Invisible Monsters

by H L Macfarlane

  Dorian didn’t know what to do, so he did what he did best.

  He drank her blood.

  He fastidiously licked away at her skin, using the towel to help him clean her faster. With every drop of Poppy’s blood on his tongue Dorian hated himself more and more, because all he wanted was more of it. In places the blood had already begun to dry; he rubbed it away with shaking fingertips.

  Poppy’s eyes were roving beneath their lids, signalling that she might wake up at any moment. But Dorian didn’t want her to wake up – not when her skin was stained red and the cuts on her body were taking an achingly long time to heal.

  His stomach lurched when he cleared enough blood away to fully see the deep, vicious marks that told him Fred hadn’t merely cut Poppy skin-deep. He’d stabbed right through to her organs, something only further confirmed when Dorian gingerly rolled Poppy onto her front to see if Fred had done any damage to her back.

  He cut her to ribbons, over and over again, Dorian thought, appalled. For below the gashes which were in the process of healing lay even more, already sealed cuts which would have long since disappeared had Fred not continued hacking away at Poppy’s body.

  “I should have killed him,” he spat out as he turned Poppy onto her back once more. “I should have gutted him like the snake he is.”

  “No…”

  Dorian was startled out of his thunderous thoughts by the word. Poppy’s eyes were fluttering open, so he abandoned his half-finished clean-up job in order to sit by her head and clear her blood-sodden hair from her face. Her faded silver streak had taken up the colour so well it was scarlett; Dorian wondered if the red would ever properly fade from it.

  “Don’t try to speak,” he soothed Poppy. He stroked her cheek so gently he barely brushed it with his hand. Her face had been the one part of Poppy Fred hadn’t touched. Dorian didn’t have it in him to wonder why.

  When Poppy’s eyes flung open she immediately cried out and tried to recoil from Dorian. But he held her in place, though he hated having to do so.

  “Poppy, it’s me! It’s Dorian! Fred isn’t here! Please – you have to calm down. Take a breath. You’re okay.”

  Poppy’s chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. She slapped her hands against her stomach, as if expecting to have to hold all her organs in. When she realised the wound had closed up, however, Poppy’s eyes lost some of their panicked glaze and her breathing slowed.

  “I’m not dead,” she whispered.

  “No. Not dead. Only nearly,” Dorian replied, smiling slightly despite how genuinely close he’d been to losing Poppy.

  She shivered. “I’ve never been in so much pain. And the blood – there was so much blood. Dorian –”

  He pulled her in against his chest, smoothing a hand over her hair and rocking back and forth when Poppy’s breathing began to grow more erratic. “You don’t have to talk about it, Poppy. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  “Is he – is Fred…”

  “Dead?” Dorian guessed. His expression darkened. “No. But he should be. Are you still against sacrificing him?”

  “No.”

  Poppy’s answer was so immediate and resolute that it took Dorian by surprise. He pulled away from her slightly to watch her expression carefully, but there was no uncertainty to be found there.

  “…this week?”

  She shook her head. “No. Grace Kang is this week. And Ciaran Radin-Kirkwood is next week. I’m done trying to be fucking unbiased. If they’re going to talk about me like I’m the worst person on the planet then I’ll be that person. They can rot in hell. And Rich stays – Nate’s best friend.”

  “That’s…and Fred?” Dorian was thoroughly confused by Poppy’s dramatic shift in attitude towards how she picked her sacrifices. Not that he was complaining; he rather enjoyed the malicious look on Poppy’s face.

  “Last,” Poppy muttered. She held up an arm to inspect it – the one she’d originally fallen on – and laughed bitterly. “He can be last, and his suspicions and fears can eat him up inside until there’s nothing left, and then he’ll know what’s been going on all along, and he can regret ever thinking it wise to torture me.”

  “Poppy, wouldn’t it be much safer to get rid of him sooner than –”

  “I want him to know I could have saved him,” she interrupted, eyes shining fervently even though she was shaking. “I want him to know he signed his own death warrant. I want him to know that he fucked everything up all on his own. All he had to do was trust me, like I trusted him even though I hated him.”

