“Awaken, foul beast!”

The voice, massive and throaty, sounded above her head. It pierced through her dreams: sick, heavy things that whirled like snakes. They lingered as her eyes wrenched open, and below her feet she saw the whirling patterns of an Oriental carpet. Her mouth was dry. Her head was pounding.

When she attempted to look up, her entire torso was held taut. She was sitting in a wooden chair, and there were ropes around her. They bound her wrists behind the chair’s back— her ankles, too— and tugged at her diaphragm.

“Hwuh…?” The slave’s face rose.

Above her, framed by the candlelight bouncing off the glass cabinets, stood Ephraim Spice. Not Pearl’s father. He could not be. No man could gaze upon his child in the fashion he did then: with a hatred that ran bone-deep.

As the slave was pulled further into consciousness, she tugged harder on the ropes. Her scattered mind tried desperately to coalesce. How had she gotten here? What did she remember? There was her visit to Ianthe, and then speaking to Georgia. Since she was a good slave, she had then obeyed when her master had ordered her to don her old mask, to enter her old home and pretend nothing was the matter. And the slave had gone: had feigned exhaustion and went on to bed.

Midnight. She had gotten home before the strike of the clock. Master had not subsided the urge within her— oh, what had she done at midnight? She must’ve been sleepwalking. She must have tried to murder Spice again, and more strongly too, with what she now knew. The slave tried to get a sense of her body. She was bruised and aching from Ianthe’s abuse, yes, she could almost taste the blood in her mouth. If she focused, she could almost remember.

Yes. The drifting. The blade in hand. Her father, awake and alert, pinning her down. She must’ve been asleep the whole time. How it pained her to be awake.

She had been found out! Oh, why did she have to enter the house ever again, to have to play family with that evil man? The front doors had seemed like the maw of a beast, threatening to swallow her whole as she entered, clutching her hands to her chest. Oh, why could she not have remained with her master, comforted by her sure solitude, protected from the treacherous depths of uncertainty? The slave knew who her master was. She did not know her father.

“What is…” The slave swallowed her bile. “... the matter?”

“Do not expect to fool me, vampire. Your time is up.” He held up a sheet of paper. The slave recognized the handwriting– achingly familiar, even– at once. Oh, Aubrey…

“Father?” Her voice was weak.

Ephraim turned on his heel and marched over to his desk. There, underneath a three-pronged candelabra, was a tableau of instruments: a brass crucifix, a clove of garlic split down the middle, and a silver knife.

He took the cross, and dragged it down the table.

“Your mistress is clever,” said he. “Too clever. I’ve never fathomed that such intelligence could even exist in the undead… and yet, the human spirit prevails.”

“She is not my—” The slave bit her tongue.

“I warned her…” Ephraim sighed. “I did everything I could. I told her to pray, to keep her window closed. I tried to keep her away from the Greek– by God, if only I had known!”

He lumbered towards the chair.

“Father!”

“Do away with the games, will you?” Ephraim touched his forehead. “It only causes me further grief. You would do better not to anger me.”

He thrust the cross out in front of him. The slave recoiled, automatically, but it did not strike her. It simply hung in his grip. The slave relaxed, and blinked.

“Is this a joke, Father?” said she. “I-I do not find it funny! Please, my arms ache…”

“I was a bit of a fool, wasn’t I?” He lowered his arm. “Aubrey was well to inform me that I may be mistaken about the nature of your kind. Still, there are plenty of methods yet to try.”

“You are not a fool, Father…” The slave tried to appeal to his vanity. Then, “Please– please, let me go. I know we’ve been troubled lately, but I…”

“Still doing this, hm?” Ephraim no longer looked at her– he was back at the table, crushing cloves of garlic between his fingers.

“Doing what?”

“Tell me, ‘daughter’–” Ephraim made a fist. “Why your face is all black.”

“I—I— the stairs. I fell.”

“I did not hear it.”

“Before— when I was visiting my friend…”

“And the cuts?”

“Why must you examine my body but not listen to my—?”

He showered her with garlic. The slave grimaced, and sneezed— but was decidedly unaffected. Ephraim picked up his pen, and took note.

“I will heed your words, then,” said he, with a bitter tone. “What was the first thing I said to you when I last came home?”

The slave stretched in her bonds, trying to twist to face him. “That you took a bad tumble.”

The effect of Ephraim’s countenance was hardly noticeable– a pause, a brief tightening of the muscles– before he transformed back into the hunter. He took the knife, and held the tip over the candle’s flame.

“My favorite meal?”

“Roast pheasant.”

“At what hour do I retire to bed?”

“10, though you often work far later.”

“Your mother’s last words.”

“That she would watch over us, always, in heaven,” the slave said. “Father–”

“Perhaps you have her mind!” Ephraim whirled on her. “Perhaps you wear her face and use her tongue– but you are not my daughter! You are a monster, and it is my duty to destroy you.”

He gained on her with the knife, its blade red.

“I am no vampire!” cried the slave.  “How could you think such a thing? When I have loved you so. When I still love you, despite such horrible trials you  put me through. You have accused me once! Check upon my neck, if you must– you will find nothing.”

The blade came ever closer. 

“What must I do to please you?” The chair creaked underneath her frantic movements. “I have tried my best– I have always tried, but it was never enough! You gave me no guidance, and such little kindness, and still I tried to please you!”

The blade shifted, and the sharp flash briefly blinded her.

“Must you hurt me? Must you only see what you want? Vampires are not the only creatures that bleed.”

“Quiet!”

The knife pressed against the side of her cheek. She did not cry out.

Ephraim, now kneeling at her level, met her frightened gaze. Her breath stuttered.

There were no words, though she mouthed some sort of plea that did not pass her lips. When he pulled back the blade, her blood, rich and rosy in the candlelight, beaded against its silver side. It dribbled over his knuckles like rain on a windowpane. His heavy breathing filled the study.

The knife fell to the carpet. Ephraim grasped her by either side of her face. When the slave gazed upon him, all the hatred that had been on her father’s brow had melted away.

Said he, “What am I doing?”

“Father…”

“I’ve hurt you,” he said, staring at the carpet. “For what?”

For what, indeed. His daughter sat before him, frightened witless and bleeding– only for him to have been wrong yet again. His hands lowered to feel her neck, to confirm exactly what she’d told him.

“There is no mark,” he breathed. “I…”

“Do you believe me, Father?”

His hands did not move. His eyes glistened with tears. It was all stillness, all tenuous relief— until he spoke again. 

“Daughter…” said Ephraim. “Where is your necklace?”

“What?”

“Your mother’s cross.”

The slave made a sudden show of sitting up, just as Ephraim pulled back. She tried to check for it on her collarbone but, of course, her hands remained tied.

“Oh–oh–” she said. “It is not there?”

“You did not notice it was gone?” Ephraim sat back on his haunches.

“N-no– I mean, yes. I mean–” The slave swallowed. “Perhaps I left it in my room?”

“Why did you remove it?”

“Oh, I can’t wear it every moment, Father. When I was bathing– yes, I must’ve forgotten it in the bath!”

“And if I went there right now and brought it back, you would wear it?”

