In his dark, quiet quarters, Aubrey stared steadfast at a gritty mirror. His visage was pale as a ghost; his watery blue eyes never wavered from their examination. He craned his mouth open, so slow as to hear his muscles creak. Was this him? Had this ever truly been him? This body, on which he had placed all his confidences, could no longer be trusted.

In his mind’s eye, he was playing a single scene, endlessly circling.

It was a scene of him, of halcyon days past, blissful and dumb, entering a dusky inn. It began the moment his eyes fell upon that dead man’s face: a dead friend, transmogrified into a half-woman, standing silent and docile at the caprice of a— 

“Speak, cursed tongue!” Aubrey dashed a fist against the table. His reflection was contorted into a ghoulish visage of rage. His teeth were grit against straining gums. “Speak, speak. Oh, let me speak!”

If he could only regain his voice, he could save them all. It was only a matter of him and the horrible black shade that had slithered into his mind. All he must do is tell of one hour he had spent with the fiend. Of him, in that humble room, standing in the bedeviled center…

Zannouli laid on her back across the couch, her head perched on the armrest and a white silk handkerchief pressed to the bottom of her face.

“You’ve got a strong swing, Mr. Darvell,” said she, muffled by the fabric. “I might’ve been better off if you had shot me through the teeth.”

There was a faint smoky sheen about the hotel room; the residue of cigars and snuff, incense and strong, steaming pots of coffee. Zannouli’s handkerchief was growing dark, black spots blooming underneath her hand. Aubrey struggled between two impulses– to flee, or finish the job.

“You know things you shouldn’t,” he said. “You’re cavorting around with a dead man. What are you?”

“I’m a delicate young lady with some new holes, thanks to you.”

“I know you are no lady,” he said. “You’re the Va–!”

“These things are not contrary, Mr. Darvell.”

The back of Aubrey’s neck prickled with fear. He looked about the room, as if the source of danger was not obvious.

She had sent Shackley away; she had left herself alone with him, already bleeding. A lovely breeze fluttered the curtains. The low sun left its mark on the room by washing it in long, golden shadows. The tea tray, with its silver spoons and amber pools, glittered. When Zannouli raised a hand to beckon him closer, her ruby ring flashed like a great, mystical eye.

“Listen to me.”

His body moved without his thinking to stand above her; and she, hand laid flat against Aubrey’s chest, withdrew her handkerchief. The ghastly damage of Aubrey’s rage was shown to the light.

“You’ve made a foolish mistake, Mr. Darvell.”

Her white teeth were filled in, like grouted tile, with dark blood; her nose was squashed, bruising gray and black, with blood smeared up to her eyelids.

“I am not your enemy,” she said. “I mean you no harm.”

Aubrey chafed under her touch— the delicate hand was set in such a way that, in order to look at her as she spoke, Aubrey also had to stare into the shining side of her red ring, looming between his suspicious eyes. He did not wish to look upon her at all: not at her face, nor the ring, nor the browning stains on her starched white collar.

He said, “What are your intentions with my fiancée?”

“I mean her no harm,” Zannouli repeated. “But do not try to change the subject, Mr. Darvell. I am here to speak about you.”

Aubrey shook with veritable rage. “If you are what I know you to be… say your piece, and then you’ll be dead before the sun is gone!”

Zannouli was unmoved. There was hardly a spot of light in her black eyes. “And yet you regret what you have already done. You stand here, no hand upon your weapon, and refusing to go further. Why? We are alone here. You have my word that little Pearl will be unharmed. If I am, as you say, what you believe me to be, then why not kill me now? Why have you not killed me already?”

Aubrey stood stock-still.

Zannouli went on, her cadence pitter-pattering on his mind like rain on a tin roof. “Why not? Have you not killed me because you do not trust your instinct? Why not?— do you hesitate because it is clear that, deep down, your heart is not to be believed? Why not? It would be an awful business, if you were mistaken, and you had killed someone of such import in cold blood! Why not kill me now? Do your hands shake at the thought? Is your brow slick with sweat? Do you find that, despite all you have worked for, you only cause trouble when not under your mentor’s guiding hand?”

The room was turning rosy pink. Zannouli’s face was the color of coral as her dark hand stroked his cravat; heavy words fell upon his ears, tying anchors to the ship that was his mind. How did she know? How could she slice him open and read his insecurities, so plainly? So precisely? Aubrey remained where she had placed him.

“Are you fearful of those consequences, should you be wrong? Or should you be right? Are you fretful that your memories fail you, in the throes of passion? That man, who you swore you saw in the face of my slave— do you know that man? Truly? Well enough to recognize, even in death?”

Aubrey’s mouth hung open, though he did notice; he thought only of Ianthe’s words, of the crook of her voice, of her eyes, her eyes, of red light that consumed the whitewashed walls.

“I understand that you are an orphan, Aubrey,” said she. “I understand that Ephraim Spice is like a father to you— that he fed and housed you in dire times, that he took you under his wing, that his teachings have the weight of gospel to you, his faithful lamb. But you, yourself, are only a pawn. I understand that Spice rages a war against the supernatural. Do you? You, it appears, are only a leaf in the wind. You go the way of those stronger than you. You will fold. Spice knows you will fold. Why, otherwise, would he not bring you along on such expeditions? Instead, you stay behind to look after his boring daughter.”

At the mention of Pearl, Aubrey flinched.

Ianthe sat up. She raised her hand and dangled her ring before Aubrey’s glazed eyes. He was calmed at once; calmer than he had ever felt before, allayed by the light, listening closer and closer. She spoke the truth. It had always been the truth. If he only listened further, if he only obeyed…

“Look, will you?” said she. “You’ve hurt me. You’ve caused a great deal of embarrassment to an innocent woman with your hasty behavior. It would be better if you do not push further. It would be best if you never spoke of what you saw today.”

