by Olivia Myers
“But that’s horrible!”
“Horrible.” Cerise nodded. “But the revenge he took later was more horrible still. Years passed. After we parted, he began to form a new pack completely devoted to his revenge against humans. You know how hypnotizing a wolverine can be. Mundi was too convincing to resist. He inspired countless innocents to countless crimes, and then like a fog, he vanished.
“Darling,” Cerise purred, kissing away the tears running down Imogen’s cheeks. “It’s painful to learn, darling, but it is more painful to ignore. I loved Victor once, or I thought I loved him. He was a God to me. He saved me, but he also had the power to destroy me whenever he wished. But I must face my past with Victor, and I cannot afford to think of what might happen if we ignore the threat now. I think Victor, the Headmaster, is planning something. We cannot afford to look the other way. Now, we need information.”
“But I don’t want to get mixed up in this,” Imogen said. “I don’t have any experience here, Cerise! I don’t want to be your spy. I just want the simple things—friends, books, school.”
Exhausted, she collapsed in Cerise’s arms and let the vampire rub her shoulders and her back, smoothing her over with her icy, tender hands. The contact felt good after the roughness she’d experienced with Lucille. Here in Cerise’s arms, the arms she’d forsaken for the impulsiveness of desire, she felt herself free. Not the pleasure of sensual abandon, but the warmth of marrying herself to the body of another.
With tear-flecked eyes she looked into Cerise’s face and wordlessly begged that there be no more words about wolverines, or warlords.
Cerise read the desire and instantly she became soft. She stroked a strand of hair that had become loose and kissed Imogen on the forehead. Imogen hugged her girlfriend close, hugged the icy body like a life preserver, and stroked the tender outline of her lips, touching them gently with her own. Cerise cracked her mouth into a little smile and returned the delicate kiss.
This wasn’t the power struggle and the submission that Imogen had felt earlier. As Imogen held the vampire with her kiss and slowly unzipped her long, black dress, she became more and more conscious of the self she saw mirrored back in her by the vampire. They were a part of one another. Even their bodies, Cerise’s chilled as ice and Imogen’s hot as quickening blood, were as two halves to the same whole.
Imogen caressed Cerise’s skin, marble white and perfect as it gave way to her touch like the surface of a lake. The ripples were shivers. Hungering to get closer to the sensation, Imogen spooned the naked body to her own and cupped the perfect breasts with her hands, kissing her delicate and sensitive ear.
Cerise breathed in little gasps and flipped her body around so that Imogen’s tongue could carve new territory down her throat and down her breasts, until it drew wet little circles on the flat, panting belly.
“Kiss me, darling,” Cerise whispered as Imogen’s tongue went lower and lower. Obediently, she returned to the vampire’s wide-open mouth, filling each crevice with her tongue. But her naked thighs were gripping Cerise’s own, and the mouths of their clits kissed each other each time Imogen slid forward. Covertly she put a hand down and began to massage Cerise’s vagina with two delicate fingers.
Faster she slid, and more deeply the kisses became. Imogen opened her mouth and let the thrill of the movement fill her, let the thrill of absorbing this other body into hers fill her fit to burst. She arched up and cupped her own breasts in a spasm of delight as Cerise worked her fingers inside Imogen and massaged the thin, delicate wall inside her.
“I love you, I love you,” Imogen gasped with each new burst of pleasure. It was her own soul answering her from beneath: her own half. How had she betrayed such perfection? How had she ever been misled? What was the life of impulse compared to this full and perfect existence which could send her into such a spectacular frenzy of sensation?
“Oh my love,” she gasped, grasping the back of Cerise’s neck and pulling her into a thick, passionate kiss. “Never let me go, my love. Never.”
In a dreamlike state of happy bliss the night passed for Imogen. So removed from reality did it seem to her, so perfect that believing in it was almost too much pleasure, that the firm reality of day and the confrontation Imogen knew she must have with Lucille brought her a terrible pain.
