Deamhan Read Online Free

loud and furtive whispers, a fit of giggles erupted from behind the wooden door. A leg covered in bruises and welts jutted from under the door.
    As Veronica tiptoed to the exit, the stall door flew open and slammed the wall. A tall, dark-skinned woman stood up, straightening her black leather mini skirt. Completely naked from the waist up, her small breasts sported erect nipples. She grinned knowingly and lifted her skirt, flashing Veronica with black, boy-cut underwear with the word “sexy” glittering in red.
    Stunned, Veronica froze.
    The other woman squatted over the toilet with legs spread, her underwear tangled around her left ankle. Her tight red shirt bunched above her full breasts, revealing pale, perky nipples and a tight torso. As she stared at Veronica, her lips twisted into a half-grimace, half-grin, and then she let her legs fall farther apart, proudly showing Veronica her shiny, bright pink tissue.
    The African American woman inhaled deeply.
    “Mmmm.” Her eyes bored into Veronica’s. “Your scent is intoxicating.” She curled her upper lip into a snarl and jerked her thumb toward the squatting woman. ”Better than this whore.” She cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air again.
    “You’re a virgin,” she cooed. “Untainted.”
    When she smiled again, Veronica noticed the blood on her lower fangs. She took a step back toward the door, her hand hidden behind her, frantically searching the air for the knob.
    “Hey,” the squatter snapped, crossing her legs. “She’s mine.” She wrapped her arms around her bloody-toothed partner’s waist, and pulled her back into the stall.
    Veronica slid another step backward. The door loomed in the corner of her eye. It seemed a million miles away.
     “Tell her, tell her you’re mine,” the woman demanded as she jumped to her feet. “Tell her!”
    “Shut up.” The African American woman’s command immediately silenced her lackey. She turned to Veronica. “What’s your name, honey?”
    Her voice felt sensuous in Veronica’s ears, and her eyelids felt heavy. Veronica could feel her inching closer, and though she knew she had to move, part of her wanted to stay. The woman opened her mouth as if to smile, and her tongue languished out, slowly licking the blood from her teeth.
    Veronica’s fingers grasped the doorknob; she jerked open the door and fled into the club.
    “Where’re you going, baby?” the throaty voice called behind her.
    The slamming of the bathroom door silenced her laughter.
    Veronica rushed back to her table, her heart pounding out a cadence in rhythm with her hurried steps. What she learned on her own about the different kinds of Deamhan ran through her mind again now, in an effort to calm herself.
     For centuries their kind went unnamed. They were called demons, hell spawns, and even vampires. Centuries ago researchers in Ireland finally settled on the name Deamhan, due to their licentious behavior. Based on their feeding habits, they then split the Deamhan into the Ramanga, Lamia, Metusba, and Lugat.
    Through blood and with sharp teeth, the Ramanga drained every drop of blood from their victims. Being the only Deamhan with retractable fangs, they relied on the psychic energy within the blood to survive.  The Brotherhood labeled them as the strongest of the Deamhan.
    Considered sexual whores, the Lamia fed by draining the same energy through the mouths of their victims. They had no need for fangs. All they needed was a viable opening and a willing or non-willing participant.
    The Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They stood in the crowds without the need to be up and close with their victims and they drained only what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.
    While the Metusba walked among the crowds, the Lugat slithered, feeding off the leftover psychic energy by using their hands. They could feed off of almost anything; where a person