Triggers: Blood Sucking, Assault, Mind Control

The house slept, but she did not. Midnight had settled over Anastasia's estate like a blackened shroud, hushed and heavy, coating it in eerie silence. The sound of the wind was heard outside, but the song of cicadas and the call of nocturnal birds were rare around the property. Indeed, as far as Melissa had noticed, the only animals that seemed to have no problem approaching the manor were the bats that insisted on nesting on the rafters of the attic and the stray cats that often slept on the porch. Melissa understood to some degree the hesitance that would warn even beasts with barely any intellect away from the home. The atmosphere there was thick, dense, with something that had no taste, no colour, no scent, and yet was undeniably hanging in the air. But unlike animals, Melissa did not fear that unfelt caress. She had embraced it, and it was now like the ghost of a hug, permanently around her, not truly felt, but still, somehow, there.

She walked barefoot on the old carpet, which she kept immaculately clean. Her steps were silent, her purpose absolute. The mirrors had been uncovered, cleaned, dusted meticulously and then covered again. She had the windows locked; she double-checked every point of egress into the home twice over and made sure the sheets were perfectly flat on beds no one used. The kitchen, where very few meals were cooked, was kept in pristine condition, and every frame, every painting, and every sculpture was aligned. It would be boring work for someone else, for anyone else, but it wasn't for Melissa. She was keeping the lair of her mistress with the same devotion that an ancient priestess kept a temple to her goddess. In her mind, she was Anastasia's shrine maiden, and each gesture of cleaning, of keeping, was a gesture of pure worship. But unlike shrine maidens and old priestesses, she had the satisfaction of seeing her goddess in the flesh. Of watching her move through the temple she had so devotedly prepared for her. No dust dared gather where her mistress walked.

Cleaning was not her sole duty, however. Day and night, she kept watch over the manor and, most importantly, the door that led to its depths. The depths she was not allowed to visit unless her mistress specifically commanded her. She watched over Anastasia as she slept during the day, keeping her safe, and at night, during her absence when she went to Mointcroix to oversee her business, Melissa made sure no interloper touched her mistress' property, no hunter laid in ambush for her. If she were to die, then her death would be a warning to her mistress, who told her she would be able to sense it across the Veil. It was not the death Melissa wished, but it would still be a privilege to do so in Anastasia's service. While she lived, though, she lived with purpose. She lived a life full of meaning, and that was priceless.

She was passing the eastern hall of the second floor, the one filled with the strange portraits that were all so stern and cryptic, not smiling, not sad, just expressionless and yet so full of a resigned melancholy, when she felt something stir in the darkness. Even before she could see her or smell her, she sensed her mistress. A prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck, a gentle cold brush of a ghost hand down her spine, and the immediate stiffening of her nipples. In the darkness, she saw a pair of barely visible red orbs, her mistress' eyes, with only the faintest of glows. But besides them, an even fainter pair of red eyes appeared. Less bright, not as full of life. Unknown to Melissa, but... Familiar. Like an impression, an echo of her mistress. The copy of a copy, lesser, yes, but a part of Anastasia all the same. She knew; she knew without being told that that one was also to be obeyed. Her heart knew it before her mind could speak.

“Goodnight, mistress and...”

“This is Amara,” her mistress' voice said simply.

The name was new to Melissa but was immediately committed to memory. Everything her mistress said was without hesitation.

“Goodnight, Mistress and Amara... How may I serve you this fine night?”

The words were not natural to how she was raised in the street, but they were neither forced nor fake. They were how Anastasia preferred to be addressed, and Melissa would always do whatever her mistress desired, in the way she would find most pleasing. Not even as the result of a command, just by instinct.

Her question, however, was not answered. It did not bother her; her mistress owed her no answers. Yet, she felt something else on the back of her neck, something bothering her that she wasn't used to, and her eyes darted a couple of times to the young blonde woman standing next to her mistress. That 'Amara'. That which carried a small shard of her mistress' essence. Her eyes were not as calm and contained as Anastasia'. They were hungry, predatory. The ravenous gaze upon her neck was not well concealed if she was trying to conceal it at all. It both excited Melissa but also gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Her,” the voice of her mistress said to the other girl as they stepped out of the darkness. “Careful... She's a good thrall, so feed just enough and do not kill her,” Anastasia warned.

Her mistress was a vision. She was wearing a nightgown, black silk draped over her pale form, revealing the contours of her body and the beckoning form of her breasts. Melissa remembered feeling them against her own or her back while her mistress' fangs ripped into her neck. She moaned from that memory alone, her cheeks flushing. Was she going to be fed on by Anastasia? It was a rare treat but also her greatest pleasure. The rush, the bliss that came with those teeth sinking into her flesh, was greater than any drug she had ever taken. And she had taken so many of them, maybe all, before Anastasia saved her. A few words, a lock of her hair, a promise, an intense gaze, that hunger for rush and adrenaline that never went away was gone. That hollow space inside her she tried to fill with meth, with sex, with heroin and crack, it was suddenly full, to the brim, with Anastasia. And all she asked of Melissa was her undying, complete devotion. The best trade she had ever made.

The hungry woman slowly took a few steps towards her, and Melissa understood it. She was going to feed her mistress'... Companion? Child? Something in between?... Not Anastasia herself. She did not mind it. If it was what was required of her, Melissa would do it. Her head tilted to expose her long swan neck. Her pixie haircut meant she had no hair to brush aside to reveal the throbbing vein under her temples to the hungry gaze coming near. Memories of the bliss of feeding rushed through her, and yet, something felt... Wrong.

Melissa was unfamiliar with fear. She had felt a lot of it in her former life, the life that ended two years before when Anastasia adopted her. But since then, she had scarcely ever felt scared. She also had not felt hungry, cold, or aching for her next fix. Perhaps that made her soft because the sensation in her chest suddenly flared cold and bright; it told her to run. It screamed as the other vampire, now just a few steps away, opened her mouth, baring her fangs with her eyes full of an unhinged desire. A bloodlust that shook Melissa to her core. She would never want to disappoint Anastasia, but she was never explicitly told not to run, and while she sensed her mistress wished her to stay, she also could not ignore that mammal prey instinct within her telling her to run from the bright eyes and sharp fangs in the darkness.

The girl was like a ghost out a Victorian horror story, wearing a vintage white gown soaked in blood around the collar and sleeves, and as Melissa caught the full picture of her, she stepped back instinctively, avoiding the griping arms reaching for her shoulders and that first step broke any resistance she had to the idea of fleeing. She tried to run. She didn't go far. As she screamed and turned, she went but a few steps ahead before she heard a human voice produce an inhuman roar, and Amara leapt towards her. The girl's weight wasn't much, but then again, neither was Melissa's, and the two tumbled onto the floor. Melissa's chest pressed against the carpet as Amara gripped her short hair to yank her head aside, and despite her thrashing, she pulled on her collar, tearing her dress open from shoulder to bicep. Even though her neck was exposed already, the act seemed more like a vicious display of violence than need. She felt the hips weighing down on her as the blonde woman straddled over her, legs to each side, and her breasts pressed against Melissa's back. But they were cold and not Anastasia's. She screamed again, first in horror, then in pain. Amara's fangs found her neck and tore through her skin like it was just wet paper.

The pain came first: a white-hot jolt of it, familiar but still blinding, debilitating. Melissa struggled against the weight, pressing against her hips and her back. Her hands clawed at the carpet, trying to pull herself away, but she couldn't move an inch. The creature on her back was too strong, too ravenous. Even with every fibre of her being trying to thrash and push her out, she could not be made to budge. It didn't last, though; the pain or the thrashing, the ache coming from her neck was washed out in a tidal warmth of bliss as her blood began to flow into the mouth of her mistress' new pet. Her motions to push her away transitioned seamlessly into a writhing of pleasure as her scream of horror became a moan. Melissa was barely aware of the transition. It was like being bitten by her mistress, like feeding her; lesser perhaps, but even a lesser version of feeding Anastasia made her feel better than any drug, any orgasm she ever had before. It was not just the physical pleasure that the drain brought her either. There was a perverted sense of nourishing something dear to her. It was like breastfeeding, except, instead of drinking from her mother, her mother was drinking from her. Such a wicked thought should disgust her. It did not. It aroused her.

Her wetness felt like a summer storm: Damp, warm and violent, hungrily demanding. And that was when she felt those hips weighing down on hers, grinding desperately against her body as if they could summon a cock with which to mount her. There was no cock, but it didn't stop Melissa from moaning and raising her hips in an animal act of presenting to the grinding. Her mistress' pet was visibly beyond aroused. Melissa could tell that feeding provoked something primal and erotic in Anastasia, but she was often too contained to dry-hump her; to act like a dog pumping hips against her back as she drank from her. But not her pet. Her pet was insatiable, her ghost- mounting growing more needy and vicious the more she drank.

“Careful... Only drink enough,” her mistress' voice warned as Melissa felt her senses dulling.

Her breasts tingled, sensitive, as she found herself rubbing her chest against the carpet. Even though she should not be resisting anymore, the hand on her hair shoved her head on the floor, pressing her cheek against the fibres while the aching thrusts continued. Even their light impact was enough to make Melissa's soaking sex quiver in need, and paired with the feeding, that growing warm pressure inside her threatened to expand. She felt herself coming closer and closer to a body-rocking orgasm, even as her senses drifted further away from her body. She knew she was in danger. She knew she was close to death, and yet, that climax and the feeding of her mistress' pet seemed more urgent than her survival.

“Enough,” Anastasia said, just a notch harsher than her usual neutral tone.

Just as Melissa was about to release, just as she was tethering on the edge of coming, she felt those fangs being ripped from her neck. The whole woman standing on top of her was pulled up, grabbed by the back of the neck like a baby kitten and lifted nearly effortlessly by Anastasia, who threw her back down the corridor. Melissa groaned in mild complaint, feeling her sex aching for release. She just needed a few more seconds of that feeding, those humping motions, those breasts on her back and that hand on her head, just a few more seconds...

Amara tried to stand, to rush towards Melissa's fallen body again, and as the girl turned from her position on the floor to see her charging, she found herself tilting to offer more of her bloodied neck to the vampire and spreading her legs, eager to receive her. But Anastasia's hand intercepted Amara, grabbing her by the throat and locking eyes with her.

“I said 'enough',” she spoke, and the world seemed to come to a halt.

The fight in Amara's eyes drained, her hands relaxed, and her posture deflated. That predator, that vicious creature, became a mewling kitten in Anastasia's hand. Albeit one with her mouth coated in Melissa's blood.

“I'm... S-sorry...” she spoke, weak, even a little pathetic.

“You will learn to control yourself, in time... But you need to fight it, Amara. You cannot let the curse ride you like a horse. You need to ride it and hold the reins. At all times. Understand?”

Amara nodded, and Melissa watched the two walking towards the corridor as she was left, panting, soaking, and still bleeding a little, on the floor. She closed her eyes, frustrated and yearning, but she knew nothing she could do with her hands came close to the high of feeding one of her mistress' kin, so she sighed and pushed herself up. To find bandages for her neck and something to get her blood and sex juices, which had bled through her dress and panties, from the carpet.

The sanctum was still. Quiet in that strange, sacred way – like the world held its breath as dawn crept near. Amara lay curled against Anastasia's chest, her limbs loose with exhaustion, her lips stained with dark blood that was now smeared thanks to a passionate, hungry kiss she had shared with Anastasia a few moments prior. She was still feeling aftershocks of the pleasure of feeding. And the pleasure of hunting. She was scared to admit it to herself, but she had enjoyed that half a heartbeat of chase between the thrall she was told to feed on, turning around to run, and her catching up to her. And she had enjoyed tearing her dress, grinding against her. She knew how it looked. She was shocked at herself for it. But that was now. Then? Then she was drunk on it.

