Lesbian Vampire Ch. 07 - That Which Haunts You

"Drink," she said, and forced her palm to his face. He lapped at the wound, sheepish. Through his eyes, Marcella watched the wound closed itself, the skin knitted itself back together in the span of a few seconds. Astonishment nearly cleaved Marcella from the vampire. The woman's palm was smooth and soft with no trace of a scar. This was magick that didn't just aid healing, like the products made by the coven, but could make it as if there was never a wound at all. Its healing worked faster than a vampire's. Faster than Marcella thought was even possible.

Suddenly, Marcella found herself pulled into another memory; this time it belonged to the vampire, formed centuries ago. They were in a small room lit by candles and a fire in the hearth. Braga wore a long green robe with complex embroidery on the bell sleeves. He watched a man working at the table who wore a robe of plain black. Marcella could see glimpses of his plum-colored leggings and pointed slippers. He turned and Marcella knew him in an instant: it was the priest who'd killed Lyse.

Braga wasn't scared of him like he was of Lara. In fact, Braga was angry.

"How long will this take?" spat Braga. He spoke to the priest in a language that felt awkward on his tongue.

"Don't rush me," urged the priest. "I'm doing this without help."

Marcella felt Braga's face sneer. The witch-priest was bitter Braga wouldn't spare any of his servants. It was because he didn't trust the man not to use them as fodder to test his potions. A good servant was hard to find and enthralling humans was dull and tedious work.

No, the witch-priest would not add Braga's servants to the collection of lyme-covered bodies hidden under the floorboards. The witch-priest could cull from his followers. They followed him here and as his students, they should be the ones to assist.

If the man wasn't such a rotten weasel, he might not have scared off the townsfolk. But he'd let his followers run wild. Before the priest came, to whisper of magick was the purview of gossips and heretics and always followed with a sign of the cross. Now the townsfolk spoke openly of the unnatural abilities possessed by the priests' followers. One man had brutalized a tavern of twenty. Another won a number of bets on whether or not he could crawl up the wall like a lizard. There were unexplained events, accusations of mind control, and a rash of sudden disappearances.

If Braga didn't kill him, someone else soon would.

"It's been months, Father," said Braga. His voice seethed. "Months of empty promises."

"The magick of death does not march to your rhythms," hissed the priest. Same nasal pitch. "And you've seen the power it's given my followers."

"Enough power for a few days of party tricks," scoffed Braga. "It might be a great boon to a dirt-caked midwife selling love potions but nothing that would rival the power of an initiated witch. Or even a vampire."

And certainly not enough to fend off a mob of torch-wielding Catholics, he added silently. "I'm beginning to suspect this whole endeavor was a waste of time."

"But I've figured out the missing piece!" exclaimed the man. "The key to enduring power like my visions promised."

Braga glared, "What's the missing piece?"

"It's nearly finished. I swear on my life this is the breakthrough."

"So we're agreed," said Braga. "If this next attempt fails, you die"

The man's lip curled at Braga's threat. "It's nearly finished," he said, "except for the blood."

Braga sauntered over. He grabbed a dagger on the table. The witch-priest flinched and Braga scoffed. He didn't need a knife to kill. The vampire sliced his palm open. He let the freed blood pour into the greeny mixture and it bubbled. The priest strained the mixture and poured it into a bottle of dark liquor.

He turned back towards Braga. "May I propose a toast?"

"Enough," said Braga. "I--"

"Of course!" interjected the man. "How foolish. And human of me, to offer you spirits." He gave Braga a broad, sneering smile. The blue of the man's eyes was so pale, they looked nearly white. "Let me invite Satu in your stead." He hollered her name. A timid witch peered around the corner. Her brown hair was tucked into a white cap.

"Come, my love," said the witch-priest. She walked over, hesitant. The witch-priest poured a small portion of the dark liquor in 2 small glasses. It was a cloudy brown with a greenish tinge and smelled of earth. "It's from my own, handmade supply," said the man and handed Satu a glass. Braga gritted his teeth.

"To magick! To loyalty and friendship," he said. He brought the glass to his lips and held it there, level. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Satu drink it down. She coughed. "It's awful," she managed.

