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Le Club du Mal (Novel Excerpt)

August 29, 2014

Prologue: Angel Rising


Excerpt from Betrayed At Birth (Midnite X Press, copyright 2012):

Hello. My name is Julie Ann Dawes, but you probably know me as adult film actress, director, strip club owner, and now author, Angelique du Mal. Long before I ever knew I would write this book, my twelfth-grade English teacher told me that the best place for any writer to start is with the plain truth. Seems like good advice, so that is where I choose to start.

Here goes.

The plain truth is that sex invaded both of our lives at obscenely early ages. That is myself, and my then older sister, Tina Elizabeth Dawes. And although I find absolutely no humor in this whatsoever, I can’t help but laugh at the tragic irony of that simple truth. Because sex, that truly subjective act, destroyed my poor sister’s life…and ended up saving mine.


October 20th, 2013

Hinckley, Oregon.

1:00 p.m.

The grand, two-storey Victorian mansion stands on the outskirts of Stark City’s most upper-class suburb. With its ruddy, wet-brick exterior, trimmed with infernal black, the dwelling exudes a sullen, brooding atmosphere. An eerie sentinel amongst a gaggle of rather ordinary houses in this white-collar neighborhood. A blight. A portent of wickedness, and a reminder that sometimes salvation does not–and cannot–exist outside of the very darkness from which it hides.

This is, of course, by design. An effect. And adding to the mansion’s sinister aura, an eight foot high, wrought-iron gate surrounding the half acre of fertile land upon which it’s built. The grounds–in sharp contrast to the house–are lush, verdant, and well-manicured. Peaceful. Inviting.

A strange dichotomy; indicative of its past, and the mannerisms of its two indomitable owners.

A private driveway curves off from Oak Circle and slopes upward toward the ebony gate. At the point of entry stand two tall iron doors, taller than the gate itself, curved like the wings of a bat. Beyond the entrance, past the driveway, lies a set of wide steps which lead to a porch large enough to park a small car on. Stained glass windows obscure the view inside the no-doubt opulent foyer. A carved granite sign above the arched doorway reads:


Within the rooms and halls of this hallowed yet profane sanctum dwell its Mistresses; one gone for now, the other still fast asleep.



In my vast experience on the subject I have found that there are three distinct forms of carnal knowledge. There is the beautiful kind; often called “making love.” There is the dirty kind; known as “fucking.” And there is the ugly kind; the kind that destroys lives. Ugly sex takes many forms, but the two that immediately come to mind are “molestation,” and “rape.”

So. Three distinctive forms of sex. This is what I have come to believe. This is what I have come to know.


Egalitarian by design, Le Manse du Mal’s second floor is comprised of two enormous master bedrooms. One for each Mistress. Each a distinct representation of the personality which dwells therein. And that difference is manifest.

Two women, forever united by the spirit of their lost sister. Opposite as night and day, yet complimentary as dusk to dawn.

Two sides of the same coin, then?


Reflections of the same soul.

And to the south, where the darker reflection languishes serene and still, shadows linger. Thick black curtains cover the massive oval window, hindering the intrusive daylight and enshrouding Mistress du Mal’s prostrate form in gloom and silence.

As always.

The bed itself is centered against the rear wall. Polished oak frame. Regal spires at the head and foot. The headboard inlaid with two hand-carved demonic figures. Horned, winged, fork-tongued. Are they male and female, or the same sex? Are they frolicking in friendship, or warring in enmity? One can never know. And above this abstract tableau, encased in an ornate black metal frame, hangs a portrait of Tina Elizabeth Dawes, age fifteen, wearing a soft pink blouse and a sad, secretive smile.

To the left of the bed sits a matching oak nightstand. Atop it sits a small reading lamp, a black ceramic mug, half full with water, and an iPhone. Beneath the phone lies a brand new copy of Mark Twain’s Letters From The Earth. Nothing but the essentials, showing utter disdain for needless clutter.

To the right, near the bedroom door, stands a large oak bookcase. The top shelf is lined with four Lucite blocks. On each crystalline face two wispy forms can be seen, male and female, embracing. Each block bares an engraved plate at its base. The inscriptions read:

Best New Starlet, 2004

Female Performer Of The Year, 2006

Best Oral Sex Scene, 2007

Best Anal Sex Scene, 2009

Below those profane awards, the lower shelves are lined with many hard- and soft-back volumes of obscure (for 2013, anyway) wit and knowledge. Despite the dimness, their glossy spines glimmer as if shouting the names of their authors. And, oh, what names they are. All standouts in the fields of psychology, philosophy, and literature:

Freud. Nietzsche. Rand. LaVey. Dawkins.

And below them, literary giants such as De Sade, Conrad, Nabokov, Bradbury, Burgess, Ellison, and King. Perennial favorites of the mistress; each of them well-read and thumb-worn.

So. The bed. The nightstand. The small library. The curtains. These and nothing more exist to take up space in this dark chamber. Plenty of room for a fallen angel to spread her wings.

And, speaking of fallen angels, The Mistress still lies dead center in the folds of her massive bed. She is but a tiny frame amidst a sea of black satin sheets, large downy pillows, and a luxurious black comforter. The stillness around her is womblike. Though dreamless, a slight grin plays at the corners of her mouth.