“If you found it!” said she. “I-I don’t know if that’s where it’s gone.”

He rose to his feet, folding his arms behind his back. “Perhaps you left it with Zannouli.”

“Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is it really?” He stared into the glass; through the reflection, the slave saw him grimace. “You’ve done more outrageous things for her sake.”

“What are you even supposing?”

“I’ve heard of it, though I never thought I’d see it myself… let alone in my own home…” He reached out to touch the case, his fingers separated from its contents: the pinned moth. “Humans who give themselves in service to the vampire.”

“Father!”

“You threw a fit, did you not? It was with her when you were cut, when you fell down the stairs, as you so claim. I know what she is, and I doubt that even you could be so ignorant.”

“I…”

“Denounce her.”

“What?”

Ephraim turned around, still holding his arms stiffly behind his back. His chest was puffed out, and his eyes were cold. He did not repeat himself.

The slave squirmed. “What a horrible thing to say! That I’ve become Ianthe’s slave, just because of a silly necklace.”

“Your mother’s.”

“Yes, I know,” said the slave. “And if you wish for me to find it, you have to let me free!”

“Do as I told you, first,” he said. “You are my obedient daughter, are you not? Denounce her. Call her the wicked thing she is.”

“I–I–” The slave’s voice choked in her throat.

“She is the Vampyre! Does that not ruin her in your eyes? Does that not chill your blood, that you trusted something so vile?”

“She… she…” The slave squeezed her eyes shut. It felt as if her heart was being squeezed, constricted in her small chest. She pulled at the ropes until her wrists screamed. “She is vile. And a liar. And a cheat. I knew she was trouble from the first moment I laid eyes on her.”

She attempted to twist her legs to no avail.

“She destroys the sacred and delights in the profane. Nothing— nothing she concerns herself remains as it was. It’s as if she— as if she has some sort of black, foul blood that runs in her veins, that comes off on everything she touches…”

Her eyes were closed, her breath ragged. “She wastes all her time, idling and drinking. She smells awful. She uses women, plays with their hearts and bodies, and then discards them when she is done! She’s filled with nothing but hatred— like, like a child raised without love. I feel as if I ought to pity her. But I cannot. She will never change, because she is the cause of it all. She is the corrupter. She is evil! There is no escaping her!”

She coughed, her throat clogged with wild fear. In her bonds she rocked, folded as far forward as they allowed her, staring at the floor with wide, unseeing eyes.

“And I am… I am…”

Ephraim’s voice was quiet. “Say you hate her.”

“I hate her.”

Ephraim was silent; for a time, he only shuffled his feet on the carpet. He folded his arms to hide that they were shaking. “It could still be a trick…”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Then, why did you make me do it?”

“What reason would Aubrey have to lie?”

“He could have been mistaken,” said the slave. “Or… perhaps, he wishes me gone.”

“Gone? Why on Earth—?”

“If I am dead— or disowned, I suppose— he would be the one to inherit, yes?”

“But you two are to be married!”

“And if he does not want me? If he desires another? Then, the only option is to be rid of me.”

It was an absurd story— the slave wouldn’t have believed it, in his place. But Ephraim’s armor was cracking, and the slave pushed her advantage. He stood there, looking frailer and more frightened by the moment. When he next spoke, his voice quivered ever so faintly.

“Pearl would never lose that necklace.”

“And Pearl would never lie,” said she. “And yet, you believed him instead.”

Ephraim’s shoulders fell.

When the slave began to cry again, it was almost real. Beneath the creaking of the chair, the strands of lank hair that fell over her eyes, her mouth curled and bared teeth chattered. Her sobs racked her, rubbed at the ropes until her wrists finally bled.

“You promised to change… you swore that you loved me, and now you do this. Is your affection truly so conditional? That I could change not at all, but you would still tie me up like an animal and accuse me of such horrible things!”

“It is for your own good.”

“Good? You call this good?” She gasped. “Why… if this is goodness, then I’ll never survive the face of evil!”

Ephraim approached. His hand lifted, fingers outstretched, but froze, hovering like the hand of Adam before it touched her. “If I let you go… what will you do?”

The slave answered honestly. “I would go to Georgia’s.”

“Then… I’ll call you a carriage.” Ephraim touched the crown of her head.

She was knocking on the front door.

The fishmonger was in the bath, and had no desire to be disturbed. Georgia, arms aching from hauling the hot water, was alone in the parlor. She had only a single lantern lit– cost-saving, as always– and a Bible between her palms. She hadn’t even cracked the spine. 

The thought of action was unbearable upon her heavy mind: anything was liable to light the fuse of anger that had built in her chest.

She had gone to bed. She had left. It was over; Georgia had bared her soul and gotten nothing but mockery and threats. She was not going to play their game, she was not going to dance and squirm for Ianthe’s amusement. She was to take her lot in life with grace.

Knock! Knock!

She was knocking on Georgia’s front door.

Outside, through the long windows that overlooked the street, it was starry and moonlit. The grandfather clock against the wall ticked steadily along, in tune with the crickets that sang in the bushes. There was no one else in the whole wide world who would call on her. Not at this hour, not ever.

Knock! Knock!

How long could this go on? Georgia blocked the imagining of what was happening on her front steps from her mind. There was a door between them, and Georgia was the one in control. She could wail and wheedle like a lost kitten upon the stile all she wanted. 

What? Had she come for more games? Was she going to appear, still in her new lover’s bedclothes, to sing Ianthe’s praises? Did she come to further inform Georgia in what manner, exactly, Ianthe had corrupted her spirit? Georgia did not care. Georgia had all the power here. Georgia was the one inside, with her hand upon the latch.

Pearl was there… knocking on Georgia’s front door.

With her hand upon the latch.

The knocking grew frenzied, manic, as if Pearl were being pursued by a gang of wild hounds. Georgia hadn’t even realized she was moving. The book in her hands had slid from the edge of the coach and now lay splayed on the floor, pages flapping in the light breeze. Again the knocker came down. A sliver of moonlight pierced through the underside of the door.

In all likelihood, it was a trick. Ianthe had made it clear she was displeased by Georgia’s rejection; she was the sort, with all her power and all her petty regards, to send her little slavegirl over just to make Georgia bleed.

She heard Pearl’s voice through the door. “Open, please! Oh, please, let me in!”

If she opened the door, Pearl was going to break her heart again.

“I know I have done wrong, I know I have hurt you. My darling… if you would only open the door…”

If she conceded, she would only be letting herself be torn apart.

Knock, knock, knock…

Georgia threw open the door.

Pearl stood, a peculiar look on her face. She looked as if she were shocked by the very fact of Georgia responding— as if she had not just been begging for entrance for half-an-hour. She wore a thick flannel traveling cloak and bonnet, a leather satchel on her arm. Her lovely face, pale in the moonlight, was still garishly bruised. There was a fresh cut healing on her cheek.

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Georgia…” Pearl outstretched her hands, which shook in the cool night air. “My love…”

“Say your piece,” Georgia said. “Why are you here? And at such an hour?”

“I’m running away!” said Pearl. “And you must— you simply must— come with me.”

