Catnipped

by Olivia Myers

  “There aren’t that many people,” Imogen laughed into her glass. The wine was strong and she was already feeling its effects.

  “And fewer by the day,” said Cerise with a touch of melancholy. “But I’m optimistic. You can’t live as long as I have without being optimistic.”

  “About what?”

  “That we’ve got all the right people in the right place. And if you stick around a little while, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Imogen bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile as Cerise moved closer to her, touching legs. She felt the coldness of the skin through the jeans and it sent a shiver up her spine, followed by a throbbing ache in her skin. She was in a strange place late at night and she did not even know this girl—but she felt herself aching for the pleasure of getting closer.

  As though sensing Imogen’s desire, Cerise moved even closer, kissing her playfully on the cheek with her cold, cold lips. She retreated, and then came back slower and kissed Imogen delicately on her closed mouth.

  Cerise’s cold lips started Imogen, like water thrown over her as she slept.

  “What—what are you doing?” she cried.

  Cerise laughed. “My pet, if you didn’t want it then why do you wear your desires so much on your sleeve?”

  “I don’t desire it!” Imogen said, working herself into anger. “You just came at me!”

  “Because I knew I’d have to wait ages for you to make the first move yourself.” Cerise crawled closer to Imogen, moving her face just inches away. She pressed her lips against Imogen’s again, this time slipping in her tongue, like it was a kind of secret.

  Despite the coldness of the kiss, Imogen let it linger a few seconds more before breaking away.

  “You’re cute when you put up a struggle.”

  “I don’t want this. This isn’t right,” moaned Imogen, but even as she did she knew that this other girl could see through the lie.

  “Don’t worry, pet,” Cerise stroked Imogen’s hair. “This has nothing to do with you. This is for me. This is all about me. And I want to make you comfortable.”

  “Comfortable,” Imogen said. She felt the touch of the other girl’s skin. It was making her wet with pleasure. She didn’t mind how cold Cerise was.

  “Comfortable,” Cerise whispered. “Do you consent?”

  “Yes.” Imogen turned and covered Cerise’s mouth with her own, slipping her tongue into the wet crevice and closing her eyes until she was sure that tears would spring out of them. A moment later, Imogen’s back was on the divan and Cerise leaned above her, tonguing her fiercely with her cold mouth, staring steadily into Imogen’s eyes with the fire of her own.

  Cerise’s lips trailed slowly down Imogen’s body, lingering on her chest. The cold, wet little blotches of the lips dug achingly into Imogen’s chest, and continued to trail down, further and further. Cerise’s tongue slipped beneath the beltline of Imogen’s jeans.

  “I’ve never,” Imogen gasped, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Never what?” Cerise smiled, baring her enamel-white teeth.

  It was the first time Imogen had seen Cerise smile. Her heart leapt. She was paralyzed with dread. Because even in the half-light of the little sealed-off room, Imogen could see that Cerise’s teeth were not normal, blunted teeth. Two of the top incisors were daintily curved and sharp in a way that made Imogen think of icicles dangling from a roof above her.

  “Never what, my pet?” There was a word caught in Imogen’s mouth. Somehow she could not find the strength to say it and though she tried, Cerise’s playing tongue only made her breath catch more. Before she knew it her jeans were stripped off and Cerise was running a long, lacquered fingernail over Imogen’s incredibly moist crotch.

  “What—?” Imogen managed to fight out. But then her body betrayed her, and she moaned.

  Cerise licked Imogen’s warm crotch slowly. Imogen’s body was going mad with pleasure and her mind was leaving her. Her focus was concentrated on her wet slit where Cerise kissed the area tantalizingly, spreading lick after delicious, soft lick.

  “What do you want to know?” Cerise whispered as she gently pulled down Imogen’s panties. The wet folds of Imogen’s sex were so desirous of this other girl it was as though they were vibrating, aching to get closer to the cool mouth.

  Cerise inserted her lacquered finger into the warm crevice. A spasm shot up Imogen’s spine. She gripped the back of the divan and opened her mouth in a gasp.

