Vampire's Curvy Valentine

by Annabelle Winters

  Slowly I exhale, my eyes so wide they’re burning. I step back to the window, trembling as I glance towards the neighbor’s property, to those bat-infested trees that were like a running joke for me until yesterday, when they sent my anxiety levels higher than the waistband of my old-fashioned panties.

  But for some reason the trees look different today, and I frown and squint as I try to figure out why. It takes me a minute, but then I get it:

  The bats are gone.

  Every single one of them.

  Gone, like they aren’t needed here any longer.

  Like their work is done, their task complete, their destiny fulfilled.

  “Either that, or these heavenly ta-ta’s scared the living daylights out of those mangy flying rats,” I quip, glancing down at my safely-ensconced boobs and managing to crack just enough of a smile that I don’t pass out from holding my breath.

  Do not call them rats, Lady Daisy. When we are wed they will serve you as they have served me over the centuries. They will be your eyes when yours are closed. They will be your ears in places miles away. They will seek and search tirelessly at your bidding. They will shield you and our children from our enemies. Die for you and our children. So be nice, please.

  I cover my mouth with one hand and my eyes with the other. Then I touch my forehead, wondering if I’m running a fever. They say the mind plays tricks on itself when you’re running a high fever. I used to get those fevers as a kid—hell, once I even straight-up hallucinated, I was so delirious!

  Those were not hallucinations, Lady Daisy. They were visions of your future. Our future. The future of the Vampyre Creed.

  Now I yelp out loud and start to pace my living room, furiously running my fingers through my hair, shaking my head like a dog at the poolside.

  “OK, that was not my imagination,” I say out loud, not sure if I want to convince myself or not. “That was . . . it was . . . I think I’m . . .”

  Your gift awaits, Lady Daisy. Hurry. It is getting cold.

  I close my eyes so tight my head hurts. My heart’s beating like a bongo, making my boobs pulsate like I’m shimmying on the dancefloor. I think about the scientific research conducted on prison inmates locked up in solitary confinement. They not only start talking to themselves, but they also reply in different voices sometimes. Other times they’re quiet on camera, but later say they were having long conversations—internal conversations that were real as anything to them.

  “Is that what’s happening?” I say out loud, absentmindedly stepping to the window and staring at the mailbox that seems slightly redder than normal—maybe even a bit shiny today. “Am I spending too much time alone and I’m not only talking to myself but also answering myself? I mean, I’m not crazy. Crazy people don’t ask themselves if they’re crazy. They assume they’re normal and happily continue doing crazy shit, right? So if I’m wondering whether I’m crazy, it actually means I’m not crazy, right? Right. Good. We’re good. We’re OK.”

  I swallow hard as that mailbox comes into focus again. It really does look shiny. Almost like it’s wet. Did it rain last night.

  No.

  Not unless it rained blood.

  I do a double-take when I see the streaks of red on the old wooden post. They look fresh. But fresh what?

  Your gift is getting cold.

  I stroke my neck as a wave of heat breaks over my body. Beads of sweat pop on my forehead, and I’m hyperventilating as I find myself walking to the front door.

  I know I’m scared, freaked out, panicked to the point I might puke. But there’s also a weird steadiness flowing through me like an underground river, something ancient and powerful, a current strong and true.

  The river of destiny, comes the voice. Follow it. Follow it to me.

  “Who are you?” I whisper as I take another step to the door and slowly pull it open. I don’t know why I’m talking to myself, but somehow it feels natural. And the voice . . . ohmygod, it feels . . . feels like . . .

  I step onto the sunbaked porch just as that wave of heat blasts through me like it did yesterday, making my nipples pop out like buttons, my thighs tighten as my slit oozes its secret wetness into my panties. I’m transfixed by that bulging red mailbox, even though a part of me is dreading what I’ll find in there. I mean, this is totally how psycho-killer movies start. And those movies never end well unless you’re the psycho-killer.

  But as the thought hits me so does an image so vivid I almost stumble down the creaky wooden stairs on my old porch. It’s a vision bathed in red, and it’s so clear I almost moan out loud as it consumes me with a feeling I can’t even describe.