It was the shock of the statement that left Georgia inert. Pearl rushed forward with those frail, desperate hands of hers and pulled her into a tight embrace right there in the foyer: front door thrown wide open, leaking moonlight across the carpet.

“I’ve had enough of all of them!” Pearl cried with a shaking tenor. “Aubrey, my father… they care not a bit for me, only what they can make me. I am sick with it, sick with being used and cast-aside!

“I woke up this night in my father’s study… he had convinced himself of my evil. He was going to kill me. My own father! I escaped, but I cannot go back. How could I return to a home like that?

“I must go very far away. I cannot go with Ianthe. I must go with you.” The side of Pearl’s face pressed against Georgia’s bosom, her ear capturing Georgia’s beating heart. “I fooled myself into believing that it was right and natural, that I let others hurt me out of love,” said she. “But… ohh, oh, Georgia, my darling, you were right all along… Ianthe is the same as the lot of them, man or not! Only you… only you ever loved me… truly…”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was horrible, Georgia! Just ghastly! I did everything for her, and all she wanted was to watch me bleed! She thinks of me as her little doll— even though… even though I love her! Loved her. Georgia…”

“That is not what I was asking.” The cold autumn air was leaking through the open doorway; Pearl’s body was warm and pulsing in her cold arms. “I do not care at all that Miss Zannouli has abandoned you— I’ve said my piece. I was asking: what makes you think I love you, truly?”

“You don’t understand!” Pearl clutched at the bib of Georgia’s nightgown. Her raised face glittered with tears in the moonlight, and her eyes were like that of a madwoman. “She is more than a cruel master. More than a cad, or a layabout. She is dangerous, Georgia, and I cannot afford to displease her.”

“And why should I?”

“Our only hope is that she cannot find us.”

“Oh? Are we running off to the territories, again?” Georgia’s voice dripped with derision.

“It was her, it was all her.” Pearl’s voice shook with a steady rhythm. “She had it all planned from the start. An eye for an eye. A daughter for a sister, a son for a brother— but she hadn’t accounted for you— for our love. She wants you. She’ll pursue. She’ll eat you alive and turn into whatever shape pleases her. If you'd only—”

“Get off of me.” Georgia pushed her away. As her hand made contact with Pearl’s abdomen, it slipped beneath the traveling cloak. Her fingers brushed bare skin. “Huh?”

“Georgia…” Pearl was panting, huddled in a terrified crouch. “If you turn me away… I won’t protect you.”

“As if I would ever need your help!” Georgia drew back, affronted. “Do you take me for a fool? Of course she wants me. That’s why she’s trying to weasel her way into my bed through you. I do not care. I will not listen to your idle threats. Get out of my—”

“And if you had embraced me as your own…” Pearl stepped forward with such sudden, lithe confidence that Georgia took a step back. Pearl smoothly entered the house. “I would have loved to stab you in the back.”

Georgia had almost forgotten. What had Pearl said, before? The memory was consumed by the rush of emotion. But now the words returned to the forefront of her mind, though it was far too late.

I am Pearl no longer.

The sky outside was black as pitch. A wind snuffed out the lamp. Georgia gasped, and through the gape of her lips came what felt like a rush of solid air. It forced itself inside, pushed itself against the inner surface of her eyeballs. Her body spasmed wildly, and her memory turned itself into a patchy, disorientated fog.

The thing wearing Pearl’s face laughed and laughed.

Tick, tock, tick…

The sound of the clock moved like a slow drip of water. Georgia was standing at the top of the stairs with both arms held loosely at her sides, looking down. Crumpled at the bottom, like an ashen heap, was the fishmonger.

It was too dark to see, and her consciousness was fading in and out from the shadows. She could not detect the rise and fall of his chest against the cold floor. There was blood smeared on the bottom steps. The slave was behind her, hand at the space between Georgia’s shoulders, cold through the thin shift.

“See?” she said. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

Georgia panted; her mind rushed within her stiffened body. She swayed above the edge of that yawning staircase. She saw herself keeling forward, and joining her husband in the pit.

Of course, of course. The circle scars, on her throat and thigh, ached. Of course. She’d been marked already. It had only been waiting.

“Master wants you in the bedroom.” The slave withdrew her hand, and the thing inside Georgia moved along: she was turned away from her husband’s body and brought back through the hall, the slave skittering behind her. 

In the bedroom, Georgia stood in the center while the slave rushed about with the fervor of a châtelaine preparing for guests. She threw back Georgia’s curtains to let in the moonlight, lit candles and lamps until the room was gauzy with warmth. Georgia only shivered.

The slave moved to the chest of drawers. “She took a shine to you, you know.”

Georgia could say nothing.

“It’s such a waste…” The slave sighed. “And you’re so lucky, too. Master can’t feed on me like she fed on you…”

Inside Georgia’s chest was a heat like burning, overturned coals. It rattled about in her ribcage with no escape, anger and indignation like she had never felt. She should have known, should have known all along that this monster who had ruined her Pearl hadn’t even been human. It was a coward’s move; if this “master” wanted a piece of Georgia, she ought to have done it the old-fashioned way. Bastard.

From the drawers, the slave pulled clothing: tossed carelessly across her bedroom, stockings and shifts and Georgia’s lovely gowns. Georgia followed the flurry of movement with only her eyes. She was so focused on the slave’s bewildering actions that she didn’t realize she was moving on her own.

Her hands were drifting down her front, palms against her flushed, angry skin. They grabbed a fistful of fabric in each. Her hands violently rent her own shift in two.

The fabric slid down the length of her shoulders, but the vampire did not stop. As soon as they were exposed to the air her hands were at her hardened nipples, palming them in some sort of mockery of modesty. The shift was kicked away. Her nightcap was gone, and even the brush of a curl against the small of her back felt obscene.

Could she get away? If she could muster the strength, perhaps she could run. It would take too long to descend the stairs. If she threw herself through the window, she would plummet to her death. And how could she even distract the creature long enough? Could she pray? Would it be enough?

On the bed, the slave laid out an outfit. A white linen shirt, a vest, breeches… stupid, unfashionable breeches.

No. She could not pray. Prayer would do her no good. She could not jump out of the window. She did not want to die.

“I do not want to die,” said she.

No, she could not run away. Escape was simply impossible; the vampire was too strong, Georgia was too weak. Despite the anger— oh, the anger— that burned in her bosom, Georgia saw that she had no choice but to comply. It was only through obeying would she survive this encounter.

The slave lifted the men’s shirt, grinning at Georgia. “What do you think?”

Georgia was brought forward. She was nothing but a mess of confusion, of sour horror that sickened her mind. But if she only did as she was bid, perhaps the possession would subsist. Then, why was she resisting?

The slave laughed at Georgia’s pathetic defiance.

“Let’s play a game!” she said. “You be the man, and I’ll be the lady.”

“I am weak,” said Georgia, panting. “I cannot escape.”

Georgia’s arms were raised above her head, baring her naked chest. The slave threw on the shirt– Georgia was, for a moment, dumb and blind, wrapped in a shroud of linen.

As the slave tugged the shirt over Georgia’s head, she rubbed a finger against Georgia’s exposed cunt— did not enter her, only teased— and made it apparent that Georgia, in her helpless, controlled state, was significantly aroused. The familiar hand only needed to brush against Georgia’s swollen clit to leave her gasping again.