She noticed his still-full glass.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"The problem was the uninitiated!" boomed the witch-priest to Braga. "All that time, squandered on travelers and priests. When the answer lay right beside me." He pulled the necklace out of his pocket and hung it round his neck. Satu screamed and stuck her fingers down her throat. The horrid, dry retching sounds made Braga cringe.

She should have known better, he thought. Scores of humans were deceived into taking some version of the potion. He'd seen its effects. The magick siphoned the life force of the victim, husking them from the inside-out. Braga had seen the witch-priest absorb it himself or direct it to another. It went to whoever wore the medallion, the chain of which Braga could now see peeking from the collar around the priest's neck.

And the effects were always the same. There was a brief surge of power that burned bright and quick then dissolved away. Yet the witch-priest insisted that his visions promised power that endured forever. That the perfected spell would separate the spirit and leave the body in a state of undisturbed slumber. The caster would gain an everlasting source of power, amplifying his own by 20 or 30 times. The problem was it didn't work. The spell burned itself out and the witch-priest had another dead body on his hands.

He said it was just a matter of time. There was a missing piece the priest couldn't discern. He said the spirit of the victims passed too quickly through the mortal veil and into the beyond. The spell was supposed to bind the spirit, to trap it between life and death. But in the weeks since he had come, the work was fruitless and there was always an excuse. He'd needed a man when he took a woman. Or a child when he stole an elder. There was never any difference. And Braga had no more patience for the hysterics of the dying.

"Enough," said Braga, and stood. He had been disappointed by these unkept promises and would only be satisfied when he was sure the priest had stopped breathing.

"Wait," begged the witch-priest. He pointed towards Satu. Like the others, she began to seize and blood began to drip from her eyes like tears. But her eyes themselves had transformed, covered in a milky white as if the iris and pupil had been erased. And instead of falling to the floor, she stood and convulsed in place. From her mouth came strange sounds-- distorted voices and a loud droning.

Then her feet then lifted and she hovered a few centimeters off the ground.

"Holy Mother of God," whispered Braga, heedless of the resurgence of his forgotten human past.

A bloodied silver blade erupted from her chest. Blood poured from the wound and Satu's mouth gaped in horror. The blade withdrew and swung around to lop off her head. The headless body floated in mid-air for a few tense moments then collapsed to the ground. Stood there one of the witch-priest's followers. He wore the same white tunic as Satu, now splattered in blood. He his breath was heavy and his eyes darted between the man he once revered and the stranger beside him.

"No!" screamed the witch-priest. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The spell can't exist without the body." He lunged at his follower and took him to the floor. They rolled on the ground, the follower slashed wildly with his blade. The thickening scent of smoke filled Braga's nose. A lit torch lay in a pile of greasy rags dumped by a load bearing beam .

The witch-priest howled with each hack of the blade that landed, the delicate silk and lace of his robe soaked in blood. The follower landed a heavy blow and the witch priest fell still. The follower staggered to his feet. He looked at Braga and ran. Braga walked to the witch-priest and rolled the body over with his foot. The body twitched but the lifeless eyes convinced Braga the man was dead. The vampire lifted the chain of the blood-smeared medallion and held it up to the flickering light. It was heavier than it looked and on its face was a strange symbol etched in gold. It was a peculiar design that depicted neither the natural world nor human language. It was an assortment of marks, chaotic lines and sharp-edged shapes that yielded no pattern Braga could discern. Flames began to consume the room and would soon draw the attention of the neighbors. He wrapped the sigil in his crisp white handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. The vampire leapt from a window and shifted into a wolf. He ran towards the trees.

Braga never forgot what he saw that night. He kept the medallion and wondered what such power might have meant as the world changed around him. Wealth, once coins and gemstones, became invisible. Humans brought ceaseless light into the darkest parts of the night and now a village-worth of them could fly through the air. Their instruments of war made them stronger than vampires, stronger than anything Braga had known. The fate of the planet now rested in their hands.

Until Lara found him. And he wondered no more.

Braga's memory faded and Marcella found herself again watching Lara through his eyes. "Have faith, my love," said Lara. "I've seen all possible futures. We cannot fail."