  “What in the name of all that’s good and holy,” I mutter as I close my eyes and let the sun have at me. “Where is this coming from?”

  There’s no response, and I just stand there and bask in that vision, bathe in its vividness, revel in its power. I can see bloodshed and carnage, but it feels peaceful in the most sickening way. I see men and women with eyes that glow like green coals, hair long and thick like curtains of black velvet, fingers like claws but not of an animal, teeth like . . . fangs?

  “Ohmygod, are those . . . vampires?” I say out loud, almost squawking out the sentence as I somehow keep my balance. “OK, no. Just . . . no. You’ve got bats on the brain, girl.”

  The correct spelling is Vampyre, comes the voice of my madness.

  “Um, how do you know how my mind is spelling something, Crazy Voice?” I say. If I’m gonna have visions of a vampire feeding-frenzy while some voice corrects my spelling in my head, I might as well have fun with it, right? Might as well engage. Dive in. Commit. Wheee!

  I see every part of your mind. Every secret of your soul. Every memory and dream. Every fear. Every fantasy. You are my destined bride, and when I Turn you and claim you, you will inhabit my soul just as I do yours.

  “Turn me?” I say, finally opening my eyes and blinking. I place my hands on my wide hips and sigh. That disconcerting feeling of calmness is still flowing through me, and I’m almost giggling as I shrug and then nod. “Oh, right. I get it now. So you’re a vampire. And you’re gonna turn me into a vampire. Well, that’s very considerate, but I’m gonna have to pass. I mean, call me crazy for giving up a chance at eternal life and never-ending skinniness, but yeah, no. Thanks for the offer, though, Crazy Voice!”

  My name is Drachus. And this is not an offer. Fate does not make offers. The river of destiny flows in only one direction. The sands of time drip only—

  “Wait, your name is Drac-us?” I say, totally interrupting this vampire overlord who’s clearly read too many flowery fantasy books from the 1800s. “Like Count Dracula, copyright Bram Stoker, circa 1850?” I raise an eyebrow and shrug. “Well, it’s probably out of copyright by now. But still.” Then I sigh and shake my head. “Well, that confirms it. I’m just talking to myself. One year living in the woods and my subconscious is drawing on every old book I read. What next? Casper the Friendly Ghost? Wendy the Redheaded Witch?”

  You are not a witch.

  “Well, that’s a relief. Also, my comment about Casper and Wendy was a joke. Where’s your sense of humor, Count Chocula?” I shoot back. I’m almost slap-happy as I stand on my porch, staring at that red mailbox and talking to an imaginary vampire with no sense of humor.

  My sense of humor died in the Great Slaughter, when my brothers and sisters were cut down by the Vampyre Hunters.

  “Bummer,” I say, blinking away the memory of those blood-red images that somehow seem like they’re part of my memory now. “Yeah, I guess going through a Great Slaughter would kinda mess with your sense of humor.” I sigh and rub my arms. “So why weren’t you slaughtered? Or wait, maybe you were slaughtered and this is your ghost talking to me in my head? Is that a thing? Do vampires hang around as ghosts after they’re—”

  I am no ghost! comes his voice, and I gasp at its intensity, fe
el the depth of his emotion, the pain of his loss, the power of his anger. I am your betrothed, and when the sun sets today I will claim you as mine. Now delay not with your idle chatter and denial of your destiny. Accept your gift so we can begin the ancient rites leading up to your Turning.

  I glance at that mailbox that’s shining like it’s been freshly painted in red. That can’t be blood, I decide. Blood isn’t that red, is it? I mean, not even in the movies is blood that freakin’ red.

  Blood is the essence of the color red, says Count Chocula in my head, and I giggle as I realize I’m kinda enjoying myself. Going insane with loneliness and isolation is kinda fun! Who knew?!

  “So that is blood,” I say, squinting at the mailbox and taking a step towards it. “What’s in there, Count Chocs? Did you raid a blood-bank? Is it a dead squirrel? One of your sentinel bats?”