But how? How could she feel such a way here, now? How could there be any enjoyment from such a heinous act? The discongruity shook Georgia to her core. There must have been something wrong with her. It must’ve been because, even though she acted so haughty, even though she delighted in turning down generous offers made in good faith, she was really a desperate whore who got off on being hurt.

“I am a desperate…” Wait— she could speak! She struggled to avert the strange path of her mind.  “Pearl— who— whatever you are. Please…”

The slave giggled. “Are you trying to change my mind? You idiot. This is all I’ve ever wanted!” She laid a finger, still slick, over Georgia’s mouth. “Now, be a good boy, so I can get you dressed up.”

The slave pushed Georgia towards the armchair, resting near the window. Georgia gasped in protest, but it was all for show. The only thing she truly had control of were her thoughts, and those did a fat lot of good. There was no point in fighting. The only thing Georgia could do was submit.

But as Georgia struggled between what she knew (that she was weak, and useless, and a desperate whore that got off on being hurt) and how she acted (she was still fighting? Why was she fighting? There was no escape), the slave prepared her. She had taken the fishmonger’s shaving kit and was rubbing Georgia’s face with a bristle brush. She flicked open the strop, and set the blade against Georgia’s neck.

“She’s like the sea,” the slave said, “or the rain, or the stones. She is greater than all of us, she can never die, we’re all at her mercy.”

The blade ran smoothly up the length of Georgia’s neck, and across her jaw.

“We’re all her slaves, only some of us are lucky enough to learn of it.”

The slave leaned in, so that all Georgia could see were her eyes, wide and gleeful. She wiped Georgia’s face clean with a towel, then gathered up Georgia’s locks of golden hair in a fist above her crown. Flick!

The back of Georgia’s neck tingled with the flutter of loose locks, and the unfamiliar sensation of air.

The slave set about dressing her.

All the while she babbled, a merry madwoman, about how great and correct and erotic her master was. She pulled up Georgia’s stockings, she forced Georgia to stand to yank up the breeches. She stood nose-to-nose with Georgia, tying her cravat. Her hot breath was against Georgia’s cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

The fabric bit into Georgia’s neck. It pressed up against the scarred pockmarks underneath, now prickling like a spider’s bite.

“There’s nothing like it, when she molds you into your perfect form.” The slave whimpered. “Oh, I’m so jealous.”

Georgia was not jealous. She was still burning, and all that ire was directed at the woman now torturing her. This was what Pearl wanted? To make a fool of her, to dress Georgia up like a stupid man? Hadn’t she had enough of them?

The slave stepped back with a light step, hands folded behind her. Her body language had shifted, and for a moment the fog in Georgia’s mind was pierced with strong, harsh recognition. She was behaving like Pearl: a poor behavior, a pantomime, but recognizable all the same. It was Pearl as performed by a bad actor. 

With that same mocking, coy energy, the slave loosed her traveling cloak and revealed that she was naked underneath.

It was as if Georgia was seeing her for the first time. There was barely a glimpse of smooth skin, white in the moonlight, before the slave was prancing over to the bed. She climbed onto the covers, resting on her knees, her eyes never leaving Georgia. It was a piercing look; eyelashes fluttering, barely concealed smile at the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, darling…” she said. “Have you come to kiss me goodnight?”

Georgia’s body turned to face her. She did not like that the slave was looking at her; these clothes were wrong, all wrong. She was overlarge, she was foolish and stumbling and manly. Her head was shorn, she would’ve rather been naked. No one should look at her like that… not like this.

“It’s okay…” The slave rubbed her thigh, as if she was not fully nude already. “We’re already engaged. No harm in taking an early taste.”

And it was all her fault! The bitch, lounged on the bed, had tricked Georgia— had lied and coerced and used that last lingering vestige of tenderness in Georgia’s chest to ensnare her. What rage shook Georgia’s hands at the thought! Even though Georgia was all wet from the degradation, she still hated it. Even though Georgia was a whore, the slave before her was the worse slut. Georgia hated her.

“I hate you.”

She was tugged towards the bed, arms outstretched. There was no use fighting. Escape was impossible. Georgia was weak. Her hands, held out in the air, shook.

“You d-did this to me. I would like to—” Georgia bit her tongue, and the pain arched down her spine. Ah, she could not choose one act to put into words! She wanted to throw the slave against the wall, she wanted to beat her with a candlestick. She wanted to see her burn, and cry, and beg for Georgia to take her back— which, of course, she would never do.

The slave laid back on the covers. “You can do anything you’d like to me.”

Georgia didn’t notice at first— stupid, stupid!— that the arousal pulsing in her body was sharpening. Her bottom lip sagged, sparkling with drool, and her nipples smarted against the snug surface of her waistcoat. But, more than anything, it was moving downwards. Between her legs, it was fire. The most pleasurable fire Georgia had ever felt.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—

Georgia jumped onto the bed and pinned her down. The slave shrieked, a sound that brought more than a little spark of satisfaction until Georgia realized it was laughter. 

Bound by Georgia’s rough fingers around her neck, clothed body against naked flesh, the slave bucked and moaned and laughed, wildly. “Oh, my love— wh— why would you do such a— such a horrible thing?”

“Shut the fuck up, whore.”

“Ah— ah—”

The slave’s thighs rubbed up against Georgia’s crotch in her ineffective protestations. It was painful to the touch, like skin rubbed raw— a sensation Georgia had never felt before. 

A foreign limb strained against the inside of Georgia’s breeches.

The slave raised her leg, and stroked her knee against the bulge. “My beloved…” said she. “Please don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t r-rape me.” The slave stuttered over more laughter. “That would be so— sooo—”

Georgia freed the slave’s wrists, who responded by crooking a finger in Georgia’s waistband and tugging down the loose breeches.

She cooed. “Oh, Master… it’s beautiful…”

Between Georgia’s legs, emerging from her wiry bush, was a throbbing erection. The slave fawned over it as Georgia stared, uncomprehending. 

Georgia had no inkling of the power held over her. Georgia had been sold out months before; from the moment Ianthe had drank her blood, her fate had been decided— though perhaps not in quite so violent a manner. If she had been gracious to Ianthe, she realized, she would have gotten all this and more.

She still had her cunt, too— so that Ianthe may use her later— but this form of arousal was a worse struggle to ignore. She was wet because she liked being used. She was hard because she hated the slave, and it was hot to make her suffer.

“Ahh… ah, she did such a good job, did she n—mmf?!”

Georgia thrust her cock into the slave’s mouth. 

A voice hummed inside her chest. Good boy.

The slave’s eyes were wide; she had stopped the mockery, thank god. It seemed even now, she was still able to be caught off guard. Georgia’s tip was butting up against the warm roof of the slave’s mouth. In such a sensitive state, Georgia felt even the faint huff of unsteady, fearful breath.

Now, the vampire said. What do you do next?

“G—get out,” Georgia said. “I’m not doing anything.”

The walls bled with shadows; they dripped from the canopy, all the way down to the floor. The window curtains fluttered in a gust of wind. Through the screen, insects buzzed louder and louder, until Georgia could hardly think.

