Vampires aren't real.
Least, that's what Yaz keeps telling to herself.
Vampires aren't real.
But she knows better than that. Knows better when there's a woman—a Queen of some sorts—has her pinned to wall with shackles holding her arms and legs imprisoned. Knows better when a sharp, black nail raises her chin up, when there's a hungry gaze in her crimson eyes.
Vampires aren't—are real.
Yaz trembles, pulse skyrocketing, when the teeth her eyes trained on sharpen. She doesn't scream; her voice had already betrayed her already, and it isn't as if the stars would bless her an escape—the closest thing to that was her unconsciousness.
Vampires are real.
"Yasmin Khan, are you ready to accept your fate?" As if it was a willing, conscious decision she made. It's a taunt towards the poor girl. "You're trembling…"
Yeah, no shit (she almost spat).
The Queen draws her head in, and Yaz could feel her unnecessary breaths hitting her own tempting flesh.
"When I was 19, I was turned," she whispers in the girl's soft ear, "violently. The man who did it only viewed me as an object for his own desire. Of course—all men did. He beat it, tortured me, fed on me, but one day—I wounded so badly he gave me his blood, and I died anyways."
Why are you telling me this?
"When you're a girl who's sold into a family of hungry beasts just for your parents to live a life with their new baby, you gain the right of being consumed in your anger." Lips stained of dried blood brush on the tawny neck and jaw; Yaz flinches. "And the anger bubbled inside of me. I ran away, survived all I could, and I found my way back to my village."
She giggles, and the sadistic smile she wears is harrowing. "And I ripped the throats out of every person in my village—except for the girl who I would spend centuries living together side-by-side." The vampire inhales Yaz's sweet scent. "And then, you killed her."
Yaz remembers it clearly. When Colette grabbed hold of her in a violent retaliation against the Doctor—threatening the infliction of disembowelment on her—the lighter inside her pocket became her saving grace. It was worth a few burns.
Was worth a few burns.
"The funniest thing is—I'm not angry at all. Not this time."
Oh, good. That's very reassuring.
"Not when she's brought me such a lovely meal—that Doctor—oh, how I love meeting up with them—they really know how to pick the best ones, do they?"
Silence is Yaz's best retaliation; that, and the calm breaths masking her racing heartbeat.
Clawed hands grab her face—and time, she swears, halts in hesitation—
The unwelcome sensation of the Queen's lips on her own hits her like a drug. Such a fleeting moment so intoxicating, it leaves Yaz paralysed in a deep trance.
The Queen's beauty is said to be irresistible; you would be lucky enough to be alive if she ever spoke more than a string of sentences to you. As potent as she is, Yaz resisted for a prolonged time. Without the Doctor's protection by her side, she was easier to mar, but only slightly.
The more addictive they are, the harder they are to succumb.
Shackles clang, then—THUD! A chunk of cracked stone wall falls to the ground, and Yaz, with her loosely chained wrist, makes an attempt to swing a punch—only to be intercepted.
Both pairs of eyes never break contact.
"Living beyond my expectations, I see," the Queen muses; she traps the human girl in a clawed chokehold.
Fuck you.
The Queen simply cackles.
"I'm going to make you perfect." The face of a possessive predator grins at her ensnared prey.
The taloned hand forces itself in Yaz's chest, crushing the defence that is the ribcage swiftly. It all happens in a flash—when the Queen pushes her arm deeper, when the beating heart is yanked, when Yaz's eyes dilate at the grisly sight.
Her body fails in a matter of moments, and the remaining life in those brown eyes is but an ephemeral whisper in the wind.
She is a beautiful addition to the many bloody corpses scattered inside the chamber.