by Olivia Myers
Cassandra. The name seemed to rip Imogen up out of her sorrow and back into wakefulness. Dimly she recognized the name and keenly she felt all the pain the name awoke within her. But for Imogen, the name was already something of a memory, for though she recognized it the name she attached to it was receding gradually from her sight, into shadow.
Cassandra! Cassandra! The voices continued to chant.
“Cassandra,” Imogen repeated the name. The golden-haired girl at once sprang into her mind, and the dull, painful longing sprang along with it. Yes, Imogen realized, she’d loved her deeply, intensely, stupidly. And that was perhaps the only way to love. And even if she hadn’t been loved in return, she knew that she loved still and might always love.
It was thinking about her love for the girl who had betrayed her that led Imogen back into the assembly hall. The girls were a muddle once again, talking excitedly and recounting the events. Imogen walked dimly though not purposelessly through it all. She knew what she was searching for. A head of golden hair.
And then, she found it, surrounded by adoring fans. Queenly, vibrant and fiery, Cassandra laughed and celebrated. But there was something in the face that Imogen hadn’t been able to see before. An ugly cruelty, twisting the features of the face into undesirable caricatures of themselves. It was still a beautiful face, but now Imogen saw it for its subterfuge and this sad knowledge gave her protection.
“Cassandra,” she said. All eyes riveted to her.
“Well,” said the goddess. “Well.”
It took an incredible amount of strength for Imogen to stand before her lover and to be proud. And yet Imogen knew she must. There was no choice.
“Congratulations, Cassandra,” Imogen said, ignoring the pain that uttering the name caused her. The other girls waited, breathless.
Imogen took a deep breath. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I admire you and your talent,” she said, and gestured at Cassandra’s guitar. “I think you can do something with it.”
The other girls burst into laughter at Imogen’s formality. She ignored it and continued. “I have friends who could put you in touch with other people. They’ve already put out albums.”
“You mean,” Cassandra said, her cruel grin widening. “You came here to say that you’d help me?”
“If you were smart, you’d let me help you,” Imogen went on doggedly. “I help people because I’m not cruel. And even though I know you’re going to say you don’t need my help, I know you do. Because you don’t know the people I do. They’re the most interesting people in the world.”
“Ah,” Cassandra nodded knowingly. “So you want me to go to your pervy little club. Is that it?”
“I want you to sing so that they can see how good you are,” Imogen said. She was almost breathless. There was just a little more to say and then she’d be done.
“And you really think I’m going to go to your club with you?”
“Yes, if you were smart.”
Something about Imogen’s tone and the way she abandoned herself to the struggle impressed and shocked Cassandra. It registered in her face. It was clear that she didn’t know how to respond.
“Well,” she said finally. “Maybe I will. But then, you’ve got to do something else for me.”
“I don’t have to do anything for you.” She felt tears in her eyes. She withheld them.
“Yes you do. If you want me going to your little club, you’ve got to tell me why. Normal people don’t act this way. I want to know what’s got you so inspired.”
“But I’ve already told you.”
“You haven’t given me a real answer.”
“I gave you your answer days ago,” Imogen said. “When I told you how to write.” Imogen couldn’t hold back the tears anymore and they trickled down her eyes. “I told you that it’s because I’m in love. Still in love, if you can imagine it. I love you Cassandra,” she said.
Cassandra turned away, embarrassed.
“I love you,” Imogen repeated. “Even if I hate you, I still love you.”
“Okay, perv,” Cassandra said. “Don’t say it again and I’ll go to your stupid club.”
And with that, the Golden Girls clattered away into the crowd, looking more dumbfounded and confused than ever.
***
As soon as Imogen stepped through the doors of the Red Red Rose, it was obvious that the mixer was a roaring success. The place was packed. Vampires and Nocturne’s girls rubbed shoulders, laughing and talking. Obviously Imogen’s work had accomplished its purpose. Even the Golden Girls looked impressed, although of course they did not mention this.
