Poetry & Blood Ch. 08

Chapter 8: Inviting Darkness

By Trixie Adara

Edited by Abby H.

*****

Laura awkwardly stirred her soup while Camille watched over her. Camille had a bowl of soup in front of her, still pretending to need to eat even though apparently everyone except Abby knew it was for show.

Laura sighed and kept stirring the soup as vegetables floated past her spoon. These moments were the most unbearable. In the bedroom or at a desk, Camille was everything Laura wanted. In those moments, she was closest to being Marcilla again, and Marcilla was what kept Laura here. Marcilla was the reason she showed up night after night, hoping it will finally be the time she felt her fangs again.

"What's wrong?" asked Camille from across the table.

"Nothing."

"You keep sighing dramatically. And stir that soup anymore, you'll create a whirlpool."

"Yeah," sighed Laura and put her spoon down. "Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I don't have time for games. Stop acting like an indignant teenager."

'Teenager' made Laura think of Emma. Another question for another time but not now. Not anywhere close to now.

"Who is joining us for the Muse Session tonight?"

"The usual."

"Abby?"

"Well, yes. Who else is going to read?"

Laura sighed again and pushed her bowl away from her.

"Laura," snapped Camille. Laura looked up and into the green eyes of her employer. There was a slight glow to them, a flash of anger and power. Her jaw was tight. Her body a taut string. Laura had stepped too far.

"Yes?" asked Laura meekly.

"Ask your question or leave my presence immediately. If you want to behave like a child, Angelica can replace you this evening." Laura sat up at the threat. If there was anything keeping her going, anything keeping her in the manor these days, it was the Muse Sessions. Without them, her life was the mindless and endless task of helping Camille write. With them, there was an eternal hope that Marcilla may yet return.

"Yes, ma'am," said Laura. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Ask. Your. Question."

"It's just that, the point of the sessions is to feed you, yes?"

"In part, yes. They have multiple purposes. I believe you have enjoyed several of their aims."

"Yes, I have. I really have. But I was thinking. If you needed someone ... someone to umm ... to bite. It doesn't have to be Abby. It could be ... it could be ... ummmm ..."

"You?"

"Yes," said Laura breathlessly.

"No," said Camille quickly.

"What? Why not?"

"You're too valuable."

"But I want to serve you."

"You do serve me. You're a tongue."

"But I can be more. I want it. I want you to taste me."

"I have tasted you," said Camille standing up.

Laura stood up to meet her. "I want more. I want you to ... to ..."

"To what?" snapped Camille. "To turn you? So you can be like me? Forever alive, forever cold, forever alone?"

"You won't be alone if you -"

"Is that what you think will happen? Is that how this ends? I turn you and we become vampire lovers forever?"

"Why not? Marcilla would -"

"I am not Marcilla!" Camille pounded the table as she said it. "Marcilla lost Laura Karnstein. She was a fool, and a dangerous one. If you are waiting for Marcilla, you will be waiting a long time."

"But the poems," said Laura. "You still read the poems, surely that must mean -"

"That is enough," said Camille as she smoothed out her dress.

"But we could bring her back. Just take me, please."

"That is enough, Laura."

Laura rolled up her sleeve. She scratched at her forearm, hard, trying to draw blood. "You don't have to turn me. Please. Just drink. Take me. Drink me."

"Enough!" roared Camille. Her eyes darkened and her lips pulled back, revealing her fangs.

Laura's mouth went dry. Her knees went weak. Her pussy ran wet. This was it. This was the way. She could provoke her. Anger her. Force her out and she would be the monster Laura fantasized, the monster Laura imagined in her dreams over and over.

"You don't need to be there tonight," said Camille, her voice lowering as she spoke, as she regained her temper. "Take the night off."

"Camille, I'm -"

"Call me Miss K or Miss Kontalban. I have become too lax around you. You have forgotten your place."

Camille turned and walked out of the room without another word. Laura stood there only for a moment, until a wave of self-pity took over her, and she left to go to her room.

That night, Laura realized how dependent she had become on Marcilla's poetry. She had read it each night for months now, and tonight was the first night without it. Some she knew by heart, but it wasn't the same to remember a poem as it was to experience a poem. Marcilla's words were special, she knew that now, and part of their power was to suck you in, to force you to imagine them, to feel them, whether you wanted to or not. Laura K's quickened heart became your quickened heart. Marcilla's aching hunger became your aching hunger. The more you read, the more you became like Marcilla, like Laura K, and no amount of remembering could do that.