“Yes…”

Ianthe raised her chin. “Swear it: you will never tell a soul of what you suspect of me.”

“I swear. I will never tell a soul that you are the–”

“You will not speak ill of me.”

“O-of course. You are…”

“You will never raise a hand against me, boy.”

“Yes…” Aubrey’s voice was flat. “I swear.”

“You are a faithful lamb. You are a leaf in the wind. Without a guiding hand, you are nothing. Despite the considerable grief you have caused me, I shall take the reins for tonight. This is a gift, and you shall understand it as such.”

“Yes.”

“When I snap my fingers, you will lower your defenses. They’ve done you no good. You will become blank, so that I may train you properly.”

“Yes.”

“Be polite.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ianthe snapped her fingers.

And then he was opening his eyes, collapsed across his creaking bed, still in his cloak and boots. He gazed up at the midnight-blackened ceiling with his tongue dry, a gash in his brow, and a scabby rivulet of blood down his cheek. His hands felt dirty no matter how furiously he swirled them in the basin at his bedside.

“That–” As clarity came to him, and he realized what had been done, he began raving and spitting. “That– that– brilliant woman– that wond– she has, she has–aghh!”

She had taken away his voice! Off she had gone, merrily and mercilessly stealing one of God’s essential gifts: his free will. And to what end?

He reached out, his hands still dripping, and imagined the feel of them curled around Ianthe Zannouli’s neck. How he wished to see her there, beneath him, screaming for aid that would not come. How he yearned to find her by daylight, hidden away in some casket, and cleave off her wicked head.

Yet, something was not right. Even as he conjured the triumphant vision, his stomach twisted. As he throttled the imagined vampire, she no longer had a weight or pulse. Ianthe was as light and insubstantial as a cloud of vapor; she had no emotion in her dark eyes. The imagining of her downfall only ended dour and unfulfilling.

And yet, he must. He had no choice but to stop her. And if he were to do it, he had to do it, and soon.

There came a warm September afternoon in which he and Pearl discussed the wedding.

“We shall have it here, of course,” he said, flipping idly through the pages of a book he had stopped reading. “My hovel is no place to hold a grand dinner. I suspect you’ll be more comfortable, as well. Have you thought about invitations? You’ll have to invite poor Mrs. Cary, should her health not fail her– perhaps that entire little ladies’ group of yours?”

Pearl sat with her back to him, at the piano. As Aubrey paced, she played a little galloping jaunt. In any other circumstance, he would’ve taken this as a sly joke, the rhythm in tune with his steady rambling. But Pearl did not seem jovial; her back was hunched, and her eyes lifeless. She played only from instinct.

Aubrey drew close to her and laid his hands upon her shoulders. She did not react to his touch– neither to draw closer or to shy away. She merely went on playing, her song slowing to a dirge.

“We shall have plenty of flowers, don’t you think? Oh, how beautiful this place should look on a Sunday morning, all the windows open wide– with the sun upon our faces! Do you have a dress picked out?”

Pearl stopped in a rattle of keys. “What?”

“I asked if you had a suitable dress in mind for the wedding.”

“Oh…” She looked down, fingering two treble keys. “My pink cotton will do.”

“Darling, you can’t wear cotton on your own wedding day!”

She continued fiddling with the keys. Aubrey went back to pacing.

“I know it is not customary, but I would gladly purchase the gown for you– and ornamentation, should you need it. Oh, would it be so terribly gauche to have you wear a string of pearls?”

“Whatever you want.” Pearl began to play one-handed.

“Yes, we probably ought to keep it pink– it really is your color! Oh, but it seems such a heavy decision. How do you women do it?”

His beloved raised a delicate left hand and laid it down on the keys, as if putting a sleeping animal to bed. She played a different song than her right hand– it filled the room with such a discordant clatter, a manic march versus a whirling waltz, conflicting melodies sprung up from one wide-eyed, ever distant girl.

The maid came in, as if a shadow, and shut the lid. Pearl nearly lost her fingers, but she didn’t seem to mind. She only folded her hands in her lap, and looked up.

“Supper is ready,” the maid said, staring at Aubrey.

“She looked…” Aubrey mused that night, pacing about in his nightclothes. “Pearl looked like…”

He had encountered the fiend one more time– in the depths of a gambling hall. His being there was a secret; not a respectable soul knew of his shameful vice. He weaved through the crowded room with shoulders hunched and head down. His feet were wobbling from drink and his cheeks were flushed– but he had not quite lost his senses. After a humiliating loss at the whist table, he had decided it was better to retreat. 

It was a wild bet made in the throes of passion, and his opponent– that goddamned Robert Morgan— had seen fit to mock Aubrey. The onlookers, as always, were on the side of the winner. The insults they placed upon him were heinous, unutterable! And with it, all his money!

It was in his delirious stewing anger that he saw her; the crowd parted like a wave, and between the sweep of hot air across his cheeks, that familiar dark head raised a cigar to its lips. Then, she was gone, swallowed by the swell. But Aubrey pursued.

Ianthe Zannouli was in a corner before a small table. The smoky shadows of the other gamblers danced in overlapping patterns across the damask wallpaper. On her shoulder was a sullen young lady with an impressive bosom, and across her lap was a fat middle-aged woman in tight peacock satin– Lady Mercer, he recognized, a serial adulteress of ill-repute.

“Ah, my friend.” Ianthe’s eyes glittered. “So good to see you still standing after such an assault.”

For a moment, Aubrey forgot who was addressing him, and lowered his shoulders in response to the condolences, insincere though they may be.

Shackley– or, at least, Shackley’s taxidermied corpse– was also there, of course, sitting perpendicular to Ianthe with his back as straight as a tuning fork. 

“Would you care to join us?” Ianthe swept a hand to address her whole group.