Marcella surged awake in her bed. She was back into her body with a singular knowing: she needed to save Rhea. She sprung up from her bed and ran out of her room and across the hall. She banged on the door and screamed Rachel's name. The others decided to confiscate her phone overnight. She'd been caught up late too many times this month. Rachel opened the door, bleary.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Marcella's words were tangled from tension. Rachel squinted, her ears and good sense still muffled by sleep. Marcella's thoughts became more jumbled as panic overtook her.

"I need to warn Rhea!" she begged.

"Here," said an even voice, "Call her on mine." Kivan stood, phone in outstretched hand

Lucy could not stop pacing while she spoke to Patrick on the phone. He was stalking drunks at a bar. Rhea heard the pounding sound of music through the tinny speakers of Lucy's phone. Lucy ended the call with a frustrated sigh. "He said that it was just past one and the bar would be closing soon anyway."

Lucy began to scramble for her clothes. "Is there something you can do? Some protection spell, something?"

"Alone, it would exhaust me and if the worst happens, I'll be more likely to survive if I'm alert," said Rhea. "Sunrise is in a few hours."

Lucy paused. "That soon?"

"The hex to control me is broken," answered Rhea. "They showed their hand at the party to provoke me to rash action. They think they have no choice."

Lucy looked back at her phone and gave a pained hum. "I missed a call from Kyle. He left me a voicemail." His voice piped through the speaker, still as lighthearted as when Rhea spoke to him:

Lucy-- hey. It's Kyle. Not sure if Rhea told you this, but Braga is actually behind the murders.

Well, he and the witch he had hanging around, uh...Lara. Yeah, Lara. Don't let Rhea take anything they try to give her. So I guess-- mystery solved? Details later, but listen. He and Lara left the party not too long after Rhea. Wouldn't say where they were going but I suspect it has something to do with you two. Ok! Call me back if you survive—bye bye. Oh, and don't tell Braga I tipped you off, obviously.

The recording ended.

"Shit." said Lucy. "Shit, shit, shit"

"There might be something I can do," said Rhea.

Lucy looked at her, almost hopeful.

"I'll make a double," said Rhea. "It's a spell that frees my reflection from the mirror to double as me. It'll lead Lara away from us, and Braga will follow." She slipped out of the bed and fished some clothes out of her bag. Jeans and a jacket, appropriate for a late walk on a rainy night. "It'll do its best to evade them. And as soon as one of them touches it, they'll get burned. Literally-- the thing will explode into steam hot enough to take off a few layers of skin. It'll slow them down at the very least."

"But we don't know where they are," said Lucy.

"They'll be here," said Rhea. "The double won't move until it has been spotted." She crossed the room and stood in front of a tall standing mirror in the corner; she did not ask why Lucy had it.

"Won't she be suspicious?" asked Lucy. She leaned against the pillar watching Rhea.

"For anyone else, yes. But not for the woman-- Lara. All the ways she has attacked me have used my image. The mirror, the printed picture. Witchcraft like that demands Lara attach her magick to my image. And to do that, she gives it a little piece of everything she has-- her energy, her emotions, her very life force. Everything. It's magick that gets results. But it cultivates obsession. And obsession is dangerous."

"How do you know it will work?" asked Lucy, incredulous.

"My walking reflection will electrify her mind. Lara will be compelled to act. It'll buy us some time. Your brother will get here, and the odds will be in our favor."

"He has friends who'll come for him." Lucy looked at Rhea, eyes full of questions and a sheen of wonder. "Darling, that's brilliant."

Rhea looked away. "If someone sees me with the double, the spell will be broken so I'll need you to lead it downstairs. But listen-- you cannot look at it. That breaks the spell too. You'll need to hold the door for it but keep your eyes shut tight. Because you know it's a double, if you look at it, it will detonate. Come back upstairs as fast as you can without turning back."

"Does it bother you when others are in awe of your magick?" asked Lucy. Rhea was struck by the question.

"Well, when it catches the eye of a maniac who intends for you a fate worse than hell, sort of?" asked Rhea, but then wished she kept this thought to herself. Worry, genuine fear, seemed to flicker across the vampire's face.

"It bothers what others want to believe about it," said Rhea.

"What do you mean?" asked Lucy.

"I have exactly one ability that makes me different from any other witch on that island: I can control the Curse and thus control the vampire. There's been lots of hype around it, from vampires mostly but Greta has encouraged it. But what does that power mean, really? Only that we have a slight advantage in collecting your blood."

