Slay: Stories of the Vampire Noire

by Slay (epub)

  The bass was heavy; the throbbing seeped into my soul, thump, thump, thumping as did my loins. She rolled her hips, ticking top, right, back, left to the constant beat. The sensation was exquisite. She turned to look at me and parted her lips in a smile. Her rosy mouth, seductively wet, was drawing me close. I found myself wanting to kiss her again, to lick the moisture from her lips and drink it like the sweet nectar it was. I breathed deeply and my hand fluttered up to my chest. I had never felt that way before.

  My legs moved of their own volition, following her as she moved deeper and deeper into the crowd. The bass, the slow grind of the music, entranced me and I felt my hips swaying, rolling, gyrating to each beat. She faced me as I approached her, her eyes gliding up and down my body, watching me move. I felt self-conscious under her stare, but I kept moving towards her anyway. I slid between couples on the dance floor, still standing apart from each other, one tempting the other with a twist of the hips, a shake in the shoulders. ‘You can look but you can’t touch’, their eyes said; two strangers circling each other in a mating ritual. I saw them but didn’t. They made up the clutter that was my peripheral vision. My eyes were honed in on her. And hers on me.

  As the reggae beat moved me, covering ground I didn’t feel beneath my feet, I navigated the dance floor to find myself standing right in front of her. Her lips were parted still, and I could see her white teeth below her upper lip. Her face and chest were dotted with perspiration; the ends of her hair were wet with it. The glistening line of her cleavage shined in the light of the strobe, the tops of her round breasts peeking through, pushed up by the underwire of her bra. I followed the scoop neck of her dress from the sides of her breasts and over the tops, fancying I could make out the nipple, slightly erect, beneath the material of her dress. My own nipples hardened at the thought. I took a deep breath to clear my mind.

  We stood inches apart, our breath mingling, blowing wisps of hair from each other’s faces. She tilted her head the slightest bit upward, toward mine. Her hair fell from her shoulders and cascaded down her back. I wanted to put my hand in it, to smooth it against her skin, to feel its silkiness between my fingers. Instead I stood still, unable to move, staring into her spellbinding eyes.

  She said nothing as she moved closer to me. I backed away on contact, suddenly aware of my surroundings. ‘People are staring at us’, my mind screamed. My face flashed hot as I thought of them watching. What must we look like? Two women undressing each other with their eyes in the middle of the dance floor. I imagined them pointing and snickering at our public display of affection, certainly deemed gratuitous by the straight couples in the room. I would think as much if the shoe were on the other foot, I admitted to myself. Homosexuality still made me feel uneasy. Especially women. Even a casual touch, a knowing glance from one partner to another was enough to make me leave the room, remove myself from their presence. Was it that I felt threatened by the intensity of the relationship? No. I’d had my share of boyfriends and didn’t long for companionship. Did I feel some sort of kinship with them? Did some longing awaken within me when I saw the affection in a lover’s eyes for her girlfriend? No. No?

  She moved closer to me, until our bodies touched through our clothes. Her hands rested on my hips as hers rolled to the beat, the slow grind growing salacious. She caressed the line of my hips, her hands patterning from waist to thigh, from outer to inner, as she danced.

  I soon forgot my concerns and fell into her control, moving my body against hers, and feeling pleasure in the contact. Her breasts rubbed against me, just underneath my own, her nipples as aroused as mine as they pressed against me. She smiled as she touched me, enjoying my reaction as the façade I had lived under all my life melted away under the touch of her hand. I danced with her, pressing my pelvis into her form. She touched her hands to mine and guided them over her body. She moved them over her hips, the tops of her thighs, up and down her ribcage, each time teasing me with a fleeting touch of her bosom. I was throbbing with desire, my heartbeat rising in my throat. She brought my hands around to her buttocks and pressed them there, spreading my fingers so that both of my index fingers danced along the edge of her cheeks before the round. I felt her move beneath my hands as she danced. I pressed myself closer still to her warmth, longing to taste her skin.

