It was a perfect day, with the sort of crisp, clear blue sunlight that called forth the notion of a painting, not a true sky. The autumn air was temperate, and even the ride to the church was free of the normal hassle of a busy morning.

Fallen leaves were swept up by the wind in eddying circles down the street. They danced themselves to exhaustion before being crushed underneath the wheels of the approaching carriage.

“And to think…” Pearl, her hand gloved in white satin, laid it upon her father’s knee. “That once I thought this day would never come…”

There were curtains drawn in the carriage, hiding the expectant bride. Her veil, which she had drawn back for the journey, had slipped from the rim of her bonnet by the natural jostle of the horses. Through the gauzy screen, she smiled, a sweet and sad thing. Her father patted the back of her hand.

“I never doubted you once.”

Pearl had been nothing but grace throughout the early morning preparations; her room was filled with flowers and light; the walls had been scrubbed and the floors swept, so that her face was nearly glowing from the hue of the blue wallpaper. Sitting before her modest mirror, her young cousins crowded around her, with their gaudy tones and puffed sleeves, giggling in excitement while Moira mutely pulled the paper ringlets from Pearl’s hair.

Pearl’s recovery, after such a terrible ordeal, had been swift and certain. Her skin was smooth and clear as buttermilk, and her eyes sparkled. She was far lovelier than the plain, fragile woman that had fallen into such business.

Clearly, though, she was nervous. Her voice was tremulous, quiet as a mouse, as she responded to the inquiries of her young cousins.

“Aubrey picked out the dress,” said she. “He may be a man, but I believe he has a good eye?”

“Of course!” said one.

“You look lovely, cousin.”

Indeed, she did. Her dress was white, long-sleeved, and embroidered in gold. She had white gloves and a bonnet overburdened with roses. Around her neck she wore a choker of pearls.

The subject moved on from the dress; at every mention of the groom, Pearl blushed.

The girl sighed. “You must truly love him.”

“Oh, yes…” Pearl nodded.

The other looked about the room. “Is it true that…?”

“Hush!” The first slapped a hand over her sister’s mouth.

Pearl’s smile only grew. “That he saved my life?”

Sheepishly, the two young ladies nodded.

“He did.”

Pearl twisted in her seat (much to Moira’s chagrin) to regale the girls with the tale of how she was pulled from the valley of the shadow of death: of Aubrey, and how he had slain the vampire through his wit and cunning. She described, eyes nearly brimming with tears, how he had found her in the bloody aftermath and fallen to his knees. How Pearl, stunned and still under the vampire’s spell, had frozen in fear. How her heart had felt torn in two. 

There were no words– Aubrey did not need them. From his pocket he had retrieved a small satin box and, with trembling hands, he lifted it up to her face. He had brought the wedding band; beautiful, golden, engraved with flowers. He had placed it upon her finger and Pearl, alive again, had embraced him.

“It was his love that saved me,” Pearl said, hand on her heart. “I realized that all he had ever done was for my sake— even though I had caused nothing but hurt! When he came to me, I saw the sun again. I had a chance at redemption. I was a flower finally blooming after a long, long winter.”

The church was quite the confluence of characters. Ephraim Spice’s old companions and contemporaries in supernatural studies, the ladies of the temperance group, Aubrey’s friends from the gambling halls, and nosy locals all stood side-by-side. Mrs. Putnam turned her nose up at her drunkard neighbor. Ziza Morgan, sitting in silence next to her recently widowed mother, was torn between sniffing out available young men and surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes.

There was one notable absence. Though none spoke of it, and the less connected could only guess at the source of the tension, there existed an apparent hole in Pearl’s regular social circle.

To most, Ianthe Zannouli had packed her bags and returned to her homeland without warning or good-byes. Despite the warfare that still ravaged the isles, it was the only explanation one could muster to explain her disappearance. She was nowhere to be seen in her regular haunts: no hint of her in the gambling halls (though most were grateful, for their wallets’ sake), nor any whiff of her at a tavern or a house party. Those who went to the inn found only a clean-swept room waiting for its next inhabitant. The only hint that remained of her was the lingering stench of smoke, and dubious stains upon the carpeting.

The groom was almost as blushing as the bride as he waited at the altar, in austere colors and a high, white cravat. Above his head was the window, through which beams of light streamed. As the bride started down the aisle, a slick breeze buffeted the long veil draped all around her.