Aubrey found himself more closely examining the women around her. The young lady he recognized from various parties– her name was Ziza, and she was chronically unlucky in love. She had been gifted with a lovely body but a less than appealing face: sharp dark eyebrows, a flabby chin, flat small eyes. She had spoken to Aubrey only once (the conversation ended when she learned of his engagement).

Now, she clung to Ianthe’s arm. She looked at Aubrey, and laughed in his face. “I must thank you, Mister— Darvell, right? Father will get me a new dress with all your earnings!”

She was also, quite unfortunately, the daughter of his second worst enemy.

“Well?” Ianthe prodded.

Lady Mercer was lying on her back, her ringlets coming to pieces. Her cheeks, underneath that patchy rouge, were permanently pink. Her eyes, though… that wicked woman, who had broken the hearts of dozens, was staring up at Ianthe with a wide, glassy gaze! She was silent, unmoving as Ianthe idly stroked her hair.

Aubrey’s stomach twisted.

“Do you not want to speak to me, Mr. Darvell?”

“What are you doing here?” Aubrey’s eyes snapped up to face her.

“Having fun! Same as you, I suppose.”

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. “You are… adroit.”

“Oh, good boy!” Ianthe laughed. “Would you like to play against me?”

Would I also be inclined to sign a contract from Mephistopheles? Aubrey thought, mouth tensing in bitterness.

“I’m two for two, tonight.” Ianthe drummed her fingers against Lady Mercer’s cheek. “I suppose I’m ready to set my sights higher.”

“How high?”

“High enough to cause my ruin,” said Ianthe, “should I lose.”

Aubrey took the chair, and dragged it forward.  His knees pressed underneath the table, his elbows brushing the dice that rested there. Waiting. Ianthe mirrored him. She grinned with her canines pressed into her bottom lip.

Said he, “If I win… you release me from the– from– well, you know… and never attempt to ensnare me again.”

“That’s all?” She leaned a bored hand on her cheek.

“And you will release anyone else you may have bewitched–” He spared a glance at Shackley. “ – and go back to whence you came!”

“And?” Ianthe raised an eyebrow.

“And– and never return, of course.”

“Hmm…” As Ianthe withdrew backwards, her chair creaked. She craned her neck to look over at Shackley, thumbing her chin. “What do you say? Sounds like a bargain to me.”

“Yes, Master.”

Aubrey shuddered. 

“Yes, yes…” Ianthe pinned her gaze back on Aubrey. “I’ll wager– should I win, it’ll be the same as the others.”

Aubrey eyed the two women warily. “And that is?”

“When I win, you’ll do anything I say for the rest of the night.”

All of the heat in the crowded hall rose to Aubrey’s cheeks. “And if I refuse your wager?”

“Then things will continue as they have been.” She twirled a lock of Ziza’s dark hair around her finger. “Are you content with that?”

Aubrey thrust out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

Again, Ianthe’s face split into a smile. It was a face that had relentlessly haunted his nights for the past months– a face paradoxically handsome, despite the evil that lurked beneath. Her noble Roman nose, the strong line of her jaw– those eyes, her eyes like the very depths of the abyss!

Her hand was cold. She gripped him tight as they shook on it; the hard bevel of her ring pressed into his palm.

Then, she moved to pick up the dice.

Aubrey brushed her away. “I will be the caster, you– you–”

“Oh? What am I?”

Aubrey sighed. “An extraordinary fellow.”

Ianthe and Ziza both burst into laughter. Even Lady Mercer, in a daze as she was, smiled. Ianthe waved for him to roll.

“Main is seven,” he said, and rattled the dice in his fist.

“Noted.”

Aubrey lingered on the moments before he released the dice; he focused, in his mind, on what (and who) he was fighting for. That fruitful vision of triumph.

The roll was a one and a four. 

Chance– he was going to have to keep rolling. He would win on a five, and lose with a seven.

“Go on.” Ianthe nodded.

This time, Aubrey took a moment to inspect the die. Ianthe took no offense to his visible distrust; as he measured the weight in his hand, Ianthe stretched and spread her legs, displacing Lady Mercer.

The adulteress sat up, staring blankly ahead. Her hair was frizzy, falling down her pale, bare shoulders. Ianthe, boldly and blatantly, put her hand in the crook between Mercer’s legs.

Aubrey found no signs of tampering, and rolled again. A nine.

“You know, I think you’d make a rather good player,” Ianthe said, “with some guidance.”

“I am engaged.”

“So?”

Four.

“Pet, go fetch us some drinks.” Ianthe snapped her fingers, and Ziza groaned. She pulled herself reluctantly from Ianthe’s side, and lumbered from Aubrey’s line of sight.

Three.

“Such a noble fiancé– well, except for the gambling, of course! Shouldn’t you be saving it for your dear wife-to-be?”

Aubrey grit his teeth. His heart was racing; so taut were his nerves, and so loose his tongue, that the truth slipped out. “I have no money.”

“Oh?”

“As you said…” Aubrey sighed. “I am an orphan.”

“Yes, yes, I do recall!” Ianthe crossed her legs. “So, then, what is your plan for marriage?”

“Her father… I am to inherit his entire fortune.”

“And in the meantime?”

Aubrey winced. “I– do my best, here.”

Eight.

“I’m not surprised.”

“I am a good man!” A sudden bolt of anger moved him. He nearly spat out the words. “I do not do these things idly. I do not use women as–”

His throat closed up. He swallowed but, of course, Ianthe had seen his point. 

She tilted her head. “Well, then I suppose you don’t recall our last meeting?”

“I cannot speak of it– and you know why.”

“Oh, we all understand that part.” She leaned forward, her nose nearly brushing his. “I was only wondering if you had caught a glimmer of what was hidden– you talked about your Pearl, you know. What you had to say was quite interesting when you had nothing to efface it.”

In the back of Aubrey’s mind, he caught something: like the raw fluttering of curtains, a woman’s sobs against his neck. His mouth, watering.

