Venom: A Dark Retelling

by Dee Garcia

  Her words sting, enough that I mentally flinch over them, but my exterior remains as stoic and calm as ever. “Just trying to keep you alive as long as possible, that’s all.”

  “Why?” Her hands clasp the edge of the table as if she’s moments away from shooting onto her feet. “What’s it to you?”

  My response is right there, words forming into an eloquent, educated explanation when I pick up on Violet’s distant voice.

  Violet’s distant yet agitated voice.

  There’s a slam, one many of the brood pick up on around me, their heads all snapping up into high alert, and two other voices I recognize before I’m even out of my seat. A subtle shake of my head to ward them off and then I’m moving. “Excuse me a minute, I’ll be right back.”

  Once I’m out of the dining room, I evanesce through the hallway to the stairs, Violet’s protests resounding from the foyer. “You can’t go up there! Stop! Stop, I say! Cassius—Cassius, I need your help!”

  The hell she does. Cassius won’t stop them.

  But I will.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I say to the Bells half way down the staircase as they come storming up.

  The Fae Lord’s amber eyes flare with controlled rage. “Where is she?”

  Lifting my hands to halt them in place, I reply as calmly as possible, “She’s having breakfast.”

  Cassius appears then, reforming beside a flustered Violet at the bottom of the stairs. A silent exchange passes between us right as Beatrix—who I’ve never seen so incensed—steps before her husband, all but shoots daggers my way.

  “Bring her here this instant! We’re talking her home!”

  Wrong.

  I give a firm shake of my head. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

  “What do you mean you can’t, she’s our daughter!” the fairy argues.

  “Yes, that’s true. However...she’s not exactly the daughter you remember.”

  “Of course she’s not! She tried to take her own life!”

  “I’m well aware. I’m the one who found her.”

  “And we’re grateful.” Phillipe pullS his wife behind him once more. “Now please bring her to us.”

  Another shake, arms folding across my chest. "I need you both to calm down. I promise you I have it under control. She's going to be just fine."

  Dishonest on my part, I know. But they don’t need to know the truth just yet. If Tinksley’s really going to go through this with, I’ll allow her to say her goodbyes, to lay her head where she’s most comfortable.

  "She’s needs to be at home, that’s what she needs!” Beatrix screeches.

  “Give me one good reason why I should release her to you when she's been here for over twenty-four hours and you're just now showing up looking for her? As I said, she's perfectly fine. You have my word."

  Tinksley’s mother looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Give me my daughter. Now, Captain."

  But unfortunately, I have to deny the woman yet again. “Intimidation tactics won’t work on me, Beatrix. I said I can’t let you do that, and that’s that.”

  Phillipe nostrils flare as he squares his shoulders. “She’s our daughter! You have to!”

  Don’t go there, I warn with my stare. “I don’t have to do anything actually. You’re in my home and she wants to stay.”

  “She’s our daughter! What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “The part where you don’t seem to understand how she’s still alive. I’m not sure how far your knowledge extends regarding her accident, but allow me to remind you… She maimed her wings and jumped off the cliff at the edge of Woodlands. Think about it...”

  Aaand there it is. Not instantaneously, but after a beat or two, their eyes widen as realization begins to take its hold.

  “You mean she’s…” Beatrix trails off, eyes widening further still. “Did you…”

  “I had to. It was the only way to ensure she’d live. She was dying in my arms.”

  “When can we see her?” her father blurts, concern dripping off every part of his being.

  “When I’m certain she’s got a hold of herself. She’s still transitioning and has a bit of a longer road than the average.”

  “Why?” he presses.

  “Because she’s not solely a vampire, Phillipe.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She’s a hybrid.”

  ♫ Señorita - Shawn Mendes & Camila Cabello ♫

  Another sleepless night.

  I knew it would be without even touching my head to the pillow, hence why tonight, I don’t stay holed up in my room.

  No.

  I wander down the various hallways, running my hand along the walls, taking in every last detail of this impressive place. Each space I tread through seems to carry that same gothic, medieval theme of his ship. Some have darker, wallpapered enclosures, others a surprisingly light paint. Some even have those obscure wall panels running from floor to ceiling with elegantly sculpted edges.

  In my nettled state, I hadn’t taken much time to appreciate it, but now I see it.

  Now I know why he loves this place so much.

  Why he takes such pride in it.

  Whether it always looked like this, or he rebuilt some of it himself, Hook’s home—this dark, lavish castle—is stunning, and if it were mine, I’d be prideful of it as well.

  Rounding another corner, I follow the same plush, crimson trail into another virtually silent corridor. Idly, I wonder if I’m just going in circles, but these paintings don’t serve my memory. Trust me, I’d remember these.

  The further I trail, the more erotic they start to become. My cheeks heat at some of the images I’m seeing, so much that I’m wondering if he has a special chamber to recreate these...activities.

  “No, that’d be crazy,” I mutter to myself, scoffing at the ridiculous direction of my thoughts.

  Until those same noises I stumbled upon my first night here distantly filter through my ears.

  My head snaps toward the sound.

