RED SEEDS, RED BEADS
Tumblr prompt: "There are times when Vanessa wishes her thirst for blood wasn't quite so literal."
She stalks the dark alleys of London fearlessly, heedless of the heads she turns and the whispers she invokes, the looks both scandalized and leering, the men half concerned and half plotting.
With the devil himself never more than a few steps behind her, it matters not what kind of interest she attracts. A pack of wild hyenas might trail after their chosen prey with eyes gleaming and fangs bared, but even unintelligent scavengers know to back off once they sense the lion lurking in the shadows.
Still, there's always that one fool who lets his hunger blind him…
She pushes aside hands that had meant to hitch up her skirt, gathers them in her own and pins them against the cold, wet brick wall, keeps them – and their owner – firmly immobilized as her teeth sink into the fool's shoulder. He thrashes against her hold, curses at her when he should be chastising himself, whimpers when she rasps a dark chuckle and rests her weary head against his bleeding shoulder in a mockery of such an intimate act.
From the back of her mind comes an echo, a laugh more twisted and sinister than hers could ever be, more satisfied than even she is after giving in to this frenzy.
A single shove and the man crumples to the ground, cries like a scared child when she growls in anger and frustration and self-loathing. She does not turn back to assess the damage she's caused, trusts the foolish hyena has learned his lesson and won't be attempting another hunt of his own anytime soon.
His blood is warm and sticky on her forehead, and she swipes at it with the back of her hand. There is blood on her face, blood on her hands, blood on her lips – but never down her throat.
Never again.
.
.
.
She remembers being seven, running down the neatly-trimmed rows of rosebushes with Mina, their girlish laughter accompanying the soft whispers of their skirts as they ran their hands over the velvet petals of the flowers.
She remembers a sudden cry, remembers the bead of blood that had swelled up on Mina's finger as the girl pointed accusingly at an errant thorn. She remembers being seven, and she remembers her seven-year-old self remembering yet another memory, an earlier one this time, of her mother pricking herself with a needle and sticking her thumb into her mouth.
She remembers doing the same for Mina, remembers sucking a few droplets of blood as if they were venom and her friend's life depended on it. She remembers Mina giggling and telling her that tickled, teasingly calling her nurse Vanessa before they took off once more, hands daringly sweeping over the rosebushes without a single care for thorns.
She remembers being seven and getting her first taste of blood, remembers sleeping by Mina's side that night and waking up to low, non-existent whispers, remembers the exposed column of Mina's neck and the urge to sink her teeth into her best friend's neck.
She remembers that first – and only – taste of blood even now, and there is no wine or guilt or kiss strong enough to wash that taste out of her mouth.
.
.
.
The clock ticks… and ticks… and ticks… and then finally, it tolls.
One.
Victor comes by, every now and then. It's almost nice to finally have some company in this empty house.
Two.
He stays for an hour each visit, and they barely ever speak.
Three.
There is dried blood under his fingernails, and once she spied little silver crescents on his wrist.
Four.
His eyes are bloodshot, wild, frantic – and above all, terrified.
Five.
She wishes he would confide in her, but she cannot be certain that she can bear the weight of her demons and his, now that the burden is hers and hers alone to shoulder.
Six.
He is so pale, so drained; she wonders if there's even a single drop left in him. If she were to bite-
Seven.
"Seven o'clock," Victor mumbles to himself. "I should get going. I should get home before it gets dark. Yes, home. Home and locked up, not that they-" He comes to an abrupt stop, and Vanessa doesn't have it in her to pursue the matter.
"I should get going," He insists, and she walks him out with a cordial smile and tells him she looks forward to his next visit.
She worries, these days, that each visit might be his last.
.
.
.
Victor has not been by in days.
Sir Malcolm is still oceans and continents away.
Ethan is – where is Ethan?
And Sembene… she almost wishes he'd come back to haunt her, to keep her company. Of all the things that come out to play at night, all the voices and shadows that should not be here but are, she thinks Sembene's ghost would be the most welcome of them all.
Alas, the only ghosts in this house are those of her own making. She imagines Sir Malcolm in his study, conjures up the image of Ethan in his room, pictures a worryingly frail Victor in the sitting room. They are less substantial than ghosts, fading away into nothing the instant she blinks.
The actual spirits, the shadows and voices and the burn - the burning and itching and craving in her throat – those are not so easily dealt with.
The shadows take up residence in her room; their whispers leave puffs of cold air on her neck. All the while her throat burns, and thirsts, and wants.
So easy. It would be so easy to take to the dark and hunt once more. There's hardly anyone here to stop her, after all.
She is alone, so alone, all alone in this big empty haunted house.
But not for long, something sings, its breath close enough to disturb the loose strands of hair by her ear.
"Not for long," Vanessa agrees, and resolutely locks herself into her room, away from the foolish hyenas ripe for the picking. No need to dirty her hands in her efforts to quench her thirst.
Something is coming – and when it does, there will be blood. Rivers, oceans, a flood of red. And it will be on your hands, the voices tell her, warn her, threaten her.
Yes, she thinks, knows, accepts. It will all be on her hands-
But not a drop down her throat.
First time writing for this fandom so yeah, I'm a bit nervous about this. Here's hoping it wasn't too bad.
Season 3, here we come!
E Salvatore,
April 2016.