A dozen or more Hellhounds chased Ryder along winding mountain roads. Hellhounds served as an apt description for frigging actual demons from the Underworld posing as a legitimate motorcycle club in the mortal realm. Unrelenting, the bastards closed in as Ryder raced along narrow paved lanes.
On and on they came, ever since they barreled into the clearing on Greystone Ridge. Forced to leave when they showed up to keep the location of the Sword of Charon a secret, he took off.
The bastards chased him for miles and over a span of hours and hadn’t let up.
As daylight clawed its way through the cloak of darkness, the roar of motors behind him ripped the tranquility of the East Tennessee hills to shreds and bled the quiet of the night dry.
Eyes squinted and a muscle twitching in his jaw, he gripped the handlebars tight and bent forward. Tonight, he rode a steed not of sinew and muscle but of metal and rubber.
Thighs tightened astride the seat above the high-powered engine, he leaned into a curve, intent on salvaging his quest and outrunning sunrise.
No doubt the demons had been drawn to the ridge by the stir of magic. With modern times nearly barren of such paranormal power, a strong surge would serve as a beacon to those from the Underworld.
To his left, bullets pelted asphalt a foot near his tires to destroy what little peace remained in the rolling hills. Instead of pulling out his pistol and firing back, he led the gang farther away from the supposed location of the long-hidden medieval artifact.
As the sky grayed, the purr of the customized 1980s bike carried him at a reckless pace. The high speed almost gave him a hard-on. And yes, even after so very long, he remembered what a full out erection felt like. Not something a man, too long without, would forget.
The stink of road tar melded with exhaust fumes to taint the crisp air. Trees along the roadside blurred in the outer edges of his vision, and the coolness of the mountain spring stung the already chilled exposed skin of his upper chest and neck.
Dressed in black, Ryder wore his usual leather jacket instead of a suit of mail or armor, yet the confines of knighthood weighed at him still as he raced through the night with demons on his tail. As he ducked low, bullets spat against pavement all around him. His glove-sheathed hand clenched and twisted the handlebar to ramp his speed and avoid the silver-tipped bullets.
Behind him, the rev of motors filled the narrow expanse of road. Hell, he needed to ditch them.
~ from Vampire’s Quest