He frowned. “You must be mistaken.”

“What a shame! I’d thought you’d known, and that’s why you hated me so.” She ran a finger along the seam of his waistcoat. “You hate me, even if you cannot say it. But I hope you understand, boy– I only revealed what was rotting underneath. Your undoing is all your own.”

She touched his fist, hovering in clenched fury above the table. The shock of her cold hand made him wince. The dice fell. First a two… then a five.

Seven.

He’d lost.

It did not seem so, at first. The hall still rocked with revelry. His heart did not stop. Ianthe did not strike him dead. But he’d lost.

As his forlorn face rose to meet that of his enemy, the gravity of the moment struck him. He’d handed himself, in totality, to a monster!

Ianthe was occupied, for a moment, with teasing her fingers against the crook of Lady Mercer’s thigh. The woman hadn’t the capacity left to show a reaction at the scandalous act– she had been silenced the same as him. Her cheeks blazed but her face was placid as a doll’s glass eyes. 

Was this to be his fate for the night? To be naught but a toy for Ianthe to manipulate according to her whims? And what but her word would prevent her from keeping him? He would be trapped in an eternal, unaware dreamscape, hopeless to escape.

Ziza’s hands fell on his shoulders– but they felt just like Ianthe’s hands, claiming him, gloating over their rightfully-earned prize. And he’d walked right into such arms!

Then, a glass was thrust into his face.

“I trust that you are a man of your word,” Ianthe said, taking Ziza’s second glass.

Between their table, Ziza popped a bottle of champagne. Foam billowing from the top, she leaned over the table to pour their glasses. Aubrey’s eyes locked, as if against his will, onto her pendulous breasts, straining against her low-cut dress.

When he looked away, Ianthe was giving him a coy smile.

“I am.” He bowed his head.

“Then, let us make a toast to your lot in life– and then you’re going to come here, and sit beside me.”

Aubrey did so, his head bowed miserably and his feet dragged along the floor. The toast was silent on his end. Lady Mercer moved, and so Aubrey was sat right at Ianthe’s side, shoulder to shoulder, her knee jabbing his. For a long time, it seemed, Ianthe was content to gloat in silence. She pushed up his glass, lolling on a disheartened wrist between his legs, up to his mouth. Aubrey drank like a kitten pushed into a saucer of milk.

“Are you going to brood the whole night through?” Ianthe lowered her own glass from her lips. “What fun is that?”

“...Is that an order?”

She hit him across the knees with her walking stick. “No attitude.”

“Agh– yes!”

“Yes, what?” She leaned in.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She grabbed his ear.

“Sir, sir, I mean!”

“Getting warmer…”

Aubrey felt her face, her gaze radiating cold. Her fingers held his ear in a vice.

“Y-yes, Master.”

“Good boy.”

Something moved within Aubrey’s guts, like the tingle of a phantom limb. Ianthe’s hand slipped away, but the feeling remained. He took another shot in an attempt to banish it.

“I expect you to behave yourself,” Ianthe said. “None of this letter of the law nonsense. You’re going to be nice and compliant, aren’t you, boy?”

Aubrey could not bear to look upon her. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“That’s not your concern, is it?”

Anger moved him again. “It is my life you–”

He turned, and was halted at once. Ianthe pinned the head of her walking stick to his throat, and thrust him back into the couch. His head thumped against the wall.

“Ah—g-guh—” The jet head pressed against his Adam’s apple. Ianthe appeared before him, wavering for a moment, red and incorporeal, before the force of her wicked smile washed over him.

“Look, now.” She flicked her other hand, and the ring flashed in the dim light.

Aubrey tensed, fearing that he would be mesmerized tized once again, and this war would die in its cradle. But though the light dazzled his eyes, and his sight was consumed by a sheet of fog, his mind remained clear. If anything, he was aggravated.

“Tell me about this Morgan fellow.”

“Gr– he’s a greedy bastard.” Aubrey felt vaguely nauseous. “He… I wish he hadn’t survived the expedition— he-he went on an expedition with Mr. Spice, the one that killed—”

“Do you hate him?”

Aubrey’s cheeks grew hot. “Yes, I hate him! He is cruel, and capricious, and always— always fucking winning!”

“Ahem.”

“Yes, I hate him… Master.”

In his hesitation— in the awareness that the sheer discomfort of calling such a monster his superior brought about— he realized that he was still choked. His mouth was closed. He had not been speaking with his lips, but with…

He blinked, once, twice. His vision cleared, only to be encompassed by Ianthe’s face once again.

Excellent.

He heard her voice, clear as a church bell, but her mouth was but a thin-lipped smile. Her words were one with his mind.

Ianthe withdrew her walking stick and rose to her feet. She scuffed her boots against the floor and held out a hand for Aubrey to take. Get up. 

“Wh– what–?” He ignored the hand, and leapt to his feet.

Ianthe put a finger to his mouth. “There’s to be no speaking at the whist table.”

“Ah—” What have you done to me?

It’ll just last the night. She smiled.

Ianthe stepped away from their shadowed corner, Aubrey dogging at her heels until he came to her side. Her thralls were sent away with a wave of the hand– except Shackley, who followed them a couple paces behind. Aubrey tried to turn and spare a glance at him, but Ianthe whipped up her walking stick and caught him by the jaw. She pushed his face back forward.

Jaw now smarting, Aubrey rubbed it ruefully as Ianthe strutted into the light, tossing her hat idly by its brim. Aubrey became starkly aware of the heat; he was surrounded by men, men who knew him by face if not by title— they knew only of his shameful vice, and were now here to bear witness to him playacting as Ianthe’s slaveboy.

The floor was awash in noise and glitter. His ears now caught on his surroundings with a different quality, as if he’d been dunked underwater and the gamblers were calling to him from the surface. All was liquid and indistinct– that is, until Ianthe spoke in his mind.