  Silence! comes his voice, and it booms and echoes in my head with a force that makes me tremble in my bones, makes my toes curl up in my shoes, makes my nipples tighten until they’re bigger than the buttons on my blouse. Time is of essence. You must claim your gift before the magic wears off and the blood loses its life-force. It is the beginning of the wedding ritual.

  “Wedding ritual, eh?” I say with a raised eyebrow. I’m totally into this now. Totally let go of reality in a way I didn’t think was possible. “And magic? Hmmm, that is pretty tempting, I will admit. But shouldn’t I get a look at the groom first? I mean, Hollywood vampires are pretty hot, and I will admit your voice has good timbre and tone even if you do speak a bit funny. Also, what’s the deal with the whole—”

  But I can’t say another word, because there’s suddenly a flash of dark light that blocks out the sun. I stagger back, grabbing on to the rickety wooden post just in time so I don’t fall on my fat face. I don’t know if the vision is real or in my head—not that there seems to be any difference between what’s “real” and what’s in my head. If anything, what’s in my head seems more real.

  “Ohmygod, is that . . .” I mumble as my eyes roll up in my head and I swear my tongue hangs out as if I’m panting like a bitch in heat. “Is that . . . you?”

  There’s no response, but it wouldn’t matter because the blood is pounding through me so hard it’s like I’m being swallowed up in a raging river. I’ve totally lost control of my motor skills, but somehow I’m hanging on to that porch-post for dear life as the vision of Drachus plows through my consciousness like an invading army.

  I see him clear like a star in the night, and it’s a sight that I know is being burned into my psyche like I’m being branded by fire, marked by madness, claimed by craziness.

  He’s tall like a tower, with long black hair the sheen of silk. His eyes blaze green like emerald-fire, and his long dark beard flows around him as if he’s enveloped in a forcefield. I hear myself gurgling like a bear-cub at mama’s teat, and I just shamelessly stare at this vision of what has to be some kind of dark god that’s being dredged up by my imagination.

  “But it’s so real,” I whisper, shuddering as I feel my wetness flow down my warm thighs as I take in the sight of Drachus standing before my mind’s eye like he’s presenting himself to me, showing me my future, showing me what awaits when the sun dips below the horizon and darkness falls across the land.

  You have no idea what reality truly is, Lady Daisy, says Drachus, and I see his full lips move as he smiles at me from that vision. This is your reality now. I am your reality. So step forth and accept your fate. Reach out and accept your mate.

  I blink even though my eyes are still rolled up in my head like I’m dying. For some reason I think back to what everyone knows about vampires from movies and books, and I feel myself frown when I remember that shit, wasn’t there something about a vampire needing to be invited into your home before he can suck your blood or whatever? Is that the ritual Drachus is talking about? Is my acceptance related to the old myths that a vampire needs to be invited into your home?

  Invited into your life?

  Invited into your . . . body?

  I swear my pussy clenches at that last thought, and I moan out loud and lick my lips as I feel Drachus’s energy caress me from that vision, almost like he’s yearning to touch me but can’t, like he’s desperate to take me but is being held back by something, like he’s straining at chains I can’t see but can feel.

  Chains that will only get released by my choice.

  By my consent.

  My consent to be his bride.

  To be his wife.

  To be his . . . valentine?

  I almost giggle in my delirium, but then I gasp when I see the vision of Drachus is becoming more vivid even as the realization sinks in that I have to make a choice, that this all-powerful vampire overlord or whatever is powerless until I give my consent, invite him in, accept his . . . gift?

  My pussy is dripping so hard my panties feel loose, they’re so damned wet. I’m drooling and moaning like I’m coming, and I just stare like a horny schoolgirl as the image of my madness forms full in my swirling mind.

  An image of Drachus in all his glory. Naked as the night. Shoulders so broad they’re like ridges on a high plateau. A chest that looks like it’s built from two slabs of marble, with dark veins snaking through the muscle like underground rivers. His arms are like cannons, biceps like cannonballs, forearms like pistons of a gruesome machine that was born to seize what he wants, to take what he needs, to destroy what he hates, to claim what he loves.

