And she liked it.
“It’s beautiful,” Stephenie whispered.
The vampire child lifted her wrist and offered it to her Master.
She said, “Drink from me. Let me be the first to feed you. But I beg, do not drink too much, for it will be the end of both of us if you do.”
Stephenie considered the vampire child’s words, but only for a moment. Then she wrapped her fingers around the wrist. The little one’s skin felt warmer now than before. After running her tongue across her teeth, Stephenie realized they felt sharper, different––more powerful.
The vampire child spoke words that were contradictory to Stephenie’s thoughts. She said, “The teeth––they do not grow at once, Master… but over time. Taste me, for it is what you want. I know this to be true. Taste me now and rest; then it shall begin.”
Stephenie grinned before she bit into the vampire’s flesh, not knowing if she was biting Carrie or if it was just another trick. At that moment, she didn’t care. She drank the child’s blood by the mouthful regardless, but not for very long. When she was finished her wicked and immoral act of debauchery the vampire child stood up with blood flowing along her hand and off her fingers. Drops of blood trickled like rain. Her body was colder now. Not as cold as it was before she had taken Stephenie’s life, but close. She did not mind, and if she did, she did not show it.
Carrie unhooked the gate’s latch and led Stephenie outside, but before she did, Stephenie asked a question.
“Do you have a name?”
The vampire nodded. “My birth name is Cameron. I come from a town called Cloven Rock. It burned to the ground, not long ago.”
“Cameron.”
“Cameron English. But you can call me Carrie if you wish.”
They stepped outside. The first thing Stephenie noticed was an old maple tree. It was huge and completely devoid of leaves. The branches hung over the mausoleum like giant fingers. Past the tree, she saw that the graveyard was enormous, beyond enormous––titanic. Tombstones were laid out in every direction. Some were large and some were small. Some were rounded and simple while others were huge monstrosities with stone demons sitting upon great mantles. There were stones shaped like winged cherubs and stones that had turned green with age. They littered every roll of every hill… every roll, but one. And in that one direction––at the foot of a grassy knoll, behind a fifteen-foot, cast iron gate––was a single village.
Stephenie perceived the community to be a small settlement of no more than a few thousand souls. Light inside the district was negligible. She gazed at the town and the graves before it like she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
This wasn’t life, however, this was death, or un-death––where everything old was new again.
The vampire child stood close by while Stephenie took it all in. She held Stephenie’s hand. Together they walked across an acre of the necropolis. Stephenie turned back only once, eyeing the tomb she had come from and the tree that hung over it. Hand in hand, they entered another crypt, this one, larger than the first. A coffin sat in the center of the space. It was open and empty, clean and waiting for its occupant to arrive. There were no bats, no bugs, no vermin nor snakes. The vault was kept empty as if by magic.
The vampire child said, “This is yours, valued one. Nothing will bother you here. Sleep now, for the sun will rise too soon. Sleep now, and tomorrow night we’ll feed. You and I together, we’ll feed.”
Stephenie took the vampire child in her arms, and gave her a little kiss. Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow night we’ll feed.”
The vampire child smiled a creepy, twisted smile.
She couldn’t have seemed happier.
5
Stephenie’s eyes opened. She pushed the coffin’s lid away and sat up. The mausoleum was dark but she had no problem seeing. The nighttime was her time, her only time. Things were clear and easy to define.
She crept from the casket and away from her tomb.
The graveyard was stunning. She had never seen such a gorgeous landscape.
She glanced at the other vault, the one that held the vampire child beneath the tree with no leaves. She remembered what the little one had said: Tomorrow night we’ll feed. You and I together, we’ll feed.
Upon awaking Stephenie saw this statement in a new light. Without a doubt, the child was waiting for her inside her mausoleum. The little one, she now understood, truly was her servant––the Renfield to Stephenie’s Dracula. And knowing this, or perhaps because of this, Stephenie felt nothing for the girl. The girl could sit in her tomb and wait; Stephenie did not care what the girl did, or if she did anything at all. The vampire child spoke of feeding together, not as a teacher showing a student how something was to be accomplished, but as the weak hoping to tag along with the strong. There was much that Stephenie didn’t know, and truth be told, many things the vampire child could teach her. But these things were of minor importance. These things could be discussed at a later time, at Stephenie’s leisure, not at the vampire child’s request. Dealing with them now would only confuse matters. Going to the child now, a precedent would be set, one that would later need to be un-set. Stephenie was the Master. The vampire child was the servant. How this came to be, she did not know. Perhaps the vampire child could explain, perhaps not. Perhaps the answers would never be revealed.
Mother to the world.
Savior to them all.
She walked.
Over the hills, through the graves, towards the town, she walked. Alone.
Upon arriving at the gates that separated the village from the land of the dead, she paused. This was a great night, her first night––a night to be remembered.
She looked at the gate.
There was a sign on the gate that read: BLEEDINGTON NECROPOLIS.
Stephenie grinned.
Bleedington, she thought. What a fitting name for the town.
Her thoughts shifted to the vampire child sitting alone in her tomb.
