Invisible Monsters

by H L Macfarlane

  This is weird, Poppy thought as Dorian’s breath tickled against her neck, the full length of his body pinning her to the wall. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage so hard it was painful. Too weird. It’s the alcohol. Or because he kissed me. I don’t want this. So why do I want this?

  Poppy cocked her head to one side before she could stop herself, exposing more of her neck for Dorian’s sake. He stared at her, wide-eyed, before grazing his teeth along the line of the artery in her neck. She was aching for him to do it – to bite through and spill her blood before she came to her senses – but Dorian took his time, nibbling her skin and flicking his tongue against it as if working out where to bite.

  “Dorian –”

  And then he did it. A flash of sharp, deliberate pain and then it was gone, replaced with something Poppy couldn’t quite describe. Whatever the feeling was, it was deeper and darker than when Dorian had accosted her in bed. And he was staring at her intently out of the corner of his eye, not breaking eye contact as he slowly – so slowly – drained Poppy of blood.

  When Dorian’s hands started roaming up her thighs and waist and breasts and dared to begin unbuttoning her dress Poppy did not stop him. She knew she needed to; she brought her hands up to prevent his nimble fingers from unclothing her further but, instead, found herself reaching beneath the hem of his shirt. Dorian’s eyebrows rose in surprise; for a moment he stopped draining Poppy of blood entirely.

  Dorian’s body was hard and lean-muscled. This wasn’t a surprise – Poppy fully expected it given how adept he was at rock climbing. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t imagined what Dorian would feel like, in guilty snippets of hazy consciousness just before she fell asleep. But feeling his skin – and his rapid heartbeat – beneath her fingertips was entirely different from imagining the sensation.

  She dug her nails into Dorian just to see what he would do. Poppy thought he’d bite down harder against her neck. Instead, he pulled his teeth out and licked at the wounds, moving his mouth up her neck until he reached her ear. Dorian kissed it, then bit it, his breathing ragged and uneven.

  Then he stopped. He pulled away and stared at Poppy, even as a fine line of her blood began to run down from his mouth. With a flick of his tongue he cleaned it away.

  And then he waited. With blue eyes turned dark beneath the night sky he watched Poppy, as if looking for a sign.

  Don’t give him one, Poppy thought, over and over again. Don’t do it. This is wrong.

  She didn’t give him a sign; instead, Poppy King slid her arms around Dorian’s shoulders and pulled him to her, reaching up to grab at his hair and drag his lips down to meet hers.

  Dorian eagerly complied. Though his tongue had the metallic tang of blood upon it Poppy still let it into her mouth, jumping up to wrap her legs around Dorian’s waist as he pushed her harder against the wall and slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders.

  “What happened to what you said earlier?” Dorian asked breathlessly in a minute space between kisses. His teeth dug into her neck – not to break the skin and eat but as a barely controlled display of longing – until Poppy gasped.

  “This is only happening because I’m drunk,” she said, the answer a useless lie. “Because I’m going to hell anyway.”

  Dorian chuckled. “That’s the spirit.” He glanced at the door with the clear intention of finding a bed, though his expression was torn. He raised a playful eyebrow. “How do you feel about fucking outside?”

  Poppy indulged a dangerously stupid and filthy impulse to reply, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “That’s –”

  But then a rustling nearby set them immediately on edge. Dorian roved his head from side to side, listening hard.

  “Someone’s watching us.”

  Slowly, Poppy extricated herself from Dorian and pushed him away. She redid the buttons of her dress; Dorian had made it all the way down to her navel.

  “This was a mistake,” she uttered, running off before she could make any more stupid decisions.

  “Poppy, wait! Don’t go,” Dorian pleaded as he ran after her.

  But Poppy had, finally, come to her senses. Being drunk or her soul being damned anyway weren’t good enough excuses for what she’d been doing. No excuse would ever be good enough.