But there were no alternatives. Cerise had made it more than clear to her the night before that it was imperative to find Mundi and stop him before his plans could go any further. They needed information about where he could be found, and Lucille was the only one who had any idea of his whereabouts. But would Lucille even say anything?
Throughout the day Imogen racked her mind about how best to bring up the issue. Yet the firm weight of her mission pressed against her mind, clouding her judgment and filling her thoughts with the horrible event of the night before.
Her mother knew nothing about what happened, but somehow this only made it worse for Imogen. She felt as though she was keeping someone else’s terrible secret.
She passed through her classes and her after school poetry club meeting in a daze. She regarded Henry Cowper and thought how absurd, how small a thing it was to read poems when there might be people dying around her, and she would not exercise any power to prevent it. She was not courageous, she admitted to herself. She was not clever. She could not be underhanded.
“Again?” Agatha’s voice, filled with annoyance and venom, jerked Imogen out of her funk. “I swear those bitches are only here because they knew we would be here.”
“They’re just looking for a place to go,” shy Alice whispered, eyes bowed.
They were at the same café they’d visited the week before. Imogen looked up and shivered at the sight of Lucille with the twins, loud, pealing laughter cutting through the silence, the same as ever. Like déjà vu.
But there was a kind of bliss and abandon in the way the girls laughed that Imogen had not noticed before. Now, she understood it. For the girls, nothing else existed apart from the sensation before them: the helpless abandon to mirth and happiness. They could not help it. It was nature.
And what kind of monster would turn that nature against them? Who would manipulate so simple a mind to fit something as wretched as personal revenge? Imogen’s heart quickened. She knew what she needed to do.
“I’ll go and say something,” she said, and rose.
Lucille did not see Imogen until she was nearly at the table, and only then did her face spread into a broad and rather clumsy smile, rows of pearly teeth like little suns.
“We’re being loud, huh?” she said, grinning at Imogen’s formality.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“It’s a free table, baby.” Lucille took a stool from an adjoining table and set it down. Imogen sat demurely, crossing her legs.
“I just wanted to say that,” she said. She halted, began again. “That—well—you’re not bothering me.”
The other two girls chuckled. Imogen sounded foolish. She knew it and pressed on. “And actually, I don’t think it’d be such a bad idea for us to meet up sometime. We have a poetry club and, well, I know you like to talk about books.”
The girls ceased laughing. Imogen was speaking with complete earnestness and in it there was a disarming pride they couldn’t help but respect.
“Books,” Lucille said with a grin. She twisted in her chair to see the faces of her two companions. Just like a pack animal.
“I think we could do that,” Lucille agreed. “But none of that candy-land romantic crap. You girls need to mix it up a bit. Y’all like the Beats?”
“You mean, like, Jack Kerouac?”
“I mean the guys who really shook shit up! Kerouac, sure. But Ginsberg. Ferlinghetti. Cummings. The motherfuckers who really knew the language. Could rip it apart like a V-8 and Picasso it back together. There’s a whole world outside of a sonnet, ya know.”
“Okay,” Imogen smiled. She put out her hand. Lucille’s embraced it.
“Deal.”
T
he girls behind Lucille visibly relaxed and then got up to use the restroom. They hadn’t known what to expect by the confrontation and were standing guard over Lucille in case anything unexpected happened. The tension had relaxed now.
“But I wanted to ask you something else,” Imogen ventured.
“Shoot.”
“Your headmaster,” she began. Lucille stiffened. “What’s he like?”
“He’s the most ingenious man I’ve ever met,” Lucille said. It sounded so automatic Imogen wondered whether the answer was performed, whether it’d been ingrained before Lucille had even been asked the question.
“But where does he come from? What kind of man is he?” she pressed. “He sounds interesting, from what I’ve heard you say. That’s the only reason I’m asking,” she put in quickly, careful not to raise too much curiosity.
