Pearl sat in her room, all alone. At dusk, as the sun descended, she sat in her dressing gown, hair cascading down her back. She sat all alone, doing nothing of use, but could not, for the life of her, bring herself to reach for the brush that sat waiting for her upon the dresser.

Only could she stare at the wall ahead of her. Night was approaching, and she was to embark on her routine, the same as any other. Her throat was dry, and Ianthe’s ludicrous advice stuck in her ear like the ringing of a bell. But she could not betray her father so. He knew what he said, he knew more than anyone else in the world. Pearl would only be putting herself in undue danger.

Her throat was dry, and in the stillness, it felt as if something was crawling across her skin. It was the sensation of vermin, of something dirty and shameful scratching at the soles of her feet, dragging its pernicious body up her naked leg, tracing the lengths of her body.

Father knew what he said. There were evil things in the night, and letting her latch fall open would be like lighting a lantern in a nest of moths. They would descend upon her at once, and destroy everything she had ever loved in the process. It was not worth it only to feel the cool night air upon her face. There were evil things that wanted her blood.

Knock!

A sound in the hall drew Pearl to her feet without thought. Her mouth swelled with sick fear. She clutched at her dressing gown, drawing it close to her body. She cleared her throat.

“Is that you, dar… Mr. Darvell?”

Silence.

It must’ve been something else, something that had nothing to do with her. Pearl remained alone in her powder blue bedroom, her bed curtains still and gauzy like spider’s webs. Aubrey was unlikely to even be in the house. It was only her, Father, and the servants.

Pearl’s hand ached. She looked down, and realized that, in her fervor, she had grabbed her sewing scissors from her dresser. She held them in a tight grip, pressing indents into her palm. Only then did she loosen herself, and gently place them back into proper order. She nudged them this way and that until they rested like a swaddled infant next to her untouched brush.

Then, Pearl went to the window.

The latch was cold beneath her uneasy fingers. As Pearl lifted it, the sensation was as if she were scraping the old thing against the inside of her skull.

Outside, the night was still and smoky. She stared out of the house she had always known, and it was as if she had just finished a long journey to a foreign, roughshod country and this was what greeted her at the port. The wind tickled her eyelashes and caused a shiver to drip down her spine. The old maple in the yard swayed. And beyond were the buildings, peaked roofs rising and falling into swift, eternal night. Pearl chafed at the darkness as if it were a physical object that was due to sweep in at once— like a hawk with its claws out, slavering to carry her away.

Nothing of the sort occurred. The night ended up the same as it had always been: hair, prayers, flowers, bed— only, Pearl could breathe. She could breathe, and feel the freshness flow through nose to body, her tight limbs loosening, her wild thoughts resting.

It was the best sleep— soundless, senseless— she’d had in years.

Life carried on its way. To Father, it was as if nothing had ever disturbed their peace at all. Aubrey vacillated between wheezing, pathetic attempts at forgiveness or cursing her name. His demeanor, in general, grew increasingly erratic. He would go from the most serene state to that of a raving lunatic, and return to form just as swiftly. Once, Pearl was the lone witness to such a fit.

They were sitting in the parlor as Pearl worked on her sampler. Aubrey had taken up Father’s favorite armchair, and was occupied with staring mindlessly into the oil lamp when at once his whole body seized up; his fingers twitched and his pupils became pinpricks. Then, he was out of the chair and drawing his flintlock, looking wildly about the room.

“We must leave at once,” said he. “Pearl, if you hold our love dear… you must trust me.”

“Mr. Darvell, put that gun away!” Pearl remained firmly in place.

“Something has been done to me!” he cried. “Don’t you see? I have been put in bondage by a— by a most clever, handsome…” He trailed off, bewildered by his own words. “By… by…”

Pearl said nothing whatsoever. Aubrey was pacing about, tearing at his hair, his mouth opening and shutting with no words forthcoming. He fell to his knees and crawled to his fiancée.