She was nearly glowing on her father’s arm. Even her elderly father looked handsome that day— he had eschewed his frumpy garb for a richly cut navy waistcoat.

During the vows, the groom choked up. So overcome with emotion, he stumbled through the well-worn words.

“…to have and t-to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, in s-sickness— I mean! For richer or poorer—”

Pearl took his hand, and he grew quiet. She stroked the back of his hand, and her voice was loud and clear. “To love,” said she, “and to cherish.”

Aubrey managed to finish his speech. Pearl spoke hers well.

“I, Pearl Spice, take thee, Aubrey Darvell, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey,” said she, “till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

Aubrey then placed the ring upon her finger, and more vows exchanged. The priest joined their right hands and said, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

Clap! 

“Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.”

The congregation stirred to sudden wakefulness as a voice, dripping with brimstone, interrupted such vows.

In the back pew, garbed in black, stood Georgia Cary. She appeared wasted in her fresh widowhood, a thin, nervy thing with her hair, yet to grow back, scandalously short. She held a Bible in her hand, that she had just closed with a resounding noise like thunder. “I have something I would like to say.”

The priest’s mouth bobbed open like a beached fish. “You cannot—”

“I am sure you are all aware of my connection to the bride.”

Georgia had not recovered so well from the vampire’s attack. Between the light falling upon her, and the strange mourning garb, her latent illness was apparent. There were bags beneath her eyes, her skin waxy in complexion, and her straw hair lacking color.

Said she, “We were once dearest friends. I still hold her in high esteem, in my deepest heart. This is why I must make it clear that I act not out of malice. I have no ill will— I am only doing what is right.”

She paused, to a chorus of low murmurs. With a righteous glare, Georgia stared straight down the aisle and into the eyes of the bewildered groom.

“Mr. Darvell, do you know what sort of woman you are marrying?”

Aubrey sputtered with indignation. “Why, I—”

“Because I do,” Georgia said, “and if you knew as I, you would leave her upon that altar to rot.”

Georgia’s neighbor on the pew shot up his hand, intending to pull her down. Georgia merely shook it off, undeterred.

“Yes! I know what I say.” Her head whipped around to face them all. “She is a sinner of the lowest kind. I was witness to it all! This is all that I can do, as penance for remaining silent so long. Mr. Darvell—” She addressed Aubrey once more. “Are you aware that, over the period of your engagement, your bride was unfaithful?”

Aubrey stilled.

“I see not.” Georgia nodded. “Yes, she had many a wicked tryst. She reveled in them, and told me as much— I will not repeat such details here. And you had no such suspicions!”

She looked down, a hand upon her heart. “My friend, who I once loved so dearly, had gone away from me. I was frightened by this new creature I found. All I know is that this… this sinner is not my Pearl!”

The bride did not stir.

Georgia went on. “I was selfish, I will confess. I kept her secrets in the hope that her affection towards me might remain. I was a fool. There is nothing left to save. I cannot bear to see someone else so deceived. Mr. Darvell, I beg you to reconsider. I ask: for what reason would she see to redeem herself? What is there to return her to a state of grace? And why should you be defiled by such a union?”

“You are the wicked woman, not her!” cried Aubrey, red in the face with anger. He pointed a finger down the aisle. “It was the result of a great illness, from which she hardly survived! I will have you—”

A white hand fell upon his arm. “Darling.”

Aubrey turned to find Pearl holding him back from the brink; in the face of such a nasty betrayal, she was calm and noble.

“I am the accused,” she said, in a soft, lovely voice. “I will defend myself.”

Aubrey melted beneath her touch; he wilted. Pearl drew forward, hefting up her skirt so that she may descend the altar steps. Her veil was down, spilling across her shoulders and arms, billowing with her every movement. She stood on the same level as all the others and said, “Mrs. Cary is correct.”

What a shock! The crowd went silent in horror. Georgia did not look triumphant; at Pearl’s words, she clutched her book against her chest, and her tired eyes fell downwards.

“Yes, I was a sinner,” said Pearl. “I had been struck by a fit of madness, and in my desperation, I sought the will of Satan. I am not proud to say so, but say so I will. I behaved terribly, I spread evil and lies.”

She crossed herself.

Said she, “In my great pain, I was ensnared by temptation. It was bliss. I thought it would never end.”