Laura looked at her phone for the hundredth time in a row. She could call up Claire and see if she wanted to come over, if she wanted to go out. If she ended up hooking up with her old roommate, she wouldn't mind. At least it would take her mind off of Marcilla, right?

Probably not. Laura could just imagine sitting up in bed, Claire beautiful and snoring beside her, while she knew that it was nowhere near as good as what Marcilla was offering. Claire could never be Laura K any more than Laura could be Marcilla. It would all be a pantomime of the reality hiding behind Camille's insecurity. Laura was so close, but Marcilla still couldn't come out and play.

Well, not as long as Camille was in control.

But Camille was in control because she was the writer. Sure, this was her house and she was the employer, but all her power came from the fact that this was her story. The poems were her poems. She kept everything tightly wrapped and only let things out if she wanted to. But it didn't have to be like that. Camille wasn't the only writer in the building.

Laura scrambled through her desk and found a yellow pad of legal paper. She could write something. Her own story. She could write about Camille finally taking away her humanity, her dignity, and giving her the fucking she deserved.

Or wait, she could do even better. She could write about Marcilla. Marcilla and Laura K. She could write the ending Marcilla wanted, the one Laura wanted. She could change the ending and give Marcilla what she wanted, what she deserved. Laura K didn't need to run away. She didn't need to ignore the huntress stalking her. She should have given in. She should submit like Laura wished she would.

She started to scribble a first draft from Laura K's perspective, inviting Marcilla in to take her body, to relieve her of the heavy burden of living:

Wet Heat

There is so much to me
Under this paper skin:
Insides to be known
To be tasted;

And you have waited,
Watching in shadows,
So many opportunities
You've wasted.

Put that mouth to use.
I don't mind the teeth.
Let long kisses
Turn to bites.

All it's been with you is talk,
Empty promises, and threats.
I'm not here for your
Maybe or mights.

Look at me from the inside:
Wet and ready for tongue.
Pick your favorite red
Or my pink.

I've one death to give,
And I offer it freely.
To gasp a final gasp
As you drink.

Laura's eyes widened, and she dropped her pen. She looked back at the poem and read it. She read it again. She read it a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth. It didn't have the power of Marcilla's poems. It didn't lure her in. It didn't turn off her mind, but as she read it, she felt her pent up lust brimming at the top.

She closed her eyes and slid her hands down her pants. If she tried hard enough, if she concentrated, she could conjure Marcilla up in her mind. Marcilla as she imagined her. Marcilla as she dreamed of her. Marcilla hundreds of years old and staring down the thin and exposed neck of Laura Karnstein. The hallways were dark. The candles were low and flickering out. Only the moon through the hallway window showed her the outline of Marcilla's long and dark hair. She moved slowly down the hallway, each step with confidence, with fierce intentionality.

Laura bit her lip hard, drawing a tiny bead of blood. She licked it quickly, keeping her eyes closed, her fingers going lower, moving faster, as she kept the fantasy burning.

Marcilla finds her. She always finds her. Laura did something wrong, misbehaved in someway. She needs to be punished. Marcilla moves her hand faster than Laura's eyes can track it, smacking the side of her face and rocking her head to the side, slamming it on the wall. Laura's heartbeat quickens. Marcilla is strong. Impossibly strong. Laura knows she can't run. She can't fight. She can't resist. The only thing left to do is to beg. Beg her to make it quick. She can kill Laura quickly and mercilessly. She doesn't hesitate. She won't regret it.

The moonlight catches Marcilla's face. Her chin is already red with blood. It must be Nikki's blood. It must be Abby's blood. It must be Claire's blood. It is the blood of Laura's father and everyone she's ever met. Soon, Laura's blood will mingle with it. There is no one to save her. She is alone. Every bridge is burned. The light catches Marcilla's eyes and they flicker. The green of them is sharp, and in behind them burns a hatred. A hatred for weakness. A hatred for softness. A hatred for those who resist.