Stephenie made a decision: she would not be selfish on this night; she would be generous, giving––masterful. For this was a night of significance, a night all others would be weighed against and Stephenie wanted her servant to know she could be benevolent and compassionate as well as cruel. Her night of celebratory consumptions would be one of teaching, of playing both sides of the deck, of articulating her skills as the ascendant one.
She closed her eyes and inhaled and exhaled a deep, exaggerated breath into lungs that would otherwise remain motionless. The breath was not for respiration purposes, for breathing was no longer an obligation. Stephenie inhaled to consume the scents and aromas of the community at her feet. She could smell and taste them, all of them. Like rats in a pen, they were. She took a moment, filtering one fragrance from the next. There were so many choices, so many tastes to choose from. Most were old and souring. Some were vibrant and lush. A few were exotic; many were bland. There were also children, fresh and delightful and brimming with a sweet pleasant scent.
A trio of flavors caught her attention. And even though this was Stephenie’s first night as the thing she had become, she knew what a rarity she had found. Her lips curled and her eyes gleamed. Luck was finally on her side.
She walked along a dirt path and onto a cobblestone road.
There were no cars on the road, no motorcycles either. For she was in a time before mechanical invention had turned the world on its head, a time when travel meant horses and wagons, and electricity was not yet conceived.
The roads of Bleedington did have lampposts however, though they were few and far between. As Stephenie made her way to the nearest post she smirked. There was a candle sitting inside four walls of thin glass. There was not enough light coming from the contraption to illuminate five feet in any direction, even though the top of the post was barely four feet from the ground. She wondered why the villagers had even bothered.
She entered an alley to avoid a pub, not to suggest that the pub was overly busy. It wasn’t. Still, on her fi
rst night she didn’t want any unexpected surprises, and there were a few too many patrons inside that one establishment for her liking. In many ways, she was still finding her feet and she was smart enough to know it.
She moved on, peeking in windows and watching villagers from the safety of darkness. She saw a drunken man staggering down the road and two women talking about children. She saw a couple getting friendly on a park bench, kissing and hugging and carrying on in ways only new lovers do. She saw a pair of dogs tied to a post and she kept well away from them, for animals have a keen sense of smell and intuition beyond those who are human. Often times they are not afraid of combat. Stephenie knew this instinctually.
She walked on. In time, she came to her destination.
It was a house, big and grand and without a doubt, furnished with expensive things. She stepped through an open gate and made her way to the side of the building. High above was a shuttered window. It was open, not that it mattered.
Stephenie listened.
Not trusting the things she heard, she waited. After an hour had passed Stephenie walked away from the great building. She was mildly frustrated, but mostly she was excited. Timing was everything and at that particular moment, the timing wasn’t right. Soon though, soon it would be. And things would be grand.
She explored the village: the alleys and back roads, the parks and farmland. She kept her distance from the animals, although several dogs along the way caught her scent and barked in fear and agitation. They did this despite her concerns and vigilance.
She was hungry but she did not eat. The first meal of her new existence was not to be something she consumed at random, but a delicacy worth waiting for, worth remembering. It was special. And as time marched on she came to understand how perfect her selection was, how no other choice would do. Her feast would be one she remembered for an eternity, a feast to recall with great fondness, the choice of a Master.
She returned to the home of her choosing. Listened. Grinned.
She placed her hands on the stone-rock wall and began to climb. She climbed quickly and with great ease, like a spider, like a bug. When she arrived at the window and peeked inside, she found what she desired; three baby girls––triplets, less than forty days old. Each child was lying inside her own crib. They were asleep now. They were asleep and without supervision.
The girls were a true rarity.
Stephenie’s first night would be a night to remember.
6
The room was large, lavishly furnished and meticulously hygienic. Not the work of an exhausted mother, but that of a staff of devoted and talented servants. There were several candles attached to each wall, but only two of them were lit. There were also several paintings of jesters, landscapes, and smiling children.
Stephenie crawled through the window.
The floor creaked beneath her feet.
On her right, a dresser sat next to a closet door. She knew it was a closet by the slender design of the doorframe. Beyond the dresser sat a single crib; the headboard faced the wall. On her left there was a shelf tastefully decorated with knickknacks and ornaments, ceramic mostly. A plant sat next to it on a small table. On the other side of the plant there were two more cribs. Again, the headboards faced the wall.
She approached the nearest crib, which was the first one on her left. A smirk crept from ear to ear. Looking down at the child she felt herself drool. She was hungry, so hungry. The need to feed had never been so great. Still, Stephenie controlled herself. She would not be a slave to her own desires, but the architect of her choices.
She listened.
The house was quiet but not everyone was sleeping. Someone was awake, however Stephenie had a feeling that someone was always awake inside this particular home.
If the community were larger, Stephenie figured the house would be secured behind fences and gates that most would find difficult to encroach. But the community wasn’t larger, and the gate she had stepped through wasn’t locked. In fact, it wasn’t even closed. The doorway was an open invitation to the entire village. Perhaps the people who lived inside the home ruled the town. Perhaps they knew each person by name. Perhaps, perhaps… still, someone was awake, probably not for security reasons, but rather to keep an eye (and an ear) open for the needs of the children. Yes, that seemed about right. That seemed to fit.
