A free sample from the Marechal Chronicles!

An erotic, fantasy adventure, this is a romantic tale of magic, emotion, and human motivation that does not turn a blind eye to the frank sexuality of its characters. Within these pages live witches, shapechangers, demons, and immortal beings. Turn the page and let them unveil their dark story in the ambiance of medieval France.

A collection of the first three volumes–

Volume 1, The Path

Melisse dreams of another life, one in which she is no longer the servant to a noble family, one where she can find her own destiny and make her life her own.

On the eve of the arrival of the Marechal de Barristide, an eldritch light in the forest calls out to her, giving her the hope of change to come.

The Marechal, a man marked with a vicious scar, is a man of the law of the realm, charged with investigating a series of horrible crimes to the south. However, he has his own reasons for visiting House Perene. Reasons that drive him to search mercilessly for the truth, no matter the cost.

His search and the fate of Melisse intertwine to form a tapestry of lust, violence, and supernatural implications. All of which resound within a potent and robust story that draws the reader in and does not let go.

Volume 2, The Hunter

The sun rises upon the blood soaked House Perene.

Evil has struck within and without and only the Marechal de Barristide can untangle the threads of fate that wind about him in a web of intrigue and passion.

His way is branded into the very ground before him, but the Marechal must turn his course in order to seek aid from a dreaded soul. Beings from a realm other than earth shall seek his alliance while his quarry, the servant woman, Melisse, has disappeared, leaving only ash and dust behind her. But before taking up her trail once more, the Marechal must submit to another’s infernal desires and pay far more than he bargained for.

Here continues The Marechal Chronicles, an erotic tale of desire and merciless destruction as the players assemble themselves to pirouette in an intricate clockwork of unflinching sexuality and supernatural forces.

Volume 3, The Prey

The paths of the Marechal de Barristide and Melisse, runaway servant accused of a grisly murder, narrow to convergence in a seamy quarter of Licharre, a city bordering the Ardoise mountains to the south.

Lust and desire burn all that lies between them as demons rear their ugly heads, twisting their destinies together while powers beyond those of mankind exact their vile desires.

Blood will run before it is over and doom shall fall where it will in this continuing story of supernatural passion and erotic romance.

An excerpt for your reading pleasure:

His horse picked her way carefully through the snaking roots of the willow trees that surrounded them. The Marechal hated swamp country, always dark under the canopy of thick leaves, secrets hiding under the surface, all of it lurking and dangerous.

He had ridden hard to the north, pushing his horse as far as he dared. He knew that the trail the servant girl had left behind would fall cold very quickly, but there was no choice. If he expected to find the footfalls of someone who had disappeared into thin air, he must appeal to powers beyond his own reckoning.

There, enshrouded in mist with long trails of moss hanging from its eaves, was the house. It tilted crazily to one side, threatening to upend itself into the murky water of the swamp. Except that it had always been that way, from what the Marechal could remember of it. He thought, instead, that it was a caprice of the proprietor, a sort of sign to those who wandered upon the place by chance and not by purpose. Pass on, it said, or risk your doom.

He would have very much liked to pass on by the house. Instead, he dismounted and tied his horse well. She was a sturdy, brave animal, but even the most courageous horse could be startled off to find itself mired and drowning in the fog. The swamp alone remained a dangerous place for man and beast alike.

The front door of the crazily leaning house creaked open as he approached. The sound was like mice squealing, caught in some horrid trap.

But no, it is I, the mouse which walks willingly into the trap, he thought as he stepped inside.

The door creaked closed behind him.

A smell of rot and years upon years of layered dust hung in the air. The Marechal stood still listening, waiting to hear the faintest sound of a floorboard under someone’s heel.

Instead, he felt the fine hairs at the back of his neck tickle as a cool draught of air stirred behind him.

He whirled around, drawing his sword and taking a full step back in a single, fluid motion. Poised, ready to lunge and strike a killing blow, he saw her. Her black robes were in tatters and a moth eaten veil covered her head entirely. Where her left arm should have been, there was only a empty sleeve dangling. In her right hand, her yellowed nails curled round the head of a twisted tree root upon which she leaned heavily.

He could not see more in the dim light, and for that, he was glad.

“So, the Marechal de Barristide…I believe that is the name you use now,” she croaked.

“The Marechal has come to pay a visit…how nice.” She pushed past him with a crooked gait, knocking his drawn blade aside as if it were a child’s toy. The Marechal grimaced at the odor of old woman’s sweat and grime as he sheathed his weapon.

“Yes, witch. The Marechal de Barristide and I have not come to bandy words about with you in the guise of pleasantries. Etiquette has no place in this your abode of shadow and ill intention.”

“Guard your tongue, Marechal,” she said, twisting his title bitterly in her mouth. “The Alchemist would have never used such a tone with me. You’d do well to take a page from his book…boy.”

“The Alchemist?” he stuttered. “What do you know of him? What can you tell me?”

“What can I tell you?” she said, turning about to peer directly at him. Slowly, she reached up and lifted a corner of her veil. The Marechal flinched at the wizened face from which a single yellow eye, shot through in swollen, red blood vessels, stared out at him. The other half of her face remained mostly hidden, but he thought he saw that half of her visage was missing, as if torn away, the remaining flesh puckered and raw.

“You’ve been addled…I see,” she muttered before letting her veil fall back down.

“What I can tell you is that he was successful, Marechal,” she said. “More than this, though, requires payment.”

She limped away from him with dragging footsteps. The Marechal had no choice but to follow.

The room they entered was one of tales meant to frighten children, tales meant to quell the worst behaved. There were rickety shelves lining the walls and upon those shelves, dust ridden bottles and jars, many of which had had their lids eaten through with rust, their contents slumped in drying sludge.