She raised her arms. “For what worth is sin if it does not nourish us with sweet lies? What power does the Devil hold if he cannot give us our earthly desires? Oh, rapturous, addictive pleasure! I had abstained all my life— I had been the very picture of a servant of God. How unprepared was I, to be consumed! I thought I had no escape.”

She looked down, her face further hidden by the rim of her bonnet. “No honest man can claim that they were never swayed… Mrs. Cary does not think so, but she has done me a great service. She has given me a chance to cleanse my soul.”

Pearl raised a hand to her collarbone. “Yes, I was a sinner. And then I was saved by the grace of God, and the love of my husband— for I may call him so, having come this far— from that dark, dreary pit! I stand here having walked through the fire, and still I live. I understand now, more than ever, what it means to be temperate. I am ignorant no longer.

“If you wish to condemn me, then so be it! I will gladly take the lash. For I am reborn, and it is only through your judgment that I may live again.”

Her arms fell limply at her sides. For a moment, she looked veritably frightening– like a hanged man creaking on his rope.

Such bold words from such a mild woman! It was a shock to all. The crowd had been quick to determine Mrs. Cary a liar, and the shock of the bride’s confirmation put the congregation into a mighty blockade. Georgia pressed her folded hands to her lips. Ephraim stepped towards his daughter. And Aubrey— dear, dumb Aubrey— leapt down the altar steps and grabbed his bride by the shoulder.

“And God bless us, that you are still here with me!” He wrenched her to face him, ripped back the veil, and kissed her deeply. No one could dare ruin such a romantic moment, such a passionate, godly love. The lash did not come. 

Ephraim Spice’s body ached, and especially his knees. He felt like a scarecrow who’d been left out in the sun too long. He had outlived his usefulness. At last, his dear daughter, his only child, was the property of another man. He could hold her no longer, and soon her sweet, feminine influence on the house would dry up.

But not quite so soon— the happy couple remained in the house throughout the night, entertaining guests and swelling with joy. By the time darkness fell upon Ephraim’s house, he was nearly dead on his feet. He stood by the wall in the dining room. The maid came over with a broom in hand and a harried expression across her brow. She whispered an urgent message in his ear.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes… do what you must.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And make sure no one’s opened any of the windows!”

Moria nodded firmly and stepped away. Through the gathering, Pearl emerged with a fresh red apple in hand.

“What was that about, Father?”

“Nothing to worry your little head about,” he said. “Only some sort of infestation in the attic.”

Pearl laid a hand on his arm. “You look dreadfully tired, Father.”

“Ah, well, of course I am.” He smiled weakly. “It’s taking all my strength not to fall to my knees and beg you to stay.”

“Oh, Father…” Pearl tilted her head sadly. She embraced him, cheek to papery cheek. He grasped her tightly.

Said she, “You know I’ll always love you, Father.”

“Yes.” Ephraim nodded. “But now, you are under the dominion of another. I’m sure you’ll forget about your old father in no time.”

“Do not say such things!” Pearl tapped his head with her apple. “You ought to sit down.”

“I do not—”

“No excuses!” She kissed his cheek. “Now, come along.”

Pearl led her Father over to the parlor. He felt her body tense against him, but the source of the distress was not made known. Ephraim considered it but a moment of fancy— he’d had to keep an eye on her at all times, after the attack, for she so feared the vampire rising from its ashes and finding her again.

Pearl looked about her. “Oh, but I will miss you so much! I will miss this house. I will miss you.”

“Ah, dear…” Ephraim sank into his armchair.

Pearl stood at his back, hand on his shoulder, and continued to reminisce. “Do you remember when I brought home that little kitten?”

“Ah, how could I forget! You begged me to allow you to keep it, oh so long!”

“I never asked anything of you.”

“No, no,” Ephraim said. “You were a good child.”

“I took very good care of it.”

“Yes, well— these things do happen. It is nothing to worry about.”

“It seemed so healthy, that is all.”

“Many times,” Ephraim said, “things that seem healthy on the outset are on the brink of death. It is not something you can determine by sight alone.”

“How dearly I wish I could have held it one last time… even its body…”

“You do not want that,” said Ephraim. “It was a nasty business. You would not have understood, you were so young.”

“Would I understand now?”

“Unfortunately so.” Ephraim patted her hand. “That is the tragedy of age— but do not dwell on such sad things. You are a married woman, now!”