“Forgive me, forgive me…” he babbled. “I am nothing… a faithful lamb… please do not…”

By the time she’d called her father into the room, Aubrey had no memory of the incident.

For three nights, Pearl slept with her window open, the cool air a salve on her face. She dumped the garlic flowers in the yard, for now the smell made her ill. Only the cross she kept around her neck at all times. She slept soundly. She was happy.

In such a state, she paid a social visit to Georgia Cary.

The Cary Estate was quaint. It seemed an ill-fitting place to put the vivacious Georgia, who used to dream of her very own English manor, with servants in livery and seven horses. But Mr. Cary was wealthy on account of his thrift: a penny pincher with a modest house, and no servants (the most unnecessary expense of all, when one has a wife on hand).

But Georgia, dear Georgia, could make any room shine, no matter the strong musk of trout in its airs. On this visit, Georgia appeared to Pearl like an angel painted on white clouds in a chiffon dress with bell sleeves, pink roses in her hair.

“I can only dress how I’d like on special occasions,” said she. “I believe seeing my dearest friend more than counts.”

At once, Pearl rushed forth to embrace her friend, propriety or not. Georgia laughed, and allowed the touch to linger but a moment.

It seemed, however, that Georgia was already well-acquainted with the specter that dogged Pearl’s footsteps; in the drawing room, heavy orange drapes were drawn, coloring the room like a burnt pumpkin. Pearl trailed behind Georgia, peeling off her gloves, which now stuck to her palms.

There was no getting around it. Georgia took Pearl’s story in a solemn state, leaned into herself, arms cradling her knees. There came no surprise, no cries of shock, only a resigned acceptance. Pearl felt ill. Had Georgia known Aubrey’s true nature before her?

“I once thought…” Georgia said, “that I should like to live without men. I still fancy, had I a choice, that I would seize upon it.”

“Yes…” Without men at all? Without her father? Would Pearl stand it, to do away with Aubrey, to lose so many others in the process?

“I learned soon enough that there was no choice. There is no world without them. We need our food and our lodgings and our gowns, even if they are often lacking.” Georgia nodded. “I will do anything to help you bear it.”

And bear it Pearl must. She had to live on.

The darkness did not last for long, and Georgia soon brought their meeting back to its good humor. She fed Pearl a cold luncheon and regaled her with the contents of her husband’s newspaper as if it were the latest gossip.

“And the town of Tripolitsa, under siege!” cried out Georgia in mock horror. She then nodded to Pearl. “Though, I’m sure your friend has told you all the details.”

Pearl frowned. “Ianthe doesn’t talk politics with me.”

“Well then, what does she go on about?”

“Only…” Pearl couldn’t quite place anything in particular, now that she thought about it.

“Do you know what she speaks of with me?” Georgia’s tone brooked a certain displeasure. Pearl did not fancy the thought of her friends quarreling, but she asked after it, anyways, seeing how eager Georgia was to share her story.

Georgia told a tale of encountering Ianthe at a house party— “The Lowells, you know?”— and of the Greek taking a particular shine to Georgia, and returning to conversation with her several times throughout the night. She asked after Pearl, and especially focusing on their acquaintance, and she inquired even more into intimate particulars of Georgia’s life: how she took her coffee, the papers she read, how devoutly she followed her creed.

“It was quite infuriating,” said Georgia. “I felt the whole while as if this were an elaborate means of mockery, that she was trying to shame me for something.”

Pearl assured her that certainly Ianthe meant no such offense, that she was only ill-mannered on account of her heritage, and coarse by nature, this having nothing to do with Georgia.

“She asked me—” Georgia set her teacup down quite harshly. “If I had any particularly masculine habits.”

“Oh…? Well, perhaps she—?”

“I told her quite firmly that I was nothing of the sort.” Georgia sniffed derisively. “And it was only then that she left me alone.”

The conversation moved along. Pearl listened to Georgia with rapt attention, her chin resting on her knuckles, yet she could not recall a single detail of the parlor. Georgia caught her eye like the glimmer of water in a desert. She was dazzling. 