  Dorian said nothing. This was an entirely new side to Poppy King – one that nobody else had likely ever seen. A vengeful, almost-broken woman who had been pushed too far. Dorian knew he was largely responsible for that.

  He didn’t regret it one bit. For if it drew Poppy into his arms as she waved goodbye to her remaining ties to humanity, how could Dorian be upset about it? He’d simply have to take it upon himself to terrify Fred into silence before he said anything to anyone.

  Then Poppy sighed, and all her vengeance was gone. She glanced at Dorian. “Where’s Andrew? What happened to him?”

  He smiled. “Andrew will be fine. Focus on getting better and then you can thank him. I imagine he’ll stick to you closer than ever before after what happened.”

  “I owe him my life.”

  “And so do I. You really did choose the best person in your club to save above everyone else, Poppy.”

  Poppy’s eyes shone too brightly at that. She sniffled back a few tears, gingerly running a hand through her hair before promptly stopping when she realised how disgusting it felt. Her face twisted into a grimace as she looked down at her bloody appearance, and then –

  Poppy noticed the blood-drenched, tattered remains of the t-shirt clinging to her skin. It wasn’t nearly enough fabric to protect her modesty. Her eyes grew wide with an entirely different kind of horror, and her face flushed with embarrassment.

  Dorian could only laugh. “Are you honestly more concerned about how naked you are than the fact you’re covered in blood, Poppy? Someone needs to fix your priorities.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re dressed. I’m allowed to be mortified.”

  “Easily fixed,” he murmured, hoisting his top up and over his head before dropping it on the floor. But when he reached down to remove his trousers Poppy grabbed at his wrist to stop him.

  “Okay, you’re taking it way too far, Dorian.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong; I never take it far enough.”

  Dorian pulled what remained of Poppy’s t-shirt off before she could properly react to what he’d said, then with the utmost gentleness pushed her back down onto the bed.

  “Dorian –”

  His mouth traced the line of her collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste the blood on her skin. Much of Poppy’s chest was still covered in the stuff. Now that the mood had changed, Dorian was intent on enjoying every last drop of it – as well as the body beneath it.

  Being very careful not to put any of his weight on her, Dorian climbed on top of Poppy. He slid a hand down her stomach, past her navel, and beneath her underwear. When she gasped he grinned.

  “Something tells me you’re not in a position to push me away this time,” he said, before trailing kisses down her neck.

  “Something tells me I’m not in a position to be doing this.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry; I won’t do much. Just…explore a little.”

  When his mouth reached Poppy’s breasts he licked and nibbled on them eagerly, using his free hand to fondle them even as Poppy reached down as if to stop him. But her hand paused inches from Dorian’s. He stared at her in question.

  “Argh, fine,” Poppy bit out, throwing her head back against the pillow with as much strength as she had left in her, which wasn’t much at all.

  “Excellent.”

  There was no more talking for a while after that, the only sounds Poppy’s hitched breathing until even that was swallo
wed by Dorian’s mouth on hers. And though Dorian was high from her blood, and though he was desperate to shed the rest of his clothes and violate Poppy the way he’d been imagining doing so all summer, he held himself back.

  He held himself back even when Poppy wrapped her bloody arms around his neck and urged him closer, and when she curled a foot around the back of his leg, and when she moaned and pushed up against his groin.

  For Poppy’s skin was still a network of crisscrossed cuts and half-healed gashes, and she barely had enough blood in her to survive.

  A few days, he thought excitedly when Poppy cried out in pleasure, Dorian having finally pushed her over the edge. Her fingers tensed up in his hair before relaxing all at once with the rest of her. In a few days Poppy will be fine, and then I’ll fuck her senseless. But not tonight.

  No; tonight was for gentle kisses and cleaning the rest of Poppy’s skin and hair with warm water and a sponge whilst she smiled softly and curled up against him. Tonight was for watching Poppy slowly fall into a contented and exhausted sleep, for once reaching unconsciousness in front of him neither fearful, nor disgusted, nor upset.