“My pet!” Cerise said. “How did you manage this?”
“I told you I was optimistic,” said Imogen, feeling just the opposite. She’d accomplished a victory earlier, but the pain of Cassandra’s rejection was still fresh and aching within her.
“Oh, Imogen,” said Cerise, sensing something. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Imogen said honestly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak about it.”
“Then come back with me and I’ll try to relax it out of you.”
Obediently, Imogen took the hand that was offered her and followed Cerise through the crowd, just as she had done her first time at the Rose, all the way to the room she’d gone to before. She lay her head down on Cerise’s lap and let the vampire stroke her hair. What she needed was comfort. The touch of another to remind her that she was not alone.
She closed her eyes and let Cerise stroke her hair. With each stroke she felt her problems melt away and ebb into forgetfulness. But then came cries from the other room, and the same chant that had haunted her earlier that evening: Cassandra! Cassandra!
Cassandra was taking the stage in the main room. Through the microphone Imogen could hear her lover thank her friends for their support. The voice filled Imogen with pain.
“Cassandra,” she said. “Cerise, I don’t know if I can ever love again.”
A moment later and there was silence in the other room. Then came the lulling chords of a guitar, and Cassandra’s voice lilting along with the music:
Oh baby, I haven’t treated you right,
And baby, I’ve been bad,
But through all we’ve been
And all that’s happenin’
I’m still here, and always will be.
Oh baby, I’m still here.
“Is she the one you love, my pet?” Cerise said, gentle and concerned. “Did she betray you?”
“It’s worse than that, Cerise,” Imogen said, afraid that if she continued talking she would show tears. “It’s worse, because I knew in the beginning that she didn’t love me like I loved her. I knew she couldn’t ever love me.”
“But it didn’t stop you, did it, my pet?” Cerise planted a kiss on Imogen’s forehead.
“No,” said Imogen. The talking was soothing. If nothing else, it drowned out the sound of Cassandra’s voice. If Imogen had heard it, it would have broken her heart.
“Well,” said Cerise, “you know, with vampires it’s the same way. We love and we feed on all of the bad stuff, like candy. We know it’s bad for us but we do it anyway.”
“But I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why I keep loving if I already know it’s going to be so painful.”
Cassandra’s voice continued to croon:
I’m still here, and always will be.
Oh baby, I’m still here.
The song folded to a gentle end. There was wild applause from the other room. “She’ll be a hit with my girls, I can imagine,” Cerise said, a little ironically. “I told you before that they prefer the bad ones, didn’t I?”
“The bad ones,” Imogen repeated. Suddenly, she understood what Cerise was telling her. “You don’t mean to say that they’re, that they’re going to—”
“Of course, my pet. Why, you’ve brought us the crème de la crème. It would be a crime to waste it.”
“
But,” Imogen said, “but will it hurt? I still don’t want anything bad to happen.”
“Oh, no,” said Cerise, laughing. “It’s just a little kiss on the neck. And then afterwards, she’ll be just like us. Unfit for real life. Content to hide underground and in the darkness of the night. A Rose girl. A fate as good as death. I imagine she’ll take to it quite well. Of course, it’ll take a bit of getting used to, but after the first hundred years or so I think she’ll enjoy it. Maybe by that time she’ll have learned a few manners.”
Cerise laughed but Imogen shuddered. A fate as good as death. Well, maybe there were worse things than falling out of love.
“Cerise,” she whispered. The vampire looked down on her, baring her fangs in a smile. “Cerise, I don’t know if I can go on living this way. Can’t you make me a vampire too?”
“You, my pet? I don’t think you’d like it.”
“But I don’t like the world or the people in it. I don’t like their cruelty or their betrayal. Compared to living in the world, living like one of you seems easy.”
“It is easy, my pet. Once you’ve gotten used to it. But I don’t think that’s a life for you.”
