Prologue
Another era, another realm, but the dream always happened whenever she slept too long. Cold gusts and mildew stench permeated the dance hall and her nose; no warmth from the chandelier. Carmella sighed. The stage was set for a perfect get-together with friends and family!
Something warm marched through the outer chambers, musky perfume of perspiration raising her eyebrows. He just braved that room filled with pits of pikes no doubt, and ran to the center of this chamber, black leather raiment and luxurious mane held back with headband, exactly like those stories in the king's court.
Feeling all seemed too well, the warrior checked behind his shoulder. He probably wondered why the feminine pink rose bouquets in jade vases stayed intact while everything else wilted into blackened rottenness. She loved this part.
"Welcome, Simon," she announced. "Why, you're--!"
Oh great, she thought. Melodic and sweet... like a delicate flower! Now he's looking at this big feminine masque you made, thinking you're a prissy little whore! Fool!
...But at least I got his attention...
Gesturing her hidden, delicate hands, the door behind him obeyed and shut for her. No furniture, no windows, only ragged curtains swaying in an unknown breeze... just the perfect setting to unleash one's passions upon the dance floor without the world's baneful scrutiny!
The man glared harshly at the hairline cracks of the masque, searching for weaknesses. Caked bloodstains ran vertically underneath the right eye, but both faintly glowed pink as the man expected.
"What do they call you?" he barked.
"Vampira," she sneered menacingly.
The insensitive brute scoffed and laughed. Such a nerve!
"Listen," Simon blurted. "I've vanquished werewolves, skeletons, ghouls, ravens, bats, oversized spiders, oozes, Dullahan, demons, and some ogre called 'The Claw'. Your name leaves nothing to my imagination!"
He exemplified why she never tolerated mortals for long.
"This is a private gathering," she cried, giving way to shrieking. "No Flesh Allowed!"
The masque cracked and crumbled, falling toward Simon, but he leapt and rolled aside just in time. With footing regained, he leapt back as the masque blinked, spouting bloody fire onto the floor, a steamy hissing pool racing after his feet! Carmella cackled behind her masque; Simon leapt aimlessly into the corner, escape far beyond his feet.
"What you've seen is not torture," she sang. "Not death..."
Simon drew his family's infamous whip, studying the hideous grinning masque again for those hairline cracks. It flashed its eyelashes suggestively, and closed in and pressed him against the corner. Victory was hers; she finally defeated a Belmont warrior.
"Return my master to me," Carmella commanded.
Simon winced. "Return my rosary," he uttered.
"Hmm," she chirped. "Care to trade?"
Then everything went black.
Carmella's toes curled, knees bumping into some wooden board that crashed onto a hard stone surface beside her bed. The air felt dreadfully chill. Worse, she writhed about only to discover she slept nude without sheets. Even worse, she had no skin, period.
Her eyes quickly adjusted--at least she had eyes!--beholding the red pentagram etched upon the ceiling. She dared not to constrict her abdomen without skin; organs might fly out. She understood the process happening above her. Drawing a rusted stiletto with a potent point, a man in ragged druidic black robe poked the bladder, drew out the instrument, and squeezed. As the blood immersed her stomach, Carmella felt skin reforming. He kneaded the subsistent red bladder with hands of skin and bone (just bone). Once the druid milked those pouches clean, the cavity shut to reveal her naval. The bladder's remainder showered her eyes, and everything became redder and brighter. He poured many bags and reconstituted her from a pile of skeletal ash languishing inside a plain pine box... to an exotic beauty.
During this eerily ironic rebirth, she beheld other things as alien as the ritual is to outsiders: bright white lights of such strength to surpass candles. Carmella blinked and squinted. As follicles sprouted like weeds upon her head, she lurched forward suddenly, startling the weary druid. Turning her head, she drew her face before immaculate silver surgical tools of a make far beyond any blacksmith, far beyond the medicine of her epoch! The only thing grounding her sanity was beholding the results of her transfiguration. If vanity was a sin, she thanked even God for ensuring the Church struck it off the original deadly sins.
She made cute moaning noises as she siphoned the bladders' remnants. Straining to examine her ecstatic liberator, she discovered in harsher light the pale white of what should have been a chin underneath sackcloth. Surely those shadows behind him were not nurse assistants!
He cleared his throat. "Welcome C--!"
"Get out," she screamed, gripping her womanhood from prying eyes, stunning him and the shadows behind him. "I said get out!"
She arose from her coffin, eyes sternly slanting before her astounded liberators. The robed one politely retreated, gesturing toward others behind him. They knew when a girl demanded privacy, she meant immediately!
Carmella crept back inside her coffin, migraine slowly pounding underneath her right eye. Despite that, she let the box cover hover overhead and shut perfectly, shrouding her from those aggravating lights and those meddling henchmen. Those bloody bladders did the trick though... simply satisfying, spicy flavor.
She traced her fingers along her frame, remembering why men mistook her for something so... irresistibly divine. She kept tracing fingers over flesh, thoughts swirling toward her recurring nightmares. Vampire hunters... most were arrogant louts, but he was different. Normally, she yawned off their fruitless attempts at restraining her. She opened the coffin and reached for the remaining bladder and stopped. She read English well enough; she crept closer and blinked twice at the name upon that rubbery packet:
Simon
That man hunted the night... making her nightmares...