“Yes, Father.” Pearl leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. “I will be a minute.”

Ephraim Spice closed his eyes, and nodded in affirmation. So tired he was, he slipped quickly towards sleep.

Aubrey was in the midst of conversing with several friends; they were congratulating him on his happiness (not without several crude comments in regards to the marriage bed, which Aubrey pretended not to hear) and was in the midst of a rollicking good joke when a hand fell on his back. 

He jumped, but it turned out to only be Pearl, bringing him a glass of sherry. His companions slipped away as he gratefully took the offering.

“Ah, finally! An angel has come for me.” 

Pearl laid a hand on his arm. “Not yet.”

Aubrey took a drink of the sherry. He was giddy, and especially now, to finally be in the solo company of Pearl– of his wife.

At Pearl’s behest, they danced a while; how good it felt, to lay his hands on her waist, to feel her body against his! What had he done to earn such a woman? He swore to keep his promise, even if she did not remember. He was going to worship at her feet; she was the vision of pristine, feminine perfection (despite what certain widows may claim) and he was lucky to have her.

“I am very weary,” she sighed, “but I do not want to be alone.”

“I will do whatever you want, darling!”

She took his hand and led him up the staircase.  Her other hand tightly gripped the skirt of her wedding gown; it hiked up, flashing her red stockings. Before Aubrey knew it, he was in her bedroom.

Well, former bedroom. It had yet to be wholly cleared, but was certainly not prepared for sleeping. Extra flowers from the morning preparations still lined the room, wilting in the moonlight. The air smelled strongly of potpourri. And something else was afoot…

Pearl stood above her nightstand; with light, delicate fingers, she lit a candle. Her movements were slow and considered. Soft against the roof, hardly a patter, it began to rain.

Aubrey’s head throbbed. He sank into her chair, squashing flowers, and watched his wife’s back as she shed her veil like a second skin. His eyes fixed upon the hair at the nape of her neck, at the way her shoulder blades flexed underneath her lacy dress. She lifted a hand and, tugging one finger at a time, began to remove her gloves.

He’d hardly considered it before, but…

“You’re beautiful.”

Pearl did not turn around. She ran a naked hand along the clean sheets. “Lay with me?”

Aubrey felt a brief thrill of scandal– before, of course, he remembered that they were now married. This was his right.

Still in their wedding clothes, they lay together in Pearl’s childhood bed. She curled into his side, a hand laid on his chest. The room was silent— but that only served to heighten his excitement.

Aubrey’s skin was flushed, and there was a faint buzzing in his ears. Pearl pressed her mouth against the bottom of his jaw and hummed in contentment. Her voice rattled his bones.

“At last…” he murmured.

“Mm. Finally.” She slipped her fingers into his knotted cravat, and began to spread it apart.

Aubrey smiled. “I think we ought to wait until I bring you home, at least.”

Pearl let out a long breath in his ear. “But I want you now.”

“And if someone finds us?”

She giggled.

Aubrey tried to protest further, but… well, he felt it, too. And as his wife’s hand traveled the length of his abdomen to rest between his legs, there was no denying it, either.

He sighed, and Pearl responded by propping herself up on her arm. She stared down at him with wistful eyes.

He had thought she would be shyer. He’d thought that he was going to have to take charge. But Aubrey only watched as she reached behind her head and pulled her hair loose; it came out in a tumble of curls. A long strand of it tickled his nose.

“Darling…” he said, “are you sure?”

Pearl kissed him. She pressed her thumbs into his cheeks. It forced his mouth open; her tongue tangled with his, and the noxious fumes of the room filled the roof of his mouth.

“D-darling–” he gasped between her wet lips. “H-how much– ah– how much of this did you learn from her?”

She stopped.

When Aubrey opened his eyes, she was laying on top of him, her hands still on his face, but her own face was drawn back, expression searching. Her curls ran down her forehead, making her look all the more strange and disheveled.

“You know I don’t like to speak of it.”

“I am not blaming you!” Aubrey said. “I am not upset– no, no! I, myself, saw what she was capable of. It is only… Well, you confessed yourself. Georgia told us all.”

Pearl nodded, her mouth a hard line.

“Then… what exactly did you do?”

Her eyes slipped down. When she spoke, it was a hushed, defeated sound. “Does it matter?”

“Did you…” Aubrey swallowed. “Tie each other up?”

