In Red Eyes

In memory, Isabelle planted her feet carefully. She raised her sword into a guarding posture and took careful aim at the practice dummy in front of her, ready to thrust.

But something was wrong.

The tip of her blade kept shaking. She couldn't seem to hold it steady. Why? Hadn't she done this thousands of times before?

Or was it hundreds?

Or was it just dozens?

And why was the courtyard bathed in an evil, crimson glow?

In memory, Isabelle looked up at the evening sky. Two moons hung overhead, and both of them were the color of blood.

Was this really how it had happened?

Isabelle couldn't seem to call any alternative to mind. This was the only version of events she knew. That she had ever known. What could it be but the truth? With that comfort in mind, she raised her sword once more, ready to strike.

But first, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, Isabelle was assailed with a throbbing headache. The world, as she remembered it from that night, was doubled up upon itself. In her mind's eye, there were two different memories fighting for the same space. As both of them forced themselves in, they each blurred around the edges, becoming unreal.

The other memory took place inside. She could tell that much. And she was holding... something. Something sharp. Everything else was indistinct.

The dissonance was unbearable, and Isabelle was gripped with an urgent need to determine what was real and what was not. And in her desperation, the accented voice that came to her as if drifting on the night wind felt like a blessing.

Look, it called. Look up. Look deep.

In memory, Isabelle looked up. She let the crimson moons overhead transfix her. Somehow, as she stared the knot of tension in her head started to slacken. She relaxed. And as she did, the courtyard and the training dummy melted away like candle wax.

Moments later, in memory, Isabelle found herself sitting in her chamber. It was as if she had never been practicing her swordsmanship outside - and indeed, that memory was fading fast. Overhead were not moons, but rather two odd, red lamps hanging from her ceiling.

She looked down. In her left hand was a frame for embroidery, and in her right was a needle, raised as she was about to thrust it into the fabric like a sword. In memory, Isabelle smiled. What a childish little fancy!

The childhood temptation to become a swordswoman had still been with her, at that age, but only just. Instead, Isabelle remembered resigning herself to her filial duties, and spending long hours practicing her needlework to become the princess her mother had always so wanted.

Then, in the memory, came a knock at the door, followed by her mother's voice:

"Isabelle?" her mother had said. "There's somebody here I'd like you to meet."

Isabelle set aside her needlework as her mother pushed open her chamber door. At her side was a woman as strange as she was oddly familiar. She was extraordinarily pale and looked hungry, and her eyes were all red.

"She's to be your tutor," Isabelle's mother had explained, "in the finer points of courtly etiquette. She's a countess from the east, from over the mountains."

Even in this most vivid of vivid memories, Isabelle barely registered her words. Her recollection was dominated by a single, overbearing feeling.

Adoration.

A single glance at the countess's slender, aristocratic countenance was all Isabelle needed to know this was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. That she would ever see. There was an inhuman quality to her that only enhanced her perfection. Isabelle felt like she was looking at a saint, or perhaps a goddess. The blasphemy of that notion was completely unimportant compared to how desperately she wanted to worship and adore this woman.

In memory, her body started to warm to new desires. Shame stained her cheeks. It was wrong. Terribly, biblically wrong. To feel this way about another woman was unspeakable - let alone about a woman who had come all this way to tutor her. But there was no denying it.

In memory, Isabelle tried to remember if she'd ever felt this way about a woman before. She didn't think so. This lust, this dizzying passion, this yearning for closeness and intimacy was like a spike driven into her skull. Without precedent, it had erupted inside her. If she hadn't known better, Isabelle might have blamed it on a devil's touch or a witch's curse.

And in any case, she was too enamored to care.

"Hello, Bella," the countess said, in that accented, somehow-familiar voice. "I'm here to help you blossom into a fine young lady."

Coming from this goddess, the diminutive nickname didn't anger her. It merely made her blush.

"Hello, countess." In memory, Isabelle rose to her feet and curtsied as prettily as she could. A breathless eagerness slipped into her voice. "I look forward to your tutelage."

***

Then, it was over. The memory was finished and receded back into the dark corners of Isabelle's mind, there to spread its roots just like the first had. More memories started to appear before her mind's eye. Memories of long years of tutelage and devotion as she cultivated her own regal femininity. But this was no time to dwell on them. She snapped back to the present, and scolded herself for being so absent-minded.