Rhea wriggled into her jeans and looked in the mirror. Lucy called over, teasing, "When you call it a curse, it makes me think you have a fetish."

Maybe she was right, thought Rhea with a smile. Maybe all the warnings and rituals and scare-mongering about vampires was there by design. To keep her obedient to the coven and lost in its service. A strange thought, Rhea acknowledged, one that she would have to examine later. Hopefully.

"There was no bright star the night I was born," said Rhea. "I've never been visited by an angel and I've never been told my name has been written in some hidden book of fate. All the 'powers of a generation' crap only started when my magick manifested in a way that would help the coven. I was a regular person until a series of choices, unwitting and conscious, led me to magick. Anything else, I have no idea."

"So it's destiny bit you don't like?" asked Lucy.

Rhea put on the jean jacket. "Destiny implies permanence. And nothing guarantees forever."

"Well, vampirism," said Lucy with a smile.

"And even vampires can be killed," said Rhea. "I was taught that death is transformation by another name. That's what makes the magick of necromancy so potent. When you cling to parts that yearn to die back, they'll begin to haunt you." Rhea fumbled with the buttons of the jacket. Lucy, across the room, was behind Rhea in a moment. Rhea jumped a little, feeling Lucy pressed against her but reflectionless. The vampire wrapped her arms around Rhea.

The witch smiled and tried to pull away. Lucy kissed Rhea's neck. Rhea's skin sang with the sensation and she squirmed a bit as gooseflesh erupted down her arm.

"You're annoying," she said warmly as she turned toward Lucy. The vampire put her hands on either side of Rhea's face. "You're insufferable," said the vampire then kissed her.

Rhea faced the mirror once more.

Lucy walked to the door to the hallway, opened it, and faced the threshold with her back to Rhea.

"No matter what," called Rhea, "don't look."

Lucy nodded.

Rhea heard her phone buzz on the counter in rhythmic succession. She shook her head to settle back into deep focus and looked into the mirror. She began to whisper. Staring into the reflection's eyes, Rhea heard a mournful sound cry that came at a rapid, trilling rhythm.

"Lead her to the water," Rhea whispered. The lights of the apartment flickered. Her reflection's fingers twitched though Rhea's were still.

That's when Rhea turned. With slow, easy movements she made her way toward Lucy. She felt a tiny wobble as the double pulled free of the glass. She felt it follow, its eerie magick hovering just behind her, finding its bearings. When she was close enough she reached her arm out and touched Lucy's shoulder.

Lucy, ever graceful, found the slow rhythm with ease. Rhea turned away, eyes shut tight. She froze, not daring to turn back towards the door until Lucy's footsteps were far away.

Rhea heard more successive buzzes-- another call, right off the other. Rhea turned then shut and locked the door. Lucy would be back soon but Rhea thought it best to be cautious. The vampire could break it down if she really needed to.

It was a warm night, too warm for February. But the weather in Southern California was just like that these days, no matter the season. Winter was a brief interlude of cooler days and rain, if it was a lucky year. Followed by hot days and then relentlessly hot ones. Lara had lived all over Southern California, all over the world by now.

She regretted wearing the dress with the cape; the extra layer of fabric was a bit too warm to be comfortable. Braga stood beside her. They waited in the shadows hidden by a concealment spell. The kinetic charge of it thrilled Lara; all her magick now crackled with power. It was strong. She was strong. And fast. And cunning.

By two, she added with a smile.

Braga shifted, nervous. "We've only a few hours until sunrise. We have to move."

"Look," she said. Across the street stood an apartment building, jarringly built to fit an odd space. The foyer of the building was bright and through the long windows Lara could see with ease. A vampire descended the stairs. She was tall relative to the railing but slim in a way that made her look fragile, skin stretched tight over bone. Her red hair had a shining, wild vivacity and that seemed at odds with the aura of death magick that possessed her. It fell in long, soft curls.

"I made sure her hair was perfect when I passed on the Gift," said Braga, almost longingly. He looked at Lara. "Do you expect us to ambush them?" Braga still felt the life force of the man he'd taken at the party and now the life force of the one who lay dead at his feet. But he didn't want the life force of just any human; that was little better than blood. He wanted the magick of a witch. Though he was strong, Rhea was powerful and practiced.