Cerise bent down further and kissed Imogen on the mouth. The coldness of the kiss felt good. It pushed the thoughts of Cassandra still further away, until she was lost like a retreating shadow.
“But why?” she whispered, kissing Cerise. “Why can’t I be like you? Why can’t I join you in your world?”
“Because,” Cerise said, lifting up Imogen’s shirt, revealing her breasts, kissing her face. “Because, my pet, what makes me adore you is that you don’t belong to my world, and that you never will. You’re a world completely apart, and your fate is to live in it. I wouldn’t cheat you of your fate.”
“My fate,” Imogen whispered, wrapping Cerise around her body. The words didn’t scare her. Coming from Cerise, they made Imogen feel stronger and capable. They filled her with the promise of a dim greatness.
Cerise descended her body, stripping her clothes, leaving her breathlessly naked. Yes, perhaps she could bear her fate. To stay in the paradise of the Rose would be to cheat herself. It was better to love and not be loved in return if the loving brought her wisdom. If the loving expanded her.
“Cerise.” Her breath caught. She pulled the vampire close to her and removed her shirt. Cerise’s pale, naked body thrilled her with forbidden desire. “I think I can bear it.”
“I’m glad, my pet,” the vampire smiled. She unbuckled her jeans and slid them off, and then she climbed on top of Imogen’s waiting body. One was pale and cold, the other hot and breathless, like two parts of a whole. Slowly, Cerise began massaging Imogen’s hips with her own, and Imogen felt the wetness of the vampire’s crotch rub against her own.
“You don’t know how much I want you,” Cerise whispered.
The rubbing went faster and faster. Imogen twisted around the vampire’s head and fed her tongue into Cerise’s ear. Cerise moaned terrifically. Her body was quivering, uncontrollable. With her free hand the vampire slipped her fingers down and down until she could feel Imogen’s slit, pulsing and hot.
Imogen groaned with pleasure. With her own hand she massaged her clitoris gently, each movement bringing a riot of pleasure. She was burning now. Although the vampire was as cold as death, her presence was like a fire on top of Imogen. And the fire was only heating up. Cerise’s finger came in faster and faster, stoking Imogen into life.
And Imogen felt the burn with greed. She was filling up with the vampire. Not in the way that Cassandra had filled her when she’d penetrated her with the dildo, but in a way even closer, as though it was Imogen’s own soul that Cerise was entering.
“Faster, faster,” Imogen moaned. Cerise curled her fingers upwards inside Imogen and stroked the spongy area gently. Imogen thought she would die of pleasure. She felt her mind leave her body, she was nothing but sensation. She was Cerise’s toy to be played however she wished.
“Oh, Cerise!” Imogen cried as she felt herself orgasm. It was too much to bear. How could she handle it? How could her body handle so much intensity?
“Come for me, my pet,” Cerise whispered, dabbing at the wet folds with her tongue. “I want you to come for me.”
Spasms ricocheted through her body. Imogen’s body thrashed about. She cupped her head in her hands and let loose a cry of pleasure. But the sensation persisted, as though her body were caught in a penetrating and awesome brightness that would not abate.
On and on it continued. Imogen couldn’t know. She was outside time. Only her body remained, locked to the vampire above her.
When at last the feelings had subsided into dullness, when at last her mind returned to her body, Imogen was aware of a deep and penetrating exhaustion, like she had run ten miles. She was so focused on her exhaustion and on Cerise that she didn’t even know if the girls were still in the other room. She didn’t think about Cassandra. She didn’t know if there was anyone in the world apart from her and Cerise.
“My pet,” the vampire said, her voice full of tenderness. “Tell me a story, my pet.”
It was an odd request but for Imogen it was the most natural thing in the world. It was the continuation of the dream she felt herself to be in, the dream that went beyond the walls of St. Nocturne’s, the dream that existed only in the heart of the Rose. Only in the darkness, where Imogen felt free.