  There’s no way. I’m in a completely different area of the castle, it’s still fairly early. There’s. No. Way. I must be going crazy, probably the beginning of what Callan referred to as the blood lust. Wouldn’t surprise me since he spiked my food with the apparent lust-worthy lifesource this morning. Had I not happened to mention it, I never would’ve known. Not a single thing on my plate tasted any different than it should.

  But it did almost taste too good.

  The mere thought of it ignites that flame in the back of my throat as another moan resounds at the very end of the hall.

  I swallow past the nagging sensation—well, try to anyway—and find myself, once again, moving toward the sound without intention.

  Don’t do it, Tinksley. Turn around, says the angel on my shoulder, a voice I’d forgotten existed amidst the demands of depravity.

  Do I listen? Of course not.

  I have to know what’s happening. I’m too intrigued not to.

  An intrigue that continues amounting as I pass this hand-carved archway with thick spiraled pillars. The pillars themselves aren’t what draws me—it’s the marionette puppets hanging off each one. They’re both female; one blonde, one brunette, both surprisingly quite scantily clad unlike a typical puppet.

  I’ve never seen one like this before.

  Reaching out to graze the tips of my fingers over one of their wooden bodies, I—

  “Boo!” a husky voice ghosts in my ear.

  My heart shoots up to my throat as a terrified scream breaks free. Next thing I know, I’m spun around, staring into amused blue eyes.

  I literally feel myself deflate in his grip before I can react accordingly.

  Bastard.

  “What the fuck!” I shout, wiggling myself free.

  Callan chuckles darkly and shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look at you. So crass these days.”

  I mimic his stance. “What can I say? I learned from th
e best. You’ve got one helluva sailor’s mouth yourself.”

  “I’m not a sailor, love.” He smirks. “A pirate? Yes. The Captain? Obviously. Not a sailor, though.”

  “You know what I mean,” I mutter.

  “That I’m the best? Why yes, I do know that as well.” His smirk widens into a full-on grin, sending my eyes in a full spin.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “And yet those are the words that came out of your mouth, verbatim.”

  “No, they didn’t,” I grumble. Or did they?

  I’m mulling it over, retracing my verbal steps when I find him in my space, clasping my chin between two fingers to entangle our stares. “Yeah, they did, but it’s okay, I won’t make you admit it. How about you tell me what you’re doing in this wing instead?”

  The question takes me aback. Not once has he mentioned restricted areas or anything of that nature. “Am I not allowed to be here?”

  Hook nods, but there’s a hint of what I think is concern in his eyes. “You are…It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?” I press curiously.

  “It’s just not a place you should be after the decision you’ve made.”

  Is he serious right now?

  “What would any of what’s happening here have to do with that?”

  “Temptation,” he purrs.

  My stomach flips, not just at his decadent tone, but at the way he’s looking at me—like I’m tempting him right now by just standing in this very hall with him.

  In all honesty, the man himself is tempting, and I hate myself for even admitting it.

  “Oh, please,” I scoff, mostly to distract myself from such rousing thoughts. “It can’t be worse than what I witnessed the other night…”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  “How so?”

  “Think that, multiplied and manipulated in so many different ways,” he explains.

  Does he think that’s going to deter me? If anything, it’s spiked my interests all the more. “Show me,” I insist, holding his gaze. “I want to see.”

  Callan chortles as he rakes a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?

  “This labyrinth, this dark, secluded corner of the castle is the brood’s playground, filled with mortals of all varieties willing and waiting.”

  “For?”

  “To be fucked and fed on.” He’s serious, too, delightfully so, filling me with an abrupt understanding of the significance of those little wooden dolls.

  “Puppets,” I muse aloud.

  Callan hums, the sound close enough to my ear to ricochet a shiver down my spine. “Exactly. That said—the sounds, the smells, the visuals...all of it could appeal to you in ways that might spur a plethora of emotions, including confusion after the fact. If you’re going to keep yourself in check while depriving yourself of basic needs, I suggest we turn around and go someplace a little more, kid friendly.”

  If he says that word to me one more time...

  “For the last damned time,” I growl, “I’m not a kid. I’m a woman and once I make a decision, it’s not easy for me to let that go. I know why I’ve made the choice I have, and a little sex or blood isn’t going to change that. Show me, Hook. I want to see your little wonderland of debauchery.”

  He seems unsure, hesitating to speak or move, until I motion down the corridor. “As you wish. Come on then.” He tips his head for me to follow.

  Rather than stagger behind him, I fall in stride at his side.

  He peers down at me, a thoughtful smile hiking up one corner of his mouth. “You know, I’d thought you’d be more angry with me. Thought you’d hate me.”

  I’m supposed to, I think to myself, but I’ve quit trying. I can’t force myself to loathe him. It’s like, I’m mad for two seconds and the moment I get one good look at his face, or he’s within five feet of my bubble, the fire that burns within isn’t sparked solely from acrimony. “I should, but I don’t know…I guess I was just so ready to die when I jumped off that cliff that I’m still in that headspace.”

  Not a lie. Not the complete truth, either.