November 2nd, 1996. All Souls’ Day. There is nothing which I am so utterly sure of than the fact that I will never, ever, forget that cruel morning. In contrast, I will never, ever, forget what a beautiful Halloween we had. Our parents had allowed Tina to chaperone Maddy and I for the very first time. The three of us, all on our own, marched up and down every street in the Dibert District, filling our bags with candy–singing, joking, and laughing. Oh, how we laughed and had fun that night. Tina had worn a pirate costume, complete with an eye patch and a fake hook. Mom, out of her love for John Belushi in his “Saturday Night Live” days, had dressed little eight-year-old Maddy in a killer bee outfit. And I, showing a sultry bit of precociousness, had dressed up as one of Count Dracula’s vampire brides. What a motley crew we were; for the last time. All three of us went to bed happy and content that night, or so I had thought.


1:01 p.m.

With a twitch, a shudder, and a small groan, The Mistress wakes. Several moments pass before she accepts that Sominus has abandoned her yet again, and her first coherent thought is that she’s thirsty. Thus, eyes fluttering, licking her dry lips, The Mistress rolls onto her back. Yawning, she slips her hands from beneath the sheets.


The drowsy young woman looks at the clock on the nightstand, and, realizing that her day has already begun, sits up. A long, deep breath helps her shed the remaining cobwebs as she reaches for her mug. The ceramic feels cool against her palm, her bottom lip. The water rushes over her tongue, filling her mouth with delight, soothing her gullet. She drains it all, lets out a dainty burp, and replaces the mug next to the alarm clock.

Better, she thinks.

Much better.

Sighing, The Mistress throws off the bedding, slides from her bed, and rises to greet the world. And it just so happens that today is a very special day for this very special young woman.

As ever, there is so much to do…


The nightmare began when Tina would not open her bedroom door. It was Saturday morning, and I had gone to her room to ask if I could borrow her coveted curling iron. After knocking and calling her name for over a minute I tried to go in. It was locked, which was an uncommon thing in that house. We were never allowed to lock ourselves up like that. And that’s when I began to panic. I remember waking up with a bad feeling in my gut, which only grew with every second that Tina didn’t answer me. Frank (whom I have refused to call “Father” since the day I found Tina’s diary) was in the shower at the time, and Helen (whom I have refused to call “Mother” since the trial) was putting on her makeup when I ran to their room. Helen went to Tina’s door first, then, growing hysterical herself, ran to the bathroom, screaming for help. Frank, wearing only a towel, still dripping wet, wasted little time in busting through.



Mistress Angelique du Mal, in all her naked glory:

Barefoot, she stands five feet, nine inches tall. With no clothes on, she weighs a healthy one-hundred-and-thirty-eight pounds. Her overall form is dense yet taut; a physique molded by hours in the gym. Her flesh, though pale, glows with the healthy sheen of one who takes the utmost care of herself. Her dirty-blonde hair is trimmed close to her skull; almost, but not quite, bald. Her blue eyes sparkle with a shrewdness which belies her youth. She has elegant cheekbones, full lips, and a strong chin. Her breasts hang in perfect D-cup teardrops, crowned by pink candy-corn-sized nipples. Her shoulders, torso, and hips form the proverbial hourglass. Her buttocks, though round and full, are firm and do not jiggle. Her pubic region is hairless and smooth as silk. Her legs are muscular, curvaceous; statuesque. And though Mistress Du Mal eschews most forms of ornamentation and body modification, she does paint her finger- and toenails–all of which are now solid black in honor of Halloween.

Her favorite time of year


And we all saw it. Tina lay dead on the floor, in her silk night gown. An empty bottle of prescription Valium sat on her night stand. An empty pint of vodka lay near her head. Her eyes were open but lifeless. Her skin looked drained of all color. The way her body was twisted suggested that she had suffered until her last breath.

We all just stood and stared for an eternal moment. Shock, I suppose. Then Frank sank to his knees and felt for a pulse…but it was no use.

My big sister had been dead for nearly five hours.


Grinning because she’s just remembered that today is her twenty-ninth birthday, and that Madelyn will be joining her later to celebrate, the fallen angel saunters toward the oval window. She moves with supreme self-assurance, shoulders back, hips swaying, legs crisscrossing in a serpentine strut–

Exuding sexiness even without an audience.

Reaching her destination, heedless of any prying eyes from the street, The Mistress parts her black curtains with theatrical grace. The day outside has dawned overcast and dreary, and what light there is floods the bedroom with its pale glow.

Typical Stark City weather, she thinks, looking over her estate. But who cares? It’s my night, and nothing’s gonna bring me down.

Satisfied, The Mistress turns, walking toward the private bathroom to the right of her bed. The hardwood floor feels cool beneath her feet. Every step brings a pleasant chill, sharpening her focus. At the threshold of her bathroom she pauses, admiring herself in the full length mirror on the door. Her sparkling gaze sweeps from head to toe, then back again, taking in every inch of the body she’s worked so hard to mold to her liking.

“Not bad,” she murmurs, smiling as she performs a flawless pirouette.

“Not bad at all…”

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“Le Club du Mal” is available in paperback and digital formats here:

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