We’re going to play a little game with your friend. She touched Aubrey’s face, fingers pressed against the soft part underneath his jaw, and turned it to gaze upon the center of the room.

Morgan was seated at a table, laughing heartily in the midst of many admirers. Lady Mercer was among them, a painted hand resting on his broad shoulder. 

Aubrey opened his mouth, but Ianthe silenced him with a sharp glance.

Yes, Master, he said.

They stood and watched at a distance as Morgan’s table played down to the wire. In the shimmering light, Aubrey’s eyes caught on the beads of sweat forming along Morgan’s brow, the crowd contracting closer and closer to the center of the table as if caught in a whirlpool. The room grew quieter and quieter, breath held. 

Aubrey found himself looking at Ianthe, the hot ember of anger burning in his chest. Who did she think she was, treating people as she did? She was no noble, had no repute; all her wealth and admiration was got by deceit and murder. What did she get, dressing above her station, above her gender, parading women (and himself) around like little dolls? It was sickening. He could not stop thinking about it.

The tension burst, and Morgan emerged victorious. His opponent buried his face in his hands and shook, as if wracked with sobs. Ianthe put a hand over her mouth, watching the scene. Aubrey shook with barely constrained rage. 

From behind the arrogant Morgan, Ziza emerged and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Aubrey shot a glance Ianthe’s way.

Said she, “Incredible that such a pretty young thing could come from that wretched bastard’s seed, wouldn’t you say?”

Aubrey coughed into his hand. “You are correct.”

Ziza crouched at her father’s knee and began to speak to him, dimples forming in the corner of her smile. Aubrey could not hear her– but in response Morgan laughed, and patted her back.

“My daughter wants to play a game of whist!” he said. “Who shall join us?”

After such a display, no one was willing. His previous opponent had at once handed off his dues and fled the building. Others exchanged only looks or polite refusals, until Ianthe grabbed Aubrey by the crook of his elbow and stepped up.

“We’ll play– for the young lady’s sake.”

Ziza tilted her head and smiled.

“Ha! Certainly not for your wallet’s,” cackled Lady Mercer.

I thought she was one of yours? Aubrey thought.

Subtly, as if only on accident, Ianthe dug her heel into Aubrey's toe.

“You! I know you!” Morgan said, his eyes bulging.

“I can’t say I’ve been similarly acquainted.” Ianthe sank into the empty seat at Morgan’s side. 

Introductions were passed around the table. It turned out that Morgan knew Ianthe only through her lascivious reputation– that is, through her copious spending and vices. The rumors hardly touched the actual depths of her perversity, her habits with women– when one such victim was sitting at her elbow!

Aubrey could not help stealing glances at Ziza.

In a snap, she had transformed. That coarse girl, stuck to Ianthe’s side like a spoiled cat, was back to her cool and pretentious ways. She paid no special attention to Ianthe at all;  instead, she held out a hand for Aubrey to kiss. He had to suppress a shudder, for he could not help but imagine that hand freshly emergent from the most indecent of places.

“A friendly wager,” Ianthe was saying to Morgan. “A victory lap, perhaps, after such a successful night you’ve had! I cannot expect we will get too cocky– my poor partner hardly has two coins left to rub together, now that you’ve had your way with him.”

Morgan, expression darkening, opened his mouth.

“Ah!” Ianthe held up a finger. “Do not worry! There are no hard feelings and, besides– I will be paying his due.”

The brute scrutinized Ianthe carefully. She only sat straight-backed, her legs crossed. Despite being veiled in all black, she gave off the air of someone frivolous and unaffected– a silly young lady playing dress-up. Oh, how far from the truth it was!

“Fine.”

Hands were shaken around the table, and the first game began. The onlookers, who had been hoping for blood, cleared out in the face of such low stakes.

Whist was a game of partners. The drawing came out with the expected configuration: Ianthe and Aubrey, Morgan and Ziza, who were to sit opposite one another. It was to be played in silence, with no commentary and no signals to one’s partner.

So went the first round: peaceful, almost, had Aubrey not caught onto that maleficent cloud of doom that clung to their table. He feared, the whole while, when Ianthe would make a demand of him, and he would be unable to refuse.

Morgan and Ziza’s team won. Ianthe took her loss with a slew of groaning, throwing back her head and summoning a cigar and light from Shackley. She tossed the coins harshly upon the table.

“A rematch. Double.”

“And you pay for my drinks.” Morgan grinned.

“Yes, yes.” Ianthe shuffled the deck one-handed, puffing on her cigar. Aubrey met her eye. Briefly, so quick only he caught it, she winked.

That’s how it went a while more– several rounds of Ianthe as a sore loser, as the addict, filling everyone’s cups and becoming the more belligerent with every increasingly high-stakes loss. Morgan left the pile of bills on the table like a dragon’s hoard. Aubrey grew to hate him all the more; his yellow smile, his eager huffs of rummy breath. The arrival of this wealthy, foolish mark had invigorated his greed and his excitement beyond the pale. He would take no mercy on this young lady– and he would certainly not turn down the offer of another game.

“You really know how to pick ‘em, don’t’ya?” Morgan elbowed Aubrey between rounds. “She’s got everything but luck, huh?”

Aubrey rubbed the spot Morgan had touched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“She’s even pretty, if you ignore the– the–” Morgan hiccuped. “ – you know.”

Aubrey intended to tell Morgan, in no uncertain terms, that Ianthe was certainly not pretty and, if she were, it was only a mask to hide the horrible monster underneath. But when he opened his mouth, he said (as a result of her mesmerizing him, no doubt), “She’s more handsome than you.”

Ianthe appeared unaware of this exchange, instead belligerently counting out bills. “...9...12...15. There.” She slid them over to Morgan.

He snatched up the pile and kissed them tenderly.

“Ah! This was a wonderful victory match, my dear.” He sighed fondly. “But the night is drawing to a close, and I must get back home.”

