Desire

"I will never let you own me."

"It's a bit too late for that, Amanda," he sneered. Without hesitation he brought the whip forward with another vicious twist of his wrist. It tore into her skin easily, leaving six more slashes, bleeding freely, scarring her. She arched her back in agony and cried out fiercely.

"Will you obey me?" Blayne asked again. She could only shake her head. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Again there came the scream of the whip slicing through the air, as well as the crack and cry of pain that meant it had found its mark. Amaclaty felt the spurs slice new wounds as well as retrace the others. Pain clouded her vision as she sobbed and gasped for breath. Blayne yanked the whip back sharply, watching calmly as her blood began to stain the stone floor scarlet.

"I can bring you relief, Amaclaty," he said conversationally. "I can make the pain stop. You only have to consent to obey me."

"Never," she said, her voice barely a whisper. The whistle and crack of the whip echoed twice in quick succession. Amaclaty's scream of agony died in her throat.

He's right oh God make it stop just tell him—

When she did not answer, the whip was brought again across her back.

Oh God oh God kill me now make it stop make it go away oh God—

There had to be a way to make him stop without giving in, there had to be—

CRACK!

"Alayza, ego voco vos!" Amaclaty screamed. Instantly the red-haired vampire was at her side, screaming at Blayne, trying to comfort her former lover's sister. Alayza Flickered in front of Blayne, shrieking and screeching in the most powerful, demanding, and totally inhuman voice Amaclaty had ever heard. Apparently whatever she said made so much sense that Blayne could not argue, because ten seconds later Alayza had taken the Mársabis's hand and Flickered them both back to regius cella. Amaclaty leaned on Alayza, literally crying on her shoulder, alternately sobbing and gasping in agony. Such anguish she had never known or imagined. Surely Alayza would be merciful and end it, stop the pain forever and give her peace.

"Amaclaty," Alayza said, but she sounded hollow and far away. What did it mean anyway? A nonsense word that had no significance. "Amanda?"

That's right, I'm Amanda, I'm Amaclaty, right.

She tried to say something but she felt herself fading. Pain turned the edges of her vision red. Something was being pressed to her lips, forced into her mouth, so that she had to swallow or choke. It seemed to help her cling to the remaining bits of sanity and consciousness she still possessed, yet it did nothing to ease her agony. She managed to make herself talk, to try to make sense, but her attempt failed, resulting only in garbled syllables that were almost—but not quite—words. She collapsed to her knees, pulling Alayza down beside her. The vampire was rapidly switching between trying to comfort her and cursing the absent Blayne Belen in Latin.

"Sarkis, ego voco vos!" she cried. A vampire Flickered in a moment later, her white-blonde hair and freckles looking almost grotesquely out of place.

"Oh dear Lity!" Sarkis gasped, erupting immediately into a rapid incantation of Latin, which, even as Amaclaty listened began to change and echo, screeching and splitting and soon it was as if all the voices from the depths of Hell were speaking through Sarkis herself. Amaclaty swore the other vampire's eyes turned black as the last of her strength left her.

- - -

Amaclaty woke with a scream, a chilling shriek that could be hear faintly in the church above. She screamed until all breath had left her lungs, until her throat was raw , until her voice failed her. It was obvious now that she was no longer human. The shriek lasted until her vision blurred and her eyes rolled madly in her head, yet she never drew a single breath.

As suddenly as she has started, the wail ceased, lapsing into an eerie silence. The Mársabis was shaking in agony, feeling every mark of the whip's spurs as a line of molten metal burning itself into her back and shoulders. She felt every nerve in her body and heard every tiny sound. At the same time Amaclaty felt, very clearly, something close around her heart.

She had Flickered without meaning to, standing again in Blayne's chamber. She didn't know what she was doing. Thinking only of how to rid herself of the choking loneliness that had settled onto her shoulders. He turned around and saw her, and she ran blindly to his embrace.

The loneliness, the sadness, the darkness; they were strangling her. She knew she could not survive it. The feeling would suffocate her, rob her of breath, take everything away. The darkness alone could kill her.