  And then my attention moves down along his rock-hard stomach that’s flat and contoured like it’s been chiseled by angels—or perhaps demons. And now I can’t take my eyes off what I’m looking at.

  “Is that . . .” I mutter as I take in the sight of something so enormous it almost makes me laugh in delight at how far gone my imagination really is. Shit, I really must be lonely and frustrated beyond anything seen in history. They should study me for the medical journals.

  “Or maybe they should study this for the medical journals,” I whisper as I stare at Drachus naked and erect, long hair and beard flowing around him like it’s framing him for my viewing pleasure. “Shit, this isn’t Count Chocula. More like Count Cockula!”

  I almost choke as my body tries to laugh and moan at the same time. I’m almost beside myself as I fight to get back to reality even though there’s a part of me that’s being pulled towards whatever this reality is.

  Drachus is silent in my vision, and it really does seem like he’s presenting himself to me like I unwittingly presented myself to him yesterday when I flashed my big ol’ boobies at his bats and scared the hell out of those creatures from hell.

  “Is this part of the ritual?” I whisper, glancing into those burning green eyes that seem to be looking into me, through me, and beyond me all at the same time.

  Slowly Drachus nods, and I shudder as I allow myself to shamelessly take in the sight of this beast of myth that’s standing before me in a reality that’s pulling me in like Alice down the Rabbit Hole. The Rabbit Hole to hell.

  “Or heaven,” I mutter as I finally look directly at his cock again, take in its thickness, its heft, the graceful upward curve, the fierce bulb of its head. Below and behind are his balls, and they’re full and heavy with seed that makes my slit clench and then open up like it’s wondering what the hell I’m waiting for, what the hell he’s waiting for.

  I wait for you, Lady Daisy, he whispers. I waited centuries for this moment, for this day, for this union. The ritual began with you presenting yourself to your betrothed. Now I present myself to you. Accept me, Lady Daisy. Accept your fate. Accept your mate. Accept your future. Oh, and please accept your gift before it gets cold. Congealed blood will do in a pinch, but it is not the best choice for a first taste.

  “A first taste?” I mutter as the arousal flows through me and I take another step towards that mailbox like it’s a magnet shining in the sun. “A first taste of
what?”

  A first taste of what is to come. A first taste of who you will become when the sun goes down. A first taste of forever.

  And then suddenly Drachus is gone, and I gasp as my vision turns red and the sun bursts through.

  But along with the flash of light there’s something else that takes over.

  A thirst.

  A need.

  A desire.

  “A taste,” I whisper as I slowly walk down the porch steps. They creak under my weight, but I feel light as a feather, like I’m riding on a little cloud. I lick my lips as I feel myself walk towards the mailbox like I have no choice even though I know this is all about my choice.

  I stop at the mailbox and stare at it like a possessed woman in like every horror movie ever. I’m giggling like a banshee at how crazy this is. I mean, there’s no way I’m gonna open this mailbox and drink from some ancient chalice filled with fresh blood, right?

  “Wait, aren’t I only supposed to feel the blood-thirst after I get Turned?” I say to Count Cockula as that slap-happy sense of comforting denial pops out again like it’s my brain reminding me that I’m either hallucinating or dreaming because there’s no way any of this shit can be real.

  Yes, says Cockula, his response barely concealing a weird sense of anticipation. You are still human, Lady Daisy. You will not be able to stomach fresh blood. The thirst you feel is the pull of destiny, the call of fate, the secret knowledge of what you will become when the sun sets over the—

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. And there’s no need to keep saying stuff like ‘when the sun sets over the horizon or whatever.’ I mean, where else is the sun gonna set? Just because you went to school in the 1800s doesn’t mean you get to keep adding unnecessary phrases to the wordcount of this story.”

  The word unnecessary was unnecessary in your sentence, Lady Daisy, Cockula snaps back. Also, you will be sternly disciplined for your insolence when you are mine to control.

  “Yours to control? Um, I think you’ve been slumbering in your coffin a little too long, buddy. Also, I thought this whole ritual was because you can’t just control me.”