She wasn't a girl back in Verona. Nor was she some old maid, constantly reminiscing. She was a knight, and she was here to... to...

To what?

"Are you alright, dear little Bella?" Countess Mihaela asked. "You're looking a little pale."

Isabelle leaped backward as she noticed how close the vampire was. Terror gripped her. Why was she here? To slay a vampire? That sounded like a bad jest. Where had she found the insane courage that had brought her down into this castle, sword in hand?

She barely even knew how to use the thing.

"Do not worry," the countess added mockingly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Isabelle risked an incredulous glance at the creature. That proved to be a mistake. Once her eyes found the twinned, red lamps that shone out of the vampire's face, she was once again frozen to the spot - not that it seemed to matter. Even running away felt like a distant fantasy. How was Isabelle supposed to move when she was weighed down with all this clunky armor? She had no idea how to move in it.

After a few moments, though, she realized there was something else that was giving her pause. Something about the countess. There was an eerie familiarity to her, like she had been conjured forth from Isabelle's past. Had they met? It seemed impossible. How would she have met a vampire? But the notion continued to gnaw at her. She tried to tell herself that it was a mere trick. That, if anything, Countess Mihaela was something spawned from her nightmares.

But that wasn't quite true either. Because Countess Mihaela was the most beautiful woman she had ever set eyes on. Even her obvious inhumanity was enchanting. Isabelle couldn't take her eyes off her, and the sight of the vampire's face stoked shameful desires she'd kept carefully hidden for so many years. Hers was the face that had haunted both Isabelle's wet dreams and her most loving fantasies.

That, just as much as anything else, was terrifying.

"K-keep away from me!" Isabelle yelled, her voice wavering.

"Or what?" Countess Mihaela opened her mouth and bared her fangs. "What are you afraid of, little Bella?"

"D-don't call me that!" Isabelle was teetering on the brink of panic. "I... I... I have a sword!"

She clutched it to her chest with both hands, embarrassingly like a child reaching for a prized toy.

"Oh? Then do your worst!" The countess spread her arms wide. "Here. I won't even move."

Hot, bitter tears of humiliation started to well up in the corners of Isabelle's eyes. With the vampire goading her, she raised the sword as high as she could, and tried to imitate the way she'd seen fighting men move.

She failed miserably.

Isabelle had no idea how to hold the sword, much less swing it. When she struck out towards the countess, she was woefully unprepared for the way its weight and momentum carried her forwards and threatened to throw her completely off balance. Letting out a miserable whimper, she allowed it to slip out of her hands. It clattered to the ground uselessly, off to one side.

True to her word, Countess Mihaela had not moved a muscle.

"You see?" the vampire said, with an air of predatory, sickeningly false kindness. "You're not meant for this, dear Bella. Why not accept what I offer instead? Be mine. Be my bride."

The offer was horrifying in its allure. Countess Mihaela felt as much like a succubus as she did a bloodsucking monstrosity. Isabelle shrunk away from her whilst shaking her head and trying to ignore how tempted she felt.

"Don't... don't call... d-don't..." Isabelle couldn't keep herself from tearing up. She was trying desperately to think of a lifeline, but she was so terribly confused. She couldn't so much as understand why she'd come here. "I-I'm a knight! I'm a k-knight!"

The claim felt laughably, pathetically false. But still, Isabelle was determined to hold true to that part of herself. It was one of the only things she remained truly sure of. Her deepest conviction.

"Are you?" Countess Mihaela's amusement was palpable. "What kind of knight doesn't know how to swing a sword, dear Bella?"

"I..." Isabelle had no answer for that, but she couldn't let go. Her knighthood was all she had. "I'm... I'm a... a knight?"

"You poor thing," the vampire simpered. "You seem so terribly confused. Why don't you just look into my eyes for a moment? I can take all of that away for you. Just look, Bella. Look."

She wasn't sure if it was out of compulsion, fear, or simple despair, but whatever the case, Isabelle looked. Countess Mihaela's huge, red eyes opened up to devour her.

***

Once again, Isabelle was tossed into a helpless reverie of memory. She found herself transported back once more to Verona, but this time she was standing in the chapel attached to her family's estate. Even tinted in sinister crimson, the day was unmistakable to her.

It was her happiest and proudest moment, and the most important day of her life.

Having come of age, she was waiting there in the chapel for the ceremony to begin. In a few moments, her father would come to join her. She would take her vows, and then kneel before him as he blessed her with his ceremonial sword and awarded her the...