“It was too much,” Amara mumbled, her voice slurred with half-sated hunger and sleep as the sun threatened to rise on the horizon.

“Yes,” Anastasia said, simple and final, but after a pause, she added, “you didn't kill her, though. That's what matters.”

“Because you pulled me away... Else I would have...”

Anastasia did not deny it. She did not offer false comfort. Instead, she offered a pause. A heartbeat. Even though none of their hearts would beat anymore. Not in the same way they did when they were alive.

“You will learn. You're already learning,” she added.

Amara believed it. She believed whatever Anastasia said because, so far, she had kept true to her word. She had not lied to her. Amara's face was pressing closer against the hollow between Anastasia's breasts, drinking the subtle scent of her skin. Childish, almost. Trusting. She never felt that comfortable, not even on her own mother's bosom. Her mother's hugs always felt a bit too tight and too bony. That one felt... Real.

The bloodlust had passed. For now. Amara could still feel its simmer, like heat from a cooling iron. She would need to temper it. Sharpen it. But not that night. That night was almost over, and she couldn't wait for that dreamless, dark and profound sleep she would sink into until sunrise.

“Sleep, little starling,” Anastasia whispered, her lips brushing the crown of her hair. “I'll hold the reins until you're strong enough to take them.”

And as the sun began its slow crawl above the horizon, shining off Lake Michigan and bathing Montcroix in its golden light, Amara felt Anastasia arms tighten around her, and for a moment Amara indulged in the thought of being a small wolf-pup, with her mother's warm, fur clad body engulfing all around her in the safety of their lair. And to that image, she drifted into sleep, the taste of Melissa's blood and Anastasia's kiss still on her lips.

Triggers: Sexual Exploitation, Blood, Suicidal Thoughts, Death, Graphic Sex

To die. Just for a moment.

Those words, that thought, echoed inside Amara's head as she felt Anastasia's weight settling next to her on the cushions of that strange antique couch underground. She pressed her nose against Anastasia's skin, and the vampire's flesh felt cold to the touch. As if Anastasia had just stepped in from a walk through the winter breeze. But she hadn't. She had been there, in the warm, dim-lit place that was both a cellar, a vault, a bedroom, and a tomb, all rolled in one, for as long as Amara. The girl flinched at the initial discomfort, but it didn't seem surprising or discouraging to Anastasia, who pushed out her tongue, touching only the very tip of the cold and wet appendage against the skin just below Amara's ears. The young model – or was she now already a 'former model'? – let out a shuddered breath of anticipation, gripping the cushions under her tightly. She could hear her own heartbeat. She could feel it, too. Heavy and strong, desperate; inside her chest, on her temples, and in the throbbing veins where Anastasia's tongue was pressed. The vampire drew a line down across it, with her cold saliva marking a path over Amara's skin.

Amara had always felt a little squeamish about the fluids involved in a sex act. Her arousal, semen, spit, sweat. She wasn't a virgin, but she didn't like feeling them on her skin. Whenever she fucked someone, whether because she wanted to or because of necessity – the latter being far more common – she always had to rush into a shower after. Even masturbating felt uncomfortable. Touching her wet folds with her fingers was strange to her. She would still do it to get off when she had to when she felt too restless, and it was the only thing that would calm her down, but she had grown to prefer rubbing herself through her panties or using a vibrating toy than making direct contact. And that was why, when Anastasia's tongue traced a line over her skin, she was expecting to feel the icky creeping feeling across her neck, inside her throat, and in the back of her mind. That rush to wipe it clean and restore her body to the purity it had before it was tainted. But she didn't.

For once in her life, she focused just on the present sensation rather than the thought of erasing its traces, and it allowed her to feel the warmth pooling between her legs more clearly. It allowed her to feel her throat tightening in not disgust but a thrilled and excited nervousness. And Anastasia's hand found its way to her thigh, holding it, gently beckoning it to part. Amara did so without wondering why parting her legs was part of becoming a vampire. She had agreed she would die by the woman's hand. She had agreed she would be transformed into something she didn't fully understand and agreed she would be her servant in her newfound eternal life. Why would she flinch at any other demand? Yet, Amara felt a gnawing suspicion in the back of her mind based on little more than instinct, raw intuition, or perhaps simply wishful thinking. A part of her suspected Anastasia needed the surrender from her for more than just for pleasure, but for what came next. Amara felt like Anastasia wanted her to understand at a visceral level the power of being owned before she could own others. Or before she received the power that would come with the vampiric embrace.

Why would she stop when she almost sucked some photographer's dick for a way smaller gift? For a boon that wasn't even to herself? No. Amara was giving herself whole-hearted, and she parted her legs even further than the pull of Anastasia's touch suggested, leaning back into the couch, reclining, and feeling the brush of lips against her neck. Except now, they were warm. The tongue licked again, wiping the cold saliva with warm wetness that replaced it and spread across her skin. Amara moaned, and she allowed Anastasia's weight to push her down until she was lying on the couch on her back, and the woman was above her. She broke away from her neck, holding her wrists together as if she were about to tie them above Amara's head and looking at her prey. The black hair cascaded and framed Anastasia's face in shadow, making her red garnet eyes glow in the darkness.

“Fuck...” Anastasia whispered, breathy.

Her legs were up, her knees bent, and the bodycon dress, short as it was, had rode up to pool around her stomach as Anastasia stood between her thighs, which squeezed the vampire's side. Amara felt shame about her underwear. A very racy, minimal black thong. A deliberate choice she had made for the visit to the studio. In case the photographer wanted racy pictures. But it wasn't her. Now she felt both shame and some arousal born out of self-degradation that that was how Anastasia would see her if she were to look down. Her sex grew dewy and hot, soaking the black fabric against it even more by the second. Anastasia inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring and eyes closing as she drank Amara's scent. Could she... Smell her down there? Her arousal?

“I can smell you across the room, Amara,” Anastasia said as if reading her thoughts. “I could smell your cunt in the whole ride here. I could smell your sweat from across the Night Market...” Anastasia said, sharp and cold; her tone wasn't comforting, wasn't even teasing, and yet in that bluntness, Amara once more found something deeply erotic. “You could never hide from me, even if you wanted to. But you will never want to, you understand?”

Amara nodded, and the older woman – which was likely an understatement – released her wrists. She brought them to caress her face. So strange, her cheeks and her jaw were warm to the touch, yet from the neck down, she was cold as a cadaver. Amara's body ached and throbbed. She felt desire running through her like a river of warm honey, and she couldn't even find that difference in temperature off-putting. It just made her sensorially curious. She wanted to touch her more, feel her more.

“I will never want to hide...” Amara repeated, entranced.

Anastasia smirked, and Amara felt a cold hand touching her warm thigh, sliding down against it, and the sensation made her shiver and arch her hips. It was like running an ice cube through her aroused nipples. The stark contrast of cold against warmth. But as the hand slid down, it grew hotter quickly. Fast enough for Amara to notice it doing so until it cupped her sex. She moved her hips to obscenely and needfully grind against it, rubbing her pussy against the digits through the panties as she would do to herself to get off. A memory flared in her mind.

A bus ride in an agency bus taking her to a pageant out of state. Two in the morning, deep into the night, and everyone else was asleep. The bus vibrated as it drove across the desert highway. It was one of those fancy ones with the seats perpendicular to the direction of travel and mostly empty. She was sitting in the far corner, away from everyone else, and she couldn't sleep. Still wearing the plaid skirt of her last outfit, Amara found herself moved by a deep, debauched desire. She straddled over the seat so that the hard plastic armrest pressed between her legs, against her sex, with her knees on the cushions of either seat. She was just fifteen, but her body was on fire. She couldn't remember what had her so aroused back then. But she remembered feeling the hard armrest vibrating against her sex. Of looking into her dim reflection in the window and the desert beyond as she allowed the bus to get her off. It was only later that she learned about women sitting on top of a shaking dryer and other similar stimulations being commonplace. But for years, she carried that bus encounter in her head as something utterly pleasurable and utterly shameful. She got off to an inanimate object in a room where, even if sleeping, there were other people. And she loved it. She loved it. And she never told a soul.

Then she remembered relaxing after her third orgasm in the position, happy she never got caught, only to see the mess of her nectar glistening against the black hard plastic of the seat. She remembered spending the rest of the trip paranoid that she smelled strongly like sex and that everyone could tell how much of a freak she was. She wondered if that was the moment she became so squeamish about fluids. She wasn't sure, but the fear and guilt were crushing.   Anastasia's fingers were nothing like the bus armrest, but the act felt just as wrong. If vampires were undead, did it make Anastasia an inanimate object? A corpse? Was she a necrophiliac? Labels. Categories. What did it matter? She didn't look anything like a corpse. She didn't feel like a corpse. Why was Amara's mind searching technical definitions to guilt herself into not enjoying something her whole body craved? She continued to grind her sex against that palm. And then Anastasia gripped her panties and yanked them off.

They tore too easily. Like paper. Amara's pussy was waxed smooth in preparation for a lingerie shoot the next morning, and that meant there was no hair to shield the skin around her petals from her arousal as Anastasia shoved her palm against her naked sex. Smearing it, the soft pad where her digits ended and her palm began pressed against Amara's clit, while two fingers stroked down her slit, fingering her. She gasped and gripped the couch. The sounds of wetness filled her with shame, and while Anastasia's saliva did not make her squeamish, her arousal did. She did not like to feel soaked like that. Smearing almost to her thighs. She wanted to be clean. She needed to be clean. Yet the pleasure of being fingered prevented her from stopping it. Her body ached for more.

'After,' she compromised. Then she remembered. After this. After this, she would die. For a little bit. Would she die with that sensation on her? Would she get to feel clean again after that moment?

“W-What... Are you doing...?” Amara asked between moans as the vampire continued to stroke and grind against her nethers.

“Your blood will taste sweeter after your release,” Anastasia whispered.

Was it all about her, then? All to enhance the taste of Amara's blood? She wasn't concerned with Amara's pleasure, just with her own? Fuck it, at least she was honest. That was something refreshing about Anastasia. She was honest. Painfully so. Honest about wanting her to serve her and honest about the dark price of her gift. Honest about everything. Even her nature. Amara decided that honesty was hot. “T-Then m-make me come hard...” Amara said, meaning to be bossy, but it came across as pleading, begging. “How?” Amara was caught off guard by the question, and she moaned before she could answer. How? She knew the answer, deep down. She knew where her thoughts went when she masturbated. What she thought about when she was having sex with someone who didn't arouse her to bring herself there. But she never told a soul about it. Not one. No one deserved it. They would mock her. They would see a nakedness in her that went beyond removing clothes. But Anastasia was going to drink her blood. Kill her. Amara couldn't think of a more intimate act than consensually drinking the life force of a body. The notion of draining essence felt both deeply personal and yet obscene and wrong. The comparison struck her as the thought of drinking cum, only filthier. More taboo. More debasing and more possessive. Was this what men felt when a girl swallowed their seed? This yearning she felt to know Anastasia would have a vital part of herself inside her.

Fuck it, she decided again. Anastasia was honest about being an immortal killer, she could bear her soul to her. She could own her kinks. She could tell her exactly how to make her come.

“Tell me... I'm worthless...” Amara begged. “Tell me I'm filthy... I'm a w-whore...”