  After a while of this, my revelation and satisfaction, she had me raise my face from the divine nook formed by her shoulder and neck where I had taken residence and regard her. She looked at me then with eyes that were the most endearing brown I had ever seen. The smile that played on her lips was amative, so seductive I almost couldn’t look. But I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to kiss her lips, to give her what she seemed to be asking for, begging for. The realization floored me, but I set it aside. This woman had turned me on.

  The music, the smell of her sweat, the heat of her breath captivated me. I no longer felt the prying eyes staring at me, no longer heard the chattering voices around me. It was just she and I standing there, on the brink of coition, moving to the rhythm of the music. It was intoxicating.

  Her hands had found their way to my breasts and were kneading my nipples gently. I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to the feeling as she circled my areolas, her hands masterful at manipulating my flesh. A moan escaped my lips as she caressed them so intensely I thought I could feel her fingers against my skin instead of through my shirt. My head tilted back in ecstasy.

  I felt her hands on my neck pulling me toward her gently, and at the same time, I could feel her pushing herself closer to me. Her lips grazed my neck and sent shivers down my spine. My sex pulsed against my underwear as her tongue licked the hollow of my neck. My mouth opened, slack from excitement. I leaned into her, wanting more. She kissed my neck, sucked it, licked it, devoured it as though consuming a delicacy. I stood allowing her to do as she would, willing to experience anything she wanted me to. The throbbing in my sex became rapid long before she placed her finger upon it, urging it out, making it crave her. I was delirious with want for her.

  She spoke in the softest of voices at the base of my neck, her voice so quiet, I didn’t hear her words.

  “What did you say?” I breathed airily, inebriated by her touch.

  “I asked if you remembered my name. Do you?”

  My mind grasped for an image of the napkin upon which she had written her name and number. In the fog of arousal, I couldn’t remember the letters, whether they were cursive or printed, or the color of the ink. All I could see was her. All I could feel was her touch.

  “Do you?” she asked again, more insistently this time, her mouth hovering over my neck as she spoke.

  I squinted my closed eyelids, bidding my mind to clear itself, if only for a moment. To think for fear that she would take this feeling away from me if I couldn’t answer her. My mind swirled, frenzied. And then it came to me. I saw the napkin she had given me as clear as if I were holding it in my hand then. In flowery, calligraphic handwriting she had written the name Vanessa.

  The name tasted sweet on my lips, like a sip of fruity wine. I opened my mouth to say it, to mouth the syllables of the name belonging to the woman whose touch made me a different person when I felt her lips upon my skin again.

  “Van—,” I started. Before I could finish, I felt something sharp pierce my neck. My eyes flew open as I gasped. My hands reached out for Vanessa and found her shoulder, taut now as she held me in place. Muted shrieks emanated from me, like the dying cries of an animal in the wild. My neck was hot. My hands grew cold. I could hear my blood rushing in my ears as she sucked noisily, wildly on my life’s blood. My eyes fell upon the people around me, my subconscious beckoning me to look. The men and women who, only minutes before, were dancing to the music, sipping their drinks, and talking, were now staring at us, their faces beastly in their vampiric state. Some of them laughed, saliva dripping generously from their fangs. Others stared proudly, watching the display with nobility. All of them had a frighteningly greedy edge; it was a look in th
e eye for some, a gaping maw for others. All of them were hungry. All of them wanted to feed.

  Vanessa drank her fill of me and pushed me away when she was done. Her rich laughter filled the air, the sound reverberating in my head. I looked at her, at the blood—my blood—that coated the front of her dress as well as the exposed skin above the scooped neck. Even then, her bloody fangs protruding over her bottom lip, her yellow cat’s eyes glowing in the dim light, she was gorgeous.