The child before Stephenie had rosy pink skin. She was lost in the deepest kingdoms of sleep and buried beneath a pair of white sheets that were clean and fresh. All Stephenie could see was the baby’s head, neck, and one little hand, poking out between the linen. The fingers were so tiny they were frightening. If they were any smaller they would have looked like swollen grains of rice.
Looking away from the child, Stephenie noticed the artistic design of the wooden crib for the first time. The crib was custom made by a skilled hand and loaded with subtle detail. Engraved on the headboard between a wealth of inventive swirls was a name, carved in delicate script. It read: Paisley Rae.
Paisley Rae, she thought. That’s a yummy name.
She looked at the other two cribs––the one in front of her and the one against the opposite wall. The two other cribs were evidently the work of the same carpenter, or carpenters––for the workmanship was similar, not exact, but definitely comparable. The other two cribs were also garnished with corresponding headboards.
One read: Mandy.
The other: Cynthia.
Stephenie wet her lips and her eyes returned to the child before her, Paisley Rae.
Paisley Rae looked so innocent and beautiful that she made the heart feel weak. She was a gift to the world; it was easy to see.
Stephenie reached into the crib, rubbed a cold knuckle against the child’s face and watched the baby cringe. Carefully, oh so carefully, she pulled the blankets off the child. Paisley Rae was naked, save a thick cloth that had been wrapped around her midsection for a diaper. Stephenie lifted the child and the child squirmed. She tilted Paisley Rae to one side, sniffed her like a wolf and licked the child. Then her eyes narrowed and she tore into the infant’s neck.
Paisley Rae’s mouth blasted open and her feet started kicking. Her eyes watered and her arms reached out. They were no longer than a pair of candlesticks. Her tiny rice-fingers stretched apart. A line of blood shot across Stephenie’s cheek and the baby’s body began to convulse.
Stephenie sucked harder, draining the baby of every drop she could.
Paisley Rae began to deflate like a beach ball with a hole in it. Her eyeballs drew into her skull and her lungs folded shut. Her nose compressed and her cheeks sucked in. Lips turned white, then blue. Wrinkles were formed in places that no wrinkles should have been.
Stephenie consumed the infant until there was nothing more to swallow. She dumped the empty shell into the crib and stormed across the room with her back arched, her hands grasping and her eyes shining like fire.
The floor thumped beneath her feet.
She reached into the next crib, Mandy’s crib.
She grabbed the baby by the face, yanked her from the bedding and rammed the tiny body against her lips. Her teeth bit down twice, three times. She chewed on the child ravenously. The slightest cry escaped the Mandy’s lips; then Stephenie’s teeth (not fangs, oh no––she didn’t have fangs, not yet) tore a mouthful of flesh away.
Stephenie spat the meat out as blood poured on the floor. Attaching her lips to the wound, she sucked the blood fiercely. She sucked harder now than she did with the first child. She sucked with all the strength she had. The baby’s limbs curled like a bug held above a flame. Intestines contracted and veins tore into pieces. Her eyes popped into her skull. Bones snapped, cracked and crunched. They sounded like twigs beneath a foot, like a campfire crackle.
Stephenie was lost inside her own world, her own time. She was in love with the moment; the children tasted so good, so pure––so true.
An orgasm came, taking her, washing over her, overwhelming her.
She sucked Mandy more an
d more, draining her completely. She squeezed Mandy’s face in her hand and Mandy’s skull caved in. A spider web of splits appeared in the child’s pink skin and her skull cracked apart like a hardboiled egg. Bones smashed together and the girl’s tiny brain squished out, fell between Stephenie’s fingers and dropped onto the floor. Stephenie tossed the shriveled, empty infant into the crib. The withered and mangled corpse banged against the posh wooden pickets.
One more child, she thought. One more, and I’ll surely come again.
Before she had arrived at the home, Stephenie thought she would take the third infant back to the graveyard and offer it to the vampire child that lived behind Carrie’s façade. Now she knew that doing such a thing was impossible. She couldn’t share these gifts––these three wonderful gifts––any more than she could command herself to leave the third child alone. Drinking the children’s blood was a pleasure beyond anything she had ever hoped to experience. This was a feeding frenzy––nothing more, nothing less.
She spun around, grinning as blood dripped from her chin. Her eyes were shining impossibly bright. She looked at the third child, Cynthia.
Then she heard it.
Something that was––
7
The bedroom door blasted open.
Tiffany White, a housemaid and servant to the children, stood in the doorway. She had light skin and long brown hair. She held a fireplace poker in one hand and a lantern in the other. She heard the ruckus and thought there was a wolf in the room.
In many ways, she was right.
Tiffany saw Stephenie’s outline in the glow the moonlight, courtesy of the open window. She saw a flickering of features from the light of the candles. She saw the fire in the vampire’s eyes and felt her heart drop into her feet.
Stephenie hissed at the woman––she actually hissed, like the rattlesnakes in the crypt.
Tiffany gasped and flinched. She stumbled back; then she forced herself to step forward, stand tall; defend the children.
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