Delectable!
She purred, giggling. No laughing, she thought. She deeply inhaled a bladder's aroma, bit into its contents and experienced thrashing pleasure beyond comprehension. Ecstatic, her delirium!
Now thoroughly relaxed and purged of wayward thoughts, Carmella snapped her finger, summoning the druid into the sanctum. He cocked his head, classic Labrador maneuver, and she gestured toward the dolly's bottom panel.
"What exactly is D, D?" Carmella asked.
"Double-D," the druid corrected. "...Thirty-two double-D... your um... bust size--!"
The clear, rubbery plastic bladder hit the druid's face. Still, she could dress into her new, exquisite red dress before the druid without him ogling her, he being utterly asexual. The dress clung tightly to her; even French prostitutes' fashion appeared prude in comparison! That tiled pillar had a "XIAN" mark but surely this silly lot could not retreat into Roman catacombs...? Maybe they invaded the Americas?
"Exterminatus," Carmella crooned. "Start talking...!"
This newfangled underground lair had few feminine comforts... more like a scientist's haunt. She peered around the changing booth, ensuring that the old raven heard her. Between her changing, he shaved his head and tailored a black priest's frock, his preferred human appearance. If mirrors could talk, they would say something to belittle him. But, oh! How the master would chastise her miserable appearance... once lauded as the most beautiful being upon the earth, dusty and...
Such trashy dinner-outfits!
"I rehearsed a speech before your... shall we say, reemergence," Ex said. "It... needed tact." Something breathed out gently through those bleached digits; a medium would retreat and pray for weeks on end to dispel the sensation. Her grin lacked fangs as they were unnecessary. Ex scowled and grumbled enough.
"Someone shipped your intoxicating elixir to us," he further explained. "Mass quantities..." Carmella strolled toward the dolly and checked the bin where those red bladders came from, gingerly tracing loving fingers over them.
"Women love men who get dirty," Ex said, grinning with narrowed eyes, such a smarmy butler in the grand scheme. "You smelled them, no?"
Carmella sheepishly held a near-emptied pouch to her nose for its rich, nostalgic aroma. Rare it is when vampires felt such pain. This one ached all over, and the variables juggling her cranium didn't help it. This scent, however, soothed it, as if she would succumb to ecstasy any moment. The blood served a perfect outlet, the perfect stress buster, as if its owner could satisfy whatever she wanted in life and death.
How humiliating.
"I remember," she stated flatly, rubbing her temples. "Belmonts... have you not disposed of them?"
"Like you should talk," he disdainfully interjected. "The Belmonts hunt the night all too well."
Carmella pouted, right eye shut. She always kept one open with him around. "Well," she said, pointing at shadows behind tiled pillars. "They're easier to look at than your minions..." Several offended critters scurried in disgust. "And that doesn't go against unwritten rules. What's wrong... repelled by reproductive urges or... something else?"
Clearing the followers with a raised hand never failed for Exterminatus. Never betrayal, never questions. They feared him... more than anyone among them.
He started blowing out candles with special switches, part of cleaning up after that exhaustive ritual. "Vampires don't reproduce," he stated dryly. "They merely spread their curse to others... no children involved, really."
"What then of Adrian," Carmella commented. "Does his cavalier wanderings repel you also, Ex?"
"No," Ex squawked. "Getting to the point, what do these pouches mean?" He pulled his sleeve from the wrist, revealing a black wristband with glowing eye. Carmella drew close to find strange writing on it.
"Look at that," said Ex. "It's digital." Deciphering the rectangular font and blinking dots, Carmella deciphered: 4:20 a.m., 8/13/95. Her widened eyes met his smile.
"Ninety-five," she repeated. "So, five years passed?"
"Two-hundred and sixty-five...?"
She bumped into the coffin while backing away, bracing herself from falling by gripping it. "Two centuries," she cried. "What year?"
"Four-twenty Ante Meridian, August thirteenth, two-thousand ninety-five," Ex said. "Rude awakening I'm sure." He held a bladder, one he stabbed with his stiletto. "Someone delivered these as a message."
Carmella woozily cracked her neck, holding hand to chest, struggling to simmer its non-stop beating. Something metal traveled the air, and she looked up in time to catch it: an English rapier, polished and sharpened, weighted for easier use among lightweights like ladies in court.
"Nice reflexes," Ex commended. "Some things never rust... I suppose you can decipher your... mission?"
Carmella tried setting the blade upon the dolly but it slipped off and tingled upon the ground, disturbing the dust upon the moss-bitten stone floor served slightly chilled. "To what do I owe your attentions, Death?"
"Simon Belmont lives," Ex grimaced. "You must kill him."
Author's Notes:
A story based on Castlevania, a bloody, filthy game, ironically less objectionable to prior projects... but upon reading this, you'll wonder how depraved my other works are.
This received an admirable facelift--shorter and to the point--without wanderings of point of view. This is strictly Carmilla's chapter, and everything flows nicer. I did keep that descriptive process on my hard drive, because it was worth keeping somewhere else in the story, like an outsider's perspective. In any case, the update was completed on 1/30/08. Will update a new chapter soon.
Mandatory Disclaimer: Castlevania and related characters are property of Konami. Any games referred to in this tribute to Konami are more than likely Konami's. Do not distribute or alter this material without expressed written consent.