She lay in the bed quietly, staring at the wall in the semi-dark of the room. Outside, through the gossamer drapes, the moon could be seen shining softly in a full round circle to send her light in through the window to draw a faint silhouette of the girl. She, the girl, was aware of the moon, but only dimly somewhere in the back of her mind. The rest of her conscious was too occupied with the aching of her body to pay much attention to it.
He had been gentle with her, at first, when he had come and taken her from the orphanage, carrying her from the place with its terrible smells and pious nuns who spent too much time praying to see god in anything more than their little books and sticks of incense. She had been glad to be taken away, even though this man acted as though he owned her in more than just a parental way. Faintly, in her young way, she was somewhat attracted to him, but in more of the sense of a blushing childhood crush than the fully-grown love of a woman. After all, she was only thirteen.
They came within sight of a large house and the girl peeked up in wonder from the shelter of his arms. The place was absolutely huge, a mansion, nearly, and she wondered in happy anticipation what it would look like inside. Having never had a home of her own, she was looking forward to exploring and as large as this place had to be she wasn't in any doubt that she would have her own room of some sort, even if she was to be a servant. She wasn't stupid, after all, and she knew that some of the children who left the orphanage went on to worse fates than their foster parents advertised.
He had carried her up the steps in his arms, and the door had opened before them almost magically. The girl had suspected servants, for as they went in no one was to be seen, and she knew from talking to a few of the older children that a good servant was never to caught sight of if it could be helped. She supposed this included a ridiculous habit of scurrying off as fast as they could go after opening a door, and returning once the master had made his way down the hall. After coming to that conclusion, she thought nothing more of it.
They'd gone up several flights of stairs in a dizzying spiral that never seemed to end, and by the time he'd gotten to a door and stopped she was halfway asleep. To asleep, even, to notice that he didn't open the door with his hands, nor did he use them to turn on the lights.
However, as soon as he started heading for the bed, she'd been fully aware of what was going on.
And now, reflecting, she almost wished she hadn't.
The bed had been soft, and in contrast with his hard body it felt absolutely delicious and safe. She'd pressed back into it as he'd torn her shirt off, gripped it when she found that somehow she could not cry out; his teeth sunk into the column of her neck and she'd choked soundlessly at the pain, feeling the wound aching each time he took a pull of her blood. Her veins felt scratchy, worn, as he'd drained her almost dry, and she'd thought that the sandpapery feeling elicited each time her heart labored to beat was nearly enough to kill her, and she felt a kind of dawning horror at the realization that she might die alone and unnamed in the beautiful house of a deranged madman.
She hadn't thought she could get any more frightened, until one of his nails had elongated. He slashed a bright red line across his chest, and she choked in horror as he pressed her mouth to the gash. There was a brutal thrust into her mind, and subconsciously she watched, sickened, as her mouth licked the blood from his chest and gulped it down like an animal dying of thirst.
He took her, after that, and left her aching in his bed to undergo what she had heard others call the 'conversion'.