“Tell me one of your poems, my pet.”
And the words came pouring into Imogen’s mind. Words as familiar as the body, now laying aside her that had transported her into a place of so much pleasure.
“A poem?” The world was made of poems for Imogen now. Everywhere she looked she saw the words materializing. But they were words that seemed to emanate for Cerise alone, as though they were the callings of her innermost soul. And it was these words that Imogen began to whisper:
In sundry, bright and cheerful days:
The poet to her lover said:
“My heart ‘pon your heart sweetly lays
Fair roses sweet, fair roses red…”
THE END
Licked by a Vampire II
Imogen sat back, blew steam from her coffee and, after taking a sip and neatly folding her hands in her lap, prepared to talk about the sublime.
“I just think he’s being, well, cheeky,” Agatha pronounced in that rough voice of hers—a little dry, a little salty. “Because after all, the man spends five stanzas exulting his lover to the status of a goddess only to turn right back around to say essentially the most ugly leaf of the most withered tree has a bigger claim to his love than she.”
And then with that slightly mannish voice of hers she began to read the stanza in question:
My love, all life I see here on the moors:
An accident of faith and purest chance,
Unbinds my heart, setting adrift to shores
Unknown my fleeting bark, that whence my glance…
“I don’t call that romantic.” Agatha steepled the book spine-up on the table.
“You’re not Henry Cowper,” Imogen said with a trace of mirth.
“I don’t want to be Henry Cowper. A two-bit pre-romanticist with a couple nice ideas. If he lived fifty years later he’d be something, but he came before the times. He’s a flip-flopper, too stuffy to be romantic but too romantic to be anything else. Which means that now he’s just— ”
“Now he’s just some guy we found in the library,” Alice finished quietly, from her place between the two girls. She was notoriously shy and this was the most she’d spoken all afternoon. The comment caused Imogen and Agatha to look at her with surprise.
“Exactly,” Agatha nodded. “Imogen, I suggest that we move onto something else. We could do Pope or John Dryden, or even something modern. There’s no point in stuff like this.”
“A little bad poetry never hurt anyone,” Imogen said, but she too was frowning. Last week, the members of the poetry club had spent three days ransacking the spacious library in their
school, the prestigious all girls’ college in the mountains, Saint Nocturne’s. Their search for a new poet to study for the month had yielded finds, but they were artists who’d spent their careers outside the limelight of the more popular poets of the day. Most of them were like Cowper—men with a few poetic gifts but neither the capacity of mind nor the technical skill to make them great.
Only six months ago, there would have been no problem trying to find a particular author in the school’s library. But things had changed since then. The girls of Saint Nocturne’s had discovered the Red Red Rose, a hip artists’ club where cosmopolitan vampires and humans mixed equally, sharing stories, drinks, each other’s bodies. Poetry was beloved of vampires, and now every human girl who aspired to become chic or fashionable or cultured was leaping at books she’d scorned in her literary classes.
Of course, the girls of the poetry club were bewildered and excited by the sudden change, but they could not pretend that they weren’t also a little chagrined. The words we were here first formed on their lips every time the sight of a Nocturne’s student—rhinestone-studded short skirt bobbing, heels clacking, a tattered edition of the collected poems of Wallace Stevens tucked neatly between breast and forearm where months ago, a Michael Kors handbag would have rested—flashed past in the hallway.
The club was beginning to miss the days of anonymity.
“But we shouldn’t have to read bad poetry,” Agatha said. “What do these girls know about what they’re reading? It’s all just a few pretty words for them. It’s all just—”
Before she could get further in her argument, a burst of laughter rang out from behind their table. It was the third such burst that had occurred in the last half hour. The girls had tried not to pay any attention to the distraction, but now all three whirled around in their seats.
“Duds,” Agatha said, lowering her voice so that only Alice and Imogen could hear. “I hate those girls!”