  And someone had been watching. Withholding a shiver Poppy wondered if they’d heard everything she and Dorian had said to each other. If they had seen him dig into her neck and drink her blood like the inhuman monster that he was.

  Poppy didn’t look at Dorian for the rest of the night. She merely drank, and drank, and drank, until finally she passed out in bed hoping that, in the morning, everything that had happened to her would turn out to be a terrible nightmare.

  Fred

  He had seen Dorian and Poppy’s interaction outside. He hadn’t heard it, but he had seen it.

  Well, as much as he could have seen from his hiding place.

  Fred didn’t understand what he’d seen. Poppy seemed desperate to get away from Dorian. She’d been furious. She’d been frightened. And then she’d kissed him. She’d kissed him and the pair of them would have likely gone much farther if Fred hadn’t moved.

  Why was he biting Poppy’s neck so hard? Fred wondered as he lay in bed, trying hard to think properly through a drunken haze. His eyes were droopy; he knew sleep would wash over him in minutes, if not seconds. I’m sure she was bleeding.

  But then Fred fell asleep.

  That night he dreamt of monsters.

  CASSANDRA O'DONNELL

  Dorian

  Despite having every intention of creeping into Poppy’s bed early the next morning, Dorian slept in. He was exhausted, and a little hungover. He had no doubt everybody would be.

  It was with some effort that he dragged himself out of bed, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the glass wall of his room and burning his eyes. When he reached his bathroom he gulped down a glass of water, then turned on the shower and sat on the floor of the cubicle.

  Dorian relished in the water pressure on his head and neck and shoulders. Sighing, he rested against the tiled wall of the shower and closed his eyes, content to remain there, unmoving, for fifteen minutes.

  He’d been in his human form for so long. Too long, it often seemed. Dorian needed to break free and run on his own two legs at a speed mere humans could only dream of reaching.

  He needed to stretch. He needed to be tall. He needed to be himself.

  Halfway through, he thought in reassurance. I’m halfway through this mistake of a summer. Just seven more weeks and I can do what I like until my next trafficking stint.

  It was only in thinking this that Dorian realised Poppy would be disgusted and horrified if he continued his day job, as it were. He’d never had to consider the rights or wrongs of his work before. He hadn’t needed to.

  But now he knew with crushing certainty that he could never do it again. To have Poppy beside him for life – to try and make her life as good as possible in the process – he couldn’t sell humans to monsters. It was something unconscionable to her. Unforgivable, in a way that Dorian would never be able to justify to her.

  He got out of the shower.

  Dorian slid into a loose, white shirt and jeans before half-heartedly rubbing his hair dry with a towel and making his way to the central building of the facility. He needed to talk to Poppy. About – everything.

  We need to have a plan for when summer ends and her friends are dead or gone.

  Dorian was realising more and more that if he could get away with stopping the bidding on Poppy’s club mates before any others were lost that he would – though he knew he never could. To do so would be to leave himself at the mercy of the clients who were bidding small fortunes on the humans Dorian had provided for them.

  It wasn’t like him at all, to want to stop his work. Dorian had always been proud of it. Even worse was the fact he wanted to stop it for someone else – and a human, no less. It only made him desire all t
he more to slough off his human skin simply to know what the real Dorian Kapros actually wanted out of life.

  He had never felt less like himself.

  He was surprised when he ran into Poppy halfway down the stairs of the west wing. She looked like she was suffering from a hangover far worse that Dorian’s, and very much not in the mood to discuss what had and what hadn’t happened between the two of them the night before.

  “Where’s Casey?” Poppy demanded before Dorian could utter so much as a hello.

  He frowned in confusion, stopping in his tracks when it became clear Poppy wasn’t going to walk up- or downstairs with him. “Not with me, if that’s what you’re asking. Or have you forgotten already that I rejected her?”

  Poppy scowled. “This isn’t about you. Or it might be. Where is she?”

  “She isn’t in her bedroom?”

  “Would I have come all the way over here to ask you if she was?”