  Dorian nuzzled his face into Poppy’s hair, which now smelled of tea tree, not blood. Her silver streak no longer contained a trace of it, either, something which Dorian was amazed by. He’d been sure it would be stained forever.

  “Mine,” he murmured sleepily as he held onto Poppy as tightly as he dared.

  For in a mere month Poppy would be his, and no-one else’s.

  PAUL TOBIN

  Andrew

  “Andrew? Earth to Andrew? Hello…?”

  It took Andrew a few seconds to realise somebody was talking to him. He was so exhausted. He hadn’t slept, having spent the small hours of the morning cleaning a literal bloodbath and hauling his former friend and almost-murderer back to bed as if nothing had happened.

  But something awful had happened. And Andrew couldn’t process it.

  “Please leave me alone, Rachelle,” he eventually muttered when he realised who had spoken.

  She frowned. “Andrew, are you okay? I can’t find Poppy anywhere. And Fred won’t come out of his –”

  “Don’t talk to me about him!”

  Rachelle took a step back in shock, clearly having never expected an outburst like that from Andrew. She held her hands up in a placating gesture.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Andrew said nothing. Eventually Rachelle sighed and left. He clutched his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth on the armchair he was sitting in. It was a glorious day outside, so most of the club wasn’t around to see him so close to a break down.

  For how could he not break down? What Andrew had seen – what Poppy had gone through –

  “How is she alive how is she alive how is she alive how is she –”

  “Andrew, buddy, are you okay?”

  Andrew nearly screamed. But he held it in; he had to. If he started screaming he’d never stop. When he glanced up he saw Paul Tobin, a third year student who very much preferred Poppy’s way of teaching to Fred’s.

  Don’t think about him.

  “Shit, Andrew, you’re not okay,” Paul exclaimed quickly when he saw the look on Andrew’s face. He ran a hand through his hair. “What is it Poppy does? She said it was – pressure? Andrew, do you want a blanket? Or do you want to go in the pool? Or –”

  Andrew just barely had enough mental capacity to realise Paul was genuinely trying to help him. And everything he was suggesting were things Poppy had taught him in case he realised Andrew ever needed help.

  His heart hurt. It ached. He knew exactly what he needed.

  He stood up. “I just need Poppy.” And then, because it would be rude otherwise, Andrew added, “Thank you, Paul.”

  He rushed off towards the west wing before Paul could say another word, though Andrew committed to memory his kindness. He’d tell Poppy about it, and Paul would get to go home.

  Andrew didn’t even bother going to the infirmary. After Poppy’s collapse in the caves he knew Dorian likely had her up in his bedroom. That only made Andrew’s heart hurt more, but it also filled him with something red-hot that felt like anger but an adult Andrew now understood to be jealousy.

  How does he get to be with her even when Poppy isn’t speaking to him? Why did she ask for him to save her?

  Andrew knew that last question wasn’t fair, for he’d never have been able to push Fred off of Poppy, let alone been able to help her afterwards. Dorian had been the right call, and Poppy knew it.

  It didn’t make Andrew hurt any less.

  When he knocked on the door it was Dorian who answered, which wasn’t surprising. The older man looked tired, though he smiled politely enough when he realised who was at his door.

  “Andrew. I should have known. Poppy’s awake – do you want to come in?”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. When Dorian let him in Andrew couldn’t believe his eyes.

  For there sat Poppy in Dorian’s bed, wearing a navy shirt that was far too large for her with her long hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. There was no blood. No gaping wounds. Even the network of cuts that had littered her skin seemed to have all but disappeared, though Poppy was still very pale and her cheeks were sunken.

  She grinned when she saw him. “Andrew, my saviour! What was with you waiting until afternoon to see –”

  Andrew launched himself at her. Forgetting that Poppy was still frail; forgetting that he found most physical contact awkward and uncomfortable; forgetting that he was twenty-two and not ten, Andrew threw himself onto the bed and crushed Poppy in his arms, burying his head against her neck to hide the tears in his eyes.