She clung to Blayne. Everything he had done forgotten. He would save her. His kiss was sweet and his embrace was gentle as his hands traveled over the scars crossing her back. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." Amaclaty said nothing, only held him more tightly. She could never lose him, ever. He was as much a part of her as the Mársabis blood. Without him she could not survive. He led her to the bed and pulled her towards him, kissing her throat, his arms still around her. He moved her so that she was beneath him, under his control again, her arms around his neck. He undressed her slowly, pausing again to retrace the wounds across her back. He was kissing her again, along her jaw, down her neck, across her collar bone. A moan of pleasure escaped her throat as he nipped at her gently, his tongue brushing over the marks Alayza had made in the final blooding.

"I'm glad you've decided to listen to me," Blayne whispered.

"I love you," she replied. "I probably always have."

"I know you have," he said, grinning. "You are so very much like Anality."

It wasn't until much later, when both vampires had climaxed and Amaclaty lay breathless, half way between sleep and waking, that she realized she hadn't said he loved her back.

- - -

Amaclaty awoke to sensations pure pleasure and realized Blayne was kissing her throat again. "Mmmm," was all she said. He grinned at her.

"The image of your sister," he said. "The perfect mirror image." He began to pull away.

"Oh, God, no, don't stop," she groaned, tugging him towards her and kissing him again.

"You must get up." he whispered, his lips brushing hers. "It is time you met the Council as Amaclaty. We will have time later."

"He drew away from her and flickered from the room, leaving her frustrated and annoyed at him. Suddenly she heard her name being spoken.

"Amaclaty?" It was Sarkis. "I have been sent to prepare you to meet the Council." Having no choice, Amaclaty swung herself out of bed. She took the dress Sarkis held out to her, one of black silk lined in red. She dressed quickly and saw it was cut at and angle, slanting from her left shoulder to under her right arm. When she stepped in front of the silver mirror Sarkis showed her, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

Amaclaty did not know how much time had passed since she had arrived at the old church with Blayne, but she had changed so much in such a short time. She could see the marks of Alayza's fangs as well as Blayne's on her neck. Angry red scars crossed each other on her right shoulder, painful reminders of Blayne's strength and lack of compassion. Her face looked thinner than it had been and her hair lay flat and dull upon her shoulders. She opened her mouth and saw what she knew she would: two glittering white fangs. But the most noticeable difference, especially to Amaclaty herself, was her eyes.

Still the light blue they had always been, they gleamed sinisterly and held unimaginable power. One look into any mortal's eyes and they would be under Amaclaty's control. Her eyes showed something else that hadn't been there before, either: a look of depthlessness, of being closed off from everything else. A sense of hopelessness hovered just below the surface of the sinister stare. As she looked into the eyes of her own reflection, Amaclaty knew that the last part of her former life had left her. She was Amanda no more. Sarkis apparently saw that the Mársabis was bothered by it, because she squeezed her shoulder gently.

"Come now, we cannot be late. The Council has much to discuss with you." Almost reluctantly Amaclaty stepped away from the mirror. Sarkis simply touched her arm, and they stood in a long hallway illuminated by a row of blue-flamed torches.

"What happened to the static?" Amaclaty asked, confused.

"That was only because you were not fully a vampire yet," Sarkis explained impatiently. Without waiting for a response she set off down the dimly-lit corridor at a glide-like pace. Amaclaty made no move to follow her. "Adveho," Sarkis called when she noticed the girl's absence. "Come on," Sarkis insisted, grabbing Amaclaty's hand and practically dragging her to the double doors at the end of the hallway.

"Do not speak unless you are addressed in English," Sarkis warned her. "It is tradition to hold Council solely in Latin. We are making an exception for your sake. If you interrupt, you will be severely sanctioned, Mársabis blood or none." Amaclaty nodded to show she understood, vaguely wondering if they had something worse than Blayne's whip and doubting they did. She followed Sarkis through the heavy doors. The room was not large, definitely not as big as she had expected it to be. In fact, it looked as if Blayne's chambers rivaled its size. The same blue-flamed torches that lit the hall flickered upon the stone walls, casting ever-moving shadows on the intricately patterned floor. Inscriptions covered the walls and ceiling in a language that was neither Latin nor English, but something much older.

All of this barely registered with Amaclaty. What—or rather who—she was looking at were the vampires.

They sat in two rows, upon seats carved from the walls so that the whole room was one piece. They were dressed in blood-red silk lined with black, their garments perfect echoes to Amaclaty's own. They looked solemn and serious, and all of their eyes held the same sense of depthlessness and loss she had seen in Blayne's eyes as well as her own. But what she saw as she gazed at the faces of the Council was something she had never expected to see in any vampire.