She hated that she liked it. But she did. Everyone was so fucking nice to her when they wanted to bone her that when some jackass called her a slut, it at least felt... Real. She knew she was worthless. She knew she was filthy and flawed and dirty. She knew her beauty was a fucking mask to something utterly rotten inside. All she wanted was for someone to recognise it. Someone who could see what a fucking mess she was and still fuck her raw.

Anastasia didn't seem shocked, but she did hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. Not out of revulsion – never that. But like a sculptor pausing as they were handling a tool. To feel its weight, to sense its balance. A tool to sculpt her. To shape her. Into what? Amara didn't care. Whatever she became would be better than what she was then. And Anastasia seemed very sure about what she was doing. She did not baulk at the suggestion but did not embrace it immediately. She brought her fingers up, spreading Amara's labia and bringing her index to her clit to begin vibrating it and flicking, sometimes grinding in quick circles. Oh, god! The intensity of it. Amara let out a suppressed moan.

“Don't mute yourself, my little starling... No one can hear you... Scream. Scream like you want the entire city to know you are being fucked by your killer.”

Yes! She opened her mouth and moaned in delight. Wouldn't that be grand? The whole of Montcroix shocked, terrified, and disgusted at the little pretty model giving herself willingly to slaughter. Maybe they would hate on her parents for it. Blame them. Not because they cared about Amara, but because they cared about pretty white rich girls in general. They would hate the Crowe parents not out of love for her as a person but blaming them for one more young pussy being wasted while it was ripe for fucking. She moaned loudly, and Anastasia licked her neck.

“Louder. You can do better than that... That's all you are good for, isn't it? For this wet fuck-hole between your legs... And for letting everyone know how much you love when they make use of it.”

Holy. Fuck.

Amara did not know she was close to orgasm. She was so focused on the words, the situation, the touch that she had lost track of the warm pressure building up inside her body. Or perhaps she wasn't that close, but the words from Anastasia were so much harsher, so much more shocking than what she expected, and yet hitting her dark desire so squarely on the head that she wasn't just pushed past the edge. She was flung violently as if shot from a cannon.

The precipice of the point of no return zoomed by her without her realising it as she came. Amara had no idea she was a squirter until she felt that warmth exploding against Anastasia's hand and soaking her stomach, her dress, and the couch. She should feel disgusted and horrified at how graphically her body betrayed her enjoyment. And at the sheer amount of fluids that now soaked her.

She couldn't. All her being was focused on the jolts of pleasure in her body. Her stomach, thighs and chest were contracting and relaxing so violently that she feared her muscles might break her bones. She was crying with such abandon that she didn't realise her voice was making any noise until her throat ached. If it was true that a climax enhanced the flavour of her blood, Anastasia could have stopped fingering her there and then and killed her, and she would have tasted as sweet as sweet can be. But the vampire seemingly had different designs. Different desires. She intensified her touching through Amara's orgasm, prolonging the pleasure to the point it became pain, but the good type of pain.

“Oh... Oh god... Oh...” Amara panted.

“No. Not god. Me,” Anastasia whispered, hands still pumping.

There was no question in Amara's mind in switching it in her mind.

“Oh, Anastasia! F-Fuck... You're killing me...”

“Not yet, I'm not,” Anastasia purred.

Before Amara could appreciate the joke, the hands left her soaked sex, and despite the mess her splashy climax had caused, Anastasia did not hesitate or flinch. She plunged across her stomach and dove between her legs, lapping at the side of her thighs, around her sex, all across the flat of her pubic bone to her stomach, and so far down her pussy Amara felt tickled against the tight ring of muscles of her rear passage. Anastasia didn't just taste her. She didn't merely eat her out. She devoured her. As if she could forego the bloodsucking of vampirism and consume Amara's soul through her pussy.

There was an unspoken act of accepting those fluids that she thought filthy and watching them become a feast to a woman in all measures grander than she was, that rewired her brain. She still felt dirty, but now, instead of wanting to wash herself off, she wanted to roll in the spillage of her sex. All so Anastasia could lick her body clean of it. And it was with that utterly wrong and depraved thought that she was once more tossed past the edge of orgasm and into that blissful abyss of pleasure. No squirting this time, just a mind- bending, full-body rocking experience that left all of her muscles shaking and her body limp as warm butter left out on a summer day. She only noticed that Anastasia was cutting her dress off of her body with a knife once her senses returned, and she had not even realised they had disappeared. The panties and dress she had worn that night were now ruined. Shredded.

Anastasia promised no looking back, and she had just destroyed the last bit of her old life that was carried into the underground facility. Naked, like the day she was born. Strange symmetry it was to leave the world as naked as she was when she came on to it. The vampire pulled her into a kiss that tasted like sex. But also like iron and salt. Blood.

Amara opened her mouth, feeling a warm tingle upon receiving a few drops of Anastasia's blood. Without her seeing it, the vampire had punctured her tongue. The drop of vampiric blood caused her whole body to warm and go into overdrive. Her senses flared up. She could hear every detail in the crack of the fireplace. She could smell the many layers of aromas in the room. The sex, the filth, the sweat. But also the smoke, the old musk of the furniture. The dampness of stone. And her skin, her skin became entirely an erogenous zone. The light weight of Anastasia over her stomach felt like something rubbing across her breasts. And the tail end of her orgasm became even more acutely blissful.

“W-What...” she babbled but never finished a sentence.

Words were meaningless.

“Good night, my little starling. Tell the Pale Mistress I said hello...”

“I... Will?” Amara muttered, fuck-drunk and dazed, without knowing what she was promising.

The fangs pierced her skin, and it felt like what she imagined getting a clit piercing would feel. The pain was indescribable. Yet, it was also short-lived. In the white-hot flash of pain rode a tidal wave of pleasure. The piercing of skin hurt, but feeling her blood flowing into Anastasia's mouth felt good. Too good. Yes, that must be why men loved to see women swallowing their seeds. Amara could hear the gulps of Anastasia's throat, and she knew that it was her, her living essence, going down her neck, filling her with life. She felt herself fading quickly. Weakening.

No. She was not fading. She was becoming a part of something immortal. Even if Anastasia lied and she was not going to turn her into a vampire, Amara did not mind. She would be part of Anastasia. She could feel herself existing less and less. Her feet got cold, then her hands, then her chest. The numbness crawled fast after it. Her senses dulled. Then her sight. Her thoughts became less coherent. Less frequent. Less.

She was less.

She was less and less.

And then she was nothing at all.

Amara Crowe, age twenty-one, died at three forty-four that morning, as her heart stopped beating due to severe bloodlessness. The pallor on her body would make it obvious to any pathologist that she died of extreme exsanguination. And that some of it proceeded after death.

The woman was white as bone. Hair. Skin. Eyes. Pale pink failed to show under her near-translucent skin. She stood in the middle of a void that was nearly as white as she was. Amara stood up. It was a weird dream. The vampire was an even weirder dream. But she shouldn't be aware that she was dreaming, should she? She had never lucid dreamt before.

“I... Where am I?”

“You won't be for long,” the Pale Woman said.

“Anastasia... She... I think she killed me...”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Wait... I think I know you.”

“You do. You all do,” she spoke.

“She told me to say...”

“I know,” she spoke once more, infinite patience in her tone. “I would send a message back, but you won't remember it.”

“Remember it when? Wait... What...”

The pull of gravity yanked her away. Not down. Not up. Just away. It was as if she was zooming out of the void until the white void became a dot in the distance. And then not even that. She was pulled, she was falling, she was...

She woke up and tried to scream, but there was no air in her lungs. Nothing came out. Her mouth was dry. Cracking dry. Her lips were aching. Every one of her joints was stiff. No, stiff didn't begin to describe it. The lightest motion seemed painfully impossible. Not a single inch of her skin didn't feel both aching and dull. And she was so parched. So hungry. She couldn't tell the difference. She did not know if both or if there was no longer a distinction.

She recognised the underground of Anastasia's cellar and found she was lying on the large bed. And she saw the predatory red eyes standing in the darkness. She tried to speak, to call for her, but the voice didn't come. She had no air in her lungs. She should be choking, but as she realised she was not breathing, she also realised she didn't have to.

The black shape of Anastasia, wearing a silk black nightgown, slithered from the darkness. She had a cut on her wrist. A chalice in hand, and she drank from it. Dark crimson ran down her chin, and she threw it away to the floor, waddling on her knees to straddle the confused and freshly awoken Amara. She held her face and pressed a kiss onto her lips.

And then blood flowed. Warm. Iron and salt. Amara wasn't disgusted. Not even by instinct. She immediately drank it all. Swallowing hungry. And somehow, she knew, beyond a doubt, it was Anastasia's. She tasted her in it. Tasted her personality. Tasted her history. Drinking it was like drinking the whole idea of her. Anastasia fed her a mouthful in that kiss, and somehow, it made all the difference. Her skin flushed, her breath returned, and her body grew less stiff and more relaxed. It all took seconds. No medicine, no drug, worked that fast.

As Anastasia pulled free, she licked the blood from her lips and swallowed.

“Welcome back, my little starling,” she whispered. “You might be able to talk now... Try.”

She did. Nothing came out. Then she inhaled and tried again.

“What... What the... I... I died. I think.”

“You did,” Anastasia said, caressing her hair.

“I... Saw something,” Amara insisted. “It was important... I swear, it was so important...”

“But you can't remember, can you?” Anastasia spoke softly.

“I... I cannot.”

“That cold bitch... She has a wicked sense of humour,” Anastasia whispered, dismounting from the straddle to kneel beside her fledgling, caressing her hair.

Amara had a thousand questions. How long was she out? Would she need to drink Anastasia's blood every day? Could she? Who had dressed her in the strange black Victorian gown she was now wearing? What time of the day was it? Or night? But nothing felt more pressing than the hunger in her stomach.

“C-Can... Can I have a bit more...? Please?” she asked, craving another mouthful, maybe two, of that salty and sweet blood.

“No, you may not,” Anastasia said simply.

“But... I'm not full yet.” Amara pouted. “Please?”

“You... Will never be full again. Not for any length of time that matters. This sensation you feel right now? That is your most faithful companion. It will save your life. It will lead you to your death. But it will never go away.”

“W-what?”

That sounded horrible. Surely, Anastasia didn't understand how close to being full she was. She just needed a sip. Or two. But she needed it. She needed it more than she needed air. Well, she guessed.

“Don't worry... You get used to it faster than you expect.”

“But... You can't feed me?”

“It would be a waste. It would not suit you. Only that mouthful was required to... Reanimate your body from the rigor mortis. You should be good... For another night.”

“For... Another night... And then, what?”

“Then I'll feed you. You are too weak to hunt. Too inexperienced, too. This cellar? This is my sanctum... This is also the womb where your life begins. And right now, you are still being gestated. Your strength, your powers... They take a moment to take root in the flesh.”

“H-How... How long?”

Amara couldn't think about anything other than feeding. The idea she would not be allowed to hunt, to drink her fill, for a while, felt painful. It felt cruel. She was angry. She was growing very angry.

“Three, four nights...” Anastasia said.

“What? No... No, I can't... I need to go out!”

“You won't.”

Amara's rage boiled quickly to a point. Her fangs popped out. She lunged with hands out for Anastasia's neck. She wanted to rip into her and drink her blood by force. She hated the woman. No. No, she didn't. She loved her. But she would kill her for another sip. Yes. She would.

Yet, Anastasia wasn't fazed. She shoved her back. She slammed her into the bed with ease. Despite her frame, she was powerful. She had no trouble pinning down both of the girl's wrists and resuming her straddling over her chest. And she did all of that with a near-bored calm. As if she knew exactly what would happen. And when. And why. No sense of betrayal for her fledgling wanting to kill her. Just procedure.