But Laura isn't foolish enough to resist anymore. Blood trickles down her nose. She doesn't wipe it away. Her eyes widen as Marcilla licks her lips. Laura must look delicious to her. Laura foolishly wonders if she is appetizing. In the last moment, of all things, she wishes to be appetizing.

And she must be. Marcilla lowers herself, joining Laura on the floor. Laura tilts her neck. Even in this, her final moment, she wishes to entice and seduce. Marcilla smiles and lowers herself further. She is calculated. She is relentless. She is Death.

The light catches Marcilla's fangs. They aren't white, as Laura would expect. There are speckled with blood, someone else's blood. Soon, Laura will speckle those fangs as well. This is it. This is the moment.

There is a sharp punch in her neck, and her vision flashes white.

Laura shrieked in ecstasy as the orgasm stirred her from the fantasy. She fell from her chair at her desk to the floor, her legs shaking, pulsing, as the pleasure rolled up and down her body. At first, she was terrified, thinking the fantasy, some part of it, was real. She thought the pleasure of her orgasm was truly the pain of death.

As the adrenaline faded, she began to laugh to herself, at herself. She was pleased to be alive, and so disappointed that it was only a fantasy. She couldn't believe herself: her recklessness, her perverted desires, her behavior lately. Reality washed over her, cold and remorseless, turning her laughter to crying as she fell asleep.

********

Laura stirred slowly from her sleep. It was a dreamless sleep, thankfully, and at first she was confused to find herself on the floor. She was about to sit up when she heard someone's footsteps in her room. She froze, her eyes wide, her body quickly becoming alert, as she listened to the gentle footsteps. She shut her eyes and did her best to pretend she was asleep.

Whoever it was, they were very quiet. They didn't seem to wear any shoes and touched the floor lightly wherever they stepped. Laura tried to think who it could be. Surely Angelica or Miss Lancaster would wake her up. They wouldn't respect her sleep. Nikki would be louder, clumsier in the room. It couldn't be Abby, could it? She was a harmless girl. Why would she be in Laura's room?

Of course, it could be Camille. She would let Laura sleep. She would move quietly; surely vampires are capable of it. What would she want in Laura's room? Was she suspicious? Was this the first time? Perhaps she came into Laura's room regularly while she slept. Why wouldn't she be bothered with Laura asleep on the floor? Didn't that bother her? Or what about the poem?

The poem!

Laura opened her eyes and sat up. If it was anyone except Camille, she didn't care. If it was Camille, she had to hide the poem before she found it. She looked around the room but saw no one. Then, she heard giggling coming from behind her, from her bed.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Oh, hello there sleeper," said a faint and soft voice.

Laura sat up further, getting on her knees to see who was it on her bed. There, sitting with her knees folded and legs slid to one side, was Emma. She was just as Laura had found her last time: short silver hair hovering above her shoulders, simple white cotton dress, barefoot, and a thin, waifish body. She was like a specter, with a faint glow about her pale, pale skin.

"What are you doing in my room?" asked Laura.

"Sitting on your bed. What are you doing on the floor?" she said with a tilt of her head.

Laura blushed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Emma ignored her question. She bent down, and Laura saw for the first time, a piece of paper in the girl's hand. She turned back to her desk and saw that her poem was missing. When she turned back to Emma, the young girl was holding the poem up to her ear.

"I can't hear the trees in this," she whispered.

"Can you give that back to me?" asked Laura, extending her hands.

"Finders keepers," said the girl. She scowled at Emma and pulled the page away defensively.

Laura rose to her feet. She approached the girl quickly, but Emma jolted off the bed. There was fear on her face, true fear. She wasn't shocked or upset at Laura's approach, but truly afraid of what Laura would do to her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said Laura, raising her palms and lowering them slowly to try and calm Emma. "But that's my poem. I'd like to have it back."

"It's a very naughty poem."

"Yes. It is." Laura straightened herself slowly, trying to appear relaxed in the hope that it would relax the girl. "It's private."

"How will you show someone your pink?" asked Emma. "That doesn't sound very ladylike."

Laura smiled despite herself. "It isn't. That's why I'm embarrassed. I'd like to put it away, destroy it maybe."

"'Maybe or mights,'" quoted the girl.

"Please, Emma. I don't want other people to see it."

"You invite darkness but not others?"

"What do you mean?"

"It isn't nice to invite darkness inside."