“Really, I don’t know,” Lucille said. “He keeps most of that to himself. He’s a private guy, you know. Spends most of his time inside. Talks in whispers. Why?” She cracked laughter. “You want to meet him or something?”
“Yes,” Imogen said. It hadn’t been the admittance Lucille had expected. “Yes, I want to meet him.”
“But, you can’t,” Lucille said simply. “I mean, he’d never agree to it.”
“But I’m just a student,” Imogen said innocently. “I just want the chance. He’s faculty at the school now, right? So I should have the opportunity.”
“It’s a private thing, Imogen,” Lucille said. “He speaks…with his own kind.”
“With wolverines, you mean.” The word caused Lucille to stiffen and look around, as though she was expecting someone to be listening to their conversation.
“But there won’t be any harm in it,” Imogen pressed. “Why don’t you let me ask him myself? He won’t turn away an interested student.”
“Imogen,” Lucille spoke. Her voice was low and defensive, and came out as a growl. Imogen knew that she had crossed into dangerous territory. “I don’t know why you’re interested in the headmaster,” Lucille began. “Maybe you simply want to meet him.” She leaned forward and fixed Imogen with a cold and cloudy stare. “But for some reason, I don’t trust you.”
“Lucille,” she began but the other girl cut her short.
“I think I can imagine what you’re going to say now. But I have a question for you first. Even if you saw the headmaster, what would you say? Why all this sudden interest?”
“It’s just interest,” Imogen said and tried to laugh, but the sound came out strained and uncomfortable.
For a long time Lucille kept her eyes fixed on Imogen’s, trying to prize out whatever secrets lurked behind. The moments crept by slowly and Imogen felt her skin go warm with beaded sweat.
“Maybe it is,” she said at last. “Maybe it’s only interest.” The words trailed off. Imogen waited, breathless and frightened.
And suddenly, the familiar grin broke Lucille’s broad face. She clapped a hand on Imogen’s shoulder. “No one looks more trustworthy than you, Imogen,” she said, laughing. “You have the most innocent face in the world. But I wished you would have asked me about the headmaster sooner.”
“Why?” Imogen felt a sliver of dread melt down her throat.
“He’s gone,” Lucille said. “To the mountains somewhere. For meditation. He does it every now and again. But he’s usually back within a month. Right around the full moon,” Lucille finished with a wink.
Imogen did her best to share the smile but her heart was sinking rapidly. A whole month. If he’d already committed murder, there’s no telling what kind of damage Mundi could do in that amount of time. Especially now when he could be anywhere, gathering his pack, preparing for the strike at the time when his powers would be greatest.
“Imogen, you’re pale,” Lucille said, her voice full of concern.
“I’m okay. Just a little tired. I had a difficult night.”
“Okay,” Lucille smiled warmly. “Listen, don’t strain yourself too hard. Take it easier. Try to relax more. Remember that you’ve got friends to help you out when you need it. There’s no need to worry so much.”
There’s no need to worry so much. But no other words could have caused Imogen as much worry as these. There was a psychopath loose near her village, amassing an army of wolves with the intent of wiping out humans and vampires alike. All those who Imogen loved the most were targets, and the one she loved more than any was the most apparent target of them all.
Because now it was clear to her that Mundi had come specifically for Cerise. Whatever history they’d shared, whatever relationship they might once have had had been eaten up in this invisible monster’s consuming revenge, a revenge that had spanned years, a century.
And again Imogen was attacked with the sensation that had made her sick these past few days: the idea that once again Cerise was not telling her everything. The idea that something much more important, more important than even the threat of Mundi was lurking beneath the surface of what little information Imogen knew. Why was Cerise so important? Why was she Mundi’s target? Surely Darla’s murder in the strip club had been meant as a message for Cerise. But why? What did these people know that Imogen didn’t?