  When he felt Poppy stroking his hair he only hugged her harder.

  “Dorian, can you give us some privacy?” Poppy asked of the other man. Andrew was happy about this, because he did not want anybody else to see him act like this, and he liked the fact Poppy was still putting him above Dorian.

  “Of course. I’ll drop by downstairs and grab some food. You want anything, Andrew?”

  Andrew said nothing, but he felt Poppy nod her head on his behalf. Andrew was also happy about this, because he was starving. He was fairly certain he’d never be able to enter the kitchen in Dorian’s facility ever again.

  When Dorian’s footsteps disappeared down the corridor Poppy dug her fingers into the back of Andrew’s head slightly; he stiffened immediately.

  “Andrew, you have no idea how grateful I am that you saved my life. But we don’t have time to sit here and cry about it. Because it’s not just my life you saved.”

  He didn’t say anything in response, because he didn’t know what to say, so eventually Poppy continued, “I’m going to tell you some things, and they’re going to sound insane, but you’re going to have to believe me anyway. Can you do that?”

  Now that Poppy was finally confiding in him Andrew found that he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. But Poppy was telling him – not Rachelle or Nate or Casey. She was telling him, Andrew Martin Forbes.

  He had to be a man and listen.

  So he pulled away from Poppy, smeared his palm across his eyes until no tears remained, and nodded.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Because after I’ve told you everything you have to help me do something ridiculous. Something impossible.”

  Andrew hesitated. “And what’s the impossible thing?”

  Poppy smiled grimly, her eyes shining with a determination he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  “We’re going to escape the Highland Adrenaline Sports Facility.”

  Fred

  When Fred came to he simultaneously felt like he’d woken from a nightmare and jumped straight into a new one. He stared down at his shaking hands, which were dark with blood and red as –

  “Poppy.”

  When he heard a knock on the door Fred flinched, for how could he let any
one in when he was awash with blood?

  “Don’t come in!” he called out, struggling to reign in the panic in his voice. “I’m not feeling very –”

  “You don’t get a choice in the matter, Sampson.”

  The door opened and closed as Dorian let himself in, his usually genial face twisted into something thunderous and malicious. It turned to disgust when he swept his eyes up and down Fred’s bloody appearance.

  Fred didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t even processed what had occurred in the small hours of the morning. But he had accused Poppy and Dorian of planning something over and over again as he plunged a knife into Poppy’s body and –

  “You will not speak a word of what happened between you and Poppy, Sampson,” Dorian said quietly as he took a few steps towards him. “You won’t voice any of your suspicions that something’s wrong. You will act no differently than you did before.”

  Fred swallowed. “..and if I don’t?”

  When the very edges of Dorian’s body began to blur and morph into something else Fred was sure he must still be sleeping. But he wasn’t, even though he desperately wished he was.

  For Dorian grew taller – much taller. His hands curled into claws and his teeth grew sharp. His head was encircled in horns, his ears were pointed, and his huge legs were furred and hoofed. Even Dorian’s eyes seemed changed somehow; there was something animalistic and entirely inhuman about them.

  When he grabbed Fred’s neck and pinned him against the wall, Fred was starkly reminded of having done the very same thing to Poppy mere hours before.

  A low growl began in the back of Dorian’s throat. “I’ll say the same thing to you as I said to Poppy weeks ago: if you speak a word to anyone, you won’t live to see the next day. Understand?”

  Numbly, because Fred couldn’t speak with Dorian’s clawed hand crushing his throat, he nodded. And then the pressure on his neck was gone, and as quickly as Dorian had transformed he reverted back to being a human. With one final glare at Fred he turned and left his room.

  What have I done? Fred panicked as he rushed to his en suite and threw himself in the shower, desperate to be rid of the blood caked into his skin. Poppy is innocent. She’s innocent. She’s abnormal and I hate her and she’s innocent.