“I know. All you are feeling, I felt too. Once you are one hundred, four nights feel like a blink. But right now, you are a newborn,” Anastasia said, effortlessly keeping the thrashing Amara pinned.

Amara didn't care about the words; she could not even hear them. She shouted 'let me go' and 'no'. Thrashing. Turning her head, bucking and kicking. And Anastasia didn't even move. She waited for exhaustion to settle. For the rage to burn itself out, and when it did, Amara's senses seemed to return. A clarity and shame for how she acted just seconds before hit her like a truck, and Anastasia released her even before she could apologise.

“I'm... I'm so sorry, Anastasia! I didn't mean it...”

“No. You did. But you don't have to apologise.”

“No, I didn't. I promise! That... That wasn't me!” she muttered. “It was like... Someone else...”

“That was you... Though... Some vampires call that part of themselves their 'shadow'. Some try to suppress it. Some try to tame it... You will find your path... But I suggest you befriend it... Your shadow is your hunger. Your hunger is your shadow. As I said, it could kill you... But it can also save your life.”

“This... Is too much...” Amara sighed.

“Yes. It is. And you have the rest of time to wrangle it,” Anastasia whispered, stroking her hair. “My little starling.”

Those first moments of care set the tone for what was to come. While Amara had no reason to believe Anastasia lied to her, and she knew that soon, those first nights would feel like a blip in her existence, time seemed to drag on endlessly. A single night seemed to take an eternity to pass. Once she got used to the hunger, or at least used enough to see past it, Amara realised she was meek. She had less strength than she had as a human, barely strong enough to lift her torso off the bed. She also felt the weakness and dizziness that she associated with the beginning of the flu, except it was constant. Anastasia stayed with her most of the night, but when she left to hunt, she gave Amara an order:

“Do not leave this cellar, my little starling...”

The tone had been casual but imposing. And something deep within Amara's bones, deeper than the hunger she felt, compelled her to obey. She tried to leave, to disobey and hunt something on her own. But as she opened the door to the cellar stairs, which wasn't even locked, she couldn't bring herself to step through the threshold. That was when she knew how deeply the truth Anastasia had said the previous night was: She would no longer be her own person. She would belong to her. It wasn't just a figure of speech. She was under the vampire's control.

Amara leaned into it, and knowing she didn't even have the choice to leave made waiting in the cellar easier. That first night, Anastasia returned, more flushed and vibrant, but she did not feed Amara again. They mostly just talked. About Amara's past life, and little else. It didn't feel like they were getting to know each other, though. It felt like Amara was mourning it, slowly coming to grasp that she would not return to it. And Anastasia was merely facilitating the process.

At some point, a deep exhaustion set upon Amara, and it was then Anastasia explained that whenever the sun was up, even if she couldn't see it, she would feel like that. She took her hand, and together they went towards the bed once more. The next night was much of the same. Deep, dreamless sleep, followed by a strange awakening. A persistent sense of being displaced in time for spending three days without seeing the light of the sun or the night sky. She wasn't as hungry or as meek on the second night and felt like she could walk around on her own. But her head still throbbed, and her fangs ached. Her body still adjusted. Anastasia left again that evening, but when she returned, she was carrying something over her shoulder. A dead body. Freshly killed. It was still warm. She tossed it on the floor over the mantle. The small man fell on his stomach, and Anastasia looked at her fledgling with a calm but demanding expression.

“Remove your gown for me,” she requested.

“Wh-Why? And who is that?”

“The why is because I said so. I do not need to provide you with reasons, my starling. But I will, this time...” Anastasia said. “I want to look at your body. I want to see you fully and lustfully gaze at you as I command you. And you will do it. I could compel you, but I know I don't need to.”

Amara blushed. She had spoken so plainly. She wanted her naked because she wanted to see her nude. Yes, it was sexual; it was done for lustful reasons, based on desire, and it was about control, and she had no reason to hide it. The girl pulled her gown, noticing that even though it had been days since she had waxed herself, she had no stubbles of hair growing around her sex. She wondered if vampire hair simply did not grow. Would she be Barbie-smooth for eternity? She wasn't sure if that was a nightmare or a dream. But as she disrobed herself, she realised that Anastasia liked it. She liked how the absence of hair exposed her even more. And if Anastasia liked it, it was all she needed.

“Good, my little starling. Now come, crawl to me, lick my hand and thank me for caring for you. And for bringing you this meal...”

Anastasia stretched her hand towards Amara but stood there. And Amara, without being compelled by vampiric magic, just out of utter intoxicating devotion, crawled to her and nuzzled her hand. She licked it, kissed it, and worshippingly said:

“Thank you for caring for me...”

“Would it arouse you to be treated like a beast, my starling?” Anastasia asked.

Amara gulped. She was naked, kneeling and thanking her mistress for the food. And she was almost dripping wet. Yes, it sounded like a safe bet that it would.

“I think so, m-mistress...”

She watched Amara with that same strange calm – like a mother seeing her child walk for the first time or a general watching a soldier take their first life. No, not either, but both. She watched her like a lioness would watch a cub approach the bleeding and subdued zebra in the Savannah. Wobbly, adorable steps, fangs bared, ready for their first taste of blood. There was hunger in her eyes, yes. But also pride. Satisfaction. She was teaching Amara about the thrill of feeding. The wicked motherly eroticism of it wasn't lost on the girl. Instead, it was embraced. And it was why her loins were set ablaze as Anastasia spoke commandingly:

“Good... Then... Feast, my little animal. And touch yourself while you do. I'll be watching.”

And Anastasia kicked the man on the ground. Rolling him over. He was dead but still warm. His body was still soft. Amara could smell the blood inside his veins and the blood spilt on his pretentious black turtleneck. But it was when she saw his face that she gasped in recognition. The photographer. His glasses were gone, though the mark on his nose remained. A small cut marred his brow and he was a little paler than she remembered, but it was him.

As she looked at his features, with rage and shock, she noticed Anastasia moving, from the corner of her eye, to sit behind her on the couch and watch. Amara gulped, feeling her fangs pulsing, pushing out of her gums and growing like a dog's dick emerging from its sheath. It felt just as sexual and as animalistic as that, too. Like a throbbing erection hungry for a place to enter. Except her fangs didn't crave an existing hole. They craved making some.

Amara sunk her fangs into the dead man's neck, cutting skin without being needed to be told how and where to bite. And then she began to suck his blood. It was surprisingly easy. It felt good. And even better was knowing her mistress was watching her. She pushed her naked hips in the air, bringing her fingers between her legs to start spreading herself open, fingering herself while she fed on the man.

“My little starling...” Anastasia praised, a voice dripping with lust. “What a good beast.”

Amara shuddered. The praise was almost better than the blood. Almost. And as she thought about what she was doing, drinking the blood of a dead man and showing herself at her most naked, exposed and vulnerable to the older woman, she knew she was no longer Amara. Not the one she knew. Not in any sense that mattered. Her old life was dead. Her old self was dead. And this new self? This one was simpler. Moved by simple hunger. For blood and Anastasia's approval. She was nothing more than that: A vampire. Her mistress' little starling. Her little animal.

What sort of animal would she become? A beast of pleasure or a loyal watchdog? A hawk or a show pony? Amara realised she did not care. Anastasia had a plan for her. The blood of the sleazy photographer filled her throat, and Amara feasted in the pleasure of blood and the pleasure of the flesh, knowing she was being watched. Whatever Anastasia's plan for her was, she loved it. She would become whatever her Sire wanted to make of her.

She was her Pygmalion, and for once in her life, Amara did not resent being Galatea.

Triggers: Sexual Exploitation, Blood, Suicidal Thoughts, Death

The city swallowed her whole. Amara didn't know how far she had run, how many blocks she had stumbled past, but her lungs ached, her legs burned, and she was still nowhere. The world smelled of asphalt, piss, and the ocean somewhere beyond the buildings. She didn't know where she was. She didn't care. The skyline loomed, all brick chimneys and tall warehouse fronts hanging heavy over her head. The sick yellow glow of the downtown lights made the night brighter than it had any right to be as it bounced off the low and dense cloud cover. Amara knew those clouds well, even in the dark. They were heavy and suffocating, like sheets of lead suspended over the city. Winter was dying in Montcroix; spring was soon to take its place. But like most things in the city, winter was stubborn and slow to die. She saw muddy, brown leftover snow refusing to melt in filthy slurry piles near the drainage grates, with cigarette butts and pieces of plastic stuck in them, which seemed like the perfect metaphor for how she felt inside. Filthy. Polluted. Cold and slowly fading. Her legs ached, screaming at her to stop.

She just kept walking.

Her head was a raw, buzzing wound. Her parents' voices still slithered in the back of her mind, dripping acid. “You owe us. You ungrateful little bitch,' said her loving mother. “You think you're too good for this?' asked her protective father. The photographer's oily smile clung to her, she could feel it on her skin like a film of slime. The way his fingers had traced the camera lens like a caress. “I can make you a star, sweetheart, if you're willing to work for it,' he promised. Maybe it was true.

As her thoughts visited the scene taking place at the studio, she could see, clear as day, the photographer's hand moving to grope the shape of his cock through his pants. Forcing the fabric to outline his erection. As if he had ever been subtle about what he was proposing. Nausea struck her. Nausea and fear. She knew she was not being chased, but her fear wasn't rational. She felt something chasing her. And she had to run. She had to get away.

She pushed through an alley between two abandoned industrial buildings covered in graffiti. The shadows there were thick. Wrong. The streets were alive in a way that didn't feel human. She had to get out of there.

The side door facing the alley was like a tempting invitation. Sure, walking into an abandoned building in the wrong part of Montcroix at night, as a beautiful young woman in a humiliatingly short dress, seemed like the perfect recipe for something terrible to happen. Death if she was lucky. But a vengeful, self-destructive impulse burned inside her. One fuelled by rage. The idea of her parents' precious little toy being cut across the face by a mentally ill homeless person's rusty razor was delightful. She didn't care that she was the toy and that she would feel the pain if she got to ruin it for them. Even if someone were to force themselves on her, she felt a wicked satisfaction in imagining her parents' horror when they went to see her at a police station and emergency room, bruised, battered, violated. That some low-life had taken by force from her what she refused to give to some sleazy photographer just to get on some stupid auto parts calendar.

As she passed the threshold of the door, she also passed a terrible threshold in her mind. She realised she was fantasising about her rape and not finding herself horrified by it. Not because she wished to take any pleasure from it, no. Pleasure was not something she expected to ever feel again from any source. Just because she knew it would hurt them. For all the wrong reasons, but who the fuck cared?

She laughed as she found herself in the abandoned warehouse's stuffed, pitch-black interior. And as she laughed, her voice reverberated across the brick walls. It was laughter, but it was demented, without joy. She swallowed dryly, then brushed off her tears and shook her head. She would not get raped just to make her parents upset. They didn't deserve that she endured any more pain for their sake. Instead, she would just break their little toy forever in the most painless way possible. Maybe she could find something sharp to slit her wrists in the derelict industrial building. Amara was no stranger to cutting herself, anyway. She read that dying by bleeding out was peaceful. A little cold, but then one would fall asleep, and it was all over.

Looking around, that was when she noticed some brightness that shouldn't be there. The contours of a door. A man walked in. Straight towards her. She flinched and pulled her arms up to defend herself, half expecting the dark, tall silhouette to be her father and to feel the familiar grip of his calloused hand on the back of her neck. No. The form walked by her, brushing shoulders against her in the tight space between the door and the wall on her back and heading to the door with the light coming from under it.

