NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

Shakespeare Macbeth

Tucked away, in a corner of the Expanse, in a distant past, lies a quaint little village by the sea. It’s filled with people going about their daily lives. They are born, grow up, these mortals marry, have children, grow old, and they die. Such is the way of all mortal flesh, even in Millie’s Vast Expanse.

But in this little nook of the expanse exists an immortal who feeds on mortals in a most distinctive manner. A creature of legend, living in the pit of man’s fears, she craves the force which exists in all life. Spying a devout man, she desires him, uses him, takes from him, and brings him low. Tread with light feet in this cranny of Millie’s Vast Expanse, lest she hears you and takes your soul. For you see, Maranda has a thirst she cannot quench.

Once upon a time, there lived a priest in a small village next to the sea: a devout man, a loyal servant. A man the village depended on to lift their spirits in times of despair and share their joy. He christened them, wed them, and buried them. And yet, he carried a secret until his dying day. A secret that blotted his soul and covered all the good with a stain of evil.

It began so many years ago, in a land across the sea. Can you see the village? There it is, just a short distance from the sea. The stone or wood houses clustered close together, the closer the better, affording protection to its inhabitants. The rolling hills around it. Can you not see the quaint church built in the shape of the Cross, with its beautiful rose garden?

Fog rolled over the small village as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The mist crept over the church and the lovely rose garden next to that old stone structure, thickening with each passing moment. The air chilled as the fog devoured sunset’s light, and the eerie red glow of the setting sun faded into the clutches of darkness.

Father Sylvester pulled his overcoat tight and buttoned it. Running his finger under the collar, the priest thought to himself, getting tight. Either I’m putting on weight, or I have worn this thing for too long.

Turning his back to the breeze, he continued his prayer, keeping track of each one with the beads of his rosary. The breeze intensified through the church garden, scattering the leaves. Father Sylvester felt its frigid effect. Having finished his act of contrition, he rose, crossed himself, and moved through the roses toward the rectory. Even the roses couldn’t mask the foulness of the town’s stink, of animal and human waste strewn around the village. After all, it was the Dark Ages.

A thick column of fog swirled ahead of him, creating shapes in the white mist. Was it taking human form? Surely not, he admonished himself. Yet, it shifted, rolling tighter together, until the figure of a woman seemed to materialize before him. Sylvester stopped dead in his tracks. Like an apparition, this waif of a woman emerged from the fog, small and delicate, not quite five feet tall. Her face was framed with long white hair, the pale complexion of her skin bordered pure, white ivory, as if she had never been exposed to the light of the sun. There she stood blocking his path.

Though stunned, Father Sylvester studied her, unsure of her race. Certainly, she wasn’t from these parts. Her eyes fixed on the priest, scrutinizing his face as though she sought an answer. The woman’s amber eyes caught the faint light and radiated a red hue from the center. They captured his attention, mesmerizing the priest. There was such beauty, the likes of which he had not seen for many years.

With a knowing look, the lift of an eyebrow, he knew she saw through his appearance of piety. He realized she sensed his long-buried yearnings and dark desires. Her lips curled a little, not a smile nor smirk, more something closer to contempt.

Father Sylvester’s feet seemed frozen to the ground. The fog obscured everything but the woman. He gazed at her, feeling something ... something he hadn’t felt in such a long time. Deep inside him, the old desires, so long buried, bubbled, demanding attention. And this ... exquisite creature ... she knew those feelings. He felt the same longings in her, a fire wanting to consume them together.

“Pardon me,” he muttered, attempting to move but discovering he couldn’t. “Do I know you?”

She shook her head, standing before him, a commanding presence. Her eyes held him transfixed. His brain said run; something else told him to stay. He couldn’t draw himself away from those eyes. The will of iron of the priest dissolved as her eyes drank him into her. He inched closer, his feet finding their way, though not of his own volition. Against his own will, he moved right up to her.

Their eyes locked together in an uncomfortable embrace. He felt her willing him to her. Her mind tempted his. A battle ensued that the priest only vaguely comprehended. But drunk on her beauty, his will crumbled. His long-standing, self-imposed, stoic resistance to yield to the fairer flesh faltered.

