire finds Jesus Christ, she’s disappointed that the man is not all that his followers claim that he is. This is not a book for the squeamish.
As I hung from his body and licked the blood from his face and neck, he moaned through broken teeth and bruised lips. A whining, piteous cry. Mumbling from a mad prophet. Or a stupid one. Not what I’d expected from a so-called king. Not who I’d traveled so far to see.
To devour.
I expected more.
Strength. Not this strange, haunted little man, eyes slit, wild with pain and fear.
I dug my claws deep into his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his waist. I was naked. I’d shed my robe and sandals, dumped them over the guard who lay stunned at the foot of the cross.
Even at night, the heat in Jerusalem was vicious. I didn’t feel it directly, but I knew from Christ’s blurred thoughts that he did. Like a cloud of stinging gnats, the heat gnawed at his skin, at the sun-burnt cracks in his flesh, at the gaping wounds made by the crowd with whips and rods. He felt it, and through him, I tasted his humanity.
Not godhood. Not what I’d come to savor. Not a god. Not even a man who believed he was a god. But Jesus, a man whose followers swore to all that he was the son of Jehovah, then abandoned him to his bloody crucifixion.
Simple dust. Humanity.
I was slick against Christ’s body and had to loop my arms behind the “T” of the cross to keep the weight of my body from jerking the spikes through his hands. Then, reaching behind him and over the cross to his shoulders, I dug my claws into his ruined flesh.
Even though he was not a god, I found Christ irresistible: stringy, blood-matted hair; his dark face nearly black with bruises; the rich, meaty scent of death. I moved against him, pushing my vagina against his belly, licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat, dragging my tongue up over his bearded chin, pulling with my claws and thrusting with my cunt. And even as he hung on that rough, wooden cross — nailed hand and foot, a jagged crown of thorns jammed down over his brow, open wounds covering his body — his cock rose beneath my buttocks.
I smiled at that; his strength was in the gods I knew after all. Pan would be proud that one so near death could still think about fucking.
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Diana Trees 