Chapter 18: A Pleasant Hunger
The first thing he became aware of was the weight. Not the leaden exhaustion of the night before, but a pleasant, grounding heaviness in his limbs, a deep and satisfying fatigue. The second was the warmth. A patch of sunlight had fallen across the bed, painting the faded velvet duvet in a buttery gold. He was warm, truly warm, for the first time since he’d inherited this drafty mausoleum.
Then he felt her.
Moonbeam was still there, curled against his side. Her form was more suggestion than substance in the bright morning light, a shimmer of pale gold and white against the dark sheets, but she was undeniably present. He could feel the cool impression of her body along his, a soothing contrast to the sun’s heat.
And he could feel the insistent, throbbing evidence of his own very alive body pressed against the rumpled sheets.
He shifted, trying to discreetly adjust himself, and her laughter was a soft, melodic chime in the quiet room. “Someone’s happy to see the morning,” she murmured, her voice laced with sleep and amusement.
Elias felt a flush creep up his neck. “It’s a biological thing. Morning, uh… circulation.”
“Mm-hmm.” She rolled onto her back, her translucent form seeming to absorb the sunlight. Her wide, calm eyes traveled down the length of his body, her gaze lingering. A playful, knowing smile touched her lips. “That’s some powerful circulation you’ve got there, Elias.”
He groaned, draping an arm over his eyes. “You’re going to make this weird, aren’t you?”
“Weird is a construct,” she said breezily. “I’m just observing the natural flow of energy. And right now, it’s flowing pretty insistently toward that particular chakra.” She paused, her tone shifting from teasing to something softer, more sincere. “You gave so much last night. To me. To her. To the house. Let me… balance the scales.”
He lowered his arm, looking at her. The sunlight seemed to gather in her, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the wispy ends of her long hair. She wasn’t solid, not like she had been in the dark, but she was there. Her offer wasn’t a demand or a seduction. It was a gift, freely given.
“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
“I know,” she replied simply. “I want to. If you’ll let me.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, the thrumming in his blood a counterpoint to the quiet peace in her eyes. He gave a single, slow nod.
Her smile returned, warmer this time. She moved with a languid, fluid grace that shouldn’t have been possible for a specter. She slipped down the bed, her form shifting, the light bending around her as she settled between his legs. The cool air of the room kissed his heated skin, raising goosebumps.
He expected a ghostly touch, a phantom sensation. What he got was something entirely different.
Her mouth on him was a shock of cool silk and startling pressure. It was real. It was there. A low, ragged sound escaped his throat as his head fell back against the pillows. His hands gripped the sheets.
His hands gripped the sheets. Her mouth was a cool, silken pressure at first, a ghost of a touch that shouldn’t have been so real. Then something shifted deep within the house, a subtle click in the foundation, and the air in the room grew thick and heavy.
The cool silk of her presence began to warm, the sensation spreading through him like a slow, liquid heat. Her movements became more insistent, more tangible, and he could feel the phantom outline of her hands solidifying on his hips.
Elias felt Moonbeam take full human form as her mouth and hands moved over his cock. The feeling of cool silk became warm, wet, and raw. Just as Moonbeam had taken full form the night before, it was happening again now.
The transformation was instantaneous, a sudden coalescence of light and intention into warm, living flesh. One moment she was a cool suggestion, the next her mouth was a hot, wet reality around him, her hands firm and solid on his hips. A sharp, guttural cry was torn from his throat, his back arching off the sun-warmed sheets.
She moved with a practiced, effortless rhythm that spoke of a lifetime unburdened by shame. There was no hesitation, only a deep, focused attention to her work. Her hair, now thick and blonde and smelling of sun-drenched fields, brushed against his thighs with each slow, deliberate motion.
“Oh, god, Moonbeam…”
“Shhh,” she murmured, the vibration traveling straight through him. “Just feel it. Let the energy move.”