She was a little too intrigued to continue her suicidal ideation. Amara turned, and she watched the man knock three times on the door. Someone asked something, and he responded. She barely heard it.

“But the owls are still around.”

Amara's confusion only lasted for a second. Speakeasies that used a password system were not that uncommon, and Montcroix had a long history of being a port for smuggled liquor from Canada. Of course, some hipster with too much money would open a speakeasy there. She had to give them kudos for the commitment to the bit, though. Most speakeasies had a way to advertise themselves and would be a little closer to foot traffic than a literally abandoned warehouse surrounded by nothing but old buildings. Yet, there she was. No rusty pipe for her to slit her wrists with, but she had a credit card. Maybe she could buy a bottle of whisky and, after drinking some liquid courage, shatter it in the bathroom.

It was as good a plan as any, so she approached the door and knocked three times, just as she had watched the man do. A slit opened on the metallic door, and weary blue eyes looked at her from the gap.

“The trees are silent tonight,” the man said, his voice was tired and gruff.

Amara resisted the urge to smirk joylessly. What a poetic little speakeasy she found. What a great place to leave a dead body.

“But the owls are still around.”

There was no acknowledgement. No feedback. Just the visor slamming shut. For a second, she thought she might have fucked it up somehow. It wouldn't be the first time she fucked up. If you took her precious loving fucking dad's word, she did so constantly. Yet, the door clunked open, and she stepped in. Not into a speakeasy. No, into something else far, far weirder.

She would think that was some form of farmer's market, with the little improvised booths and stalls placed under the rusting steel beams of the warehouse, but what farmer's market happened so late in the evening and required a password? And why was it so damn dark? The people there were strange. They milled about mostly in silence. Barely talking to each other, if talking at all. Each seemed very focused, going to one specific vendor in a beeline. Some were browsing but not idly browsing; their eyes were intense, their fingers touched flasks and felt the texture of fabrics. Or bones.

Because that was another odd thing about the place, the goods were not what one would expect from a typical market. Sure, the herbs and botanical products were there in one booth or another. But some sold mason jars with what seemed to be animal organs inside. And while she knew people who liked kidney soup or even bull testicles – Rocky Mountain oysters, she had heard someone call them once – having a whole shop dedicated to organs seemed too much. Then were the powders, pastiles, and liquids in glass flasks. Bones, cleaned and white, some with carvings on them, some without. She wandered, lost, through the most silent crowd she had ever seen. A dozen of them were speaking in a tone that wasn't necessarily hushed but was full of contained deference. Caution. Many of them crossed her vision, but she couldn't describe a single detail of one.

She simply wasn't looking. The strangeness of the place broke whatever spell the promise of alcohol had put her in. She wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into her skin, biting down against the renewed urge to sob that was clawing its way up her throat. She was shaking. She needed to stop shaking. If she could just get to the water, maybe she could walk in and keep walking. Passing through the booths like a ghost. As if instead of going through with killing herself, she could just wish herself dead instead. Will herself into becoming a phantom. Or nothing. Nothing would do, too. Maybe she had already succeeded. Not a single soul turned its head to look at her. She stopped by a column, resting her head against the blackened, rusty, centennial steel and closing her eyes as the cold took over her soul.

“I don't exist. I don't exist. I don't exist,” Amara repeated. It was a prayer.

It was a wish. Or maybe it was just a way to talk herself into leaving the strange place and find her way to the water. She wasn't far from it. At that temperature, she could picture it. A painful cold, for a moment. And then the deep cold of the plunge would numb her. Numb her to the pain of the water filling her lungs. Maybe it would be slow, but even then. What was a minute or two of pain compared to a forever of not feeling anything? Compared to...

“Strange place for a girl like you.”

The voice was low and smooth, and it cut through the static in her head like a blade. Amara jerked. Her head left the pillar as she looked up and then around, feeling a shred of shame that managed to pass through the fog of her craving for oblivion. As she looked around, she spotted the presence next to her. She found herself staring into a pair of red eyes. No. Not red. Something deeper. Darker.

The woman was tall, draped in black like the night had shaped itself around her, swallowing everything but the pale column of her throat and those unnatural eyes. She stood with the kind of stillness that didn't belong to living things. A slow tilt of the head, curiosity instead of concern.

“I-” Amara's voice cracked. She swallowed hard, the weight of those eyes pressing against her ribs. “I don't... I just...”

A slow blink. Then, softly, “Tell me.”

Amara blinked herself. Something deep inside her had started screaming. She could feel it. It was the same thing she felt in the pit of her stomach when some guy walked behind her for too long at night, and she was alone. The same feeling she felt staring down a corridor where the darkness beyond was too deep. That feeling when climbing stairs in the dark and climbing one step too many. That deep dread of feeling one's foot sinking into the darkness that lasted for less than a heartbeat before it touched the landing. But in between the sensation of missing the step and the landing, there was a moment of simply feeling like falling into darkness. Into a bottomless pit without light. And somehow, that woman was that feeling. Taken shape.

The unnatural colour of her eyes should have triggered all the red flags in the world for Amara, but it did not. Somehow, her mind accepted it as it had accepted the strange market around her. The feeling of pure, unadulterated fear in her stomach without discernable cause, when she had decided moments before she was ready to die, should have been enough warning for her to run. But she did not.

“Tell you... What?”

“I think you know,” the woman said, and she moved a hand to touch Amara's shoulder.

She flinched. Her skin still felt like it was clingy with the film of filth cast upon it by the photographer's lustful gaze. But after that flinching, she... Relaxed. She exhaled and allowed that strange touch around her shoulder.

“I'm... Not having a good night.”

“No,” the woman said calmly, and without any force, she guided Amara to start walking.

She never questioned where; she just walked with her to one of the doors inside the warehouse. To what once must have been some form of foreman's office. Now, it was still an office. But of a different kind. Ledgers on a table, filing cabinets made of wood instead of metal, and handwritten titles. And the chairs had no wheels but were some old and admittedly comfortable antiques. Amara was sat there by the woman, who closed the door behind herself.

“You are cold,” she stated.

It was not a question, and she did not wait for a response, moving towards a small wardrobe in the corner. The shawl she pulled was so deeply black that it looked almost as if she was weaving ink into the air, defying physics. But as she draped it around Amara's shoulders, its warmth and soft texture proved it was just wool. Very expensive, very fine wool, but just wool.

“T-Thank you,” Amara said, wrapping the fabric around herself, unsure of what else to say.

“Anastasia,” the woman said with a lovely tint of foreignness to her accent. But not any specific country. Just... Foreign. An outsider.

“Sorry?”

“My name,” the woman explained unnecessarily and without repeating it.

“Ah... Yes... I'm, uh... Amara.”

“And you are not having a good night,” Anastasia repeated.

Amara nodded, and as she did, Anastasia moved to sit on the desk in front of her instead of across from Amara. She flattened the green felt with soft fingers, and Amara saw herself watching her hands. They were so pale. And she thought they had black painted nails, but now, at a closer look, it seemed almost like the very tip of Anastasia's fingers were blackened, as if she had dipped them in ink, if not for the most discreet of gradients between the blackness and the alabaster paleness of her skin. Her nails were a little long and filed to a point. Across the back of her right hand, Amara spotted a vein under her pale skin. It seemed black, as if her blood was ink. Amara swallowed dry. She spent a lot of her youth amongst models. She was familiar with beauty and not easily impressed by it. Yet, now that she allowed herself the time to take that woman in, she was stunned.

Anastasia had a striking presence. She was tall, and her posture was perfect, yet not rigid. As if keeping herself in a regal poise was effortless. Her skin was porcelain-pale but not lifeless – more like marble, smooth and cold, untouched by time.

Her hair was long, black as ink, falling in sleek waves down her back to the middle of it. The strands framed her pale face in blackness and offered a contrast against the deep blood-red of her eyes – a colour that shifted subtly in the light like garnets catching fire. Those eyes were patient and unreadable, holding a weight that felt like bricks on Amara's chest. Anastasia's mere gaze seemed to demand something from her. The woman's features were sharp yet refined – high cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted jawline, and lips painted in the deep, wine-dark shades of someone who understood her appearance and the power it contained. The way she dressed was pointedly intentful, her black dress parted down the middle, showing the valley between her small breasts, and there were folds of fabric that concealed her arms when they were close to her body, but as she moved, they revealed themselves not to be sleeved. Her arms were bare when they strayed from her slender, statuesque physique.

“You want to tell me about it,” Anastasia said, breaking the silence that formed in Amara's focused observation of her.

“I do?” Amara asked, a little sceptical. The woman might be beautiful, yes, but Amara knew better than anyone how hollow beauty was – she had a reminder of that whenever she looked in the mirror.

“Yes,” Anastasia sounded fairly certain. “Else, you'd have walked away. Or made it clear you don't.”

Amara frowned slightly. Not bad. It was true, she considered it. She considered spilling it out. Mostly because she thought she was going to die before sunrise, so why not? But it was patently absurd, of course, to spill your life's sob story to a stranger.

“And why would I... Want to tell you about my life?”

“I do not think so highly of myself as to think you want to tell me about it, Amara,” Anastasia said. “But you want to talk. And you have no one that will listen.”

Amara cursed herself because, for some reason, hearing her name from Anastasia's mouth had made her legs weak. She was sitting down, thankfully, and she managed not to gasp. Or not too loud. Yet her breath hitched as a single finger touched her chin, and Anastasia brought her eyes to gaze into the burning rubies on her face.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” Anastasia challenged.

She wouldn't. Of course not. She looked at those fleshy lips and felt the cold, blackened tip of her finger pressing against her chin, and the sensation on her chest was once again related to falling. That emptiness, that void that one sometimes felt when falling in one's dreams. But it felt... Warmer that time.

“You're right,” Amara conceded, breathy.

Anastasia's index was on her chin, padding up. It turned and curled. Her hand moved closer, pressing her thumb against Amara's lips and pulling her just a couple of inches closer until she was right on the edge of the chair.

“Then...” Anastasia said and paused for way too long, holding Amara's gaze as if to prove a point. To prove how well she could hold her attention by the sheer weight of her intensity. “Speak.”

Her hand left Amara's chin, and the girl gasped and shook her head. Her heart was racing, and she only realised it once that hand left her skin. She almost whined, craving its contact. She had flinched at the first touch on her shoulder, but something about that second moment, the shawl around her shoulders, made her feel an acute awareness about how touch-starved she was.

“I'll... I will tell you...” Amara said.

Anastasia smiled in response, but the young girl wasn't about to give something for nothing.

“But... I... Want something from you first.”

“You bargain?” Anastasia seemed vaguely annoyed.

“No... I... I request it,” Amara said. “Please?”

“Ah... I see,” Anastasia said. “Very well. Speak. What is that you wish?”

That was an easy answer. “Chocolate.”

Anastasia lifted a single eyebrow, and that tranquil, domineering face showed the first hint of genuine surprise. She smirked, slid from the desk like black fog sliding down a hill, and placed her hand on Amara's shoulder on her way out. Wordlessly, she left the little foreman's office and disappeared into the bizarre market.

Amara sighed. What the hell was she doing? She bet the odds of that woman being a serial killer to be around eight out of ten. But she was a ten out of ten, and she made Amara's legs weak. Stupid. Stupid. Was she going to let herself get killed because a woman was pretty and confident, and she had mommy issues? But why not? Why run when she had decided she wanted to die? Because whatever she was into probably involved removing Amara's skin alive, of course. Best to kill herself at home. Later. With pills. Better than being tied to a bed and watching Anastasia sharpen a long, narrow knife while talking about the best material to make lampshades.