"I know, I know. It's a silly poem," admitted Laura. She held out her hand slowly. "Now can I please have it back?"

"Do you want this?" she asked, holding up the poem.

"Very much."

"To give your one death away so carelessly?"

Laura blushed. "It isn't careless, okay? And ... I don't understand it myself. That's why I can't explain. It's complicated, and wrong, yes, but it's something I can't get out of my head. I had to write it down. It's hard to explain, okay? You wouldn't understand."

Emma spread her mouth, revealing long fangs, sharp like the heads of spears. Laura's heart almost stopped. Then, it sped up. The adrenaline of cumming, of thinking she was dying, of confusing fantasy with reality, rushed back into her system.

"It's one thing to play with fire. Fire is nice. It tells me secrets when it dances. But it's a moon of a different color to start one in your own bed as you lay yourself to sleep."

Laura smiled at the metaphor. She imagined herself, curling up to sleep with a fire set around the bed. She imagined herself, sleeping and vulnerable, while the flames rose, wrapping around her. She imagined Marcilla at the edge of the room, watching on and smiling as Laura smiled in her soft and final sleep. The image made her shiver.

"You should find another hobby," said Emma. "Like counting starlight."

Laura nodded. "I can't" she whispered.

Emma tilted her head. "Are you hunting her, or she is hunting you?"

Laura smiled. "I don't know. Isn't that the fun?"

Emma shook her head. She walked towards Laura quickly, and Laura jumped back, startled by the movement. Emma carefully folded the poem three times and handed it to Laura. Laura took it, and Emma hovered. She wrapped both of Laura's hands around the poem, and held them there.

"You should go. Make this place an unfortunate memory, but not a tomb."

Laura bit her lip. She hesitated. Here she was, with a vampire. Camille was downstairs, obsessed with her Laura, but here was a different vampire. A pretty vampire. Strange, sure, but she could be delicate. She wouldn't make it quick and gorey. She would gently run her fangs over Laura's bare skin. She would ... yes.

Laura shivered as the lust shut down her better judgement. Her eyes roamed over Emma's body. She was slight and slender. Thin, but not in the way that looks like she needed to eat. Her breasts were small and perky, but her legs under her nightgown were long and beautiful. Laura's eyes had noticed them first, while they folded up and gave a hint of Emma's blue panties. She wanted to taste every inch of the girl's body. She wanted to feel the tiny girl press her down, put her in her place, and dig her teeth into her.

Emma might be reluctant, but she was still a creature with base needs and cravings. She would succumb if given the right incentive. Some things could not be resisted, no matter how powerful you thought you were.

Laura nodded to the girl, as though accepting her fate. "I'm going to destroy it," said Laura, moving to her desk.

"What?" asked the girl, tilting her head again.

"The poem. I want to cut it up. I just need to find my scissors." Laura begin to rummage through her desk, looking for scissors. "You're right. This is a dumb idea, and I should destroy any evidence of it."

Laura found a pair and spread them to cut the folded poem. She hesitated, as though nervous to do it, and bit her lip. This may be her only chance. It was stupid. It may be the dumbest and last thing she did, but she couldn't resist any longer.

Laura closed her eyes and pressed the blade of the scissors against her forearm. She pressed down as hard as she could, harder than she thought wise, and dragged the scissors across the skin, breaking the flesh and releasing a line of blood.

Emma looked at the open arm, and then back into Laura's eyes. Her eyes were wide with fear. "What did you do?" she asked.

"Please," said Laura. "I need this."

Emma looked back at the blood. She tried to run out of the room, but Laura moved to block the doorway. Emma picked up Laura—her hands were like vices—and moved her out of her way. Both girls dashed to the door. Emma was fast, but as she opened the door, Laura slammed her weight into it and shut it again.

Fear and fury flashed in Emma's eyes as she turned to Laura. She snarled, and once again, Laura saw Emma's fangs. They were not toys. They were not for show. She could see now, up close, that they could cut through Laura's flesh easily. Emma was a predator, first and foremost, and when trapped, she would lash out.

Laura raised her forearm, at first as though to defend her face, but then quickly flung it out and did her best to wipe her blood on Emma's lips. She missed, the vampire was fast, but she managed to get some of the blood on Emma's dress as the girl lashed out and slapped Laura.