The slave whimpered around the cock. Georgia ignored it. She was looking up, around the room, trying to grasp onto the presence that was consuming her home whole. The curtains continued to flutter. Through them, a flash of red pierced her eyes.

She didn’t realize she was moving again. The slave was still whining, a low guttural keening. It was slow at first, Georgia’s crotch undulating backwards and forwards, pulling her new limb in and out across the slave’s lips. It felt good. It felt even better when she thrust harder, and the slave moaned in pain.

“Oh?” Georgia panted. “Did that hurt?”

The slave struggled to nod.

Georgia reached down and held both sides of the slave’s head between her hands. She stroked the side of her temples, where sweat had stuck all her little curls. She forced the slave’s shaking head still and thrust again.

“Did you think about how it hurt—” Again. “When you abandoned me?”

Another moan.

“Or when you—” In, out, in. “Fed me to a fucking vampire?”

The slave’s legs squirmed beneath her.

It was so hot to hurt her. It was so hot when Georgia was the one doing it. Georgia had been wrong, so very wrong. Taking pleasure by force was the greatest. It was her purpose. It was so obvious she had no desire to say it aloud. One moment she was salivating in sweet revenge, and in another her body was tense and clamoring. She came into the mouth of her ex-lover.

A hand touched her back, and Georgia nearly came again. 

Good boy.

“Darling!” The slave had fallen to the floor, clutching her face. Cum was spilling from her nose and mouth. “D-don’t tell me that was all! Oh darling, I know you can rape me better than that.”

Georgia looked up.

Ianthe, with her legs crossed at the ankles, was sitting atop the chest of drawers. Her gloved fingers curled around the edges. She was smiling. 

Georgia returned her gaze downwards. She watched the slave, flopping like a pale, pathetic worm beneath her. Just the sight of the thing made Georgia sick. Even after being violated and brutalized, all she wanted was more.

Only thing was, Georgia also wanted more.

She could not escape. She could not pray. She did not want to die. She was weak. The vampire was strong. Ianthe was meant to dominate Georgia in body and soul, and Georgia was such a desperate whore she was going to enjoy it. By god, was she going to enjoy it.

Georgia had lost, had lost before she even knew there was a game. Ianthe had wanted Georgia like this— a good boy who thought with her cock— for so long, and Georgia had turned her away. What a fool she had been! It felt so good. What a gift she had been given. The slave, loathe as Georgia was to admit it, had been right. There was nothing like it. Nothing.

And Ianthe had given this to her, despite Georgia’s coldness! It was obvious, now, to her. She was fortunate, so very fortunate.

She was the favorite.

“Get over here.” Georgia clambered off the bed.

The slave shrieked, and leapt to her feet. Georgia grabbed at her, only for the slave to wriggle out of her grip. Her fat, wide mouth was smiling. “Oh— oh no, unhand me, fiend!”

“I’m going to tear you into pieces.”

The slave coyly turned her face away, and continued to scamper out of Georgia’s reach. Georgia lunged, and grabbed at the slave’s naked flesh with her nails out. She ran gashes into the slave’s side, and then across her back as the slave attempted to wriggle away. She pushed the slave down against the floor with a shuddering thud. 

“Ahhh!!” The slave kicked, but Georgia was already sitting on her legs. She pinned down the slave’s neck with one hand and slapped her ass with the other.

“Fucking whore.”

“Darling! Y-you can’t do this to me!” the slave cried, even as her face split with an uncontrollable smile. “I loved you.”

Georgia wished she had a whip, or something sharp to strike the slave with. Already, the slave had been marked by their master with long, thin scratches along her waist and spine.

Whatever had been done to the slave before, Georgia figured she ought to do worse. This was a gift, generously given to a girl Ianthe had taken a shine to. She ought to take it for all it was worth.

Georgia slapped the slave and ordered her to keep still as she struggled to align their crotches. The slave responded by moaning again— stupid whore, Georgia hated her so, so very much— and managed to unpin herself and almost run off. 

Grappling in a blur of flesh, Georgia held tight. They writhed against the cold floor. The slave grabbed at Georgia’s waistcoat and ripped it open. 

Georgia ignored her now bare chest and thrust inside the slave’s cunt. Then again, and again— her cries sweet to Georgia’s ears, her moans met with harder and harder thrusts. 

Georgia took the slave by the shoulders and slammed her against the hardwood. The back of the slave’s head met with a hard impact. She winced, biting the tongue inside her lolling mouth. “Ah— ah—” 

The rape continued. No matter how roughly Georgia handled the slave, how violently she forced her way inside, the slave responded gleefully. She cackled when Georgia slapped her across the face, her teeth flashing white in the darkening room. The room, filled with candles snuffed out by the open window, smelled of smoke.

Georgia growled in frustration. How could she expect to teach this woman a lesson when she was enjoying it? She didn’t want that. She wanted pain, and blood, and—

She—

She was doing this all on her own.

It should have been more of a shock. It should have been the sort of revelation that forced her into a stop, that broke the spell, that ended it all. Instead it was dull, like inadvertently biting the inside of her cheek. Of course she wanted this. She hated this slave. She wanted to make her feel pain, causing her pain was arousing. It was perfectly natural.

There were thoughts being forced into her head, in the same manner that outside forces had moved her body. It was too late, now; Georgia welcomed the intrusion, was made wet from the violation, of course.

Perfectly natural. After all, Georgia had no choice. She was defenseless against her master, Ianthe, who Georgia lived to obey. It was her master’s will that spurred her on. If she had not felt this way before, she did now, and she would forever. She had been tricked by the slave, and it was only reasonable to take the opportunity for revenge before Georgia entered her own life of eternal servitude.

Georgia did not stop the motion; she felt her body as if from the outside-in: the shortened, patchy tufts of golden hair across her face, the lurching of her breasts as she violated the slave. Master, from her perch, was enjoying the scene.

Georgia did not stop, because to stop would be to disappoint her master. But her eyes could not leave Ianthe. Georgia gasped, moaned like the slave underneath her as she was struck with an intense, dizzying longing to crawl over and lick her master’s boots.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, she was so lucky. She was going to be such a good slaveboy, she was going to serve so well. She was going to be coarse and cruel and dress however her master wished. She was going to be a dutiful little rape machine, tricking soon-to-be slaves into her bed and holding them down to be bitten.

Ianthe descended, and raised a black hand. She stroked the top of Georgia’s head as Georgia, consumed with her new purpose, mindlessly rutted against the slave.

“That’s a good boy…” Ianthe said. “Really, was that so hard?”

Georgia never would have allowed such a wonderful thing to happen if she’d had control of her own faculties. She tried to say this, but all that came out of her dumb mouth was a whine.

Ianthe chuckled. “What a pretty little thing...”

Georgia fucked and fucked. She had no thoughts but the ones Master fed her, so heavy and sweet, filling her vapid head. She was coated in sweat, and her muscles ached. She fucked and fucked, she drooled. Her cum leaked from the slave’s abused cunt. She had to obey.

“You’re going to be quite the heartbreaker, boy.” Ianthe’s expression was of unmasked lust and power. Yes, yes! “What say you? Seducing women as a consummate gentleman… and bringing them home to sate your master’s thirst.”