The dark desires, those youthful yearnings, so long suppressed, welled inside him. He felt the moisture of the fog gather on his face. The foul stench of humanity hung in the air. The people, all so close, pressed together confined, in the tight parameter of the tiny village, their odoriferous stink wafting to him in the night air, fouling his nostrils. This wasn’t a dream.

Nonetheless, Father Sylvester prayed that this was not a reality. That this gorgeous specter was some construct of his subconscious brain. A fevered dream and nothing more. That said, the priest ached for her to be flesh and blood. After all, he’d resisted carnal pangs of sexual hunger for twenty years. Sylvester thought himself beyond what he felt, that hunger that gnawed. Yes, he thought, a vision, pray God, a dream. Still, it seared inside him, and the lust he had suppressed for so long threatened to break the surface.

A gorgeous woman who exuded sensuality stood before him, unashamed. Her dark nipples stood erect, plainly visible through the sheer white gown. For the world, it looked like a burial shroud. A blonde tuft of hair formed a triangle at the point where her legs met. He felt the blood rushing to his own nether regions, inspired by the sight of her. He tried to fight it, but the flesh is weak.

Wanton lust burned inside him, and the man sensed the same licentiousness in her. The beauty before him consumed his thoughts, his emotions, even his soul. Her pink tongue darted out, ran over her full crimson lips; her nostrils flared as if she inhaled his scent. Sylvester tried to say something, but the words didn’t come. She moved to him, lifted her tiny hand, and placed a dainty finger on his lips.

“We don’t need words,” she said, then her hand dropped to his, and instinctively, he took her hand. An icy, hot blast of energy flowed between them as the realization burst in him. This was, indeed, real. She was real. He followed as the magnificent female guided him away from the garden. A peculiar fragrance hung in the air, her scent rendering him powerless to do anything but drink in her aroma. He wanted to bury his nose in that smell until it filled every fiber of his being. The foul stench of the village faded, replaced with her fragrance, far sweeter than the roses he grew.

Standing at a crossroad, Sylvester knew if he moved to the path on the left, he might never return to the one on the right. He needed to turn away from her, run back to his church, and beg for forgiveness. But the priest continued his journey, one step at a time, following blindly where she led. The chill in the air vanished, and now the moist air of the fog warmed his flesh. Onward, they progressed through the thick swirls of mist.

As they walked past the church, his sanctum, a momentary alarm overcame him, yet it passed at the sight of her hand in his, calming his heart. On they continued, moving into her own darker realm. Passing through a backstreet, they crossed into a field sloping down to the sea. No one saw their passage, hidden in the swirling mist. Their destination appeared out of the white fog ahead of them. A small structure away from all the other dwellings. It was old, falling into ruin, a place no one would venture into. The villagers deemed it an evil place, yet Father Sylvester saw it as something different, something secret, an enjoyable place of safety, inviting him inside.

She opened the door and led the cleric inside to a small room. A single candle burned in the tight space, its flickering flame illuminating the room and cast ghost-like shadows from one place to another inside the chamber. The main feature of the room was the bed, covered in rose petals. Thousands of petals, all the rainbows colors, including black ones, lay inches thick, forming a wild, colorful spread. Sylvester knew he shouldn’t be here. The shame of his lust burned within him, but she now possessed his every fiber.

Letting go of his hand, she walked to the center of the room then turned; her eyes gazed into his own, past them into his mind. If any resistance remained, it took flight when her eyes peered into his soul.

“Close the door,” she told him, and he did so without question. Turning back to her, he beheld her beauty as she slipped out of the thin raiment. She eyed him, landing on the crucifix. “Remove the cross. It is an affront to me.”

“But, Miss, it represents my Faith,” Sylvester said.

“Your faith,” she said, “there is no room for His Faith in this place. Remove it now, and place your faith in me.”

Father Sylvester tried to resist, but he couldn’t. The cross had become heavy, unyielding, as it hung on his hip like a swordsman’s armament. Removing it, he placed it reverently in a darkened area of the small building.

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