The...

What? What was she here for, exactly?

Isabelle found that she was struggling to remember that.

A knighthood?

That felt right, but she couldn't see how it could be. After all, by that age, knighthood had been nothing more than a long-forgotten daydream. She'd long since put away her sword and her storybooks. Instead, she'd devoted herself to becoming the elegant, beautiful princess of Verona, under the fond eye of her beloved tutor.

Her...

It was then that it dawned on her. No; rather, it was seared into her mind like a red-hot brand.

This wasn't a knighthood ceremony. It was her betrothal.

Her father was soon coming, yes, but he was coming to give her away to her betrothed. Her vows weren't of duty, but rather of love and faithfulness.

Love for-

"You are a vision of beauty, my beloved Bella."

At the sound of that familiar, accented voice, joy surged within Isabelle's breast. She turned to face her betrothed as she walked towards her through the crimson-lit chapel.

It was the countess.

Underneath Castle Dragosi, Isabelle's brow furrowed. There were a dozen and more reasons why that memory was impossible. Why it made no sense. A betrothal between two women? It was impossible. And why would her family ever entrust her to some foreign countess? Or to a woman so much older? Why didn't they object to the fact that the woman they'd welcomed as a tutor had seduced their only daughter?

Yet all those reasons were swept away in the rush of nostalgic bliss.

In memory, Isabelle could barely contain herself. She was finally to be given to the woman she loved. The way their romance had blossomed was nothing short of a fairytale, and it was a further miracle that her parents had consented so readily to the match. How could she be anything but thankful?

Through her mind's eye, she could see that the countess had looked as beautiful as ever that day. She was wearing the same dress Isabelle always seemed to picture her in, and her fangs were as white and sharp as ever. And her eyes, of course, held Isabelle's very soul in their grip.

She was perfect.

The memory was growing clearer and clearer with each passing moment. Now Isabelle felt like she could remember what she had been wearing. Not armor, but a pretty, white dress. She wasn't a knight. She was a bride.

Abruptly, she found herself picturing her father at her side. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could remember something of his smile as he offered her hand to the countess. Then, it was time for her vows. Isabelle spoke them from the heart, and the words took the place of years of chivalric oaths and honorable pledges.

'Till death do us part...

***

This time, when Isabelle snapped back the present, it felt as though she had been struck by a thunderbolt. It was like she was remembering her whole life anew, and as her precious memories of the countess took root, they quickly filled the holes and doubts that had assailed her. It wasn't long before she was set completely at ease.

Only, why were there tears in her eyes?

The only reason Bella could think of was that they were tears of joy - of the joy of, at long last, being reunited with her betrothed.

"You remember now, don't you?" Countess Mihaela prompted. She was grinning wickedly. "Isn't that right, my bride?"

My bride. Those words sent a rapturous shiver down Bella's spine, and made her blush.

"Yes," she said, in a dainty, adoring voice. "Forgive me, my love. I was confused. How silly of me!"

In truth, there were still a few things that confused her. They simply didn't matter, now that she was in the arms of her great love. Why was she standing beneath some dank, ruined castle? Why was she wearing armor? Why did her body feel so firm, so muscular? And why was there a sword lying on the ground, so close at hand?

For a moment, she caught her own reflection in its steel. Her eyes seemed to have turned a dull, deep, listless red.

It didn't trouble her. Not now that she knew who she was. She was Princess Bella of Verona, and she had come to take her place as Countess Mihaela Dragosi's bride.

"Good, good," the countess said. "You must come upstairs with me. I have clothes for you to change into. We can easily find you something more befitting a princess."

Bella nodded gratefully. A dress would be much more comfortable and familiar than this heavy garb.

"But first," Countess Mihaela added, "I am thirsty, my bride."

Bella's loving smile only widened. She knew exactly what the countess was asking of her. It was a bride's duty, and one she was unbelievably happy to fulfill.

She reached up to unfasten the high-collared breastplate that kept her neck protected. Her fingers seemed to know how to handle the straps, even if her mind didn't. After a few seconds, it fell to the ground next to the sword, and Countess Mihaela rushed forwards to sweep Bella into her embrace.

Bella, her knighthood lost, did nothing more than bare her neck in submission, and let out a blissful moan as the vampire's fangs pierced her neck.

She had been wrong before. This, in fact, was her happiest and proudest moment.