He rose.

“Wait.” Ianthe laid a hand on his arm. “One more round.”

Morgan was swaying on his feet from all the liquor on Ianthe’s bill. “Miss Zannouli, are you some sort of imbecile?”

“I can’t lose.”

“I would say the evidence points otherwise!”

“I’ll give you everything.”

She spoke it so plainly, it took a moment for the outrageous offer to trickle through Morgan’s dense head. But, inevitably, he turned to face her. His eyes tracked her fine garb and jewelry, the plate of used cigars at her elbow, the faithful, personal manservant over her shoulder. 

“What do you mean?”

“As I said…” Ianthe waved her hand, her face still faintly veiled in smoke. “A fortune for a fortune. Should I win, I will get all the money I’ve wagered back (Mr. Darvell’s as well) – and the rest of whatever you may have. Should I win, you’ll get all that I have given you, and my land besides.”

Morgan, of course, had no idea what sort of land (if any) Ianthe may hold– but the offer was still too tempting for a man as driven by greed as Morgan to resist. A golden apple.

He sat back down. The hall erupted in murmurs as he began to deal the cards. By the time he flipped up the card to reveal the trump suit– a five of diamonds– Lady Mercer had returned to her previous spot at his shoulder.

Aubrey sensed, more than saw, the quick bright flash of Ianthe’s eye, her lashes snapping from their lowered stance, examining her cards, to the woman rubbing her thumb against Morgan’s collar.

Now, Aubrey understood the whole scheme. Though Morgan did not yet know it, he had no friends around this table. From the woman tightly squeezing his shoulder, to Aubrey, to his own daughter– they had all, in one way or another, entered the service of the sinister vampire that sat among them, cruelty cloaked in finery and swagger.

But no words were spoken, because whist was a silent game.

What do you have? Ianthe said, though she did not look at him. To any outside observers, she was ineffably calm and focused, setting her jaw and carefully examining her own hand.

The first round went to Morgan. He smiled a tight little smile, neatening the small stack in his fat hands. When he set them down, they were still ever so askew, as he was drunk. 

Aubrey, at Ianthe’s mental prodding, repeated what cards he held. It was in the second round that she gave her first order.

3 of spades. 

But that would be a loss for sure! It was almost certain that Ziza or Morgan would’ve had something higher.

Even as he thought so, his brow stung, with a pressure like a clamp.  He winced, and when he looked up from his cards, Ianthe was giving him the coldest of glowers. Her fingers tapped her cards. They all waited for his turn.

Aubrey complied. Ianthe won the round with a four of diamonds.

“Perhaps,” Lady Mercer joked, “you’re evenly matched after all!”

Morgan won the round after; Ianthe had ordered Aubrey to dump another useless card. How constricted he felt! As he shyly laid down his three of hearts, he found himself caught between two streams: Morgan, huffing in amusement, and a flood of warmth in his bosom. Ianthe’s smile seemed to leak through the cord she had strung up his mind with. He almost gasped.

Aubrey won the fourth round.

They were still even, the jovial mood continuing. As other games were ending, and word of what was at stake spread, men pulled up chairs to watch and listen, as it were, to the duel ongoing in the center of the hall. The next two rounds were frustratingly inconclusive: one for Morgan’s team, the other to Ianthe’s.

Aubrey could not help but admire Ianthe— not without his fair shake of rue, of course. Any time that he considered making a move not dictated by her, he was struck with pain… and every time that he complied, the pleasure— like warm water under his skin— returned. She sat there, dark and noble, the cut of her shoulders like the ridge of a mountain, every curl a glossy tendril, more finely formed than a flower’s petals. Aubrey hated her so.

Halfway through, Ianthe set down a queen of diamonds. She swept up the round and snapped her fingers. Shackley was there in a moment, filling her glass. She waved a finger and had him fill Aubrey’s, as well.

Morgan’s dumb lips fell open. “Uh…”

“Quiet.” Ianthe kicked her head back.

Though Morgan took the next round, he became acutely aware that it may have, in fact, been a Pyrrhic victory. Ziza took the next (her only win) but that only made him antsier. He tried to make very intent eye contact with his daughter across the table– which Ianthe noticed, and promptly flicked him in the forehead.

Ianthe went right after Ziza. She put down a king of diamonds and sat back in her seat, satisfied. Morgan had no chance, and it was clear even bothering to drop a card was an act of humiliation. Morgan eyed her collection of wins, his eyes wide as a jackrabbit’s.

“Miss Zannouli– when you said ‘fortune’, you meant–?”

“I would suggest,” Aubrey interrupted him, “that you leave the discussion for after the game.”

Morgan sputtered and guffawed. Aubrey straightened up in his seat, smiling at seeing such a horrid man cowed.

As if in response to his bad behavior, Ianthe took the next round. 

Morgan was squirming in his chair; his eyes skirted surreptitiously around, searching for an exit.

Face burning with shame and drink, Morgan laid down a pathetic two of spades. He met Aubrey’s eye for but a moment, face puffed up with hope.

Crush him, Ianthe said.

Aubrey needed no instruction. 

“I’ll give you all your money back.” Morgan stared at Ianthe. “When you said ‘fortune’, you only meant what I’d won tonight. Right? Right?”

“It’s your turn, Father,” Ziza said. Her voice was quiet and sweet.

Still Morgan begged Ianthe, hands reaching towards her across the table’s surface. “Won’t you spare me? For her sake–” He gestured to Ziza. “She’s done nothing wrong. I do not understand why you hold me such ill will, but please. If you take it all– I would have nothing else, nobody to turn to!”

Ianthe did not look at him, instead coolly examining the card still in her hand. She took a drink. When Morgan continued to rave instead of play, she plucked his final card from between his fingers and tossed it into the center of the table.

“I am not so young as you– I-I will not survive if I lose…”

Ianthe laid down the ace of diamonds.