And he did. He let his head fall back, his fingers tangling in the actual, physical strands of her hair. She took him deeper, her technique an artful blend of pressure and suction, of swirling tongue and perfect, rhythmic pacing. It was nothing like the frantic, desperate energy with Jezebel; this was a slow, worshipful unraveling.
She knew exactly what she was doing, every flick and stroke honed to perfection. He wondered, distantly, how many sun-drenched fields and hazy, incense-filled rooms had been her training ground. The thought should have been strange, but it only fueled the fire, adding a layer of historical depth to her skill.
His breathing became ragged, torn between gasps and choked-off pleas. The sunlight in the room seemed to intensify, the dust motes dancing in golden frenzies. He could feel the familiar, tightening coil deep in his gut, the inevitable wave building with each expert stroke of her tongue.
“I’m… I’m close,” he managed to warn, his voice strangled.
In response, she simply took him in deeper, her throat relaxing in a way that seemed impossible, her hands holding him steady. That was all it took. The world dissolved into a blinding white static, a silent, shuddering release that left him boneless and gasping, the house itself seeming to hold its breath with him.
The world dissolved into a blinding white static, a silent, shuddering release that left him boneless and gasping, the house itself seeming to hold its breath with him.
For a single, shattering instant, he wasn't just Elias Thorne in his bed. He was a conduit, a live wire jammed into the heart of the mansion. A cascade of presences flooded his awareness, a chaotic choir of the dead. He felt the gentle melancholy of Mary, the sharp, perfumed energy of Carissa, the playful flutter of Suzy, and Carol’s hedonistic warmth. He even registered the blunt, masculine impressions like Richard, Eddie, and Tucker, their energies like rough stone against his senses.
But beyond them, deeper in the house’s bones, were others. Fainter, stranger. A crushing loneliness from a room on the third floor. A bottomless, weeping sadness from the sealed-off cellar. And from the attic, a pulse of pure, undiluted rage that felt like a shard of glass in his mind. The connection snapped as quickly as it formed, leaving him breathless and profoundly altered.
The bliss from Moonbeam’s mouth still coursed through him, a warm, grounding tide, but the echo of that other awareness lingered at the edges. He made a firm, silent promise to himself to find them, to understand.
Moonbeam slowly eased back up the bed, her form already beginning to lose its solid warmth, fading back into her usual shimmer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a strangely human gesture, and smiled down at him. “There,” she said softly. “Balance. Delicious balance.”
He could only manage a weak grunt, his body and mind utterly spent. He reached for her, but his hand passed through the cooling air where her shoulder had been.
“You felt it, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice growing distant, like a radio signal fading. “The whole house. They all felt that.”
“Yeah,” he breathed out, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “I felt them.”
“They’re hungry, Elias.” Her image flickered, becoming translucent. “You’re the first thing that’s truly fed them in a very long time.” With a final, soft sigh that smelled of jasmine, she dissolved entirely, leaving only a faint chill in the sunbeam where she’d lain.
He was alone again. The morning light felt different now, sharper. It illuminated the dust on the dresser, the peeling wallpaper, the profound silence that was no longer just empty, but watchful. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his body aching in a way that was both satisfying and unnerving.
His eyes scanned the room, really seeing it for the first time since he’d woken up. The faded portraits of his dead ancestors seemed less like decorations and more like windows. He remembered the green jasmine flower blooming from the clock face after Jezebel’s release, a literal sign of life returning to this dead place.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. A determined energy, entirely separate from the sexual kind, began to prickle under his skin. He had a book to write, a life to figure out, and a haunted house to save.
He stood up, his gaze fixed on his bedroom door, on the dark hallway beyond. There were spirits here he knew, and spirits he didn't. Some were lost. Some were sad. One was deeply, dangerously angry. He walked to the door and placed his palm flat against the old, painted wood, feeling the subtle, hungry vibration of the house thrumming against his skin.
He was going to find every last one of them.