  “I want—I want to know—” but again the words caught. Cerise was at work now, covering Imogen’s wet lips in a riot of kisses as her finger gently massaged the clitoris.

  “I want to know what you are.” Imogen managed at last, between gasps of pleasure.

  “What I am.” Cerise’s voice was teasing. She let out a low moan, pulled her hair back and with renewed energy slipped her tongue into Imogen’s opening. Imogen could have cried.

  “I think you know what I am.”

  Yes, thought Imogen. Now the world was emerging into daylight, past Cerise’s expert tongue and massaging finger. Imogen knew even as she gave herself up to her pleasure, aware of her danger but knowing that in the gentle embrace of this girl, no harm would come to her. No, not just a girl. Imogen thought. Vampire.

  ***

  A few days later, Imogen sat in the break room in the basement of the castle. There, with five other girls, she talked Tennyson, Keats, Rimbaud, and anything else that came to mind, including the poetry she’d written herself. She lived for the poetry club and the poetry club lived in her. It was the only refuge she had where she could express herself truly and not feel ashamed, where the intensity that bubbled up within her whenever she was around Cassandra came gushing out, raw and beautiful. Today, a small girl named Agatha was reciting verses from a sheet of notebook paper in a low, dulcet voice:

  Willow tree, you kindly fellow!

  Why not extend an arm to me?

  That I might reach above the world’s rude bellow

  And escape to you, somber and free?

  It wasn’t very good stuff, but even if it had been, Imogen would have been too preoccupied to notice. The experience with Cerise and the pleasurable terror it filled her with was still fresh in her mind, as though it’d happened only minutes, not days, before. But Imogen was not frightened of the memory. She recalled it with a tense fascination, like a dream. The words that Cerise spoke after, gentle and free, came to her like an echo. The promise she’d made that she’d keep Imogen safe. The fierceness in her burning eyes when she’d said she’d been happy to meet a new guest, that she’d been overjoyed to make her so comfortable.

  And learn to release fierce tears like you,

  Who dangles softly, kindly vines:

  Up which I climb towards the sky’s warm blue,

  Whose kind face my past fears divines.

  There were a few more verses before the poem came to an end. Applause followed. The girls were appreciative critics and always made sure to offer praise. Usually the whole process lasted about seven minutes, but today it went on especially long. Miss McReddy’s announcement of the poetry and literature competition had made the girls giddy with nervous excitement and they were honing their skills in the hopes of securing a placement.

  Imogen was nervous too. She’d known about the competition for weeks and she knew the piece that she wanted to submit. She had it there with her: a little sheet of notebook paper. But she didn’t dare read it to her friends. Of course, they would have no idea of what the poem was about, or who she’d written it for. But it was too private to be shared in the tiny break room with its old walls and its smell of mildew. It wouldn’t be right.

  “Okay,” said Alice, a blonde girl who acted as leader. “Okay, I think now it’s time to talk about the subject that we’ve all been trying to avoid.”

  There was a collective groan from the girls. There was another reason to be nervous. The Golden Girls had recently put in an application for their own after-class music club, which was to m
eet in the break room after class, right when Imogen and the girls had their poetry meeting. Usually these circumstances would pose no problems. The poetry club had priority over any new clubs and couldn’t be so easily ousted. Except these weren’t normal circumstances. The Golden Girls had offered money for the use of the space, and Mrs. Charles, the dean, had been only too happy to accept the bribe. It was a mean, underhanded move, but its message was clear. The poetry club either found a new space to congregate or it was finished.

  “There’s nothing we can do about the situation,” said Alice sadly. “It’s already been finalized. Unless we can come up with rent like the Golden Girls have done, we’re going to be out of a space.”

  “But can’t we just find a new place to go?” blurted out soft-spoken Agatha. “I mean—I can’t just give it up! There’s got to be another place.”

  “Have you tried town?” Alice said, frustrated. “It’s all businesses and apartments! There’s not even a coffee shop. We might as well just sit in the hallway and twiddle our thumbs!”