For the first time, in all the time they’d known each other, she remarked upon Georgia’s gorgeous swan neck, her golden ringlets that bounced with every laugh. Pearl listened to her friend, yes, but soon all words of affirmation dried up at the bottom of the well. Something was stirring, an ache that flowered in her chest.

“Pearl?”

“Hm?” She looked up.

Georgia sighed. “I was waiting for you to speak.”

“I’m sorry!” Pearl was blushing furiously, and, even then, struggled to speak. “I’m sorry. Please, continue.”

“I would like to hear you speak, too.” Georgia folded her hands in her lap. For a moment, she looked unspeakably sad, and Pearl could not bear it.

“Oh, um…” Pearl gnawed on her bottom lip. “Well, I suppose I would like to know more about this siege you spoke of.”

Georgia stood. Pearl noticed the way the thin fabric of her petticoat clung between her legs. Why had she noticed this? Nothing had changed about Georgia’s petticoats, nor her legs.

“He left the paper in the bedroom.”

There, it became almost unbearable. Standing in the doorway, her arms folded at the elbows, Pearl watched Georgia flit about, searching for where her husband had hidden his newspaper. Standing there beside the bed with its rustled covers, forced to consider the notion that Georgia slept there with her husband. That Georgia slept there with the husband she hated.

The thought of Georgia catering to that man’s whims, night-by-night, was sickening. The thought of her dear friend letting that man enter her even though he was old, and ugly, and smelled of fish; even though he had clipped her wings; even though she would rather live in a world without men than with him.

What would it be like, thought Pearl, if it were only us?

She stepped forward.

“I am sorry, my dear.” Georgia threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know where the old fool put the thing.”

Pearl was burning, as if she had been struck with fever. There was a pulsating, horrible thing that had slid between her legs without her noticing, and Georgia was awakening it, causing it to rise to rapacious life.

Georgia faced her. Slowly, her mouth drew closed. Her jaw tightened. She straightened up to her full height, and Pearl continued her stumbling approach.

Once close enough, Georgia came upon Pearl and joined her the rest of the way; their faces aligned, bodies barely brushing, arms intertwined as if they were only taking a stroll.

“I-is something the matter?” Her once-confident friend blushed brightly, face the color of the roses in her hair.

“I understand…” said Pearl, her heart pounding. “I understand you, in completeness.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I would like to live without men,” Pearl said, “because I should like to live with you.”

It was then that all sense left her, and she swooped inwards to kiss Georgia on the mouth.

The sensation was that of her cold heart being warmed inside a wood stove; all that troubled her having been buried underground and now, only now, blooming into a beautiful garden. Pearl pulled away, only for Georgia to grasp her by the ears and deepen the kiss, until it seemed to Pearl as if she would die for want of breath!

When Georgia at last drew back, her eyelashes fluttered, and her face was as bright as a butterfly’s wings. “Finally.”

The whole affair moved swiftly from that day forth. Often they met at Georgia’s, for her husband was often away, and there were no maids to spy on them. The trouble was that, as Georgia said, her husband was a jealous sort.

On their first night of marriage, Mr. Cary had raged at Georgia like a mad king: if he were to find her, in any way, acting unfaithfully to him, he would strip her hide and kick her out onto the street.

The farthest they would act, in the Spice household, would be to exchange chaste kisses. Pearl could not bear even that for long; it was an awful thing, to tangle up Georgia in the weight of her grief.

But at the Cary household, the home Georgia kept all alone, Pearl saw sides of her friend that had been left in darkness all these years. She saw Georgia with her hair pulled sensibly back, Georgia in cotton, Georgia in a worn apron, on hands and knees, her newly-strong forearms wiping down the kitchen floor. Pearl stood by the counter, her friend underneath her, and an emotion she could not identify stirred in her bosom.

How strange, the secrets a person can hold! How strange it was to learn that Georgia had held Pearl in such regard for so long: that she had yearned for Pearl as a lover might, that all their intimate moments had been cherished under the sorrowful knowledge that they could never be. All those boys of days past had only been pawns for her, to try and obscure the true nature of her heart. Pearl would never have known. And yet, here she was. Here they were.