“Yes… y-yes…”

“Of course I’ll let you have your fun,” Master said. “I was never one to betray a kindred spirit. You’ll get to break them in— I’ve never seen the big fuss around virgins— all wet and screaming.”

The slave gasped.

Ianthe frowned, and gave her a swift kick to the collarbone. “Unlike this one.”

Then, Ianthe set her boot upon Georgia’s neck. Her command rattled between Georgia’s ears. Bite.

Georgia distended her jaw. She snapped at the slave’s tits, who jerked underneath her. She left gashes behind. Her cock was begging for release, hot and painful once again. But Master was the one holding the reins, and she hadn’t commanded Georgia to cum.

“Master.” The slave’s eyes shot open.

Ianthe addressed Georgia harshly. “You’re not fucking her hard enough if she can still speak.”

But the slave wasn’t listening. “Master. Master— uh-uh— the door. Master! Master, look! Ahhh… ah! The—”

Master snapped her fingers as she turned, and Georgia collapsed in an exhausted pile of limbs.

The slave let out a cry of spirited, uncharacteristic anger. “It’s him!”

Aubrey Darvell made eye contact with Ianthe, a pistol in hand, before turning tail and running away.

It seemed a miracle, after such a dark day, that the sun could even rise. Aubrey could hardly believe it, even as his eyes were pierced with that clear, golden light. It made him want to cry out in joy, to fall to his knees and praise God for the second chance he had been granted.

His savior, however, was not quite so enthused. “If you’re goin the come with, stay outta my way.”

On that clear fall morning, Moira allowed Aubrey to join her as she commenced a handful of errands around town, barely rousing from its huddled masses the night before. Moira walked assuredly, hands in the pockets of her men’s coat, and made Aubrey carry the basket.

“As I said…” Moira’s voice was rough. “My father was a vampire.”

“And yet you are not.”

“Aye.” Moira nodded. “My Mam was human.”

She stooped to enter a shoemaker’s shop, cutting off the story right when Aubrey was reeling in horror.

“I need sturdy boots,” said she. “For travelin.”

Aubrey stood in the doorway, muttering to himself. “I did not even realize that vampires could procreate in such a way…” He ran a hand through his hair.

Moira paid the shoemaker his due, and shot Aubrey a suspicious glance. He was still speaking.

“What a terrible thing to imagine! For it to attack a fair virgin in the night and leave her with—”

“It was not anything like tha,” Moira said. “She was his wife.”

She pulled him from the shop, and further down the lane. She bought a sturdy wool cloak and satchel at her next stop.

“He didn’t have much to do with raisin me— but he would visit, and gave me gifts, and my Mam money, a roof over ‘er head.”

“But that is…” Aubrey stared at the rooftops all along the row, bathed in the tenuous light, his sign of safety. “Simply impossible. There’s no way— no monster such as that could form a bond— could marry— could father a child in such a Christ—!”

“And yet, I am here.”

“She was…” Aubrey was whirling for explanations. “It could not have been a true marriage, then. The beast can call it however it likes, but I’m sure the reality was far closer to slavery than…”

“Than love?”

“Yes!”

“My father once told me…” Moira said, “that ‘e would move the moon and stars for my Mam. When she was ever in trouble, ‘e would swoop in and rescue her. They would kiss and caress, and he would come into my bedroom and rock me to sleep.” She gave him a sharp look. “Isn’t that how you imagined life with your Pearl?”

“That’s impossible,” Aubrey said. “If a vampire was in a room with a small child, it would obey its natural instincts and tear the thing to shreds.”

At the docks, Moira paused her tale to speak to one of the sailors. She inquired about the haul— his was a merchant vessel from overseas— and when his ship would next be departing. He told her that it would be at the beginning of October. Moira nodded gravely, and returned to her walk.

Aubrey felt rather like a scolded child, like he had said something wrong. Lost in agonized thought, he could not square the facts of the matter with what he knew to be true. Moira must’ve been mistaken. Whatever her mother had told her, it was only the lingering effects of a vampire’s thrall. Her memories were mistaken. It could not be—

“Do you understand why I’m tellin you this?”

Aubrey was forced to confess. “No.”

“I am tellin you because it is what Ephraim Spice never understood: the beasties are just the same as me and you.”

“No… No—”

“They love, and they hate,” Moira said. “They have families, and lovers, and enemies. But the emotional wounds of the vampire…”

“Must only be surface level, or else—”

“— have all the more time t’fester, and less opportunities to heal. They run deeper. They are not often tended to,” Moira said. “Imagine if there were a chance for you to fall in love with every animal you slaughtered?”

“I would do the world a service and do away with myself.”

“Oh, would ya? How noble.” Moira huffed. “Now imagine you couldn’t do that. You would seek out others like you, yes?”

“I would never fraternize—”

“You would. And you would learn to love them, because they were all you had. And imagine how you would feel if someone were to…”

Aubrey’s stomach dropped. “Murder them in broad daylight.”

And though it had taken him far too long to realize, it was then that Aubrey figured out Ianthe’s weakness. Like the rays of sun bursting through the clouds after a storm, he was filled with conviction. He was the one to do it. He had all the pieces, and it was that feeling that brought him all the way to that darkest night in the Cary household, dumb and blind.

A cold draft was blowing through the foyer; it bit through the fabric of Aubrey’s coat, tempting him to shudder, and give away his position. He lurked underneath the staircase, in some of the many shadows that consumed the house. Here he was: the last hope of defeating Ianthe, the only man she had not yet brought to heel. He had to keep her from getting at his mentor. He had to rescue Pearl.

And he would not let himself be enthralled again. With this in mind, he had brought an additional tool alongside his gun: a silken handkerchief, to be used as a blindfold.

She could not dazzle him with light that he could not see!

But the layout of the Cary house was unfamiliar to him. He crept, hands outstretched, to feel the icy air on his shaking fingertips. It met with only emptiness, until his feet made impact with something cold and soft. He fell forward.

Aubrey pulled down his blindfold, and gasped in terror. He had tripped over a body: the bloody, still corpse of Mr. Cary!

It was a ghastly sight. Aubrey scrambled to his feet, blood staining his white shirt. Mr. Cary lay on his side, his eyes wide open, and half-curled like a sleeping babe. The old man, so revered in life, was nothing but a purple, milky-eyed obstacle, now. His eyes were open and his gnarled hands gripping the floor.

Only…

Aubrey stood on the bottom step. He swore that he saw a twitch of the man’s features– but it must’ve been a trick of the light. Hand on his belt, he leaned down to get a closer look at the man’s lolling mouth, his sad, unshaven face.

The body jerked upwards. It was only Aubrey’s quick reflexes that kept him from being grappled. Aubrey screamed, and scrambled further up the staircase. He held up his gun. “Desist! I’m here to help you!”

But it wasn’t Mr. Cary that was moving, not truly. He had that distinct glassy gaze, a body like a marionette. He was a thrall. A poorly prepared one, carelessly cast aside as a half-hearted guard dog– but a threat nonetheless. 

He recalled something Moira had told him. 