It was time for her to return to her friends. Imogen rose and embraced Lucille, trying to rid herself of the horrible gulf that separated them. You want to kill me, the thought nestled in the embrace of the other girl. You don’t realize it, but you will soon.
Back at her table, Alice and Agatha stared at her with incredulity and distrust. “What were you talking about,” they wondered. “What took you so long?”
But the unspoken conversation that lingered between her and Lucille was impossible to fit to words, and the turmoil knotting inside her choked her with its vast inexpressiveness. She swallowed it down, put on her best, most deceptive smile. She was tender and kind, just as Cerise was tender and kind when she let the unspoken secrets glide beneath her words, past Imogen’s understanding.
“Trying to make some new friends. That’s all.”
THE END
Wild in the Highlands
I should have known this day was coming, Bridget thought. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the rough fabric of her skirt. I should have known I wouldn’t be any different.
She sat in a small clearing just out of earshot of the village. Her back rested against the smooth bark of her favorite birch tree, and she was surrounded by early morning mist. It was easy to pretend that she was alone out here, that she was free. But after hearing her father and mother’s conversation earlier this morning, she knew it was time to stop pretending. Within just a few weeks’ time, she would be married.
Bridget exhaled slowly. It was going to happen. There was nothing she could do to stop it.
She ran her fingers through her hair – it was long and wavy and red, just like all of the other women’s hair in the clan, and she hadn’t brushed it yet this morning, so it was scraggly. Her eyes, which were a greenish hazel, were her only real defining feature; her mother had the same color of eyes that she did, but nearly everyone else had gray eyes.
Bridget looked at her hand, which was small and pale, and right now had dirt under the nails from yesterday, when she had climbed one of the tallest trees she was allowed to go to. Yesterday, she had been a girl. Today, she knew, it was time to start being a woman.
A snapping branch startled her, and Bridget spun around, peering around the side of her tree. But it was just her sister, Alisa. Alisa was two years older than Bridget, and they had been close when they were younger, but when Alisa got married off a year ago, the distance between the sisters had grown.
“What are you doing out here so early?” Alisa asked, carefully picking a burr off of the skirts of her dress. “Mother and Father are looking for you.”
“I’ll come back soon,” Bridget said, wiping the tears off of her face and hoping that Alisa didn’t notice them. She felt foolish for crying. Alisa, after all, had already faced the same fate that was now l
ooming in front of Bridget. She knew Alisa didn’t love her husband, even after being married to him for over a year.
Alisa frowned, apparently having noticed the tears after all.
“What happened, Bridget?” She crouched down next to her sister, being careful not to let her dress touch the ground that was still damp with morning dew.
Bridget bit her lip, not wanting to admit to Alisa why she had been crying, but it spilled out of her anyway.
“I-I heard Father and Mother talking,” she said. “This morning. I woke up early, and they didn’t know I could hear them.” She paused. “Father wants to marry me off soon.” Her voice hitched on the last word, and Bridget went silent, fighting off another sob.
Her sister’s face softened. “Oh, Bridget, it really isn’t that bad. It’s scary at first, but once you get used to it, it isn’t much different from living with Mother and Father, other than the fact that you have more chores to do.”
Bridget stared at her sister. It was different for her. Alisa had always been the good one, the one who stayed home with Mother and washed the clothes, or prepared the evening meal. Bridget had been the one out climbing trees, trying to follow the men when they went hunting. Bridget had been the one who had dreamed of a different life.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cooking for, cleaning for, and… and bedding a man I don’t even love!” She threw herself into her sister’s arms and started sobbing again. “Please, Alisa, can’t you do anything?”
Her sister’s arms wrapped around her, holding her gently as she cried. Bridget eventually sniffled and pulled away, looking down at the ground as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to get your clothes dirty.”
Alisa looked down at her now damp dress and raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t seem mad. Instead, she looked at her sister, watching her closely. Then she seemed to decide something, and her face set itself in an expression of determination.