The hall sat for several sustained seconds in oppressive quiet. Ianthe folded her hands and looked upon Morgan; only then did her disdain show through, a countenance that could turn the most hard-hearted to frightened tears. 

“I said everything.”

“You– you can’t truly mean–”

“Tell me, Robert,” she said. “What would you do, in my place?”

Morgan lunged across the table, spilling cards and cash. Shot glasses smashed against the floor.

“You bitch!”

Ianthe slapped him across the face; his meaty cheek echoed across the still stunned audience. She stood and Morgan, melting in desperation, collapsed across her chair.

“You think that you can have whatever you want?” Her eyes blazed. “That you can take and take what isn’t yours, and leave the mess for someone else to clean? Did you think your number would never come up?”

“I–I–”

“I will teach you a lesson, Robert,” she said. “I am the only one who gets everything she wants.”

“Please!” Morgan tried to grab onto her feet. “Take tonight’s earnings, take double that if you must! But, M-Miss Zannouli, I have a family.”

“Oh?” Ianthe smiled. “Do you?”

She glanced over her shoulder and beckoned. Aubrey became suddenly aware of himself once more, and rose to his feet.

So did Ziza.

Her hands were folded behind her back as she stood, for a moment swaying and uncertain. Ianthe began to stride away, and Aubrey hurried after her. Morgan stumbled to his knees, and grasped Ziza’s skirts.

“Well make it through, I promise, sweetheart! You know that I’ll take care of you. I’ll find you a fine husband, and then you can–”

“Yes, Father, I know…” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Then, Ianthe spoke. “I don’t have all night, pet.”

Ziza lowered her hand. Her eyes caught on Ianthe. It was as if her father, all the other world, disappeared. She drifted towards Ianthe; the fabric slipped through Morgan’s weak fingers.

Shackley came with Ianthe’s cloak. She swung it onto her shoulders as the crowd parted around her. She donned her hat and turned to Morgan, who now burned with fury.

“I expect your first payment tomorrow morning.”

Perhaps, had this all been a private affair, Morgan could’ve made it out. He could’ve run from his debts, changed his name, sought help. But anger got in the way, and shame ultimately sealed his fate. He rushed forward. His hand grabbed the edge of her cloak, and Ianthe let out a sudden, high feminine scream. Protectors came out of the woodwork.

“How could you do such a thing?”

“You are a man, you must own up to your obligations!”

“What a brute.”

“Take your loss with dignity, for God’s sake!”

“Father, stop it.”

The rousing show served as finale for the night.  Shortly thereafter, the hall cleared out. Cards were shuffled and returned to their packs, ashtrays dumped, drunkards kicked out of doors. Aubrey found himself, embittered by the cold wet night air, next to Shackley at the head of Ianthe’s carriage. 

Aubrey’s gaze shifted between the sky and the now-stranger beside him. The sky was hued like an old, bitter bruise. The light of dawn was near, begging to rise.

Shackley was not so skittish; if his stance were not quite so stiff, he would almost have seemed calm. His eyes, beneath the brim of his hat, were pale and blank— robbed of life by Ianthe’s sinister machinations. Were Aubrey to pull down the man’s collar, could he bear to see the ineffable mark of the vampire upon the once-brave hunter’s throat?

“Oh, how does it feel?” Aubrey clutched his arms, beset by the evening’s chill despite the heat that was tingling his skin. “How jealous I am of you, brother! To be spared the curse of awareness. How cruel is she, to forge herself a puppet with a heart remaining?”

Tears burned his reddening face. His self-pity bubbled up from under the blanket of excitement that Morgan’s downfall had caused. He crouched forward, his head in knees, and groaned in utter agony.

Within the carriage came movement, the faint flutter of laughter. Aubrey was in no state to recognize it. His vision obscured, an unfamiliar feminine voice, low and husky, fell upon his ear.

“It is not so bad as you think.”

“Huh?”

Aubrey looked up, but there was nobody out. He remained frustratingly alone, at the mercy of the low-hanging clouds, the shifting tree branches like clawing hands. Shackley had not moved, loosely gripping the reins.

How agonizing it was, to have to sit and wait for his freedom! At the first sign of the sun, he swore to himself, he would leap from that carriage come hell or high water and escape his potential lifetime of servitude.

But right then– the waiting, the waiting… why, it was worse than torture!

“When is she going to move this damned thing?” Aubrey said aloud.

Shackley opened his mouth, and the same woman’s voice spilled from his lips. “She’ll be a while.”

“What…” Aubrey stared at Shackley, agog. “Shackley… Shackley, my friend– what has she done to–?”

He was interrupted by the sudden rocking of the carriage.

The horses were still in place– as unnaturally calm as Shackley– but from the vessel itself came a rhythmic thumping. The wheels squealed on their axles.

“What on earth is that– that– what is she doing?”

Shackley said nothing.

Aubrey gripped the former hunter by the forearms. “She’s done this– this transformation to you, hasn’t she? But why? Simply to satisfy her– her proclivities?”

Still, Shackley remained silent.

Aubrey stood from his seat and leapt onto the ground. He stumbled in a wave of dizziness and had to steady himself with his hands against the ground.

The carriage was lit by a single lantern, and the curtains had not been drawn. Aubrey was able, easily, to creep towards the window and witness the unspeakable acts inside. 

Ianthe was pushing a senseless Ziza against the wall of the carriage. Her dress had been yanked down to expose her naked breasts, as fine and white as the moonlight. Her face was turned upwards, towards the window Aubrey now stood before— but unseeing, unprotesting. Her hair uncoiled down bare shoulders and her mouth was open wide.

Ianthe had one knee on the plush seat of the carriage and a boot on the ground.  Lady Mercer, barely visible outside of the ring of lantern light, lay on her stomach and kissed it.