The Council was old. Not just older than the other vampires, but actually old, aged and worn and tired-looking, their hair silvery-white and their faces carved with lines. They looked weary but wise, thin but strong. How could it be? Surely they were not blooded when they were that old; Blayne would not have allowed it. Amaclaty was bursting with questions and curiosity, but she heeded Sarkis's warning and said nothing.

Sarkis was speaking to the Council in Latin, keeping her head bowed so that her white-blond hair fell in a curtain around her face. "Concilium," she was saying. "Ego tendo vobis novus Mársabis, nostrum secundus thymbra Amaclaty!"

"Amaclaty! Laurus!" they cried hoarsely. The ceremony seemed either well-remembered or well-rehearsed; which, however, was unclear to Amaclaty. She looked up at the Council again and saw one of the vampires nod to Sarkis, who gave her own small nod in return.

"Gavin, Kairi, Badin, Ehren, Varden, Hewent, Yasmeen, Fenik, Veruke, Deke, Joya, Fedeya," Sarkis said, naming the Council members to her. "Amaclaty, meet your ancestors, children of the honorable Erikagana, kin to the most beautiful Anality and also to yourself."

Amaclaty stared with renewed wonder at the ancient vampires. Of course, if they were half-bloods, they would age. Karæa had said one year for every seven that passed. And hadn't Blayne said Erikagana had come during the Black Plague? She did some clumsy math in her head. If she had done it right—she was starting to wonder if she did—the vampires had to be over ninety years old!

"Concilium," Sarkis continued. "Meet your descendant Amaclaty, formerly Amanda Cooper, sister to Anality. She whose coming was prophesized by her predecessor, her own flesh and blood. She is the last hope for our clan's salvation, last of the noble bloodline that have helped us of blood lust since their first, Judas Iscariot and the prostitute Mary Magdalene.

"Concilium, we have sought your wise words for many years, since the first of Mársabis blood who came to us bore you and spoke your names. Now as we bring forth to you the very last of your coveted blood, we call to the leader of our blood-bound clan to join you in you Council, so that he may speak to the Mársabis Amaclaty in security and all those who sit before me shall hear his command, his guidance given to Amaclaty so that she may lead the clan into darkness.

"Blayne Belen, nos dico vos rectum nos!"

Blayne Flickered in silently, still dressed all in black. He nodded respectfully to the Council and turned to speak to them.

"I believe the time has come to present our newest vampire, the first blooded since her sister, what was given to her so long ago. Varden, you may lead her to quietus locus. Invado obscurum."

"Invado obscurum," the Council echoed, and Blayne Flickered away again. Varden, one of the vampires in the second row, stepped down towards Sarkis and Amaclaty. Each movement seemed to bring him pain and he moved carefully, as if he was afraid that a wrong step would send him tumbling apart. Amaclaty barely noticed any of this.

Her thoughts were on Blayne.

In the brief instant he had Flickered into her vicinity, she had been overcome with such a passionate desire for him that she could think of nothing else. As he had spoken to the old vampires, she was sure she had heard his pulse as well as his voice, and the smell of his throat was almost irresistible. She wanted nothing more than to taste him. His scent lingered in her mouth, driving her wild, something like a smell and taste all at once, lingering so faintly to her tongue that it almost wasn't there at all. Amaclaty craved nothing more than to taste him fully, to have the wonderful aroma engulf her. Surely it would be exquisite.

These thoughts so fully consumed her that she hardly noticed Sarkis and Varden had Flickered her into yet another room. If Blayne had not occupied her senses so completely, she might have wondered at the seemingly endless immensity that was the fortress of the vampires and just how deep and wide it was. Finally Varden's rough, aged voice brought her back to reality.

"Welcome to quietus locus, Amaclaty," he said. She blinked at him and looked around, coming reluctantly from her reverie, pushing the half-formed fantasies of Blayne to the back of her mind. What she saw as she took in her surroundings was a type of gothic beauty she would not have imagined if it was not before her eyes.

The room itself was small and simple, dimly lit with the same dancing blue flames she had seen so often here. The floor was carpeted in black velvet, soothingly soft on her bare feet. On the stone-paneled walls hung two portraits, above stone statues of two women, carved in marble, lying atop their platforms as if asleep.