The Marechal dropped his gaze from them and their hideous reserves. In some, he was sure to have seen the corpses of the unborn and that alone was enough to force his gaze aside.

“But I doubt that you came with the intention to pay for more than one boon, Marechal,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “It is already too much. If my memories remain jumbled, I knew where to find you and that you could accord me an answer to my needs.”

“And that there be a price?” she asked.

“Yes, of that, too, I know,” he said, wishing once again that he had never come to her door.

“Of the Alchemist, you have not sought me out. No, but you do seek yet another…yes?”

“You see truly, witch. I must find a woman implicated in the murder of a nobleman and who may be able to shed some light upon other deaths of a nefarious sort.”

The bent, old woman turned to search among her affairs, small bottles and vials clinking as her single twisted hand sorted through them.

“A mere woman? The famed Marechal de Barristide needs my aid for so little?” she said, the amused sarcasm not at all veiled in her voice.

He replied, “A woman whose trail, from one step to the next, vanishes without a trace. There is some power at work and that it is at the heart of other dark deeds, I am nearly certain.”

“That is why I have come,” he finished.

She turned back to him, a tiny, dark blue bottle in her hand. She held it out to him and said simply, “My price, Marechal.”

He took it from her gingerly, taking care not to touch her yellowed skin and grateful in that whatever the bottle contained there was mercifully little of it. He did not hesitate and unstoppered it quickly before upending the contents into his mouth. He swallowed forcefully, all the while holding his breath, expecting the worst.

Instead, the thick solution seemed to pool in the back of his throat, at once sweet and cold. He took a breath and in that moment the liquid lifted up in a vapor that filled his lungs full. It was as though he had had a breath of frigid mountain air, or of winter distilled.

The old woman chuckled and said, “Good…good. And now, I would like to introduce you to my daughter. You see, we have so few visitors, she would be disappointed if she could not spend some time with such a handsome man. Such a young man….”

The Marechal had no words with which to respond. His tongue was frozen in place as were his limbs. He found that he could not move even his smallest finger as the old woman hobbled from the room.

The light grew dimmer until he could no longer see the shelves across from him. He saw only that he was alone in the faint glow of a circle and that it now appeared as if the walls had receded with dark nothingness taking their place. Even the faint sounds of the swamp outside the witch’s house were gone. The constant drip of water, or the raucous cry of some distant bird, all of it had dwindled to a muffled silence.

The Marechal had begun to wonder if the drink had somehow stoppered his ears when he heard a female voice, low and silky, speak from the surrounding shadows.

“Oh, you lovely man,” he heard her say, then saw her emerge from the darkness and into the pool of light surrounding him. First came one long bare leg, the flesh of a marble purity that would have taken his breath away if he had not already been spelled still.
The rest of her followed.

She was dressed in gauzy, transparent black, a sort of robe such as noblewomen wear, except that the hemline was ragged, running in deep zigs and zags that showed the Marechal tantalizing glimpses of firm white skin before being hidden away again as she moved with a delicious languor around him.

Her hair was long, black, and shone like the finest silk, as if she had magicked the glint of fine silver into her color. Her lips were luscious and full, of a red deep and profound. The color reminded the Marechal of heart’s blood running down the length of his sword, the final beats of his opponent’s life felt down to the pommel.

She was carnal, she was feline, dark and light, she was contrast in motion.

Despite his compromised circumstances, the Marechal felt himself respond, his member growing heavy and warm, lengthening as he felt his pulse descend into his crotch.

“What an interesting scar, Marechal,” she said. Her finger lingered at his jaw, tracing down to come round to his shirt front where she lightly flicked the buttons.

She leaned in close, letting her lips brush against his ear, and asked breathily, “Do you want me…Marechal?”

He felt his throat unlock with a hitch. He swallowed, then said, “What I do or do not want seems to be irrelevant at the moment. I believe that is the game we are playing, no?”

“Oh, this is no game, Marechal,” she replied. “I am deadly serious. My intentions for you have nothing of goodness in them.

“My love for visitors is in their suffering which can be so poignant, so exquisite…so charming.”

She stepped away from him and he saw that she carried a cavalier’s quirt in her hand. In a long, drawn out motion, she drew her hand back and then swung at him, lashing his chest with what he believed was her fullest strength.

There was a crack and he felt the venomous sting of the lash leap through him. He clenched his jaws around the sound threatening to escape, sweat springing to his brow.

He fought against it, but he could feel that his erection had become enormous, straining against his trousers.

“Do you want me?” she asked again, her voice low as she reached out to toy with the tear in his shirt that the quirt had left behind. Her finger came away red and she licked his blood from it, smiling.

“That taste. It is amazing, Marechal. You really are of a special vintage, aren’t you?

“You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance. They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt. You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.

“Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal. Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine.”

The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart. He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen. And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.

She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air. His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it.

He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.

With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move. In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman’s neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.
He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him. He smiled inside, though. A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell’s hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.

“And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear,” she said, amused. Something in her tone troubled him.

“But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal.”

With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back. His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over. She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.

“Oh, so much better. If only you could see the look on your face,” she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.

Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus. He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.

There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation. He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.

“Don’t you like that, dear?” she asked as she walked around to his front. He could still feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.

She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.

The Marechal groaned. The melange of pain and pleasure. It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.

“Calm yourself, Marechal. I can see my toy twitching back there,” she chuckled. Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips. The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.

He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him. Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him. He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes…..

Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and All Romance Ebooks.

Coming Soon to the iBookstore!

About Aimelie Aames

Aimélie Aames is an author working and writing from the south of France.
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