  As if in slow motion, I raised my hand to my neck. My fingers touched the puncture wounds tentatively; I cringed from the touch. My vision clouded over as I stood among the undead, before the woman who would be the one to take my mortal life. My legs weakened and I sank to the floor, hitting it with a dull thud. I sat looking up at her, at Vanessa. Tears blurred my vision of her as I faltered, what was left of my blood flowing out of my wound and down my shirt. I saw her walk toward me as I laid my head on the dance floor. She knelt before me and brushed my sweaty hair out of my face, smoothing it with her delicate fingers. Her eyes held a profound sadness as she watched me die. The warmth of her hand burned my face as she touched me, growing hotter and hotter against my chilled skin. She entered my open mouth with a probing finger, aggravating it, inducing me to swallow. Once done, she removed her hand and closed my mouth gently, caressing my chin as a lover would. Again, Vanessa spoke, her voice tender and sweet,

  “Do you love me, Gillian?”

  With my last breath, I moaned. I died with the face of Vanessa in my eyes and the smell of my blood wafting from her lips.

  I blinked my drying eyes and swallowed with my parched mouth. Pushing my torso up with my arms, using muscles that felt invigorated and strong in a way they had never felt before, I raised myself from the floor and stood. Vanessa stood with me, her face concupiscent and alight. I looked at the faces of my family then and saw respect and rivalry toiling within them, just beneath their fragile skin, as I stood in front of their one true love. With hubristic poise unknown to me before my mortal death, I smiled and said,

  “Yes, I do.”

  A Clink of Crystal Glasses Heard

  LH Moore

  Neeka was not quite sure how to feel about it.

  Blood for blood, they kept telling her over and over again, and that was the extent of the knowledge that she had. There is something about how adults whisper things among themselves in hushed exchanges and furtive, darting glances and how they changed a conversation when one of them walked in. How they are such keepers of knowledge even as Neeka and her friends were becoming women just like them, despite protests that being like their mothers was something they definitely didn't want to happen. Why would she want to? She could be someone entirely different, better even. Isn't that the way of things? The way things are supposed to be?

  Neeka still couldn't begin to fathom everything they might know though. There was so much excitement about who she and her friends were becoming, but it was the mystery of it that was so intriguing. The things that have not been, the things that are yet to come. She once tried to ask her mother about it and was told "You'll see when it happens to you." What kind of answer is that?

  She had known her friends Zina and Laila her entire life. Their moms had been best friends for all of their lives and would get together and drink wine and laugh and talk as the girls hid out in each other's rooms and basements. This time they sat in Neeka's room and tried to piece together what little they knew as their mothers' raucous laughter floated up to them from downstairs.

  "My mom always seems really different then, you know? Just not herself," Zina said, pushing back long purple-threaded braids as she stretched out on a thick, white faux fur rug. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose before spitting out a sunflower seed and pouring some more out into her hand.

  "This might sound really weird, but mine just seems really...hungry and sometimes she leaves out at night. I think she goes somewhere like a drive-thru or something since she's not hungry when she comes back." Laila pouted and then sighed. "I wish she'd at least bring me back a burger."

  They all turned and looked at her.

  "Actually, that sounds like mine," Neeka said.

  "Mine too," Zina nodded, spitting out another seed.

  "That's kinda weird though, huh?" Neeka said, reaching for the bowl of salt and vinegar potato chips. "I mean, is being super-hungry a thing then? I've never read anything online anywhere about that being a thing."

  "Not that I know of, but then again, we only know as much as we know or they'll tell us, huh?"

  "It kind of sucks that we don't know more actually."

  Laila started messing with her hair, pulling it up into a bun with an elastic. "I wonder what they are talking about."

  "Let's go listen in then," Neeka said and they slipped out of the room, crouched down and huddled at the top of the stairs. Neeka put a finger to her lips and the other girls nodded. That's when she heard her mother's voice.