“What?”

“Or– maybe she tied you? Any of that sort of thing?”

She shifted; one knee fell to the other side of him, pressing in tight. His growing erection throbbed against her lacy skirt. She leaned forward so their noses were nearly touching.

“Are you asking…” she whispered, “to string me up?”

Aubrey shook his head. “No!”

Pearl pressed her fingers into his chest, feeling his beating heart.

“I am asking for you to tie me up.”

Bang, bang!

Above them came a rattle of sudden noise– muffled rattling against the floorboards above. They both started.

Aubrey sat up, clutching Pearl tightly. “What was that?”

Pearl only laughed. “Father told me,” she said. “There’s a rat’s nest in the attic!”

Aubrey relaxed. He kept his hands on her arms as he very shyly explained to her what he wanted… to be blind, to be senseless, to be at her mercy.

They improvised. She undressed him slowly, teasingly in such a way that made Aubrey nearly sick with longing. She nipped at his hip bones and pressed her nails into his jugular. His clothes were left carelessly on the floor. 

Pearl rifled through her drawers to find several cuttings of long, thick ribbons. Aubrey found himself lost in her wake– she moved confidently, a different woman now, so so strange. But there she was: whispering orders into his ear, tugging at his wrist and binding it to the bedpost with a pink ribbon. She spread his legs, stretching him like a piece of tanned leather, to each corner of her four poster. 

“Relax, darling.” She ran her nails down his bare stomach; he recoiled involuntarily, his diaphragm contracting under her feather-light touch.

She rolled off one of her stockings and crumpled it into a ball. “Open up.”

She grabbed his jaw and split open his mouth. She stuffed the ball in-between his teeth, and a moment later was tightening his forgotten cravat across his eyes. All the world was black.

“That’s a good boy.”

Aubrey whined through his gag, and squirmed. Despite his not-inconsiderable strength, Pearl must’ve learned a thing or two about sailor’s knots. There was no give. Even the bed rocked, but his pretty pink bindings did not loosen.

But with every thrash, his arousal only grew. He could see nothing, but there was a cold shift in the air as Pearl circled him like a shark. It was as if she were there with him in his mind; all his thoughts were tugged towards her, towards a desperation, towards imagining what she may do to him.

“Stop struggling, darling.”

“H-hhh…” Aubrey struggled to hum affirmation. His nod was more like an involuntary spasm. He fought his natural impulses and brought his body to rest, to sink into the covers. He moaned in anticipation. Every thought of what she might do to him made his cock jump; he expected that she may mock him for it, which made it all the worse.

As he rolled his head back, pressing his tongue against the soggy stocking in his mouth, he involuntarily shivered in a sudden wind.

“Huh? P–”

Stupidly, he tried to look around. He did not hear the creaking of the floorboards, for she tread so lightly across the room, but he did notice the creak of the door opening.

“P–P–P–”

“I’ve made my decision.” His wife’s voice cut through the room. “Be a good boy and wait here.”

When Aubrey continued to struggle, and silence fell over the room, he assumed that she had left him. 

Then:

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” said she. “But I learned to live with it. So will you.”

The shutter rattled against the wall, and a shower of rain fell across his naked body. He tried to scream to no avail. Pearl left him for good.

She wasn’t dead. She was never dead. Of course she was never dead— this was not the sort of thing that could be stuffed back into its box. These were not the sort of emotions that could be ignored once awakened, that could be killed in any way that would stick. So long as Pearl lived, there was no way for her to die. She’d crawled her way inside. She’d slipped into the hollow of her ribcage. She filled the space in her lungs. She was the white, fleshly ligaments holding her muscles together. Of course she wasn’t dead— if she had, Pearl would have died, not turned back. Never turned back.

That is not to say she hadn’t managed to fool herself for a time. She had seen the man prostrate himself to her, wearing the vampire’s blood, and old affections had returned with the dark hold on her mind vanquished. Her heart had bled for this man who had done so much to save her. She found it within herself to let go for but a moment.

But it could never last. Ianthe was not a person, never a person, but a rot, and it had been Pearl’s duty to spread it— through the bones of the house, through her loved ones, through the very spiritual center of herself. Still the malevolence lingered— and Pearl missed its full-throated feeling.

Many nights had she lain in her bed, always accompanied by her father on guard in the armchair, but truly alone, then and forever. Long did she remain awake racked with anguish that did not show beyond the prison of her mind. In repose and in waking, she dragged the thought with her.