  “Are you really ready to die, though?” His tone is almost dubious.

  “It doesn’t matter if I am or not. The balance of life should never be disrupted. I was supposed to die, and so it shall be.”

  “Hopefully this doesn’t change your mind then.” With that challenge playfully slithering in my ear, his large hands grip my shoulders and pivot me toward a new scenery.

  One that leaves me gasping as I take in the visual overload.

  The room itself is massive; dark wood paneling, opulent chandeliers hanging from the paneled ceiling, a variety of activities scattered throughout—like a common room. There’s people everywhere, too, men and women alike. There’s some enjoying a glass of wine, chatting softly and laughing amongst themselves. Some are rapt on a moving picture projected onto a screen, others surrounding a billiard table. Those are more of the “normal” bits happening in unison.

  The others, however...

  “It’s—” I’m unable to put into words what I think.

  Callan presses himself firmly against my back, dipping his head beside me. “Lewd? Bawdy? Wicked? I know.”

  All correct adjectives. It is lewd, and bawdy. But wicked fits best. Streams of blood, symphonies of sex, all out in the open for anyone to see.

  “D-Do you ever partake?” There’s a tremble in my voice, one that leaks through my body, jarring my bones. I recognize it too well; arousal.

  That flame ignites once more in the back of my throat, stomach cinching, the apex of my thighs coming alive in a dull throb.

  “Rarely,” he replies. “I don’t share, and sharing is what this is all about.”

  Tigerlily.

  The lightbulb goes off, spinning me around to face him directly. “Is that what Tigerlily meant, about being your personal blood bag? Because you don’t share?”

  He nods. “Mmm, it is.”

  My eyes widen as that image hits me, stretching out into a full vision as my blood races through my veins. “So you and her, you’ve…”

  “Never.” A vow. “I’ve not laid a single finger on her in that way.”

  Second time I feel myself deflate in relief, that vivid concept of him enjoying Tigerlily in multiple ways going right along with it.

  In its place surfaces one of him and I on The Lost Soul, feeding off each other, fucking in ways I’ve never actually experienced.

  Like animals.

  Hard and fast, deep, loud.

  Is any of that even possible? Do vampires feed off—

  “Tinksley?” Hook’s voice cuts through my musing.

  Shaking my head, I’m almost unable to look him in the eye, embarrassed that my thoughts drifted to such a place. Again. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  I risk a peek at him, my cheeks flaming in the process, only to find he’s regarding me with this slick, amused guise. “I think you need some air. Go outside with me?”

  He’s right, I do need air. A lot from what it seems. Worst part? He was also right about how I’d react in wake of temptation.

  I’m thankful he doesn’t mention it as we start back down the dimly lit hallway in silence. Surprised, too. Hook isn’t one to hold back in victory. He gloats, without an ounce of remorse.

  Turn after turn, he leads me back the way I came. Neither one of us speak. We don’t look at each other. I wonder why he’s so silent, but in the same hand, I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. I mean, really—what the hell was I thinking? These decadent places my mind keeps wandering to, places where he’s at the center, bringing me to my knees, they’re everything I should avoid.

  I shouldn’t be getting closer to him.

  I should be pushing him away, focusing on myself, on keeping myself calm. Grounded. Soaking in what little time I have left.

  “This way,” he states, wrapping a gentle hand around my arm.

  His to
uch zaps me back into reality, eyes blinking past the daze. I note we’re seconds away from pushing out the double French doors that lead to the garden and it doesn’t elude me that I made it down the stairs without tripping over my feet.

  The night is rather cool, the sky clear, stars littered for miles. I can sense he wants to say something, but we continue walking the stoned path between aisles of perfectly trimmed bushes and pristinely-kept flower beds in silence. Their scent tied in with the warm saltiness of the ocean comforts me, relaxing my tensed body as we tread further into the garden.

  “Ever played chess?” he finally breaks the on-going lull, voice light, playful.

  I nod. “With my mother. She’s quite good.”

  “Not better than me, I bet.”

  His grin is beyond the depths of simply palpable, bouncing my shoulders as I laugh quietly. “Are you always so cocky?”

  “When I know I’m damn good at something? Yes.”

  “And let me guess? That would be everything, correct?”

  “Not everything, no. I surely can’t dance like you,” he quips, shooting my gaze up to his strikingly handsome face.

  “You remember that?” I ask, awed, both at his concession and how gorgeous he really is.

  “Of course. Always the best one on stage. So poised, so elegant. Riveting.”

  There go my cheeks heating again.

  “God, it’s been…” I smooth a hand through my hair, looking off into the distance as I swallow past the memory of my last so-called performance. “It’s been years.”

  Does he know?

  “Not too many, but yes, a few.”

  I’m agreeing with a bob of my head, my sights trained on how the moon reflects over the water, when his hand engulfs my own. “Play with me?” he questions softly.

  That warmth, the way it sears my palm has me cutting my stare between us. “Play what?”

  “Chess.”

  “How are we going to—” I spot the table as I drag my focus upward.

  Made of what appears to be glass, it sits between two extra wide armchairs, beneath a grand sycamore tree.