  "The girls are almost twelve. We need to go ahead and plan everything. The last thing that we need is for it to kick in and they are unprepared. If you're like me, this means your girls are pretty much in the dark about this too."

  "Well, that is by design. Isn't it, ladies?" the smooth, patrician accent of Laila's mom chimed in. Neeka had always found her a bit superficial and filled with airs that she chalked up to the upper-class world she was a part of. "I mean, after all, if they knew what they were in for..."

  "I just don't want to frighten them. That's all. I mean, look at us. We adjusted pretty well, like our mothers before us, and before them." Zina's mother said.

  "We'll have to give them some guidance, of course," Neeka's mother said. "We can't have them just going out in the world without knowing what to do."

  The girls looked at one another. "I didn't realize that it was so serious like that," Neeka whispered. "After all, it's just our periods, not the end of the world. Right?" Laila shrugged as Zina grimaced. The voices downstairs got quiet for a moment and the girls snuck back to the room.

  "Girls, come on down! We're leaving now!" the mothers called up.

  "See you next month!" they said as everyone hugged and kissed one another. Neeka stood in the doorway with her mother, who had her arm around her as they waved.

  "Next month will be special," her mother looked down and said to her with a smile. "You'll see."

  There was something about the way music made Neeka feel. Like reading, she often felt transported. Untouchable even. Neeka's mother called upstairs to her and Neeka sat up, looking at the white Christmas lights she had strung along her dresser mirror. She had a collection of little cat figurines on it, something that started with one her grandma gave her as a little girl. She sighed as she responded to her mother's call, took out her earbuds and came down.

  "We are going out," her mother said, grabbing her purse and keys. "Now."

  Her mother didn't say much during the car ride and looked over at her from time to time. The moon was full and bright that night, illuminating the night sky despite all the streetlights. Neeka watched it and tried to keep it in her sight as the car made its way through the city streets.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To go be with the girls tonight."

  Neeka's face scrunched up. "This is different. I didn't know we were all getting together tonight."

  "Well, the last of you had your birthday, so we thought we'd get together."

  Neeka didn’t know what to think. They had both gone to Laila's birthday party. It was lavish and over the top like everything Laila's mother does, and they had a great time together. Laila's family went all out for her. Neeka couldn't understand all of the fuss over a twelfth birthday. Sixteen, sure? It just seemed like a bit much. Her mother and sister took her out to eat and she was happy with that. This still seemed unusual though. She thought about how intently the mothers were watching them last month when they were there. She and the other girls had joked about it, dismissing their moms as “Weird like normal.” No. Somet
hing else was going on. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

  They were soon driving through what Neeka thought of as the rich part of town and pulled up in front of a gate. Laila's mansion. She looked over at her mother, who was looking straight ahead as the gates opened and they drove in.

  She saw Zina's mother's car there too and started to really wonder what was going on. Laila's mother opened the front door, but she wasn't smiling like normal. She could see the other girls there looking just as bewildered as she felt and walked over to them.

  "What is going on?" Laila whispered.

  "Girl, we are at your house, remember? You tell us!" Zina said looking back at the mothers, who were starting to walk towards the kitchen.

  "Do not go to your room this time. Go and sit in the dining room, please," Laila's mother called out to them. Neeka was disappointed because she loved Laila's room. It was large and filled with what she thought was the best of everything decorations- and electronics-wise. She even had makeup! Although Laila had her moments, compared to her mother Neeka thought Laila was really sweet and just wanted to be liked.

  The girls looked at one another again and went into the living room and sat down on one side of the mahogany table, with Neeka in the middle. For as many times as she had been to Laila's house, she never got over how sumptuous it was, like something out of a magazine. Her own house was nothing to sneeze at and was nice enough, but this house was something entirely different. From the furniture to the artwork, it was an interior decorator's dream. The mothers came in one by one, each sitting across from their daughter. "We have something to tell you," Neeka's mother said. "And it is very, very important that you listen, as your lives will never be the same."