Donnae try an reason with the thralls. You cannae fool them, but they can fool you.

“Get yourself together, man!” Aubrey cried. “You will kill yourself if you move like that. Lay down!”

Tottering and swaying, his nightclothes hanging from him like a shroud, Mr. Cary approached the stairs.

“Lay down!” Aubrey repeated, and took another step backwards. “Lay down, we are on the same side! Think about your wife, you fool!”

With no choice, Aubrey retreated further and further up the staircase. Mr. Cary pursued, crawling on all hands and knees like a worm. Aubrey had no intention of firing a warning shot– and therefore alerting the inhabitants to his being here– but he had no idea what else to do!

This man was innocent. Ianthe had not even bothered to properly enslave him, only install some base instincts to his unconscious body. He was barely alive, a piece of meat put in his way for the sake of it.

If Aubrey were to fail… that’s what would become of him. He imagined himself in the man’s place: a hollow piece of chattel– uncomprehending of his broken body, of hunger, uncaring of his own needs and desires. Only a puppet to his master’s will.

Something stirred in his groin, but he also attributed this to panic (the rushing of blood).

Instead of attacking the man, Aubrey chose to simply continue to his destination on the second floor. Still, he could not tear his eyes away from the pathetic sight. He felt about with the edge of his shoe, climbing one creaking step at a time.

Remember, thought Aubrey, what you are fighting for…

For no one to have to suffer a fate worse than death. There came, rising up within him, a sudden realization. He could not fire his gun. So he withdrew his knife.

“Forgive me,” said he, and allowed the man to come closer. When the thrall was within an arm’s length, Aubrey plunged the knife between the slats of his ribcage. Mr. Cary made not a sound, and went tumbling back down.

With hardly a moment to consider the mercy killing, Aubrey was stalking the upper floor hallway. The noises, unmistakable, drew him closer. There were wanton moans, there was Ianthe speaking— such horrid things she had to say.

An awful sight greeted him through that door.

Three women, including one that he loved so dearly, forced into some horrible, orgiastic pantomime. Ianthe was stepping on Georgia, who was wearing her husband’s clothes and was… and had a… that was inside…

And then Pearl was calling for him. Though it caused great pain, Aubrey turned away. First, he had to lure the monster out of its den…

He returned his blindfold over his eyes, and with a hand on the wall, made his way further and further into the depths of the Cary house. He waited, feeling for the shifts in the air: for the flap of wings, the rustle of a cape. When he reached the back wall, he froze.

The only thing that dogged him was the step of soft footsteps.

“Aubrey.” It was the voice of his Pearl, his beloved, low and resigned.

His breath hitched.

Said Pearl, “What are you doing here?”

“Is it not obvious?” Aubrey turned to face her.

“What is that ridiculous thing you are wearing on your face?”

“It is a blind—” Aubrey stopped himself. “It does not matter. Pearl, my darling, I have come to save you.”

“It makes you look like an imbecile,” said Pearl. “You should leave. You were not invited.”

“Do you take me for one of them? I do not need an invitation, I come and go as I please. And no, I do not look like an imbecile, for you see—”

“I do not need to be saved. Leave.”

“Ah, that is what she wants you to think! I know better— Pearl, she has twisted your mind. She has filled it with strange, perverse ideas that I know you do not hold. Do not trust your senses, darling. You must trust me.”

“Trust you?” Pearl’s gentle voice turned hard. “Trust you? For what reason?”

Oh, how he wished he could see her! “Why— I am your betrothed. You love me!”

“Yes, of course!” said Pearl. “I am fool enough to trust a man who branded me a liar.”

“I…” Aubrey straightened up. “Are you still sore about that, Pearl? I thought we agreed to leave it behind us!”

“I was in the middle of something, Aubrey,” said Pearl. “I do not care for your interruption.”

“Yes, in the middle of being raped by Georgia Cary!”

“And what of it?” cried Pearl. “What of it, if another— if many others— have their way with me? It will still be a more tolerable existence than living with you.”

“Pearl…” Aubrey’s ears rang with shock. “Ianthe. Ianthe, she is speaking through you. This is not my Pearl who is…”

“Is that what you believe? I may be a slave, but I am not a fool. Master owns me, yes… but it is with my own mouth, my own heart, that I say: I hate you, Mr. Darvell, and not in a million years would I consent to be your wife.”

“But— you will be, i-it is agreed, and has been…”

“By my father’s decree! But I could not tolerate an hour of living alone with you. It would be the most heart-wrenching appointment, to serve you, to keep your house.” Her voice grew louder as she drew near. “I know what would be expected of me. I would keep your goddamned house, I would cook and clean and pamper you with nothing in return. And— by god— if I dared so much as speak too loudly, you would go crying to my father, so that he might inspect my vocal cords!”

“That is not true! I would… of course I would appreciate you…”

“Oh? Do you think you might give me a pat on the head for being a good girl?”

“Y-yes…?”

Pearl laughed. “And you would keep drinking, of course.”

“I—” Despite the situation, Aubrey was almost moved to anger. “But I am the controlling one?”

“This is precisely what I speak of, Mr. Darvell! Yes, yes, do you not see it?”

“Ianthe is far worse!”

“And what does that say about you?”

“It says that you have been possessed by a vile spirit, and I will banish it henceforth!” Aubrey lowered his voice, and reached out a shaky hand. “Pearl… please. If you come with me, I— I will cease the drinking. I will cease the gambling. I will treat you however you want to be treated.”

“You gamble?”

“I—”

“You must take off the blindfold,” said Pearl, “so that I may see in your eyes that you are sincere.”

But… that was his protection, his last barrier between him and the thrall of the vampire. If he did so, it would spell…

“You say you will do all these things, yes,” Pearl went on, “but even such a simple request, you refuse.” She sighed. “Master was right, as always…”

“No— no, Pearl, I will. I swear,” said he. “I swear I will always do as you say. I will be your faithful hound, if that is what you wish. I will prostrate at your feet, I will never have a harsh word to say of you. You will be my guiding light, my most beloved. Just, allow me this one thing.”

“Apologize.”

“Huh?”

“Apologize…” said Pearl, “for crawling into my bed that night. And I will take your hand.”

“But I…” Tears began to wet the silk handkerchief. “But that was not me! I had been mesmerized! I was not in my right mind!”

“You’ve even run out of empty words to spare…” The slave scoffed. “Master never lies to me. Oh well. I will see you never again, Mr. Darvell.”

He hardly thought about it. Aubrey whipped off the blindfold, and fell to his knees. “See? See, Pearl, do you see? I love you! I need you! Come back!”

And standing above him, with luminous red eyes, was Ianthe Zannouli.

She gripped his neck with a cold hand. “I see you’ve come back for more.”

No! No, he had not! He was here to kill, here for revenge. He was not here to kneel frozen as Ianthe’s fingers pressed against his Adam’s apple. He was not here to get lost in those eyes that shifted like flames… to hear her voice as a low hiss that flicked his ears…

A shriek of ear-splitting laughter filled the halls. It pulled Aubrey enough out of his reverie that he managed to speak. “Release her.”