“Wait, fuck.' Amara gasped in horror to herself as she pictured those long, beautiful fingers holding a light knife and softly grazing it across her exposed stomach. Does that turn me on?

She was so shocked by herself that she couldn't hear the door opening. She barely heard it closing as Anastasia walked past her and dropped something heavy on her lap. She looked down to see a brown package. The cover was glossy, dark maroon with two streaks of silver across it and a single MZ monogram in silver surrounded by a circle of an Aztec pattern. She gasped.

“Is this... Montezuma's?”

Anastasia simply closed her eyes and lifted her shoulders with the smallest shrug Amara had ever seen. Amara couldn't believe it. She was expecting a Snickers bar. Montezuma's was another league entirely. That French Canadian cunt, Chloe, made sure everyone at the casting agency knew she had gotten a Montezuma's treat box, a tiny one, with just three bonbons, from her gross sixty-year-old sugar daddy. When she mentioned the price online, Amara had to search for it. She wasn't lying. Three hundred dollars from three bonbons. And Chloe had to suck some wrinkly ballsack to get it. Amara had a whole bar dropped on her lap like it was nothing.

Yes. She felt bad for what she was about to do.

But not too bad.

She tore into the package and broke a square, shoving it into her mouth, barely chewing it, barely taking time to appreciate the sweet bitterness melting in her mouth as she swallowed a whole mouthful and then shoved another down. She ate with gusto.

“Holy fucking shit...” she muttered with a mouth already half full of the second square, only to realise a bit too late that she had said it out loud. But again, “holy fucking shit' was right.

She didn't expect Anastasia to understand. To keep herself in her “bikini- season body' all year round, she had to eat very little. Some of it was tasty, some of it was not. But the amounts were never enough, and indulging was entirely off the table. She could feel her mother's bony fingers digging into her shoulders as she looked over her shoulder while she stood naked on a scale, silently judging. She could feel her slapping a sundae off her hands with a scream, like she had spotted her with poison when they were at a five-star resort, causing all the guests to look at them like the dysfunctional family that they were. She spent hours crying in the hotel room while her parents lounged by the pool after. They were impervious to shame from strangers.

And now? Who cared about a flat stomach and hip dimples when she was about to die? When she no longer gave a fuck? She swallowed another mouthful of Montezuma's, and as Anastasia leaned in towards her, her finger stretched. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, thinking she was coming to clean away the smeared chocolate. Instead, she brushed away a fresh, warm tear that Amara didn't even know she had shed.

“S-Sorry... You must think I'm a dumb bitch... Crying over chocolate.”

“No. It's not the chocolate that makes me think so,” Anastasia said.

Any warmth she had built suddenly crumbled with the subtle implication. Amara almost took no joy in her third mouthful of chocolate as she frowned and looked angrily at Anastasia. She also looked bratty. Not on purpose, though. But Amara knew she just had one of those faces that always looked bratty when she was angry.

“Excuse you?” Amara said. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“Yes.” Anastasia didn't even attempt to hide it.

“Well, fuck you, lady. And the horse you rode in on.”

“I rode in on no horse.” Anastasia was unshaken.

“It's a fucking expression... What gives? You think you can call me stupid just because you gave me a three-hundred-dollar bar of chocolate?” Amara protested, biting into it again; fuck, it was good chocolate.

“Seven hundred,” Anastasia corrected.

Amara almost did a spit-take. She tried to swallow, but before she could continue, Anastasia was speaking again:

“But as I said, it is not the chocolate.”

“Then why... The fuck...”

“Your eyes.”

“I have stupid eyes?”

“No,” Anastasia said, simple and true. “You have beautiful eyes. But you have stupid notions behind them.”

“You have no fucking idea of what notions I have or don't have behind my eyes.”

“I know the look in the eyes of a woman courting the Reaper, Amara,”

Anastasia said, unshaken. Certain. “Trust me, that cold bitch has nothing worth taking to offer you.”

Suddenly, Montezuma's chocolate didn't taste that good anymore.

“You don't know that...” Amara said meekly.

Anastasia didn't have to say anything to that. Her eyes spoke at length about how unconvincing Amara's retort was. Amara herself felt it. There was no resolve behind her words.

“How can you know that?” Amara tried.

Anastasia offered a brief razor-sharp smile, but getting that tiny fraction of approval from her was almost invigorating. But it was gone. Gone too soon.

“We've crossed paths before,” she said.

“We?' Amara thought. Her and... Death?

“Besides, your passing, that you are envisioning... It will not be about you, will it?”

Amara didn't answer. She just looked down at the chocolate bar on her lap and back to the pale woman who once again sat in front of her. She sighed and shook her head. She hated that the woman was right. It would not be about her. She didn't care much about what happened to herself, though. But did she really want to give even another part of herself to her parents? The last part. To hand over what they had not taken yet.

“Don't try to talk me out of it,” Amara said, irritated. She preferred it when she didn't have doubts.

“Oh. Do not mistake sincere appraisal for care,” Anastasia said, with another shrug that was just a movement of eyes. “I said it was stupid. I will not attempt to stop you.”

“So, you'd... Let me kill myself?” Anastasia's face didn't move; she just looked at Amara. Really looked. And there was her answer. Of course she would. She didn't even know Amara.

Why should she care? But if she didn't care, why the chocolate?

“Stop... Stop acting like you know me... You don't know my story.”

“Then, correct that,” Anastasia said.

“What?”

“A deal's a deal.” Anastasia then pointed to the chocolate.

“Et tu, Montezuma's?' she thought, looking down at the bar. Betrayed. She took another bite of it for revenge's sake. Oh, the glory of it. The way the darkness and depth of the flavour tumbled with the sweetness in her mouth. It was like all the best parts of a shot of espresso and of sticking her finger in a jar of Nutella and licking it clean so that her mother would not see evidence of the secret treat she kept hidden in her closet on any of the plates and utensils. She thought nothing in her life would taste better than secret-closet Nutella. Holy fuck, she was wrong.

“Fine,” she conceded. “If you want to know about my night...” She took a deep breath. “I ran away from my parents.”

“Why?” Anastasia asked, unmoved.

“Because they were trying to whore me out,” Amara fired.

“Then you did the right move,” Anastasia decided.

Amara blinked in stunned confusion. Then she took another bite to chew angrily, or as angry as she could be, while she was eating what felt like an orgasm-wrapped hug to her insides. She huffed, flaring her nostrils. How did that woman not react in shock? Was it because she didn't believe her? Because, yes, Amara was trying to shock her. She wanted to get a reaction out of her.

“My parents tried to get me to sleep with a guy so that I would... Appear on some dumb calendar as December,” she explained, sighing.

“And if you did not sleep with this man, you wouldn't be on the calendar?”

“What? No! Of course I would,” Amara said, taking offence at the implication that she was not good enough material to make it into the calendar at all without sleeping with someone. “But I wanted to be December.”

“Why?”

“Everyone does,” she said. “I mean, it's obvious, right? It's the last page. Everyone remembers the last page. Most people don't get next year's calendar until mid-January, maybe even February. So you never want to be a January girl. You want to be the December girl. Always.”

“Do I?” Anastasia asked. “Did you?”

She couldn't believe she had to explain it to someone. It was such an obvious thing. Amara had understood the intricacies of calendar real estate since she started doing pre-teen pageants. She tried not to think about the fact that there was an entire market segment of calendars of pre-teen girls in shorts and swimwear out there. And some of those pictures were hers. She took another bite. Only to realise she was down to her last square of the comforting treat. She probably had eaten more calories in the previous twenty minutes than she had all week.

“It's obvious,” she said with a sigh. “December's the best month, okay? But I wasn't about to sleep with some oily little weirdo to get it.”

“Would you have if he was handsome?”

“What? No!”

“I see... Do you think other girls have?”

“Oh, I know they have. Fuck, that guy's probably... Balls deep in Taylor right now. Or Kelly. Gosh, fuck Kelly. Dying not to see her getting December would already make it worth it.”

“The later in the year, the better, I presume?”

Amara resisted the urge to laugh. She shook her head, clutching the last square of Montezuma's in her hand. She wanted to eat it. But after she did, she would no longer have it. She had already decided that was a pretty great last meal. So maybe she should save the last square for... The moment right before.

“No, no... Not at all. December's the best, okay? Is that clear? Good... So then you have September. It's always fashion-themed. Always. So it's really like... Second place.”

“And what's third?”

“Debatable,” Amara said, humming in thought. “Some girls think it's January, right?”

“Because it sets the tone?” Anastasia asked.

“Yes!” Amara felt a sudden excitement that Anastasia was listening to her enough to “get it'.

“But you disagree with them?”

“I do, because...”

“Most people still have their calendars on December for a part of January?”

“Exactly! If you are Miss January, you are just some other Miss December's cuck.”

“Cuck?” “Uh... Let's not get into that one.” “I see... So, what's third place?” “Well... I would say it depends on the calendar. If you are not doing a swimsuit calendar, it's July. Because then it's usually the one bikini shoot there. Usually, July goes to the girl with the biggest tits,” Amara said, unapologetic. “Or a nice ass. Mostly tits, though... Unless the calendar is going to be printed in South America, then usually they go for an ass-first approach.”

Anastasia just kept looking at her. Her eyes carried a silent query.

“I know, I know. And you are right. I don't think it's July either. Not for me, at least. For me, it's October.”

“Hm...” Anastasia hummed.

“Halloween is a strong theme, black is almost always flattering...” she said, offering a smirk to Anastasia. “As you have figured out... And usually, Halloween-themed shoots lean a little more on personality.”

“The colours are dark, so the one in the picture needs to shine through?”

“Oh, wow... For someone who didn't know why December was best, you sure learn fast, Anastasia.”

“I find that to be true as well,” Anastasia agreed calmly. “This betrayal from your parents... It was not a first, was it?”

“No... Not a first,” Amara said, considering asking Anastasia how she knew that. Perhaps it was simply obvious that parents who did that would not do it just once. But there was something else to it, and she wanted to impress the woman in front of her – for whatever reason, she couldn't say – by showing that she knew how she was figuring her out. “Was it my tone?”

Anastasia nodded.

“You wanted to surprise me with it. But you had no disbelief in your voice. You almost... Expected it.”

That dropped like a stone in her stomach. Because it was true. She did. She had not realised it, but she did. She wasn't shocked because they sided with the sleazy guy over her. She wasn't shocked because they didn't comfort or protect her. No. She was desperate because they did exactly what she expected them to. They did what she was afraid they would do, and she desperately tried to convince herself they wouldn't.

“I'm tired of expecting the worst of them and being right.”

“That sounds like it would exhaust you, yes. I can imagine that finally realising your parents are scum must be... Soul wrenching.”

“No, no... I didn't finally realise that. That is old news.”

“Then... What changed today? Because something did. The resolve I saw in your eyes is not of someone who tries and tries but never goes through with it.”

She wasn't wrong. Amara had been set on doing it. Maybe she still was.

“I... I decided I couldn't live with myself, not anymore.”

“With yourself?”

She took a deep breath. The ugliest of truths. The most repulsive and pathetic part of it all. Could she admit to it? Her stomach turned. Nausea. Her throat tightened. What did she have to lose? Why not say it? Maybe that woman was her priest. Maybe that strange foreman corner in an abandoned warehouse was her confession booth, and that was her midnight mass. Take the dark sacrament. Ask for the last rites. Confess your sins. That was the thing to do before you die, wasn't it?