  “If you can’t find her then I think you probably know where she is, Poppy.”

  “I – what?” Poppy seemed taken aback by Dorian’s answer. “What do you mean?”

  Dorian sighed, running a hand through his still-damp hair and knowing full well this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Poppy whatsoever. “She disappeared last night with Patrick. I imagine they’re still sleeping on his boat.”

  Poppy’s face grew ashen. “How could you let this happen?”

  “What do you mean, how could I let this happen? I’m not responsible for what Patrick does, just as you’re not responsible for what Casey does.”

  “But he’s like you! Why would you let him anywhere near –”

  “Because Patrick claimed her from the beginning.”

  “But I’m saving Casey! This week – now.”

  “Poppy, you can’t.”

  She banged a fist against Dorian’s chest in anger. “What do you mean I can’t? You told me I got to save one person a week, and I’m saving her! I was always going to save her!”

  Dorian didn’t want to tell her why. And even though he cared for Patrick – he was his best friend, after all – Dorian couldn’t help but wish that Casey hadn’t caught his friend’s attention.

  “They’ve slept together, no doubt several times by now. That’s why.”

  “What do you mean that’s why? Why should it fucking matter that they screwed?!”

  “Poppy, keep your voice down,” Dorian hushed, making to cover her mouth as she swatted him away.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Just explain what you mean. Why does it matter that they slept together?”

  Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, wondering how his situation could have changed so much that it actually mattered to him that Casey had been signed over to Patrick. “Because Patrick never wanted to eat her,” he finally explained. “He wanted Casey as a…breeding partner, for want of a better term.”

  Poppy stared at him in disbelief. “He wanted her for what? Can’t he just go fuck another monster? Why would he want his food to carry his abominable offspring?”

  “Watch your mouth,” Dorian bit out, finally beginning to lose his temper despite the fact Poppy had every right to be angry with him. “Patrick’s a good guy. Don’t insult him.”

  “I’ll do whatever I damn well please!” Poppy said, outraged at Dorian’s admonishment. “And you didn’t even answer my question.”

  He ran a hand over his face in resignation. “It’s…complicated. You saw what Nick’s father, Mr Richardson, really looked like. I don’t imagine you’d forget.”

  Poppy said nothing, though her pupils contracted and she inched away slightly from Dorian.

  “And you’ve seen what I really look like,” Dorian continued. “We both look completely different. A lot of monsters do. It makes us rather…incompatible with each other.”

  “Can’t you just screw in human form to overcome that?” Poppy asked, catching on to what Dorian was insinuating immediately.

  “Yes…and no. The problem is that we don’t really know what our offspring would end up being. What they’d look like – what they’d be capable of doing. It’s a risky business. But if a monster impregnates a human, instead, we can ensure we’ll know what the result will be.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Except for the poor human woman who has to give birth to some kind of monstrosity that might literally break her open in the process. No, that’s not happening to Casey. I’m saving her. That’s it.”

  “I can’t do that, Poppy. She might be pregnant already for all we know.”

  “She can get a fucking abortion, I don’t care! She’s not staying with Patrick!”

  “Yes she is!”

  Poppy slapped him. It stung Dorian’s cheek, though it was nothing compared to the vicious expression on her face.

  “Do my decisions mean nothing to you, Dorian?” she fired out. “Have I only ever had the semblance of choice here? Were you always going to get your way no matter what I did or said?”

  “Poppy, this is the only thing I can’t change.”

  “Like hell you can’t!” Poppy was crying, though she didn’t seem to be aware of it. She stared at Dorian pleadingly, all of her previous anger gone. “Don’t do this to her. Don’t condemn her to a fate worse than mine. I know you said last night that you don’t care for any of my friends, but it can’t be true. Even you can’t be that heartless. You can’t.”

  Dorian didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say that he’d tell Patrick to leave Cassandra O’Donnell alone. But this was part of their way of life, and Patrick was the closest thing to family Dorian had left. He couldn’t interfere with his friend’s happiness.