Pearl could see plainly, now, the impasse she had been born into. She could surrender herself to Aubrey, a proper and right sacrifice, and oblige him for the rest of her days. She could be the conscientious and polite wife, and she would remain stable, mild, and well cared-for— and with it, no choice but to bear whatever pain he, however inadvertently, would put upon her. 

Or… she could surrender to the sway of darkness and be happy.

She found herself on the street in an autumn drizzle, bearing Aubrey’s diamond brooch and a deep maroon gown, lost in the quandary. Her head drooped, but her feet carried her firmly along her way. Someone, walking the other direction, brushed past her. The touch was so light, Pearl might have only touched a ghost. She turned, and there, a silent back receding into the foggy haze, was Georgia Cary.

Pearl froze in the center of the walk as the swell skirted around her. So great was the emotion, she expected herself to die right then, struck down by the hand of God.

It was only what she deserved: to be abandoned. This knowledge did nothing to assuage the gap in the fabric of her heart. It did not stop her from wanting, wanting so badly she fathomed that she would have done anything, on that street, anywhere at all, to only bid Georgia turn around.

Pearl went to the Common. Beneath a tree stood a figure, massive like the trunk behind her, gently tossing seeds to the sparrows. Though her was covered, Pearl knew at once. She approached, and put her back to the tree underneath which Iphis stood. 

She spoke, as such, “I am surprised to see you.”

The woman was mocking her: letting the birds take her offerings to the very last before even uttering a word.

“I am surprised you are let out of doors,” said Iphis.

“Of course,” said Pearl. “I have been so well-behaved.”

Pearl could not bear to look at her. Old, false feelings rose up to her throat. “And how are you?”

“Well,” said Iphis. “And you?”

“Well,” Pearl lied.

So very well-behaved. So beloved, so coddled by the father that had left her so long alone. For the moment, that was. Even now, he planned for another expedition once Pearl was married. All that he had sworn to change had remained. It was all the same. Only now, Pearl knew that there was another way.

She said, “You are still a woman.”

“I am.”

“Does that mean…?”

“She is still with me.”

“And it is…” Pearl touched her bosom. “It is good?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Pearl. “Because… oh, sister, is it not yet hopeless?”

Oh, what would she have to do? She would beg, she would fall to her knees, she would debase herself again if only she could be let in. Pearl could not bear it any longer; she did not want to be a wife, she did not want to be a woman. Only now did the memories of what her enslaved self had done disgust her; she knew the power she held. Pearl knew if she was only let back inside, all lingering regrets would vanish into the wind. She would do anything. She would roll over. Pearl turned, bent around the tree, striving to meet the woman’s face.

Iphis did not reply, only reached a hand into her pocket.

Said Pearl, “May I be with her, too?”

Iphis gave Pearl a small, brown paper package, and instructed her to leave it, undetected, somewhere in her home. Pearl had done so: curiosity compelled her to remove the paper. In her hands, she held a tarnished and sooty ruby ring. Pearl hid it beneath a floorboard in the attic.

And now, the black weed had sprouted.

There was no stopping her— undead twice, swollen with anger and hatred and the lecherous hunger of the denied. She was not dead. But Pearl was, or would soon be.

Through the dark halls she stumbled like a somnambulist. Her feet were bare underneath the gown, pressing against the rough-shod floorboards. She was filled with a gaseous, unnatural anticipation as she climbed the stairs to the attic on her hands and knees. Her little hand unhooked the latch.

The door fell open with a clatter. For a moment, it was only a yawning, empty darkness. Her mind conjured luminous, velvety patterns on the back of her eyes. A clot, the size of her fist, bled through and fell upon the top stair.

It was a bat, weak and unable to fly. The very darkness oozed in its wake; from the bottom of its flattened body came a black, sticky substance– like pitch, or a charcoal molasses. It drooled from the attic’s door, down the stairs. It sullied her white gown from the knees down.

Pearl opened her mouth, all too aware of the tongue that brushed her teeth, of her throbbing heart that made her throat quiver.

“You…”

The clot grew from the inside, and the surface began to bubble as if a fire had been lit under it. Of course, there was no fire– there was no light at all, only the two of them in the tight, dark hall, breathing in time.

“I have a deal to make.”