”...Fuck...”

She sighed. She took a deep breath and clutched the last square of chocolate.

“You promise you will not stop me from killing myself? If I tell you?”

“Yes,” Anastasia said.

Wow, that came easy. It must be nice to be that much of a callous bitch, Amara thought. But then Anastasia said:

“I will do you one better, even, Amara.”

“Yes?”

“If you still seek the Pale Mistress... If you still crave death and oblivion by tomorrow, right before the sun rises... I shall kill you myself.”

“You're fucking with me.”

Anastasia lifted her eyebrows. Her eyes were sharp. There was not a hint of humour in her tone. Just raw, sharp steel. Resolve. Truth. She would kill her. She would.

“Will it hurt?”

“No. In fact... It will feel... Good. For a moment. Then you won't feel anything anymore. Forever.”

“The bargain is struck.”

“Tell me... What was the breaking point? What made you unable to live with yourself?”

“The lenses.”

“Explain?”

“I... Look... This guy was taking pictures of me. Not for the calendar. We call them “preliminary'. When it's a big project, the girls go in and do a less produced shoot with the photographer, like an audition, but with actual photos, right?”

“I shall take your word for it.”

“Yeah, yeah... Alright... Anyway. There I was, standing there after posing in... This...”

She gestured to her humiliating short bodycon bikini that made painfully clear how stunningly attractive she was. Even with her smeared makeup, even with some chocolate on her lips, she knew she was gorgeous. She knew she could walk to any man on the street and get his cock inside of her before the night was over, nine times out of ten. She knew it because she fucking tested it. Even Anastasia, in her own subtle way, lingered on her legs, on her chest. Amara took no offence to it. She should look. She should look all she wanted. Those legs, those tits, her cock-sucking lips. That was what she could offer the world. That was all she was. And that was what she was looking at in her reflection on the photographer's lenses.

“I... I was just arching my back, pushing my chest forward, making the “sexy baby' face that men love.” She felt that nausea again in her throat. “All the tricks. All the... Techniques. And then he said... “I think you may be December material'. Fuck. My mother might have creamed herself,” Amara said with annoyance. “And the worst part? I was so fucking happy with that. My little eyes sparkled like a dumb puppy. Oh, mommy's happy with me... Pathetic, right?”

“And the lenses?”

“That wasn't it. Not yet. I was still happy. I was so fucking happy. I told him... I told him, “Fuck yes, let's do it'. And then he said... He said... For me to pull the strap of my dress down. To... Show him... My breast.” Anastasia was silent. But Amara's eyes went to her fingers with blackened tips. Sharp nails dug into the green felt. Slightly.

“I did. I... Took a strap off. Then another. He adjusted himself in his pants. My father fucking... Looked away. He looked away. He didn't tell me to stop. But he couldn't fucking look,” Amara said, tears of rage coming back to her eyes. “And then...” Her mouth was turning to ash. Bitter ash. Not even Montezuma's could fight that feeling. “Then he said... That all Miss Decembers have one thing in common.”

She licked her lips.

“Cock-sucking lips.”

Anastasia's hands tensed. Her face didn't move, though. Not a millimetre. Cold steel.

“I... Stood there. And I waited. I waited for my mom to say something. My dad. I waited. I...” She took a deep breath. “They did not. Obviously.”

She paused. She thought of the lenses. Her reflection. Standing there. Waiting for them to say something, knowing they wouldn't.

“And then?”

“And then... I...” She took a deep breath. She still felt like she couldn't breathe.

“Do the confession. Take the dark sacrament. And then let her fucking kill you,' Amara thought.

“I knelt.”

Anastasia's hands remained tense. She could see the tendons on the back of the marble-pale hand bridging under the skin even when the fingers didn't move.

“And he adjusted himself. And I saw he was hard, and for a second, for a second I thought to myself that's... Just another blowjob. And after, maybe mom and dad will be so happy they'll take me to Gustav's and let me have the chocolate flan. Like they did when I got that perfume gig,” she said. “And that thought. That fucking thought. That fucking thought made me smile, Anastasia. I didn't even realise it.” Tears were streaming, her throat was burning. “I didn't until I fucking looked up... And saw myself smiling... And saw myself on...”

”...The lenses?”

Anastasia's nails dug into the felt, deep. Her hands clenched. The table was left with an indentation. And the calmness on her face was replaced with a cold detachment. Like her eyes were not seeing Amara anymore. And she couldn't blame her. Because she was pathetic. She was trash. She was like the snow in the gutters, with cigarette butts, pieces of plastic and the piss of the drunk and the homeless inside her. And the only way she could ever clean herself of that was to not be. Was to melt under the sun. She didn't deserve her beauty. She didn't deserve Anastasia to even look at her.

She deserved death. And if Anastasia's plan was to talk her out of it, well, then it fucking backfired. Amara had tried too hard to focus on other things. On her rage for her parents. On her wish to end it all. So she didn't have to see her own face on the lenses, distorted, rounded, smiling. It was a fraction of a second. She soon stood up, pulled her dress and stepped away. That was when her parents yelled at her. That was when she threw her phone into the gutter and ran. But she was not running away from her parents. Or the fashion industry. Or sleazy photographers. She was running away from that disgusting, pathetic, weak-willed girl she saw on the lenses. She hated her parents, yes. For what they made of her. She hated her life for driving her to that. But she mostly hated herself. She could never forgive herself for that smile. For the feelings behind it. Death would not erase it, but at least she wouldn't be here anymore.

Amara collapsed on her knees and sobbed. She didn't intend to put her head on Anastasia's lap, but it somehow happened. Maybe it was the angle at which she dropped and how close those legs were to her chair. Maybe subconsciously, she was still a child. But as she sobbed against the dark shawl, with tears and snot, she felt fingers caressing her hair. And those fingers were no longer cold. They were warm and soft.

“Your pain is great. But it's not all you are,” Anastasia said.

Amara didn't respond. Fuck that noise. What did Anastasia know about her pain?

“You d-don't know that... You can't know that!” she roared between sobs.

“I know. And I can show it to you.”

“H-How...? How could you...”

“Because I can take it away. All of it. Tonight.”

Amara knew she was being lied to. And it was a cruel lie. It made her angry. Very much so. She looked up to find those fiery eyes on her, ready to scream at Anastasia between sobs that she was a cruel bitch for giving a girl such hope with her sweet venomous lies. But as she looked up, expecting that tranquil, unshaken face, she saw those garnet eyes burning with fire. They seemed to glow, even, and there was a mild scowl on Anastasia's visage that would barely be perceptible. Except that in her usual unfazed demeanour, it was a stark contrast. It wasn't just anger. It was... Focus. Determination. Sincerity. Deep and primaeval.

The hand still caressed Amara's head. She did not think it was a lie anymore. She believed it. But she was not stupid. She knew nothing came without a price, and Anastasia seemed the furthest thing away from a philanthropic messiah. Was she going to ask her to join a cult? Fuck, maybe she would. If the pain would really go away, she would take some weird drugs and accept Anastasia as a hyperspace overseer or whatever. Her friend Rhen had joined a cult after almost dying of a coke overdose, and the last time she saw them, Rhen looked better than ever. No free lunches, but maybe the price was something she was willing to pay. Amara calmed herself.

“What... What do you want?” she asked, and before Anastasia could answer, she barked in warning, “And don't tell me “nothing'. I know better...”

“Oh, I would never say that, my little starling. I can lie. But tonight, I will not lie to you.”

“You won't? Can you promise that?” Amara challenged, sceptical.

“Cross my heart... And hope to die,” Anastasia replaced, tracing her fingers over the left side of her chest through the exposed slit of skin on her black dress.

It should not have convinced Amara, but it did. Maybe her mind had already cracked. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she believed it wholeheartedly with no further questioning. That night was strange, and she would take what it threw at her.

“Okay... Then... The cost? It has a cost, right?”

“It does. A high cost, too.”

“So... What will it be? What does it take to make the pain go away?”

“Everything.”

“W-What, what do you mean?”

“I promised not to lie to you, my little starling. I can take your pain away.

But everything goes with it... Your old life. Your friends. Your career...”

So it was a cult. Amara sighed. If it worked for Rhen, why not?

“D-Do I have to come to live in your compound then?”

“Compound?” Anastasia asked, shaking her head. “No. You do have to come to my home tonight. But you'll be free to leave if you wish.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I told you I would not lie to you tonight,” Anastasia said matter-of-factly. Amara stood up, wiping her snot and tears on the shawl and passing it to Anastasia. She thought for a moment, and then she nodded as the woman took it and folded it. Amara walked across the small office. Through the square windows, she looked out into the market. She could swear she saw something odd. A woman becoming black mist and vanishing. But her vision was blurry from tears, and after she wiped them, things seemed just the normal level of odd. “Great, I'm losing my mind. I guess... Between a hot lady's cult and suicide, I can give the cult a go,' she hummed inside her mind. Then she tried to look at Anastasia through the reflection on the window, to judge her when she didn't know she was being watched. But despite the well-lit interior of the office, the glass did not reflect her well. All she could see was the dot of her eyes and a dark shape. She pulled out her pocket mirror.

The mirror was small, shaped like a clam's shell, but big enough to show the mess she had become. Smudged mascara, eyes puffy and bloodshot, lips stained with chocolate. Her hair – dark and deep in colour, though a matte coal shade of black rather than Anastasia's deep ink – hung in tangled waves around her face, framing sharp cheekbones and a jawline meant for cameras. Her skin, golden-olive and usually flawless, was slick with sweat, smeared by the night's ruin. Her purple lipstick had been smeared across her lips in her attempt to get the chocolate off. She looked cheap. Used. Like a party girl past her expiration date. And yet, she was fucking beautiful. Her temporary distress couldn't erase the sapphire blueness of her eyes and the shape of her lips. She wasn't so naive as to think that beauty was always a curse, as some of her model “friends' – if she could call them that – would say for pity points. But for her. It was. She took a Kleenex from her purse to wipe most of the mess. But that wasn't the reason she pulled the pocket mirror out. She turned it to look at Anastasia. To see who she was when she was not being watched.

Then she saw it. And her blood froze.

She snapped the mirror shut. She didn't look twice. She didn't try to confirm. She simply stood there, staring blankly at nothing. The image of what she saw was imprinted on her brain. Where Anastasia stood, the mirror showed only a shadow. A ghastly whirling shadow vaguely shaped like a woman. A blotch in the lens of reality, with two red eyes. She closed her eyes, but it only made her see it more clearly. She turned, shaking. Fuck. Had she died? Was Anastasia the Reaper? Was she... Something worse?

“Y-You... Said you won't lie...” Amara started, trembling.

Anastasia stepped off the desk, lowering it to grab the last tablet of chocolate from the floor, still wrapped in the leftover vellum wrapping. She held it in one hand while turning to Amara.

“That is correct.”

“Then... I want to know, no bullshit... What are you?”

“What am I?”

“You know what I mean! I said no bullshit... Tell me!” she demanded, fear making her high-pitched and loud.

“I am... A vampire.”

Amara blinked. She had seen that scene in movies before. She knew how it played out: She doubted the woman, the woman showed her fangs. Hijinks. Adventure. Romance? Scepticism seemed like the natural reaction, yet it felt... Tired. Cliché. Insincere. Amara felt that... Deep down, she knew. She was just forced to confront it through the mirror. But that she knew from the moment Amara's red eyes gazed onto hers. Maybe before.