  There was a silence. And then Imogen spoke up. “Well,” she said, “actually, there is a place we can try.”

  The attention of the other four girls turned to her. Imogen was shy but she collected herself. “I mean—it’s sort of a café bar kind of place. It won’t be the break room but it’s better than nothing.”

  “As long as we have something,” Alice pleaded.

  “But I don’t know if we can meet there. The thing about it is—” Imogen stopped, not knowing where she should proceed with the sentence. Of course she couldn’t say vampire! They would all think that she was crazy, and if they didn’t, who would agree to meet in a room filled with beautiful, undead girls who could literally sink their teeth into your neck any moment? Even if the girls weren’t the type to prey on the innocent as Cerise had said, Imogen had her doubts that her friends would be very open about the whole idea.

  “—is that, well, it’s sort of a late night place. I don’t really know if they’d be willing to open up early for us.”

  “Can you ask?” said Alice. “Tell them we’re desperate! We’re being victimized! Tell them that an ugly, slimy cult of bitches is kicking us out and that we need a space. It’s for the good of humanity!”

  Imogen thought about what she would say, but at that moment, the cult of ugly, slimy bitches clattered into the room. The old, stale air became overbearingly sweet with the mingling scents of haute couture.

  “Oh my God. They’ve forgotten to take the trash out.”

  The Golden Girl giggles chimed.

  “We were just leaving,” said Alice flatly. The other girls gathered their pens and notebooks and dashed out the door. Imogen followed, her head low.

  “Hey!” A voice barked. That voice.

  Imogen’s heart leapt but she increased her pace, not daring to look back.

  “Hey!” the voice cried again. “Rat-a-tat! Don’t leave your shit in our room!”

  But Imogen was already too far away to hear Cassandra’s voice, or to see what it was she was waving. If she’d turned, she would have seen a loose-leaf piece of paper that she knew well: a poem she’d written for the person who made her heart beat at double its normal rate.

  ***

  “So,” Cerise lifted the smoldering cigarette to her lips and blew a cinnamon-smelling cloud of smoke to the side of Imogen’s face. “So. If I have this right, you want me to open the Rose two hours earlier so you and all of your little Jane Austens can have a place to meet. And what do you think I get out of the deal?”

  Cerise’s lips curled around the tip of her cigarette, revealing a pointed fang.

  “Anything but my neck,” Imogen said firmly.

  “You are cute, my pet,” Cerise laughed, blowing more smoke. “But as I’ve already told you, you’re not my type.”

  “Well, no offense,” said Imogen, “but you’re a vampire I met less than a week ago. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Because if I’d wanted you, I would have had you the first day. Like that,” she said and snapped her fingers. “But as these things go, you’re too pure-blooded for me. For most of the girls here, really. Too clean. If I bit you, it’d be, well, soapy.”

  “Soapy?”

  “It’s the bad ones who have all the flavor. That goes for men too, but they’re not really my cup of tea. Too sleazy. They leave a weird texture. Please don’t ask me to explain any of this, pet. I don’t even know what I would say. Now if I were starving and desperate then I would see no problem with your pretty little neck. But we’re a long way from there. Consider yourself protected.”

  “And my friends,” Imogen said firmly. “Would they be protected if they came here too?”

  “If they’re anything like you, I don’t see a problem in the world. Except,” the last of the smoke came trickling out of Cerise’s mouth. She stubbed her cigarette. “Except we still haven’t established what you’ll be doing for me.”

  “Well,” Imogen thought about the problem. She looked around the sparsely crowded room. There were even fewer girls than the first night. “Well,” she said at last. “You’re running out of business, right?”

  “Pet, it’s been running out since the place opened.”

  “Then maybe I can bring you more clients.”

  “Oh?” Cerise was surprised. “Is that a fact?”

  “Not a fact. But I’m optimistic about it.”

  “And how exactly could you manage that when us vampires can’t?”