The laughter was Pearl’s. It was horrible, so deep and so intense that after a few minutes her voice croaked, great huffing stomach breaths between the peals. Behind Ianthe, she had crumpled to the floor, naked, laughing and laughing even as her body failed her.

“Hm…” Ianthe hummed. “No.”

“I… I’ve come here to…” Don’t look too closely upon her! “…speak with you.”

“To speak with a gun, that is.”

“It was only what I needed to p-protect myself!” Aubrey said. “Truly. Truly, I want to try and help you.”

“Master, did you hear that?” Pearl gasped in the midst of her fit. “He wants to h— help you—”

Ianthe ran her finger up his neck, landing on the tip of his nose. “And why would I need your help? I would say that I’m doing quite well.”

“Because…” Aubrey swallowed. “Well, quite frankly, I pity you.”

The laughter stopped.

Ianthe blinked.

It was a struggle to speak, with the fear that pulsed through his body. And when he said it— when he said pity, the fear bloomed tenfold. He had hit a nerve; Moira had been right.

Ianthe gave him a swift backhand.

“D-do not take me wrong.” Aubrey ached as he pulled himself up to shaking feet and stared at the floor. His lip was dribbling with blood. “I understand your power, and your desires. Truly, I do. Only, it is so sad to me. That you are so ancient, so powerful and distinguished, yet you will have no one that will ever love you.”

He had to get that gun— in the lull of Ianthe’s shock, this was his chance to strike, before she lashed out in anger! His hands were not tied, his mind was not addled, and yet— oh lord, and yet he could not move! His legs were quivering and his vision was blooming with red, anxious stars. His nerves were failing him in his moment of most dire need!

“Is that what you think?” said Ianthe, voice low.

“It is what I know!”

“Slave, tell him how you feel.”

The slave’s voice was still ragged. “Master, I love you so much. I love you more than anything. I love you more than I love myself. I would do anything for you…”

“Anything?”

“I would betray my dearest friends,” the slave said, “like I have tonight. I would sell out my family. I would burn down my own home, if it pleased you, Master.”

“You would kill for me?”

“Oh, yes, Master!”

“Including yourself?”

“Yes, yes! That sounds sooo hot…”

“What do you think of when I am not with you?”

“Oh, um…” The slave groaned, and Aubrey realized that she was almost certainly touching herself. “Fucking you– or- or mostly you fucking me, Master, ah–”

Aubrey sputtered out, in utter indignation, “And you call that love?”

“Of course,” Ianthe said.

Said the slave, “What else could love be?”

Ianthe had still not killed him. Why? She had him firmly in her grasp. Did she want to kill him with emotional pain? Sure, hearing such horrible things in Pearl’s voice hurt… but he had heard her say far worse. Even if he felt as if there were thorny vines wrapping around his heart… he knew his duty.

He looked up, and made firm eye contact with the monster. His nerves were like steel. He would not succumb.

Said he, “For a love to be real, it m-must weather great storms. Do you think your playthings will regard you with anything but contempt when you die?” He inched his hand underneath his waistcoat, where his gun lay in wait. “I know…that you once knew about real love… about love between equals.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Who was it that died and upset you so?” Aubrey wrapped his fingers around his weapon. “Your lovers? Your family? Frankly, even with the evidence before me, I can scarcely imagine anyone caring for you.”

“Oh? Oh? You supposing that I am unlovable? The likes of you would never understand.”

“I don’t,” Aubrey said. “I imagine you came here for vengeance. And now look where you are: playing with your food.”

Air rushed against his back. She had thrown him, slammed him into the wall. Aubrey gasped. He scrabbled forward to fire his gun. He did not manage even that. His hand was shaking, and in moments his fingers were opening and sending the gun skittering down the keeling floor, far out of his reach. Ianthe clawed at his face, and held him down.

Crumpled against the wall, Aubrey was consumed by the full force of her anger. It was all red, her face against his. Her fingers pierced his forehead.

“What do you know about love?” Ianthe raved. “You never had to earn it. The world handed you a bitch, and you kept her around until she started saying things you didn’t like.”

“I…” The light was pretty.

“Why would I need that nonsense you’re spewing? I am the Master of all here, you included! Do you dare not show me the proper respect?”

She was pretty. More than pretty. Her voice was so deep. It shook the timbers of the house. It ran right down into his marrow. He should… he was supposed to listen to it…

“You…”

“What am I, hm?” Ianthe rose to her feet.

Aubrey’s mouth hung agape as he gazed upwards. His face stung from the gashes she had torn through it. “Master…” he said, “it feels good.”

“Well, obviously!” Ianthe kicked him in the stomach. He moaned.

“I’m so sorry, Master!” He cried, panting. “Please… please don’t punish me too harshly…”

She thrust her boot forward, and stepped on his abdomen. Aubrey squirmed, sinking lower to the floor, to give her more real estate.

“I’ll forgive you,” said she, “if you tell me who was it that sent you here.”

“You should…” The light, the light. “You should step on my cock, Master.”

“Who sent you, boy?”

“Myself… I was the last hope to…” He jolted. “Master, I’m sorry, but I was planning on killing you! You’re going to have to step on my cock twice—”

“You are not clever enough to free yourself.”

“No, I am not, Master!”

“Then, who did?”

“The maid…” Aubrey said, “what’s her name…? M…Mo…”

“Speak up!”

“M…Master…”

“Not me, you idiot! Who was it that—?”

“Behind you…”

Bang!

It had happened beneath the notice of all. 

Georgia had been suddenly wrenched from her stupor as the slave rushed to follow Aubrey. There she lay, half-dressed, her body altered beyond measure. And yet, though the force of the vampire remained on her mind, its pressure had eased. Ianthe had forgotten about her. In the dark hallway, she was able to drag herself on all fours and remain, unnoticed, watching. 

There was a sour taste in her mouth; all her muscles screamed, and her head pounded like chisel against stone. But her will held out, enough so that, in the nick of time, she was able to steal Aubrey’s gun as it went skittering away.

The slave saw her pick it up, of course, but it was with the expectation that Georgia was going to protect their master. Georgia rose to her feet; filthy, bedraggled, and stone-faced, she made aim. 

Ianthe gasped. Her hands moved to grasp at her incorporeal stomach, and froze.

Georgia spat onto the floor.

Ianthe peeled her hands from her abdomen. Very real blood, black as pitch, stained her hands. It gushed from her wound as her stomach flexed with breathing. Her expression was aghast.

“How—?”

Georgia threw the gun aside and charged her. Aubrey, in a rare moment of sanity, tossed her the knife. Georgia, both hands grasping the handle, plunged it in rapid succession through Ianthe’s heart. Aubrey was splashed with the pitch.

“Slave, st—” Ianthe attempted to push Georgia away, to force her ring into her eye, but Georgia was too strong.

Even when Ianthe’s white shirt was soaked through, Georgia did not stop. She moved with animal intensity, striking clumsily through Ianthe’s neck, and then her skull. She sprayed blood and brains all over her home. It was a gruesome, unceremonious, and utterly undignified end. Unforeseen, unplanned— a final, fatal, stupid mistake.

The slave cried and cried from her lonely spot on the floor.

Thus spelt the end of the Vampyre!