“I... Didn't know vampires were real...”

“You probably did. But you forgot,” Anastasia explained.

“W-What? Vampires erase our minds?”

“No. Mortals erase their own minds. When they see what they can't understand... They don't. They don't process it. The world is too scary if you face the swirling black chaos for what it is. Most minds... They cannot bear it. Not until... They are broken.”

“Broken...”

“Do not ask me to explain the vagaries of fate, Amara. I would if I could, but I promised no lies, so I shall not feign knowledge of such deep mysteries. Know this: It's no coincidence you found yourself at my Night Market the night your soul howled in madness and despair.”

“Your... Night Market?”

“This establishment around.”

“A market... For vampires?”

“Yes, but not just. A market for all of us, kindred spirits, who must roam in darkness.”

Amara trembled. Yes, that made too much sense. She wished she could act more sceptical than she was. But it would be insincere.

“So... When you said you could make the pain go away... You actually can?”

“I tire of repeating myself, Amara. I won't lie. Yes, I can.”

“How? Tell me how.”

“Not here.”

“Then where...?”

Anastasia walked to her, putting the expensive chocolate in Amara's hand and moving to the foreman's office door.

“At my home.”

Following Anastasia into her home sounded like the worst possible idea Amara could have. Yet, any sense of self-preservation she might have had was eroded over the years by her parents, and the surviving bits crumbled to dust that night.

“Fuck it. We ball,' Amara told herself.

“Alright. Let's go.”

Despite the name, Coal Road wasn't some crumbling industrial stretch lined with rusting machinery and fentanyl dealers. It wound out of Montcroix's suburbs, past the skeletal remains of old coal depots, and into the eastern foothills of the Charbon Mountains. A century before, mule carts descended the route by the hundreds, their loads fueling Montcroix's brick furnaces and steam paddlers. But the coal ran dry, and the industry abandoned it.

Wealth did not.

When the city's heart became too crowded – too immigrant, too loud – the old-money families looked eastward. They built mansions there, clawing their way up the slopes, their backs to the blackened cliffs. Today, Coal Road was a haven of gated estates, their wrought-iron gates guarding the obscene wealth of tech billionaires, reclusive socialites, and men whose fortunes had no clear origin. Like Chloe's sugar daddy. He lived at the Coal Road, according to Chloe.

The SUV rumbled over the cracked asphalt, its black-tinted windows swallowing the neon glow of the city behind them. Amara sat stiffly on the leather seat, the hum of the tyres beneath her the only sound between her and the driver – a man who hadn't spoken a word. Not when Anastasia had led her into the car. Not when the doors had locked with a soft click.

She watched the streetlights thin, then vanish altogether. The world beyond the glass turned to ink, the only illumination coming from the car's dashboard and the distant, flickering lights of the mansions set behind their iron gates.

Isolation set in like a vice. She was in a black SUV with a stranger, driving into the dark toward an estate from which no one would hear her scream. A smart girl would be scared. A smart girl would have gotten out of the car the moment it pulled up. Amara pressed her palm against the window, watching the city disappear behind her.

Smart girl. Too bad she wasn't one. They went past every other home, climbing ever higher until the end of Coal Road and then continued. Beyond the old and the modern houses there, the occupied and the abandoned mansions. Beyond them all, perched at the highest point of the road, was Ebonhall.

The wrought-iron gate led to a small cobblestone roundabout. A path on the road led to a decently sized cottage, and only after Amara stepped out did she realise it was merely the garage. Ebonhall was almost invisible; darkened stone brick against the dark background of the Charbon Mountains meant that not even the starlight could help define its silhouette. There was very little light in the yard leading to the home, rendering it a silent titan watching from over the hill. The features of an American Victorian manor, with distinct old- world features, could still be made out as Amara walked behind Anastasia. A long trail of steps led from the cobblestone roundabout to the porch, but even before she took three steps out of the car, Anastasia said:

“You are cold.”

The word was not a command, but it might as well have been because the silent driver went to the trunk to fetch a large, long trench coat, draping it over Amara's shoulders. Anastasia watched one of her heel-clad feet on the first step. The hand with blackened fingers stretched to wait for Amara's before their ascension. She hesitated before taking it, feeling like it was some form of ominous acceptance of a contract. But she did, and they climbed together, leading to the large landing of the porch.

The door was carved with a strange theme. Nature, it seemed, but only in its more twisted forms. An eagle clutching a snake in its claws. Two coyotes surrounding a bunny. A crocodile's maws engulfing a gazelle, and, for the last panel, a man with a spear thrusting it into a bear.

It clicked, then. Hunt. Predators. Amara shivered. Anastasia noticed as she opened Ebonhall's doors for the girl.

“Fear not, if I was simply after your blood, there would be no reason to bring you here,” Anastasia said.

“So... You won't drink my blood?”

“I did not say that,” she warned without jest.

They entered the massive oval hall with two long stairways leading up, and yet, the whole house seemed a little less... Lived in than Amara expected. Too picture perfect, clean but sparsely and uncomfortably furnished. The interior doors were all closed. Anastasia didn't go up the stairs but instead towards the side of one of them, opening a discreet panel that revealed itself to be a door, and a red Victorian-style wallpaper showed in the interior. Bright light spilt forth from brass lamps. Amara walked with a heavy breath to look down the red staircase, lined with carpeted steps held in place by brass rods, mahogany handrails, and painted portraits of Anastasia across the walls. Anastasia wearing a black Victorian dress or a Renaissance-style one with blood-red puffed sleeves. One of the portraits, also Victorian, showed a man with effeminate features who conspicuously looked like her but had bright red eyes. Anastasia watched Amara stop to contemplate that one and shrugged.

“Sometimes it's easier to give them what they expect than to swim against the current,” she explained.

The last two portraits were not really portraits. One was a Byzantine-style painting on clay that had been moved from its original place and mounted on the wall. Despite the lack of accuracy, the noblewoman's red eyes and black hair in Byzantine clothes left little doubt about her identity. The other was a wood relief. A female warrior wearing scale armour, in a style somewhere between Vikings and medieval Russia, held aloft the head of an Orthodox priest with a sword in hand and an army of wolves behind her.

”...And sometimes it's not a choice,” Anastasia said.

“This is... It's you?”

“I was young back then. Full of piss and vinegar... Age has... Tempered me,” she said as she guided Amara gently inside.

At some point, the basement had been a stone wine cellar with arched ceilings, but it had been converted into what seemed almost like a luxurious loft for a rich person with a taste for antiques: A long wine-dark loveseat, a large fireplace with stone carvings of lions on either end, as if holding the mantle, where a set of Japanese swords was laid. A large canopy bed in one of the niches, a large collection of wines, and an old gramophone. There wasn't a lot of cohesion between the origin of the antiques, but it worked as if centuries of painstaking matching of shape and colour had gone into it. And maybe they had. Black, red and gold seemed to be the chosen palette, and as Amara admired it, Anastasia placed both hands on her waist and directed her towards the couch. She sat without resisting.

A deep breath was taken. Between running from her parents, arriving at the Night Market and arriving there, it had been but a couple of hours. But so much had changed in her life that it now felt like an eternity. But she had not lost sight of why she had gone.

“Do you drink anything?”

Amara was about to respond “no' by reflex. But then she looked down at the single piece of chocolate still clutched by her fingers. Who was she saving herself for, anyway? She paused and said, instead:

“Yes.”

Anastasia turned, amused, from perusing her bottles.

“And what, pray tell, do you want?”

“Surprise me.” Amara shrugged.

That she did. Anastasia placed a small chalice in her hand of something that smelled a lot like cherry but was more bitter and strongly alcoholic. She downed it in one gulp as the woman sat in an armchair across from her, a red oak polished oval coffee table between them.

“So... You asked me about taking your pain away. And I'm sure you want to know how I intend to do it.”

“Y-Yes... I do.”

“If you had not yet guessed, Amara, I took a liking to you. You remind me of someone I was dearly fond of. And... Well, my inner processes are perhaps not as interesting to you as my final proposal: I would like you to join me.”

“Join you? Like a servant?”

“No. I have thralls aplenty. What I offer you is a prize they covet dearly, but that is mine and mine alone to give.”

Amara adjusted in her seat. Surely, the woman wasn't proposing what she thought she was proposing, was she? She found herself breathing through her mouth. The last square of Montezuma's melting in her hand.

“Oh?”

“I want you to become my Fledgling, my little starling, and I shall be your Sire.”

“Your... Fledgeling... Do you mean... You want to make me a vampire? Like... Immortal, fangs, all that?”

“That's what I propose, yes. But be warned. You are being offered a choice for a reason. You will be dead to your previous life. Going back is not an option. Once you cross the terrible threshold, you can only find sorrow looking back.”

“That's... Not bad, honestly.”

“Aye. But you will be denied other things, too. Friends. Daylight. A heartbeat, most of the time... And you'll find all food and drink to taste like ash... Save for the rarest of treats.”

Amara swallowed dry. She looked at the piece of chocolate, half-melted, in her hand. She thought about the kiss of the sun on her skin. Days at the beach. She even thought about the few moments of genuine happiness she had had with her parents. Even with Chloe. Then she looked at Anastasia. Her open arms rested on the armrests of her chair, legs crossed, ever patient. But her fingers, they tensed. She was hungry.

“Hungry. For me,' Amara thought. That gorgeous woman said she had thralls who coveted that for years. And she had picked Amara off the streets. She saw her as an utter mess. She talked of her most humiliating, pathetic moment. And yet, she craved to make her... Hers.

“Will I... Be free?”

“No,” Anastasia said.

“No?”

“I said I wouldn't lie, my little starling. You are free now, yes. You can walk away. My driver will take you to your parents. Or a bus station. Or the pier, if you wish to jump. You are free now. But say yes to this... And you will no longer be.”

“It costs... Everything.”

“It does.”

Her little starling. She never fought against the name. It made no sense before. It made even less sense then. She liked it. She liked being herself. She couldn't belong to herself, she knew that. Her parents had damaged her too much for it. But now... Now, she could choose someone to own her, at least. Choose someone with power beyond petty greed.

“And... The pain will go away.”

“Aye,” Anastasia said. “It will.”

Amara closed her eyes. The last block of chocolate stuffed into her mouth. She chewed with gusto, allowed it to melt completely, and held it there until it was just a sweet thick fluid. She tasted the cocoa beans, the sugar, the milk. What a fucking great last meal, she thought, as she swallowed and looked Anastasia in the eyes.

“Fuck. Let's do it.”

“Very well...” Anastasia stood up, slowly moving towards her, the coffee table prolonging her route just enough for Amara to sense how hard her heart was beating.

Anastasia licked her lips, and her eyes glowed. The sound of something snapping came from her jaw. Dry, like a bone cracking. Yet she didn't seem in pain. Her nipples hardened against her dress, and she knelt on the cushions next to Amara with one leg, caressing her hair with a hand and using the other to guide the girl to look into her eyes.

“W-What... What comes next?”

“First... I'll give you one last great sensation... As a mortal...”

Amara swallowed dry. She could feel the liquid sex dripping from every word in Anastasia's speech, and she was not too naive not to know what she meant. Her body responded to it with fiery want. But she had to ask. She had to.

“And... Then?”

“Then...” Anastasia leaned in, grazing sharp fangs against her earlobe.

“My little starling...” she whispered, throaty, and her black-tipped fingers pushed the bodycon dress up by a few inches. “... You'll have to die.”

Amara froze.

“Just for a moment.”

Table of Contents

1. The Dark Threshold
2. Born in Blood
3. The Mistress' New Girl