  Poppy could tell from his face that Dorian wasn’t going to give her the answer she wanted. When he reached out for her she backed down the stairs, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I can’t believe I kissed you,” she muttered. “I can’t believe, even for a moment, I forgot what you were.”

  “Poppy –”

  “Get away from me!”

  And then Poppy ran, darting down the rest of the stairs and along the corridor until she disappeared behind the slamming of a door.

  Dorian sank onto the steps. He didn’t have the energy to move.

  “What have I done?” he wondered, for nobody but himself to hear.

  Dorian knew that he’d irreparably broken whatever tenuous, carefully-constructed bond he’d managed to form with Poppy.

  There was no charming his way out of this one.

  KIRSTY WHITE

  Andrew

  Something was even more off about Poppy than usual.

  Now that she knew Andrew had some inkling about what was going on he had thought she’d tell him what was wrong, but Poppy hadn’t. Three days had passed since the entire club had gotten drunk. Three days since Dorian had kissed Poppy and dragged her away, and Casey had disappeared with Patrick.

  Even Andrew could tell that both Poppy and Casey were acting awkward with each other. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact that Casey had been talking to Dorian and then Dorian had ignored her in favour of dancing with Poppy. But Casey had Patrick, so in reality Andrew didn’t understand what was wrong in the slightest.

  He didn’t like thinking about Dorian kissing Poppy, and what might have happened after he carried her away. But they had gone outside – and hadn’t been gone for long – so Andrew clung onto the hope that nothing further had happened between them.

  That hope was a lie, though, and Andrew knew it. So did Nate, who had also watched in disbelief when Dorian and Poppy had finally returned to the central building looking, for want of a better word, ruffled.

  Andrew had to conclude that something had happened, though it hurt his heart to reach such a conclusion.

  Poppy has been avoiding Dorian even more than she’s been avoiding Casey since that night, though, Andrew thought, puzzling over the situation. And Patrick has been spending most of his time at the c
entre to be with Casey. He wondered if the two issues were linked somehow.

  Most of the club was relaxing in the social areas or climbing on the indoor walls. After weeks of fair, sunny weather the sky had finally grown dark and heavy with clouds. It was with a collective sigh of relief that it started raining; though Andrew liked being outside the air had grown too dry and oppressive, so he was glad for the downpour. And he liked the noise the raindrops made as they hit the windows, and the pool, and the ceiling.

  “Poppy, are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look too good.”

  Andrew’s head darted up from the book he was reading. The person who had spoken was Kirsty White, one of the second year students who was friends with Jenny Adams and Lily Johnson. She was a nice girl, but fairly quiet. Andrew couldn’t say that he’d ever spoken to her.

  Poppy smiled grimly at Kirsty before shaking her head. “It’s just a headache. I’m fine, Kirsty. Thanks for asking.” When Kirsty retreated to the east wing with Lily, Poppy glanced over at Casey, who was cuddled up on an armchair with Patrick in much the same way as she and Nate used to do.

  Though Poppy looked away quickly before either Casey or Patrick noticed her staring, Andrew caught it. He caught it the second time, too. And the third. When Poppy sighed heavily Andrew could only conclude that she had some kind of problem with her friend being together with Patrick.

  But he knew not to ask about that in front of everyone, so he didn’t.

  Kirsty returned from the east wing bearing a box of codeine and a glass of water which she promptly handed over to a very grateful Poppy.

  “I figured you needed something a bit stronger than ibuprofen,” Kirsty explained, almost apologetically. “And I always travel with codeine in case I get migraines. Sorry if I’m being annoying after you said it was nothing.”

  Poppy laughed softly with genuine fondness in her eyes. There was a reason the vast majority of the club loved Poppy and had voted her president, after all. Andrew would know.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Poppy said before swallowing the painkillers down with a swig of water. “Where would I be without you guys looking out for me all the time? I don’t deserve it. Thank you, Kirsty.”