Amaclaty moved to examine the portraits, the first one catching her eye, and sparking a strange sense of familiarity and recognition. The girl in the picture was still that—a girl, looking younger than even Amaclaty herself. She appeared delicately beautiful. Whoever had painted her picture had captured both a fragile grace and strong will. Her neck was long, Amaclaty noticed, with a black silk ribbon tied just above her collar bone, the extra length trailing over her bosom. Her gown had a plunging neckline, exposing pale skin that contrasted with the black and purple of the gown itself. The sleeves were laced with red ribbon from elbow to wrist, the four ends entwined in her long pale fingers. But what inspired the sense of déjà vu in Amaclaty were the depthless blue eyes and the long, red-orange tresses cascading down Erikagana's shoulders.

"She was related to Alayza and Galena in some way," Sarkis explained. "Do not ask me how; the two bloodlines are so strangely intertwined that not even Blayne Belen knows where they are connected." Amaclaty nodded absently, still examining the portrait. Erikagana was hauntingly beautiful, so much so that it almost inspired and ache in Amaclaty's heart. She was so intently focused on the image of her ancestor that she started in alarm when she felt Varden's bony hand upon her shoulder.

"She was beautiful, my mother," he said. Amaclaty blinked at him, astounded. She had forgotten Varden was the Mársabis's son. It seemed rather impossible, as Varden looked as if he was old enough to be the great-grandfather of the girl in the portrait, and, in all actuality, was several centuries older than even that.

Amaclaty let her eyes slide to the second picture, and what she saw was such a shock that she felt as if she had been doused in icy water and placed in Arctic winds. The Mársabis in the portrait was, of course, Anality. But what Amaclaty had not expected was the uncanny sensation that she was looking into a mirror. The resemblance was strikingly similar, and the painting horribly accurate. Anality's golden hair was like her sister's, but slightly longer with more of a wave. Her gaunt face with its sharp nose and thin lips and her round blue-grey eyes with their sense of so much lost hope were echoes of what Amaclaty had seen looking into the mirror with Sarkis.

The dress Anality wore in her portrait was the very one Amaclaty wore at that moment, but the scars crossing the older Mársabis's shoulder were fewer than her sister's and certainly looked as if they had been shallower, less forceful. And the four fang marks from her bloodings were placed differently than Amaclaty's. In every other aspect, though, they were nearly identical.

As she caught her first glance of the portrait, Amaclaty gasped and stepped back with surprise, colliding painfully with the cool marble corner of the strange statue beneath Anality's portrait. "Ow!" she gasped breathlessly, turning around to examine the statue more closely. The form of the girl who lay atop the marble, also carved out of the pale stone, was the echo of the portrait above it. Anality's likeness looked peaceful but cold, captured in eternal sleep, her stone hair fanned out about her head, her marble gown seeming to cling to her slightly emaciated form. Her eyes were shut, saving the sculptor, whomever it may have been, from attempting to capture the dying spirit and fading will of the too-quickly-aged Mársabis. Amaclaty saw that Erikagana's statue was much the same as her sister's. But why go through all of the trouble of creating the images of the sleeping Mársabis? What gain would the clan have from immortalizing the two Mársabis twice over?

Then, as it had so often lately, realization slowly stole over her, and with a gasp of horror and disgust Amaclaty backed away from the statues, which were not statues at all, but coffins. This was her half-sister's final resting place. The very thought of the two beautiful women lying so far beneath the ground, never again to see the light of day, decomposing beneath imprints of their former selves, made Amaclaty almost sick to her stomach. Sarkis and Varden seemed not to notice her distress. They were conversing quietly in Latin. They seemed to come to some type of conclusion, because Sarkis walked to Anality's coffin and took something from the statue's hands that Amaclaty had not noticed. She handed it to the Mársabis then, who saw that it was a small scroll of paper, slightly yellowed by age, and coiled tightly. She could read the words to my sister on the side. She turned to Sarkis and Varden for an explanation.

"Anality wrote this just before she died. She requested that it be kept safe until your survival, as well as that you be the only one to ever know what is written upon it." Sarkis said nothing more and Varden remained silent, so Amaclaty unrolled the brittle message with shaking hands.