Aubrey, however, could not tear his eyes away from Ziza. Ianthe had her hands all over the woman: roughly fondling her, with hands crooked under the lady’s armpits, thumbs rolling over her nipples. Ziza gasped and moaned, and in response Ianthe pushed her further against the window. The carriage rocked again.

He took back the notion that Ziza was unattractive; her half-nude form was the most beautiful thing he had ever looked upon. Ianthe had chosen well in her prize. Beneath her hands, Ziza’s breasts bounced and malformed. Nothing could distract from their loveliness: their considerable size, their large pink nipples. Ziza bucked against the pressure. Her eyelids fluttered.

Aubrey pressed closer to the window, compelled (he was certain) to watch the whole scene. 

“Yes, y-yes!” Ziza panted.

Ianthe did not speak– had no need to. She’d already won. Ziza was entirely under her spell. The way Ianthe touched her was more like an animal tearing into a piece of meat than an equal exchange of lovers. She even bit– her mouth clamped down into the soft flesh of Ziza’s right breast and her teeth gave way, tearing into it like a pillow’s down.

Aubrey pushed his entire torso against the cold side of the carriage.

“Ah– ah– mmm…”

Ziza’s thrashing abated. Her arms fell limp at her sides, and her eyes glazed over. Ianthe moved like a snake, undulating, pulling the vulnerable young lady closer as she drank her fill. Aubrey did not even have it in him to be horrified– this, at least, was what he expected of Ianthe behind closed doors. What actually compelled him to act was Ianthe’s other hand hiking up Ziza’s skirt, exposing the lady’s crotch to the carriage light.

Even that, bless Miss Morgan, was beautiful (though not so much as her chest). Her curls were as dark as the hair on her head; it was there that, with predictable vulgarity, Ianthe pressed her thumb, rubbing in circles.

Aubrey banged against the window.

“Ah!” Ziza gasped, broken from her trance for a moment. Ianthe either did not hear or (more likely) chose to ignore him. She parted Ziza’s pussy lips and continued stroking. In only moments, Ziza was shivering.

He banged again.

Lady Mercer’s head rose from its downturned position.

Cried Aubrey, “Let me in!”

Still taking her fill of Ziza, Ianthe raised her boot, set it on the crown of Mercer's head, and pushed it down.

“You forgot me!” said Aubrey. “Did I not do enough for you?”

His ministrations were ignored. He raised both hands to the window, but had lost the will to cause any more ruckus. He wilted against the glass.

“Master…” he whimpered. “Please… I was so good…”

Ianthe pulled her teeth from Ziza’s tit; her mouth shone crimson. She steadied Ziza with her knee, pushed up so tight against the window that the lady’s feet briefly left the ground, and began to pump her fingers into Ziza’s cunt. Her breasts bounced to the rhythm. Two mirror streams of blood welled from the wounds Ianthe had left. Ziza moaned again, closing her eyes.

“I’ll do anything, Master!” Aubrey cried. “Please, let me in. Please, only let me touch…”

Bang! 

A shot cut through the night.

It was only this that could have torn his eyes away from the scene— and just barely. He swept back from the carriage, anticipating danger— would he be forced to put his life on the line for such a monster?— but found nothing but the buzz of insects in the grass. 

Turn around, thought he, turn around, so that you might see more of that beautiful…

That beautiful fucking that he would have no part in. The thought of being forced to watch, with his crotch aflame with unfulfilled desire, Ziza and Ianthe reach climax was too horrible for him. It was close enough to dawn as it was. He was a man of his word for long enough. He was going to find where that gun had been fired, and potentially save a life, rather than destroy one, tonight.

Lady Mercer moaned. “Master… Master, thank you!”

“We love you, Master.”

Aubrey ran off, and all that he found for his trouble was the body of Robert Morgan: indebted, despised, dead by his own hand.

Though he had buried the incident in the back of his mind, the images still burned. Morgan followed him into his dreams; sometimes he berated Aubrey, but mostly he wept, for his lot in life, for his eternal damnation.

But more often, Aubrey found himself haunted by the look of Ziza’s eyes. He had witnessed firsthand the sight of a woman, once vibrant and full of life, drained of will and transformed into Ianthe’s whore. Her desperate moans rang in his ears at inopportune times.

And now he recognized the same expression in that of his fiancée.

“But it’s impossible!” Aubrey muttered, as he prepared for bed. He laid his head on his gray pillow and stared hard into the flame of the candle on his nightstand. “Pearl would never…”

He reached out to cup the flame around his hand, and blew it out. His room vanished in a swell of darkness.

In dreams, he stumbled a-frighted, his tail between his legs, across a barren field. His throat ached, parched from screaming and his head pounded as if it’d been hammered flat.

In the corner of his eye, he caught a white figure, wreathed in black, its skin shimmering against the stormy sky. Its voice boomed like thunder.

“Enjoy whatever peace you may hold,” the vampire said. “It’ll last only as long as I allow.”

Aubrey stumbled to a stop. The creature was so far afield he could hardly see it, but for a blur on the horizon. Its unnatural shadow stretched along the yellow landscape. 

“You call this peace?”

“You are a man, Aubrey.” The vampire’s cloak faintly stirred, though its body remained still as a statue. “It is your nature. You want things. You take them.”

Almost unconsciously, too terrified to be cognizant of shame, Aubrey covered his groin with both hands. 

The vampire said, “You swore something to me, and I paid you mercy. It is as you said to my slave: awareness is a curse.”

“Go away!” Aubrey waved his arms. “Away with you, foul beast!”

“If you trifle with me again, I will not be so kind.”

“There is no kindness in your heart! No goodness, no love– only lust and avarice, feeding your slovenly appetite!”

“And I do not pretend to be anything but.” 

The vampire’s crooked mouth split into a smile. It raised its hand. Just as the ray of a saving dawn began to pierce through the loamy storm clouds, it snapped.

And Aubrey’s chains grew tighter.