Pearl would kiss the nicks and little burns on Georgia’s knuckles. They would rest in the same bed, they would caress each other in only their muslin shifts. They would speak of what making love might mean to them, though both were too terrified to attempt such a thing.

“We must do it with hands and mouths,” said Georgia, with a smile in her voice, “since we have no pricks.”

“D-darling!” Pearl covered her face. “Don’t speak so vulgarly. We cannot—”

“Cannot what?” Georgia’s hand brushed Pearl’s bare thigh.

“We cannot… it is sinful, to do such a thing…”

Oh, how sorrowful Georgia turned in an instant. “Then, shall we wait til we are wed?”

It was odd. Georgia had felt this way forever. But for Pearl, it had come from nothingness. It was as if the affection she’d felt for Aubrey had been rerouted and magnified a hundredfold in Georgia. 

For indeed, the flame in her heart that had burned for fiancé was well and truly extinguished. There was nothing that came from imagining his nude body, the only emotion felt when he was nearby being acute disgust. Once, upon spending too long contemplating the fact that, after marriage, she would have to let him bed her, she fled into the garden to gag.

There came a night when she could not sleep, for the lustful fire was upon her. Pearl let the window latch fall open as she lay atop her covers with her legs spread and pussy aching.

Outside the window, the stars were pinpricks that pulsed with her every shaking breath. A black shape flitted across, stirring the air sharply. It blew back the curls that had fallen down her face, the linen hem of her shift. Pearl groaned. She shut her eyes and leaned her head back.

Georgia was standing high up on the church altar in her finest gown. She was as radiant as she had been after their first kiss, arrayed in as many ruffles and flowers as she desired. Pearl came down the aisle on her father’s arm, his head held high with evident pride. All eyes were on Pearl. But Pearl only had sights for one.

She took Georgia’s hand, and vows were exchanged— there were words, for certain, but no longer did they matter. Pearl’s heart had grown beyond the need for such silly things. Applause erupted all around and doves burst from the ceiling as their lips met. 

Then, they were falling into bed, undressed. They lay beside one another with a thick, rapturous silence. Their eyes met. Pearl’s heart beat so strongly; Georgia in the low candlelight, Georgia with a burning look in her eye. What did Pearl want? What did Pearl want of Georgia?

That slender hand drifted along Pearl’s body. Pearl’s mouth was full with protestations, but they died upon her lips. Georgia’s touch set her afire. Georgia’s touch was the only thing that mattered.

I want…

Words were too difficult, too unruly. Pearl had some weak protestations. Georgia fucked her anyway.

Pearl was straddled on her back, moaning. Georgia moved as if a fire were under her, kneading Pearl’s breasts, biting the inside of her thighs. Her mouth glistened with Pearl’s fluids as she drew up over her, grinning.

“My, my…” said Georgia, her voice cool and mocking. “Aren’t you a little slut?”

“Darling… please…”

“If you want it, you have to beg.”

Pearl’s body ached with desire; she begged, she cried, and still her lover toyed with her.

“I want…” said Pearl.

“What do you want?”

“I want whatever you want, my darling.”

“And what do I want?”

“You want… I want…” Pearl’s cunt spasmed. “I want you to drink my blood.”

Wait— I’ve never— 

Pearl came with a gasp. The candle on her nightstand had long blown out and her hand remained resting between her nest of curls. The night air did nothing to disguise the smell.

In that darkness, she beheld a figure at the foot of her bed. It was not a person; it appeared as a swath of fabric, deepest black, rippling like the glassy surface of water. Her senses had not quite returned; her legs remained spread as it malformed. It warped, smaller, as if a hand pulled it closed. Falling to the carpet, it squirmed, oily, along her floor. Pearl let out a strangled cry as the thing fled her room, through the window– as a chittering bat.

She’d been visited by a vampire!