The bubble spit. A string of tar cascaded down the step, and clung inches from her knee. Small streams oozed from it, until a hand became apparent within the slime. It made a sickening, sucking sound. From the main well-spring came a head and neck, downturned and dripping miserably. Through the tar rose a baleful red eye.

Pearl held in a breath. She held out both hands in loose fists, her wrists upturned.

“I will give myself to you,” said she. “I will surrender my mind and serve as your slave. And in return, you will make me happy.”

Ianthe growled.

“I mean it,” said Pearl. “You need me. You cannot deny it. You may use me however you please– but only so long as you please me in return.”

A harsh, unfettered strength gripped and dragged her forward. Hot tar splattered her shivering arms as the vampire claimed her once again. One oozing arm wrapped around her side while another held her wrist tightly in place. A claw pierced her vein like a hot knife. Pearl cried out, throwing her head back by foolish impulse, and only succeeding in sullying her hair, too. The vampire lowered her pathetic head to drink.

As Ianthe refilled her well, the remains of the tar traveled down the staircase; it puddled in the gaps in the wood, rose to coat the walls and fell to flood the lower floors. From the attic door came a legion of rats and insects, skittering in a dazzling wave around the two of them.

Ianthe shuddered against Pearl’s wrist. She opened her mouth to moan, precious blood dribbling down her chin. She drank like a desperate animal, slavering and tearing a gash through the skin. Pearl no longer felt it, even though Ianthe slobbered like a stray dog, tearing meat from a discarded bone.

Her vision was growing foggy. Still, she raised her chin. Ianthe, splayed out on the steps above her, naked, bleeding darkness, bobbed her head in desperate agreement. Pearl allowed her eyes to raise themselves to the blank ceiling. It came upon her in a wave, almost too subtle to track. Pain sizzled away in the rush of dull satisfaction. Her eyes fell half-closed and fluttered.

A claw ran itself up her bared throat, brushing through the lacy surface. The tar, cooled against her skin, was pulled painfully when the hair on her arms raised. Another hand brushed the gates of her mind, which fell upon at once. Hidden desires came rushing in. She saw it all. She understood.

“Good.”

The slave awoke at the bottom of the staircase. She rested in a puddle of Ianthe’s offal, cooling but still sticky. It tugged painfully at her rat’s nest of hair as she raised herself up. She touched her face and smeared it all across her white cheek.

In her other hand she clutched a pair of scissors so tightly that blood from her palm was running a rivulet down the blade. Her wrist was still gaping open. Her white gown was ruined. 

As she rose to her feet and clambered back up to the attic, the hallway below rippled with slathering, desperate vermin.

Kill, Master commanded.

The slave burst inside, scissors at the ready. What she found, though, was an empty room. The floors were covered with rat dung, and the long curtains, riddled with moth holes, were left hanging. But the shelves were cleared, and the containers that remained had been dumped of their contents. The bed was stripped. The drawers were left open and empty. The hearth was barren.

It seemed that Moira had been one step ahead.

Never mind that, Master said.

And the slave did not mind.

It was on her own feet that she stumbled down the great curling staircase. She clutched the bannister like her lifeline, pressing the scissors against the side of her leg. Her head bobbed up and down. Her skirt scraped against the railing, leaving behind a smeared black stripe. She slipped downstream towards the inevitable spiral.

The old man was still up, though the party was long over. In the yawning empty parlor he sat, staring into the crackling fire. Outside, the rain hammered against the shuttered windows in great sheets that sloughed like knives through the earth. Ancient trees were uprooted. Caskets were spit from their holes. All that was long-buried came to the surface.

Ephraim Spice sat awake but unmoving, opposite his daughter. He did not turn around.

The slave rounded the chair, blocking the fire and warmth. The old man’s eye trailed the ragged hem of her dress, then rose and rose until he was staring into her feral face. 

There were no words, only the sudden sinking sensation– of their home plunged into darkness, consumed from within. Of his daughter’s face gangrene and dirty, her eyes wild and filled with hatred. He knew. He had to have known. 

And yet, when his daughter raised her wild woman’s arms in a cruel mockery of a kind embrace, he leaned forward so that might more easily pitch the head of the scissors between his ribs. When he choked on the torrent of blood, he made no attempt to cry for help. He held his head steady against his daughter’s body and did not fight.

The slave, rocking him gently in her arms, in her own way, understood.