  “I go to an all girls’ college,” said Imogen, more confidently. “And it’s nice but, well, there’s no place for anyone to go. We only have a couple of break rooms for clubs and they’re too crowded. If I tell the other girls about this place, maybe they’ll make the Rose the new hangout. I’ll tell them that you’re throwing a little mixer. I think that should do the trick. And—” she pressed “—you can’t go out in sunlight, can you? So if you need the legwork, I’m your only hope.”

  Cerise seemed to consider it. After a moment she said, “Next Saturday for your little mixer then, pet?”

  It was the same day as the arts show, but Imogen would have plenty of time to get everyone over to the Rose afterwards. And as soon as they’d had the mixer, Imogen’s friends would have a place to go. “Deal.”

  ***

  It took Imogen almost two days to paper the whole castle in fliers advertising the party. She’d printed off nearly a thousand large, poster-board fliers and had enlisted the help of Alice and Agatha. To avoid any unwelcome confrontation with the Golden Girls, they hadn’t put any of their names on the flier.

  By the time they were finished, there wasn’t a wall in the entire castle that didn’t bear the message: Saturday at 11 at the Red Red Rose. Meet and Mingle with the Most Interesting Girls in the World!

  Imogen was just admiring the last wall when she heard a voice coming down the hallway. “Rat-a-tat! Hey! Rat-a-tat!”

  The familiar ache leapt up in Imogen’s chest. Oh God, let me get out of here before she comes! she thought, but by that time it was too late.

  Cassandra came running up to her, panting with the exertion. It was obvious she’d been in a hurry to catch Imogen. She was alone, to Imogen’s surprise.

  “Jesus, I didn’t think I’d catch you in time,” huffed Cassandra. She was looking extra beautiful today in her skin-tight jeans and heels with little black bows. Her hair had recently been cut and it flashed golden gleams.

  Imogen’s knees went weak but she managed to begin walking hurriedly in the opposite direction.

  “Wait,” said Cassandra. “Wait, Imogen!”

  It was the first time Imogen had heard Cassandra use her name. She stopped momentarily, petrified by desire, but then continued on.

  “Imogen! I need to tell you something,” Cassandra took mincing, clattering steps and finally succeeded in catching up with her.

  “I don’t know what you want with me,” said Imogen, a little dazed. Cassandra’s fragrance was overpowering.


  “It’ll just take a minute. But I need to tell you in private.”

  They continued down the hallway and passed by an empty classroom.

  “Here, quick,” said Cassandra, taking Imogen’s hand and leading her into the dark room. Imogen went numb. She was sure that her heart would explode.

  “Where are your Golden Girls?” she asked, numbed by the contact their skin had made, but still reluctant to show any trust.

  “Oh, somewhere,” said Cassandra, locking the door. “But just trust me. They have nothing to do with this.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because they didn’t read your poem,” said Cassandra.

  “My poem,” Imogen said. Then her heart went dead. Cold fear slipped into her. “How did you get my poem?”

  “You left it in the break room the other day. I tried to tell you but you were going too fast. Listen, I just need to know something.”

  Imogen was sure that she was facing death. In a moment she would be told what she already knew—that Cassandra had read the poem and knew that it was about her. It was all over. Imogen closed her eyes and felt tears leave little hot tracks on her cheeks.

  “Yes?” she said softly.

  “I want to know— uh, I don’t know how to say it. Trust me this is, like, totally embarrassing. But it was pretty. I guess…I guess I want to know how you write that way.”

  “You want to know how I write?” Imogen repeated dumbly. Could this really be happening? Had Cassandra taken her alone, to a place where Imogen thought surely she would die, to ask how to get advice in writing? It was impossible—better than anything she could possibly imagine.

  “Yeah,” Cassandra nodded. It was the first time Imogen had seen Cassandra shy and it was as though she had stumbled in on some terrible secret. Suddenly, she was filled with an enormous sense of her own power. This other girl wanted something from her. Imogen had power over her. She felt her terror transform itself into a new feeling of control.